#horsepower trap

[your-fave-gets-saw-trapped]

Scout (team fortress 2) is in the Horsepower Trap (saw 3d)!

requested by anon!

[websterss]

PARTS HE CAN'T REPLACE — RAY YOUNG

SUMMARY: No matter how hard you try not to, you can't help but keep letting Ray in, even though you've told yourself to move on.

WARNING(S): There's slight smut, but it's very tame, no heavy descriptions, angst. The reader and Ray going back and forth with their emotions. Curtis looking out for his future sister-in-law lol

WORD COUNT: 9,283

PAIRING: Ray Young x fem!reader

A/N: Hope you like it! Guys, I feel weird. I wrote a smut scene lmfao

MASTERLIST

"These are car parts, Curt."

Curtis shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. His boots squeak faintly on the concrete floor as he answers. "I'm helping a friend rebuild a car."

"Who?"

"Girl... Caitlyn. She's cool." He waves it off like it’s not worth unpacking.

"'73 Road Runner?"

"It's a '73 Charger. It's a Rallye," Curtis corrects, a little too quickly.

Ray leans back slightly, arms folded, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Does this, uh, '73 Charger Rallye have an 800 horsepower, 9.9-liter V-8?"

Curtis’s brows knit. "How’d you know that?"

"Heard stories about that car. License plate says 'UNB10,' right?" Curtis gives a reluctant nod.

Ray's smirk widens. He toys with a greasy rag on the table beside him. "So what are you doing rebuilding Christian Maddox’s car?"

Curtis shifts again, his stance stiffer now. "Caitlyn’s his daughter."

"Huh." Ray chuckles under his breath. "What are you guys gonna do with it?"

"Gonna race it."

"You?" Ray nearly doubles over in disbelief, a hand gripping the edge of the workbench as if the thought knocked the wind out of him.

"No. Caitlyn’s brother. When he’s ready."

Ray's expression softens slightly. "Take him to see Dottie."

"Yeah, already did."

"And?" Ray dips his head expectantly, his interest sharpening.

"Let’s just say you can take your time finding those parts. Alright, I gotta roll. Thank you again, bye."

Ray raises a hand. "Yeah, hold up, baby brother. I’m gonna need you on Main Street tonight. 9:20."

"Main Street? The lights go out at nine, and I’m gonna be at the festival."

"Watching pretty fireflies and holding hands with your girlfriend?" Ray mocks, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. Curtis tilts his head in disappointment, clearly unimpressed.

"Yeah, no, Curt, you just handed me a whole list of vintage parts. Does this look like an AutoZone? This stuff ain’t free, bud."

"Okay, how much do you want for them?"

"I just told you the price. 9:20."

Curtis frowns, his jaw tight, and heads toward the garage door. He pauses as he notices you leaning against the wall, half-hidden in shadow. The overhead light casts a pale halo around you, illuminating the concern etched into your features. He offers a faint grin, brief and crooked, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ray’s gaze follows his brother out, then shifts to you. He picks up a wrench and drops it with a sharp clatter on the metal table. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." You step forward, arms crossed, boots scraping against a slick trail of oil that you side-step instinctively. "I thought you were done dragging Curtis into your business?"

Ray gestures to the note in his hand. "Look at this shit he just gave me to find for him. He needs to learn the hard way that things in life don’t come easy."

"I think Curtis already knows that, Ray..."

The air in the garage feels heavier now, like the heat of summer trapped beneath the tin roof, thick with the smell of grease, metal, and something burning faintly in the distance.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, his eyes narrowing as he flicks a glance toward the door Curtis walked out of.

"What do you think? My car broke down again. Your sweet baby brother lent me a ride." You nod toward the exit.

"Again?" Ray exhales sharply, brushing his hand down his face.

"Might’ve been the alternator. It stalled half a mile back."

"I thought I fixed that problem for you..."

"Yeah, well, tell that to my Honda Civic sitting pretty on the side of the road." You squint, the heat outside clinging to your clothes like a second skin.

"You know what you need. A new car, Y/n. I can’t keep fixing it for you every other week."

"Easy for you to say. We small-town people can’t just up and get a new freaking car whenever we want."

"You know I can just—"

"No. You’re not gonna gift me a stolen car. Hell no."

"Who the hell said anything about gifting you anything?"

"Can you please just come look at my car!"

"No."

"No?" Your tone sharpens, disbelieving.

"I’ve got my hands full right now. It can wait." He turns toward the metal table, fussing with a box of bolts like they matter more than you.

"They look perfectly empty to me."

"I’ll do it tomorrow. Promise."

"Why can’t you now? You got it running in no time, last time."

"Do you need it right now?" He tilts his head.

"Yes!"

“Is it urgent?”

“Dude yes!”

"Look, you’re just gonna have to wait. I can’t do it right now, Y/n. Come on, I’ll drive you home. That I can do."

"That’d be great, Ray, but I’m meeting someone later. I need my car."

"For what?"

Your throat tightens. His eyes are already on you, suspicious. "I got a date..."

"A date?" His voice drops, darkens.

"That’s what I just said..." You nod, swallowing hard.

"That you’re driving to?"

"Yes. Is there an echo in here or something?"

Ray scoffs, licking his bottom lip before he lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah, no, you’re not going on that date."

"Um, no, you don’t get to decide that for me. I’m a grown-ass woman."

"Who has to drive to her own date? What are you, stupid? Your standards are higher than that. Come on now."

"You don’t know what my standards are."

"Sweetheart, I set them for you, remember? Don’t upset me." He looks away, jaw tightening. “Come on, I'm taking you home. I'll fix your car tomorrow when I have the time." Ray goes to walk off, but stops when noticing you're not moving to leave with him. "What?" He sighs, taking note of your frown. Your hope dies down. "Don't look at me like that...The prick is making you drive to meet him. I never made you do that. Not once. You're not going on that date." His voice was low and firm. "I get it, okay. You didn't want this anymore. That's fine, sweetheart. I'm a big boy. I got over it. It won't be me again. That's clear...I'll be damned though if I let you settle down for the damn bare minimum. Come on. I'm taking you home." His keys to his truck jingle in his hand as he jostles them around.

"I don’t need your help, Ray. This isn’t about you and me. Let me make my own decisions."

"I’m just trying to look after you."

"I’m a big girl. I can look after myself, thank you."

"Okay, then walk home." He tosses the words like they’re harmless.

"Maybe I will." You go to step around him, but he grabs your arm. Hard.

He yanks you back with more force than necessary. You gasp, the grip sending a jolt of pain up your shoulder. The oil-slicked air feels suffocating now.

"I see your anger hasn’t left you…”

Ray freezes, the bite in your voice cutting through whatever pride or anger was burning under his skin. His hand loosens instantly. You step back, rubbing your arm with your opposite hand, the skin already warm and sore. A bruise might be forming.

His gaze follows the motion, jaw clenched. He flexes the hand he grabbed you with, staring at it like it betrayed him. "I'm sorry..."

You blink. The apology disarms you. You’d expected him to scoff, throw something sarcastic back in your face, but instead he looks... remorseful. His voice stays low. His hand disappears into his pocket like he doesn’t trust it anymore.

The garage falls silent—just the faint ticking of a cooling engine in the background.

"Just... Just let me take you home, alright?" he says finally. "This guy you’re gonna meet... He sounds like some loser that isn’t worth your time."

"You don’t even know who it is. You can’t just make assumptions like that."

"Maybe I don’t, but I don’t need to know him to know that any man who’s willing to let you drive out to him, rather than picking you up first thing, is a loser in my book."

"So you read now?" You try to lighten the mood.

Ray tilts his head. "Very funny..." He deadpans. Then, softer, "Come on. Stop making excuses for this guy. Do you really think he’s worth your time?"

He exhales sharply and gives you a look, one you know well. Partly annoyed. Partly concerned. Part something else he never says out loud.

"You deserve better than that. I know you’ve been on a lot of dates that never amounted to much lately, and this guy’s gonna be no different."

"Gee, thanks for the confidence boost, Ray. So helpful."

"I’m not trying to boost your confidence, sweetheart. I’m just telling you the truth. Look at you. You’re literally about to go on a date with a guy who can’t even pick you up for the occasion. I’m willing to bet twenty bucks he expects you to pay, too."

"You really think he’s gonna ask me to pay the whole bill?"

"Won’t even open a door."

You let out a breath through your nose and shake your head, but it’s not in disbelief anymore. Just tiredness. Tired of the back-and-forth, tired of him meddling in the worst ways.

"You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t care anymore that we’re over, you sure have a lot to say about who I see and what I do."

Ray’s shoulders drop just slightly. Like something in your voice made the fight leak out of him. He looks at you then, not with smugness, not with irritation. Just... that familiar weight behind his eyes. The kind that always makes it hard to stay mad at him.

“I never said I didn’t care,” he says. “I said I got over it. There’s a difference.”

You’re quiet. So is he. Somewhere in the garage, something metal clinks softly as it shifts with the heat.

He takes a slow step toward you. It's not threatening, just... closer. His eyes drop to the spot on your arm where his hand had been. The guilt returns, thick and heavy behind his voice.

“I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“I know.” You sigh. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

Ray runs a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to say something else, maybe apologize again, maybe ask you to stay. But all he does is mutter, “You always did know how to piss me off.”

You can’t help the quiet smirk that tugs at your lips. “Guess I had a knack for matching your energy.”

Ray huffs a short laugh, it’s genuine, as much as it is tired. Then he goes still again, like he’s deciding something. His thumb brushes across the edge of the workbench behind him, and finally he says:

“Who is it?”

You blink. “What?”

“The guy. The one you're going to meet.”

You tilt your head. “You want a name now?”

“I want to know what kind of guy thinks letting you pull up to him is okay. That's all.”

You stare at him, quiet. Then: “He’s just someone who asked nicely. Who doesn’t make me feel like I’ve gotta earn every ounce of attention.”

That one hits. Ray flinches, but barely. His jaw works, grinding through some unspoken response. He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he looks at you again, softer this time.

“I never made you earn anything. You just... always deserved more than I could give you.”

It’s low. Barely audible. Like he’s afraid if he says it any louder, it might make it real.

You glance at the door, unsure of what you’re doing anymore. Unsure if you still have time to make that date. If you even wanted to.

He notices.

“You’re not walking,” he says, voice firm again. “I’ll drive you home. You don’t have to talk to me if that’s what makes you happy. I’ll just drop you off.”

You study him, waiting for the punchline, but it never comes. He just stands there, his hand already reaching for his keys, the other still flexing like it remembers what it did and wants to take it back.

“Alright,” you say finally. “But you keep the commentary to yourself.”

He nods. “No promises.”

“Yeah…You never were great at keeping them.”

He smirks. “Didn’t say I was.”

Ray leads the way out of the garage, the door creaking open on rusted hinges. You follow a few steps behind, arms folded against your chest as the last of the sun stains the pavement in burnt amber. The air smells like cut grass and warm metal, thick with humidity. It clings to your skin.

He unlocks the truck with a tired flick of the key, the old Chevy groaning as he opens the passenger door for you. You slide in without a word. It smells like engine grease, pine air freshener, and a trace of whatever cologne he’s always worn, something sharp and dark that sits in the back of your throat.

Ray circles around and gets in. The door slams shut with a dull thud.

For a while, there’s nothing but the click of the keys and the low rumble of the engine starting. Neither of you speak. The air between you is tight. Tangled.

He fiddles with the radio knob until static gives way to an old rock station. Fleetwood Mac, low and scratchy. You watch the road. He watches everything else.

The tires hum against the pavement, the occasional streetlamp flickering overhead. You count them in silence. One. Two. Three.

Halfway to town, he speaks without looking at you. “You gonna let him kiss you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Tonight. This guy. Are you gonna let him kiss you?”

Your head snaps toward him. “Why the hell would you ask me that? I thought I said no commentary?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. But his grip on the wheel tightens. “Just curious.”

You stare at him, waiting for more, for the real reason. But he doesn’t offer one.

So you answer. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it feels right.”

He nods, like he heard you, but then says quietly, “You used to tell me you only wanted to kiss someone when it finally meant something to you.”

Your stomach flips. Your gaze drifts back out the window. You don't say anything after that.

The silence creeps in again, thicker this time. Fleetwood fades into a slower song. Queen, warm and aching.

“Can anybody find me somebody to love...”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Ray doesn’t touch the dial. Minutes pass. You realize he’s not driving toward your house. He’s heading past town.

You sit up. “Where are we going?”

“The one place everything meant something.” He says simply.

You don’t push it. You already know where this ends.

He pulls over just before the bridge. The place where you used to sit and talk when you were still pretending it was nothing. The lights from town flicker around, distant and quiet.

He shifts the truck into park and lets it idle.

“I’m gonna wait...” He says.

“For what?”

“For you to decide.”

You don’t answer. You just sit there, staring out at the glow of somewhere you’re not going anymore.

The music keeps playing, soft and warbling like it’s coming from a few rooms away. Ray doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

The seconds stretch. You let your hand fall from where it traced a smudge on the window, palm resting in your lap. Your gaze stays fixed on the town lights ahead, glowing like fireflies.

“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” Ray says finally. “About the kiss.”

You don’t turn to look at him. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

He exhales through his nose, slow. You can hear him flexing his fingers against the wheel again. He’s always done that when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. You used to tell him to knock it off. You don’t this time.

“I just—” He cuts himself off. Then, softer, “It’s hard seeing you get ready for someone else. Even harder when I don’t know if he knows you.”

Your eyes flicker toward him, cautious. “What do you mean?”

Ray’s jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing on the words. “I mean… You hate it when the air smells like wet asphalt. You never eat the last bite of your sandwiches, you bite into your ice cream like a psycho, and you pick out the pickles they put in your burger, even when you've asked them not to add them. You laugh when you're nervous, but only when you're trying to act like you’re not scared. And when your car stalls, you always whisper something to it like it’s a scared animal instead of a machine.” He finally turns to look at you. Really looks.

“I don’t think this guy knows that.”

You blink, heart tightening under your ribs. “That’s not your business anymore.”

“I know.” He says. And you believe him.

“But it still matters to you.” You add quietly.

He doesn’t deny it.

A breeze creeps through the cracked window. The song changes again, another soft, aching thing.

Then, slowly, Ray reaches out. His hand brushes the back of yours, hesitant like he’s testing if you’ll move. You don’t.

His fingers curl slightly, palm grazing yours.

“Y/n.” He says, your name catching on the edge of his breath.

You glance at him, and there’s something unreadable in his expression, tired, maybe. A little afraid.

He leans in, not fast, not all the way. Just close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the pause in his chest.

Your eyes drop to his mouth. His do the same.

But you don’t close the gap.

And neither does he.

You both just sit there, close enough to fall, neither willing to risk the landing.

After a beat, he pulls back. You do too.

Silence again.

You rest your hand on the door again, but this time it’s slower. Not like you're about to leave, more like you’re holding onto something solid. To ground you. Ray doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you the way he always has when he’s unsure if he still has a place in your life.

“I’m not going,” you say again, firmer this time. “I don’t want to go, not because you told me to. Because I don’t want to anymore.”

Ray nods, slow. “If that’s what you want.”

You smile faintly. “It is.”

The tension thins between you, it’s not gone, just rearranged. You sit back in your seat and glance at the town lights again. The truck hums quietly beneath you, warmth pulsing through the floorboards like a heartbeat.

Ray leans back too, one arm resting on against the back of your seat frame. Another hand reaching inside a chip bag you hadn’t noticed before. “You hungry?” He offers one to you. Cool Ranch Doritos.

You turn to him, surprised. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “I stress eat.”

You say. “You’re so stupid.” It’s not meant to be an insult, more so, a quiet endearment.

“About you? Yeah, I know.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes, it’s small, real.

There’s no dramatic moment, no earth-shaking confession. Just the two of you, sitting in a truck parked on the edge of something that used to be love and maybe still is, him eating cold chips and listening to the soft hum of classic rock on a half-broken stereo.

The headlights stretch down the road, lighting nothing. You’re not sure where the night will take you. But you’re here. And so is he.

After a quiet beat, Ray glances over, something unreadable in his face again.

“Stay?” He asks. Just one word.

You nod, eyes never leaving his.

“I am.”

You don’t need to ask what that means. Neither of you move to get out of the truck. To take you home. The world is quiet around you now. There’s no rushing, no broken-down Civics, no date waiting for you across town.

Just the hum of the engine, the fading music, and the kind of silence that feels like home.

After a while, Ray cuts the engine, and the world outside becomes still. Just the chirp of crickets and the low rustle of leaves in the breeze. Without the hum of the motor, everything feels sharper. Quieter. Intimate.

He leans back in his seat, arm still draped across the backrest, his fingers nearly brushing your shoulder. You don’t move away.

“Still not hungry?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not for cool ranch Doritos.”

He chuckles under his breath. “More for me then.”

A beat passes.

“I missed this.” You say softly, eyes on the windshield. The moonlight cuts across it like a silver ribbon, fractured by a long, faint scratch across the glass.

Ray doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is lower than before. “I never stopped missing it.”

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

The space between you isn’t wide, but it feels like a tightrope. The kind of stretch you don’t cross unless you mean it.

He moves first, his fingertips ghosting against your cheek like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed to or not.

You lean into it.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough.

He draws his hand back like it burned him.

“I should take you home.” He says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But you don’t move.

Neither does he.

-

You wake up in your bed the next day. Ray’s hoodie still on your person, he offered it up without a second thought after you exhaled deeply and sunk in on yourself, your car was still stalled out on the side of the road where you left it.

Your phone had three missed texts.

[8:51 PM] Did you get lost?[9:12 PM] Let me know if you’re still coming.[10:04 PM] Guess not. It’s cool.

You sigh, deleting them without answering.

By the time you make it into town, after a shower, after slipping the hoodie into the laundry so you don’t smell like him all day, it seems everyone knew you didn’t show up for your date.

At the diner, Brooke raises a brow at you from behind the counter as she checks you out.

“Didn’t figure you for a no-show type,” She says, setting your food on the counter. “He looked real nervous.” She finishes ringing up your order of a burger with no pickles, fries, and strawberry milkshake.

You give a tight-lipped smile. “Guess I wasn’t in the mood.”

She hums. “Ray Young took you home last night?”

You pause, then nod. Slowly. Taking your credit card back and slipping it back into your wallet.

She doesn’t press. She just slides your receipt across the counter. “I thought that was over? People talk you know, they say he has a habit of ruining things he wants to keep.”

“Thank you, Brooke.” You give her a faint smile. She returns it.

You stuff the receipt into your bag without looking at it. Your fingers feel stiff, like they’re still curled around last night’s silence in the truck. Like if you open your hand too wide, it’ll spill out.

Brooke goes back to taking orders, like she didn’t just drop a casual little grenade on you.

“They say he has a habit of ruining things he wants to keep.” 

You step outside into the too-bright sunlight. It feels like it’s exposing you somehow, like it knows too much. The scent of hot asphalt and oil clung to the air, mingling with whatever shame is still sitting low in your chest.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a ride. Just a moment of playing catch-up.

But the way Ray looked at you last night… The things he didn’t say, stuck. Like grease under your fingernails.

His hoodie still clings to your shoulders as Brooke’s warning still echoes in your chest.

You unlock your bike from the side rail, tossing your bag into the wire basket. The tires are a little low, and the chain squeaks as you push off the curb, but it moves. Gets you where you need to go. And right now, that’s enough.

You ride slow. The morning air sticks to your skin. Small-town streets blur by, familiar porches, cracked sidewalks, the distant clink of a sprinkler tapping against cement.

The school comes into view before you know it, like it always does: a tan building tucked between too-green fields and a worn-out parking lot taken up by students and they’re flashy cars. You lock your bike at the far end, swing your bag over your shoulder, and walk through the doors like nothing’s different.

But it is.

-

The final bell rings, followed by a low groan of sounds, shuffling feet, and half-muttered conversations. You erase the board slowly, the scent of dry-erase marker still sharp in the air—papers rustle. Chairs scrape. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall.

You’re gathering your things for lunch when you hear the soft thud of footsteps behind you.

“Hey.”

You glance over your shoulder.

Curtis stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. He looks like he’s been debating whether or not to come in for the past five minutes.

“Shouldn’t you be in shop class, Mr. Young?” You ask lightly, stuffing a folder into your bag.

“Free period,” he shrugs. “Figured I’d check in... And since when are we on last name bases?” His laugh settles when you give him a pointed look.

You pause. “Check in, for what?”

Curtis steps further into the classroom, quiet, careful. “I saw you this morning. Riding your bike.”

You freeze for half a second. “You’re spying on me now?”

“Nope,” he says, pulling a chair backward and straddling it. “Just happened to be outside. Hard not to notice your English teacher pedaling a cruiser.”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches.

Curtis leans forward, resting his arms on the chair back. “Didn’t take the car?”

“It’s still dead. I didn’t have time to wait on your brother.”

He nods once, slow. “So he didn’t fix it.”

“Not yet.”

Another pause.

“You wore his hoodie this morning.”

You look away, pretending to organize your desk. “I was cold.”

Curtis lets the silence stretch.

“I’m not trying to start something,” he says gently. “I just… know how Ray is. He’s got a lot of pieces he hasn’t figured out how to hold without breaking them.”

You look up at him then. His face is open, sincere in a way that Ray never quite manages but tries to.

“I’m not a piece, Curtis.” You say.

“I know.”

The classroom feels a little too quiet now. Curtis shifts, like he’s about to get up, then pauses.

“If you ever need a ride again... or just someone to talk to let me know.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He nods once more, then stands and walks toward the door. Before he steps out, he glances back over his shoulder.

“Tell Ray to stop stalling, Mom wants you back for family dinners.”

-

The hum of the classroom fades long after the last student leaves. You move through the motions, grading a worksheet, answering a question about tomorrow’s group discussions, but Curtis’s voice keeps drifting back in, soft and unshakable:

“He’s got a lot of pieces he hasn’t figured out how to hold without breaking them.”

You didn’t answer him earlier, not really, because you’ve always known that about Ray.

You just never said it out loud.

By the end of the day, the words sit under your skin like a splinter. You catch yourself checking your phone more than once, hoping one is from Ray. There isn’t one.

You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, waiting to see if you’ll reach out first. Testing your silence.

You don’t give him that.

But you know you’re going to see him before you even pedal the way to his garage.

-

The sun’s gone down by the time you finally walk up the drive. His garage is lit from within, the big overhead light buzzing faintly. You can hear music playing softly from inside, an old rock song humming through the speakers.

Ray’s working under the hood of someone’s car when you step in. His hands are black with grease, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He doesn’t look up right away, but you know he hears you. The shift in his shoulders gives him away.

“You walk here?” He asks, voice casual. Controlled.

“No. Bike.” You gesture to the handles you hold onto for support.

He glances over then, eyes catching yours. “I thought you said your chain kept falling out?”

“It is. Does, I mean,” You give a short nod. “Curtis paid me a visit after class…” You felt the need to address.

“He say something?” He straightens.

“Yeah,” you answer. “He did.”

Ray wipes his hands on a rag, slowly. “Let me guess… He thinks I’m screwing you up again.”

You shrug. “I don’t think he’s wrong.”

That quiets him.

He tosses the rag onto the table. You move deeper into the garage, crossing your arms as you come to a stop a few feet away. “He said you’re stalling.”

Ray tilts his head. “Stalling what?”

“Fixing my car… Us.” You look down.

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You think I don’t want to fix your car?”

“I think you don’t want to deal with what comes after you fix it.”

Ray steps around the vehicle he was working on, the light overhead catching on the sharp line of his brow. “So what? Do you think that if I fix it, you won’t come back? I’ll stay away?”

You hold his gaze. “Isn’t that what you want?”

His silence is answer enough.

The space between you buzzes with everything unsaid. You let it hang for a moment, heavy and taut. Then:

“You don’t get to keep me in limbo just because you’re scared to lose something you already lost, Ray.”

That one scares him like a car wrapping around a tree. You watch him breathe in.

Finally, he says, “I’ll fix your car tomorrow.”

“No,” you say softly. “You’ll fix it now.”

His brow lifts, but you’re not backing down.

“I’m done waiting for you to figure it out, Ray. Either you’re in or you’re out. But you don’t get to pull me halfway into your world and call it caring.”

A long beat. The music shifts in the background. He doesn’t speak. But he nods.

Not big. Not intimidating.

Just enough.

Ray walks past you without a word, tossing his rags down and grabbing his toolset. He nods toward the far bay, where your Civic is parked, half hidden behind a metal sliding door, as if it’s something embarrassing compared to his vintage cars.

You follow him across the garage in silence. Your boots click against the concrete, muted by the music still playing in the background, some bluesy guitar dragging its notes like it’s tired of being patient.

Ray pushes the door to the side and goes to lift the hood. He doesn’t look at you.

You watch him. The way he moves is sharp, precise, but not careless. He’s always been like that. His hands were always dirty, but his focus clean. One part at a time. One bolt. One belt. One wire.

He doesn’t talk. Just works—the occasional clink of metal, the slow whir of a ratchet turning.

You lean against the nearby table, arms crossed, eyes never leaving him.

“I meant what I said.” You say after a while.

His shoulders shift, but he doesn’t respond.

You keep going anyway. “I’m tired of pretending this... whatever this is between us... doesn’t affect me.”

Ray grips the wrench a little too tightly, knuckles whitening. “No one’s asking you to pretend anything. You broke up with me, remember?”

“No one had to ask me, Ray, but you just left me wondering... It’s confusing.”

He exhales slowly, setting the tool down with a dull thunk on the engine block. “Y/n...” His head falls.

“No,” You cut in. “Don’t. Nothing you say can fix this.”

That gets him. He meets your gaze, turns around, and looks at you. The neon light catches in his eyes, brown-flecked and tired.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

Silence. The kind that doesn’t go anywhere.

Ray turns back to the car, works the alternator loose with a quick, practiced flick. He mutters something under his breath, maybe about the part, maybe about himself.

Ten minutes pass in the low thrum of tools and tension.

When he finally slams the hood shut and wipes his hands clean, he doesn’t say, it’s done. He just looks at you, sweat at his temple, grease streaked across his forehead, eyes unreadable.

“Keys are in the cupholder.” He says, but he doesn’t move away from the car.

-

You drive. He rides passenger.

The engine hums better now. Still not perfect, but it doesn’t stall at every red light, doesn’t cough when you hit the gas. He fixed it like he said he would. The silence between you stretches. Nothing angry. Just full.

The road is mostly empty. A few porch lights blink on as you pass. The town settles into its nighttime hush, screen doors creaking, dogs barking a few blocks off, the faint smell of rain somewhere far down the highway.

Ray’s window is cracked open. His fingers tap the edge of the door in rhythm with the music playing low from your old speakers. It’s some soft soul track he didn’t comment on when you turned it on.

He hasn’t said much since the garage.

You should have left him at the garage, but when you turned the headlights on and meet his gaze through the windshield, you couldn’t help your impulsiveness and reach over to open the passenger door. He didn’t need to ask for the ride, he had his bike, but he climbed in without hesitation. Now he just… sits there, like he’s bracing for the moment he’s been wanting to happen for a long time now.

You pull up outside your place. Kill the engine.

The world goes quiet except for the steady chirp of crickets. A warm breeze slips in through the cracked windows.

Ray doesn’t move to get out.

You glance over. “Penny for your thoughts?”

His hand drops from the window. He shakes his head once, eyes forward. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

That earns a faint smile. Small, but real.

Another pause. Then he turns to you fully, one hand on the seat between you.

“I know I don’t say the right thing. I never do. But when I was fixing that piece of shit engine…”

“Don’t trash-talk my car.” You lightly laugh at his choice of words. He laughs too.

“All I could think about was how pissed I’d be if someone else did it for you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Because you don’t trust anyone else?”

“No.” He meets your eyes. “Because I don’t want anyone else doing the things I want to do for you.” It lands heavy between you. That ugly, honest kind of truth.

Your throat tightens. You want to say something, anything, but the words catch in the back of your throat. All that comes out is a breath.

Ray watches you for a second longer, then leans back against the headrest, looking up at your ceiling like the answer might be printed in the fabric.

“You gonna ask me to come inside?” He asks quietly.

You don’t respond right away.

Instead, you let your hand drift to the door handle, but this time, you don’t open it.

Just like last night.

“I don’t think I can handle pieces of you anymore.” You say.

Ray looks at you, and it’s there, raw, unspoken, something halfway towards regret and maybe even love. But it’s not ready yet. He’s not ready yet.

So he nods in understanding.

And he stays in the car with you a little longer, just breathing the same air, listening to the radio, and letting all the things you still haven’t said weigh down on you both.

You just sit there, staring at the shadowy outlines of your house through the windshield. Your heart's in a knot. Your brain’s louder than the music still whispering low through the speakers.

You meant what you said about not being able to take only parts of him. When you do, it always ends up with your heart being broken or a bruise-shaped memory. But when you look at him now, under the soft yellow glow of your porch light, you still ache in that same stupid place you always do.

And maybe that’s why your hand moves before your mouth can stop it.

You push open the door.

You get out.

And lower your head to meet his gaze, eyes pleading silently at him.

Ray hesitates. A beat. Two. You close your door and head up the small path to your porch. Then you hear the soft creak that echoes in your chest of the passenger door opening behind you.

You don’t say anything. Just walk up inside.

And leave it open behind you.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following. You feel the air shift the second he steps in behind you. The door clicks shut, but the silence stays loud. You stand in the middle of the room, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt like you're holding a lit match and daring yourself not to drop it.

His presence behind you is looming, heavy. You feel him before you hear him. The low drag of his boots across your floor, the way the warmth of him presses against your back without him touching you.

"You sure?" He asks, voice low and rough, like gravel pulled across pavement.

You nod.

"Say it." The soft command scrapes gently against your spine.

"I want you." You breathe out.

That’s all it takes.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask again. His hands are on your hips in a flash, rough and sure, like he’s been waiting too long to be careful. He turns you with gentle force but not cruelty, crashing his mouth against yours with a hunger that makes your knees buckle.

You gasp into the kiss. His lips are hot, firm, just shy of punishing. He tastes like beer and every wrong choice you've ever made. You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the muscle there as he walks you backward through the space of your home. Your hip bumps into the edge of your couch before he keeps walking you backwards. The path to your room was something he never forgot.

“Been thinking about this for too long.” He mutters, trailing his mouth down your throat. His stubble scrapes your skin, and you arch against him, breath stuttering.

His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, dragging your shirt up, sliding calloused fingers under the fabric until his thumbs brush over the underside of your breasts. It’s frantic, and slow at the same time, like he wants to savor every inch of you, but doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it if he doesn’t keep moving.

You whimper as he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you. His mouth latches onto the skin above your heart, dragging his teeth over it like he wants to leave a mark deep enough to stay days after he's gone.

"You're shaking." He murmurs, voice thick.

"You're making me..." You breathe.

His mouth curls against your skin. He pushes you back slowly down the hall, lips trailing fire along your jaw, and kicks open the bedroom door like it’s the final gate before a storm.

He lays you down, hard, fast, but careful enough not to hurt you. His hands don’t leave your body, not for a second. He strips you slowly now, his eyes following every inch of skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Goddamn,” He whispers, more to himself than you, dragging his fingers from the inside of your thigh up your hip. “I forgot how soft you are.”

“You didn’t forget,” you whisper. “You just haven't touched me in a long time.”

That lands somewhere low in his gut. Ray groans and kisses you again, slower this time, his tongue tangling with yours, his hand sliding between your legs like it belongs there. He teases you, just enough to make your hips twitch, before sliding them in with practiced ease. The stretch is sweet and immediate. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily.

You tug at his belt in response, your hands clumsy, desperate. He helps you, ripping it loose and shoving his jeans down just far enough. When he finally slides between your thighs, thick and hot, your breath hitches.

He pushes in slowly. Deliberate.

Stretching you.

Filling you.

You clutch at his back, nails digging in as he bottoms out and groans low in your ear.

“Missed this,” he says. “Missed you.”

You don’t answer with words. You roll your hips, and that’s enough.

He takes you, inch by inch, like he’s making up for every time he didn’t say what he meant, every time he pulled away instead of pulling you closer.

You cling to him, hips rising to meet every thrust, body aching for more.

His hand wraps around your throat, just enough to ground you. His thumb strokes along your jaw as his mouth presses to your ear.

“Tell me you've missed this too.” He rasps.

“I've missed this,” you breathe. “God, Ray, I've missed you…”

He groans at that, hitting deeper, until you’re arching, gasping, crying out his name. He swallows every sound, kissing you hard and desperately as you fall apart beneath him.

When your body trembles and tightens and shudders, he chases it. Follows you into that heat and breaks with you, hips jerking as he lets go with a growl.

-

You wake to sunlight peeking through the blinds, cutting soft lines across your sheets. Ray’s body is still next to yours, bare chest rising and falling slowly, one arm slung lazily over your waist like he doesn’t want to let go.

For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it.

His warmth. The quiet.

You run a hand along the arm wrapped around you, fingers tracing a small scar near his elbow. He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Eventually, you slip out of bed. Get ready for the day ahead of you. Get yourself some coffee. When you return to your room to change, you find your bed empty.

You go out onto the porch to find that he’s outside, crouched beside your bike, still shirtless, a wrench on the cement beside him. He doesn’t see you watching from the door.

He’s fixing it. 

Just doing it. Like it’s the one thing he can control, the creek of the porch has him looking over his shoulder towards you.

He doesn’t say good morning.

Neither do you.

For a while, the only sound is the click of the bolt he's tightening, and the morning birds singing you a good morning. You lean against the wall, mug warm in your hands.

“You left.” He says, not accusing. Just… stating.

“Didn’t go far.” You nod, eyes on the rim of your mug. “I told you the chain keeps falling off." You say quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. “I fixed it so it won't anymore. She's good as new again.” He pats the seat and turns his head to you.

You glance up at him. He’s watching you in that way he does, eyes soft, but guarded.

"Last night-"

"Was a mistake... I get it." You look down.

"No." He stands up. “It wasn’t just a one-time thing, Y/n.” His jaw clenches.

“And?” Hope was hidden behind readied disappointment in your voice.

“I’m still figuring out what I am to you.”

You stare at him. “You’re what I let back into my life again last night.”

Ray steps forward slowly. Not to close the distance, just enough to speak low.

“Then let me stay. I'll try not to leave when things get hard.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that unless you mean it.”

“I do.” His voice drops. “But I don’t want to ruin this again.”

Your eyes meet his. They’re tired. Yours probably are too.

“Then don’t.”

He nods. But neither of you promises anything.

-

It’s late afternoon by the time Curtis finds you again. You’re back at the school, grading, pretending to focus, pretending last night didn’t shift the ground under your feet.

He leans against the classroom doorframe, arms folded, eyes scanning your face like he already knows.

“You had sex with him, didn't you?”

You close the folder you were pretending to read. "Hello to you, too.” You sigh, not trying to beat around the bush. “What’s it to you?”

Curtis walks inside. Not angry. Not smug. Just... serious.

“You think he’s gonna stay this time?” He sits on the edge of your desk.

“I don’t know.” You peer up at the teenager. "And since when have you cared who I sleep with, weirdo?"

“Since Ray ruined things between you two, and I was soon out of a babysitter... Do you want him to? Stay, I mean?”

You pause. “I want him to try.”

Curtis huffs. “Ray doesn’t do halfway. He either leaves too early or stays too late.”

You nod. “I know that.”

Curtis sits down across from you, eyes level. “I know what it’s like to want someone so bad you’ll take them in pieces. But I also know what it’s like when those pieces cut you.”

You stay quiet.

“Just promise me,” He says, voice gentler now. “If he breaks you again, you won’t pretend it doesn't hurt.”

Your chest tightens. “I won’t.” You whisper.

Curtis studies you for a long moment. Then he nods. “Okay.”

He stands and heads toward the door, pausing in the doorway.

“You’re not stupid...for letting him back in again,” he says. “I could always tell how in love with him you were. Mom still sees it, too. In him, I mean.”

"You were ten when we first started dating, what do you know?"

"Anyone with eyes could see how crazy about you he was, and how crazy you were about him."

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left sitting in the quiet, feeling the weight of everything you can’t afford to keep hoping for, but still do.

-

Ray’s leaning against the back wall of the garage, a half-empty beer in his hand, shirt sticking to him in the late afternoon heat. He tries to take in the peaceful crunches of wrenches and zoots and zeets of machines in the back.

The quiet doesn’t last, though.

Curtis walks in, steady and calm, but there’s a weight to his steps that makes Ray straighten up immediately. The younger Young doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at Ray, eyes narrowed, lips drawn in that familiar, patient line.

Ray doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t know what this is about.

“You gonna say it or keep staring at me like I kicked a dog?”

Curtis tilts his head. “She let you in again.”

Ray wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then tosses the beer into the trash without answering.

That’s an answer on its own. Curtis exhales through his nose. Not surprised. Just disappointed.

“You’re gonna push her away.”

Ray’s jaw tenses. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I know it is.” Curtis steps closer. Still calm. Still steady. But it’s in his voice now, tight, coiled, sharp. “She’s not like the other women you play hot and cold with, Ray. She feels everything. And you—” He gestures at him. “You burn everything you touch.”

Ray’s eyes flash with hurt. He pushes off the wall, stepping forward until they’re toe-to-toe. “I didn’t use her. It's different this time.”

“Oh yeah? Then what about the time before and the time before that when you said it was different with her?” Curtis throws back. “How many more chances do you think she'll keep giving you, Ray?”

Ray doesn’t answer. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Curtis lowers his voice. “She’s starting to believe you’ll stay this time.”

Ray meets his gaze. “And maybe I will.”

Curtis stares him down. “Then this would be the first time in your life you didn’t run the second shit got complicated. What are you gonna do when things do get complicated, huh, or real?”

Ray’s nostrils flare. He looks away for a moment, just a beat, but that’s all Curtis needs.

“That’s what I thought.” Curtis turns to leave.

But before he reaches the garage doors, Ray speaks, low and bitter.

“You think you know everything, baby brother, but you don’t know what it feels like to want someone and be scared you’ll fuck it up just by being who you are… And since when have you cared so much about Y/n and I’s relationship?” He scoffs.

Curtis stops. Turns halfway back.

“Since mom gave you shit for letting her walk out of your life, since she was the last thing that might’ve kept this family glued together a little longer… You’re not afraid, Ray. You just don’t want to put in the work it takes to be something worth her time.”

The words hit like a punch.

Ray doesn't speak.

Curtis walks away.

And Ray stands there, breathing hard, staring at the floor like it might tell him who he’s supposed to be.

The socket wrench slips from his fingers.

It clatters to the concrete with a loud metallic clang, but Ray doesn’t move to pick it up. He just stands there.

-

Ray doesn’t plan it.

He just ends up outside your place again, late afternoon sun bleeding into dusk, the bike rumbling to a stop in front of your house.

He doesn’t kill the engine at first.

He just sits there, helmet still on, staring at your porch like it might vanish if he gets too close. Like he might.

Curtis’s voice is still in his head, looping: “You don’t want to put in the work.”

He knows Curtis was right. Hell, he’s known it for a while. How easy it is to tear things down. To leave behind sweat and bruises and come back like nothing happened.

What’s not easy is knocking on your door when you're not expecting him, when there’s nothing to fix, when the only thing he’s bringing with him is himself.

He cuts the engine.

Kicks the stand down.

Steps up to the door.

There’s a hesitation in his knuckles before he knocks.

Not fear.

Hope.

A few seconds pass before you open the door in a t-shirt and fuzzy slippers, eyes wide like you weren’t ready to see him again this soon.

Ray doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t flirt.

He just stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, thumb nervously brushing a folded piece of paper inside.

“Hey.” He says.

You blink, arms still crossed like you’re trying to hold something in. “Didn’t expect you.”

“I know.” He swallows. “That’s why I came.”

You lean against the doorframe, quiet. Waiting.

Ray shifts his weight.

“I was thinking...” He starts, then stops. Breathes. Tries again. “I’m always waiting for things to blow up before I talk to you. Before I show up. I’m tired of being that guy.”

You narrow your eyes, not unkind. Just unsure.

“I’m not good with... this stuff,” he adds. “But I’m here. Not to fix your car. Not to fix your bike. Not to pick a fight. I just wanna be here.”

He pulls the folded paper from his pocket, worn, stained with grease, and hands it to you.

It’s a list.

Of the parts, Curtis asked for.

And scribbled at the bottom in messy handwriting: Tell her I’m not running this time. A glimpse into his torment, of what he was trying to prioritise over a list of car parts.

You look up at him.

Ray’s breathing is shallow, like he just stripped naked and showed you every bruise under his skin. He shrugs.

“You can tell me to piss off. I’ll leave. But I just needed you to know I’m gonna try harder.”

Your fingers tighten around the paper.

And for once, he doesn’t say anything else.

He just waits.

Quiet.

Solid.

Present.

Your eyes flick over the handwriting, his handwriting, stubborn, scratched out, rewritten, smudged like he held onto the paper longer than he meant to.

Then you step back.

You don’t say, come in. You don’t need to.

He follows, quietly, like he’s not sure he belongs inside but doesn’t want to risk asking.

The door clicks shut behind him.

There’s silence.

He sits on the edge of the couch. You grab two glasses with water, no alcohol, and settle into the chair across from him. No touching. Just both there.

Ray stares at the floor. Then at his hands. Then at you.

You let him sit in it.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low. Real.

“I thought about last night a hundred times over since it happened. Not just the sex. Not even mostly that.” He glances up and meets your eyes.

“I keep thinking about the way you looked at me when it was over. Like you were trying to memorize me... before I disappeared again.”

You breathe in slowly, but don’t look away. “Were you trying to disappear?”

He nods. “Yeah. For a second, I was.”

You sip your water, throat dry.

“I was scared you wouldn’t come back,” you admit. “But I was more scared that if you didn’t, I’d let you in again, even if it never meant anything.”

Ray’s brow knits. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“It means something,” he says. “I’m not good at saying the right shit. I mess up. I avoid things. But I’ve been thinking about you every damn day since you walked out of that garage the first time… Out of my life.”

You hold his gaze. “And now?”

He swallows. “I don’t want to mess this up.” He says it quietly, like it’s still hard for him to say it. “I want to be better. For you. I just don’t know how to do this... right.”

You set your glass down. Walk over. Sit next to him, close.

“You start by not disappearing,” you say. “By showing up even when it might not be convenient for you. When it’s not something about sex or anything easy. When there’s a problem.”

Ray looks at you, something caught in his throat.

You add, softer now, “You don’t have to know how to love me right away. But if you’re gonna be in my life... You have to try. All the way. ‘Cause I do, and I’m tired of being the one who puts in more than two cents every time.”

He nods once, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m trying, sweetheart.” And for the first time, you believe him. “I want to try again.”

You nod at him.

You don’t kiss.

You let the silence settle between you, with his arm brushing yours, the warmth of him at your side.

And it feels okay.

Because for once, he’s not trying to take something from you.

He’s giving you space to breathe.

[lovlidollie]

these pics are just the epitome of frat!rafe. he’s constantly manspreading whenever he’s seated, douchey cap either pulled low on his head or flipped backwards. you can always find him wearing a white wifebeater or a tom ford polo, rollie proudly displayed on his wrist. he knows he’s hot and he knows how to use it to his advantage ! he’s such a slut !!! literally ran through lmao there’s not one girl he hasn’t messed with.

he’s got one of three hairstyles; a buzz, an undercut with greasy bangs, or a mullet. and you best believe he pulls all three of them off. frat!rafe is one of those jerks that shows up at sorority bikini carwash fundraisers so he can wolf-whistle at them and wink as he signals them to call him.

vocab consists of diff variations of “bro,” “dude,” “my guy,” “word,” “yo,” and he most definitely overuses the word “like.” he’s the type of guy to call professors by their first name, disrupt the class, and then beg for better grades in the middle of said disrupted class.

prolific snapchat user. snapscore is atrocious and he has streaks going with at least 7 girls at any given time. sends out a ‘u up?’ text at least twice a week. sometimes he’ll leave a girl on delivered for hours - sometimes days - just because he can. when he finally replies it’s usually a blurry snap of his face or a shameless thirst trap with a “mb was busy”.

when a girl finally realises that he’s playing her, he just laughs it off. if they’re upset he says, “i was just messing around,” or “you knew what you were getting into.” he doesn’t take responsibility for any emotional damage because in his head, he never promised anyone anything.

his ig captions .. are something. obviously there’s the infamous ‘grind never stops,’ and a ‘#blessed’. posts gym mirror selfies where he’s flexing his abs, pecs or biceps in a way that seems casual, but in reality he’s spent 20 minutes trying to find the perfect angle and lighting. captions them with things like ‘gains,’ or ‘rest days are for pussies’.

rides around in his obnoxiously loud truck, revving constantly and disturbing everyone in the area. he’s always blasting rap music at full volume, and of course he’s modified the vehicle. the truck’s lifted, with big off-road wheels, a custom exhaust, and a tint that borders on illegal. frat!rafe takes pride in parking it across 2 spots, and he’s always talking about its specs; “blah blah this much horsepower blah blah v8 engine blah blah”. it’s a sore sight at all the parties with the bed of the truck more often than not being used to perform keg stands.

[emptyanddark]

“Let's say you've got horsepower and bandwidth to burn, and just want to see these AI models burn. Nepenthes has what you need … In short, let them suck down as much bullshit as they have diskspace for and choke on it.” // “It's also sort of an art work, just me unleashing shear unadulterated rage at how things are going. I was just sick and tired of how the internet is evolving into a money extraction panopticon, how the world as a whole is slipping into fascism and oligarchs are calling all the shots - and it's gotten bad enough we can't boycott or vote our way out, we have to start causing real pain to those above for any change to occur.”

love that

[xxmidnight-scarxx]

Saw fun facts :

Saw 2004 was filmed in 18 days

Cary Elwes actually got locked in the saw 1 bathroom because they were using real shackles and they used a pin that was a little bit too big and it got stuck

Tobin bell was not originally supposed to play jigsaw. The role was originally going to go to the person who plays paul in saw 1 (the guy in the razor wire maze)

Every saw trap was made to function in real life

Saw 0.5 was the very beginning of saw, which came out in 2003 (its on youtube if you want to watch it)

120,000 REAL syringes were used for the needle pit trap in saw 2 (the needles were replaced with a flexible piece of plastic)

Chester bennington from linkin park was in saw 7. He played a racist guy called evan, he was in the horsepower trap.

The reverse bear trap was used 3 times in 10 movies (4 if you count saw 0.5)

[dragqueenstarscream]

been thinking about starscream and horsepower again, specifically what happens when horsepower inevitably returns to the autobots

her loyalty has always been to the autobots, but now, he's torn between rejoining them and staying rogue. in the end, his hatred of megatron is too strong, but she hopes that starscream will come with him. maybe starscream will finally defect, switch sides, have the courage to go up against megatron head on.

but starscream values his freedom too strongly. he can't stay trapped under another leader's thumb. he can't risk himself under his old enemy's side. he and horsepower break it off, with the vague hope that the two of them might reunite after the war.

horse is sparkbroken, but he understands. she wishes starscream the best, and says that if they both make it to the end, they'll try things again.

but starscream soon realizes that he needs that gentleness, that care, that love in his life. he can't stay away from someone like horse for very long, and eventually, he finds a way back into his life.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Tears In His Ferrari || Chp 2 - Bucky

Character: Bucky Barnes x Farmer!Reader

Words Count: 2,414

Series: Chap 1 , Chap 2 , Chap 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7, Chp 8 , Chp 9 , Chp 10 , Chp 11 , Chp 12.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Y/N led Bucky across the vast expanse of the empty land, gesturing to the possibilities it held for cultivating crops like potatoes, barley, and corn.

Bucky turned to Y/N, inquisitive about quick profits, "Which crops would bring in fast returns?"

Y/N replied with a smirk, "Barley. You could make beer."

A grin spread across Bucky's face, "Now that's more my style."

Y/N's smirk deepened, "It's not as easy as you think."

Little did Bucky know, he was about to learn the hard way. The first challenge came from a seemingly simple piece of machinery—the farm tractor. Y/N led him to the garage, revealing the aged tractor that awaited Bucky's command.

Inspecting the tractor skeptically, Bucky remarked, "Is it still working?"

Y/N chuckled, "Don't underestimate this machine. I bet it's stronger than your sports car."

Feeling a pang of offense, Bucky couldn't let his beloved Ferrari be belittled. "Hey, now, don't diss my Ferrari. It's a beast on the road."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, "Roads and fields are a whole different story, city boy. Time to see if you can handle the horsepower of a different kind."

With that, she gestured toward the tractor, silently challenging Bucky to prove himself in the unfamiliar realm of farming machinery.

Unfazed by Bucky's awestruck expression, Y/N rolled her eyes and led him toward the storage building. As the creaking wooden door swung open, Bucky marveled at the sheer size of the space.

Pointing towards a massive bag of seeds, Y/N explained, "Your father has provided you with various types of seeds – barley, potatoes, corn, tomatoes."

Bucky's eyes widened, his initial enthusiasm dampening as he took in the overwhelming array of possibilities. The enormity of the task ahead made him question the wisdom of his impulsive bet with his father.

Interning with a photocopier seemed like a more appealing option at that moment. "How am I supposed to plant all of this?"

Without missing a beat, Y/N tossed the tractor key in Bucky's direction, and he caught it reflexively.

"That's why you need to learn how to drive the tractor so you can plant the seeds," Y/N explained matter-of-factly.

Grumbling under his breath, Bucky muttered, "I'm a race car driver. This should be a piece of cake."

Y/N smirked, her eyes challenging, "Show me what you got."

His usual confidence wavered as Bucky settled into the tractor's driver's seat. The buttons and controls before him were a far cry from his sports car's sleek, modern interface, and his mind went momentarily blank.

He turned to Y/N, whose expression seemed to say, 'I told you so.' Y/N casually climbed into the tractor and closed the door, leaving Bucky trapped.

"What... what are you doing?" Bucky stammered, caught off guard by her sudden actions.

Y/N, seemingly unfazed, responded, "I'm going to teach you."

As Y/N took her place beside him, she explained the functions of the various levers and buttons. "This lever controls the speed, and these buttons engage different gears. It's not as fast as your sports car, but it gets the job done."

Bucky furrowed his brow, trying to absorb the information. "Wait, how do I steer this thing?"

Y/N couldn't help but be amused by Bucky's struggle. "Grip the wheel. It's not a race car, but it will go where you point it. Just don't expect it to handle like a Ferrari."

Bucky, feeling a bit challenged, took hold of the steering wheel. Y/N guided him through starting the tractor, adjusting the speed, and even how to handle turns. As the tractor chugged along the field, Bucky's initial frustration gave way to a sense of accomplishment.

Y/N, with a playful glint in her eye, remarked, "See, not so hard, is it? Now, let's tackle the next challenge: planting those seeds. Just follow my lead, and you might survive this farm life after all."

As the tractor rumbled across the empty plot of land, Bucky's initial confidence in driving the machine began to wane. Y/N, seated beside him, looked over and noted, "Now comes the real work, Bucky. We need to prepare the land before planting. First up, we're plowing the field."

Bucky, still grasping the basics of tractor operation, nodded hesitantly. "Plowing, got it."

But as the tractor started breaking up the soil, turning it over in preparation for planting, Bucky's initial sense of ease gave way to a growing realization.

Y/N continued her instructions, "After plowing, we'll need to disc over the field to break down any remaining clumps. Then comes harrowing to create a fine seedbed. It's all about setting the stage for a successful crop."

Bucky, now fully immersed in farming, couldn't help but feel the weight of the responsibilities. The tasks seemed to multiply in complexity as Y/N guided him through each step. "Checking soil moisture, adding amendments," Y/N listed the next steps.

Stress crept into Bucky's expression. The carefree city boy was now confronted with the intricacies of farming, and the reality of the challenge ahead began to dawn on him. The initial thrill of learning to drive the tractor now seemed like the calm before the storm of agricultural tasks.

As Bucky navigated the tractor through the various steps, the once-clear field transformed into a canvas of potential but also of hard work and uncertainty. Farming, it turned out, was not as straightforward as Bucky had initially assumed.

The complexities of each step weighed on him, and the realization that success required more than just driving a machine left Bucky feeling a bit overwhelmed in the vast expanse of the field.

Y/N, with a critical eye, examined the two rows Bucky had managed to plow. "Good start. Now, the most crucial part is marking the rows. Proper spacing is vital for each crop to have enough room to grow."

Bucky, feeling a renewed sense of determination, listened attentively. "Spacing, got it. I can do this."

With a pat on Bucky's shoulder, Y/N remarked, "I'll leave the rest to you. I'm heading to the storage to set up the planter. Just follow the markers and maintain that consistent spacing. You've got this."

Bucky nodded, a mix of confidence and a hint of nervous energy. He watched as Y/N walked away toward the storage building, disappearing from view. The vastness of the field lay before him, and the responsibility of marking rows and maintaining proper spacing now rested squarely on his shoulders.

As Bucky confidently guided the tractor with a touch of creativity, he failed to anticipate the storm brewing in Y/N's eyes. When she caught sight of the unconventional row, frustration and disbelief etched across her face, transforming the once tranquil farming lesson into a battlefield of precision.

Bucky, riding high on a renewed sense of confidence, guided the tractor with newfound ease. The once-daunting task of marking rows now felt like second nature. As he envisioned the thriving crops that would soon fill the marked rows, a touch of creativity struck him. With a confident smile, he decided to deviate from the straight path and add a unique twist to the rows.

However, when Y/N caught sight of the unconventional row, any expectations of praise were shattered. With a furrowed brow and an exasperated sigh, she approached Bucky.

"Are you an idiot?" she exclaimed, her voice mixed with frustration and disbelief.

Bucky, taken aback by the unexpected outburst, stammered, "I thought it added a bit of flair, you know? A touch of artistic expression."

Y/N, unamused, shot back, "This isn't an art project, Bucky. We need straight, evenly spaced rows for the crops to grow properly. Precision is key in farming, not whimsical curves."

The contrast between Bucky's expectation of admiration and the reality of Y/N's frustration added a comedic twist to the scene.

Bucky once again reminded of the challenges of farm life, begrudgingly adjusted the tractor's course to adhere to Y/N's insistence on precision in agricultural practices.

Y/N, initially poised for a straightforward mentoring session, found herself grappling with unexpected stress. The deviation from the meticulous plan heightened her frustration, but she pushed through, determined to teach Bucky the intricacies of farming.

In the heat of the moment, Y/N's instructions became more pointed, her tone reflecting her unexpected challenges. She corrected Bucky with a mix of exasperation and dedication, her initial ease replaced by the demanding reality of mentoring a city boy in the intricacies of agriculture.

For Bucky, who had never been lectured in such a manner throughout his privileged life, each correction felt like a blow to his ego. The vast gap between his accustomed world of opulence and the demanding simplicity of the farm became painfully apparent.

After tirelessly plowing the empty plot under Y/N's scrutinizing gaze, Bucky retreated to the solace of his Ferrari. The familiar sight of the sleek, modern interior provided a momentary respite from the challenges of the farm. However, as he looked around at the sophisticated simplicity of the car, a single tear escaped his eye.

In a moment of vulnerability, Bucky muttered, "It's not as easy as I thought." The weight of the unfamiliar reality sank in, and the contrast between the comfort of his luxury car and the toil of the farm highlighted the stark challenges he faced in adapting to this new, humble way of life.

As Bucky wiped away the unexpected tear on his first day, he couldn't shake the surreal feeling accompanying the shift from the farm to his new home. As he stepped inside, the scene awaiting him was anything but ordinary. A group of middle-aged women buzzed around his house, each engrossed in various tasks—cleaning, arranging, and transforming the space into a semblance of order.

Bucky, clearly taken aback, couldn't contain his shock. "Who are you people?" he exclaimed, his eyes darting between the industrious women.

The group paused their activities, turning to face Bucky with warm smiles. In their midst stood Y/N's mother, a matronly figure radiating hospitality. Their collective greeting washed over Bucky, and he found himself amid an impromptu welcome party.

This practice, a tradition among the locals, was their way of extending a warm welcome to the new neighbor. Unaccustomed to such communal gestures, Bucky appreciated their kindness, although hunger and fatigue urged him to seek some solitude.

Summoning a sweet smile, Bucky politely asked the woman to leave, expressing his need for rest. Understanding his request, the guests bid farewell, leaving Bucky alone in his newfound abode.

Just as he thought he could finally catch his breath, Y/N's voice cut through the silence with an unexpected remark. "They're here to butter you up," she deadpanned, her unfiltered words catching Bucky off guard.

His gasp was met with Y/N's nonchalant dismissal. "That mouth of yours," Bucky retorted, feeling a mix of surprise and amusement at her audacity.

Ignoring his comment, Y/N dropped a bag of groceries at his feet. "Your family sent this," she informed him, the gesture a mix of duty and detached concern.

Bucky, leaning down to inspect the contents, discovered essential supplies that betrayed a hint of paternal consideration. The realization that his father hadn't wholly forsaken him stirred conflicting emotions within Bucky. Gratitude mingled with the sting of newfound humility.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Bucky questioned Y/N about her earlier statement. "What did you mean with 'butter you up'?" he inquired, trying to decipher the cryptic remark.

Y/N responded with a disinterested glance, "Don't you know? Your family owns almost all the land around here."

Slowly shaking his head in disbelief, Bucky muttered, "Wow, really?" The weight of his family's extensive holdings began to sink in, and Y/N's nonchalant tone left him dumbfounded.

"Can't believe one day you'll be the head of the company," Y/N remarked casually, her tone a mixture of disbelief and detached observation.

Without waiting for Bucky's response, she turned on her heels and left his residence, leaving him grappling with her animosity's mysteries.

Left alone, Bucky found himself at a loss for words. "Why does she keep being angry with me?" he mused aloud, frustration building. He slammed the door shut in sheer exasperation, the resounding thud echoing his bewilderment.

As Y/N entered her home, exhaustion weighed heavily on her. Her mother, Samantha, observed her daughter's weary expression and couldn't help but smile. Y/N wasted no time in expressing her discontent, questioning the rationale behind the warm welcome extended to the new neighbor.

"Why did you and others welcome him?" Y/N's bitterness toward large companies like Barnes lingered, casting a shadow over her perspective.

Samantha, with a knowing glint in her eyes, let out a light giggle. "Oh, you, you have to welcome the new neighbor, besides, he's cute."

Y/N responded with an eye roll, unamused by her mother's seemingly lighthearted take on the situation.

Samantha sighed, aware of the pain Y/N still carried from letting go of the land they once owned. She took a moment to address her daughter's lingering resentment. "I know you don't like him because of what happened. But without them buying the land, all the farmers here would have ended up losing their source of living."

Y/N raised her head to meet her mother's gaze. Samantha continued, sharing a piece of history that shaped their community. "Back then, when your grandparents were still alive, there was a lean period where nothing could grow. Everyone was losing their source of income. Until the Barnes family stepped in because one of their own had grown up here."

"The Barnes allowed the farmers to live and work; they just needed to pay rent."

Y/N interjected, a hint of bitterness in her voice, "And the rent keeps getting higher."

Samantha shrugged her shoulders, acknowledging the harsh reality. "Well, that's how it is, but none of the farmers have complained, though."

She tenderly stroked her daughter's head, offering a comforting perspective. "Be kind to him. Just see him as a little kid learning how to walk."

Y/N nodded, absorbing her mother's words. She decided to take her mother's advice to heart, even if the road ahead seemed fraught with challenges.

Meanwhile, at Bucky's location, an unexpected sneeze escaped him. "Did someone talk about me?"

Unaware that he had just been likened to a learning child, Bucky continued navigating the unfamiliar farm life territory, oblivious to the nuanced dynamics at play.

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7

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[seat-safety-switch]

"We want to know your opinions," begins the automated newspaper pollster on the other end of the line. "Because you are one of the few people left alive on this Earth who answer your phone to an unknown number, we believe that anything you tell us in the survey is clearly indicative of the average person."

A bit wordy, but I was willing to play along. No reason to tell them that I had only picked up my phone because I thought it was Mr. Cho, my AliExpress broker, who I expected to be giving me a progress update on "Project Make An Entire Plymouth Volare Unibody And Mail It To Me." Soon, I was pushing buttons and letting my opinions be known on contentious social issues. Surely, everyone in a decision-making capacity would have a firm grasp of statistics and not confuse anything my crackpot ass said for actual-factual reasoned belief.

Friends, I was wrong about that. It turns out that I am literally the only person dumb enough to answer one of these telephone surveys. A bunch of researchers called up afterward to make sure I wasn't some kind of escaped dementia patient, put me on speakerphone and everything. I thought fast, of course, and I think my answer ("I was trapped in a public toilet") satisfied them.

Based on the story so far, you may now understand why the new public transit buses have nine-hundred-horsepower nitromethane-burning V12 engines. Also why the highways now have FIA racetrack curbs mounted on corners, and the speed limit has quintupled. Of course, I'm still waiting to hear back on my proposal that the government subsidize Pontiac ownership, but I admit that it is a bit of a niche market that won't translate into many actual votes.

If you'll excuse me, the robot is calling me again. I don't plan on running out of crackpot beliefs anytime soon, but I will probably not get around to most of them today. It's simply too important that we convert all available golf courses to rally racing tracks, ideally while the rich folks are still trying to drive their dorky little golf carts on them.

[litualiamortuaria]

I think Adam would be the rack trap (get it? Cause he broke all his bones?)

Good idea

(I forgot that trap existed)

Mark: Claustrophobic room (because he was traped in a room for 3 days)

Cesar: i don't know

Jonah: Horsepower trap (because he encountered an alternate in a car)

Adam: The rack (because he broke his bones)

[therealdeemz]

cars of retribution; michizou tachihara's 1991 mazda rx7 fc3c

HELLO RETRIBUTION FANS

IT IS I

THE BETA

I want to yap about the cars so much with the whys and the hows each character gets to them so I decided to start posting about the interesting ones one by one where I go into a lot more detail than the chapter overview ones AND YES I ALREADY DID ONE FOR CHUUYA but it's old and stinky I neeed to redo that one

Tachihara's RX7 FC3C (pictured is a 3S; the Coupe version. Tachihara's even more insane and picked up the cloth-topped convertible one) is basically... a race car. that happens to have a license plate.

The mod used in these pictures is the RE Amemiya Furinkazan mod which came in the Shutoko Revival Project car pack. Expect to see cars from there since a lot of the cars there follow the rough aesthetic I had in mind for retribution.

The car, pictured, has an RE Amemiya bodykit for the FC, and the rims are Enkei NT03's. The only real difference is that the car is a convertible, but I think he'd do an aftermarket conversion to make it a Targa top to make it look a little more savory to the eye (go look up how an FC convertible looks like......).

The engine in the car is a Mazda 20B engine block, which is different from the 20B-REW used in the Eunos Cosmos through intake placement or something like that... It's the 20B in specific because it was sourced from a former Group C Le Mans race car; the Mazda 757 (although there it's named the 13G).

I should mention that the rotary engine is different from your run-of-the-mill piston engine in many ways, also.

Rotaries are a triangle instead of a piston compressing a chamber, which means that the engine is a closer relative to a dirt bike engine rather than a normal car's engine. Power's high up the revs, and there's not a lot of bite when you first get it off the line compared to a similar conventional engine.

Anyhow, as Tachihara worked from just the engine block, a lot of the other parts are custom and unorthodox, to say the least. For one, the car's twincharged in that it uses forced induction from a supercharger and a turbo. Both modes had their advantages and disadvantages, though twincharging at that point is just a flex and pretty impractical despite the theoretical benefits.

Second also is the fact that the car is hell to drive. The fact that the engine is a race engine and the whole experience is built around race car sensibilities makes the car be infeasible to drive on the daily. The car lurches and jerks forward from a stop light, stalls at the drop of a hat, very low and stiff so you feel every pothole, hot and loud as hell... and I don't need many other adjectives for you to get the point.

However, when the car goes... it goes. It has way more power than you know what to do with in a mountain pass. And when you drive it, it wants you to go faster, like it's egging you to go rev higher, go for the power band and feel the car just overtake you from how fast it's going under your nose.

It's totally on-brand for him.

All in all, the car makes around 550~ horsepower to the wheel. Which, when you consider that the car is a death trap and wants to kill you... is a lot.

Now Tachihara got the car from his time working as one of the few full-time employees in Black Lizard Works. In retribution's verse, it's practically one of the most renowned tuner houses; Human Error and Arahabaki got their cars tuned there, as well as Akutagawa's and Gin's cars, naturally. You'd need a pretty penny to get a car built from the ground up there, but through the hefty fees, it's guaranteed that the cars are worldbeaters behind the right hands.

Black Lizard numbers the chassis of certain cars that they work on, and Tachihara's is #017. For reference, Human Error and Arahabaki's are #005 and #006. It also has a Black Lizard Works badge on the back, which is practically a mark of honor from the tuning house when they know it's good enough that people start asking whose car it was.

The car and engine started off as two different things. Tachihara bought a very ran-through example of an FC, one where the engine's starting to give up the ghost and is not worth it to salvage. It is also Tachihara's First Car. And the reason why it's absolute hell to drive is because Tachi keeps tacking on mod, after mod, after mod, with no regard as to how it's gonna effect everything cohesively. It's always a coin toss whether it's gonna crank up to life, or throw up a problem so obscure it requires scouring factory documentation on how to even begin solving it.

It's practically the monster that embodies many of the sensibilities of the generation of racers he's a part of... which is kind of poetic in that sense, but who am I kidding, Tachihara's just immature.......

If you'd like to know more or nerd out about the car please comment down and I'll be sure to fill in the details on what I have about his car!!! Maybe next I'll do Tanizaki or Gin's since those cars are also death traps

[white-weasel]

Notes:

I didn’t add any traps where I’m relying on someone else to save me. All of these are ones where I have to Do Something in order to live. So that also excluded Daniel Rigg and Eric Matthews’ tests from the pool since you win those by doing nothing (and also probably don’t count as actual traps but? Meh)

Going with the above, if any trap mentioned has multiple people, assume I’m the one who has to Do The Thing for us to survive

Assume all traps play out as explained/intended. This means that rigged traps (i.e. the Angel Trap and the Pendulum) are technically winnable in this world, even if winning would suck majorly

Tried to pick my top 10 that are the most contentious about survivability. I’m pretty sure 99% of us think we could survive something like the bucket head trap so I’m not including it on this poll lmao

[xxmidnight-scarxx]

Every saw trap i know :

Reverse bear trap

Bathroom trap

Flammable jelly trap

Razor wire maze

Nerve gas house

Furnace trap

Razor box trap

Needle pit trap

Classroom trap

Angel trap

The rack trap

Ice block trap

Scalp seat trap

Glass coffin trap

Water box trap

Collar trap

Mason jars trap

Electric bathtub trap

10 pints of sacrifice trap

Reverse bear trap 2.0

Shotgun carousel trap

Oxygen crusher trap

Pound of flesh trap

Lawnmower trap

Love triangle trap

Brazen bull trap

Silent circle trap

Horsepower trap

Laser collar trap

Bucket head trap

Grain silo trap

Wax boarding trap

Marionette trap

Blood boarding trap

Eye suction trap

Brain surgery trap

Radiation trap

Bone marrow trap

Shotgun collar trap

Dont ask how i know this many lol

[soullessjack]

fave saw trap?

OOHH oh my god okay I have so many.

Obligatory reverse bear trap mention bc who doesn’t love her, she’s mother. she is the beginning with John and Amanda and she is the end with Jill and Mark, she brings the narrative to a full circle despite her mechanical function being the opposite.

THE BATHROOM TRAP!!!!!! Obsessed with it. The shades of blue and white and the fluorescent lights, the grimy browns and greens and reds, all so absolutely beautiful together. Really pulls you into the dampness and coldness and the filth of it. Obligatory chainshipping mention also. Love those guys. Very normal about them.

the angel trap and its’ fatality is so so visually beautiful to me. she mothers extremely hard (god rest Kerry tho). truly one of the artsiest of the traps. I love the warmish shade of green in the room, and in the acid, and of course I love it contrasting with the red shade of the ribcage gore.

glass coffin for obvious reasons.. mark is soooo delicious in it with his hair all messy and his nose bleeding and his tits propped up I mean what hahah who said that . and I absolutely love the cold shade of blue it gives off, very lovely contrast with marks nosebleed also. and the whole coffinshipping thing. like it’s such a trust-based trap ironically. like, “you know what I’ve done you know who I am you know I am guilty and cannot be trusted whatsoever but will you throw away all of that and trust me anyways, is your will to survive strong enough to trust someone who ostensibly does not deserve it.” so delicious

I don’t like Jigsaw but I will admit the hot wax trap looked pretty cool, definitely one of the scariest of the movie. if you’ve ever seen 2005’s House of Wax it gives the same literally suffocating and uncomfortable feeling as Jared Padalecki’s character’s wax coating (and the horrendous peeling of it) bc you’re watching someone in such a helpless horrible position and relegated only to watching it.

the death mask is another super cool visual trap, love the green tint, love the spikes, even Michael’s eye injury looked cool! the snapping kill at the end was definitely cool too.

the nerve gas house 100% fav. I love saw 2 very dearly, both for Daniel and Amanda and for Mudvayne’s Forget To Remember song in the credits. I didn’t enjoy most of the traps in the house, mostly bc I felt like they could’ve been easily avoided or thought out better (but in the victims’ defense they were actively being poisoned) and also bc I wasn’t very attached to anyone outside of Danny and Mandy. Love the atmosphere of the house, the grime and dim fluorescence and yellow-greens (as a graphic designer warm tints like that are very good at giving off a sense of humidity and feverishness, really adds to the nerve gas poisoning and the claustrophobia of the house, too).

the horsepower trap. quick bonus for the green and yellows tints, but also I’m personally very drawn to settings with mechanical clutter. I’m not mechanically inclined in any way but visually I love looking at them and figuring out what they do. based mark for putting nazis in an inescapable trap also! the kills are deliciously brutal. the skin ripping scene, the windshield crash, the face smashing, and my absolute favorite has to be the arm/jaw yanking (specifically the jaw, idk I just think it’s neat. maybe not neat , per se, but one of those extremely gruesome things that you just can’t look away from. no pun intended it’s like a car crash).

the Mausoleum Trap. love the setting, a trap in a fucking mausoleum is metal as fuck. more traps should have spooky settings like that I think (a morgue trap would go so fucking hard also). love the colors, basically I love the entire concept but the execution could’ve bene way better (which can be said about a lot of 3D’s themes, especially the See/Hear/Speak/Do No Evil ones).

[seat-safety-switch]

A funny thing happens when you become an old car person, and not just an old car person. You start caring more about reliability. All these folks I knew who used to have exotic high-horsepower race engines in their psychotic rally builds now have 15 year old Honda Accords. And they love them.

All these backyard barbecue brags about trap speed, or fleeing the police, or winning first at nats no longer mean anything. The delusions of a young and reckless mind. Now, the thing that we are the most envious of on each others' cars is working air conditioning. The colder the better. If you can pair that with fuel economy below 7L/100km? You, my friend, are king shit in my circles.

Of course, that doesn't mean that all of us grew up. I myself have degenerated even further. My whole daily-driver experience is about forcing engines with single-digit compression ratios and iron blocks forged by street urchins in the 1800s into making enough power to merge without getting squashed by a brand-new Toyota minivan with five times the horses on offer. I bet that damn van has air conditioning, too, which will make my demise even more depressing.

Until that happens, though, I will continue to hold out the punk-rock ethos of shitbox ownership. My friends will continue to come over, look at the huge mess of oily turbocharged carnage spreading across my back forty, and get out quickly before I notice them and ask them to help me put in a new intercooler. Their cars are so quiet and so reliable now that they don't even have to ask me for jumper cables before they can start the engine to flee.