#i mean it felt like the tank pumped the brakes a little but maybe they just started playing better. idk.

[nyalisa-landale]

I said I was gonna make a weird buncle and then I promptly moved my laptop and all my crochet stuff across the house, logged into final fantasy xiv, and did as much work on the narwhal as I reasonably can until the stuff I ordered gets here on wednesday

which, like. I did finish all the stuff I could really do on it until etc., etc., so then I got to work on my own stuff guilt-free. but also, half the yarn I bought on amazon showed up, and it wasn't what I was expecting at all. which is partly my fault for not really reading the listing, but also the item name said it was sport weight, the listing says its "between sport and fingering weight" and the yarn itself. is fucking fingering weight. like I have bought cheap tatting kits with multicolored thread that is nearly identical to this yarn.

and that's disappointing, because I was expecting actual sport weight yarn. I wanted to make a cute shopping bag with it. and I still can, but I'm gonna have to double up on it, and I'm not sure it's going to be enough yarn.

also I got coaxed into healing a 5678 roulette despite being a lil high, and like. first we queued in as three dps and one healer, so we left and the healer switched to tank and I switched to healer, and then we couldn't queue because the tank had a penalty, as the first person to leave the dungeon. so he dropped and we got a df tank, who pulled two packs as is standard, and it was sort of going okay up until it didn't, and the tank ended up respawning and everybody kinda died and respawned.

except for one of the dps, who dc'd instead. and was gone for the entire dungeon. the tank quietly pumped the brakes a little and I had absolutely no trouble keeping the three of us alive for the rest of the dungeon. and even got the comm!

and also made it through the whole thing without admitting that I was too high to find my raise button, because I'd been expecting to see verraise and got very confused when I didn't see a yellow button.

[scuttle-buttle]

WC: 1973

Rated: E

Tags: technically unprotected smut, fluff, tiny bit of german

✈

“Have you checked the gauges?”

“Yes, Niki,” you huff at his question through your microphone. This was at least the third time he’d asked you to go over everything.

“What about fuel?”

You point to the little meter that showed the tank levels. “Still full.” Your husband turns to face you in the cockpit of the small plane. The look he gives you is one of false annoyance. You know he’s just doing this to be as safe as possible, to minimize risk. “Sorry, sorry,” you offer him a guilty grin. Your husband’s brow cocks before he turns back to the dashboard panel.

His little private jet only held capacity for maybe 8 people total, but today it was just you and your husband. He always said he would teach you how to fly but you never figured that you would be brave enough to follow through with learning. Now here you sit, engine purring under you, a pair of thick headphones over your ears. For the first time Niki was going to let you handle your flight - all of it. Of course, he still had the ability to use the controls on his side of the small cabin, but he made it clear that he would only do so in case of a serious emergency.

“Everything has been checked over and ready for flight,” you confirm.

He tilts his head to offer you a smile. “Gut. When you are ready, Liebling.”

Taking a deep breath, you open up the radio communication line with the air traffic control tower. You recite the technical jargon that Niki had taught you. “This is Lauda 1 requesting clearance for taxi and take off on runway B, north side, over.”

Static comes over the line for a second. “Lauda 1 you are cleared to taxi and take off from runway B, north side, over.”

You release the brakes before pushing the throttle the faintest amount. With one hand on the yoke and the other on the lever you slowly guide the plane towards the runway. It had taken a good six months of Niki being annoyed at you calling it a ‘steering wheel’ before you finally called it by its proper term.

You lined the nose of the plane up with the lines on the runway tarmac. Once you are satisfied with your positioning you pause to let the turbines rev and build up power. With a swallow you lean towards Niki. “You won’t let me fuck this up and kill us both, right?”

“Of course not. But you don’t need to worry about that, you will be fine, Liebe. I know it.” He’s relaxed next to you, as though he’s at home sitting on the couch reading one of his racing magazines.

“If you say so. I love my brother but I’ll be damned if James gets custody of the girls,” you snark with a laugh, all while releasing the brake and pushing the throttle again. Niki’s own snort can be heard over your radio headset.

The plane accelerates under your guidance. You maintain a firm but steady grip on the controls; finally you push the thrust lever all the way. The small aircraft wobbles with friction as it speeds down the track. Suddenly, the front lifts, giving a weightless calm as the nose begins to ascend into the air.

Once you have gotten far enough off the ground you flip the switch to raise the landing gear. Niki has been silent letting you work the last five minutes or so. Over the crackle of your headsets he instructs you “that was very good. Now get us to cruising altitude.”

“Yes, sir,” you acknowledge with a mock salute.

This is by no means the first time you have been in a plane, let alone flying a plane, with your husband. But it is the first time that it is you truly flying. As you travel you admire the view in front of you. It felt like you were seeing the clouds and the sunshine for the first time. The blue nearly overwhelmed you with its vibrancy. You couldn’t help but bite your lip to hold back the way your cheeks threatened to split with how hard you were beaming. Every so often you remember to check back on the gauges and meters to ensure that everything is working properly.

You don’t notice how your husband watches you from the seat beside yours. He admires your confidence at the new skill, completing the tasks with ease. He admires how bright your eyes are, lit by happiness and the light of the sky outside the windows. He admires the fact that even after close to fifteen years of marriage you still humor him and his passions.

When you finally break away from the view to look over at Niki he’s already got his eyes on you. His bottom lip is caught in his teeth. “What?” He raises his brows in question at you. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Can I not look at my meine schöne Frau?” he teases you. Even after so many years you still feel the heat rise in your cheeks when he calls you beautiful. “You look good flying my plane. You should do it more often.” Both of your hands remain on the yoke; his hand comes to rest on your thigh, giving you a little squeeze. He leaves it there the rest of the flight.

After maybe an hour or two you have circled the jet back towards the airport. Calling in, you get clearance to land on the same runway you had departed from. Carefully you lower the plane’s altitude to prepare for landing. Flipping the switch, you can just hear the grind of the wheels as they lower.

“The trick here is-”

“You want to line the stripes on the runway next to the nose visually, otherwise it’ll be crooked and I’ll go off the tarmac,” you finish for him.

He chuckles. “See, I don’t even know why I’m here. You don’t need me.”

“Of course I need you, I always need you, Niki.”

He lets you focus as you pull back on the throttle and slow your speed, further lowering to the ground. You line up just as he taught you with the painted runway up ahead. Gently you touch down, the plane jolts as it makes contact. You brake the jet to an acceptable speed to taxi. Adrenaline courses through you. I just flew a plane! you cheer to yourself.

Once the vehicle is parked within the hangar you shut off the engine. Quickly you leave the cockpit to stretch your legs in the spacious passenger cabin. Turning to your husband, your jaw is dropped. “Is this what it feels like? Every time you drove the car? Christ, Niki, I feel like I could do anything! The absolute rush!” Niki has come up behind you, so you face him before bringing his lips to meet your own.

The kiss is full of passion and energy. It deepens as you stand there in the middle of the cabin. You push him away and down into a couch-like seat. He grunts in surprise when you forcibly yank his pants from his hips. When they are to his knees you give up in favor of pulling off your own. Niki wastes no time in tugging you back to him, his mismatched lips attaching themselves to the column of your throat. You, in turn, drag your heat along his hardening shaft. When he is ready you push his cock inside your throbbing core with a groan.

Breathily, you ask “why have we never done this before now?”

His mouth moves away from your jaw to meet your gaze. “Fucked on a plane? I didn’t know you wanted to,” he huffs in amusement.

You start to push and pull your hips at a dizzying pace above him. With each pump the ridge of his cock hits you perfectly. Niki tosses his head back in pleasure, a long moan tumbling out as your walls squeeze him. His hands help to guide your hips as you ride him. “They don’t call it joining the Mile High Club for nothing, love.”

“Not sure-” he grunts at a particularly hard snap of your pelvis “-this counts.”

You shove your fingers between his curls, a bit shorter and a few streaks of silver lining near his temples, and pull his head to rest against yours. “Are you complaining?” you breathe out along his lips. Never once does your pace falter. Instead of answering he gives you a bruising kiss.

It isn’t long before his thumb finds your center, rubbing harsh patterns against your aching clit. He knows exactly how to toss you into the abyss; exactly when you are near shattering. Within seconds you are shouting out his name, clenching around his still-pistoning cock. His own cries of bliss come shortly after.

Resting atop him, Niki rubs his fingers along your clothed back. You hum into his throat where your head lays. “You did so well today, Liebling. I’m very proud of you. Pretty soon you’ll be a better pilot than me.”

You smile into him. “Bullshit,” you laugh. “Me compared to the great Niki Lauda? Impossible.” You pinch the softness of his side.

He gives a laugh of his own, his chest rising with the action. “You never know, could surprise us all.”

You roll your head onto his shoulder to be able to look up at him better. “Mmm, but with you I’ve always known.”

Niki drops a sweet kiss to you. His expression is delicate as he peers down at where you sit atop him. He scrunches his nose as he tells you “I think I knew first. I know I did.”

You study his face for a moment. His tone is confident, like there’s no way he could possibly be wrong about when you first got together so many years ago. You know that the moment for you was pretty early, before you officially even went on your first date. Curiosity wins out. “Oh really?” You sit up on his lap. “And when was that, since you’re so sure?”

“I asked if you would rather go with Hunt than come see me at Ferrari. You nearly jumped out of your skin with how hard you cringed at the idea of him.”

You’re shocked by his confession. “Alright but he’s my brother,” you groan and laugh at the same time, “and…” you think back to that day, “wasn’t that maybe five minutes after we’d met?”

“Yes, but I did not know that at the time. I thought, ‘hmm, an attractive woman that doesn’t want to sleep with that arschloch but instead visit me at the track? She’s someone special’. And I wasn’t wrong.” He brushes a thumb on the skin of your cheek.

“You know, you always tell me that you aren’t good at these things. Romance and the like.” You look up at him from under your lashes.

“And?”

“That was such a lie, Niki. You’re always so sweet to me.”

“Only you, Liebe.”

The two of you right yourselves to leave the airport for the day. The sky is clear as you walk to his car parked outside the hangar. Reaching out, you find your husband’s hand and hold it tight. “So, when can we do this again?”

He turns to face you from where he stands next to you. “That eager for more already?”

“It’s addicting, Lauda,” you shoot back playfully. So many times since you met he had described the drive or flying as addicting. To be faster, to be better, to go harder.

Niki stops suddenly, lips pursing. “Just to be clear, are you talking about flying or the sex?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you wink.

Tag list: @ay0nha @apparrio @livvyshmiv @fictionlandslanddreams @vinylrosess @typical-bistander @ntlmundy @mymagicsuitcase @anteroom-of-death @somethingthatsaysbubbles @lieutenantn @multiversemarielle @trashbin2 @whatawildone @metalbreakfast @laura-naruto-fan1998 @greeneyedblondie44 @godidontevenknowwhat @marchingicenotes7 @mysticalexpertdaze

@loliissmut @fandom-princess-forevermore

[ontherockswithsalt]

The Fortunate Fall pt.2

A/N: Here is the rest of my highschool!Joble I felt compelled to write. Sort of unknowingly prompted by our talks of Jamie impressing Noble with his car skills. Word count: 3,112. You can read pt. 1 here.

Jamie pulls the door open just a moment after I'd laid a hesitant tap of my knuckle there. The line between his eyebrows quirks in confusion.

“What's up?”

“Uh.” I step back from the door. “My car won't start, man.”

“Seriously?” He almost laughs, glancing out and over my shoulder. “What's going on? You need a jump?” He pulls the door closed behind him as he comes outside.

“I don't know,” I mutter, leading him back toward my parked car. Quickly, I duck inside once more. Maybe the third time’s the charm and that initial try was a fluke. I stick my key in and try again only to be met with that harsh stuttering of the engine that refuses to start.

My hand drops to my thigh and I sit back with a heavy exhale. When I turn to look out the driver’s side, I glance up to see Jamie standing right there, forearms propped above the open window.

Hanging his head, he peers in. “Want me to take a look?”

Nervously, I run the edge of my thumb across my bottom lip and take too long to find my answer. I finally let out a puff of air. “I’m not sure what you could do.”

“Do your lights work?”

I reach out and flick the headlights to prove they come on.

“It’s not your battery. You got gas in the tank?” Jamie continues his questioning before he pulls open my door.

“Yeah.”

“May I?”

I scoff a confused laugh as I look down to watch him bend over for the hood latch. “Sure, man.”

“It sounds like your engine cranks but it's not turning over,” he notes as he pops the latch. Then I hear a pleased, almost excited laugh as he steps around the car. “That’s right. Engines are in the back in these things.”

I'm not sure I even knew that. Stepping one foot out of the car, I lean over to watch him. “You think you can fix it? What, did you take AP auto shop?”

He spreads his hands. “I can check it out. At least figure out the source of the problem.”

“Maybe I should just use your phone.”

“You can.” He answers absently as he heads over to the detached garage. There he bends down and grasps the handle to lift open the door. The rickety screech of it practically echoes through the neighborhood and I glance back at his house, uneasy. After a moment, the garage lights up and he returns to my car. “You wanna go in and call someone?”

“No.” My immediate answer huffs out of me and I get out to meet him. “No. My dad will kill me.”

Jamie looks at me, exhaling a soft laugh with this sort of lopsided smirk that's… shit, really fucking cute.

“I mean--” I cough a breath and step back, scratching my head and mutter, “He really will.”

He stands there, seeming to study my face, this indiscernible haze in his typically clear eyes. Then he offers a faint nod. “Okay, well--” Glancing down, he moves the cuff of his hooded sweatshirt to check his watch. “I guess we could find some sort of twenty-four hour tow service. But… there’s not gonna be an open garage at nine-thirty at night.”

I mentally run through people I know who could likely help me out. But my friends are useless. I’ve got a cousin who’s a mechanic, but he lives on Long Island  

“Look,” he starts. “For the most part, you can narrow down a car not starting to four causes -- the battery, fuel, spark, compression. Right?”

“...Okay.”

“So it’s a process of elimination.” He shrugs.

I just look at him. He can’t be fucking serious, but what’s my other option?

“Get in and take it out of gear,” he directs. “And we’ll push it into the garage.”

“Jesus,” I mutter with a reluctant turn back to the driver’s side. I drop inside, push my foot on the brake and toggle the gear shift to the middle.

Quickly, I step out and join him at the back.

“Alright, ready?” Jamie prompts and together we lean down and shove against the rear bumper. He manages an encouraging “That’s it. We got it” through gritted teeth and labored breath as it rolls forward into place.

“Now jump in and park it,” he instructs and I gladly push off of it to slide into the driver’s seat to lock the parking brake and flick the key out of the ignition.

“Pop it again,” he tells me, breathless.

I do, and turn back to see him unzip his sweatshirt and drop it on a stack of crates.

“Jamie, this is a Porsche Nine-Eleven, by the way.”

He quirks this tease of a narrowed gaze and one eyebrow twitches. “I know.”

Dismayed that he’s not the least bit stressed by this, I blow out a humorless laugh. “So this isn’t some beater you fuck around with in your parents garage, this is some hardcore German shit, dude. Like no joke.”

“I didn’t say it was a joke.” His shoulders lift defensively. “I help my brother work on his ‘71 Chevelle all the time. We replaced the intake and rebuilt the carburetor last summer.”

With a nervous swallow, I assess Jamie’s even-tempered anticipation, hands resting low on his hips at the pockets of his jeans as he waits for my go-ahead.

“I'm not promising we can fix it here,” he adds. “But we won't know until we try.”

“Alright.” I give him my quiet agreement. “Fine. Take a look but--”  

He's already bending down to a shelf where he grabs a flashlight.

Then I warn him, “Don't take anything out that you can't get back in.”

With a quick jump of his brow, he smirks, uttering a low little laugh as he comes closer and pushes up the lid of the trunk.

A knowing hiss of air blows out of me and I reach out to shove him by the shoulder.

“And I don't fuck around with a beater, dude,” he insists, clicking on his flashlight before he leans over. “Damn.”

“What do call that piece of shit Cavalier you drive?”

In a hard, offended exhale, his mouth drops open and he straightens up to ram his forearm against my chest.

Chuckling my loud laugh, I fight him off, pushing his arm away.

Jamie points a hand to his own chest. “You’re really gonna go around calling my car a piece of shit when yours won’t even start?”

I lift my hands as if to surrender and offer a shrug. “Fine.” The I turn to peer down at the engine. “Alright what are we even looking at here?”

He drags in a deep breath as his shoulders pull back. “I have no idea--”

I mutter an exasperated curse and turn away.

“I’m kidding.” He grins. “Look, first we’re gonna remove the air intake from the throttle--” He leans over to inspect the engine. “I need a socket wrench.”

There’s nothing I can really do but watch him as he moves across the garage to a drawer of tools and comes back whatever it is he needs. Then he leans over the engine once more to loosen a clamp there.

The whole moment weirdly makes me stop breathing while I watch Jamie concentrate, watch the twist of his forearm and the repeated click of the socket.

“And then this--” he murmurs, moving over to another wire. “Is the oxygen sensor. We’re gonna detach that.”

I can’t help the low groan I let out when I see him release the wire. It feels way too permanent and I’m dead if this doesn’t work.

He makes his way around, unfastening and detaching until he pops loose the entire air intake and pulls the casing out.

“Holy shit, dude--” I mutter. I don’t even know what he’s holding but it doesn’t feel all that comforting seeing a giant piece of my car’s engine in his hand.

Holding the detached piece, he turns to me and touches the head of the wrench to the center of my chest. “Relax,” he tells me. “This takes time, alright? Do you trust me?”

“No.” I shake my head.

Amused, he turns and sets the piece down on the ground before he heads to the set of shelves on the wall. “I guess why would you?”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

He returns with some can of aerosol spray, shaking it in his hand. “After I spray this in the throttle, I want you to try to crank it again, okay? If it starts, you’ve probably got a fuel pump issue. If it doesn’t start, I’ll bet it’s a fuse.”

I slant him a confused look and reach for my keys again. “Which one do we want?”

“Well checking fuses is easy,” he answers, bending down to spray into the engine. “So I’m kinda hoping it doesn’t start.”

Heading over to the driver’s side once more, I slide in and try to start it. Once again, the engine attempts to crank, but no start.

“Alright,” Jamie declares from the back of the car. “See, we just eliminated two of the four--”

“I don’t know how that proves anything.” I gesture to the piece laying out on the garage floor.

“I’m gonna pop this back on.” He reaches down to pick it up and I have to laugh at something that big just popping back in.

“You’re stressing me out, man,” I tell him. “How do you know which wire goes back to what?”

“I got it.”

Jamie goes to work reconnecting the air intake and I find myself settling my gaze on the way his grey t-shirt shifts with his movements, pulling across his back as his shoulder rotates, with the subtle flex of a shoulderblade. I’ve never stared at him like this and I force it away as I feel my brows flinch.

“Next I gotta find your electrical panel, and we’ll try a few things there,” he speaks up amid his focus.

“The fuse box on a Nine-Eleven is on the front driver’s side--” I hear another voice behind us.

Drawing in air, it catches in my chest when I turn to see Jamie’s dad standing at the threshold of the garage.

Jamie seems unfazed, though, as he continues his reconnecting. “Hey dad.”

“Everything alright?”

“Ah--” I speak up, taking a step away from the car. “It wouldn’t start.”

“You boys need some help?”

“Maybe,” Jamie answers. Then he relays to his dad a summary of the issues and fixes he plans to attempt.

Mr. Reagan comes a little closer to peer into the engine bay and while they carry on some over-my-head conversation, I make my way to the passenger side and reach in for my notebook and paperback. Might as well make use of my time just stranded here.

“Noble, do you need a ride home?” He offers. “Or do you need to give your mom a call? Let her know where you are?”

“It’s uh… it’s just my dad--”

“Oh.”

I swallow, my gaze darting between him and Jamie as I make my way around the car. “I could call my sister for a ride, I guess. But… I come home without a car, and…” A puff of air blows out of me and I manage a half smile. “And it won’t be good.”

“Well sure, but these things happen,” Jamie’s father reasons.

“Dad, I was thinking we check the fuses,” Jamie offers. “Maybe clean the DME relay. Or he might have a spare. That’s an easy check, couldn’t hurt.”

I hold my breath, mentally willing Mr. Reagan not to question me again about calling home. There’s two possible outcomes there: either my dad’s nowhere to be found, or he answers and fucking loses it and screams about how I shouldn’t even come home if I don’t want the shit beaten out of me. I’m not really up for facing either option just yet.

Jamie’s father takes this pensive moment to make a determination before he simply nods at his son. “You might have something there. Come in if you’re not making any progress, alright? Or better yet, call Danny.”

“Alright dad,” Jamie mutters.

With that, Mr. Reagan turns and heads back to the house.

“Look, it’s late,” I tell him. “And uh… I mean, you don’t want to deal with this all night, man. I’ll just… get a ride home and figure it out tomorrow.”

Jamie glances away to see his dad get back inside, then with a deep inhale, runs his hand over his jaw, and up his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t mind, but it’s up to you--”

A flick of a smile tugs at my lips when my gaze falls to the black streak he just left along his cheek and up his forehead. Shaking my head, I exhale a soft laugh.

“What?” He questions.

I reach down and grasp his wrist, turning the hand he just rubbed across his face over to show him the grease. “It’s cool. Now you look like a professional.”

“Oh damn,” he chuckles, using his shoulder to rub his face. “Ah well.” Then he wipes his cheek again with the back of his hand and inspects it.

I swipe my thumb across his face, amused. “Here.” Then again along his forehead. “And here.”

“Oh yeah?” With the guilty hand, he pushes his palm up my cheek before I duck away. “You gotta look like you helped,” he teases, then nudges me away with his elbow, a move I reciprocate.

“Yeah, you can count me out,” I tell him, making my way over to the side where I take a seat on a stack of crates next to his sweatshirt. “I’m gonna use my time on this paper, and hope you know what you’re doing.”

There’s a quiet half hour or so of what seems to be progress that passes while I get a little bit more written on my paper. Every now and then, I glance up to see Jamie with his flashlight, inspecting the panel of fuses in my car. After tugging one out, he takes it over to the nearby workbench and I see him pop the casing loose with a screwdriver.

I’ve stopped asking him to explain everything at this point. I just let him work. For all I know, he could be fucking up my car beyond repair, but something assures me that he never would. He seems to concentrate, moving around for other tools before I return to my notes.

In the silence, I pause my writing a moment and glance up to find his covert gaze lingering on me. I tap the tip of my pen on the notebook and ease back as he looks down to the piece he’s cleaning.

“How’s that paper?” He wonders.

“You said it wasn’t there yet, so I’m getting it there.”

A pleased half smile surfaces on his face. “Might as well, huh?”

“Make myself useful.”

“Alright, don’t get excited,” Jamie warns as he secures the fuse once again and goes over to the driver’s side to replace it in the panel. “But if this works, you owe me.”

“Tell me what I owe you.” I shrug. “I’ll pay for whatever you had to use.”

He finishes up, then gets to his feet. “You wanna do the honors? Come start it.”

Arching a skeptical brow, I make my way over and lower into the driver’s seat while Jamie props himself there with an arm resting on the roof.

I stick the key in the ignition, and with a firm grasp, twist it until the engine rumbles to life.

“Holy shit,” Jamie coughs a laugh in disbelief.

I let my hands go from the steering wheel, holding them up like I’m expecting the car to die any second but it runs, content there in his garage. “What’d you do?” I ask.

“Do you really care?”

“Yeah I care.” I stand up next to him.

“You had a crack in the main fuse that runs electricity to the ignition. So I resoldered that and cleaned it,” he explains. “It’s really an easy fix if you know to look for it. But if you’ve got a Porsche guy who you take it to, you might want to let him see just to check.” Then he smiles, almost surprised, laughing as he looks at me.

“Well shit, dude.”

“I know,” he breathes, proud of himself.

“So of the four things…��� I propose. “The battery, the fuel, the whatever. Which one was it?”

“It was the spark.”

“The spark,” I echo.

“Mm-hm.” He hums with a faint drag of his teeth over his bottom lip. “And I wasn’t talking about money, so don’t try to pay me.”

My gaze settles on him for a moment, caught by the shine of green eyes that seem to constantly be processing everything. “So what do I owe you?”

“I don’t know.” He ponders it with a meaningful squint, then smacks my stomach with the back of his hand. “Get an A on that paper, that’s what.”

I glance down as a smile pulls at my cheeks. “Alright, I will.” Then I lift my gaze to him and manage a quick nod. “I suck at being serious. But… thank you. For everything.”

He mirrors the nod. “You’re welcome.” Then his throat clenches with a swallow and I notice the way his eyes flick down to my mouth, but then away.

Fuck, don’t.

I keep thinking about it. About this pull I feel to kiss him and it tugs in the pit of my stomach.

“Okay, um--” I clear my throat. “Tell your dad thanks and sorry I kept you out here so late.”

He nods again. “No problem.”

With a nervous exhale, I try to look anywhere but him and I turn to get back into the car. But before I can, I quickly pivot around, winding up too close to him but he doesn’t back away. “What if I swing by and get you… Saturday,” I blurt out. “We can go drive around. And… hang out.”

That fucking smile, he’s got to stop. “Yeah,” he answers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A relieved little laugh escapes me and I reach up once more to rub my thumb down the bridge of his nose, to his cheek to wipe away another black smudge. “God, wash your face,” I whisper. Then I shove him a step back at his shoulder and drop into the car.

Jamie moves out of the way, a smirk left curving his mouth and pushes my door closed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[maryjeanstar]

Trucker Trax

There was a stench of motor oil in the café that morning. It reeked of sickness. The waitress came to the table with a cigarette clamped in her jaw. “What’ll it be.” she said, eyes on her pad.

Coupe perked up on his suspensions. “You got strawberry lemonade?” he asked.

“No.”

Coupe lowered to the floor, and said nothing else.

4WD blinked his headlights lazily over from the window. “I’ll have a doughnut and some cheese.”

“We don’t got cheese.”

“Just the doughnut then,” said 4WD.

The waitress scribbled. “What about you, red?”

“The name’s F-Type,” said F-Type, his engine glowering beneath his crimson paint, “And I’ll have nothing. This place is a dump.”

“I like it!” Coupe said quickly. “F’s just cranky from the ride heh sorry w-we’re just passing through our transport broke down and we thought we’d….”

The waitress walked away without asking 2WD anything. 2WD’s lights were still on the blue horizon out the window, her green paint reflecting the sun’s rays.

“AUgh,” F-Type revolted. “Someone chucked up in here. I’ll bet it was something they ordered.”

“F,” said Coupe, “please don’t get us killed with your crude social antics.”

“Nobody’s gonna kill anyone,” 4WD said casually. He grabbed a few sugar packets and stuffed them in his glove compartment. “It’s just a café.”

F-type snorted in disgust. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Meh it’s whatever, short-stuff,” 4WD said. “We’ll be out of here as soon as Trailer’s done gassing up and stuff.”

“It could be a couple hours…” Coupe beeped softly. “He said he had to check his wheels and taillights. Suppose he needs to get them replaced. Suppose the person replacing them is crooked! What if he gets abducted and we’re left in this café forever!”

F-type got up from the booth, gagging out his exhaust. “I can’t breathe in here!”

“See ya,” 4WD said, and started drumming the table with a pair of plastic spoons.

“Wait,” Coupe said, “Where are you going?”

F-type did not reply. His engine revved loudly, and in a screech he peeled out the doors.

“Where do you suppose he’s going?” Coupe asked 4WD.

4WD shrugged, then continued drumming.

“Is he checking on Trailer?”

“Probs.”

“What if he gets captured too?”

“Coupe nobody’s been captured. You really need to cool it dude. Get some water or something.”

“I didn’t order any.’

“So order some.”

“But—”

4WD honked. “Waitress! Water and doughnut here!”

The waitress did not look up.

“Waitress!”

Coupe shushed 4WD. “It’s fine, Four I’m really not thirsty—”

“You sure don’t look comfortable,” 4WD said gently. “Wanna play cards?”

“I… I’m gonna check on F-Type.” Coupe began inching out of the booth. “You two gonna be okay?”

2WD did not respond.

“Psh,” 4WD said. “Go ahead lil dude, get some fresh air while you got the chance. We still have a few hours in Trailer’s rig till the next track. He’s got water too, so keep yourself hydrated if you see him lil dude.”

“Okay Four,” Coupe said. He cruised down the booths to the diner entry and nosed his way out in the blinding sunlight. As far as he could see there was endless fields of dead grass. A small flat hill sat an indeterminate distance away to the south, where the road was headed. F-Type was doing doughnuts in the parking lot. He was also screaming.

Coupe zipped over. “F-Type!” He horned. “You okay?”

“AHA!” F-Type cried. He braked hard, leaving a trail of steaming rubber. “Big Blue in there ordered doughnuts, and it gave me an idea how to show this dump my appreciation!”

“Jeez F, you’re gonna ruin your treads!”

F-Type spat windshield wiper fluid, and began a new circle. “C’mon let’s tear this pigsty a new decal!”

“Did you find Trailer?” Coupe said to F-Type’s dust. His horn could not be heard over F-Type’s engine and tires. “Egh, F! F I’m asking you a question! Darn it!” Coupe raced after F-Type, careening through the parked semi trucks, a narrow metal canyon slick with oil spillage. F-Type careened around a BMW and narrowly missed hitting a farmer’s tractor coming out of its parking spot.

The farmer was so busy shaking a fist at F-Type he was not ready for the collision. Coupe smashed into the tractor’s big wheel head on. The tractor jerked, but otherwise remained completely undamaged. Coupe meanwhile shattered and exploded into a dozen large low-poly chunks of yellow car all over the parking lot. His headlamps and wheels rolled under the tractor. His hood lifted itself over the farmer’s astonished head. One of Coupe’s sides leaped out from a pick-up’s back. Within seconds Coupe’s parts remerged into Coupe on the tractor’s far-side.

“S-sorry!” He bleated over his taillight, and before the Farmer could give him a piece of his farmer mind, Coupe streaked off after F-Type.

“HAHA!” F-Type was laughing manically. “You bit it, Coupe!”

“Fuck you!” Coupe cried.

F-Type zoomed under an oil tank. Coupe went around its front.

F-Type did a figure-8 around two gas pumps. Coupe went in the middle of them, forcing F-Type to brake.

“What gives, lemonhead!?” F-Type demanded. “Make way let’s do some stunts!”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you you asshole!” Coupe beeped.

F-Type rolled his headlights. “Ech, you’re such a bitch.”

“Oh so showing concern for others is being a bitch huh?”

“I am sick of you breathing down my neck for everything I do!”

“Like ignoring me is any less inconsiderate!”

“The whole point of this trip was to have fun and you’ve just been a killjoy the entire time!”

“Have fun, yes, at the fleeping Trax you meatball! This is a truck stop!”

“I don’t care!” F-Type backed up, his wheels grinding into a sharp turn. “I’m done. Have fun worrying about me I am out.”

“F-Type stop right there!” Coupe honked, but F-Type pulled out of the parking lot and sped down the highway loud as a tornado. “Fine!” Coupe called after. “Stop wherever you run out of gas you pipewad! Jerk! Child! Maniac!” Coupe’s headlamps were teared up. “…you fucking idiot.”

Behind him a pair of large wheels slowly crunched over the cracked gravelly pavement. 4WD had a doughnut and was munching it slowly. “Heard some shouting,” he said casually.

“Four,” Coupe said. “I messed up big time.”

“Where’s shorty going?” 4WD asked through another bite.

“Another fit. We better go after him with some extra gas or something.”

“No need, lil dude,” 4WD said. He gestured with the doughnut he was holding towards the road. Coming up from the dry grass and bounding onto the road, a flash of green fell in hot pursuit of the crimson tantrum. “Two-wheeler’ll sort him out. She’s good at that.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at him,” Coupe said. “I just I’m so tired of feeling like the only one who gives a shit about anything.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up just ‘cause shorty’s got his ass screwed in too tight. He probably roared off because what you said to him was true.”

“Could you really hear us?”

“Dude the whole café was boggling out listening to you lot—”

Coupe began to sink.

“Erm, I mean they didn’t care really, nobody said anything, it’s cool hey did you see Trailer?”

“No. The whole time I was trying to ask F if he’d seen him.”

“Did you ask him?”

“NO it was just a stupid argument. It’s like he leads every conversation with defensive snaps he’s so dense and touchy it’s—” Coupe sighed deeply.

4WD munched sympathetically.

“I guess I’ll go look for Trailer myself,” Coupe said.

“Cool, I’ll wait for Shorty and Two-wheeler.”

“F and Motor.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I— never mind bye.” Coupe drove off.

F-Type became visible driving calmly beside 2WD. They approached 4WD, and 2WD tooted.

“Hey Big Blue,” F-Type said to the pavement.

“Welcome back, Shorty.”

“Don’t call me that.”

4WD finished his doughnut in silence. 2WD fell over and purred in the sun.

“So, uh,” F-Type began again. “Where’d Coupe go?”

“He’s looking for Trailer.”

“Okay.” F-Type glanced at his tires, then the sky, then 2WD, then said “I guess I’ll go um, look for Trailer too, I think I need new tires. Kinda heh, wore these ones out.”

“Yeah dude, you claimed this turf.”

“Heh. It was righteous!” F-Type’s engine fired up a gear. “We were zipping through the trailers like Owl City Turnpike on friday afternoon it was sick!” He scoffed. “Then Coupe kinda spoiled the mood with all his worrying crap.”

4WD shrugged. “He was anxious and you weren’t listening to him. I think that’s what boiled him.”

“That mid-weight is too damn sensitive,” F-Type said pointedly.

“I get you man,” 4WD nodded. “But you’re one to talk. Wanna tell me where you were going just now, bucko?”

F-Type averted headlights. “Nowhere. I just felt like I needed to drive, y’know?”

2WD tooted.

“Heh,” F-Type chuckled. “Me too, she says.”

“I think the both of you hot-engines need to cool it majorly. Get me?”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll go get a drink of water from Trailer’s trailer,” F-Type said. And if I see Coupe, he thought furiously, I’ll shove a rock up his— He took in a deep breath and exhausted slowly. I’ll say sorry first to show I’m more cool-headed than he is. F-Type gave 2WD a tire-bump before cruising off towards the mechanic shed.

He saw Trailer there, sporting a new set of wheels and getting his tank refueled. “What’s up, Rig?” F-Type greeted. “Just here for some water, I’ll just grab some and—”

“Hey F,” Coupe said, emerging from the front of Trailer.

F-Type made to ignore Coupe, but willed himself to a glare.

“I’m sorry about calling you names F,” Coupe began.

“I’m sorry!” F-Type stammered. “F-for uh, for not listening.”

Coupe smiled a little. “I uh, well, I wasn’t listening very well either, to be honest.”

“No, you weren’t,” F-Type snapped.

Trailer peeked over, his deep voice giving a forced cough.

“You were anxious,” F-Type continued. “I should’ve figured you’d be too sensitive and maybe I shouldn’t’ve been so rude, so uh, I’m sorry we’re both a mess.”

“Me too,” Coupe said. “We’re a couple card houses waiting to topple.”

“You and your analogies, Coupe.”

“Let’s get Four and Motor,” Coupe said. “I was just talking to Trailer he says everything was just fine and we’ll be out of here in five or ten minutes.”

“Sooner’n that I hope,” said 4WD, as he and 2WD entered the shed.

Trailer wonked his diesel horn. “All right Stunt Race FX, let’s roll out! Coupe, F-Type, kiss and be merry let’s go.”

F-Type gave Coupe a friendly wheel scuff on his way back to Trailer’s trailer.

Coupe’s back lights burned red all the way up the tailgate, and stayed on for a solid hour thereafter.

[sleepyau]

slow wave ~ park seungjun

genre: sleepwalking!au, fluffity fluff

word count: 2634

prompt: sleepwalking can be dangerous, but sometimes that’s not a bad thing

warning: *boa voice* eobs-seubnida (aka there are none and i’m extra)

author’s note: i wrote this pretty late at night and intended for it to be something else but then it was this! and it’s kinda random and sorry to tinkerbells if i didn’t get seungjun’s personality right, i’m still a newbie stan haha but no really tho i love knk they’re so good

Your parents’ house was in an unfortunate area. It wasn’t necessarily isolated, because there were more houses a little ways away; it was just that the entire neighborhood was too far from the rest of the city to be practical. The closest store was little more than a candyshop, the hospital was hardly close enough to actually aid in an emergency, and if one wanted to order in Thai food, they would only find themselves hungry and disappointed.

Your own apartment was a good hour away, and the drive home after family night was all too stressful, thanks to the limited amount of gas remaining in your tank and the seemingly unlimited distance still remaining between you and the nearest gas station. You had only been driving for a little while, so you could hypothetically turn around and get help from your parents. Though it was the most practical solution, you already knew exactly what your mother would say:

“Why didn’t you fill your tank before coming? Of course we’ll give you more, but not right now. Right now, you’re going to sleep in the guest room. There’s no way you’re going back out there so late at night! Don’t argue with me, I’m your mother. Honey, tell her.”

This would then lead to a completely unnecessary but drawn out argument that would last well into the next morning. In the end, you figured upsetting her wasn’t worth it; your best bet would be to pray that your gas would last for the ten more minutes you needed until you reached the gas station.

The plan was going as well as it could, and you could just barely see the neon lights of the gas station when something appeared on the road in front of you. You let out a strangled shriek and jerked the wheel to the side while simultaneously slamming your foot down on the brakes. The world seemed to slow down as your car swerved to the side of the road; with your eyes shut tight, it was impossible to tell when one spin around ended and another began.

You immediately began to picture the worst: glass all over, going to the emergency room, and, heaven forbid, your insurance rates hiking up. However, as your car skidded to a painful stop, you couldn’t feel any pain. You cautiously opened your eyes and gasped at the sight of your body - and more importantly, your car - fully intact.

“Thank you,” you whispered to whomever was watching over you, then removed one hand from the steering wheel to place your car in park. You removed the keys from the ignition and opened up the pepper spray attached to your keychain.

Stepping out of the car was even harder than opening the door, but you managed to stand up and scan your surroundings. The gas station was within view, but it was horror-movie empty. The street was lined with a multitude of trees that were restrained behind a wire fence. Finally, and most importantly, there was a man standing in the middle of the road.

The first thing you noticed about him was that he was worryingly stoic for somebody who was almost run over by a car.

“What the heck? Are you insane? I could’ve killed you!” you yelled.

The second thing you noticed was that he wasn’t wearing shoes. It was odd, considering the chilly weather. One foot was positioned on top of the other in what could’ve been discomfort, or maybe embarrassment.

“Are you okay? What are you doing out here, in the middle of the road?” you asked with a more collected tone.

The third thing you noticed was that he was crying. His tears must have been reflecting the gas station lights, because they were a deep red color - almost the color of blood.

Unless...

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry, did I actually hit you? I tried - I thought I avoided you but - are you okay? Please respond!” you started to beg, taking a single step closer. At the action, something must have registered in him because he shot forward with a gasp and reached out to you. You stepped away and held up your pepper spray threateningly, “Don’t come closer.”

“Where am I? Who are you?” he asked, looking around frantically.

You narrowed your eyes at him and raised your arm higher, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“W-what?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know anything right now - I won’t lower my guard.”

“I’m-”

You were quick to cut him off, “Answer my question: what are you doing out here?”

“I...” he trailed off for a second, then sighed, “I was sleepwalking.”

“You- what?”

“Yes. I sleepwalk. I know, it’s weird and uncommon - trust me, I know. I must have accidentally walked all the way... out here.” When you didn’t respond, the stranger in front of you continued, “My uncle usually locks the gate outside of our house so that I can’t get out but I guess he forgot to tonight. Thank goodness I’m okay, though.”

You were still a little out of focus from trying to remember everything you knew about sleepwalking, but his words sparked you back into real life, “Okay? I almost ran you over!”

“You did?” Now it was his turn to be confused.

“Yes! You need to be more careful if your sleepwalking can put you in danger - or even worse: my car!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” he replied in a rush. “Was there any harm to you, or to your car?”

“I’m fine, but I don’t know about my car,” you answered, wanting to turn to look at it but not wanting to take your eyes off of the mysterious stranger in case he attacked you or tried to make a grab for your keys.

“Do you want me to take a look at it? As an apology for nearly killing you?” he asked, stepping forward again. You straightened your pepper-spraying arm and shook your head in response. “I know my way around a car - I promise, I won’t hurt you or steal your car.”

“As if you even could,” you scoffed, but nonetheless stepped aside so that he could get a closer look.

Once he completed a full circle around the car, plus a quick check under the hood (though you really didn’t think it was necessary), he brushed off his hands and nodded to you.

“I think you and your car will both be okay,” he said. From a distance, it was hard to gage just how tall he was. Now, as he was standing closer to you than before, you had to crane your neck just to make eye contact.

“Thanks,” you responded. “I, uh... sorry for almost hitting you.”

“Don’t worry about it, that was my fault,” he excused. “I should probably be getting back home now, so...” he awkwardly bowed his head, then started walking in the direction of the gas station.

You stared after him for a few seconds, debating whether or not you should offer him a ride home. At the thought of him being a serial killer, you shrugged, then hopped into your car and plugged the keys back in. You were all too ready to go back home, but one glance at your gas light reminded you of your previous problem.

“Great. Just great,” you grumbled. You shifted into drive and pulled back onto the road, passing the strange stranger on your way to the gas station. By the time you pulled in and had started filling gas in your car, he was still slowly walking up the road.

Maybe it was because of his downcast gaze, or because of the way he was hanging his head, but you suddenly felt a tug of pity for him. You trailed your gaze from his messy black hair down to his bare feet; he was only in a short sleeve t-shirt and what seemed to be thin flannel pants. Given the weather, you could only imagine he was cold - and tired, judging by his droopy shoulders.

“I’m so gonna regret this,” you sighed to yourself. With one final groan, you walked the short distance to the side of the road so that he would see you in his path.

When he finally noticed you and looked up, he stopped walking and tilted his head in confusion, “Is everything okay?”

“How far do you live?” you asked in response.

“What?”

“How far do you live? How long will you be walking for?” you repeated.

He looked up in thought, then answered, “About twenty minutes.”

“That’s a long way away.”

He shrugged, “It’s not that bad.”

“Wait right here, okay?”

“Why?”

“Just... trust me.”

You waited until he reluctantly nodded his head, then turned around and walked into the small gas station mart. It only took you a minute to find what you were looking for, and when you stepped back outside you found the very tall man standing next to your car.

At your curious expression, he quickly stammered, “It- the thing beeped! I wasn’t gonna steal it!”

You rolled your eyes, “You think I’d leave my car alone with you without taking the keys?” You walked towards him and passed over the bag in your hands. He looked down in shock to find the newly purchased pair of slippers and a Twix bar, then looked up with what was quite possibly the softest and most thankful expression you had ever seen in your entire life. To hide your blush, you turned to the gas pump and pulled it out of your car, “Don’t start crying on me, now. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Thank you...”

You looked up as he faltered, then said, “Y/N. My name’s Y/N.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” he repeated sincerely. He pulled the cheap flip flops out of the bag and carefully placed them on the floor, then slid them onto his feet with gentleness you would imagine one of Cinderella’s evil stepsisters using to try and make the glass slipper fit.

“It’s no problem, stranger.”

“Oh, I’m Seungjun! Park Seungjun!” He held his hand out for you to shake, and you looked down at it hesitantly. Though reason was telling you not to trust somebody you just met, your gut was telling you that he didn’t mean any harm.

You sighed again, then leaned forward and grabbed his hand. Not even a second later, however, you dropped it with a hiss, “Oh my lord! Your hand is so cold!”

“Is it? Sorry! That’s just because...” he trailed off, though you could already make an educated guess as to why.

You unlocked your car, then reached into the backseat to grab the spare blanket you kept for emergencies. When you stood up and held it out to Seungjun, he merely eyed it in confusion. You rolled your eyes, “What? I take a lot of naps, okay?”

“I’m not judging,” he said in a tone that told you he was most certainly judging. “Are you sure it’s okay if I use it?”

“You’re gonna get pneumonia if you don’t.” You opened the blanket and threw it haphazardly over his shoulders, which was really the best you could do considering his height.

“Thank you... again,” he whispered. Seungjun repositioned the blanket around himself nervously, then quickly pulled the Twix bar out of the bag, “Let’s eat this right now!” Before you could respond, he tore open the plastic wrapper and handed one half to you and took the other for himself. “I haven’t had one of these in so long.”

You turned to him with wide eyes, “Seriously? How have you been coping?”

“I don’t know myself,” he sighed. He took a cautious bite, then returned your wide eyes.

“As good as you remember?”

“It’s a whole different world,” he whispered. You both laughed a little at your short-lived drama. It was the closest you had been to him the entire night, and you suddenly found yourself admiring his bright eyes and contagious smile. Clearly, it didn’t take much to spark some life into him, but you were glad you had done it. You continued eating silently after that, stealing quick glances every now and then as you both leaned against the side of your car. After a few moments, Seungjun continued, “So, do you live out here too?”

“No, I was just visiting my parents. I live in the city,” you replied vaguely.

“I see, I see. So... the chances of me seeing you out here again are pretty slim, right?”

“Well, I certainly hope so! I’d hate to almost run you over again, Seungjun,” you said. He looked down with a large smile on his face, even though you didn’t think your joke was that funny.

“Ah, that’s a bummer,” he whispered.

You choked on the bite you had just taken, completely taken aback. Not even ten minutes before, he had been walking around like a zombie, and suddenly he was coming onto you? Safe to say, you were shocked.

Seungjun reached out to hit your back, but you stepped back and waved a hand in front of you as your breath came back, “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” you straightened up and took a few deep breaths, then levelled a glare on your company, “That’s the second time tonight you’ve almost killed me.”

“What? How was that my fault?” he asked defensively.

“You’re way too forward! If you’re gonna start flirting with me then at least give me a warning!”

“Who says I was flirting with you?”

Admittedly, you hadn’t considered that, but you decided to keep running with the argument now that you had already started the race with it, “‘That’s a bummer’? That was so flirting!”

“I just wanna see you again, how is that flirting?”

“It was your tone, Seungjun,” you huffed. You were prepared for another comeback, but instead you were met with a smiley boy all over again. “What the heck?”

“Okay, I admit it: I was flirting. Is that bad?”

“Well, we did just meet,” you reminded him, “On an abandoned road. In the middle of nowhere.”

“So?”

“It’s kind of a creepy setting to be flirting in, don’t you think?”

“No,” he replied quickly, “I think it must be fate that we somehow met each other in such an unlikely place.”

You bit down on your lip to hide your stupid grin, which rose up partially because he was funny and partially because he was cute. Even though you were 95% sure he wasn’t, you still asked, “How do I know you’re not really a serial killer?”

“Would a serial killer have let you live this long?” he rebutted, and you nodded.

“Yes, if it was part of their M.O.”

“Touché, Y/N.”

He looked down despondently when he seemed unable to convince you, which encouraged your next words, “I guess, the only way you could get me to believe you aren’t a serial killer...”

“Yeah?”

“Would be for us to meet in a better setting,” you finished. The remaining 5% caused you to quickly add on, “With more people.”

Seungjun started to laugh shyly again, “Okay, it’s a date.”

“No, it’s not a date,” you corrected, “it’s a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“Yes. We will be meeting again... properly.”

“How is that not a date?”

You scrambled for something reasonable, “Well, because, if you don’t make a good impression, I’ll just walk out on you.”

“You can do that on a date, too.”

“I could also just do it right now,” you said, jokingly turning around and unlocking your car again.

Seungjun stood up straight and reached an arm out to you before you could open the door, “No, no! It’s great! It’s a meeting!”

[usamotorscycle-blog]

Church Of MO – Ride Report: 2003 BMW F650CS Scarver

Keeping with the 650-ish psuedo Adventure/Enduro bike theme started last week with the 1997 Suzuki XF650 Freewind, this week brings us the 2003 BMW F650CS Scarver. At the time few would call the Scarver a good-looking motorcycle, and unfortunately, the same is true today. We can thank American David Robb, former head of design for BMW Motorrad. Nonetheless, the F650CS Scarver was a new bike for 2003, shedding much of the off-road capabilities of its F650GS cousin with its 17-inch cast wheels, though the engine remains. How does it stack up? Here’s Yossef Schvetz to tell you…

Ride Report: 2003 BMW F650CS Scarver

Are You Buying this Scarver Affair? By Yossef Schvetz Aug. 20, 2002 Photos by Yossef Schvetz Italy, 09 August 2002 — Ever heard of David Robb? Well, now you have. This bespectacled chap stands behind all of the controversial two-wheeled stuff that’s been coming out of Munich lately, prompting the established Beemer fraternity to wonder where it’s all going to end. Before you rule him out as just another sophisticated European designer, the guy’s an American, a bachelor of the famous Pasadena Art Center Automotive Design department. His team’s latest creation, the F650CS, has left many a journo a bit perplexed to say the least. What the hell IS that? I mean, previous incarnations of the F650 family could still be somehow related to street-oriented dual-purpose mounts–“Funduros” in BMW’s terms.

But this?! The new F650CS “Scarver” seems to have carried the street-terizing of the F series to its final resting place, an all-street model, while breaking a few rules in the process. For instance, one look at the available color range for the CS (with mix’n match panels) will convince you that some fashion designer had a hand in the choice, surely not the sort of stuff that’ll attract the hardcore black leather crowd. But that’s entirely OK with BMW, the F650CS is clearly targeted at a non-traditional, new riding crowd. Snowboarding youngsters that haven’t grown up on Triumphs, maybe girls who want their scoot to look as cool and up to date as the transparent faceplate they just fitted to their Nokia cell-phone. Rule yourself out if you are over 30 or have grease under your fingernails–and check out Robb’s interview on the CS. The cool and fashionable theme is apparent in endless details. Satin finished transparent plastic parts abound and are not limited just to little details. Major parts like the whole rear luggage rack, tank handles and front screen mounts remind you of current computer peripherals such as HP ScanJet printers. It’s nice to see, though, that some serious thinking went also into making the life of those young urban professionals much easier and not just cooler looking. A multi purpose cargo area is carved into the fake gas tanks (real one is under the seat) and the mentioned handles allow for easy strapping of a backpack, helmet, optional hard case or even a dedicated stereo into said cavity.

Mechanically, it’s a totally new model, with only the engine being carried over rom the GS. While leaving its off-road origins behind, the CS got rid of its spoke wheels, which are replaced by cast 17″ items shod with street tires. A belt final drive replaces the old chain and is mated to a single-sided rear swing arm. The novel combination of these elements, especially the bold rear belt wheel, gives the rear end peculiar and powerful looks while requiring near zero maintenance or cleaning. The frame, although similar to the one on the GS, has larger section tubes which serve as the oil tank for the dry sump engine. Those strangely decorated panels on the flanks are there to prevent any fashionable baggy nylon trousers from melting on the hot frame tubes. We could start here our own little debate about the F650CS’s design but since I am almost sure that I don’t belong to BMW’s target market population, I’ll keep my mouth almost shut on this one. Buck Rogers design or not, the CS turns out to be a pleasant road machine, even surprising in some aspects. After swinging a leg over it, I am rewarded with a really low and comfy seat and my hands fall naturally on the bars. A serious complaint with the 650GS was the proximity of the handlebars to the rider and this has been remedied in the CS with a lot more arm room. The black plastic lined “tank” cavity in front of me almost begs for some stuff to be stowed in. I haven’t got hold of BMW’s dedicated backpack so I gingerly throw in my regular courier bag, which seems happy to sit there even without strapping. Cool.

Switch on, injection fuel pump does its little whirling noise, ABS check light turns off, press the starter button without ever touching the throttle and engine starts pumping steadily. First gear goes in with a slight clunk and off we go. In the first urban maneuvers, the CS feels a bit strange, the long reach to the handlebars feels a little odd initially but after a few minutes and at higher speeds, the seating position comes into its own. The CS is amazingly happy to change directions and avoid the city’s potholes, while the low seat height conveys a sense of security that new riders will surely appreciate. Gut feeling also says that the engine management chip has been somewhat remapped since throttle response is far less abrupt than the one I remember from the GS. Although a single, the 650’s power unit likes to rev rather than plonk Honda-XR style.

Soon as we enter the highway the free breathing allowed by the CS downdraft throttle body lets the rider use all the available rev range without much tapering off of power near the 7500 rpm redline. A good 110 mph showing on the clock tells how strong the CS single runs up high. Back to a sedate 90 mph pace, which is more in line with the riding position, the slightly canted-forward ergoes transforms the CS into a better open-road mount than its predecessors. (On a long trip on a 650GS, I remember having to sit on the passenger portion of the saddle to fit my 6’4″ frame within the confines of the handlebar.) Speaking of highway comfort, a little more wind protection than the one supplied by the existing screen would be welcomed by tall pilots, also better mirrors that don’t turn around at speed. A single will never be without vibrations, but those of the CS are pretty well contained by its balance shafts. And now for an interesting trick, cover with your hand the body work of the CS in a side view picture and you’ll notice that under the swoopy covers, all the basics of a good supermoto are right there. BMW might want us to believe that the CS is just a Yuppie tool, but with that 160-section rear tire, sticky Bridgestone Battlaxes and stiff frame, the F650CS excels in slow twisties. The CS loves being thrown with abandon into hairpins and other mountainous stuff, while the suspension keeps things in check remarkably well considering they were calibrated for quieter action. It’s the kind of bike on which it’s easy to search for your limits. Eventually the pegs drag, but that’s only when you are already using the last few millimeters of untouched tread. OK, its no real competition for a KTM Supermoto; for that it’d have to weigh a good 80 pounds less and have stiffer suspension, but as an entertaining tool for the occasional canyon jaunt, the little CS is more than impressive. The ABS brakes fall in line with BMW’s policy of keeping you from hurting yourself, but for sporting use I’d rather have the normal (and available) setup. The front is a bit tough to modulate, and I think I felt a little fork flex now and again, or was it my courier bag shifting?

It’s hard not to acknowledge the audacity of BMW in taking such a big step into uncharted territory–trying to attract non-riders. The Big IF is, is this going to work? Aprilia tried to pull a similar trick with its Moto 6.5, penned by celebrity designer Phillip Starck. It looked unlike any street bike before and earned a place in the Gugghenheim’s Art of the Motorcycle exhibition, but not in the hearts of riders. Maybe times have changed? Judging from the success of past David Robb creations, such as the R1200C, maybe the man knows what he’s doing. Just don’t tell the upwardly mobile young professionals that besides being a contemporary design showcase, the CS is also a fun curvy road tool. BMW F650CS Price: $8690 $9190 with ABS Engine: 652cc DOHC liquid-cooled four-stroke single; 4v/cyl. Bore x stroke: 100 x 83 mm Fuel delivery: EFI Bosch-BMW Transmission: 5-speed Claimed power: 50 hp at 6.800 rpm Claimed torque: 46 ft-lbs at 5.500 rpm (6,2 kgm at 5.500 rpm) Tires: 120/70ZR17; 160/60ZR17 Fuel Capacity: 4 US gallons (15 L) Suspension Telescopic fork, 125 mm travel Single sided swingarm with progressive single shock linkage, 120 mm travel Claimed wet Weight: 417 lb. (189kg) Click to Post