elianamacri

[artisticdivasworld]

Financial Survival Tips to Help New Owner-Operators

We are starting a new series here on the blog. We want to talk to and help new owner-operators understand what exactly is involved with running a trucking business. We have identified 10 areas that cause issues for new owners, so we will address each one individually here. Since FRC was founded to help independent truckers succeed in an unfriendly economy, we hope that by talking about each of…

[utah-truck-driving-school]

Best Truck Preventive Maintenance Checklist To Follow

Discover the best truck preventive maintenance checklist to follow for optimal performance and longevity. Get expert tips, guidelines, and essential practices on Utah Truck Driving School's blog. Ensure your commercial truck's engine, tires, brakes, and fluids are properly maintained for safe and efficient operations.

[pierre-gmc-of-everett]

The Benefits of Synthetic Oil Changes for Your GMC

As a conscientious driver, you understand that changing your motor oil regularly is something you need to do. But keeping your engine’s oil fresh isn’t just a routine task; it’s essential to keep your car running as you expect. 

[truckac]

Quick Tips for Improving Truck AC Efficiency

A truck's air conditioning system is an essential component for ensuring a comfortable driving experience, especially during scorching summer months. However, the effectiveness of your truck's AC can diminish over time due to various factors, leading to discomfort and even potential health risks. Understanding how to maintain and improve your truck's AC efficiency not only keeps you cool but also extends the lifespan of your vehicle’s HVAC system. Below, we’ll explore several practical and quick tips for improving truck AC efficiency so you can enjoy a consistently cool cabin environment.

How to Improve Truck AC Efficiency

Regular Maintenance: The Foundation of Efficiency

The most straightforward way to ensure your truck air conditioner remains efficient is through regular maintenance. This includes routine checks and services to prevent minor issues from escalating into costly repairs. Key maintenance tasks include:

Checking the Refrigerant Levels: Low refrigerant levels are a common cause of poor AC performance. Ensure your refrigerant is at the correct level to maintain optimal cooling.

Inspecting the AC Belt: The AC belt drives the compressor, and any wear or damage can reduce efficiency. Replace worn belts promptly.

Cleaning the Condenser Coils: Dirty condenser coils can hinder the heat exchange process, leading to reduced cooling. Regularly clean the coils to ensure they’re free of debris.

Optimize Airflow by Replacing Filters

The cabin air filter plays a crucial role in maintaining AC efficiency. Over time, cabin air filters can become clogged with dust, pollen, and other particles, obstructing airflow and reducing the system's cooling ability. Replacing the air filter regularly, ideally every 12,000 to 15,000 miles, ensures that the airflow remains unrestricted, enhancing the AC's performance.

Use the Recirculation Mode Wisely

When driving in hot weather, it's tempting to keep the AC on full blast. However, to maximize efficiency, use the recirculation mode instead of pulling in hot outside air. This mode reuses the cooler air inside the cabin, which requires less effort from the AC system to maintain the desired temperature.

Park in the Shade Whenever Possible

A truck parked under direct sunlight can turn into an oven, causing the AC to work harder to cool the interior. By parking in the shade or using a windshield sunshade, you can significantly reduce the cabin temperature before starting the AC, thereby improving its efficiency and reducing fuel consumption.

Pre-cool the Cabin with Ventilation

Before starting your journey, open the doors and windows to ventilate the hot air trapped inside the cabin. This step helps in lowering the interior temperature, reducing the burden on the AC system when you turn it on. A few minutes of ventilation can lead to significant energy savings and faster cooling.

Inspect and Maintain the AC Compressor

The compressor is the heart of your truck's AC system. It compresses the refrigerant and circulates it through the system. Regularly inspect the truck compressor for signs of wear or leaks and ensure it's well-lubricated. A well-maintained compressor is crucial for efficient cooling.

Improve Truck AC Efficiency with Smart Driving Habits

Avoid Idling for Long Periods

Idling with the AC on is a common practice, especially during hot weather. However, this habit can strain the AC system and waste fuel. If you need to wait for an extended period, consider turning off the engine, opening the windows, or using a portable fan instead.

Maintain a Steady Speed

Rapid acceleration and deceleration can put extra strain on your truck's engine and AC system. By maintaining a steady speed and avoiding sudden stops and starts, you can improve fuel efficiency and enhance the AC system's performance.

Keep the Windows Closed When Using the AC

Driving with the windows open while the AC is running disrupts the airflow dynamics inside the cabin and forces the AC to work harder. To maximize efficiency, keep the windows closed when the AC is on, allowing the system to cool the cabin more effectively.

Preventive Measures to Enhance Truck AC Efficiency

Regularly Check for Leaks

Leaks in the AC system can lead to refrigerant loss, which directly impacts cooling efficiency. Periodically inspect the AC lines and connections for any signs of leaks. If you notice a decrease in cooling performance, it may be time to have the system checked by a professional.

Upgrade to High-Performance Parts

If you’re driving an older truck, consider upgrading to high-performance truck AC parts. Modern compressors, condensers, and fans are designed to be more efficient, providing better cooling with less energy consumption. While this might be a more significant investment, it can pay off in long-term efficiency and comfort.

Ensure Proper Insulation of the Cabin

The insulation of your truck's cabin plays a significant role in maintaining the interior temperature. Poor insulation allows heat to penetrate, making the AC work harder. Inspect the weather stripping around doors and windows and replace any damaged seals to ensure your cabin effectively retains cool air.

Utilize AC Diagnostic Tools

Modern diagnostic tools can help you monitor your truck's AC performance in real time. These tools can alert you to potential issues before they become major problems, allowing for timely maintenance and repairs. Investing in such technology can be a game-changer in maintaining AC efficiency.

Optimizing AC Performance During Extreme Weather

Avoid Direct Sunlight on the Dashboard

The dashboard can absorb and radiate heat, significantly raising the cabin temperature. To minimize heat absorption, use a reflective sunshade or cover your dashboard. This simple step can lower the cabin temperature, easing the workload on your AC.

Consider Tinting Your Windows

Window tinting can block up to 99% of harmful UV rays and significantly reduce the heat entering your truck’s cabin. This not only protects the interior from sun damage but also helps maintain a cooler temperature, enhancing the overall efficiency of your AC system.

Schedule Seasonal AC Inspections

Have your AC system inspected by a professional before the onset of extreme weather. Seasonal inspections can identify potential issues and ensure that your system is fully charged and functioning at its best. This proactive approach can prevent breakdowns during critical times. (Infographic: Seasonal Maintenance Checklist for Truck AC Systems)

Final Thoughts

Maintaining and improving truck AC efficiency is not only about comfort but also about ensuring the longevity of your vehicle’s HVAC system. By following these quick tips, you can keep your truck cool, save on fuel costs, and avoid unnecessary wear and tear on the AC components. Regular maintenance, smart driving habits, and preventive measures are all key to achieving and sustaining optimal AC performance. Stay cool and drive safely!

FAQs

How often should I service my truck’s AC system?

It's recommended that your truck's AC system be serviced at least once a year, ideally before the summer season begins. Regular servicing ensures that all components are functioning properly and helps maintain efficiency.

What are the signs of a failing truck AC compressor?

Common signs include strange noises when the AC is running, warm air blowing from the vents, and refrigerant leaks. If you notice any of these symptoms, it's crucial to have the compressor inspected immediately.

Can I use any type of refrigerant in my truck’s AC?

No, you must use the specific type of refrigerant recommended by your truck's manufacturer. Using the wrong kind can cause significant damage to the AC system and reduce its efficiency.

Does the recirculation mode really save energy?

Yes, using the recirculation mode can save energy because it cools the air already inside the cabin rather than continuously cooling hot outside air. This reduces the load on the AC system and enhances efficiency.

What should I do if my truck’s AC isn’t blowing cold air?

If your AC isn't blowing cold air, check the refrigerant levels, inspect the compressor, and ensure the cabin air filter is clean. If the issue persists, consult a professional technician.

Is it necessary to replace the cabin air filter regularly?

Yes, replacing the cabin air filter regularly is essential for maintaining proper airflow and preventing strain on the AC system. A clean filter improves air quality and ensures efficient cooling.

[eatliveescape]

Truck Tips You Need to Know

Some of the most popular trucks for people to drive are pickup trucks. Nice to be able to buy one of your own, but unless you know how to look after it then you’re going to be in trouble. A pickup truck gives you the freedom that you need and the capabilities that most cars on their own do not have.  Trucks should be taken good care of as they are vehicles that are harder working than most. With…

[nbpbearings]

Discover essential maintenance strategies for optimizing the longevity of your truck's hub bearings. Explore expert-recommended tips to ensure smooth operations and extend the lifespan of your vehicle's crucial components.

[srbequipment]

Maintaining a truck can be a headache, but with these easy tips, you can easily maintain your truck. Preventive truck maintenance is vital to extend the life of the truck, regardless of whether you recently purchased a new one or have owned one for a while. For more tips, contact SRB Equipment now!

[starkeyisthelastname]

It’s Always Been You Chapter Two:

Here’s chapter two my loves! 🥰 Disney World here we come! Yeah and Topper is super annoying in this series.. 😅 (I haven’t been to Disney World in years, so this just comes from a little background and research!)

Previous Chapter

"Why the fuck am I even awake right now?" Rafe grumbled to you as he climbed out of his F-150 truck that was now crookedly parked next to the sleek white Mercedes you drove. With an irritated sigh, he opened the back door to pull his bags out, nearly throwing them down onto the hard asphalt of the tarmac.

Rafe's grumpiness in the mornings was legendary, a trait that had been firmly in place even back in your elementary school days. You could still recall those car rides to private school, with either Rose or your mom at the wheel, Rafe grumbling in the seat beside you. So, when you slammed your trunk shut, your expensive tote bag slung over your shoulder and your large pink suitcase clutched in one hand, his predictable morning grouchiness was met with a healthy dose of eye-rolling from you. You yanked open the passenger door, leaning in to grab the frozen coffee you'd picked up for him. "Drink this and shut up," you ordered, practically throwing the cup at him.

Rafe shot you a smirk as you handed him the coffee, something only you would do for him. "You aren't going to tell people I drink this girly shit, are you?” He teased, his eyes traveling down to the way your ass looked in the tight leggings you wore. The things he wanted to do to you, whether they were wrong of him to think about as you were his best friend, but fuck did he want you bad.

“How did you know? It’s my plan to tell everyone that the big bad Rafe Cameron likes caramel frappuccino’s.” You said, standing back up straight, oblivious to the way he had been staring at your body. You turned to face him again, Rafe’s eyes immediately focusing on your own.

“Okay smart ass.” Rafe mumbled, hiding a smirk as the two of you began to make your way to the Cameron’s private plane.

Your parents were settled in, engaged in a boring business conversation with Rose and Ward over steaming cups of coffee. Wheezie had already dozed off, her blanket snugly over her head, while Sarah and her boyfriend Topper giggled at some TikTok video playing on her phone. Rafe shot a disapproving glance at the frosted-tipped haired boy as he strode past you toward your usual seats. Sarah and him didn’t get along most of the time, and her boyfriend Topper only made it worse for him to keep his anger in check as the idiot was constantly running his mouth to be a smartass. People like him were the reason Rafe had to always have his vape and cart pen on him.

“Why is he coming? They've been dating for what? Five fucking minutes.” Rafe grumbled, plopping down into the leather seat next to the window as he took his sunglasses off. You sat down next to him, placing your bag on the spacious floor, before getting comfortable. “What? Sarah’s boyfriend isn’t aloud to come?” You asked with a small laugh, looking over at the couple. Even though Rafe and Sarah didn’t get along, you and her were close, despite her being a few years younger. Topper wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around, but he was making Sarah happy which was what mattered.

Rafe leaned his head back against the plush headrest, looking at you as you sipped on your coffee. You were so effortlessly beautiful even makeup free, still looking like a stunner. Your eyelashes were freshly filled, eyebrows threaded and lips lightly glossed in the Dior lip oil he knew you always wore. One thing he loved about you is that you always kept yourself together, even at a time like this where there was an early flight. You were expensive, and high maintenance, always taking pride in the way you looked. It was starting to eat him up inside at how much he just wanted to shower you with compliments.

“He’s a fuckin prick who is always trying to get under my skin on purpose just to piss me off so he can see me flip out.” Rafe said, buckling his seat belt as the pilot announced they were about to take off. It was hard enough for him to try and control his anger and someone like Topper Thornton didn’t help when he was trying to do his best to be a better man and figure out his emotions.

You fastened your own belt, reaching over to intertwine your fingers with his as taking off always made you anxious. “He’s not worth it, don’t let him get to you. If he chooses to act like an idiot that’s on him not you.” You told him, running your finger across the gold signet ring that adored his left hand. You knew how important it was for him to try and do better after getting clean.

Rafe was so goddamn in love with you, it fucking almost scared him…and he had done some pretty scary shit. You were the only one who understood him. The calm to his brutal storm. He gave your hand a squeeze, kicking himself in the head on why he couldn’t be a man and tell you how he really felt about you. He had to figure out his emotions and fast before he lost you to someone that would never be worth your time.

Rafe seemed to be in a somewhat better mood as the plane landed, and he had eaten breakfast. That mood quickly changed though as he found out you two were riding in the same car as Sarah and Topper. You could see him from your peripheral vision, trying not to bang his head against the car window as Topper talked non stop. His hand came down to the pocket of his sweatpants, digging in them for a few seconds before pulling out the dark blue cart pen. He took a hit off of it, inhaling the smoke before blowing it out the cracked window.

“You know I don’t think those are the best for you man.” Topper said from behind you as Rafe took another hit. He was such an asshole, and as much as you loved Sarah you didn’t know how she put up with those smartass comments.

“Don’t care.” Rafe said, nonchalantly as he felt the weed cool his inner self down from the yapping that frosted tipped idiot was spewing.

It was Topper’s comment of “One addiction to another.” Whispered loudly on purpose to Sarah, that had Rafe immediately turning around.

“What the fuck did you just say?” He asked, blue eyes flashing dark in anger. The last thing that he needed was this dumbass to start speaking about shit he didn’t even know about in the first place. You slowly reached over, placing your hand on Rafe’s knee to give a gentle squeeze, knowing you were the only person that he would calm down for. You knew exactly how violent Rafe could get, and when he was on cocaine it was about 50 times worse. As hard as it was, and definitely wasn’t right, Topper wasn’t worth losing his cool over.

“Top, don’t.” Sarah told him softly, not wanting a fight already to happen on this trip. As much as she loved Topper and didn’t necessarily get along with Rafe, she still knew her boyfriend didn’t stand a chance with her older brother if his mood got to a 100.

“Fuckin pussy.” Rafe mumbled under his breath, turning back around and looking at you with apologetic blue eyes. God, he just wanted to be the best version of himself for you. There was no way you would ever give him a chance if he kept flipping out at every little thing that pissed him off. He had to keep the promise to himself to really try and do better, but that punk was already getting on his last nerves.

Thankfully the rest of the car ride to the resort went smoothly, the suv soon pulling into The Grand Floridian Resort & Spa. The entire family headed into the lobby, where Ward checked in and then told everyone the suite arrangements. Your parents along with Ward and Rose would be staying in one suite, while the rest of you would be staying in the other.

“There’s a room with two queen beds and one with a king size bed.” Ward started, handing the five of you keys. Before Wheezie could even say it, the older man put his hand up. “And Rafe is getting the king size bed.” He said, causing the 13 year old to pout. He then told the five of you to go explore the resort, relax or whatever you wanted to do before meeting at the restaurant Victoria and Albert’s later for dinner.

You couldn’t help but watch Rafe as he walked in front of you. You loved how tall he was, his frame massive and broad shoulders and muscular back, flexing effortlessly throughout the black t-shirt he wore. He was like a tree you wanted to climb and if you ever told him that out loud, he would most likely jokingly call you a dumbass. You quickly brushed your thoughts away as everyone piled onto the elevator, realizing every little thing Rafe was doing had you thinking about him.

The way you were standing, your back was pressed to Rafe’s front. He could smell your perfume, sexy and sweet just like your gorgeous self. Your perfectly shaped ass was too damn close to him, his hands gripping onto the railing to keep himself from wrapping his arms around your waist, and holding you against him. He was thankful yet disappointed that the elevator climbed to the right floor quickly before he lost control. You were damn near making it almost impossible, every little thing you did reminding him how in love with you he was. He had to start making some kind of move, even to see if you were open to the idea of being more than just best friends.

Entering the suite, you couldn’t help but laugh a little as both you’re parents always made sure everyone had the best. The suite was spacious, a small living area and kitchenette on the left side, while the right side held a small hall with two bedrooms spilt across from each other. It was when you were following behind Wheezie towards the room with the queen beds, that you felt Rafe tug your arm back.

You frowned, looking at him as you wanted to go set your stuff down. His tall body looked massive in the dim hallway, as you looked up into his blue eyes. He nodded towards the room behind him, before speaking. “Stay with me.” He said, his voice a little softer than usual.

You were no stranger to sharing a bed with Rafe, you had literally known him your entire life. You weren’t sure if it was your overwhelming feelings for him or what, but something about this felt different. You found yourself nodding though, watching him smile as he dragged you into the room with the king size bed.

“Can’t let my favorite girl suffer in there with Wheezie’s snoring and Sarah and bozo’s bullshit.” He said, shutting the door behind him. He loved his sisters, sure. You were superior to everyone in his mind though, especially since he was an asshole to every other female but you.

His favorite girl. It was something you heard often but never got tired of. You sat your bag down onto dresser, walking over to the window where you couldn’t help but smile at the view. “You bitched about coming here in the first place and you still get the room with the best view.” You teased him, pretty eyes glancing at Cinderella’s castle in the distance.

Rafe did get the room with the best view and it wasn’t Cinderella’s castle. “Yep, sure do. Wanna know why?” He asked, his long legs walking across the room to stand behind you so that he could see out the window better and just be near you again.

You hummed, looking back at him as his baby blue eyes shined in the sunlight as he looked down you. He smirked, leaning in closer towards your ear. “Because I’m fuckin Rafe Cameron and I get a whatever I want.” He whispered, his voice sending goosebumps down your skin as his hot breath tickled your neck. He had to make you his by the end of the week, he couldn’t go back to Kildare without having tried to tell you how he really felt about you. If you rejected him, it would be the most painful thing he would experience, but at least he would know.

tag list: @alinavalentine @rafesfuckdoll @ijustwanttoreadlols @maybankslover @rafeyswrd @gh0stsp1d3r @chenslucy @mattyskies @skye-44 @xoxohlala @saveahorserideaspacecowboy

if i missed anyone or you’d like to be added let me know! 💖

[artisticdivasworld]

You Can Lower Insurance Rates by using Technology

If you’re an independent trucker, you know insurance premiums can really cut into your bottom line. But there are actually ways to bring those rates down, and a lot of it has to do with the technology you invest in. Let’s talk about a few strategies that can make a real difference in lowering your insurance costs. One of the best tools out there for saving on premiums is telematics. These…

[seat-safety-switch]

You can complain about most municipal services. Everyone knows I do, from my tragically short run as the newspaper's op-ed editor, to my aborted runs for mayor, governor, and chancellor of the modern art museum. That's not to mention when I visit the local bars to eat free peanuts and watch hockey, bitching loudly about local politics the entire time without buying anything. You can't be down on the firefighters, though.

As someone who has a lot of direct and indirect experience dealing with flames, I know that I can rely on the firefighters even when my own honed skills and equipment fail me. For instance, their trucks often are able to summon a vast quantity of water, much more than my squirt bottle full of rainfall can muster. They're always there when I screw up.

Recently, though, the primitive greed-heads in government have decided not to give them a raise, because they want to "keep taxes low." Here's a free bar rant for you: taxes are imaginary. Money is made up. We should be giving much more of it to the people who run into burning buildings. People like Bob Peplinski, the brave soldier of hot-gases removal who risked his life to deal with that cracked brake line I knew was routed a little bit too close to that hot exhaust last Tuesday on my way to work. He saved most of the car! Didn't even ask for a tip, which is more than I can say for the pizza boy who ran over the neighbour's mailbox.

Bob should be given as much money as he needs. He should have a big-assed pension, so that he has ample retirement time to sit on the beach and miss the adrenaline rush of putting out a tire fire that I probably also started. It's time to do the right thing, and raise taxes on the selfish megacorporations like General Motors, who can't even make a car that goes sixty-five years of deferred maintenance without bursting into flames just because I ran it out of oil and somehow shot a valve all the way through the exhaust piping, out the hole in the muffler, and into the fuel tank.

I'm doing my own part keeping these folks on their toes. They'd probably get bored without me, and start setting fire to houses or something instead. It takes a village, people.

[xetlynn]

Twilight- Youngest Shadow: Chapter Three, Crash It

(Alice X Reader X Jasper)

[two] [three] [four]

Today was the day of my 6th Volleyball game out of 14. It’s a Home game.

Every single game has been attended by Jacob, Quil and Embry. Sometimes Sam and Billy. Bella made it to about two. Clearly needing to do her own thing I understood. If I didn’t understand a sport I wouldn’t want to go either.

She makes me sit with her at lunch still, I got kind of close with Angela. She’s cool. She also comes to games but that’s to take pictures, helping with the yearbook committee.

Bella and I walk out of the house together. I see my bike is gone and remembered I had to give it to Jacob for maintenance. Since he offered I was getting it done for free.

It’s also raining so I’m kind of glad I don’t have to choice to ride it. Sometimes the rain drops hurt like a bitch. I lift my hood up, walking behind Bella as we go down the steps. “Great.” She mutters under her breath.

Charlie pulls in with her truck. “Dad I can drive us to school myself.” As we get closer to the bottomed step she slips and falls on her ass. Tripping due to not watching where I was going I go forward.

“You okay, Bells? [Name]?” Charlie climbs out of the truck, helping Bella up and then the both help me. I ripped a new pair of jeans, hissing in pain from my hands I wipe it on my sweater that’s not so new. Luckily I didn’t bleed at all. “Ice doesn’t help the uncoordinated.” Bella frowns at her own joke.

“Clearly.” I groan.

“That’s why I got you new tires.” Charlie points to the red truck. “The other ones were nearly bald.”

“You got me new tires. No one’s ever don’t that before.” Both Charlie and I look at her confused. “I mean… nothing.”

He glances at me, not getting it but he heads to his cruiser.

“I won’t make it to dinner or the game. I’m heading down to Mason County. A security guard at the Grisham Mill got killed by some kind of animal.” He explains to us.

“An animal?” Bella asks, confused.

“You’re not in Phoenix anymore, honey. They’ve been hunting it for a week with no luck. Thought I’d lend a hand.” He puts it simply. “Be careful.” We say in unison.

“Always am.”

“And thank you for the tires.”

I’d thought by now they wouldn’t be so awkward with each other but I am very wrong. The tension is so thick it couldn’t even be cut with a knife.

Change of pov

Rain was still hitting hard. Eric and Bella walk together into Biology. She brushes off her coat as he talks. “And yeah, prom committee is a chick thing, but I gotta cover it for the paper anyway and they need a guy to help choose the music. So I need your playlist.” Eric explains but before the girl can respond Mike comes up behind her. “Come on, Arizone. Give it up for the rain.” He shakes his wet baseball cap onto Bella’s head.

“Terrific.” She walks away, ignoring them to get to her seat.

She freezes once she notices Edward. She straightens her posture, striding to the shared table confidently. Dropping her books in front of him, ready to address him but instead he looks up at her and speaks.

“Hello.”

She stops, automatically stunned. “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself last week. My name is Edward Cullen.”

She’s too shocked to respond, she wasn’t expecting him to talk to her. “You’re Bella.” He stares, not questioning.

“I’m… yes.” She finally sits, feeling stupid.

He abruptly moves to the edge of his seat away from her. She’s baffled to say the least, smelling her hair as if she stinks.

“Onion root tip cells! That’s what’s on your slides. Separate and label them into the phases of mitosis. The first partners to get it right win the golden onion!” Mr. Molina holds up a gold spray painted onion but disappointed by the little to no reaction.

“Come on people, tick tock.”

Everyone gets to work. Edward pushes the microscope towards Bella, still keeping a distance.

“Ladies first.” She grabs it defensively and snaps the first slide in, adjusting the lens. “You’ve been gone.”

“Out of town. Personal reasons.” He was curt like her, short with his answers.

“Prophase.” She says, going to remove the slide. “May I look?” She slides the scope to him, he looks into it. “Prophase.”

“Like I said.”

He writes it down on the work sheet. He takes a deep breath, turning to her. “Enjoying the rain?”

“Seriously? You’re asking me about the weather?” She seems offended. “It appears.”

“No, unlike my sister I don’t like the cold, or the wet. Or the grey. Or the parkas. Or the turtlenecks.”

There was a small smile that played on his lips.

He actually seemed interested in what she had to say. He studies her like her sister did to him days ago. But she can’t tell if he despises her or not. “What?”

He shakes his head and turns to the microscope, switching out the slides. She continues to stare at him, appreciating his evident beauty. His cheekbones to his lips.

“Anaphase.” She snaps out of her daze to go back to giving a dry look.

“May I?” She mocks him for before, looking into the lens.

“Anaphase.”

“Like I said.”

They change the slide.

“If you hate the cold and rain, why move to the wettest place in the continental U.S.?” He quizzes her.

“It’s complicated.” Simple answer, but he’s intrigued so he pushes.

“I think I can keep up.” She looks at him quickly then looking away back at the scope. He seems to be paying attention very intently.

“My mother remarried.” Another simple response.

“Very complex. So you don’t like him.” A statement, he doesn’t question himself.

“Phil is fine. Young for her but nice enough.” She tells. “Interphase.”

At the end of school she’s still holding the golden onion. She bumps into Edward on accident. “Why didn’t you stay with your mom and step dad? Or your sister?” He waits patiently for her to say something, studying her like before.

“Alright, Phil’s a minor league baseball player, so he travels a lot. My mother stayed home with me and [Name] but it made her unhappy. And my sister has always been a daddy’s girl. So I decided to spend time with my father too.” She explains everything. “But now you’re unhappy.” He states himself again.

“No I… I just.” She turns away, embarrassed.

Back to You

At the end of the day I stood beside Angela and Jessica. Since our game was today I don’t see a point in going all the way home just to come back to the school.

I watch my sister head for her truck, shivering. Once she got there she looked back, making little eye contact with me and then staring at the Cullens. More specifically, Edward? I think that’s his name if I’m remembering correctly.

Their eyes met then there was a loud screech only getting louder by the second. A van skids out of control, heading right for my older sister.

I felt frozen for a second, running over there immediately. The van comes to a complete stop after spinning out. Like something forcefully stopped it. I didn’t see anything as it had happened so fast. The van had only hit the back of the truck, leaving a dent that was definitely noticeable to the eye.

After milliseconds everyone went berserk, roaring into screams of trying to get help, calling 911.

Mike and Eric yell if she’s okay, I watched Edward who was once at his Volvo now leaving the scene. Wanting to ask him what happened I shake my head, pushing the two boys out of my way. “Bells, Bella?!” I cried out, falling down to her level, feeling the pain in my knees from earlier but ignoring it. I took her into my arms as she was obviously in shock.

I ended up driving her and the boy who crashed into her, Tyler a ride to the hospital.

I told him to shut up on our way there. Even sitting in the room as they got checked up on I sat there glaring at him.

Minutes later, Charlie rushes in. “Bells, are you alright?“

“I’m fine dad, calm down.” She assures gun but it’s not enough. “I’m so sorry Bella. I tried to stop.” Tyler apologizes.

“It’s okay Tyler.” Bella tells him and I scoff. “It sure as hell is not okay.” Charlie says, I nod agreeing. “Dad it’s not his fault.”

“We nearly lost you.”

“But you didn’t.” She says, I pull her into a hug since Dad is glaring at Tyler like I once was. “You can kiss your license goodbye.” He sternly tells the boy and I watch his body falter.

I notice Dr. Cullen approach us and if I didn’t know anything I would’ve thought he was a movie star. I didn’t pay Trenton to what they were talking about. I focused on his face, observing him as he talked. Just like I did with his foster kids. Then I heard Tyler apologizing once again, since I was closest I closed the curtain getting a fist bump from my dad.

“It would’ve been a lot worse if Edward hadn’t knocked me out of the way.” Bella says ignoring dad and I’s antics.

“Edward? Your boy?” Charlie asks only to not get a response.

Dr. Cullen adverts his eyes, I watch Bella press. I’m guessing she knew something that was making him uncomfortable. “It was amazing he got to me so fast. He was nowhere near me.”

The blonde man smiles.

“As long as you’re safe.”

We leave the treatment area. “I just have to sign some paperwork. You better call your mom.” He points to Bella.

“You told her?! She’s probably freaking out!” He just shrugs and walks off.

She pulls her phone out and I laugh, earning an eye roll. Then we both look down the hall, hearing an argument. “Stay here.” She orders as if I was so much younger than her. She gets a little closer to whatever was happening.

Not meaning to but the curiosity getting the best of me I do the same thing.

“This isn’t about you. It’s about all of us.” It was Rosalie. I raise an eyebrow but Dr. Cullen definitely saw Bella, taking Rosalie inside his office.

I sit for a moment, but I see Bella talking to Edward so I just walk the other way, pulling out my phone as I felt it vibrating.

It’s Jacob calling, shit.

I answered it quickly. I forgot all about my Volleyball game that’s in… 35 minutes.

“Hello?” I spoke to,

“Hey, where are you? Are you okay? I heard something about an accident with you and Bella?” He freaks out, i why shush him trying to calm him down.

“Hey, everything is fine. No damage was done. Bella was apart if it but no scratches, just a bump on the head. I’m sorry I should’ve called.” I told him, hugging my self with my open arm.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re both okay, I’m glad shes okay.” He sighs like he had just been holding in a long breath.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything is good. I’m just going to keep watch on Bella for a little. Could you let my coach know what happened. I’m sure she knows but y’know?”

“Totally understand, I will let her know. Call me later tonight?” He sounded hopeful and I smile to myself.

“Of course, I’ll call around 9.” I say

“Can’t wait…”

“Knock it off.”

I was going to ask what he meant by that but I hear the other guys in the background and I laugh.

I hung up, not seeing Bella come up to me, she grabbed my shoulder causing me to jump and almost drop my phone.

“Who was that?”

“Jacob. He asked if we were okay since he went to my game as usual. Seeing I wasn’t there freaked him out.” I take a deep breath through my nose.

“I completely forgot about that. We can still make it.” She says in a hurried tone but I shake my head.

“Coach wouldn’t let me play anyway. There’s no point.” I laugh, putting a hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry.” She frowns.

“No need, you should call mom though.”

She whines to herself, pulling her phone out again.

Charlie walks out and we go outside. I drove the truck home.

Later that night I call Jacob like I told him I would. He tells me about the game since they stayed due to Quil wanting to.

“It would’ve been a better game with you for sure.” He says and I could hear the smile.

“I know, I’m just so amazing.” I brag, playing with my tongue piercing as I hear his laugh.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have boasted your ego.”

“What ego?” I jokingly say.

I look over to my clock, seeing the time and it was already 11:30.

I was surprised Charlie hadn’t come and told me to go to bed.

“Ah, we should go to bed.” I start to say, I heard a small thump from Bella’s room upstairs and I stood up carefully strutting towards the door.

“[Name]?” Jacob calls, I snap out of whatever trance I was in. Not hearing anything else from Bella’s room so I go back to my bed.

“Sorry I got distracted. Goodnight, Jake.” My voice was a little raspy from being tired.

“Goodnight.” He ends up hanging up the phone and I lay back in my bed.

Thinking about everything that happened today.

Chapter three, edited.

[whatsnewalycat]

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.” 

[bonezone44]

'Get a Grip' (18+)

Watch Model!Joel Miller x Manicurist!Reader

Word Count: 3,8k

Summary: Joel Miller comes to your salon for a manicure, then he invites you to assist him during a photoshoot.

Tags: afab!Reader, hand kink, glove kink, finger sucking, fingering, p-in-v, creampie

a/n: this story came about during a brief discussion of Pedro’s watch modeling era a few weeks ago. Thank you to @xdaddysprincessxx and @iamasaddie for the inspo!

+++++++

Hands. Fingers.

They’re your job.

Every once in a while someone will walk in with a nice set of digits and you admire them while they’re in front of you. While you push back their cuticles and clean beneath the nail. Add the acrylic and the polish. Then they’re out of your mind again as you wait for the next client to plop into the chair and request a full set or a simple repair. 

Your repeat clients usually want the nail art. That’s where you shine, to be honest. Delicately painted swirls. Boxes like Mondrian. Gold leaf. Rhinestones. Each nail a tiny little canvas for you to create something unique.

The male customers are different. The masculine ones, anyway.

They want simple hygienic maintenance. Maybe a massage. Maybe they just wanna flirt with a woman while she provides a service. And you appease them. It’s no bother to you.

It’s your job.

It’s just your job.

It’s the thing you do all the time every day and have done for years.

And yet no matter how many times you try to repeat those words in your head, you find yourself salivating over the man sitting across from you–with his playful baritone Texan voice and the beautiful steel and gold Cartier watch on his wrist. Not that you’re one to dig for gold. You simply admire fine craftsmanship.

Just like you admire the fineness of his hands.

The veins that rise on the top of his right hand, over his fingerbones, look like wandering rivers and you really wanna admire them with the tip of your tongue, tracing along their edges. His fingers themselves are long, thick rectangles that you wanna slip into your mouth one at a time.

In simple …admiration. 

“Not too smooth,” he says when you pull out your buffer. “They don’t want me lookin’ too clean.”

“Who’s that?” you ask, keeping your voice nice and even while your cheeks feel hot and your thoughts are a million miles away from ‘appropriate’.

“The… oh, whaddya call ‘em.” He hums. “The brand specialists, I guess.” He chuckles. “They hit me up about a month ago. Got a new line coming out that’s–get this–” he says with a flash of his eyebrows. “--’safari’ inspired.” He scoffs.

“Safari, huh?” You roll your eyes.  You can imagine the Cartier boardroom of pompous old Frenchmen glorifying the art and tales created during the French expansion of the 1800s—easily brushing past the eugenics-based mission of the violent nationalists. “Colonizers,” you mumble under your breath.

Joel laughs. “My daughter said the same thing.” He shrugs. “‘S no matter. I don’t mind takin’ their money if all I gotta do is have pretty hands.”

Your face burns immediately and keep your eyes and face focusing on the small nail at the end of his middle finger. “So, how’d you get started anyway?” You swallow thickly, trying to ignore the heat building between your legs. “No offense, I guess, but you don’t seem like the pretty boy-type.” Besides the watch on his wrist, he’s wearing plain Levi’s blue jeans and a black t-shirt that you can almost guarantee came from Target. You can tell his brown and grey curls don’t have any product in them and he’s got about two or three-week-old scruff on his face. 

He chuckles again and you glance up, watching the deep creases in his forehead soften. “Daughter’s the one to blame for it.” He shakes his head with a smile. “We were visiting Houston and she wanted to go shopping, so I let her pick the mall.” His brows go high. “This little 12 year-old picked a luxury mall and I didn’t realize it til we got outta the truck.” 

Your lips go between your teeth, imagining his embarrassment. 

“She was so excited, too. She hopped down out the truck and–fyoo!--took right off runnin.” He grins. “I had to chase her down and tell her not to touch anythin. I woulda had to take out a second mortgage to pay for it if she broke somethin.”

“I bet,” you smile. You finish buffing his nails and pull out the moisturizing oil. You begin to massage each of his fingers, one-by-one, rolling the flesh between your thumb and index finger, marveling at how long it takes you to get from base to tip. You were admiring the mathematics of it. 

The proportions. 

The number of fingers he might could get inside you.

“Next thing I know, she goes runnin into a Cartier store sayin that they can fix my watch ‘cause they got watches in the window.” He shrugs and rolls his eyes. “I was tryin to politely escort her back out, when some big wig saw me and started talkin to me.” He shrugs again. “They took a couple polaroids and got my info. And now every once in a while, they’ll call me up for somethin.”

You stop massaging and stare at him with your eyes big and wide. “I know women who would literally murder to have that happen to them.”

He chuckles and it gets your body even warmer. “Yeeaahh, that’s what I hear.”

You shake your head in disbelief, returning to your task. You can believe his story, too. You’ve only been staring at his hands for a few minutes and you are enraptured by them. Is it the hands? Or is it him?

Or is it all of it together?

You’re not sure. You’re just enjoying the muscle you feel beneath the surface of his nearly square palm, the thick round meat between the web of his thumb and the end of his wrist. You can’t help but admire the basin in the center where the heart and head line lie parallel. Not that you were a palm reader. But you couldn’t help but know a thing or two about the intuitive art.

Hands. Fingers.

They’re your job, afterall.

“What do you do for work?” you ask, because hands like his were used. Too thick not to be. They couldn’t just sit pretty all day.

“I’m a contractor.”

You blink. You look up at him with your brows high into your forehead. “These are not contractor hands,” you say, stroking along his palm. You don’t see a single cut or abrasion. The few calluses he had could barely be considered calluses at all. More like small rough spots.

“I wear special gloves,” he says with a smirk. “It’s a special kind of leather that fits around ‘em real tight.”

“Oh,” you answer, heat fully overtaking your chest and face. You imagine how nice his fingers must look wrapped in a second skin, smoothing over all his contours and lines, making each appendage even thicker and his hands even broader. You imagine what they would feel like, sliding up your bare calves and pulling you apart at the knees. You imagine the soft, conditioned leather moving back and forth across your clit, driving you mad ‘cause your aching for his skin and his touch and his heat.

“You know, I uhh… got a shoot coming up in a couple weeks. I’d love to see you again.”

Your heart races in your chest.

He smirks, his eyes soft and hazy. “You know, since you’re doin’ such a good job takin care o’ my hands right now.”

“Absolutely,” you try to temper your excitement. “Just give me the date, time, and place.” You shrug in a way that you’re sure is very nonchalant. “I mean, I-I-I can come to you if you need me to.” The Pope himself could have an appointment scheduled, and you would cancel it without regret if this man is implying what you are desperately hoping he is implying.

“Well, alright then.” He grins.

—------------

You’re pressed into the door of the hotel room–the one right next to where Joel just finished his photoshoot. He’s got one arm wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling your face into his. His kisses are heavy and fervent. His tongue licks into you in a way that makes you want it even deeper–makes you wanna swallow him whole and keep him inside you. One of his hands is gloved–in one of the ‘special gloves’ he told you about. It’s a camel-colored leather, hand-stitched and form-fitting. And it is definitely not one he uses for work. They fit tight around the heel of his palm, like driving gloves. Must have gotten a new pair from Cartier themselves. 

His gloved hand is under your shirt, sliding up your mid-section and grasping your breast. You gasp and moan into his mouth when he starts pinching and plucking your nipple. 

“Open up for me,” he says after pulling away from you. 

And when you do, he shoves two fingers between your lips, the rest of his hand resting on your cheek, your head still cradled by his arm.

“Good girl,” he coos with a smirk. “Good girl.” He grinds his hardness into your side.

You’re melting into the door behind you, into him, into your own body. You close your lips and suck, not quite sure what to do or how to turn him on. You curl your lips beneath your teeth and slowly bob your head back and forth.

“No no no. Not like that,” he chides you. “This ain’t no cock in your mouth.” He shakes his head. “They’re my fingers.” His eyes are wide and serious. “And I don’t want you thinkin ‘bout anythin else but that. Alright, darlin?” He’s nodding up and down, waiting for you to mirror him.

You nod back the best you can and adapt.  You press the two fingers into the roof of your mouth and suck hard, scraping them along your teeth as you pull your head back. Your lips are wrapped tight around them. You rub your tongue back and forth between them as you engulf them again. You watch him as he watches you through heavy eyelids.

“Good girl,” he says again and licks his lips. His gloved hand moves to your other breast, squeezing it with a rough grip. “Good fuckin girl. Suck those fingers,” he says and you can feel him wiggle them in your mouth. 

You go weak in the knees and you’re not sure how you’re able to stay upright. By the grace of god, you’re able to reach up and grab his hand. You pull his fingers out and then take only one finger back inside. 

He watches you, curious, twisting your nipple in his hand.

Then you add the second finger back in, sucking it. Wetting it. Drool pooling around the edges of your mouth.

You pull those two out and then you suck three fingers in–not as deep and they’re scraping against your teeth more, but you try to give that third finger some extra attention, tracing along the bottom of it with the tip of your tongue.

“You want it bad, huh?” He looks like he’s scowling, but he’s still grinding against you–hard as ever.

You nod.

“You want my hands all over you, baby?” He applies the smallest amount of pressure to his bare, wet fingers in your mouth, causing you to gag. 

Tears tumble out the edges of your eyes as you nod.

He pulls his hands away from you and steps back. “I need you on that bed. Naked. Now."

You rush to do as he says, removing all your clothes in a flurry. You barely register the low hum of the A/C and the cool temperature of the room. You’re too focused on the towering man walking towards you, your legs spreading of their own accord.

His lips are tight and he sucks in a deep breath. "That is one good lookin pussy." He unbuckles his belt and rips it from the loops of his jeans. His eyes roam over your body as he tosses it to the side, the buckle thudding against the carpet. He tugs his t-shirt up his stomach and over his head. "Can't wait to make it mine."

Once his jeans are off and he's just as bare as you (except for the glove on his hand), he waves for you to scoot back before joining you. 

Joel settles himself on his side, propped up on his elbow. He makes no move toward his hardened cock. Instead, the hand you were sucking on before finds your face again–cradling it. And this time, his thumb tucks itself between your lips. 

You suck on it like a straw. 

"How many o’ these you think you can fit in there?" He says. But he’s not referring to your mouth. His gloved hand has found its way between your legs and folds. One lone finger is prodding at your wet entrance. He squints and looks down as he pulls it back out–only having gone in an inch or two. The tip of his glove glistens in the warm glow of the room's lamps. He looks back at you with a grin, sliding his finger in deeper. "Wonder if I can fit em all." He bites his lip as he stares at yours, plunging his finger in and out. "Fuck you with my whole hand."

You close your eyes and moan.

"Yeah? That sound good to you?" He adds a second finger, pushing both into you slowly.

You open your eyes and nod eagerly–humming in agreement. His thumb tugs at your cheek from inside your mouth. 

Joel chuckles. "Nah, not this time." He licks his lips. His eyelids are heavy. “My cock’s too hungry for it.”

 You pull his thumb out of your mouth. You lick his palm, tracing the deep creases with your tongue. "Whatever you want."

He curses under his breath.

His two gloved fingers curl and stroke your inner walls and while the sensation is high-pitched and pleasing, you're more focused on properly worshiping his bare hand. 

Your tongue leaves his palm and you turn his hand over so you can suck the knuckles. Fulfilling one of the many fantasies you've had about Joel since first meeting him. You swirl your tongue around the hill of bone beneath the skin before lowering your mouth and suckling. 

Joel groans. "You love it that much, huh?" He curls his fingers, scraping against your inner clitoris muscle. "Love sucking on me?"

"Yeah," you whimper as your hips jump. 

"Fuck, that’s what I like to hear." Joel removes the two gloved fingers from inside you. He glides them up and around your folds, spreading your slick and teasing your clit. 

It feels …different–how the hard and thin seams of the glove create an added sensation. A starker tease alongside the languid movement of his hand. 

You look down in time to see Joel adding a third finger inside you, the pressure growing too slowly for your taste. But again, you have another task to attend to. 

You suck Joel's pinky in your mouth and bob your head a few times before releasing it.  You suck it right back in with his ring finger alongside it.

He grunts and moans, his three fingers jerking inside you. Your pussy is wet and squelching. His lips go tight as he watches his glove shine more and more with your slick. 

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and holds your head in place as he kisses you, biting and tugging on your lips. His tongue pushing in so deep, it feels like he's trying to drink you. 

"Fuck, that wet pussy sounds fuckin good. You gonna let me put my cock in there?" He speaks into your mouth. 

Your stomach swoops and your body is on fire. "Yes, please, Joel," you moan. "Please fill me up with your cock." 

He pulls his gloved fingers out of you. His eyes are big and wide. "You think you deserve it?"

"What?!" After everything? After all the sucking and fawning and–how? How could he deny you? You panic. 

"Please, Joel," you whine. You wrap your arms around him and kiss him up and down his neck. "I sucked your fingers so good. I sucked you so good." You're desperate. "I'm so wet for you." You kiss him down his chest. "Never been this wet."  You grab his cock, aiming to put it in your mouth. "Please-please-please!"

His gloved hand, covered in slick, wraps around your chin and jawbone, stopping you. "That's not the wet hole I want," he says and pushes you back, flat on the mattress. He quickly settles between your legs. There's no need for him to spit on his cock or glide it through your folds–your leaking arousal on the sheets. He uses his bare hand to guide it to your entrance. 

He groans and curses as he pushes in. 

"Thank you thank you thank you, Joel," you whisper and whimper as he sparks all your aching nerve endings. 

His forearms are on either side of you–his broad shoulders and body cage you in. “Fuck, this pussy is heaven, baby.”

The slow moving roll of his hips is the opposite of your panicked desperation, but it feels delicious. Turning all the glowing embers into full-blown fire. “So good, so good,” you mumble.

“Yeah? You like that cock, baby?” he asks with a smirk.

“Cock’s so good, Joel.”

He thrusts harder, his speed only slightly increased. Each heavy, steady flick of his hips sends a shock wave of pleasure through you. His bare thumb finds its way back into your mouth. “Suck on this ‘til you cum, baby.”

You nod. You can’t imagine what you look like. The lower half of your face feels wet with your spit. Your eyes are barely open, but you can’t stop staring at the beautiful man above you. His furrowed brows. His tight lips. His flared nostrils as he pounds into you faster and faster.

“Good girl,” he says as he tucks his head down and presses his cheek into yours. “Good girl, suckin me so good.” His arm wraps around your shoulder and pulls your body closer. “Knew you’d take good care o’ me. Knew this pussy’d be so wet.”

The heat inside you is building faster than you expected. You’re meeting his thrusts with your own–your thighs slapping into his hips. 

“Love suckin my fingers, don’t you, baby? Don’t you?” His lips find yours again and he kisses you with his thumb still in your mouth. 

His hips slow down and a desperate groan escapes your lungs, punched out by your diaphragm. You plead, but your words are intelligible.

He pulls his thumb from between your lips. “Whatchu need, baby?” He's rolling into you again, languid and rhythmic. 

“Make me come, Joel. Please make me come.”

“You need to come, baby?”

“Please, please,” you whine. 

“Alright, alright.” He leans back, his bare thumb back in your mouth and his gloved fingers on your clit. He doesn’t thrust any faster and it drives you crazy.

You try to shift his pace, fuck yourself on him til he gets the point–but instead he stops thrusting altogether.

“You got this, baby, come on,” he says with a smirk, making you do all the work. “Come on.”

Well, except for his hand rubbing circles on your clit. You writhe and squirm on his cock, chasing chasing chasing that fiery, burning heat. It’s there. It’s so close.

“Good girl, good li’l thumb-sucker,” he says and something twists inside your gut so hard you immediately come with a loud whimper. Body pulsing and pussy contracting around him. He grunts and curls his hips–as if he didn’t have a choice but to push himself deeper into your orgasm. He pulls his thumb from your mouth and strokes your chin with it. “Good fuckin girl, comin all over me.”

He falls back on top of you and wraps you up in his arms.

Your vision is blurry and you’re trying to catch your breath when he starts thrusting again–hard and fast.

“Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d be so fuckin wet.” 

Your body jerks and trembles from the stimulation, and you’re too blissed out to do anything but take it. 

“Knew you’d love suckin me.” He speaks through panting breaths. “Knew this pussy’d be so fuckin good.” He pushes himself up onto his hands. “You wanna come one more time, baby?” he asks.

You’re not sure, but you think the noise that comes out of you is one of agreement. You nod your head, whole body bouncing from his thrusts.

“‘M gonna fill you up,” he grunts with his brows pulled tight. “Come with me while I fill you up.” 

You want to, you really want to come one more time. And he’s pounding into you so hard, your bodies are slapping again. And his eyes and his voice and the determination on his face.

“Come with me, baby, come on,” he chokes out. Then he groans, heavy and low, and you can feel it–you can feel his milky release spurting out and filling you up. He stays above you, trying to catch his breath. “Didja come again?”

You smile. “No, but that’s okay,” you say. God, he’s beautiful. The way his eyes crinkle at the edges and how his beard frames his face.

“Like hell it is,” he murmurs and pulls out of you. He falls to your side again and two gloved fingers dip inside of you, his come spilling out. “You want my thumb again, baby?”

You nod and he gives it to you. You suck on it, pressing the pad of skin against your teeth. He pulls his fingers out and spreads his seed around your clit in circles, making a big mess of your folds.

You’re still dizzy and still over-stimulated, but his eyes are so big and sweet.

“I’ll stay here as long as it takes,” he says as he alternates between thrusting his fingers inside you and rubbing your clit. His brand-new gloves likely ruined.

You grab his wrist when you feel yourself getting close. When the heat hotter than fire starts to build inside of you again. You pant through your nose, your mouth glued to his thumb.

“Took such good care o’ me, baby.” He leans over you and presses his cheek to yours. His voice echoing through you. “Lemme take care o’ you. Lemme make you come, beautiful. Lemme make you come. Wantchu comin on my fingers every day with this pretty li’l pussy. So good for lettin me fill you up. You sucked me so good. Lemme take care o’ you, baby. Lemme make you come.”

It’s less powerful than your first, but the pulse of pleasure your orgasm sends through you is strong and satisfying. You moan and tug Joel’s hand away now that you're starkly overstimulated. “Oh my god,” you sigh, barely able to open your eyes.

Joel chuckles as his hand slides up your body. “Knew you’d be good for me.”

++++++

a/n: It’s been so long since I’ve written just-smut that I really don’t know how to end it. ‘And then they showered and took a nap!’ lol!

[identifying-cars-in-posts]

so i want to get a small/compact pickup truck for my next vehicle, but with how huge pickups are getting now, i imagine i'll have a hard time finding one from within the last 10ish years that's actually "compact". i tend to like trucks from the 80s or 90s when it comes to design and aesthetic, like 9th generation F150s or 1st/2nd gen ford rangers, but i also don't know how good my chances are of finding a truck that old that's in decent shape and reasonably affordable. do you know of any more modern "compact" pickups that are still truly compact and not huge? or any tips for investing in an older truck that may or may not be in the best shape? you can also just use this ask as a platform to rant about the hugeness of modern trucks if you want bc it sucks

yeah the hugeness of modern trucks is absolutely awful and i hate it. there really isn’t, at least in the us, a true compact pickup anymore. the tacoma is massive, the ranger is massive, they’re all just enormous now. so the biggest killer of old cars in general but especially trucks tends to be rust. if you live somewhere where rust isn’t as much of an issue like the south or like desert regions, a once over with a mechanic and willingness to keep up with maintenance a bit more strictly than you might with a new car should be all you need to keep a lot of older trucks on the road. in terms of models i recommend toyota tacomas, chevy s10s and silverados, dodge dakotas, and ford rangers and f150s like you were looking at. if you’re in an area where snow and salt are a concern, like the northeast, try to find one that hasn’t spent as much of its life in the rust belt, or consider traveling to get one. if you can’t, then just try to find one with as little rust as possible, just know that rust will eventually cause a problem somewhere. but with proper maintenance, an old pickup will easily go for hundreds of thousands of miles, so don’t shy away from them just because they’re old!

[fruitless-vain]

I may or may not have been washing the truck in exclusively dish soap which I am fully aware is not good for the paint so I definitely went out and got what I’m Hoping will be Good Car Cleaner Stuff and the soap gun was on sale for like 40$ reg 80$ so we’re gonna be a bit extra about it

I tried checking reviews and stuff online and they were like 3.5-4/5 so probably not the highest quality things I could have got but at least better than dish soap. I spent way too long there trying to google reviews and everything was either worse or about the same so here we are

Really want to try to do things right this time and take the best possible care I can for this car. I’d like this to genuinely be the last car I ever have to buy, or get as close to that as possible

((If any of you are car people with maintenance tips plz share I an open to all advice))

[blubushie]

Based on the answers you've been giving about male friendship, I'm curious: how would you define masculinity? Your own, in society or interacting with other people, any way you want to take this question.

I've been out and living as a trans man for 4 years now (since getting into college) but haven't really started to feel like a man since I started taking T (almost 7 months). I still....struggle with a lot of things around my own identity, and how I am supposed to interact with people. So I would be interested to know how you navigate masculinity

Honestly I've never actually given much thought to masculinity aside from "the act of being male". What that act is, I have no fucken clue.

I'm very masculine. But that's just my nature—it's not performative. So it's hard for me to draw lines of what exactly masculinity IS because for me, it's just the act of being me. I like doing certain things that societally are considered masculine. In my experience most of masculinity is just societal perception and socialisation. I like cars, and cooking especially when it's meat, and I eat a lot of meat, and I like hunting, and firearms, and fishing. I like history, and video games. None of these things are ACTUALLY masculine, but society considers them to be. So by society's standards, they're masculine. And so I just reckon I like being masculine.

I've always approached masculinity as something that men just inherently are, and the definition varies from man to man. For me, it's self-sufficiency, and loyalty to family, and dedication to my craft. I drive an old truck because if she breaks down I can fix her easily. My rifle is a bolt-action because operation and maintenance is simple. I make my own food, I hunt my own meat, I'd endanger my own life to protect the rare few I call my friends and have done so. I try to raise my child right, so that he grows up without a sense of judgement and with patience and respect for the people around him.

So in general I'm very in line with what people/society consider to be "traditional" masculinity. Hunting, fishing, cars, I like alcohol on a Friday night, and I do rodeo, and I shoot, and I dress in flannel and jeans and dingo boots.

But masculinity doesn't have to be traditional. Every man has his own idea of what masculinity is. You've just gotta find yours and what you're comfortable with. The first step is just being you. If you want tips on how to act "more of a man", the truth is you already are one. If you're inclined you can go a step further and get involved in male spaces that are likely to have an absence of women (we behave better with the ladies around so if girls are present you're gonna struggle a bit with proper socialisation). Get into a shooting or archery club, or a boating club, or hunting or fishing, or something like that. Or a men's club. Anything with a large number of men and a low number of women. Then just sit back and observe how they interact with each other. Eventually you can insert yourself into their conversations when you see openings and work on the socialisation skills. Expect some ribbing but if they get too aggro/cruel just move onto a different group.

Bonus round: Find a respected old man and ask him to teach you how to be a man. He'll learn you all about chivalry and male manners and behavioural expectations and shit like that. If you don't want to disclose your trans status, just say you had a bad relationship with your father or that your dad was never around to teach you how to be a good man. He'll fold and take you under his wing.