#considering I am technically not an employee

[devon-usher]

i see you’ve got your own tumblr now! hey dev!

-fin

I do I do! Hello, Fin. I hope you've been doing well.

[sunrizef1]

What happens in Vegas pt 1.5

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Authors Note: had to write this twice because tumblr deleted it lol. Not sure how to tag this so I’m just tagging my general tags. Proofread but not well.

Warnings: Blood, cursing

Summary: When the drivers found Max cheating

Masterlist

—————————————————

“Dannyyyyyy” your voice rings out through the noise of the crowded club, your words catching the attention of the Australian in question.

The Aussie turns his head, a grin on his face as he holds up a bottle of champagne he seemed to have convinced the bartender to hand over. You laugh at his state, drunkenness clear in the way he sways as he staggers over to you. You wrap an arm around his tall shoulder, leaning on him in order to sort out your own less-than-sober state.

Lights flash brightly around the two of you, fellow drivers and F1 employees spread throughout the club, not including anyone from Red Bull for some reason.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to care, vodka practically running through your veins as you celebrated your win. You had won your home race and you were surrounded by your friends. The absence of some people you didn’t really like didn’t bother you all too much.

“Have you seen Logan?” You look up toward the Aussie again, eyes darting quickly around the club for your friend. You had been with the blond practically the whole night but as soon as you had gone looking for Danny, he had disappeared from your side.

Luckily, you didn’t have to search for long as another arm comes and wraps around your shoulder suddenly. You turn your head to find Logan, a dopey smile on his face and, weirdly, sunglasses.

He had been drinking just as much as the rest of you had, even downing about half a bottle of vodka in under twenty minutes. Better than you would’ve done considering you thought vodka tasted like shit. Good for shots though.

You reach up and fix the glasses that had gone sideways on his face. His hand follows yours, still clutching a drink as he follows your lead in fixing the random glasses.

“Why’d you have glasses on?” You have to yell slightly as you say it, prompting Danny to glance over from where he’d been watching Lando convince the current DJ to let him have a go. You’d have to give it to him, the man’s pretty convincing when he’s drunk.

“Someone gave them to me, not sure when, don’t really care. They’re sick though, right?” Logan leans back slightly to give you both a full look at him and you laugh as he sways a bit. His blond hair is ruffled and he’s acquired someone’s paddock pass throughout the night, along with the glasses and he’s looking like he came straight from the race itself.

“Yeah! You look great, mate!” Danny’s laughing behind you and Logan grins while he leans back into the little huddle you’ve created, patting Danny on the back as he does.

“Where are we heading then, gang?” Logan slurs, downing the rest of his drink and slamming it down on a nearby table and then turning his entire form toward the two of you.

You walk forward a bit, dragging the two drivers with you, both of their arms falling off your shoulders, “I was gonna go back to my room but I can't find max.”

You had already been dealing with Max’s absence since, well, yesterday at that point and it definitely contributed to about 5 of the shots you had taken. By now it was about 1 am, you had been in the club for hours, you were hungry and drunk and just really wanted to go to bed. But you couldn't do that because you couldn't find max and something in your drunken mind said you had to find him before you could go to bed. Something about not going to bed angry after a fight.

A fight that, truly, you didn't really have a part in. It wasn't your fault that Max had lost. I mean, it technically was but you shouldn't have been expected to let him win. Red Bull had practically been asking you to lose to him all season and you win once and suddenly Max is yelling about how inconsiderate you are.

“Come on,” Danny starts to walk toward the exit, leading you and Logan behind him as he does. The three of you stagger through the crowd, many people stopping you go congratulate you and chat as you do. By the time you've reached the strip, you've completely forgotten about Max and instead, you're only thinking about the hunger in your stomach.

“Im starving,” you mumble as you lay your head on Logan who smiles down at you, once again wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

You pay no mind to the cameras flashing as the three of you walk out or the stares that come your way. You’re more concerned about where the nearest restaurant is.

Logan moves away from you to dig through his pocket and you take the opportunity to adjust your dress, the fabric suddenly too tight on your heated body. You also wish you could take off the shoes that were causing your feet to ache. Danny takes a swig from the bottle that he, surprisingly, had been allowed to take from the club. Hair sticks to your foreheads and clothes sit rumbled and wrong. The spitting image of three elite athletes.

Logan moves back toward you to hand you the phone he had just pulled from his pocket. You had honestly forgotten you had given it to him to hold considering your dress didn’t have pockets.

“Thank you,” you nod gratefully, unlocking it to an influx of messages from friends and family congratulating you on your win or sending pictures from the club.

You clutch the device tightly as you cross your arms in an attempt to shield yourself from the cold Vegas air.

When a particularly cold chill runs through your body, you’re suddenly moving down the sidewalk, heels clicking as you try not to sway. The boys behind you follow in suit, seemingly trusting the, for the purposes of this race, Vegas native.

“Where we going, then?” Logan asks, a yawn escaping him as he readjusts the sunglasses perched on his nose.

“There’s a shake shack at New York New York,” you follow suit in yawning, pointing slightly ahead at the Empire State shaped hotel in front of you.

Daniel hums, “I want a burger.”

You laugh slightly, leading both of them toward the restaurant.

You three get there pretty quickly, ordering random greasy food that your trainers would probably disapprove of. When you sit down, you pull out your phone and send a quick series of text to Max to ask where he was. He hadn’t been there the whole night and you had finally started to miss him. He reads the messages but doesn’t reply, leaving you with a sick feeling in your stomach.

You bite into a fry to try and cover the nausea, opening your text chain with Charles and texting him instead. He actually replies this time and soon enough, Charles is on his way to you three from wherever he had gone to sober up earlier in the night.

“Charles is on his way,” you say through another yawn, eating a fry.

Daniel scarfs down a few bites of his burger, swallowing a full gulps of his drink right after, “For what?”

“Gonna help me find Max probably. We’re all too drunk to do anything by ourselves anyway.”

“Not too drunk to order food by ourselves,” Logan says, probably louder than he needs to, leaning back in his chair, glasses still on and a drink in his mouth, “Let’s fucking goooooooo.”

He follows Daniel’s lead and starts to munch on his food quickly, food you’d paid for by the way, when you turned out to be the only one who could get their Apple Pay to work.

You take a couple more bites of your food while the boys scavenge their food as if they hadn’t eaten in years.

“Hey guys!” You look up to see a particularly sober Charles Leclerc strolling through the shake shack door. You perk up when you see him, a small smiling making it through the exhaustion you were feeling.

“Hey Cha,” you say, standing up to give him a small hug, staggering a bit on your heels as you do. He leans back as you release him and steadies you, holding something up to you as he does.

Your eyes widen as he holds up a pair of converse in your eyesight and you gasp happily, quickly sitting back down in your chair and starting to fumble with the clasps on your heels.

Your fingers shake with exhaustion and alcohol and the clasp escapes your hands more than a couple times.

“Here, let me do it,” Charles offers as he sets the shoes down on the ground next to you before kneeling in front of your chair and grasping your ankle lightly.

You don’t look across the table to see Daniel and Logan making kissy faces at each other as they both stuff their faces with greasy food and soda. But you can hear their mocking kiss noises and you roll your eyes as you finally look their way, glaring as you do. They both shut up and go back to the phones in their hands.

Charles makes quick work of the clasps on both shoes, sliding the heels off your feet and untying the converse before handing them to you. You slide the shoes on and stand up, wrapping up your excess shake shack as you do.

Logan makes a noise of protest as you move to throw the food away and you sigh before sliding it across the table back to him. He makes quick work of the food, with help from Daniel reaching over his shoulder to grab food in between Logan’s bites.

You and Charles wait quietly for the two of them to finish. You eventually open your mouth to ask him a question but he seems to beat you there.

“Do you know where Max is?” He says quietly, eyes staring kindly at your tired state.

“No, he hasn’t answered my texts,” you mumble sadly, head falling to rest against your hand on the table. Charles moves slightly closer to let you rest your head on his shoulder and your eyes start to flutter closed. You were just nodding off when a loud band comes from across you and your eyes open to see Logan slamming his empty drink on the table just before Daniel does as well.

They both move from the table quickly and you and Charles rush to follow them as they bound out of the restaurant in their drunken stupor.

“Let’s go find max!” Daniel yells out swinging an arm around the blond man’s shoulders.

“To finding max!” Logan responds swinging his own arm around Daniel.

You and Charles share a look at the two of them. You had been just as drunk as them but you seemed to be sobering up quicker than both of them.

You glance down to see your heels clutched in Charles hand and pull out your phone to take a picture while he’s busy looking over your shoulder at the two drunk formula one driver some yards away.

“Come back here, losers!” Charles called out to the two of them and they both turn back to you and stumble over, seemingly dancing to music that wasn’t playing.

“We’re going to Omnia,” Charles says to the three of you and that’s all the boys need to turn around and wander toward a building they don’t know the location of.

You roll your eyes at them but follow quickly after, trying to make sure they don't wander too far away. Charles is quick to walk beside you.

The walk isn't too far, your drunkenness slowly decreasing throughout the stroll. Luckily for you and Charles, by the time you all get to the club, Daniel and Logan have sobered enough to at least walk in a straight line.

Omnia is nestled inside of Caesars Palace so it wasn't hard to find but Daniel and Logan do both try and walk past the hotel. You and Charles have to call them back and drag them into the lobby of the hotel.

The four of you wander over to the club, glancing around but when your efforts seem fruitless, you decide to wander around the area instead of just looking at the club.

The four of you wander around aimlessly, looking for any signs of your boyfriend. You glance up to see Charles with his eyes set forward, still clutching your heels in his hands. Logan and Danny fall in line next to the two of you, seemingly sobered enough to be helpful now.

Eventually you round a corner and come face to face with a surprisingly empty area, not a soul in sight. The silence almost echoes off the vaulted ceiling, making the sound of your four sets of shoes seem almost loud in comparison.

You don’t see anything in the room and go to turn around when Logan catches your elbow, “Is that him?”

You turn back around to follow Logan’s point, eyes locking on a brunette man. Of course, Logan has just been extremely inebriated so his judgement probably wasn’t the best but you decide to listen to him anyway.

You move to take a step toward the man when he stumbles backward, letting you see that it is, in fact, your boyfriend. But what causes your eyebrows to furrow is the familiar girl hanging off of him, lips practically attacking his own.

You can’t move. Your eyes are locked on the couple and your feet are solidly rooted to the marble floor. You think you might be crying, you wouldn’t be able to tell. The only thing that pulls you out of it is the feeling of a pair of heels being shoved into your arms. You glance up just in time to see Charles reeling his fist back.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the sound of a nose breaking under a fist. Of course, it’s quiet so that probably helped a lot.

They’re screaming at each other and your brain, once again, tunes it out. You stare blankly ahead, trying to make sense of whatever the fuck you just saw. You’re pretty sure Charles’ girlfriend flees. Probably for the best. Logan swings a tanned hand in front of your eyes and suddenly the volume in the room is back once again, the screaming slowly filtering into your head.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Charles yells, blood dripping down his arm as he shoves Max in the middle of his chest.

“What’s my problem!? What’s your problem!? You’re already fucking my girlfriend, I was just evening the score,” Max spits, blood splattering against Charles’ white shirt as he shoves the man’s wrist away.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t do shit, man!”

“You proved it by showing up with her,” Logan inches forward as Max’s eyes land on you for the first time that night, seemingly ready to defend your honor. Or whatever.

“Taking her to help her find her boyfriend who turned out to be cheating on her with my girlfriend. Yeah seems really romantic mate,” Charles rolls his eyes. You can tell from his stance he’s ready to throw another punch in a heartbeat.

“Fuck you, Charles.”

“Fuck you, Max.”

There it is, the second punch flies and the two start to brawl. Rich idiot brawling, of course, no real form or anything. You reckon Max could throw a pretty good punch if he was in a better state. In the moment you’re just glad he isn’t. For Charles’ sake.

You suddenly realize that the area might not have been as secluded as you had thought. When you glance up you’re met by the literal strip, bright lights streaming in from the outside. Even at the ripe hour of 3 am. People start to gather at the commotion. Usually you’d care a lot about this kind of stuff but your brain is unfortunately too preoccupied to care.

One of these people that takes it upon themselves to insert themselves in the fight is none other than Checo Perez. The man on the grid who you could stand the least. Or at least he used to have that title, that might belong to Max now.

Upon the sound of more yelling, you tune him out. Daniel’s the one who moves in his path, causing the man to turn the argument onto Daniel. 5 foot 10 Daniel who’s been itching to throw a punch since this fight started. Daniel who was, until quite recently, black out drunk. Daniel who you knew, deep down, didn’t want to punch Max so this was a perfect solution.

You don’t end up remembering how it happens, your brain fogged with alcohol and emotions but one second, Checo and Danny are arguing and the next second, Logan’s landed a punch.

Honestly, he has a killer right hook. Especially for a drunk man. This spurs another fight and you can’t do anything but stand still in the middle of it all, tear stains running down your cheeks and high-heels clutched tightly in your arms.

It feels like an eternity later, but what probably only 5 minutes, when a figure comes up behind you and wraps an arms around your shoulders. You glance up to see a wild Oscar, pulling you away from the scene. He drops your shoulder to move back and pull Logan out of the fight, now with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles. You’re not sure how much fighting he did and how much of it was just him hitting random surfaces. Again, drunk.

You turn toward Charles and see a now unoccupied Checo walking with an arm around Max’s shoulder and a now quite sober Lando pulling Charles the other way. Danny’s made his own way out of the area, quickly pulling you away with him. You don’t argue as he does, grateful for the escape. Sound comes back to you as you re-enter the casino floor, slot machines and black-jack spread out around you.

You realize how crazy you all probably look, all six of you covered in blood in some way. Whether it be your own or a friends. You all stagger out of the hotel quickly and at some point, you lose Charles and now it’s just you, Daniel and Logan, just like how you had started the night.

Once the air hits your face you realize the reality of everything that’s just happened. Your three year relationship was now over. Your teammate and boyfriend just cheated on you. This had to be some sort of HR violation.

For the first time since you entered the quiet area, you feel yourself cry. Tears run down your cheeks as sobs rack your body. Logan is quick to get you somewhere to sit down and he lays an arm around your shoulder comfortingly, not even thinking about the fact he’s now smearing even more blood on your clothes. You get distracted form your crying when you glance up and see the blood streaming from his nose. If you could help it, you’d get his name the farthest away from this. He didn’t need this right now.

For a moment you’re too worried about Logan’s future to cry but then you glance back down at the blood on your own hands and the waterworks start again. You, of course, hadn’t punched anyone but the blood was a reminder that somebody had because of you.

You eventually get the sobs to go away, standing up with a slight wobble, leaning on Daniel as he catches you.

You have no idea where the rest of your friend had gone or even where you were gonna sleep tonight. So you text the one person you had complete faith in during this situation.

“Can I stay with you?”

————————————————

[deadsetobsessions]

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPT BY @out-of-jams

TOO MANY BEDS

DCXDP, GEN

——

The Wayne foundation was a giant in the corporate world. What made it impressive was that their company was based in Gotham where, despite or perhaps in spite of the frequent rogue attacks and general hostile environment, the Waynes managed to run a tight and efficient ship. Their operations run extremely smoothly.

However, that was not to say there were no mistakes. There were. Wayne Enterprises usually had enough-more than enough- budget to cover such mistakes.

The employees, after all, were humans (though their new CEO, Timothy Drake, might have been a vampire considering how pale he was) and were prone to make mistakes.

Thus, due to the nature of human mistakes, the visiting senior class of Amity Park’s Casper High found themselves in a rather baffling situation.

“Well, we can’t say there’s not enough beds.” Their chaperone-teacher, Mr. Lancer rubbed the back of his bald head.

Before them laid not ten, not twenty, but fifty five twin beds arranged in neat rows in Gotham Academy’s auditorium.

“What is this, the military?” Their other chaperone-teacher, Mr. Falluca, grumbled.

“It’s not like we haven’t slept in worse places.” Sam grimaced. The class collective shuddered as they remembered the junior camping trip from hell.

“Ugh, my hair is going to get frizzy if we sleep here.” Paulina muttered.

“I thought we were getting called here for cheer or something.” Star frowned. Her boyfriend of four years, Kwan, slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to comfort her.

The doors open as a harried Wayne Industries employee ran in.

“I am so, so sorry! This isn’t where we were supposed to have you stay but WE mistook the donation request and sent in beds instead of paying for hotel rooms!” They blurted out, looking panicked. “Your hosting class - we’ll have you meet them outside, maybe?”

“It’s fine, right guys?” Danny spoke up, arms crossed. Tucker hummed at his side, tapping quickly at his

“Yeah, whatever Fentina says,” Dash grumbled. After the reveal of Danny’s identity as Phantom, his hostility and bullying died a quick death. Though, Dash kept the nicknames as they were a hard habit to kick and there weren’t any malicious intent behind it. In fact, Dash quickly became one of Danny’s biggest supporters, hidden behind scowls and general posturing.

“We could just meet in here. Get rid of the bedframes and just have a giant sleepover while you guys get everything sorted out.” Valerie volunteered.

“That’s a great idea!”

The class, coordinated from years of ghost attacks, quickly assembled the giant floor mattress. Gotham Academy’s senior class filed in ten minutes later, gaping at the giant floor mattress(es) before whooping and joining Casper High’s seniors in tumbling around.

——

Danny threw an empty plastic water bottle at Kwan’s head.

“Hey! No PDA on the giant mattress!”

“Yeah, get that love shit out of here!” Someone else hollered.

“There might technically be only one bed, now, but it’s still multiple mattresses!” Stephanie Brown, one of Gotham Academy’s seniors heckled.

“Hey, Danny, it’s your turn for truth or dare!” Tim said.

“Truth.” Danny returned.

“Lameeee.”

“C’mon Fenturd, too chicken to do dare?”

“Danny, that’s so boring,” Sam smirked.

Danny scowled. “Hey, whose side are you on?”

Sam and Tucker grinned and said in unison, “The winning side, duh.”

Tim cut in. “So, what’s the worst thing that’s happened to you?”

Danny groaned. “Camping trip, no contest.”

“Camping trip?”

——

[temporarywelcome]

Conversation with Agent Hotchner - Spencer Reid

REQUESTED!

The Request: Hi, love your work ❤️ Request: What is kleptomaniac!reader went to the BAU but instead of seeing spencer see goes and sees another BAU member and starts yapping to them about everything and nothing (probably amusing [annoying] the fuck out of them too) and it gets to the point where Spencer has to drag them away. [I can totally see her doing this to Hotch with no fear] Thanks, bye :3 - anonymous

CW: language, some suggestive comments, technically part of my "Smooth Criminal" series though this can be read 100% standalone. Though, if you want to learn more about reader's relationship with Henry, you can read "Babysitting" and "Turkey". not required tho! :)

AN: Spencer comes in more towards the middle lol

_______

Words: 1.5k

She was no dog. 

Yes, she was being dramatic, but Spencer telling her to sit and stay made her huff, crossing her arms over her chest in annoyance (while doing as told, sitting and staying). Spencer had his reasons, considering she was a diagnosed kleptomaniac and was very likely going to steal things. It was better she stole from his desk and not someone else’s. 

So she sat as he ran to help JJ and Garcia with something. Sat and ate her Subway sandwich with a pout on her face. She had brought Spencer lunch, a toasted sub that was surely getting cold while it waited for him. A shame, because she had made sure the employee making the sandwich had warmed up not just the bread, but the contents inside as well, knowing Spencer and his tastes. 

Soon, her sandwich was gone, along with objects that were on Spencer’s desk (to her pockets they went), and she was swinging her legs back and forward like a child. Looking around and scanning other people in the office. People watching. 

Boring. 

Then her eyes landed on a familiar member of the BAU, and she grinned. Entertainment! Someone to keep her company while she waited for her lovely boyfriend to return from his treacherous adventure into the unknown (the filing room). 

That someone was Agent Hotchner. Hotch. 

“Aaron!” she said brightly, giving him a big wave. 

Hotch, who was walking towards his office, nose buried in a manila folder, looked up at her, “Hello, Y/N,” he said politely, giving her a half-smile. Quarter smile? Something. 

She shot up from the chair Spencer had provided for her, strolling towards him, “How is everything? How are Jack and Haley?” 

“They are good, I appreciate you asking,” Always the professional one, Agent Hotchner. “Jack actually said he missed you,”

Huh? 

Somehow, Y/N, who didn’t even like kids, was like a BAU-kid magnet. JJ’s son, Henry, adored her, and was practically on top of her every time they saw each other. Just recently, Jack met Y/N at an event, and it seems she left a good impression on him. 

“Oh, really?” she asked in shock, brows raised, “Cool! He’s a nice kid,” her eyes landed on the file in Hotch’s hand, “So, whatcha got there?” 

“...a file,” Hotch replied vaguely. 

“For what though?” she was not taking a hint. 

“Work,” 

“Hm,” she nodded, in thought, “I work at night,”

“You do?” he went back to looking down at his folder. 

She nodded again, “Yes! As a dancer,” she paused, “Wait, that sounds weird. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being that kind of dancer, it’s just I am not one of them, y’know? I do professional dance and musical theatre, my rehearsals are at night-”

“I know what you do for a living,” Hotch interrupted, “JJ and Will took Henry to one of your shows, correct?”

“Yes! They did,” Y/N confirmed proudly, “I could hear Henry cheering from afar!”

“How nice,” 

Her brows furrowed, surveying Hotch’s expression. You don’t need to be a profiler to see how uninterested he was. “You don’t give a fuck, do you?”

“Language,”

“Sorry,” she awkwardly looked down, like a scolded child, “You guys don’t swear? What if it is a really stressful case? You never say ‘fuck this stupid shit’ or anything…?

The older man looked up, making eye contact with her. “No,” 

“Why not? Are you not allowed to let out frustration or anything? Is letting out a good swear really that bad?” she began fiddling with something in her fingers, Hotch’s eyes trailed down to her hands, seeing what she was fidgeting with.

“...what the fuck,” 

“Hey! You just swore!” she exclaimed, before eyeing the object in her hands. His ID badge. She didn’t even remember swiping it during this conversation. “Oh. I see why,” Awkwardly clearing her throat, she handed it back to him, cheeks rosy. 

“This is the second time you’ve done this,” a sigh left him, clipping the badge back onto his suit jacket. 

An equally awkward laugh escaped her lips, “That’s nothing compared to the amount of times I stole Rossi’s keys- I mean, I mean…” she clamped her mouth shut. “Nevermind.” 

As she dug herself into an even deeper hole, Spencer returned from the filing room with JJ and Garcia. “...yes, a cluster of bananas are called a “hand”, while each individual banana called a “finger- hey!” he gasped as Garcia gave him a little wack on the shoulder. 

“Y/N is out in the wild,” she said, eyes locked on Y/N enthusiastically telling Hotch something. “Talking to Hotch,”

“Better than Rossi,” JJ pointed out. Rossi liked Y/N the least, only recently beginning to tolerate her. She tilted her head to the side as she examined Spencer’s girlfriend. “She’s moving like a Sim,” 

Spencer looked at JJ in confusion as Garcia burst into laughter. “What does that mean?” 

She ignored him, “Go save her, Romeo, she’s drowning over there,” 

And so Spencer rushed over to join his girlfriend in her conversation with Hotch. 

“...why, yes, I’m great with my fingers,” she explained, “-on piano! Holy hell, I should have said that better. Holy hell-” her face burned red as she silently prayed for an earthquake to hit so she can be swallowed by the Earth. 

“-Y/N, can you help me with something?” Spencer placed a hand on her shoulder, grip slightly tighter than usual. A message. Shut the fuck up. 

Alas, her savior has arrived! “Yes, of course. I’ll gladly help you,” 

And with that, Spencer was dragging her off by her wrist. 

“I told you to stay seated,” he scolded, pushing her down into the chair by her shoulders, “I wasn’t even gone for that long!”

“You know I get bored easily,” she shot back. 

“Imma have to get you one of those bookbags with a leash on it,” the genius pinched the bridge of his nose, “Like a toddler,” 

The frown quickly left her lips, replaced with a big smirk, “I know what I can do with a leash,”

“What do you mean- Y/N!” he looked around frantically to ensure no one was listening, “We are at my job!”  he placed a hand on his throat protectively, as if to keep her away.

She wiggled her brows playfully, “C’mon, you know that was a good one. I’m a genius for that.” She then noticed Hotch scurry off to his office with his usual pitbull expression. “Ugh, that conversation I had with him was so awful. I couldn’t stop being annoying,” 

“Great with your fingers, huh?” 

A look of horror formed on her face, jaw falling in shock, “You heard that?”

“Mhm,” Spencer finally seated himself next to her, clicking his pen and beginning to write on some paperwork. 

“Well,” Scooting her chair closer to him, she whispered, “I can always demonstrate,”

“Piano?”

“Ugh,” Forget it. She leaned back, unamused. “You’re no fun,” 

And with that, Spencer went back to work, complaining because his food was cold now, which she wanted to hear nothing about considering she had made sure his food was warmed up to his liking. He worked, complained, ate, she listened, also complained, messed around. The usual experience. 

Occasionally, Y/N found herself glancing back at Hotch’s office, a sense of dread filling her each time. Rossi, her number one hater, entered the office, making her grimace.

“What if they start talking about me?” 

“Why would they?” her boyfriend didn’t even bother looking up from his work. 

“Because they hate me, of course,”

“Nobody hates you,” 

“Liar,” 

Rossi eventually left Hotch’s office, and soon so did he, making his way towards Reid’s desk. Fuck. Y/N reached out, grasping Spencer’s hand tightly, which in turn caused him to scribble and scold her for being so dramatic and now Hotch was directly in front of them shit-

“Reid,” 

“Yes, sir?” Spencer yanked his hand back, looking up at his boss apologetically. 

“Would you like to have dinner with Haley, Jack, and I?” he asked, surprising both Spencer and Y/N equally. 

“Dinner?” he repeated slowly, eyes darting to his girlfriend then back to Hotch. 

“Yes. You and Y/N,”

‘And me?’ she almost pointed at herself for clarification, instead clasping her hands in her lap. 

“Um, that should be fine. Y/N, do you have work tonight?” 

“No,” she choked out, “I do not,” 

“Perfect,” Hotch gave his signature quarter-smile, “Jack will be very excited to see you. I’ll let them know,” 

He turned on his heel, walking off and leaving both Spencer and his girlfriend completely in shock. This obviously was not the first time Spencer would be having dinner with Hotch, but the fact Y/N was invited as well, especially after that whole debacle, was incredibly surprising. 

“...do you still think he hates you?” Spencer asked playfully, pinching her cheek before turning back to his desk. “No one can hate someone like you,”

[ms-demeanor]

Can I ask you how you ended up a purchasing manager and what the "technically" means? I've been a purchaser for a couple years and I'm trying to figure out what to do next. I've taken my role in much more of a creating-reports and helping-people-with-data direction than probably purchasers are supposed to, so idk if I should look for another purchasing job or something else

We're a tiny, tiny (less than 10 employee) company so I'm kind of a one-person procurement department with about eight other roles stacked on top (including marketing, website administration, and proofreading my boss's emails).

The purchasing part of what I do is I manage vendor relationships and customer licensing through our vendors, and I research hardware and configure hardware solutions for our clients then do the ordering and order management.

I think my boss's goal with "purchasing" as a job description is just to keep me distinct from accounts payable/receivable (because of the type of business we are, the purchaser at this company needs to have a significant degree of computer literacy, so the role has always been far removed from the accounting department at this business; I'm not a tech, I'm not sales, I'm not precisely an office admin, but I kind of am those things stuck in a blender with an executive assistant).

"Technically" just means that "purchasing manager" is what the business puts on my tax form but I don't have the requisite freedom to make choices to *legally* be considered a manager in California (so 'technically' purchasing manager is my job description in actual fact, but i don't 'technically' meet the requirements of being a manager - my job title is fake).

I think that in normal procurement jobs there is some data crunching that is required, but I see it more as logistics than analytics. If you're more interested in the analytics side of things than the logistical stuff, it may be worthwhile to cast your net outside of the purchasing pool.

[orion-nottson]

devil’s in the details | tfp!megatron x reader

A/N: i have tfp megatron brain rot. like i know he’s cray cray and deluded, but literally so am i we’re made for each other he’s mine

also this obvi deviates from canon, bc there is no way on god’s green earth that dreadwing and starscream could coexist semi-peacefully.

also, please be warned that i haven’t written transformers fanfic since i was like 14 💀💀 fought for my LIFE with the terminology (had to check my old WATTPAD stories to find some vocab 💀)

summary: lord megatron propositions you. it’s a rather bold request.

content: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, femme!cybertronian!reader, seeker!reader, sticky sexual interfacing, breeding kink, wee lil bit of choking, technically boss/employee relationship, power dynamic (it gets semi-resolved), implied past relationship/thought unrequited love, average decepticon emotional constipation, business arrangement procreation

word count: 6,367

~ * ~ * ~

The Decepticon warship lingers somewhere over the southern pole of Earth, resulting in a dramatic decrease in temperature, even with the efficiency of Cybertronian technology. You shift your wings for the umpteenth time, armor plates releasing air to alleviate the discomforting chill that’s started to bother you. Of course, it was far from being so cold that you needed to worry about your core temperature, but you are a Seeker from Vos, and Vos was always warm.

The thought makes your wings tremble again, so you hurry yourself to your quarters with a bit more haste.

It wouldn’t suddenly be warm and tropical, but at least you’d be able to curl up and shiver in privacy. Recharge sounds particularly nice too, considering you’ve been up for several cycles trying to appease Lord Megatron’s endless demands. Inwardly, you roll your optics— There seems to be nothing you can do that would satisfy him.

The corridor finally breaks into the wing that houses Decepticon high command, where yours and your fellow officers reside. Your room is down almost the entire expanse of the hall, the turn right before where Megatron’s personal habsuite lies. From where you’re walking, you can spot the sleek, black metal door. A chill runs up your back struts, and your processor convinces you it’s from the icy cold that’s overtaken the Nemesis.

“Curse this inhospitable, organic planet.” Muttering to yourself dissuades you from also blaming your Master, who was no help either, if you were to be honest. He could shove his “not wanting to expend precious Energon on unnecessary heating” decree up his tail pipe.

You resign yourself to some rather cold nights for the foreseeable future. Perhaps... If you played your cards right, as the humans say, you could convince Soundwave to pilot the ship north. Maybe somewhere near Hawaii...

A sharp, gravelly voice from behind you calls your name, and you spin around to see your Lord and Master a ways down the corridor from you. Immediately bringing yourself to attention, you straighten your back struts and bow politely.

“My liege.” You say, thanking Primus you’ve become so accustomed to Megatron’s thunderous shouts that you no longer jump, let alone flinch, when they occur. The silver mech strides up to you easily, displaying all the strength of a warrior in the confidence of his steps.

“Retiring to your quarters?” He asks austerely, as if he’s ever concerned himself with your whereabouts, let alone personal routine. Unease creeps up on you, so you shift on the thrusters of your peds and cross your servos over your chassis. Wings fluttering, you reply slowly, “Well, yes.”

“Allow me to accompany you there.” The silver mech says brightly, and it’s such an absurdly peculiar request for both the mech saying it and the situation at hand. You instinctively snort a laugh.

“I do believe I know the way to my own habsuite, my Lord.” You say before you can stop the words from coming out, and immediately regret them once they do. You meet Megatron’s hard stare sheepishly, wings dropping timorously. Forgetting your place in the grand scheme of things is not wise amongst the Decepticon ranks.

To your utter shock, you’re not met with a vicious reprimand and instead Megatron grins— this wickedly suave thing— and purrs, “Humor me.”

And all you can say is, “Of course.”

Megatron hums appreciatively, brushing past you as he takes the lead, like he always does. You step in time behind him, nearly colliding into his back struts when he suddenly halts, and you stumble backwards a few steps. The looming mech pivots, glancing down at you with a quizzical expression in his glowing optics.

“Seekers are a rare breed, yes?” Lord Megatron asks, and whatever game he’s begun to play with you genuinely stumps any reasoning you attempt. Opening your mouth, your optics dart over his face, trying to decode whatever message your Master is sending and coming up empty. 

“Er... Yes, my liege? Even before the war, Vos was not a populous city-state. There are probably... even less now.” You reply cautiously, becoming very put off as Megatron takes a step towards you. He looks as impassive as ever, though you’re beginning to see a very curious appraising expression overtaking his faceplates. It begins with the upcurve of his mouth, derma pulled into the most wolfish grin you’ve ever seen on the mech.

Utterly bizarre. Your processors want to reset because this Megatron is starting to look like the studly gladiator of Kaon you’d hear be lasciviously giggled about, not the ruthless, merciless tyrant he’s supposed to be.

“I have a rather... avant-garde proposition for you, my most loyal Seeker.” Megatron purrs, his servos clasped easily behind him as you’ve seen him too many times before, often when he schemes. He’s also talking to you as if this is casual, expected business of him; matter-of-fact and cordial, with his usual cool drawl.

Before you can reply, Megatron turns sharply once more and begins walking down the corridor, stopping after a few steps when he realizes you hadn’t started with him. He turns his helm to look back at you, this time there’s this strangely unreadable expression on his faceplates.

“Follow me.” He says simply, and without a second thought, you do.

Even though you’re a Seeker with naturally long legs, his pedsteps are even longer strides, so you have to exert some effort in keeping up with Megatron. It adds to the growing franticness that’s begun to bubble up inside your chassis. 

While not exactly fear, though that’s certainly part of it, you’ve been a Decepticon and aboard the Nemesis under Megatron’s direct command long enough to know that when he becomes cryptic, it means trouble. Or at least a command that you’d rather not be the one to deal with. Bluntly asking what the frag he’s on about wouldn’t be the best course of action, but you know that he likes you enough not to offline you immediately if you did.

So you do.

“My Lord, what exactly are you asking of me?” You inquire, noting with slight abject horror as Megatron approaches the door to your quarters and types in your lock code with ease. Of course, he is the leader after all. Instead of answering your question, he makes you feel even more uneasy by throwing you a mysteriously sultry look and quipping, “Let me have you if only for a breem. Or longer should I entertain you.”

You catch the flash of his ruby optics, their intentions indiscernible, and then he disappears into your habsuite like it’s his own.

There’s something to it, an itch of a thought that’s begun to decipher the puzzle and put together the pieces. Lately, Megatron has been far more... involved with you, more eager at your presence, and it was blatantly obvious that he grew quite miffed when others got too close. It was no secret to anyone— From Soundwave and Starscream to a lowly technician— that Megatron had an optic for you (many did, frankly) and thus he was quite possessive of your wiles and charms as well.

This line of thought leads you to step into your room, slowly and evenly as if it’s unmarked territory and not the quarters that were assigned to you millennia ago.

“Lord Megatron...” You trail off, catching his stare just as he sets your old null ray back on your weapons rack, where most of your old, dismantled, and prized tools are located. Your null ray had been a favorite, until some blasted Autobot blew out the important bits that kept it working. That had stung, and even eons later you still curse that specific Autobot to the Pits.

Megatron flexes his claws, and with a flourish he clasps his servos behind him once again. His red optics scan the entirety of your quarters, lingering on your berth until they come back to rest on you. His gaze is equal parts unnerving and fascinating, as if he’s deconstructing you armor by armor, stripping you down until he’s watched your spark pulse.

His optics, like twin red suns, center you at their universes, and you feel oddly... flattered at their amorous disposition.

“It is no secret that I have watched you for some time.” Megatron starts, tilting his helm as he becomes pensive. You nod dumbly, hardly processing a word he’s saying. Megatron takes a single step towards you, looming like a shadow. In the dim lighting of your room, his silver armor catches all the chiaroscuro, his violet accents hued to black. Only his glowing, fiery optics remain bright. He continues.

“I admit,—” Megatron drawls your name deliciously, “— That I have found myself... captivated by your beauty. Entranced by your prowess, both in battle and mind.”

“I...” Your vents hitch, wings shivering at the praise. Blinking rapidly to ensure this isn’t some monumentally vivid dream, you clear your intake and say, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, my Lord.”

Megatron laughs, that slight chuckle that sounds halfway between his engines roaring and something genuine that comes from the spark. The silver mech’s rolls his shoulders, armor hissing as it releases air. Wildly, he confesses something you never would have expected from him, “I believe myself bewitched.”

His servos have clasped themselves into fists at his sides, and briefly you wonder if he’s angry with you, then his entire frame relaxes like he’s decompressing after a long spar with Dreadwing.

“Tell me, my little Seeker, why have you denied yourself of me for so long?” Megatron asks it like a tease, like he’s some boon to be revered or a sacred sword to be wielded. Heat rises beneath your armor plating, and your processors race kilometers a nanosecond to find a suitable answer. Or at least one that doesn’t make you sound like some lovesick femmeling.

You couldn’t lie and say you had no... feelings for your Master, who was as handsome and dark as he was powerful and cunning. Megatron was once a gladiator of Kaon, and gladiators on Cybertron were what you had often admired, marveling at their strength, drive, and raw spark. Megatron had been no different, though you also found his commanding presence and impressive intellect to be even more attractive.

That was really why you’d joined the Decepticon cause all those millennia ago; Drawn to your Master’s fight to bring equality to the rigid castes and to seize control of the Energon supply to better disperse it by his charismatic allure.

And somehow, Megatron knew all of this.

“It would have been insubordination if I acted upon my... desires.” You reply, crossing your arms over your ample chassis with a shrug. Megatron matches your collected temperament with a hum, staring down at you with unreadable red optics.

“Indeed. Though I wish you’d had disobeyed, my little Seeker.” Megatron purrs, taking a step towards you that closes the space between your frames and boxes you in. His EM field magnifies the atmosphere around you, tingling at the periphery of yours.

“M-My liege?” You gape, faceplates feeling hot as metal left in direct sunlight. He chuckles, and sinfully the tip of his glossa runs over his pointed denta. Your spark skips a beat, owlishly watching 

“If I had known sooner that you wanted me as direly as I did you, then this song and dance would have concluded vorns ago.” Megatron growls, optics flashing with not anger, but lust. He takes another step, and you’re speechless.

“That being said, I am patient. I have no qualms with how long we have waited, nor will I if you choose to wait longer.” One of the tyrant’s long, clawed digits clicks at the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upwards. His touch is delicate, like you’d break if he pushed too hard. Honestly, you probably would if he did. Part of you wants to see him try.

“What did you want to ask of me?” You whisper, optics fluttering until they stay half-lidded and dewy under the carnal scrutiny of your Lord. Megatron grins, a sliver of sharp denta flashing in the lowlights of your habsuite. He takes a final step towards you, a half-shuffle that does well to close the gap between your frames, the air warming from the work of your combined engines. You hope he feels the way your spark races, hope he feels the heat emanating from your core.

“Give me an heir, carry a sparkling of my code and stand beside me as my queen.” With each word, laden with desire until it shows in his optics that drip with lust, Megatron has you against the wall of your habsuite, one servo tracing the sleek edge of your wing.

It’s entirely intoxicating, and against your better judgment and all remaining reason— and mostly because you haven’t had a good, hard frag in ages— you moan.

It’s a soft, angelic sound that barely catches on the audials, but it makes Megatron grin like a shark. You gasp, affronted, optics flickering, “My liege!”

“Have I offended you?” He breathes, and suddenly his mouth is against your neck cables, each word leaving the softest of kisses on your Energon lines. Your resolve nearly crumbles entirely, each brush of his dermas like a shot of high grade to the systems. You sigh, vents hissing, and place one servo on his chassis. Beneath the broad expanse of silver armor, his engines rumble like thunder on the horizon. It makes you pulse with need.

“No.” You whisper, wanting to sing as Megatron kisses the slope of your jaw, then pecks the side of your mouth, agape with shock. He pulls back, the heat of him evaporating as soon as he’s once again standing at his full height. You tremble, not from the cold, but from his absence. 

It’s not something you’d ever given much thought about, your feelings towards your Lord and Master, but it’s something that’s come rushing back. All the suppressed thoughts, the dashed dreams, the impossible futures... They come back to you and leave you weak in the knee joints, cooling fans whirring from the memories of the fantasies you’d entertained when you’d had long midnights alone.

“What say you then?” Megatron’s stare is hard, unshaking and fully serious. He wants to have a sparkling with you, wants you to bear him an heir— He wants you as his queen and equal, to stand beside him and lead the Decepticon cause. The expression on his face is a cross between a wild animal, wanting to ravage you the nanosecond you say Yes, and the warlord with enough resolve and self-restraint to accept if you say No.

It’s all so much at once. Eons of time made up in just a single question. Details and technicalities will have to be conferred over later, as for now you’re content with the conditions as-is.

“Well... You are a handsome mech, my liege.” You reply, teasing him by placing a chaste kiss directly on the Decepticon insignia on his chassis. He doesn’t say anything, only his engine rumbles more audibly. You look up at him and salaciously imply with a coy smirk, “I do believe we’d make a fine clutch of sparklings.”

And then you find yourself swept up into his arms, back struts and wings pressed against the wall, your Lord’s hips slotted perfectly against yours. The more base urges inside you squeal, your Seeker coding nearly overtaking you and having you present to him like a turbofox in heat.

Not one to be outdone, Megatron quips, “And you are quite the striking femme— Shall I ravage you against the wall or your berth?”

You laugh, cut off only when Megatron captures your dermas in his, drowning you in the roughness of a mech starved of Energon. He kisses like he owns the practice and has made it an artform; Dragging your dermas with his, glossa invading your mouth, denta nipping dangerously close to sensitive nodes and wiring. You moan and gasp, coming to the realization that one of your servos grips his wrist and the other is flat against his chassis.

You shutter your optics, reveling in Megatron’s power and dominance, wanting so desperately for him to devour you. The warmth blossoms, spreading throughout your core until you feel charges pulse at your interface panels that have you whimpering.

After what feels like vorns, Megatron parts and your dermas unlock with a metallic pop. Megatron’s mouth ghosts over yours, and he hums as he repeats himself, “Berth or wall, little Seeker?”

“The berth, my liege.” You urge breathlessly, a delighted sound escaping you as Megatron heaves you from the wall and carries you to your desired destination. He isn’t gentle when he deposits you on your berth, doesn’t mind the wings, so you hiss when your back struts connect with the metal beneath you. Megatron manages to keep himself between the smooth metal of your thighs as he hitches one knee up onto the berth.

“I wonder,” Megatron stops to kiss you deeply once more, making your processors spin, “If this is an auspicious position for conception.”

A bite to the dermas stifles your wanton moan. Your Lord may not be fully aware of it yet, but each mention of being sparked, of bearing his heirs, has your more base urges spiraling out of control. While Vos was not populated by many Seekers, the need to breed is more hardwired into the programming than most other frame types. His words act like fuel to the fire.

“O-Oh— I can only hope.” You gasp, your whimpering cries smothered by Megatron’s dermas in yet another bruising, brusque kiss. This time, he lingers, slows down as if he savors the taste of you on his glossa. Your servos grip his shoulders, smoothing along his breadth before your pointed digits grip at the armor panels high on his back. Megatron responds most enjoyably, using one servo to anchor himself above you and the other to caress down your body.

His servo travels from the curve of your waist, talons scratching at your paint, down to the slope of your hip where it rests heavy and warm on the junction of your thigh. He teases the sharp point of his thumb digit on the transformation seam nearest your interface panels, causing you to arch your back struts like a cat. Megatron uses this opportunity to settle a servo on the low of your back struts, where he pinches at the sensitive nodes at the bases of your wings. That makes you cry out, your cooling fans whirring loudly as a charge builds up deep inside you. 

You’ve never been this close to an overload so quickly before, though you’ve had many sleepless nights built up to bring you to this moment. And Megatron proves his expertise in the berth, past rumors and gossip proven to hold more truth than you once thought. 

Your entire frame feels electrified, your lower body feels like it’s on fire, the heat centered gloriously on your interfacing parts. Particularly your valve and anterior node, which feel wet and pulse beneath the panel with each of your sparkbeats.

“You react so gratifyingly.” Megatron purrs, his gravelly drawl like fine high grade on the audials, uncharacteristically sweet and sensual. He glances down at your interface panels, where your glowing transfluid is beginning to seep out along the seams. With a devious grin, Megatron meets your gaze just as he presses his thumb digit to your overheated panel.

“Megatron!” You cry his name, forsaking honorifics, and nearly overloading on the spot. Almost unconsciously, you send a command and your valve panel slides open, revealing your weeping slit and throbbing anterior node. You cry out again when Megatron wastes no time and starts tight, small circles on the sensitive bundle of mesh wire and circuitry.

“Beautiful.” He hums, quickening his pace on your anterior node as he notices sparks fly as your charge builds. You grip his back, claws digging at his silver armor and leaving scratches in his already worn paint. Megatron leans in, steals your dermas in a kiss, keeps circling your wet node, and just as you see warnings for an imminent overload— He stops.

The charge doesn’t die, but it decreases to a staticky tingle, and you part from the kiss, scandalized that he’s prevented your overload. You gape at Megatron, giving him a glare that could rival the World Destroyer’s himself. He only offers you a sly look.

“My liege.” This time you growl the title past grit denta, bucking your hips against your Master’s still servo. He hums, your anger meaning nothing to him, though indulging you by brushing two digits along the transfluid-soaked mesh of your valve. You gasp, optics blowing wide as he pushes them in, mindful of his sharp claws, stretching you wonderfully.

There’s a slight burn at first, pain sensors sending alerts, alleviated as your frame adjusts to accommodate his thick talons. Megatron eases his digits back until they are almost out completely, then sinks them back in. Your knees come up, peds shaking as you hook them behind his back struts.

“Patience, my dear,” Megatron kisses your neck cables, “Is a virtue.”

And like he had your anterior node, he works your valve slowly, steadily building the charge that buzzes all the pleasure centers in your frame. Warnings for an overload screen your vision again, this time your optics flicker as it grows closer. Staccato vents escape your intake, fans skipping cycles and hitching, encouraging Megatron to go faster, digits plunging in and out of your valve with sopping, moist noises. The room smells like interface; the tinny tang of transfluid, the almost-burnt smell of metal-on-metal friction.

You moan, this time a long keen that crackles in your audials, and Megatron responds with the first pleasured sound you’ve heard from him: A low, throaty groan that he practically strangles in his intake like he doesn’t want it to escape.

“M-My liege, plea-please.” You whine, writhing, bucking your hips even as Megatron’s servo relinquishes your wings in order to still them. You sob, systems on the fritz as the charge crackles, your overload closing in due to Megatron’s working servo and digits. He laughs again, the breathy one that you adore, and surprisingly heeds your plea.

“I want you like this when you take my spike.” Megatron hisses, doubling his pace and making you scream. The wet squelch of your mesh grows louder, and with each thrust of his servo, his knuckle joint brushes your throbbing anterior node, whiting out your optics.

“I want you disheveled.” The tyrant presses close to you, tightening the cyclic thrusts of his digits, biting at the base of your neck cables. Your helm lolls to the side, voice crackling in constant whines as you squeeze your optics shut. He growls, sharp denta piercing an Energon line close to your shoulder armor, the pain mixing with pleasure and having you singing.

“I want you desperate.” Megatron snarls like an Earthen beast, the gruffness of his voice matching the hot stretch of your valve. Transfluid soaks the inner seams and mechanisms of your thighs, spilling onto your berth below. Megatron drags his dermas to yours, his glossa hot and heady as he shoves it in your mouth and dominates the kiss. You moan against him, gripping him tight and hearing the sound of metal screech as its torn.

The silver mech groans, low and rough, breaking the kiss and allowing his helm to fall besides yours. To the cables and wires of your neck, he leaves open-mouth kisses, condensation hot from his vents, then pulls himself up to your audials and whispers harshly:

“I want you as mine.”

The last word is punctuated by a hard push of his digits and his thumb squashing your anterior node, and your overload hits you like a system crash. You wail, wings fluttering and hitting the berth with metallic clangs as your body seizes, the charge overtaking your processors. Pleasure like molten lava consumes your frame, transfluid squirting out onto Megatron’s forearm like paint.

The overload lasts eons, like some supernova of a dying star. Your legs lock, armor plating shivering, wings hitched high and scraping against your berth.  Maybe this is what death is, you think illogically, Maybe I’ve joined with the Allspark.

“Beautiful.” Megatron breathes again, his optics glowing in awe, “Positively beautiful.”

It takes a click for your processor to compute what he said, then another for your optics to blink back on. Coolant tears leak out the corners, blurring your vision. Your mouth gapes, dermas damp with condensation, your cooling fans whirring in loud in your audials. The grip you have on Megatron loosens, servos slipping until they fall upon his shoulders.

The charge in your valve mesh and anterior node quivers and bounces, and you realize with a pleasant tremble that Megatron’s digits are still firmly inside you.

“Megatron.” You coo his name, “Megatron.”

He says yours back, like all you’ve done and are doing is exchanging designations in a routine meeting and it reminds you of a time when things were simpler between the two of you. It’s been eons since Megatron’s seen you the way his ruby red optics gaze upon you now, eons more since you’ve felt seen.

War has made you both volatile, too tough and too angry to do anything else but fight, and fight some more. But here, in the privacy of your berth, blanketed by the secrecy of darkness: War can’t touch you. Nothing can.

“How I have yearned for you...” Megatron cups your faceplates, his servo cool against your overheated frame. You smile, still hazy from your overload and the lingering sensation of his other servo very much connected carnally to you, feeling like you’ve overdone yourself on too much high grade. 

A switch flips inside you, the one that reminds you’re no fainting femme, but one that asks and will take regardless. You are a Seeker, after all— It’s in your code to want offspring.

“Give me a sparkling, my Lord.” Even though your voice wavers, it still sounds like an immutable command. The contemplative look on Megatron’s face morphs into the devilish one, and he snarls, removing his digits from your core. A thin line of gooey transfluid stretches between you and his servo, until Megatron brings it to his mouth and his glossa licks along the length of his digits. His optics narrow in as he hums.

“You presume you can command me.” And yet he obeys again, his interface panel unlatching with a hiss. His spike emerges, a long, thick one that fills in sections, ribbed along its length. Glowing transfluid oozes in droplets from its tip, rolling down the underside of his spike. Your jaw drops, both in want and slight alarm— Megatron is a large mech, you should have better anticipated a large spike.

“Know this, dearest: I will take you, ruin you, fill you up until my code takes.” Megatron promises, lining his bobbing spike up with your throbbing valve. He then grabs your hips, propping them up for a better angle. You quiver, writhing on your berth and bracing your servos on his forearms. His armor is hot under your touch, and your claws dig into the smooth of his paint. Then you match his stare, licking your dermas.

“Frag me like you mean it.”

Megatron suddenly thrusts his spike into you and you wail, unforgiving of your smaller stature. The delicate mesh and sensitive wires give and mold around the hot rod of his pulsing length, forming a slick suction around your lover. He groans, easing back then thrusting in with earnest. Your thighs tremble as you take him, each rimmed circlet of his spike passing into you, dragging deliciously on your valve’s walls.

It’s a tight fight, even with being loosened by Megatron’s thick digits. The transformation seams on your hips and thighs stretch, soft whirs and clicks as your frame adjusts to take him. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, and the strongest too. The power in his hips drives you up the berth, and he pulls you back down.

You can’t meet his thrusts, but you try and buck your hips in time with him, erratic at first. Megatron’s servos are locked on you, guiding you when your movements skip or miss. All the pleasure centers in your frame are alight, charges sparking and fritzing along your circuitry. Another overload builds, a hot, deep bubbling in your core.

With each thrust of his spike, your valve squelches, the mesh slick and hot with transfluid. More drips down your legs, your aft, onto the berth, leaving everything tacky. Megatron hits a particularly sensitive node deep inside you, one you didn’t even know was there, and you keen. Coolant tears prick at your vision again, escaping the corners and rolling off your faceplates. 

“How badly do you want it?” Megatron seethes, and you could mistake his lust for anger. He seizes your neck cables, dangerous talons threatening Energon lines, as he demands, “How badly do you want me?”

“Desperately.” You wheeze, optics whiting out as Megatron squeezes your neck cables just so as he gives you a series of particularly rough thrusts. Your peds tighten on his back, urging him deeper. Your Master vents, harsh and hot, his engine rumbling loud in his chassis.

“You will look...” Megatron chokes on a groan,”... Excellent with a trine at your hip.”

That makes you whine, Seeker coding squealing and preening at the thought. A trine. Three little sparklings just like their carrier. You’d delight in carrying them in your gestation chamber, wanting to see yourself change and swell to accommodate them.

“I want... I want,” Your voice cuts out, broken by a sob, and you can only manage a tight, “I want that!”

“Good.” Megatron pistons his hips like a jackhammer, his rhythm not breaking once. Powerful thrusts meet the wet heat of your core, the tops of his thigh armor clanking loudly against your legs. The overload warnings start appearing once again. Megatron hisses when your valve tightens around his length, and it prompts him to pick up the pace.

“You are so pretty.” He growls, leaning in to recapture your dermas with his. As he kisses, he doubles his speed and the strength behind it. You moan and sob into his mouth, servos gripping him by the back of the helm. His glossa battles with yours, his sharp denta nicking you more than once. Then he switches to kissing you deeply, soulfully, like he’s found salvation in your dermas.

It’s as you’re so viscerally connected to Megatron that the heat in your core reaches a boiling point, the slow-building electricity coming to its peak. Your valve walls spasm, the giving mesh convulsing in the telltale sign of your overload on the horizon.

Somehow accomplishing it, Megatron kisses you deeper, his faceplates flush and hot against yours. A particularly hard grind of his spike on the sensitive nodes of your valve has you gasping into the silver mech’s mouth. Your optics squeeze shut, you feel like your core is about to explode with heat—

Your second overload hits, just as spectacular and wonderful as the first. Electrified charges bounce between the mesh of your valve and Megatron’s throbbing spike, transfluid soaking him and yourself once again. It’s only after your audials tingle that you realize you’ve screamed loudly enough to reset them. Your systems crash, processors overheated and cooling fans hitching and trembling. With a hiss and a long grunt, Megatron follows you over the edge as well.

Warmth blooms in your core, pleasure nodes and receptors picking up the hot liquid feel of Megatron’s transfluid deep inside you. It comes out in spurts, and he rides his overload by continuing to push into you. As your optics come back online, you catch him hunching over you, ceasing his thrusts in favor of pressing as close as he can, spike still weeping transfluid and coating your inside walls.

Megatron hisses and groans, his frame shivering just once as he finishes, lazily bucking his hips thrice to empty himself completely. He doesn’t disengage his spike, leaving it to soften in your overworked valve. You can’t feel your peds, not after the overload you just experienced, and your entire frame shudders when he nips at your neck cables once again.

For a while, he hovers above you, his EM field embracing your frame. Softly, your servos caress his upper back struts, the tips of your digits dancing along his seams. His servos finally release your hips, revealing he’s left shallow dents in your armor. No matter, you’d wear them proudly. 

“Do you have fiber cloths in your refresher?” Megatron asks, breaking the comfortable silence, his vocal processor crackling only slightly. A twitch of the helm is the best “Yes” you can offer, and brutally Megatron parts from you, drawing a soft whimper as his spike and warmth leave you. The thought of sliding your interface panel back on crosses your mind, but your anterior node and valve are still throbbing so tenderly you can’t will yourself to do it.

You hadn’t realized you closed your optics until Megatron’s approaching pedsteps makes you open them again. He stands before your sprawled, ruined frame, a sheer fiber cloth in his servo, reaching to clean you. Silently, he wipes up the glowing transfluid that’s stained your berth, then moves to clean what’s left on your body.

For a long few moments, the sounds of your cooling fans cycling down, wings softly scraping on your berth, and Megatron’s movements fill your habsuite. At some point, you hear the distinct click of Megatron’s interface panel closing and you tilt your helm up to see him putting his spike away. Also distinctly, the slight burn of soreness as Megatron wipes your exposed valve of excess transfluid.

You’d need to wash regardless, but it’s the thought that counts.

“That was...” And you have no words. Your voice sounds distant and far away, like you’re listening to yourself whisper from miles away. Megatron hums to fill your silence, then you hear the muffled sound of the cloth being discarded somewhere in your room.

“May I join you for the night?” Your Lord’s question is far more polite than it needs to be, considering the circumstances, but it’s 

“Of course.” Your answer is quick and sure, marked by the tremendous effort you put in to roll onto your side, even though you still can’t quite feel your legs. You watch Megatron around your berth and sit at your side. He stretches, silver armor plates shifting and whirring back into place, the length of his back struts revealing his hidden Energon lines.

Then he swings his peds up and lays beside you like it’s the most normal action he’s ever done. Though you do have to scoot over until your wings stick out past the edge.

“I would like for this to be a repeated venture,” Megatron teases after he settles himself, “And if you will accept, for this to be continued past a successful newspark creation.”

He glances at you out the corner of his optic, its glow dimmed. You smile.

He’s never been one for grand romantic gestures, never one to speak about softer, kinder things like “love” or “sparkbonding”. It’s unbecoming of him, the Leader of the Decepticons, former gladiator of Kaon, dark Lord and powerful Master. You don’t know if he’d ever pose the actual question, or if it will remain as nebulous, vague riddles and coded phrases for you to decipher and analyze. It isn’t in Lord Megatron’s making to be tender— At least not in the explicit regards.

“I want nothing less for the sire of my offspring.” You reply, your frame curling around the curve of his chassis, servo finding the same spot it always had: Right above his insignia, above his spark. His engine rumbles evenly, the steady drumming could bring you to power down, though you’re kept awake by the pleasant ache between your legs, the chill of the Nemesis, and the pride in bearing your Lord an heir. 

~ * ~ * ~

epilogue

Your berth is too small, much too small, for two Cybertronians attempting to recharge upon it. Megatron keeps an arm wrapped under and around you to prevent you from falling off, your frame halfway atop his. One of your servos rests under your helm, the other lazily traces invisible shapes on his broad chassis. Both of your EM fields mingle, the waves pulsing to each other in rhythm.

Earthen hours have passed since your coupling, and though you’re tired, you find yourself unable to slip into recharge.

“My Lord?” You catch his attention, Megatron optics flickering back as he pulls himself from the onset of recharge. Part of you regrets keeping him awake— Primus only knows how many sleepless nights your leader subjects himself to— and the other part of you quietly marvels at how he was nearly dozing in your arms. What show of trust is as great as that?

“If I am to carry, this means the Decepticon cause loses one of its strongest warriors—” You sigh happily as the warlord shifts so that his servo rubs your wings, tenderly caressing sensitive transformation seams and Energon lines. What more you wanted to say dies on your glossa, too caught up in the tender display of affection your Lord gives you.

“A temporary hindrance.” Megatron rumbles, shuttering his optics once again and stating, “The Decepticons will prevail.”

It falls quiet, fully so for a handful of clicks until you pipe up again.

“... And, we will need protoforms. And transitionary metals and alloys. And start the process of distilling Energon into low-grade, sparkling-safe—”

Megatron silences you with a deep kiss, one that has you purring in delight and cupping his faceplates. He lingers on your dermas for a few beats, his EM field heavy and warm on yours, lulling you closer to recharge. Megatron parts, settling down on his back struts, his frame creaking and hissing air as he relaxes. Then he sighs:

“We will discuss technicalities in the morning.”

[its-all-papaya]

landoscar + 41? 🧡 maybe fake/pr-dating-turned-real-dating coded, so maybe even + 56? like, they realize the fake wasn't that fake anymore 🙈 (insert i am in love are you in love audio here)

they are both in love, anon.

(because i found it kind of impossible to explain without adding sooo much exposition... oscar is not a driver. he's just... a guy. that mclaren found. to date lando. suspend your disbelief, idk)

send me a ship and a number and i will write a kiss

41. to pretend (or is it?) | landoscar | 1.2k

Lando is in over his head. His aching, pounding, hurts-so-bad-it’s-making-him nauseous head. If he’d known one throw-away trip to the club in Miami was going to complicate his life so irreparably, he would have tucked his P1 trophy into bed next to him and gone straight to sleep like a good, boring boy. Instead, he’d gotten catastrophically fucked-up on any number of things he doesn’t remember and tossed himself dick-first into an entire publicity nightmare. That’s the worst part, probably: Lando doesn’t even remember. He remembers taking shots with Max and Danny and he remembers – barely – stumbling to the bathroom, and the next discernable point on that mental timeline comes at approximately 6:45 a.m., when he’d woken up to go vomit and found his lock screen so full of notifications that it’d made him forget to wonder where the man he’d gone to bed next to had pissed off to so early.

Since then, every minute of Lando’s life not spent in the car has felt full wall-to-wall with interviews, and meetings with crisis management, and saying “I’d prefer not to comment on that” so many times he hears it on repeat like an ear worm when he’s falling asleep at night. And also Oscar. There’s been a lot of Oscar.

He’s waiting in the lobby of McLaren’s hospitality when Lando arrives down from his driver’s room after qualifying in Brazil. Lando wonders how he got in, if their bosses have finally decided he’s trustworthy enough to walk around unchaperoned. It’s funny that he ever didn’t have a pass, actually; he is technically a McLaren employee. Probably. Lando thinks he gets paid. They’ve never talked about the specifics.

Either way, however he got there, Oscar is by himself in the lobby, leaned back in a chair, thumbing at his phone. He looks up when he senses Lando’s arrival, and Lando must look even more pathetic than he even thought, because Oscar’s face immediately goes soft with concern and he leaps up to take Lando’s bag off his hands.

“Hey, you alright?” he asks. He slides the backpack onto his own shoulders and then steadies a hand in the middle of Lando’s back, thumb tracing comforting little circles near his spine.

Lando could lie, but there’s not really any point to that, so he lets his face fold into the grimace it wants to be in and presses his thumb between his eyebrows.

“Head’s killing me,” he says. It comes out weak.

Oscar makes a sad little sound in sympathy, and the palm on Lando’s back shifts to his side so Oscar can tug him closer. Lando doesn’t have the energy to fight Oscar on these things at the best of times lately, so he’s definitely not going to when he’s exhausted and sick with the pain behind his eyes. Even though there’s really nobody around to see them.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel, then,” Oscar says, and Lando has never agreed to anything faster.

Oscar leads the way out of hospitality and through the paddock, fingers linked securely between Lando’s own. It’s baffling that he’s already been around this circus long enough to know the way without help. Nice, though, because Lando’s not really in a state to be of any.

They run into a few people along the way – fans or sponsors or employees. Lando doesn’t get the chance to tell which are which, because every time somebody new greets them, Oscar’s fingers tighten around his own and he talks the both of them cleverly out of the conversation before Lando can even consider what he would say if he was left to his own devices. It feels nearly impossible that less than six months ago, Oscar could barely say two words to Lando without being directly asked to.

“Oscar!” he hears as they’re nearing the exit, and they’re so close to relative quiet that Lando can’t help but groan about it. Oscar squeezes his hand again like an apology as he turns to address whoever it is.

"What’s up?” Oscar asks. When Lando lifts his eyes from the pavement, it’s Max stood before them. Both of his hands are hooked in the straps of his backpack and his chest is heaving just a little, like he’d jogged to catch them up.

“You’ll of course be at the race tomorrow?” Max asks. Lando’s not sure where this conversation is going, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t have to happen right now. He hopes the look he’s giving Max is sufficiently irritated.

It must do the job, because Max’s eyes brighten and he says “Not pleased about that, Lando?”

Oscar’s hand goes from Lando’s palm to his back again, quick, and before Lando can open his mouth, Oscar’s saying, “He doesn’t feel good.”

“Ah,” Max says. Lando can’t figure out the look he’s being given.

“The race tomorrow?” Lando presses. If they’re going to chat about whatever it was right now, they could at least get to the point.

Max nods, shifting his gaze back to Oscar, “You are staying, yeah?”

“Yeah," Oscar says, "Why?”

It’s taking too long. Lando squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against Oscar’s shoulder, hoping the counterpressure might do anything at all for the hot ache in his brain. Oscar’s hand goes immediately to the back of Lando’s neck, like it’s habit, and his thumb starts drawing firm lines down the muscle there, hairline to nape. It feels…really, really nice, actually.

“You’ll fly back with us after,” he can make out Max saying, “to Monaco. Lando and I and a few others.”

That doesn’t really make sense. Oscar’s been planning to go home for a bit over the mini break, Lando knows, they talked about it nearly right away when the agreement was drawn up. Far be it from him to argue that point, though, not when Oscar’s saying “Yeah, thanks, mate,” and his thumb’s still easing the pain in Lando’s skull. Lando would blame it on the headache, but it’s not like he’ll mind the extra time with Oscar, either. Which Max knows.

Lando cracks his eyes open and shifts enough to squint suspiciously at his friend, but Max is just grinning happily at the pair of them.

“Very good,” Max says. Sure.

“That’s all?” Oscar asks. His thumb finally stills. Lando does not whine about it, but it’s a close thing.

“Yes,” Max says, “you can take grumpy home now.”

Then, before Lando can decide whether that’s worth getting upset over, Oscar squeezes the back of his neck and nudges him up off his shoulder. His eyes are apologetic when Lando meets them, and he kisses Lando once on the forehead as he slides their palms back together.

It’s nice. Domestic. Very convincing, probably. Oscar’s gotten really good at his job.

“We’ll see you, mate,” Oscar says.

Max clasps Oscar’s hand for a second, then squeezes Lando’s shoulder on his way by.

When he's a few steps off, Oscar says, “Ready?” like Lando hasn’t been begging to go this whole time.

Lando says yes, please and he can tell it's a little whiny, because Oscar says "Hey, okay love, I'm sorry" and brushes a gentle kiss against his lips. Lando thinks Max is probably too far away to see it, but Oscar would know better.

It’s not until they’re finally settled into the back of the car, sides pressed together, that Lando remembers:

“Max knows about everything. You didn’t have to… he knows.”

Oscar’s gaze is soft and maybe a little sad, for some reason, but he smiles past it and combs his fingers through Lando’s hair until he settles.

“Yeah,” Oscar says as Lando’s head falls back against his shoulder, “He does.”

[temporary-joyride]

Some extra thoughts I am thinking after rewatching some Bridon scenes

So why'd Qiao Ling make that face when Cheng Xiaoshi brings up Bridon huh? I very well could have missed the explanation for this but it is DEFINITELY notable

Vivian case. Hallway scene. CXS yellow eyes. This part happens before they even consider going to Bridon. What makes this significant enough to cause someone, whoever it is, to dive into Cheng Xiaoshi's body? What's important enough about this someone needed to come and change it?

Could definitely be wrong and this isn't that important but the basketball scene in ep 1 I am inclined to believe it was Lu Guang's first dive back. We know damn well the Link Click crew aren't against mixing up timelines in the exact same scene, so I just found it interesting how confused LG looks when he appears back on the court. It's like he's not used to how it feels, possibly also explains why he was so rattled when convincing himself that "he's fine"

And idk I just love that Lu Guang just moves in. "You got hurt and I have superpowers so I'm just gonna stay here I think" and then he does. I do think it's a really funny dynamic that for the SIDE BUSINESS he's the boss but when it comes to the photo studio himself he just hangs out there. I'm pretty sure he's technically not an employee he just lives there and works anyway

[leggerefiore]

Guzma + team leaders of your choice hc for a partner that refers to them as boss like they just have a habit of calling people boss and saying things like 'on it boss'/'got it boss' (bc I am absolutely out here calling people boss like a shitty henchmen at any chance I get) I feel like it could be funny especially if for the other leaders (bc I feel this doesn't apply to Guzma) hadn't told their partner about their teams so the boss comment just comes out of left field for them I wonder who would go 'they know' and who wouldn't even notice because they're always being called boss anyway

yeah guzma isn't hiding being the head of team skull at lol

cw: light angst, most fluff

💀Guzma🕶

□ While it was basically common knowledge around Alola that Guzma was the “big, bad boss” of Team Skull, it was not exactly a title he preferred those closest to call him. Lusamine certainly did not (for likely worse reasons than he thought), Nanu scoffed at the thought, and Plumeria simply opted against it since they worked together to head the group of delinquents. His underlings did, though. It was a toss-up between boss or their boy Guzma. So, when he asked you casually to grab something for him, and you responded with, “On it, boss.” He was stricken for a moment.

□ Yes, he did technically consider you a member of Team Skull – You had the cap and pendant and everything – You were not exactly beneath him. Really, you were on a level like Plumeria to him, or even arguably above him. Though, he would never admit the latter part aloud. You shoot you a strange look for a moment as you walk off to grab whatever he had requested. Okay, maybe it was a joke. Only – it kept happening. He asked if you were grasping what he was saying one day, and you responded with that you “got it, boss.” He was bewildered. Why? Finally, he had to ask. You were not some underling to him — It was a bit to even partially view you like that. His partner was definitely nearly his equal, if not, actually.

□ Your explanation gets a loud bark of laughter from him. Really? That is it? Whatever, then. More power to you. He guesses he gets it. Part of him is partially aware that he is playing himself up as some big, scary boss. He has to in order to keep Team Skull as something mildly feared (even if they are just considered a nuisance at worst by people). He guesses it is fine, as long as you know that he does not see you as some underling of his. You are genuinely someone he loves and cares about, and in no way does he ever want you to feel like you are lesser than him. As long as that is completely understood, you can call him whatever you please. Though, there is something mildly hilarious that you keep calling him it even after disbanding Team Skull, too.

🌌Cyrus🛰

☄️ In truth, most people do not call him boss to his face. That is simply his position and how he is referred to. He is far aware that his commanders and grunts both call him boss. Yet, to his face, they only refer to him as Master Cyrus. The title did not really bother him… Simply put, it was the truth. He was their boss. Logically, referring to him as that made the most sense. Even normal employees of Galactic, aside from those aiding in his, ahem, special work, usually used that title. So when you, his lover, responded with an “on it, boss,” after he asked you to hand him a document he needed, he flinched.

☄️ You did not know his plans. There was simply no way you could have, nor were you an employee at his company. He blinked as he took the paper you handed him. Did… someone speak with you? Who, if so? He knew this was irrational, yet it only made him worry more. He struggled to recall a time that you had previously called him that. If it had only stayed as that one event, he likely would have forced himself to discard whatever thoughts had come out. Except… It was not. Repeatedly, you had taken to calling him boss seemingly whenever he asked you for things. It almost made his mind conjure up images of two of his commanders. You could not know. It was impossible. He was careful – calculated. And yet… He felt his worries swell.

☄️ Finally, Cyrus dares ask why you call him that. You hum in reply before explaining. He sits in silence, blinking a few times. So simple, so strange. Too close to the truth, but just distant enough to soothe his worries. He remarks that it feels strange when you call him that due to you being his romantic partner. Politely, he asks you to refrain from doing that. It simply does not sit well with him, even light-heartedly. The idea of you discovering his plans makes him distressed enough as it stood alone. He knows he cannot stop you completely, but you do notably lower the frequency of its use. Ultimately, you are not some goon underling of his and the idea of you pretending to be makes him feel strangely, which he does not want.

🔥Lysandre🍷

☕️ Do people call him boss? He struggles to think of an instance, either in Team Flare or his actual company. His presumes his underlings likely use the title to refer to him sometimes, but he does not know of a time in which he had heard it spoken to him directly. While he is certainly the Flare Boss, most people seem to simply refer to him by his name. Which he finds most appropriate since they are not supposed to be an overt organisation. Bringing unwanted attention to his plans should be the last thing that they do rather than among the first. So it was a situation when he asked if you could hand him something, and you replied with a simple “on it, boss” that shook him momentarily.

☕️ There was simply no way that you had become aware of his plans. It was next to impossible – He was deliberately keeping you uninvolved as it stood, with intentions to only invite you later. The red-haired man chokes on his coffee before forcing himself to calm down. Perhaps you were referring to his place as president of his company – He was a boss in multiple ways. There was no reason to presume the worst possible scenario with little evidence to along with it. Yet, as you continued to refer to him as the title, his nerves grew more and more tense. It felt less like a joking jab and more like a knowing comment, even if it was never spoken with a serious tone of voice. He pondered what this could be but stopped himself before he fell top far into irrational thought. No, he must not do that. There was a better way to go about this.

☕️ So, Lysandre simply asks you. You tilt your head and give your reasoning. Despite how close it comes to the truth, he can tell that you seem utterly unaware even still. He feels ridiculous for being so worried about such a small thing. A joke… You simply wanted to feel like some criminal goon. He shook his head. That was the furthest thing from what you were in his eyes, so a genuine laugh escaped him. If it was only that – Well, Lysandre could bear the strange worry that bloomed in his chest. It simply was a joke between you and him. A joke with an unintentionally very real connection.

🥼Colress🛸

🧪 While he may be the “boss” Team Plasma as it stood, he struggled to recall how people referred to him. Most of the group actually seemed to look more towards Ghetsis for direction over him. Even Colress was aware of just how hollow his title was. He was more of an acting leader to put a boundary between Ghetsis and everyone. The scientist did not care so long as funds kept coming to support his research. Though, he was almost certain no one ever referred to him as boss. Well, except for one person. He simply had asked you to hand him a tool as he worked on a new machine, to which you gave the simple reply of “on it, boss.” He startled for a moment, gazing at you with large yellow eyes.

🧪 Did you know…? Colress would admit that he had not exactly been careful, but few actually suspected him of having any strong connections to Team Plasma. It was nothing he outwardly attempted, but his desires simply were not the most aligned with those of the group. Only Kyurem was a strong fascination for him… Had you put this together on your own somehow? Colress pondered it for quite a long time, neither making a comment of here nor there. You simply continued to refer to him by the word “boss” on and off. It was a bit of an oddity, he would admit. Paranoia was not a feeling he cared to acknowledge – rather, he felt, if knew then you simply knew.

🧪 One day, after you had done it again, he simply asked why you called him that. Your explanation almost only made him wish to laugh. Oh… To feel like an evil goon… Ah, he genuinely could not recall the last time he felt so amused. Your relationship with him was so far removed from Team Plasma, and he was almost certain you were actually unaware that it was genuinely fascinating how close to the truth you had gotten. Perhaps you had suspicions… Well, if you were not going to bring them up, he would avoid it, too. Truthfully, the last thing he wanted was to involve you. He was using Team Plasma as it was using him. Your joking title for him would simply remain something he has a strange amusement for.

[p6to]

What the fuck is going on?

I was in the process of typing out several essays worth of thoughts in the tags of @tsarinablogs's lestappen 2024 manifesto, because what else is new. Since I am uncannily similar to Max in all aspects of his public persona (except his driving abilities and his apparent need to come out as bisexual in every third interview), including the 'tism allegations and the certified "parent has a very weird sense of seeing their child as their own person" experience, in this essay I will be yapping about Screwderia Ferrari, shady business and of course: Charles Leclerc.

Charles has given his life and a large part of his career in f1 to Ferrari, leading to six wins, including his own home race Monaco and Ferrari's home race Monza, but also ten gazillion strategy fuck ups and now a (likely) second failed championship battle.

How much is too much for a person to handle?

Ferrari has not won a championship since Kimi Räikkönen in 2007. That much was known when Charles went through the ranks in the Ferrari Driver Academy, so he knew they were not suddenly going to dominate the way Red Bull did the last few years and Mercedes before them. He still had faith in them, made promises about his achievements to his dying father when he must have known that they might be impossible to ever reach.

His devotion and his talent have made him into an (almost) religious figure to the tifosi. Charles Leclerc is Ferrari, and Ferrari is Charles Leclerc.

Or is it?

Time and time again, we have witnessed Charles getting fucked over in favour of his teammate (see "it looks like they're going to sacrifice Leclerc" - George, or the entirety of the SF-23, maybe even today). While a team principal and a good number of other employees were fired in 2022 because things were going horrible and Charles insisted on it, and things were looking better when competent personnel and even Lewis Hamilton were signed by Fred Vasseur, it seems like the actual problem is still there.

Based on what we saw with the Barcelona upgrades and Carlos' interviews, we may have to expect the car to be developed to suit Carlos' understeer-y preference once again, which is wild considering that he is a driver who is leaving at the end of the year, has been outperformed by Charles pretty consistently over the time they were teammates, and has shown very clearly (alone this season!) that he is (in the words of a friend) not driving for Ferrari but for Carlos.

How can it be that Charles has mechanical and technical problems every second race weekend, while his teammate does not, and not only does nobody from the team leadership say anything about it but they also let Carlos downplay Charles' very severe brake issues in Bahrain?

Silverstone has marked the third race this season where Charles did not score points due to either inherent issues of the car (tire warm up in qualifying), mechanical issues (engine), damage (front wing in Austria) AND very questionable strategy calls. Three races of the twelve that have passed is 25%, a figure that is much too high for any top team, let alone Ferrari who were very close to catching up to Red Bull in the WCC just four races ago.

Of course, problems in car development and maybe even a higher lack of reliability in mechanical parts can happen to any team. However, we will now come to the area where I see the biggest problem.

This entire triple header, Fred Vasseur has been giving unacceptable statements about BOTH of his drivers. In Barcelona, he downplayed the issue between Charles and Carlos at the start, positioning himself directly against the driver he should be supporting since he was objectively (data-supported) correct. In Austria, Sky Sports had to make him watch the moment Charles sustained the damage to his front wing, because he could not be bothered to watch it during the actual race.

And now in Silverstone, he blamed both Carlos and Charles for not performing miracles with this shitshow of a tractor during qualifying, let his drivers be fed different information regarding the incoming rain leading to one of them making the wrong tire choice, ruining his race, and then had the audacity to lie about that and Charles position during this incident, making it look like he was still behind Lance when he had actually already overtaken him and was now behind Carlos after starting four places behind him, EVEN THOUGH there were radio transcripts and of course the fucking broadcast that showed the truth.

Us Chirlies have to preface our posts about conspiracy theories with statements about tinfoil hats and "for legal reasons this is a joke", but I will not do this here.

I fully believe that there is shady business going on at Ferrari, including but not limited to potential blackmailing, software sabotage and bribery. I will not pin these onto specific people/groups, because there are too many options. I also think that there is shady business going on at every team, but not to this extent.

The way things are going, with Charles already being on an actually not so subtle PR warpath, I expect some form of news in the next three weeks, including either announcements about people being fired or a Charles-to-Red Bull announcement, although Charles to Mercedes would not surprise me either.

Merc fans joined in on criticising Fred yesterday, and hardcore Max fans are saying Charles should leave Ferrari and join Max at Red Bull. This issue has breached containment, as it should.

Either things are changing at Ferrari or Charles will be exchanging Ferrari for a different team. There is no other solution.

(You have made it to the bottom of this yap-fest. Congratulations! I wish you a very nice day/week/month/year/life without Ferrari-like fuck ups and thank you for reading my stuff :) )

[kremlin]

I do computer work but it's not very hard and kind of boring. How do I get to do hard computer work? Do I have to go to grad school?

hi i tend to miss these because of slipshod ublock custom filters im too birdbrained to fix.

i worked for a large american technology company which sold business machines internationally for close to a decade until laid off in successful accounting fraud scheme a few years ago. started as developer, erm, pardon me, i started as

junior developer

which is a role similar to routinely-executed court jester and human meatwave conscript meant to soak up enemy bullets to cause exhaustion of enemy bullet supply and finally guy that comes in big gross truck with a pump and a tank and a big hose used to suck the shit+piss out of portable toilet/malfunctioning sewer etc. this is for when you are 20 years old or so and they hit you with this work to calm your ass down a bit. my case was cloud bullshit on ancient rickety php stack. 5% keystrokes/clicks are php, 95% remainder is jira and other members of the axis of evil. LOT of dick sucking and butt fucking. Going into men's bathroom and making eye contact with cubicle neighbor before entering stall and fearlessly making disgusting noises. microwaving fish lunch thrice daily. you get the idea. meager paycheck but six figures takehome technically

next is staff dev, wait, god damn fucking tumblr, you can't adjust fonts mid-paragraph, and Big Text is just another type of font, in case you wanted Big Specific font. fucking fuck hold on. next step is

staff developer

no effective change besides greatly increased workload (click those motherfucking jira buttons!! suffer coworker's asinine bad-faith code review comments that HE AND HE ALONE must manually accept your responses to, on HIS time, before you are allowed to click the jira buttons that start the human meat sausage factory to get your 20 line maximum change into an RC and then release and then push candidate and then prod push!! pay raise one thousand dollars annually (lol). Emails. Now you deal with project manager too. speculate as to what sorts of grievous head injuries that man must suffer daily to describe his logic. his job is like the guy from office space that brings documents from one desk to another but he randomly reorders the words on the page in-flight. make plausibly-deniable wife fucking jokes about his wife in earshot. you're almost at the top of the suffering function. next is, no fucking cute font this time, senior developer, sounds cool right, lol, lmao, "senior" "developer" is like "tallest" "midgit".

no pay increase no workload increase but now manager emails you about extremely, extremely personal issues he's facing and also makes his most difficult problems from his boss your problems. one week will pass and then they will hit you with the "we're considering you for a team lead position". answer:

NO

answer no as this is the prescribed path, you take that role, you are maxxed out in workload, you are dealing with forty employee's worth of bullshit, another one thousand dollarinos a year raise, employer has solved efficiency problem with your sanity and burnout as variables. you're supposed to quit or kill yourself within seconds of hitting 30 y/o. don't fall for tricks. say "NO" in a creative way such as "i have tabulated some data and made it into excel pie chart quantifying diff. departments work output and am considering sending it to whoever Dave is, the guy that is one or two or three report levels over your boss' head, you know, his boss' boss' boss or whatever. or say "you are harassing me sexually, racistly" that kind of shit. make threat clearly.

was worth mentioning before, throughout all of this make as many friends and as much of a splash for yourself as possible as its time to trade on that goodwill, tell your boss you want an open relationship and you're going to fuck and suck other managers, and then find the good one with the good team of old fucking geriatric guys who could never be fooled into working more than a reasonable amount daily and also can kill people with their minds since they have been sitting on the bleeding edge of computing since 1969. their boss will usually be, suspiciously, one report rank higher than everyone else. e.g. their boss has a whole other boss + his reports under him. usually small team. go to their boss, say, hi, look at me, look at my beautiful plumage and captivating mating dance, please hire me, pleassseee. his team will say no, they will say things like "I don't know about that kiddo", "That guy seems like a candy-ass", they will read your papers and look at you in the eyes and say it is not compelling, the boss will kind of hire you anyway. if he doesn't you're fucked. if he does you're now a

STAFF ENGINEER

for fifteen minutes and then

ADVISORY/SENIOR/SPECIAL ENGINEER

and the suffering is over. no code minimal jira + squad of gremlin zerglings under your boss whom you can rank-pull and delegate bullshit to, they will be mostly suckers, take advantage of this. 80% of keystrokes/clicks will be in production of beautiful wonderful lovely .docx and .xlsx's, what a godsend, only in an emergency are you allowed to fuck with your zergling's code, usually in a cool way with bullshit procedure removed.

i worked on high performance computing shit. "what the fuck do you mean 2PB or so in and out a day on flash memory", "what the fuck do you mean special infiniband intel MPI library on CD-R stored in Craig's filing cabinet???". Meetings with company people: webcams off, responses optional, snideness allowed. Meetings with client: you must have your dress shirt starched and white glove the shit out of those motherfuckers. timezones = skill issue. i don't care where germany is, i don't give a shit, wake up at 3am for a 20m meeting i take on the toilet or while eating a boiled lobster complete with cracker + lobster bib. customers countable on one hand, invoices to customers not countable with 32 bits. no fucking mistakes ever allowed except for like whitepaper drafts, you cannot fuck the pumpkin on this one, your actual job relies on your ability to hit a button and suck down a week's worth of compute and millions of dollars, boiling swimming pool's worth of TDP, one mistake that leads result data to being able to be characterized as flawed and your balls are getting ripped off. Quarterly IRL meetings = normiepilled normiemaxxing. Dress sharp. leave at 5pm on the dot, go to bar with Old Fucker coworkers, drink wrecklessly with them, have a blast, let them give you a tour of a lab you are absolutely 100% not allowed to be inside, buildings that have posted weight limits per sq. ft. exceeding 250lbs, such a blast. every paycheck a FORTUNE every dinner a banquet every meeting an email every keystroke life or death. you get to meet /lib/doug mofos too one of whom i wrote a very poor kind of poem thing about. thats about it. hope this helps

[autumnmobile12]

My Hero Academia: Healthcare?

I don't know if any fanfic writers will find this useful or not, but I think the information is interesting and worth speculation in the My Hero setting. This also applies to any fanfic writers in the anime fandoms who want to have more immersive and in-depth writing. Obviously, writing fics that are 'accurate' is not a requirement since the point is to have fun, but here's some knowledge to use (or not use) if anyone is interested.

Obviously, Deku's been in the hospital a lot. A lot of the characters are injured and in the hospital a lot. But for all the hospital visits, nobody in the series is going to be bankrupted by astronomical healthcare costs. (Yes, that's a jab at America's system.) And it's not because the Pros, especially the popular ones, have money.

Here's why:

Quick rundown of how healthcare in Japan works: Everybody receives healthcare, everybody has health insurance. In Japan, your employer is legally required to provide you with health insurance. If you are unemployed, you will be on a community healthcare plan. There is also a plan for citizens over the age of 75. This also applies to foreigners who have established permanent residence of three months or longer.

Article 25 of Japan's Constitution is paraphrased as follows:

“all people shall have the right to maintain a certain standard of healthy and cultured life” and that “the state shall try to promote and improve the conditions of social welfare, social security, and public health” for this purpose.

I'm not going to reiterate the system in its entirety, but if you would like to learn more, this site here (the Article 25 quote I used is also found on that page) has a brief and comprehensive explanation of how healthcare is handled. However, one thing I am going to mention that is relevant for Deku and other Pros is the threshold out-of-pocket expense.

In Japan, citizens enrolled in healthcare do not spend more than ¥90,000 per month out of pocket, protecting them from financial disaster.

(To Americans, this may sound like a sweet deal, but hold your horses because Japan also funds this system through heavy taxation. Medical procedures are expensive and people will be paying for them one way or another.)

The question that needs asking now is how does this system apply to the hero society? Well, first off, since My Hero does take place in a slightly futuristic setting, we could take into consideration the system has been revised.

Assuming not much as changed, are heroes that operate their own agency technically considered business owners and are required to insure their employees and sidekicks?

Or...

Because they are all government employees, is the Safety Commission responsible for insuring all heroes and sidekicks no matter what they rank in their popularity?

Personally, I think it would be the latter since, in the coldest sense of the word, the heroes are essential to the Commission in upholding their system. So that makes them an asset. The Commission would want to protect its assets because as shady as they are, their own system could work against them. They certainly don't want heroes going on strike for lack of benefits or complaining the government doesn't take care of their people. So I assume it's the Commission who is covering insane healthcare costs on behalf of heroes.

(And since the system is probably funded by taxpayers' money, that also feeds into the prevalent societal discontent that's ongoing throughout the series.)

Now what about Deku and his classmates since they have not graduated and are not officially licensed yet? Honestly, I think it's probably UA itself that insures the students. That probably has to do with accreditation and so on, which is another matter entirely, but again, the backing is likely coming out of the Commission (and taxpayers') pockets.

And there you have it. Happy writing, happy research.

[fuck-customers]

I'm sorry this isn't exactly what this blog is for, but I was hoping it could slide. I have something at work that I'd like the opinions of mods and followers, if possible please.

I was wondering if I should ask for/pursue a promotion to store lead, as several people in my life, including friends, family, and a very persistent (annoying) coworker, have been pressuring me to do so. But I have several cons and pros about it. And since all the people in my life are blindly telling me to apply to be a lead, they won't listen to what my concerns are and say that I'm just being stubborn and difficult without listening to why I'm hesitating. So here's why

Pros:

•it would look good on my resume

•get paid $2 more per hour

•I'd get paid for training. Yay

•it may force me to get better at responsibility, as I'd be in charge of keys and codes

•I'd get slightly more hours per week (more on that below)

•I would get to freely move around the store as I'm doing my tasks vs. being trapped at the register area as I've currently been, which is great for me personally, because I hate being trapped at one station

•I may be able to fix some things around the store that have been driving me nuts as a result of being free to move around (such as changing the godawful music)

•it would probably be a needed confidence booster

•I have several ideas of things we could and should be doing that would greatly improve the store and maybe my manager would actually listen to a lead vs. a regular employee, as she currently refuses to listen to my suggestions (which, for the record, are things like "hey maybe we should put price tags on the products" not only does she refuse to listen, she actively goes out of her way to undo the work I do and tear down price tags/signs)

Cons:

•store leads ≠ full time and current leads get the same amount of hours that I do, give or take 3 hours or so (for example, this current week I have 9 hours, the lead who has been pressuring me to become a lead has 10 hours, and other leads have between 10-15 hours) I would already be a lead if it was a full-time position, but that will not happen. I'd even consider it if there was a significant increase in hours while still being part-time. 1-3 hours more is not an increase in my opinion

•the store is severely understaffed by design and leads have to do several tasks alone at once, such as: run the service department alone, unlock anything customers need throughout the store, fill online orders, backup the cashier when needed (the only other employee in the store) get yelled at by angry customers who demand a manager and do a daily checklist from the store manager that consists of 20 or so tasks to do in a 3 hour shift.

•store leads have nearly all of the responsibilities of the store manager, except they can't hire or fire anyone and they get paid less than half of what the store manager gets paid while having to do all of the same tasks, minus the fun ones (hiring/firing people)

•there are many signs that the company may shut down in the near future, but the company and my store manager are pretending like everything is fine and refuse to discuss it with employees

•leads are also expected to go to the bank for cash deposits for the store/to get change, etc. and I do not have my own car or license (which is not something I want to mention to my manager, as I'm required to have reliable transportation to work there, I just don't have to specify whose transportation it is) and that is a job requirement of a lead that I straight up cannot do. And the public transport in my city is lackluster and taking the bus to and from the bank would easily be an hour long trip or more, when it takes someone with their own car 15-20 minutes.

•I have a very bad memory and I am not confident that I could remember all of the procedures and passcodes that managers are required to remember. I could technically write it down, but I don't want to draw attention to my terrible memory, as I've been successfully hiding it for years. Nor am I confident that I could be responsible for keys and not lose them. And realistically, I'd lose the book/accidentally delete the notes app I made notes on.

•I've been able to hide it for now, since as a regular employee, I am not watched very closely, but I cut a LOT of corners and there are several store policies that I think are extremely stupid and I either straight up don't follow them or have workarounds for them. Obviously as a lead, I'd have to stop doing that, but some of these policies strongly go against my morals. This is just a whining bulletpoint lol

•I'm not great under pressure, and I'm even worse when someone is yelling/swearing at me or talking down to me. I've seen leads get talked to like they're trash by customers and they have been able to successfully stay calm and collected. In situations where I have been yelled at or talked down to, I call a manager to back me up, but that doesn't work if I am the manager. And I don't mean that I'll cry, because in some situations, that may help. No. I mean that my natural response to stress, especially someone yelling at me, is to fight back. I will cuss them out, yell back and I have been known to physically attack. Not at work, obviously, but that's because up until now, I've been able to push aggressive customers off onto my managers. I've also successfully hidden my anger issues from management and coworkers to the point where they think I am always happy and never get mad. It helps to have someone to back me up/deflect off of, but if I am the backup, no one can defend me.

•There are several things wrong with the store that are completely out of the control of any of us employees at the physical location and are the fault of corporate, but customers blame the employees personally and as a lead, I'd have to answer for the fuckups of corporate that I genuinely cannot answer for. (Such as return policies and inventory inaccuracies)

•My manager is very shitty at communicating with her team. I've personally witnessed several incidents that were caused by her not properly communicating with her leads and I don't want to wind up in a position where I'm responsible for resolving the conflict she caused by not communicating. Also

•I have nearly zero respect for my manager. I think she is an absolute moron, but I've been able to hide it as I don't have to work/interact with her very often. As a lead, I'd have to work with her more and it may slip.

•I don't wear a nametag. I very strongly believe that nametags are a great danger to the employees, especially employees like myself who have a very uncommon name with a very uncommon spelling. Yet as a manager, I'd have to "lead by example" and wear a nametag. I would ideally wear a fake name or have several fake nametags to rotate, but my coworkers obviously know my name and would call it out.

•I'd have to double-check on this one, but I think leads, as members of management, are required to watch potential shoplifters and confront/track them down. I'm not sure if this is a requirement of a lead or if the particular leads at my store are going way beyond their job requirements/have been coached incorrectly by the store manager. I know I, as a regular employee, am not required to chase after thieves and I actively refuse to confront/chase thieves for my own safety. But I am not sure if that would change with becoming a lead. My work does not have a security guard.

•I have several ideas of things we could and should do to improve the store, but my manager is very arrogant and refuses to listen to constructive criticism or constructive feedback in any form. It would drive me insane to have to keep doing things the wrong/difficult way just because she won't listen to suggestions. And this isn't just an assumption by me. I have personally suggested things that she blatantly ignored and so have other leads.

Posted by admin Rodney

[loafeebuns]

Wanted to share my decode design inspo from some moots!, Have not updated him in a while, the last picture is the first draft ever(?) he’s just a bit more chonky now hehe,,

Basic info AGHH i know i have yet to fully lore dump for a lot of guys:

Decode 🔌⚡️

He/Him/It | Rank 1 Demon | Cyber Realm - Machine Type

- Decode is an older demon from the cyber realm, (a realm in this world is essentially a different plane linked to the regular GD world, you’re able to access/ travel to corresponding to the themes: Hell, Astral, Heaven, Cyber, and Void. more on that later!) The cyber realm is home to demons relating back to tech and electronics, it’s also where the golden age of innovation was as the world shifted into 1.9 (it still needs a better name LMAOO) with new vehicles and advancements yadda yadda,,

- He is a demon created in the 1.9 era for the purposes of combat but eventually found himself into the more technical aspects of creation, sinking a lot of time into developing a lot of the realm’s technology. While the tech back from 1.9 is considered outdated now, he essentially paved the way for the realm’s future demons to thrive off of, as well as being just as resourceful to the mortals (this part is still mega wip so SORRY if it’s weird ehehe )

- Decode Electronics is still a wip too, but it’s a large company known for providing vehicles, so things like UFO’s, robots, ships, etc! He’s very well respected on both the human and demon ends despite being a bit dated/ being of a lower power demon rank. While he doesn’t fully own it anymore, he’s still content with where he is now, and that is being stationed at the main(?) city branch. That’s how he met NC actually lmao

- Unlike most greedy capitalists he’s not like that! Big responsible man,, very patient especially when helping out employees/customers.. still able to lose temper but he’s mellowed out a lot.. I’m not mad just disappointed. Very much loves what he does as well as know a lot of demons.. he’s very logical, knowledgeable on computer science and engineering and all that but I only know so much because I am a dumbass and CANNOT write for smart chars 💔

KEEPING IT BRIEF EHEHEH ILL GIVE MORE INFO TO HIM AGHAHAH THANKS FOR READING

[libraford]

with the disagreement you've been recently been posting about about those kids making insults and sexually harassing you do you not think you could both be right? Like to me this doesn't sound much like a argument just different perspectives and values.

The woman from Facebook was right in that you probably could have taken time to talk to those kids just to say something like hey thats not nice and shut them down. Most kids stop when confronted with an adult especially in a school setting as they see you as an authority figure and dont want to get in trouble. In all likelihood that conversation would have taken around 5 - 15 minutes at most and probably wouldn't have really hurted your workflow.

Your right in saying that you technically didn't have to do any of that and your responsibility ended at reporting their behaviour and hoping that the principal will act accordingly. To me it seems like neither of you are wrong your just coming at this from 2 different angles.

I am not an authority figure. I am a dude with a camera.

I did confront them. They doubled down and escalated.

The protocols of my job for harassment from any students or faculty are to not engage, walk away, report it to the authority.

The two different angles we're coming from here are that I'm not an employee of the school, the school is my client and my role with the kids is mostly as a passive observer. When something goes wrong, its my duty to report it and not engage any further.

And she is a building sub, who takes an active role the students' day to day. When something goes wrong, she is allowed to engage but she also has a mandated duty to report it.

At many points in the conversation, I pointed out that we had different roles and why a one-on-one (or actually in this case one-on-four) talk would not have been an appropriate or welcome response in my context.

"What I said was the difference in the impact it would make had you done something else (with one-on-one talk implied) and the likelihood that the principal wouldn't done anything at all."

See, that sentence right there- is very guilt-trippy. She's telling me that I should have done more. The very long paragraphs are implying that I should be thinking about the situation from their perspective because if they're acting out its because something is wrong at home. This was an analysis of the situation that I didn't need or ask for because its not my job to consider the home life of students.

"Pretty much every interaction affects our kids."

This is putting the onus of their mental health on me and that's kind of a weird thing to ask of a stranger and the subject of harassment.

I'm not trained in de-escalation. So I don't de-escalate.

[inamindfarfaraway]

AITA for paying my employee minimum wage?

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I suppose unusual events may call for unusual responses. I (male in my 70s) am a wealthy businessman, landlord and moneylender, making most of my income from rent and debts. My clerk (male in his 30s) is my only employee. He has a family with a few kids, not sure how many. I pay him a perfectly respectable minimum wage for his position and I even gave all of tomorrow off with pay for Christmas, despite my opinion that a frivolous holiday is not that good a reason to skip work. He’s worked for me for many years and never once complained about his pay or conditions. He might not particularly enjoy his job either, but he doesn’t have to. It’s work, not play. Hell, I don’t particularly enjoy my job.

However, this evening… I heard another point of view. You’d never believe me if I told you everything and it feels like a dream - I’d certainly like it to be a dream, but I don’t see how I could have thought of it - but let’s just say that I was visited by an old friend. He’d been my business partner (male in his late 60s). Seven years ago he… left and I never expected to see him again. He came back though, apparently just to tell me off. He’s not doing well. He’s been travelling among all sorts of people and deeply disturbed by what he’s seen. The plight of ‘mankind’ and all that. He made a big deal about how I should be nicer to people and more generous and such, as if it were a matter of life and death. Last I knew we were on the same page about everything, but just now he looked at me like I was a criminal. Or an asshole, as it were. I don’t understand it.

I want to stress that nothing I’m doing is illegal. None of my business, none of how I treat my clerk. Well, I imagine that technically, if you were being harsh, you could argue that occasionally my conduct toward him falls under ‘harassment’, but I think that’s a stretch. When I’m strict, it’s out of valid concern for productivity. I am truly dedicated to my work; all I ask is that my clerk be the same. If he needs more money so badly, he should have the guts to ask for it and explain himself (I’d still have to consider my answer, but at least I’d know that he felt that way) or just find a different job or perhaps, heaven forbid, be a bit more financially responsible. If he has to scrape together Christmas festivities, maybe he shouldn’t bother celebrating it at all, for example. Why spend his money on that instead of food or clothes? Or keeping or investing it? I’ve saved as much as possible and I’m all the better off for it. I think it’s far more likely that he simply wants more than he deserves - if he does want a raise, which he hasn’t said! He agreed to this pay. We made an arrangement, and based on the stable routine of all these years, it benefits both of us. I don’t know why my friend thinks there’s a problem.

But he does. He was… he was seriously unhappy with me. I’ve never known him to be so sentimental, and he wouldn’t get that emotional for absolutely no reason, so here I am. Am I ‘the asshole’ for paying my employee a completely legal and normal minimum wage?

Update:

I think I probably am the asshole here. I’ve read your feedback, done a lot of reflection, taken quite the walk down memory lane, and among other things I remembered my old boss and how he treated me. He dominated so much of my life, he could have done the bare minimum or made me miserable, but he was nice. He just chose to be kind. Like he asked “Why not?” when I always tend to ask “Why?”. And he payed me better than I pay my employee, especially relative to his income. I can definitely afford to give my clerk a raise, and treat him with more respect while I’m at it. Authority is a powerful thing. I’ve… I’ve been taking advantage of it. I’ve been taking my clerk for granted. But he’s a good worker and he deserves to be rewarded. I’ll raise his pay when he comes back in on Boxing Day.

Thank you for your advice. I don’t appreciate the insults - I am not a parasite, I have pulled myself up with my own honest work, and there’s nothing wrong with getting ahead when it’s eat or be eaten. We all do what we have to do. But I should also do more. So in hindsight, much of your criticism was accurate and warranted. Good for you. I know it’s a bad time and you must all busy and/or tired. I wasn’t planning to stay up this late. I will now hopefully get some sleep.

Should I say goodbye? I don’t know what I’m doing, I’ve never done this before. What the hell, why not? Goodnight.

Update:

So. Some more stuff happened and I ended up going for a… a walk, an extremely normal walk, and meeting my clerk’s family. Or at least seeing them. It’s hard to explain. What time is on your computer clocks, by the way? I think mine is broken. Anyway, my clerk is like, Poor. Poor poor. And I’m a huge asshole. I knew theoretically that the minimum wage and the living wage are not the same, but I never really thought about the effects of that, I didn’t want to think about it, but I am now! I’m beyond an asshole, I’m a piece of shit!

This family, they’re struggling so much and they have so many other problems and I’ve kept them living on a pitiful salary. One of their children is sick. I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s bad and it’s getting worse. There is a treatment that could help him, but it’s expensive and they can’t afford it, his parents know they can’t afford it, and if he doesn’t get it… I don’t know how long this kid has left. He’s the sweetest little boy and he might not even grow up. These parents love their kids with everything they have, but they can’t fix this. But! But I’m right here! I’ve been right here with all this money all this time, and I never bothered to ask about his family or care or help. It would have been so easy. I wish I’d realised all of this years earlier. I’m such a piece of shit. But I still have time and a plenty of money. I’m going to help. I’ll do everything I can. I promise.

Also, I am sorry for my replies to some of your comments on my original post. I was spiteful and insensitive. I’ve been… very angry for a very long time, more at the world in general than anything else, and in the habit of taking it out on whoever I could. I need to stop that. I’ll add it to the list. Consider those replies redacted. Once again, thank you for your feedback and goodnight. Merry Christmas. I hope you get enough sleep if you’re awake in my time zone at this hour.

update

do you ever think about how we’re all going to die? we could all die at any moment. we never know when we never know how much time we get and that’s why life is sososo precious and you have to use it wisely. but i have not! done that! i’m old i could die any day now. i could die today and what would i have to show? for my entire great big life? loads of money i’m never gonna use? i always thought that how much of something you had was about how you spent it. money and time. what you get is what you give or deserve. but it’s not! it’s mostly just luck and other people. most rich people are just born rich already. then it’s easy to get richer from there. i wasn’t born rich not really but i had a lot of help, a good school, a good boss, my friend, and now that i am rich i do less work for more money. it’s not fair. i’ve fucked up so much for so long and yet i have so much money and i’ve had so much time and i’ve wasted both of them. i don’t need all that money in the first place but that’s what i’ve spent my whole life on, why? what’s the point?

and then on the other hand you have the fact that. children are dying right now. whenever you’re reading this. loads and load of them all over when they don’t have to. fucking kids. and innocent people good people amazing people who are happy who make people happy who use their time infinitely better than i have don’t earn any reward. they don’t get any justice. most people have less than they need and meanwhile so many bastards have so much more. why? what’s the point of it?

why is it like this? why is the world like this? like we waste so much food and water and money so why don’t we just give it to poor people if we’re not going to use it? why do you have to pay for it if there’s so much why can’t? and like rent why do people have to pay rent? why can’t you just live somewhere? or medicine why do you have to pay for that? it’s. it’s life! why do we have to pay for LIFE when you don’t choose to be born? it’s not right.

and i know that there are laws and politics deciding those big things. but we can still make it better right? we can make a difference can’t we? even though there are so many massive problems like poverty and war and hunger and so many people who aren’t helping when they could. it still matters right? being good. even though you’re just one person. right?

why do kids have to die when they don’t have to die

it’s not fair. it’s not fair

i’m sorry. i shouldn’t even be posting this. it’s just venting and rambling and it probably doesn’t make any sense. i swear to god i’m not drunk or high i’m just having a really weird night. it’s like i’ve shut out a million things over decades and tonight they’re all flooding in at once.

i just. i feel like i’m dying and i need to get these thoughts out of my head. i need to know that they’re real and i’m real and i’m alive. i need to know that it matters.

i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.

UPDATE!

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!! I am not dead and I don’t think I’m crazy, I honestly feel the best I have in ages, and I will not elaborate on last night because that’ll only raise more questions but I will say this! I paid for my clerk’s Christmas dinner and I’m gonna give him a gigantic raise! I also donated a fuckton to charity! Thank you all so much I love you!!!!!

Update:

Happy Boxing Day, everyone. After that rollercoaster, I thought I ought to formally conlude this strange saga. My clerk came back to work this morning and I gave him his raise and a profound apology, as well as paid leave until a couple of days after New Year’s. To call him surprised would be an understatement. It was very fun. I totally understand if he chooses to get a new job now, but I hope we keep in touch. He’s a wonderful person. And I’d like to know if his son will be okay.

Although I haven’t got far yet (I’ve been catching up with family, I was the asshole there too, but no need to dump that baggage on you now that it’s being resolved), I am planning to make some major reforms to my business strategies. I’ve lowered rent on my properties to something affordable, for a start. I’m also researching charities and community projects. I have a great deal of moral debt to redeem. You can make a difference and I’m gonna prove it.

Many thanks for your support and concern, and rest assured that I’m in about as good health as I can be at this age, with the caveat of a mild hangover after a Christmas party. Turns out I like parties. I am processing that… ah, crisis, and I have people who care about me and a strong resolve to ground me. I will look into therapy.

I wish you all the best. I meant it, so I’ll repeat it: I love you. And my old friend, if you’re reading this wherever you are now, thank you for that intervention. It was worth it. I hope you’re doing better and we can talk again someday.