#dodge ram mechanic

[royaltyautoservicediesel]

Tips To Identify Dodge RAM Engine Failure from Certified Mechanics in Kingsland

Dodge RAM is a very popular pickup truck known for its raw power which is provided by the technologically advanced engine under the hood of the truck. However, like other pickups, the engine of your Dodge RAM can also encounter issues with its functioning over the years leading to various problems while driving.

There are various signs exhibited by your Dodge RAM when the engine is encountering issues & you need to pick out those subtle symptoms. In this article, we will discuss the symptoms that indicate engine failure in Dodge RAM shared with us by certified mechanics in Kingsland, GA.

Unusual Sounds

Now, drivers of Dodge RAM would be familiar with the roaring sound made by their pickup when they press the gas pedal for acceleration. However, when you are driving with a bad engine under the hood, you are going to come across knocking & pinging sounds coming from the engine bay signifying serious issues with your pickup truck.

When you hear pinging & knocking noise coming from the engine of your RAM then it might be caused by damaged timing chain, worn-out bearings, or the engine oil level being too low in the vehicle. Besides that, knocking noise from your engine can also be caused due to carbon buildup or malfunctioning spark plugs that need to be replaced.

At times, drivers continue to drive their Dodge RAM even though they get to hear these noises on a continuous basis and this can create additional trouble for you in the form of serious damages to the crankshaft & piston rods of your pickup truck and that is why it is important to take immediate steps to address the problem rather than ignoring it.

Engine Overheating

While driving if you notice that the temperature gauge is rising and the needle is in the red zone then it signals that the engine is overheating in your Dodge RAM which is a serious issue. There are various underlying issues that can cause the engine of your pickup truck to overheat when driving.

The issues in your RAM might range from a failing thermostat to a faulty water pump and malfunctioning radiator which are the root causes behind an overheating engine. Now, issues with any of these components cause disruptions in the flow of coolant to the engine of your Dodge RAM leading to abnormal rise in engine temperature.

If you happen to face overheating issues in your Dodge RAM then you must immediately get in touch with a certified mechanic to diagnose the source of the problem and take remedial steps because overheating can affect the engine block or cylinder head leading to inflated repair bills.

Engine Performance Decreases

The Dodge RAM is known for its performance and any deviation from that is definitely going to catch your attention. If you notice a sudden drop in the performance of your pickup like slow acceleration, problem in starting, and decreased power output then it indicates towards malfunctioning engine.

The drastic drop in the performance of your engine can be caused by several factors ranging from failing fuel pumps to clogged fuel injectors and issues with the ignition system of your pickup truck. In addition to that, worn-out piston rings and a bad oxygen sensor can also cause the performance to decrease in your Dodge RAM.

The issues with the internal components linked to the engine of your truck adversely affect the air-fuel mixture in your vehicle leading to the drastic drop in the performance of your Dodge RAM.

Illuminated Check Engine Light

There are a host of warning lights located on the dashboard of your pickup truck and the check engine light is one such prominent light. If you come across an illuminating check engine light on the dashboard of your pickup then it indicates that something is wrong with the engine of your Dodge RAM.

Most of the time it is seen that the illumination of the check engine light is caused due to issues with the ignition system, bad piston rings, or failing oxygen sensors. You must get in touch with a certified mechanic to help inspect your truck with the help of advanced tools & rectify the issues affecting the engine.

Finally

The above-discussed factors are some of the symptoms associated with engine failure in your Dodge RAM and you must never ignore these signs because if left unaddressed it can lead to serious problems. Contact a professional mechanic to get the engine of your Dodge RAM fixed.

[mw4outfitters]

Explore the intricate web of transmission issues plaguing Dodge RAM vehicles. Delve into causes such as faulty sensors, fluid deficiencies, and control module glitches. Discover a comprehensive investigation revealing the suspects behind the system's malfunctions in this in-depth exposé.

[hawkesoutdoor]

Looking for an auto shop that cares about your time, has great service, and a good price? Give us a try at Hawkes Outdoors in #SanAntonio #Texas 210-251-2882. #repairs for #everyone

[seat-safety-switch]

You've probably not heard of the Stockholm Divorce. It's a new thing, only innovated in the last couple years. Conventional court-based divorces are messy, expensive affairs, where both parties often attempt to cause the maximum amount of damage to each other. Things don't have to be this way, and the next generation of divorce attorneys has found a better method.

Initiating the Stockholm Divorce is simple, and it should be obvious once it's been explained. Ninety-five percent of marriages start to suffer serious problems after a trip to Ikea. The reason why is simple. Assembling cheap, particle-board furniture with your spouse is bound to drive a wedge into any slight schism or disagreement you may have with them. Many successful couples simply just don't do it together, breeding resentment when it turns out that the "handy" dude you married just operates a Dodge Ram and doesn't actually own a screwdriver.

Where the genius of this divorce comes is that it starts one step earlier, well before the Ikea assembly causes a cascade of emotional chaos. Ikea's stores are notoriously maze-like, so what you can do is take your partner to a corner of the store, tell them you're going to go grab something and will be "right back," then just walk out and get in the car. You'll be back to singles life immediately, and your formerly-significant other will be stuck wandering the store for all eternity, wondering if you did in fact leave them behind or just are also looking for them at the same time, maybe in rugs or lighting or something. Don't worry, they won't starve. There's a restaurant.

Is it cruel? Somewhat, but like in many other cases, the cruelty is offset by novelty. Already, Ikeas across this great nation are filling up with divorced folks, which means it's a good place to go to meet new folks. And it's been fantastic for the stockholders: a new study shows that for every 15 minutes someone is forced to wander the store, wondering if they will ever see the face of their loved ones again, they buy approximately $17 in goods. This new mechanism has been so profitable, in fact, that the corporate bigwigs have decided that all the stores will now be open 24 hours a day, so as to encourage more frenzied, anxiety-laden purchasing as the customers gradually come to terms with the end of their relationship.

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

the last bit of us (chapter one)

Plot: Tyler Owens hasn’t been home in a year. He’s survived all the storm chasing and motel living with his new partners as they try to save lives. But with all the damage they’ve taken from driving high beams first into monster storms, it’s time to pay the piper and bring the truck in for repairs. And the only person who can fix them is the best mechanical engineer he’s ever met. Eleanor Harding, his estranged wife.

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Estranged Wife OC (Harding Daughter)

Word Count: 2441

Playlist Song: Snap by Rosa Linn

A/N: This is a hefty intro to Eleanor but really wanted to establish her before we get angsty!

prologue / one / two / three

______________________________________________________________

The sky was still dark when my alarm clock went off. My hand slides along the mattress, slapping the snooze button. It can’t be time already. There’s no way. I snuggle deeper into the mattress and peel one eye open to squint at the cracked window. The big moon is lower in the horizon but the sun hasn’t made its known yet. 

My phone starts to go off, across the room atop my bureau. “Fuck.” 

I try to get the kink out of my neck when I get up. The wooden floorboards of the farmhouse creak as I shuffle past the bureau into the bathroom and shut off the alarm. The bulbs above the mirror are too bright and I have to shut my eyes for a minute to adjust. I wash my face, toss my hair into a quick braid and pull up the weather app on my phone before heading downstairs. 

The coffeemaker in the kitchen is ancient but after a few taps and fiddling with the cord of the plug, it starts to gurgle. It’s a satisfying sound. While it brews, I check the living room through the archway for Carter. He’s still curled up under a small crocheted blanket on her couch where I left him last night. He’s too tall and most of his calves dangle over the arm of the couch. 

“Carter, time to get up,” I call and pull my thermostat off the drying rack to fill with fresh coffee. He doesn’t move. I sigh and look down at my watch. The long spider web of cracks in the glass doesn’t distract from the face. It’s 3:19 AM. We gotta get on the road. The wind chimes are loud out on the porch. The rain should be starting soon. 

“Carter,” I say again. I walk through the archway and grab the closest thing I can find and chuck the pillow at his face. 

Carter startles immediately, shouting “I’m up,” in the process. He grabs for his glasses, dropped onto the coffee table. 

“No you weren’t,” I say, stepping back into the kitchen to fill his thermostat. “We gotta go, the storm should be rolling in any time now and Birdie will murder us if we’re late.” When I turn to look at him, he’s sliding his rain boots back on. 

“I’m so sorry, I forgot. I thought you were Birdie’s boss,” he says, hand on his chest to fey surprise. 

“It’s too early for your sarcasm. C’mon.” The entryway into the house is cluttered with a few pairs of boots and sneakers, my raincoat and denim jacket along with a variety of hats hanging from the hooks. I stare at the wooden loveseat under the coat hooks while sliding on my boots. I can only see the bottom half of the painted heart on the backing. 

“El, anytime you want to get moving,” Carter says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. 

I blink a little, standing up and grabbing my own backpack. “Fuck you.” 

The farmhouse sits out in the middle of an open field in Guthrie, Oklahoma. The barn doors shudder a little from the wind and I can see my dad’s red beat up Dodge Ram on the lawn. I smile a little, pushing the screen door open. It squeals as I unlock the door to my truck and slide in. The engine stutters a little when it comes to life and we whip out onto the road. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks me, taking a sip of his coffee. A bump in the road causes the truck to jump and a little splatters on him. “Ah jeez.” He tries to wipe at it and I can’t help but chuckle. 

“Not really,” I shake my head. I reach for the radio, turning the dial so I can hear the morning station. There’s a new Luke Combs song playing and I tap my fingers a little to the beat. “Too much on the brain with this project.” 

“I don’t know if you’re aware El but you always have too much on the brain,” he says.

“Well someone has to do work on this team,” I joke, smirking at him. 

It’s not a lie. Ever since Charlie and I had gotten our first big contract with FEMA, I had been in nonstop work mode. Throwing myself into each project a little deeper than the last. It was probably worrisome how much time I spent at the warehouse, elbow deep in some new tech but I couldn’t help myself. It was a safe and mindless space, fixing and tinkering. 

We drive down the long stretch of dirt through the fields and I peer up at the sky again. There’s a loud ringing in the cab of the truck and I glance over at Carter, peering down at his phone. “It’s Birdie,” he says. “She says we’re late.” 

I grin a little, shaking my head as the warehouse comes into view. The freshly painted sign on the building reads TempestEdge Innovations. I push the button on the callbox and the military grade barrier raises to allow me to drive through. I swing around the side of the building to the open garage door. It’s just about 3:46 AM. 

I slide out of the truck as the door to the garage closes behind me. “You’re late,” Birdie’s voice echoes across the warehouse. 

“Birdie, give me a break, I had to make four repairs last night before we left,” I say, walking toward the tall blonde woman. Her hair is pulled snug up into a ballerina bun, a clipboard held to the fleece of her vest. “Not all of us go for a run a 2 AM to start our day.” 

She scoffs and shoves me playfully. “Maybe you should give it a try.” 

We grin, making our way deeper into the warehouse where all of our desks are crowded together with a few computers. Tables of spare parts, design blueprints and drawings and our small kitchen are scattered throughout the space. Beyond that, my engineering floor houses large models and mock ups that sit large and wide. 

I drop my bag at my desk and smile at the photo frame on the corner. It’s from graduation at OSU. We’re all making funny faces at the camera, hugging each other tightly. I tap on my keyboard to wake the screen, noticing my phone buzzing in my pocket. I ignore it and look up, “How’s everyone doing this morning?” I ask.

“Morning E,” Palmer, our Meteorologist says when she looks up over her computer screen. She gnaws on her lip, auburn brows raised. “I don’t think this classifies as morning quite yet.” 

“I mean, dawn, maybe?” Sean says, walking up from behind me with a coffee mug in hand. It’s white with rope lettering that spells out This ain’t my first rodeo! Sean walks over to Birdie who is looking over her clipboard, comparing it to the large chalkboard we wheeled over to her corner of the office. She’s talking to herself as he kisses her head on the way to his desk. 

“Dawn is defined by a sun rising in the sky,” Carter remarks, tapping away on his computer. “Definitely not dawn yet.” 

We’re interrupted by Charlie, stepping into the office space with her phone pressed to her ear. “Alright, yes. I can definitely get out there next week. Thank you so much, have a wonderful day,” Charlie says. She smiles at everyone. “Alright team, let’s get this test going.” 

Everyone slides up from their desk chairs, grabs their tablets and walkies and heads to the back of the warehouse. We slide on our swanky mesh neon vests, easily identifiable out in the storm. Sean slides the back door open and we step out onto the ramp. The rain has started and it’s coming down sideways, like a thick curtain across the landscape. A few hundred feet from the warehouse, a row of buildings line up on either side. 

“Alright, we all remember safety procedures?” Birdie asks, looking over her clipboard. There’s a chorus of noise and Birdie grumbles. “C’mon people, we’re all about to bunker separately for the tornado. Do we all remember safety procedures?” 

“Birdie, we’ve done these bunkering tests a few times now, c’mon,” I say. 

With our current contact, we started trying to build new infrastructures on different buildings to withstand a tornado in the hopes to help families and businesses not fall into a pit of financial burden from having to rebuild. It was the biggest project yet and took us nearly six months just to build the fake town with different materials and different methods. The only way to collect data around the structural integrity of the buildings was to bunker into each of the different variations.

Palmer had tracked cells moving toward the area and we were certain an EF2 was heading straight for us. Which was a perfect opportunity to split up again and see how well the buildings held up. It would be our third test trial. It’s not the smartest move but growing up with two crazy famous storm chasers? Kind of breeds crazy. 

The winds start to pick up and I look up at the debris and dust kicking up in the air. “Alright guys, let’s head out,” I say, turning on my radio. We take off in different directions, saying goodbyes and waving each other off through the harsh winds. While Charlie stays safe inside the warehouse, Birdie takes to the gas station, Sean the grocery store. Palmer heads to the farm house tucked behind everything and Carter yells “Stay safe” as he turns into the doctor’s office. I head the furthest down the road to the bar & grille. 

I look up the doors behind me, moving to the safety corner where all the monitors are. I slide into my space and settle in, logging into our tracking system on the tablet to type in my notes. I can barely hear the wind outside and pull my walkie talkie from my waist. “Alright, I am settled and am clear. See you guys on the other side.” 

I wait, anxiously tapping my foot as I watch the footage off the street for the incoming destruction. But ten minutes passed with no noise whatsoever. I glance up and toward the door, confused. I tap the storm tracker, noticing the pattern of movement for the storm diminishing. I click the button of the walkie with my thumb. “P, am I reading right that the storm choked itself out? Over,” I say, watching the monitor again. 

“The winds are dying down, I think it missed us,” Palmer calls back.

“Let’s hold for another five minutes to be cautious,” Birdie’s voice crackles. But five minutes pass with no movement. Birdie calls that we’re clear and I head out of the building. The sun is starting to rise, illuminating the fields with a golden glow as if there hadn’t been 40 to 60 mile an hour winds and rain only a little while ago. 

“We woke up at the ass crack of dawn for this?” Carter groans. 

“Not dawn,” Palmer corrects, walking in step with us back to the warehouse. Birdie wraps her arm around Sean’s waist as they step ahead of us. 

“The conditions seemed perfect,” Birdie says, shrugging. “All we can really hope for.” 

The door slides open to the warehouse to reveal Charlie. She’s got this fixed look on her face as if she just stepped in dog shit. “We’ll get the next one Charlie, no need to fuss. They know that we can’t control the conditions of the storms,” I point to the sky and pat her on the shoulder. 

“That’s not what soured my mood,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. 

My eyebrows knit together in confusion as the team steps passed us, back to our desks. “What is it?”

“Someone’s out at the gate,” she says, nodding to the opposite end of the warehouse. “Someone’s here? No one comes here.”

“Oh, if only,” Charlie says. She turns on her heel, heading to the door on the other side of the building. I rack my brain for people who know the warehouse. We had some rich investors who would stop by trying to buy us out, our clients and FEMA reps that would come our way to see new tech and some family but, Mom and Dad would’ve called me before showing up. Curiosity kills the team and I hear their chairs scrap against the floor. Loud footsteps follow us as Charlie shoves the door open with a knowing look.

I step around her and peer out at the gated entrance to see a suped up red Dodge rumbling idle. The engine turns off after a moment and the driver side door swings open. I see his cowboy boots before I see him. He’s wearing a stupid flannel and his stupid backwards baseball cap. Tyler. He takes off his sunglasses, expression is hard to read. He’s not showing his normally beaming pearl whites that I caught a few times while passing Carter’s viewing of their YouTube videos. His face is stiff, uncomfortable as he rests his hands on his hips. What takes me by surprise is the young woman who steps out of the passenger side. 

I don’t notice my feet are moving until I realize how far away Birdie’s “Son of a bitch” is. I don’t even realize how fast I’m moving or how close Tyler is. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask when I’m close enough that I could throw a rock if I wanted to. And I wanted to. 

He looks down, trying to collect his thoughts. I can see the gears turning in his brain, trying to figure out what to say to me. He rubs at his jaw, nearly smiling and leaning up against the door of the truck. His eyes sparkled a little. “Hi El.” Bold to go with charm. 

“That’s all you have to say? Hi El?” I cross my arms across my chest, staring him down. He’s insane.

Tyler purses his lips, gaze softening as he takes me in. He turns to look at the woman, now having moved in front of the hood of the car. “Kate,” his drawl is still thick with an enthusiasm that can’t be rivaled. “Meet Eleanor. Eleanor Owens.” 

“I prefer to go by Harding these days,” I retort. 

“Owens…you mean–,” the woman – Kate – stutters a little. 

“Wife,” I state, turning to look at her. “He means wife.”

Thank you for reading! Want to be added to the tagged list or share feedback? Click here :)

[yumeaoka-chan]

Maybe It's Canon...

My hand slipped...? Blame @the-kr8tor @hyperfix-wip and @pleaktale for not stopping me😭🤚 Also credit to Bleaky for the ask sent to Katy. Lovely banners made by @cafekitsune ❤️

Pairing: Ekko x Reader x Hobie Brown/ Prowler! Ekko x Reader x Spider-Punk! Hobie Brown

Word Count: 1.9k

Tags: Angst, hurt/ no comfort (straight up bad times, man), fighting(im still bad at writing fight scenes), blood, no physical description of reader, can be read as any gender really, TW death, cursing

Summary: In every universe, you fall for them. Sometimes, it doesn't end well.

Part 1 >>> Part 2

Blood rushes in his ears as he holds you close, senses buzzing and sensitive hearing picking up the way your heart thrashes like a battering ram inside your chest. Frigid air whips your face, tears from the sharp gusts of wind slipping from your eyes as you gasp, trembling like a leaf from being up so high.

“‘S alright, love,” Hobie breathes out, pulling you away from the ledge of the sky-scraping tower, arms firmly wrapped around you and thumbs rubbing circles against you. “‘M gonna get you down from ‘ere. Promise.” His bones still feel like it's rattling from Electro’s shocks, fingers twitchy and body aching and ribs creaking. But he had to get you to safety first. After everything you've done to ensure his win against the electric powered villain, he had to make sure you were safe. With a jerky nod, you blink away the stinging tears, face as cold as ice due to the blistering London winds.

Just as he goes to launch a web at an opposite building, his senses suddenly go haywire. Only giving him enough time to snap his head in the direction of danger before a sharp pain blooms across his ribs, breath leaving him in a whoosh as he's slammed onto the ground away from you. Your frightened cry rings in his ears as he pushes back at the force that had rushed him, rolling himself into a crouch as he whipped his head up to glare at the newcomer. A frustrated snarl forming on his lips beneath his mask, Hobie narrows his eyes at the flash of purple and green.

“Ain't the time, Prowler”, he snaps, eyes darting over to your shaking form, seeing as you latch yourself to the glass skylight windows of the tower. Your chest heaves as you try to regulate your breathing, watching with trepidation and worry as the Prowler stands up. Claws of his mechanical gauntlets gleaming under the light of the full moon, glowing white eyes of his purple mask sharp and narrowed. He points a clawed finger at the web head, voice deep and masking any resemblance of something human.

“You had time to fuck up my plans. I can spare a few minutes to kick your ass, insect.” Hobie scoffs, eyes focused on the way the thief circles around him like he's prey. He might as well be, what with his mind solely focused on protecting you, getting you out of this mess as quick as possible.

“Arachnid, P. ‘Sides, it ain't my fault you can't plan your heists at a better time.”

“Always a joke with you… Too bad I ain't laughing”, Prowler spits out lowly, the hairs on the back of your neck rising as you watch him shift into a defensive stance. Eyes drifting over to Hobie, you shake your head, hoping and praying that he understands that you don't want him to fight. Not this time. Your silent pleas are met with a firm shake of his head, Hobie throwing his battered guitar to the side and crouching lower, dashing any hope you have about no violence. It's silent then, nothing but the harsh winds whistling in your ears. The two men watch each other closely, muscles coiling beneath the skin as they ready themselves to spring into action. Everything that happens is a blur then.

Quick on his feet, Prowler dashes towards Hobie, swinging his fist at him once he nears the web head. The punk easily dodges the blow from his left, backing away from a hit from the right. A hand comes up to block the knee to his stomach before he drops down, sweeping a leg out to trip the thief. Falling down from the sudden sweep, the clawed man is quick to use the momentum from the fall, spinning his body on the ground and delivering a harsh kick to the masked hero's face. Hobie groans as the Prowler flips, standing up and rushing him once more. He delivers an onslaught of punches and kicks to the web head who weaves away from every blow before lifting his leg up high and bringing it straight down towards the punk's head in a mean axe kick. Hobie manages to sidestep away from it at the last second, moving forward and bringing up a hand to catch the thief's leg. Lifting up a fist to hit Prowler in the chest and right before he can kick his leg from underneath him, the masked thief suddenly grabs him by the shoulders. Clamoring onto him and wrapping his thighs around his head, they both tumble to the ground.

You watch as they exchange blow after harsh blow, watch as they somehow stumble closer towards your little safe haven called the skylight. Heart feeling heavy with slight dread as you see Hobie get punched so hard that you can hear the stuttered gasp of pain leaving his lips. Prowler yells angrily as he swipes his claws down over the webslinger's chest, bits of red spandex clinging to the sharp metal. Hobie hisses as pain blossoms, body still heavy from the previous fight and strength wanning. A mechanical fist collides into his nose and if his brain wasn't rattling inside of his head right now, he would have sworn he heard a distinct crack. A cry of terror sounds in his ear as his back collides with something cold, something breaking beneath the combined weight of him and the man leering above him. Another blow rains down on his nose, which he for sure knew was broken by now. Then another, making his head snap to the side, blood welling up behind his now swollen eye.

“That's all you had in you, Spider-Man”, Prowler hisses before delivering yet another blow to the downed man's face, name leaving his lips like a curse. “What happened to being the best, huh? This'll teach you to stay outta my way…!”

Hobie's head is swimming as punch after punch lands on his face, eyes rolling behind his mask as he tries to get up. He has to get up. It doesn't matter if his ribs were for sure fractured by Electro earlier, it doesn't matter if he could barely seem to move a finger. All that mattered was keeping you safe, living to make it back home and spending time with you and Ekko. The two people he loved more than anything. He could hear you, hear as you cried out for Prowler to stop, begged for any semblance of mercy for his sake. It broke his heart, hearing the fear for his life that he's unfortunately instilled in you. And, suddenly, the raining of blows cease, Hobie cracking open heavy eyes to blearily peer up at the man causing him harm. The Prowler's fist is raised up high, shaking with restraint as his head is turned towards you. You, whose standing up on shaky legs on the skylight, tears streaming down your face as you sniffle.

“W-What… What did you just call me…?” The thief let's out breathlessly, whatever you said having caused him to tremble as he speaks his words. Wiping at the tears you take a shaky step forward and Hobie lets out a jumbled slew of words, protesting your advancement towards danger.

“Please stop, Ekko… That's Hobie…” You choke out and it makes the pain he feels almost instantly go away. Because what in the world did you mean, calling the thief Ekko? Ekko…? There was just no way that could be true. Glowing white eyes now boring down at the injured man beneath him, Prowler lifts a trembling clawed hand up towards the hem of the webslinger’s mask, and Hobie can't even find it in him to stop him as it's pulled up and off of his head.

“N-No”, Prowler chokes before ripping his own mask off of his face. Hobie's met with familiar hazel brown eyes boring into his own and his breath leaves him. Twisted white locs falling over his face as he gently cradles the punk's face within his mechanical claws, Ekko has tears shining in his heartbroken gaze. And then, before he could utter a word, before he could try to figure out how exactly you figured out his identity, the glass beneath you three cracks. Everything seems to happen in slow motion then.

A gasp leaves your lips as you fall through the shattering remains of the skylight, air whipping past you as you tumble down the tower. Hobie and Ekko fall straight down, bodies bumping and landing on hard metal beams. Eyes darting around, looking for you, widening once they see you falling. In the last moments of your life, you gaze at the two men you hold dear, reaching for you, yelling out your name in horror. Tears slip from your eyes as you smile at them, your deadly descent never slowing. They're diving to you, fingers so far from brushing against your own. As a last resort, Hobie shoots out a web, hoping, praying to anything out there that it reaches you in time. It looks like a tiny hand, you think to yourself as you gaze at them lovingly. It latches just as you reach the hard floor of the tower and Hobie's heart thuds so loud within his ears that he can barely hear anything else.

He got you. He made it in time. You'd be okay. That's what he tells himself repeatedly as he and Ekko finally reach the bottom, his hands yanking away the web and holding you close. Hand cradling the back of your head, his mind doesn't register the slick warmth that seeps from it, smile on his pierced lips as he awaits for you to open your eyes.

“Love…”, he mumbles, russet brown eyes roaming over the serene look on your features. “Lovie…? Open your eyes for me, yeah? Can you do that, sweetheart…?” His sensitive ears can't seem to pick up your pulse, which he finds odd. Strange. You were okay. You were safe now.

“C'mon, darlin’. Jus’ open your eyes f'me and we can go home. Promise…” Hobie doesn't dare to look behind him, tunes out the sound of Ekko falling to his knees. When he sees that your expression never changes, that your face granted with serenity never wanes, he starts to trail his fingers down to your chest. Trembling as he searches for where your heart is beating. Because, of course, it was beating. Of course it was…

Oh…

Oh…

“No, no no… You can't do this to me”, Hobie whispers harshly, vision blurring and swimming as he lets out a choked sob, nose scrunching and face crumbling. Despair threatens to claw out his broken heart as he fervently shakes his head, fingers cradling your face. “C’mon, lovie, please. Please.”

The man behind him is sobbing loudly now, the sound rattling in his brain as Hobie holds you close against his chest, gripping your lifeless body like a lifeline. He couldn't breathe, breath coming out in heaving gasps as the tears streaked down his face, dripping onto your rapidly cooling skin.

“Don't fuckin’ leave me…” His sobs rattle in his chest as reality finally sets in. You're gone. He didn't make it in time. Placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, he lays your body down on the ground and stands. Legs wobbling, he falls onto his knees a moment after, chest aching and grief all consuming. Ekko takes his place, holding onto you and whispering apologies against your hairline. And as Hobie watches him, he no longer sees the man he loved and respected. No longer sees the man he cherished just as much as he cherished you. No longer does he see the man he wanted to spend an eternity with alongside you. No. All Hobie can see now is red.

[florencemtrash]

Hummingbird: Chapter Four

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

Warnings: Violence and injuries

Seven months later

This shit was getting old.

One of Doc Oc’s tentacles rammed into Miguel’s side, tossing him against a wall and leaving a crack in the concrete. She smiled in satisfaction, oblivious to the spider-venom blaster he’d stuck to the underside of the mechanical arm. With a quick chirp and blast of energy the arm was blown off. It landed with a pitiful twitch on the ground as electricity sparked through its circuitry.

“Let’s go!” Hobie whooped, slamming his fingers down the guitar strings with so much force Miguel was surprised they didn’t snap in two. 

Doc Oc screamed, blown backward by an eclectic spray of pink and purple newsprint. 

Three arms down, five more to go… or so they thought. 

New arms sprouted from their old stumps, flailing around for a brief moment before they shot out towards Hobie. 

He barely dodged the series of blows.

“Is that hammer space, bruv?!” 

Joder.

Hobie lept around the barren stage, launching battered amplifiers slathered in a dozen layers of stickers towards her. A stray limb punched through the drumset as Hobie spun out of the way. 

He gasped. The amps they could replace, but no one fucked with his instruments.

“Is it time to call for backup?” Lyla asked Miguel as Hobie gripped the neck of his guitar (the battle-safe one of course) and swung at Doc Oc’s head.

“Do not call for backup!” Miguel growled in annoyance. 

He could handle this.

“Yeah, I didn’t even ask you to come, mate!” Hobie yelled over the sound of Doc Oc sailing over the empty mosh pit and crashing into the guard rails. “I ain’t part of no band.”

“You literally just finished a concert three hours ago!” 

“That got nothing to do with you.”

Miguel groaned, ready to bash his head into the wrecked drum kit. 

No puedo más. No puedo más. He found himself thinking that a lot lately.

But as much as Hobie and Miguel liked to pretend they hated each other, they made a good team out in the field. They swung from the ceiling lights, electric blue and pink lights showering down on them in that crazed, photomontage way that tinged every part of Hobie’s world. It was enough to give Miguel a headache. 

The worst part about the multiverse is that there was no telling what kinds of powers and modifications existed out there. For example, Miguel didn’t know a Doc Oc existed that had lasers shoot out of their tentacles.

“I feel like it’s time to call for backup.” Lyla repeated, casually watching from the safety of her AI existence as Miguel’s webs were split in two and he took a sickening punch to the jaw. He shook his head, blinking away the dots in front of his eyes as he took a moment to rest in the comfort of his rubble sofa.

“Do not call Jess. She’s on maternity leave.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jess.” Lyla grinned mischeviously. 

Miguel narrowed his eyes, “No. Absolutely not.”

It was too soon, far too soon for him to drag you into a fight like this. 

“CALL FOR BACKUP!” Hobie cried out from the confines of Doc Oc’s tentacles, squirming around and trying to use his head spikes to free himself.

“You weren’t saying that earlier!”

“THAT’S THE TOXIC MASCULINITY TALKING! YOU GOT TO BE COMFORTABLE WITH CHANGING YOUR OPINION AND ADMITTING YOUR FAU-”

A portal opened up stage left. 

Miles swung out first, black and red suit standing out like an ink stain.

“¡¿Alguien pidió ayuda?!” Miguel could hear his smug smile through the mask.

“You already called him!?” Miguel scowled and hopped onto his feet, sprinting to join the fight as Miles landed his first punch against Doc Oc. 

Relief flooded his system. He thought that-

“I actually called her.” Lyla said, pointing a finger with a grin.

Miguel’s heart skipped a beat.

You stepped through the portal, adjusted the gloves on your newly designed suit and teleported yourself onto Doc Oc’s back, casually blinking away any tentacles that got too close. 

You were absolutely buzzing with excitement. Nevermind that you were currently blinking across spacetime to avoid the lazers that left behind scorched scars on the grass. This was your first real mission outside of occasionally helping Miles with his friendly neighborhood Spider-Man duties. And in Hobie’s dimension no less! Ever since you’d seen his unique color palette and design you’d been itching to see his world for yourself. Maybe you and Miles could take an impromptu field trip to the nearest museum afterwards.

“Lyla said you didn’t want to call me.” You said, happy with the way his eyes slightly widened beneath his mask. He coughed to clear his throat.

“You’re supposed to be at work.” Miguel said, tearing into Doc Oc’s tentacles with his forearm blades, “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s summer break.” 

“You said you were teaching summer classes.” 

“I am! Only five kids are enrolled and he,” You tilted your head towards Miles, who waved back before he tore off an arm, "was the only one who could come to the Met field trip. Which you so rudely interrupted by the way.” The smile in your voice exposed the fact that you were quite ok with the interruption.

Miguel rolled his eyes half-heartedly, hoping you didn’t notice his restrained smile.  “Let’s just get the job done.”

And you did. 

Fighting a flesh-and-blood supervillain was a far cry from the simulations you’d fought at Spidey HQ where the only injury you could sustain was a blow to your pride when Lyla flashed the battle stats on the screen. Your training also didn’t account for the absolute chaos of working with a team. You nearly got in the way of one of Miles’s spider venom blasts and accidentally teleported onto Hobie’s back, throwing him off his rhythm long enough for a punch from Doc Oc to send you both crashing. Miguel had nearly lost his mind after that.

But after walking away from the fight with only a bruised jaw, cut upper arm, and a very disgruntled Doc Oc in tow, you were going to call your first real superhero outing a success.

“Sorry about earlier,” you said, extending a hand out to Hobie from where he groaned on the ground. He grabbed your arm and rolled onto his feet, shaking the dust off his jacket.

“Eh, it’s part of the learning.” He straightened his coat and reattached one of the pins he’d tucked safely away in his pocket, “Not bad for a first anomaly though.”

“Hmmmm, are we counting Spot?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

A shadow fell over your shoulder and you smirked, turning around on your heels to come face to face with Miguel. The fight was over, but somehow Miguel looked even more tense and irrate than before. Behind his back you saw Doc Oc yell and punch at the orange walls of her prison. 

“Are you here to say good job?” You teased.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice tight.

Hobie brushed past you, “I’m good, cheers.” he said, patting Miguel on the shoulder before heading over to where Miles stared in awe at the anomaly. You felt more than saw Miguel roll his eyes.

“I wasn’t asking you.” 

“I know.” 

Hobie’s reply widened your smile. There was something glorious about seeing Miguel lose his cool. Normally you tried to get him to smile or laugh, but sometimes annoyance was an easier emotion to muster from him. It reminded you that beneath all that hard-won armour was a man just trying his best.

“I’m fine, Miguel.” You said. 

He gently tugged at the bottom of your mask and you took the hint, pulling it off entirely. Miguel’s frown deepened as he gently tucked a finger beneath your chin and turned your face to the side, eyes narrowed in on your swollen jaw. You tried not to blush under his watchful gaze. It really wasn’t a terrible injury, and with your enhanced healing it would fade within a day, but it stll felt like a gut punch to Miguel.

You were used to this kind of attention from him. The first two months after joining the Spider Society had been a pool of uncertainty that you’d flapped around in with little control - you’d been uncertain about your powers, the multiverse and your place in it, and your relationship with Miguel… especially your relationship with Miguel. 

His aloofness was only matched by his sincerity and once you’d forgiven him for what he’d done to Miles, you found him easy to like. His grouchiness and sarcasm pulled smiles from you as easily as water from a spring, and it didn’t escape anyone’s notice that you were the only one who could make him laugh and crack through his walls. But there was always that itch in the back of your mind that told you he only cared because you looked like his wife, not because you’d both grown to know and care for each other. 

You tried not to think about it too often. 

It made moments like these harder to handle.

“Nada que no pueda manejar.” You said softly, pulling his hand away and towards the anomaly, “Now come on. This anomaly isn’t just going to hop dimensions on its own.” 

Miguel opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately relented, allowing you to lead him to where Hobie and Miles bent their heads towards one another, shooting jokes back and forth as easily as their webs.

Margo portaled in to help Miguel take Doc Oc to Earth-928 and you watched their retreating backs disappear with a blink before Hobie turned towards you and Miles, rubbing his hands together and pulling you both into his side.

“Now! Who’s ready to see some real art?”

______

“I can’t believe all the museums in your dimension are Koons-themed.” Miles said, slouching in his seat and looking positively disappointed.

“Why’d you think I took you to the back alleys, mate. Real art’s cheap.”

“Say that to my bank account after a trip to Blick.” You muttered, biting into your empanada with a groan of satisfaction.

You sat cross-legged on top of the bench, watching Margo’s cyber body split into two as the Go Home Machine whirred to life. Its metal claws clicked together, sounding like the chirping of birds as it spun its web around Doc Oc as she watched with no small amount of curiosity.

“You think you could ever do that?” Hobie asked, leaning against your shoulder and slinging his arm around you casually. 

You raised your eyebrow, “What, forcefully send a living person back to their home dimension?”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

“You try interdimensional travel without your fancy watch and tell me how easy it is.” You said with a grin, poking at his side until he squirmed away with a chuckle. You took the opportunity to steal a french fry from him.

“Alright, alright, stop. I think you could do it.”

The four of you watched as the Go Home Machine finished its kaleidoscopic work. Miguel always had a clinical view of the work he did and the machines he created. Whenever it was traveling to another world, or encountering a new being (Spider-Person or otherwise) the last thing on his mind was beauty or a fascination with the ways things were. That’s where you two differed the most. So while Miguel hardly ever stayed around to watch the Go Home Machine run its science-magic, you always craned your neck to catch glimpses of the worlds beyond Earth-928.

“I better check in with Miguel.” You said, hopping off the table once Doc Oc was safely back in her home universe.

Hobie, Miles, and Margo all shot each other a knowing look before you could notice. 

Now that school was out for the summer you found yourself spending more and more time on Earth-928, and after six months of training you could walk to Miguel’s lair from any part of the building with a blindfold on. The first few weeks you hadn’t been able to suppress the slight unease at entering the dark room where many of the captured anomalies would sneer at you like you were a meal to be hunted.

Now… not so much.

“You’re still here, Norm?” You asked, catching sight of the familiar gentleman who shrugged and smiled. He sat comfortably on the floor, purple hood and goggles abandoned beside him to expose his weathered face.

“Still here,” He repeated, “I suppose I’m not as high a priority to send home now that I’m not, you know, evil anymore.” He sighed, “I just can’t believe my luck. I leave an alternate universe and not even a year later I’m sucked into another one!” He chuckled.

“I’ll talk to Spider-Man about it.” 

“Peter?!” His eyes brightened at the possibility.

“Ummm…no. Sorry.” 

He nodded, shoulders deflating every so slightly, “Thanks anyway Spider-”

“Y/sh/n, actually.” Miles and Gwen had helped you come up with it.

“Well, thank you Y/sh/n.” He said and waved you on before he could steal more of your time.

“I told you it’s dangerous to talk to the anomalies.” Miguel said, eyes still trained on the screens as you blinked next to him. One day you’d manage to sneak up on him, but today was not that day. 

You frowned when you saw he was still wearing his mask. 

“Well you’re talking to me right now, aren’t you?” You said, bumping his shoulder with your own before climbing onto the empty space on his desk he subtly reserved for you.

Miguel stiffened and his fingers froze over the keys. It had taken you months to fully forgive him for all the terrible things he’d said and done to Miles - the things he may have said to you if you didn’t have his wife’s face… if you were just a regular anomaly.

“That’s not what I-.” 

“You also said Earth-199999’s Peter Parker took care of the Green Goblin. I think we’re fine.” 

He nodded and sighed. His eyes were killing him right now and even the faint flicking of the red-orange lights from the screens felt like blows to his skull. 

“He wants to go home.” You said and saw his eyes flicker to the anomaly on the screen, red and tired.

“I know. He’s scheduled to be sent back tonight. I promise.” 

You nodded with satisfaction and snapped your fingers, a pair of sunglasses blinking into the palm of your hand, “You should take a break. You’ve been working non-stop for over two days now.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“The multiverse is not going to shatter because you take a thirty-minute lunch break, Miguel.” 

He eyed you warily and shook his head, fingers flying across the touchpad like they were racing to win gold. 

He always did this. He always worked himself to the bone until you would find him red-eyed and slumped over the tabletop for one of his thirty-minute “power-naps.” 

“Lyla.” You called out. The woman appeared perched on your shoulders.

“You rang?”

“Can you please tell Miguel that the multiverse isn’t going to collapse before he does?” 

“Ooooh you said please. I like you.” Miguel muttered a few choice words under his breath, “The multiverse is holding steady. I’ll alert you if anything changes at all.” Lyla winked at you and disappeared. 

“Realmente necesito cambiar su código.” Miguel grumbled.

“¡Ni se te ocurra!”

Miguel tightened his lips but said nothing. You slid over to sit in front of him and pushed against his chest until he finally relented and sat down in the chair. He didn’t want to admit this, but the only reason he agreed to sit down was because he’d fractured two ribs in the fight, and you pressing against his chest hurt like a bitch.

“Did you really come all this way just to get me to rest?”

“Obviously.” You tossed the sunglasses into his lap along with the extra empanada you’d been carrying around the last half-hour. You hoped it was still warm, but then again, if it weren’t for you he probably wouldn’t have remembered to eat at all. 

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “Gracias.” 

“Solo cállate y come. Lo juro, es como si estuviera tratando de mantener viva una planta de interior. Una planta de interior muy obstinada.”

He tilted his head down, hiding his face as his mask disappeared. 

You held your breath, reaching out instinctively to hold his face in between your hands. Color rushed into his cheeks, emphasizing the dark, purple bruise that crawled its way up from his jawline to his cheek bone, the flesh around it swollen and warm when you carefully traced it with your finger. The bridge of his nose was similarly bruised, the strong slope of his nose tilted ever so slightly to the left. 

Miguel also stopped breathing, the pain hardly registering as he felt your eyes against his skin as physical and real as your hands.

You became all too aware of the closeness, the way he was looking at you. A familiar and malicious voice scratched the back of your mind - What are you to him? Who are you to him? Who is he really thinking about when he looks at you like that?

You let go of his face, your heart sinking in your chest.

“¿Qué te sucedió?” You murmured. His brown-red eyes were wide and soft.

He cleared his throat, disappointment gathering in his chest when you withdrew your hands, “I guess I should have called for backup sooner.” 

“Where else are you hurt?”

“I’m not-”

“Where else are you hurt? Y no te atrevas a mentirme.” 

Miguel melted under your fiery gaze. You weren’t one to show your anger - teaching teenagers had strengthened your patience - but Miguel had a special way of pushing your buttons, whether he knew it or not. 

“I may or may not have cracked a rib… or two.” 

“Miguel!” 

“I’ll heal!” 

“Estúpido, bastardo terco.” You muttered under your breath with no small measure of affection.

You reached over and gently pressed on his stomach, hearing him hiss in pain. He grabbed your arm to get you to stop, shame coloring his bruised cheek.

“I’ll be ok. I promise.” He whispered when you leaned down from your seat to inspect his jaw again. Any longer under your watchful gaze and he might just combust.

“I know you’ll be ok. I just…” Your lips tightened. “I don’t like to see you hurt.”

You’d been in this situation before with Miguel a few times. It always ended with him promising to take better care of himself, holding to that promise for a few weeks, and then falling back into old, self-destructive habits. The others said he had gotten better about taking care of himself ever since you’d come into the picture, but you found that hard to believe. 

“I don’t like to see you hurt either.” He admitted, gently rubbing up and down your forearms. He eyed the tear in your suit, and the clean white bandage that peeked through. 

Who is he really thinking of?

You told that voice to shut up.

“So you can imagine how worried I get when I see you like this.” 

Miguel sighed, running his hands through his hair and mussing up the curls. He could imagine it all too well. Every time you left for your own dimension a knot of worry would sink in his chest like a boulder dropped into a lake, and it wouldn’t dissipate until the next time he saw you safe and whole. He flinched at the very thought of you sporting bruises and cracked bones like the ones he had - the scars he bore after years on the job.

“What would you have me do?” He asked, “I can’t just give this up.” 

“I’m not- No one is asking you to. I know you need to do this. But you don’t have to do it alone. You know any of the other Spider-People would be more than happy to help monitor things in the Spider-Verse.” 

“One - it’s the Arachnoid Humanoid Poly-Multiverse. And two - the other Spider-People aren’t like me. They can’t do what I do.”

“You’re right, they’re a hell of a lot funnier” He scoffed, setting his jaw in a scowl that had pain flaring up the left side of his face. “And they don’t go around punching teenagers.”

“That was one time!” 

Your lips turned in a downward smile, trying to suppress your laughter at the indignant expression on his face. The scowl on his face slowly but surely loosened, twisting into a barely concealed smile.

“Stop doing that.” He muttered.

“Doing what?” You asked innocently.

“Getting me to smile and laugh. It hurts my ribs.” 

“All the more reason to get some rest, Miguel.” You said, ruffling his hair and gleaming with satisfaction when he finally allowed himself to smile. You plucked the sunglasses from his lap and placed them on his face, careful not to upset his healing nose.

How was it possible that he hated and loved the way you said his name so much? He knew you cared for him. The first two months had been tense and filled with questions of what you were to one another - A mistake? A bad memory? Husband and wife? It had been a time when every touch, glance, and hidden smile had been given with a measure of uncertainty and restraint.

Miguel didn’t feel that way anymore. When you messed up his hair and forced his hidden smile out into the open he just saw you. Not some version of his wife. Not someone he’d barely known. Not someone he’d lost. 

Just you.

“If I promise to take the night off to sleep and let Ben and LEGO Peter take care of it, would that satisfy you?” 

You hummed in thought, “How many hours of sleep are we talking about?” 

“Four.” 

“Seven.” You countered.

“Five.” 

“Deal.” You stuck out your hand, a wide grin on your face that Miguel matched when he shook your hand.

“What would I do without you?” He asked sarcastically.

You scoffed, “Shrivel up and die, probably.” 

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

_________

Author's note: Here's Chapter Four! Y/n is feeling some insecurity about her relationship with Miguel... I wonder if that will come up again in the next chapter 👀...........

As always, please let me know your thoughts! Hope you enjoy :)

Taglist: @geraskier-thots @howabouticallyou @sweetheartlizzie07 @dont-mind-me27 @omg-edzia-stuff @sarcastically-defensive17 @trouble-sistar @saltyluminaryvoid @lunablue001 @sadslasher13 @yas-v @thel0v3hashira143 @trishuh8 @vague-flying-shape @tiana76 @dinuxia-bhm @mxtokko @devilsrose666@natbratty @zettoaizawa-shusband @dorck26 @notasadgirlipromise @niyanispunk @thecraziestcrayon @athenxt @imnotyourbcbe @jannajuju @lunamoonbby @elle-19 @aces148 @sseleniaa @elaineiswithyou-blog @summerli-u @rattlethemskulls @sunseekerlove @bubbabobabubbles @loonalockley @aleombre @littlelilies@07-bilin @nerdalicios @insanely-creative-things @enby-rising @nataliahemsworth @coralineyouareinterribledanger @louderfortheback @damnzelsoul @enheduannasposts @bontensbabygirl @mynameiswilliamblake

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Two Most Iconic Wheel Standers of All Time.

Hurst Hemi Under Glass

Hurst Hemi Under Glass is the name given to a series of exhibition drag racing cars campaigned by Hurst Performance between 1965 and 1970 across North America and ended with the '68 model year.

Each wheelstander was based on the current Plymouth Barracuda for the corresponding model year. The car was so named because the fuel injected Chrysler Hemi engine was placed under the Barracuda's exceptionally large rear window. The result of the rearward weight transfer was a "wheelie" down the length of the drag strip.

The Hemi Under Glass was developed by Hurst Corporation to showcase their products in the A/FX class - precursor to funny cars. In 1965, George Hurst hired Wild Bill Shrewsberry of Mansfield, OH, an accomplished drag racer who had raced for both Mickey Thompson and Jack Chrisman. After helping to pioneer it into the first wheelstanding exhibition car, Shrewsberry left at the end of the season to pursue his own project.

For the 1966 season, Bob Riggle, who was also from Mansfield, OH and was involved with Hurst as a mechanic and fabricator became the second driver of the Hurst Hemi Under Glass car and campaigned the cars with Hurst as the sponsor until later years when the Hurst Company was sold to Sunbeam. At that point, the car ran without the Hurst logo and was simply known as the "Hemi Under Glass." Riggle's career ended in 1975 with a devastating accident at US 30 Dragway in Gary, Indiana.

Popular model kits of the car were produced in 1/32 scale by Aurora Plastics Corporation and in 1/25 scale by Model Products Corporation. A limited edition 1/18 scale diecast model of the 1966 car is currently available from Highway 61.[1]

Riggle returned to exhibition racing in 1992 with a 1966 injected version of the car and a 1968 supercharged version of the car.[2] The original 1965 car was stripped for its power train and parts in 1967 for the new Barracuda chassis/body style and no longer exists.[3][4]

While taping the June 26, 2016 episode of Jay Leno's Garage, Riggle, with Leno riding in the passenger seat, rolled a newly constructed '69 version of the Hemi Under Glass after turning sharply at the end of a wheelie run. Neither of the men were hurt, but the car sustained significant damage.[5] Leno was riding along to fulfill another item on his 'Bucket List.'

July, 2016, Mike Mantel of New Braunfels, TX was named as the new driver of the Hemi Under Glass. Mantel took over the '68 car which has the longest performing history of any Hemi Under Glass ever constructed and becomes the third official driver in the brand's 50+ year history.[6] Mantel was only 6 years old when the Hemi Under Glass first took to the track. He has a wide range of driving experience from drag cars, road race, and movie cars. Mantel's original hometown is the city of Hawthorne, CA.

Billy Lawrence Golden (December 31, 1933 – September 14, 2015),[1] nicknamed "Maverick", was an American drag racer. He is probably best known for driving the Little Red Wagon A/FX wheelstander pickup exhibition racer.

Little Red Wagon

Born in Shawnee Township, Illinois, Golden joined the US Marines and first became interested in drag racing while at Camp Pendleton.

Golden was given his "Maverick" nickname in the late 1950s by an announcer at a Southern California dragstrip, because he chose to drive an unconventional 361 cu in (5,920 cc)-powered Dodge Custom Royal. He started racing in AHRA Super Stock, driving Dodges for several years. He was one of the first drivers in AHRA S/S to successfully run an automatic transmission. In 1960, Chrysler offered to provide him parts, when he was driving a Dodge Phoenix, powered by a 330 hp (250 kW) 330 cu in (5.4 L) with twin Carter carburetors and cross-ram intake manifold; the car was capable of quarter-mile times of 13.7 seconds.

By 1962, he was a factory driver, driving an S/SA Dodge. At the 1962 AHRA Winternationals, driving his bright yellow hemi "Taxi Cab" Dodge 330, he scored a "stunning" victory over "Dyno Don" Nicholson's 409 cu in (6,700 cc) factory Chevrolet at Fontana Drag City, to take the Stock Eliminator title, Chrysler's only Nationals win for 1962.

In 1963, Golden worked with Jim Nelson of Dragmasters to improve the car, and won seven Super Stock races out of eight events, taking the Midwest Championship.

At the end of the 1964 season, Chrysler proposed Golden drive the Little Red Wagon A/FX pickup. which became drag racing's first wheelstanding truck.

Little Red Wagon's first outing, at the AHRA Grand American event at Lions Drag Strip, was an 11 second pass at 120 mph (190 km/h). The crowd's very enthusiastic reaction prompted Golden to turn the A/FX truck into a wheelstanding exhibition racer, which he developed a steering mechanism for himself, relying on experience from his day job at Douglas Aircraft Corporation. The wheelstander was wrecked in 1969, 1971, and 1975; the third crash was nearly fatal to Golden.

Golden retired in 2003. He died on September 14, 2015.[3]

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 6

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Wyoming (Part Three)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Chapter Summary: Charlie strikes a deal with the mechanic.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.3k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, slow burn, horny thoughts, food mention, eating, handcuffs, one bed, shower, dog grogu, guns

Notes: None really. Hope you like it, thank you for reading!

A bell chimes when Din pushes open the door to Giddyup Auto, and again when he lets it swing shut behind you. 

It’s just as cluttered inside the shop as it is outside. Pornographic magazines have been stacked alongside NAPA catalogs and tattered notepads on top of tool boxes. Promotional branding from popular auto parts manufacturers patch the steel walls, occasionally broken up by snarky signs that read things like KWITCHERBITCHIN AVE and I CAN FIX ANYTHING EXCEPT STUPID. 

Country music crackles from blown speakers at the back of the shop, echoing off the tall ceiling. The rough, strained sound blends horribly with a high-pitched whir coming from beneath a 1989 Dodge Ram 250. 

Din inhales the scent of motor oil and metal shavings. Adolescent nostalgia wells up in his chest like pride, some vague understanding of what it means to be a man. The responsibility of maintenance. Caretaking and custodianship. 

He catches a glimpse of his adoptive father wringing his hands with an oil-soaked rag while rattling off the basic components of an internal combustion engine. Then he blinks it away.

Out of the corner of his eye, you adjust your grip on the wriggling dog, slipping one hand beneath his bottom and the other across his chest. Grogu huffs at the intrusion, but once he’s steadied to a higher vantage point, he seems pleased. His ears stand at attention, jowls sealed shut, the tip of his snout twitching with curiosity. 

Both you and the dog look around the garage with the same kind of wide-eyed wonder. Two explorers ready to investigate this whole new world. Din leads the way deeper into the automotive bay, following the shrill grinding sound to the old rusted-out truck. 

When he comes to a halt, so does the noise, then Paul slides out from under the truck on a creeper. 

“Hey there! Sorry, I didn’t hear y’all come in,” he gestures to the impact wrench in his hand as he sets it down. 

“Hi, Paul,” you greet him with a cheerful smile.

Rising to his feet, he beams, “Miss Charlie, how’re you today?” 

The twinkle in his bright eyes makes Din feel uneasy. Strands of gray streak his dark beard and pepper his slicked-back hair. Hard-earned wrinkles crease his face. He’s twice your age at least, and Din can’t quite determine whether his intentions are cordial or flirtatious. 

Either way, you hardly seem to mind. You perk up at the attention, taking a step towards him as you reply, “Can’t complain. Yourself?” 

“Oh, just fine. Annie get y’all set up at the motel?” 

“She sure did. It was nice to sleep in a bed for once, y’know, after being on the road for so long. Thank you for recommending it to us.” 

“‘Course. Yellow Seed’s been treatin’ you alright?” 

“Yeah! We got to poke around a little yesterday. Went and got supper at the Outlaw Saloon, which was good,” you glance at Din and chuckle a little, “The locals didn’t seem too keen on us. Got a few dirty looks, but that’s not surprising.” 

Paul laughs at this, crossing his arms as he leans back against the truck, “Well, you know, we small town folks don’t always like outsiders.” 

“I’m used to it,” you shrug dismissively, then your face lights up, “But, hey, I talked to the owner and they’re gonna let me play a couple sets tomorrow night if you wanna swing by.”

“No shit?” Paul grins and catches himself, “Pardon my language—”

“It’s fine,” you wave it off. 

“Playin’ a few sets at the Outlaw Saloon,” Paul repeats, shaking his head with amusement, “What kinda music you play?” 

“I know a little bit of everything. These kinds of gigs, I try to feel out the crowd. I catch a country music kinda vibe around here, so probably some Hank Williams Jr, Alan Jackson, Johnny Cash. Stuff like that,” you tilt your head at him, “Got any requests?”

“Know any Waylon Jennings?” 

“Sure, I have a few of his tunes up my sleeve. Any particular song?”

“Surprise me,” he winks. 

Din tries to retain his stoic demeanor despite the discomfort writhing beneath his skin. The dog must pick up on this, because he whines at his owner and starts to squirm in your grip. 

Struggling with Grogu’s protest, you ask Paul, “Is it ok if I set him down?”

“Go on ahead, darlin’,” Paul tells you, then turns to Din, “How about you? Settling in ok?” 

“How much will it cost to fix?” 

Paul raises his eyebrows and pushes off the truck, “Right down to brass tacks, huh?” 

“He’s not much of a talker,” you smirk as you set the dog on the cement floor and start roaming around the shop, leash in hand. 

“I can respect that.” His gaze lingers on your wandering form for a moment longer before he looks at Din and sighs, “Well, I had some luck calling around to a few junkyards lookin’ for salvaged or used parts. Found a good price for what I need. With that ‘n’ labor, it’ll run you twenty-five hundred, long as everything goes smoothly.” 

Din weighs the cost against his bank account, factoring in the motel room, gas to get to the next job, and food for a few days. It would run him dry. His stomach tightens and twists. Before he can formulate a response, you chime in. 

“Is there any way we can knock that price down?” 

Paul crosses his arms across his chest and gives you a sympathetic shrug, “Way it stands, ‘fraid I can’t.” 

You nod as you consider this, furrowing your brow at the floor, then look up at him, “What if we make a trade?” 

“A trade?” Paul frowns. 

“Yeah, or, you know. Some kind of a deal. We scratch your back, you scratch ours.” 

Paul’s blue eyes flick between you and Din, “Wha’d you have in mind, sweetheart?”

Din’s first instinct is to shut down the conversation. But when you glance at him as if searching for approval, he doesn’t protest. You turn back to Paul and nod over your shoulder, “I noticed your sign out front is pretty faded. I could paint it if you knock a couple hundred off?” 

Paul shifts his weight to one leg and wrinkles his nose. Not sold. You don’t let it deter you. 

“I’ve done murals before, so this would be a piece of cake. It looks pretty shabby now, but I can make it,” you smack your lips, “pop. Maybe it’d bring in some more business for you.” 

Shaking his head, he smirks at Din, “She’s persistent, ain’t she?”

“She is.” 

“I am,” you confirm with a wide, toothy grin, “Whaddaya say? I do the sign, take off $500?“

Paul works his jaw from side to side, then slackens and sticks out his hand, “Five hundred.” 

“Plus the cost of supplies,” you add. 

“Plus the—” he cuts himself off with an amused chuckle, “You’re somethin’ else. Fine. Five hundred plus costs.” 

When you shake his hand, a victorious, blinding smile spreads across your face. The corner of Din’s mouth turns up at the sight. He fails to correct his expression as you take a step back and glance at him. His heart skips in that brief moment where his eyes meet yours, before you drop your gaze to your feet and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Blush rises to your cheeks and neck, rosy splotches that bloom soft and full in his chest. 

“Whaddaya think, should $100 do it?” Paul asks. 

“I think we can make that work,” you nod, “Do you have paint brushes or rollers? Sandpaper?” 

“Reckon I do. Hang tight, I’ll get y’all some cash, ok?” 

Once he’s out of earshot, Din studies you, wondering out loud, “Why are you helping me?” 

“Rule number ten: Be a stand up tramp,” you shrug, crouching down to scratch Grogu between his ears, “Plus, I don’t know, it just seems like… the right thing to do.” 

Your answer perplexes him. He can’t come up with a response other than, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” you grin up at him, then rise to your feet and change the subject, “I’m hungry. We should get lunch. And maybe get some groceries, too, so we—er, you don’t have to spend as much on eating out.” 

The authority with which you suggest this causes him to chafe. He wants to push back for no reason other than to reclaim the upper hand. Your reasoning is sound, though. It’s not a bad idea. 

“We can do that.” 

“Yeah?” 

He nods. 

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment, lips curving into a delicate smile. Something flutters in his stomach, frantic and timid, urging him to put up a wall between you. But he keeps his eyes anchored to yours despite his internal warning bells. 

The tight wire of tension slackens as Paul returns, counting a stack of wrinkled bills, “Here you go.” 

You step forward to accept the cash, “Perfect. Thank you, Paul.” 

“Are y’all gonna be able to carry everything back here, or do you wanna borrow my truck? Might be a little easier that way.” 

“Really?” you grin and knit your brows together into a gracious expression, “We were thinking of grabbing lunch and getting some groceries, too. Would that be ok?” 

“Fine by me, just bring it back in one piece,” Paul answers, fishing a set of keys from his jumpsuit pocket and handing them to you, “Ford F-150 out front.”

“Thank you, Paul. I—we really appreciate it,” you tell him, then look at Din and raise your eyebrows expectantly. 

“Yes, thank you,” Din nods in agreement. 

“Don’t mention it,” Paul says, then ambles back to the old rusted-out Dodge, whistling along to some old country song. 

Keeping pace at his side as he starts towards the exit, you jangle the keys and ask, “Do you want me to drive?”

“Dream on, kid,” he scoffs, holding his hand out. 

“Worth a shot,” you grin and place them in his palm. 

“Would it be too predictable to put a horse on the sign?” you ask, frowning at your rough outline, “I feel like there are a lot of places out here that lean into the western motif, so it might be overdone. But the place is literally called Giddyup Auto, so…” 

When Din doesn’t respond, you glance up and can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or something in your general direction. 

Stupid goddamn aviators. 

“You know, it’s considered polite to take off your hat and sunglasses when you go indoors.” 

Again, nothing. 

‘Off in lala-land’ if you’ve ever seen it. 

You blink at him a few times to no reaction, then raise your voice, “Did you hear me?” 

This seems to do the trick. 

It’s difficult to explain how you know his eyes are on you when they are. Maybe the microscopic tilt of his head or the twitch of his eyebrows. Mostly though, you would say that his attention carries a force. One minute you’re sitting there wondering if he’s looking at you and then—bam! It hits you. Absolute certainty.  

Anyway, he looks at you and asks, “What?” 

“Why do you insist on wearing your Unabomber costume all the time?” 

He frowns and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. 

“You know, because—Oh for cripes’ sake, nevermind,” you scoff and sit up in your seat, turning your notebook to face him, “Here. Tell me what you think.” 

He looks down at your notebook and pulls it closer. As he quietly studies the sketches, discomfort twists your skin raw. Imagining all the criticisms lingering at the tip of his tongue, you can’t stop yourself from speaking preemptively. 

“The first one is pretty boring, but I think the font adds a little flair. I’d blend shades of orange for the background to make it stand out and white for the text.” You prop your chin up on the heel of your palm and lean forward, pointing to the second option, “I like the covered wagon as a concept, but it would take me a long time and I’m not sure if it fits the vibe since wagons are kinda slow. The horse is fast, obviously,” you tap the third sketch and shrug, “But, like I said when you so rudely ignored me, the western motif is sort of tired in this neck of the woods.” 

Nodding, he comments, “They look… nice.” 

Such a way with words. 

You stare at him for a moment, waiting for additional input to no avail. Raising your eyebrows, you release a big sigh and fold your legs up into the booth, “‘Nice.’ Ok, sure. Well, let me ask you this: Which one is your favorite?” 

After a few seconds of contemplation, he taps the bucking bronco silhouetted over a mountain range, then pushes the notebook back across the table. 

“Why that one?” 

He shrugs, “It’s called Giddyup Auto.” 

Instead of pointing out that you said the same thing earlier, you mutter, “Sure is, big guy,” and flip your notebook to a blank page, then start jotting down a shopping list, “We should get something for the pup while we’re out. I feel bad for leaving him behind.” 

You wrinkle your nose at his silence, looking up to confirm that once again, he has drifted away. 

Curiosity gets the best of you. You follow his line of sight, craning your neck over your shoulder to see the waitress approaching with a serving tray. Din straightens when she sets a plate in front of him. 

“Ok, we have a breakfast platter number two,” she sets another plate in front of you, “And french toast with fruit.” Tucking the tray under her arm, she smiles between you and him, “Anything else I can get for you guys?” 

“We’re fine, thank you,” Din tells her, a small smile gracing his lips. 

She nods before turning to go, dragging his attention along with her. You watch him watch her, studying his wandering gaze. A grin spreads across your face. When he notices you staring, he immediately becomes defensive.

“What?” 

Dead giveaway. 

Suppressing a smile, you grab a butter knife and shake your head at your plate, “Nothing.” 

“What?” he asks again, this time more pointed.  

“I didn’t say anything!” 

He scoffs and hunches over the plate to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth. 

After smearing whipped butter on your french toast, you pour syrup over your plate, glancing up at him when you ask, “Do you have a crush on the waitress?” 

“No.” 

Denial sours the word in the most obvious way. 

Raising an eyebrow, you cut your food into bite-sized pieces as you tease, “I didn’t take you for a liar, Din. But I also didn’t take you for the kind of guy who has a soft spot for pretty service workers, so what do I know?” 

Of course, he doesn’t say anything. And of course, you decide to push the conversation further. 

“I just mean… If you do—you know, like her or whatever—you should ask her for her number. Take her on a date. See if you can’t live a little while you’re holed up in this town.” 

“And what am I supposed to do with you in that scenario?” 

Twirling a chunk of french toast around on your fork, you shrug, “Maybe she wouldn’t mind your prisoner third wheeling. That’s probably not a red flag, right?” 

“Not at all.” 

You snort at him and he lets a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. It seems to soften the atmosphere, both of you relaxing back in your seats. While chipping away at your food, you ponder a little to yourself, then out loud. 

“Suppose your line of work, you don’t go on many dates, do you?” 

Frowning at the strip of bacon pinched between his fingers, he tells you, “Not in the traditional sense.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Instead of answering the question, he pops the bacon into his mouth. When he swallows and you’re still staring at him, he shakes his head, “Forget I said anything.” 

“Come on, Din,” you meet his flattened expression with a grin, “You so know I won’t let this go. Might as well just spill the beans.” 

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares at you like a challenge. You narrow your eyes at him, tilting your head with equal determination. 

“‘Not in the traditional sense.’ So you do have romantic or sexual experiences, but society wouldn’t typically deem those experiences ‘dates,’ right?” 

He says nothing. 

“Hmmm… interesting,” you lean your elbows on the table, studying him, “You seem reluctant to talk about it, which indicates… Maybe you’re ashamed of it? Although, you’re pretty reluctant to talk about everything, so I don’t know how much weight to place on that. But you’re a trucker. Transient. Don’t seem like much of a ‘family man’ to me. So, what… you’ve gotta be a hookup guy or a sex worker guy, right?” 

The way he squirms at the question makes your chest tingle. 

“It could be both, too. I feel like you would be more of an opportunist than a strategist when it comes to fucking. Am I right?” 

His jaw shifts from side-to-side. He glances around before leaning in, “And you’re much different?” 

“No, not really.”

Most people would ask follow-up questions or awkwardly segue into a different subject, but not Din. He seems as content with your answer as you are with his. But where he goes back to eating, you feel a loose end rattling at the tip of your tongue and speak it into existence. 

“I think… I think people like us don’t lay down roots for anything less than the spectacular,” you search his face, “Right?” 

With his fork lifted halfway to his mouth, he pauses to look at you and nod, “This is the way.”

Din brings the shopping cart to halt in the middle of the aisle when you stop to examine jars of preserved nut and fruit spreads lining the shelves. 

You pull a big plastic container of generic peanut butter from the lineup and toss it into the cart, “Four dollars, twenty-nine cents.”

He jots down the price in your notebook and adds it to the running total while you wrinkle your nose at the ingredient list of strawberry preserves, then set it next to the peanut butter, “Three sixty-nine. Gotta love that food desert markup. What’re we at?” 

“Twenty seven, give or take,” he answers, crossing two items off the list. 

“What else we got here?” Sidling up to him, you peek at the paper, “Snacks. Wow, ok past me, very specific.” 

When you start walking again, he does too, and he wonders how you can possibly smell so good without the aid of perfumes. While not a definitive scent, it inspires a sensation much like when he’s parched and sets his sights on a glass of ice water. It’s enticing, like your very foundation radiates temptation. 

He cannot have this. This thing in his chest, gnawing at his bones, trying to escape. It snaps at the walls when you’re nearby, which is always. 

Maybe if he could relieve some of the pressure buckling under his skin it would quiet. But he can’t, so it doesn’t. 

It begs and pleads and promises to absolve him of consequence as long as he promises to move a little bit closer, hold his hand to your back a little bit longer—just one more second and I’ll be content. Maybe another. What if you slid your hand around her waist and pulled her body to yours? How would she react? I bet she would like it. I bet if you kissed her she would finally be speechless. Just a taste, please? 

He comes to a stop beside you and follows your gaze to the wall of chips. Hundreds of bags in all different sizes and colors, all of them glossy in the fluorescent light. 

“Well, big guy. What’s your chip of choice?” you ask without looking at him. 

Grinding his teeth together, he shakes his head. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, either. Too many of the same goddamn choices,” you step forward to narrow your eyes at a price tag, “Am I crazy or does that say five dollars?” 

“It says five dollars.” 

“What the fuck, that is obscene. Do we really need chips?” 

“Does anyone?” 

“I guess not technically,” you sigh and start wandering further down the aisle, so he follows you. “But we don’t have to be so utilitarian about it. Junk food is for the soul, not sustenance. And sometimes the soul needs something salty and crunchy, you know?”

Nodding, he comes to a stop and points to the display of microwave popcorn, “We could get this instead.”

“Six bags for four dollars,” you raise your eyebrows, “Salty, crunchy, and cost efficient. Hell yeah, I’m sold.”

He grabs the box of generic popcorn in question and walks it back to the cart while you meander towards the sweets. When he meets you in front of the cookies, you glance at him, “Original or chewy?” 

“Original.” 

“Ten four, good buddy.” You grab the blue package of chocolate chip cookies and toss it in the basket, “Do you ever get to say that on your radio? Have a real trucker moment?” 

“Yes.”

“Adorable,” you chuckle, catching his gaze for a moment before you look down and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Are you gonna help me with the sign today, or do you have other plans?” 

“What do you need help with?” 

You exhale through slack lips, then shrug, “Well, today is just prep. I have to scrape off the old paint, sand it down, and prime. It has to dry overnight, but I think I’ll be able to finish the rest tomorrow or the next day if we get up early…” Pausing to chuckle, you shake your head, “Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. What I mean is, you could help me with scraping and sanding. It’s a real bitch and would be easier with your muscle. If—well, you know, only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything…”

“I can do that.” 

Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face, “Yeah?” 

He nods, “It’s the least I can do.” 

As the two of you near the checkout line, a frail woman with closely-cropped white curls shuffles from a back office to the one and only cash register.

“How are we doing this? Splitting it?” you swing the backpack off your shoulder and start rummaging through it, “I should have some money in my wallet. It’s not much, but it should—”

He holds up a hand, “I’ve got it.” 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” 

That thing in his chest whimpers when you smile at him, big and bright and gap-toothed, sparing him a polite, “Thank you,” before you start unloading the groceries onto the conveyor belt. 

Balancing the tips of your toes on the highest ladder rung, you stretch your roller towards the unprimed stripe of sign, but can’t quite reach it. 

“Goddamnit,” you mutter, returning all fours to the ladder with a huff, then look back at Din, “Hey, can I borrow your tall?”

Your question bounces off him with no reaction. 

Between the visor of his cap and the tablet glued to his face, you can’t quite tell if he’s ignoring you or if he just plain old can’t hear you. All that’s visible is his furrowed brow. So you shimmy down the ladder and set the paint roller in the tray, brushing your hands on your jeans as you approach his lawn chair, waiting for him to notice you. 

When the brisk October air nips at your dirt-caked, sweat-soaked skin, you skip closer, tapping your foot against his calf, “Hey.” 

He jumps as if broken out of a trance, then raises his eyebrows at you, “What?” 

“Can you help me with something?”

His mouth flattens into a straight line. He looks down at the tablet, then turns off the screen and sets it aside to look up at you. 

“See the top of the sign, how it’s all shitty still?” you point at the evidence, “Can you get it for me? I can’t reach.” 

“Use the big ladder.” 

“I didn’t think to grab it before Paul locked up for the night.” 

He releases a big dramatic sigh, glancing down at the tablet before rising to his feet. As he passes you the handle of the dog leash, you grin and plop down in the warmed-up lawn chair, “My hero!” 

“Uh-huh,” he shakes his head and starts towards the drop cloth. 

Beneath the lawn chair, the dog wakes from his nap and tries to follow Din, huffing and puffing when the leash goes taut, then walks back to your feet and sits on your shoelaces. His big satellite ears stand at attention while his person shimmies up the ladder with a roller brush in hand. 

The two of you sit there and watch Din with the same level of ardent attention, both perched on the edge of your respective seats, unable to tear your eyes away for a second. 

At first you try to tell yourself that you’re not even looking at him, just mapping out the illustration you’ll start tomorrow. But the truth is, it’s hard not to be drawn in by the view. By his panoramic shoulders and muscle-bound arms stretching out the fabric of his flannel as he rolls the brush up and down, back and forth, spreading thick white primer across the freshly smoothed wood… 

Despite the waning sunlight and icy gusts spilling off the mountains, heat bubbles up to the surface of your skin. 

You know that once he’s finished, you’ll go back to the motel for the rest of the night. Given the thick layer of grime you each accumulated throughout the day, showers will likely be in order. Which, of course, means stripping down to nothing while he’s in the bathroom with you. And vice versa, probably. 

Your imagination wanders to his naked body and how it would feel against yours. What if you argued in favor of water conservation, asking him to join you in the shower? What if he agreed? How would he look at you without those sunglasses covering his eyes? How would he touch you if morals weren’t involved? 

Din climbs down off the ladder and walks over, taking off his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead, “Is that it for today?”

He replaces the hat and takes off his aviators, cleaning the lenses with his shirt as he meets your gaze. The full force of his big brown eyes turns your saliva tacky and makes your heart stutter. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. 

Fuck, did he ask you something? 

“Is that—? Oh, um,” you clear your throat, then nod, “Yep, that should do it. Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

Flicking his eyes around your face, he nods, then turns back to the drop cloth, where he starts consolidating all the painting supplies. 

With his legs stretched out across the perimeter of the bathroom’s tile flooring, back resting against the tub, Din types ‘Tom Boucheron’ into the search bar of a Portland-based web forum. 

The search yields 83 matches. He starts sifting through the results, scrolling past subject lines that indicate general complaints about property management like rising rent and evictions and gentrification. Every once and a while he comes across subject lines that take on a more conspiratorial tone, though, mentioning the weight of his influence or his ties to police presence throughout the city. When he finds these posts, he clicks on the thread, copying and pasting the urls into a separate document. 

He can delve deeper into these later, once he’s able to better focus. But right now, with the roaring cascade of the shower behind him and your enthusiastic rendition of Tiny Dancer by Elton John, this mechanical sorting is the maximum concentration he can muster. 

Squinting at the screen, he wipes away the fog forming on his tablet. Moisture reclaims the area just as soon as it clears. He sighs and turns off the device when your vocals start ramping up to a volume he can’t ignore. 

“—But oh how it feels so real, lying here with no one near. Only you, and you can hear meeee, when I say softlyyyy, slooowly—”

“Are you almost done?” 

“You ruined the best part.” 

“We’re going to get a noise complaint.” 

You scoff, then he hears the thunk of you turning off the water. In his peripheries, your arm stretches out from behind the shower curtain to snatch the folded white towel off the toilet lid. 

A few seconds later, the curtain pulls back and you announce, “I’m decent.” 

He climbs to his feet while you step out of the tub, one hand securing the bath towel around your body, the other grabbing his arm for balance. Once sure-footed on the pink tiles, you let go and murmur, "Sorry,” before opening the door and padding off into the motel room. 

Grogu runs into the bathroom to investigate as Din slips out and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. He tries to anchor his vision to the floor, but finds his gaze drifting towards your movements out the corner of his eye. Humming to yourself, you comb your fingers through dripping wet hair and pull a few articles of clothing from your backpack. 

“Are you gonna hop in too?” 

His eyes tick to yours as you turn around, clutching a pile of clothing to your chest. 

“Because, you know… if you need me to be in there with you or whatever, that’s fine,” you cast your gaze to the floor with a shrug.

He studies your bashful demeanor for a moment before responding, “I’ll have you sit in there with me once you get dressed.” 

Without looking up, you give him a nod and walk over to the bathroom. As you put on clothing, Din uses all his will power to stare at the ground. 

“What do you wanna do after that? We could watch a movie.” 

His eyes cheat to the mirror on the wall, where he watches your reflection wrestle with a t-shirt. He catches a glimpse of your bare back before returning to the floor and clearing his throat. 

“I thought you weren’t much of a movie person.” 

“Well,” your footsteps soften onto the carpet, then your voice is closer, “If you have a better idea of how to pass the time in a seedy roadside motel, I’m open to suggestions.” 

He meets your heated gaze long enough for something to spark deep within his belly. The air between your body and his thickens with a palpable magnetism. His lips part to respond, but only one suggestion plays over and over again in his head. The mad yapping of that thing in his chest. 

Before he can say or do something stupid, though, you look away and start fidgeting, “So, I’m dressed. Are you ready?” 

Swallowing his tight throat, he pushes himself to his feet and locks eyes with you, “Go sit where I just was and put your head between your knees.” 

“Wow, you’re taking this very seriously.”  

“Let’s just get it over with, ok?”

You roll your eyes a little, but acquiesce. 

Din trails behind you into the bathroom, shooing the dog from the room before closing the door. When he turns around, he finds you curled up on the floor, back pressed to the tub basin with your face buried in your knees. 

“Like this?” 

“Perfect. Stay like that, I won’t take long.” 

For some reason he expected you would stay quiet while he disrobed, but you just continue talking as if you were accompanying him on any other menial task. 

“I think it’s funny how you have me do this whole thing so I don’t see your dick, but when I need privacy, the most you give me is a turned back.” 

Din glances at the top of your head while unbuckling his utility belt, then turns to spread it out across the bathroom counter, “That’s not the only reason I’m having you do this.” 

“Then why?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of involuntary captivity?” 

While you scoff and most likely try to come up with a rebuttal, he shucks off his flannel overshirt, then unfastens his shoulder holster and lines it up on the counter below the outspread belt. His hands work without much thought as he systematically unloads all three of his pistols. Eject the magazine, count the rounds, check the chamber.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Ignoring the question, he moves the unloaded guns and utility belt to a high shelf over the toilet, then pulls off his undershirt. 

“Can you at least confirm you’re not gearing up to murder me right now?” 

If he wanted to tear your frayed edges, he could mention that you were begging him to do exactly that less than 48 hours ago. But since you’re somehow more irritating when in a foul mood, he doesn’t. 

“If I was going to kill you I would have already.” He turns on the shower and takes a step back to make sure you’re still covering your eyes, then takes off his pants. 

“Would you do it if you had to?” 

The question gives him pause as he pulls back the shower curtain. 

“Why would I have to?” 

“I don’t know, because they asked you to do it.” 

He frowns, “I wouldn’t do it just because someone asked me to.” 

“You wouldn’t?” 

The hopeful air in your voice eats at his stomach lining. Instead of answering or clarifying what he meant, he steps into the shower. 

“Ok, but let’s say they gave you a good reason, and you were going to do it… kill me, I mean. How would you do it?” 

“I’m not going to tell you that.” 

“Why not?” 

He shakes his head and grabs a bar of soap off the shower ledge and starts to lather it against his skin. 

“Are you ignoring me or thinking?” 

“Ignoring you.” 

“You know, I appreciate the honesty.“ Then, after a few seconds: “I promise not to leak your trade secrets, big guy. Come on, how would you do it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

With this, you go quiet. 

Silence fills the bathroom for the remainder of his time in the shower, but Din’s thoughts are as loud and intrusive as your questions. 

His mind becomes populated with scenarios in which you would end up in the sights of his pistol. Under what circumstances would he pull the trigger? 

He imagines you stealing from him. He imagines trying to escape. He imagines it coming down to you or the money. He even goes so far as to imagine it coming down to you or him. 

But each time the imaginary him goes to take aim, he falters. 

While Din tosses a bag of popcorn in the microwave, you survey the Room 10’s VHS collection. 

“Ok let’s see,” you tilt your head sideways and read the titles, “Aladdin, Batman Returns, Twister—”

“You choose.” 

Beeps sound from the microwave, then it hums to life. 

You pull Aladdin from the shelf and admire the familiar cover art. Little flakes of deteriorated plastic break off the exterior and stick to your fingertips when you trace the title. You wince and mumble an apology to the inanimate object before prying it open to pull out the tape. 

After feeding it to the VCR, you press rewind and hold up the cover to Din, “Ever seen this?”

When he takes a step closer to examine it, you note the details you’re not normally privy to. His damp curls and the heat of his pulse. Mostly, though, you become fixated on his eyes. Those devastatingly dark and warm eyes. His heavy brow and hooded lids, all the lines of age creeping out from the corners. 

He meets your gaze and you swear you hear the snap of his full attention locking onto you when he frowns, “Can’t say I have.” 

Somewhere far away, the popcorn starts popping. You feel yourself succumbing to his gravitational pull, subconsciously drifting towards him, and can’t really remember if you had a point in mind when you asked. 

“It’s-it’s good,” you nod, letting your eyes drift to his mouth for a moment before you shrug, “I mean, from what I remember at least. I was obsessed with it when I was a kid. It drove my grandma crazy cuz I’d make her watch it on repeat…” 

It doesn’t really register how much information you’re disclosing until his eyes get all wide and doughy, at which point you take a step away from him and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Sorry, um, anyway. I liked it.” 

He chuckles, causing you to grin, “What?”

“Nothing.” 

His face tells you it’s definitely not nothing. It’s something if you’ve ever seen it. Something so gooey and hot it makes you ache. Dangerous, that’s what it is. 

The VCR clicks and shifts gears, then the TV lights up with disclaimers. Taking it as a sign from above, you start back towards the bed and tease, “I totally get why you wear the sunglasses, by the way. Your eyes give everything away.” 

Rather than admit you’re right, Din raises an eyebrow at you, then turns around to pull the microwave open before the timer reaches zero. While you slide under the covers and prop the flimsy pillows up behind your back, he pries open the steaming hot bag of popcorn and brings it to you. 

“Thanks.”

He grunts in response and disappears into the bathroom for a few seconds, returning with the shiny metal handcuffs, “Lights on or off?”

“Off.”

When the lights go out, the dog jumps onto the bed, spinning around a few times before curling up into an adorable white ball. Din tosses the cuffs to your side as he crawls into bed beside you. Once you think he’s settled in, you offer him some popcorn, which he accepts. 

“Do I have to put them on right now?” you ask, in reference to the cuffs. 

He frowns and shakes his head, “I can wait until you’re ready.” 

Nodding, you study his profile in the dim illumination from the TV. You don’t even realize you’re staring at him like a full-on creep until he says, “Stop giving me goo-goo eyes and watch the movie.” 

Embarrassment flares up your neck and cheeks. You scoff, “I am not giving you goo-goo eyes,” and wriggle deeper under the covers, diverting your gaze to the TV. 

I will not look at him for the rest of the night, you vow. Even if he asks me to, or talks to me, I won’t look at his stupid face until the sun comes up tomorrow. 

You almost fulfill the vow, too. 

Well… almost might be an exaggeration, but you make it to the end credits and that’s further than you really believed you could make it. 

With the motel room all dark save for the faintest glow from the credits rolling onscreen, he asks, “Are you awake?”

You remind yourself of your promise and try to ignore him. If you say something, you’ll look at him. And if you look at him, you lose. 

“Charlie?” he nudges you. 

Fuck. 

“Yeah,” you glance over, and of course you catch his eyes, “Is it handcuff time now?” 

He nods, almost apologetically. 

“Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Go ahead.” 

When you exit the bathroom and turn off the light, you find the room cloaked in darkness. The only reference point you have is the red glow of 9:12 on the alarm clock. You stretch your arms in front of you and start taking cautious steps towards it.  

“Oh my god, I can’t see shit.” 

“Want me to turn the lamp on?” 

“No, I’ve got it.” 

Your fingertips brush up against the bedspread, then you follow the alarm clock beacon to the side table. 

“Here.” 

His hand finds yours in the darkness. You grab ahold of it, trying your very hardest not to dwell on the warmth of his palm against yours as he gently guides you. When you finally settle between the sheets, he releases your hand. You almost wish he didn’t. 

“Ready?” 

“Sure.” 

He closes the cold heavy steel around your wrist, then his. For a while, neither of you move. Anxious energy buzzes beneath your skin. You close your eyes in an attempt to trick yourself into being tired, but it only makes you notice how fucking quiet it is. 

Resigning from your motionless state, you start wriggling around in an attempt to get comfortable. Din is accommodating while you do this, letting his wrist ragdoll wherever you drag it. You lie facing the wall for a while, fondling the knife you have tucked under the pillow. It doesn’t feel right. You flip onto your back and stare at the ceiling. Same problem. 

Then, when you can’t stand it anymore—the dark, the quiet, the nerves—you roll on your side facing him. 

“Din.” 

“What?” 

“I can’t fall asleep.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“Din.” 

“What?”

“I said I can’t fall asleep.” 

“I heard you the first time. What do you expect me to do about it?” 

You open your mouth to ask him to fuck you, but nerves rob your tongue. 

“Just talk to me for a while.” 

“About what?”

“I dunno, whatever you want.” You tuck your cuffed hand beneath your cheek and scoot a little closer.

His silence holds the weight of contemplation, so you prompt him, “What would your genie wishes be?” 

“Hang on, let me think.” 

A few quiet seconds go by before he clears his throat and rolls on his side to face you. The back of his cuffed hand rests against yours, which brings you a shred of comfort. 

“Financial security. Property rights to some land and a house, something out in the country.” 

“Like a farm?” 

“Something like that. Self-sustainable and off the grid. Maybe get a few animals and so I could live off the land.” 

“That’s the dream, right? Fuck off to the middle of nowhere and not have to rely on anyone?” 

“Yeah, that’s the dream.” 

You hum, then ask, “What’s wish number three?” 

“I… I’d rather not say.” 

Your gut instinct is to push back, but you resist the urge and instead tell him, “That’s fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

There’s enough sincerity in his voice that a tinge of guilt twists in your belly, and you feel obligated to bring up an earlier conversation. 

“I’m sorry, by the way. For pushing you to answer me when you were in the shower. Sometimes I don’t know when it’s time to shut the fuck up and let it be.” 

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” 

“Ok,” you wiggle around a bit and manage to find the perfect position, then close your eyes and release a content sigh. 

“What are yours?” he asks. 

“Mmmm… you know, I’ve thought a lot about this question—” A yawn swells in your chest, cutting you off. When it passes, your limbs feel heavy and warm. You continue, “I’d wish for the genie to be free.”

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, “And what else, world peace? An end to climate change?” 

“I hear your snark, sir, and I don’t appreciate it. No, I wouldn’t wish for world peace or the end of climate change. I wouldn’t wish for anything. Tricky bastard can keep his wishes, I make my own luck.” 

“Tricky bastard, huh?” 

Another yawn takes over. Lethargy seeps through your body, making your worlds come out slow and murmured. 

“Yeah, y’know… all the, umm… the fine print. Too many strings attached, I don’t trust ‘em.” 

“You sound tired.” 

You hum, snuggling deeper into your pillow, “You sound tired.” 

“Get some sleep, kid. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” 

“Mmmkay,” you mumble, “Sweet dreams, Din.” 

[anim-ttrpgs]

Chase Mechanics Overhaul in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy

Some screenshots and sketches from a playtest of the new overhauled chase mechanics from Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy.

This one was specifically for car chases, and we did three total playtests in one session because they were short enough that we could do that: One with all the PCs in one car chasing all the NPCs in one car in a city/town setting, one with all six characters in separate vehicles in a town/city setting, and finally one with two motorcyclists chasing each other across a straight stretch of highway.

The first three screenshots you see here are from the second one, and the last screenshot is from an earlier playtest a week or so ago that dealt with foot chases.

An unarmed mundane PC in a normal car, an unarmed pyrokinetic in a normal car, and a vampire armed with a semi-automatic pistol on a motorcycle all trying to flee from an NPC armed with a semi-automatic pistol in a regular car, an NPC armed with a semi-automatic pistol in a van, and an NPC armed with a machine pistol on a motorcycle.

For a super short breakdown of how chases work, the fleeing characters start a little bit ahead, and also get the first turn.

Each character has a Speed, based on what vehicle they have and their skill at driving that vehicle, which determines how many actions they can take, with moving one space equaling one action, though they can at most take one combat action per turn.

Then, there’s Obstacles, which are scattered randomly around the map by the game master as they are rolled on a table. These obstacles range from simple potholes to jaywalkers to traffic to fruit stands to trains, and some can be just as likely to take out a character as gunfire. Thanks to a set of stretch goals we hit in the Kickstarter, Eureka will have four separate tables for the GM to roll Obstacles on, each for different environments and different types of chases. I have been working on them for the past couple of weeks and their inclusion is part of the reason for the chase mechanics overhauls in the first place.

Each playtest lasted only a handful of rounds. In the first one, the fleeing NPCs got a huge head start but the PCs managed to catch them by taking a shortcut across a side road(where they nearly ran over a guy) and head them off, ending the chase by ramming the NPCs’ car with their own, using a new rule called a Vehicle Attack.

In the second, more complex one, the the biker NPC chased after the mundane PC in the car, repeatedly spraying him with bullets and causing him to lose his glasses. He is extremely, extremely lucky he was only hit by one of those bullets. (all sketches by team artist @theblackwarden)

Meanwhile, the vampire PC pulled over in a side street and waited for the pursuers to catch up, ambushing one of them and shooting him to death as he passed. The hunters would become the hunted.

All of this shooting brought the police to the scene after a few turns, thanks to the new Heat mechanic that determines how likely the police are to intervene in any given situation. The two non-vampire PCs had to Charm roll their way through the new obstacles created by the police to get to safety, while the other two NPCs were arrested before the vampire could hunt them down and kill them both. Oh and one police officer crashed into a fruit stand and died.

Here is one more sketch of the pyrokinetic using her powers to set the wheel of a pursuing vehicle on fire.

In the last playtest, both motorcyclists kept expertly dodging obstacles, with the fleeing one steadily increasing the distance between the two, until he got hit by a train and died.

In an earlier playtest, this one taking place on-foot, a lot more characters were taken out by obstacles. One goon was run over by a malfunctioning cybertruck, and another got stuck in wet cement and then shot to death by police because he was holding a gun.

Even devoid of any story context, these were incredibly fun sessions to run, which perfectly emulated a Hollywood chase scene while still remaining within Eureka’s realistic constraints, and we have gotta set more of these up in future adventure modules.

If you want to play Eureka with these rules, you can get the most recent version that includes them for only $5 on our patreon! There’s no better time to sign up, since we just released a big update to the beta rulebook, we just launched the Gorgon Initiative! Long story short, the playable gorgon monster type is a Kickstarter stretch goal we didn’t hit, but if we can reach 50 total patreon subscribers before the end of June, we’re going to be adding it to the book anyway! At the time of writing this, we’re at 45/50! You could make the difference, and get all this new Eureka content to boot!

You can also join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club, where we nominate, vote on, read, and play TTRPGs like a book club, and vote for Eureka in the upcoming round. (Starts on the morning of June 12th, 2024.) There is no time commitment or schedule requirement, as we group people based on schedule compatibility, making it extremely flexible and schedule-friendly. Plus, it’s just a cool play to hang out and talk about RPGs.

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

[captain-price-unofficially]

Ukrainian soldiers from the 93rd Mechanized Brigade bolted a 6 tube Grad rocket launcher to the rear of a Dodge Ram 1500 pickup.

Seen here firing off a salvo of 122mm Grad rockets at a Russian position.

[wh1plash]

「  ₊  ☆  ﾟ  jasmine tookes,  she/her,  cis woman 」  INCOMING  TEXT: omg  hv  u  met  natasha andretti  of  the  rodani prowlers  yet  ?  they’re  one  of  the  crew’s  mechanics  n  actually  go  by  athena.  the  thirty-one  y/o  is  typically  seen  hanging  arnd  track one.  allegedly  they’re  frm  monaco  n  hv  been  w/  the  crew  for  eight years.  wtvr.  just  watch  out  for  them,  k  ?  ttyl  !  「

𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒔.

name :  natasha andretti nickname (s) :  nat, tashie alias :  athena age :  thirty1 birthday :  september 2nd zodiac :  virgo gender & prns :  cis  woman  &  she / her orientation :  unlabeled hometown :  monaco height :  5’9’ hair  color :  dark  brown eye  color :  dark  brown body  mods :  three lobe piercings + belly button occupation :  mechanic (  rodani prowlers  )  +  luxury auto parts dealer crew :  rodani prowlers education :  bachelor's in finance + mba from the university of miami

𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊 - 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘.

when  did  your  first  realize  you  had  a  passion  for  cars  /  racing? “  realize  …  “  natasha  chuckles,  like  it’s  an  unfamiliar  word.  “  i  don’t  know  if  it  was  realized,  feels  like  something  that  was  just  inside  of  me.  it’s  less  of  a  passion  that  i  have,  more  like  something  in  my  blood.  something  like  the  air  i  breathe,  there’s  no  conscious  thought  in  my  mind  about  it.  most  kids  spent  their  childhoods  playing  with  the  kids  their  age,  going  to  school,  having  some  kind  of  normal  life.  me  ?  i  might  as  well  have  been  birthed  on  that  track.  hell,  i  think  i  was  meant  for  it,  costed  my  old  man  a  race  the  day  i  came  into  this  world.  first  place  he  took  me  ?  the  damn  garage  …  can  you  believe  that  ?  taking  a  baby  around  the  place,  asking  how  long  it  would  take  to  make  a  ferrari  onesie.  “  she  shakes  her  head  in  dismay,  fondness  preceding  any  bit  of  exasperation  she  held  towards  her  idol.

what  car  do  you  drive?  how  have  your  made  your  car  your  own? “  i’ve  got  a  few,  not  to  brag,  of  course.  won’t  mention  most  of  them,  because  well  …  i’d  hate  to  have  one  my  babies  tampered  with,  what  with  this  growing  divide  in  what  feels  like  such  a  small  city.  most  days,  you’ll  find  me  with  my  truck.  dodge  ram  srt10.  packs  quite  a  punch  and  has  some  decent  bed  space.  it’s  handy,  and  practical,  and  sure  …  not  that  flashy,  though  the  sound  system  is  pretty  killer.  spend  too  much  of  my  time  out  of  the  job  transporting  to  be  caught  in  something  too  nice,  if  you  know  what  i  mean.  “  smile  offered,  gentle  but  tight  -  lipped  in  the  end.  of  course,  it  would  be  terribly  foolish  to  talk  about  her  own  private  garage  that  housed  more  than  a  few  luxury  cars,  wouldn’t  it  be  ?

do  you  ever  have  the  urge  to  swap  positions? “  hell  no.  “  another  laugh,  glancing  to  check  out  her  worn  down  hands.  “  look,  i’m  confident.  i’m  sure  i  could  be  a  model  in  some  other  world,  and  i’m  sure  it’s  plenty  fun  and  hard  work  in  it’s  own  way.  but  …  not  for  me.  call  it  a  sordid  memory.  “  she  pauses,  man  that  she  spoke  so  highly  of  once  coming  down  to  something  more  human.  a  broken  marriage,  a  broken  family  as  a  result.  the  influence  a  pretty  face  could  have  on  a  young  and  successful  driver  who  liked  the  extra  attention.  “  as  for  being  a  racer  …  i’ve  never  thought  about  it.  don’t  know  if  that’s  the  kind  of  thrill  i’m  seeking.  i’ve  had  enough  adrenaline  rushes  being  a  kid  on  the  sidelines  waiting  for  my  dad  to  get  out  in  one  piece.  anyway  …  don’t  think  i  inherited  the  racing  kick  from  him,  just  the  love  for  the  game.  the  older  i  get  …  the  more  i  start  chasing  the  peace  instead.  don’t  feel  as  calm  as  i  do  under  than  hood  anywhere  else.  “

𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆.

there  has  never  been  a  still  day  in  natasha's  life.  from  the  moment  she's  born,  she  spends  her  weekends  on  the  sidelines,  propped  up  to  see  her  dad  on  the  track.  the  only  daughter  of  a  prominent  f1  racer,  her  birth  coinciding  with  his  first  championship  won.  to  her,  the  place  she'd  seen  her  father  lift  the  trophy  for  the  first  time  felt  like  home  to  her.  1976  monaco  grand  prix.  granted,  her  time  there  is  short  lived,  not  exactly  the  place  her  mother  envisioned  raising  a  child.  within  the  year,  she  settles  for  bologna,  italy,  just  a  fourty  minute  drive  shy  of  the  training  camp.

she  spends  more  time  around  cars  than  she  does  near  books,  managing  to  luck  out  in  the  education  department  with  flying  colors.  her  mind  is  only  half  there,  homeschooled  just  until  deciding  she  was  ready  for  something  as  real  as  college  was.  by  the  time  she's  six,  she's  canvassed  the  entirety  of  the  ferarri  headquarters,  daughter  of  their  star  driver  treated  like  the  brand's  princess.  at  age  seven,  she  foolishly  points  to  a  mclaren  and  says  ‘that  one’s  my  favorite!'  rendering  everyone  speechless.

despite  the  grandeur  of  being  behind  the  wheel,  her  younger  self  seemed  to  be  more  interested  in  tinkering  around,  asking  silly  questions  and  bothering  the  team's  mechanics  every  day.  they  hand  her  a  wrench  one  day,  and  tell  her  to  have  at  on  a  retired  car.  she  calls  it  whitney  and  demands  ownership  of  her  first  baby  when  she  finally  settles  down  in  miami.

a  career  in  the  professional  racing  scene  made  sense  for  natasha,  practically  bred  into  being  one  of  them  at  the  tender  age  of  preteen  years.  her  dad  is  her  idol,  her  role  model,  and  someone  she  was  close  to  from  the  day  she  was  born.  but  behind  her  rose-colored  outlook  lies  a  failing  marriage,  a  husband  with  a  growing  ego  and  a  wife  that  put  her  kids  first.  nat  doesn't  realize  any  of  it  until  she  walks  in  on  her  father  ontop  of  a  grid  model. 

her  world  is  shattered,  the  man  she  knew  suddenly  looking  unfamiliar.  she  leaves  italy  with  her  mother,  bouncing  around  a  few  different  continents  before  even  she  begins  to  search  for  stability.  eventually,  their  relationship  is  rebuilt,  a  broken  family  still  a  family  after  all.  but  it  never  feels  right  to  return,  to  take  a  place  that  harbored  bad  memories  for  her.  school  is  an  easy  enough  choice,  and  what  better  than  the  city  on  everyone's  minds?  she  chooses  something  practical,  even  though  her  heart  knows  where  she  belongs.

lands  herself  one  of  the  first  permanent  spots  on  the  prowlers  in  the  worst  way  possible:  being  a  smart  ass.  she  critiques  and  judges  tigress  herself  at  23,  hands  in  her  pockets  like  she  was  better  than  anyone  else.  nat  is  almost  shunned,  or  punched,  she  can't  remember  which  direction  the  conversation  would  have  gone  until  the  last  name  was  spoken  out  loud.  andretti.  if  it  isn't  for  the  hushed  whispers  between  tigress  and  mercury  saying  ‘shit,  you  know  who  her  dad  is?’  natasha  thinks  she  could  have  sweetened  the  deal  by  showing  off  her  private  garage.  it's  amazing  what  a  remorseful  rich  father  could  do  for  you.

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒔.

tba!  but  also  anything.  she's  a  longtime  prowler,  so  friends/enemies/mentees/exes/the  works!

[mw4outfitters]

Looking for ways to upgrade your Dodge RAM’s performance? This presentation covers all the information you ever wanted to learn about Dodge RAM 1500 performance upgrades. Please go through it…

[dvmm13]

Spider-Gwen

“Spider-Man?! The convoy’s being ambushed!” Gwen yelled into the comms, trusting Edith to deliver her message to the more experienced vigilante who was occupied with the relentless drones.

“A little bit occupied here, Spider-Woman—Oh, I know you!” Peter’s voice grunted through the comms, and a huff made its way through before he added “Keep them off the convoy as long as you can!”

Gwen huffed in annoyance after her eyes fell upon the speeding form of the Beetle tailing the truck again, she quickly rushed to the front and knocked on the driver’s window before it rolled down “Can we go any faster?”

“Not possible, ma’am; the load was too heavy.” The driver answered with his eyes never once left the road.

“Damnit…” Gwen cursed under her breath and maneuvered her body out of the fired bolt onto the roof, lowering herself into a crawl to minimize the available targets. “Guess I’m doing this!” Gwen pounced into the air with a planned corkscrew to follow the warnings of the Spider-Sense, evading the valley of bolts that can shatter bones as one already did to Officer Morello of BPD. Following her intuitions, Spider-Woman aimed and shot a line of webbing at a streetlight nearby to create a pivot before delivering a heavy double kick into the rushing Beetle’s helmet, missing the center by an inch but connected firmly, nonetheless. Using the face of her enemy as a springboard, Gwen pushed with both feet and introduced a gap between them before latching another web line on the truck, reeling herself in to stay with it.

Spider-Sense blared again as Gwen dodged to her left before a tackle came from behind, and blindsided her unnatural awareness using a feint attack. The Beetle quickly established their superior techniques in hand-to-hand combat as several punches, kicks, and elbows connected to the superhuman’s ribs and sides kneading her like a dough. Gwen gritted through the substantial amount of pain ramming into her body from the lapse of Spider-Sense caused by the surprise, but eventually, she could somewhat follow the attacks and deliver a series of decent counters utilizing her superior brute force against the mechanical enhancements of the assassin. Both women exchanged blows and counters for a moment before the Beetle decided to sneak in some close-range projectile with her twin railguns. Several spiked bolts shot high and low, grazing and missing the superhuman in their struggle on top of the moving truck.

Gwen strained herself almost to the limit trying to incorporate every Judo and Jiu-Jitsu move she’d ever learned under NYPD and Yuri Watanabe’s tutelages to try and keep up with the trained fighter opposite her, culminating injuries, albeit shallow and inconsequential, over time. The only advantage she had was the Spider-Sense, but that requires more attunement on her part to be as fluid as her boyfriend. Utilizing her stronger and more resilient muscles, Gwen decided to change her tactic to tank whatever she could while looking for a slip-up or opening that the Beetle might be unknowingly presenting during their scuffle.

A fist came from her left, so she instinctively evaded to the right just to be clocked squarely in her jaw by a blindsiding uppercut following the feint jab. Losing her balance, Gwen got tackled and flipped with an impressive Taekwondo throw into the metallic roof of the cargo, knocking the wind off her lungs. Spider-Sense screams deafeningly in her brain, and she manages to keep her face from being caved with a piercing bolt that goes through the hull into the space inside of the cargo. Spider-Woman wraps her legs around the Beetle and pulls her closer before shooting a spray of webbing into the assassin’s face with her free hand gripping the protruding antenna firmly, and delivers a strong push kick dead at the assassin’s stomach, knocking them back and down on one knee.

[reredram]

Experimental thingy, gonna try to make some iterator\travel logs for my iterator oc Bright Scale Among the Feathers ━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅ After disconnecting himself from his superstructure to avoid death due collapse, rebuilding his body to adapt onto traversing big distances in harsh conditions and autonomy support of life without help of superstructure, Scale makes logs to keep the track of his adventure in search for answers about his group and The Samsara Experiment.

Log number 32-DF-1\4-07 Cycles after collapse:15 I am proceeding through my former territory, so far the main problem is still excessively low temperatures and the landscape destroyed by time. The idea to build an iterator high in the mountains, in a subzero temperature zone, is undoubtedly a good solution that removes the problem of overheating of our mechanisms and eliminates the need for constant access to a water source, but as soon as my superstructure stopped functioning, ceasing to heat the air in the area, snowstorms became a deadly threat, reducing the additional time for movement between cycles to minimum indicators. Surprisingly, even at such ultra-low temperatures, there are extremophile plants on my way that live in hardly suitable conditions. As my colleague, Roaming Ram, used to say, nature will always find a way. The reserves of resources taken from the superstructure are inexorably running out, but no signs of fauna or edible flora have been found. I need to focus on finding food, otherwise I'll die here, covered in snow, under my own superstructure.

Log number 32-DF-1\4-08 Cycles after collapse:21 The resources completely ran out 3 cycles ago, and this body is starting to fail. The remaining energy is barely enough to keep moving in short dashes from shelter to shelter. Recently, I almost fell off a ledge, tripping and rolling down in the snow. It would be unpleasant to end my journey on such a humiliating note. No signs of any kind of life have been detected so far. I tried to eat one of the extremophilic plants, but its bitterness almost made me vomit. There is no benefit. It's terrible to feel so helpless. Once such a powerful being, almost godlike, is dying the hell where, alone, wrapped in a metal tail to at least keep warm a little. What a pathetic sight. How low I've fallen.

Log number 32-DF-1\4-09 Cycles after collapse:29 After wandering for a long time through the lifeless snow-covered wastelands, I found a small region, which is a bunker built underground. It's not as cold as it is outside, and there are even some areas with spears on which lanterns are strung. Surprisingly, despite the fact that this primitive structure consists of luminous slime and a transparent shell, it emits enough heat to keep warm in a small radius from itself. I need to keep a couple of these in my pocket, then I'll forget the worries about my life support systems disabling due to extreme cold. However, the most important thing is that I found signs of life. I met a lone scavenger, and despite the fact that I didn't show any aggression towards him, he attacked me anyway. I tried to respond with same, launching a rapid attack, but he managed to dodge my spear, as a result of which I had to hastily retreat so that he would not injure me, this is the last thing I need. Scavengers have never been known for their love for iterators, on the contrary, these dim-witted primates were constantly an annoying problem, either damaging the exterior of my hyperstructure for weapons in the form of spears, or knocking down and destroying my overseers. I heard the news that some iterators had entire infestations of scavengers, who flooded their cities, deserted by from ancients, causing chaos there. An unenviable fate. However, I will not just leave this humiliation. I'll wait out the cycle to regain some strength and kill this obnoxious parasite.

Log number 32-DF-1\4-10 Cycles after collapse:30 Justice has been done. I cornered this scavenger, and despite his attempts to fight back, one precise blow to the body, and he's dead. My body almost shut down in the process due to lack of resources, but the deflection system worked, repelling his attack. Upon closer examination of the corpse, I found explosives on it, collected, dried and crushed fruits of explosive cherries, tightly stuffed into a dark shell. Primitive, but effective, it's good that he didn't think to throw it at me in such a narrow room, I don't think that in a weakened state my body would have survived the explosion. And now, I was faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, the corpse of an intelligent being lies in front of me. Scavengers have tribes, hierarchies, and some kind of culture. Eating the corpse of an intelligent being, even if it shows aggression towards me, is unethical and simply disgusting. On the other hand, if I don't consume AT LEAST SOMETHING, then my systems will completely run out and fail to work, and, technically speaking, I will "die". ... To hell with morality and ethics. I don't want to die.

[vroomizing]

THERIOCTANE #1: Creatures Are Steering (Thoughts on Zoomorphic Vehicles)

"Wheeled animals are a constant in the platonic realm of forms we have constantly borne witness to" (Gillesby, 2025), as we didn't pick apart the idea of the motorcar until relatively recently. Or did we?

Notes on an Animal Form

Wheels — and circles in general — have carried symbolic meaning for a long, long time. In Buddhism, the cyclical movement of a wheel is used to symbolize the cyclical nature of life in the world. The Aztecs probably reasoned similarly with these wheeled figures:

Made of clay, porcelain and occasionally obsidian, they came from the late Classic Period (250–900 CE) up to the end of the Postclassic Period (from 900–1521 CE), and most are of dogs and jaguars, although monkeys, deer, alligators, iguanas, peccaries and/or armadillos have been mentioned by experts. Since the first two were associated to the underworld and many of these wheeled figures, when reconstructed, did not pull smoothly enough that children would have enjoyed their motion, most researchers now agree that the figures were of significance to adults, not to kids. Of course, certain ones could have been toys, “either by intent or following adult use and discard of the figures”. (Sorenson, Wheeled Figurines in the Ancient World, 3)

The evidence suggests that wheeled animal effigies were ritual objects invented in central Veracruz some time after 600 CE and that the concept reached northern Veracruz, central Mexico, and the southern Mesoamerican frontier by 1000–1100 CE. It is quite possible that this diffusion occurred a century or two earlier and that we simply lack evidence of it at the present time. (Diehl and Mandeville, Tula, and wheeled animal effigies in Mesoamerica, 243)

These concepts apply to the following, presumably votive carts from the temple of Inshushinak cache, found on the Susa acropolis, from around 1150 BCE:

According to historian Eduard Hahn, chariots descended from “a model by which the votaries of the Babylonian astral faith imitated on earth the movements of their celestial deities”. (Ekholm, Wheeled Toys in Mexico, 227) The model grew into a lifesize vessel, and as it was taken out of the temple precincts, lost its divine traits to become another vehicle of common life.

It's a touching story, but I find myself babbling much more than I expected about Aztec wheeled animals, and I’m pretty sure there has been way more examples of non-ritualistic wheeled animals — toys, essentially — in history that were toys than non-toys. One swallow does not summer make.

But I see magpies and seagulls. Owls and vultures. Falcons and pheaseants alike.

I think of the eyes painted on the bows of Greek and Phoenician galleys or the figureheads of Viking longships. How we call ships "she" regardless of their name.

I think of car hood ornaments. The leaping jaguar of Jaguars. The lion rampant of Peugeots. The ram of Dodges. The elephant of Bugatti Royales.

This whole reflection is born from the reading of "The Animation of the Inorganic" (2012) by Spyros Papapetros. Papapetros mentions unsurprisingly "the animal biomorphism of machines" only once, since his work is mainly centered around architecture; he was talking about the comparison to horses Native people made with the train locomotive. This animal biomorphism, or zoomorphism, in the context of automobiles, is more or less explicit, as it took different forms:

The Esso tiger advertisement campain from the late 1950s and early 1960s, for example, compares its product, gasoline, to the physical attributes of a tiger: power, speed, performance; make your car a bit tiger-like! They even sold (fake) tiger tails to hang to your fuel tank as promotional items.

I like the Liqui Moly ad next to it mainly because the engine is this futurist mechanical horse. But the message is that your car is already part-animal and you just have to unleash, free that part. In other words, the product sold will not inherently give your car animal traits, as it has animal characteristics from its conception. It just hasn't "awoken".

The BMW ad shows a horse bowing to the car: it is superior to the horse, may it be performance, or even status. The ad treats the car as a rival to animals, but still as a car.

I'm pairing this second Esso ad with the Jaguar one. These treat the car as an animal in itself: animals that need to consume fuel (1), cars that are viewed as animals (2).

I'm sure a lot of vehicle characters in media gain traits and personality based on their form (shape language, bouba/kiki and all that) and vice versa. Cars are akin to animals not only because they look like animals, but because they move, feel, behave, and even think like animals; how numerous are depictions of cars as beasts, steeds, people (which are nothing but political animals)? Our living spaces are shaped by our needs; can't we say the same about our automotive structures? Aren't they shaped as if we were accommodating the land in function of the automobile's needs?

But I think I see now why the presence of animalistic vehicles or vehicular animals nowadays has mostly been confined to children’s media: in our common era, like the Mesopotamian cart, they have lost their divine aspects. And more than that, we see vehicles and animals alike as (lesser) companions. Humankind dominates these spheres. We endanger the environment of and have tried to domesticate tigers, jaguars, lions and the like. As we've successfully domesticated wolves into dogs, wild cats into regular cats, we've domesticated the once dangerous car into a tool. As they no longer constitute a significant danger to our species (most of the time), we choose to decide when they do. We associate these predators' traits to positive values as shown earlier even when we try to emphasize its intimidating factor i.e. the size, the engine power, etc.

And let's not leave out that if advertisements that use animalistic traits appeal to adults that want to feel in control of such power or luxury, zoomorphic cars of the 20th and 21st century mostly appeal to children (exceptions include weird Canadians like me). This form of animism (I hope I'm not using the term disingenuously. I just feel like making such characters or advertising cars in such ways is somewhat animism, at least in spirit.) is a phenomenon of the North American society of manufacturing and consumption.

There has been undoubtly an uptick in animism in recent years and it's thought, according to experts like Joseph Altshuler and Julia Sedlock, that the common people are subconsciously looking for an alternative to this capitalistic worldview. They argue that a more animistic worldview will make people kinder, but I must disagree with their conclusion, because I don't see how it could get us to move away from our capitalistic ways when advertisers are already, in a sense, somewhat animists! A spiritual theory cannot supplant an entire economic system, only mitigate part of its effects, since it does not offer a robust rival economic system.

I don't have any good closing thoughts, apart from the fact that in the end, vehicular zoomorphism has been around for as long as humans have built vehicles of transportation, but only has really taken off since the introduction and popularization of the car. The animism we've attributed to it has since taken a capitalistic value. Could American automotive zoomorphism simply be a form of consumer sentiment?

Probably.