#performance reliability drop

[keydekyie]

I wish I'd waited to pull the spare armor out.

MURDERBOT 1.01 "FreeCommerce"

[eyeonthenightsky]

Over the course of The Murderbot Diaries series we repeatedly see Murderbot's performance reliability dropping when it's emotionally affected, yet it is always puzzled by the drop. Maybe one day it will figure out the causality in that connection.

My performance reliability had leveled out at 89 percent. Not great, but I could work with it. I still hadn’t identified the source of the drop. I’d taken multiple projectile hits without having that kind of steady drop.

...

I knew I’d been an asshole and I owed Amena an apology. I’d attribute it to the performance reliability drop, and the emotional breakdown which I am provisionally conceding as ongoing rather than an isolated event that I am totally over now, and being involuntarily shutdown and restarted, but I can also be kind of an asshole.

From Network Effect by Martha Wells

I realized the other day that ART never saw MB completely lose its shit because it thought ART was dead. It has no idea how fucked up the entire situation made Murderbot. How upset it was. And scared. And enraged. It didn't hear it yell "my friend is dead!" at Amena or the way it tears through the Targets (it sees the end results of that but not the catalyst that pushes Murderbot over the edge.) All it sees when it comes back online is Murderbot severely hurt and very mad. (Mad because it was used, mad because it's easier than dealing with the confusing mix of hurt and betrayal and utter relief.)

And now with System Collapse apparently being pretty heavily focused on Murderbot's rocky emotional state... there are so many ways it can go. How does MB handle being around ART and its crew while being so emotionally vulnerable and fragile? How does ART react to seeing how severely MB is affected? Is it sympathetic? Confused? Frustrated that MB won't let it help (or even tell it what's going on)? I have a feeling Murderbot will focus on the physical effects of its emotional distress, not the emotional distress itself. Which will ofc make it worse. Does it even think to consider that it's its emotional state causing its physical distress? Is ART able to help at all or does it unintentionally make things worse at first?

[drygrasses]

Car repairs……….ASS

[thepringlesofblood]

hot take: if it was able to, murderbot would absolutely cry at the end of the Barbie movie.

[coloredcompulsion]

My two most updated tags I'm following are The Apothecary Diaries and The Murderbot Diaries which I find endlessly amusing because Maomao and Murderbot are incredibly similar but if they were swapped out it wouldn't go Well

[buttonloops]

my performance reliability drops every time i see someone call murderbot "he"

MURDERBOT IS AN IT

IT MAKES THIS VERY CLEAR

STOP CALLING IT HE

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Six

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, still quite angsty (sry), strong language.

Notes — Lots of plot, we're closing out the 2019 year in this one! Not much Lando in this one (Im still mad at him). This gets crazy. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2019

Two weeks after Spa, Amelia stood outside her dad’s office at the MTC with a manila file in her hands and the taste of copper in her mouth.

The door was open, but she still knocked.

Zak looked up, startled, like he wasn’t used to seeing her there anymore — and maybe he wasn’t. She’d stayed away from the MTC for the past few weeks.

“Hey,” he said, getting up too quickly. “You want to come in?”

She stepped inside, cringing when her new trainers squeaked against the floor. Her arms were stiff from holding the file too tight. “Brought you something,” she said, and handed it over. No eye contact. She stared at a plaque on his shelf instead — a dusty one from 2007, still etched with a podium that felt like another lifetime.

Zak took the file and sat back down behind his desk. “You put this together?”

She nodded once. “It’s just data. Analysis. Trends.”

He opened the folder and started flipping through, slower than she wanted, be he was a much slower reader than she was. Pages of her notes, charts, predictive modelling, comparative pace metrics, aero versus power unit deltas from the season so far. Even some basic projections based on engine supplier performance curves over the last six years.

He hesitated, eyes scanning the pages. “What is this, Amelia?”

“McLaren’s had a better season,” she said, not bothering to hide the way her nose scrunched. “You’ll probably finish fourth in the Constructors’. Best of the rest. Everyone is going to be very happy.”

He looked up at her, sensing the ‘but’ before she even said it.

“I am not,” she said. “I don’t think we should be happy with fourth. I think we should be aiming for much higher.”

Zak leaned back slightly in his chair, file still open in front of him. “Amelia…”

“I think we should drop Renault after next season,” she said, cutting him off.

He blinked. “Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s a big swing.”

“I’ve run the numbers,” she said, a little sharper now. “Reliability. Raw power. Upgrade cycles. Driver feedback. Even manufacturer investment in long-term hybrid development. Renault is… not consistent, and they’re not progressing fast enough. Mercedes is more efficient, more stable, more scalable. If we want consistent podiums, a chance at race wins, then we need to align with a manufacturer that knows how to win. Not just how to score points.”

Zak sat back again, slower this time, like the weight of the idea was physically pressing into him. He tapped the edge of the file absently with his fingers.

“You know how much this would rock the boat, right?” he said. “We’ve spent years building this partnership. Renault’s got skin in the game. Contracts. Commitments. There’ll be consequences if we walk away.”

“I know,” she said. “But you always said we should act like a front-running team, even when we weren’t. So act like one. Make a decision like one.”

Zak was quiet. Still.

“I started working on this after Hockenheim,” she added, voice lower now. “I just… didn’t show anyone.”

He closed the file. “This isn’t a light suggestion, Amelia.” He sighed. 

“I know,” she said again. “But I think it’s the right one.”

He exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand across his mouth, then looked at her; really looked at her.

She was calmer than she’d been the last time they’d spoken. Still paler than usual, still guarded, but steadier somehow. Like something had hardened and solidified inside her in the silence of the past few weeks.

“I’ll take it to the board,” he said finally. “Quietly. Just to test the water. No promises.”

“Okay,” she said.

There was a beat. She stared at the paperweight on his desk, the one she’d bought him for Father’s Day when she was thirteen.

“I just want us to stop being afraid of wanting more,” she added, softer now. “That’s all.”

Zak didn’t respond right away.

And as she turned to go, hand already on the doorframe, he couldn’t help but ask, “You didn’t just do this for him, did you?”

She paused. “No,” she said. “I did it for the team. I did it for you.”

She walked out. 

— 

The press release dropped on a Thursday.

A neatly timed, efficiently worded, professionally curated announcement: McLaren Racing to become Mercedes-AMG Powertrain customer team from 2021 onwards.

Quotes from her dad. From Toto. From Andreas.

A photo of a handshake she wasn’t in.

No mention of the folder. No mention of the analysis. No mention of her. 

Of course there wasn’t. She hadn’t expected it.

Not really.

And yet she sat at her desk, surrounded by pages and pages of sketches of cooling architecture redesigns, and felt… strange.

Not angry. Not exactly.

Not proud either.

Mostly just quiet.

She clicked out of the article. Closed her browser. Opened a new tab, then immediately forgot why.

When she'd handed her dad the folder two weeks ago, it hadn’t even been about recognition. She hadn’t cared about credit. She’d just wanted them to be better. To try harder. To take a worthwhile risk. 

And when he’d said, I’ll take it to the board, she’d believed him.

She just didn’t think that would be the end of it.

He hadn’t spoken to her about it since. No follow-up. No texts. No update. No “you were right.” Not even a half-hearted thank-you over dinner or a passing “good job” in the hallway.

The decision had come. And it had come without her.

Which made sense. She wasn’t a department head. She wasn’t on the executive team. She didn’t even have an official job title.

She wasn’t owed anything.

But still… still, she sat there with her heart lodged high in her throat and her fingernails digging crescents into the seam of her jeans, wondering why she suddenly felt like a ghost.

Why it felt like this was supposed to mean something.

And why it hurt so much to realise that her dad was okay with taking her work, her time, her thinking, the thing she’d built, and not giving her even a whisper of recognition.

Because he was used to it.

Used to her just handing things over for free.

And the worst part was, he wasn’t the only one.

She’d been doing this for years, hadn’t she? Offering up all the sharpest pieces of herself like they were scraps. Little theories, little fixes, the way she could spot patterns no one else could, pick through race data like thread. Suggestions left on the kitchen counter, ideas floated during test weekends, whispers passed to engineers when no one else was listening. Quiet contributions, all of them. Invisible fingerprints.

She’d given it away. All of it. Every clever thought, every hard-earned observation; just laid it down, like it didn’t belong to her in the first place.

And now someone else got the credit. Again. And she wasn’t even surprised.

She was just tired. And quietly furious.

— 

The house smelled like woodsmoke and dog shampoo. Roscoe was already halfway into Amelia’s lap, snoring, his head heavy against her stomach as Lewis slid a mug of tea across the coffee table.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, settling into the armchair across from her. “He’ll try and sleep there all day.”

“I won’t complain about that,” she murmured, scratching behind Roscoe’s ears. He was a big dog, solid and heavy. He felt a bit like her weighted blanket. Anchoring. 

Outside the windows, snow clung to the corners of Lewis’ sprawling. Quiet. Still. The way winter was meant to be. Amelia pulled her sleeves down over her hands and stared at the steaming mug.

Lewis leaned back, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You keeping up with the silly season chaos this year?”

“As always.” She nodded. 

“Gasly back to AlphaTauri, Hulkenberg out, Ocon sliding into Renault. There will be a bit of a bloodbath next year.” He said. 

She nodded, though her mind was elsewhere.

Lewis gave her a second longer before asking, “What about Lando? You two—”

“I don’t want to talk about Lando,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her eyes stayed on Roscoe’s fur.

Lewis didn’t press. He just leaned forward, brows faintly furrowed. “Right. Okay.” 

They let the silence settle again. Roscoe shifted in his sleep, his paws twitching as if chasing something through a dream. Then, quietly, Amelia spoke. “The Mercedes-McLaren deal,” she said, voice low. “That was mine.”

Lewis blinked, gave himself a second to repeat her words in his head, and then said. “What?”

“McLaren dropping Renault, becoming a Mercedes customer team.” She rubbed a thumb over Roscoe’s collar. “I ran all the projections. Power unit deltas, reliability, development pace, all of it. I put together the entire case. Handed it to my dad in a file. And two weeks later, they made the announcement.”

Lewis stared at her. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, swallowing. “No one said anything. Not to me. And I wasn’t… part of the meeting, or the rollout. He never even followed up. I just saw it in the press release like everyone else.” Her voice wavered, but didn’t break. “And I know I don’t work for McLaren. But I thought; I thought maybe it would mean something.” 

Lewis’s jaw twitched and his eyes looked darker than they usually did. “Amelia. That… that’s a big deal, you know that? That was your intellectual property.” 

“I know.” She hugged her arms tight around herself. “It just… it feels wrong to be angry. Like I should’ve known better. Like it’s my fault for not asking for anything in return. For just giving it away.”

“That’s not on you,” Lewis said, voice hardening. “That’s on him. Your dad. And on the team. They’ve taken advantage of you. You should get credit. You should get a bloody job offer and a signing bonus. Not… whatever the fuck this is.” 

She sniffed. “I don’t have a degree.”

Lewis scoffed. “So what? Since when does a piece of paper mean more than years of proven genius?”

That made her pause.

“You are one of the sharpest minds I’ve seen in this sport,” he said. “And I’ve been in it a long time. You see things before they happen. You think ahead of the curve. That’s what teams dream of having. And if McLaren can’t see that, if your own dad can’t see that, it’s not because it’s not there. It’s because he doesn’t know how to recognise it in you.”

She nodded. She already knew exactly what the problem was. “He doesn’t know how to see me as anything but his daughter.”

“Toto does,” Lewis said. “And that offer is still on the table, by the way.” 

Amelia looked away, cheeks flushing. 

“I’m not trying to pressure you. I just want you to know that you’ve got options,” Lewis said, softer now. “Real ones. And you don’t have to keep waiting around for your dad to finally recognise your potential.” 

She didn’t answer, but her hands were steady on Roscoe’s back now. And when she finally did glance at him, there was something a little sharp in her chest. Something that felt a lot like clarity.

— 

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2019 F1 Grid

Lewis H. @Lando You are an absolute prick.

Sebastian V. Good morning to you too?

Daniel R. Shit. What’d he do this time?

Charles L. Ah, this does not seem good.

Lando N. what the fuck did i do

Lewis H. You ghosted her. Like a child.

Carlos S. What??????????

George R. Wait are you serious?

Lewis H. Dead serious.

Lando N. oh my god can you not it’s literally none of your business ok

Max V. You’re an idiot, Norris.

Pierre G. Landooooo bro.

Alex A. Yeah nah that’s rough. You ghosted her? I actually thought you liked her, man.

Daniel R. She was so nice. Bet she feels like shit now.

Sebastian V. Is she okay? @Lewis

Lewis H. She’s fine. Too good for him anyway.

George R. I can’t believe this. Didn’t he literally write his racing number on her shoes? Or was that a fever dream??

Max V. @George He did. He’s just a right dickhead.

Carlos S. 😐 Told you not to screw it up, @Lando

Lando N. ok fucksake i get it You can all stop now i already feel like a piece of shit

Charles L. Why would you ghost her when she is so pretty and smart? I do not understand.

Daniel R. He’s still a kid. Dumb as hell. He’ll regret it in a few months, trust me.

Lewis H. He should be regretting it already.

Max V. Extremely dumb move. I wouldn’t have ghosted her and I’m famously difficult.

Sebastian V. Maybe I will set her up with my younger brother. He’s very clever. And rich.

George R. Is it weird if I throw my uncle’s name in the hat? He’s only 24. Really lovely guy.

Carlos S. My cousin Carlo is already in love. He will be thrilled to know she’s single.

Lando N. fuck off i get it I’m the villain Jesus christ can we drop it now

Daniel R. Glad you’re finally on the same page, mate!

Alex A. You could’ve just talked to her. Didn’t need to ghost her. That was cold, man.

Kimi R. 👍

— 

Interlagos was hot and loud and humming with tension, and Amelia made sure to stay pressed to the edges of it; a shadow against the garage walls, an expressionless face hidden behind a pair of black sunglasses.

It was her first time at any track since before Belgium. Her first time being in the same place as Lando since he’d decided that she was not worth knowing. And she was careful. Careful to keep to service corridors and briefing rooms, careful not to risk running into him. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she looked did. 

Nothing, probably. He would just ignore her, like he had been for two months. 

She had just slipped away from the hospitality bar, iced-coffee in hand, when a voice called out to her from the outside deck; warm, accented.

“Chica! Are you too busy to stop and talk with a very ignorant old man?”

She turned and found Carlos Sainz Sr. waving her over, a bottle of water in one hand and a wary smile on his sun-worn face.

“I was just—” she started, but he was already rising from his seat, gesturing for her to come join him. 

“Come, come. Sit. I have good seats here.”

She hesitated for a breath, then nodded and climbed the short steps up to the guest viewing area. The chaos of pit lane sprawled out below. Mechanics scrambled. Tyres stacked like soldiers. Race engines sang in the background, vicious and alive.

“Gracias,” she murmured, sliding into the chair beside him.

He nodded, then stared at her for a long, quiet second. “I wanted to say,” he said, his English thick with Madrid roots, but kind. “I think that… earlier in the year, I judged you too quickly.”

Amelia frowned at him. “Yes, you did.”

He sighed and nodded. “I assumed that you were just a pretty girl in the paddock.” He said. “And you see, my son has a terrible habit of becoming fixated on pretty things. But I realise now that I was wrong. You were there to, eh, help. To fix.” He sounded worn, like he’d had to work hard to say that out loud. 

She shrugged, staring out at the grandstands. They were full. “I was upset about it, I think. But it was not a big deal.”

“It was,” Carlos said, serious now. “It was a very big deal. My son made that clear to me. You are very clever. A real asset to the McLaren team.” He told her, firm and steady. 

She didn’t have anything to say to that. Just gave him a tight, (hopefully) polite smile and turned her eyes to the pit-lane as the cars peeled out of the garage to line up on the grid.

The race was long, and she stayed on the balcony throughout it all. Heat shimmered off the asphalt. Pit strategies flexed and fractured as the laps ticked down, and through it all, Amelia sat with her hands still in her lap, her mind sharper than the TV graphics overhead.

And when Carlos Sainz, the younger one, made it to third after a messy, brilliant final few laps, when the checkered flag waved and the paddock exploded into cheers and disbelief, she turned to his father and smiled, truly smiled, for the first time all day.

“Felicidades,” she said, voice soft but real. “That was very well done.”

Carlos Sr. beamed, pride etched into every line of his face. He stood up quickly, hurrying down to find his son and the rest of the team.

Amelia stayed.

The viewing deck emptied fast. Celebration echoed below. But she just slipped back into the motorhome, past the catering crew and out of the line of sight, into a quiet alcove near the storage lockers where no one would think to look for her.

She sat down on the floor, pressed her back against the cool wall, and closed her eyes.

She was proud. Of Carlos. Of the car she had helped make faster. Of the whisper of her fingerprints across the strategy that had put him on the podium.

But the truth still sat heavy on her ribs; that it had all happened without her. That even here, even now, she felt like a ghost.

— 

The paddock at night after a race was one of her favourite places in the world. Empty water bottles clattered in the wind, discarded tyre blankets lay forgotten in corners, and the once-buzzing garages now hummed low and tired beneath the fluorescent lights. Amelia walked slowly, hands in her pockets, trainers scuffing against the tarmac, the cool Brazilian evening pulling the heat from her skin.

She passed the Mercedes motorhome, its sleek black exterior reflecting the dim light. Through the tinted glass, she caught a glimpse of Toto Wolff, head bent in conversation with one of his engineers. Calm. Assured. In control.

She didn’t stop walking, but something in her twisted. Guilt, maybe. Or the quiet ache of uncertainty.

Red Bull had been circling for a while. Quiet at first; emails she half-dismissed, a few engineers asking her strangely specific questions, casual feelers through people she didn’t realise even knew her name. Then Christian on Dutch TV, mentioning her potential. Helmut at COTA, watching her from the edge of the pit wall like a cowboy evaluating livestock. And Adrian Newey, who bypassed all of them and emailed her directly in early November. Short. Direct. Complimentary in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed.

She hadn’t told her dad. Not yet.

Nothing was official, anyway.

“Brown,” came a voice behind her.

She turned, blinking as Max strode over from the Red Bull suite. His jacket was unzipped, and he still reeked faintly of champagne. Hair a bit damp. Grin lazy.

“Christian asked me to make sure you knew where to go,” he said, lifting his brows. “You’ve got ten minutes before Jos starts vibrating.”

She pulled a face. “Is everyone going to be there? Like… your dad is going to be there?”

“Obviously. It’s Red Bull. We are very theatric,” he said, deadpan. “Zusje, you are the most in-demand person in Formula 1 right now, of course everybody wants to be in the room when we finally win the battle for your brain.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t call me that. Zusje. I don’t know what it means.”

“Little sister,” he said, Dutch accent thick, shrugging as he fell into step beside her. “It suits you. You talk just as much as I do, and you are equally annoying as me. We will give Christian many headaches, I think.”

“I always carry ibuprofen in my handbag.” She tried to joke, but it came out flat. 

Max looked at her for a moment, but then he grinned, so she imagined he must have thought her joke was funny. At least somewhat. “Adrian’s been trying to steal you since Canada.” He told her. 

She sighed. “That explains the espresso machine he sent to me during the summer break. I was very confused.”

He gave her a look. “You kept it?” He asked curiously. 

She nodded. “It is a good machine. Expensive.”

“Of course it was. It’s Adrian.” Max shrugged. 

They stopped a few feet from the Red Bull motorhome, which buzzed under the night lights like it was wired into a different voltage. Something kinetic hung in the air; possibility, maybe. Restlessness. Momentum.

She stared. “This feels like betrayal.”

Max rolled his eyes. “It is not betrayal.”

He nudged her shoulder. She recoiled, glaring at him. He raised his hands in defence. “Sorry. Sorry.” Then, quieter, he said. “You’ve outgrown the shadows, zusje. It is not your fault that your dad doesn’t know what to do with you. But we do. Adrian does. Christian definitely does. You belong somewhere that doesn’t try to keep you small.” 

She started to chew on her bottom lip anxiously, “Do you really think that I am worth all of this?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’re going to make me a world champion, Amelia Brown.”

— 

The Yas Marina Circuit gleamed beneath the Abu Dhabi sun, all smooth marble floors and overly modern hospitality suites. It felt more like a luxury mall than a racetrack, but Amelia liked it. Everything was polished, controlled. 

She slipped through the back corridors of the McLaren unit with practiced ease, unnoticed as usual. It was early, quiet, the calm before the chaos of FP1.

In Carlos’s driver room, she placed a neatly bound packet on the table beneath the television. His telemetry from the entire season, annotated and colour-coded: green for improvements, yellow for repeat tendencies, red for danger zones. She’d included braking inconsistencies, corner exit deltas, and fuel load trends, with suggestions tailored to the 2020 chassis.

He’d get it. He always did. Carlos read data like scripture.

In Lando’s room, she left the same. A different binder. Different tendencies. More throttle hesitation in traffic, sharper degradation when chasing, lapses in tire preservation across high-deg circuits. A note in the front, written in her smallest, sharpest handwriting.

You are an asshole. You are also better than your instincts. Learn the difference between fast and frantic. Good luck.

She didn’t linger. She didn’t need to. No one would know she’d been there except the two of them, and even then, it didn’t matter anymore. She’d done it. Helped them. One last time.

She turned down the corridor toward the exit, and almost walked straight into a man who was standing too stiffly in her path.

He was older, expensively dressed, with the familiar face of someone she’d seen on enough pit walls to know he didn’t belong there out of curiosity. Adam Norris. 

He looked her up and down, his voice clipped. “Ah. Amelia, is it?”

“That’s right.” She muttered. 

“I suppose we haven’t met.” He said. 

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

He hesitated. A beat passed. Two.

“I’ve… heard you’re very capable,” he said finally. “Talented. Bright.” He said it like he didn’t really believe it. 

She tilted her head. Frowned at him. “Did you tell Lando to stay away from me?”

He flinched, just barely. “I advised him to focus on his career.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It wasn’t a happy smile. “You should teach your son better manners.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She stepped around him, slow, deliberate, and kept walking. Past the orange panels, past the McLaren logo, past the team she’d poured her entire self into. 

By the time the sun dipped below the grandstands and the lights came on for the weekend's final showdown, she was long gone from the paddock. A flight booked for her under a new team name. A seat at a new table. A blank page waiting for her red inked scrawl.

Red Bull knew she was coming.

They just didn’t know what she was prepared to become.

— 

The Browns’ living room was filled with the scent of cinnamon, pine, and whatever Christmas candle Tracy had been obsessed with that week. The fireplace crackled softly, fairy lights twinkled around the windows, and somewhere in the background, Ella Fitzgerald was crooning something vintage and sentimental.

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor in sweatpants and a hoodie, half-watching as her dad unwrapped a book about American muscle cars from the 1960s. He grinned like a kid, holding it up for Tracy to see.

“This is great,” Zak said. “I’ve been looking for this one.”

“I know,” Tracy said, leaning in to kiss his cheek before returning to her place at the table with a glass of wine. “I listen, you know. I’m a good wife.”

Amelia smiled faintly. She hadn’t said much all day. She’d made breakfast. Helped put the chicken in the oven. Unwrapped the gifts they handed her; socks, a new set of sketching pencils, a silver pen engraved with her initials, and said thank you each time. But the weight in her chest hadn’t lifted, not even when her mother handed her a plate stacked high with garlicky roast potatoes. 

Zak was still talking, flipping through the book, animated now. “I’ve got such a good feeling about next season,” he said, his eyes bright. “The team’s in a good place. Carlos is dialled in, Lando’s matured a lot. And the Mercedes power unit; I know we’re still with Renault this year, but it’ll be a game-changer for us in twenty-one. Might be the year we really start bothering the top three again.”

Amelia swallowed hard. Her fork hovered above her plate, untouched. She glanced down at her food. It was getting cold. Her stomach turned.

Across the table, Tracy watched her. Her gaze was soft but sharp, a mother’s intuition in full force.

“Everything okay, Amelia?” She asked gently.

Amelia nodded. “Yeah,” she said, quickly. “Just tired. Long few months.”

Tracy didn’t push, but Amelia could tell she wasn’t convinced.

Her phone buzzed once, facedown on the table beside her glass of water. She flipped it over, half expecting a message from Carlos, or worse, from her dad, who had a terrible habit of sending her random articles from F1Tech like she wasn’t sitting five feet away.

But it wasn’t Carlos.

iMessage — 17:02pm

Vrolijk Kerstfeest,

Can’t wait for you to build my championship-winning car. – M.V. 

She exhaled, barely more than a breath. The corner of her mouth lifted. Not a smile, not really, but the closest she’d come to one all day. She tapped her fingers against the table, hiding the message beneath her palm.

Of all the gifts she’d been given that morning — the socks, the pen, the awkward hug from her dad that still smelled faintly of cinnamon and gasoline — this was the only one that made her feel something. Recognition.

She glanced at her dad, still rambling about wind tunnel simulations and team morale like the world hadn’t shifted beneath their feet. Then she looked back down at her plate, her fork still untouched.

She hadn’t told him yet. She didn’t know when she would.

Maybe she wouldn’t at all.

Maybe she’d take a page out of his book. 

— 

“Red Bull Racing Hire Amelia Brown as Technical Design Intern, Working Under Adrian Newey”

— Motorsport.com

Red Bull Racing Announces Amelia Brown as New Technical Design Intern “Mini Newey” Joins Office of the CTO Ahead of 2020 F1 Season

Red Bull Racing has officially confirmed the addition of Amelia Brown to its technical department, naming her as a Technical Design Intern working directly under Chief Technical Officer Adrian Newey.

Brown, 19, has quietly gained a reputation in Formula 1 circles for her analytical precision and instinctive approach to problem-solving. Though never officially affiliated with a team, her behind-the-scenes contributions have turned heads up and down the paddock — especially within the aerodynamic development community.

“She’s one of the sharpest minds I’ve come across in years,” said Newey in a brief statement. “She has an innate understanding of car behaviour, balance, and airflow mapping that’s rare at any level of engineering, let alone someone so early in their career.”

While her appointment as an “intern” may sound modest, Red Bull insiders are already referring to Brown as “Mini Newey,” a nod to the technical savant under whom she will be working and a reflection of the high expectations within the team.

Team Principal Christian Horner added, “We’ve always prided ourselves on fostering talent, and Amelia represents the next generation of creative engineering thought. Her insight, even during early informal conversations, has already helped shape some of our thinking going into 2020.”

When asked about her appointment, Brown declined to comment directly, but sources inside the team say she will be working across simulation, aero development, and design review cycles throughout the season.

“She’s not here to make coffee,” said Gianpiero Lambiase, Verstappen's race engineer. “She’s here to change the game.”

Red Bull Racing’s 2020 challenger is set to be unveiled in Bahrain next month. Whether Brown’s influence will be visible from day one remains to be seen — but if early whispers are any indication, she won’t stay behind the curtain for long.

NEXT CHAPTER

[emily-e-draws]

performance reliability dropping

[mrporg]

Such a cool fanart!

@whirlpoolleaf asked: Can I request Murderbot for the sketch request thing? Thanks so much :)

-performance reliability at 60% and dropping-

(I'm a big fan of the idea that mb tends to be very expressive during fights, considering how accustomed it is to the privacy of the helmet)

[inkedinserendipity]

one of the reasons i think that the murderbot diaries’ emotional moments hit so hard is because of a scarcity effect that the author has set up really, really well.

because, like—murderbot, as a character, is an answer to the question how do you “show and not tell” emotional moments from the lens of a character who point-blank will not acknowledge any affection directed their way. or, instead of overtly stating that characters are friends (“tell”), how do you demonstrate it with text (“show”)? well, most authors go ham on characters smiling at each other, laughing, joking, expressing reciprocal loyalty.

murderbot does none of those things. murderbot probably never smiled before preservation, and definitely didn’t laugh. (this is only partially an exaggeration.) telling jokes? hell yeah, MB’s funny as fuck. to other people? hell no. that would require conversations and it’d rather die, thanks.

add that to the fact that murderbot treats any expressions of affection toward it—internal and external—like being bit by a snake.

so you have this character + writing style that bars most conventional ways of establishing relationships between characters. you also have this character who is basically incapable of feeling any sort of reciprocated, positive emotion toward itself. so what do you do?

you work around your character. murderbot will never pick up on affectionate body language. it hates hugs. every sentence it hears passes through about fifteen different filters of self-loathing. so you make your relationships clear, and when you hit, you hit hard.

you summarize snapshots of characters panicking about the main character getting hurt. you drop your character’s performance reliability (and their walls) and have them banter. you have your character walk in on the tail end of conversations that expose concern for it.

and then you do things so overt that even your shit-self-esteem character can’t talk its way out of. you have its friend tell it directly that it can’t lose it too. you have its friends accommodate it and understand it without it directly expressing a single need. you have its friends stand up for it in conversation when it is too tired to do so. and then, when you really want to hit, you have your character pretend to be physically compromised rather than have to feel one (1) positive emotion toward itself.

positive emotions toward itself can’t really pass through murderbot’s walls. so you have to establish relationships by beating your main character over the head with them. and it can’t be all the time—because that’s not how relationships and emotional recovery, yknow, works—but it can be sometimes, and it can be very powerful, and that is why i think murderbot diaries in particular is very, very effective.

[inseobts]

hii, sorry to disturb you, i was wondering if i could request a law scenario inspired by the song tolerate it by taylor swift, but with a happy ending if possible! i really really love the way you write, is really immersive and touching, you are amazing!! sorry for my english, its not my first language, lots of love from brazil!! 💓

Tolerate it

law × reader

a/n: this was the first time I heard the song, hope you'll like it ^3^ also, don't apology for you english please

inspired by the song:

words count: 2.1k

tags: hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, emotional tension, slow burn

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The library on the Polar Tang is too quiet.

You sit across from Law, legs tucked beneath you, a book open in your lap, but you haven’t turned the page in twenty minutes. The only thing you’re reading is him.

He’s hunched over medical texts, brows furrowed, hair slightly messy from running his fingers through it too many times. His eyes scan the lines quickly, absorbing things faster than most could. You could watch him like this for hours. You have.

“I sit and watch you reading with your Head low I wake and watch you breathing with your Eyes closed I sit and watch you And notice everything you do or don't do”

He doesn’t look up when you shift in your seat.

He hasn’t in a while.

You used to be the thing that caught his attention mid-sentence. Now, it’s like you’re just part of the furniture, reliable and quiet. Too quiet.

You whisper "Law?" but your voice barely carries.

No answer.

“I wait by the door like I'm just a kid Use my best colors for your portrait Lay the table with the fancy shit And watch you tolerate it”

Later that night, you cook his favorite.

You even set the table the way he likes it. It's stupid. It feels performative. But you do it anyway.

He walks in late and glances around at the setup. His brows raise, just slightly. He sits.

Not a word about the effort.

He eats. You talk. He nods sometimes.

You laugh at your own story halfway through and realize you’re the only one smiling.

“If it’s all in my head,” you say softly, not looking at him, “tell me now. Tell me I’ve got it wrong somehow.”

He looks up finally, fork pausing in the air.

“What?”

You shake your head and fake a smile but it's too hard.

“I know my love should be celebrated,” you whisper, voice breaking, “but you tolerate it.”

The air goes still. Even the gentle hum of the ship fades beneath the silence that follows.

Law sets his fork down slowly.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks, really seeing you. There's something in his eyes. Not anger. Not confusion. Guilt, maybe. Exhaustion, too.

"...I didn't realize I was making you feel that way."

You look up, startled at the honesty in his voice. Raw. Quiet. Honest.

“You didn’t have to... realize.” you say “It was already happening.”

Law leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face “I’ve been focused on... too much. Everything. The crew, the supplies, the territory threats. I thought you understood.”

“I do,” you say, and it’s not a lie “But understanding doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

He flinches.

You continue, voice low but firm, “I gave you everything. My time, my heart, my effort. You didn’t even have to ask, I wanted to. Because I love you. But lately, I feel like you’re just... enduring me. Like I’m this soft, breakable thing that’s in the way.”

You don’t expect the silence that follows to ache so badly.

“While you were out building other worlds, where was I?”

Law swallows hard “You’re not in the way.”

“Then where am I, Law?” you ask “Because I’m not beside you. Not really. Not anymore.”

His gaze drops to the table.

And when he speaks again, it’s soft. Unsteady.

“I thought if I kept my head down, I could protect you from what’s coming. From me. I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just...” he trails off, fingers curling into a loose fist “I’ve already lost too much. If I get too close, I’ll lose that too.”

“That’s not fair...” you whisper “You don’t get to punish me for the people who aren’t here anymore.”

Law’s eyes meet yours again and they’re glossy now.

“You’re right.”

That stuns you more than anything else.

“I’ve been... distant. Detached. And you’ve been giving everything. I saw it, but I didn’t let myself respond. Because if I did, I’d remember how much you mean to me. And that terrifies me.”

You take a slow breath “So what now?”

He stands from his chair and walks over to your side. Slowly. Tentatively. Like he’s approaching a wounded thing he doesn’t want to startle.

When he crouches in front of you, he speaks softly “I don’t want to tolerate you.”

You hold your breath.

“I want to fight for you. I just... forgot how.”

You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes, but a tear escapes anyway. Law reaches up, gently wiping it away with the back of his hand.

You don’t say anything. But you don’t pull away either, and that’s something.

He’s still kneeling in front of you.

The whole room quiet now.

You didn’t mean to break open like that.

But now that you have... you can’t go back.

Your voice is barely above a whisper "If it's all in my head, tell me now... Tell me I've got it wrong somehow."

Law’s eyes flicker, and his hand, which still rests gently on your knee, tightens just slightly.

“It’s not in your head,” he says, the words thick in his throat “You didn’t get it wrong. You’ve been trying. And I...” He trails off, glancing down at the floor for a moment “I’ve been a coward.”

That hurts in a different way, because hearing him say it means it’s real. That you weren’t imagining it. That the coldness wasn’t just you being too sensitive.

“I didn’t want to need you” he admits.

You blink “What?”

“I didn’t want to need you,” he repeats, softer “Because needing someone means they can leave. Means I can lose them. And I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you too. So I made myself distant. I thought I was protecting you… but I was only protecting myself.”

You shake your head slowly, tears starting to sting again “You don’t protect someone by disappearing from them while standing right next to them.”

He flinches, and it hits you, you’ve never talked like this before. Not to him. Not like this. You've always tried to be enough without needing to ask for more.

You swallow hard “I thought… if I was good enough, quiet enough, patient enough… eventually you’d look at me again like you used to.” Your voice breaks “You tolerated it. You tolerated me.”

“I never meant to” he says, voice rising slightly in urgency “I didn’t realize how far I’d pulled away. How much I was asking you to carry alone.”

You look at him for a long time, your chest aching.

“I missed you” you say, honest and broken and so simple it almost sounds like a confession “Even when you were right here, I missed you.”

His face softens. That steel-sharp edge in his eyes dulls, melts, crumbles.

“I missed you too,” he says “But I buried it under work. Under duty. And that’s not fair. To you. To us.”

A beat of silence.

Then he reaches for your hand. Holds it, tentative but steady.

“I want to do better” he says “I want to see you again. Not just glance over you when I’m tired. Not just nod while I’m thinking about something else. I want to celebrate your love the way you always deserved.”

You breathe out a sound, half laugh, half sob, and squeeze his hand.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper “You just have to try.”

“I will,” he promises, a little breathless “Every day.”

You reach for him, and this time, he leans in too.

It’s not a kiss, not yet. But it’s a meeting of foreheads, a closeness that’s been absent for too long. A beginning again.

And for once, when you sit and watch him… he watches you right back.

It starts with small things.

The next morning, when you step into the kitchen, he’s already there.

He doesn’t look up from the kettle he’s watching, but his voice is soft when he says, “Tea’s almost ready. I made yours the way you like it.”

That alone almost makes your knees go weak.

You sit across from him in quiet surprise as he slides a steaming mug toward you without meeting your eyes.

But then he does look up. Just for a second.

You catch it.

He’s trying.

That same night, you find your favorite book, the one you always reread when your heart’s too loud, left on your bed. A folded note inside:

I’ve been thinking about you. Let me know if you’re ready to talk again. —T.L.

Your fingers tremble a little holding the page.

You press it against your chest and breathe.

It becomes a routine. Little rituals that weren’t there before.

He starts joining you in the library again, but this time his chair is a little closer. He still reads, but he glances up more. Sometimes, you catch him just watching you, and when you smile, he doesn’t look away.

Once, while you both clean the medical bay, he reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t say a word about it.

He doesn’t have to.

One quiet evening, you’re sitting side by side after dinner, a half-played game of shogi abandoned on the table between you, the crew all in their own rooms.

You watch the way the soft lamplight brushes the edge of his cheekbones. He’s more relaxed than you’ve seen him in months.

Your hand inches toward his on the table.

He turns his palm up, lets yours slide into it.

No hesitation this time.

You murmur, half to yourself “I made you my temple, my mural, my sky…”

Law’s head tilts toward you “What was that?”

You smile softly “Just something I used to think. Before.”

He watches you closely “Do you still?”

You hesitate “Not the same way. Back then, I would’ve given everything just to be a footnote in your story.”

You turn your head, looking at him fully now.

“But now… I want to be a chapter. One you choose to write.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then “You already are.”

Your breath catches.

He takes your hand, lifts it to his lips, and presses a kiss to your knuckles, light, lingering, reverent.

“I’m sorry I didn’t show you sooner,” he says “But I see you now. I see everything.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. Your voice is barely a whisper.

“You assume I’m fine…” A pause “But what would you do if I—I broke free and left us in ruins?”

Law doesn’t hesitate “I’d chase you.”

You glance up, surprised.

“I’d chase you,” he repeats, voice rough with honesty “Even if it meant tearing the world apart.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You believe him. This time, you believe him.

The silence between you now is comfortable. Whole.

You think of the nights you lay awake, tracing hearts into the margins of your journal, wondering if you were too much. Or not enough.

Not anymore.

You turn your head slightly, brushing your lips against his shoulder “I’m still learning how to forgive you.”

He nods “I’ll wait.”

You squeeze his hand gently.

“And I’m still learning how to be loved out loud.”

He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple “Then we’ll learn together.”

It’s late again.

The crew is tucked away in their quarters, laughter and footsteps long since faded.

You’re curled up on the infirmary bed, half-asleep, a blanket over your shoulders and a medical book on your chest you’re not really reading. Law sits at his desk nearby, notes scattered, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

You watch him in the glow of the low light, warmth in your chest where ache used to live.

“I sit and watch you…”

But this time, he looks up. Catches your eyes. And he smiles.

Small. Genuine. Just for you.

“I told you to go to bed hours ago” he says, voice gentler than any reprimand.

You shrug, grinning sleepily “You’re still up.”

Law stands and walks over, plucks the book from your hands and sets it aside. Then he leans down, brushes his lips over your forehead, and sighs against your skin like he’s just come home.

“You shouldn’t have had to wait so long for this” he murmurs.

You reach for him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

“But I did,” you whisper “And I’d do it again. For this.”

He sinks down beside you on the cot, and you both shift until you’re tangled together, his arms around your waist, your head tucked under his chin, heartbeat pressed to heartbeat.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

And that silence isn’t heavy anymore.

You think back to the version of you that stood at the edge of this love, unseen, unheard, giving and giving.

Drawing hearts in the byline.

Now, you’re written into the page.

Celebrated.

Not just endured.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your hair.

You nod, eyes closed, tears forgotten.

“I am now.”

[maxlarens]

perhaps bsf!reader and ibiza!lando in a sitch where like, lando isn’t getting girls in the clurb bc everyone thinks reader is his girlfriend and he ends up pushing her away????????

-🧃

perfect and beautiful thank you!!! i feel like it’s been five hundred years since i wrote or posted anything, i sooo hope u guys enjoy this! not much lando when i read it back but i guess i had some emotions to hash out here?🤨

There's a certain level of willingness to be observed that you have to subject yourself to in being Lando’s friend. You know that full well. Have been more than aware of it in the past few years, as Lando performs better, becomes more and more known.

You’re used to it for the most part.

The wandering eyes that slide right off you and Fewtrell, to instead favour Lando’s head of dark curls. The skeptical ones that linger, wondering what someone like you is doing around someone like him.

At least you have Max to commiserate with. To share that pulse of shame that beats like a second heartbeat occasionally. To remind yourself that Lando is your friend, not some burning star whose wreckage you’re caught in.

You’d never want him to feel like his success is a burden, or that it’s not always the easiest thing in the world to be his friend. That’s not really the case anyway— you’ve never had a friendship like the one you have with him. Max might be a close second, but it’s not the same. Point is, you’d move heaven and earth just to continue being friends with Lando.

It’s just— the eyes—

There are a lot of them on you here.

Appraising (but never of you independently, always in relation to Lando. You can tell), skeptical, jealous, bitter, even pitying. You think it must have something to do with Lando and the way he’s got his arm slung over your shoulder. The way you’re leaning into him as he bops to the beat of the music. The way you’re holding his drink in your hand, lifting it up for him occasionally so he can gesticulate in his conversation with some friend of his that you’re only vaguely acquainted with.

You feel the eyes on you as you half listen to them chat. Something dislodges, seems to wriggle around under your skin, or settles in the pit in your stomach and gnaws. Anxiety, something like it. Shame again perhaps? You just know Lando’s arm feels heavy. Your clothes don’t fit right, on your body or in this club. You’re suddenly sure that you’re an imposter, a fraud.

You look for Max, eyes darting around but only find unfamiliar faces looking back at you.

It’s not that your chest starts to feel tight or anything like that, it’s just that out of nowhere there seem to be one million ants crawling around inside your body. You take a deep, steadying breath and it burns. The back of your neck seems to give way, your head spinning.

You blink hard, bring yourself back.

You duck out from under Lando’s arm and mutter, “Be back soon. Bathroom.”

Lando nods absently, lets his arm drop back to his side. You’re not sure what to do with your drink or his, he doesn’t seem to care. So you drop them on an empty bar table and flee to the toilets.

They’re semi-private, dark and (best of all) quiet. Apparently soundproofed from the club outside of it, there’s some crackling lo-fi playing on low volume and blissfully no one else seems to be in here with you.

Because it’s apparently a bathroom for the upper-echelon, there’s a plush armchair in the lounge section that you immediately collapse into. You shove your face into the cushions and breathe slow until your heartbeat returns to what feels like an appropriate pace.

You pull out your phone to text Max,

Ever reliable and always understanding, Max talks you down from the proverbial ledge. He convinces you to go back out and to talk to Lando, who’s always been able to kill the nervousness in your gut when he puts his mind to it. If that fails, then Max promises to order you a taxi back to the hotel.

You thank him profusely, apologise for interrupting anything he was doing with Pietra and gather yourself as effectively as you can—

(“Hey. Is she your girlfriend, man?”

Obtuse as ever, Lando frowns, eyebrows furrowing with it, “What? Nah, she’s my best mate.”

Tony, tips his head back and laughs, “Doesn’t look like it to me. Are you sure?”

Lando nods, crease creasing even harder, “Definitely.”

“Dunno mate, you’re all cozy with ‘er,” Tony shrugs, “If you’re looking to get some this weekend you might want to dial it back.”)

—and back into the crowd.

You fight through to the booth where Lando, his friend and a few others, that you’re again, only tangentially acquainted with are. Lando has moved to sit down on a couch, still wrapped up in conversation with the same guy. He’s got another drink.

You’re half-expecting him to hand a vodka soda with lime to you when you sit down next to him. You feel a confusing mix of guilt and upset when he doesn’t, only barely turns his head to acknowledge you. You sit for a moment, adjusting your dress your bag. Not needing him to stop talking altogether, but hoping to be brought into the conversation. Even for Lando to move so you’re not just staring at his back.

Okay, you blink, maybe this is on you? Maybe you shouldn’t expect drinks from him like that, maybe you should be grown up enough to know how to enter a conversation. Maybe you shouldn’t be sitting here feeling sorry for yourself as you watch him lean over and talk to a girl on the other side of the railing.

You’re ignoring the burning thing in your eyes as you survey the back of Lando’s head and the pretty girl that he’s hanging out of his seat to talk to.

She doesn’t look anything like you.

You feel pathetic just watching them. Especially when her eyes flit briefly to you and you offer up a well-meaning smile. It’s a little weak, a little cobbled together but you’re not a bitch. She might be though— she sneers at you. Only for a short moment, when Lando’s not really looking, but you see it nonetheless.

Oh. Alright. That one’s gonna stick with you.

You turn away immediately, blinking quickly, but tears dropping anyway. You pull your phone out, admit defeat and try to at least quell the thing that’s lodged itself in your throat all of a sudden.

You sling your bag back over your body, then reach out to grab at Lando’s shoulder. You squeeze a little, wait for him to turn his attention to you while you press a knuckle not-gently into your eyeball.

He half-turns, looking up at you but holding a hand out to someone who’s talking to him. Still half-listening to them. You frown, feeling confused over anything else. This… isn’t like him. You don’t get it, why isn’t he treating you like he normally is? You’d understand if he wanted to spend time with other people over you, you get that. Why wouldn’t he just say that if that’s what he wanted? Because that’s clearly the case.

You manage to choke out, “I’m gonna head off.”

Eyes glittering and huge in the dancing lights of the club, his mouth parted, he nods up at you in confirmation. Briefly, you make eye contact before he’s being drawn back into conversation by a shout.

“Sure, yeah. See you later,” he says, patting the hand on your shoulder, then dismissing you as he turns away to pay attention to someone else.

You can’t tell if he’s being a total asshole or you’re pathetic. You know what Max would say. And you’re leaning towards the same thing right now— he’d have known. Seen it plain as fucking day in your expression when he’d looked at you. You don’t know what to make of it. You think you just feel sick.

It’s not like you need him to cater to your every whim. You’d just expected a little bit more. At least for him to notice that you’d nearly had a panic attack in the bathroom. At least for him to not go from being totally normal to icing you out all of a sudden—

and you know he’d done it on purpose, intention aside. You know. Because, historically, he’s been no stranger to it. He knows exactly how it feels.

You’re more hurt by that than anything else.

this turned out longer than i expected lol. but yeah, angsty sorry i didn’t prepare u guys😵‍💫 i’ll either write a part two or i’ll write something else for them in ibiza that isn’t so angsty soon!!!!!

[astroeleanor]

°💸⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*:･Your 2H Sign = How To Make More $$$ 💳⋆.ೃ💰࿔*:･

Your 2nd house is the part of your chart can show you the best side hustle ideas to increase your income. Look at the sign on your 2nd House cusp, its ruling planet, and any planets sitting there. They symbolize out how you monetize.

The 2nd House is the House of Possessions: movable assets, cash flow, food, tools, anything you can trade. The sign on the cusp sets up your style of 'acquisition' (Taurus = slow‑build goods, Scorpio = high‑risk high‑reward holdings), while the ruler’s dignity and aspects describe reliability, or lack thereof, of income.

Planets inside the 2nd act like tenants shaping the property: Jupiter here inflates resources, Saturn conserves but can pinch, Mars spends to make, Venus monetizes aesthetics.

Because the 2nd is in aversion to the Ascendant (no Ptolemaic aspect), you often have to develop its promises actively: wealth isn’t “you,” it’s something you must manage. So, let's look at the kind of side hustles you can do to increase your revenue!

♈︎ Aries 2H: Physical, Fast, ACTION-Driven

(Aries rules motion, competition, fire, physical activity, force)

Personal trainer or group fitness instructor.

Manual labor gigs like junk removal, or yard work (physical and gives instant results.)

Motorcycle/scooter delivery (Uber Eats, DoorDash): speed + autonomy? Very Aries.

Selling refurbished sports equipment.

Pressure washing services, which is oddly satisfying AND includes aggressive water blasting lol.

Fitness bootcamps in local parks (Mars rules the battlefield… or, in this case, bootcamps)

Pop-up self-defense workshops

Bike repair and resale (hands-on + quick turnaround)

Car detailing (mobile service). You vs. grime. Who wins? You.

Sell custom gym gear or accessories.

♉︎ Taurus 2H: Sensory, Grounded, Product-Based

(Taurus rules the senses and the material world, it’s a sign connected to beauty and pleasure)

Bake-and-sell operation (bread, cookies) at markets. Taurus=YES to carbs and cozy smells.

Meal prep or personal chef (nourishing others = peak Taurus.)

Sell plants or houseplant propagation, you’re growing literal value.

Create and sell body care products: lotions, scrubs, soaps… (Venus-ruled.)

Furniture refinishing for resale.

Offer at-home spa services (facials, scrubs.)

Curate and sell gift boxes (Venus loves a well-wrapped present.)

Do minor home repair or furniture assembly.

Build and sell wooden plant stands or decor (wood + plants + aesthetic = Taurus.)

♊︎ Gemini 2H: Communicative, Clever, Multi-Tasking

(Gemini = ruled by Mercury = ideas, speech, tech, variety, teaching)

Freelance writing or blogging.

Transcription or captioning services.

Resume writing/job application support.

Social media management (multitasking + memes.)

Sell printable planners or flashcards (info = money.)

Offer typing or data-entry services, which are low lift & high focus

Sell templates for resumes, bios, or cover letters, Mercury loves a system!

Write email campaigns for small businesses, you can become the voice behind the curtain.

Teach intro to AI tools or chatbots (modern Mercurial real-world applications.)

Create micro-courses on writing or communication.

♋︎ Cancer 2H: Caring, Cozy, DOMESTIC

(Cancer rules the home, food, feelings. It’s the nurturer through and through)

Home organization services, give cluttered homes and their owners love.

Baking and delivering comfort desserts (cookies = hugs in edible form!!)

Make and sell homemade frozen meals, nourishing the body AND soul.

Offer elder companionship visits (heartfelt and so needed.)

Run a daycare or babysitting service. Moon=family.

Run a laundry drop-off/pickup service.

Custom holiday decorating (homes or offices), make it feel like home anywhere.

Help seniors with digital tools (basic tech help.)

Create sentimental gifts like memory jars or scrapbooks.

♌︎ Leo 2H: Expressive, Bold, Entertaining

(Leo rules performance, leadership, fame, visibility, and the desire to SHINE)

Portrait photography (kids, pets, solo, couples.)

Event hosting or party entertainment.

DJ for small events or weddings.

Basic video editing for others (help THEM shine!)

Personalized video messages. charisma = income.

Teach short performance workshops (confidence, improv) to help others own a stage.

Become a personal shopper.

Sell selfie lighting kits or content creator bundles.

Host creative kids camps (theater, dance, art.)

Make reels/TikToks for local businesses (attention = currency.)

♍︎ Virgo 2H: Detailed, Service-Oriented, Practical

(Virgo rules systems, refinement, discernment, organisation, usefulness)

Proofreading or editing work. Spotting a comma out of place or “their/they’re” being misused = Virgo joy.

House cleaning or deep-cleaning services.

Virtual assistant (email, scheduling, admin.)

Sell Notion or Excel templates. Virgo: spreadsheets.

Bookkeeping for small businesses.

Create custom cleaning schedules or checklists.

Offer “organize your digital life” sessions.

Specialize in email inbox cleanups.

♎︎︎ Libra 2H: Tasteful, Charming, Design-Savvy

(Libra = Venus-ruled = style, beauty, balance, aesthetics)

Styling outfits from clients’ own wardrobes.

Become a personal shopper.

Bridal/event makeup services (enhancing natural beauty = Libra.)

Teach etiquette, the power of grace

Curate secondhand outfit bundles.

Custom invitations or event printables that are pretty AND functional.

Offer virtual interior styling consultations.

Sell color palette guides for branding or outfits.

Create custom date night itineraries (romance, planned and packaged=Libra!!)

Style flat-lay photos for products or menus.

Do hair, make-up, nails, etc.

♏︎ Scorpio 2H: Deep, Transformative, Private

(Scorpio rules what’s hidden, intense, and powerful, alchemy, psychology)

Tarot or astrology readings.

Energy healing or bodywork.

Private coaching for money/debt management.

Online investigation or background research (Scorpio = uncovering hidden information)

Teach classes on boundaries, consent, empowerment, etc.

Sell private journal templates for deep self-reflection.

Moderate anonymous support groups or forums.

Specialize in deep-cleaning emotionally loaded spaces (yes, THAT kind of clearing.)

♐︎ Sagittarius 2H: Expansive, Global, Philosophical

(Sag rules teaching, travel, and BIG ideas)

Teach English (or any other language) or become a tutor online

Sell travel guides or digital itineraries, help others travel smarter=Sag

Rent out camping gear or bikes (freedom for rent lol.)

Ghostwrite opinion pieces or thought blogs, say what others are thinking!

Create walking tours for travelers or locals.

Sell travel photography.

Become a travel influencer on the side.

Translate travel documents or resumes.

♑︎ Capricorn 2H: Strategic, Structured, Business-Minded

(Cap rules time, career, limitations, long-term value)

Resume or career coaching, help others climb the “mountain of success”.

Freelance project management.

Property management or Airbnb co-host (passive-ish income.)

Sell templates for business (contracts, invoices).

Create accountability coaching packages.

Sell organizational templates.

Freelance as an operations assistant (the CEO behind the CEO.)

Build a resource hub for freelancers or solopreneurs (structure = empowerment.)

♒︎ Aquarius 2H: Innovative, Digital, Niche

(Aquarius rules tech, rebellion, and the future. But it’s also connected to community!)

Tech repair or setup.

Build websites for local businesses, or anyone else for that matter.

Sell digital products (ebooks, templates).

Run online communities or Discords.

Host workshops on digital privacy or tools. Collective knowledge (Aqua)= power

Build and sell Canva templates for online creators.

Curate niche info packs or digital libraries.

Help people automate parts of their life or business.

♓︎ Pisces 2H: Dreamy, Healing, Imaginative

(Pisces rules the sea, the arts, spirituality, dreams, and all things soft)

Pet sitting or house sitting, caring for beings + quiet time? It’s perfect for this energy.

Sell dreamy artwork or collages.

Offer meditation classes or hypnosis.

Teach art to kids or adults.

Custom poetry or lullaby commissions (very niche tho.)

Sell digital dream journals or prompts.

Make downloadable ambient music loops.

Create printable affirmation cards.

Design calming phone wallpapers or lock screens.

Offer spiritual services (tarot or astrology readings, reiki, etc.)

Thank you for taking the time to read my post!Your curiosity & engagement mean the world to me. I hope you not only found it enjoyable but also enriching for your astrological knowledge.Your support & interest inspire me to continue sharing insights & information with you. I appreciate you immensely.

• 🕸️ JOIN MY PATREON for exquisite & in-depth astrology content. You'll also receive a free mini reading upon joining. :)

• 🗡️ BOOK A READING with me to navigate your life with more clarity & awareness.

[moonsaver]

I cant stop thinking about being a possible singer from the Iris Family?? Their family is usually responsible for the major "talent" productions that practically are responsible for the entertainment... also Siobhan as hints to what the Iris family would be like.

-

You were a singer.

Barely a singer, to be fair.

It was for the sake of your little compartment of a family. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and you scraped out every last bit of your talents. The one which seems to be lasting the longest, seems to be singing.

You did what you had to. You sang until your throat was raw and hurt, practiced day and night until your ears were sick of your own voice, passed through every elimination tests that were conducted – all so you could have a stabilized, bolted place in the Iris Family, if it meant you and your parents and siblings weren't kicked out.

And, you weren't the best. And certainly not as good as Robin – the gem of the Oak Family. It was ironic, but it didn't matter. Not to you. As long as it kept your family secure, you endured. The comparisons, the hushed, barely pleased audience as they only took your performance as stalling time for the "real stars" of the show, the side-glances all of your other relatives threw your way. It was fine. You told yourself so. It was fine as long as you, your parents and your siblings were secured.

Risks weren't an option for you. Not when you had too much to lose.

-

Sunday has learned to appreciate frequency over output.

Times where schedules had to be rearranged last minute, performances strained and announcements elongated to squeeze out any extra amount of coverage for a missing show, routine dismantled and put together in real time as the neverending perfect show went on.

In all of those times, Sunday kept a usual eye on everyone. Their names, roles, status, popularity, preferences. And most importantly – their reliability.

You were an average performer. But your reliability was notable to Sunday. Oftentimes he found himself looking for you first and foremost for an improvised concert, whenever things even threatened to go awry. He knew perhaps you obliged out of self-interest or a simple fear of upsetting The Head of the Oak Family, but you were reliable in your own way. A simple glance your way and a nod was enough to signal you for advance preparation for improvisation, repeated song lyrics at the tip of your tongue.

If you were lucky, sometimes Sunday would repay you by scheduling you for an opening performance for a small-time event, or letting you in on the recent trends, the general public opinion towards your show, or even drop some personal hints for you to improve.

That was all you were. A reliable stand-in for when there were a disarray of clarity, disagreements upon disagreements, confusion stagnating the scheduling.

-

Until, you became so much more in a simple moment of disillusion.

A break is in order, Sunday believes. He clicks his pen continuously, the sound echoing in the vast space of the room, bouncing off of the sterile, empty walls.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

5 times.

Click.

6 times.

Sunday's restless mind comes to a small halt when he inhales sharply, constraining his fingers. His shaking hand gently places the pen onto the flat, neatly organized desk, back where it belongs. He rests his chin on his hands. Thinking and listing everything on his agenda for the day.

A tandem of knocks resound from the smooth wooden surface of the door.

"Mr. Sunday?"

Ah. It's you.

He supposes his asisstants and servants don't realize he's noticed the recent pattern as of late. Whenever something changes in the schedule that could possibly threaten to dampen his mood or displease him, they send you in as some sort of collateral. He's gotten used to your presence enough to not mind it.

"Come in."

Short, quick clicks of your heels accompany the entering of your figure into the room. Your front is warmly illuminated by the yellow lighting of the room.

"Changes have been decided within the schedule again."

"As expected."

He gets up from the leather chair with a subtle creak, the steps of his shoes muffled by the carpet. He walks around his table, fingers trailing across the ridges of the masterfully crafted desk.

"Can I ask a favor of you, as always?"

"Of course."

His wings slightly flutter, pleased at the response. You can tell, despite his back facing you.

His fingers trail and come to a slow halt at the edge of the desk. His index finger taps on the surface.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

5 times.

Ah, you think. He's anxious.

"Mr. Sunday?"

"Hm?"

His finger stops, you note.

"I've heard guests have taken more to berry-flavored items as of late."

He chuckles a bit, softly.

"There's an uprising trend. Berry-flavored items have been on the rise, and as such, food follows."

Sunday half theorizes it could be due to the recent intreview Robin had. Strawberry flavored lipgloss was something she mentioned in particular.

"Ah. I see. So I suppose those colors may also influence the recent fashion trends?"

Sunday hums, in thought.

The moment is interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door.

"Mr. Sunday, there's a few tasks that need your approval to go ahead."

The male asisstant's voice resounds confidently through the previously quiet room. Sunday looks over at you and nods. You turn to take your leave. You can only hope it was enough of a reprieve for him.

-

"It seems fashion trends are inspired, aswell."

Sunday mentions, standing beside you. His eyes are watchful, analyzing the current performance from behind the curtains.

"I see."

You respond. Making conversation was not your strongsuit. Sunday smiles slightly at your awkwardness.

He continued the conversation after a few moments, talking about color palettes, scents, and general observable trends. Your usual,basic gowns and dresses will now see a noticeable change, due to Sunday's suggestions.

He admits, even at times, he looks forward to them. Sometimes, as foolish as it sounds, he slips in a mix of his own personal opinion, thinly disguised as the "general preference", which manages to then take presidence over your usual pick of gowns. He won't admit it, but he secretly does enjoy sometimes "picking out" your outfits. It's never harmed anyone in the long run, and Sunday's personal theories of whichever color would look good on you are confirmed.

-

"May I ask.. what this is..?"

The artificial, blue light of the Dreamscape softly highlights Sunday's face, as he stands before you with a pleased look. The same, usual smile on his face.

"I believe incorporating a few gold accents into your palette may help."

You look at the black, velvet bag; the ends of it scrunched into a closure. Your fingers gently pry it open and meddle around a bit, before they pull out a single, gold earring. It glimmers wonderfully under the soft, blue light. There's a flower at the very top with an encrusted diamond, from which a long, elegant thread of gold dangles, ending into a small golden stalk.

You curiously examine it, slightly dangling it to inspect the weight and movement of the accessory.

Sunday walks toward you with a few, short strides, and holds out his hand.

You look at his open, gloved palm, then him.

You inhale deeply, before taking off your current earrings and placing them onto his hand, and gently replacing their former stations with the new earrings. Sunday places your previous earrings into the velvet bag, and glances at your ears, then you.

"Consider it a.. company gift."

How fanciful.

"Thank you for your generosity."

Sunday's eyes linger on your ears, then trail down to the junction of your jaw. His eyes close as his smiles widens slightly.

To be fair, he wanted more.

‐

Sunday has been getting closer to you as of late.

Because you wouldn't imagine ever being this close in proximity to Robin of all people.

Her lips are glossy with a strawberry tint, and her eyes are a beautiful lake green, you note. You also take note of the fact she's much more warmer and approachable than she is appeared to be on digital surfaces.

Both of you engage in polite conversation, her taking the lead, noticing your awkwardness. She's sweet, and understanding. She discusses general things regarding singing and songwriting. You take her for a very warm individual. It's no wonder she's a well-liked popstar. Talent alone can take you so far.

What you also wouldn't imagine is her managing to entangle you within her daily affairs. She leads you to private rooms, asks for advice on outfits, practice, and all sorts of things, despite the contrast of your styles almost bizzare, you oblige anyway.

And it's almost brazenly obvious she's trying to get you and Sunday to spend more time alone outside of work.

It's of no coincidence that she suddenly has to leave and take care of a few things or shuffle around a bit outside whenever Sunday manages to pop in and check up on you two. It wouldn't have been so uncomfortable if for the fact, Sunday's eyes are always lingering on your ears.

Once, he'd taken note that you'd been wearing them more often to your performances and shows. It can't be helped – you've gained more popularity and as a result, keener eyes inspect your choice of practically everything. Including your earrings. Your fans aren't hesitant to point out how exquisite and specific the craftsmanship of your earrings are, and it's not long before your fans have understood it was gifted to you. By who, became the newest sensation regarding you. Petty rumors were incriminating, but you suppose if it brought you more fans, it was enough.

Sunday chuckles softly when you briefly touch on the subject.

It wasn't long before he'd gotten you another pair as a result.

You only worry about paying him back, more and more.

‐

There are a plethora of thorns on Sunday's side. Many, of which the public, and many members of the Oak Family aren't privy to.

One of them was currently busy darkening his doorstep;

The IPC.

Or rather specifically – Aventurine.

What he wasn't expecting, was for you to be an exclusive invitee to his mischief.

You were rather in an unlucky spot. You had always considered your luck to be rusty, having struggled so much just for average recognition and a barely tangible career that's keeping your family afloat.

On top of that, you were being heavily persuaded by Aventurine, who was persistent in his offer to you. His desperation was more than obvious, like a nervous dog waiting for the bone toss, holding you in place with a firm grip on your arm. It didn't help that he'd forced his way into your hotel room aswell.

And Sunday just witnessed the pinnacle of this forsaken deal.

...

"Aventurine."

"Mr. Sunday."

After a beat of silence, you pathetically try to step in,

"This–"

"I see you've taken to familiarizing with my employees."

Sunday's smile remains well plastered on his face. Aventurine only smiles back.

"I was actually in the middle of striking a deal. There's always opportunities in the best of places, right?" Aventurine side-eyes you. You shrink back a bit.

"My employees are unfortunately off-limits to contracts from unauthorized branches. I look for your understanding in this.. complicated form of approach."

You watch Aventurine's smile strain. Sunday continues.

"Perhaps, if you are in need of a singer, I may direct you to an appropriate employee from the Iris Family to search for someone."

"That won't be necessary. I wasn't looking for a singer. You don't think that's all they're talented at, do you?"

Sunday's eyes slightly sharpen at him. Aventurine's smile becomes more genuine.

"Oh, you've positively ruined the mood. I guess it's just not my lucky day, and it looks like I'm not getting a deal with you anytime soon."

Aventurine's eyes hone in on you. You stand stiffly, your arm tense from the uncertainty your body feels physically.

His grip loosens, languidly. You'd think he was doing it slowly on purpose if not to tick off Sunday more.

"I'll take my leave, then."

Aventurine breezes past Sunday, rounding the corner of the door. He casts one last glance to you as the turns.

His footsteps echo down the hallway. As soon as they fade, Sunday's smile drops slightly.

"Are you perhaps.. unhappy with your current circumstances?"

‐

[oh-dameron]

Faintenance? For when the rogue killing machine swoons like the heroine of a Victorian romance novel (again)?

ART's faintenance drone emoji

[eatmyheartoutjpg]

DOG FIGHT;; Homelander can't lay his hands off of you, even when you're on the job or when you're pissed to hell. And you lose all the patience you had and everything boils over. This ends up creating more tension.

06.09.25 Masterlist

You were a supe.

Not the kind Vought paraded on morning talk shows. Not the shining beacon on billboards or the friendly face shaking hands in war zones for photo ops. You didn’t smile for cameras. You didn’t talk to civilians. Your job was simple: slip in, destabilize, disappear.

You were the one they called when things needed to go wrong. Quietly. Convincingly. Permanently.

Just like Black Noir—except you didn’t hide behind silence or were ever on camera. You hid behind blood and shadows. You were the cause of explosions. The shadow casting over international borders just before the sky caught on fire. You were Vought’s most reliable, used where visibility was the last thing they wanted.

You didn’t mind. Not really.

The job paid obscenely well. The perks were unbelievable. The ethics? Nonexistent. But that was fine. You’d trained yourself to be numb. No names. No attachments. Every target was a checkmark. Every mission was a paycheck.

This one, though… This one was heat and dust and something far more irritating.

You were in Iraq, dropped in under the radar during one of the more “delicate” skirmishes Vought wanted to ignite behind the scenes. Your job was to make things worse. Push the narrative. Stoke the fire. Feed the war machines just enough to justify letting supes loose on foreign soil like gods of death.

It wasn’t noble work. It was necessary. Supposedly.

But right now, all you could think about was how goddamn hot you were.

Your suit clung to your body like a vice, layered and armored to hell and back. You were drenched in sweat. Your chest plate burned against your skin, cooking you from the inside out. Every movement felt like dragging lead through sand. You were overheating, short-tempered, and entirely out of patience.

And then there was him.

You were pressed against the crumbling stone wall of an abandoned townhouse, long gutted by violence. Sand-covered furniture was scattered around the hollowness of the home, blackened and broken. Glassless windows let in sharp, radiating light that turned everything to glare and haze. There wasn’t a soul for miles—just silence, dust, and ruin.

Except for the man wrapped around you like a human furnace.

“Get… off,” you snarled, shoving at his shoulders with one hand while the other gripped a jagged window ledge for balance. You could feel the familiar texture of his suit beneath your gloves—sleek, lightly padded, more form than function. Classic Homelander.

He didn’t move.

His grip only tightened, his arms locked around your waist like he was anchoring himself to something solid. You could feel your own armor biting into your ribs, your holstered weapons jabbing into the meat of your thighs. It wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was unbearable.

“Too hot,” you snapped, louder this time, trying again to push him off. “I'm burning! What the hell is wrong with you?”

But he didn’t let go.

His breath brushed your neck, damp and suffocating. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Too quiet for someone usually drunk on the sound of himself.

“Can we stay like this a little longer?”

The words hit you harder than expected.

There was something raw in his tone. Not seductive. Not mocking. Just… empty. Hollowed out. Like he was asking you not for comfort—but to keep him from unraveling.

And suddenly you weren’t sure what this was anymore.

You didn’t relax. Not fully. You were still pressed between crumbling concrete and a walking nuclear ego. But you stopped resisting. Just for a beat.

You’d seen Homelander cleave people in half with a glance. Heard what he did when he got bored or when someone disappointed him. He was a living weapon wearing a man’s face. Untouchable.

But right now, he wasn’t radiating power. He wasn’t smirking or threatening or performing.

He was clinging.

You let out a slow breath and tilted your head back slightly, feeling the grit of sweat and dirt under your collar.

“What happened?” Your voice was strained, flat. Not because you cared—but because you were trying. Trying to stay patient. Trying not to lose it completely. Sweat rolled down your spine in a slow, burning trail, soaking the back of your suit. It didn’t cool you. It made you itch.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he pressed his face deeper into the side of your neck, the sharp tip of his nose dragging across your collarbone like he was trying to vanish into you. Like if he just held tight enough, maybe he wouldn’t fly apart.

You grit your teeth, jaw tightening. "Okay." Your tone dropped, colder now, mechanical. Your arm shifted down from the crumbling ledge and went to your thigh. Your fingers curled around the grip of your holstered pistol—your non-lethal standard for missions where brute force was too messy. A formality, really. You didn’t need it. But it came in handy for moments like this.

You raised it slowly, brought it close to the side of his head. You didn’t give a warning.

You pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the air like a firework in a minefield. A deafening blast right beside his ear—his sensitive ear. The sound must’ve shattered in his skull like a bomb going off. You saw it then: a flinch. Just a twitch, a sharp wince that barely registered—but it was there.

Good.

His grip slackened. Not enough to let go. Not enough to give you space. But it was something.

Still, he wouldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t even acknowledge you.

Your patience fractured.

You brought the pistol down hard—metal smashing against the side of his head with a dull, satisfying crack. Not enough to hurt him, not really. But enough to jar him. Enough to snap him out of… whatever this was.

Finally, his head lifted.

His eyes met yours—and you weren’t prepared for what you saw there. Not rage. Not pride. Just something raw and cracked open. A look that belonged on a child who’d just realized no one was coming to save him.

It didn’t make you feel sorry for him. You just didn’t care.

He blinked, dazed, like he didn’t even realize how tightly he’d been clinging to you until you shoved him—hard—away from your body.

This time, he let you.

You stood alone. Cool air—hot by normal standards, but blissful compared to his suffocating presence—finally washed over your body. You inhaled sharply, jaw clenched, armor pulling at your joints with every movement.

“I have a job to do.” That was all you said.

No anger. No sentiment. Just hard facts.

Because you did have a job. And whatever the hell Homelander was going through? It wasn’t your problem. You weren’t here to fix fucked up, grown men.

You were still in Iraq. Still in that same scorched, gutted town, surrounded by sun-bleached bones of buildings and air so dry it scraped your throat when you breathed.

It was still hot as hell. Still cooking you alive inside your armor like you’d been shoved into an oven and left to bake. Sand stuck to every crease and seam, working its way into your boots, your gloves, your teeth.

You hated the heat. But your job wasn’t done. Vought had ordered a few more days on-site—observe, report, stir the pot. You didn’t argue. You rarely did. Orders were orders, and this mission was simple enough.

All you had to do was give a little taste—just a drop—of Compound V to a handful of deranged gunmen with too much firepower and too little sense. Mercenaries. Warlords. Lunatics with twitchy trigger fingers and nothing to lose. The kind of people Vought liked to weaponize.

You made the drop quietly. No fanfare. Just a suitcase, a handshake, and some carefully worded encouragement.

Now you were waiting.

Waiting for signs of escalation. Waiting for one of those bastards to get itchy and blow a hole through a village with newfound strength. Waiting for satellites to pick up the movement. For whispers to turn into screams. For the government to take the bait. For Vought to step in like a knight in shining armor—with cameras rolling.

It was a chain reaction. Engineered chaos. You were the spark.

You sat on the dusty floor in the corner of a random home (something you did as much as you could to avoid the heat), relishing the shade like it was a blessing. Through a nearby shattered window you could see the desert stretch endlessly, rippling with heat. You squinted, watching the dust spiral over the distant hills, searching for any hint of movement.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. Patience. You just had to wait it out. Let the situation breathe. Let the chaos unfold at its own pace. That’s what they told you. Let it simmer.

Then came the shockwave—a sonic boom that split the sky wide open, followed by a rumbling quake that shook dust loose from the crumbling buildings around you.

You sighed aloud, long and loud, like you were trying to exhale your entire soul.

Your gloved hand dragged up the back of your neck, rough fabric scraping raw skin. It didn’t help. The heat was still unbearable, your suit still stuck to you like a wet body bag. Your fingers dug harder, almost punishing. Trying to control yourself.

You were furious. Not just from the heat or the waiting. But from the interruption.

The sound of boots crunching against scorched sand reached your ears a moment later. Slow. Steady. Not even trying to be subtle. Whoever it was, they wanted you to hear them coming.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t have to. You already knew.

“Motherfucker…” The word slipped out low and venomous as you let your head drop near your spread knees. Your hands stayed behind your neck, jaw clenched tight.

Then came the voice—smooth, amused, like it enjoyed peeling at your last nerve.

“Am I interrupting?”

Of course it was him.

You lifted your head just enough to see his reflection in a fractured shard of glass near your boot—red, white, and blue all smeared with dust and sand. He stood at the doorway of the house like he owned it, like he belonged in the middle of the warzone with not a single speck of sweat on him.

Of course he didn’t. He was Homelander.

And uninvited.

And yet here he was.

You didn’t respond right away. Just kept your hands where they were, letting the silence drag between you like barbed wire.

"It’s hot as hell." You warned him with a sharp glance, voice low, flat—a callback to last time. A boundary. A threat.

You were not doing this again. Not the clinging, not the body heat, not the suffocating grip of a goddamn supe with attachment issues. You were in the shade now, out of the direct sun, for once not actively boiling alive in your own sweat. And you intended to stay that way.

He didn’t seem fazed. Of course he didn’t.

“Oh, come on.”

He stepped closer, hands gesturing as he moved, fingers twitching like he was conducting an orchestra. It was a habit—one of his tells. You’d seen it a hundred times: when he was agitated, calculating, or just trying to convince himself he wasn’t losing control.

It was a sign you had known him too long.

He stopped about a foot away. Just far enough to give you space. Just close enough to test it.

Sunlight still blasted in through the jagged windows, outlining his frame in white-hot glare. It made him look like some biblical figure in a propaganda poster—burning with holiness that wasn’t real.

You didn’t look at him directly.

Then he spoke again, softer, quieter.

“And would you quit rubbing your neck like that? It’s gonna sting like a bitch later.”

You let out a short breath. Not a laugh. Not even a scoff. Just air. The smallest release of tension.

You leaned back against the ruined wall behind you, exasperated, letting your elbows rest on your knees. You stared at him with a 'done' look on your face.

But for once, you listened.

Not because he was right. Not because you cared what he thought. But because you were actually tired. The heat had baked your nerves raw. And you knew picking a fight right now wouldn’t go anywhere.

"Okay." You kept it curt, clearly not in the mood to talk.

The silence stretched thin between you, brittle and sharp like the broken glass beside you. You watched him a moment longer, watched the way he stood there like a kicked dog pretending to be a wolf. You hated that look.

You shifted, being made more aware of your sweat as you pushed off the wall and stood. You could feel a slight ache in your knees, your back, your neck—constant reminders of how long you’d been crouched in this godforsaken heat. You stretched once, cracking your neck side to side before brushing grit from your armor.

Homelander's eyes followed you, like a magnet locked onto metal.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact this time.

“You need to go,” Your voice came out low, cool. Firm. “I’m not in the mood to entertain whatever you're here for.”

He tilted his head slightly, something flickering behind his eyes—offense, confusion, maybe just ego taking a hit. You weren't sure, and you didn't want to find out. “You being here is stalling me.” You moved to step past him, your shoulder barely brushing his as you moved toward the broken archway. “And I nearly ran late last time.”

That was bullshit. You were just sitting, waiting. But you needed something to haul his ass out.

"Hold on."

A hand caught your wrist, not hard, not hurting, but firm. Enough to stop your momentum mid-step. Enough to make your body tense on instinct.

You turned.

The heat hit your face again from the sunlight, but it was nothing compared to the way your blood started to simmer under your skin. One more second. One more second of him trying to hold onto something that wasn’t his—

“Let go,” you snapped, low and dangerous.

He didn’t.

His fingers stayed curled around your wrist, head tilted like he couldn’t understand why you weren’t melting for him, why this wasn’t going the way it normally did.

Something sharp cracked inside you.

Remember when you thought a fight wouldn't do anything? You take that back.

You grabbed the front of his suit with both hands—tight, just below the collar—and shoved. Hard.

The room twisted around you both in a blur of dust and heat and old stone. His back slammed into the far wall, against what used to be a sofa now blackened from fire, springs poking out like ribs, cushions long turned to ash. You harshly forcing him down onto the long side of it like you were staking a flag in foreign ground. You were right above him like a predator stalking prey.

The charred fabric cracked beneath him as you leaned in close above him, face a breath away from his. His cape was half-draped behind the couch like a broken curtain, dirt and ash clinging to its edges. His eyes were wide, blinking up at you, surprised—genuinely surprised—that you’d manhandled him.

He wasn’t used to that.

“You don’t get to do this,” you started, voice trembling from growing rage—not fear.

Homelander could have swore he saw your veins pulsating out of your neck.

“But we have to stop doing this shit." Your breath was hot. Your pulse was louder than the desert wind outside. It was beating in his enhanced ears.

“I have a job. A schedule. A mission. And if I’m late again—if I damn near fuck up again—because of you?” You leaned in closer, your forehead nearly touching his. “I will smash your fucking head in.”

He stared at you, unmoving, unreadable.

For the first time in a long while, he looked genuinely stunned. You could see the twitch in his jaw—small, involuntary. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to defend himself or just let you burn the whole moment down.

You released his collar suddenly, like you couldn’t stand to touch him a second longer, and got ready to get up and off of him.

His hand snapped to your wrist again, preventing you from fully getting off of him.

It was faster this time. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just fast. Reflexive.

You looked down, lips curling slightly in disbelief. His fingers curled around your wrist like a tether—like he needed to keep you close or something in him would shatter. You could feel the tension in his grip. Not the kind that threatened violence. The kind that represented desperation.

He seemed to have formed a habit of grabbing you.

He opened his mouth to speak, maybe to plead, maybe to utter apology.

But the gall. The sheer nerve of him grabbing you—in this heat, again—only worsened your anger.

You jerked your wrist free with a sharp twist of your arm, the movement so practiced it might as well have been muscle memory. And without missing a beat, you reached back down to your thigh holster, fingers curling around familiar cold steel once again.

You didn’t raise it this time.

You just pressed the muzzle of your sidearm against the underside of his jaw. Close. Personal. The pressure firm enough to tilt his head back slightly, exposing the vulnerable hollow of his throat—if there even was such a thing in him.

“Hands off.” Your voice was steel now, you contained yourself. Just clean, surgical control.

He didn’t smile. He just looked up at you like you’d spoken both scripture and blasphemy in the same breath—like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or hate you for it.

“Hey—”

Nope.

You flipped your pistol in your grip—upside-down, backwards, practiced—and drove it straight into the side of his head. Painfully pistol whipping him. A sharp crack echoed off the burned walls as his skull whipped sideways, a perfect 90 degrees, nose near pressing into the ruined couch.

His eyes lit up for half a second, just a flicker—reflex, threat, confusion. Shock.

He turned back toward you, lips parting, “Can you let me get a w—”

Nope.

Crack.

Same spot. Same force. His head snapped the other way like déjà vu with a concussion. You didn’t even blink.

He blinked, though. Twice. Looked disoriented now. Like his processor was glitching. Like the idea of someone interrupting him—hurting him like this—was scrambling his whole damn worldview.

Good.

Crack.

Maybe that put some sense into him.

“Alright! Fuck…!” He finally barked, voice rough and fraying at the edges. His hands came up fast, palms flat against your chest plate, shoving—not hard, just enough to keep your reach short, to put distance between your weapon and his skull.

You were both breathing hard, chests heaving with heat and frustration. Eyes locked. Again. Always that—too much of that.

“Fuck!” He forced out once more, this time like it was all he had left. Not rage. Not bravado. Just pure, exhausted exasperation.

“Okay, okay—” he muttered, trying to gather himself. His words stumbled out half-formed, like his brain was still buffering. “Just—give me a second. Let me think.”

You let your arms fall limp at your sides, the weight of the pistol dragging your hand down like an anchor. Your head tipped back, eyes tracing the jagged cracks webbing across the scorched ceiling.

You were catching your breath too.

Every inhale scraped your throat like sandpaper. Every exhale felt heavier than it should’ve.

You didn’t register the position at first. Too overwhelmed by the heat, the rage, the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Homelander was flat on his back, sunk into the charred remains of a couch that looked like it had survived a bombing—barely. His ankles hung off the couch, it was far too small for anyone to comfortably lay on. You knew it made his skin crawl. The disgusting smell of charcoal and the exposed springs that were undoubtedly pressing into him. The disgust was all over his face. But he didn’t move. He stayed beneath you.

You were straddling him, your knees planted on either side of his waist, digging into the burnt cushions. You could feel the grind of your right kneepad scraping something metal beneath the fabric—probably an exposed spring—but you didn’t look down.

In any other situation, it would’ve looked compromising. Intimate, even. But there was nothing remotely sexual about it—not to you at least.

This was a control position. A tactical advantage. The mount for a beatdown.

Sex? Wasn’t on your radar. Not with him. Not ever. You didn’t have a drive for it. Not when blood and violence had become your only outlet. Your whole life.

Homelander spoke, quieter this time. Less bark, more breath.

“No more of that, alright?” he said, testing the waters—his voice lighter, almost cautious. But his arms stayed up, palms forward, he was still trying to keep a barrier between you.

You rolled your neck again, feeling the crack of tension before lowering your gaze. Then you tilted your head at him, mirroring the way he always did to you. Imitation as challenge.

“You gonna let me do my job?” you asked, voice flat and final. Like there was only one answer you’d accept.

Right. The job. That was always your anchor, your reason. Vought’s loyal dog. And for all his posturing, that loyalty always got under Homelander’s skin.

“You didn’t even hear me out yet,” he chuckled—a hollow sound he used when silence pressed too hard. Slowly, he lowered his arms, hands drifting down until they rested on your waist, tentative but deliberate.

You raised an eyebrow. It was still hot and you weren't keen on letting him rest his hands on you for now.

“Then talk,” you said. “What could you possibly want from me in the middle of a goddamn desert?”

“Can’t I just want your company?” he replied, giving your waist a slight squeeze on the word company—trying to make it mean more, add some sincerity, if you will.

“I’m thinking about smashing your head again,” you said, immediately, with perfect honesty.

He laughed—soft at first, then fuller, a breathy sound that vibrated through his chest. You felt it, that low rumble, just from how close you were.

“I like it when you bite,” he said, thumbs lazily tracing circles on your waist, like he was memorizing the shape of you through pressure alone. “Makes me feel alive, you know?”

“I’m not joking,” you warned, tone sharp enough to cut through bone.

“I’m not either,” he said, still smiling—wide now, flashing the edge of his canines like he thought it was charming. “I like you like this.”

Crack.

“FUCK!” he gasped, breath hitching as his hands clenched hard around your waist—tight enough to bruise, even by your standards. His expression twisted, stretching into something wild and unhinged, a little too wide, a little too pleased. “I really fucking like you.”

Crack.

“Okay—!” he groaned, voice strained, panting. “Starting to think you’ve got a thing for this.”

"Are you done?"

"Give me a kiss first?"

Crack.

He didn’t even get the flinch in before the sound hit.

"If I do, will you really leave me alone?" You were already bored of the game.

He was still panting, throat working around a thick swallow. You watched his Adam's apple bob. No signs of concussion—he was taking the hits well. Probably the only man who could, especially after this many shots.

"Maybe. But you know, if you give a mouse a cookie—"

You grabbed his jaw with your free hand, snapping his head forward and cutting the line short.

He went still. You knew he could feel everything—the grime of your glove, the unrelenting pressure of your fingers, the heat underneath it all.

You leveled your pistol against his shoulder, bracing with both hands.

Then, without a word, you leaned down and kissed him. Quick. Firm. Meaningless.

His grip froze.

You pulled back just as fast, wiped your mouth with the back of your glove, and let go of him entirely.

He was dazed—caught off guard by the sudden shift. The same person who shoved him away the last time he’d come looking for your company was now the one leaning in, lips pressed briefly against his own.

He thought you were bluffing, fully expecting that pistol to connect with his skull after his teasing line. Instead, you gave him something raw and unfiltered, if only for a moment.

Yeah, he really, really fucking likes you. He's enjoying everything about this. That look on your face, the proximity— the position, the really painful assaults, all of it. If he were honest, he could have climaxed just from this alone.

A/N ;; Sorry guys, I let my freak out a bit... This was SUPER long too (4.1k) WHOOPS EL OH ELLL.

AND TY ALL!! I keep getting the inbox messages, the comments, the reposts. Thank you all for reading and I'm so glad this was enjoyable for you all!! -06.11.25