#because he is a goddamn pilot

[taleofdaringdo]

You know what, Tommy will be alright.

Tommy will go home and sit in the darkness of his living room and stare at nothing for a while. Tommy will hold back his tears and feel numb for a while.

And then Tommy will drag his ass to the 217 again in the morning. Tommy may not fly helicopters for a while for being too sleep deprived in despair, but eventually he will fly again. Tommy will touch the sky again.

Tommy will eventually start enjoying Muay Thai again even if it is without his new best friend. It will hurt for a while to not have a partner anymore but he will enjoy it again.

Tommy will also start going to basketball court again, fly to Vegas to watch sold out fights. Tommy will still have those friends who give him those tickets. Tommy will still have his coworkers who will probably see him sitting alone without his boyfriend and invite him to hangout.

Tommy will still have those bars he frequents to and waiters there who eventually started caring about their older gay patron who seems a little sad lately.

Tommy will eventually meet someone, or several someones who he will call his family. Tommy will eventually find people who don't give up on him the moment he runs, but chases behind him to bring him back.

Tommy will eventually see the clouds of fear, fear of being left alone fade away slowly. Tommy will eventually smile again. And he will pick himself up and dust himself and be upright like he has done thousands of times already. But Tommy will eventually feel a little brighter and lighter.

Tommy had breakups before. Tommy will have breakups again. But it will not break him.

Thomas Kinard, Firefighter Pilot, Muay Thai enthusiast, will be alright.

His heart may be a little more charred, a little more scarred, but it will still be whole. It may take a little while, but he will get there eventually like he always does. And this time he will get there the way he deserves to be.

[ridingtorohan]

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

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Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

[the-promise-has-been-made]

Now all these emails are popping up from years ago by people going like 'hey this submersible is a deathtrap, it's a disater waiting to happen holy shit please no one go in that thing' and the company literally firing and sueing people for raising concerns about the safety of the sub, I just imagine all these people that wrote these emails or that were fired for speaking up sitting there during the search efforts and subsequent reveal that it had imploded like

[keferon]

I had the realization that during the whole "Soundwave takes control of all the pilots/Mechs" thing. The only pairing so far that'd be completely unaffected is Ratchet and Deadlock. Because Ratchet is just straight up not a pilot, just a medic/engineer. Which is weirdly funny to me. Ratchet's gonna end up being the MVP of the human characters in that arc because he's the only one not mind controlled.

Quick note, Shockwave is the one who takes control, not Soundwave.

AND HAHA. YEP. Ratchet would probably be the one who has to figure out the whole situation because he’s immune to Shockwaves mind control and has pretty much enough degrees👍

Also yeah Shockwave probably wouldn’t be able to control Deadlock I imagine (unless he somehow in advance discovered that Deadlock exists and came up with the way to control him to).

Maybe it is for the better that Deadlock is immune. I still remember that his canon metod of fighting mind control is to attempt a fucking suicide.

Can you imagine what kind of epic entrance these two would make? Ahahah its just. Oh no the whole base is under Shockwaves control, all pilots are his puppets now and all regular staff is freaking the fuck out but then. BANG. Ratchet shows up. And everyone is like. We are SO GLAD to see you granpa but you probably shouldn’t have come here, it’s too dangerous. But Ratchet is like it’s okay I got a backup, and then his goddamn car turns into giant and very angry alien igigkhkhhk

[tsunodaradio]

unless you call tonight ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 lando falls for a busy woman and it ruins his life.

♫ starring: lando norris x pilot!reader. ♫ word count: 4.3k. ♫ includes: romance. suggestive content/off-screen smut, profanity. friends with benefits. @norrisradio requested busy woman by sabrina carpenter. ♫ commentary box: unfortunately, i will never be normal about anything tara asks of me. ever. all my lando's are hers and this is proof. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Lando stares at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. The chat is open— your name at the top, a string of texts below. Nothing crazy, just a couple of messages exchanged over the past few weeks. Enough to keep the line open but not enough to call it anything solid.

He exhales sharply and locks his phone again, as if that will stop him from thinking about you. Spoiler alert: It doesn’t.

He unlocks his phone. Reopens the conversation. Scrolls up, reading over the last thing you sent. Been up since four. Dead on my feet. Talk soon. 

That was two days ago.

Lando flops back onto the hotel bed with a huff. He should text you. It’s not like you’d ignore him. Every time he’s reached out, you’ve answered, even if it’s just a short reply before you’re off somewhere again. 

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? 

He already knows how this will go. You’ll take hours to reply, if you reply at all. Not because you’re uninterested— at least, he hopes not— but because you’re busy. 

You live in the sky, chasing time zones while he chases apexes. He doesn’t even know where in the world you are right now.

You’d met briefly. One of those moments that should’ve been forgettable but wasn’t. He was waiting for his flight, slouched in an airport lounge, when you walked past in uniform, checking your watch. Someone had called your name, and you’d turned just enough for him to catch the hint of a smile. 

He knew, then and there, that he had to at least try. 

“Give me your number,” he had said, leaning against the airport counter, all charm and easy confidence. “So I can let you know when I land safely.”

You had laughed, shaking your head as you tapped your name and number into his phone. “Is that your way of saying you get nervous on flights?”

“No,” he’d grinned, locking the contact in. “It’s my way of making sure I see you again.”

“Don’t be boring,” you warned before handing him off to be handled by some attendant who had probably tried to flirt with him. He couldn’t be sure; he was so caught up with you that he couldn’t see past it.

Lando had planned on being anything but boring. And yet, here he is, stuck in his own head.

He drags a hand down his face, annoyed at himself, at the situation, at you for being so goddamn unavailable. Not in the emotional way. No, that would be easier. But in the literal, physical sense. 

It’s ironic, really. He’s the one in a different country every weekend, but somehow, you’re still the one he can’t seem to pin down.

Maybe that’s what makes this feel different. He’s used to things being easy, casual, within reach. 

You slip through his fingers before he can decide what to do with you.

He types out a message. u free?

Then he deletes it. 

Tries a different approach. what country are u in now? 

Lando deletes that, too. 

His fingers dance across the screen as he jams out yet another thing he won’t send, typed out with the belief that simply putting it out into the world might suffice. 

i miss being inside u, he types, and then he backspaces until it’s just i miss u, and then he just trashes the whole thing all together. 

Lando rests his phone on his chest.

And waits. What for, he’s not sure.  

It’s not like he’s asking for much. A conversation. A distraction. A sign that you might be thinking about him, too.

With a sigh, he locks his phone and sets it aside. 

Not tonight. 

The first time you slept together, Lando hadn’t really thought about what came after.

You’d been in the same city by coincidence. One of your flights aligning with his race weekend, just by sheer luck. The two of you had figured that out quickly enough, and from there, it had been easy.

A drink, a conversation that flowed too smoothly, a brush of your fingers against his when you took his empty glass from him. By the time you were both back at his hotel, neither of you had pretended it was anything but inevitable.

Lando had been more than happy to take his time with you, to let things build and stretch into the early hours of the morning. And, fuck, it had been good. 

You were the kind of person who made everything feel easy, like you’d known each other longer than just the past handful of hours. Like you’d done this before, even though you hadn’t.

So he’d fallen asleep next to you, pleasantly exhausted, fully expecting to wake up to a warm body curled into his.

Instead, he had woken up to the rustling of sheets and the quiet clink of a zipper.

Blinking through his sleep-heavy haze, he had turned over to see you by the foot of the bed, pulling on your jacket. Your bag was already slung over one shoulder, your phone in your free hand. The bedside clock read something ridiculous— barely past five in the morning.

Lando frowned. “You’re leaving?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Right now?”

You huffed a laugh and adjusted the strap of your bag. “That’s usually how flights work, yeah,” you had shot back. 

He narrowed his eyes at you, still groggy, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you were actually about to walk out the door like this. “So you’re just gonna disappear before the sun’s even up?”

“I’m not disappearing,” you corrected, “I’m saying goodbye.”

Lando scoffed, unimpressed with the technicality. “Right.”

A brief pause settled between you. He could still see the soft marks of his fingertips on your skin, the messy imprint of the night before. He thought, just for a second, that maybe you’d hesitate. That maybe you’d crawl back into bed, let the morning stretch a little longer.

But you just smiled instead, already halfway to the door. “Good luck on your race.”

And with that, you were gone.

Lando sat there for a long moment, listening to the faint click of the door shutting behind you.

He wasn’t used to being left behind. 

He had finished on the podium that race. Everybody talked about his car, about strategy, but he knew he’d been fueled by spite and the glorious afterglow of a good fuck. 

A part of him had wanted to reach out and ask if you’d seen him win. He didn’t, of course. He liked to think he had some dignity. 

Tonight, though, Lando is convinced that all of his dignity will be damned.

He steps out of the bar, the night air cool against his flushed skin. The noise from inside spills onto the street— laughter, the bassline of some song he should probably recognize, the occasional burst of applause from a group in the corner. He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders as he leans back against the brick wall, phone in hand.

He shouldn’t be checking his phone. Shouldn’t be waiting for anything.

But he is.

He flicks his thumb over the screen, unlocking it for the tenth time in as many minutes. No notifications. No messages.

No messages from you.

His jaw tightens. He shoves his free hand into his pocket, tilting his head back against the wall. It’s stupid. You have a life, a job that doesn’t leave you glued to your phone, a schedule that barely aligns with his. But it doesn’t stop the frustration from simmering under his skin.

Then, as if the Universe is sick and tired of his moping, his phone vibrates.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ You good?

Lando exhales through his nose, half in disbelief, half in relief. He should let you wait, make you sit in silence the way he had. But he doesn’t. His fingers move before he can think better of it.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i was starting to think you forgot about me

The dots appear immediately.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Don’t be dramatic. Long flights, long days.

He runs his tongue over his teeth. Yeah, he knows. Doesn’t mean he likes it.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ am i so easy to ignore, hm??

A bit too honest. But he lets it sit.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Poor baby. Want a kiss to make things better?

A sharp laugh escapes Lando. He glances back toward the bar, but the thought of going back in— of pretending he’s not the happiest he’s been in days— feels unappealing.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ ure lucky i’m a forgiving man from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Oh, are you? to: little ms. pilot ✈️ wouldn’t be texting u rn if i weren’t from: little ms. pilot ✈️ And here I thought I was doing you a favor.

Lando scoffs, rolling his eyes at his screen.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ by what? keeping me on my toes? from: little ms. pilot ✈️ By giving you something to look forward to.

He shakes his head. You’re good— he’ll give you that.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ u make it sound like u’re doing charity work from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Aren’t I?

Lando’s stomach tightens at the way you always manage to flip things back on him, like you’re the one indulging him instead of the other way around.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ u r a menace from: little ms. pilot ✈️ You like it.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over the keyboard as he exhales, glancing back toward the bar. He should go inside, forget about this conversation before it pulls him in deeper.

Instead, he types:

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i like a lot of things about u :)

A beat.

The dots appear. Disappear.

Reappear.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Careful, Norris. Sounds like dangerous territory.

He smirks. Gotcha.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ only if u make it out to be

No immediate reply this time. He waits for a second, then two, before locking his phone and shoving it back into his pocket. If you want to keep playing this game, fine.

But he won’t be the only one chasing.

Lando sees your name light up his phone, and for the first time in a long time, he considers not answering.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. The problem is that he does—badly. He wants to see you, wants to hear that teasing lilt in your voice when you make some offhand remark that he’ll spend hours thinking about later.

The phone buzzes again.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Layover in your city. Few hours to spare. Busy?

He stares at the screen, jaw ticking with impatience.

This is the moment where he should say no. He should have some fucking dignity, tell you he’s got better things to do than be at your beck and call.

But he doesn’t. 

Because Lando’s never been good at resisting things that feel good in the moment, and right now, there’s nothing he wants more than you.

He barely remembers the drive over, only that his knee bounced the whole way, his mind running in circles around the same thought: He should’ve said no.

When you open the door, it’s as good as over for him.

You're fresh out of the shower, hair damp, hotel robe tied loosely around your waist. You smirk when you see him, leaning against the doorframe like you already know he was coming the second you hit send.

Lando tongues the inside of his cheek. “You’re trouble.”

“And yet you’re here.”

You step back, letting him inside. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the two of you in. He watches as you cross the room, and there’s a fleeting moment where he wonders if this will be the time it finally breaks him. If this will be the time he won’t be able to pick himself back up when you leave.

Then you tug him forward by the front of his hoodie, pulling him into a kiss, and he stops thinking altogether.

Lando’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer as if he’s trying to ground himself in the moment. His fingers press into the soft fabric of your robe, but it’s not enough. He’s desperate for more, for the feeling of your skin against his, the way you always seem to make him forget about everything else.

You laugh softly against his lips, a teasing sound that vibrates through him, and for a second, he thinks maybe you can hear the way his heart is pounding.

“Impatient,” you murmur, your voice low and smooth, as your hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath.

“You started it,” Lando replies, his voice rougher than he intended, his breath hitching when your fingers graze his chest.

You grin at him, and he can’t help but mirror the expression, even as he watches you slowly step back, eyes flicking between his and the space between you. It’s like you’re daring him to follow, to push this further— and God, does he want to.

Before he can take another step toward you, you pause, looking at him with a glint in your eye that makes him hesitate for a moment. “You’re sure you want this? You know how this goes, Norris.”

His throat closes up. 

There’s that voice again, the one that whispers that he’s being a fool, that he’s walking right into the same trap he always does. The same trap you’ve set so many times before, and he’s willingly fallen for it each and every time.

“I’m not going to regret it,” he says, the words tumbling out more firmly than he feels.

His eyes are locked on yours, searching for any sign that you’re not on the same page. But you don’t look away. You’re not pulling back. You’re watching him with an intensity that almost feels like you’ve already made up your mind.

You nod, slow and deliberate, and then you’re moving toward him again, your lips meeting his in a searing kiss that makes his whole body hum.

There’s no talking after that. No hesitation.

The next thing he knows, he’s pulling at the knot of your robe, hands shaking as he exposes more of your skin, his mouth following the trail of fire you leave across his chest. You tug at his hoodie, almost impatient in the way you’re stripping him down, until he’s left standing in front of you in nothing but his jeans and the fast-fading remnants of his composure.

At this point, Lando’s not sure it matters. Not with you this close, not with your hands tracing the lines of his body, not with the heat between you building to a point where it feels like he can’t breathe without you.

And when you pull him into another kiss, your lips just as desperate as his own, it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s no more thinking, no more wondering. Just the feeling of you, here, with him.

Lando doesn’t think about tomorrow. Doesn’t think about the empty space he’ll wake up to or the way he’ll check his phone, hoping— pathetically— for a message that won’t be there.

For now, all that matters is the way your breath stutters when he kisses down your neck, the way your hands press against his skin like you need him just as badly.

For now, he lets himself believe that you do.

Patience has never been his strong suit, and he sure as hell doesn’t have any left when it comes to you. It’s been— what? Two weeks? Maybe three? Since the last time he saw you, since you last texted, since he last even felt like he existed in your world.

And fine, he gets it. You have a life. You have a job that keeps you moving, that pulls you across time zones and continents with no regard for whatever flimsy thing the two of you have going on.

But it’s starting to get to him.

He’s been staring at his phone for the past twenty minutes, scrolling through old texts, checking to see if maybe you had responded and he somehow missed it. (He hasn’t. You haven’t.)

Before he can talk himself out of it, he taps on your contact and hits FaceTime.

It rings. Once, twice— he’s already regretting it.

Then, you pick up.

You’re in some dimly lit hotel room, the glow from your laptop screen casting soft shadows over your face. You look tired. You blink at him like you weren’t expecting the call.

“Lando?” Your voice is thick with exhaustion.

“Hey,” he says, gripping the edge of his couch. He hadn’t exactly planned what he was going to say— just that he needed to see you, to hear your voice, to remind himself that he still exists to you. “Where are you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your temple. “Singapore. Just got in a couple of hours ago.”

He bites back the urge to apologize. Singapore. The other side of the world. Not that it should matter. Not that it ever has.

“You could’ve texted,” he says, and it comes out rougher than he means it to.

You frown. “I’ve been working.”

“For two weeks?”

You hesitate. It’s brief, but he catches it. “I meant to,” you say eventually. “I just— Lando, come on.”

“No, seriously,” he pushes, his grip tightening on his phone. “Do you even think about me when you’re gone?”

Your brows furrow. “Of course I do.”

“Yeah? Then why does it feel like I don’t exist as soon as you leave?”

That gives you pause. You glance away, like you’re searching for the right words. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Lando laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You could start with the truth.”

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter. “Lando…” There’s something warning in your tone.

He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

A beat of silence stretches between you before you finally sigh. “I thought we were on the same page about this.”

There it is. The thing he didn’t want to hear, the thing he’s been trying to pretend doesn’t exist.

You’re not in a relationship.

You’ve made that clear from the beginning, in the way you never linger too long, in the way you leave before the sheets even cool, in the way you go weeks without speaking to him like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

But it’s not easy for him.

Lando swallows hard, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah,” he says. “We are.”

And then, because he can’t help himself, because frustration is curling hot and tight in his chest, because he wants you to hurt the way he does, he adds, “Must be nice, though.”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

“Not having to think about anyone but yourself.”

Your expression shifts instantly. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, it must be convenient,” he continues, his tone sharp. “Keeping me on standby for when it suits you, for when you’re not busy. Must be nice to just disappear whenever you want and not have to deal with the mess you leave behind.”

Your lips part slightly, disbelief flickering across your features. Then, just as quickly, your face hardens.

“Lando,” you say, voice steady, firm. “I’m not doing this with you.”

His jaw clenches. “Doing what?”

“This,” you snap. “Whatever this little tantrum is.”

Lando opens his mouth, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You don’t get to act like I’ve done something wrong just because I don’t orbit around you,” you say, and your words cut deep. “I told you what this was from the beginning. If you thought it was something else, that’s on you.”

He flinches, but you’re not done.

“And before you ask— no, I don’t have a flight to catch.” Your voice is like ice now. “I’m ending this call because I don’t feel like listening to your bullshit. I’m too busy for it.”

And then, just like that, his screen goes dark.

TWO DAYS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ yo

FIVE DAYS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ look, i was an ass. i know that just... idk. lmk if i can make it up to u or something

ONE WEEK LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ u still mad? tbf i’d probably still be mad

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ sooo does that mean i shd wait longer before texting again

TEN DAYS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ ok i’ve done some thinking. i’ve concluded i deserve to be ignored, but also i don’t like being ignored

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i feel like i shd at least get points for self-awareness

TWELVE DAYS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ just tell me u hate me so i can sleep at night

TWO WEEKS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ alright. u win. won’t bother u anymore

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ unless u text first. then it’s fair game.

ONE MONTH LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ saw a plane today and thought of u

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i feel like that should earn me AT LEAST a pity response

Lando tells himself he’s fine.

He throws himself into racing, into training, into anything that doesn’t involve picking up his phone and staring at a dead chat. He convinces himself that it’s better this way. He’s faster on track, more focused in meetings, less distracted.

At least, that’s the lie he repeats to himself.

But then, one afternoon in Monaco, he sees you at the grocery store. Every carefully constructed wall he’s built around himself crumbles in an instant.

You’re standing by the produce section, inspecting a bunch of grapes like they hold the answers to the universe. It’s almost laughably ordinary— no pilot uniform, no layover rush, just you in a sundress, vacationing like a normal person. 

And for some reason, that stings.

He almost walks past you, pretends he hasn’t seen you. But then you turn, eyes meeting his, and there’s no escaping it now.

“Lando,” you say, like you’re surprised to see him. Which is ridiculous, because this is his city. His home.

He swallows hard, nodding. “Hey.”

An awkward pause stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the store’s music and the distant chatter of other shoppers. Lando clears his throat, gripping the handle of his basket like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Didn’t know you were in Monaco.”

“I’m just here for a bit,” you say. “Taking some time off.”

“Right.” He lets out a breathy chuckle. “Guess you’ve been too busy to take a vacation before now.”

The words come out sharper than he intends. Your eyes narrow, just slightly. “That’s not fair.”

He wants to argue, to remind you of all the unanswered messages, of how he felt like a complete idiot waiting for a reply that never came. But what would be the point? You’ve made it clear before that this was never anything serious. That he wasn’t supposed to care like this.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “Maybe it’s not.”

Silence again. Then, you shift your basket higher on your arm. “I should go.”

Lando nods, watching as you turn on your heel and head for the checkout. That should be it. That should be the end of it.

But suddenly, he’s moving.

He doesn’t even think about it, just grabs the first bouquet of supermarket flowers he sees, throws some cash at the self-checkout, and jogs out the door after you.

You’re halfway down the street when he catches up. “Hey— wait.”

You pause, glancing at him over your shoulder. He’s out of breath, which is embarrassing, considering he’s a professional athlete. He thrusts the slightly-crumpled bouquet toward you.

“Are you busy today?”

You blink, staring at the flowers like they might explode. “Lando…”

“I just— I don’t know,” he rushes out. “If you’ve got time, maybe we could—” He hesitates. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking. To talk? To fix things? To ruin himself all over again?

You exhale softly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. He watches you carefully, desperately, like a man on the edge of a decision he has no power over.

Lando lets out a breath, his grip tightening around the plastic-wrapped stems in his hands. “Look, I know I was out of line that night. And I know I’ve been acting like— like I don’t get what this is. But the thing is, I don’t think I know how to be casual about you.

“I’ve tried, and I’m fucking terrible at it. I want more, and I know that’s not what we do, but—” He shakes his head, his jaw working, like the words aren’t coming out right.

A passing car honks in the distance. The world moves on as if this isn’t the biggest thing happening in his universe.

“But I like you,” he says finally, voice quiet but firm. “I like you more than I should. And I know you’re busy, I know your job takes you everywhere, and maybe that means this doesn’t work. But if there’s even a small chance that it could—” 

He looks at you like he’s never wanted anything more. “Just tell me if I should stop.”

Your lips press together, and for a long moment, you say nothing. Lando’s heart beats in his throat. He braces himself for rejection, for you to tell him this was a mistake, for you to hand the flowers back and walk away.

Instead, you take the bouquet from his hands, inspecting it like you’ve never seen supermarket daisies before. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, small but real, and you shake your head just a little before looking up at him.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur.

Lando’s stomach twists. “I know.”

You step closer, lifting onto the balls of your feet to press a kiss to his cheek. His skin burns where your lips touch, and he barely has time to register the warmth before you pull back, meeting his eyes.

“I might be busy,” you say, holding the flowers loosely in your hands. “But I think I have a little bit of time for you today.”

He’ll take it, he decides. 

Today, tonight, tomorrow— for however long you’ll have him. ⛐

[phddyke]

Hazbin Hotel is actually healing my inner ex-Christian so hard.

No joke, I nearly started cheering when Lute called Charlie and Vaggie’s love “vile and blasphemous” (and then burst out laughing when Adam immediately followed it up with “Hot as fuck though”). I know that may sound weird considering that I am, in fact, a lesbian, but here me out:

Seeing Christians being explicitly homophobic onscreen? It validates me. It makes me think “Oh yeah, I’m not crazy, Christians are that hateful!” And, call me crazy, but I think homophobia being tied in with villainy is a good thing. Neither Adam or Lute are supposed to be good people; they are very obviously the villain, and that establishes their behavior as bad. Someone on Twitter said that Lute gave them religious fanatic vibes and I couldn’t agree more.

And here’s the thing, too: it’s explicit homophobia, not some dumb metaphor. There’s no way to take it as anything else. And I really need that. I need to see Christians being explicitly homophobic onscreen in the same way that other people need and create worlds where homophobia doesn’t exist.

But me? I want my pain and suffering acknowledged. I want the harm that Christianity does acknowledged. Homophobia is real and the religious kind doubly so. I related to Vaggie so much in that episode; I felt her trepidation about going back to Heaven. Felt like a good metaphor for escaping a fundamentalist church only to be forced to visit again.

And Viv is not afraid to explicitly point this out and criticize them. Like, yes! Say it! They are hypocrites! They don’t care about people being better, they only care about punishment! They maimed one of their own and left her to die because she spared a child! They’re homophobic freaks! They would never see the good that Angel does and how he’s improved and is wonderful, they only see that he’s a drug addict and a sex worker and think he’s worthless for that even though Jesus broke bread with sex workers and people considered the dregs of society. (And of course Angel is gay on top of that.)

And another thing: not only did the Adam line make me laugh, but the second homophobic Lute line about “he blew his shot like the cocks in his mouth” cracked me up too. It reminded me of the pilot where Katie Killjoy said “I don’t touch the gays” to Charlie, which is a line that made me laugh for 4+ years straight. When I told my brother that was the funniest homophobia I’d ever heard in media, he very wisely said, “All homophobia is funny if you think about it.” And you know what? He’s right. It is funny, because it’s so fundamentally goddamn stupid, so let’s give characters ridiculous lines so everyone can laugh at how idiotic they and their beliefs sound.

[revelboo]

Just wanted to drop in and say I’ve been absolutely in love with your ‘A lifeless ordinary’ and ‘Give Up/Give’ series, like they’re sooo—- delicious?? Like I want to eat them both, or put it in a blender and drink it. Im not good with my words, but just know I appreciate you and your works, which also includes ‘Everything Is Alright”, CAUSE GODDAMN I LOVE IT ALLLLLLL.

Make sure to not burn yourself out as well, we all love you. <<<333333

Y’all are too sweet

A Lifeless Ordinary Pt 22

Scavengers x Reader

• Uncomfortably aware that apparently the fact that you didn’t shut down Misfire’s attempts to convince Spinister to share you have gotten around to all of the Scavengers, you’re not sure what to make of the extra, overwhelming attention. Especially from Crankcase and Misfire. Almost positive that Misfire at least sees you as a conquest of the ‘fragged an alien’ variety, something he can check off a bucket list. Crankcase, you haven’t been able to figure out why he’s interested, though it could just be curiosity. Fulcrum can’t seem to meet your eyes now, too mortified that he’d seen Spinister and you going at it like bunnies. And since Spin gets distracted easily, he’s not the best protector to hide you from Misfire. “Did you know Seekers can frag in the air?” Misfire asks, flashing his denta at you. “It’s a rush especially in a free fall.”

• And you just stare up at him, face getting redder. Wings flaring out slightly to show them off he reaches to slide a servo against your arm. Imagining being inside you, spike stroking urgently as you wrap around him, clinging to him and counting on him to fly for both of you. To watch over you and have you. “I mean that’s the ultimate show of trust for Seekers,” he adds when you’re silent and his servo slides to your thigh remembering the sound of you and Spin rutting. How many times has he laid on his berth and stroked his spike imagining the sounds you’d made? Do you even understand what he’s offering? Not just sex, but a mating. A mate.

• What are you supposed to say to that? “I don’t really like heights,” you manage, flustered when his servo runs over your knee and tries to slide between your thighs and then you’re up, darting across the console to Krok and safety. Hear Crankcase laughing as you flee and Misfire growling something at him, sounding annoyed. How’d you end up in this situation? Spin is sweet even though most of the time he’s a bit confused, but you’ve seen him laser focused and coherent when asked something medical related. Hadn’t really meant to end up in a relationship with him, though. If it’s even that. You have no idea what you are to the medic. Had he just been horny? You’re pretty sure Misfire is. Sitting near Krok’s hand as he pilots the ship, you groan and hide your face in your hands. Maybe you should just cave and sleep with all of them so they’ll chill out some? Because you’re painfully aware of this new, awkward tension among everyone. Know they all have to feel it, too. Except your sweet, oblivious dummy.

• Leaning an elbow on Misfire’s end of the console, Crankcase flicks one of his wings. “What? You going to sulk because your patented charm didn’t work?” Because watching him get shot down when he’d been so confident he’d be the next to claim you is hysterical. And his buddy scowls up at him, wings flicking. “Seekers frag flying,” he teases and Misfire hissed softly through his denta in warning as his servos flex and curl into fists. “I mean, come on. That was just sad. Desperate.”

• Venting tiredly when Misfire launches himself at Crankcase, Krok switches the controls to autopilot and reaches to scoop you up, cradling you against his chassis as he moves to get clear of the brawling idiots. Not even surprised when Spinister’s head lifts with a confused ‘fight’ and he tackles both of the other two. Joining in even though he probably has no clue what the fight is even about. Cupping your warmth against himself, feeling your heart racing, he heads into the rec room with you to find both of you some fuel. “Don’t worry, they won’t hurt each other too bad,” he mutters when you look worriedly up at him. You’d run to him for protection. Not Spinister and he isn’t sure what to make of that. Except that you do have some self preservation instincts. It doesn’t meant anything more than that. Even if he almost wants it to. Likes having you with them, having someone trust him and believe in him. After what had happened to his last team, he needs this.

Previous

[ironunderstands]

Ngl I despise stupid ass tweets like this

There is a time and a place for talking about sexualization, but like you cannot be serious.

It’s shorts. She’s wearing shorts. I know part of the reason why her thighs are exposed is because people like to look at thighs, but oh my god. For 5 seconds, 5 goddamn seconds can the people in this fandom not treat women’s bodies like they are some inherent sin? ITS SHORTS.

Based off this tweet you would assume she was dressed like THIS or something (although this one has SOME armor LMAOO)

But not just by hoyo standards, but by normal people standards, Feixiao is wearing a regular outfit, especially considering the climate she lives in is probably fairly warm, and she’s not a normal human being, so all that extra armor wouldn’t be doing much for her anyways.

Hell, this is a universe where shit like the antimatter legion exists, and I’m sorry, but a few pieces of metal really aren’t going to do much against the stuff that Feixiao might be facing, and considering how restricting armor can be, a pilot such as herself would prefer lighter clothing. Honestly if we want to have a discussion about practicality or realism, the flowy/longer parts of the outfit should be the ones under fire, but that’s not the complaints here.

And I get where this person is coming from.

I understand wanting to see an armored lady, especially considering her male counterpart seems to possess that, but this is not the way to approach it at all.

But calling it misogyny? AND SOFT PORN?? SHORTS??

SHORTS

Like do you hear yourself? You sound like a puritan right now? Honestly I’d prefer Feixiao having her thighs out over hearing someone talk about them like they only exist for gooners to gawk at.

Moreover, considering the absolute nightmare that was the copy-past female Luofu designs, I’d say that hers is a breath of fresh air

Also, if you supposedly can’t take a woman seriously because her legs are exposed.. get help dude. Please.

I don’t even think it’s ridiculous to believe that her design is sexualized, especially with the garter, but like, why like this?

Oh, and Jingyuan’s design is sexualized as well, it’s just not through exposed skin. He has a whole ass corset and thigh garter and he’s imposing and has a deep voice and glowy ass eyes and long hair and he stares at the camera in his splashart like That and you get where I am going with this because HES MEANT TO HE HOT TOO. He just has a different kind of appeal

For fucks sake his lightcone literally has him lounging in a chair legs spread eyeing a bird sleepily as the light hits him like that and his face looks like that wand you expect me to believe this game isn’t trying to present him as attractive? For fucks sake he practically has an adoptive son. This is the dilf older man fucker final boss and yet a woman with shorts is what sends you spiraling?

Don’t act like you didn’t see the TikTok comments of people wishing they were his bird when he got released. Or the master stroke jokes? Or everyone and their mothers (literally according to Cyyu) drooling over his EN voice? “I AM the reinforcements?”

If you want to talk about non-sexualized generals and pull up a picture of Jingyuan I will (and currently am) laugh in your face because to be honest more revealing clothing would make him less horny because the uniform is part of the appeal.

I rest my case

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival apart 7

Welcome aboard the Lost Light! Where nothing stressful ever happens.

Working back into longer chapters. Credit to @keferon for creating the AU. Enjoy!

———————————————————————

Spaceship spaceship spaceship that is a mother fucking spaceship.

Somewhere within the poor rattled jelly of his brain, eight year old Jazz was screaming and jumping and slapping his adult self’s shoulder to start doing the happy dance.

Instead, he reached out a hand to clasp Prowls shoulder. “Hoooly shit!”

Music.

He needed music. The Superman theme? No. Interstellar? Nah, something more energetic. Star Wars? Closer. Jurassic Park? Yes.

As Jazz began playing the introductory notes to the Jurassic Park theme, he had the presence of mind to take a screen capture to show Hot Rod later. Jazz was mech-crazy but Roddy was all about spaceships and this was something straight out of a comic book brought to life.

The Lost Light, as best Jazz could translate, was a thing of beauty. Mango sherbet sunlight spilling over the horizon painted the ships white exterior peach and cream. It had these spine? Thingy’s? Rising from the back. Jazz had no idea what for but they looked awesome. Massive thrusters slowed its decent onto the moons surface, kicking up enough glittery dust to make everything around it sparkle like a goddamn anime filter.

Bluestreak was saying something in his native language again. Clearly shocked and ranting at his brother.

“Blue, if you’re gonna talk about someone in the room, it’s polite to do it in a language they understand. Ya know? ‘Specially so they don’t make any assumptions when they hear Prowl, Jazz, and Frag in that order.” He inclined his head towards the mecha in question but didn’t look away from the ship.

“I am so sorry!” Jazz gave it fifty-fifty he was also talking to Prowl.

“It was just! You grabbed Prowl and trust me no one actually gets away with that if he does not want to be touched by someone. Which is almost everyone. I mean, even {Smokey} and I can only get away with it on a good day. Or if I blackmail him about the time he blew me up. Even then we’ve known each other for vorns and he met you like a cycle ago?! And I’m also kinda loosing my mind right now because you are SO weird and oh Primus I didn’t mean to call you that, you’re a really cool mech I just think you’ve got a really messed up home life and that just sounds like another insult doesn’t it? Did I tell you I talk a lot when I’m nervous because I talk a lot normally so you’d think I’m nervous all the time but really I’m not nervous all the time it’s just that when I actually get nervous I really really start talking a lot and are you flirting with Prowl because I think you’re flirting with Prowl even though he said you weren’t but I think he’s just in denial since he keeps letting you do stuff like touching him without warning.”

“BLUESTREAK.” Prowl ground out a shout through clenched teeth.

The sniper snapped a hand over his mouth. Eyes wide and wings pinned low. In stark contrast to Prowl, who had his own wings flared high and wide. Both brothers were wide eyed in utter mortification.

“Go.” He paused, lightly removing Jazz’s hand. “Go to the ship. That is an order.”

Bluestreak skedaddled, keeping one hand firmly over his mouth and giving a firm thumbs up with the other.

Jazz knew there was no way that would actually stop him from talking, but he really appreciated it when a pilot could commit to the bit. He snort chuckled.

“I apologize greatly on behalf of my brother. He meant no offense. And please disregard anything he might have..” Prowl looked like he wanted to cough discreetly. “Implied.”

They walked together towards the airlock outside. Waiting for Bluestreak to exit before they could go next.

“Do you mean when he implied I have a slaggy home life or the bit about you liking me?”

He watched Prowls face twitch a bit. He was standing military inspection straight, hands tightly clasped behind his back and pointedly not looking at Jazz.

“Cause I wasn’t flirting on purpose.” Prowl did not break eye contact with the wall, but Jazz caught his wings dip imperceptibly.

“When I grabbed your shoulder.” Jazz hummed.

Ope. Made ya look.

Prowl glanced back to the wall, before apparently deciding there wasn’t much point in ignoring Jazz. Smart man.

He turned more fully back to Jazz, face focused but a hint more open then before.

“Slaggy isn’t really a- that’s not how the grammar is used for-“ Prowl rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Jazz, do like how you are treated where you are from?”

Oh, well shit. He silenced the movie soundtrack, thinking. Felt the horns pin back.

“When you joined your group, how much did it hurt?”

Prowl didn’t immediately respond. Considering his question for a long breath.

When he finally spoke, it was quieter than before. “Pain is relative, and I believe certain aspects of the process are idiotic and pointless, but to try and answer your question; it hurt less than what it was worth.”

Jazz watched the lights cycle on the door as it re-pressurized.

“Same.”

They stood together before the way out.

“Though, from the looks of it, you guys are in much better shape than us. I kinda thought we were the best of the best. But I’m starting to think there’s a lot they weren’t telling us.”

The airlock hissed open, and the two stepped inside.

“You can stay. If you choose.” Prowl shuffled back into a parade rest, hiding behind formality. “You do not have to go back to those people.”

Jazz smiled deep within his mech, and lightly bumped his unwitting guide to the galaxy. “Prowler! Really now, flirting at a time like this? How unprofessional.”

Goddamn it was mean, but holy hell it was just too much fun to fluster a man like Prowl.

“You are completely insufferable.” Points to Bluestreak, when Jazz asked him for a bunch of keywords Prowl would probably use, unprofessional and insufferable were some of the first he taught him.

“I am trying to help you. I have been trying to help you this entire time and you have constantly managed to find entirely new ways of making my head hurt.” Prowl had finally dropped the act and was waving his arms emphatically.

“M’kay.” Jazz nodded along. “Would you like my number?”

Prowl made a face like he was mentally blue-screening again. “I… Yes. Yes that would actually be very helpful.”

“I’m happy to help!” And Jazz rattled off his personal phone number for the burner cell he wasn’t necessarily supposed to have.

“Thank you?” Prowl said with an entirely new flavor of confusion. “Jazz what is-“ Prowl was cut off by the airlock’s depressurization.

He could not wait to get that man to a rec room. His mecha was built shorter than Jazz’s, but he had this weird total confidence that Prowl was somehow taller than him.

Jazz stepped out onto the moons surface, letting the last notes to the Jurassic Park theme finally play out, stopping briefly to once again admire the insanity of the situation. He liked to focus on the good when it was front and center, because he had a pretty clear idea of how bad the bad could be.

A dull stone of dread settled in his stomach.

Disconnecting was gonna suck. Pretty sure he didn’t have a full blown concussion at least. Hard to tell with the drift link suppressing most of the “oh fuck ow stop that” signals his body was almost certainly sending him. He felt basically fine though, so he could get away with pushing it back just a little further.

Probably.

The medics here didn’t know his rep either, so even on an unfamiliar base, Jazz gave it two minutes max before he’d be in their walls.

Prowl appeared in his peripheral vision and motioned for Jazz to follow.

The closer they got to the Lost Light, the more the feelings of Awe transitioned into Vertigo. This thing was fucking massive up close. Upon reaching the outer airlock door, Jazz found he couldn’t touch the molding at the top. Maybe if he climbed onto Prowls shoulders though?

Before he could poke that particular bear, the door opened and Jazz was ushered in. As soon as the atmosphere returned, Prowl was on his case.

“Jazz it is of the utmost importance that you behave yourself. I will handle your introduction to my immediate superior. Please refrain from any overly familiar behavior.” Prowl wasn’t doing the no eye contact-parade rest pose but actually looking at him properly.

“Don’t embarrass you in front of your boss, I got you boo.” He clapped Prowl on the shoulder for emphasis and watched his wing things do a little dance.

Oh those things definitely got hard wired into his neural net by accident didn’t they? Wonder how he deals with the phantom limb syndrome.

Jazz himself walked like a, quote “new born deer that just took a shot of fireball” per Rico, every time he disconnected from his mecha after too long.

“Please refrain from touching me until further notice.” Prowl tacked on as the doors slid open.

—————

Something was off.

It started in the hallway but the sensation didn’t fade. Like when you get home and vaguely smelled something had gone bad, but it was so faint you could barely remember it was there. So you search the fridge, the trash, yadda yadda yadda because you know it’s there. Even if you’ve gotten used to the smell and can only imagine what’s wrong based off of a poorly informed memory of the thing.

The interior of the ship looked off. But in a way he just couldn’t put his finger on.

Jazz was vaguely aware he’d been getting a little loopier ever since him and Prowl went tumbling down Crash Mountain.

Truth be told, he’s been off his game ever since Prowl found him.

Shit, how long had he been piloting actually?

Let’s see.

He woke up this morning on the mecha program space station, got to piloting, ran maybe a couple hours of tests? Then space tore itself a new one, Jazz tore that alien a new one, got teleported, scared the fuck out of Tentacle Monster Mission Control, got teleported again for much longer, passed out, woke up, spent the better part of a day traveling with Prowl and oh fuck me I haven’t eaten or drunk anything in at least 14 hours.

Now that he was thinking about it, the dull ache in his skull felt more like dehydration than blunt force trauma.

Wait. No. Concentrate.

Something about this place was off. It wasn’t just in his head. He just needed to focus for more than - woah that’s a lot of mecha.

Mechanical forms hurried along massive hallways. Vehicles abounded as well and Jazz had to make and effort not to trip on any. Prowl had gotten a hold of his arm at some point and was half supporting half guiding Jazz through the hall.

“You said no touching.” Jazz crooned in a singsong voice.

“You’re going to fall on someone.” Prowl was making a face that had every passing mecha pointedly not make eye contact.

“Am not.” And Jazz went a little limp just to fuck with him.

Prowl left little space for Jazz to wander or wonder. He’d catch a glimpse of a rooms interior or another fantastic mecha only to be pulled along before his gaze could linger.

Jesus this place was huge. And detailed. Lots of GNDN lookin’ pipes, wires and greebles across every surface. After what felt like walking through every spaceship movie set at once, Prowl pulled him into a room with red cross markings on the doors.

Inside, the room hosted a number of high tech (pillowed?) tables and a truly ridiculous number of tools. Half of them looked suited for body shop work, welders and wrenches and the like. While the other half resembled supersized computer repair kits.

Why is everything huge? They don’t. They don’t seriously have the pilots handle the repairs while in their mecha do they?

Sure Prowl did some basic repair stuff earlier, but that was mid battle support. It made sense.

Speak of the distracting devil, Prowl was addressing somebody while Jazz was ogling a 30ft tall filing cabinet.

Two mecha were at the other end of the room.

One was teal and standing, tapping away at a super-sized tablet. They had a face -something is off- that turned to them warmly, taking in their battered mecha.

The other one was neon alien blood green. Sat on a table, they were wiping their face off with a cloth, revealing a hot pink paint job. Their other hand rested on a severed and charred alien head missing most of the fleshy bits. They tossed the cloth in a bin and locked onto Jazz with a face that promised fucking death.

Hot Pink said something formal and clipped in Prowls native language. Standing from the table and casually swinging the skull in one hand.

“Elita One,” Prowl dipped his head and wings. “This is Jazz. He has significant experience in batting quintesson forces. I have seen his capabilities firsthand and they are highly impressive. Currently, he is in need of medical treatment.”

The bloody one, Elita One, stalked up to Jazz. Raking over him with a critical eye. The pilot got a tingly sense of deja vu, like he got pushed back in time to when he first applied to the mecha program.

The lights hummed at a B flat pitch.

Onslaught, one of the first pilots and one of the few to live to retirement stood like a demon guarding the gates to Hell.

Jazz straightened up, squaring his shoulders.

“Sir, Striker one zero six one, {Pacific} Rim Defense, Callsign: Jazz, sir.”

Elita paused in her circling, however briefly, before returning to face him and Prowl once more.

“At ease.” She considered Jazz for only a moment longer, something like curiosity flickering before turning to Prowl, “Officer, I expect a full report from you on the bridge. Jazz is to not go anywhere on this ship without accompaniment. And I expect you to justify this situation to Red Alert.”

If Jazz hadn’t specifically been watching for it, anyone else would have missed the ever so slight way Prowl cringed at the order.

“Yes Captain. I volunteer to keep watch of Jazz and assume responsibility until a shift change can be approved.” D’awww. The machine has a heart.

“Request granted. Now, you have until I finish cleaning this skull to take care of any personal matters.” Elita hefted the thing for emphasis.

She locked onto Jazz once more, “Velocity will see to your injuries. You will comply with whatever treatment she deems appropriate. If you cause harm to her or any other member of my crew, I will rip off what’s left of your arm and beat you to death with it. Otherwise, remain here until Prowl comes to collect you. Is all that understood?”

I’m sorry can you repeat that middle bit? You said it so casually and in the same tone as everything else that I kinda blanked for a sec.

Instead, Jazz said, “Yes sir.”

Velocity stepped up, -their medic is a pilot- “If you’ll follow me, I can get you situated on the medical {berth} over here.”

Velocity paused as she was about to leave, like she’d just heard something. She turned and nodded to Prowl who returned the gesture, releasing Jazz in the process.

Velocity clasped her hands together and spoke to Jazz.

“I understand you might have a, ah, unique medical history. Would you be able to discuss any of that with me so I can better treat your injuries?”

Jazz hesitated.

Something is off.

“A moment in private, if you both would allow.” Prowl looked between the two other mecha. Elita was pretty much out the door and Velocity graciously left to gather the needed supplies. Prowl came closer to speak quietly.

“Jazz. You said some concerning things before regarding your previous experiences with medical treatment. Can you handle allowing Velocity to treat you?” He was doing the serious face again, one hand resting on Jazz’s working shoulder.

“Yeah. I mean, worst case scenario and I start freaking out you’ve got my permission to use force.” Prowls eyes got very wide at that.

“Which I won’t! I won’t!” He held up a hand placatingly. “I’m…not great with doctors, but it’s less the medical stuff itself and more..” Jazz made a so-so gesture.

“Feeling trapped?” He felt his horns pin down again.

Before he left the program, Ratchet had a whole system worked out. He did as much light treatment as he could with Jazz in public places like the cafeteria or in his apartment. Usually bringing in someone trusted like Rico around to distract and talk to him while Ratchet worked.

For full on surgery though, there wasn’t a lot of alternatives to turn to. White lights, white walls, dark shadows. The actual operating theater was the only option.

Ratchet, to his credit, never used restraints, which was usually enough to avoid triggering an episode if he worked fast. As far as drugs went, Jazz had a twighlight stage between Fully Conscious and Out Cold called Fuck Where’d He Go that no one enjoyed playing.

He sighed.

“Look, I’m not hurt that bad. Just..” Jazz rubbed the back of his mechas head out of habit, “Give me a dim room and something cold for my head and I’ll be fine after I get something to drink.”

Prowl furrowed his brow, “Jazz, one of your arms is non functional. I implore you to let us help. You are concerned with feeling trapped, yes? If the door out of the room is left open, would that alleviate some of your fears?”

His visor twitched towards Prowl. Jazz stood very, very still.

Focus. Something is off. Focus.

“Yeah. I… I don’t want to be strapped down either. Or put to sleep.” Jazz focused on Prowl’s face. His mecha that had a face. The face that Prowl could chose not to use but is. Prowl looked like he was actively having to school his expression.

“No restraints. No sedatives. I will comm Velocity your requests and you may reiterate them at any time.” He let go of Jazz, who stepped back slightly.

Jazz watched him from within his mecha, only showing what he wanted to show. Prowl was watching him just as closely, but couldn’t hide that he was. Why can’t he hide it?

Something is off.

“Got it Prowler. See you soon!” Jazz left him with a cheery wave.

He needed to get his head on straight. It was starting to feel like he was high or something with the way everyone was talking about his mecha. There was the language barrier sure, but it didn’t account for whatever visual weirdness that was tickling his sense of uncanny valley.

With the specter of possible legitimate brain damage haunting his steps, Jazz walked towards where Velocity had gone, knocking on the doorway to get her attention. “Ready to go when you are doc.”

Velocity, who Jazz caught peeking around the corner during his little heart to heart with Prowl, at least had the gumption to not even pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping. He could at least appreciate when a doctor was honest about their bad habits.

“Right this way. I’ll be leaving just the interior door open for the sake of privacy if that’s alright. Prowl also noted you did not have a negative reaction to localized {anesthetic}.” She gestured to the chrome duct tape still on his shoulder.

Velocity led them back into the room with all the tables and the huge central computer terminal. “Lay down here, and I’ll get started. I’ll talk you through every step of what I’ll be doing.”

Jazz walked up to the table, and stared.

And stared.

“Uh.” He circled around the mecha cradle table thing. “How do I get down?”

Horizontal style cradles were a thing in like, New Zealand? But for the life of him Jazz couldn’t see where he was supposed to go.

Velocity raised an eyebrow. Speaking slowly she gestured to the table, “You sit in the middle, and then turn 90 degrees to set your upper and lower body on the berth. Laying down.”

Jazz looked between her and the “berth”, his brain skirting the very edge of the sink drain.

“Right, but after that is there a ladder or something? Do stairs pop out? Or are you actually going to lift me out of here?” Jazz squatted down, inspecting for some kind or catch or compartment or..

Or..

Something was off because there weren’t any.

Jazz felt every hair stand up on his body.

His brain fell down the drain.

He stood.

Carefully.

Nothing on this ship has been built to human proportions. Nothing.

“Jazz? Are you alright?”

The human turned to the giant robot.

“Hmm? I’m fine.” He hopped onto the berth with ease, looking relaxed. “Still learning Common. Just a little confused was all.”

Velocity blinked, “Oh well that’s understandable. It’s designed for communicating with organic alien life forms so the terminology can be a little strange sometimes.”

“Hah. Right.” Jazz stared at the ceiling.

Every drop of his blood was cold.

“Aliens.”

———————————————————————

It is truly a Jazz fic if he isn’t lying for his life and bouncing off the walls like a squirrel in a plastic bucket?

Next time, Prowl has a completely relaxing chapter all about petting Green. Yep.

Definitely.

- SSTP

[punkshort]

Come Fly With Me

Thank you anon for this request!

I'm double dipping and using this as an entry into my own AU August Writing Challenge ❤️

Pairing: pilot!joel miller x flight attendant!reader one-shot

Summary: You and Joel have a little fun in the cockpit.

Warnings: language, smut (18+ MDNI), competency kink, public sex (kind of?), unprotected piv sex, reference to blow job, light spanking

WC: 2.5K

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Welcome on board flight 1092, flyin' from Orlando to Austin. Our flight time today is 2 hours and 40 minutes, but I know a few shortcuts, I'll get us there a little quicker.

You smiled to yourself when you heard the familiar ripple of laughter cut through the plane.

On a personal note, this flight is particularly special for me. My wife is on board today, so if you see her, please don't listen if she tells you 'bout my drivin'.

Captain Miller just got married a few days ago and it was still strange to see the gold band around his finger. It seemed he was struggling with it, too, because you caught him fiddling with it every time you glanced inside the cockpit.

You listened from the galley, doing your checks and making sure everything was locked and secured as Joel announced the temperature, how to operate the systems installed in the seats, and how to call an attendant for help. It was a speech you heard a thousand times.

Finally, he wrapped things up with on behalf of myself and the crew, thank you for choosing us as your airline today. Have a wonderful flight.

You stood at your post with a smile plastered across your face as you watched Marissa and Brian explain to bored looking faces how to engage the floatation device and oxygen masks hidden around each passenger when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You didn't even turn around. You knew who it was.

"Once we're clear, come and see me, sweetheart."

A thrill of excitement slithered down your spine and you tilted your face to the side so you could whisper, "you're a married man, now. We shouldn't be doing that anymore."

"A ring 'round my finger ain't changin' a goddamn thing here."

And then he was gone.

It took nearly an hour. A full hour where you had to do your first round of service, handing out snacks and drinks to people who mostly ignored you and rarely offered their thanks before you brought your cart back to the galley to clean up.

You heard the door to the cockpit open and Frank, the co-pilot, stepped out and stretched. He saw you and smiled, nodded his head, then asked if he could take ginger ale, like always. And your response was always the same.

"You don't need to ask, Frank."

He grinned and gave you a little salute before he did his rounds. Frank was very personable. He enjoyed meeting new people and hearing their stories. When an extrovert has a job where he meets new people every six hours or so, it's a match made in heaven.

And it's especially good for you and Joel because you both know he won't be back for at least half an hour, probably more.

Glancing around to make sure none of the other flight crew saw you, you tapped lightly on the door then slipped inside.

No matter how many times you saw it, and at that point it had to have been hundreds, the cockpit always left you breathless. When you first step in, you're instantly overwhelmed with lights, buttons, levers and monitors. The control panel was absolutely massive and intimidating. And it was one of the things that attracted you to Joel in the first place.

Watching him operate a plane with such ease, hardly even having to think as he went through the motions turned you on from day one. Part of you always thought he knew it, too. From the moment he saw you, he knew he had you in the palm of his hand.

And you loved every second of it, married or not.

"Captain," you said breathlessly, then grinned when he turned around and slid off his headset. The ache between your legs had been steadily growing for the past hour and you were at the point where if he didn't do something about it within the next five minutes, you would take matters into your own hands. Literally.

"C'mere, darlin'. Why don't you sit on my lap?"

He patted his thighs, clad in dark navy blue, same as your skirt, and you giggled before doing as you were told.

He hummed appreciatively and ran his big hands up and down your legs, which were spread wide and straddling him.

"Pretty little thing," he murmured. You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck and slowly, subtly, began to roll your hips.

"What if someone catches us one day?" you whispered before leaning forward to taste the skin under his jaw.

"Ain't no one gonna catch us," he assured you, dragging his hands up and over your hips to cup your ass and give it a firm squeeze.

You groaned and started to move your hips faster. You could feel his cock stiffening against his leg and you felt yourself clench around nothing. Fuck, you wanted him so badly. Every single time it was like this. Your need for him was never quenched. But still, you enjoyed teasing him from time to time.

"Didn't you just get married a few days ago?"

You felt his hands pause momentarily, leaving your skirt hiked up around your waist but your underwear still on.

"What's your point?"

You smiled and bit gently at his earlobe. "My point is, wasn't your wedding night enough to satisfy you?"

His hands resumed exploring your body and you felt a deep rumble vibrate from his chest.

"You know the answer to that."

And he was right. You did.

The answer was the reason he asked you to come see him in the first place.

Joel slid his fingers past the waistline of your panties, swiping them through your folds with a pained groan.

"Fuck, so wet, baby," he said. Your hips tried to chase his fingers, tried to keep him where you needed him most, but he was too fast.

"You gonna fly this plane and fuck me at the same time, Captain?" you murmured seductively. He smirked and nodded.

With your breath coming in quick little excited pants, you tugged on his zipper while he pulled your panties to the side.

"Need me that bad, huh?" he teased, and normally you might say something smart right back, but on that particular day you wanted him more than usual. Maybe it was the gold band that was catching the sun in just the right way, the thought of him being married now egging you on and making you needier, but whatever it was had the seam between your legs absolutely dripping for his attention.

"Oh!" you cried out, then immediately slapped your palm over your mouth when you first felt him breech your opening. He chuckled and continued to guide your hips down, watching in a trance as you took every inch of him deep within your walls while you whimpered in his ear and tried you best to remain quiet.

"Shh, darlin', I got you," he said softly, his own face pinched as he tried to hold back from slamming up into you. "I got you. Yeah, feel that? Feel how good you take me?"

You nodded because it was true. You could feel your body relaxing and opening for him, happily welcoming him back in.

He gave you a few minutes to adjust. He always did, and you appreciated that. You were always the one who ended up doing most of the work given the small space, so it was the least he could do.

With a sigh, you rested your head on his shoulder and gazed out at the clouds while he gently stroked your back. The view never got old. It felt so surreal every single time, to be staring out at such beauty while stuffed full of his cock. It didn't get much better than that.

He whispered your name, voice sounding strained, and you lifted your head.

"Who's needy now?" you asked with a grin. He bit lightly at your chin and gave one of your ass cheeks a quick slap with his palm, making you jump and giggle before you began to roll your hips over his lap.

Joel's fingers dug into your skin with a sigh, gazing up at you adoringly while you rode him just the way you liked. There was something so fucking hot about him having complete control over the aircraft, hundreds of lives in his hands every single day, but you were the one who had the power over him. You were the one he yearned for, ached for. Since the first day you were assigned to his crew, he couldn't keep his hands to himself. He began to request you specifically be assigned to his flights as much as your schedules would allow, then one day on a particularly long flight you had brought him something to eat without him even asking. You could see the exhaustion in his eyes and you just desperately wanted to take care of him, so you brazenly dropped to your knees and took him inside your mouth while his eyes fluttered closed, the only noises filling the air came from the back of your throat and the tinny voice echoing through his abandoned headset nearby.

The rest was history.

He wondered if getting married might dull his desire for you, but he was foolish to think his feelings could ever change.

"Fuck, baby, that's it," he growled when you picked up the pace and began bouncing in his lap, your tits jostling in your navy blue polo. He feverishly yanked the hem of your shirt up so it bunched up over your breasts and he made a pathetic little noise when he saw the white, lacy bra you had on underneath.

"Look at you, filthy thing," he murmured, squeezing at your covered breasts. "Fuckin' a married man like this. But I bet that just turns you on even more, don't it?"

You moaned and tipped your head back, chin aimed at the ceiling of the cockpit. His lips dragged down your throat, tongue shooting out to taste your skin, careful not to leave a mark. He was convinced at least Frank knew what you were doing in here but he didn't need to give the rest of the crew any reason to gossip.

Air traffic control crackled through the radio, checking in like they usually did when the plane reached a new zone.

"Hang on," he told you, so you gripped his shoulders while he leaned forward to pick up the receiver. His thumb hovered over the button to answer when he gave you a look. "Didn't tell you to stop, did I?"

You grinned and resumed fucking yourself on his cock while he pressed down on the button, dropping his voice to sound more professional when he answered the man on the other end. He confirmed his coordinates, his credentials and his flight pattern with ease, all while you circled your hips and ground yourself down, your clit catching on the coarse hair at the base of his cock. You had to bite back a moan when he was talking, the pleasure mounting low in your belly making it difficult not to make any noise.

Finally, he put the receiver back and you moaned his name, your face buried in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound.

"You fuckin' love this, don't you? Love gettin' fucked in here, love the thrill of it, huh?"

"Yes," you whispered, your eyes squeezing shut as you closed in on your release. "Oh, god, Joel - fuck!" you sobbed when he began to lift his hips from his seat, fucking up into you, matching you thrust for thrust, grunting like an animal in your ear each time your hips made contact.

"Lemme feel you, baby. Wanna feel you shake for me," he said through clenched teeth. You gasped and nodded, mustering every ounce of energy you had left to slam yourself up and down on his thick cock, so desperate to come you didn't care if the door flung open and the whole plane saw what you were doing.

"Tell me how it feels, honey," he said. He must have been close, too. You've done this enough times to know he likes hearing you talk dirty to him right when he's about to come.

"Feels so good," you began, "you always fuck me so good. No one else has - shit - n-no one else has ever... oh, god, Joel," you whined, losing focus when your vision began to blur.

"Don't stop," he begged, his thrusts becoming sloppy. "Keep talkin', baby, please."

"Will you come inside me?" you whispered, your teeth scraping against your lower lip, turning the skin raw. "Wanna feel you inside me the whole flight. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," he gasped, forehead beaded with sweat, face flushed and jaw slack. "Yes, yes, yes... fuck! C'mon!" he groaned, slapping your ass a little harder than before.

You kept babbling, telling him how big he was, how badly you wanted him, how no one else has ever fucked you as good as he does when your voice caught in your throat and you came around his cock with a strangled moan.

He didn't hold back. He circled his arms around your waist and fucked up into you recklessly, your cunt pulsing around him while your chest heaved and your fingers clawed at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself through your high.

At the last second he pressed his face against the side of your neck, pinning you against his chest. He moaned, his mouth falling open when he came, not caring how loud he might have been. It felt too fucking good to feel himself fill you up, feel his hot spend pooling and dripping down his length while he weakly pressed into you, prolonging his orgasm as best he could before his limbs went weak and he sighed against your chest.

You were cooing in his ear, telling him how good he did, how full you were, fucking thanking him while his shoulders sagged and a shiver ran down his spine.

"Can't get enough of you," he whimpered. You grinned and kissed the top of his head before lifting yourself off his lap. He helped you slide your underwear back in place, the fabric immediately soaking with your combined release while you fixed your polo and stood up.

"Shit, my skirt's gonna be wrinkled," you muttered while he tucked himself away and zipped up his pants.

"Next time we'll just have to take it off," he teased, making you giggle and playfully swat at his shoulder.

"Next time? What would your wife have to say about that, Captain?"

He rolled his eyes and grabbed your left hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips. He silently appraised the two rings nesting on your finger with a pleased smirk before letting you go.

"I don't know, you tell me."

You leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against his lips, lingering for an extra moment before pulling away.

"She'd say she can't wait."

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[theoddest1]

Okay so this new episode that came out (Episode 4) was poorly handled.

TW /// SA

- No warning before the show starts...why? And even if there is no way for Viv to add one, for some stupid ass reason, why didn't she announce to the fandom properly "Hey, this will have very deep topics and imagery that may not be suitable for all audiences."? Why have arguments on threads and fail to do this very easy thing. At least if the episode came out, people would get a heads up, and the word would spread faster PLUS people would see that you at least TRIED

- The episode opens up with a scene of CNC porno played for laughs in an episode that tackles SA. Complete tonal whiplash. Why did it have to open up with Angel showing everyone a porno? It serves no purpose other than to get a cheap laugh (that never came) out of me or anyone else who watches and because of the topic of the episode revolved around it. I'msure that if the episode WASN'T ABOUT SA, that joke would not have been there....but it is. There was legit no good reason to start this fiasco off with such a tone deaf opening.

- Charlie is actually fucking useless and a burden in this episode, serving no other purpose other than being the gateway to further the issues that befall Angel when "trying" to help. This all screams forced. Worse of all, Charlie does nothing to actually HELP Angel out of this, even though he has a clear black eye thanks to it all and literal mirrors breaking as a result of the abuse. We never see an actual development between the two thanks to her foolishness and garbage writing, and it's resolved easily as if this is some early Disney cartoon season that's on a strict deadline. Regardless of whether she apologized or not, she essentially caused the issue and did NOTHING to actually clean her mess. The goddamn B A R T E N D E R had to be used to salvage the pieces. So far, Charlie, as a character, is utterly pathetic and has been a burden to the cast twice so far. Vaggie, who tried to prove herself (moreso Vaggie's fault for going the extra mile for no reason but an obstacle nonetheless), also had an issue that involved Charlie's utter lack of a backbone. Hey, what was it that Charlie said in the pilot that her dad taught her and one of the only thingsshe learned from him? "You don't take shit from other demons"

- Only one scene from the abuse shown was handled well, and it was when Charlie visited, screwed everything up, and Val asked Angel to come to his dressing room. Aside from that, the whole SA imagery is jarring. While this time, the fast pace of it all is not bad, the quick shift into it all with Angel switching from enjoying to hating, to smiling, to frowning, ALONG with the quick pace of it all with the PRIOR KNOWLEDGE SHOWN and the SONG PLAYING, I am getting mixed messages here. Imagery? Shows Angel getting assaulted multiple times with either a forced smile or for some reason ENJOYING sex with Val and the role play situations showcased, is he INTO his abuse? Lyrics? He seems to find arousal in Val controlling him. The song legit reads as follows

"Addicted to this feeling, I can't help but swallow"

This doesn't read like he is "forced" it reads like he is yearning the toxic relationship. Now if this was one of the main issues with the abusive relationship, where it was a codependency built on romanticising the abuser and Angel learning to break free from that horrible view of someone who never loved him and actively harms him, this lyric would make a lot of sense....but that's not what we are shown at all. From the jump, we are shown that Angel HATES being with Val, to the point of him straight up avoiding his texts and voice messages, they actually do an okay job (despite the shoddy voice work) on showcasing how manipulative Val is and his outright explosive temper through this scene in episode 2. We see that Angel does NOT wanna have association with Val, is tired of it all, and even got drunk to down his sorrows. Yet these lyrics present it all as though it's just a very rocky love life like those songs you hear on the radio with the singer lamenting about how awful their relationship was but still miss their toxic boo-boo. It just...doesn't read like an SA song and could mean anything regarding the type of abuse he is facing. It's kinda vague in hindsight. That's MY take on the lyrics, though.

- Husk's song is a trash fire. He sees Angel is down in the dumps and proceeds to talk shit about him pretty much relaying his sorrows, saying it's okay to feed into your vices, and downplaying the actual situation at hand. So let's get this straight.

Angel- A sexual abuse victim forced into sex slavery to appease all sorts of people's sexual desires whether he likes it or not, including pleasuring his pimp who physically abuses him often all cause he sold his soul

Husk- Gambled his life away and lost his title as overlord, serves under Alastor all cause he sold his soul.

How is this even...the same at all? Even if Husk is lacking some context, he SEES that Angel normalized drinking roofied drinks and works for Val SOMEONE HUSK SHOULD KNOW ABOUT AND WHAT HE DOES but nah, screw Angel. Even if he honest to God (irony) wanted to actually help, why tf would Husk think this was sound advice? Why does Husk just SUDDENLY care? No build up, no memorable dynamic, no nothing. Realistically, CHARLIE should be the one singing with Angel or maybe Vaggie because she heard the story from Charlie. Not Husk. He is self aware enough where he knows this "advice" wouldn't work but nah. Nothing about the song makes sense. Telling someone going through it that "you're a loser" pretty much a no one, an insignificant individual, when VAL has made it clear that Angel would be nothing without him...yeah no the only reason why this whole song "worked" was cause the writers wanted it to, so Angel is happy with being a loser for being a victim of SA and selling his soul to someone who abuses him in various ways consistently.

This episode is terrible

Jarring for any newcomers

Who have no idea who these characters are

[katshelluvacritic]

Charlie Morningstar is probably one of the worst written characters I’ve seen in the series.

(This one’s gonna be a long one…)

Ok…. So I watched all six episodes and to be honest I’m pretty much pissed off by this character specifically. This might be more of a rant rather than a critique, so I do understand that not everything I say in this will end up being as constructive exactly but I genuinely need to get this off my chest, especially since she is a character I’ve specifically and recently been hyper fixating on before the show released…

(Side note: I realized the post was very long so, to have it be easier to read I added titles for each section! Hope this helps)

!!WARNING FOR SPOILERS FOR THE SERIES BTW!!

> Charlie lacks the qualities of being a main character.

Now besides the piss poor excuse of an introduction for her (and the rest of the cast) in the main series, I honestly question why exactly Charlie specifically is the “protagonist” in the first place (and I say protagonist with the biggest of quotes here, you’ll see why).

In the first episode of the series “overture”, we don’t really see much of her character, most of the time we’re shown screen time of Vicky (a nickname I made for v*ggie since I’m not gonna call her by her genitalia thank you) trying to make an ad for the hotel and even when we do get the screen time of her, she’s barely doing anything other than hearing viv’s self insert- I mean- Adam just go on and on about whatever he’s talking about.

And when Charlie does go on to explain her plan to redeem sinners she’s just interrupted and then stands there when they start singing hell is forever, she doesn’t “go off” like the hazbin Twitter says, she just stands there and then tries to say something only to get interrupted again and again and then gets pushed out of the meeting room before going back to the hotel to see it’s spread across in the news that the next extermination happens in 6 months.

Now although one might argue “Well didn’t Charlie at one point said in the show that giving orders is so mean?” Well yes but again, Charlie is literally the princess of pride ring, you would think that since her parents are literally rulers of pride, they would’ve probably teach her how to stand on her two feat, especially if your RUNNING A HOTEL. And the thing is, she has stood up and did so in episode 6 and the goddamn pilot (which is at this point is probably canon due to Charlie calling it the hazbin hotel instead of happy hotel), even going as far as to fight Katie Killjoy because she thought it was stupid.

Not only that but the episodes after overture, her screen time lessens until somewhat in 5 and 6. She doesn’t really appear that much in the between these episodes to the point where she feels like a supporting character rather than a protagonist. And when she does get screen time, she’s either forgettable at best and infuriating at worst.

> Charlie’s character is poorly written and just dumb.

In the episodes past overture, she’s literally rock solid stupid that I literally screamed in real life multiple times “you’re a fucking idiot” because of how frustrated I was from what she was doing, In episode 2 she literally trusted sir pentious to go to her hotel even though he almost destroyed her place and in episode 6 thought it was a hunky dory idea to let a person who literally exploded buildings to take charge of giving her employees a “good time”. Yes it could be played off as her being naive but if she’s that naive of a person then maybe she shouldn’t be a boss of a hotel to rehabilitate sinners.

Heck, in episode 4, Charlie gets pissed off and turns into her demon form because val literally started hurting Angel when he followed him into the room (and rightfully so) but when angel tells her to leave and drags her out of the studio, she’s just in her normal form and fucks off??? Reminder she’s literally the princess of hell! She could beat the shit out of val if she wants to, why did she just fucked off after angel had her leave?

“But Kat, what if something bad happens to angel if valentino dies?” Like what? If it was explained that if an overlord dies then the sinners that made a deal with them die too or something like that then yeah, that would make sense but we don’t know that whether or not that’s the case, if anything angel could be just fine after Valentino dies but we don’t know that.

And even when Charlie had the opportunity to go out there and apologize to him herself after he stormed out of the hotel, she and Vicky just send Husk to do it. And I have to ask, WHY? HUSK didn’t know what was happening to Angel earlier. HUSK wasn’t at the porn studio that Angel was working at. CHARLIE WAS….

“Well Kat, what if Charlie was scared about making things worse?” Fair enough, but again sending Husk is a stupid idea, I feel like it would’ve AT LEAST made sense if she sent Vicky out there. Because Charlie didn’t know if husk could fight (if you could even call it that, all he did was throw cards at people), BUT SHE KNEW VICKY COULD THOUGH. But nah we gotta do it for the ship right?

And then Charlie had the gull to be crying that angel forgave her after she fucked up, like shut the fuck up… it’s like if viv looked at a bunch of chars that had the optimistic care-free ‘ish personality and thought that meant making her as pathetic as a baby crying that they didn’t get a lollipop from their mommy.

Like I’m gonna be honest with you, it’s literally gone to a point where I think Orel Puppington (aka the 11 yo Christian kid who worships Jesus and gets harmful lessons from other Christians) makes a better Charlie Morningstar than the Charlie Morningstar herself!

And that thought is justified when he tried to go help people in Sinville, “Kat he ended up turning into a pimp at the end of the episode” yeah but AT LEAST HE TRIED TO ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING! Which leads me to another question….

> How is Charlie gonna redeem sinners exactly???

Like honestly, I’m serous with this one. How is Charlie gonna redeem these guys?

I ask this because in the series, she barely does ANYTHING to help these guys, she and the rest of the characters just sit around and then do an activity that is the equivalent of something you would do in kindergarten except it’s with ADULTS.

I don’t know about you but If your idea of helping people is doing just that and nothing else, then the only thing the people around you are gonna get is them being annoyed at first and eventually walking out with thinking your not helping them but rather just treating them like a baby who doesn’t know anything, and the only thing your gonna get personally is nothing because you did dick all.

Like other than that she pretty much just whines about sinners not going to her hotel and oh gee I wonder why, it’s not like your not doing anything to help these sinners not committing sins anymore, oh definitely not, your absolutely being helpful.

“Oh but Kat! Charlie was born in hell, how can she know how to help people? She’s not from the human world so, she wouldn’t exactly know how to help these people!” I would tell you to look at the world building for the series and it’s spin off but that’s a whole other can of beans that I don’t wanna cover today and this is already getting to long, so y’know what? We’ll go with that.

If Charlie didn’t know how to help people and was trying to figure out what she can do to help sinners get better, then why didn’t she just ask her employees for suggestions? Y’know, the other sinners who were from the human world and had experiences while they were alive and such?

Yeah, I get that not all of their advice would be exactly good or healthy (since they’re sinners who’ve done many bad things after all) BUT ITS AT LEAST SOMETHING FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!

She literally does nothing, she just expects you to immediately get better after some improvisations or whatever other activities she does and once you’ve done one nice thing then boom you’re close to redemption.

> Conclusion.

Charlie Morningstar is (like I said in the beginning) probably one of the worst characters in the hazbin hotel series, she at best a stereotype of the “everything is sunshines and rainbows” character tropes and at worst is a pathetic excuse of a main character and is nothing but a rotten shell of her character from the pilot.

I would go on about how her design’s also bad but I’m sure millions of people have already said the same issues and I’ve already posted my redesign of her before the show dropped.

I might plan on posting a rewrite of her or maybe explain my problems with another character or episode but I don’t know.

But until then, I’ll see y’all later!

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter One

Series Masterlist

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December 26, 2022. Milton Keynes, UK.

As bad things often do, it starts with wine and sentimentality—at least on your part. You’re not sure Max Verstappen is capable of something so pedestrian as sentiment.

You’ve shared… many things with Max. Loathing, mostly. But also a track, stuffy marketing events, opposite ends of long conference tables at the factory. A handful of tense, clipped conversations that ended in rolled eyes and barely concealed contempt. But loathing—yes, that’s the main thing.

And yet, here you are.

“Well?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. There’s entirely too little space between you, lips parted, eyes dark as sin. “What’s the verdict?”

The verdict?

For a moment, you can’t even remember what you were thinking before he spoke. Something important, probably. Something rational.

Oh. Right. 

How the fuck did this happen?

Wine. Loneliness. A sick desire for some version of Christmas that doesn’t completely fucking suck. Maybe that’s how this—the hot, consuming press of his mouth against yours, the breathless heat still lingering between you—combusted into existence. But that’s not how all of this started.

No. That started months ago, on a pit wall across the Atlantic. 

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Five Months Before, August 20, 2022. Worldwide Technology Raceway.

There’s a reason they call it competitive suicide.

Dale Coyne Racing is where talent goes to die—where decent drivers get ground down into nothing, where you get ground down into nothing. There’s no faith, no investment, no future here. You’re not their driver. Not really. You’re a placeholder, a warm body they can shove into a car when the boss’s son wrecks one too many chassis. A novelty they can parade around when they need to pretend they’re modern and progressive—a woman in their car, see? How inspiring.

Their car is a joke. A Frankenstein’s monster of outdated concepts and desperate engineering, held together with duct tape, stubbornness, and wishful thinking. It handles like a shopping cart with a broken wheel, understeers into corners, and then suddenly—violently—snaps into oversteer when you least expect it. The power delivery is shit. The brakes are worse.

The engineers know it. They all know it.

And still, every time you fight tooth and nail just to drag the thing across the line, they act like you’re the problem. Like it’s you who’s asking too much from the car. Like you should be grateful for the opportunity to pilot this rolling embarrassment.

The worst part? You are grateful. Because there aren’t many other options.

Not many teams are lining up to hire a woman. That’s the real fucking truth, the one nobody likes to say out loud. You could be better than half the grid, but when it comes down to it, you’re not one of the boys. You don’t have an automatic in with the old-guard team bosses, the ex-drivers turned management who only see their past selves in the drivers they choose. So you grit your teeth, push the useless fucking thing as fast as it’ll go, and tell yourself that points are points, even if they’re scraped out of misery one at a time.

You’d rather be anywhere else.

But instead, you’re here—sitting in the tight, suffocating cockpit of your Dale Coyne IndyCar, fighting a machine that doesn’t want to cooperate. The steering feels like shit, the setup feels like shit, and the tires are giving up on you way too soon. You’re fighting with every muscle in your body just to wrangle the damn thing around the track, squeezing every last bit of pace out of a car that has no business being on this grid.

And then—impact.

A split-second warning, a flicker of movement in your mirrors, and then your own goddamn teammate—fucking idiot—clips your rear tire, sending you into a spin. Your stomach lurches as the car snaps around, momentum carrying you straight into the wall. The sickening crunch of carbon fiber shattering around you barely registers before you slam to a stop.

Silence. Then static in your ear.

"You alright?" Your engineer, not sounding particularly concerned. Not like this is surprising. You don’t answer. Not yet. You’re too busy breathing, swallowing down the molten rage rising in your throat.

Then you key the radio. "Yeah." Your voice is clipped, devoid of anything but the raw edge of exhaustion. You climb out of the car, shaking out your hands, flexing stiff fingers against the uselessness of it all. The safety crew checks you over, but you barely hear them. It takes everything in you to walk back to the pits instead of finding your dumbass teammate and tearing him apart with your bare hands.

You should have seen today’s disaster coming. Your teammate—if you can even call him that—has wrecked you before. It’s almost routine at this point. The team never does anything about it. No real reprimands, no apologies, no accountability. Just another shrug, another "racing incident," another round of well, if you had just backed off, maybe that wouldn’t have happened.

Back off.

As if you have the luxury of backing off when your entire fucking career is balanced on a knife’s edge.

And now here you are, standing in the garage, helmet in hand, jaw clenched so tightly it might snap. The garage is silent when you step in. Or maybe you just can’t hear past the blood roaring in your ears. The team—if you can call this pile of underqualified morons a team—is already moving on, treating you like an afterthought.

No one’s looking at you. No one’s talking to you. No one gives a shit. Your wrecked car is being wheeled back, and they’re already moving on, like you didn’t just get speared into the wall by your own goddamn teammate. You snatch your phone from your pile of things on the bench and jam it into the waistband of your fireproofs- retreat to a corner of the garage to seethe.

If you were on fire in the middle of the pit lane, these people wouldn’t piss on you to put it out.

Your seat was always temporary.

Your teeth grind so hard your skull aches. You’re two seconds from lighting someone up just to make them react to something, fucking anything, when your phone buzzes.

You pay it little mind, ready to ignore whatever fresh bullshit is waiting for you. Another racing journalist already circling for a soundbite? A patronizing text from your team about “unfortunate circumstances”? PR telling you to keep your answers positive in post-race interviews?

But when you wipe the sweat from the screen and squint, your frustration flickers into confusion.

Incoming Call — Unknown Number (Europe)

You stare at it. A telemarketer? A wrong number? A scam? The incoming call window closes, and you’re staring at your home screen again. (1) Missed Calls. 

You almost let it go. Almost toss your phone onto the table and keep pacing, keep seething. But something in you, some quiet, persistent part of your brain that still believes in Santa and unicorns, tells you to call back.

You hit the button. The line rings twice.

"LeChriste?" It’s crisp, clipped, professional. Male. Not familiar. But there’s something there—something sharp, something important.

Your grip tightens around your phone. "Yeah? Who’s this?"

"Franz Tost, team principal of Scuderia AlphaTauri." For half a second, you think you’ve imagined it. AlphaTauri. Formula 1. Franz Tost. The words don’t compute, don’t settle. It doesn’t make sense. Because why the fuck would someone from F1—someone from Red Bull’s junior team—be calling you?

"Right," you manage, forcing your voice to stay even. "And you’re looking for me?"

"I wouldn’t be calling otherwise." Fair enough.

You take a step back, pressing your fingers to your temple. Your heartbeat has changed—it’s not just pounding with anger now. It’s something else. Something sharper. "How’d you even get this number?"

"Christian Horner gave it to me."

Your stomach drops. Christian Horner. The team principal of Red Bull Racing. The guy running the best car on the grid, the one responsible for Seb Vettel’s dominance, for king-killer Max Verstappen, the guy at the helm of one of the biggest single seater operations in the world. That Christian Horner. 

You inhale through your nose, trying to keep your pulse steady, gripping your phone like a lifeline. Professional. Stay professional. "What can I do for you, Mr. Tost?"

There’s a slight pause before he speaks, like he’s already bracing himself. "I assume you’ve heard of Yuki Tsunoda?"

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh before you can stop yourself. It’s too loud, too immediate. You wince at the sound of it, clearing your throat quickly to mask the awkwardness. "Uh, yeah," you say, forcing your voice back to neutral. "I watch Formula 1. Believe it or not."

There’s a long pause. Too long. Franz doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t react at all, really.

Jesus. Tough crowd.

"Good," he says finally, completely unfazed, his tone so dry it could ignite a brush fire. "He’s just undergone an emergency appendectomy. And we have a race in less than a week."

You freeze. Your heart picks up speed, but you force yourself to stay still. Stay neutral. Don’t react yet. "Right." You shift your weight. "And?"

"And I don’t have a lot of faith in our current reserve driver." Your lips part slightly. That’s—blunt. You weren’t expecting that level of honesty.

"So, what, you want me to—" you make a vague motion with your free hand, "—be the backup for the backup?"

"I want to see if you can be the backup," Franz corrects. Something cracks in your ribs. Not pain, not panic, but something more profound. The kind of break that feels like a door swinging open.

"Okay." The word comes out steadier than you expect, though your pulse is doing its best impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You square your shoulders, trying to sound measured and professional, like you totally understand what’s happening here and aren’t still two steps away from a full-blown existential crisis. "So you’re just… bringing me in? Throwing me in the car?"

"No." Franz’s voice is firm, edged with something that makes it very clear that whatever delusions you may have had need to be checked immediately. "You are being given a chance to earn a seat for the weekend. You will be tested. Evaluated. We have a reserve driver already—Liam Lawson. I assume you’ve heard of him?"

Your stomach clenches. Of course, you’ve heard of Liam. Red Bull’s academy prospect, the next in line, the logical heir to a temporary seat exactly like the one you’re being offered a chance to fight for. He’s been groomed for this, has the full weight of the Red Bull machine behind him, the kind of backing you don’t.

"Yeah," you say, and suddenly your mouth is dry.

"Good," Franz continues, tone unwavering. "You’ll both be in FP1. If you perform well enough—if you can out-pace him—we’ll consider putting you in the car for the full weekend. If you don’t, you’ll be on the next flight home, and we’ll pretend none of this ever happened."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. You’d been holding onto this flickering belief—this idea that maybe, maybe, they had already decided you were good enough. That you were stepping into a race seat outright, even if just for a weekend. That someone, somewhere, had already chosen you.

They haven’t.

This is a gamble.

And you still have to win.

"So, just to be clear," you say slowly, dragging a hand down your face, "if I suck, I don’t go into quali?"

"Correct."

"And if I don’t suck?"

"Then we’ll talk about Saturday and Sunday."

You exhale sharply, jaw tightening. "Right. No pressure, then."

"There is pressure," Franz corrects. "You’ll also need to take media duties, regardless of how you perform. There’s already interest in the fact that a woman might be stepping into an F1 car for the first time in years. If we’re going to capitalize on that, we need you to be professional, presentable, and cooperative with PR."

The word capitalize sticks in your brain like gum on a shoe. "Ah." You blink, trying to process what he’s really saying. "So I’m a diversity hire?"

"No," he says flatly, no hesitation. "You are a marketing opportunity."

A sharp laugh leaves you before you can stop it, humorless and exasperated all at once. You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Fantastic."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, no," you say quickly, shaking your head. "I love being a prop.”

There’s a pause, and you definitely hear him sigh this time. Not annoyed—more like resigned, like he already knows exactly what he’s about to get himself into. "We can’t pay you much," he says, not like it’s an afterthought, but like it’s a formality, a line he already knows won’t matter.

The laugh that escapes you this time is real, sharp and immediate. "I don’t care about money." The words leave you fast, without hesitation, because they’re true.

There’s a small beat of silence, and when he speaks again, his voice is edged with something knowing, something wry.

"Figured," he says, almost to himself. "The ones that probably should care about money never do." You don’t know if that’s a compliment, an observation, or a warning, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t hesitate. Not now. Not when the door is cracked open and all you have to do is walk through it.

"Done."

"Pack your bags," Franz says, and there’s something final in his tone. Like a line has just been drawn in the sand. "We need you in Belgium as soon as possible."

You’re already moving, already grabbing your duffel, stuffing things inside with quick, frantic movements like this opportunity might vanish if you take too long.

"I can be at STL in thirty-five minutes."

Franz doesn’t reply, but the call clicks off.

That’s it.

No fanfare. No congratulations. Just a chance. Just the fight you’re about to throw yourself into. And fuck, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

They don’t measure and weigh drivers by reaction times for nothing- you’re in motion before your phone has even gone back to the home screen. Every second you waste standing here is one more second someone else could be getting that call. That seat. That chance.

Your hands move on autopilot, shoving gear into your duffel with the frantic, uncoordinated speed of someone packing up their entire life in real-time. Fireproofs, helmet bag, travel essentials—you don’t stop to think, don’t stop to fold, don’t stop to make sense of what’s going where. It doesn’t matter. You need to go. You need to get on a fucking plane.

The zipper jams for half a second, and you nearly rip the damn thing off trying to get it closed.

Then you hear it. "Hey, 66! Reserve!" The voice echoes through the garage, sharp and accusatory. You don’t stop moving. "The fuck do you think you’re doing?"

Kevin.

Pit Boss. Team Manager. Professional asshole.

You should have expected this. Hell, you did expect this. You just thought you might have gotten out before he caught you. That was a mistake. You glance up, keeping your expression level, because no matter what comes out of his mouth next, you are not letting this guy see you rattled. "Packing."

His face is already turning red. It’s almost funny—like he’s been waiting for this exact moment just to finally unleash on you. The same man who never looked at you twice unless he needed something, unless the boss’s son had embarrassed himself one too many times and they needed you to come in and scrape together whatever dignity the team had left.

But now?

Now that you’re leaving?

Suddenly, you’re the most important fucking thing in the world.

"Packing? You think you can just fucking pack? Where the fuck do you think you’re going? We have a race happening, in case you forgot!"

You shoulder your bag, biting down hard on the instinct to snap back. You’re already halfway out the door. You do not need to burn every bridge on your way out. Racing is a small world. Even in a shithole like this, people talk.

"I appreciate the opportunity—"

"Appreciate the—" He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "You’re really doing this? You’re just fucking walking out?"

"Yes."

The word lands between you, clean and final.

And that is what sets him off.

"Unbelievable," Kevin snarls, stepping in closer, voice rising. "Do you have any fucking clue what you’re doing? You think anyone else is going to take you? Give me a fucking break, kid. You’re here because no one else wanted you. You’re nothing without us."

You should ignore him. You should just keep walking. But something about the way he says it—the pure audacity—stops you cold. Because it’s not just an insult. It’s what they’ve always thought.

They never saw you as a driver. Not really.

Dale Coyne Racing has never been a real team, not in the way the others were. Their entire philosophy was built around pay drivers, the rich boys who bought their way in, who treated their race seats like VIP experiences—something their daddy’s money entitled them to. And because of that, the whole team functioned like a luxury service in kissing ass. The staff were there to cater to them, to make them feel like real race car drivers, even if they were absolute fucking shit.

And you?

You were not a customer.

You were the help.

The help that wasn’t even part of the boys’ club. A placeholder. A seat filler. Someone to throw in when their sweet, precious nepo baby couldn’t hack it. And they never let you forget it.

Ever.

But now that you’re leaving?

Now that the only driver who’s managed to score any points, the only driver keeping them from looking like an absolute joke, is walking away? Now it’s an emergency. Now it’s an insult.

Kevin takes a step closer, voice dropping into something venomous. "You know what? Go ahead. Get the fuck out. But when you crash and burn—when whatever bullshit gig you think you’re getting falls through—you better not fucking come back here expecting a seat. Because this? Right here? Was the only shot you were ever going to get."

You stare at him for a second, pulse steady, unreadable. Then you shake your head, more to yourself than to him.

"Then I guess I have no fucking choice but to make it work."

You don’t wait for his reaction. You turn on your heel, bag slung over your shoulder, and walk out of the garage without looking back.

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The fluorescent lights overhead hum with an unsettling buzz, casting an unforgiving glow over the airport bathroom. The mirror in front of you reflects the mess you already know is there—the damp strands of hair curling at your temples, the sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin, the streaks of dirt and grease smudged across your jaw where you wiped at your face with a gloved hand during the race. Your Dale Coyne racesuit, still zipped up to your collarbone, looks even worse in this lighting, the fabric stained with oil, rubber, and whatever remnants of the track had clung to you before you’d walked out of that godforsaken garage for the last time. The fireproofs underneath stick uncomfortably to your skin, trapping the warmth of a race that already feels a lifetime ago.

People have been staring since you walked into STL, their glances lingering just a little too long, their hushed whispers and quick double takes barely concealed. You saw a few curious expressions, some with the kind of recognition that comes from people who know just enough about motorsport to be intrigued. Others just saw something out of place—an exhausted driver in a sweaty, dirt-streaked racesuit wandering through an airport like she had nowhere better to be.

You don’t care.

You grip the sink, fingers pressing into the cold porcelain as you drop your head, squeezing your eyes shut. Your pulse is still high, not from exertion, not even from frustration anymore, but from the sheer weight of what you’ve just done. You tell yourself it was the right decision. That it was necessary. That this is the step you were meant to take. But right now, standing in this too-bright, too-sterile bathroom, still feeling the phantom grip of a steering wheel in your hands, all you can think is what the fuck did I just do?

This has to work.

It has to.

You’d felt the moment your parents got the news. You hadn’t needed to hear their voices to know. It was as if the air itself had thickened with their disappointment, their frustration, their fear for you. Their anger wasn’t loud, wasn’t furious—it never was. Your dad would sigh, rub a hand down his face, mutter something about you needing a goddamn plan for once in your life. Your mother’s voice would be quiet, measured, more pointed than anything your father could say.

"Honey, please tell me you didn’t just burn it all down for a gamble."

But you did. You gambled everything.

Dale Coyne might have been a dead end, a team you despised with every fiber of your being, but it was a seat. It was IndyCar. It was a career that your parents had spent their entire lives trying to give you. The penny-pinching, the loans, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices you could never repay—Indy was the shot it had all been for. And you just walked away from it.

You tighten your grip on the sink, forcing down the lump rising in your throat. This isn’t regret. It can’t be. You made your choice, and now you have to fucking own it.

No one is going to save you if this goes sideways. There is no safety net waiting to catch you. If you fail in Belgium, if you don’t perform, if you don’t impress them enough to keep you for the full weekend, you’ll be on the next flight home with nothing.

No seat. No team. No future.

But that’s not going to happen.

You lift your head, staring yourself down in the mirror, taking in every sharp, raw edge of your reflection. You see the exhaustion, the stubborn set of your jaw, the faint tremble in your fingers from too much adrenaline and too little certainty. But beneath all of that, beneath the chaos, there’s something else. Something that has always been there.

Determination.

This is going to work. You swear it to yourself.

You will learn faster. You will push harder. You will do whatever it takes to make sure that when Friday rolls around and you get in that car, you earn your place. You didn’t walk away from everything just to fail. You didn’t burn it all down just to stand in the ashes.

Your parents are pissed. Loving, always, but pissed.

They’ll forgive you when this works.

You push away from the sink, rolling your shoulders back, exhaling slow through your nose. You should change, should clean up, should at least try to look like someone worthy of an F1 seat. There’s a fresh set of clothes buried somewhere in your duffel—a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, something normal, something that wouldn’t make you stand out like a sore thumb walking through the airport. But the thought of peeling this racesuit off, of stripping away the evidence of where you’ve been before you’ve even arrived at where you’re going, feels… wrong.

The weight of the fabric clings to you, sweat and exhaustion pressing into the seams. The patches of oil, the streaks of dirt, the faint, acrid scent of burnt rubber still woven into the material—it all sticks, like a brand, like a mark of what you’re running from. This suit, this thing you’ve poured yourself into for the past year, isn’t just a uniform. It’s a living symbol of suffering. It’s the proof of every shit race, every pointless debrief, every time you sat in a meeting knowing you weren’t actually being heard, just humored. The soul-crushing effort you gave, the hours you spent studying data, giving feedback, clawing your way to mediocrity because that was all the car would ever allow you to be.

Dale Coyne Racing. The team that would never carry you, only use you. The team that wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, that never let you forget you were just the help, a temporary piece they plugged in when their real drivers—their customers—floundered too much.

You should take the suit off. Should strip yourself of the dead weight. Be done with it.

But it doesn’t feel right.

Instead, it feels like penance. Like a burden you should carry for a little longer. Maybe it’s some twisted sense of self-punishment, or maybe it’s something deeper—something driving you. If you wear this suit through the airport, if you sit with it for just a few more hours, maybe it’ll push you harder. Maybe it’ll remind you that you can never be here again. That you won’t be.

That you will shed this skin.

That the next time you take off a racesuit, it won’t be this one.

That when you peel off the next set of fireproofs, they won’t carry the weight of failure, of stagnation, of being someone’s last-minute fill-in. They’ll belong to a respectable driver. To someone who fought and won. To someone who proved she deserved to take this one off.

You glance at yourself in the mirror one last time, the reflection of the Dale Coyne logos, the Honda badge, the grime-streaked collar sitting heavy on your skin. You meet your own gaze, holding it steady, knowing—knowing—this is the last time you’ll ever wear this thing.

You swear it.

You’ll take it off when you’ve earned the right to.

Then, without another second of hesitation, you turn on your heel and walk out of the bathroom, still wearing the evidence of the past, still carrying the weight of it. The stares continue as you weave through the terminal, but you don’t even flinch. You know where you’re going.

The next flight to Spa-Francorchamps.

And the start of the rest of your fucking life.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

As hyped, as promised- here is the first chapter of Reset, my MV33 x reader fic that's been in the works for.... 9 months, more or less. A few things to understand:

1- This fic has been written in pieces, over the course of many months, in all sorts of mental states and writing skills. As I edit, I try to edit for consistency of tone and keeping the overarching themes, but I'm just one person. Constructive criticism is always welcomed but cut me some slack.

2- This will devolve into explicit content within a few chapters. For those who are here for that, please bear with me as we build up this sweet, sweet burn. I promise I'll make it worth the wait- we're going on a journey here, not just writing p0rn. For minors or those that don't wish to read that, it may be best not to get attached to a fic that will turn into something you don't want.

3- The reader is afab. I try to remain inclusive and ambiguous where I can, but the nature of the story sometimes is less so. I love all of my readers, and I hope you can find joy in this story regardless. <3 She also has a last name, but I try to keep references to it to a bare minimum.

[tomlinsins]

🌿 Take Me Higher Than I've Ever Been by crimsontheory @ireallysawanangel [51k]

Harry is pretty simple. He goes to work everyday, comes home, then watches Netflix with his cat. And if he happens to have a tiny little crush on his coworker, then that’s just his own business.

🌿 Crave** by dimpled_halo @comebackassholes [90k]

All eyes are on Louis Tomlinson to bring new talent to save Hanover Records from the mess the previous executive left behind. His newest artist, Harry Styles, is charismatic and everything Louis needs to revive the label. It’s up to Louis and his team to make Harry the star he was born to be. When Harry and Louis come face to face, it isn’t the first time they’ve met, and their worlds are about to be turned upside down.

🌿 Young Gods by sincewewereeighteen [77k]

“Why don’t you stay?” Harry looked down at him and snorted. “What?”

“You’re not my type, Louis”, the boy rolled his eyes sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his boots.

“Says the man you just had sex with”, Louis pointed feeling smart, but Harry was one step ahead of him, with the answer on the tip of his tongue.

“You see, if you were my type, I wouldn’t have”, Harry winked, cheeky as hell. “I would’ve gotten to know you first.”

“Bullshit”, he accused the boy not letting it show how intrigued he was. “How can you know I’m not your type if you don’t know me?”

“How about I list five things about you to prove I’m right and if any of them are false I’ll lie down again.”

“Ok. Go.”

the one in which Louis is a model and Harry's supposed to be a normal guy... Until he isn't

🌿 School Of Extraordinary Lovers by @stylinsoncity [191k]

harry is a third-year witch and violinist at Laitswold, the only magical academy in the UK, with dreams of taking on the world, and hopefully breaking the centuries-old curse on his family while he's at it. he does not dream of facing off against his childhood rival and duet partner, but louis is back in town after six years abroad, so that's exactly what happens.

🌿 One Last Time by @smittenwithlouis [24k]

“I mean it, Harry, this is the last time,” Louis breathes out as Harry kisses down his neck.

“Sure,” Harry mumbles into his heated skin.

The action makes Louis shudder. He hates how good it feels. He knows he should be revolted. Disgusted. But god does it feel so damn good.

Or: Louis is a werewolf, and Harry is a vampire. They’re supposed to hate each other, but they’re too busy fucking to care.

🌿 Where I Burn To Be by pleasinglouis @pleasing-louis [143k]

“That’s right. I do own the skies. And you wanna know why?” he sneered. Without his boots on, Louis was a fair bit shorter than Harry, his eyes pretty much level with Harry’s chin and his socked toes bumping into the boots of the other man, close enough that Louis could make out the tiny scar on Harry’s brow and the individual shades of emerald in his irises. He was handsome, but that only made Louis hate him more. Heart thumping heavily against his sternum and his hands balled into fists, Louis lifted his chin defiantly and plastered a coldhearted smirk across his lips. “Because I’m the best goddamn pilot here.”

aka the Top Gun AU

🌿 Like A Melody In My Head by sarcasticinfluentry [60k]

A college marching band AU in which Harry is just trying to get through his first semester of college while pining over the hot drum major, Louis is trying to ignore his feelings for a certain curly-haired freshman, Zayn is trying to become less guarded, Liam is trying to be patient, and Niall is trying to make his dad proud.

🌿 Now You Know Me (For Your Eyes Only) by nadinecestmoi [77k]

au where harry and louis are solo artists and they’re not exactly friends per se but they’re friendly, know each other from industry parties and things like that and there’s always been this weird unspoken sexual tension between them and louis’ always kinda confused bc isn’t harry the biggest ladies’ man in the industry?? and one day harry asks louis to collab with him and of course louis says yes even tho he’s kinda surprised and harry plays the song for him and louis is completely blown away by how beautiful it is and it’s a love song and he’s like damn whoever this is about is lucky as fuck bc it’s clearly written from personal experience so they spend all this time together recording and it’s super bittersweet bc they click right away and it takes louis about three seconds to realize he has a huge fucking crush on harry but on the other hand harry clearly had someone in mind when he wrote the song so the last day of recording comes and louis’ like “thanks for having me on the song” and harry just shrugs and is like “well it just seemed fitting bc the song is about you”

🌿 Cold As Ice by larryspillows [76k]

Two famous boys, one passion. Two hearts, one home: the ice.

Or, an ice skating ff where the two most famous skaters in the world are forced to skate at the same rink. The only problem: They hate each other. What could go wrong?

🌿 take my hand (and my heart and soul)** by bananasandboots @anylessreal [45k]

The one where Harry hasn't spoken to his best friend in sixteen months and can't remember why.

Total Fics Read: 10

** rereads

[chaifootsteps]

I think the reason why fans turned on Angel dust is because back when the pilot came out and all people had was a music video and comics, they could sort of pretend that Angel dust was this nuanced adult character, but once Vivziepop abandoned her entire team and surrounded herself with enablers and rape fetishists, Angel Dust became a caricature of himself.

We literally don’t know anything about Angel dust other than he likes sex, apparently enjoys getting raped and likes his pet pig. Even in the goddamn playbill all that’s said about him is that he’s an abused pornstar. Even the merchandise mostly makes fun of the fact that he’s abused by Valentino. It’s a fucking punchline.

Remember when Vivziepop got defensive when people said he was just a walking sex joke. Guess she was right. Turns out he’s a walking rape joke! No wonder nobody except angelval shippers care about Angel dust

He barely even likes his pet pig anymore! In Fat Nuggets' first appearance in the series, Angel brushes him off and throws something over him. It's such a miserable far cry from Addict, the Instagrams, and the fandom depictions going off of both in which Fat Nuggets was Angel's baby, his tether to sanity, and the most noble thing about him.

[ragingbookdragon]

Can't Make Somebody Be Made For You

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1.1K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: I made a sad

**********************************************************************

When she cracked the door to her quarters open and saw Rooster standing there, all traces of sleep and irritation faded from her as she asked, “Bradley?” her gaze flickered over her shoulder to the clock on her nightstand. “It’s 0200. Why are you awake?” she rubbed her eyes. “We’ve got training at 0500.”

He looked at her. “Did you know that Mav pulled my papers at the academy?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Did. You. Know.” He repeated. “Did you know he pulled my goddamn papers?”

Her gaze lowered against the fury in his, and she opened her door for him. “Not exactly a hall conversation, Bradley.”

He stepped inside and immediately turned on her, gazing into her eyes. “You knew my papers were going to get pulled, didn’t you?”

“Bradley,” she started, and he held up a hand, jaw tightening.

“You did. Christ, you knew Mav was going to pull them and you didn’t warn me.”

With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t know beforehand.”

“But you did after?” he shook his head, rephrasing, “You knew why, after.”

“…yeah.”

“Why?” he asked, and she looked up at him.

“Bradley…”

He knelt before her, taking her hands in his own, staring at her. “You’ve been my best friend my entire life. You’ve never lied to me. Don’t start now.”

She bit her lip. “You won’t like the answers…”

“I need to know,” he stressed. “I want to know why he pulled them. Please,” he begged. “I’ve been in the goddamn dark my entire life. You have to tell me.”

“Okay,” she sighed softly. “Okay…” inhaling and exhaling, she patted the bed, and he stood up, sitting down next to her. “When I heard you got pulled from candidacy, I went to dad. He said it wasn’t any of my business but…” she trailed off and then said, “I listened in on his and Mav’s conversation about it later that night.”

“And?” he asked.

She frowned. “Your dad…when he died…your mom…” she struggled with how to explain it. “It was like losing a part of herself. And before he died, every time he went up, I know that fear was always there that she would lose him. And when she did…” she looked at him. “Bradley, she couldn’t lose you either.”

His brows furrowed and he managed, “My mom told Mav to pull my application?”

“She was trying to keep you safe, Bradley,” she whispered. “She couldn’t lose you like she lost Nick.”

His expression crumpled, shoulders slumping as he took in the revelation; it hurt to see her best friend like that.

“Mav was only doing what he thought was best.”

“Best for who? Him? My mom?” he shot back in frustration.

“For you,” she answered. “Bradley…he promised your mom.”

He scowled but there was hurt wound up in it. “Why didn’t he just tell me that?”

“Why would he?” she asked. “Hey Rooster, I blocked your application to follow in your dad’s footsteps because your mom made me promise to so you wouldn’t die.” Her own expression pinched. “You’d have been angrier at her than you ever have been at him.”

“Being a pilot…being….my dad,” he started. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.” He looked at her. “How could she have not seen that I’d wouldn’t have wanted to be anything else?”

She was at a loss for words. “Bradley…I don’t have the answers to those questions.” Taking his hand, she squeezed it. “All I know is that your mother loved you more than life. And that Mav loved you enough to let you hate him all this time to protect her.” With her free hand, she gently cradled his cheek, “Bradley,” she whispered, and he shut his eyes against the stinging in them, leaning into her touch. “You gotta know that Mav has always protected you even if it meant you’d hate him.”

His jaw clenched so tightly she could feel the strain under her palm, and he ground out in pain, “I’ve spent so long being so angry…hating him.”

“I know,” she murmured and leaned over, knocking their temples together. “But you’ve gotta start letting that anger go.” Her voice was soft but concerned. “Bradley, it’s eating you from the inside out.”

Tears dripped from his shut eyes. “I don’t know how.” He opened his eyes and looked at her brokenly. “I don’t know how to let it go. It’s…it’s what’s driven me for so long.”

“Find something new to drive you,” she said. “Honey…you’ve got to.”

He shut his eyes once more and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in her shoulder; she shifted, resting her cheek against his head as he began to shake against her.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, Bradley.”

She eventually ushered him to lay down on the bed and lay with one arm wrapped around his shoulders as he rested his head on her chest. She gently brushed her fingers through his hair, “I know you’ve hated Maverick all this time, but you know he’s always looked out for us when our own parents couldn’t.”

He didn’t respond, but the way his hand tightened in her shirt told her all she needed to know.

“And he’ll be there even when we lose everything.” She pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “He always has been. He always will be. And you can deny it all you want, but he’s the closest thing to Nick you’ve ever had.”

A wounded noise left him.

If different circumstances, it would have angered him beyond reason, but in this moment, he knew she was right.

He lifted his head, looking at her and she smiled sadly at him.

“Hey you,” she whispered, and he shifted, crawling up her to nuzzle his nose against hers. “Bradley?”

“You,” he started softly. “You’re the best thing I’ve got in this world.”

“Bradley…”

“Whenever things got bad. When I couldn’t handle them. You were always there. You never left me behind.” He pressed his forehead into hers, gazing into her eyes. “I love you. I always have.”

“Oh, Bradley,” she sighed gently.

He knew her tone; knew another man had her heart. “Just…give me these few hours. We’ll forget about it in the morning, but…please let me have this now.”

She nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Just for these hours.”

He lay beside her, arm secured around her back as she wrapped hers around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder.

For a few hours, he’d let himself dream that he belonged there—that she belonged in his arms.

The world was calm.

He’d let it go eventually.

He’d settle down and have a few kids of his own later on.

It wouldn’t be with her.

But for now, he’d let himself believe it was.