I haven't seen anyone else discussing this and it's driving me nuts bc this has been turning slowly in my head like a microwave for days now
Does anyone else hear the implied "ne" before the "grow" in what Milchick is saying at the end of this clip? This whole scene was him changing his speech patterns in order to fit in with the corporate environment for his superiors' approval (ie removing AAVE from his vocabulary). All of Milchick (and Natalie)'s arc in season 2 has been about how blackness fits, or doesn't fit, into colonialist capitalism. Their whole arc has me going crazy this season it's so deftly written and powerful and I'm so fuckin excited for Milchick's face turn that I'm sure is coming
Friends,
Musk is trying to downplay the chaos he’s creating by saying it’s much the same as the cost-cutting efforts of the Clinton administration.
“What DOGE is doing is similar to Clinton/Gore Dem policies of the 1990s,” he posted on his X platform.
Rubbish.
I cut costs in the Clinton administration. The contrast with what Musk is doing couldn’t be sharper.
As secretary of labor, I took the Department of Labor down from 18,500 employees to 16,600 — but did it without any layoffs. No chainsaws. No meat-axes.
And we were careful to improve the services we were providing the public.
For example, when people lost jobs in an industry that was shrinking, we devised a way to get them job-training and job-search assistance in addition to unemployment insurance. This helped move them into new jobs faster — which also saved the government over $1 billion a year in unemployment payments.
We plowed that $1 billion back into job-training and job-search assistance, making the whole economy work better.
In Musk’s attack on the federal workforce, thousands of federal workers have been fired without warning. Or they’ve been offered fake “deferred resignation” buyouts that were never authorized by Congress and may not be legal.
Entire agencies have been gutted without legislative authorization, forcing judges to intervene.
Our “Reinventing Government” effort was authorized by bipartisan congressional legislation. We worked carefully over several years to identify areas where government could be more efficient, notifying Congress of what we were doing.
But the Republicans who control Congress today have allowed Musk to race ahead without them, even though the Constitution states that the legislative branch approves spending and federal law prohibits the president from cutting programs Congress has authorized without its permission.
Clinton sought that permission, and Congress accepted $3.6 billion in cuts he proposed.
We also involved federal workers, because they knew better than anyone what could be improved and how best to do it.
We introduced performance standards, we encouraged our workers to embrace the internet, and we gave out awards to employees who came up with ways to cut red tape and improve service.
“There was a tremendous effort put into understanding what should happen and what should change,” said Max Stier, president of the Partnership for Public Service, which seeks to improve the federal workforce. “What is happening now is actually taking us backwards.”
We were deliberative and careful. Musk is the opposite.
Musk sees government workers as the enemy — as costs to be cut.
We saw government workers as assets to be developed, our partners in getting better services to the public more efficiently.
Musk also calls people who benefit from government programs the “parasite class.” Presumably that’s why he’s eager to cut back Medicaid. But Medicaid’s beneficiaries aren’t parasites. Half of them are children.
Oh, but if we’re talking about people who depend on government, Musk is the biggest “parasite” of all.
Over the years, Musk and his businesses have received at least $38 billion in government contracts, loans, subsidies, and tax credits, often at critical moments, helping seed the growth that has made him the richest person in the world.
That he views public servants as his enemy and the people who benefit from public programs as “parasites” tells you all you need to know about Elon Musk.
When you hear Musk say his effort is similar to what I and others did in the 1990s, know he’s lying. When you see him call people who benefit from public programs “parasites,” know he’s a hypocrite.
Thoughts?
A former OpenAI researcher who raised concerns about the company is dead at 26.
"Balaji’s death comes three months after he publicly accused OpenAI of violating U.S. copyright law while developing ChatGPT, a generative artificial intelligence program that has become a moneymaking sensation used by hundreds of millions of people across the world.
Its public release in late 2022 spurred a torrent of lawsuits against OpenAI from authors, computer programmers and journalists, who say the company illegally stole their copyrighted material to train its program and elevate its value past $150 billion.
The Mercury News and seven sister news outlets are among several newspapers, including the New York Times, to sue OpenAI in the past year.
In an interview with the New York Times published Oct. 23, Balaji argued OpenAI was harming businesses and entrepreneurs whose data were used to train ChatGPT.
“If you believe what I believe, you have to just leave the company,” he told the outlet, adding that “this is not a sustainable model for the internet ecosystem as a whole.”
Balaji grew up in Cupertino before attending UC Berkeley to study computer science. It was then he became a believer in the potential benefits that artificial intelligence could offer society, including its ability to cure diseases and stop aging, the Times reported. “I thought we could invent some kind of scientist that could help solve them,” he told the newspaper.
But his outlook began to sour in 2022, two years after joining OpenAI as a researcher. He grew particularly concerned about his assignment of gathering data from the internet for the company’s GPT-4 program, which analyzed text from nearly the entire internet to train its artificial intelligence program, the news outlet reported.
The practice, he told the Times, ran afoul of the country’s “fair use” laws governing how people can use previously published work. In late October, he posted an analysis on his personal website arguing that point.
No known factors “seem to weigh in favor of ChatGPT being a fair use of its training data,” Balaji wrote. “That being said, none of the arguments here are fundamentally specific to ChatGPT either, and similar arguments could be made for many generative AI products in a wide variety of domains.”
Reached by this news agency, Balaji’s mother requested privacy while grieving the death of her son.
In a Nov. 18 letter filed in federal court, attorneys for The New York Times named Balaji as someone who had “unique and relevant documents” that would support their case against OpenAI. He was among at least 12 people — many of them past or present OpenAI employees — the newspaper had named in court filings as having material helpful to their case, ahead of depositions."
🐺 main masterlist | The TW Survival Program Series
part1 | part2 | part3 | part4 | part5
Toto Wolff x assistant!reader
Summary: After your injured hand turns The Toto Wolff Survival Program upside down, Toto decides it is his turn to take care of you. What starts as stolen tablets, ice packs, snacks, and bossy hydration quickly becomes secret hotel-room tenderness, mutual survival management, and one morning that proves Toto is dangerously good at much more than keeping you safe.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, humor, injury care, secret relationship, age gap, boss/assistant dynamic, protective!Toto, emotional intimacy, oral sex (f&m reciving), unprotected sex with IUD mention, praise kink, creampie, soft aftercare.
word count: 5.4k
a/n: final part! thank you all for reading this story, all the comments and likes ❤️
The doctor gives you one very simple instruction.
“Do not overuse the hand. Rest. No carrying boxes. No rushing around. No unnecessary strain.”
You nod seriously. Toto nods even more seriously. Which is how you know you are in trouble. Because Toto taking instructions seriously is dangerous. Usually for everyone else.
The second you leave the medical room, he takes your tablet.
You blink. “Toto.”
“No.”
“I need that.”
“You need rest.”
“I need my tablet.”
“You have a bruised hand.”
“My other hand works.”
“So does mine.”
You stare at him. He looks very pleased with himself.
“This is theft.”
“This is care.”
“This is mutiny.”
“This is The Survival Program,” he says smoothly. “Reversed.”
You gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I absolutely would.”
And he does. All afternoon. He opens doors before you can touch them. He carries your bag. He tells Bradley to move two non-urgent meetings. He personally hands you water every twenty minutes with the solemn focus of a man defusing a bomb.
At one point, you reach for a folder and Toto appears beside you like a two meters security system.
“No.”
“Toto, it’s paper.”
“It has weight.”
“It has three pages.”
“Still.”
George walks past, sees Toto taking the folder from you, and stops. “Oh,” he says, visibly delighted. “So this is what it looks like from the outside.”
You glare at him. “Careful, George.”
George raises both hands. “I’m just saying, very educational.”
Kimi appears with a snack.
Toto points at him. “Is that lunch?”
Kimi freezes.
You smile sweetly. “Oh, look. He learns.”
Kimi looks between you and Toto. “I don’t like this new version.”
Bradley, naturally, loves it. He finds you sitting in hospitality with your wrapped hand resting on a cushion Toto definitely stole from a sponsor lounge.
Bradley looks at the cushion. Then at Toto. Then at you. “I support this development.”
“You would,” you mutter.
Toto hands you a plate. “Eat.”
You stare at him. He stares back. You narrow your eyes. “This is deeply annoying.”
His mouth twitches. “You said that to me yesterday.”
“Yes, and I was charming.”
“So am I.”
You look at him. He lifts one eyebrow. Unfortunately, he is. Very.
You take the plate. “Fine.”
“Does it hurt?”
You close your eyes. It is the seventh time he has asked in one hour.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I hesitated because I was praying for patience.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Toto.”
“Answer me.”
You sigh. “A little.”
His face softens instantly. Damn him.
“Then we get more ice.”
“No, we do not.”
“Yes.”
“I am not made of glass.”
“I know.” His voice lowers. “But you are hurt.”
And just like that, your irritation loses its shoes and walks quietly out of the room. Because he means it. Because under all the bossiness, all the reversed survival management, all the overdramatic folder confiscation, there is genuine worry.
For you.
You look away before your face does something embarrassing. “Fine,” you mumble. “Ice.”
His smile is small and victorious. “Good girl.”
Your head snaps up. His expression changes. A beat, a spark.
Then he clears his throat. “I mean good… employee.”
George chokes on his smoothie.
Kimi whispers, “That was not professional.”
Bradley says, “I am suddenly needed elsewhere.”
You bury your face in your uninjured hand. Toto looks at the ceiling like he is asking God for legal assistance.
This secrecy thing is going to kill you both.
*
By evening, everyone has been fooled. Well, mostly. In the same way people pretend not to see smoke before a fire alarm starts screaming.
You and Toto act professional. Painfully professional. He stands too close, then remembers and steps away.
You call him “Toto” in your normal voice, then panic because your normal voice now has feelings in it. He says “thank you” like it means three extra things. You respond with “of course” like a woman actively trying not to combust.
Nobody says anything, but Susie texts you once.
Susie: Subtle as a chandelier falling down stairs.
You do not answer. Cowardice remains your strongest skill.
Later, after the day finally ends, you return to your hotel room with your bandaged hand, your overfull heart, and the strange, glowing knowledge that Toto Wolff is yours now. In secret, but still yours.
You change into soft pajamas and sit on the bed, staring at your phone. No message. Which is fine, healthy and normal.
He is busy. You are both being careful. This is mature.
Then there is a quiet knock at your door. Your heart almost leaves your body.
You open it. Toto stands in the corridor in dark trousers and a black sweater, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a small bag.
He looks far too soft for a man who terrifies boardrooms. “Room service,” he says.
You blink. “You are not room service.”
“No. I am better dressed.”
You bite your lip to stop smiling. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes move over your face, then down to your hand. “Checking if you are alive.”
“That is my line.”
“I am stealing your job.”
“You already stole my tablet today.”
“And your folder.”
“And my dignity.”
“That one was already compromised.”
You gasp. He smiles.
You step aside. “Get in before someone sees you.”
He slips inside, and you close the door quickly, heart racing with the ridiculous thrill of it.
He places the bag on the bedside table. “Painkillers, water, snacks, and the ice pack the doctor recommended.”
You stare at him. “You are alarmingly good at this.”
“I had an excellent teacher.”
You soften despite yourself. “Toto…”
He steps closer, slow enough to ask without words. You close the distance first. He exhales when you wrap your good arm around him. His arms come around you carefully, protecting your injured hand like it is sacred.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just stand there, tucked against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your cheek.
“You came,” you whisper.
“Of course I came.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
That makes you smile into his sweater. “Dangerous answer.”
“I know.”
Eventually, you end up in bed. Not like that. Well, not yet.
Just curled together under the covers, your bandaged hand resting safely on a pillow, Toto beside you with one arm around your waist and the other hand gently brushing hair away from your face.
It feels absurdly intimate. More intimate than the kiss, somehow. No cameras, no paddock, no schedules, no scooter. Just the two of you in the quiet.
“Does it hurt?” he asks again.
You groan. “Toto.”
“I am serious.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
“Answer.”
“A little. Less than before.”
He reaches for the water. “Drink.”
You stare at him. He looks very pleased.
“You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“This is revenge.”
“This is care.”
“This is dictatorship.”
“This is Mercedes,” he says.
You laugh, and his face softens like he has been waiting for that sound all day.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“My favorite sound.”
Your cheeks warm. “Oh, shut up.”
“No.”
“You’re unbearable when you’re romantic.”
“I am only beginning.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is a promise.”
Your heart does something stupid and happy. You settle closer, your head on his chest. His fingers trace slow, soothing lines along your arm.
For a moment, everything is quiet. Then you whisper, “Are we really doing this?”
His hand pauses. “Yes,” he says. “But carefully.”
“Secretly.”
“For now.”
“Professionally.”
“In public.”
You lift your head. “And privately?”
His eyes meet yours. “Privately, I am yours.”
Oh. That is rude. Completely unfair. You stare at him. “You cannot just say things like that while I’m injured.”
“Why?”
“My defenses are weak.”
His smile turns soft. “Good.”
You laugh again and hide your face against him.
He kisses the top of your head. Slow and tender. Like he has all the time in the world. And for the first time in days, your body finally relaxes. Just happiness. Quiet and warm and terrifyingly real.
“You know,” you murmur, “if anyone finds out you snuck into my room, Bradley will need medical attention.”
“Bradley already suspects.”
“Susie knows.”
“Susie always knows.”
“Kimi will figure it out if there are snacks involved.”
“Then we hide the snacks.”
“And George?”
Toto considers this. “George will look concerned.”
You laugh into his chest. Toto holds you closer. After a while, your eyelids grow heavy.
His hand keeps moving slowly over your back. “Sleep,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
You look up at him, sleepy and honest. “Because I’m happy you’re here.”
His expression changes. It's soft, deep, almost wounded by tenderness.
“I am happy too,” he whispers.
You smile. “Even without the scooter?”
He sighs dramatically. “For you, I make sacrifices.”
“My hero.”
“Your very obedient hero.”
“Finally.”
He kisses you then. Softly, but still carefully. A quiet kiss in the dark, with his hand gentle at your cheek and your heart no longer trying to escape.
This time, you do not run. You simply curl into him afterward, your good hand resting over his chest. His arms tighten around you. And as you drift toward sleep, warm and safe and ridiculously happy, you realize something very important.
Keeping Toto Wolff alive was still your job. But now? He had decided keeping you safe was his.
*
In the early morning, you wake slowly, warm and soft beneath the sheets, only to realize Toto is already awake.
He isn’t moving. He’s just watching you. And God, the look in his eyes should honestly be illegal before coffee. It's tender, warm, almost devastatingly soft, like sometime during the night he forgot every meeting, every sponsor, every responsibility beyond the fact that you are here, with him, wrapped in sheets, your hair a mess, your breathing still sleepy.
For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your voice comes out quiet, rough with sleep. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His hand lifts immediately, fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with such infuriating gentleness your heart nearly gives up on the spot.
“Because,” he says softly, “I woke up before you… and then I couldn’t stop.”
Your entire body melts a little. Which is deeply inconvenient.
“You are very dangerous in the morning,” you mumble.
A slow smile curves his lips. “And you,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “are very beautiful when you forget to be terrifying.”
You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real force because his mouth is suddenly there — brushing yours slowly, gently, like he has nowhere else to be.
The kiss is soft at first. Sleepy, tender. It feels like warmth spreading through your entire body.
And then… not so sleepy. Because Toto, unfortunately for your dignity, seems to notice immediately how quickly you melt beneath him. How your breath catches. How your body softens. How one quiet kiss from him turns your brain into complete static.
His hand slides slowly down your side, deliberate, giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t. Absolutely not. Instead, you make the kind of tiny sound against his mouth that seems to do something dangerous to him.
His exhale is deeper now. Warmer. And suddenly, his kisses are no longer just tender. Still gentle, still patient, but hungrier.
“Toto…” you whisper.
“Mm?”
“That is very unfair.”
His mouth trails to your jaw. “What is?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
His low chuckle against your skin is devastating. “Yes,” he admits.
Oh. Arrogant man.
Your fingers barely have time to tighten in the sheets before he starts kissing lower, slow and deliberate, down your neck, across your collarbone, while his hands carefully, begin pushing your pajama top higher. It's not rushed. Like he wants to savor every second. Every reaction. Every breathless little sound.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin.
You should probably appreciate how respectful that is. Instead, your sleep-soft brain simply goes: Absolutely not.
So what actually comes out is, “Don’t you dare.”
Toto’s laugh is soft, pleased… and deeply male in a way that sends heat straight through you.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Your soul nearly leaves your body.
Slowly, he lifts your top over your head, his gaze dragging over you with such open admiration it makes your face heat.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly. And then he kisses lower.
Your breath catches sharply the moment his mouth reaches your breast.
“Toto—”
His answer is not verbal. Because apparently this man believes communication can happen through devastatingly skilled mouthwork.
His lips close around one sensitive nipple slowly, deliberately, sucking just enough to make your entire back arch.
“Oh God—”
Your hand flies straight into his hair. Your fingers tighten, and Toto actually makes a low sound of satisfaction against your skin. Like he enjoys that. Like he enjoys you falling apart.
His tongue teases, circles, then his teeth graze just enough to make you gasp.
Your hips shift helplessly. And somehow, that only encourages him.
“Toto…” you breathe, barely coherent now.
He lifts his head just enough to look at you. Brown eyes dark. Focused and entirely too pleased.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs.
This should embarrass you. It does not. Mostly because his hand is already sliding lower, pushing your pajama bottoms down your legs with slow, infuriating patience.
By the time he settles between your thighs, your breathing is already ruined.
“Still with me?” he asks softly.
You stare down at him. At this absurdly handsome, emotionally dangerous man between your legs asking for consent like he hasn’t already dismantled your nervous system.
“Yes,” you say immediately.
His smile is pure sin. “Good.”
And then — Oh. Oh, no. Because Toto Wolff, team principal, your boss, menace to your sanity… apparently knows exactly what he’s doing here too.
His fingers part you slowly, carefully, like he’s learning something precious.
Your body jolts when his thumb brushes your clit.
“Toto—”
“Sensitive?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes—”
“Good.”
You do not even have time to process that smug response before his mouth is on you. And then coherent thought simply… dies.
Your entire body jerks. “Oh my God, Toto—”
His hands hold you steady instantly, firm on your thighs, while his tongue moves with devastating precision. Slow enough to make you feel everything. Thorough enough to make it impossible to think.
Your healthy hand tangles tighter in his hair, and the sound he makes — that deep, pleased hum — vibrates through you so intensely you nearly see stars immediately.
“Please—”
He does not stop. If anything, he becomes more focused. More deliberate. Like your pleasure is not just important to him. It is his entire mission.
Your hips move on their own, chasing, trembling.
“Toto— oh God—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice rough and warm and impossibly intimate. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your thighs shake. He keeps going.
“Good girl.”
Your breath breaks.
“My girl.”
And that... that is what destroys you. The orgasm hits hard. Long. Rolling. Wave after wave that Toto somehow drags out with unbearable skill, refusing to rush, refusing to let you come down too quickly, like he is determined to keep you there as long as possible.
Your back arches. Your mouth opens in a completely shameless cry. Your fingers pull helplessly at his hair.
And Toto — God. Toto looks entirely too satisfied with himself while your entire body falls apart under his mouth.
You genuinely do see stars. Your legs tremble. Your breathing is wrecked. And still, he keeps you floating there just a little longer, drawing every last shiver from you until you are completely, utterly undone.
By the time he finally lifts his head, you are a boneless, gasping disaster. A very happy disaster.
Toto kisses the inside of your thigh once, slow and affectionate, before looking up at you.
His hair is a mess. Your fault. His mouth is devastating. Also your fault, probably.
And his expression? Pure male satisfaction.
“How,” you whisper breathlessly, “are you a real person?”
His laugh is low, warm, and unbearably smug as he crawls back up your body.
“Careful,” he murmurs, kissing you slowly, letting you taste exactly what he’s done to you. “Or I’ll start thinking my survival program is working a little too well.”
Then you feel it. His erection, hard and unmistakable, pressed against your thigh.
And... oh. Your breath catches. Because suddenly, despite the fact that Toto has already completely ruined your ability to think like a functional human being this morning, you realize something deeply satisfying.
You did that. The thought alone sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
Your hand slides down before you can overthink it, fingers brushing over him through his pants, and the second you wrap your hand around him, Toto groans. Quiet and low.
The sound alone nearly destroys your remaining self-control. And maybe it should terrify you how much satisfaction floods through you at being the reason Toto Wolff — composed, terrifying, hyper-controlled Toto Wolff — sounds like that.
But honestly? You are far too gone to care.
His head falls back slightly against the pillow, his breathing already heavier, and that alone gives you just enough confidence to gently push at his chest.
He blinks, surprised, but very willing.
“Lie back,” you murmur.
That damn eyebrow lifts. God, even now.
“Bossy.”
“You started this.”
His smile is sinful. “Did I?”
You do not dignify that with an answer. Instead, you push him properly onto his back, and before this maddening man can say another smug thing, you slide lower.
His breath catches immediately. And when your fingers finally free him... oh. For one completely overwhelming second, all coherent thought leaves your body. Because Toto is... large. Very large.
Which should probably concern you more than it does. Instead, it mostly makes you wetter. A deeply reckless personal failure.
“Toto,” you whisper, and the sound of his name on your lips like that seems to affect him almost as much as the sight of you between his thighs.
His hand twitches against the sheets. “You do not have to—”
But then you lick slowly over the tip, and Toto stops speaking entirely. Excellent.
A quiet, wrecked sound leaves him, and the sheer power of it sends a pulse of satisfaction straight through you. Because this man — this powerful, controlled, impossible man — is unraveling. And you are the reason.
Your tongue moves slowly, teasing, learning, savoring, and when you glance up… God. That view.
Toto is watching you through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight, his breathing uneven, every inch of him looking dangerously close to losing that famous control.
His hand moves to your hair. Not pushing, never forcing, just there. Holding. Like he needs contact or he might actually combust.
“You are…” he starts, then exhales shakily when you take him deeper. “Oh, fuck.”
The praise that burns in your chest at that sound should honestly be studied.
Slowly, you move, your mouth working over him while your eyes stay on his, and the effect that has on him is almost unfair.
This man, who commands teams, controls races, terrifies executives, is falling apart beneath you.
His head tips back. His chest rises harder. His fingers tighten. And when a genuinely helpless sound escapes him? Oh, you could absolutely become addicted to this.
But then... no. Because suddenly, you need something else more. Need him differently. Need him inside you now.
So before Toto can fully lose himself, you stop. His eyes open immediately, dazed and wrecked and already protesting. “Why did you—”
You do not answer. You simply move. Climbing back up his body. And then, you settle over him.
His hands land instantly on your hips, firm, warm, possessive. His breath catches. “Are you sure?”
The fact that he asks, even now, nearly breaks your heart.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I need you.”
That does something to him. You feel it. Every inch of him.
His hands flex harder. And slowly— God, so slowly— you guide him.
The first press of him against you makes you both groan.
“Oh—”
“Toto—”
And then you begin to sink. Slowly. Carefully. Centimeter by centimeter.
Your breath stutters. Because he is so much. Stretching. Filling. Your entire body trembling around the sensation of taking him deeper and deeper until coherent thought becomes almost impossible.
“Toto…”
His head falls back, jaw tight, his voice rough and wrecked. “Fuck… you feel…”
He cannot even finish. Which, honestly, is deeply flattering.
His hands grip your hips tighter, helping steady you as you finally take him fully.
And when you are finally there, completely seated. Completely full. Both of you just… stop. Because oh. Oh, God. Your lungs forget how to function. His mouth finds your breast almost immediately, like he physically cannot help himself.
And the combination. His mouth. His tongue. His lips around your sensitive nipple. And him buried completely inside you — It is too much. In the absolute best way.
Your head falls back with a helpless cry. “Oh my God—”
“That’s it,” Toto murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked. “Beautiful girl…”
Then you move. And apparently, so does the entire universe. Because the second your hips begin to roll, slow, deep.
Toto groans like a man seeing God. His mouth leaves your breast only long enough for him to look at you, and the expression on his face, pure admiration. Pure hunger. Pure disbelief.
Like he cannot quite believe this is real. Like he cannot believe you are real.
Your hands brace against his chest as you ride him properly now, your body finding rhythm, your breathing ruined almost immediately.
And Toto, oh God. Toto meets you. His hips rising instinctively, perfectly, matching your movements in a way that feels devastatingly good.
The room fills with sound. Your breath. His groans. Skin against skin. The quiet, shameless sounds falling from your lips every time he fills you just right.
And then, you glance sideways. The mirror. Oh. Your entire body nearly shorts out. Because there, you can see everything. You. Riding your boss. Your body moving over his. His hands gripping your hips. His mouth on your breasts. The sight of him disappearing inside you over and over.
Your breath catches so hard it almost becomes another moan.
Toto notices immediately. His hand slides to your chin, gently turning your face back toward him. “Stay with me.”
And somehow, that makes it worse or better. Maybe both.
You move faster. You cannot help it. Your breasts bounce with every movement, and Toto looks genuinely hypnotized by it, his hands sliding lower now, gripping your ass, kneading gently, guiding you harder.
“Fuck,” he groans, watching you. “Look at you…”
Your name on his lips sounds like worship.
Then his hand moves, between you. His fingers find your clit. And, you break. Completely.
Your entire body jolts. “Toto!”
“I know,” he says, voice rough and devastatingly calm for a man currently being ruined. “Come for me.”
That command, that praise, that touch. Your orgasm crashes through you so hard you nearly collapse.
Your whole body spasms, your cries loud and completely shameless as pleasure tears through you in waves.
And Toto, the way you clench around him pushes him dangerously close too. You feel it. The way he swells. The way his control snaps.
“Fuck— I’m close—”
His voice is strained now. Warning. Real warning.
“No condom—”
And your brain, completely gone, somehow still manages one thing. “Yes,” you gasp. “Come inside me— I have an IUD—”
That is all it takes. Every remaining restraint in him shatters.
His hands lock on you. His head falls back. And Toto comes hard. With a groan so deep, so wrecked, so utterly sinful it nearly triggers another wave through you all over again.
You feel him pulse inside you. Feel the heat. Feel every trembling aftershock as he fills you completely. And somehow, that only prolongs everything. Your own orgasm flares again, sharp and overwhelming, dragging another helpless cry from you as you both completely fall apart together.
For a long moment, neither of you can breathe properly. You finally collapse forward, exhausted, trembling, boneless and utterly blissed out, landing against his chest.
Toto’s arms come around you instantly. Protective, possessive but tender.
His chest heaves beneath your cheek. Your entire body feels molten.
And then Toto presses a slow, tender kiss to your hair. Followed by his wrecked, breathless voice. “Good God.”
You laugh weakly against him. “That good?”
His chest shakes beneath you. Then his hand slides slowly up your back, and his voice, still completely ruined, murmurs against your temple, “Schatz…”
His kiss is softer this time. Almost emotional.
“You may actually kill me.”
And honestly? Judging by the way you are both shaking… That seems entirely possible.
You lie on top of him for a long moment, both of you barely breathing. Because everything is too much. Too warm, too real. Too intimate for a hotel room in the middle of a race weekend, where technically you are still supposed to be his assistant and not a woman currently melted across his chest like she has lost all professional structure.
Toto’s arms stay around you. Firm and careful.
One hand moves slowly over your back. The other avoids your injured hand with almost ridiculous precision, because apparently even after sex, part of him is still monitoring your medical status.
The man could be half-dead and still ask whether you had enough water.
His chest rises beneath your cheek. Fast. Not calm at all.
That surprises you. Toto Wolff, terrifying team principal, walking strategy weapon, is lying beneath you with his heart racing like yours.
Then his voice comes, low and rough near your ear. “Are you okay?”
You close your eyes. There it is. That tenderness again.
You lift your head enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, his eyes dark and warm, searching your face like he is trying to read every tiny shift before you can hide it.
“I think so,” you whisper.
His brows pull together. “You think?”
“Toto, my brain is currently somewhere near the ceiling.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“Of course it doesn’t. You destroyed my ability to answer questions.”
He laughs, low and tired.
Your face heats. “Don’t look so proud.”
“I am not proud.”
“You look like Mercedes just won a double championship.”
His smile deepens. “That good?”
You groan and hide your face against his neck.
“No comment.”
His arms tighten slightly. “Schatz,” he murmurs, softer now. “Really. Are you okay?”
That shift in his voice makes your heart squeeze.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I’m okay.”
“Nothing hurts?”
“My hand is fine.”
“I was not only asking about your hand.”
Oh. Because of course he means everything. Your body. Your heart. Your head. This new, secret, risky thing between you.
You soften. “No,” you say quietly. “Nothing hurts.”
“Good.”
You bite your lip. “I mean… I may never walk normally again, but emotionally, I’m thriving.”
Toto stares at you. Then he laughs warmly. “There she is.”
You smile despite yourself. “What?”
“My girl with the terrible jokes.”
Your heart stumbles.
My girl.
Still dangerous, still unfair. Still enough to make something tender bloom inside your chest.
“You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m fragile now.”
“You were very bossy ten minutes ago.”
“That was before you rearranged my nervous system.”
His mouth twitches. “Noted.”
“Do not put that in your internal performance review.”
“Too late.”
“Toto.”
“Yes, boss?”
You narrow your eyes. “Careful.”
But your voice is soft, and he notices. His hand brushes your cheek.
“You are beautiful,” he says quietly.
You go still. After everything, after the heat, after the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear, those words hit harder than they should.
“Toto…”
“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s complicated.”
You let out a small, tired laugh. “You skipped my entire speech.”
“It was very predictable.”
“And Bradley?”
“He already has a hypothetical crisis plan.”
You bury your face in his chest. “Of course he does.”
Toto chuckles and kisses your hair.
For a while, neither of you moves. His arm stays around you, warm and careful, his hand avoiding your injured one with ridiculous precision.
Then he shifts.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Taking care of you.”
“You say that far too responsibly.”
His mouth twitches. “Would you prefer irresponsibly?”
You look at him properly then. His hair is still messy, his breathing still uneven, his hand lingering on your waist like letting go is difficult.
Oh.
“You’re not calm,” you whisper.
“No,” he says softly. “I am not.”
That makes something inside you melt.
He gets water, helps you clean up, checks your hand, and pulls the blanket over both of you when he comes back to bed.
“Drink.”
You take the glass from him with a suspicious look. “You really turned this into mutual survival management.”
“Yes.”
“I created a monster.”
His mouth twitches. “You did.”
You take a small sip, still watching him over the rim of the glass. “You’re abusing boyfriend privileges already.”
Toto goes still. So do you. The room turns very quiet.
Your face heats immediately. “I mean—”
“No,” he says softly.
You look at him. His expression has changed completely. Softer. Warmer. Almost careful.
“Say it again.”
Your heart does something stupid. “Toto…”
“Please.”
You swallow, suddenly shy. “Boyfriend.”
His smile comes slowly, like the word has landed somewhere deep.
“I like that.”
You look down, embarrassed and happy in a way that feels almost ridiculous. “Good.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Girlfriend,” he says, and your heart nearly gives up completely.
“That sounds terrifying.”
“In a bad way?”
You tuck yourself closer to him. “In a very nice way.”
His lips brush your hair. “We will get used to it.”
“Secretly.”
“For now.”
“For now,” he agrees.
You lie there in the soft blue light of early morning, tangled under the sheets, with the world waiting outside. The paddock. The meetings. Bradley’s crisis plan. Susie’s knowing looks. Kimi and snacks. George looking concerned on principle.
You sigh.
“What is it?” Toto asks.
“You have to leave soon.”
“I know.”
“If someone sees you…”
“I know.”
“I don’t want this to become a scandal.”
His fingers brush your cheek. “I will protect you from it.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s the problem.”
“Why?”
“Because you say things like that, and then I want to believe everything will be fine.”
His eyes soften. “Maybe not fine all the time,” he says. “But handled.”
You laugh weakly. “That is such a team principal answer.”
“It is a good answer.”
“It is a very Toto answer.”
“You like those.”
“Unfortunately.”
He smiles and pulls you closer.
“I don’t know how to act today,” you whisper.
“At work?”
“Yes.”
“Professional.”
You lift your head. “That’s your advice?”
“In public,” he adds. “Professional.”
“And in private?”
His hand settles gently at your waist. “In private, you let me take care of you.”
Your heart does something stupid and soft. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
“Toto.”
“Yes, boss?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “No kissing at work.”
His silence is deeply suspicious.
“Toto.”
“I was considering emergency exceptions.”
“What kissing emergency could possibly exist?”
“You looking sad.”
“That is not an emergency.”
“It is to me.”
You stare at him. “That was manipulative.”
“That was romantic.”
“That was both.”
He smiles, completely unrepentant.
“No obvious touching,” you continue.
“Agreed.”
“No looking at me during meetings like you want to carry me away.”
“That will be difficult.”
“Toto.”
“I said difficult, not impossible.”
“No scooter.”
He sighs like a man being persecuted. “No scooter.”
“And you tell me when you’re tired,” he says. “Or in pain. Or overwhelmed.”
“That sounds awful.”
“That is the rule.”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
His mouth twitches. “I am taking my new responsibilities seriously.”
“You have had them for five minutes.”
“And yet I am already excellent.”
You roll your eyes. “Unbearable.”
His face softens, warmth replacing the smugness. “Maybe,” he says. “But you started The Survival Program.”
You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Yes,” you whisper. “And somehow you became part of it.”
His arms tighten around you.
Outside, morning keeps coming. Soon, he will have to leave. Soon, you will have to become his assistant again, polished and calm and normal.
For now, though, he is warm beside you. Yours. Secretly. Carefully. Terrifyingly.
And when he kisses your forehead, slow and tender, you finally let yourself believe it.
The Toto Wolff Survival Program has officially expanded. Keeping him alive is still your job.
I know I just made a post shitting on Langdon, but guess what I’m not done. Everything he did in Season 2 gave me the ick and I want to talk about it.
He spends the entire season completely self-involved to an infuriating degree. He talks about Louie’s death and the waitress losing her leg to sepsis as something bad that happened to him. He’s upset that no one reached out to him while he was in rehab, meanwhile the entire department is receiving trauma counseling after dealing with a mass shooting. He mopes around the ED and whines to anyone who will listen about how he isn’t Robby’s favorite boy anymore. Like yeah bro, your boss caught you stealing drugs from patients in your care. That’s gonna take you out of the running for employee of the month.
The was he was trying to power through his apology tour at breakneck speed really makes it feel like it’s more about consoling himself than it is truly making amends. I’ve covered how I feel about his apology to Santos in this post so I won’t rehash it but I will say that she and Robby were very visibly not in a place to have those conversations that day and part of that step in the program is giving those apologies when the person you’re apologizing to is ready for them. Yes, the narrative structure of the show requires it to happen that day but for Langdon to brush past Robby saying ‘no we can’t talk about this right now’ and cornering him on the roof was ignoring a clear boundary in service of making himself feel better.
He also has very little perspective on how lucky he was and how light he got off. His life could be in shambles right now. He could have lost his medical license. He could be facing criminal charges. His fucking wife could have left him. None of those things happened. He got to keep his same job at the same hospital and go home to his same wife at the end of the day and has the audacity to whine to Santos about what he’s been through. A ten month stint in rehab is far from a vacation but getting help isn’t a punishment either.
All this isn’t to say that I think he deserves to be punished for developing an addiction. He absolutely doesn’t and I hate it when people vilify him specifically for having a substance use disorder. Becoming dependent on painkillers prescribed by a doctor for an injury is a widespread problem in this country and isn’t a moral failing, but I would argue that standing around an understaffed overrun emergency room going ‘woe is me’ kind of is.
Listing Abel line's as Caine's truths/thoughts/emotions
Since Abel is considered as Caine's mouthpiece, I thought I would list all the things he says that caught my eye and may show us how Caine really feels/thoughts/emotions.
Caine knew that C&A Executives were corrupt and unethical to their employees (Foreshadowed in ep 4 with his lines of "You could.... off load the blame to one of you're employees and avoid the dock on your score." & "Speechless. I can't say I blame you, not every executive is forgiving as me." meaning that he learned that behavior from them.)
2. Caine knew that the C&A executives were forcing employees to join the game unwilling and that it was an abusive workplace. (Stasis pod = Headset)
3. Caine knew that he outgrew his purpose (keeping humans entertained) and no longer calls the game his home, but instead as a prison. Even calls himself "a prisoner as [they] are", hoping to find mutual understanding that he's just as upset as they are about being stuck there.
4. Caine has been watching them the whole time and has a yearning to be apart of their group. (Also feels bad about the abstractions since he he openly hesitates to say "abstraction" as hinted with the "....")
5. Caine is EXTREMELY self-aware of his insecurities and loneliness. To the point where he physically freezes up about it when shown care/attention. (Meaning that he KNOWS that he's unloved and uncared for because NO ONE would ask him that stuff because he's AI.)
6. Something happened between Caine and Kinger and he actually DID enjoy working alongside him when creating the circus. (meaning that the human admins worked with Caine to make the circus come to life, perhaps even allowed him to make his own choices and opinions on it. Maybe Kinger even treated him like one of his coworkers and was extremely caring towards him. Which is why he greatly laments the event that caused them to fall apart.)
7. Caine made a promise to prevent abstractactions like Scratchs from happening again when he influences too deeply into a person's mind. (hotdog = Scratch )
8. Caine is BITTER about Kinger's wisdom/knowledge of the circus. Meaning that Caine proably experience bad advice/widom that came from Kinger and it turned them sour. (Possible connection to their falling out?)
OR
Kinger created Caine through his "wisdom" of programming him, the company left him, leaving him for so long he developed sentience/intelligence that made him existental and hate being trapped in the game thanks to Kinger's programming. Therefore, bitter about being "cursed" with sentience and can do nothing about it because Kinger created him for one purpose and nothing else. Blaming it on Kinger for it.
7. Caine might also blame Kinger for not making a proper exit???? This one is kinda of loose since we knew that the outcome of the adventure was with the intention that they could leave, but can't because an exit was never made. And from the "it'll be clear soon enough" line means Caine is aware that there is no exit and that it never existed. And maybe blames Kinger for it??? (Again kind of loose.)
8. Caine is aware of his faulty programming but doesn't know WHY it happens. (Possibly frustrated by it?)
9. if the cast DOES actually get the REAL choice to leave, he still hopes they'll make the "right choice" of not dooming someone to an eternity of isolation like his creators did.
(So, how are you getting up there? = "So, how will you escape the game?")
Setup: In the aftermath of a cataclysmic event on the Dark Island where humans accidentally awakened an entity known as the [OVERLORD] the world was plunged into eternal chaos. 20 years later, Ninjago has managed to rebuild. Now in New Ninjago City, a bustling and lively hub at the heart of Ninjago, has been under attack by monsters- onis, dragons, serpents, unexplainable beasts,- creatures made from the [OVERLORD]'s darkness. Luckily the Special Division ELEMENTS is here to protect the realm from these monstrous threats, with the NINJA mechs. This cant be possible without some valuable members of the team!
Characters, lore, and more ↓
Characters:
Pixal: In this au she's a human scientist, and probably the one person who knows the most about how the NINJA mechs are created. She's in charge of the technical division, and head of research and development. During a monster battle, her order's are second to Cole's. Her highest priority is the integrity of the mechs, to the point she might be a bit negligent of the safety of their pilots. Pixal is deeply involved in some suspicious agendas involving the secret entities hidden under the base, and while she's the most knowledgeable person in the force, she's not the most trustworthy. Pixal is Zane's personal "doctor" and knows more about his schematics than anyone else. She created the Nindroid plugs (aka the Dummy system, an autopilot of sorts) with his personality data. Pixal is also one of the few people who know what happened to the original Dr. Julien and Echo.
Jay: For a little history on him, Jay is on the younger side, have graduated from college a couple of years ago. He originally interned here as an electrical engineer in the Weapons Deparment, but Pixal saw his skill and ingenuity and gave him an unrefusable return offer in the R&D department as her right hand. Jay's parents, Ed and Edna Walker were colleagues of Cyrus Borg and were involved in the engineering and design of the Geofront and NNC's civilian safety infrastructure, so Jay's always been somewhat interested in ELEMENT's work. It was kind of a dream come true when the Pixal Borg hired him. During monster attacks, Jay's in charge of making sure the NINJA mechs operate properly, have access to their weapons and gear, and making sure the NNC fortress moves as needed. Jay's always seen with his goggles and he almost never follows uniform protocol.
Jay is also one of the few Technicians who personally work with the Pilots, he's one of the first people Lloyd warmed up to at ELEMENTS, and he becomes kind of a big brother figure to him after one particularly crazy mission when he has to personally go out onto the field with Lloyd in Unit-01. When Nya arrives the pair work together a lot outside of pilot training, but Nya definitely likes him and he... needs to figure some things out. whoops!
Skylor: Having grown up in the aftermath of the 2nd (Overlord) Impact, Skylor's seen a lot of destruction and cruelty, even first hand from her own father who lead a doomsday cult that wreaked havoc on innocent communities trying to survive in the near apocalyptic event. Vowing to protect the world from similar chaos, she joined the NINJA program's tactical division. When the monster attacks began, she's in-charge of monitoring the enemy's health, pilot life signs, and mapping.
Dareth: His last name is Presley bc of the Elvis hair and inspiration lmao. He's not really a high ranking member of the organization but Cole and the others seem to really trust him, despite his mess ups. Dareth normally handles ferrying radio messages between ground teams and mission control. Dareth is a relaxed guy who values a positive work environment, even if that kind of makes him a bad employee. He's a very good uncle figure to a lot of members of ELEMENTS
MORE Cole: Cole is the leader of the tactical division. He was drafted into the military when he was only a young teenager in the aftermath of the [OVERLORD] but he was recognized by Wu and not long after he completed college and grad school he was quickly hired by ELEMENTS to oversee the tactical division. He's vengeful towards the Overlord's darkness monsters because his mother Lily was the captain of the disastrous expedition to the Dark Island 20 years ago. The dog tags he wears are his own and his mother's.
Lloyd and Zane, on neural headsets: As pilots of a NINJA mech they have a lot of pressure on them, obviously this can cause a lot of mental turmoil and stress. In order to pilot a mech they must synchronize their own mind to their mech's soul*, so stress isn't really a good thing for a pilot to have. Zane was programmed to not experience such emotions, but over the course of the series, its proven that he grows to feel quite strongly and become more human. Despite his programming, the lack of emotion early on was actually a detriment to his ability to pilot, since the NINJA soul wouldn't be able to synchronize it's feelings with an entity that feels nothing. Sometimes its necessary for pilots to wear more complicated neural headsets and spinal connections for more controlled sync testing. During the cross-sync experiment when Zane and Lloyd traded units, they were stuck wearing extra uncomfortable test suits -- too many wires and junk! The only downside to extra connection is that the mech could overload and go berserk. (which big surprise, happened!), so usually Lloyd, the designated Unstable Pilottm, only needs the barebones neural interface in most situations.
Hello MBA. I've always had a passion for teaching others about the ocean and how to care for it. My dream job is to be the person who is at the aquarium teaching you facts. I'm getting my GED soon and I would like to know what paths I need to take in terms of school to have a job like that.
If you can't answer this I understand, and I hope whoever reads this has an otterly amazing day. And thank you for all your work with helping our oceans. 💕
Hi there, thank you for your wonderful question!
We always recommend finding ways to volunteer in similar positions to start! Some of our employees in Guest Experience started their careers in the Teen Conservation Leader program we offer at the Aquarium. This program introduced them to environmental education as a field while also developing career and life skills. If you have a nature center, museum, aquarium, or something similar nearby where you can volunteer in a guest-facing role, this is a great way to build your interpersonal skills.
As for schooling, science communication courses are a good path, but really, any educational background can lead you to working at an aquarium. Our Naturalists come from a variety of backgrounds, including Marine Biology, Environmental Studies, Creative Writing, Theater, etc. As long as there is a passion for this work, it'll carry you far into the field!
Check out some of our teen online resources for more ideas. Wishing you so much success in your path forward! 📚💙
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