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aggro-my-beloved · 2 months ago

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Parting Song (QuinnxDarlin')

note: alt title is "tank is not okay" and (fun fact) this is the first piece i completed out of the entire Soulmate September installments. hope you enjoy!

pairing: QuinnxDarlin (post-romance), SamxDarlin' (romantic), DavidxDarlin' (platonic)

summary: *in which the last words your soulmate says to you are written on your skin, so you do not know it is them until they are gone* when you’re standing next to who you think is your soulmate, as you watch the real one whither away in a shitty steel department chair—how do you respond?

warning(s): mentions of violence and gore, past relationship trauma, mental health issues, a dickwad of an ex-bf, mature language

taglist: @ther3alsweetheart @darlin-collins @professionallyyappinabtangst @elles-roses @gremlin-writes-angst

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?” Tank's knuckles are littered with bruises from this torturous rendezvous. They feel the viscous red substance of Quinn's DNA as it dries on their hands, pondering what true evil must taste like as the man behind them continues writhing in his cuffs. Bittersweet like their favorite coffee? A silver bullet flavor, maybe metallic? He has devoured them on so many occasions, stripping all the good from their aura, like licking icing on a cake he wants to have and eat too. Occasionally, they weighed: what withheld them from resorting to a disposition as brutal as his?

Sam. He sits on the other side of the one-way glass, observing every move of theirs and Quinn alongside David. Tank wonders if he noticed them licking their lips, pulling a deformed drop of blood below their nose to meet their tongue. Maybe he won’t see their thumbnail combing the side of their pointer finger for remnants—something for later, a souvenir of the man who made a game of his downfall.

The red droplet is savory but salty from their sweat. A churning begins in their stomach as they start for the exit.

When he commands them, “Sit", their footwork for the door halts. As David reminded them earlier, his core is muted. Tank only wishes they put a strip of duct tape over his mouth for good measure. Despite how many uppercuts they kissed his lower jaw with, his slow-swelling lips were unbeatable. “We’re not done here,” His voice echoes menacingly around the room. Though the vampire may not have sensed it, there was a finality to the way he spoke and the sound of Tank’s hand twisting the chrome knob.

“You don’t get to walk away from me,” He strains again.

They chuckle sadly, and swing the door closed behind them.

“COME HERE!”

Then they choke. Every limb of their body becomes dominos as they crumple to the linoleum flooring in rapid breaths. David and Sam swarmed their hunched frame, instructing them to breathe between rapid questions. Pathetic, raspy pants and clammy palms against the floor clue the two in that something is not right.

“Here, Darlin’ take that jacket off.” Tank refuses Sam’s request. They grip the cloth tighter against them despite a burning sensation in their arm and the melody of Quinn’s parting song coming from behind them. Maybe it is in their head. The lack of sleep this past week left Tank walking a fine line between reality and hallucination.

David growls, growing pressed, “W-what happened? Did that fucker hurt you?”

Oh, so many times of suffering beneath the vamp's thumb and fangs summon memories to flash across their mind. Tank, by default, was the one to writhe and plead in their relationship, while Quinn instigated. The burning on their forearm, where Quinn’s last demand stays etched onto the skin, fades into pins and needles.

“I just don’t…feel well. Can we go home, please?” They look to Sam for assurance, but the sight of concern swimming in his blue eyes only causes a lump to swell in their throat. Their hands feel sweatier. Quinn is walking away with two black eyes, yet Tank’s orbitals already feel swollen from an onslaught of tears they are holding back.

David and Sam exchange a glance, and the alpha nods approvingly. Tank knows it will not be long before Sam puts the pieces together; he viewed the script on their arm after the two formed their mate bond. This urged him to cast a compilation of scenarios in his mind where those would be his last words to them, and he struggled to picture them. Tank wasn't fooled either, but they never lost hope that Quinn would remain nothing more than a rotten egg in a bunch. At most, a lesson in dating.

“So naive.” They whisper to themselves. Despite the thunderous rumble of his pickup truck, Sam’s ears perked up at their tone of disparity.

“What was that, darlin?” They blink away the itchy-sweaty feeling tickling the surface of their eyes and hum.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Darlin’, with all due respect, telling me not to worry about you, right now or ever, is easier said than done.” His hands were at ten and two on the wheel, as if he aimed to display the constellation of bruises on his hands like trophies. The sight of his mate spiraling on the dirty department floor cued Sam to enter a hot, blinding rage. Escorting Darlin’ to his truck only took five minutes, except three were spent carefully storming into the improv interrogation room and laying even more damage into Quinn Fox’s dissatisfied expression.

To cure the urge to scratch at the center of their forearm, where Quinn’s final declaration to them lies, they gnaw and bite and chew at their bottom lip until they draw blood. It’s warm and briny, mixed with salty ash from their tears moments before. The taste doesn’t enthrall them to the level that they expected. Quinn would lavish in the tang of their cells and skin pierced by his teeth like a prisoner granted his last meal. They peer at Sam in wonder. Would he enjoy the taste of them just as much? Bland gore mellows on their taste buds, imploring them to scowl and opt for their thumbnail instead.

When they turn to view the landscape outside the window, Sam shifts his sight to the finger's edge dangling between Darlin’s teeth. He smells the dried blood caked underneath, and how their incisors desperately scrape up the evidence of Quinn’s clobbering.

The two stay silent for the rest of the ride home.

soulmate september schedule | main masterlist | abt author

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted shaw pack #redacted au #redacted fanfic #redacted fanfiction #redacted angst #redacted quinn #redacted tank #redacted darlin #redacted sam #redacted vampires #redacted david #soulmate september 24 #parting song #tank is not okay

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 2 years ago

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1970 Pontiac Formula 400

1970 Pontiac Formula 400 – The Other Performance Firebird

The story behind the development of GM’s F-body ponycars has been well documented. When Ford’s groundbreaking Mustang debuted in 1964, it tapped an emerging youth market that was hungry for a new type of car geared specifically to them. GM misjudged the public’s response to the Mustang and then scrambled to develop a similar style car after witnessing Ford’s unprecedented first model year sales success. Chevrolet was the lead division in engineering the F-body, and Pontiac grudgingly accepted the platform for their use in March 1966, only after GM management turned down PMD General Manager John DeLorean’s proposal for his own Mustang fighter.

Pontiac didn’t have much time to transform the Firebird from its Camaro configuration before releasing it in February 1967. Their design and engineering lead time was significantly reduced and consequently, the Firebird was forced to use quite a bit of Camaro sheetmetal and other components. Competition between Pontiac and Chevrolet was intense, and having to use the other division’s engineering and design was a bitter pill for DeLorean’s maverick staff to swallow.

The circumstances surrounding the second generation Firebird were another story. Pontiac actually began working on their second generation just as the first Firebirds were hitting dealer showrooms. From design to engineering, Pontiac dominated the divisional rivalry, and this time around the Firebird would be all Pontiac from roof to road. There was little carried over to the second generation with the exception of the Trans Am nameplate and basic engine configurations. The suspension was tuned for more responsive handling with little compromise to ride comfort. Computer aided engineering chose the proper front and rear spring deflection rates predicated on model and usage. Stabilizer bars were used front and rear and the steering box was mounted ahead of the front axle for better response.

The sexy new body was rooted in GM styling chief Bill Mitchell’s infatuation with Italian sports car design. GM chose heavily from the rounded shapes of Ferrari and Maserati, and it showed in the smooth flow of fender lines, the curved window glass and raked windshield. One remarkable difference from pervious GM designs was the lack of a quarter window. Instead, the doors were lengthened to take up a larger portion of the quarter. The massive doors were heavy, however the side appearance was cleaner and far sportier. A lift bar door handle added to the smooth side look. Chrome was distinctively absent. The Native American-inspired Firebird emblem was on the decklid and the nose of all but base model cars.

Up front, the twin nostril grille and single headlamps provided a clean appearance, thanks to the use of Endura to create a bumper-less front end with a valance that cleanly rolled beneath the grille with large cross hair parking lamps mounted in the lower corners of the valance. At the rear, the smooth tumble home enhanced the Firebirds fuselage shape. The tail was flat and filled with twin tail lamps that met the quarter panel’s round rear profile. A recessed tag housing, thin blade chrome rear bumper, and rounded lower valance completed the rear end’s clean look.

Inside, the Firebird’s wide, expansive dash housed the instrument panel consisting of three center nacelles for gauges, with smaller gauges at the right and room for the heater controls and additional switches and knobs. Directly below the center of the dash was another stack that contained the radio and ashtray. Even the base interior was sumptuous, with Pontiac’s indestructible Morrokide vinyl upholstery covering the bucket seats and door panels. The quarter trim panels and headliner were composed of molded polymeric material that provided a smooth surface and absorbed sound.

The 1970 Pontiac line up was composed of the base Firebird with 250 cid six, the mid range, 350 cid Espirit, the 400 cid Formula 400, and the 400 cid Ram Air Trans Am. Of the four, perhaps the most intriguing was the Formula 400. While the Trans Am was loaded with visuals like a shaker hood, fender mounted air extractors, wild front air spoiler, rear wheel opening air spoilers, and wide center stripe, the Formula had none of these. For those who preferred to have a muscular pony car sans the exterior adornments, the Formula 400 was just the ticket. Outside, the only difference between the mild mannered Espirit and the Formula was a special fiberglass hood that sported a pair of front reaching hood scoops (first considered for the Trans Am), sport style dual outside mirrors, and a pair of Formula 400 scripts below the Firebird nameplate on the fenders.

Under the sheetmetal, however, is where the $3,440 Formula’s credentials lay. Standard engine was the 400 cid V8 which generated 330 horsepower @ 4800rpm and 430 lbs.-ft. torque @ 3000rpm. Car & Driver tested a Formula 400 with this engine and automatic transmission and recorded a 0-60 acceleration time of 6.4 seconds and quarter mile performance of 14.7 seconds at 98.9mph.

The optional engine was the Ram Air III V8, which produced 345 horsepower @ 5000rpm and 430 lbs.-ft. torque @ 3400rpm, thanks in part to a higher compression and a more aggressive camshaft profile. While Pontiac offered a 370 horsepower Ram Air IV, it never found its way into a Formula 400. On the Ram Air III equipped Formulas, the hood scoops were opened and a pair of rubber “boots” were fitted to the hood’s underside. They snugged up to holes in the air cleaner snorkels and fed cold outside air to the Rochester Quadra Jet carburetor. Subtle “RAM AIR” decals were affixed to the outboard sides of the hood scoops. The Formula’s 400 engine was dressed up with chromed air cleaner lid and valve covers. Dual exhausts with chrome tips were also standard.

Standard transmission was the M13, a heavy duty Dearborn three-speed manual box. A pair of Muncie four speeds was offered optionally, the wide ratio M20 and close ratio M21. Also optional was the M40 three-speed Turbo Hydra Matic transmission. A 3.55:1 rear axle ratio was standard, while air conditioned models received 3.31:1 ratios. Optional ratios were 3.07:1 and 3.73:1.

The Formula received a firmer suspension with 300-pounds/inch deflection in the front springs and 103 pounds/inch in the rear. The front stabilizer measured 1.125 inches in the front and the rear bar was .620 inches with firm control shocks mounted at all four corners. Front disc brakes were standard with rear drums. Standard tires were F70 x 14 on six-inch steel rims. The Trans Am’s tighter suspension was offered optionally. It consisted of 300 pounds/inch front and 126 pounds/inch springs in the rear, 1.250 inch stabilizer bar at the front, and fat .875 inch bar aft. Wider F60x 15 Polyglas tires mounted on 15 x 7 Rally II wheels without trim rings rounded out the package. Add the variable ratio power steering and power brakes and the Formula responded right now! to steering input and could dive deeper into corners and come out faster. Its only competition was big brother Trans Am and the Corvette.

Inside, the Formula’s instrument panel was faced in a wood grained appliqué. Optional was a Rally Gauge that placed an 8000-rpm tach in the left housing along with a small analog clock. In the smaller center housing was the engine temperature and oil pressure gauges. The right housing contained the 160mph speedometer with the smaller fuel gauge and voltmeter to the far right. Two consoles were offered, one between the front buckets that contained the transmission shifter, the other between the optional rear buckets.

Of the 7,708 Formula 400s produced in 1970, 2,777 were equipped with manual transmissions. Exactly 4,931 were fitted with the M40 automatic transmission. One of those M40 equipped Formulas is owned by Jack Nichols of Orlando, Fla. Jack performed a complete restoration on the Formula several years ago, bringing it back to correct factory standards. The Atoll Blue Formula is fitted with the optional Ram Air engine, open scoops and underhood induction system. Inside, the tan Morrokide interior features console, optional three-spoke Formula steering wheel with padded rim, Rally gauges and air conditioning.

Text and Photography By Paul Zazarine © Car Collector Magazine, LLC. (Click for more Car Collector Magazine articles) Originally appeared in the March 2008 Issue

#pontiac firebird #ram air #formula 400 #pontiac #1970 Pontiac Formula 400 #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

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scrapsovereign · 3 months ago

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That One Time I Got Kidnapped By An Evil Vampire Lord Ch. 4

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57838303/chapters/147743656

Summary:

Rion successfully helps distract Mackenzie from her panic attack.

Pairings: past Ascended Astarion x Evil male!Tav, Ascended Astarion x Original Female Character

Trigger warnings/Tags: cheating, intimate partner violence, abusive relationships, medical settings, body shaming, internalized fatphobia, referenced sexual assault, panic attacks/PTSD episode

Downtown Seattle, Washington

The Fairmont Olympic Hotel

Thursday, August 24th

7:30 PM

Mackenzie’s breathing is the only thing that she can feel her body doing at first. Then it’s the strong arms that wrap around her, the warmth of someone’s lithe, toned chest that presses against her shoulder. The fingers that grip hers. The upwards lurch of the elevator, the sensation of her leg muscles propelling her forward as she is guided down the quiet hallway.

The quiet feels comforting. Nice.

So does the embrace of the man who fumbles around in his pockets, searching for the key to open the door in front of him.

Mackenzie scowls. What is she doing here with this guy? Who is he again? While his name is on the tip of her tongue, just barely out of reach, she knows for certain that’s not Ari. He’s too pretty and well-dressed. He smells too good to be Ari..

Mackenzie feels a tugging at her brain. The man she’s with- his name was pretty weird, but he goes by something that sounds normal when you say it. Does it start with an A? Or maybe it was a R?

He holds the door open for her and she feels as if she is almost fully back in her body, but she needs an anchor. She needs to stop the emotional escalation before she is a quivering, sobbing mess on this man’s hotel room floor.

The gorgeous man cups his elegant hands gently beneath her face, looking down into her eyes to search them for answers.

“What is it that you need most?” He asks gently, like he’s in love with her. Like how she wishes Ari would speak to her.

“Cold water,” Mac hears herself say. She’s not sure why, but she knows it’ll help.

He raises a perfect silver eyebrow. “As in…to drink?”

“Shower,” Mackenzie says robotically, walking towards the bathroom. She places her palm face down on the countertop for support as she leans to the side. An arm that doesn’t feel like her own un-does the buckles on the ankle straps of her shoes and slips them off.

She steps into the combined shower and bathtub, fully clothed, staring blankly ahead at the chrome fixtures. Her hands hover above the knobs, trying to comprehend how to turn the thing on. The man steps in with her as she fiddles with the knobs- is his name Aaron? No, that’s not right…

“Are you quite sure you want to- GAH!” He yelps, his body tensing in shock at the cold water that rains down upon them. He clutches onto Mackenzie reflexively, looking up at the shower head in terror.

The contrast of the cool water tracing rivers between warmth of their wet bodies pressed together brings Mackenzie back within herself.

“S-shit, that’s cold,” she complains, her hands frantically turning and twisting the knobs to turn the shower off. It takes a few seconds too long, but she accomplishes it.

Her eyes flicker up with hesitation at the man whose name sounds-like-but-isn’t-actually Aaron, his perfectly styled silver curls slicked straight back, his carefully applied eye makeup running slightly down his cheeks.

She isn’t sure how to read the expression on his face, which is something she’s usually amazing at. Mackenzie can look into anyone’s eyes and know exactly what’s there, but this man’s walls are up high and tight, guarded with the utmost vigilance. Despite that, she can at least tell that whatever he’s feeling, it’s intense. His ruby irises form a thin band around his blown out pupils, his gaze half-lidded, darkened, and dangerous. His plush, flushed lips are slightly parted, his sweet, cool breath escaping him with an audible pant.

Is he mad at her? Mackenzie scrunches her eyes closed. She could kick herself. He’s probably not too happy about how she got him and their expensive clothing wet, Ari would have been pissed…

Mackenzie cringes, bracing herself to receive his well- deserved ire. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

He closes the small gap between them and cages her fully against the marble of the bathroom walls, pressing his lips firmly to hers.

Mackenzie tenses, frozen as he kisses her.

Oh.

Well…maybe he’s not mad at her, then?

His lips move against hers, teasing her, tempting her to play along. She briefly considers allowing him the chance to do so. Nobody’s ever kissed her like this before, with so much skill or passion. She’s intrigued by this display of his talents, but it’s not enough to quiet the demands of her conscience to resist.

When that doesn’t make her yield to him, he groans sinfully in pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut as his hips roll forward. She feels something hard in his pants poke into her groin and audibly gasps. Her open mouth is not an invitation but he interprets it as such, plunging his tongue between her lips. He makes a noise that Mackenzie can only describe as obscene as her body goes slack and surrenders to him.

This is wrong, so, so wrong. She should tell him to stop.

She is scandalized by her lack of self-control when she finds she cannot.

Their tongues glide together fervently now, Mackenzie enthusiastically kissing him back. He draws her tongue into his mouth and fellates it, using the lewdness of his actions to distract her from the hand gliding slowly up her thigh.

Rion (that’s his name!) swiftly rucks the hem of her dress up around her waist with a practiced hand, roughly yanking her exposed thigh towards him, her ankle hooking around the small of his back. His hips snap forward as she opens for him, grinding his fully erect, rock hard length against the sweet spot between her legs. She cries out, her blunt nails clawing at the cool marble behind her, desperate to find a surface on which she can steady herself.

“Rion,” she exhales as he kisses a searing trail along the hinge of her jaw. “We need to…we need,” she stutters breathily, the word ‘stop’ never reaching her lips as she imagines it flashing in bold, bright red letters.

“To get out of these wet clothes? What a splendid idea, my treasure…that is, after I taste your divine nectar. You’ll allow me this treat, won’t you?” he purrs sensually, his soft lips ghosting the words into the supple curve of her neck. Mackenzie nods eagerly as she huffs out her consent, feeling her sex flutter in anticipation of his filthy promise. It’s been ages since anyone’s gone down on her, and if how he kisses is any indication of what else that tongue of his can do…

Her thoughts are arrested as he licks a broad, diagonal line up from her throat to her jaw, drawing out a pathetic mewl from her. He huffs a hungry, shuddering breath when she tilts her head back, allowing him greater access to the fluttering of her pulse that thrums so deliciously for him.

Mackenzie feels the prick of two sharp points against her skin as his mouth opens wide.

An unexpected, jarring series of knocks is heard at the hotel room’s door, breaking the spell of his seduction.

Rion snaps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw, growling in irritation at the interruption. He takes a moment to cool his temper, mumbling a series of strange words to himself as he swiftly exits the bathroom, closing the door with care behind him.

Mackenzie heaves out a sigh of relief. She clings to the shower walls, overcome with gratitude…and disappointment. Partially from her inability to resist his temptations, but mostly that she didn’t want him to stop.

How in the hell had he aroused her nearly to ruin after being on the verge of a meltdown?! Aside from the fact that her dear husband was usually the cause of her anxiety episodes, after one of these she doesn’t want Ari to touch or perceive her, sometimes for days .

With Rion? She was ready to go in less than 60 seconds.

Her blood runs cold and her stomach turns as she realizes what would have happened if they had not been interrupted, it was too close of a call.

She knew she was nearing the point of no return when he turned his attention to her neck, hovering over her pulse like a sexy vampire. However, any and all willpower she possessed to resist him had abandoned her when the vibrations of his irritated growl sent a ripple of pleasure throughout her body. Slick warmth pooled low in her abdomen, her core aching to be filled with the velvety hardness confined within his trousers.

Had someone not come to the door, Mackenzie is certain beyond the shadow of a doubt they would have fucked right there and then, their wet clothes halfway peeled off in the shower stall.

And again in the shower, hot water running over them with Mackenzie lifted up against the marble shower walls, in the bathroom with her bent over the counter as he pounds into her from behind, her legs thrown over his shoulders while he takes her on the nearest flat surface in the hotel room, and finally with her knees pressed up to her ears when they make it to the bed…

It can’t happen. She won’t let it.

Mackenzie sees two clean, white robes hanging on the back of the bathroom door, hung invitingly on display. She slips one on as she hears Rion make polite small talk with the hotel staff person in their room. She takes a moment to examine herself in the mirror, comb fingers through her frizzy hair in an attempt to look presentable.

She's glad she didn’t wear more than a drop of foundation mixed into her sunscreen and some concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes. She would have been a complete mess if she’d applied the amount of makeup Ari was always pressuring her to put on. She would often hold back from rolling her eyes when he would tell her she needed to be cuter, always hold her tongue when she wanted to reply ‘With what time and whose money?!’.

She cracks the door open when their visitor leaves, getting a better look at her surroundings.

Mackenzie’s mouth falls open in disbelief. Holy hotel suites, Batman. She knows what room they’re in and how much it comps for- it was just barely in budget for the anime convention’s guest hospitality room. What she doesn’t want to know is how much he paid the hotel staff to bring the dinner they’d ordered up to where he was staying.

Her heart flutters watching Rion busying himself while he waits for her to join him. He pops the cork on a bottle that is real champagne (not just sparkling wine), pulls out a chair for her to sit in, and places the extra tableware on an accent table to make room for the feast he’d had brought up to the room.

There’s one detail that’s out of place - how did he get dry and clean his makeup off so quickly? His clothes are clean and pressed, his gorgeous face clean of the heavy eye makeup that ran in the shower, the long, silver curls that he tucks behind his ear cascading over his shoulders in perfectly styled waves.

A flag of skepticism starts to nag Mackenzie. Curly hair takes so much longer than a few minutes to dry and style. She knows it personally, having abandoned her formerly copper waves that she used to wear naturally with pride. For the last year or two she’s fried her hair to Jesus with bleaching, toning, and straightening it into the long ash blonde that Ari prefers.

He spots her spying on him from around the corner, smiling at her softly as she steps out from behind the wall and makes her way over to him.

“Normally they don’t do...this,” Mackenzie says, inclining her head towards the meal laid out before them. “I’m shocked they didn’t have you order from the room service menu.”

Rion’s soft smile turns to a satisfied grin as he takes a seat, placing a white napkin atop his lap. “There’s benefits to being observant of the small print. A large amount of coin doesn’t hurt, either.”

Mackenzie joins him, mimicking his table manners. She stops mid-napkin placement when she sees the folded up note placed between them. She reaches for it, stopping before she touches it, looking up to Rion for permission to read it. He smiles warmly with a nod.

The contents read: “Thank you for getting my pronouns right. You’re the only guest who’s done that for the last month. The dysphoria has been real lately, and you’ve helped me find some joy today. Hope the meal is to your satisfaction. Enjoy! - R.H., Assistant Manager. PS - Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable! Ext #4928”.

“The only person? What the hell?” Mackenzie exclaims as she looks over at Rion, who seems extremely pleased with himself.

“I’m as shocked as you are. It’s basic, darling. And they made it painfully obvious, what, with that little gold pin they had,” He says as he leans in as if to divulge a secret. He takes a sip of the bubbly, the drink getting caught in his throat as he motions before him. “Please, eat.”

Mackenzie was waiting for him to see how he does things, but she complies with his wishes, picking up her fork and knife, cutting into her scallops.

She spears a portion of the seafood on her fork, mulling over her current circumstances. She furrows her brow, taking a deep breath as she stares down at the impeccable searing on it.

“This is a date, isn’t it?” Mackenzie asks flatly, her eyes flicking up to Rion, catching him mid-bite. He sets the fork down soundlessly on his plate, his lips twisting into a smirk.

“Oh my, it seems the beautiful heroine has uncovered my wicked plans,” he drawls, ruby eyes sparkling with mischief at her from across the table.

“I do hope this doesn’t cause any issues between you and your…’ room-mate ’,” he enunciates the last word of his sentence in mockery of how the other server described the relationship between Mackenzie and Ari.

Mackenzie grimaces, feeling her appetite leave her. “The reason Ari’s given me for calling me his roommate is that he wants to appear single, so his streaming career isn’t impacted negatively.”

Rion huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “You must know that’s an excuse, and a poor one at that. One’s relationship status does not dissuade the other party from finding them entertaining.”

“And while we’re on the topic of the ridiculous. Streaming? What in the nine hells is that? Does he dance around with a ribbon for people’s enjoyment like a circus animal? Spend his days wading through rivers and creeks looking for the sense he’s lost?” He scrutinizes, making a sour face when he bites down upon the meat in his mouth.

“He streams video games on Twitch, and he’s done some consulting work for game companies, some play testing. He’s got a huge following with the 14-24 year old crowd doing Minecraft speed runs, but lately he’s trying to branch out into other things.” Mackenzie explains, twirling her fork with the scallop bit impaled on it in the air.

“This weekend he’d planned to start a playthrough of a game that he’d previously been under an NDA with for Larian Studios. I hadn’t heard of them before I met him,” She elaborates before she finally takes a bite of her entree, feeling her gag reflex kick in when the flavor of the food graces her tongue.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles, rising abruptly, looking for a place to spit the seafood out. She makes her way to the kitchenette and returns to see Rion looking down at his meal like it was crawling with bugs.

“If anyone should be apologizing, it should be the chef,” Rion sneers. “I’ve suffered much worse at a far greater price.”

“Now, where were we…ah, yes. Your useless roommate-slash-husband and his job sitting around playing games while you’re on your feet all day, slaving away at the physician’s office. Is his occupation at least fairly lucrative? Does he contribute any coin to your household?” Rion arches an eyebrow, drumming his fingers expectantly on the table.

Mackenzie sinks down into her chair. “So…that’s a sore spot between us. I pay rent, most of the utilities, my own cell phone, groceries, and the car stuff. He pays the internet bill- well, he doesn’t pay much, he has a sponsorship deal- and he pays for his own phone, the things he wants to buy. He said he’s saving up for his own car, but I’m not sure if that’s really true.”

Rion leans back with an unreadable expression, crossing his ankle over his thigh. “And what of the division of labor?”

“If I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done,” Mackenzie sighs out, sagging her shoulders.

Rion licks his lips, unimpressed. His next question would have been if Ari’s good in bed, but little does Mackenzie know that’s an answer he already has.

He rises, champagne glass in hand, the sudden movement startling Mackenzie. He drags a dining chair directly next to her, sits too close with their shoulders overlapping, his lean and strong legs entwining with hers.

“And then there’s the matter of how horrid he’s been to you,” He murmurs, lifting her left hand to scrutinize the ring that encircles the fourth digit.

Mackenzie’s throat tightens, the sting of tears filling her eyes.

“What did you mean earlier when you said he’s going to kill me?” She looks up at him, her eyes sparkling in the dwindling light of the evening.

Rion pauses, rubbing his thumb overtop the softness of the back of her hands.

“It wasn’t your exact situation, but I’ve been hi- with men like him. I too have been stuck in the cycle of heartbreak, promises made, and promises broken. The lies and the abuse only escalate. One day he’s upset because you’re not standing up straight enough, and then the next he’s trafficking-” Rion pauses mid-sentence when his voice gives out. His eyes shut tightly in pain for only a moment, his fingers interlacing with Mackenzie’s.

He sits up straight and sniffles, draining the champagne in his glass. He transforms then, his princely airs returning as he looks out over their barely eaten meal with contempt.

“You’re staying here tonight, with me. I won’t take no for an answer,” He commands, his furious eyes snapping up to meet Mackenzie’s.

Mackenzie gulps audibly as she feels his hand grip hers with calculated pressure, considering her options.

Option number one. Politely excuse herself to the bathroom, call Amanda to come pick her up and drive her back to her car. It’ll take awhile from Amanda to get in from where she lives in the middle of nowhere AKA Hobart, but she knows Amanda’s good for it. She can pretend she’s going to get ice when she slips out right as Amanda’s pulling up, jump into her car, and never see this man again. She’ll probably have to help clear a pile of half-finished SCA garb off the bed, but she’ll have a bed to sleep in, at least.

Option number two. Slip away using the same ice excuse, walk back to her car, drive to the parking garage at work. Sleep in her car, use the shower in the combination storage room/staff poop bathroom to get cleaned up before her shift starts, and go about whatever fresh hell her work day brings.

Option number three. Stay.

Normally, she would select option two, not wanting to inconvenience anyone.

Her mind drifts back to the latter. It’s definitely not the smart choice. If her current circumstances were part of a show she was watching, she’d be on the edge of her seat calling out, “Run, bitch, run!”. However. She really, really wants to see what happens with option three. Even if it’s the stupidest one.

Mackenzie nods stiffly. “Yeah, I think I’d like that,” she admits, her voice cracking as she speaks.

The look of approval on Rion’s face both scares and arouses her.

“Excellent. I knew it was an offer you couldn’t refuse,” he purrs, massaging comforting circles into the palm he had gripped so tightly.

Mackenzie feels her pocket inside the silk dress vibrate- she thought she turned that off?

She leans into Rion unintentionally as she reaches for her phone, which he takes as an excuse to haul her up to sit in his lap. Her ears turn hot. She could swear to God the butterflies in her stomach are actually the two bites of seafood she’s had, coming back with a vengeance.

The notification is from…Microsoft Teams?

Oh, it’s Rob!

“CHEEZY MY DUDE. Guess who has two thumbs and has more lumpia and pancit AND LECHON than they could eat????”

Mackenzie feels her mouth water at the mention of lechon, typing out a reply when his next message pops up.

“THIS GUY!!!!! /airhorn noises. Marisol really loaded me up. I got three huge takeout containers and it’s going to go bad before I eat it all. Do you want sum? I herd you liek Filipino foodz…” he types, following up with a picture of an animated Mudkip.

Rion snorts at the strange blue creature wiggling on the screen as he reads the messages with her. “Cute. An inside joke between you two, I assume?” he sighs, nuzzling his head against her shoulder like an overgrown cat.

Mackenzie could be shocked that Rion’s only five years older than her and doesn’t get the reference to the old memes, but with his refined manners and posh British accent she isn’t. Not everyone grew up and remains chronically online like her tiny circle of friends.

Her stomach grumbles loudly, protesting the excess of everything she’s imbibed this evening that isn’t a solid meal.

“More or less. Hey, are you hungry?” She cranes her head to look down at him.

“I could…go for a nibble,” Rion flirts, displaying a set of long canines that Mackenzie hadn’t noticed before. “A little something to whet my appetite for later. Any local delicacies you can recommend? Aside from yourself, of course.”

Rion smugly peers up at Mackenzie, flushed and uncomfortably squirming in his lap.

“Hmm. Perhaps a dish that isn’t also local to the Gate?” he offers without thinking about the context of his words.

“The Bay Area, huh?” Mackenzie muses, leaning away to get a better look at the mortified look on Rion’s face. Her Instagram feed is sometimes full of suggestions of all the delicious food available further down the west coast. She doesn’t know what else he could get in Seattle that he couldn’t get there…aside from the renowned Marisol’s home kitchen.

“I’m downtown right now at the Fairmont. Should I come to you? When’s your breaks/lunch?” she types back, hoping he doesn’t have anything to say about her current location.

“...Fairmont? Did you win the lottery and not tell me?!???! RUDE,” Rob messages. “Nah, the ole battleaxe canceled me and forgot to tell me and isn’t floating me anywhere else tonight THANK GOD. So I’m chillaxin here, collecting the fruits of last nights….shall we say…….deeiiirtay deeds.” Rob sends a message with a GIF from the movie “Joe Dirt”, immediately sending another GIF of chocolate soft serve being squeezed out of a tube.

“Gods, eugh! Is that what I think it is?” Rion angles Mackenzie’s phone towards him in disgust and fascination, Mackenzie lifting it above her head and out of his reach.

Mac’s backside starts to get that pins-and-needles feeling and she re-adjusts herself on Rion’s lap.

“I don’t wanna be that person who just invites other people over to a two-person party, but Marisol’s cookin’ is a local legend up the hill, and I’d love for you to meet Rob. You up for some company?”

Rion chuckles, a villainous sound that sends shivers up Mackenzie’s spine. “In the presence of a delightful treat such as yourself? It’s difficult to be anything else.”

#astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #ascended astarion #astarion x oc #bg3 isekai fic #bg3 isekai #isekai tav #isekai

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sims4cars-breezemotors · 2 years ago

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“Advance work-horse”

1951 Chevrolet 3100 🇺🇸

The 1951 Chevrolet 3100 (also known as the Chevrolet Advance Design and the GMC New Design) is an American classic two-door pickup truck manufactured by Chevrolet. It is part of the Advance Design series that was launched on Saturday, June 28, 1947, replacing the AK Series and lasted until March 25, 1955 (when the Task Force series replaced the line) with various minor changes over the years, with the 1951 model year being the sixth model. Updates to the 1951 model year include vent windows on both doors, 8 boards per bed, an 80 MPH speedometer, chrome window handle knobs and a chrome wiper knob.

Available exclusively for “No Limits” and “All Inclusive” tiers.

Model with HQ interior, open/close doors and functional light.

Go and join my Patreon!

#the sims 4 #sims 4 #sims4 #sims4car #the sims 4 cc #the sims 4 custom content #thesims4cars #the sims 4 cars #sims4vehicles #the sims #the sims 4 cc finds #sims 4 cc finds #the sims 5 #sims 4 cars #sims 5 #sims 4 cc #the sims custom content #sims 4 alpha cc #sims

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dluxdekor1 · 8 months ago

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Crafted Elegance: Aluminium, Bronze, and Chrome Cabinet Knobs for Every Home

In the realm of interior design, the smallest details can make the most significant impact. When it comes to cabinets, the choice of knobs can transform the entire look and feel of a space. Today, let’s explore the timeless elegance of aluminium, bronze, and chrome cabinet knobs, and how they can enhance the aesthetics of any home.

Aluminium Cabinet Knobs: Sleek and Modern

Aluminium designer cabinet knobs are more than just functional hardware — they’re a statement of modern elegance that can elevate the aesthetic appeal of any contemporary interior. Crafted with precision and style in mind, these knobs boast a sleek and minimalist design that seamlessly integrates into modern decor themes. Their lightweight yet robust construction makes them an ideal choice for both kitchen and bathroom cabinets, where durability and functionality are paramount.

Bronze Cabinet Knobs: Timeless Charm

For those seeking a more traditional or rustic look, bronze cabinet knobs are an excellent choice. Bronze exudes warmth and character, making it perfect for creating a cozy atmosphere in the home. Whether you prefer oil-rubbed bronze for a vintage feel or antique bronze for a more refined look, bronze knobs add a touch of timeless charm to any cabinetry.

Chrome Door Handles & Knobs: Contemporary Elegance

Chrome door handles and knobs are synonymous with contemporary elegance. Their reflective surface and minimalist design bring a sense of sophistication to modern interiors. Chrome knobs are incredibly versatile and can complement a wide range of cabinet styles, from sleek and minimalist to bold and eclectic.

Choosing the Right Knobs for Your Home

When selecting cabinet knobs for your home, consider th,e overall style and aesthetic you wish to achieve. Aluminium knobs are perfect for modern and minimalist interiors, while bronze knobs add warmth and character to traditional spaces. Chrome knobs offer a timeless yet contemporary look that suits a variety of design schemes.

At Dlux Dekor, we offer a wide selection of high-quality cabinet knobs in aluminium, bronze, and chrome finishes. Our range includes an array of styles to suit every taste and budget, ensuring that you can find the perfect knobs to elevate your home décor. Explore our collection today and add a touch of crafted elegance to your cabinets.

#Aluminium Cabinet Knobs #Bronze Cabinet Knobs #Chrome Door Handles & Knobs #Knobs And Knockers Door Handles #Solid Brass Cabinet Knobs #Solid bronze knobs #Hammered knobs #Dluxdekor #india #designer knobs

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deramin2 · 1 year ago

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Yay Betty the 1954 Stove had been fixed!

Part of the problem is that the oven temperature gages you can buy for home use are apparently garbage and mine was off by 30 degrees. So the actual oven thermometer was only off by 20 degrees.

Ol' Darryll has been in the business just long enough to know that back in the day there used to be adjusters for the thermostats so you could retune them as they aged instead of just replacing them.

Here's mine under the oven knob.

ID: A white porcelain stove edge with a chrome circular dial holder. In the center are three small flathead screws the center one has a thin metal triangular hand pointed up. End ID.

So what you do is loosen the two outer screws (do not remove) and that lets you adjust the center one colder or hotter.

Now this era of mechanical temperature sensors have an accuracy range of about 10 degrees up or down and are really sensitive. So he got it about 12 degrees under the dial temp and said if he adjusted it more it would probably end up too hot. So just nudge the dial a little over the line and it'll be fine. She'll never be as accurate as a modern digital thermometer but I'm also not a baker so it's fine for me. Mostly she's on tater tot duty.

This is such good news because a new temperature sensor is likely to be a hard to find antique part and this stove is before his time so he's not super familiar. Also the model and serial number have worn off for an extra part identifying challenge. (The temperature gauge itself might have a model number on it.)

Anyway, she's back plodding away after 69 years of continuous use. Not gonna get that kind of longevity out of a modern stove. (Just keep three carbon monoxide sensor in operation close by in case something goes wrong so she doesn't kill us all. She's also not as efficient as a modern stove (pilot lights and the oven takes a while to heat up). But she represents where we were as a society before corporate capitalism's enshitification of everything took hold. There's no reason we can't build appliances today that last at least 30 years, let alone 70.

I love her.

ID: Betty, a white and chrome 1952-1954 O'Keefe and Merritt range with 4 burners, a griddle, three crumb catcher trays, a regular oven with a window, a broiler oven with a solid door, a pan drawer, and a service door. She has a tall back with a cover that can be folded up like a half shelf or folded out to cover the burners. The top has a (broken) timer, a baking temperature guide, salt and pepper shakers, a long narrow light, an electrical plug and a sculptural top design. On top of it is a pie bird, a fancy salt shaker, and an herb jar. Over it is a huge white and chrome hood that has a red mechanical timer and magnetic red spice jars stuck to it. There are white subway tiles behind it. With a black accent line. The surrounding cabinets are mint green with butcher block tops. A microwave, antique toaster, copper kettle, cooking utensils jar, and various other useful things are in the counter or in shelves. End ID.

#appliances #antique appliances #Betty the Stove

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devil-doll13 · 2 years ago

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Stay Clean

Tw: Mentions of Death/Murder, maybe eating people ig lol

(I just wanna preface this by saying I know basically next to nothing about fixing cars or motorcycles lol so if there are any inaccuracies I apologise for that!)

Horror/Slasher Oc writing for Maxwell “Max” Holt

Dividers by firefly-graphics

“… missing case last night has been reported to local law enforcement. Identified as North Carolina-born Mark Fisher, the 33 year old was last seen drinking at a bar in Downings before he disappeared without a trace. This again marks another in a series of disappearances that has concerned the public, with some expressing worries that it is the work of a serial killer or a human trafficking ring. Police are still investigating if these cases are conne-“

Max groaned and fiddled with the knob of the radio, a dusty yellow rag over his hand to prevent the grease from staining it. Switching over to the local rock station, he smiled as Motörhead’s ‘Stay Clean’ replaced the uncomfortable chatter of the news; Lemmy’s thundering bass was always more reassuring to hear.

Especially now, the small voice in his head whispered to him. He was reminded of exactly what he did last night; an impulse brought on at least in part by his victim’s poor treatment of Debbie, the waitress at his favourite diner. It might not have been the wisest idea to kill again after the last time, but at least now his hunger pangs had subsided. With Mark he’d sated them till’ the next month.

Shaking his head to disperse those thoughts, Max’s hands came to rest again on the shiny bronze chrome of the Chevrolet in front of him. She’d come in with a nasty dent in her bumper from a collision. Thankfully nothing serious, but the guy had mentioned she just up and stopped on him. Not a problem you’d really want to ignore either way. His boss Jerry had her first, mentioned ‘some issue with the fan-belt’ he’d sorted out. She just needed some little fixes and then she’d be good to go, he’d said.

Max gave her engine another look over, wanting to be sure he’d gotten everything. Any other issues would probably show up when he started her up in a test-drive later. His keen ears picked up everything, so he knew when a car didn’t sound right. It was something Jerry had no idea Max got from his lycanthropy; he only knew it was another helpful addition to his toolkit when he hired him.

“… Max!” For a second he thought he heard a voice shouting over the din and he raised his head. By the office door of the workshop was his coworker, Leo, leaning against a cluttered tool cabinet. Max turned down the radio a tad.

“Oh, yeah, Leo. What’s up?” Max perked up a bit at the appearance of his work buddy, the only other person employed at the shop aside from him.

The younger man seemed to be preparing himself to ask him a question. Leo was a bit of a nervous type, so Max was used to the way he tended to need reassurance now and again. He seemed to try and wring his hands out on an oil-stained tank top, a futile endeavour.

“Hey man, just double-checking to be sure… You’re still free for our campaign on Saturday night, right?”

“Yeah!” He exclaimed with a toothy grin, sharp canines on display.

The subject of D&D had come up in a conversation over drinks the other night. He had reminisced over playing with his friends back in highschool and Leo expressed a desire to learn more about the game. Max was excited at the prospect of playing again, and gladly offered to teach him and his two younger sisters the joys of D&D. In all honesty, he really missed it. It had been years since he properly sat down and played at a real table. Although he’d probably be the DM so he could guide them in their first campaign, the thought still made him giddy inside.

“I got somethin’ brewing up that’s more beginner friendly” Max continued, blue eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. He took his hands off the car to gesture wildly, an old habit “I’m a bit rusty myself after so long not havin’ played, so I could probably use a good refresher too.” He admitted with a wry quirk of the lip.

“Thanks for letting me know… Joan an’ Jessie are real excited about the whole thing. Wouldn’t stop badgerin’ me about it an’ asking me if you were still comin.’” Leo scratched the back of his neck, seeming eager to shift the blame onto the twins.

“Not that I’m not lookin’ forward to it too!” He added hastily, big brown eyes as wide as saucers.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna miss something like that.” Max assured him, chuckling. Leo nodded bashfully, then cast his gaze over to inspect the Chevrolet still docked in the workshop lift.

“…Front tire on that’s gonna need a bit of pumpin.’ I’ll go get er.’” Then he ducked back in to look for the necessary equipment.

That was Leo: real shy, but good with cars.

After work Max peeled off his grimy coveralls, replacing them with his usual washed out denim jeans and a black leather jacket. It was approaching Summer, and the warm sun beat down on the cracked pavement. Still, a cool spring breeze necessitated extra layers. Especially with his ride…

He rounded the corner toward where he’d left her, and he smiled as she came into view; his beloved Harley Davidson. Her glossy red paint was unmistakable, metal exhaust pipes gleaming in the sunlight.

He felt no shame in admitting she was his pride and joy; he had fixed her up himself, and she’d been with him for years now. Feeling the wind whip past him as he went 20 over the speed limit on the back of her was exhilarating beyond all words could express.

Max jogged over and fished his keys out of his pocket, resting his palm on the black leathered handlebar. A dark-visored helmet rested on the seat. Snatching it up, he shook his hair out of his ponytail, his tousled blond curls still damp from sweat.

He kicked his leg over to start the girl up, and soon the fierce growl of her engine reverberated through his bones. She purred mightily, spitting fumes all the way down the road as he headed back home.

As he came up to his house Max was pleasantly surprised to see Jack’s rusty blue pickup truck parked in the driveway. He definitely hadn’t been expecting him. Of course, Jack wasn’t the type to give prior notice before he called in, (Maybe that would dampen his mysterious appeal) so Max just gave him his own key so he could come and go as he pleased. Now he was used to receiving random visits from the elder lycan.

Max could see the dim light of his television through the window as he parked beside Jack’s truck, so he hurried to unlock the door and catch up with him.

“Hey, Jack!” He called out cheerfully as he hung up his jacket. There was no answer from the taciturn Jack. Max was used to that too.

Entering the kitchen, he saw the silver-haired man standing in the doorway to his living room. He was watching Judge Judy with a beer in his hand, technicolour light reflecting off his wolfish golden eyes.

“How are ya?” He tried again.

No response. Jack kept his eyes on the TV as he took a swig of the bottle.

Max shrugged and opened the door to his mini fridge, pulling out a cold beer of his own. A sharp hiss cut through the air as he pried off the bottle cap. He tried to ignore the tension in the air as he gulped down a mouthful. It tasted less refreshing than it should have.

Jack swivelled his head around, slowly, to look at him from out of the corner of his eye. There was an old scar on his face, one he never spoke about.

“Heard what ya did on the news…” He finally said.

Max froze. He felt his whole body tense up instinctively before he forced himself to relax. Jack knew. Jack understood; he wrestled with the same urges. All lycanthropes did. Still, they’d had a silent agreement never to speak of what he did.

“...Yeah?” His voice came out quietly, treading carefully.

Jack turned his attention back to the TV again, leaving him to stare down at the floor

Max resisted the urge to sigh. This is what he hated the most: the long, drawn out scoldings.

“… I don’t disagree with the choice you made. If anything, that man probably had it comin.’” That made Max look back up again, hopefully.

“But kiddo, there are consequences to livin’ like we do. Don’t forget that.”

Jack sent a pointed look his way, “Jus’ don’t get caught… Keep your nose clean, ya hear me?” He reached out a rough, calloused hand to pat Max on the shoulder. A little harder than necessary, perhaps for emphasis.

Max nodded obediently, swallowing the lump of beer in his throat. He supposed that wasn’t so much of a scolding as it was advice. Jack seemed to feel some responsibility for any mistakes Max made. Compared to him, he was only a pup, after all. And he had lived a long life, longer than any human could hope to live.

The rest of the night there was no more talk of the killings, which Max was grateful for. He offered to cook dinner for the two of them, and they ended up reminiscing again about the silly things he used to do when Jack first met him. Max grew lively again, recounting older stories from his childhood when he was even more of an idiot. This amused Jack greatly, even drawing out a rare chuckle from the older man.

Later he watched Jack’s truck kick dirt up on its way out of his driveway and down the road, waving goodbye as his words from earlier echoed in his mind.

Keep your nose clean, he’d said. He knew that he was just trying to tell him to be careful, and not attract too much attention with his meals.

He knew he wouldn’t stop doing it. He couldn’t. The world would be better off in the end, he convinced himself. But it was his accursed hunger that really controlled him in the end. He decided he’d continue to kill and feast on assholes like Mark, but after that he’d lick his chops and leave no evidence; otherwise his peaceful life in Downings would be over. Just like before.

Max wasn’t given to brooding over his problems either way, so he resolved to think no more of it for now. Instead he set himself about a far more appealing pastime: setting up his new campaign for Saturday…

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @goldrose-star, @the-pinstriped-hood, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better)

#I hope ya’ll enjoy this lil introduction to him #he is fun and easier than Abigail to write tbh #I wanted to make the town feel alive will lots of people in it #Maxwell Holt #Max #Maxwell Holt oc #fanfic #my writing #my stuff

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