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whatsnewalycat · 6 months ago

Text

Passenger / Chapter 6

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Wyoming (Part Three)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]

Chapter Summary: Charlie strikes a deal with the mechanic.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.3k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine,” you wave it off.

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

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

“Know any Waylon Jennings?”

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

“Surprise me,” he winks.

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

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

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

“How much will it cost to fix?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A trade?” Paul frowns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is.”

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

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

“Plus the cost of supplies,” you add.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We can do that.”

“Yeah?”

He nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid goddamn aviators.

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

Again, nothing.

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

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

This seems to do the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such a way with words.

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

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

“Why that one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

Dead giveaway.

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

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

“I didn’t say anything!”

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

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

“No.”

Denial sours the word in the most obvious way.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not at all.”

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

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

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

“What does that mean?”

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

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

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

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

He says nothing.

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

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

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

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

“No, not really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grinding his teeth together, he shakes his head.

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

“It says five dollars.”

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

“Does anyone?”

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

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

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

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

“Original.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“What do you need help with?”

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

“I can do that.”

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

He nods, “It’s the least I can do.”

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

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

He holds up a hand, “I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

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

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

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

Your question bounces off him with no reaction.

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

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

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

“Can you help me with something?”

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

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

“Use the big ladder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, did he ask you something?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you almost done?”

“You ruined the best part.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you gonna hop in too?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s just get it over with, ok?”

You roll your eyes a little, but acquiesce.

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

“Like this?”

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

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

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

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

“Then why?”

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

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

“What the fuck are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

“Would you do it if you had to?”

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

“Why would I have to?”

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

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

“You wouldn’t?”

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

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

“I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Why not?”

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

“Are you ignoring me or thinking?”

“Ignoring you.”

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

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

With this, you go quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You choose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

“Off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost fulfill the vow, too.

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

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

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

“Charlie?” he nudges you.

Fuck.

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

He nods, almost apologetically.

“Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Go ahead.”

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

“Oh my god, I can’t see shit.”

“Want me to turn the lamp on?”

“No, I’ve got it.”

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

“Here.”

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

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

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

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

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

“Din.”

“What?”

“I can’t fall asleep.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Din.”

“What?”

“I said I can’t fall asleep.”

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

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

“Just talk to me for a while.”

“About what?”

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

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

“Hang on, let me think.”

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

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

“Like a farm?”

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

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

“Yeah, that’s the dream.”

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

“I… I’d rather not say.”

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

“Don’t worry about it, kid.”

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

“What are yours?” he asks.

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

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

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

“Tricky bastard, huh?”

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

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

“You sound tired.”

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

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

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

#din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin fic #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #passenger

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mensfactory · 1 year ago

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1967 Ferrari 412P Berlinetta

Ferrari built the 412P at the height of its Le Mans rivalry with Ford. Only four examples were ever manufactured, each built to the spec of the private teams that would race them. All were converted from 330 P3 race cars and of the four, two were built for NART and Scuderia Filipinetti while the other two were commissioned by Ecurie Francorchamps and Maranello Concessionaries.

This 412P was raced by Maranello Concessionaries. While it did not claim any race victories during its debut season, it did finish third at Spa and was running just outside the top 10 at the 24 Hours of Le Mans before it retired due to an oil pump failure.

In 1968, the car was sold, repainted green and raced in both Europe and South Africa. It retired from racing later that year before being sold to a U.S. resident who converted it into a street car.

The car then passed through the hands of multiple owners over the following decades and has been in the possession of its current custodian since 2005. It remains road legal and registered and has a numbers matching chassis, engine, transmission, and all of its original bodywork.

Courtesy Bonhams

#art #design #supercars #luxurycars #supercar #luxurylifestyle #luxurycar #hypercars #hypercar #ferrari #berlinetta #bonhams #le mans #racecar #race car #racing #1967 #ferrari 412P

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mostlysignssomeportents · 23 days ago

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This day in history

THIS WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

#10yrsago Mercilessly pricking the bubbles of AI, Big Data, machine learning https://spectrum.ieee.org/machinelearning-maestro-michael-jordan-on-the-delusions-of-big-data-and-other-huge-engineering-efforts

#10yrsago American businesses devour themselves to enrich the 1% https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2014/10/goldman-makes-it-official-that-the-stock-market-is-manipulated-buybacks-drive-valuations.html

#10yrsago WATCH: top Scientologists heaping abuse on apostate https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EG70fhg0wL4

#5yrsago Griefer terrorizes baby by taking over their Nest babycam…again https://www.siliconvalley.com/2019/10/18/the-voice-from-our-nest-camera-threatened-to-steal-our-baby/

#5yrsago It’s dismayingly easy to make an app that turns a smart-speaker into a password-stealing listening device and sneak it past the manufacturer’s security checks https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2019/10/alexa-and-google-home-abused-to-eavesdrop-and-phish-passwords/

#5yrsago A shrewd guess about the Haunted Mansion’s mysterious Squeaky Door Ghost https://longforgottenhauntedmansion.blogspot.com/2019/10/the-squeaky-door-ghost.html

#5yrsago Rep Katie Porter: an Elizabeth Warren protege and single mom who destroys bumbling, mediocre rich guys in Congressional hearings https://newrepublic.com/article/155268/house-representative-katie-porter-schools-ben-carson-orea-jamie-dimon

#5yrsago Haunted Mansion/Ikea mashup tee https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/4196890-haunted-mansion-ikea-instructions

#1yrago The internet's original sin https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/the-internets-original-sin/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

#pluralistic

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khalid-albeshri · 2 months ago

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The Top 10 Construction Firms Driving Growth in Saudi Arabia The construction sector in Saudi Arabia is experiencing rapid growth, driven largely by the Kingdom's Vision 2030 initiative, which aims to diversify the economy and reduce dependency on oil. Here are the top 10 construction firms playing a major role in this transformation: 1. Saudi Binladin Group – Established in 1931, this company has led some of Saudi Arabia’s most iconic projects, such as the Grand Mosque expansion in Mecca and King Abdulaziz International Airport(DTC - درر تمام | Contracting Company)(ControlTap). 2. El-Seif Engineering Contracting Company – Known for its work on high-rise buildings, including the Jeddah Tower, which aims to be the world's tallest structure(DTC - درر تمام | Contracting Company). 3. Al-Rashid Trading & Contracting Co. (RTCC) – Involved in significant infrastructure projects such as the Riyadh Metro, RTCC has been instrumental in developing the Kingdom's transportation network( ControlTap). 4. Nesma & Partners Contracting Co. Ltd. – This firm has a diverse portfolio, contributing to major projects like the King Saud University and the Riyadh Metro(DTC - درر تمام | Contracting Company). 5. Almabani General Contractors – Established in 1972, this firm has contributed to the development of King Abdullah Economic City and other key projects(ControlTap). 6. Controltap General Contracting – Specializing in MEP services, this company has been integral to numerous residential and commercial developments(DTC - درر تمام | Contracting Company)(ControlTap). 7. Al Harbi Trading & Contracting Co. Ltd. – Known for its involvement in large government and religious projects, including the Medina Holy Mosque expansion(ControlTap). 8. Alfanar Construction – With expertise in construction and manufacturing, Alfanar has played a significant role in developing industrial and power infrastructure(ControlTap). 9. Golden Obelisk Contracting Co. – Renowned for luxury residential and commercial projects, Golden Obelisk is known for its high-quality standards and timely delivery(ControlTap). 10. Bechtel – A major international player, Bechtel has been involved in key Saudi projects such as the Riyadh Metro and various infrastructure developments(Mordor Intel). These companies are shaping Saudi Arabia's future by contributing to megaprojects across sectors like transportation, residential development, and energy infrastructure, all aligned with Vision 2030.

#KhalidAlbeshri #خالدالبشري

#advertising #artificial intelligence #autos #business #developers & startups #edtech #education #finance #futurism #marketing

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lavareview · 5 months ago

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THE FIRST LAVA LAMP...?

The history of the lava lamp can be quite muddled and confusing to approach. From its original invention to its manufacturing and sale, who exactly “did it first” is often unclear. Two lava lamp companies, Lava Lite and Mathmos, are said to be the originators of the lava lamp, and both draw their histories back to inventor Edward Craven Walker… Who himself is disputed as the true inventor of the lava lamp.

So, what’s the real story?

Well, it starts sometime in the 1940s with a Scot by the name of Donald Dunnet, a motor engineer living in South East England. Little information is available on Dunnet, and the most helpful source on him and his inventions is his great-grandson Charlie Leverett, who along with his father and aunt have tried to piece together accurate information on Dunnet and his invention.

According to an old (unfortunately dateless) newspaper article, which the family uses as a source, the original invention came about when Felicity, Dunnet’s youngest daughter and Charlie Leverett’s grandmother, broke the family’s egg-timer, coincidentally while there was a wartime shortage of egg-timers in the UK. Dunnet, who was described as a part-time inventor, set out to build a replacement – imagining, instead of sand falling down to measure time, a controlled rising of oil to the surface of water. This “inverted egg-timer” would therefore be the very first lava lamp prototype.

It would not, however, be the last prototype created by Donald Dunnet. In December 1950, Dunnet applied for a patent granted in 1954 for “a display device using liquid bubbles in another liquid” – making no reference to time measurement, it can be assumed that at this point the invention no longer had anything to do with egg-timers and was instead meant to be an aesthetically pleasing display.

The abstract further describes the invention as “a display device [which] comprises an upper layer of liquid 2 and a lower layer of liquid 3 in a transparent container 1, the two liquids being non-miscible and the upper layer being of lower specific gravity than the lower layer and means 9 for heating the lower layer so that it rises through the upper layer in the form of liquid bubbles […], the bubbles being cooled by the upper layer so that they return to the lower layer.”

Further technical detail is added, but with this initial description, you may already have recognized the basic workings of a lava lamp: wax or oil heated by a light bulb at the bottom of the lamp bubbles up through the fluid filling the container (typically water); the bubbles cool down as they reach the top of the lamp and fall back to the bottom, creating a continuous flow of 'lava'.

While there are no other patents I could find for further iterations on this invention, Dunnet continued to improve on his design. The family was able to find one picture of various models created by Dunnet: one resembles a large glass jug, one a long-necked, bulbous bottle, and three resemble lanterns (interestingly, lantern designs would later be sold by both Lava Lite and Crestworth). The picture is dated "Easter 1960".

Dunnet was even featured on “The BBC Inventors Club” (date of broadcast unknown) for another of his inventions, seemingly his “cleaner for flat surfaces” patented in 1955, pictured here:

According to Dunnet’s grandson, in the 1960s, the family still owned and used one of Dunnet’s lamps, which he says “worked really well and was well developed, quite far removed from his original ‘egg timer’ based design”. He further describes this lamp as using “a Grant’s whiskey bottle with Red lava”. He also declared his intention to create a replica of this prototype based on his memories of it, but it seems pictures of such a replica never materialized.

Sadly, Donald Dunnet passed away sometime between 1960 and 1964, and would never market his invention himself. According to his grandson, his widow had his workshop completely cleared after his death, and no surviving prototypes remain. Still – thanks to newspaper articles, family testimony, the 1950s patent, and the surviving photographs of Donald Dunnet and his inventions, it seems clear that he was the true original inventor of the lava lamp, though not the one who would come to market it to the public.

Unfortunately, Dunnet seems to have been widely forgotten from lava lamp history, with many sources not mentioning him at all, and only his initial egg-timer prototype being briefly credited as inspiring Edward Craven Walker in other sources. It seems Dunnet’s family passed on his story through generations and often spoke of his invention as being stolen, though his granddaughter Linda Leverett is “not sure what really happened”, and the family primarily expresses wishing that he was better known and recognized for his creations. You can take a look at various other patents held by Dunnet here.

So then, who is this Edward Craven Walker we keep hearing about?

Edward Craven Walker (1918-2000) was a British inventor, now known as the creator of the lava lamp. In 1963, Craven Walker found himself at the Queen’s Head pub in Dorset, England. There, he spotted a “blob light” on the bar, described as “a glass cocktail shaker full of oil and water with a light bulb beneath”. This was one iteration of Dunnet’s invention – already no longer an egg-timer as is often claimed, but instead a decorative item.

Craven Walker, learning that Dunnet had died, decided to take on the further development of the lamp himself. He hired British inventor David George Smith to further develop the device. In 1964, Smith applied for a patent assigned to Craven Walker’s company ‘Crestworth Limited’ and granted in 1968, for “a display device comprising a container having two substances therein, with one of the substances being of a heavier specific gravity and immiscible with the other substance […] and when heat is applied to the container, the first substance will become flowable and move about in the other substance”.

Craven Walker named this lamp the “Astro Lamp”, and this model was sold by Crestworth starting in 1963, making it the first commercial lava lamp.

The Crestworth Astro and its variations (such as the Astro Mini) have defined the classic look of lava lamps ever since. They were greatly successful throughout the 1960s and 1970s and are now icons of the era. Crestworth would be renamed Mathmos in 1992, and Mathmos is still one of the two best-known lava lamp companies in the world.

So, what’s with Lava Lite and its claim of being “the original lava lamp company”?

In the end, it’s simply a case of international manufacturing rights. In 1965, Craven Walker sold the US manufacturing rights of his Astro Lamp to two American entrepreneurs, Adolph Wertheimer and Hy Spector, who saw the lamp at a novelty convention in Hamburg, West Germany. Wertheimer and Spector founded the Lava Manufacturing Corporation in Chicago, Illinois, and the Astro Lamp was renamed the Lava Lite and brought to the US market. In the 1970s, the rights to the Lava Lite were sold to Haggerty Enterprises, and it would be distributed by a subsidiary called Lava World International. Lava World International was later renamed Lava Lite LLC. Finally, the Lava Lamp brand was acquired by toy manufacturer Schylling in 2018. This brand, often referred to as “Lava Lite”, is the other big player in the lava lamp world. Because both Mathmos and Lava Lite originate from Craven Walker’s initial Astro Lamp, both brands still lay claim to “the original lava lamp”.

So that’s the story of the lava lamp, as best as I’ve been able to piece it together! An original invention by Donald Dunnet, developed by Edward Craven Walker, and sold in the US by Lava Lite and internationally by Mathmos. A simple but ingenious device, originally only meant as an egg-timer, which would become an icon of the 60s and the 70s, and remains popular to this day.

Did I get something wrong? Am I missing details? Do you have more information on lava lamp history? Feel free to reach out with an ask or submission!

Sources:

The History of the Astro Lamp - Designs by Donald Dunnet - FlowOfLava

The History of the Lava Lamp - Smithsonian Magazine

Donald Dunnet - Original Lava Lamps Inventor by Charlie Leverett on OozingGoo

The Mystique of the Lava Lamps - BBC

Craven Walker - The Telegraph

#lava lamp #lava lamps #lava lamp history #Crestworth #Mathmos #Lava Lite #Donald Dunnet

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ganpatmetalindustries · 3 months ago

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Carbon SS weld fittings / How to Choose the Right Carbon Steel Socket Weld Fittings

Introduction

Ganpat Metal Industries, Mumbai, India, is involved in the manufacture, supply, and export of Carbon Steel Socketweld Fittings at par with global quality standards. It is fabricated to cater to all the rigid industry standards, giving reliability and durability to their customers across different industrial applications., we will delve into the intricacies of carbon steel socketweld fittings, covering their product overview, specifications, benefits, applications, and provide a call to action for those seeking top-quality fittings.

Product Overview

Carbon steel socketweld fittings are designed for high-pressure applications and are extensively used in industries such as oil and gas, petrochemicals, power generation, and more. These fittings are engineered to provide a strong, leak-proof connection between pipes, ensuring the integrity of the piping system. The socketweld design involves inserting the pipe into a recessed area of the fitting and then applying a fillet weld around the joint. This method provides a secure and permanent bond, making it ideal for critical applications.

To read more about the product you can website our website :

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rofeibi · 11 months ago

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Unveiling the Science Behind Superior Engine Performance: Exploring ROFEIBI Oil Formulations

In the realm of engine oils, ROFEIBI stands as an epitome of innovation, precision, and reliability. As one of the top engine oil manufacturers globally, their commitment to crafting the best synthetic engine oil for bikes is unwavering.

From advanced formulations to sustainable practices, ROFEIBI continues to redefine industry standards, making them the trusted choice for engine lubrication needs.

For bikers and manufacturers alike, partnering with ROFEIBI ensures optimal engine performance, longevity, and a seamless riding experience.

#best engine oil manufacturer #best synthetic engine oil for bike #bike engine oil company #bike engine oil manufacturer #bike engine oil supplier #Ester-based oils #High-quality synthetic oils #Synthetic motor engine oil experts #top engine oil manufacturers

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dreamy625 · 8 months ago

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Overture and beginners - chapter 2

< Chapter 1

Words: 2212

Content: There’s casual drinking and smoking in this chapter, and some smooching

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For such a casual arrangement, Katie found that a quite unreasonable level of anticipation crept up on her over the intervening week. She flaked on another date with Gary and then, after ten minutes of introspection, called him back to end things altogether. With the vision, however uncertain, of a particular sweet shy smile perpetually hovering in front of her, Gary had just… faded into the background. Oh he was nice enough, and she’d liked that he had a respectable, clean job - chilled goods manager at the new supermarket - and a car, but it turned out, not much else. He wasn’t the most exciting bloke in the world, and the only thing he seemed to be really passionate about was Sheffield United. She let him down gently, blaming their incompatible work schedules rather than the fact that he was boring, and he accepted it with predictable stoicism.

-----------------------------

Steve’s head had swivelled like an owl every time the door swung open and finally, at twenty past six, he was rewarded with the sight of Katie walking into the pub and looking around searchingly. He jumped up, almost knocking the bar stool over, and then, checking himself, strolled oh so casually over to where she was standing.

“You came! I mean, hi.”

“Well, sure. I hear this is where all the cool kids hang out on a Friday night,” she quipped.

“Oh definitely,” agreed Steve, eying the motley collection of steel workers and engineers, some still wearing their overalls, that made up the majority of the patrons. “Have you just got off work?”

“Err, yeah, busy day,” (in fact she had put the cover on her typewriter nearly an hour ago and had spent the intervening time in the ladies’ loo refreshing her makeup, fussing with her hair, and trying to get the ink stain off the cuff of her blouse).

“Can I get you a drink?”

“That would be lovely.”

While Steve went to the bar, Katie scoped out a small table in a corner made less gloomy than most of the pub by the last of the evening light coming in through a frosted window. When Steve sat down with a vodka and orange for Katie and a pint of beer for himself there was a brief awkward silence when it dawned on both of them that this was now undeniably a date.

“So, you’re not with your mates today then?”

“Oh they’re around here somewhere. Last I saw they were in the back bar reenacting William Tell and the apple but with darts and a pickled egg! I couldn’t watch.”

He mimed an unfortunate apprentice turning cross-eyed as a poorly-aimed dart approached his forehead and Katie’s laughter, and Steve’s bashful delight at having made her laugh, seemed to break the ice. After that, starting with their common ground of Wisewood Comprehensive, they shared reminiscences about Mr Taylor’s wig, the time 3B set fire to the chemistry lab, and whether the boiler room was actually haunted, before moving on to families, with Steve telling stories of escapades with his two younger brothers, and then grumbling about their shared workplace, each striving to top the other’s tales of dimwitted colleagues and virtually inedible canteen food. Steve’s shyness evaporated once he got engrossed in the conversation, and he was funny, and observant, with a talent for mimicking voices and mannerisms. Katie tried, however pretty his eyes were, not to stare at his face the whole time, and instead found herself studying his hands - black staining like all the men in the manufacturing departments, from oil and metal dust worked so deep into the skin that you couldn’t wash it off however hard you scrubbed, and long slender fingers that were always moving - pushing his overgrown fringe out of his eyes, fiddling with a cigarette, tapping on the table, tearing the corners off beermats. Three drinks and several packets of peanuts later and they were on to more personal topics - childhood dreams, hopes for the future, and, of course, music, at which point Steve’s twitchy fingers took flight, subconsciously miming chords and riffs as he talked about his favourite players. They were in the middle of discovering a shared love of David Bowie when a group of blokes from the factory walked past on their way to the pool table, and one of them did a double-take.

“Aye aye, Dreamer’s found a girl!”

“Is this your sister, Steve-o?”

“Bet it’s his cousin - they’re like that in Hillsborough.”

Charlie, bringing up the rear, gave a couple of the young men a good-natured shove, “Come on lads, this might be the only time he’s ever spoken to a woman, don’t ruin it for him.” Still snickering and with some crude hand gestures, the group continued on their way.

Clutching his forehead and turning pink with embarrassment, Steve apologised, “I am so sorry. I work with a bunch of hooligans.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been at GEC long enough to know what they’re like. The office girls call your bit of the factory the monkey cage!”

He grimaced. "Sounds about right."

“Why do they call you Dreamer?”

“Because I’m always sleeping when I’m meant to be working.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “And because I want to be a musician and they think that’s a pipe dream.”

“Well that’s very unsupportive of them.”

“Yeah. They’re probably right though,” he mused gloomily.

“No,” she insisted, suddenly fierce, “how dare they try to squash your dreams!” Impulsively she reached over and squeezed his hand. “You’ve got all the time in the world to get there. And you’re already doing it, playing in a band and all.”

Steve’s head was lowered and she followed his gaze to where it rested on their joined hands. Self-consciously she released her grip and moved her hand, not snatching it back but trailing her fingertips across the landscape of tendons and veins.

“So, what would you like to do now? Another drink, or…?”

Mustering every ounce of courage he possessed, Steve stretched across the table and very lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “I would like…” She heard him take a quick breath. “To kiss you. But I don’t want to do it with all that lot watching us.”

“Well, I would appreciate a kind gentleman who would walk me to my bus stop.”

“I am at your service, m’lady.”

Conveniently, it turned out that they lived close enough to one another that Steve could catch the same bus as Katie and only have to walk a couple of extra streets. After establishing this plan, the previously easy conversation dried up, stifled by the anticipation hovering in a cloud above their heads. As they walked, their hands occasionally brushed against each other, and they both pretended not to notice. As they rounded the corner and came in sight of the row of bus stops, they saw that there were quite a number of people already waiting there.

“Oh goody,” muttered Steve under his breath, “another audience.” Looking around quickly, he spotted open gates leading to the yard in front of some factory or warehouse and stepped sideways into the shadowy gateway, inclining his head in an invitation for Katie to follow him. Though not in the habit of following strange men into dark corners, this one somehow seemed irresistible.

“Sorry, not the most glamorous of locations,” he said with an anxious smile.

“At least it's private, and doesn't smell bad."

“So…” He looked at her a little sideways, fidgeting his feet. He could feel his heart beating fast and his palms were sweaty.

“So… I think you said you wanted to do something?” she teased, looking up at him with doe eyes.

Steve stepped closer and reached out a hand, hovering it uncertainly before deciding that her shoulder was a safe place to land it. Katie put her hand on his other arm and tilted her face up expectantly. He leaned down and bestowed a soft, chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth and then waited for a moment, in case she was going to yell ‘bleugh’ and run away - okay that had only happened once, when he was nine, but it had stayed in his mind as a possible outcome ever since. Happily, there was no cry of revulsion, so he lightly brushed his lips across hers before pressing them together. She responded eagerly, and he felt inspired to elaborate, alternating delicate pecks with firmer pressure with pulling her lower lip into the slightest pout to graze the soft inner edge. His kisses were like questions, to her, to himself - do you like that, can I do this, does that feel good? Each move tentative at first and then more ardent as the response was a clear yes! Eventually they reached some kind of natural conclusion, separating with a final clinging pop and little puffs of hot breath.

“Wow…” She blinked, temporarily unable to find any more words.

“Really? I’ve never had a ‘wow’ before.”

“Maybe we should check it wasn’t a fluke?”

The first kiss had brought them closer together and this time Steve dared to put his hands on Katie’s waist. She lifted up on her toes and looped her arms around his neck. This kiss was bolder; Steve’s tongue traced the inner edges of her lips and she parted them and moved her own to meet it with exploratory touches. His hands gripped tighter on her hips, and hers tangled in his hair.

The increasingly-passionate moment was rudely interrupted when a group of lads passing in the street spotted the canoodling couple and whistled and hooted (honestly, was there nowhere you could go in this city that wasn’t infested with packs of feral boys). Steve, without breaking the embrace, held up his middle finger in their direction. Not really looking where they were going, he started to steer them, Katie shuffling backwards, into the deeper shadows. After a few steps, she bumped into a wall and broke the kiss with a little ‘oof’ of surprise.

“Sorry, I…” Steve started to apologise.

“No, this is good.” She trailed her hands down the front of his jacket and anchored them around his waist, tugging him closer as their lips met again.

Pressed into each other, and back against the wall, Steve’s knee slipped between hers, bringing their whole bodies into contact. Katie dropped her hands to his bum, and he let out a half-moan, half-sigh that she felt as much as heard. That sound cemented the transformation that had been happening in her head since the previous Friday, turning the dorky kid from the music room into a handsome prince grown man, with warm lips and strong hands and… let’s be honest, a really nice arse. She felt him slip a hand between her blouse and her jacket, up her back and then round to the side, as if he was following the bra band underneath like a map. Hesitantly, he moved his hand to cup the curve of her breast and his thumb brushed over her nipple. Even through two layers of fabric the touch was enough to make her gasp, and Steve reacted by repeating the action deliberately. Eager for skin contact, Katie wriggled her hand under the hem of Steve’s t-shirt, touching her fingers to the curve of his back. But her hands were cold, and her realisation of it, and his involuntary shiver, broke the spell and they both pulled away from the kiss with simultaneous ‘sorry’-s.

Steve dropped his hand back to Katie’s waist and took a half-step back, forcing himself to create distance between their bodies. He blew out a long breath. “So… that was…”

“That was…” She was still gazing at him with starry eyes.

“I don’t usually…”

“I don’t either…”

“Sorry, too fast…”

“No… maybe…”

He cleared his throat and tried very hard to form a complete sentence. “If I asked you… would you go on a proper date with me? One that’s not groping in doorways?”

“Of course I would.” She smiled, “Though I wouldn’t be too upset if there was a little bit of groping in doorways!”

“Deal!”

As they were leaving the yard, they almost bumped into a group of older men also, by the jovial laughter and slightly wobbly gait of some of the party, on their way home from a night in the pub. One of the men stopped after a few steps, turned back and scowled at the couple.

“Uh oh, it’s Mr Rafferty, the foreman. Don’t know why he’s got that face on him though, for once I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Um, it might be because you’re holding his daughter’s hand.”

He dropped her hand like it was molten metal, muttering ‘bloody hell’ under his breath before pasting on an ingratiating smile.

“G-good evening M-mr Rafferty, I was just, err, seeing your Katherine home safe,” he stammered. “But, err, now you’re here, I’ll just say goodnight.”

He bobbed his head in a kind of awkward bow before scuttling off down the street as fast as his guilty feet would carry him. Katie tore her eyes away from his retreating figure and looked up at her father’s still frowning face. She wondered if she had lipstick smeared on her chin.

‘Home’ was all he said.

Chapter 3 >

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