#Calculation of Standard Deviation

[easynotes4u]

Calculation of Standard Deviation in Individual, Discrete & Continuous Series | Statistics

In this article, we will discuss about Calculation of Standard Deviation in Individual, Discrete & Continuous Series and measures of dispersion in Statistics. How to calculate Standard deviation  Standard Deviation Standard deviation Measures of Dispersion in Statistics is the measure of the dispersion of statistical data. The standard deviation formula is used to find the deviation of the data…

[rauferes]

For my current longfic, I've been having fun making up my own comparative biology stuff for elves. The most recent one that's tickling me (inspiration from any_open_eye's work for this one) is that human penises are, uh, significantly larger than elven ones. (Human penises are actually weirdly large in our world-- compared to other animals, and definitely other primates, we're disproportionate).

Which is going to make it hilarious when my elven main character finally gets in Emmrich's pants and finds his jusssst-above-human-average 6" cock... which is the elven equivalent of finding out your lover is packing 8". (For people used to the typical and rather generous self-reporting of size: that's the 99.9th percentile folks. Get a thousand very excited men in the same room and this dick will be the longest.) (Don't worry about my search history, don't-- don't worry about it.)

She isn't even a bigger=better person. She's going to be SO taken aback and I'm going to have so much fun writing it.

[dkettchen]

not plotly not letting me add a trendline to my line graph and my math brained ass deciding I will simply learn how to calculate a trendline myself and write my own dang helper function 😤

[pythonjobsupport]

Calculate Mean Median Mode and Standard Deviation in Excel

Learn how to calculate mean, median, mode, and standard deviation in Microsoft Excel. Watching this video will equip you to be … source

[a-sleepy-ginger]

28/2/24

❆❅❆❅❆

Got to sit on train both to and from college

Had stupid conversation about getting struck by lightning with college friend

Misremembered the lyrics to initial d running in the 90s (throw you credit card into the sea, punch that satellite into the sea. No I don't know why I thought these were the lyrics, the sea is not mentioned once in the song)

Got research methods remediation done

Thought about oc names in terms of waterfowl

Got told to keep it real in red text by my phone calculator cus I tried to square root a negative number (dunno that it made me happy but I did laugh)

[sugarprocesstech]

standard deviation definition, formula, symbol, questions, standard dev calculator with The applications of both population standard deviation (σ) and sample standard deviation (s)

[cressidagrey]

Lessons in Math (and Humility)

Welcome to Mysterious Mrs Piastri's Mondays. Apparently this is a thing now. (Ever since I hear that interview where Kimi was asked which subjects he's scared off an the answer was Math, I knew I was gonna write this.)

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Kimi Antonelli thought he could handle anything — race cars, pressure, a wet track…but his math homework may destroy him. Enter Bee Piastri. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Kimi Antonelli didn’t ask for help lightly.

Especially not with math.

He was a racing driver, not an idiot. He could handle telemetry, fuel loads, braking calculations, tyre degradation graphs — all of it — without blinking. He’d memorized braking points at Spa, figured out fuel maps on the fly, and survived radio calls with engineers who thought “you’re fine” covered every possible scenario.

He was good at numbers. At racing numbers.

But this assignment?

This nightmare of partial derivatives and matrix transformations?

It stared at him from his tablet like a personal attack, every line of notation a new insult to his intelligence.

After twenty minutes of glaring at it — tapping his pen, checking his notes, checking them again as if they might have magically rewritten themselves — Kimi finally let out a groan of pure, unfiltered despair.

He flopped face-first onto the hospitality couch, tablet slipping from his hands onto the seat beside him.

Without lifting his head, he announced, voice muffled against the cushions: “I’m going to fail math and bring shame to the entire grid.”

The nearest breathing human — unfortunately — was Ollie Bearman, who looked up from where he was very happily slurping a suspiciously neon smoothie.

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem?”

Kimi lifted one arm limply and waved the tablet in the air like a white flag of surrender.

“This. Derivatives. Partial equations. I don’t know. Numbers are evil.”

Ollie blinked once. Then grinned — the kind of grin that meant he was enjoying Kimi’s suffering way too much.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Arthur Leclerc almost failed stats back in F3.”

Kimi turned his head enough to squint at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Like, barely passed.”

Kimi perked up slightly, seizing onto the news like a lifeline. If Arthur — who had a literal racing dynasty backing him — struggled, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.

“How’d he survive?” Kimi asked, sitting up slightly.

Ollie’s grin widened.

“Oscar.”

Kimi stared at him. “Piastri?”

“Yep. Quiet nerd back at Prema. Absolute lifesaver. Helped Arthur cram for finals and everything.”

Kimi narrowed his eyes. He thought about Oscar: quiet, steady, terrifyingly good at everything he touched, like someone had programmed him in a lab.

Of course Oscar would have hidden superpowers. Of course.

Kimi hesitated, pride warring with desperation.

And then sighed dramatically, letting his head thunk back against the couch.

“Fine,” he said. “Find me Piastri. I have no pride left.”

Which was how, ten minutes later, they ended up with Oscar Piastri sitting cross-legged in the McLaren motorhome, frowning deeply at Kimi’s tablet like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Oscar muttered, squinting, “it’s not impossible. It’s just badly worded.”

Kimi leaned forward, full of hope — desperate, grasping hope.

Maybe this would be fine. Maybe Oscar Piastri — quiet, unflappable, secret nerd of Prema lore — could fix this disaster.

Five minutes later, that hope was dead.

Oscar exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be honest with you, mate: I have no idea what they’re asking for.”

Kimi flailed, waving his hands like he could physically summon better news. “But you saved Arthur! You’re the math guy!”

Oscar held up a hand, grimacing. “That was basic stats, Kimi. You know, averages. Standard deviations. This—” he pointed at the tablet like it might bite him, “—this is multivariable calculus meets actual sadism.”

Ollie Bearman, who had been perched nearby pretending not to watch the trainwreck unfold, snorted into his water bottle.

Oscar sighed again, this time reaching for his phone.

“No—” Kimi said, panicked, feeling his dignity slipping further into the abyss. “Don’t call someone. Don’t bother anyone. I’ll just fail and move to a cabin in the woods, it’s fine—”

Oscar was already dialing.

“Relax,” he said, calm as anything. “Felicity’s here. She likes this stuff.”

Five minutes later, Felicity Piastri wandered into the motorhome.

Kimi had seen her around the paddock plenty of times over the last year.

The first two things he’d learned about Oscar’s wife were simple:

1. She was tiny and startlingly pretty — the kind of pretty that could probably kill a man if she wanted to.

2. If Felicity Piastri was somewhere, Bee Piastri, Oscar’s terrifyingly adorable four-year-old daughter, was never far behind.

Today was no exception.

Bee marched in beside her mother, two neat pigtails bouncing with every step, each tied with papaya-colored bobbles (a detail that felt almost aggressively on-brand). A stuffed frog plushie dangled from one hand, like a trusted battle companion.

Both of them — Felicity and Bee — looked unfairly bright and well-rested for how emotionally wounded Kimi felt.

Oscar, completely unbothered by the incoming reinforcements, handed Felicity the tablet without preamble.

She glanced at it. Paused. Then blinked slowly.

“You’re all stumped by this?” she asked, her voice dripping with mild disbelief.

Kimi wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s the notation!” he blurted defensively. “And the question’s vague! And the examples were misleading!”

Felicity tilted her head, looking at him with the kind of fond pity reserved for particularly slow puppies. “It’s literally just a chain rule application with a matrix shortcut.”

“That’s not helping!” Ollie said, muffled into the crook of his elbow where he was laughing himself into an early grave.

Meanwhile, Bee had clambered neatly onto Oscar’s lap without hesitation, perching herself like a queen surveying her court. Kimi noticed absently how Oscar automatically shifted to make room for her — steadying her with one hand, pressing a soft kiss to her temple like it was muscle memory.

“Mama, is it hard?” Bee asked, peering at the tablet with great seriousness.

Felicity smiled. “Not really. But it’s annoying.”

Bee thought about that for a second. Then squared her tiny shoulders like she was preparing for battle.

“Can I try?” she asked.

Oscar sighed deeply. “Bee, it’s complicated—”

But Bee was already moving, plucking the tablet from his hand like it was no big deal, mumbling to herself under her breath.

“Okay, so you take this one first because it’s inside the brackets... and then you swap the middle bits because that’s the rule from the blue notebook... and then you put it all together and it looks like a frog but it’s actually a plus sign.”

Kimi blinked.

Ollie blinked.

Oscar just shook his head like a man who had accepted the chaos a long time ago.

Three minutes later, Bee beamed, handed the tablet back to her mother, and swung her legs happily.

“There,” she said proudly. “Now it’s not grumpy anymore.”

Felicity leaned over, checked the solution... And grinned.

“She’s right,” she said brightly. “Great job, sweetheart!”

Oscar gave a low, half-proud, half-resigned chuckle. “Welcome to my life.”

Kimi stared at the screen.

A four-year-old. A four-year-old had solved the math problem correctly in under three minutes.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. He had heard rumors last year — something about Bee spotting an issue with a McLaren suspension load calculation before any of the engineers did.

But seeing it in real time?

Devastating.

Absolutely devastating.

“I— how did you—?” Kimi stuttered, still struggling to comprehend reality.

Bee shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mama says numbers are friends. You just have to make them sit next to each other nicely.”

Kimi blinked down at the tablet, then at Bee, then back again.

Maybe... maybe racing cars was safer. Maybe he should stick to corners and apexes where the worst that could happen was a spin, not having his soul annihilated by a toddler.

Felicity kissed the top of Bee���s head and said entirely too casually, “There you go. Courtesy of a four-year-old.”

Oscar smiled and held out a hand. “Great job, Bumblebee.”

Bee high-fived her father so hard the smack echoed around the motorhome.

Kimi slumped back into his seat, utterly defeated.

Maybe he had brought shame to the grid after all.

Later, Kimi found himself slumped in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, a half-crushed juice box in his hand — courtesy of Bee, who had handed it over solemnly “for bravery.”

The worst part?

He genuinely needed it.

He sipped the apple juice in silence, staring into the middle distance, quietly reconsidering his entire academic career.

Maybe he could just... never open a math textbook again. Maybe he could live the rest of his life solely calculating apex speeds and brake bias. Maybe if he was fast enough, no one would ever ask him to solve another derivative.

Maybe.

Across the room, Felicity leaned against the table, arms folded, smiling sweetly — the kind of sweet that definitely had shark teeth hiding underneath.

“Bee’s better at recognizing patterns than most adults,” she said casually, like she wasn’t casually shattering the egos of Formula One drivers before lunchtime. “She’s been beating Oscar at card games since she was two.”

Oscar, sitting beside Kimi and munching on a cookie he definitely hadn’t earned, patted Kimi’s shoulder with exaggerated sympathy.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “She inherited her mother’s brain.”

Kimi just groaned into his hands.

It didn’t help that Bee chose that exact moment to skip past them, Button the Frog tucked securely under one arm and a packet of glittery frog-shaped stickers in the other.

She looked so pleased with herself. Completely oblivious to the devastation she had left behind. Or maybe — horrifying thought — not oblivious at all.

Kimi made a note to himself:

Never challenge Bee to anything involving numbers.

Never doubt Felicity’s terrifying brain ever again.

Maybe just stick to driving cars really fast. It was safer for his dignity.

Probably.

Maybe.

[calebmatthew1]

Calculate Standard Deviation Calculator Easily With Our Free Calculator

Allcalculator.net is a reliable online platform that offers a wide range of statistical tools to help you with your data analysis needs. When it comes to understanding and calculating Standard Deviation, Allcalculator.net provides a user-friendly Sample Standard Deviation Calculator that makes the process quick and effortless. By using our calculator, you can gain valuable insights into the variability and dispersion of your dataset, allowing you to make informed decisions based on accurate statistical analysis. Join us at Allcalculator.net and simplify your statistical calculations today!

Understanding Standard Deviation:

Standard deviation measures the dispersion or spread of a dataset around its mean. It quantifies the average distance between each data point and the mean. A small standard deviation indicates that the data points are closely clustered around the mean, while a large standard deviation suggests a greater spread or variability.

Significance of Standard Deviation in Statistical Analysis:

Standard deviation plays a vital role in statistical analysis by providing crucial information about the variability and distribution of data. It helps identify outliers, assess the reliability of data, compare datasets, and make predictions based on the distribution's shape. By understanding the standard deviation, you can make more informed decisions and draw accurate conclusions from your data.

Introducing the Sample Standard Deviation Calculator:

Our Sample Standard Deviation Calculator is a free and user-friendly tool designed to simplify the process of calculating standard deviation. With just a few simple steps, you can obtain the standard deviation value of your sample, saving time and effort in manual calculations.

1. Inputting Data: To use our calculator, you need to input your sample data. Whether you have a small set of numbers or a large dataset, our calculator can handle it efficiently. Simply enter the values in the designated field, separating each data point with commas or spaces.

2. Calculating the Mean: Once you've entered your data, the calculator automatically calculates the mean (average) of the sample. The mean is a crucial component in the standard deviation calculation, as it serves as the reference point for measuring the deviation of each data point.

3. Calculating the Deviations: Next, the calculator computes the deviation of each data point from the mean. It determines how far each value deviates from the average, considering both positive and negative deviations.

4. Squaring the Deviations: To account for the magnitude of deviations, the calculator squares each deviation value. Squaring eliminates the negative signs and allows for a more accurate representation of the dispersion.

5. Summing the Squared Deviations: The squared deviations are then summed up to obtain the sum of squares. This step aggregates the dispersion values and prepares them for the final calculation.

6. Calculating the Sample Variance: The sample variance is determined by dividing the sum of squares by the number of data points minus one. This step calculates the average squared deviation from the mean.

7. Calculating the Sample Standard Deviation: Finally, the calculator takes the square root of the sample variance to obtain the sample standard deviation. This value represents the dispersion of the sample data and provides a measure of the spread around the mean.

Benefits of Using the Sample Standard Deviation Calculator:

Our Sample Standard Deviation Calculator offers several advantages when it comes to calculating standard deviation:

1. Accuracy and Efficiency: The calculator ensures accurate and precise calculations, eliminating the possibility of manual errors. It saves you valuable time and effort, especially when dealing with large datasets.

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3. Quick Insights into Data Variability: By calculating the standard deviation of your sample, you gain a deeper understanding of the dispersion and variability within your data. This insight allows for better decision-making and more accurate interpretations. At Allcalculator.net, we understand the importance of accurate statistical analysis. Our Sample Standard Deviation Calculator empowers you to calculate the standard deviation of your sample effortlessly, giving you precise insights into data variability. With the user-friendly interface of Allcalculator.net, you can streamline your statistical calculations and make informed decisions based on reliable results. Unlock the power of statistics and take your data analysis to the next level with Allcalculator.net

[christopherallcalculator]

Unveiling the Hidden Patterns: Harnessing Standard Deviation in Data Analysis

AllCalculator.net provides a user-friendly platform for Calculating Standard Deviation and other essential statistical measures, empowering data analysts to uncover hidden patterns and gain valuable insights from datasets. Data analysis becomes more efficient and effective with the assistance of AllCalculator.net tools, allowing users to better understand the dispersion of data points around the mean and make informed decisions based on their analyses.

1. What is Standard Deviation?

Standard deviation measures the average amount of variation or dispersion from the mean in a dataset. It gives us insights into how much individual data points deviate from the average, indicating the dataset's overall volatility.

2. The Formula:

Standard Deviation (σ) = √(Σ(xi - μ)² / N)

Where:

xi represents each data point

μ is the mean of the dataset

N denotes the total number of data points

3. Visualizing Standard Deviation:

The bell curve (normal distribution) is a common way to visualize standard deviation. In a normal distribution:

About 68% of data lies within one standard deviation from the mean.

Approximately 95% of data falls within two standard deviations.

Almost 99.7% of data is within three standard deviations.

4. Identifying Outliers:

By using standard deviation, we can identify outliers – data points that significantly deviate from the mean. Outliers may indicate errors, anomalies, or important insights in the dataset.

5. Confidence Intervals:

Standard deviation helps establish confidence intervals, which represent the range within which the true population parameter is likely to lie. The larger the standard deviation, the wider the confidence interval, indicating less certainty about the estimate.

6. Comparing Data Sets:

Standard deviation allows us to compare the variability of different datasets. A smaller standard deviation implies less dispersion and more consistency in the data, while a larger standard deviation indicates greater variability.

7. Impact on Decision Making:

Understanding standard deviation is vital for making informed decisions. For instance, in finance, it helps assess risk and volatility of investments, while in quality control, it ensures product consistency.

8. Pitfalls of Relying Solely on Standard Deviation:

While standard deviation is valuable, it should not be the sole measure of data analysis. It may not capture all aspects of data distribution and can be affected by extreme outliers.

9. Complementary Measures:

To gain a comprehensive view of data, combine standard deviation with other measures like mean, variance, and graphical representations such as histograms or box plots.

Conclusion:

Standard deviation is a powerful statistical tool that allows data analysts to uncover hidden patterns, understand data variability, identify outliers, and make more informed decisions. When used in conjunction with other measures, it provides a deeper understanding of data distributions, leading to meaningful insights and better data-driven solutions.

[sunbeamlessreads]

Debrief This - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot

❝ You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw? ❞

[bradley bradshaw x reader]

~6.5k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, locker room , language, emotionally volatile intimacy, rough sex, brief unsafe sex

anger first. pride second. then friction, fire, and everything that follows.

notes: this was a request!! im so sorry this took like a million years. i literally started this like a month ago and i just finally finished it. my apologies for any typos. i really hope you enjoy it!! <3

my masterlist

request guide

The ready room was colder than usual.

Not in temperature—in tone. The kind of cold that settled in your chest, made your breath feel too loud, your shoulders too tight. Everyone sat like they were still strapped into their cockpits—posture perfect, movements spare, adrenaline sinking deep into flight suits that hadn’t had time to cool.

You sat three seats from Rooster. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to pretend you couldn’t feel the burn of him in your peripheral vision. Just enough to keep your pride intact.

The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.

But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.

It just showed that it worked.

Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.

“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”

You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.

Cyclone didn’t make them wait.

“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”

The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.

Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.

No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.

Cyclone turned slightly.

“Bradshaw.”

Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.

“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.

And didn’t look at you.

That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.

You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.

You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.

“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”

The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.

Cyclone looked like he might say something.

He didn’t.

Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.

Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.

“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”

Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t. 

Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.

“Hell of a move.”

That was it. No smirk. No punchline.

The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.

You stood slowly. Picked up your helmet.

Rooster stood, too. Perfectly timed. Predictable. Predictably perfect.

You both moved toward the exit at the same time.

And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.

He didn’t react.

But you felt him turn.

Not a full look. Not dramatic.

Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.

And chose not to say a damn thing.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.

Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.

Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.

“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.

“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”

Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.

“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.

Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”

She disappeared around the corner.

Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.

Three long seconds passed.

Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.

Behind him, Phoenix slowed.

Turned her head.

Heard the door close quietly behind him.

She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.

Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.

You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.

Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you heard his voice.

“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”

Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.

He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”

You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”

He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.

“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.

“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”

You took a step toward him, not away.

“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.

“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”

You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.

“Say that again.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re a goddamn liability.”

Your hands hit his chest. Hard.

He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.

You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.

Your breath was short. So was his.

“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”

It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.

“You tell me.”

And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.

You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.

You didn’t care.

You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.

Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.

He groaned.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.

The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.

This wasn’t control.

This was surrender.

And neither of you wanted to stop.

His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.

You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.

You grabbed them. Yanked.

He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.

Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.

He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.

You reached for his belt.

His hand covered yours.

Eyes locked.

Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just urgent.

You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.

“That all you got, Lieutenant?”

He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.

“You never shut up, do you?”

You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.

“Make me.”

He did.

His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.

You arched against him.

His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.

“You started it.”

His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.

You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.

You wanted this.

You wanted to win.

So did he.

You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.

“Keep doing that,” he warned.

His voice was dark, torn at the edges.

You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer.

He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.

You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”

You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.

“Then do it, Bradshaw.”

He froze for half a second.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.

You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”

He didn’t move.

Not for a second.

Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.

Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.

His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.

He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.

You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”

He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.

Not pushing in.

Just there.

Teasing.

Taunting.

His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“Fuck. You.”

Close enough.

He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.

You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.

You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.

His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.

You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.

“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”

You arched against him. “Hard not to.”

His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.

The bench creaked beneath you.

Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—

You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.

Your voice broke.

“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.

You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Jesus fuck—”

His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.

“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.

You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.

“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”

His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.

Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.

For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.

You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.

Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”

His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”

You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.

“We’re both so fucked.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.

“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”

You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.

Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”

He blinked. Once.

You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.

When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.

“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”

You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”

He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.

Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.

His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.

He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.

“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.

“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.

“Not my fault you finished too fast.”

He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.

“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”

“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”

“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even pretend to give you space.

His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.

“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.

“You smell like me.”

His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.

You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”

You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.

His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.

“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.

“Mmhm.”

You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”

“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”

His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.

“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”

“That’s the idea.”

You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.

And it was working.

He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.

“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.

You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”

He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.

You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”

“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.

You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.

“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”

“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.

He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.

Then, softer: “You good?”

That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”

One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.

The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.

His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.

That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.

The part where he didn’t pull away.

You swallowed.

The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.

You cleared your throat. “This…”

He stilled. Just slightly.

You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.

You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.

Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:

“But it does.”

Your heart kicked.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.

So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.

You didn’t look back as you walked.

You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.

He caught it one-handed.

Didn’t say a word.

You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.

You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.

Didn’t need to.

You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.

You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.

Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.

You didn’t look. But you felt him.

You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.

Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.

Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.

You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.

You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.

When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.

You looked at him—just briefly.

Eyes met.

Held.

Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.

You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.

Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.

So you braved to break the silence.

“You heading over to Penny’s?”

Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.

“I was planning on it.”

You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.

“No point in going in separate cars, right?”

His mouth curved. Barely.

“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”

You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.

“Think we’re a little past whispers.”

He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”

The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.

He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.

Because maybe it had.

And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.

No hesitation.

No need to ask.

Just there. Still with him.

Still in it.

The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.

He smelled like your soap.

And that was a problem.

You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.

You didn’t move.

Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.

You knew it without looking.

“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.

He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.

“Is that how you want to play it?”

“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”

He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.

“Easier to lie?”

“Easier to not make it a thing.”

There it was.

You saw his jaw tick.

“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.

You met his eyes.

“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.

“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”

That landed.

He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.

Like he didn’t like it, but understood.

“You don’t regret it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”

He was quiet for a long beat.

"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."

It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.

"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.

Then he nodded again.

“Okay.”

He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.

“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”

You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.

“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”

He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.

You stepped out.

Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.

The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.

Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.

Just contact.

It wasn’t a move.

It was steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.

The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.

You stepped through it first.

Rooster followed you in.

And the noise swallowed you both.

The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.

You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.

One look at you. Then Rooster.

Then back again.

She didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”

You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.

She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.

From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.

“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”

Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”

You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.

Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.

“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”

Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”

“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”

“Tight landing window,” Fanboy added. “Risky reentry.”

“Zero cockpit visibility.”

“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.

They high-fived behind her anyway.

Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.

“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”

The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.

Rooster didn’t flinch.

He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.

A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.

A low, subtle pull.

He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“So we’re not even gonna pretend?”

Rooster didn’t blink.

“Nope.”

She sighed and shook her head once.

“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.”

He looked back toward the bar—toward you.

His voice stayed even.

“She always does.”

notes: i hope you enjoyed it!! <3

taglist: @valkilmher @icemansgirl87 @milesalexanderteller

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!! <3

© Copyright, 2025.

[myfairkatiecat]

I KNOW I’M SO EXCITED IT’S LIKE THE RIGHT PERCENTAGES OF EACH VALUE AND EVERYTHING

I wanna run stats on it now

With 1 being “he has no flaws” and 10 being “he has no redeeming qualities,”

This platform has more nuanced takes on this guy so I’m curious 👀

[torturedreid]

The Perfect Formula

BARTENDER SPENCER

word count: 1265

warnings: drunk reader

The BAU’s bullpen had been transformed for the night, a rare occasion where work was on pause, and celebration took center stage. Strings of lights sparkled around the desks, and a large Bluetooth speaker on Derek’s desk blasted Garcia’s eclectic mix of holiday classics and ‘80s pop. The mood was relaxed, the team scattered around the room with glasses in hand, laughing and unwinding. A makeshift bar had been set up on the break room counter, cluttered with liquor bottles, mixers, and fresh fruit.

You leaned against the counter, watching as Spencer Reid stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, meticulously measuring liquids into a shaker. His tongue poked out slightly as he concentrated, and his cheeks were flushed a light pink, either from the heat of the room or the attention he was drawing from the team.

He’d taken charge of the cocktails after Morgan joked that Reid’s genius might finally be put to use for something other than criminal profiling. What had started as a tease quickly turned into a spectacle, as Spencer muttered to himself about ratios, volumes, and chemical balances while precisely measuring ingredients.

“Spence, you could just eyeball it, most people just pour and pray,” you teased, resting your chin on your hand as you watched. “It’s a party, not a chemistry experiment.”

His eyes flicked to yours, wide and flustered. “Eyeballing it would risk an imbalance in flavor profile, which could ruin the entire drink. It introduces too many variables. Cocktails, especially something as classic as a Daiquiri, require precision. The ideal ratio is two parts rum, one part lime juice, and one part syrup. Deviate from that, and you throw the balance off entirely.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward,” you said with a shrug, obviously joking, but of course he didn’t understand that.

“It’s deceptively simple,” he countered. “The ratio is easy to remember, but the variables compound quickly. For example, the dilution from the ice adds approximately twenty percent water to the final mixture, so you have to account for that when calculating the initial ingredient volumes. And then there's the acid-to-sugar ratio in the lime juice and syrup, which needs to fall between 1.2:1 and 1.6:1 for optimal flavor.”

You stared at him, blinking. “Did you just…math a cocktail?”

Spencer smiled faintly as he reached for a lime. “Of course. Math is the foundation of mixology.”

He began squeezing the lime, pausing briefly to weigh the juice on a small scale he’d brought over from the lab. “The average lime produces about 30 milliliters of juice, but that can vary depending on the ripeness and size. Too much acidity and the drink becomes harsh. Too little, and it tastes flat. This lime gave me 28 milliliters, so I'll adjust the syrup accordingly to maintain balance… for the record, this isn’t just a cocktail. It’s a daiquiri. The original recipe was created by Jennings Cox in the last 1800’s, and its simplicity makes it particularly vulnerable to imprecision.” 

You couldn’t suppress a laugh. “You really are a genius, you know that?”

Spencer glanced at you, his face flushing deeper. “I’m just applying basic principles of chemistry and physics,” he said, his tone modest but his expression pleased.

“You’re applying science to make a party drink,” you teased.

“And doing it perfectly,” he replied, with a rare bit of sass, pouring the lime juice into the shaker.

You watched as he added the rum with his standard precision, using a jigger to measure out 60 milliliters before pouring it in. Then came the syrup, which he poured slowly, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the exact amount to offset the slight deficit in lime juice. Finally, he added ice, giving the shaker a firm tap before picking it up and shaking with a smooth, practiced rhythm.

The clink of ice against metal filled the room as his arms moved fluidly, the muscles in his forearms flexing, exposed from where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. You tilted your head a little, unable to look away as he focused entirely on his task.

“Spencer-” you started, your tone teasing.

“Not yet,” he interrupted, holding up a finger without breaking his rhythm. “If I stop shaking too soon the drink won’t chill properly, and the dilution will be uneven.”

You smirked, waiting until he finally strained the drink into a glass. He slid it across the counter to you, looking up with a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

“Here,” he said, his voice soft. “Let me know what you think.”

You took a sip, letting the tartness of the lime and the smoothness of the rum wash over your palate. It was perfect- bright, balanced, and refreshing.

“Spence, this is amazing,” you said, meeting his gaze.

His lips quirked up into a small, bashful smile. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, raising the glass in a mock toast. “To Spencer Reid, cocktail extraordinaire.”

He chuckled softly, his blush deepening and he turned to prepare another drink. 

--------------------------------------------

Hours later, the party was in full swing, but you found yourself repeatedly drawn back to Spencer’s bar. Each time he made you something different- a Margarita, a Negroni, an espresso martini- explaining the history and chemistry behind each one as he worked. You found it endearing, and hot, even as your head began to feel pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol.

“Another, please,” you smiled, sliding your empty glass across the counter.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his hands hesitating over the bottles. “That’s your fourth drink,” he said cautiously.

“And every single one has been delicious,” you replied, leaning on the countertop.

“Maybe you should slow down,” he suggested, his tone gentle but firm.

“Come on, Spencer,” you sighed, pouting dramatically. “You’re the barkeep here. Don’t leave me hanging.”

He sighed, relenting as he began preparing another cocktail. “You know, alcohol inhibits your prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and impulse control.”

“Yeah, yeah, science boy,” you said, waving him off. “Just make the drink.”

By the time you finished that one, the world felt slightly tilted, and your laugh had become louder, less contained. You stumbled against the counter, giggling as Spencer reached out instinctively to steady you.

“Okay,” he said firmly, taking your glass from your hand. “That’s it. You’re done.”

“What?” you protested, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. “No way, I’m fine!”

“You’re drunk,” he replied, his voice soft but unwavering.

“I am not drunk.”

“You just called me a wizard and asked if we could open a bar together,” he pointed out. “No more drinks for you. You need water.”

“But Spence,” you whined, swaying slightly.

“Water,” he repeated adamantly, guiding you to a nearby chair and handing you a glass of water. “Drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

You took the glass with a dramatic sigh, slumping into the chair. “You’re no fun.”

He crouched down in front of you, his elbows resting on his thighs, his eyes warm and concerned. “I’d rather be no fun than let you drink yourself into a black-out.”

“Fine,” you grumbled, sipping the water. After a moment, you added, “But you’re still cute when you’re bossy.”

Spencer froze, his eyes widening as his face turned a deep shade of red. “I-uh-”

“Relax, genius wizard,” you said with a lazy smile. “It’s a compliment.”

He stood quickly, muttering something about getting a snack. As he moved behind the counter again, you couldn’t help but grin. Even in your inebriated state, it was fun watching the famed Dr. Spencer Reid unravel.

[ninibeingdelulu]

How he kiss you ft. michael kaiser

A/N: had to do a longer version for my husband🙌🏽

Michael Kaiser's kisses start out slow and deliberate, projecting the same cold, calculated aura reflecting his narcissistic personality. There's no fumbling hesitation or warmth as those chiseled features remain stoically poised for the initial contact.

Instead when his lips finally meet yours the motions are precisely choreographed with dominating pressure laying an unmistakable possessive claim upon you. As if methodically mapping out every nuance of sensation and response elicited while subjugating you under his total control and singular focus without yielding an inch.

His hands remain strategically poised grasping your jaw to tilt viewing angles suiting his design rather than any reciprocation or mutual passion. Motives solely aligned towards extracting evidence affirming your complete desire and adoration of his perfected physique and techniques according to rigidly exacting standards allowing no deviations.

Because underneath that chiseled stoic exterior constantly striving to exemplify unattainable perfection - lurks the gnawing insecurities Michael projects through dehumanizing objectification of any partner into a disposable accessory validating his superiority complexes for temporary confidence boosts.

Only once systematically satiated that initial ego validation does any slight easing from the rigid disciplined technique allow more heated passion manifesting through rougher aggression. As if suddenly given permission to devolve from refined control into savagely claiming his entitlement with bruising intensity bordering violence.

Kisses rapidly shedding any semblance of artfulness degenerating into messy desperation propelled by raging inner daemons demanding continual affirmation that he remains the ultimate desired object of envy. Even if that means utterly dominating and devouring you into complete undoing while clinging onto falsehoods perpetuating those narcissistic fantasies of godhood.

Regardless of how many times repeated the ultimate conclusion remains confirming his dominion erasing any glimpses of underlying vulnerabilities Michael cannot allow unmasked no matter how transiently manifested. Until the next ego crash craving catalyzes reconstructing impenetrable facades renewed through these cold, calculated reclamations of grandiose validation once more.

[jejunecartoons]

I Stand Before You On The Convergence Of Entropy, Fate, And A Retail Inventory Assignment From Hell.

With tensions, stress, and a cosmic reckoning already rolling downhill. I present the following in complete and utter good faith, entire sincerity and three years experience under a revolving cast of coworkers, managers and corporate representatives. Not as a resignation, but as an acknowledgment of the shared absurdity we have all been asked to fulfill.

You demand 100% compliance to systems that are, by your own admission, 90% “common sense.” This is not accountability. This is abdication of definition.

You preach “best practice” while delegating chaos. You post workflows on every table, then fault us for improvising when those workflows inevitably fail.

You expect omniscience from associates but offer no clarity in return. “Tag what looks expensive” is not a policy. It is a loophole for blame.

Your security standards are aesthetic, not functional. They are not designed to protect product —they are designed to protect narrative. That someone, somewhere, “cared.”

You romanticize productivity like folklore. You invoke the 4-minute mile to justify the erosion of human labor boundaries — without ever asking what was lost in the race.

You seek innovation without deviation. Initiative without autonomy. You want thinkers who don’t think, and doers who don’t notice what’s broken.

You mistake quiet compliance for stability. It is not. It is the sound of disengagement.

You say, “If something’s wrong, speak up,” and then punish improvisation with retroactive scolding. You do not want initiative — you want insurance.

You confuse standardization with fairness. Fairness is adaptable. Standardization is lazy.

You mistake a rising college town’s labor surplus for a license to waste talent. You will cycle through dozens of good workers and never understand why they vanish.

And when —against all odds — something human stabilizes here… when trust is built, and morale flickers back to life… that is when you offer promotions. But only if we’re willing to leave, start over, and carry the weight again. Loyalty is never rewarded with rest — only relocation.

You introduce new security procedures — more tags, more checks, more hoops — but you change nothing about the time we’re given. Not one minute more. We are expected to move at the old speed while doing twice the work. This is not strategy. It is sabotage by euphemism.

These added steps are not protections. They are performances. We perform security. We simulate vigilance. Not because it works — but because it looks good on audit day.

If security tags worked, shrink would vanish. It hasn’t. Because shrink is not a moral flaw in your workers — it is the price you pay for pretending your processes are airtight while ignoring the cracks that open from the top.

We do not need more stickers. We need less denial. Fewer empty fixes. More admission that complexity without support is just delay in disguise.

You sell each new measure like a solution, but treat it like a punishment. Not because it helps — but because someone, somewhere, needs to be seen trying.

17. Markdowns Are The Perfect Lie.

The system knows what’s on sale.

It calculates it, tracks it, even prints the tags.

But instead of a list, we’re told: “Just find them.”

Every rack. Every shelf. One by one.

A company smart enough to generate the sale, Is dumb enough to make you re-scan the store by hand. This is not oversight. It’s outsourced labor through willful negligence.

You expect total compliance with markdowns, but you give no complete list. Not by item, not by category.

Only the ghost of a hint — a tone, a suggestion —

“You should be able to tell.” From what? A red sticker? A manager’s gesture? Whole categories go ignored for months — others get pulled every week.

There is no schedule. There is no rotation. Only the myth of one.

If markdowns matter, then act like they matter.

Define the cadence. Clarify the zones. Give us the map.

Or stop pretending we failed to follow it.

"You’re missing markdowns” But you can’t miss what isn’t there. The item was stolen. Perfectly. Cleanly. The system thinks it’s still on the shelf, gathering dust. In truth? It left the store weeks ago, Stuffed in a purse, Walked past a broken camera, And was never seen again.

The Computer Doesn't Know Theft. It Knows Absence Without Explanation. And It Blames You.

So now you’re on your knees scanning hangers for ghosts. Looking for a pair of jeans that do not exist, Because the system demands ritual compliance with its imagined inventory.

This is the quiet joke of retail: You Are Punished For The Precision Of A Thief.

Instead of fixing security, they fix expectations. More markdowns. More audits. More scanning.

Less trust. Less time. Less reality

18. The Triple Beep of Redundant Acknowledgment;

When an associate scans a valid markdown item, the handheld scanner emits three long, proud beeps —A theatrical confirmation of success, as if the user wouldn’t immediately notice the literal thermal label spitting out of the shoulder-mounted printer they are physically attached to.

This is not a harmless quirk. It is a nails-on-chalkboard absurdity, repeated hundreds of times per shift.

Especially when markdown lists contain thousands of SKUs, each scanned one by one — because bulk updates or system-synced lists are, apparently, out of the question.

You’re already straining to hold a scanner, item, printer, and sticker roll at once. You're dodging customers, balancing hangers, managing limited battery life.

And then comes the "BEEP-BEEP-BEEP"

To confirm what your printer already screamed in physical form: Yes, that was a markdown.

There is no toggle. There is no off-switch. Just endless affirmations of the obvious. It’s the small things that break people. Not a single moment of cruelty — but a thousand little ones, rehearsed daily, in stereo. But this isn’t just auditory clutter. You cannot scan another item until it finishes beeping.

Every markdown becomes a mini timeout, Forcing a pause, Breaking flow, Shattering efficiency, Not for safety, Not for clarity, But for ritual. In a list of hundreds, Even thousands of markdowns, This delay adds up to minutes lost per hour, Hours lost per week, And entire shifts wasted waiting For a redundant noise to finish announcing a truth you already physically received.

There is no override. No way to mute it. No option to multitask.

Just You, A Tag,

And The Machine Reminding You Who's Really In Charge.

19. And When The Truth Is Found;

When the numbers don’t add up, When the backroom is a war-zone, And the sales floor a graveyard of miscategorized product, It’s Treated Like a Divine Revelation. A mystery. Unspoken. Unknowable. As if the universe conspired overnight to create a discrepancy that no one could have seen coming. The people who asked for time? For training? For help? Now it’s their fault.

They “should have done something.” Should have sensed the collapse In the same way they’re expected to sense what’s on sale without being told. It Is Not The System’s Fault.

It never is. So the cycle continues: You suffer in silence. You stabilize the chaos. And when things finally start to make sense— They promote someone elsewhere, To go start the cycle again.

Because The System Is Sacred. Your Time Is Not.

20. And When The Work Is Done;

Not right, not reasonably, but fast— they call you a star. A leader. A natural. They write your name in dry erase marker at the top of a board no one agreed to race.

A scoreboard with no prize but the illusion of being seen.

And if you fall behind? No one asks why. No one checks the load.

They just move your name down quietly, As if you dropped it yourself.

Praise becomes currency. A tool. A leash.

"You’re one of the good ones.” “You’ve always been so reliable.” "What would we do without you?"

They hand you a badge and call it honor, when it’s just a shackle in bronze. Recognition Becomes Pressure Masquerading As Gratitude.

21. They Give Out Hearts.

Little pink paper valentines called “Heartbeat of [Insert Store Number Here].”

Printed Black & White on Plain Copy Paper, of Course.

Not in February— in June, for February efforts, filed under “we meant to.”

They pin your name on a bulletin board next to half-torn flyers, and call it legacy.

You made a "difference" Not to someone, not for something, but In Metrics. In Willingness.

In saying yes to something not your job,

At a time not your shift,

Because someone didn’t show up,

And someone else had a clipboard.

They hand you a card like communion. Small, bright, With a corporate smile, And the empty taste of compliance made sacred. “You made a difference.”

But no one tells you where. Just that it helped. Just that it counted.

Just enough that next time, You’ll Do It Again.

22. The Caring Cupboard

Has a $120 budget. Split across three weeks and forty lives. By week one: ramen, two oatmeal packets, a single can of chickpeas. By week two: hope. By week three: the sign taped crookedly reads "We see you."

And they do— leave crumbs.

The vending machine stays stocked on schedule though.

The microwaves technically work.

On the counter are the worlds smallest Keurig,

And a minimum viable toaster. Donated by staff of course,

Temporarily allowed until "safety" concerns remove them.

They Trust You To Operate A Compactor, But Not Filter Water, Or Clean Out Crumbs.

23. Lockers Are Provided, For your convenience.

Don’t decorate. Don’t forget your lock. Don’t leave it overnight.

It’s your locker, unless we need it back.

The Key To Belonging Is Not Belonging At All.

24. The Fun Calendar

Smiles from the break room wall.

Dress-Up Day! Cartoon Shirt Day! Mismatch Sock Thursday!

Themes chosen democratically by the assigned designer; When no one’s around.

All expressions pre-cleared by HR.

Festivities canceled for audit season.

Spirit punished with write-ups.

You can wear a graphic tee—

But not that one. Not that color. Not too funny. Not too much.

Try again next Fun Day when morale is less expensive.

All Permissible Self Expression Must Meet Dress Code Protocols. Not the actual ones; The Myth.

The Infinite list of what is and isn't allowed.

The one that always just so happens to align with the managers personal taste.

The one that, for some reason, is only levied at targets that happened to annoy them recently.

25. The Wall of Rights Stands Tall In The Break Room.

Posters from the Department of Labor—

Unpaid wages? Call this number.

Unsafe work? Report it here.

Harassment? You are protected. But behind it all?

A Laminated Copy Of Your Signed Arbitration Agreement.

You waived your right to sue when you clocked in.

"You can opt out" they say.

Just ask your manager for the form.

The one no one has.

The one no one mentions.

The one you had 30 days to find;

Between learning the register and restocking bras by cup and brand.

The Wall Is Required By Law. So Is The Silence Behind It.

26. This Week’s Safety Topic

Proper Lifting Technique. Bend your knees, not your back. Team lifts for heavy items. Rest when needed. Hydrate. Be your brother’s keeper. Meanwhile: The Stairs To The Trash Are Five Welded Death Plates.

Stitched by a ghost on opening weekend. Each step a folded razor. They rattle like judgment beneath your steel-toed shoes. The trash chute: five feet up. You hoist bags over your head like sacrifices, Hope they make it in without tumbling back onto your spine. The welds are cosmetic. One good kick and they rise like drawbridges. Somethings stuck in the chute? Here's two metal poles duct taped together.

You Figure It Out. They say it’s fine. No incidents reported. Because No One Bothers To Report Bruises Anymore. The trash panel swings like judgment. Outward. Over the stairs. You walk up with a bag, and if you’re not careful—

It Bites.

They added gummy foam tape. A soft, merciful bandage on the edge of a guillotine. Not to fix the danger— Just to hush the blood. It has tasted flesh. The crest of a scalp. A pink slash across a forearm. Now it’s padded. Now it’s “safe.” Now it’s your fault.

27. “We Are Committed to Sustainability.”

Says the laminated break-room poster. As you "debit" a perfectly functional suit case. As you toss another plastic-wrapped hoodie into the bin. As you watch the compactor crush cardboard, plastic, and a half-eaten lunch into one glorious cube of lies.

Overseas hands fold it neat. Plastic over silk. Tape over tags. They ship it across oceans so we can rip it apart and throw half of it away. You pull Styrofoam from wall decor, And paper shreds from soap, Bottles that leaked somewhere between Singapore and Pasadena. You strip the bubble wrap, Wipe the shattered glass off a six-dollar candle, Protected only by hope and thin cardboard.

The Candles Survive. The People Don’t.

And the trash pile rises. Not in back. Not behind the scenes*.* But right here, In the fitting room, On the stores floor, In your lungs, Under your nails.

The Only Thing Recycled Is The Lie.

28. The Customers Rob Us Daily.

But the cameras point inward. One screen for every corner of your body, and all of them watching you. Not them. Never them. “Be alert,” says the poster. “Report suspicious behavior.” And below that: “250–2500 if it leads to an impact.” Not justice. Not truth. Just “impact.”

The cashiers are our front line. Smiling through suspicion. Checking twenties for counterfeits while rushing to beat the “speedy checkout” clock, Selling store credit cards to the very people the cameras won’t catch, And asking for five-star reviews, From customers who leave with three stolen items and a free pen. And if a wallet goes missing? It must have been the new guy. It always is.

“It’s not personal,” they say, as they review your locker contents, And check your bag on the way out.

Just procedure. Just policy. Just paranoia.

But when there's a pile of censors in a shoe, or a trash bag full of tags is missing? Silence.

The Eyes Of The Store Are Wide Open. And Still, They Only Look In One Direction.

29. The Name Tag: Convenience or Crosshair?

Everyone must wear a name tag. The stated purpose? “So customers know who to thank.” But the real function is faster escalation. Faster complaints. Faster identifications when things go wrong — no matter how vague or unfair the accusation. It is not a gesture of recognition. It is a prewritten accusation template: “Some guy named Alex was rude.” “The girl in red — I think her name was Sam — didn’t help me.” “Whatever her name was, it was on her chest. She rolled her eyes.”

The name tag is the shortest possible path between a moment of stress and a manager’s office. It is instant accountability with no room for context. It turns human interaction into customer-to-agent confrontation. You are no longer just a worker. You are a label, a scapegoat, a button to push when the world disappoints.

They tell you to smile.

To engage.

To wear your name with pride.

But everyone knows the truth:

It’s Not Your Name They Care About; It’s Who To Blame When The Refund Doesn’t Go Through.

30. The Water Bottle Policy

Your hydration is now a security risk. If it’s not crystal clear, they’ll ask you to uncap it. “It’s just procedure,” As they sniff your bottle for the scent of rebellion, Or worse — soda. So bring a see-through flask, Because God forbid you bring lemonade. That’s grounds for suspicion. They say it's about theft. But we all know it’s about control. Because nothing says “trust” like being told to open your drink, In front of someone holding a checklist.

We used to joke that Big Brother watched.

Now Big Brother Thinks You’re Hiding Vodka In Your Gatorade.

Meanwhile, the real thieves walk out the front door, With carts of merchandise and a smile for the cameras that never pan that way.

31. “Hi, Welcome To [Insert Store Name Here]."

"If I could have you pause for just a moment...”

A velvet rope. A security vest. A quick glance at a camera no one is watching. It’s not protection. It’s performance.

They greet everyone like a TSA agent who lost the plane.

"We’re controlling store entry to ensure a safe and secure shopping experience.”

Unless, of course, someone’s actually in danger. Then it’s “Policy says call the manager.” And the manager? They call the cops. Then it’s writing a report. Then they call corporate. It’s All Delay.

Like hanging velvet curtains in a burning theater. The thieves know this. They walk past the rope. Past the welcome. Right through the “security experience.” Carts full. Unbothered.

Because The Only People Being Managed

Are The Ones Who Work Here.

The show’s for them. Not the guests.

32. "Loud And Proud" - Surveillance as Spectacle

Every customer who walks into the store is met with a mandatory ritual: A scripted security greeting delivered by the Shortage Control Associate. It must be done "loud and proud." That’s the instruction.

Not just clearly — projected.

Not just scripted — performed.

So loud it echoes through the racks,

through the backroom,

through your soul.

You are not greeting customers.

You are declaring fealty to surveillance.

This isn’t safety. It’s ritualized theater. A performance for the camera. A constant ping to regular customers and workers, ignored by thieves: We Are Watching. And when actual theft happens? SCAs are told not to engage. Call a manager. Let it go. Say the line again.

Security is not for protection. It’s not even for deterrence.

It’s a costume, a choreography of authority that creates no power. Only presence. Only noise. Only the illusion that someone is in control.

33. Welcome to the Shortage Highway.

A pilgrimage you must take every time you clock out for lunch, for break, for breath. Walk the perimeter. Don’t stray. Don’t stop.

Smile.

You’re not allowed to just go. You must patrol. You must engage. You must high five — Not literally, of course. No touching. Just proximity marketing.

Look them in the eye.

Make them feel seen.

Make the theft feel harder.

This is not your time. Your break is not in sight. It’s borrowed surveillance. Miss a “high five”? Too quiet in your stride?

Someone will notice. Someone is noticing. T

his is the Retail way:

You will make contact. You will be a presence.

You will be visible. Even if your joy is not.

34. The Customer is Always Right.*

When they say it’s broken, you break the price.

When they say it’s missing, you remove the tag.

When they say it’s cheaper elsewhere, you believe.

The register bends. Policy flexes. Margins vanish.

*But when their kid needs to pee?

Now they’re suspects.

The bathroom is sacred. Too sacred for codes. No writing it down. No telling. Only escorting. You, the associate, become the key.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

You must walk them to the door. You must punch in the code in full view as if secrecy lies in muscle memory. The code never changes. It’s on your fingers. Anyone watching can crack it. Everyone watching already has. But the theater is mandatory. They must believe it’s secure. You Must Perform Control

Even as the bathroom floods; Even as it smells like failure; Even as the soap dispenser screams for mercy.

Welcome to customer care.

Where you smile as you surrender.

Where you follow them to the bathroom

But cannot follow them to reason.

35. The Janitor Closet is Locked.

Not with a latch. Not with a handle. With the same Key-Ring that opens the safe. The money room. The vault of gods. To mop the vomit, you must be blessed. The code to touch bleach is the same as the code to touch cash. Security is absolute — when it concerns filth. The mop bucket must not fall into the wrong hands. The Swiffer pads are sacred texts. The toilet brush, a relic. Guard them well.

And yet, the door is still warped. The handle loose. The light flickers like a prophecy. Inside? One ancient vacuum, Half a gallon of generic “all-purpose,” And a broom with no head. The floor is wet with effort. The air is thick with Lysol and resignation. You clean it, but you can’t fix it.

The walls rot behind their holy lock.

But still — you are not trusted with open access.

Because this is retail,

And nothing is holy except the illusion of control.

36. The Grand Hall of Mirrors is closed.

A dozen doors. A maze of z-racks. Enough space for a ballet. Sealed With A Rolling Gate.

You see, trust costs money. So does supervision. So instead of staffing it, we lock it up — like a memory of what dignity looked like. In its place: Two tiny stalls built by compromise and lit like a lie. Just off the register — so close you can smell the returns. Each stall has a glowing LED, like a traffic light, meant to say: “Someone is here.”

But who? For how long? With how much merchandise?

No one knows.

The cameras glare, but never act. They are the unblinking gods of a crumbling Olympus. They bear witness. They do not interfere. The Scheduled “Check-Ins” Are Rituals. Performed without faith, Once every 30 minutes, Unless we forget. Theft happens in the meantime. Not out of malice, but invitation.

The room says: “This Company Doesn’t Care.” So why should you? The customers know. The workers know.

Only corporate pretends this isn't a performance of collapse.

And still, we ask people to smile, To suggestive sell, To read minds,

To Offer Service Where Even Structure Has Abandoned Us.

37. Even The Trash Is Under Lock, Camera, And Suspicion.

The janitor closet is locked with the same key as the store’s secure cash room— A symbolic conflation of trash and treasure. Taking out the garbage isn't a mindless chore: it's a controlled operation. You're expected to bring a partner. If you're alone, you're breaking protocol. You're expected to wait. A lead or manager is supposed to inspect every bag. You're expected to be watched. A camera directly overlooks the trash area — not for safety, but surveillance.

The implication is clear: Garbage Is A Potential Crime Scene. Every discarded hanger, broken fixture, or plastic wrap could conceal theft. Employees are trusted to fold hundred-dollar coats, operate pallet jacks, and open the store— But not to throw out a box unsupervised.

This Isn’t Protection. It’s Paranoia By Policy.

38. Standardized Chaos — The Illusion of Corporate Structure

Every few months, the store receives “updated flow” and “floor plan” directives — glossy PDFs, hastily printed diagrams, or vague bullet lists labeled as corporate strategy. These updates are identical for every store in the region; Galleria malls, Suburban outlets, Cramped city retail units; All treated as interchangeable puzzle pieces in a boardroom fantasy. But the map has no respect for the terrain.

The new plan might call for three tables where there's a fire exit. Or for expanded shoe racks in a department that hasn’t had full inventory in six months. They might list a location for men’s coats where walls don’t even exist. This mismatch births a contradiction:

Staff Are Given Rigid Expectations,

And Total Freedom — Simultaneously.

You are told to follow the plan. You are expected to interpret the plan. You are penalized when it fails. You are praised if it works — even if it only worked because you ignored it.

Thus emerges a culture where initiative is punished until it succeeds, and failure is blamed on lack of “common sense.”

There Is No Flow; Only Illusion.

There Is No Plan; Only Plausible Deniability.

39. Backlog as Blame — The Pathologization of Labor

When tasks pile up — markdowns missed, freight unprocessed, displays unfinished— the assumption is not logistical failure.

It is moral.

The Accusation Is Not "The Plan Didn't Work."

It's "You Didn’t Follow It Closely Enough."

Every error is retroactively cast as deviation. Not from a clear instruction — but from an imagined perfection that lives only in hindsight. If you had truly followed the process (which is mostly “common sense”) Then surely the backlog wouldn’t exist.

This Is Spiritual Gaslighting, Made Bureaucratic. The laborer is asked to confess to sins never named. The manager is forced to divine where their will was insufficient. The structure remains blameless. The spreadsheet stays clean. And when it doesn’t, someone’s heart wasn’t in it.

Even Success Is Not Proof Of Competence; Only A Delay Of The Next Reckoning.

40. The 4-Minute Fallacy — When Overperformance Becomes the Floor

The company preaches optimization like gospel. The story goes: "Once One Man Ran The Four-Minute Mile, Others Followed." What they don’t mention is None of them worked freight until 11 PM, then clocked in the next day at 7 AM. Success is not met with relief — it's met with re-calibration.

Do something faster than expected? Now that’s the new standard.

There is no bonus. No structural change. No surge in pay or support.

Only a nod of appreciation, and a new silent burden to carry alone.

They say you’ve “risen to the occasion,”

But forget that the occasion was a collapsing dam of understaffing, shipment backlog, and rotating expectations— none of which changed after your effort.

And still, you're told to be proud. To wear the broken record of your performance as a badge.

All while McDonald’s across the street is offering $8 more per hour, with benefits, free food, and no inventory audit.

You’re Told: "We’re A Family."

But The Kind Of Family That Borrows Your Labor And Forgets Your Name.

41. Scheduling: A Machine With No Driver

The labor hours are algorithmic;

Generated by a system that doesn’t know the store,

the team, or the workload;

It calculates hours like a machine balancing books;

With no memory of yesterday and no awareness of tomorrow;

And Yet, Corporate Calls It “Optimized.”

It’s then handed to managers — not as a plan, but as a limitation.

A puzzle with pieces missing, where any correction becomes their responsibility, but no error was ever truly theirs to begin with.

If the freight shipment is late, If coverage is short, If three workers call out and none can be replaced Blame falls not on the system, But on the person stuck translating it into a workable week.

And of course, there’s no way to check the logic. No insight into why hours were cut, Or why full-time staff were given part-time hours While new hires get 4-hour weeks to “balance the curve.” Associates are left waiting for final schedules that arrive days late.

Sometimes after the week has already begun.

Sometimes changed after they're already clocked in.

You Don’t Get Consistency; You Get Warnings.

You Don’t Get Planning; You Get A Guess And A Prayer.

All Of It Is Justified By A Number;

A Number No One In The Building Chose;

And No One In The Building Can Change.

42. Process Hours Without Process Thinking

Once upon a time, the store received its deliveries in the early dawn; 6 A.M. to 8 A.M.

Before the doors opened, Before customers flooded the floor,

Before anyone had to apologize for blocking the aisle with a steel battering ram.

It wasn’t perfect — but it was functional.

Freight cages could roll out cleanly. Backroom processing could begin without dodging strollers and carts. And resets, pulls, and tagging all had a head start.

Then one day,

Without Warning Or Explanation,

Shipping Times Were Changed To 11 A.M. To 1 P.M. No memo, no logistics justification, no staff consensus.

Just an order.

Now, deliveries arrive in the middle of the store’s peak — when sales need floor coverage, and the aisles are most congested. Backroom space fills with carts that can’t be processed. Cages clog the customer lanes. And associates must choose: Process freight or serve guests. And somehow,

The expectations remain identical.

Same freight goals. Same floor times. Same audit deadlines. As if time didn’t change. As if the customer traffic didn’t double. As if the building had doubled in size to accommodate both. But the truckers didn’t request this.

They’re now navigating Calexico to Riverside mid-day, through urban congestion and parking chaos.

Everyone Suffers; No One Benefits; And No One Explains.

It’s Not A System; It’s Just A Shift Of Burden; From Planners To Processors; From Paper To People.

43. The Cycle of Internal Conflict

The change in delivery times didn’t just disrupt process— It Set Departments Against Each Other. Back of House is told to move fast: Unload. Scan. Roll. Hang. Push freight onto the floor before the next truck arrives. Speed is Compliance**.** Speed is Praised**.** Speed is Posted. And so they rush. Clothes hit the racks sideways. Hangers backwards. Tags missing. Sets broken. Inventory miscounted.

Front of house is left with the fallout: Customers asking where the rest of the set is. Cashiers juggling damaged goods and security tags that won’t scan. Managers scrambling to recover broken shelves while prepping markdowns. And when recovery is rushed or mistakes are made?

Front gets blamed. Back blames floor. Floor blames back. The Cycle Feeds Itself. Everyone knows the Truth; It’s Not Any One Department’s Failure. It’s that the system expects perfection from chaos. Speed with no slack. Volume with no pause. And instead of fixing the structure, they watch the conflict.

Let Them Fight. It Keeps Them Busy.

And As Long As It Gets Done, Eventually,

Corporate Says The System Works.

44. The Olive Branch Illusion

To soothe the growing divide between Front of House and Back of House, corporate prescribes "shared labor policies" — symbolic gestures meant to show unity.

BOH staff are required to "recover the floor" for the first 15 minutes of their shift — a pause before touching the freight. FOH staff are expected to manage the Queue Cages — pushing freight from the registers to the back hallway cages while also handling customers and checkouts.

In Theory, This Promotes Empathy. In Practice, It Breeds Silent Resentment.

Back of House hates the floor recovery. They’re trained for speed, for volume; not hangers on the floor. They see it as beneath their pace. A fake chore that cuts into freight timing; One More Delay On An Already Impossible Clock.

Front of House dreads the queue cages. There are always more than there is space. They pile up fast — especially during rushes. No room to maneuver. No help. Just the slow crawl of dealing with inventory labeled fragile, valuable, or absurdly heavy, while being interrupted by customers every five seconds.

Then, suddenly—The back is ready for cages. All of them. Now. And It’s A Panic. Staff scramble to clear paths, relocate stock, or “make room” where there is none.

So, Neither Side Feels Helped; Only Used. What Was Sold As A Bridge; Becomes A Bitter Trade. Not Collaboration; But Obligation. Not Unity; But Another Invisible Metric No One Agreed To.

45. The Myth of the Backroom Printer

For over three years, the designated back-of-house printers — Meant for mass, consistent, actualization of missing tags— Have Remained Inoperable. Not once; not sporadically; Nonfunctional For Over 1,000 Days. Every support ticket submitted is closed or ignored. Every mention to management is met with the same shrug: “Yeah, we’ve put in another ticket.”

And so the markdown printers— Lightweight, Mobile, And designed only for price reduction labels; Are used for everything. They Were Not Built For This. They jam, they print slowly, but they're all we have.

This Isn’t A Store That Failed To Keep Up. It’s A Store That Has Adapted To Its Own Decay.

And still, deadlines loom. Still, expectations remain. Still, corporate metrics hold everyone accountable,

Still for results, not infrastructure.

The Printer Is Broken. The System Isn’t. It’s Functioning Exactly As Intended.

46. The Illusion Of Prevention

Everyone Knows.

The Thieves Know.

The Workers Know.

Even Corporate Knows.

Every Security Tag Comes Off With A Magnet.

You can buy one online. You can use one at home. You can walk into the dressing room with it and walk out clean. So why tag everything? Why spend hundreds of hours a week attaching them by hand?Because the tag isn't security. It's theater. It’s a prop in the surveillance show.

It says: We Are Watching. It says: Someone Cares. It makes you pause, makes you wonder, makes you hesitate. But It’s Fake. No alarms. No ink explosions. Just plastic and posturing.

Even the greeting rope at the entrance; That velvet line and cheerful hostage speech; It’s Not For You; It’s For The Cameras; It’s For Liability; It’s For The Show.

Because when real theft happens, when someone actually takes a cart full of goods out the door: The SCA doesn’t stop them; The manager won’t chase; The police don’t come.

What Matters Isn’t Stopping Loss. It’s Appearing To Try.

That’s the Corporation's real security strategy, Keep The Illusion Alive.

Make workers perform compliance.

Make customers believe in consequences.

Make corporate believe the illusion is working.

Until Someone Notices The Emperor Has No Tags.

47. Policy Over Performance

In Retail, the systems don’t need to work. They just need to look like they work.

Security Tags?

Easily bypassed with magnets.

Still applied by hand to hundreds of items a day.

Still locked up for employee use.

Surveillance Posters?

Hanging in the break room and back hall.

"You’re being watched."

Yet the most common thefts go completely unrecorded.

SCA Greetings?

“Loud and proud” recitations of control and security.

Repeated for every customer, often to empty air.

A form of vocal compliance, not a deterrent.

The Dressing Room?

One gated room sits locked 90% of the year.

A smaller two-stall is left open with a camera.

Neither stops the theft — because the schedule is what gets policed, not the risk.

The Floor Plan Updates?

Generic layouts from corporate;

Untailored to the actual store;

Staff are expected to follow them blindly;

Regardless of real conditions.

The Trash Inspections?

A camera watches you throw away literal garbage.

A manager is expected to verify every bag.

The same process is circumvented daily just to function.

Markdowns?

Labeled as "common sense," not logic.

Scanners beep three times before printing — and you can't scan while they do.

Name Tags?

Marketed as customer care.

Function as surveillance anchors.

Direct lines of accountability when accusations arise.

This is the Play-Acting Of Process,

Where every role is performed, Every beat rehearsed, But no one’s actually watching the show. Because what matters isn’t Efficiency, Isn’t Outcomes, Isn’t even Truth. What matters is the Appearance:

That you’re working hard; That corporate is in control; That someone has thought this through.

And If The Show Falls Apart, It’s Not Because The System Failed;

It’s Because You Didn’t Perform It Right.

48. AXIOMS OF THEATRICAL LABOR

1. The Costume Is The System

What you wear, say, and gesture matters more than what you do. A name tag creates trust. A lanyard creates hierarchy. A shirt tucked in signifies responsibility.

None of these affect outcomes, but all of them protect the illusion of structure.

2. The Script Is The Standard

Whether it functions or not, you must read your lines. Loudly greet at the door. Say "pause for just a moment" like you believe it. Print markdowns with patience, no matter how broken the scanner is. Say the name of the loyalty program every transaction.

If it fails, say it again.

3. The Stage Is Arbitrary

Floor plans arrive from nowhere. Corporate flow maps are copy-pasted from cities that don't resemble yours. Storage space is fiction. Queues overflow. Back rooms flood.

You are not asked to fix it. You are asked to make it look like it never broke.

4. The Audience Is Management

You're not performing for customers. You're performing for auditors, regional managers, camera reviews, and abstract expectations. You don't need to succeed. You need to be seen trying.

Appear busy. Appear precise. Appear productive.

If the metrics are wrong, it means you're not acting hard enough.

5. The Show Must Go On

No matter how broken the register, how wrong the shipment, how pointless the markdowns — continue. If you ask too many questions, you're slowing the rhythm. If you adjust the system, you're going off-script. If you find peace with coworkers, expect to be reassigned.

Harmony is the enemy of control.

6. The Applause Is Hollow

"You Made a Difference" cards. "Heartbeat of Our Store" certificates. Boards listing your fastest times. Points systems for candy. Recognition is a tool, not a gift. It exists to keep you performing.

It is given late. It is given vaguely. It is given only when performance matches fantasy

7. The Props Are Broken

Scanners that beep but don't register. Printers that never received support tickets. Security tags that do nothing. Locks that mean nothing. Cameras watching the wrong thing.

The sets are cardboard and tape. The actors are tired. But the show is still on.

8. The Director Is Absent

Policy comes from nowhere. You Must Obey. Exceptions are undefined. Expectations change without notice. The managers are caught in the same performance.

They cannot speak plainly. They can only pass along the next line in the script.

9. The Audience Leaves Before the Ending

No one is measuring what actually works. No one notices the fire exits that don’t close. No one sees the trash compactor injuries. No one checks the real backlog. The managers know. The workers know.

But the show isn't for them.

10. The Play Is a Lie

You are pretending to work. They are pretending to lead. The customers are pretending to believe.

All of it could be done better, With half the theater, And double the truth.

49. The Extraction of Humanity

1. When people make things work, the system breaks them to “optimize” the magic.

Friendships, rhythms, trust — these emerge naturally among teams over time. But once a store finds its footing through human effort, it is punished. High performers are relocated, promoted with conditions, or reassigned under vague “development plans,” severing the roots of community they helped grow.

2. “Stabilization” is not seen as success, but untapped capital.

A smooth-running store is viewed not as a testament to shared humanity, but as wasted potential. The logic follows: if things are working, you don’t need as many people, or you should split the talent to “scale it.”

This isn’t reward — it’s cannibalism.

3. Moments of peace are interpreted as inefficiency.

When workers laugh, breathe, collaborate without chaos — these are not cherished. They are audited. “How did you have time to be calm?” becomes the question. Joy is seen as excess.

Humanity; a margin to be shaved.

4- Promotions are used as surgical tools, not as growth pathways.

Advancement is never just a reward. It is conditional: “Are you willing to start over somewhere new? Can you drop what you’ve built to serve the brand elsewhere?” Promotions extract individuals from functioning teams to test their loyalty — not to recognize their achievement.

5- The system depends on people caring just enough to fix it, But Not Enough To Challenge It.

Every stabilizing figure is shipped out, self-limiting, or burned out. Every organic system of trust is repurposed or discarded. Every heartbeat is spent proving that people can make even this broken machine run — before the machine crushes them for it.

50. I’ve Stopped Pretending This Is Normal.

Because we can build something real.

Because we can work on something that doesn’t eat people to make numbers.

Because you asked me to become an enforcer for policies you won’t define, uphold a system you won’t fix, and sacrifice my joy for a story that doesn’t end well for anyone.

I'm not asking for the reasons behind these decisions.

I'm asking why they remain in face of failure time and time again?

This is not an attack. This is not an insult. It is a statement of Fact.

I hope you will do something meaningful with it.

—[Name Redacted] *Former Cart Cleaner, Unpaid Morale Officer

06/05/2025

Addendum - 06/07/2025

Inventory didn’t break because the numbers were wrong. It Broke Because The Process Had No Soul.

Associates were called in as early as 5:30 AM, expected to be alert and presentable for a morning meeting, then sent directly to their assigned zones. Both teams were made of competent people. Both Teams had the work experience.

Team A — Made up of close friends and coworkers who trusted each other — cruised through their section laughing.

Team B — Mostly strangers corralled together under quiet suspicion; stumbled through the chaos as best as they could muster.

Team A would eventually be conscripted to fill in the gaps Team B Left.

Breaks and lunches had been preassigned on slips of paper, And you were expected to follow them without reminders. If You Forgot Your Time, You Missed It. But when it came time to log into the scanning devices? You were just expected to know your “user ID.” Or have the app. Or already be logged in. A login no one uses — except once a year.

For Inventory

If you were part of the unlucky audit group, You were held all the way until 3:58 PM — Nearly eleven hours on your feet with little clarity, little direction, and very little food. One coworker quit halfway through the day,

Not in Rage;

Not In Theater;

Whispering “I can’t do this anymore..” On The Stairwell.

Another nearly walked out hours later,

Tired,

Furious,

Only persuaded to stay when a peer — without any actual authority — told him to just leave. Eight people were held late not for real error — but because a flawed system claimed their zones hadn’t reached the 10% threshold. We scanned the same items again and again.

The numbers bounced around — 5%, 4%, 7% — never matching, never budging. The count was correct. The audits were done. But the machine didn’t believe us. The Section was scanned several times. By several hands. The store is bleeding money in overtime. All for a bureaucratic digital checkbox.

And then, Without ceremony,

Someone

Not a manager, Not the designated lead, Decided on scanning just one item from each blocked zone. A count even the system couldn’t misread. And Just Like That: The System Blinked. “10% Reached.”

Management Cheered. From the office. Over The Radio. That was it. We were done.

It Had Never Been About Accuracy — Just Compliance.

The promised donuts never came. But the bakery still did — six marked-down pastries brought in by someone who thought tradition was still worth something. No one asked them to. No one had to.

That was the real shape of the day:

Broken Systems. Barely Held Together. By Human Beings Choosing To Care Anyway.

And when it finally ended, There was no speech, No moment of acknowledgment, No thank-you for the ten-hour shift, The patience, The overtime, Or the restraint it took not to scream.

Just a single question, tossed over the noise like it meant something:

“Did Everyone Return The Devices?”

That was our finale.

So What Now?

Grab your torch and pitchfork? Throw the brick? Firebomb the Walmart?

No.

We’ve seen that story. Over and over. It Always Ends Right Back Where It Started. I don't accept the premise that a better world is only possible through justified murder. If you want this time to be different, it has to start with people speaking their peace — Not holding it in for the sake of comfort, or politeness, or fear.

Everyone’s waiting for Tyler Durden or Guy Fawkes to show up and give permission to resist. "Who’s gonna take the shot?" "Where’s the revolution?" They’re not coming. And you don’t need them.

How are you gonna fight for a better world if you won’t even talk politics at Thanksgiving? You don’t hate your family — you hate what you think they believe. You don’t hate your boss — you hate what they enforce. And you project that anger as intent, that structure as malice. You want a kinder world? Be Kinder. You want a more honest world? Start Speaking Up. And if you don’t believe in a rule — Don’t Enforce It. Stop mistaking silence for safety. Stop mistaking obedience for neutrality.

You are not a cog. You are not a drone. You are not exempt.

If someone has to be first, let it be you.

And if you’re sure, If you’ve looked at your truth and chosen it; Then you have nothing to fear in defending it. You have nothing to fear from saying it out loud. They can challenge you. Let them.

Because If You're Right, You Won’t Need Permission.

So that’s the sermon. No altar call. No revolution manifest. No dramatic ending. No brick. No firebomb. Just a mirror. Just a reminder: You Already Know What’s Right.

Now Act Like It.

If you want a better world: Shape it. If you're sure: Say It. And if you’re not sure: Say That Too.

Don’t enforce rules you don’t believe in. Don’t stay silent just because no one else is speaking up.

You don’t need a Revolution. You need a Backbone.

But if you’re still figuring out what that means, Here’s four silly songs that helped me get here —

one scream, one shrug, one sigh, and one sitcom, Take what you need. Leave the rest.

Start Talking. And For Your Sake,

Stop Waiting For Someone To Tell You What To Do

[joongxhwa]

Extra Credit- L. Haechan

✮ Pairing: Nerd!Haechan x fem reader

✮ Words: 3.1K

✮ Genre: Smut

✮ Warnings: 18+, dirty talk, oral sex (f+m receiving), praise, teasing, light overstimulation, protected sex

A/n: College au!

You’d been staring at your laptop screen for twenty minutes, the words on the page blurring into meaningless lines. Statistics was never your thing, and your brain was mush.

Haechan sat across from you at your small kitchen table, hunched over his notebook with his glasses slipping halfway down his nose. His hoodie was rumpled, hair messy, pencil tapping out a soft rhythm on the table like he was building a beat only he could hear.

“God,” you groaned, flopping back against your chair. “My brain is dying.” He looked up, amused. “You say that every time we study.”

“I mean it every time.”

Haechan’s eyes crinkled as he grinned. “You just want me to do the work for you.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t.” He pushed his glasses up with his middle finger, smirking. “Yeah, well. Only because I’m nice.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, fine. Only because I like you.”

You blinked at him.

He said it like a joke, voice playful and light, but his eyes lingered too long. You opened your mouth to respond, maybe laugh it off, maybe ask what he meant, but the air in the room had shifted, and you felt it.

It wasn’t new, that tension. You’d been best friends with Haechan since your sophomore year. He helped you pass calculus. You helped him pick out clothes that weren’t five years out of style. He made you laugh when you wanted to cry, and you listened to his late-night voice memos when he was too anxious to sleep. You were always close. Always… right there.

But lately, things felt different.

The way he looked at you. The way his knee kept brushing yours under the table and never pulled away. The way he tensed whenever you joked about dating someone else. And tonight, alone in your apartment, with the city humming quietly outside, it felt like something was about to break.

You shifted in your seat, trying to focus on your notes. But Haechan’s gaze was still on you, and now you were hyper-aware of everything. The soft rasp of his voice. The way his hoodie hung loose off one shoulder. The curve of his mouth.

You couldn’t concentrate. Not when your best friend looked at you like he wanted to ruin you. “I’m seriously not getting this,” you muttered, forcing your eyes back to the textbook. “Standard deviation? Standard pain in my ass—”

Haechan stood up suddenly, dragging his chair around the table until he was right next to you. His knee pressed against yours again, firm this time.

“Here,” he said, leaning in. “Let me help.”

You expected him to reach for your notebook. Instead, he nudged your laptop aside and laid his hand flat against the table between you, close enough that your fingers could touch if you just tilted your hand. Your pulse stuttered.

“You’re not focusing,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I’m trying—”

“No, you’re not.” His voice dropped, low and even. “You’ve been squirming in that chair since I got here. You keep biting your lip. You haven’t looked at the page in ten minutes.” You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

He turned his head, lips brushing your ear. “What’s really on your mind?”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes darker now—calculating, careful. You saw it then. The restraint. And then, just like that, the tension snapped.

Haechan leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t unsure. It was months, no, years of held-back want crashing all at once. His hand slid to your thigh, gripping tight as his mouth moved against yours, hungry and rough.

You gasped, and he took full advantage, licking into your mouth like he owned it.

“Haechan—” you breathed when he pulled back.

He pressed his forehead to yours, chest rising and falling. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

So he kissed you again. And this time, it was even worse, tongue hot, hands sliding under your hoodie, lifting it just enough to feel skin. “You have no idea,” he whispered against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Do something.”

That was all it took.

He tugged you into your bedroom, lips never leaving yours. Clothes fell off in a blur. His hoodie, your tank top, his glasses somewhere on the floor. You landed on your bed with a gasp, and he crawled over you like a man starved.

He was all over you. Hands on your waist, lips at your neck, breath hot as he groaned, “You’ve been driving me fucking crazy.” You whimpered as his fingers dipped beneath your waistband, teasing your panties.

“You sit there looking all innocent, and expect me to focus?” he muttered. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re still talking,” you shot back breathlessly.

He looked up, eyes sparking. “Oh? So that’s how it is.”

Then he yanked your panties down and dove between your legs like a man on a mission. You cried out, fingers gripping the sheets as he licked a long, slow stripe over your center before wrapping his lips around your clit.

“F-fuck, Haechan—”

He hummed against you, the vibration making your hips buck. He held them down with strong hands, tongue working you over like he’d studied this just as hard as calculus.

“Please,” you whined. “More—”

He didn’t stop. Not until you were grinding against his face, moaning his name, legs trembling as your orgasm crashed through you. You barely had time to recover before he was crawling up your body, kissing you with lips still wet from you.

“You taste so good,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I could spend hours down there.” You kissed him hard, fingers fumbling at his sweats.

“Take them off,” you begged.

He pulled them down in one motion, boxers too, cock flushed and hard, tip already leaking. Your eyes widened slightly. “Jesus.”

He smirked. “Still think I’m just your nerdy best friend?”

You pulled him in by the neck. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He lined up and pushed in slow. Too slow and you arched beneath him, whimpering. “Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel good, so fucking tight.” When he bottomed out, he didn’t move right away. He just stayed there, panting against your skin, fingers trembling slightly as he held himself up.

“You okay?” you whispered, cupping his cheek.

His eyes met yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Then he started to move.

And oh, it was heaven.

He fucked you slow at first. Deep, deliberate thrusts that left you breathless. But it didn’t stay gentle. Not with how wet you were. Not with how he moaned your name. “You’re mine now,” he growled suddenly, pace snapping harder. “No more pretending.”

You wrapped your legs around him, dragging him deeper. “I’ve always been yours.” His lips crashed into yours again, hand sliding between your bodies to rub circles against your clit.

You came again fast, clenching around him with a cry that made him lose it. His rhythm stuttered. His mouth dropped open. And with a deep, guttural moan, he spilled into the condom, body shuddering as he buried himself deep one last time.

You laid there in the aftermath, limbs tangled, sweat cooling. He reached over and grabbed his glasses, putting them back on with a sheepish laugh.

“Still think I’m a nerd?” he asked.

You grinned. “You’re my nerd.”

He flushed pink, burying his face in your neck.

“You know,” you added, “I might need a tutor again next week…”

Haechan groaned. “You know I’m gonna fail if we keep studying like this.”

“Worth it.”

[valyrfia]

How do you simulate a championship, actually? (Your post really made me curious ab it lol) Do you like go through all the possible points and positions each driver can get in these last 11 races and then calculate the probability or something?

Yes! So I only calculated Lando and Max’s possible places saying that Lando’s average placing would be P2 and Max’s P3 accounting for the fact that the McLaren is the fastest car. I then used a Gaussian distribution centered on 2 and 3 respectively with a standard deviation of 2 to give me race results, made sure they weren’t placing in the same result, and transferred that to points and then a points difference. I then calculated that points difference over 10 races and 3 sprint races and determined whether the difference was overcome for Lando to win the championship! I then ran the simulation 10 million times and calculated how often Lando won, which was 4.33% of the time.

Of course you could poke countless holes in my simulation, it doesn’t take into account fastest lap point (mostly because I figured the likelihood of one getting it would be equal to the likelihood of the other getting it so they cancel out), nor does it account for possible DNFs or grid penalties, and I could run it with a greater standard deviation for Max considering Red Bull seem less reliable at the moment. But all in all, I think it’s robust enough for what we needed to figure out!