#Carburetor Tuning

[goodoldbandit]

Mastering Motorcycle Fuel Systems: Carburetors vs. Fuel Injection

https://gob.stayingalive.in/unleashing-the-thrills-of/mastering-motorcycle-fuel.html Discover the inner workings of motorcycle fuel systems—carburetors vs. fuel injection. Learn the benefits, and drawbacks, and how to choose the right system for your ride. Fuel systems are the heartbeat of any motorcycle, playing a crucial role in how your bike performs, responds, and feels on the road.…

[onemanandhismustang-com-blog]

Unexpected Find

I have been asked a few times how do I tune my carb up. The simple answer is try not to. It’s a dark art that I have mentioned many times before in past posts. Over the course of last weekend I was looking for something that I have lost, last seen in the garage. It’s highly unusual for me to loose anything in the garage I must say. Through my rummaging and looking around I found a printed copy of…

[engineeredracingservices]

Edelbrock Carburetors

Engineered Racing Services specializes in Edelbrock carburetors, offering expert tuning, rebuilding and customization for peak performance. Edelbrock carburetors are renowned for their reliability, ease of tuning and efficiency, making them a top choice for street and racing applications. Engineered Racing Services provides precision modifications, jetting, and calibration to enhance fuel delivery and throttle response. With a deep understanding of Edelbrock’s design, they help maximize horsepower and drivability. Whether for classic muscle cars or high-performance builds, their services ensure optimal carburetor performance.

[kannady]

rendezvous

summary: sylus has realised he's real, but everything around him isn't. but what happens when he decides to kidnap you from the real world?

a/n: ok! so contrary to my expectation, this week wasnt bad at all, just super tiring. i had no time to read anything let alone write. but i have a couple days off so hopefully ill finish this one. also this lovely idea from @tofufairy was just too good to only write as a oneshot. ill write it in two long ass parts. lemme know your thoughts!

word count: 6k

genre: sylus, love and deepspace, sexual tensions. slight stalking.

read part two here!

Sylus wiped grease from his knuckles with a ragged cloth, squinting at the bike’s engine like it had personally offended him. The bike wasn’t even broken, he just needed something to do with his hands, something to keep the silence at bay. The garage was quiet except for the occasional plink of a loose bolt hitting concrete and the distant hum of traffic. Then, footsteps. Light, almost skipping.

He didn’t look up until she was right beside him, her shadow stretching across his toolbox.

“Hey!” she said, voice bright enough to make his teeth ache. “Nice bike. Vintage, right?”

Sylus clenched his jaw. Don’t engage. She’ll leave if you don’t engage. He grunted, flicking a speck of rust off the carburetor.

She didn’t take the hint. Leaning in, she tapped the fuel tank like they were old friends. “My neighbour used to have one just like this. Well, almost like this. His was blue, and the seat had this weird tear-”

“Mhm.” Sylus reached for a wrench, deliberately turning his back.

“-oh, you’re so right, it’s totally going to rain later-”

Sylus stared.

Her voice twisted, warped. The words melted together like a shrill. His chest ached, hollow and heavy all at once. He knew this feeling. The one that came after the anger, when the fire burned out and left nothing but ashes.

Alone.

Even when she was here, screaming at nothing, he was alone.

She kept talking. About the weather. About some café down the street. About nothing, really. He tuned it out, focusing on tightening a bolt until his fingers hurt.

Finally, he stood, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. He didn’t bother with a goodbye, just walked toward the garage door, her voice still bouncing off the concrete walls behind him.

Then it hit him. The talking hadn’t stopped.

He glanced back.

She was still there, grinning at the empty space where he’d been standing, gesturing animatedly to no one. Her laughter echoed, high and bright, as if he’d never left.

Sylus exhaled through his nose. Not real. Again.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking.

Somewhere behind him, she was still laughing. Somewhere inside him, the silence was worse. (a/n: cue play last of us intro)

***

The clock glared at you from the corner of the screen. 11:47 PM.

Twelve minutes. Twelve fucking minutes.

Your fingers hammered the keyboard like it had personally wronged you. The essay was done, mostly, but the last paragraph was a wreck of half-formed thoughts and caffeine-induced word vomit. You backspaced violently, teeth sinking into your lower lip. “Come on, come on.”

Your roommate’s cat, a judgmental ball of fur called Binx, hopped onto the desk and sat on your notes.

“Not now,” you hissed, nudging him away. Binx flicked his tail in your face and settled just out of arm’s reach, watching you suffer with unblinking yellow eyes.

11:53.

You skimmed the essay one last time, your vision blurring from screen fatigue. Was that a typo? Did you mix up “affect” and “effect” again? The words swam on the screen, morphing into meaningless shapes. 

Good enough. With a shaky breath, you hit Submit.

The page loaded with agonizing slowness.

11:58.

Your knee bounced under the desk. The cursor spun. Spin, spin, spin.

Submitted successfully!

The clock ticked over to 11:59.

You made a sound between a sob and a laugh, slumping back in your chair. The tension drained from your shoulders all at once, leaving you boneless. For a long moment, you just stared at the ceiling, your heartbeat finally slowing. The desk lamp cast long shadows, the room suddenly too bright, too quiet.

Binx meowed, unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, but there was no heat in it. The relief was too sweet.

You got out of the chair, your muscles protesting like you’d run a marathon instead of typing. The shower beckoned you. Hot, steamy, glorious. You turned the water up until it nearly scalded, letting it pound the stress from your back. The shampoo smelled like coconuts, the steam fogging up the mirror until your reflection vanished. For the first time in weeks, you could finally breathe.

After, you slipped into your favorite slip dress. The oversized lavender one that pooled around your thighs. Your skin still hummed with the warmth of the shower, hair dripping lazily onto your shoulders.

Then, the real reward.

You snatched your phone off the charger, thumb hovering over the app you hadn’t opened in weeks. Love & Deepspace, the game you’d been too buried in assignments to touch. Just the icon made your pulse skip. The opening theme swelled as it loaded, the familiar melody wrapping around you.

“Please don’t crash. Please don’t-”

The home screen loaded, vibrant and welcoming. A rush of warmth flooded your chest. God, you’d missed this. Missed the pixel-perfect smiles of your favorite characters, the cheesy dialogues, the way your stomach fluttered during the romance scenes. It was stupid. It was perfect.

You curled onto your bed, pulling the comforter up to your chin. Binx settled beside you, purring.

For the first time in forever, you grinned.

“Alright, boys,” she whispered to the screen. “Let’s fall in love.”

You blinked at the screen, waiting.

The Destiny Café’s afternoon glow bathed everything in honeyed light. Cozy, inviting, but wrong. Because he wasn’t there.

Sylus should have been front and center, seated on the couch with that infuriating smirk, his silver-white hair catching the light like frost under the sun. His crimson eyes like blood spilled over fresh snow, should have been locked onto the screen, onto you, with that knowing glint that always made your stomach flip.

But the space where he usually stood was empty. Just an untouched coffee cup and the faint imprint of where his hip would have rested on the couch.

Your finger hovered over the screen.

What the hell?

You switched to Rafayel. He appeared instantly, greeting you with a soft smile. Then Zayne, Xavier, Caleb. All were present. Exactly as they should’ve been. But Sylus?

Gone.

You reloaded. Same empty café. Same hollow silence where his voice should have been.

A weird, creeping unease settled in your chest. This wasn’t right. Sylus wasn’t some side character. He was Sylus, the one who always greeted you, made you laugh but did, the one whose rare, genuine smile felt like a secret just for you.

You clicked the “Date” option. His name was still there. But his icon was grayed out, as if you’d never unlocked him. But you had. You knew you had. You remembered the grind, the late nights, the way your heart jumped when his story finally unfolded. You remembered the exact shade of his eyes. His sly remarks. 

And now?

Now it was just… nothing.

The game hummed on, oblivious. The other characters chatted, flirted, existed like nothing was wrong.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was.

Where the hell was Sylus?

You switched characters again, as if he'd magically appear this time. But no. His spot remained empty. No silver-white hair catching the light, no crimson eyes glinting with amusement. Just emptiness.

Frustration settled under your skin. You exited the game, force-closed it, reopened it. Same empty café. Same missing man.

“Okay, maybe it’s just a bug.”

You hopped onto Reddit, scrolling through forums, searching for anything about Sylus missing. But there was nothing. No posts, no complaints, no panicked "Where's Sylus??" threads. Just the usual chatter. Fan theories, event guides, thirst edits about the other guys.

Your stomach twisted. 

Why was no one else talking about this?

You checked the official website. No mention of him being removed. No maintenance notices. It was like the universe had decided to gaslight you.

What was the point of playing if he wasn't here?

You glanced at the clock on your bedside table. 2:43 AM. You were too tired for this. Maybe it was just a weird glitch. Maybe tomorrow, when you logged back in, he'd be there like nothing had happened.

With a sigh, you tossed your phone onto the nightstand, flicked off the light, and yanked the covers over your head.

***

You were jolted awake by a sudden, unnatural sensation. Not by any sound or dream, but by the distinct feeling of movement while lying completely still. Your eyes flew open to complete darkness, but this wasn't the familiar comforting dark of your bedroom. The air felt charged.

You rubbed your eyes and felt yourself lifting, floating, as if gravity had momentarily forgotten you existed. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized you were actually hovering, weightless. Before panic could fully take hold, you sensed a presence beside you, touching you. The heat from his body searing through his clothes, enveloping you. Did someone kidnap you?

Slowly, almost afraid of what you might see, you turned your head.

And there, carrying you bridal style, was Sylus. Not as pixels on a screen, but as a living, breathing being. His silver-white hair seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, like moonlight reflecting off fresh snow. Those crimson eyes, the ones you'd have known anywhere, locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart pound violently against your chest.

"You noticed," he murmured, his voice deeper and richer than you'd ever imagined, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. The scent of winter air and something faintly metallic, like cold steel, surrounded him. Every rational thought screamed that this couldn't be real, that you had to be dreaming, but the warmth of his breath against your skin felt terrifyingly real.

He smirked, that same infuriatingly perfect smirk you'd seen a hundred times on your phone screen, but now it was directed at you in a way that made your stomach flip. In this impossible moment, only one thought rang clear in your overwhelmed mind. He was real, he was here, and nothing would ever be the same again.

How the hell was he here and not in the game? But he wasn’t actually here, right? You were probably just dreaming. A dream that felt dangerously real. That had your heartbeat accelerating, the hairs on the back of your neck standing upright, your palms clammy, and your thoughts all mushed up. 

In that moment, you could think of nothing else but to do the only sane thing. The one thing any normal person would do. You screamed. Maybe Sylus wasn’t expecting that. He stopped in his tracks and just for a faint second, you noticed his eyes widen. Your scream tore through the night air. Before the second shriek could escape, Sylus' gloved hand clamped over your mouth. 

The leather smelled faintly of gun oil and winter mint, an unsettlingly human detail for someone who shouldn't exist.

"Easy there, little kitten," he murmured, crimson eyes glinting with amusement under the moonlight. "We're in the N109 Zone. Do you really want an audience here?" 

His thumb brushed your cheekbone almost tenderly as he said it, lingering for just a moment longer, making your pulse stutter.

The scream died in your throat as his words registered. N109 Zone. You'd seen it in the game before. You remembered what almost happened to the MC when she first came here. Your wide eyes darted past Sylus' shoulder, finally taking in your surroundings properly.

Moonlight bled through the trees, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. The air hummed with something electric, raising goosebumps along your arms. You looked ahead to where Sylus was walking, still holding you swiftly like you weighed nothing. It was a glorious mansion adorned with intricate details, sculptures, gardens punctuated with red roses.

Sylus followed your gaze. "Ah. You've noticed our destination." His hand slid from your mouth and he stopped just for a moment to let you down. "Walk with me. Questions can wait until I’ve safely escorted you inside."

Every survival instinct screamed to wrench away, but the rational part of your brain knew escape would be futile. This was Sylus, after all. Dream or not. 

You found yourself matching his strides as he led you toward the glowing mansion, your bare feet sinking into unnaturally warm moss with each step.

The night was still young. Your slip dress that had once been perfectly comfortable in your bedroom, now felt flimsy as a tissue paper.

"You're shaking," Sylus observed without breaking stride. His thumb stroked your pulse point, where your heartbeat fluttered like a caged bird. "Don't tell me you only like me from behind a screen."

“I do like you. But you’re not even real.” You managed to speak without stuttering, although you knew he sensed the nervousness in your voice anyway.

“Or am I, sweetie?”

"I like fictional characters who stay fictional," you snapped, then immediately regretted it when his fingers tightened fractionally.

Sylus laughed, a rich, unsettling sound that didn't quite reach those blood-bright eyes. "Oh, darling. If only you knew how fictional your world seems from here."

The mansion loomed closer, its glowing arches humming. Something in that sound made your teeth ache. Sylus' grip shifted to your elbow as you approached the massive doors, his breath warm against your ear. "Deep breaths now. I wouldn’t want my guest to panic. What kind of host would that make me?"

You locked eyes with him. There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite discern. This dreaming was driving you crazy. 

As the doors swung open silently, revealing a cavernous hall pulsing with strange light, you realized with dawning horror that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't just some bizarre dream. The game had never shown this place. Never warned about any of this.

And the man beside you, the one whose smirk had once made your stomach flutter, now felt about as safe as a live wire in a thunderstorm.

Your breath caught as you took in the grand hall, its vaulted ceilings stretching endlessly. The air hummed with a faint warmth, carrying the scent of aged parchment and something richer, like smoldering embers and black tea. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, their swirling patterns shifting subtly under the glow of floating orbs of light that drifted lazily through the space.

This place shouldn't have existed.

You'd spent hours in Love & Deepspace, memorizing every pixel of Sylus' world, or so you'd thought. But this? This had never been in the game.

As if reading your thoughts, Sylus chuckled low beside you. "The game only showed the places I wanted it to."

You tore your gaze from the opulent decor to glance at him, but he was already looking away, his expression unreadable. Still, you caught the faintest curve of his lips, smug, satisfied. Like he was enjoying your bewilderment.

Before you could retort, he stepped forward, extending a gloved hand toward you. "Come." It wasn't a request.

You hesitated, fingers twitching at your sides. Every rational instinct screamed that you shouldn't take it, that you should demand answers, find a way back, run. But curiosity was a traitorous thing.

You placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and firm, and suddenly, you were moving.

He guided you through the mansion with quiet precision, his grip on your hand unyielding as you moved through rooms that felt too expansive, too real to belong to any game. The air smelled of polished wood and gun oil. The walls were lined with sleek display cases, holding meticulously maintained firearms. Some modern, some antique.

A long hallway opened into what looked like an armory, racks of rifles and handguns. You recognized some from the game. The sleek, futuristic designs that had always appeared when you fought alongside Sylus. But others were unfamiliar, their edges worn from use. You paused beside a case holding a silver revolver. “This wasn’t in the game,” you murmured.

Sylus hummed, stepping closer. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached past you to tap the glass. “No. Some things are just for me.” His voice was low, intimate.

The next chamber was a training area. mats covering the floor, a shooting range tucked behind soundproof glass. A half-dismantled rifle lay on a workbench, its parts spread out. 

You couldn’t believe your eyes. Yes, Sylus was your most favourite fictional man. He was just your type. You’d spent hours reading his fanfictions, replaying his memories. Watching his fanarts. But this? This was incomprehensible. You were torn between the thoughts whether this was dangerous or exciting, whether you were dead or dreaming?

You turned to him, your pulse quickening. “Is this real?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Or am I inside the game?”

Sylus studied you for a long moment, his crimson eyes unreadable. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached out and caught your wrist, guiding your hand to his chest. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, you felt the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart.

“Does it matter?” he murmured.

Your fingers curled slightly against him, warmth seeping through the material. It was too real, the heat of his skin, the faint scent of leather and something darker, like black coffee. The game never felt this real. It felt, well, just like a game.

He tilted his head, watching your reaction with that same infuriating smirk. “You wanted answers,” he said. “But you haven’t asked the right question yet.”

You swallowed. “Then what’s the right question?”

Sylus leaned in, his breath brushing your ear. “Not where you are,” he said. “But why you’re here.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

Before you could respond, he straightened and tugged you forward again. “Come. I want to show you something.”

And despite the unease coiling in your stomach, you followed.

The heavy oak door swung open under Sylus' touch, revealing a library so vast it made your breath hitch. Towering mahogany shelves stretched toward the ceiling, their upper levels vanishing into darkness. Rolling ladders stood along the walls. The scent of aged paper and polished wood wrapped around you, rich and comforting.

You took an involuntary step forward, your fingers already itching to touch the spines. "This is..." Words failed you as your gaze traveled up, up, up the endless shelves.

"Excessive?" Sylus offered, his voice laced with amusement. He leaned against the doorframe, watching your reaction with those piercing crimson eyes. "Or perhaps just adequate."

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. "Adequate for what? Collecting every book ever printed?"

His lips quirked in that infuriating half-smile. "For you."

"For... me?" Your hand froze halfway to pulling out a volume of what appeared to be 18th century botanical illustrations.

"You like books." He pushed off the doorframe and strode toward you, his boots silent on the thick rug. "I noticed. When you wouldn’t log in to finish a book you’d just bought. When you'd pause the game just to squint at some background text."

Heat crept up your neck. You hadn't realized he'd been paying that much attention. How could you? Until now you didn’t know he was real. Although you still weren’t entirely sure. "So you... what? Built me a library?"

"Some of these don't exist in your world. First editions of books that were never published. Manuscripts that were lost to war or censorship." His gloved fingers brushed a bookspine. "Thought you might appreciate holding what others never got to read."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. This wasn't just some game logic, this was thoughtful in a way that unsettled you. "But why go to all this trouble?"

Sylus tilted his head, considering you. "Why does a hunter maintain his weapons? Why does a scholar preserve his texts?" He reached past you to pull out a slender volume bound in deep blue leather. "We care for the things that matter."

That matter? Did you matter to him? So much to have him build you an entire library.

The book pressed into your hands felt strangely warm. You opened it carefully to find handwritten pages in a language you didn't recognize.

When you looked up, Sylus was watching you with an expression you couldn't decipher. "This is impossible," you whispered.

"Yet here you are."

Sylus watched you trail your fingers along the book spines, his gaze darkening as you bit your lip in concentration. When you pulled out a volume, his shadow fell over you, close enough that his breath stirred your hair.

“Find something interesting?” he murmured.

You turned too fast and suddenly you were chest-to-chest with him. The heat of his body seeped through your clothes. His eyes dropped to your parted lips.

“I-uh.” Your voice cracked. His smirk deepened. Ugh! How is he sexier in person?

He reached past you to rplace back the book, his arm caging you in, the scent of leather, gunpowder and black coffee wrapping around you. “Take your time, sweetie. I’ll always be right here.”

You had no idea how much time you spent immersed in the books, how long Sylus kept looking at you. As you put back a leather-bound book onto the shelf, you heard a soft ruffle a fabric as he stepped closer. “Not interesting?”

“Overwhelming?”

“Do you want to see your room, sweetie?”

“My room?”

He lead you through many different halls and up a long flight of stairs. The door swung open under Sylus' touch, revealing a bedroom that stole the breath from your lungs. Soft blush-pink walls glowed in the golden light of crystal sconces. White curtains fluttering gently in the breeze from the open doors that led to a private balcony.

You took an involuntary step forward, your fingers brushing against the plush velvet pillows in shades of ballet slipper pink and creamy ivory. Each one was embroidered with tiny floral details. On the nightstand sat a collection of porcelain trinket boxes, one shaped like a kitten, another like a miniature treasure chest. Exactly like the ones you'd been eyeing online but could never bring yourself to buy.

"I..." Your voice caught as you noticed the vanity table, arranged with crystal perfume bottles and a jewelry box with a tiny ballerina dancing inside. The mirror was framed with tiny LED lights, just like the one in your wishlist. "How did you...?"

Sylus leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. Even in setting, he looked effortlessly beautiful. The sharp features of his face contrasting with the softness surrounding him. "I know you have a particular fondness for pink," he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Your cheeks warmed as you turned in a slow circle, taking in more details. A bookshelf held familiar titles, all your favorite novels in first edition hardcovers. The sitting area by the balcony had a plush reading chair with a crocheted blanket draped over one arm, the exact shade of cotton candy pink you'd once tweeted was your favorite.

On the dresser sat something that made your breath hitch. A limited edition snow globe from that anime you'd mentioned in passing months ago. Only 500 had been made worldwide. You reached out with trembling fingers to lift it, watching as glitter swirled around the tiny figures inside.

"You remembered this?" you whispered, unable to hide the wonder in your voice.

Sylus pushed off the doorframe and walked toward you, his boots silent on the plush cream carpet. "I remember everything," he murmured, so close now you could see the flecks of darker red in his irises. His gloved hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the leather cool against your flushed skin. 

"The way your eyes light up when you talk about your favorite things. The exact shade of pink that makes you smile."

Your heart hammered against your chest as his fingers trailed down to tilt your chin up. The air between you was fused with tension, his gaze dropping to your lips. His right hand slid slowly up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he leaned in. 

But your stomach chose that moment to growl loudly.

Sylus blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh, stepping back. "Dinner is at eight," he said, adjusting his gloves with that familiar precision. "The closet should have everything you need." He gestured to a door you hadn't noticed before. "Though I suspect you'll find the contents... predictable."

With that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood frozen for a moment, still clutching the snow globe. Then, with shaky legs, you moved to investigate the closet. When you opened the door, a soft gasp escaped you. Racks of halter tops, micro skirts, mini shorts, bell-bottom jeans. Dresses with delicate lace trim, cozy sweaters with pearl buttons, even pajamas with little cartoon characters, all in your exact size.

A sound from outside drew you to the balcony doors. You stepped into the cool evening air just as the first notes of a piano floated up from the garden below. Leaning over the railing, you could see Sylus seated at a grand piano beneath a tree, his silver hair glowing in the twilight as his hands moved effortlessly across the keys.

The song was unfamiliar but beautiful, a melancholy melody that seemed to echo the strange ache in your chest. You wrapped your arms around yourself, watching as petals drifted down around him, caught in the breeze.

This man had recreated your dream bedroom down to the smallest detail. He knew your tastes better than anyone in your real life. And yet, as you watched him play with such quiet intensity, you realized with a pang that you didn't know the first real thing about him.

You slipped into a chiffon dress from the closet, one that hugged your curves in all the right places and a neckline that dipped just low enough to feel daring. After smoothing your hands down the fabric, you took a deep breath and headed downstairs, following the scent of roasted herbs and something rich and buttery.

The dining room took your breath away. A long, polished table stretched beneath a glittering chandelier, set with fine china and crystal glasses that caught the candlelight. Platters of food covered every inch. Seared scallops drizzled in lemon butter, rosemary-crusted lamb, truffle-infused mashed potatoes, and a dozen other dishes you couldn’t name but made your mouth water.

Sylus stood at the head of the table, his back to you as he poured wine into two glasses. He’d changed into a tailored black suit, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders before tapering at his waist. When he turned, his crimson eyes flickered over you, lingering for a heartbeat too long on the dip of your neckline before meeting your gaze.

"You look exquisite," he said, his voice low.

Your pulse fluttered. "You didn’t have to go through all this trouble."

His lips curved. "I wanted to."

He pulled out your chair, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck as you sat, sending a shiver down your spine. The meal began in quiet elegance, the clink of silverware the only sound between you, at first.

But then you stole a glance.

His hands were unfairly elegant. Long fingers, swift movements as he speared a piece of lamb with his fork, the way his thumb pressed against the edge of the fork before bringing it to his lips. You watched, as he chewed slowly, the muscles in his jaw flexing before his throat worked with a swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

God! Why does he have to be so sexy?

At that point, you were torn between two dilemmas, as if two angels were fighting over what was right or wrong. He was hot and now you were imagining not so decent things. Why? Well, of course because he was Sylus. You loved him. But you hardly knew him. Technically, you knew him. But who knew if he was the same person? Did his looks make you forget one crucial thing? What the hell were you doing here!? What kind of dream was this? Maybe he knew… 

You always knew he was dangerously attractive, but now you’d been too mesmerised with the newfound surroundings to notice. But now that you did…

Heat pooled in your stomach.

You looked away, taking a sip of wine to distract yourself, but it didn’t help. Every time he lifted his glass, you caught the way his fingers curled around the stem, the way his lips parted just slightly before the red liquid touched them.

A traitorous wetness settled between your thighs. Without thinking, you clenched them together, biting your lip. Sylus’ fork stilled.

"Careful now, kitten," he murmured, his voice a dark caress.

Your breath hitched.

He set his utensils down with deliberate slowness, his gaze locking onto yours. The candlelight flickered in his crimson eyes, turning them molten. "You keep looking at me like that," he said, "and I’ll start thinking you want something."

enjoy this cute gif. think of it as the room sylus prepared for you.

lemme know if you wanna be added to the taglist for the next part!!

[wendichester]

please!! dean x autistic reader that has an hyperfixation on cars and starts tweaking out when they see the impala for the first time, starting to drop informations about its history and other stuff abt it !! it would be so cute

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 car buff,

summary. dean had no clue you knew so much about cars. and oh boy, he's feeling it

pairing. dean winchester x autistic!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 545

notes / warnings. reader with hyperfixation on cars (enthusiastic infodumping), slight awkwardness (canon-typical dean), soft boy dean trying to play it cool but melting, lots of car facts, nothing but vibes and serotonin

Dean’s halfway through filling the tank when he hears it.

“Oh my god, is that a ‘67 Impala?”

He turns. And then immediately stares.

You’re walking toward the car like it’s a religious artifact, eyes wide and shiny and locked on her like she’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen—which, honestly, fair. But Dean’s used to people ignoring the Impala. Or calling her a boat. Or saying she looks like a damn hearse.

Not this.

“You even have the original grille,” you’re saying, almost breathless. “Is that the factory paint or did you restore it? Oh my god, and the interior—wait, wait, are those bench seats?”

Dean blinks. “Uh… yeah.”

You drop into a crouch to look closer at the tires and start muttering under your breath like you're cataloging her specs. Which you kind of are.

Dean can’t help but grin. “You a fan?”

You pop up like you forgot he was there, eyes lit with excitement. “Fan is an understatement. This is THE car. Like—the car. It’s the holy grail of muscle. Four hundred twenty-seven cubic inches, V8 engine, 385 horsepower if you tune it right—and she’s got the bones for long-haul driving, which you never get in these classics.”

Dean lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Most people just say she’s shiny.”

“Those people have no taste,” you shoot back, not missing a beat.

Dean laughs. He’s never heard someone defend Baby’s honor that fast. He likes it.

“You a mechanic or just real into old Chevys?”

“I mean—” You pause. “I’m autistic. Hyperfixated on cars since I was like, six. I used to fall asleep listening to my grandpa’s engine manuals. I can take apart a carburetor blindfolded. Tried to do it in eighth grade science class. Was not appreciated.”

Dean barks out a laugh. You beam, proud and not even a little embarrassed. It’s contagious.

“Name’s Dean,” he offers, tossing the gas nozzle back into the pump. “She’s mine. Fully restored her with my own hands. Most folks don’t even give her a second look anymore.”

“They’re fools.”

He points at you. “Exactly.”

You walk a slow circle around the Impala, reverent. “The chrome’s original, too, huh? You polish this, don’t you? Like religiously.”

Dean looks a little sheepish. “Every week.”

You glance up at him, a big, dorky smile on your face. “I think I love you.”

Dean chokes. “Sorry, what?”

You freeze. “Oh my god. Out loud. I said that out loud.”

You look like you’re about to self-destruct. Dean raises his hands quickly, chuckling.

“Hey, hey—it’s alright. I mean, you just met the real love of my life. Pretty sure you’re her type.”

You glance at the car. Then back at Dean. “So… do I get to sit in her or do I have to buy you dinner first?”

Dean grins, big and slow. “Tell you what. You let me take you to dinner, and I’ll even let you ride shotgun.”

You gasp. “With the windows down?”

Dean nods solemnly. “Cassette tape blasting. Bench seat privilege included.”

“Deal.”

You hold out your hand like it’s sacred, and Dean takes it, shaking with a smile.

Neither of you knows it yet, but this is absolutely going to become a love story.

It just starts with chrome.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Oldsmobile 442

The Oldsmobile 442 is a iconic American muscle car that embodies the essence of performance, power, and sophistication. Introduced in 1968, the 442 (standing for 4-barrel carburetor, 4-speed manual transmission, and dual exhaust) was a high-performance package available on various Oldsmobile models, featuring a range of engines, including the legendary 455 cubic-inch V8. With its aggressive styling, bold stripes, and sport-tuned suspension, the 442 delivers exceptional acceleration, handling, and braking capabilities. As a symbol of Oldsmobile's commitment to innovation and performance, the 442 remains a beloved classic among muscle car enthusiasts, representing the perfect blend of raw power, style, and nostalgia, with its reputation as one of the most iconic and sought-after muscle cars of all time.

[honeyryewhiskey]

ᝰ MARLBORO MAN | MECHANIC!DEAN

❝ dirty ❞

⊹₊ ⋆ he looks like he works with his hands

and smells like marlboro reds ⊹₊ ⋆

the story — you’re back in sleepy sioux falls for a slow, sticky summer—just graduated, crashing with uncle bobby, and working at his auto shop while you figure out your future. but your quiet plans derail in the shape of your childhood crush, dean winchester.

ᝰ

... dirty hands, sundresses + temptations ... mutual pining don't get caught! bit of backstory flirting / teasing 18+ smut / face riding 3.6k words

Dean didn’t so much as blink when Bobby mentioned his niece would be spending the summer in Sioux Falls. If anything, he was relieved. The old house had been feeling too damn quiet since Sam took off for the East Coast—something about a law school internship and building connections. Dean stopped listening after that. He just knew the place needed another body in it.

He didn’t remember much about you.

Back when you first met him, you were just a kid. Braces and sneakers, tagging behind your mom the summer she showed up on Bobby’s porch, looking for a soft place to land. Dean had barely looked up from under the hood that year—too busy burying himself in grease and carburetors, trying to tune out the mess of a life he’d been handed.

It was Sam who finally made him snap out of it.

Dean could handle John’s anger. His silence. His barking orders and long disappearances. But when that shit started trickling down to Sam, that was the line. Dean scraped together a couple weeks’ worth of pool hall cash, bought two bus tickets, and got his little brother the hell out of there.

They showed up at Bobby’s place late one night, just two kids with duffel bags and bruises they didn’t talk about. Bobby opened the door without asking questions. Took them in like it was nothing.

Your mom was already there, already softening the place up. She made breakfast every morning, scolded Dean when he cussed too close to the stove, taught Sam how to write scholarship essays like she knew he was meant for more.

John didn’t come back.

But one morning, Dean woke to the sound of you shouting from the front yard—your voice high and incredulous, calling out about some old Chevy parked crooked in the gravel.

It was John’s car. Now Dean’s. The engine was still warm. No note. No goodbye. Just a stack of paperwork on the passenger seat and enough signatures to get them enrolled in school by fall.

You, your mom, and all that feminine sweetness were gone by the time the leaves changed. Just a blip, really—but enough to soften the hard edges of that summer. Enough to make this place feel like more than a pit stop. Like maybe sticking around wasn’t such a bad idea.

That was years ago. Since then, Dean’s let go of some of the weight he used to carry around like armor. The bitterness, the aimlessness. He traded it in for steady work, cold beer on the porch, and the kind of peace that sneaks up on you when you stop looking for it.

He’s changed.

And good god, so have you.

You’re twenty-two now. All sun-kissed and sure-footed, sweet like your mama—but there’s fire in your blood, too. That Singer stubbornness, sharp and unmistakable. You’ve got a business degree fresh off the presses and a knack for poking at the chaos of Bobby’s bookkeeping like you were born to set it straight.

Dean’s spent the last few weeks watching you sweep into the shop with your pretty smile and your sharp tongue, bossing around two grizzled mechanics like you’ve been doing it your whole life. And somehow, he doesn’t mind it. Not one damn bit.

It’s the way you carry yourself—like you know exactly who you are now. Like you know he’s looking, and maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind.

And that has been messing with Dean’s head more than he cares to admit.

It starts small. Innocent, even. Dean starts coming in through the front of the shop more—where the office is, where you are.

He claims he’s just grabbing a water, looking for Bobby, checking the mail. You don’t call him on it, even when it’s the third time in an hour and the cooler’s still full in the garage.

You tease him when he leans over your desk, crowding your space just to squint at the books you’re trying to balance. He smells like motor oil and sun-warmed cotton, and it makes your heart do a little skip you pretend not to notice.

“You’re missin’ a decimal,” he says once, grinning when you swat his hand away.

“You’re missing boundaries,” you shoot back.

But he doesn’t move.

He starts bringing you snacks from the gas station like it’s nothing. Drops them on your desk without a word—just a bag of sour gummies or a cold soda, sometimes your favorite jerky.

“Didn’t ask for this,” you tell him.

“Didn’t say you had to,” he says back with a shrug, already walking away.

One afternoon, you’re on your tiptoes reaching for a box on the top shelf, and Dean’s suddenly behind you—one hand braced above your head, the other plucking the box down like it’s nothing.

You’re not even sure if you thanked him or just blacked out a little.

He doesn’t move right away, though. Just stays there a beat too long, close enough that your back brushes his chest when you step down.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low and smug, “just ask for help, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you don’t push him away.

It’s stupid things.

Like him accidentally knocking over your pencil cup just so he can squat down next to your desk and hand everything back to you slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Like him always needing you to “come take a look at this real quick” in the garage—even when you don’t know jack about what you’re looking at.

Like the way he seems to be in your doorway whenever you sigh too loud.

You give it right back—poking at his ego, calling him old, cracking jokes about his taste in music. He calls you a brat, threatens to toss you in the shop sink the next time you sass him.

But there’s a softness under it. A sweetness.

And when the shop’s quiet and the sun’s sliding golden through the windows, it starts to feel a little like a game. Like the start of something. Something neither of you are willing to name just yet.

ᝰ

The screen door slams behind you, and you wince—loud enough to make Bobby yell if he were home. But it’s just you and Dean.

And the heat.

The kind that clings to your skin, makes everything feel slow and sticky. The kind that turns a simple short sundress into a damn weapon.

You head toward the garage, trying not to trip over one of Dean’s many pairs of oversized work boots—kicked off somewhere on the gravel after a long day of work. You toe one lightly into the grass as you pass, smirking.

The garage doors are open on either side, letting sunlight spill across the concrete and beckoning any bit of relieving breeze that might sweep in. There’s an old rock station playing low on the radio, and over it, you hear Dean.

Muttering. Cussing. Grunting.

You peek in to see him flat on his back under the frame of a ‘71 Chevelle, shirt riding up just enough to show a bit of his toned stomach, a smear of grease high on one hip. The kind of detail that really should not matter, but your brain short-circuits all the same.

You lean a hip against the end of the car. “You always talk to her like that?”

A clang. A thud. A muffled curse.

Dean slides out on the dolly, grease-smudged and flushed, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead. “Jesus,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

You smile—sweet, innocent, deadly. “Just checking in.”

Dean squints up at you, and that smug little line of amusement on your face falters when you catch the full weight of his gaze. It drags down your body like a hand. Over your slightly exposed chest, the way the hemline of your dress flirts with the tops of your thighs. The movement is like a laser, and Dean’s the poor house cat too stupid to avert his gaze. 

“You know Bobby’d have my head if he saw you prancin’ around in that in the shop.”

You glance down, then shrug. “Guess it’s a good thing he’s at the junkyard.”

Dean stands, stretching. You catch the way his shirt lifts again, the flex in his arms as he runs a hand through his hair. He picks up a wrench—needlessly—and spins it lazily in his fingers.

“You always make that much noise when you’re pretending to work?”

That gets you a slow grin. He steps forward, peering down at you from his taller frame, cat-like grin turning into a flirty smirk.

“Nah,” he shrugs, voice low and a little too warm. “That’s just for you.”

Your heart thuds under the weight of all of his attention, but you play it cool. “Lucky me.”

He’s close now. Just close enough. Not touching—but you feel it. Like the air changes when he’s in your orbit. Charged.

Then, like he can’t help himself, Dean reaches out and tugs gently on the hem of your dress.

“You just wearing this to stir up trouble, or is it my lucky day?”

You slap his hand away, but you’re grinning.

“It’s a good dress for a day like today,” you fire back, easy and sweet.

Dean leans against the car beside you, arms crossed, the smirk tugging at his mouth betraying how much he likes the game. “You mean hot and sweaty?”

His gaze drops—slow, deliberate. Tracing the path from your bare shoulders down to the outline of that sundress clinging to your hips, breeze catching just enough to drive him insane.

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the fumes. Maybe it’s just been too damn long since someone looked at him the way you do. Whatever it is, Dean’s restraint is hanging by a thread.

Bobby’s the only thing keeping him in check—and with the old man miles away, that thread is starting to fray.

He wonders, shamefully hopeful, if you wore the dress for him. If you knew he’d be down here, sweating through his shirt, half-wild from the sun and whatever tension’s been building between you since summer started.

Then you clear your throat—sharper than it needs to be. It slices through the moment like cold water poured down his spine. Dean’s eyes drop fast, like he’s been caught red-handed, and before he can think better of it, he’s rolling himself back under the car.

“I should finish this before the old man gets back,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

He fits his wrench into place, starts working blindly—but the only body on his mind now is yours.

He’s barely settled when he catches movement—a shift, subtle at first, just a flicker in his peripheral.

Then your boots land. One, then the other. Planted firm on either side of him—close, far too close. One taps, slow and measured, the sound echoing off the concrete and thrumming straight up his spine like a live wire.

Dean mutters a curse under his breath. Wrench clutched in one hand, the other flexing tight at his side. It’s the heat, maybe. Or the attitude in your step. Or the scent of your skin drifting down to him—warm, clean, faintly sweet. Whatever it is, his jeans feel too tight against his cock and he’s running through the car’s framework to think of everything cold, dirty, metal. Not soft, plush, warm skin he wouldn’t mind exploring with his lips alone. 

He doesn’t even needs his hands, no, his mouth will do just—

His jaw clenches. His knuckles go white around the wrench.

“Dean,” you sing-song, dragging out his name in that syrupy tone that’s been unraveling him, thread by damn thread, since the moment you walked back into his life.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.

Stares at the undercarriage like it might save him from himself.

“Yeah?” His voice comes out rough. Graveled. A little too dry. He quietly wonders where all his bravado went, his go-to charm for girls who get him hot and bothered. But somehow, for some reason, with your legs on either side of his hips he can’t do a damn thing but sweat like some teen talking to a pretty girl for the first time. 

“You hiding from me now?”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“C’mon,” you coax, nudging his side gently with the toe of your boot. “You afraid of getting a little grease on me?”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, low in his throat. There is absolutely nothing funny about how you make him feel, but the heat’s making him lose his goddamn mind. “Grease ain’t the problem, sweetheart.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to bite into. Heavy. Crackling with something unspoken.

Then your voice cuts through it—quieter now, but edged with bold curiosity.

“What is?”

Dean closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the dolly with a quiet thunk. You. Of course it’s you. All legs and temptation and that voice—that damn voice—the one that curls around his thoughts at night when the house is too still, too quiet, too full of you. And all he has are those thoughts and his hand around his cock. 

“Tryin’ to focus here, sweetheart,” he grits, dragging a palm down his thigh—wiping sweat or control, he can’t tell. And he sure as hell doesn’t let himself imagine those fingers gripping your hips, smearing grease across soft skin.

“Didn’t realize I was a distraction,” you murmur.

Dean laughs—if it can be called that. It’s more exhaling than sound. More tension than ease. “Yeah, well. You are.”

Another tap of your boot. Another slow, smug tilt of your head—he can’t see it, but he hears it in your little responding laugh. That teasing confidence you’ve grown into like a blade in velvet.

A moment passes. Then another.

And finally, Dean rolls out from under the car, the wrench clattering faintly to the floor.

His eyes drag up until they find yours—locked, daring—and for a second, just one, he forgets every reason he’s been keeping his distance.

“You keep standin’ over me like that,” he rasps, “and I’m not gonna finish a damn thing today.”

You smile.

Sweet. Wicked. Like you’ve already won. It draws him up, like he’s a ship in the night following the light that is your pretty little smile. He sits with his eyes level to your core, but keeps his gaze on yours. 

“That’s kinda the point.”

Dean opens his mouth, maybe to warn you, maybe to beg, but before he can speak, a gust of wind slips through the open garage doors. He feels time slow down as the hem of your sundress flutters—light as breath, playful as sin—and it lifts just enough to show him what isn’t underneath.

His lungs forget how to work. His grip tightens on nothing but the sweat and oil in his palms.

You’d considered wearing panties today. You really had. But it’s hot, and humid, and truthfully... it was more fun this way.

Dean's voice comes slower now, rougher. He’s given up controlling his eyes, letting them lock onto the dizzying pattern of little white flowers, a pattern so sweet and innocent it’s almost comical. “You and I both know... if we do this... it’s my head starin’ down the barrel of Bobby’s shotgun.”

You giggle—that sound, all honey and hellfire—makes his hands twitch, desperate to reach out and pull you onto his lap. “What?” you start with a tease in your tone, “You scared, Winchester? Didn’t figure you for such a good boy. Keepin’ your hands where they’re s’posed to be.”

His smirk twists, eyes flicking up to yours, burning with a desire he’s ready to let loose. Follow that sin down the rabbit hole and deal with the consequences later, after he gets what he wants, after he has a taste of you. 

Maybe once he has you shaking and whimpering, you’ll learn not to toy with a man like him.

“I can manage just fine without my hands, sweetheart.”

You lean in—breath close, words closer.

“Prove it.”

It’s all he needs to hear for the pesky little mental restraints to break. His palms wrap around your calves, marking you with his dirty hands and holding you in place as his lips trail kisses up your inner thighs. He smirks when he feels your muscles tighten under his lips, his teeth dig into flesh, a sigh leaves your lips. 

“Don’t tease me, Dean.” you say, breathless, your small hands steadying yourself at his shoulders. 

His hands slide up your legs, pulling at the space behind your knees and you follow him down. He lies back onto the dolly, and it’s like slow motion, how you fall to your knees over him. Hovering like you’re suddenly unsure of your next move—just like he thought, all confident backtalk. 

“You’ve got two options, sweetheart,” he mumbles between kisses on your thighs, “either walk out of this garage and we never mention this again.” he’s half paying attention to what he’s saying, too busy soaking up the scent of your sweat and perfume engulfing his senses. It’s like a fucking dream compared to the metallic blend he’s used to. 

“Or you sit that pretty pussy on my face and let me prove to you I don’t need my hands for a damn thing.” 

He holds back a laugh when you gasp like you’ve never been told exactly what a man wants you to do for him. And fuck, he’s getting off on just the thought of making you feel more than anyone else ever has. 

A claim as damning as the greasy hand prints he presses into your thighs. 

You shuffle forward, lining your core up with his face, and it’s the best damn day he’s ever had in this stuffy old garage as you lower yourself onto his mouth. 

His tongue sweeps through your fold like a man starved—greedily, he pulls your clit between his soft lips. The jolt it sends through your body only makes his mouth work faster, devouring every bit of sweetness he severely lacks in all his time spent between metal and concrete. His palms grip firmly on either thigh, holding you in place and locking all his senses in you. 

He teases your clit with small licks, making the stubble on his chin graze your sensitive folds, the overstimulation making your cheeks turn pink and vision blur. 

“Dean,” you sigh—whimper, head falling back as your hips rock into his mouth. He moans in response, the sound vibrating through your core and making you clench around nothing. Aching for more, for all of it, for him and his dirty mouth and dirty hands. 

He works you with his mouth like he was born for it, tongue swirling and lips nipping at a dizzying pace. His brazen, hungry motions build a tension deep in your core. You lose control of yourself, helplessly humping his mouth and whimpering. He delves into his greed, devouring all the pretty little parts of you he’s spent the past few weeks only imagining the taste of. 

He’s not even sure how he hasn’t done this sooner, how he’s going to finish you and be able to stay away if that’s what you ask for. His thoughts only make him work faster, merciless, consuming you while he can. 

The eager sputtering of your hips, nearly suffocating him in your wetness is enough to make him cum right there in his jeans. But he’s nothing, if not a man out to prove something—so he focuses on your needy little movements, that desperation for him and slows his motions. He keeps the pressure harsh against your clit as his tongue moves almost lazily now. 

“Please, Dean, don’t stop—” you whimper again, hips twitching, searching for more as all your senses tingle in the overwhelming heat from him, the sun, everything. 

He lets out a cruel chuckle, his hands sliding up under your dress until they dig into your hips and hold you still. His tongue flicks down, breaking into your aching entrance with force as his nose strikes your clit. You let out a yelp, needing to move your hips but it’s impossible to move in his strong grasp. He’s in full control, despite being buried under floral cotton and your dripping core. 

His lips find your clit again, mercilessly working it between the magic of his mouth until you’re edging on the brink of coming undone. 

“Don’t stop, fuck, I’m g’nna cum, Dean,” you manage to breath out, surrendering to his hold as he wastes no more time, your thighs tighten, digging into the sides of the dolly as your slick shamelessly coats his lips. And he hums, hums almost drunkenly like he’s never tasted anything quite like you before. 

He greedily laps up the mess he’s made of you, peppering kisses to your swollen core before helping you sit up onto shaking knees and crawl down to his lap. 

He sits up slowly, eyes glazed with lust as he pulls you into his chest. You melt into him, breathless, nestled in the steady thrum of his heartbeat like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

The radio hums with a slow-burning 80s ballad, all synth and longing. You try to focus on it—something outside your racing pulse, something that isn’t the heat still curling low in your belly.

Dean presses soft kisses along your shoulder, his fingers brushing over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it. You're a beautiful mess—his handprints smudged down your thighs—and he drinks in the sight like he’s starving all over again. He’d lie on this flat old dolly all afternoon if it meant making you squirm and whimper for him again.

But there’s something hollow within, a quiet ache settling behind his ribs.

Because this feels like the finish line. All those coy games are coming to an end.

He doesn’t get to keep girls like you—smart, radiant, untouchable in all the ways that count. He’s rough, reckless, a guy you reach for in moments of weakness, not someone you build a future with.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice hushed as he kisses your temple. The shift in him is jarring—gentle, reverent—nothing like the way he touched you minutes ago.

You glance up at him through your lashes, heart stuttering at the way his eyes trace your face like he’s searching for something—maybe hope, maybe regret.

But you’re not that shy little girl anymore. You’re grown. Strong. You know what you want—and you’re done pretending it’s not him.

“I’m more than alright, Dean,” you reply, voice steady.

Then, without flinching, you lean in and kiss him—slow, soft, and deliberate. A promise. A whole new challenge.

You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, eyes sparkling.

“Now I’m just curious what else you can do with your hands.”

tag list 𐚁 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @snowluvvie @flow33didontsmoke @figthoughts @tinas111 @fitxgrld @rubyvhs @stoneyggirl2 @faephoria @deans-yn @spiidergirlsworld @bombarda-babe comment to be added / removed !

me, writing nasty dirty face riding smut on a lovely thursday afternoon hehheee it feels so good to be back y’all

[littlelovelunette]

Hiii! I wanted to ask for a mechanical Sevika x cafe owner reader. Where the reader owns this pink cute cat café and she’s very happy-go-lucky and she just wears bright and girly stuff. she always smiling and happy to help her employees and customers. Like she wakes up happy all the time and Sevika works at the mechanic shop down the road and she’s like the complete opposite of Reader.

OPPOSITES ATTRACT— mechanic!sevika x café owner!reader

The morning sun poured through the café’s large windows, casting golden light across the pastel pink walls and the dainty cat-themed decor. You hummed a cheerful tune, adjusting the frilly apron over your soft pink dress before flipping the café sign to Open !

A fresh batch of cat-shaped macarons cooled on the counter, their delicate sugar shells glistening under the light.

“Good morning, everyone!”

You chirped, beaming at your staff as they prepped the espresso machine and set out pastries. The scent of vanilla and fresh coffee filled the air, wrapping the café in warmth. The bell above the door jingled. Customers trickled in—regulars and newcomers alike—greeted with your signature bright smile.

You moved effortlessly between tables, chatting with patrons and ensuring everyone felt at home.

Across the street, in stark contrast, Sevika was elbow-deep in grease and engine parts.

The clang of tools and the deep rumble of machinery filled the garage. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, smudging oil across her temple, and sighed. Her patience had worn thin after arguing with a particularly stubborn customer about their busted carburetor.

She needed coffee. Strong coffee.

With a grunt, she dusted off her hands and strode out of the shop, boots heavy against the pavement as she made her way toward your café.

She had passed by it plenty of times—an explosion of pink in an otherwise neutral-toned street. It always looked… too much. Too bright, too cheerful, too cutesy. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

The bell chimed as she stepped inside.

You turned, instantly lighting up. "Oh! Welcome!"

Sevika’s sharp eyes swept across the café. Everything was pastel, from the walls to the chairs to the cat-eared headbands some of your staff wore. It was a sugar-coated nightmare.

"Coffee. Black." Her voice was low, rough, leaving no room for negotiation.

Your head tilted slightly before you giggled, clasping your hands together. "Coming right up! Do you want a little cat face in the foam?"

Sevika stared at you.

You laughed again. "No foam. Got it."

As you moved behind the counter, Sevika found herself watching.

You were so different from her—floating around in your pink dress, all smiles, exuding sunshine like it was effortless. She’d never met someone who looked so damn happy to be alive. It was… weird.

You returned with the coffee, setting it down with a little cat-shaped cookie on the side. "Here you go! First time here, right?" You introduced yourself.

"Sevika," she muttered, already taking a sip. The coffee was good. Surprisingly good.

Your grin widened. "Well, Sevika, if you ever need a pick-me-up, you know where to find me!"

Sevika didn't respond, just took another sip. But as she sat there, something about your ridiculous, frilly, happy-go-lucky presence stuck with her. Maybe she’d be back.

[dryndelicate]

Dungarees in Disco Pants Satin - Tune my Carburetor, Baby!

[classic-vintage-bmw]

In 1975, Alpina unleashed the B2, a tuned BMW E12 528 with a 230hp 3.0L straight-six engine, upgraded with forged pistons, a modified crankshaft, and triple double-barrel carburetors. Hitting 0-100km/h in 6.9s and a top speed of 142 mph, it featured a front spoiler and classic Alpina styling inside and out. More info on the early E12 Alpinas in the following link https://classic-vintage-bmw.tumblr.com/earlye12alpinas

📸 Legendary Motorcar Company

[laimabynight]

✭ Camilla 'Georgia' Soledad ✭

Georgia—not her real name, but the one the city came to know—was born as Camilla Soledad in 1975, daughter of second generation Mexican immigrants and granddaughter of a man who could coax poetry from carburetors. Her childhood may not have included riches or roses, but it had rhythm—thanks largely to her abuelito, whose workshop smelled of oil, iron, and quiet rebellion. It was there, with grease under her nails and her grandfather's stories in her ears, that Camilla’s obsession with machines was forged—steel, speed, and the roar of engines in her veins.

Of course, passion alone doesn't buy you horsepower. As a teenager tangled up with a questionable crowd in East L.A., she was surrounded by cars she couldn’t afford and egos she could outwit. Her family’s dented compact car was off-limits for joyrides (unless you counted Sunday errands), so she got creative—offering her mechanical talents for pocket change, fixing busted transmissions and tuning engines for local street racers too lazy or too clueless to do it themselves. Word spread. She didn’t need a car to earn respect—just a wrench and a wicked instinct.

At twenty, she finally bought her first ride: a beaten-up Nissan 240SX that looked more rust than road. But Camilla, with the patience of a surgeon and the intensity of someone who had something to prove, brought it back from the brink. The car became her armor, her identity. She slapped on a fake Georgia license plate one night for a race—and the name stuck. After that, she was just Georgia: elusive, razor-fast, and not someone you wanted behind you at the start line.

She tore through the underground circuit with quiet fury, burning rubber through midnight alleys and forgotten highways. She wasn’t the loudest racer—but she was the one they watched. Then, of course, came him: the man with a jawline like a curse and eyes that didn’t blink, sporting a Cowboy attire. He challenged her to a race. She almost beat him, too—if not for the inconvenient presence of a lamppost and a brief conversation with her own mortality.

She should’ve died that night. Instead, she woke up with bones intact, a pulse that stuttered strangely, and a hunger that wasn’t for gasoline. Her mysterious rival—impressed, amused, or just bored—had decided her story shouldn’t end with a crash. He gave her immortality. Or maybe he just gave her a new engine.

Art by Polyanitsa

[hirocimacruiser]

HKS ENGINE SYSTEM 5A-G

JUST STEP ON THE ACCELERATOR AND YOU'RE IN THE RACING ZONE. HIGH POWER AND EXCEPTIONALLY GOOD RESPONSE IS YOURS WITH THE HKS 4A-GEU TWIN CAM TUNING KIT.

The pinnacle of mechanical tune. HKS 5A-GEU Twin Cam

4A-GEU continues to make good progress on circuits and dirt roads around the country. HKS focused on this engine from the beginning of development and increased the bore to 1800cc. And now, we have completed 5A-GEU twin cam tuning as part of HKS System Technology. Newly developed poncam. Unique forged crankshaft. Solex twin carburetor specifications (race & dirt), etc. Levin, Trueno, and MR-2 developed into mecha tune pole sitters. The result is a remarkable increase in torque. It brings out the best of the accelerator work that only a twin cam can offer. Compatible with a wide range of specifications from street to race and dirt specifications. A new solo run has already begun.

5A-GEU TWIN CAM TUNING PRICE LIST.

FUEL COMPUTER

This F-con is an ideal microcomputer control system that constantly detects the engine load condition and adjusts the appropriate amount of fuel injection.

F-con set price ¥78,800

SLD Speed ​​Limit Defensor

Attached to computer-controlled vehicles. Disables the limiter, which normally operates at 180km/h. Wiring can be done with just one touch. HKS electronic parts are compatible with a wide range of vehicles, from normal cars to tuned cars.

Standard price ¥14,800

TWIN POWER

This is the latest high-performance ignition tuning part that combines two functions: CDI, which is the most advanced of current ignition systems, and full transistor ignition.

This is an ideal ignition system that provides good starting performance, appropriate ignition over the entire range, and extended response, with no power loss.

Standard price ¥58.000

HKS

HKS Sales Co., Ltd. Address: 418-02 Phone 0544-54-10770 220 Kamisuide, Fujinomiya City, Shizuoka Prefecture If you would like the 1984 edition of the HKS All Catalog, please pay 4,500 yen by registered mail and the listed products. If you would like to receive materials, please enclose the product name, materials, and request ticket, and send it to HKS Sales at the above address.

[transport-methodology-101]

Not an Impala!

L36, 426.7-cu-in/6993cc OHV Turbo-Jet V8 motor with 1x4-bbl Rochester carburetor set-up.

Power and torque (SAE gross):385 hp @ 5200 rpm, 460 lb-ft @ 3600 rpm

* Take note of the do-able tri-carb set-up on this SS 427. Available standard only on the Corvette, rated at 400 horses in this state of tune. Tri-carb specs were not offered for regular big Chevrolets since 1961 to maintain the Corvette’s legitimacy and exclusivity.

Was the only way to get a Super Sport before Chevrolet threw in the towel and abandoned the full-size muscle market towards the late ‘60’s.

[rismachine]

Dressing the 2276cc....

Dual EMPI 48 EPC carburetors on tall CB Performance manifolds bolted on. Carburetors have been cleaned, floats set, and jetted. Alert viewers may have noticed that the @vintagespeed.taiwan linkage installation started in the previous post. The threaded rods went on next.

@msdperformance 8mm street fire wires were then popped on. These were built from a bulk cut to length kit, allowing me to route them in front of the shroud. This was done to clean up the appearance and keep them clear of the carburetor linkage.

Exhaust was ordered this past week and will hopefully be here soon. Other than that, the list of needs is short: a new belt, oil cooler ducts, firewall tin, fuel and oil hose plumbing.

Quick specs: 82mm x 94mm, SLR XR296, Porsche rods, ported 42x37 heads, 8.6:1 compression - this one is going in a Bus.

This one is coming off the stand to make room for another build in the clean assembly room. Stay tuned.

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[windburnedeyes]

Book Review: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig is not the kind of book you expect to find on a list of must-reads for motorheads. It’s not filled with the crackling excitement of tearing down a winding road on a vintage Triumph, nor does it offer tips on fine-tuning the carburetor on your ‘57 Chevy. No, Pirsig’s masterpiece is an entirely different beast. It’s part memoir, part…

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Story Theory: Detail v. Description

So yes, it varies worldwide and by different contexts.

I first posted this on Nanowrimo, which then got used on Writing Excuses by Brandon Sanderson. So I think it's fair to steal it back. As I said, I LOVE extended analogies and at the time no one was making a distinction and a lot of people don't.

Up front: Neither are evil. They are both tools in the toolbox, and how you use them is important. Yes, it varies by context, country, etc. So yes, there are judgment calls.

Definitions

Description is a long introductory paragraph which might carry an emotion, but often doesn't really have the character in it.

Detail is integrated bits of stick-out information.

Analogy

If you have a car, you don't need to know exactly how the carburetor works, what the model of the engine is, what color the exhaust pipe is. But you might want to know that it is red and has flame decals, especially, say if it's a mystery and that's a KEY bit of information to crack the case. If you describe the car, then you're getting every last bit about the make model, the carburetor, etc. That's a description.

But if you're getting the detail, then that's the flame decals.

Theories on how to apply these tools and when to cut.

Description is usually used for slow action, taking a breath, discovery, to slow action down, and generally to set up scenery. Sometimes it's used to set up a character that's new to the narrating character. The key here is that the character must be new to the narrating character, not to the reader.

You cut it when it's the opposite. You want to speed up the action. You don't want to take a breath. It's all action, morality, or conflict. And you aren't setting up scenery/scenery is not key yet.

Detail is a quick in and out of something that is DIFFERENT or STICKS OUT.

Hey, your friend is wearing is bright green sweater, you're going to notice that.

Why cut it all out?

The person has a sensory disability. (I'd urge you to up the other information the character does have in this case)

The person isn't very self aware of anything.

The character narrating isn't very observant, or only observant in certain situations (ADHD and hyper focus can be played with this way)

The character is super self-absorbed

Likewise, if the character is observant, very self-aware, very tuned into others, then these things should increase, BUT when you pick it out, make sure it has purpose. Like the little bit of cereal on his collar and baby food on his shirt pocket tells you he's struggling with his baby.

Examples

Description:

MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde’s Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof. --Anne of Green Gables, opening line.

This also characterizes Mrs. Lynde.

Detail:

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? --Anne of Green Gables, LM Montgomery

The bolded bits are details, because they stick out to the narrating character, Mrs Lynde.

What should description and detail include?

It's best to include these with an emotion attached, instead of listing them off.

So it's not chocolate chip cookies.

It's grandmother's chocolate chip cookies she made every Sunday without fail. Eating the gooey center made me cry as I stared at the recipe again in her dusty recipe box.

Aim the detail/description at an emotion, or at least towards your story driver. You can see that in even the Anne of Green Gables passage. There is a non-stated emotion in the first paragraph.

With emotion, BTW, doesn't mean writing the previous as,

I ate grandmother's chocolate chip cookies and I felt sad. I looked at the dusty recipe box.

No. Don't tell the emotion. Show the unique way your character has it. Because another character Might face a similar situation and sniff bravely.

Sensory information:

Sight

Color, texture, props, items.

Taste

salty, umame, sweet, aromas, bitter, etc.

C'mon leverage your literary super power as a novel writer.

Hearing

This is often good to combine with sight. For example, the creak of the wooden wheels ad the gravel crunched below in the grand courtyard.

Smell

People who don't go outside forget the smell of everything except food. People *smell*. Flowers smell like things. Smells are carried on the wind. You can't do this in movies, but you can in books. Make your character have this experience.

Touch

Smooth, rough, velvety? Up this for books. Make those screenwriters hate you.

Interoception- sensations from inside the body Belly grumbled with hunger. So tired. Headache.

Vestibular sense (balance) Is the character balanced all of the time?

Time information

What time of day is it? What time of year is it?

Place information

I'm guilty of forgetting to include the setting. But also, you should include where your character is in space. If you're lost, then draw a map with an x and colored pencils every time you move the character.

I also cheat by using programs like Sketch up, the Sims, etc. Make sure your characters don't jump in space. Color code as needed.

If they are up a mountain, down a mountain, about to cross a river, all of these should have a cascading effect on the character and the interactions. Don't forget that the place information should influence how the dialogue is said.

Weather. Don't forget what season it is. If it's sunny all of the time, I'm suspicious, especially if you've set it in England. WTH. Make sure your weather patterns match.

Dreary rain. Sunny. Snowing.

What do characters look like? What are their expressions?

Don't tell what the emotions are. Talk me through how they usually are when they are sad, or playing more than one emotion at a time. If you're limited on time, push it through dialogue.

What does the clothing, food, or customs look like?

The white shirt up there, for example is fast.

So across cultures this varies a bit.

Long descriptions of scenery is more Chinese, as well as describing the characters who usually get long info. Tone set up is usually done by description in traditional Zuni tales.

In Korean, there might be a setting set up with tone and theme attached.

Descriptions might be longer in Japanese works to set up a certain mood.

But I think it's worth it to look at those cultures and how they are pulling it off and what techniques you can learn from them doing it that way. What does the story gain, what does it communicate, how do you feel? How do people of that culture feel about the work? If you're a writer you need to be concerned about more than yourself when it comes to techniques.

Generally, when you're faced with a work that's unfamiliar, try to feel out what it's trying to accomplish by doing it that way and you learn much more than by rejecting it.

But imagine you could be masterful enough to have a scenery description that could set up mood, tone, voice of the story, and the theme all at once because you combed through other people's techniques to arrive there. Wouldn't you feel smug especially if you managed to do all of that in 40 words or less? (English, granted). I think I would.