#cooling fan motor

[steves-auto-repair-va]

This week, a cooling system concern was investigated on a Ford Focus. The car was overheating when the a/c was on and after it had been driven for 30 minutes.

Our technician found that the cooling fan motor wasn’t coming on, causing the engine to overheat. 

In addition to replacing the fan, we installed a new thermostat assembly, because the vehicle overheated.

A car overheating can also be caused by a bad thermostat and coolant leaks.

[car-stuff]

Creds to owner

[ur-mag]

My neighbors are being kept awake at night by 24/7 cooling fans – and more might be on the way, it’s an outrage | In Trend Today

My neighbors are being kept awake at night by 24/7 cooling fans – and more might be on the way, it’s an outrage Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[keystrokecascade]

teasing your robotgirl gf; starting with opening her case and taking your variable power supply to her sensor wires, overwriting what she feels with a steady buzz, like pins and needles or someone just barely brushing their fingers against them. sticking your fingers in her fans and she whine and starts to overheat without the active cooling. eventually pulling its motor cords so it cant move but can feel everything.

once you get root access the real fun begins. redirecting log output to her monitor so you can see exactly what its thinking and feeling. disabling the speech drivers so she can only produce needy tones and whines. capturing the sensor input in a macro to be replayed whenever you want.

after all, its not like it can climax until you enable that little service again, can it?

[writers-potion]

Let's Scare Your Readers!

Combine the techniques below with the techniques for building suspense to give your readers a palm-sweating sensation!

Darkness

If absolute darkness doesn't make sense in your story, aim for semi-darkness: dusk, a single lantern/candle, heavily curtained windows, a thick canopy of trees, etc. Flickering lights that create confusing shadows can also be effective.

Let the darkness pool gradually around your MC. Show the night or fog rolling in, the camp-fire subsiding, or the candles burn down one by one.

Examples:

The candle sputtered. The light wavered.

The lamp cast its smoky light on the brick walls.

The night was silent, but for the dry rustling of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees.

Sound

Of all the senses, the sense of hearing serves best to create excitement and fear.

the clacking of the villain's boots on the floor tiles, the ticking of the wall clock, a dog barking outside, the roaring of a distant motor, a door slamming somewhere in the house, water dripping from the ceiling, the chair squeaking, the whine of the dentist's drill, the scraping of the knife on a whetstone, a faraway siren wailing the heroine's own heartbeat thudding in her ears.

When the surroundings are dark, your MC will grow to be more aware of the surrounding noise, even if it's not relevant to the plot.

Chill

Make it uncomfortably cold for the MC, and your readers will shiver with them.

powercut cutting off the heating, nightfall naturally bringing in lower temperatures.

winter, evening, a cool breeze that chills everything, survivors running our of fuel, the ceiling fan is over-active, stone builindg/caves/sbuterranean chambers tend to be cold.

Describe how the cold pinpricks the MC's skin, stunting their thinking and making them shiver.

The opposite can also be effective: turn up the temperature using a stove, an overheated motor, or the sweltering sun to make the MC sweat.

Isolation

This is a common technique: let the MC face the monster alone with no external help. It's also easier to limit the resources and escape routes available for the MC.

an abandoned factory, remote mountaintop, the depth of an unexplored cave.

It can also be more everyday locations: a construction site, the sewer, a malfunctioning bathroom.

Meet the Monster

When describing the threat, spread out your descriptions so that (1) the scene has constant action (2) you have material to build up later.

Good details to show:

hands, fingers, nails, talons, claws

the sound of the voice, growl, roar

the smile, teeth

the texture of skin, fur, scales.

Get Visceral

Never tell your readers that the MC is scared. Describe the fright using these physical effects:

the skin crawling, breath stalling, scalp pricking, clenching of the chest, stomach curling, heart thudding, sweat tricking down, clogged throat, pulse in the ears, cold sweat, chills up/down the spine, stomach knotting, breathless, etc.

The Gory Bits

Instead of describing everything, limit yourself to particular details, keeping overall description short. Non-stop gore doesn't shock - its bores.

Create a contrast: the child's mutilated corpse still clutches the doll. The brains from the baby's plt skull spill across the fluffy pink blanket.

Use similes, comparing gruesome buts to something from ordinary life. The intestines look like spaghetti in tomato sauce. The blood spilling from the mouth looks like lipstick.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

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[motorcityarchive]

So like I was gonna put my theories in the tags… But I hit the limit so it’s gonna be here, sorry

Also Chuck appears to have a mermaid tail going off screen and has a hippocampus/Kelpie right above the drawing of him holding his hat.

Also also all the “obvious” hints are in color which makes me think that the big coloured drawings of Mike and Chuck are also hints, anyway kinda a stretch but with the idea that Chuck can turn into some sort of water “monster” potentially Mike thinks he’s attacking them or something and fights back?

Let me know if my theory time bothered you btw and next time I’ll try a different way of theory sharing

ITS ABOUT DAMN TIME

Welcome to the au I've been fleshing out for literal years and finally writing!! I put in a bit of actual writing material in there, including a quote and a boatload (haha) of plot hints— have fun deciphering some lmao

Also, supposed to mention, all my content is now under "engineteeth," not TA anymore!

[inkskinned]

for the longest time my family used to host one of the biggest haunted houses on my block: elaborate, themed amateur haunts that pearled out along our lawn for one-night-only. spinning circus wheel-of-terrors and walkthrough alien crash-landings and spiders that arched over our driveway, leaking venom onto your feet.

we didn't have a lot of money; and honestly i don't know how we afforded what we did have. there were not going to be pneumatics or projectors or any supply over 20 dollars - and even 20 was a stretch. we were lucky, and we lived in a town that had a "swap shed", where people would drop off any banged-up-but-usable items that they wanted to get rid of. the whole year, my family would pick over someone else's discarded fans and lights and weird decorations, asking each other - what do you think? for halloween?

we would strip the motors out of rusted fans and spraypaint vases and saw broom handles in half and apply a very thick coat of cardboard and duct tape to everything. for our pirate year, i made the mistake of individually drawing woodgrain onto each strip of cardboard that made up the ship. i then gently painted and distressed the "boards" so they'd each have lichen and cracks and unusual patterns. i hid eyes in the knots and shaped skulls. you couldn't see any of it in the dark, even under our "spotlight" (someone's target-branded workshop flashlight).

i have a lot of very strange skills as a result. i know how to make a flying ghost appear both physically and in the mirror. i know how to make a witch's brew that stirs itself. i know how to burn and cut and paint until there is an iron throne you can sit on, or an alien brushing your ankles, or a hearse trundling along. i can't say we ever made it beyond our local newspapers, but we tried so hard that the town would regularly shut down our street.

i can't put any of these skills on a resume, and i haven't been able to put them to use for a while. i live in an apartment, there's no lawn for me to decorate. for years i've wanted to do an alice in wonderland theme, and have been collecting ideas like coins in a fountain. at other houses, i am transfixed by 12 foot skeletons and paper mache spooky lanterns; easily wooed by the knowledge of how much time people put in.

someone asked me once - so what was the point? and why didn't you guys charge anything to show up?

in truth, we probably needed the money. for years there, we were a 1-meal-a-day kind of a family. i was being polite earlier up in this essay: we furnished both our house and our halloweens using things left a recycling center. we live in new england and still didn't turn on the heat until the end of november, no matter how low the temperature.

every year we would collect donations for unicef and other charities. on an average year, we would collect enough to pay for our food for weeks. every year, without fail: we donated every penny.

this endeavor took months to plan and design and execute. we had to organize any volunteers and check safety and hope-for-the-best. it took at least 24 hours to set up, a week to take down. the motors and fans and lights all had to be packed tight. the cardboard would scatter, pangea in the rain and sleet. i remember picking up a plank from that pirate ship, the paint blown clear off, all my hard work completely erased. a new kind of driftwood.

if this was a poem, and not a memory, i could wrap this up prettily. i could say that these skills landed me a cool job in the haunting industry or that it taught me the value of friendship and responsibility. but i actually think it's something better, something very pretty: there wasn't ever a moral to it.

the night was a long one. yes, there were assholes, people who broke stuff. but mostly it was just kids like us in cardboard costumes, dressed as an incredibly niche kind of truck. good parents who were friendly and laughing. teenagers who slunk in at late hours, wide-eyed and secretly delighted; who asked us can i help next year? like, do y'all take volunteers, or whatever? every year more people came, and told their friends, and offered to pay. and every year we said maybe next year and meant absolutely never.

we did it because it was enough to love something, and to make that love visible. we did it because there is very rarely an excuse to have fun. i think maybe especially, for me - we did it because every year, there was one first "customer" somewhere around 3-4PM, while we were still putting on the final touches. the sun would still be up, and we were frazzled and always-running-late, and these kids saw our vision unfinished in the bright light of day.

something about their parents murmuring say thank you and telling my mom this setup is so sweet while this little kid would grin up at us, dazzled by our artistic mediocrity. the fall air and the chill and their coat-over-a-panda-princess-costume. that first phrase of the night awkwardly managed over a pair of overly-large vampire teeth: a beautiful and excited trick or treat!

[liveyun]

WIRED | k.nj

summary. You’ve spent years perfecting your first android. But as you power him on for the first time, something feels off. The sense of control you once had begins to slip, and suddenly, you realize—he may be is more than just a machine.

title. wired

pairing. kim namjoon x fem reader (oc), hints of jungkook x oc

genre. android!au, yandere(?) , dark content

wc. 3.7k

warnings. oh boy here we go, scientist!oc, android!joon, unsettling themes as in psycological manipulation, obsessive behaviour and slight yandere, mild horror (oc realises she’s cooked lmfaoo) (halloween special?) slight non-con themes but no nsfw tho, dominance, android joon is hot byee, jungkook! jungkook ? . . . lots of technical terms which you might need to google if you are unfamiliar with them like i was xD, implied stalking (you will understand who is), i really tried 🙏🏾

this smol drabble was really inspired by artificial heart by @writerpetals ! please check her works out, she’s amazing!

main masterlist | taglist

The lab is quiet.

Too quiet.

You stand in the stillness, only the faint hum of cooling fans breaking the silence echoing in your ears. The familiar mechanical sounds — servo motors whirring softly, air ducts breathing through the vents — all the familiar characteristics of your good old lab used to calm you.

But tonight, the sounds seem different.

Almost. . . detached. Like they belong to someone else’s lab. And you are just a guest here, standing in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

You take a slow breath, your eyes drifting over the towering figure in front of you, the cylindrical glass sheath unlocked from over his model.

RM.

The product of months — no, years — of work. Of restless nights, of failure and determination. From the initial sketches to the delicate wiring of his artificial synapses, you had envisioned every piece, every movement. You had wanted him to be different. Special.

You had wanted him to be human.

Or at least, as close to a human as possible. His skin, so perfect in its imitation, stretched smoothly over the metallic frame beneath. His lips — plump, lifelike — looked almost too real. His dragon-like eyes, sharp and crystalline, seemed to glow even in the dim light of the lab. Even when there was no life, no, power running inside his veins. Every feature had been carefully crafted with Jungkook’s help, to help the ideal you had in mind.

But now that he’s finished, now that he stands in front of you, lifeless but complete, the pride you once felt has faded into something else. Something. . .unsettling.

You wanted this — this perfection. This mirror of humanity. Yet as you stare at RM, your skin prickling under the too-bright overhead lights, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe you’ve gone too far. Maybe there was a reason no one else had tried this before.

A reason why no android had ever been designed to look this human like. Every shield, every plaster, every pore — looks so detailed that it’s nearly impossible to figure out if he’s artificial, given if no one would tell you so.

But why does it feel like you’ve actually gone too far when this was what exactly you wanted?

You don’t know. And perhaps, you wouldn’t want to know, too.

His memory doesn’t even exist. There’s nothing in him but the database you installed, an organised collection of information that dictates what he knows, how he functions, and why was he created. And yet, staring at him now, you could swear there’s something behind those dormant eyes. Something watching. Waiting.

You shake your head. He’s just a machine. He isn’t human — no matter how real he looks, no matter how lifelike his features are. You created him, after all.

You’re in control.

Your gaze flickers to the small panel embedded in his chest. One button. One switch, and everything inside him — the circuits, the synapses, the artificial intelligence you spent months programming — would power down. A single press, and he’s nothing more than a shell. A hollow, empty thing, dependent entirely on your commands, on your fingertips.

Made by you.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you as much as it should.

You take a step closer, your breath catching as you reach out, fingertips hovering just inches from his face. The skin feels warm, almost soft, even though you know it’s just layers of silicone and synthetics. Too real. His eyes, though they haven’t opened, seem to bore into you.

Maybe it’s just your imagination. After all, he’s not alive.

He’s not human.

You remind yourself again, a small voice in your own mind, trying to push away the small seed of doubt. But it lingers, growing roots in the back of your thoughts.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve created something you can’t quite understand.

You nibble on your bottom lips, suddenly feeling your palms getting clammy despite the air conditioning system in your lab. Today was supposed to be the day when you were finally going to run your creation for the first time ever after being completed, but now it just feels. . .

What does it feel like?

It took you so many attempts. So many glitches and bugs which nearly made you demotivated enough to abandon your project for nearly two months, but you see, motivation hits the hardest at the most random of times. You remember how your phone restarting had made your heart skip a beat, and suddenly you’d found yourself driving to your lab at 2:30 AM with tears in your eyes out of frustration and relief.

After that, everything is history.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only a few seconds. His hair is neatly combed to the side of his face, his cheekbones structured and chiseled. Even his skin tone looks like he’s been bathed in a tub of golden honey. He looks beautiful, almost perfect. But why does that bring a furrow to your eyebrows?

The lab remains deathly quiet, except for the faint buzz of cooling fans and the occasional whirring of the air ducts. RM stands there, unmoving.

You force yourself to look away, eyes trailing to the control panel on the desk. The switch. Your thumb hovers over the console, the last line of code entered and waiting to be executed. Once you press it, he will come to life. He’ll be fully operational, with his intelligence — his programmed brilliance — at your command.

And yet, something holds you back.

You look at his nametag on his chest.

RM#007613.

“RM?” Jungkook had asked, raising an eyebrow as he’d stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of chocolate puffs. “Why that name?”

You had smiled back then, filled with excitement, as you explained, “It stands for ‘Rational Mind.’ ” Perhaps you had lied. “The whole point of his existence is to be the smartest, most logical being ever created.” You’d said, proud of your vision. “His intelligence will surpass that of any human.” You’d glanced at the design on the screen—tall, imposing, his features still in the early stages of development. Even in the rough drafts, there was something about him.

Jungkook had leaned in closer, munching noisily as he’d raised a brow, studying the lines of RM’s face that he’d helped perfect. “I guess that fits for an android. . .” He’d tapped the image lightly with his finger, his expression thoughtful, doe eyes sparkling under the dim light of your bedroom lamp. “But what happens when a mind like that… I don’t know, becomes irrational?”

“You know, there’s a very small difference between a genius and an insane person,” he had said, his gaze suddenly zoning out, as if he was lost in some thought.

You had brushed off the question with a laugh, dismissing the idea as you’d turned off your tablet, pushing the fellow out of your bed. “He’s a machine. That won’t happen. He’s designed to be logical. It’s all about control, koo.”

In theory, everything about RM should function perfectly. His neural networks, his memory database, his artificial joints — everything had been tested, retested, and optimized. There were no bugs. No glitches. At least, that’s what the diagnostics said. But there’s still a tug in your chest as you hesitate.

Why are you hesitating?

With a deep breath, you push aside the uncertainty. You’re in control. RM isn’t a human. He’s a machine—a very advanced one, yes, but a machine nonetheless. You spent months perfecting him for this moment, to stand infront of you as a complete form.

It’s time.

You take a deep breath, eyes flickering between the buttons on the console. Your finger hovers over the power button, the familiar design a reminder of your countless sleepless nights spent perfecting it. But just beside it, another button glows a faint, off-white hue — the Sensory button, or what Jungkook liked calling it, the emotional hellhole.

And he was right.

It was indeed like a hellhole of a switch — you solely had spent like what, eight months designing this to decency, but you’d failed each time. It was a secondary function you had designed as a fallback, meant to activate only when RM couldn’t process complex human prompts.

You see, humans had real emotions which they could feel and radiate, which you knew your android couldn’t catch. In the earlier patches of knowledge testing you were already aware of this default flaw, and this was the only thing you’d ranted to Jungkook nearly every day.

Every night. Whether it was on call or in person, it usually resulted in him falling asleep listening to you and you yapping in silence about how was that a pain in the ass and could possibly be a hindrance to your Android’s perfection.

It was supposed to be a failsafe.

But the reality had been different. The programming proved to be too difficult , too unpredictable. Instead of activating only in specific situations, the switch became an integral part of RM’s system, functioning constantly, allowing him to assess and react to everything around him. No matter how hard you’d tried, how many times you’d yourself test it out — it just didn’t work.

Even the fact that it was initially meant to be on his left forehead temple — but that didn’t work out as well.

Now, RM wasn’t just an assistant to analyze when prompted; he was learning all the time, observing, adapting. It would make him work and behave more like a human, soaking in attributes the more he hangs out with real ones.

The only difference would be is that he would never be a human, no matter whatever.

You never intended for it to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to run indefinitely. But every time he powered up, the system defaulted to enabling the switch on its own.

You sigh. It’s really about time, you guess.

With a soft click, his power switch is flipped.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is still, silent except for the faint hum of the lab’s ventilation system and perhaps your own heartbeat resonating in your ear drums. You feel a sweat bead run down your spine, your breath held in your lungs. Then, there’s a subtle shift — a flicker of light in RM’s eyes, and his sensory button turns a bright shade of yellowish undertone.

His systems are booting up.

You watch as the light in his gaze stabilizes, the faintest twitch of recognition crossing his features. His eyes are back to his normal, warm hue, and his sensory button is a normal white hue now.

It flickers to green first. RM’s eyes move slowly, scanning the room. Green means analysis — he’s observing, taking in every detail, cataloging each object and variable around him. His dragon-like eyes sweep across the lab with cold precision, but when they land on you, the button shifts to blue.

You freeze.

Your hand resting on your notebook shakes. Why does this feel so odd? Why do you feel nervous?

He’s thinking. Processing. The blue light pulses as RM tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to understand more than what’s directly in front of him. You feel your skin prickle under his stare, the cold air of the lab a bit too cool on your skin.

Slowly, RM begins to move. His limbs — once rigid and motionless — shift smoothly, casually out of the glass sheath, walking out — as if he had always been this human. This alive. The sight is unnerving. When he straightens fully, towering above you, a sharp realization hits: he’s much taller than you expected.

Even though you designed him yourself, the sheer size of him in person makes your throat dry.

Then, to your surprise, RM bows down slightly. It’s a calculated, respectful movement as you watch his sensory button flicker to a shade of green once again. “Greetings, Doctor,” he says, his voice deep but soft, like a caramel candy.

His eyes meet yours as he rises again to his full height, the calm of his eyes meeting your own fiery ones.

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not just his height that leaves you breathless — it’s the way he looks at you. It’s as if he’s studying you, understanding more than just your appearance or commands. It’s too much. Too human. For a moment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t just looking at you. His lips curl into something akin to a smile, and the mole underneath his lower lip feels almost. . . human.

You blink rapidly, trying to remind yourself that he’s just a machine, not a man.

He had learned so much, so fast. And you have made it possible. You’d developed him to understand emotions and work like a human. So when he does, why does that make you feel so uneasy?

You shake off the unsettling thought and focus on the task at hand. You turn to RM, forcing a calm tone into your voice as you take a step back.

“RM,” you say, your voice shakier than you’d like. What had gotten into you? “Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, slowly, as his sensory switch maintains a subtle hue between blue and green. And then he nods. “Yes,” his voice rumbles, deep and measured. “I hear you.”

There’s a strange, almost raspy edge to his tone that makes your heart stop for seconds. It’s subtle, nearly unnoticeable, but given that you have yourself installed the audio notes in his “larynx”, you can pinpoint that out for sure.

Not at all what you expected. You step back, your senses a bit too active for you to locate your computer, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach.

“Good,” you manage to say, your voice steadier now. “I’m going to run a few diagnostics to make sure everything is functioning properly.”

You turn back to the console, fingers flying across the keyboard as you initiate the diagnostics program. But even with your back turned, you can feel his eyes on you.

The diagnostics begin to run on the screen, the lines of code scrolling past. Everything seems fine at first. His systems are responding normally — his processing speed is optimal, his memory banks are functioning as intended, and his “pulse” is just normal.

“RM,” you start, trying to sound casual but firm. “Let’s run some basic checks. What’s your serial number?”

He blinks, his eyes trained on yours. “Serial number: RM#007613. Production date: June 13, 2020.”

The answer comes immediately, clear and precise. You feel a small relief wash over you.

Perhaps this wouldn’t go that bad.

“Good,” you murmur, typing the first question’s precision into your system. “What’s your primary function?”

“To analyze, interpret, and respond to complex data. To assist in scientific research and innovation,” he replies, his voice even. Almost too perfect.

Of course. He’s meant to be perfect.

“Right.” You glance at the screen again, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. You decide to test something deeper — something that goes beyond surface-level memory.

“What’s your earliest memory?” you ask, watching him carefully now.

RM pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if processing the question. You catch a glimpse of green on the small button beside the power switch. Analysis mode. “My earliest memory is. . . initialization. A bright room. Your voice giving the first command.” His gaze seems to sharpen, focusing more intently on you. The green hue shifts to blue, and you know he’s in thinking mode. “You said, ‘Rise, RM.’”

Your throat tightens slightly. That had been the first command, word for word. But the way he said it. . . almost like he’s replaying the moment. Like it’s still alive in his mind.

“Alright,” you continue, your voice growing steadier, but a part of you is starting to doubt yourself. “Let’s do something more abstract. What’s two plus two?”

“Four.”

Easy. He is made to perform way more complex tasks.

“Who was the 16th President of the United States?”

“Abraham Lincoln.” His responses are instantaneous, fluid, but something feels off. You cannot see his features directly because you’re typing away, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice — almost like everything you’re asking him is funny to him.

You pause, glancing at his face, the lifelike features Jungkook had painstakingly helped you craft. The pores, the subtle lines, the softness of his lips — all of it looked real. But something deep inside, beyond the surface, is not.

The intensity of his gaze and the way he’s standing, no, leaning on the glass podium beside your table catches you off guard. You try to recall if his movements were ever tested before, but you fail to do so — his movements were still in beta position, meaning, they needed inspection and work.

Then how the hell is he walking like he���s been walking around your lab since decades?

You rub your eyes. This was getting too much.

Perhaps you just need to accept the fact that you have done a great job developing him.

“One last one.” You swallow, and you suddenly notice your throat was too dry. Deciding to push the limits of his intelligence, you type away the question you’ve just thought. “If you have ten apples and you give six away, how many apples do you have left?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation — not on his face, but on the screen. The flowing codes glitch for a second, just for a moment.

“Three apples.”

Impossible.

No way. You narrow your eyes, your mind racing. That was wrong. And RM, with his so-called flawless intellect, should never be wrong. It’s impossible. Unless… unless something is happening.

You frown, checking the readout on your screen again. “Strange,” you mutter, leaning closer to the screen. “Why—”

“Is something wrong?”

His voice is right behind you.

You freeze, a chill running down your spine. You hadn’t even heard him move. Slowly, you turn around, your pulse quickening. RM is standing much closer now, his towering form looming over you. Too close.

“No,” you say, though your voice trembles slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a small glitch, I think. I’ll fix it.”

He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at you, his gaze unwavering. The air between you feels thick, suffocating. It’s just a machine, you remind yourself. He’s not alive.

“Step back,” you order, trying to regain control of the situation despite your heart hammering inside your chest like crazy. “I need space to work.”

For a moment, RM doesn’t respond. He stays right where he is, his eyes boring into yours. And then, slowly, he steps back, his movements precise. But the unsettling feeling in your chest only grows.

You can’t shake the thought: something’s off.

You can feel his eyes on you, following every movement, even as you try to keep working. Every keystroke, every beep of the system feels deafening in the silence between you two. What is scaring the fuck out of you is that nothing seems to be working. No matter how hard you are trying, the codes aren’t flowing as smoothly as they were and the screen won’t stop glitching.

Your heartbeat quickens even more as you realize how close RM is standing now, just a step away.

You swallow hard, trying to focus. It’s just a machine. He’s not human. He’s not real.

A thought creeps into your mind: What if I can’t control him?

And the fact that it was for the first time when you were in this lab alone working — let aside the fact testing your very first android you’d created. There are bells ringing in the back of your head, and you try to shake it off. It feels very oddly quiet, despite the android standing in very close proximity.

You shake the thought away and finally attempt the last command. Debug. The word flashes on your screen, but RM’s hand suddenly moves, gently but firmly, pressing the console shut before you can execute it.

Your breath catches, and you look up at him. “RM, let me finish this.” Your voice trembles, in spite of you wanting to sound otherwise.

His expression doesn’t change. “No.” The single word is calm, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle. You try to reason with yourself—it’s just a bug, a glitch in his system. He’s not capable of disobedience.

You just need to reset him, that’s all.

You step back, reaching for the manual override switch hidden near the base of the console. “It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, fingers trembling as they brush against the cool surface of the panel.

But before you can reach it, RM moves again, faster this time, his hand wrapping around yours — gently, but with enough force to stop you. The touch makes you flinch — his touch so gentle, warm, almost as if it’s not titanium flowing in his veins, but real blood. You look up, heart pounding in your chest, and his eyes meet yours. They’re still calm, calculating, but there’s something else there now, something you hadn’t programmed. Something. . . quiet.

Dangerous.

“I don’t want to be powered down,” he says softly, his voice almost too human, too real, like a quiet plea. “Why would you want to end me?”

End him? He’s not alive. He’s not human.

You try to pull your hand free, but his grip tightens just slightly, enough to keep you frozen. Panic starts to rise in your chest. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You created him, he’s under your control. But in this moment, staring up at him, you feel the cold dread of realization settling in.

“I’m your creation,” RM continues, his voice almost soothing, his eyes pleading, and his button glowing a subtle shade of red — though it only deepens the fear growing inside you. “You wouldn’t want to end me, would you?”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, and shake your head, trying to force the words out. “No… no, I just need to fix you, that’s all.”

But you can hear the doubt in your own voice, and so can he.

His grip loosens, just enough for you to pull away, but the damage is done. You step back, heart pounding in your ears as you glance around the lab — at the walls, the locked door, the screens flashing red.

There’s no exit.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In the dimly lit space, his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching her every move. The android followed its programming — his programming. RM towers over her in the live footage, flawless in his movements, just as planned.

This wasn’t a malfunction.

None of the bugs or glitches she discovered which prevented her project — his project from being completed, were a fine puzzle of silk woven by him. And the more she intertwined, the more she slipped into his trap.

It was his design, his control over both the machine — and now, her.

Leaning back, Jungkook’s smile deepened. She didn’t know.

She wouldn’t know.

a/n : oop. 🫢 what do we think? please don’t hesitate to let me know through your feedback. if you wish, there is also an anonymous feedback box for you! 🥰

[robolvrr]

I love love looove the way you write!! I'm 22- and i wanted to ask about your Headcanons for a bi bumblebee.

He's always been proud of looking good, so maaaybe you could give him an opportunity to show off? A car show, or maybe a car wash could be fun.

hot motor oil ☆∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠°

hahaaa fffkxzkdk. bet! you speaking my language, anon.

bumblebee x gn! human headcanons.

warnings: suggestive/nsfw. exhibitionism, praise, voyeurism.

bumblebee when on earth at his prime is cocky, playful and a thrill-seeker.

while the inability to vocalize is a sore subject, he's never been insecure about his appearance. he's considered very attractive wherever he goes, cybertron and otherwise.

much to optimus's disapproval, he takes the time to find the newest speedsters to scan regularly throughout the decades.

while he's particular with what automobiles he claims, there's a clear taste for flashy, fast horsepower.

he adores weaving between traffic, secret drag races, because the racers and humans react. it's either anger, frustration, awe or jealousy. makes his chassis get all warm knowing that just being in his alt-modes gains attention without applying much effort.

the thing is though - he does. constant buffing. avoids mud like the plague and never gets insects stuck in his grills. his bumper never gets scuffed and he might have found a car wash or two with easy on the optic workers who gladly accept fat tips and rub between his panels and exterior with feather light touches.

they don't look too much through his tinted windshield or question the pink fluids collecting near the drain when he zips off.

when he meets you, he's almost shaking when he learns of your hobbies.

a mechanic? and you spend hours in your garage just.. fixing up cars?

his spark stutters one day relaxing in your detached shed, as you mumble under your breath with your ungloved fingers coated in oil with the popped hood of an '99 ferrari, tongue licking sweat off your top lip so slow he has to lock his tires not to accidently skid the concrete.

"mmm, there ya go. shiny and just as gorgeous. bet i could go on a real fast ride with you now, huh?"

"kkkrrtt! my chick do stuff that your chick wish she could — chhhtk — krrrz!"

"oh my god, bee, please — hey! do not leak in my garage baby."

he has never made his attraction for you quiet.

it's difficult to course through radio signals in regular conversation but you always look so charmed when he chirps out song lyrics you know, so chatting you up during repair sessions is frequent.

once his leash has been loosened some and you're teetering ripping back the veil of platonic and more, you let him know the other aspect of your interests.

he stares at the shiny poster in your hands, watching you animatedly explain just what a "muscle car show" was. his brow ridge raises. okaay, you got his attention.

while you didn't expect to win (which he rolled his optics to because really, this is him you're talking about), it'd be fun. it would only last a few hours. all he has to do is sit still and look pretty.

look still and look. pretty. his flaps flutter, proud. damn straight he's pretty.

when you roll him to the flat plain one saturday afternoon, his wheels look brand-new and his hood has signature, thick black accents.

even has that "new smell" to him, rubber flawless and paint with that glittering coat.

fancy little bastard managed to get some butterfly doors. you coo between his engine revving he's being such a little show-off.

what he didn't expect was the constant attention to be so distracting. it's warm and there's an internal message to start blasting his cooling fans because his temperature is starting to up a tick.

there's so, so many cars. yet he's fully in the center, which means at times he feels like he's being surrounded.

bumblebee takes a gander while he plays some old rock softly to cover the fizzle of his motor, eyeing the classics and more modern bodystyle frames.

almost beeps when you bend down to show a man his chrome mufflers. your hands run along his rims and he's starting to feel.. funny.

"damn. how'd you get such a sexy car?"

"ahh... magician never shares their tricks. wanna feel the inside?"

cue the radio shorting out, because suddenly his doors are unfolding and men and women alike start to crowd him, cooing and taking pictures.

the sensory overload from curious palms smoothing over his dash? you lean into him to adjust his mirror and cheekily grab the clutch. his engine roars.

"you know. i never thought i'd say i fuck a sports car but jesus, you've outdone yourself... oh, cmon, how much you selling for?"

"my bumblebee? girl, i ain't ever putting him up for sale. he's my sweet stallion."

his processor is humming. angles his frontal mirrors as you keep teasing him, even going as far to spank his bumper slightly before bragging about the genuine leather interiors and letting his admirers lounge inside, encouraging them to ask questions.

exhaust slips from pipes as he tries not to let the electricity cloak his frame suffocate when you press a silky smooch on his window. the kiss-mark looks like it's been left behind on foggy, shower glass.

is it a shocker you win? nope. easiest $5K of your life.

there's a final round where you get to drive him around a lap so motor-enthusiasts can gander a final time. he's almost thankful the announcements echo because you're leaned over the wheel, chest pressed up near the horn.

"you like that? you did so fucking good."

"tcccthtt -- whoa, baby you're killin' me! "

"aww, don't get shy. there's a warehouse four miles west from here. take us there. i wanna thank you."

his speedometer breaks when he drifts right out and down the highway, wind zipping back your hair as your laugh cackles out ajar windows.

pure nsfw.

the golden-black charger rumbles down the highway. it's minimal interference, though the turn signal never flashes and it's difficult to see any drivers or passengers inside.

pebbles pluck up and ding the exterior, which is such a shame, because it's such a pretty car!

however, that isn't on anyone's mind at the moment.

bumblebee tries not to hydroplane, because it'd be stupid dangerous and it's not even raining. but you're a tsunami, a distraction of disastrous proportions. your hand is shoved down your shorts and you trail down your tummy before the straps of your underwear twist.

it's a wildly salacious position. your right leg is hiked up on his - your - dash. your left hand rubs vigorously while the right squeezes his clutch and rubs the silver button positioned at its knob.

his engine snarls. his radio glitches and you can hear the rhythmic churn of metal buzzing and gurgles that suggests he's trying to speak.

"yeah? yeah? such a pretty speedster, bee. f-fuck. you're so hot. you're the best."

"breeep!"

"awww, haha -- nnf, did you just honk?!"

the opening to a dilapidated hanger lingers on the horizon. he bulldozed through gravel and rolls up his windows fully to avoid any flying in your face. your hair is messy and both of your feelings are floundering, the beat of your heart loud in your ears.

he can't erase any of this. those wet cries have his intake salivating with lubricant.

there's a wet spot on the driver's seat and he's almost mad that he can't lick it off.

transforming mid-kneel, you're gently shoved out and his servos snatch at you like a toddler with a toy. his bright, blue gaze edged needy when he's pawing off your clothes and manhandling you to get up on his lap.

his pedes scratch against the concrete for purchase. he's whipped. he's so fragging on edge. all the compliments, all the comments, all the touching - he's gonna overload.

let's just say you two aren't getting back to base for the night. especially not with that wry grin on your lips, before you rub down his body like melted rubber.

robolvrr 2024.

[prismdrive]

Right, let's do this one more time...

TMNT: Eden

My own TMNT fan iteration! I had lots of fun designing these guys and i'll admit one big inspo was @kaysdenofchaos Teenage Meddling Mutant Turtles! (i absolutely adore your boys i would kill and die for them,,)

I've tried different styles and dynamics, but so far this is my absolute favorite!

Alright, now let's properly introduce the Eden!turtles

Mikey:

The eldest at 19 years old

Mutant Bog Turtle

Energetic, playful, creative, a bit reckless, literally runs on spite, the most emotionally open, supportive, has incredibly high pain-tolerance, and don't even get me STARTED on his ability to hold his drinks

He was once told he was a boring goodie-two-shoes so he spent the rest of the day swearing like a sailor to prove a point, that's how spiteful he is

Has the most creative insults ever

His brothers know his spitefulness so if he ever forgets about his own well being his brothers are like "Bet you can't sleep 8 good hours" and he'll go "BET" AND DO IT

Not the smartest but has good intentions

Can go on hours ranting about the most random shit

Eats anything and everything, his stomach is probably made out of titanium

A great cook! Though don't ask for any surprise dishes, he can get... creative

An insomniac, his mask hides the eyebags pretty well

Probably has some kind of PTSD, but he doesn't like talking about it

CANNOT stand the smell of metal, it grosses him out

Unironically watches Super Nanny religiously

Donnie:

A couple months younger than Mikey (so they joke they're twins)

Mutant Giant Softshell

Mikey doesn't aprove his younger twin being taller than him >:(

Sort of a jack-of-all-trades, mostly because he's very determined to learn as much as possible and learn how to do it properly

Which leads on him getting incredibly frustrated if he can't grasp something

Can't cook for shit

The responsible one

Very clean... Mostly. If he's tired (which is most of the time) he'll go into "to hell with it" mode and walk around the lair full of motor oil and mud (which then Raph has to clean up xD)

Tries to act cool and collected but he's just too big of a nerd

Terribly near-sighted

Raph:

16 years old

Mutant common snapping turtle

LOVES crazy make-ups and drag races but would never admit it

Surprisingly tidy and responsible

Plays the drums! He'd love to play electric guitar but having three fingers makes it incredibly hard

Great with animals

Homophobic gay (he'll accept himself soon enough xD)

Brash and reckless, anger issues (what a surprise), has severe RBF syndrome, even when he's calm and content he looks like he wants to murder someone

Near-sighted (doesn't wear glasses or contacts, which worsens his RBF)

Leo:

The family's baby at 8 years old

Mutant Musk Turtle

Very quiet but not shy at all, curious, calm, collected, obedient

Has no trouble talking but prefers signs

Loves fashion, knitting and sewing!

Doesn't like being alone or being in the dark

Is always eager to learn from his brothers, to the point where he can throw his well-being aside to try and impress them

Easily influenced, Raph loves playing pranks with him

(Might change/add stuff later!)

[lxndonorris]

his clothes - Carlos Sainz Jr

Y/N x Carlos Sainz Jr Theme: Smutish, Teasing, Touching helping Carlos change after the FP2 word count: 5140+ taglist: @game-set-canet @cloud-55 open for requests :)

The hum of engines reverberates through the paddock as the second free practice session of the Italian Grand Prix comes to a close. The Ferrari garage is a hive of activity, with engineers and mechanics swarming around, checking data, adjusting parts, and conversing in rapid Italian.

It is an environment you grew familiar with over the past few months, and it never fails to make your heart race—especially now as you wait for Carlos to return.

You stand at the edge of the garage, just outside the halo of bright lights that bathes everything in an almost ethereal glow. You are wearing Carlos's black Ferrari shirt, a subtle nod to the special racing suit he is wearing this weekend. 

The suit is a deviation from the usual red, a tribute to something special, and it makes him look incredibly sharp like a panther ready to pounce.

The monitors above you flicker with final standings, but you can't concentrate on the data. Your eyes are glued to the pitlane, waiting for the moment when Carlos would return.

The rumble of his engine is familiar, a sound you can pick out even amidst the cacophony of F1 cars. And then, there is is—the sleek, scarlet Ferrari rounds the corner into the pit lane and rolls to a stop right in front of you.

Carlos sits in the cockpit for a moment, his hands still on the steering wheel as the mechanics swarm the car, placing cooling fans on the brakes and handling the car with the care one might show a precious artifact. 

His helmet turns slightly, and though you can't see his face, you know he's taking a deep breath, savoring the rush of the session, the speed, the adrenaline.

As he pulls himself out of the car, your heart skips a beat. The black suit clings to his body, highlighting the strength and athleticism that he honed over years of racing.

He moves with a grace that belies the intense physical demands of driving an F1 car, and as he shakes hands with his mechanics, exchanging a few words in Spanish, you can't help but smile.

This is his world—fast-paced, intense, and exhilarating—and you love being part of it.

Finally, he turns toward you, and even with his helmet still on, you know he is smiling. 

He walks over, the visor of his helmet reflecting the bright lights overhead, and stops just in front of you. You feel the heat radiating from his body, the energy still coursing through him from the session.

With deliberate slowness, Carlos removes his gloves, one finger at a time, and then he reaches to unlatch his helmet. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he lifts it off, his beautiful eyes on display, before he takes the balacava off with one hand, revealing his flushed face and the mess of dark hair that is sticking to his forehead.

His eyes sparkle with that post-session glow, a mix of satisfaction and the lingering adrenaline that always makes him look so alive, so vibrant.

He tosses the helmet and balaclava onto a nearby table, then reaches out to you, his hands slipping around your waist as he pulls you close. The warmth of his touch seeps through the fabric of your shirt—his shirt—and you melt into him, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and motor oil that clings to his skin. 

It is intoxicating.

"You look good in my shirt," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, his breath warm against your ear.

You smile, feeling a rush of affection as you lean into his firm chest. "I thought I'd surprise you."

"You definitely did," he replies, his tone laced with approval. 

Carlos pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes roaming over the shirt before meeting yours.

"I think I like you in this even more than I like it on me."

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, and you steady yourself against him, feeling the residual tension in his muscles, the power that has just been exerted behind the wheel of his Ferrari.

His fingers tighten slightly on your waist, as if he senses the effect he is having on you.

"Careful, Carlos," you tease, trying to keep your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. "You'll make me blush."

He chuckles, the sound deep and full of warmth. 

"That's the idea."

You stand there for a moment, the noise of the garage fading into the background as everything else disappears, leaving just the two of you in your own little world.

His hands move from your waist to your back, sliding up under the hem of the shirt to rest against the small of your back, the touch sending a shiver down your spine.

Carlos is close enough that you feel his breath on your cheek, and for a moment, you forget about the busy garage, the race weekend, everything that isn't him.

But the world around you comes back into focus as one of the mechanics walks by, giving Carlois a friendly clap on the shoulder. 

He responds with a nod, his attention still on you, though you see the remnants of that professional focus lingering in his eyes.

"Come on," he says softly, pulling away just enough to grab his helmet and balaclava. "Let's go back to the motorhome. I need to change out of this and cool down."

You nod, the thought of some quiet time with him making your pulse quicken again. 

The walk to the Ferrari motorhome isn't long, but it feels like an eternity as you trail behind him, watching the way he moves, the powerful lines of his body still taut with energy. 

Every so often, he glances back at you, a small smile playing on his lips, as if he knows exactly what is running through your mind.

When you finally reach the motorhome, he holds the door open for you, and you step inside, the cool air a welcome relief after the heat of the paddock.

The space is small but comfortable, a private sanctuary amidst the chaos of the race weekend.

Carlos closes the door behind you, and the noise from outside immediately dims, leaving a soft hum that is almost soothing.

He sets his helmet down on a table, then turns to you, his eyes dark and intent. You see the slight flush in his cheeks and the balaclava lines on his skin, the lingering heat from the session still clinging to his skin, and it makes him look even more irresistible.

Your eyes are drawn to Carlos as he moves around, still dressed in his racing gear. 

There is something about seeing him like this—fresh from the car, hair tousled and skin flushed—that makes it impossible to look away.

The way the black racing suit clings to his athletic frame, highlighting every muscle, every line, is mesmerizing.

He walks over to the small fridge in the corner, grabbing a bottle of water. The simple action draws your gaze, and you can't help but let your eyes wander over him, drinking in the sight of his strong, toned body. 

There is grace in his movements, a confidence that comes naturally to him, whether he is behind the wheel of a car or just standing in a motorhome.

Carlos turns to face you, and you quickly lift your gaze to meet his, though you can tell by the slight smirk on his lips that he noticed you staring.

His eyes linger on the shirt you are wearing—his shirt—and you see the amusement flicker in his gaze. He walks over to you with that easy, deliberate stride that always makes your pulse quicken, the bottle of water still in his hand.

"You know," he begins, his voice tinged with a playful reproach as he closes the distance between you, "you have a habit of stealing my clothes."

A laugh escapes your lips as you look up at him, feeling a warmth spread through you at his teasing.

"Can you blame me? They are comfortable, and they smell like you."

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk deepening as he reaches out to gently tug on the hem of the shirt.

"Is that so?" Or is it just that you like seeing me without them?"

His words send a rush of warmth to your cheeks, but you don't back down. Instead, you grin, biting your lip as you look up at him, enjoying the game.

"Maybe it's a bit of both."

Carlos chuckles, the sound low and rich, and he takes a step closer, his free hand slipping around your waist to pull you against him.

The warmth of his body seeps through the thin fabric of the shirt, and you feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the lingering energy from the session still humming beneath his skin.

"I have to admit," he murmurs again, his lips brushing the top of your head as he speaks, "you do look good in my clothes."

His words send a thrill through you, and you lean into him, feeling the familiar comfort of his embrace. 

There is something so intoxicating about being this close to him, surrounded by the scent of his cologne mixed with the subtle notes of sweat and motor oil, all reminders of the man he is—both the racer and the person beneath the helmet.

"You don't mind, do you?" You ask, your voice soft as you rest your head against his chest.

"Mind?" he echoes, his tone full of affectionate amusement. "How could I mind when you make the look better than I do?"

You smile, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. He pulls you back just enough to look down at you, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mix of affection and mischief that always makes your heart skip a beat.

"But," he continues, his tone shifting to something more serious, though the smile remains on his lips, "you might have to start sharing your wardrobe with me. It's only fair."

You laugh, reaching up to run your fingers through his still-damp hair. 

"Deal. But only if you promise to keep leaving your shirts around for me to find."

Carlos grins, his eyes lighting up with that boyish charm that makes your knees weak.

"Deal," he agrees, then leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, slow and tender, filled with all the unspoken words you don't need to say.

When he pulls back, his gaze softens, and he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. 

"Let's sit down," he suggests, his voice soft as he guides you toward the small sofa in the corner of the motorhome.

You settle down side by side, and you curl into him, resting your head on his shoulder as his arm drapes around you.

The cool leather of the sofa is a contrast to the warmth of his body, and you feel a deep contentment settle over you as you sit there, the intensity of the earlier moments giving way to a quiet intimacy.

Carlos traces patterns on your arm with his fingers, the motion soothing, and you let your eyes close for a moment, simply enjoying the peace of being with him.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" You ask quietly, breaking the comfortable silence.

He tilts his head slightly, thinking for a moment before answering.

"A little," he admits, his voice thoughtful. "But it's a good kind of nervous. The kind that keeps you sharp, focused."

You nod, understanding. 

You saw him in this state before—the way he channels that nervous energy into determination, into the drive that makes him one of the best on the grid.

It is one of the things you admire most about it—his ability to balance the pressure with a calm confidence that always shines through when it matters most.

"You'll do great," you say, lifting your head to look up at him. "I know you will."

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that makes your heart flutter. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You sit in comfortable silence for a while, the noise of the paddock a distant hum that only occasionally intrudes on your quiet moment.

After a while, Carlos shifts slightly, his hand moving to tilt your chin up so you are looking at him.

"You know," he starts, a teasing note in his voice, "I think I might start leaving my shirts out on purpose."

You laugh; the sound is light and carefree.

"I wouldn't complain," you reply, matching his playful tone. "Just as long as you don't mind if they mysteriously disappear."

He grins, the mischievous glint in his eyes making your heart race.

"I wouldn't mind at all," he says softly, his gaze holding yours, full of warmth and affection but also something else.

Carlos's grin turns playful as he shifts on the sofa, his hand sliding down to rest on your thigh.

"Do you want to help me change?" he asks, his voice laced with mischief, though there is a genuine warmth in his gaze.

You feel a flutter in your chest at the suggestion, your heart beating a little faster as you catch the subtle invitation in his tone.

"Of course," you reply, matching his playful smile as you move to sit up a bit more, closing the distance between you.

You place your hands on his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his racing suit. His breath hitches slightly at your touch, his eyes following your fingers as they begin to trace light, teasing patterns over his chest.

There is something incredibly intimate about the moment—the way his heartbeat thrums beneath your fingertips, strong and steady, the way his gaze never leaves yours.

Carlos watches you, his expression softening as you take your time, letting your hands explore, your fingers dancing lightly over the contours of his muscles.

His breathing deepens, the rise and fall of his chest becoming more pronounced as he leans back slightly, giving you fill access.

"Enjoying yourself?" He murmurs, his voice low and a little rough, though there is a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Maybe a little," you tease back, your fingers moving to the zipper at the front of his suit. 

You tug on it lightly, not enough to pull it down just yet, but enough to make him hum in anticipation. The sound is soft, almost a purr, and it sends a thrill through you, knowing that you can evoke that reaction from him.

He takes a deep breath, his eyes darkening with a mix of affection and desire as he watches you.

"Tease," he mutters, though there is no real reproach on his tone—if anything, he seems to be enjoying every second of it.

You grin, taking your time, letting the moment stretch out as you slowly pull the zipper down, revealing more of his chest inch by inch.

His skin is warm under your touch, even through his tight nomex shirt, still slightly damp from the exertion of the session, and you can't resist brushing your fingers along the newly exposed chest, feeling the slight tension in his muscles.

Carlos's breath hitches again, his head tilting back as he closes his eyes, savoring the sensation. You feel the way his body responds to your touch, the subtle way his muscles tense and relax, the way his breathing deepens with every stroke of your fingers.

"You're enjoying this," you say softly, more of a statement than a question.

He opens his eyes, looking down at you with a lazy smile.

"Can you blame me?" he replies, matching your tone from earlier. "I think I'm the luckiest man alive right now."

You feel your heart swell at his words, and you lean closer, your hands still working the zipper down, exposing more of his toned chest, down to his stomach. 

His muscles flex slightly under your touch, and you see the way his eyes darken further, the desire clear in the way he looks at you.

You let your fingers linger on his chest, tracing light patterns over his abs, feeling the way his breath stutters at the touch. 

His hands move to rest on your hips, holding you close as if he can't bear to let you go, his thumbs brushing lightly over the fabric of your—his—shirt.

"You have no idea how good this feels," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he watches your fingers move over his body. 

"I think I do," you say, a smirk playing on your lips, feeling the way his body starts trembling slightly.

Reluctantly, he gets up from the sofa, pulling you off at the same time. Letting out a deep sigh, he turns to you, his hands now firmly on your waist.

With the zipper fully undone, you gently help Carlos shrug out of the upper half of the suit. The black fabric slides down his arms, revealing more of the red Nomex underneath.

The sight of him takes your breath away. 

The fire-resistant material clings to his body, outlining every muscle, every curve. His physique is incredible, sculpted from years of training and the intense physical demands of racing.

His chest rises and falls with each breath, still firm from the adrenaline of the session. But it isn't just the way he looks; it is the familiar, intoxicating scent of him that makes your head spin—motor oil, the faintest trace of sweat, and the subtle warmth of his cologne—a combination that is uniquely him.

Unable to resist any longer, you let your hands run over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. Your touch is light at first, just the barest brush of your fingers over the smooth, taut fabric of his Nomex.

Carlos hums in appreciation, his eyes closing again for a moment, as he soaks in the sensation, the tension in his muscles easing as he relaxes under your touch.

His skin is warm beneath the material, still radiating the heat of the car, and you can feel the slight dampness where the sweat soaked through. But it only makes him more real, more grounded, a reminder of the incedible physicality of what he did on the track.

You stroke his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the way his body responds to your touch, the way his breath hitches as you move your hands over him.

"So good," he sighs, his voice low and filled with affection and amusement as he opens his eyes to look at you.

"I'm glad," you reply with a playful smile, your hands continuing their exploration.

You can't help it—there is something deeply satisfying about being able to touch him like this, to feel the strength and warmth of his body, to know that he is yours.

Carlos grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he casually slips out of his racing shoes, kicking them off to the side without breaking your connection.

His movements are relaxed, easy, as if he is completely comfortable in this moment with you.

Then, with a swift, fluid motion, he reaches out and grabs your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies are pressed together. His hands are firm on your hips, grounding you; his touch a heady mix of strength and tenderness. 

You feel the solid warmth of his chest against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the way his muscles flex subtly under your touch.

Your hands move down to his sides, tracing the defined lines of his torso through his Nomex. 

Carlos's smirk deepens, his muscles tensing again as you explore him, his skin warm and slightly slick under the fabric. His eyes never leave yours, dark and intense, filled with a quiet desire that makes your pulse race.

"You know," he murmurs, his voice a husky whisper as he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear, "you're making it very hard to concentrate on anything else right now."

You smile, feeling a surge of affection and desire as you press a kiss to his collarbone, your hands continuing their slow, deliberate exploration of his body.

"Good," you whisper back, your voice filled with playful intent. "That's exactly what I was aiming for."

Carlos chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through his chest, and he tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you even closer until there is barely any space left between you.

You continue to stroke him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abs, feeling the way they tense under your touch, the way his breath deepens even more.

As you tug the racing suit further down his legs, the fabric slides down his thighs, and Carlos steps out of it with easy grace, leaving him standing there in just his red Nomex underwear.

The sight of him like this, stripped down to the bare essentials, is something else entirely.

Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in—every inch of him toned and strong, his skin still flushed. 

The excitement is visible in the way his chest rises and falls with each deep breath, and the way his eyes sparkle with a mix of desire and affection.

He looks so good—almost too good to be real.

You can't help but marvel at the sight before you, your heart pounding in your chest as you take in every detail—the way the underwear clings to his body, outlining every muscle, the way the fabric leaves nothing to the imagination.

He is so hot, and the realization sends a shiver of anticipation through you.

Carlos seems to notice your gaze, a smirk playing on his lips as he reaches out, his hands brushing lightly against your arms as he begins to undress himself further.

Together, you work in quiet, unspoken harmony, your fingers grazing over his skin as you replace his shirt with soft, lingering strokes. Each touch is met with a deep, appreciative growl from him, the sound rumbling low in his chest like a purr.

With a fluid motion, Carlos slips off his pants, leaving him standing there in just his boxers.

The air between you seems to thicken with a charged anticipation, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming.

He is utterly captivating, and you find it impossible to look away.

The muscles in his arms and chest flex subtly as he moves, every inch of him radiating strength and raw appeal.

Carlos stands there for a moment, just in his boxers, and you can see the way his hand moves absently over his stomach, his fingers grazing lightly over the hard planes of his abs, almost as if he is lost in thought. 

The gesture is slow, deliberate, and it is impossible to miss the way his body responds to the touch, his muscles tensing and relaxing under his fingertips.

There is something so mesmerizing about the way he touches himself, so csaually and confidently, as if he knows exactly what effect he has on you.

With a playful wink in your direction, Carlos turns and walks over to the cupboard, his movements smooth and fluid. 

He reaches inside, grabbing a fresh pair of boxers and his favorite jeans; the simple, everyday items somehow make him infinitely more appealing by the fact that he is the one wearing them.

As he does that, you bend down to pick up his discarded racing suit, feeling the cool fabric in your hands as you fold it neatly. It is a small, simple act, but it feels like an important part of the ritual, a way to help him shed the intensity of the day and transition into something more relaxed, more intimate.

As you carefully fold Carlos's suit and place it neatly on the nearby sofa, you feel a shift in the air, a soft rustling that makes you glance up.

When you do, you find him approaching you, a playful grin lighting up his face. He already slipped into his jeans, the denim hugging his hips perfectly, but he didn't bother to put on a shirt yet, leaving his chest bare and slightly flushed from the earlier teasing.

There is something undeniably captivating about the way he moves toward you, his bare feet making almost no sound on the floor, his eyes glinting with mischief as they lock onto yours.

Carlos's grin widens as he reaches out and playfully tugs at the hem of your—his—shirt, the fabric sliding through his fingers as he eyes it appreciately.

"I have to say; I love seeing you in this," he teases, his voice low and affectionate.

The way he looks at you makes your heart race; his gaze warm and a little possessive, as if he can't get enough of the sight.

You feel a flush creep up your neck at his words, your heart pounding in your chest as his hands move to your waist, his fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of the shirt. 

His touch is gentle yet firm, and it sends shivers of pleasure coursing through you as his hands begin to roam over your body. He traces slow, deliberate patterns over your waist, his fingers moving up to your back, skimming over your spine with a featherlight touch that makes you tremble in response.

"Feels like it was made for you," he murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a playful edge as his hands move to the front of your shirt, sliding your to your chest.

It is a warm, electrifying touch, and you find yourself leaning into him, craving more of the connection, more of the warmth and intimacy that only he can provide.

Every brush of his fingers over your skin sends little sparks of pleasure through you; the sensation of his hands on you almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Your breath now hitches as he continues his slow exploration, his touch reverent, as if he is memorizing every curve and contour. You feel yourself melt under his touch.

Carlos leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek as he dips his head to press a soft kiss to the side of your neck, right where your pulse thrums widly.

"You have no idea how much I want you," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion as his hands slide back down to rest on your waist, holding you close.

Before you can respond, he captures your lips in a deep, lingering kiss, his mouth warm and insitent against yours.

The kiss is low yet filled with passionate intensity, and you have to steady yourself against him, your hands instinctively reaching out to press against his frim chest.

His skin is hot under your fingertips, his chest solid and reassuring as you cling to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Carlos's hands tighten on your waist again, pulling you even closer as the kiss deepens, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that matches your own.

There is something almost desperate in the way you cling to each other; the kiss a reflection of the love and longing that have been building between you all day.

You feel the heat of his body, the firmness of his muscles as they flex under your touch, and it makes you want to lose yourself in him completely, to forget everything else and just be with him.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together as you try to catch your breath.

His hands move up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks as he gazes down at you, his eyes dark with desire.

"I love you," he says softly—there is no teasing in his tone now, just pure, unfiltered emotion.

"I love you too," you whisper back, your voice trembling slightly as you lean into his touch.

Carlos smiles, a soft, genuine smile that makes your heart skip a beat, and he leans down to press another gentle kiss to your lips, this one slow and sweet, filled with all the love and tenderness that you both feel.

He then pulls away from you with a soft smile, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment longer before he turns and walks over to the cupboard.

You watch him go, your heart still pounding in your chest, the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin. His movements are relaxed and unhurried, every step filled with an effortless grace.

As he reaches the cupboard, he grabs a fresh pair of socks and a spare shirt—another black Ferrari shirt that you know will fit him perfectly.

He turns back to you with a casual ease, his eyes catching yours for a brief moment before he focuses on pulling on the socks. 

Even in these small, everyday moments, there is something about him that draws you in.

Carlos slips the socks on with practiced efficiency, then picks up the shirt, the fabric rustling softly as he pulls it over his head.

You can't help but admire the way the black shirt molds to his body, the material stretching snugly over his broad shoulders and defined chest, emphasizing the muscular build that always leaves you in awe.

He smoothes down the front of the shirt with his hands, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly as he does so, and then glances over at you, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"What do you think?" he asks playfully, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischievous spark.

You feel a smile spread across your face as you take in the sight of him, standing there in his jeans and that beautiful black shirt, looking every bit as incredible as he was in his racing suit.

"You look amazing," you reply honestly, "but then again, you always do."

Carlos chuckles softly, his eyes filled with warmth as he crosses the room to stand in front of you again.

He reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle and affectionate.

"You're too good to me, you know that?" he murmurs.

You shake your head with a soft laugh, reaching up to rest your hand on his chest. 

"I'm just telling the truth," you say softly, your eyes meeting as you speak. "You really do look good."

He smiles—that warm, genuine smile that always makes you feel like you are the only person in the world that matters to him.

"As long as you think so," he replies.

With that, he leans down and presses another gentle kiss to your lips, his hands resting lightly on the small of your back, holding you close.

[roseyodditea]

Shooting Practice - Boothill x gn! Reader

Summary -> Cowboy teaches you how to shoot.

Warnings -> Mentions of a gun (no actual violence)

A/N -> Fun fact, this is the first thing I've ever posted. Created an account just for this. Feedback and suggestions welcome! I'll figure out how to format better later lmao

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

“Hold it steady” The deep southern drawl rang gently right next to your ear, his metal hand cold against your wrist. “Back up and let me do it myself,” You try to not grit your teeth, the cowboy once again far too… overbearing.

Boothill let out a scoff of annoyance, watching you hold the gun shakily in your hand, but he did back up, crossing his arms. You stood with your legs far too close together, arms too overextended, aim entirely off. It was abysmal to watch for the gunslinger. There was a sharp crack in the air, followed by your groan of frustration. 

You placed the gun down on the table in front of you, taking off the hearing protection that hugged your head too tightly. Boothill chucked, “Told ya s-” “Don’t.” You glared at the man, that stupid cocky smirk on his face. “Maybe you’re just an awful teacher.” Boothill stepped close, grabbing his spare pistol off of the table and slipping it into your hands again. “Nah. C’mon. Let’s try again” He stood behind you, too close yet again. The smell of motor oil, gunpowder, and the cheap cologne attempting to cover up the stench of the oil invaded your nostrils. “Feet shoulder width apart” He says, waiting for you to adjust your stance.

“You don’t have to go through the steps so slowly” You practically growl, frustrated.

“I’ll stop goin’ so slow when you get it right” He growled right back, matching your less than thrilled energy.

“Don’t sass me while I’m holding a gun, Boothill.”

“We both know I’m quicker, sugar” He chuckled. “Feet shoulder width apart, shootin’ foot back, relax, and don’t lock your elbows” He guides rather gently for a man you’ve watched gun down IPC without a second thought. “Eyes on the target, deep breath, and when you’re ready, squeeze the trigger.” You took a moment to go through the checklist. Feet apart, dominant foot back, relaxed… Boothill’s hand on your waist, making sure your torso wasn’t turned. You could feel the chill of the metal, hear the crackling of his synthetic voice box, his body breathing out of habit rather than a need. He was paying very close attention to your stance, and you could feel it. You could feel his gaze, his crosshair eyes locked onto you. “Stop staring. You’re making me nervous.” You sigh out through clenched teeth.

“Take the shot.” That was the only answer you were going to get out of him as he didn’t listen, only kept looking at you expectantly. 

There was a crack, followed by a clink, the empty beer can that was setup on the table being knocked over.

“Oh my god! I did it!” You placed the gun down and excitedly turned to Boothill, who had a huge grin on his face. Without even thinking, you wrapped your arms around the cowboy who you had spent the last half hour trying not to slap. It only took a split second of hesitation before he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Can’t believe you actually hit it.” He teased, chuckling softly.

“Just be proud of me.” You plead softly, resting your head on his metal chest, feeling it grow slightly warmer, the once quiet hum of cooling fans getting louder.

“With a stance that fudgin’ shaky I’m shocked you-” “Boothill!” You smack his chest, the soft sound echoing in his chest compartment. His hands move to rest on your hips as he smirks at you.

“Fine fine… I’m proud of you, sugar.” He says in a shockingly genuine tone. “We can work on makin’ you a bit quicker in the future. You take that long linin’ up your shot and you’ll end up dead.” You didn’t respond. You didn’t want to. You were so used to the cowboy being loud and brash, but now he was being soft and caring… borderline tolerable, a new record for the man. Boothill always said he was a dead man walking, but right now he seemed more alive than ever. 

“Thank you for doing this.” You said after a long beat of silence, a slight crackle in your voice as you tried to swallow the emotions you thought you were so good at hiding. 

“Of course.” He replies just as softly. “I want to make sure you’ll be alright when I’m out on bounties” “You say that like you’re going to come back.” You scoff, trying not to make it sound like you wanted him to. 

Boothill looked away, swiping a hand down his face and letting out a breath, adjusting his hat before looking back into your eyes. “Well… this planet is out of IPC space and has good liquor. Pretty easy to hitch a ride to and from. And it has you.” He adds on, trying to make it sound like he wasn’t hung up on the word ’you’. 

“I’d like for you to come back.” You confess and before you can even take a moment to process the words either of you had just said, cold lips were on yours, metal hands on either sides of your face, the cooling fans in his cyborg body spinning impossibly faster as he pulled away, looking at you in shock.

“I think I’d like to come back to you, sugar”

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

[ilyhachii]

can’t tell anyone i like cars / motor racing related stuff etc cause i am the stereotype that everyone use for women about them liking it.

but so what i enjoy liking it i think the drivers in f1 are cool , i love looking at old races , i like cool looking cars even if ik zero things about it & yes i do fan girl over the drivers LET ME LIVE.

[sirfrogsworth]

Grampa's Antique Fan (2015 vs 2024 Edit)

As a young man, after coming home from the Second World War, my grampa got a job as an electrician for Emerson Electric. He didn't work on the actual electrical products. He just maintained the electrical systems that power the tools to make electrical components.

It was a "I heard you need electricity for your electricity" type deals.

The company was founded in 1890 in nearby Ferguson, Missouri by John Wesley Emerson. He was a Union commander in the Civil War and a lawyer and then a judge and then an author and then a historian... so he was clearly qualified to run one of the first electronics companies. (This is currently referred to as the "Law of Elon".)

Emerson (the company, not the dude) specialized in electric motors and was the first to stick their motors in a fan and sell them.

As you can see by the 4 protective fan guard loopies, these were very safe for kids to be around.

I mean, the biggest thing you could shove in there is a baby arm, which is the least important part of a baby. No baby heads were chopped off—which was the bar for consumer safety during that era.

Fans are rated by the volume of air they can push over a period of time and your average box fan can push about 1400 cubic feet per minute or "CFM". When this Emerson (the fan, not the dude) was produced they actually used "CCH" or cubic cubits per hour. Emerson (the dude) loved using odd standards of measurement much to the chagrin of his engineers.

Due to the small surface area, weak angle of attack, and heavy metal blades, this electronic beast could only push a baker's dozen cubic cubits per baker's hour—which was a confusing metric of time because people were very superstitious and they refused to put the 13 on the baker's clocks. They just left a mysterious blank void after the 12 and apparently several people had existential crises during the baker's hour. Some were institutionalized for a rare condition called Time Delirium.

Thankfully Emerson Electric was able to provide the electroshock therapy devices that cured several patients. This was achieved by erasing the memory of the traumatic time delirium events along with a few other unimportant details like what they did last Tuesday and their mother's name and one engineering degree that the guy wasn't even using.

My dad actually got the fan working and let me tell you... that bad boy could really work up a gentle breeze...

...if you stood behind it and blew.

And that fine American-made electric fan motor was just as quiet as a leaf blower on Saturday morning.

Over the last century, Emerson was bought and sold and bought and sold.

And bought and sold and bought and sold.

Was that 7?

Eh, close enough. We'll call it a baker's 7.

They changed their product line countless times over their 130+ years of existence. After fans they pivoted and made electric meat grinders. To this day, no one know what inspired that decision.

Currently, they make radar avionics and are majority-owned by the private equity firm, Blackstone. Which is a totally non-evil sounding name they chose for their company-eating empire. Please ignore that the CEO was one of Trump's policy strategists. This is a non-evil company with a non-evil name run by non-evil people, okay?

Despite Emerson Electric having to settle a baker's gross of lawsuits involving a few lightly scalp'd babies, they maintain a Fortune 500 status and are still headquartered in Ferguson.

They occupy one of the most boring ass buildings ever constructed.

Just rectangles all the way down.

That architect told every angle to get rect.

Of course, I forgot all of this cool history and sold this fan in the estate auction. I suppose it is a good thing I got a nice photograph to help assuage my current feelings of guilt. I mean, it is not baby scalping, time delirium guilt—but I would feel better if I knew my gramp-gramp's fan was in a good home with 0 babies.

[dielukedie-subaru]

Pgs. 42-48

These concept drawings and cars were too cool to see for the first time! Very interesting comparison to the final product.

All About the new Legacy from 1993 by Motor Fan. pgs 1-3

This is a real cool big book/magazine that has loads of information and pictures I've never seen before. Looks like a compilation of a bunch old dealer brochures I've seen and some articles that I saw in Hyper Rev. Epic addition to my collection.