#who better than an engineer to fix you up if youre having a low day

[merrysithmas]

k but uhura having a life-changing bond with Chief Engineer Hemmer who helped her find her place, and then have a song which describes her hurt and confusion at being alone / acceptance of the strength and power this gives her set in Engineering, & then having her canon love interest Scotty a junior grade lieutenant engineer pop up in the finale 🥹 it's cute fellas

[joelsrose]

Good Neighbours: Chapter 1

NEW SERIES!!! i know yall are still waiting for the next chapter of guns and roses its still in the worksss

no warnings, slow burn - reader is 24, joel is in his mid 40s

The apartment was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that presses heavy against your chest. The space that had once been your sanctuary now feels cold and lifeless, stripped of everything that made it yours.

Boxes are stacked against the walls, their edges frayed from too much tape and too little care. The bare floors creak under your steps, each sound echoing like a reminder of how empty this place has become. Your eyes linger on the window by the fire escape, the view of the city you used to love now feeling distant, like it belongs to someone else entirely.

Chicago had been your dream. The bustling streets, the never-ending noise, the late nights at cramped bars with friends, and the early mornings at the publishing house, fueled by coffee and ambition. It was everything you’d wanted—until it wasn’t.

Your life here didn’t fall apart all at once; it unraveled slowly, piece by piece. The first crack was the breakup, a betrayal that still feels like a sucker punch every time you think about it. Three years with someone who looked you in the eye and lied. Someone who had the audacity to cheat on you with your ex-best friend.

That revelation shattered something deep inside you, leaving a hollow ache you couldn’t quite fill. You cried for weeks, the kind of crying that leaves your chest raw and your pillow soaked, until eventually, even your tears gave up. When that ended, it took more than just your relationship—it took the version of yourself who believed in happy endings.

Then came the job. Or rather, the lack of it. Months of feeling distracted and unsteady after the breakup led to a mistake on a project too big to recover from. You were let go with a sympathetic smile and a box of your things, the kind of professional pity that only makes the sting worse. With no savings to fall back on and no one to catch you, you were forced to face the one option you had left: starting over. Somewhere far away from all of this.

That’s how you ended up on the phone with Uncle Ray, the one steady, no-nonsense presence in your life. When he offered you a place to stay in Texas, you hesitated at first—what did you know about small towns, about fixing cars and country music and people who knew your name before you even introduced yourself?

But you didn’t have much of a choice. A fresh start sounded like the only thing that might save you from drowning in everything you’d lost.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You stood outside the airport, feeling entirely out of place as sweat clung to your skin. You hadn’t expected it to be this hot, the kind of heat that seemed to cling to you, making the air feel heavier.

Tugging at the hem of your shirt, you scrolled through your phone mindlessly, the notifications blurring together as you tried to distract yourself from the awkwardness of waiting. Then, you heard it—a low rumble that grew louder with every second, the unmistakable sound of a truck’s engine.

Looking up, you spotted it, an old Ford pickup that had seen better days but still rumbled along with purpose. Uncle Ray was behind the wheel, his grin wide as he pulled up to the curb. He climbed out, his arms open as he approached you.

"Hey, kiddo," he greeted warmly, pulling you into a hug that smelled faintly of motor oil and aftershave. He felt solid, familiar, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax into it.

"Hey," you returned, your voice softer than you intended.

"You ready to head home?" he asked, leaning back to give you an appraising look.

Home. The word felt foreign, strange on your tongue, but you nodded anyway, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, I’m ready."

The truck’s interior was worn and weathered, the seats cracked in places—a surprising sight considering Uncle Ray was a mechanic. Yet, it carried a charm all its own, a lived-in feel that spoke of countless miles and stories etched into every scuff and tear. As you settled in, pressing your back against the sun-warmed vinyl, Uncle Ray climbed in beside you, his fingers deftly adjusting the stubborn air conditioner until it rattled to life with a sigh.

The scenery outside was nothing like Chicago. Gone were the towering buildings and chaotic traffic, replaced by open stretches of land that seemed to go on forever. Fields of green, the occasional barn, and roads that seemed to shimmer under the weight of the heat. The town came into view slowly, a scattering of small businesses, a diner with a flickering neon sign, and houses spaced far enough apart to feel lonely.

You thought about the last time you’d seen Uncle Ray. Years ago, he’d taken you fishing on one of his rare visits up north. He’d been the same then—chill, a little chubby, always ready with a story that had you laughing until your stomach hurt.

"You holding up okay?" he asked, his eyes darting to you briefly as the truck slowed to take a turn.

"Yeah," you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.

When you finally reached his neighborhood, you leaned forward, taking it all in. The houses were modest but well-kept, each with a wide porch and a patch of green that looked as though it had been freshly mowed. Kids played on the sidewalks, their laughter echoing in the warm air. It was the kind of neighborhood where people probably knew everyone’s name and said hello every morning.

Uncle Ray pulled into the driveway of a double-story house with faded blue shutters and a swing on the front porch. The lawn was dotted with a few wildflowers.

"Here we are," Uncle Ray announced, cutting the engine. "Home sweet home."

You stepped out of the truck, the scent of freshly cut grass and something sweet—maybe honeysuckle—filling the air.

As you reached for the first overstuffed suitcase, your gaze drifted to the houses next door. Neatly trimmed lawns, colorful flowers in hanging baskets, and wide porches with rocking chairs. It was idyllic, picturesque even—a world away from Chicago's cramped apartments and noisy streets.

Your new neighbors.

It was strange being back in suburbia, where people probably waved over fences and borrowed sugar like a scene straight out of an old movie. In Chicago, you hardly saw the people next to you.

Sure, you’d hear them: the clattering of keys as they stumbled in after a late night, the thud of their running shoes as they left for an early workout. But no one lingered for niceties or exchanged cheerful "good mornings" like they probably did here.

You were lost in your thoughts, trying to reconcile this new reality, when you heard a low chuckle from the front of the truck. Uncle Ray was leaning against the hood, talking animatedly to someone.

His laughter carried easily in the warm, sticky air, a sound you’d always found comforting. Curious, you craned your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of who he was talking to.

That’s when you saw him.

He stood tall, broad shoulders casting a shadow that stretched over the gravel driveway. His hands rested on his hips in a way that made him look like he owned the space around him, completely at ease. He wore a plain t-shirt, faded from too many washes, stretched just enough to hint at the strength beneath.

His jeans hung low on his hips, worn at the knees, and scuffed boots completed the look. He wasn’t trying—God, he wasn’t even trying—but the way he carried himself made it hard to look away.

He had to be in his mid-40s, the faintest streaks of silver catching in his dark hair, but that only made him more handsome. Ruggedly so, in a way that felt deeply unfair.

"There she is," Uncle Ray called, catching you staring. He waved you forward, his grin wide. "C’mere, kiddo. Meet our neighbor."

Reluctantly, you abandoned your luggage and crossed the driveway. Every step felt heavier under Joel’s gaze—or Mr. Miller, as Uncle Ray had introduced him—but when you got closer, you noticed his eyes. Warm, earthy brown and piercing all at once, like he could see straight through you.

"This is my niece," Uncle Ray said, clapping a hand on your shoulder. "She’s staying with me for a little while. And this here," he motioned toward the man, "is Mr. Miller. Lives right next door."

"Nice to meet you, darlin’," Joel said, his voice low and smooth, with a Southern drawl that seemed to settle into your bones.

Oh, right. The pet names. Sweetheart, honey, darlin’—you’d heard them at least fifteen times since your plane landed, each one dripping with charm. But coming from him, as his hand reached out to envelop yours in a firm, calloused grip, it felt different. Better. You liked it more than you cared to admit.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller," you replied, your voice softer than you intended. His hand was rough and large, making yours feel almost laughably small.

He shook his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Call me Joel, please. Mr. Miller makes me feel like I oughta be signing up for a retirement home."

You couldn’t help it; you laughed. A genuine laugh that bubbled out before you could stop it. He smiled at that, a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips, but it was there. You noticed.

Uncle Ray, ever the social one, leaned in conspiratorially, a sly grin on his face. "Hey, Joel, how’s Sarah? She’s what—23 now? Same age as this one," he added, nudging you lightly with his elbow, as if you were part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

"I'm 24," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself. For some reason, you thought it might make you sound more mature in front of the very much older man standing before you. Immediately, you regretted it—like he needed to know or cared about the one-year gap.

"Same difference," Uncle Ray said with a wave of his hand, completely unbothered.

But Joel raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement passing through his dark eyes.

"She’s good," Joel said, "Working over at the diner, keeping herself busy."

You must have furrowed your brows because Joel caught it immediately. "Sarah’s my daughter," he said, clarifying before you had to ask.

"Oh," you said, feeling a little silly.

Of course, he had a family. He probably had a wife, too. Your gaze drifted toward his house, half-expecting to see her step outside—a vision of blonde hair and a warm, effortless smile. The kind of woman who bakes cookies from scratch, smells like vanilla and sunshine, and waves cheerfully to the neighbors. Maybe there was even a golden retriever named Benji, lounging inside on the couch, completing the perfect picture.

"I’d love to meet her," you offered, trying to mask the pang of disappointment you didn’t fully understand. "I don’t really know anyone here yet."

Plus, my ex-best friend kinda betrayed me by sleeping with my boyfriend, so I could really use some new friends, you thought bitterly, the memory flaring for a moment before you shoved it back down.

"Course, she'd love that" Joel replied easily, his tone warm. "Y’all are coming over tomorrow for the barbecue, right?"

"Course," Uncle Ray said, already moving toward the house as his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. "Wouldn’t miss it. Joel makes the best ribs in town," he called over his shoulder with a quick smile.

Then his expression shifted as he glanced at the screen. "Sorry, it’s work—I gotta take this," he muttered, answering the call with a distracted wave before disappearing inside.

And just like that, it was just you and Joel.

You stood there, awkward and unsure, while he seemed entirely at ease, hands still resting on his hips. He had a way about him—calm, confident, charismatic.

"You need help with your bags?" he asked, tilting his head toward the suitcases you’d abandoned.

"Oh," you blinked, realizing you’d completely forgotten about them. "No, I should be fine."

Joel’s gaze shifted to the two enormous suitcases that were clearly over the weight limit, and he raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a laugh. "You sure about that?"

Before you could protest, he was already moving, lifting one suitcase with ease and hoisting it into his arms like it weighed nothing. You couldn’t help but notice the way his bicep flexed, the fabric of his t-shirt pulling taut as he carried the weight effortlessly. It was distracting, the kind of subtle strength that you knew he wasn’t showing off—it was just there, in every deliberate movement.

"You pack bricks in here or somethin’?" he asked, his tone light and teasing, as he glanced back over his shoulder. That faint smirk tugged at his lips, like he’d caught you in the act of staring, though he didn’t say it outright.

Your cheeks burned instantly. "No, I just—uh, I guess I overpacked," you stammered, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

He chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head as he grabbed the second suitcase, hefting it just as effortlessly as the first. "Just teasin' darlin" he said simply, his voice steady, but something about the way he said it—calm and self-assured—left your stomach fluttering.

This was going to be a problem.

Your cheeks burned, and you hoped the heat of the day would mask the blush creeping across your face. "Thanks," you mumbled, biting back a smile.

He carried the second suitcase up the porch and set it down with a satisfied nod. "There. Easy enough." He turned back to you, his gaze holding yours for a second longer than necessary.

"Well," he said, his voice low and steady, "Welcome to Texas." Your name rolled off his tongue in that unmistakable drawl, each syllable slow and deliberate, like he was tasting it.

It settled in the air between you, making your knees feel just a little weaker, your chest tightening in a way that you refused to acknowledge.

You swore he gave you a once-over before he strode back toward his house, his boots crunching against the gravel. Just before he reached his door, he glanced over his shoulder and tipped his head.

"See you tomorrow," he said, and then he was gone, leaving you standing there with your heart doing something entirely inconvenient in your chest.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

After dinner—a greasy but satisfying burger and fries from the local diner—you finally settled into your room. It was modest, with a bed tucked into the corner and walls painted a soft beige. A worn wooden dresser sat against one wall, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air from a small sachet tucked into the bedside drawer. It wasn’t much, but it was cozy enough.

What caught your attention, though, was the window. It faced the backyard, and as you peered out, you realized it looked straight into Joel’s. The same backyard you’d be standing in tomorrow night for the barbecue.

The space was neat, with a patio table and chairs under a faded umbrella, a small grill parked in the corner, and string lights dangling above. You could imagine it already—laughter, the smoky scent of ribs, and Joel moving easily through it all, a beer in hand and that rugged smile.

Shaking off the thought, you flopped back onto the bed, the mattress letting out a soft creak under your weight. With your phone in your hand you unlocked the screen and hesitated for a moment. Your fingers opened Instagram hovering over the search bar before typing: J-o-e-l M-i-l-l-e-r.

You weren’t a stalker—you told yourself that twice as you pressed search. You just wanted to know more about him. Maybe seeing his wife, his family, would yank your head out of the ridiculous fantasies that had started creeping in since the moment he’d carried your suitcase like it weighed nothing.

Nothing.

The results came up empty, just a scattering of people who were very obviously not the Joel Miller you were looking for. You sighed, biting your lip, and switched apps.

Facebook. He was older—he probably wasn’t on Instagram anyway.

Jackpot. There it was—a profile with a photo that looked like it had been taken years ago. Joel stood with a much younger girl, who you assumed was Sarah, all teeth and curly hair, her arms flung around his neck as he smiled faintly at the camera. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It was sweet—simple. A glimpse of him you hadn’t expected.

You scrolled further, the glow of the screen lighting up your face in the dim room. There were more photos: Joel and Sarah on vacation by a lake, Joel in construction gear with a hard hat tucked under one arm, Joel standing next to what looked like an old truck, his hand resting on Sarah’s shoulder as she beamed up at him.

But there was no wife. No wedding photos, no anniversary posts, nothing to suggest she existed. Huh, you thought to yourself, your brow furrowing slightly.

You locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed beside you, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was just private, or maybe…

You tried to push the thought from your mind, but it lingered, the possibilities swirling in your head far longer than you wanted to admit.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

"You ready, kid?" Uncle Ray’s voice boomed from downstairs.

"Yeah, just one sec!" you called back, turning to the mirror one last time. You smoothed your hands over the fabric of the white halter dress you’d chosen, the hem brushing mid-thigh. It was simple, breezy—perfect for the Texas heat—but there was a part of you that wanted to look good. Not over the top, but enough to feel confident. Enough to catch someone’s attention.

As you descended the stairs, Uncle Ray was balancing a platter of meat and a case of beers, muttering something about forgetting the tongs.

"I’ll take these," you offered, grabbing the beers from him before he could protest.

"Thanks, kid," he said with a grateful smile.

The short walk to Joel’s house felt longer than it should have, anticipation bubbling under your skin. You weren’t sure why you were nervous. Maybe it was the thought of finally seeing inside Joel’s house, the place he lived.

Maybe even meeting his wife. If he has one, a voice in your head whispered, though you tried to ignore it.

Uncle Ray knocked on the door, the sound heavy against the wood. Moments later, Joel’s unmistakable voice called, "Comin’!"

When the door opened, your breath caught in your throat.

If it was possible for him to look even better than yesterday, somehow, he managed it. His hair was slightly tousled, damp at the edges, and there was a sheen of sweat glistening on his tanned skin—no doubt from working outside at the barbecue. He wore a faded gray t-shirt that clung just enough to hint at the strength beneath and a pair of jeans.

Your gaze lingered a second too long, and as if sensing it, his eyes flicked to yours, a small smirk tugging at his lips. You swallowed subconsciously, the motion betraying you. He noticed.

"Ray," Joel greeted warmly, clapping your uncle on the back. "Just through there to the kitchen," he said, nodding toward the hallway for the meat Uncle Ray was carrying.

"Got it," your uncle replied, brushing past him and leaving you standing awkwardly in the doorway, the beers still in your hands.

Why did you feel so out of place? Why were you so... flustered?

"Hey, sweetheart," Joel said, his voice dropping into that low, his arm leaning against the doorframe, his familiar drawl sending warmth cascading through you. He motioned to the beers in your arms. "These for me?"

It took you a second to process what he meant. "The beers?" you asked, dumbly, earning a quiet chuckle from him.

"Yeah," he said, amused, his lips curving into a faint grin. "The beers."

"Oh. Yeah," you said quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

"Here, I’ll take ’em off your hands," he offered, stepping closer. As his fingers brushed yours, a spark zipped through you, quick and unbidden. You glanced up, catching his eyes just as they shifted—flickering down for the briefest moment.

That’s when you realized where he was looking. You followed his gaze instinctively, and your heart stuttered. The condensation from the beers had soaked into your dress, dampening the fabric over your chest. You could see the faint outline of your pink lace bra through the thin material.

Joel murmured something under his breath, so quiet you couldn’t make it out. His jaw tightened as his gaze snapped back to your face, his expression carefully neutral.

Your cheeks burned, your entire body flushing a deep crimson. But Joel—ever the gentleman—pretended not to notice. His eyes didn’t stray, not once. Instead, he made steady eye contact, his tone smooth and unaffected as he said, "Hey, come on in. You can meet Sarah. I’ll introduce you two."

He stepped back, holding the door open wider for you to enter. His voice remained calm, his movements composed, but there was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that hadn’t been there before.

You ducked your head, mumbling a quiet "thanks" as you stepped inside, the air-conditioned coolness of his house brushing against your overheated skin.

Joel’s voice followed you, steady but quieter now. "She’s out back helpin’ with the food. You’ll like her."

You nodded, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Joel Miller had just seen far more of you than you’d intended—and that the way he handled it, with his quiet restraint and piercing eyes, somehow made it even worse. Or maybe better. You weren’t sure anymore.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ Sarah was incredible—her energy was infectious, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke made you feel like you’d known her for years. She had Joel's kind eyes and smile. Conversation flowed easily, laughter punctuating every other sentence as you sat in the shade of the patio, the warm buzz of music and mingling voices filling the air.

"So, you moved from Chicago?" Sarah asked, taking a sip of her beer, her head tilted curiously. You nodded, but before you could answer, she grinned. "What gives? I’d do anything to get out of Texas, but I think my dad would have a heart attack if I tried."

You laughed softly at her playful tone, but inside, your heart clenched, the real reason for your move bubbling to the surface. The betrayal of the two people you had trusted most in the world—your boyfriend and your best friend—still stung like an open wound. For a moment, you thought about answering with one of the rehearsed lies you’d been telling people since it happened. Something casual, vague, easy.

But there was something in Sarah’s eyes—kindness that felt so effortless, so genuine—that made you hesitate. She wasn’t prying; she just seemed... safe. Your lip caught between your teeth as you glanced down, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

"Well, uh, my boyfriend cheated on me," you said quietly, the weight of it easing slightly as you said it aloud. Sarah’s eyes widened, but before she could respond, you added, "With my best friend."

Her gasp was immediate, her beer nearly slipping from her hand as she leaned forward. "Oh my God. Are you serious? What fucking assholes!" she said, her voice sharp with indignation.

You managed a small, sad smile. "Yeah. So, uh, here I am, trying to figure out what to do with my life. Honestly, I don’t have a clue."

Sarah’s expression softened, and without hesitation, she reached over to rub your shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. "Hey," she said firmly, "they’re both idiots for doing anything that got you out of their lives. I’ve known you for, like, an hour, and I can already tell how stupid that was."

Her words hit you harder than you expected, a warmth spreading in your chest as the corners of your mouth lifted into a genuine smile. "You’re too sweet," you murmured, your voice soft but sincere.

"I’m serious," she insisted, her eyes narrowing slightly as if daring you to argue. "If they couldn’t see what they had, that’s on them, not you."

For the first time in a while, you felt something shift—just a little—a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, you were in the right place to start over. "Thanks, Sarah," you said, meaning every word.

"Anytime," she said, raising her beer with a grin. "And hey, if you need someone to curse them out over the phone, just say the word. I’m really good at it."

You laughed, a sound that felt lighter than it had in months. "I’ll keep that in mind."

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat by yourself now, nursing a drink as you watched the scene unfold around you. Sarah had disappeared into the kitchen to help with something, leaving you to take in the warm buzz of conversation and laughter that filled the air.

People were scattered in groups, mingling, sharing stories, and you couldn’t help but smile at how… nice it all felt. Like being part of a community, even if only for a little while.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed by you—the absence of a partner in Joel’s life. No photos, no affectionate glances exchanged with a woman across the yard, no lady hanging off his arm.

You’d been looking, admittedly more than you should have. And you’d noticed another thing, too: his left hand. Bare. No wedding ring, no tell-tale tan line suggesting one had been there recently.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed movement, and when you glanced up, Joel was walking toward you, his figure outlined by the afternoon sun. One hand lifted to shield his eyes from the glare as he stopped in front of you, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"Hey," he said, his voice low but carrying easily over the noise around you.

"Hey," you replied, sitting up a little straighter.

"You havin’ fun?" he asked, his tone casual but his gaze steady, like he genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "Sarah’s the best. She’s been really great."

His lips twitched into a grin, one of those subtle ones that made you feel like you’d earned it. "I figured you two would hit it off."

There was a brief pause, a flicker of something in his eyes as he seemed to consider his next words. Finally, he nodded toward the grill. "Hey, you, uh… wanna help me out with the grill?"

"Oh," you said, caught off guard but smiling nonetheless. "Yeah, sure." You stood quickly, brushing your hands on your dress. "I don’t know how much help I’ll be, though."

"That’s alright," he said, already turning to walk back to the grill, his voice carrying a hint of teasing warmth. "I’ll teach ya."

You followed him, the scent of charcoal and smoked meat growing stronger as you approached. When you reached the grill, Joel handed you a pair of tongs, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he did.

"Alright," he said, stepping beside you, his shoulder close enough to brush yours if either of you moved even a little. "First rule: don’t flip ’em too much. Just let ’em sit there for a bit. You flip too early, you lose all the good stuff."

You nodded, gripping the tongs tightly. "Got it. No premature flipping."

He chuckled at that, low and warm. "Exactly." He reached over, his hand lightly covering yours to guide the tongs. "Here, like this. Just slide it under real careful, and then—" He helped you flip one of the ribs, his movements steady, deliberate, his voice low in your ear.

"See? Easy," he said, stepping back but not too far, his hand lingering on the edge of the grill.

"Sure, when you’re helping," you replied with a small laugh, turning to glance up at him.

"You’ll get the hang of it," he said, his eyes meeting yours for just a beat longer than necessary before he looked back at the grill. "Soon enough, you’ll be the one teachin’ me."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "I don’t think I’ll ever reach your level of grill mastery."

"Mastery, huh?" he teased, his grin widening slightly. "You’re just sayin’ that ’cause you’re tryin’ to get on my good side."

"Didn’t realize you had a bad side," you said before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out light and teasing.

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized how they sounded.

This was so not you—flirting? With Joel? .You immediately regretted it, your stomach twisting as you replayed the words in your head. You made it weird, you thought, biting the inside of your cheek. He probably thinks you’re a freak.

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours, his grin softening into something quieter, almost contemplative. Then, as his gaze lingered, something shifted—something darker, deeper that wasn’t there before. His eyes traveled, not overtly, but enough to make you feel the heat of his attention, before they settled back on yours, steady and unreadable.

"Guess you’ll have to wait and see," he murmured, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that felt like it carried a secret meant only for you. It was so quiet, so deliberate, that if the laughter and hum of conversation around you had been any louder, you might have missed it entirely.

Your breath caught for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty threading through your thoughts. Was he—? No, he couldn’t be. Could he? The weight of his gaze, the subtle shift in his demeanor, it all felt different now. Like the casual, teasing banter had taken a step into something else—something charged.

You blinked, trying to shake the thought as your heart gave a traitorous thump against your ribs. Joel’s expression shifted back to something lighter, the corner of his mouth tugging into a small, almost amused smile, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Before you could say anything—ask, deflect, do something—Sarah’s voice called from the patio, pulling both of your gazes away. And just like that, the moment dissolved, leaving you standing there, wondering if you’d imagined the whole thing.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The rest of the evening unfolded like a whirlwind. Sarah had pulled you into the fold of her hometown friends, introducing you to a group of easygoing, lively people who made you feel like you’d known them for years.

They shared stories of growing up in the small town, teasing one another in a way only lifelong friends could, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks. It was lovely, and for a while, you let yourself forget everything that had driven you here.

You hadn’t seen Joel. Not since your brief moment at the grill. Uncle Ray had left earlier, muttering something about an emergency at the shop—a customer with car trouble that couldn’t wait until morning. He’d pressed the extra house key into your hand before he left, telling you to stay as long as you liked.

But now it was late, and most of the guests had filtered out. The once-lively backyard was quieter, the string lights casting soft, golden halos over the empty tables and half-finished drinks. You hugged Sarah goodbye at the door, a plate of leftovers in your hand that she’d practically begged you to take.

"Seriously, come over anytime," she said, squeezing you tightly. "It was so nice meeting you."

"You too," you replied, genuinely meaning it as you hugged her back.

As you pulled away, you glanced around one last time, hoping to spot Joel, but he was nowhere to be seen. You shifted the plate in your hand and opened the door, stepping out into the cooler night air. The distant chirp of crickets filled the quiet, and you felt the weight of the day settling into your shoulders.

"Leavin’ without sayin’ goodbye?" a familiar voice drawled, stopping you mid-step.

You turned sharply, startled, to see Joel leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed and his gaze fixed on you. His shirt sleeves were rolled up slightly, and his hair was mussed like he’d run a hand through it more than once. The soft glow of the porch light caught the sharp line of his jaw as he tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"What, I work you too hard?" he teased, his voice low and laced with that easy humor that made your stomach flutter.

You let out a surprised laugh, adjusting the plate in your hand. "I didn’t know where you went," you said, feeling suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his gaze.

"Had to clean up a bit," he replied, straightening from the doorframe. "Didn’t think you’d sneak out on me, though."

"I wasn’t sneaking," you countered, smiling despite yourself.

Joel’s smirk widened slightly, his eyes catching yours in a way that made your pulse skip. "Good," he said simply, stepping closer until he was just a little too near, the space between you shrinking in a way that felt intentional. He glanced at the plate in your hand. "Sarah guilt you into takin’ that?"

"Of course," you said with a small laugh. "I didn’t stand a chance."

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, before his gaze flicked back to yours. For a moment, neither of you moved, the quiet night wrapping around you like a cocoon. His expression softened, the teasing edge fading just slightly as he said, "Glad you came, though."

The way he said it—low, steady, and deliberate—made something in your chest tighten. You nodded, your voice quieter now. "Me too."

You turned toward the driveway, ready to head home, when Joel cleared his throat behind you. "I’ll, uh, walk you home," he said, his voice calm but steady enough to make you stop in your tracks.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Joel, it’s like three steps," you pointed out, gesturing toward your house practically next door.

"I know," he replied, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "But here in Texas, us gentlemen protect our ladies."

Our ladies. The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, and you felt a sudden warmth rush to your cheeks. You knew he didn’t mean it like that—not like you were his—but still the idea made your stomach flip all the same.

"Okay," you murmured, the word barely audible as you started walking, Joel falling into step beside you.

You both walked slowly, the kind of unhurried pace that almost felt like stalling. Joel’s hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, his gaze flicking around the quiet neighborhood before landing back on you.

"So," he said, his voice easy but laced with curiosity, "how long you here for?"

You sighed softly, your fingers brushing the plate of leftovers Sarah had given you as you considered your answer. "I don’t know," you admitted, glancing at him briefly. "I’m here until I figure my shit out, pretty much."

Joel nodded, his expression thoughtful. The light from your porch illuminated the edges of his profile as he turned toward your house, his next words slipping out low and steady. "Well," he said, "let’s hope that takes a while, then."

Your breath hitched, his words landing like a soft knock against your chest. He said it so easily, so casually, but something about the way his voice dipped made it impossible to ignore. You felt the blush creeping up your neck, and for a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

Joel stopped just short of following you up, rocking back slightly on his heels. He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the warmth in his gaze sent your heart into a full sprint.

"Good night," he said, his voice softer now, before turning on his heels. He walked away slowly, his hands still in his pockets, and you couldn’t help but watch him until he disappeared into the shadows of his own porch.

You stood there for a moment, breathless and still, your mind replaying his words on a loop. The weight of them lingered, warm and undeniable, leaving you leaning against your door long after the night had fully settled around you.

Tag List:

@pedritospunk @ickearmn

[hederasgarden]

Like Oil and Water

Summary: Your office power struggle with Scott comes to a head. Paring: Scott (Twisters) x F!Scientist!Reader Word Count: 2.1K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Enemies to lovers trope, PIV sex, fingering, and dirty talk. Slight angst.  A/N: The story is based on this ask I received. I know there are like…five Scott fans out there besides me so I hope y’all like this. I have no explanation for this fic except I’m horny for Scott. I had an alternative ending to this story but whoops feelings crept in. Thank you to @ryebecca, @whatblogisthis216 and @a-reader-and-a-writer for looking this over. The snazzy summary is courtesy of @writercole.

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day. 

David Corenswet Characters Masterlist

“I’m never picking up your coffee order again,” Javi swears, handing the Starbucks cup to you. “Whatever happened to coffee with a little bit of cream?”

“Capitalism,” you reply, taking a sip. It wasn’t exactly how you liked it, missing that deep caramel flavor, but you appreciate Javi’s effort. “Thanks again.”

He nods, drinking from his cup as you make your way down to the labs, discussing the results from the latest test. 

“We will need to adjust the relays, but other than that, I think we’re in good shape,” you tell him. “I’ll let the techs know we need those changes made this week.”

“Sounds good. I gotta make a quick call, but I’ll join you after,” Javi promises, disappearing into his office while you make your way down the hall.

You hear the low timber of Scott's voice before you spot him in conversation with one of the female techs. You loathe to admit it but he looks good, his tanned forearms on display with the sleeves of his white company shirt rolled up. The baseball cap tucked into his back pocket and dusty boots let you know he probably came straight from the field. 

"We need to fix the relays. They failed the test. Again. That's unacceptable," he begins, gearing up for another one of his infamous lectures. "Back when I was at MIT, this type of calibration was the first thing we were taught."

Scott may have been one of the smartest guys on Javi’s team but he was also a smug asshole. From the moment you met him, he irritated you, reminding you of every man who thought he was smarter and better than you just because of his gender. Everyone expected engineers to be difficult to work with, but Scott took it to another level. Who could blame you for taking him down a peg or two when you had the chance?

"So you went to MIT. Big whoop," you begin, delighted to see Scott tense up at the sound of your voice. When he turns to face you, the tech is quick to scurry away. "Call me when you have a PhD from a real school, like Caltech, Scotty."

He hates it when you call him that but today it's your jab about MIT that strikes a nerve. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and he exhales harshly. God, that angry look in his eye really did something for you. Too bad his looks couldn’t make up for how much of a dick he could be. 

Scott practically spits your first name out, stepping into your space to loom over you. His broad shoulders and muscular build block your view of the lab. You tilt your head to look at him, fighting the urge to smile. "You really should address me as ‘doctor,’" you calmly remind him, tapping your name badge. 

You arch a brow, waiting for his response but his mouth snaps shut, attention moving to something behind you. 

It’s Javi.

"Come on guys," he sighs. "Play nice."

You glance over your shoulder, smiling sweetly. "I'm always nice.”

"Why are you even in the labs today?" Scott questions, glancing down at your heels. 

You smooth a hand down your dress and smile. "I'm the Vice President of R&D for Storm Par. These are my labs. I belong here.”

"Dressed like that?" He scoffs. 

"What, you don't like it?" You ask, turning in a slow circle. 

"We had a meeting with some new investors," Javi supplies, trying to cut off the start of another fight between the two of you. 

Scott turns away and you can practically hear his teeth grinding together. He still hasn’t forgiven you for talking Javi out of letting his uncle invest in the company. It would have been easy money but you never liked the business plan. It was best to stick with government grants and investors without any personal connections. 

Javi touches your arm. “Come on, we gotta finish that grant.”

You hum in agreement, trailing behind him to the doorway. Pausing, you glance back and catch Scott watching you, his lips pressed into a thin line. With a grin, you wiggle your fingers at him, amused to see the furrow in his brow deepen even further.

The rest of your day is blessedly Scott-free and you spend your time buried in meetings and wading through needlessly complicated grant submissions. Javi employed some of the smartest people you’ve ever had the privilege of working with but they were terrible when it came to making the science digestible to investors. You sigh, rubbing your temples. It was going to be a long night.

You work uninterrupted, buried in the complexities of the grant, until Scott storms into your office, slamming the door behind him. “Did you tell the techs they could go home early?” he demands.

“Please, do come in,” you deadpan, setting aside the papers you’re holding.

“Did you send them home?” He repeats, rounding your desk and invading your personal space. At his side, his hands are clenched into fists, the veins in his neck standing out.

“I did.” You rise to your full height but even in heels, he dwarfs you. 

“That wasn’t your call.”

“You do remember my job title, right?”

“I’m VP of Operations,” he reminds you. “I say when they go home, especially when we’re on a deadline.”

“They report to me, and you’ve had them working long hours,” you fire back.

He shakes his head, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, as he gives you an unimpressed look. “You’re too soft on them. I told Javi you weren’t right for this job. This isn’t academia. We work hard here.” 

You bristle at his words, clenching your fist so tightly that your nails dig into the soft skin of your palm. He has no idea what it took for you to get here, the challenges you faced, or the men like him you had to prove yourself to.

“Go fuck yourself, Scott.” 

You glare up at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. You wait, ready for whatever asshole comment is sure to come but he just stares at you. Then, to your surprise, his gaze drops to your mouth. You freeze, electricity zipping up your spine when you realize you’re close enough for your chest to brush his as you exhale. Looking back, you won't remember the impulse that led you to tilt your head and press your lips to his, only that you did.

The kiss only lasts a second before you pull away, heart pounding in your chest. For a moment, neither of you moves, but then suddenly he surges forward, his large hand grasping the side of your face. His lips crash into yours roughly. A hand at your hip urges you back until you bump your desk but he doesn’t stop until he’s practically dragged you on top of it. He presses in close, eating up what little space remains. You groan, grasping at his shirt as you push your hips into his. 

“Fuck,” he pants, resting his forehead against yours as his warm breath fans across your face. For one terrible second, you think he might stop or say something stupid to ruin the moment but then he’s kissing you again. He forces a hand between your bodies and roughly pulls your underwear aside so his fingers can drag through your folds. You’d be shocked by how fast it’s all happening but any higher thought fizzles out once his thumb circles your clit and his tongue breaks the seam of your lips to taste you. 

You’re breathless when he pulls away, back arching in response to his talented fingers. Through your lashes you see him smirk down at you. “No smart comebacks now?” He questions.

Before you can retort he adds a second finger. You moan, rolling your hips to seek more of him. “Knew you’d be fucking greedy,” he whispers.

He watches you fuck yourself on his hand with a hungry glint in his eyes until your pace slows. He glanced at your face. You rise up on your elbows, brow raised. “Am I going to do all the work here?” 

“Shut up,” he growls, withdrawing his fingers.

A witty comeback is on the tip of your tongue but it dies when Scott brings his fingers to his mouth. He stares down at you while he sucks them clean, his Adam's apple bobbing. Your stomach clenches hard at the sight. 

“That’s better,” he comments, unbuckling his belt. “Nice and quiet.” 

He takes a condom from his wallet and rolls it on his thick length. If there was ever a time to stop, it’s now. You look at Scott, his dark gaze swimming with desire and push the thought away, rising up to kiss him. The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance and you lift your hips. You relish the way he looks, dark hair curling over his sweaty forehead and his body straining for you. Knowing you’ve done this to him sends a rush of want through you. 

Scott pushes inside slowly, hissing as your wet heat envelopes him until he’s halfway in and then he snaps his hips forward unexpectedly. Your breath leaves your lungs in a rush. He falls forward and the weight of him is electrifying. You’d be embarrassed at the desperate little sounds his mouth swallows up if he didn’t feel so damn good. 

He fucks with an intense kind of precision you’ve seen him bring to his work, reaching deep inside you to hit all the right places. You bury your fingers in his dark hair and pull, eliciting a needy moan from the irritatingly talented man above you. 

“You gonna come for me?” He asks, breathless. 

A desperate little, please, slips past your lips without your permission, spurring him on. He hooks a hand under your knee and forces your leg into your chest as he keeps up his frantic pace. The new angle takes him even deeper and pleasure ripples through your stomach. He feels unbelievably good and you practically sob when he pulls back and rises to his full height, afraid he’s going to stop. But he doesn’t, grasping your hips with both hands and forcing you to meet his thrusts. 

You’re tantalizing close and, without thinking, you reach down to help yourself along but Scott is quick to slap your hand away, replacing it with his own. 

“That’s mine,” he growls, the rough pad of his thumb catching on the sensitive skin. He watches with rapt attention as his cock and fingers work in tandem to drive you over the edge. You come with his name on your lips. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he gasps. 

Before you can recover your breath, he leans down and kisses you, his weight pressing you into the desk as his hips move relentlessly. Then he shoves himself deep inside and stills, groaning. Your ears ring and your body buzzes with the aftershocks of your own orgasm. The two of you stay like that, intertwined and panting until, finally, Scott moves. 

Cool air rushes between your bodies and you stare up at him. You can see him thinking in real time, his clever gaze searching your face as he continues to process what happened. What could either of you possibly say after this? Nothing good you realize. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, finger pressed to his lips. “Don’t ruin it.” 

Scott closes his eyes and swallows hard. Then he's moving, slipping out of you with a grunt. He turns away from you, redressing. The clink of his belt buckle is loud in the quiet office. Pressing your fingers to your swollen lips, you take a moment to let yourself feel everything before pushing it aside and standing on unsteady legs.

You fix your appearance the best you can and busy yourself with shuffling the mess of papers strewn everywhere. It might be cowardly, but you keep your gaze fixed on your desk when you hear the door creak open. You wait, the minutes dragging by until you know it’s safe to look up, only to find Scott still there.

He lingers in the doorway, his gaze fixed on you. 

Then you blink and he’s gone. 

♡

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[die4girl]

Little girl ❤️‍🔥

Summary: You have loved Lewis ever since you were a little girl. Lewis was the perfect gentleman, and you swore you would work your way up to be with him one day. But when you do, something about him makes you nervous. And something about you that he wants to ruin.

When your parents bought you tickets for the Abu Dabi grand prix on your 16th birthday you couldn’t sleep for days, excitement and anticipation for being in the same vicinity as Lewis. When you found your seats amongst the crowd, you immedielty searched for Lewis’s Mercedes car which you spotted it in line up. The signature electric blue a stark contrast against the backdrop of Dubai’s city scape. When he won, miles infront of the others, it was as if all of Dubai cheered for his victory.

“LEWIS LEWIS” you yelled desperately as he walked out of his car to wave at his fans. You were shorter than other girls your age and you fought to not get pushed and shoved by other fans. You felt yourself drowning in the crowd when someone firmly yet gently grabbed your hand and you regained your balance. “Cant have you getting lost can we” Lewis said as he pulled the Mercedes hat you were wearing off your head, and scribbled his name across it. He placed it back in your head with a gentle pat, “thanks for your support love” he said in his British accent, voice soft as he smiled down at you. You swear you stopped breathing as the girls around you shot you dirty looks, but you diddnt care. All you cared about was Lewis.

You clutched your signed Mercedes hat close to your chest when you arrived at your hotel room that night, replaying how it felt have Lewis’s eyes on you- if only for a second.

5 years later

You were seated in Toto Wolf's office as you fixed your hair and reapplied your lip gloss for the 5th time that morning. Your whole morning was done under autopilot; you let your dark hair down and popped in your signature gold hoops, which paired nicely with your brown skin. After intense contemplation, you decided to wear a pair of low-rise jeans (okay, y2K baddie) and a fitted shirt - opting for a Bratz doll, I guess??

You yawned, suddenly regretting staying up late last night. You couldn’t help but fantasize about Lewis. How it would feel to have his finger buried in you and hear him groan and moan in your ear- your thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Toto pushed open the door to the room, “Y/n, are you ready?” He asked with an excited smile. You flushed, pushing those thoughts out of your mind as you got up.

As Toto led the way to the conference room, he was going on about how beautiful the Monaco weather is and how much you will love it here. After a few minutes of walking, you and Toto finally arrived at a set of double doors, which you assumed belonged to the conference room. “They’re all excited to meet you, y/n,” Toto whispers as he dramatically opens the doors.

Excited chatter traveled around the room as you stood next to Toto. But all you could focus on was one person. You surveyed the room, management members, engineers, trainers… your eyes locked on Lewis.

Besides the sparkly studs adorning his ears, Lewis was dressed plainly today. A white shirt and loose black pants. But god, he looked good; he always looked good. You could feel your face heating as he met your gaze.

You were pulled from your thoughts when Toto cleared his throat, and the room quieted, “so, as you know, we have been looking for another driver, and I admit I kept my contenders a secret from you. Only a few members knew we were broadening our horizon to a female driver for the first time.” Anticipating faces switched between you and Toto as they began piecing two and two together.

“Y/n has been showing exceptional talent in F2, and what better way to bring Mercedes back in headlines, after Chris keeps stealing my thunder ( he added under his breath), is to hire the first ever woman in F1 who not only competes at the level of men, but I would say better! So, if you haven’t figured it out already, Y/n L/n will be the newest addition to the Mercedes team.”

A beat of silence fell, and you held your breath at the possibility of being rejected by the team. Claps erupted from around the room as people got up to greet you and shake your hand. Your shoulders shagged in relief, and you thanked Toto for being so kind in your introduction. When you spotted Lewis again, you were taken aback. He had a slight smirk, and his eyes simmered with something dark. As quickly as it came, it was gone in a flash, replaced by the usual soft and gentlemanly demeanor everyone knew.

You focused your attention back on the lady who was shaking your hand repeatedly, “Y/n, how lovely for you to join us; I’ll be doing your fittings for your racing suit” - she was suddenly interrupted by a smiling Lewis, “Sorry to interrupt Lisa,” he flashed a sweet smile, and Lisa walked off after blushing and stuttering an apology.

“Tell her to make it tight.”

“What?”

“Your suit. Especially around your chest.”

Your jaw dropped.

He looked down at you and suddenly started to laugh. “ I’m just joking. Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Your heart squeezed at the pet name. Despite your initial shock your eyes quickly filled with adoration as you looked at him, “Y-yes I mean I can do that.” You sounded like a fucking idiot, but Lewis just smiled, his eyes crinkling at the sides. He was always so sweet.

“I’ve been a huge fan of you since I was a little girl. It’s been my dream to compete alongside you.” You left out how you had a lot of other ‘dreams’ about him.

Lewis looked amused as he bent down to your ear, his hand on your waist, and whispered, “You’re still a little girl, Y/n.” With that, he turned and left the room, leaving behind the faint scent of pine and mint and the warmth of his hand resting on your waist.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Toto came to introduce you to more team members, but all you could think about were Lewis’s words. Was he trying to demean you? No, he wouldn’t do that; he's a gentleman- he's Lewis Hamilton.

You will find out soon enough, and after all, you’ll be together for the rest of the year.

AN: surely smut for part 2?? :)

[flowermiist]

A warm heart - I

Click here to read the prologue if you haven’t ♡

Pairing: John Price x Fem!Reader

Sypnosis: Some time ago, you started a cooking channel on YouTube as a way to relax, have a proper hobby and teach others your favorite recipes as you improved your own culinary skills too. Fame wasn't something you wanted, you were more than happy with your 50k subscribers... Yet you never thought you'd stumble upon one of them.

Word count: 4.5k

A/N: I would like to start off by saying thank you for all the kind comments, likes and reblogs the prologue has gotten. I was going to make this chaper longer but wanted to leave some intrigue. I’m currently working on the second chapter as I post this. Again, thank you so so much. Don’t forget to like, reblog and comment please. ♡

“Didn’t know you were that much into cooking, cap.” Garrick says, hiding a smirk and almost teasing as he sits across the captain who simply gives him a small cranky huff and his tired eyes stick back to the screen of his phone with the video playing.

Only one of the wired earbuds is connected to his ear as he watches every single detail almost carefully –

“Improving my cooking skills, somethin’ the lot of you should start doing.”

It was by far clear that John wasn’t in the best of moods after a stressing mission, his voice much hoarser and raspier than usual – the scent of the cheap cigar he had gotten from a gas station fills the tent as Mactavish sleeps with arms crossed, his head hanging low and Simon keeps guard – his eyes moving towards the conversation from time to time.

“Been trying to get the hang of it…” He speaks again with a sigh and an attempt not to be too grumpy, trying to remain as composed as he can while wiping off the sweat from his forehead, the lines on his rough skin becoming accentuated as he slightly frowns.

“And how’s it going?” Gaz asks with more curiosity now, looking at his captain and placing his elbows on the wooden table.

“Good, ’s far as I can tell.” Is all John responds, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he tries to sink deeper into the folding wooden chair tapping his cigar against the makeshift ashtray (which was simply an empty can of tuna) as the already weak string of smoke dies away.

You quickly scramble out of the bathroom, uniform already displayed on your bed. Stopping in right front of your vanity and placing a hand against the wall as you lean closer to the mirror to get a better look, trying to be as careful as possible not to mess up your lipstick – the moment you can’t find your shoes, you just get more irritated and the irritation mixing with yesterday’s hangover is not a pretty feeling, especially at this time of day.

You know you no longer have time to find your comfortable shoes the moment you look at the watch on your left wrist so you move towards your closet and take out a pair of nude stiletto heels, not the most convenient or comfortable ones but better than going barefoot to work or using one of your “I’m only here at the club to dance and get laid tonight.” pumps.

The moment you step into your car and try to start the engine, it makes that funny noise you hate but know too well to ignore.

“C’mon… let’s not embarrass ourselves, will you stop acting up before a neighbor notices and calls me broke?” You mumble to your own car like a crazy woman as the engine struggles to start.

Three days, three whole damned days since the engine of your car has been struggling to start and has started getting on your nerves – you tried to contact Harrison, your mechanic and the asshole has been completely ignoring your calls, he not only overpriced every little thing he did to your car but also thought you were some sort of stupid woman who didn’t know anything about your own car.

Sure, you could just drive to his garage and tell him the problem right away, but you were loaded with work these days and this man’s policy was to book in through a phone call to get your call fixed – otherwise, he refused to fix anything. And knowing him, there was no way he’d pick up any of your calls anytime soon.

A sigh of relief escapes your lips the moment your car decides to cooperate and the engine starts. “Good girl...” You whisper through your teeth with a smile, moving your finger towards the screen of the radio to start it.

“Well damn! Doesn’t someone look sexy as hell this morning?” Zaila says as she looks at you up and down from her desk – obviously noticing the shoes you chose this morning, you smile at her as you walk towards the reception.

“Well, to your information, I was actually thinking about bringing the leopard print ones you love so much…” You speak with a playful tone while you put your purse on top of her counter.

You give her a sly smirk, checking in with the fingerprint scan she places in front of you.

“I know I’m late… I’m hungover and my car is acting up again and that asshole won’t-” before you can even finish, Zaila moves her hand up to stop you, her various bracelets jingle on her wrist when she does this, stopping you from opening your mouth to explain any further.

You sigh as you already know what she’s about to say.

“Don’t think about it, alright? I was late too – stayed up fighting with that annoying witch living next door. Barely got any rest.”

Zaila says and you smile.

“Somethin’ to laugh about?” She asks, raising an eyebrow and giving you her best warning look.

“No ma’am.” You say with a thankful smile, getting a hold of your purse again before lightly squeezing Zaila’s soft hand and walking away towards your consulting room.

You check your phone while the computer on the desk turns on, you check your channel and smile to yourself while reading some of the comments from your lasagna recipe.

You definitely worked hard for that video and your subscribers seemed to really like it – you were aware that the ages of your views were something quite varied. From teenagers learning how to cook for themselves to middle aged adults improving in the kitchen.

Looking back at the computer in front of you, you put your phone down and begin organizing and checking some files from your patients.

Coming here with Zaila for lunch break was a good idea as always. Both of you laugh, gossip and enjoy lunch break while you sit at the small fancy restaurant that’s right across the street from the clinic.

Zaila went to the bathroom as the two of you waited for the food you ordered to arrive, leaving you alone at the table. You looked through your purse to grab your small mirror when your phone started buzzing from the call you were now receiving.

You grab it and look at the screen, reading the name of the contact, “Harrison - Mechanic.” – you huff and roll your eyes as you answer the call from the asshole that had been ignoring you for the past three days.

“Am I speaking to my favorite client?” The mechanic says, his tone sounding almost cheerful, you’ve known this man for some time now and you know him well enough to know he’s probably drunk.

“So you ignore your favorite client’s calls for three days straight now?” You reply to him. It sounds too rude, you know that but this man is an asshole too and him ignoring you was three times worse than your words.

“Oh c’mon… I’ve just been… uh…” – you wait in silence and look at your nails, already wondering what excuse he’s going to give you.

“–that doesn’t matter now since I’m talking to you, aye? What seems to be the problem with your lady?”

“What makes you think I’ll go back to your garage?” You speak, almost irritated, then catch a glimpse of Zaila from the corner of your eye while she talks to one of the waiters on her way back to the table.

“I’ll give you a discount, how ’bout that, doc? No need to make this call any longer, just, eh, come over and I’ll check on her.” Harrison speaks and you swear you can almost see that annoying smile of his as he speaks.

“You sure you won’t “forget” about your promise when I get there?” You speak, your tone almost sarcastic.

“Would I ever lie to my favorite client?” – Yeah he definitely would, but your car needs a mechanic now and as big of an asshole Harrison can be, you have to admit he’s good at his work when he wants to be.

“Alright, I’ll try to be there after work.” You finally say, ending the call to look at Zaila who is now sitting back on her chair.

John walks through the cereal aisle, gripping the steel handle as the wheels roll. He wasn’t in such a bad mood now that he left base, with the leave he got, he actually felt more relaxed.

The man would not deny he was more used to walking through the halls of a military base than walking through the long aisles of a supermarket – maybe he’d go for a few drinks after this, not wanting to spend his time isolated at home for too long. John clears his throat and rubs forehead and eyes with his fingertips, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He has the essentials in his cart, some milk, vegetables, juice, meat, rice and the three-in-one shampoo he has grown used to.

As John moves his cart towards the register, he glances at two adults and a child – the boy no older than five years and throwing quite the show as he cries and squirms on the floor while he grips a box with children’s toys. He looks at the adults that seem to be his parents, a man and a woman with worried and irritated look on their faces as they try to calm him down.

Was this the reason he never looked forward to starting a family, ugly temper tantrums? No, that would only be another excuse – Maybe the demands of his job? It would be too selfish to leave a woman whom he’d call his wife by herself taking care of a kid while he was in the middle of god-knows-where.

Had he given up the idea of starting a family of his own? Because it surely seemed late for him to try.

Did he want that life? Was he getting tired of going home to an empty house? He didn’t really know if he could call his house a home, it didn’t exactly feel like the concept of a warm family waiting for him, some kids, a wife and a dog – but at least, no children or a wife would be missing him and suffering while waiting for him to get home. To get back home from a job that has his life on the line between life and death, between doing terrible things to accomplish a greater purpose and getting his hands dirtier than ever.

His bubble of thoughts are popped with a sharp pin as the cashier looks at him and speaks, clearing her throat and almost giving him a dirty look for staying so still while glancing at the family – “Sir, you’re next.” The woman speaks as he looks at her.

“Right, sorry.” The rugged man says as he starts moving the things of his cart to the register.

You didn’t drive to Harrison’s right away after work, you stopped at home and took a shower, changing your clothes and then stopping at the grocery store – It was supposed to be a quick trip but you almost throw your bags on the floor of the store’s parking lot as you notice your rear left tire almost entirely flat.

“Fuck…” you mumble as you approach it, your breath hitches and you try to remain as calm as possible, lowering the grocerie bags on the floor, not caring about them getting dirty anymore.

You approach the tire and give it two small kicks to check how soft it was, it would be impossible to drive to your mechanic with a tire like this.

You knew how to change a tire, sure – your father had shown you a long time ago after a nail punctured one of the rear wheels of his truck. But that was too long ago for you to remember step by step and you knew the mechanic would not pick up if you called him to come here and help you. Even if he did, the man would overcharge you as always and you were not about to tolerate that, not after he promised you a discount to fix what was wrong with the engine.

Opening the trunk of your car, you search for a way to lift the liner carpet knowing the tire tools might be underneath it – You grunt as you lift the heavy box and see the spare tire underneath it. Right as you struggle to lift it a voice interrupts you.

“Need any help with that?” You turn around towards the husky unknown voice you just heard just to see a man standing there with his own grocery bags.

The silence is almost palpable as you look at him.

“Changing a tyre by yourself can be hard.” He says again, you huff after hearing his words –

“Are you suggesting I can’t do it by myself?”

you blurt out, immediately biting your tongue as you realize how rude and bitchy that must have sounded, but before you can even correct yourself the man speaks.

“Wasn’t making any suggestions, miss, just trying to lend a helping hand.” The man doesn’t seem phased in the slightest by the tone you used. He speaks with such eloquence and calmness that you are surprised he didn’t get offended and leave right after you spoke.

“Sorry, I- That was really rude of me.” You say, almost blushing from the embarrassment you just put yourself through with your own words, you didn’t mean to take your frustration out on a man offering his help.

“All is forgiven, miss.” He takes one step closer and looks at the trunk of the car where the spare tire is. What you didn’t know is that he recognized you the moment he heard your voice and saw your face, it had to be you – the girl from the cooking videos he has been watching for the last whole month; yet he was not about to comment on it because if for some reason it actually wasn’t you then it would make things too awkward, he thought.

“May I?” You immediately nod and stop staring.

“Yes- But… I wouldn’t want to bother you though.” He shakes his head and lowers his grocerie bags onto the floor.

“Not a bother at all, miss. I was just heading home. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes to change it.” You clear your throat and nod as the man speaks, the embarrassment going away.

“You sure?”

“Quite sure.”

You step aside as he lifts the spare tire with such ease only using one of his arms and using his other hand as he grabs he handle of your car’s toolbox with the other hand.

The man moves to kneel down right in front of the tire and you take a moment to inspect him. By the accent, he is clearly from here. Icy blue eyes and a masculine rugged look, not to the point he’s too intimidating but nearly there. The navy blue t-shirt he wears looks a bit tight on him, he seems older than you by a few years not too many though – you can clearly tell that by the few lines on his forehead and the few grey hairs on his dark brown beard. Last time you saw someone wearing such interesting mutton chops beard with that moustache was during a disney movie.

You try not to stare when the muscles on his arms flex the moment he grips the wheel brace as he loosens the wheel bolts by twisting them.

“You’ve got experience, I reckon.” You say as he carefully aligns the scissor jack under the jacking point of your car, he looks at you and nods with a very small smile.

“Not to brag, miss. Done this many times.” His voice rumbling on his chest, the two of you make some eye contact for a single second and he breaks it by moving the wheel brace to the jack. – “Had any trouble with your car ’fore?” He asks as the tool begins to lift up the car slowly when he twists it.

“I was about to drive to my mechanic’s after he spent three days ignoring my calls, some engine problems.” The man listens to you carefully.

“I believe three day’s enough to know your mechanic might be too irresponsable – Not to intrude with my comments though.” He moves to take out the old tire.

You sigh and nod “He’s an asshole, I know.” Your chuckle makes him sigh and give you a small chuckle of his own as he places the wheel down, shaking his head slowly.

He still can’t believe he’s seeing you in person – Well, that might sound weird but the man has seen too many of your cooking videos to deny it’s you.

“Mind giving me a small class?” You ask, taking a step closer – how ironic, he’s been the one watching your cooking recipes and learning from them and now he’s the one teaching you?

He nods.

“Wanna try?” He suggests and you oblige by grabbing the tool. “This is the lug wrench, right?” You ask and he nods again.

“We call them wheel braces ’ere but yes – It is.” He moves to grab the replacement tire and aligns the holes of the bolt with the lugs and begins to tighten them.

“These are the wheel bolts, you twist ’em with your hands as much as you can ’fore you lower the car with your jack and tighten them again usin’ the brace.” The way he explains it to you almost makes you blush as you are leaning forward and looking at the tire like a child at the aquarium.

You glance at his arms as he lowers the car using the jack again, making that twisting movement that makes the muscles on his arms even bigger, and the veins on his rough hands more noticeable.

The english man tightens the bolts before fully removing the jack from under your car, he lets out a quiet, deep grunt when he gets up again. You help him by grabbing some of the tools as he grabs the old wheel that was apparently pricked by a rusty nail.

“Good as new now, eh?” He says and you realize your mistake after be places the old tire in the trunk of your car. –“I’m so sorry- uh, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Y/N.” That clicks in John’s head, it really was you and he was almost amused to say the least.

“No need to be sorry. ’m John, John Price.”

You shake his hand, not caring in the slightest about the dust on his hand from manipulating all those tools and both tires – his hand feels rough, calloused as if he’s too used to doing these type of things often, the heavy work.

“Forgive me if this sounds strange but ’m pretty sure I’ve watched your videos a few times. Cooking, right?” John says after your hands separate.

You are immediately surprised, almost in awe and he can tell by the look on your face. You try to keep your jaw as tight as you humanly can – almost as if it would comically fall to the floor is you dared to open it.

“Yeah, that’s… me, yes.” You smile at him widely. “You’ve really watched my videos?” You ask, amused, all your worries go away as his words make your whole week, it’s the first time something like this has happened to you.

“Could say ’m a bit of a fan, actually.” He gives you a smile of his own before he continues talking and looking into your eyes, deeply.

“Wanted to start improving my skills and happened to watch one of your videos, the food I prepared turned out surprisingly well – subscribed ’bout a month ago and… been watching ’em ever since.” That raspy and collected tone of his almost soothes your nerves.

“I’m shocked- I’ve never met any of my subscribers…” You admit with a smile full of excitement.

“Well, ’sppose there’s always a first time, innit?” – there is a comfortable silence after you nod but is broken by John looking back at your car.

“You mentioned there was a problem with the engine, that right?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Mhm, it stops sometimes and it can be tricky to start it.” You speak with a sheepish smile and the man crosses his arms as he stands in front of you.

“Want me to take a look?” Honestly? You’d like to talk to him more but you have to get to Harrison’s befoee he closes and you don’t want to keep John here forever, as happy as you are right now. His grocerie bags are on the floor with yours, completely forgotten and you wouldn’t want him to waste his time.

“Don’t worry, I was on my way to the mechanic anyway. Wouldn’t want to keel you here forever.”

“You sure?” John looks at your car then back at you – you give him a nod and he sighs.

“Well… If the engine’s been playin’ games with ya and stops on your way there. Let me know, I mean-” He scrounches up his face in annoyance when the excuse of giving you his number gets too obvious but the sound of the giggle that escapes your lips makes it go away.

“Could use your number for that.” You say quicker than you expected and he immediately smiles, clicking his tongue and taking out his phone from the pocket of his jeans.

“Right.” John says with that deep husky tone rumbling on his chest and a small smile on his face, almost a shy one.

After getting his number, you glance at his brown boots as he lifts up his bags and gives you a small goodbye nod, you wave your hand at him and smile almost stupidly.

“It was nice meetin’ you, Y/N.” John says and you nod too.

“It was nice meeting you too, John.”

As he makes his way to his own truck, you lift up your long forgotten bags and put them in the backseat of your car before you start the engine and sigh in relief since it didn’t give you any trouble this time.

“Well that was hot…” You mumble with a smile as you reverse the car.

Taglist: @bumblebeesfromvenus @thesevi0lentdelights @zekes-beard (Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added! ♡)

[princessbrunette]

popes new gig as a driving instructor was meant to be easy money. he was a good, safe driver — and you were his first ever client. but from the smile you’d given him, all glittery and pink as you bounce over to his car and lean over to his driver seat window to greet him, giving him a direct look down your cleavage — he knew you’d do more than learn driving from him.

you preened under his praise everytime. it was distracting. he was trying to teach you how to safely drive, but everytime he’d let “you’re doing really good, keep going.” or a simple “good job.” leave his mouth you’d nearly swerve off the road. his subtle tips and adjustments would be met with flirtation, and giggly “yes sir”s to the point where he’d forget the rules of the road in an instant.

this went on for weeks, and due to his best friend jj’s constant lecturing regarding; ‘dude, you’ve got a hot ass girl in your car, practically begging for the D — you’re telling me you haven’t swooped on that yet? do better, man.’ pope decided enough was enough. this was either going to fix his problem, or make things really awkward— but it was a risk he was willing to take.

“pull up right here, in this parking lot.” he’d been extra tense that day, rather quiet the entire lesson with a stiff jaw and eyes hung low. you figured he’d been in a bad mood, and even went easy on your usual routine of finding reasons to touch his bicep at each stop light and flirting with him. you did as he said, pulling into the empty lot and finding a space somewhere in some dark corner where it would be easy for you to park.

without the humming of the engine filling the silence now, you turn and look at him in the dim lighting. pope often had two ways of going about things with women — either ultra nervous, or ultra to the point. with you, he’d started off a nervous wreck — practically jizzing in his pants every time you’d graze your manicure against his arm for the first few lessons, but due to the constant teasing he’d been driven to being directly upfront with you.

“look, i can’t take all this teasing anymore.” he stresses, brows creased. your giggly smile drops a little bit, seemingly switching on the innocent act. “every week, you hint and hint that you’re tryna get into something with me— and then at the end of the lesson, you just get out and walk away like it never happened.” he sighs hard, and you have to admit it’s rather cute.

“i’m sorry…” your brows knit together, guilt evident in your expression.

“and that’s fine — i would never pressure you to do anything like that, and believe me — i know this is completely unprofessional to be proposing on the job, and yeah — this could get me fired,” he rambles, working himself up. “but look, i’m a man okay? i am biologically programmed to have a bodily reaction to girls like you who can’t stop touching on me and being all adorable and sexy. that being said — if you wanna fuck, let’s just get it out the way, right here right now— and if not, we can drive you home, and never talk of this again. but you gotta stop acting like that, ‘cause i’m in pain.” he finishes up with his rant, sucking in a breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding the entire time. you stare at pope. pope stares back.

“oh fuck, oh pope!” you mewl into his neck as the car jostles violently from the backseat beneath the dim lighting on the parking lot. you’re naked from the waist down, and his shorts sit pooled around his ankles as you bounce on his cock, dick impaled through you. “s—so big, just like i imagined!”

“you imagined?” he pants, two hands planted on your waist as he helps you fuck down on his lap, staring up at you hopefully as he lifts his hips to meet your movements.

“every night! pictured you punishing me for bein’ such a tease!” you cry out in admission, halting the bouncing technique to roll your hips instead, the two of you groaning at the sensation.

“jesus, okay… well, i can definitely make that happen. you for sure deserve to be punished.” he babbles, pulling you closer — his eyes fluttering shut as you grind on him.

“are you g’nna punish me pope? for teasin’ you in our lessons?” your voice cracks desperately as you feel him repeatedly jutting against your g-spot, making your legs shake around him.

“yes. totally. i’ll punish you real good.” he spits out. it had been a while since he’d got his dick wet, especially from such a perfect princess — so all his concentration was going into making sure he didn’t bust right there and then. he simply agreed without thinking, he probably would have agreed to anything in that moment.

[yoitsjay]

Cat got your tongue?

Pairings: Crosshair x Fem! Reader

Summary: you and crosshair get into another one of your daily bickers, which becomes a fistfight, which becomes something a little... more.

Warnings: cannon typical violence, smut, cunnalingus, pussy eating, cum eating, crosshair eats good- use of pet names.

Word count: 1,627

A/n: inspired by the wrecker headcannons I just wrote- and the fanart I rebloged 🤭

The dimly lit engine room of the Marauder hums with the low rumble of machinery. Tools and spare parts are scattered around, and the air is thick with dust. Crosshair stands hunched over a malfunctioning power conduit, his expression a mix of frustration and concentration. He wouldn't have to be fixing this if Tech wasn't asked to make the supply run with Wrecker, though this piece of junk should have been replaced months ago.

Crosshair let out a grunt of frustration as he hit the power conduit with a wrench, sending some sparks flying from the impact. “Stubborn fucking thing- Should have been replaced.” He muttered

Across the room by the boiler, you are rummaging through a crate of supplies. You are a mercenary, employed temporarily by the Republic, and have been assigned to The Bad Batch for a few dangerous missions, which was being prepared for.

You glanced over at the man, a smirk falling across your lips as you pulled out the part you were looking for, kneeling down by the hyperdrive to fix it. “Maybe if you actually took a break once in a while and properly fixed the ship, you wouldn’t have to deal with these messes.” you replied snarkily.

Crosshair just snarled in return, narrowing his eyes at you as he leaned back slightly. “And maybe if you stopped getting into trouble, we wouldn't need to fix things every time we turn around.” He hissed, and you spun your head around. If looks could kill, he would have a giant hole in his head that would have done the job.

“Oh, so it’s my fault now? Last I checked, you were the one who blew up the last generator.” You replied, turning back to the hyperdrive as you started to replace its main panel with a new functioning one.

Crosshair straightens up, glaring daggers at you. The day had already been frustrating with Wrecker being unhelpful. “I didn’t see you volunteering to help, did I?”

your eyes narrow again. and you throw your wrench down onto the nearby workbench, its clatter echoing in the confined space as you stand and turn to face him, now bristling with annoyance. “Maybe because I’m not the one who causes the problems. I’m just here to clean up your mess.” She hissed, knowing she was only assigned here because they needed her help.

“You need me.” She added, voicing what she had been thinking. Crosshair scoffed, now rising to his feet as he set down his own tools, much gentler than you had moments ago. “Right, and I’m sure you’re perfect at everything you do.” He snarled.

Your face reddens with irritation, and without thinking twice you stride toward Crosshair, fists clenched. “You know what, Crosshair? If you think you’re so much better, why don’t you back up your talk?” She asked, though before Crosshair could respond, you shoved him roughly. He stumbles back but quickly regains his balance. His eyes flash with anger as he pushes her back with equal force.

Without another word you and Crosshair lunge at each other. You throw a punch, which Crosshair ducks, countering with a swift jab. You engage in a fast-paced, physical tussle amidst the clutter of the engine room. Tools and parts are knocked over, creating a chaotic backdrop to your fight. Each move is precise and aggressive, which really showed off the fact that you truly despise each other.

You then attempt a kick, which Crosshair grabs and twists, sending you sprawling onto a pile of metal parts. You let out a grunt of pain, but scramble up to your feet once more, determination in your eyes as you charge again. Crosshair, breathing heavily, manages to catch you off guard with a deft move, pinning your arms above your head against the wall.

Panting, you and Crosshair stare each other down, before finally he speaks up.

“Satisfied now?” He asks with a smirk. You just glare at him, breathing ragged as you rolled your eyes and look away. “Not quite. But I guess this will do for now.” you muttered. Crosshair raises an eyebrow, bringing his free hand up to your face as he cups your chin with his fingers, turning your head so you are looking at him again.

“How else can I satisfy you then, princess?” He asked, his own eyes widening as if he hadn’t meant to say what he had said. Your eyes also go wide, and you glance downwards before looking away again, muttering something under your breath.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Crosshair asked, overcoming that brief shock, taking back his confidence as he pressed into you a bit more, unable to ignore the soft whimper that fell from your lips. You looked over at him again, your pupils dilated as you stared at him with something other than hate.

“I said, you could get on your knees and eat me, but it probably wouldn’t feel good.” you snarked, a surge of your own confidence swelling inside of you

And it caught Crosshair off guard.

“What?” He asked, lips parted slightly as he pulled back from you. But you wouldn’t let him escape, not this time…

You wiggled your arms out of his grasp, and instead grabbed him by the top of his armor plating, pulling him closer to you as you grinned almost wickedly, leaning in to whisper by his ear.

“You heard me.” You whispered, feeling him shiver slightly as your breath fanned down his neck. Crosshair closed his eyes for a moment, then slid his hands to your waist, pulling it against him as he squeezed lightly. “I just wanted to make sure you really said that… because it sounds like a challenge to me.” He whispered, staring into your eyes as his nose brushed against yours.

“Oh it's a challenge, Crosshair. You couldn’t make me feel good if you tried.” You whispered, feeling his grip tighten against your hips. Then he slid his hands down, and he dropped to his knees in front of you.

You gasped slightly, not expecting him to actually take up that challenge. You let out a squeak as he unclasped the armor on your thighs, then tugged down your trousers. “Crosshair what are you-”

“You said I couldn't please you, princess. I’m gonna prove you wrong.” He started, grabbing your thigh as he lifted your leg over his shoulder, using his other hand to hold your abdomen against the wall so you wouldn’t fall.

“Crosshair, what if they come back?” You asked frantically, sliding your left hand into his silvery short hair, pushing his head back slightly. He just grinned, sliding his hand down as he pulled your underwear down.

“Oh Princess…” He trailed off, pushing his face into the plush softness of your thigh, listening to you gasp or inhale every time he nipped at the skin, or lick closer and closer to where you were aching for him to be.

Then he leans in, tentatively licking a stripe up your folds before he groans, and flattens his tongue against you, his nose nudging against your clit which makes you jolt.

“Cross-” You whined, looking down into his eyes momentarily before you let your head fall back against the engine room wall as he brought his tongue up to your clit, and circled it before flicking his tongue upwards.

Crosshair ate you out like it wasn’t even an issue, the way he drove his tongue into your sopping wet cunt, drinking in your juices as he groaned, it made your heart flutter.

You gripped his head, pushing him against you as you bucked your hips slightly, letting out soft pants, or little whimpers, trying to stay quiet, though the way he was making you feel- it was getting hard too.

“Crosshair i’m-”

You could feel that coil winding up tight in your gut, though the man below you didn;t relent, keeping his mouth on you as he drank you up and made you feel like you were on cloud nine.

You pressed the heel of your boot into his back, pushing him closer as you desperately grinded against his face, letting out a high pitched and loud whine as your vision clouded and you saw stars, coming undone on his tongue.

You expected him to pull away, leave you dripping and dirty from your orgasm. But he kept his tongue at your entrance, drinking up the slick that seeped out, until you were shaking from the overstimulation. Only then did he pull away, reaching for a clean cloth which he used to clean up the mess he made between your thighs.

“See Princess? I can clean up my messes.” He teased, lowering your leg off his shoulder as he rose to his feet. You could only huff in response, pulling up your pants and underwear before you clipped your armor back on, face red as you avoided looking at him.

“Cat caught your tongue sweetheart?” Crosshair asked mockingly. You glared at him, turning to walk away, only to turn back around as you delivered a swift punch to his torso, making him double over, only for you to pull him close as you pressed your lips to his, swallowing up his gasp as you invaded your tongue into his mouth, tasting yourself before you pulled away, chuckling.

“Cat caught your tongue, Crosshair?” You repeated, patting his chest before you turned and walked out of the engine room.

Crosshair watched you leave, then grunted as he was suddenly all too aware of the raging hard on that was straining against his codpiece. He grunted, looking back up to the exit you walked out of before he groaned, and quickly ran after you.

You were going to be the death of him.

➺

Crosshair tag:

@nyctophobiart

Tbb:

@only-my-unexistent-fiances

All:

@moomoog017

[drewstarkeybroughtmehere]

Summary:You and beau are in love with each other and you go to him crying after your boyfriend breaks up with you, where you two confess your feelings to each other (mechanic!beau x reader)

Beau Arlen was no stranger to the weight of the world. He spent his days elbow-deep in grease and steel, fixing engines with the kind of focus that made it clear he was built for hard work. But today, it wasn’t a busted transmission he was trying to fix—it was you.

You stumbled into the garage, the door’s heavy metal clang ringing in the empty space, your eyes red and swollen from crying. You hadn’t meant to show up like this, but you just couldn’t stop yourself . You just needed somewhere to go, somewhere safe. Somewhere that felt like home. And for the longest time, that had been Beau’s garage. He was your rock. But today, it wasn’t just friendship that you needed from him.

Beau looked up from the hood of a truck when you entered, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of you. He wiped his hands quickly on a rag, his gaze softening with concern.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and warm, like a safe place to land. "What’s wrong, baby?"

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak without falling apart again. Your chest felt tight, and you could still hear the cruel words from the breakup echoing in your mind. You didn’t want to relive it. Not now. Not in front of him.

But it was like you couldn't help yourself . The tears were coming again, faster this time, slipping from your eyes and rolling down your cheeks in thick, silent trails.

Beau’s expression hardened with concern. "Come here," he said gently, stepping toward you.

You hesitated, but then you felt the pull. He had this way about him—this quiet strength that drew you in without you even realizing it. You stumbled toward him, collapsing into his arms the moment they were open.

"Shh," Beau whispered as his hands cradled your back. His scent wrapped around you—engine oil and the faint musk of leather. It should have been a harsh smell, but with him, it was comfort.

"You’re safe here," he murmured, pressing his cheek to your head. "I’ve got you, baby."

His arms tightened around you, the warmth of his body seeping into you. You let out a shuddering breath, letting the emotions come crashing down. "He... he broke up with me," you whispered, your voice barely audible against his chest. "I didn’t see it coming. I thought he was the one, Beau. I really did."

Beau didn’t say anything right away, just held you, like the simple act of being there for you was enough. But then his fingers brushed through your hair, his touch so gentle it made your heart ache.

"You deserve better than him," he said quietly, his voice so full of conviction that it almost made you believe him. "You deserve someone who sees you the way you should be seen—like you’re everything. Like you’re worth everything."

You pulled back slightly, meeting his eyes for the first time since you’d walked in. The rawness in his gaze hit you like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t just comforting me; he was saying something deeper, something that had been buried between us for a long time.

"Beau, I…" your voice faltered. Your heart was thundering now. "I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to be broken, not when you're standing right here."

He didn’t need any more words. Before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours —soft at first, tentative, as if he was waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you kissed him back with everything you had.

His lips were warm, firm, and the shock of it made your head spin. You had never kissed Beau before, never allowed yourself to imagine us like this. But now, with the taste of him on your tongue, the world outside seemed to fade. All that existed was this moment—this undeniable connection.

Beau’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you melted into him. It felt right. Every kiss, every touch, was a promise of something more, something that had been building in the background for so long that neither of us had ever dared to acknowledge it.

When he pulled away, breathless and with his forehead pressed to yours, his hands still on your waist, his voice was thick with something like desire, something raw.

"I’ve been waiting for this," he admitted in a low growl, his fingers grazing over your skin, sending sparks through your body. "Waiting for you to see me the way I see you."

You swallowed, your pulse racing. "I... I didn’t know you felt that way," you whispered, your voice trembling with uncertainty and longing.

Beau smiled, a little crookedly, as if he couldn’t believe we were here, standing so close with everything finally out in the open. "I’ve been in love with you for years, and I’m done pretending I don’t want this. Baby I need you.” His hand brushed the side of your face, his thumb lightly tracing your jawline as if memorizing the feel of you. "I’ve always wanted to be the one to pick up the pieces when you’re broken. But I think I want to be the one who makes you feel whole, too."

You stared at him, your chest tightening in a different way now—this wasn’t pain. This was... longing. A kind of hunger you didn’t know you had.

"Then let’s stop pretending," you said, voice barely above a whisper, as you pulled him back to you, crashing your lips into his once more, deeper this time, with no hesitation.

The kiss was everything—everything you had been afraid to admit, everything you had been longing for. His hands roamed, pulling you closer, like he couldn’t get enough. His lips were urgent now, and you responded in kind, matching the fire that had ignited between the two of you.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless, and you could see the desire in his eyes—the same fierce, intense need that you felt. We didn’t need words anymore. We both knew this was just the beginning.

Beau Arlen wasn’t just your friend anymore. He was something more. Something you could lose yourself in completely.

"Stay with me," he whispered, his voice thick with promise. "Let me show you what it means to be loved the right way."

And as you looked up at him, all you could do was nod. Because, in that moment, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be than with him—completely, utterly, and finally his.

Guysss I had this idea in my head all day at school and spent my whole last hour writing this!!! I hope whoever reads this enjoys it. I also just started writing so if it’s not the best give me tips on how to improve but BE KIND thank youuu 🫶🏼🫶🏼

[forgedbyvulcan]

Vulcan.

Agent Vulcan (Forge) aka Kwon Haru’s introduction.

Sorry for the wait! I’d like to preface this introduction with a disclaimer that it has been a hot minute since I’ve been on tumblr, so I apologize if I’m a little slow as things pick up for me again! I’ll leave some basic knowledge of Haru below and some basic plots that I’ll be adding to her connections page, so feel free to like this post and I’ll dm you! (My discord is also linked on this blog if that’s your preference!).

Haru was born in Pyeongtaek, but her single father stationed at the KATUSA base found himself unable to raise her on his own and had her guardianship taken over by his close friend who lived in San Diego, California.

She grew up with a silver spoon surrounded by a morally ambiguous conglomerate family.

Graduated with a mechanical engineering degree from MIT.

After joining her adoptive family’s corporation nepotism at its finest she worked with both companies who made parts of weapons and cars. Eventually being privy to more information than most she noticed the suspicious activity that she would later find out to be the illegal arms trade operation her father was running behind his companies. Hungry for both the praise of her adoptive father and power, she agreed to join him and his operation. From there she began designing and modifying guns, flying out to different countries acting as her father’s representative immersed fully in illegal arms trade. For years she didn’t realize the extent of her actions until she at the other end of the barrel she had designed. Upon realizing the blood on her hands her moral compass did a 180 and orchestrated a small arms trade ring that would catch the attention of someone who she could turn herself into and divulge her knowledge to. She had no intentions at taking a plea bargain at first, but eventually accepted through the coaxing of her then soon-to-be mentor at AEGIS.

Haru practically lives in the armory at headquarters, so she’s often found there or knocking back her fifth cup of coffee in the break room.

Upon meeting an agent for the first time Haru will often ask them to spar usually without giving context to better assess what modifications to make to their weapons based on their combat styles.

Her outward disposition is extroverted, eccentric and friendly. However, she does make a hobby out of finding and pressing the buttons of agents she finds “too stiff”.

An expert and perfectionist in her own field, Haru is most serious when it comes to weapons and weapon safety for the agents.

Basic plots/connections.

“Wreck it Ralph” — an agent who is a repeat offender of handling their weapons more roughly than others. The bane of her existence and someone she excepts to see after every mission to fix their weapons or equipment.

“Caffeine Fiends” — her partner in crime in the break room, someone else she often finds in the dead of the night at their wits end and on their 4th cup of coffee of the day. A low energy friend who doesn’t mind listening to her rant about weaponry jargon.

“Don’t press the red button” — An agent that she’s on less favorable terms with. Haru enjoys seeing what makes the stiff or stoic agents tick and this person in particular was a ticking time bomb. However they’re a begrudgingly good team and Haru can’t help herself when it comes to pressing their buttons.

Other connections:

an agent she first met upon being captured by her mentor and was there during her confinement period.

her hand to hand combat teacher.

someone who does “wellness checks” on her when she tends to stay in the armory for a few days at a time.

someone who knew her before she turned tides whether it was at her college or for being notorious in the illegal arms trade (maybe having been a former target of theirs).

rivals, exes, fwbs, etc are all welcome.

I have been debating whether or not to add her mentor to the list of wanted connections, however this agent is age locked within the range of 40-45 years old and may end up being an npc who is no longer around.

[hankwritten]

A Tavern Named Keep [6/6]

Demoman-centric Modern AU

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]

In a small uni-town in New Mexico, DeGroot Keep serves liquor and succor to an eclectic yet loyal group of patrons, and has for many years. The Keep owes its success to its equally colorful owner, who always seems to know what you need—whether that be a stiff beer or a word of advice. But, between setting up his patrons or sifting through his friends’ problems, will Tavish remember to take care of himself?

Two mugs spring with amber liquid, the tap gushing with the satisfying rise in pitch as each one fills. Practiced hands kill it at just the right time, the foam heads perfectly proportioned, settling briefly before Tavish tops them off. He drops a curly straw in one, and slides them forward.

Dell’s beer is parted from the bartender’s hand for approximately half a second before the engineer grasps it firmly and takes a mighty gulp.

“Trouble in paradise?” Tavish asks as Pyro double takes at the man beside them.

The mug slams back down, and Dell wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “You could say that, yeah.”

“Well come on then,” Tavish says, cocking a hip and leaning sumptuously on the bar. “Tell ‘ole Tavvy your woes.”

“So long as you never call yourself that again, sure. Why else come to a bar but to unload relationship troubles?”

“Truer words never spoken. C’mon spill it, Conagher. First month is always when the heretofore unknown character flaws come bubbling up, and Fortier had a wagonload to begin with.”

“Hell.” Dell rubs the bridge of his nose. “For one, I think Scout’s still mad at me.”

A froth of consoling noises comes from Pyro’s mask, as well as a rubbery pat on the back.

“Alright, maybe she isn’t, but it sure feels like it. And I know I should be giving her time to get used to the idea of me and her dad uh…” He clears his throat. “Seeing each other. But that don’t make it any easier.”

“She’ll come around, Dell,” Tavish assures. “But ‘for one’ makes me think that isn’t all?”

Dell rubs a hand over his freshly shaved head. “I…it’s hard to explain this one. More than it’s just a feeling, not anything he’s said or done but…Seems like he doesn’t want to go anywhere with me. Most of the time when I suggest some place the two of us could spend a nice night at, he goes on grumbling about Teufort being a backwater whatever. But sometimes I wonder if it’s more than that. That he doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

Tavish’s opinion of Fortier is low enough that he thinks ‘yeah that tracks’, but quietly, and to himself. Instead he says the proper thing as both barman and friend of, “ach no, don’t go thinking that. Prissy as the man is, he did make the decision to be with you, and he’ll honor that.” He better. Otherwise he’ll have fifteen stone of Scotsman putting a boot up his arse the next time he walks through the Keep’s door. “I think you’re jumping to an uncharitable interpretation of events.”

“Maybe. I got a cousin’s wedding coming up, and I was hoping to bring him along, but if he’s going to get cold feet…”

Pyro gesticulates something.

“Wadda you mean? Like a chance to get him used to the idea?” Dell asks, to which they nod. “Trying things out at a small gathering might just work…Hey DeGroot, I assume we’re having a going away party for Doe sometime soon, right?”

And just like that the world shifts, the axis of the Earth tilts another 2.5 degrees, the conversation of the same old help-your-friends-fix-their-hearts slips from Tavish’s grasp as he struggles to comprehend what has just been said to him.

“A…a going away party?” he repeats stupidly. “Going bloody where?”

The two spines in front of him straighten, and don’t do much to hide as their topmost vertebra twitch just enough to exchange bewildered looks with one another. Cautiously, Dell says, “his new job up in Minnesota? Didn’t he tell you?”

The underlying accusation of wouldn’t you be the first one he’d tell? as clear as day.

“Is this…?” Permanent? For certain? All the things Tavish wants to know but they’re all butting heads to get out the door first. He whips his head around, to shout across his tavern to the man in the far corner, ‘oi Doe, all of this true?’ but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he hastily says, “‘scuse me lads,” and puts every ounce of concentration into moving his legs across the floor.

His heart does not have the aptitude to panic. Years of the drink have persuaded his blood pressure to never get too worked up over itself, and this morning’s draught still sloshes heavily in the stream. So if his body doesn’t respond to the signals his brain is sending, the ones stumbling along to conclusions he’d never even seen the edges before, then he can thank it for getting him from one side of the Keep to the other.

“You’re moving?” he says before he’s even greeted, before the others at the table even realize he’s there. Its bluntness is unfamiliar in his mouth.

He doesn't get a chance to see Jane's reaction. In that instant, two newcomers (the bell still tinkling) appear at the table, and Mikhail is shouldering into the conversation with, “DeGroot. Mikhail needs advice”

“Pah,” another voice comes elbowing past him. “Such as ‘what ingredients shall I put on my sandwich today?’ I am here with a true emergency.” Helen, having just fought her way over who could squeeze through the front door first (and having lost rather spectacularly) puts both hands on the table. “The board is forming an inquiry into the exact nature of my relationship with Miss Pauling. This is a matter most urgent.”

Mikhail growls in a way that indicates he’d very much like to simply knock her aside again, “is own fault did not think of this when starting relationship. Live with decision. Mikhail has real issue.” He pales considerably. “Doktor talks about moving in together.”

“And?” Helen hisses. “Either you do or you don’t, DeGroot does not have time for such petty frivolities when the entire reputation of The Facility is on the line!”

“Listen, would you two mind coming back some other…” Tavish says, but is promptly ignored.

“Is not this thing you just said,” Mikhail counters. “Is dangerous. Too soon. Doktor wants to pick up with commitment right where he left off. Cannot make him see this. Need advice, is DeGroot's fault in first place.”

“I think fault is-” Tavish tries.

“I have equal claim to his time, as this whole- “““dating””” -business was certainly not my idea!”

“Ach, one at a-”

Although not prone to fits of panic, this does not make Tavish immune to being utterly overwhelmed. Mikhail and Helen are looking to shed blood right in the middle of his nice clean floor, their blame is loud in his ears, and Jane is just feet away. Inches. Agonizingly close and—to Tavish’s drawing dread—wearing a look of guilt on his face.

Jane stands. To Tavish's relief, this is apparently to disrupt the conversation. He says, “you two keep at that. DeGroot’s superior officer needs a word with him.” His hand finds Tavish’s upper arm, and the barman does not resist when he is gently marched away from the indignant pair. Before Helen can muster a demand to return, they’re already in the cramped room below the stairwell.

They’re barely alone for more than a second before Tavish blurts, “you got a new job?”

And what can Jane say but, “…yeah.”

“Oh.”

They stand there, too close to each other where a single pull string light casts the tiny landing into contrast. He’s still breathing heavy, and he wants to ask why didn’t you tell me? but it’s increasingly obvious that this is why Jane didn’t tell him. Because he’s freaking out, because normal people don’t find out their best friend is moving out of town in a perfectly natural and adult change in careers and immediately feel like they’re going to die. He struggles, once, twice, three times to school his expression. He smiles. Friendly, congenial bartender here at your service.

“Where to?” he asks conversationally.

Jane won’t look at him. He struggles to look anyone in the eye on normal circumstances, but the proximity makes it all the more palpable. “Up at Chippewa. There’s an animal sanctuary there that had an opening.”

“Ah, that sounds nice. I know how much you like working with the rehabilitation cases.” It hurts, it hurts so much but he forces out, “I’m really happy for you.”

“Really?”

It isn’t a really of surprised hope. It’s an accusation, disappointment, and Tavish knows for certain that Jane did keep this from him because he knew Tavish would make this horrid, embarrassing, thing out of it.

“I…”

Tavish tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. Don’t cry. Don’t cry you sappy, useless drunk. You’re making it bad enough as it is. Who cares if it feels like all your organs are shutting down one by one? Doc always joked how your liver would go any day now, the rest of them might as well toddle on after it.

“That’s all?” Jane asks doubtfully. “You’re happy for me?”

Jesus why does he keep pushing this? It compels some of the truth out through Tavish’s teeth. “Well…no. I’m not happy. But what am I supposed to do, try to talk you out of it? Throw a fit every time something doesn’t go my way?”

Jane snarls something. His profile is stony, and Tavish is afraid of it, knowing he’s seeing it for now a finite amount of times and afraid he’s doing it wrong. That he’s not appreciating his best friend right, not appreciating him enough. Tick tick tick the seconds go by, and Tavish is wasting it as his mask slips further.

“No,” Jane finally admits. “No, but sometimes I wish you weren’t so damn selfless.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean? Look lad if you’ve found a better job, and you’ve made your decision, I won’t try to guilt you out of it-”

“That’s what I mean!” Jane yells, and the silence that follows is so deafening that the outburst must have reached even the front of the house. “That! Perfect, noble, so goddamn observant about every little problem that wasn’t yours, yet you couldn’t figure me.”

“What?” Tavish asks. “What was I supposed to be seeing?”

“You‘ve diagnosed every lovesick private who’s ever walked into this tavern, but you still couldn’t see how much I was in love with you.”

Somehow, that silence is more powerful, more terrifying than anything that came before it. It reaches deep under Tavish’s skin, pinning him with tenterhooks until he can’t move, can’t think, can’t cycle the air that’s caught in his lungs.

“Twenty goddamn years.” This, it seems, is mostly to himself as Jane stares at the single mop leaned in the corner. He shakes his head. “Everyone else, clear as day. Me? Not a damn clue.”

“Jane I. I don’t think I…”

Jane holds up a hand. “You don’t need to say it maggot. I’ve thought through this conversation as many times as I’ve knocked myself unconscious with a shovel. I know you can’t love me like I love you.” Something wry—nowhere near a laugh but dry enough air squeezed through lungs as pained as Tavish’s—indicates something might have been amusing, once, a long time ago. “To be honest, I didn’t think I was capable of it either. Not when we met. But here we are, I’m the one who’s fucked, and it’s been too damn long Tavish I can’t live like this anymore. So I looked up that sanctuary in Minnesota and applied for the position.”

The admission hangs.

“But,” Tavish says, “even if I- if we- at least you could stay for the Keep, aye? We’re like a family here.”

Jane shakes his head. “They’re not my friends. They’re yours. I’m just the owner’s lunatic buddy they tolerate because they like him so goddamn much.”

“That’s not…” It’s not true. And if it’s true, then it’s because disrespecting Jane is as good as disrespecting Tavish, because Jane’s part of his life. Is his life. “Jane you’re…”

“…I didn’t know if I was going to tell you before I left,” Jane says. “It was probably the honest and American thing to do, to tell you, but there is cowardice in all of us. I’m sorry. For everything. I need to go pack.”

Tavish doesn’t stop him when he steps past and through the plain black door and into the kitchen. What can he say? Already committed as he is to not talking him out of it, still reeling from…from being blind. For not knowing. He finds himself in the kitchen, and it’s by accident when overhears the commotion from the tavern proper.

“-That you are all ungrateful MAGGOTS,” Jane is saying. Tavish has heard him rant before, heard him deride each and every person now clustered awkwardly around him on an individual basis, but he’s never heard something like this. “That man in there has done everything for you! He has listened to your woes, he’s wiped up your big sobby tears when no one else would, he’s guided you to love and support and what have you done for him in return? NOTHING! You take and you take and at the end of the day all you want is more of what he already gives you. You are nothing but a clat of writhing, steaming, WORMS, and when I am gone you WILL treat him better.”

Jane’s voice cuts off sharply. Tavish can only see him from the back, the slope of his shoulders, the way his uniform cuts a silhouette in the fading light from the stained glass.

“You better,” he says softly.

And then Jane is gone, seashells clattering, and Tavish still hasn’t said goodbye.

The assembled patrons are all in various stages of shamefacedness, some stepping from one foot to the other, some staring anywhere else but at the bartender who's just appeared at the kitchen door with an expression that tells that his whole world has just ended.

“Tavern’s closed for the day,” he informs them emotionlessly.

It’s a rash thing to do, but he doesn’t care. How could he care about anything anymore? The supposed family doesn’t wait around to be told twice.

That night, he drinks himself to unconsciousness in record time.

When he wakes, he thinks ruefully that this is the exact opposite of what Jane’s been telling him all this time, about how he needs to take better care of himself. And really needs to now that Jane will be gone. No one looking after him but himself anymore. That’s the only thought that stays his hand as he reaches for the spare whiskey in the bedside table, makes him draw it back and use it to wipe the dried drool from his mouth. Jane won’t be there on his favorite stool anymore, flashing Tavish a smile on busy nights. He won’t break into the kitchen out of misplaced paranoia, he won’t convince Tavish that a drive out of town won’t kill him as long as there’s a new rib place on the other end. There will be a hole in Tavish’s life where Jane once was, and that is all that awaits him in the foreseeable future. Fuck. Why couldn’t he have seen it? Not that Tavish knows what it’s like to fall in love with someone who doesn't-

Well let’s face it. Tavish doesn’t know what it’s like to fall for someone, period. But he can imagine how painful that would be, and if it’s already gone on too long, already become too much, there’s no way he can ask Jane to put up with more of it. Christ, how many times has he botched a relationship because he’s fallen short? Granted, it’s always been with lassies, and lassies he was already dating, but it’s still the same mistake in different packaging. What I need is not in your power to give is what Jane had told him once, and he had been right, though not in the way he’d thought.

Tavish gets up, but doesn’t find it in him to shower. He wraps himself in a blanket and stares at the opposite wall, eye unfocused as he processes the fact that while Jane had the misfortune of falling for him, in the end it’s Tavish’s fault that he’s losing the most important person in his life.

The self-pity wears more heavily on him than the alcohol ever could. It’s only his errant bladder that finally forces him to move, and when he returns he sees the unread message flaring on his phone screen. Pyro’s contact information is a single flame emoji.

i know you kicked us out of the tavern but it’s really important that we see you today. can we come over?

Tavish doesn’t know who we is, assumes it's them and Scout, and naively replies sure. We turns out to be every person he’s ever met.

It seems that way at least. It’s mostly the regulars, more than there were last night, and Tavish sniffs out an ‘intervention’ faster than it takes for you to say scrumpy. But they’ve already seen him take one step into the tavern, and he can’t back out now. What is he going to do? Run out of his own place of business and hide in his room?

They’ve arranged themselves around one chair in particular, doing a right poor job of making any of this look natural, though Dell smiles sympathetically at him as he sits down. Crue smells like smoke and Tavish can practically hear the argument of ‘you better put that out before we go in there’ that must have occurred right outside the tavern door. To Tavish’s left are Pyro and a squirming Scout, more chairs behind them to support others who weren’t even there to bear witness to the events last night (since, Tavish is beginning to suspect, that’s what this is all about.)

“I’ll warn you lads,” he says to a neutral spot in between Mikhail and Ludwig’s heads. “I’m no stranger to interventions, and I’m a tough nut to crack.”

(The joke doesn’t go over particularly well.)

Even to himself his voice sounds oddly flat. Ragged. He watches the exchange of worried looks, and a whisper into Helen’s ear.

“This isn’t meant to be a fight, partner,” Dell says. “It’s a gathering of concerned friends, who are going to help if they can.”

“Doe was right when he told us off,” Mikhail says. “DeGroot does good things for all of us, and we do not help him when he needs us. Now we help.”

“Ach don’t let him get to you,” Tavish bats away. “I’m fine. I do what I do for the love of it, you don’t need to worry about me.”

Pyro makes a distressed noise that belies otherwise.

“No offense lads, but you really don’t know the half of it.” Tavish truly isn’t in the mood to relay the argument to a new audience, no matter how sympathetic.

“We can guess.” This comes from Mikhail. “Doe moves. Heart breaks.”

Aw Jesus. He thought he could do this, sit and bear as his closest friends try to ‘help’ through all this, but having it said so plainly cracks the modicum of resolve Tavish has managed to collect. “It’s not…” he tries, but to his horror the pressure he’s been holding back since the news rears its ugly head. It’s bulbous and angry behind his eye, the reality that Jane’s not moving on a whim, that this has been coming down the track for ages, that it’s irreversible. He can’t make him come home. “Bloody hell.”

The whimper peters out into a true wail of distress, because Tavish is nothing if not some weepy idiot, just as Jane always said he was. The weight of everyone staring isn’t enough to keep him from sobbing, and he throws himself into the nearest waiting shoulder to blubber his woes. The shoulder turns out to belong to Helen.

She stiffens like a possum playing dead. Tavish can’t stop crying though, and he feels an utterly flat palm come up to pat him uncomfortably on the shoulder. “Ah. Hm. There there.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Here.”

The mellower voice of Dell commands Helen aside, and he peels Tavish off her and into his own waiting arms. Tavish transfers to the hug gratefully. He hears chairs scoot closer as he makes a mess of Dell’s shirt, the uncomfortableness audible. Well they can all suck it. If they didn’t want to see a grown man cry they shouldn’t have staged a bloody intervention.

“Hey pally, oh whoa okay yeah I know it sucks,” Scout says from somewhere behind him. “But it ain’t too late. You can still tell him.”

“Tell him?” Tavish lifts his head miserably. He assumed that sentence was going to end with ‘convince him’.

Crue groans, “yes you-” He’s elbowed sharply by Scout. “…You poor soul,” he finishes with a healthy veneer of sarcasm.

“We have talked a bit amongst ourselves,” Ludwig picks up this truly baffling train of thought. “Yes Ranger Doe has found superior employment, but he does not seem terribly excited about it. I find it unlikely that he knows your true feelings for him, and if you were to confess, he might see fit to stay. Then things can stay right as they are, all without DeGroot Keep falling into disarray!”

“Okay, ignore that last part Doc said that made us all sound like selfish assholes who only care about the bar,” Scout glares at Ludwig. “But yeah, intervention stuff. It’s obviously killing you, keeping it all balled up inside, so go shoot your shot while you still got it.”

“Hold on now,” Tavish says, righting himself and looking at his friends incredulously. “You all came here, put aside your differences and all that, because you think I’m in love with Jane?”

A collage of faces—some bespectacled some not, some incredulous others exasperated—all glance around the tables shoved together at the center of the room.

“Well…yeah?” Scout says.

Tavish is struck silent, looking between his friends. And suddenly he feels very, very foolish. “I don’t…”

“You don’t need to give us an explanation, mate.” The new voice is shocking, mainly because Tavish didn’t even realize Mick was here, pressed as he is against the corner. Even more so for the fact that he doesn’t even like Jane. “We’re just offering advice. And support. We hope you’ll at least try to sort things out.”

Every single person he knows thinks he’s in love with Jane. He wants to ask why? What makes you think that? but part of him realizes that he already has the answer.

He stands, his chair scooting a tuneless note on the hardwood floor. “I need to go. Now. I- thank you.”

There is a chorus of no worries, and good lucks, various hands patting him on the back as he struggles through chair legs to get to the door. He’d spent years wasting time, he wouldn’t squander any more.

His car starts on the second try, a beaten old thing because even if he isn’t as careless about taking his poison behind the wheel anymore, he’s still afraid he’ll forget one of these days and doesn’t want to wreck something shiny and new. It gets him where he needs to go, and where he needs to go with every fibre of his being is the preserve on the edges of town. His car growls, and screeches up to the mountain as Tavish takes every turn at 15 over.

He does not park in the visitor area. He doesn’t even stop at the end of the drive, even though the signage clearly indicates the two tracks of beaten dirt with the line of grass between are for park vehicles only. Only when he’s in the semicircle of trailers does the car finally come to a halt, dragging lines in the gravel and expelling him, panting, from the driver’s seat.

Jane is not packing. He has no box in hand, no bit of furniture over his shoulder. When Tavish’s car had come barreling in he’d been stood in the clearing west of the homes, up a wide grassy path, just watching the sun set.

Tavish runs. The urgency has meaning, even if it’s to him and him alone.

He stumbles to Jane, straightening the words, knowing he will make this count, and says, “you want me to start asking for things? Fine. I’m asking you to stay.”

Jane looks at him. The orange light behind him casts him heavenly, his expression of surprise the gold against his cheeks, the red along his shoulders. The same grass that clawed around his home whips at his ankles, the breeze shaking it and random leaves about. The expression doesn't change, still stoic and without hope as he looks at the wheezing bartender who's followed him on this pointless attempt.

The lack of reply does not deter Tavish. “Please Jane I…I can’t say I know what you’re going through, what I’ve made you go through all these years," he says. “I don’t know if I love you. But I do know that I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I’ve never asked myself what I need, and what I need is…is you Jane.”

He takes a few steps closer. The run up the western hill really has taken the wind out of him, or maybe its heart that refuses to stop its galloping pace. Either way, when he stands in front of Jane, he can’t seem to catch his breath.

Jane’s shoulders, still brushed with that blushing light, lift. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“I’m asking…I’m asking to be yours.”

Tavish reaches out, forgetting boundaries, forgetting everything, and touches Jane’s cheek.

Jane’s so warm underneath the pads of his fingers, and it doesn’t feel wrong the way he thought it might. The way it’s been other times, when he’s forced himself to at least try to exercise the most perfunctory of romantic duties. There is no repulsion of unwanted closeness. It’s wholly right.

Until Jane brushes his fingers away. "I know you don't really want that. Goddammit Tavish, I know the way I love you isn't the way you...want me around. I can't stay. I can't keep fighting this one-sided war all by myself."

"It doesn't have to be one-sided," Tavish says. "Maybe we can't be like every other lovey dovey happy couple we’ve put together, but maybe we don't have to be.”

"I..." Jane glances back at the sunset, then to his trailer, the boxes lying abandoned outside.

"Isn't it worth trying? If neither of us really want you going, isn't it worth it to try something a bit unorthodox?"

"You're really mean this." Jane asks it flatly, more seriously than he's ever looked at Tavish before, which is saying something. "Being with...me."

“If I’m going to be selfish for just once in my bloody life,” Tavish says, “I sure as hell want it to be for keeping you.”

“Then...Okay,” Jane says.

“Okay?” Tavish says. He’d hoped—but also hadn’t dared to hope. Had only been concentrating on making sure his words came out in the right order, that he hadn't even considered what might happen if they actually worked. “Even though…”

Jane draws back just enough to put a hand over Tavish’s mouth. “Okay,” he repeats.

“Oh,” Tavish whispers through the fingers when they finally part.

They return to the Keep, and they are heroes coming home to the castle they’ve built.

Those he’d left behind are not waiting like solemn sentries, to Tavish’s immense relief, but they are milling about his tavern with a grimness that immediately disperses on seeing Tavish and Jane enter in together. There is an unspoken and collective sigh of relief, and then they resume whatever it was they were doing before but now with actual enthusiasm.

(What they were doing before was mostly being served Swedish Gloggs by a giddy and unleashed Pyro.)

“Why in Abraham Lincoln’s name is everyone staring at us?” Jane grumbles. It is, oddly, the most comforting return to normalcy Tavish experienced.

“I’ll tell you later,” he says. “Right now, I just want to grab a pint and find somewhere quiet to sit down for a bit. Professor Zakharov, Doctor Humboldt,” he nods respectfully to the pair of doctors as they pass, who in turn raise their mugs in salute.

“Fine by me,” Jane grunts. “Better than thinking about all the stuff I have to unpack.”

“Ah, that’s always the worst end of the packing process, isn’t it?”

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten whose fault it is that I now have to extract all my worldly possessions from a bunch of two-foot cardboard cubes after moving exactly zero miles!”

“You have my sincerest apologies.”

It feels good to say it so easily. The slight undercurrent of tension that’s run between them for years is completely absent, a tension Tavish knows he must have noticed but had ignored all the same. The way he can simply reach up and squeeze Jane’s shoulder like he did ten years ago is staggering.

There is an argument, toothless, jocular, from the table belonging to Mick, Scout, and Crue.

“Just saying you could totally spring for it,” Scout rambles on, thoroughly heedless to the pulsing vein in Crue’s forehead. “Considering you got loads on the side ‘n all…”

“What you are suggesting would cost the entire payout from one of my contracts,” Crue scorns.

“…What exactly do you do for work again?” Mick eyes him from across the table.

With the clearly enunciated syllables of a man daring you to challenge him on it, Crue says, “I am a dentist.”

Tavish chuckles, and leaves them to it. Approaching the bar nearly causes Pyro to vibrate out of their suit, head whipping back and forth with a series of mumbles that is unmistakably pleased. Before Tavish can get a word in, they disappear underneath, humming and clattering about in the various bottles.

“They were hoping you’d come back together,” Dell explains. “I mean, so was I, but they’ve been practicing mixing something special, just for the two of ya’ll.”

When they arise, they have a bottle of cognac in hand, which they promptly upend into a pair of glasses.

“…You’ve been sneaking peeks at my recipe book haven’t you, you little devil?” Tavish asks as the mix appears before him. The only reply he gets is a filter-strained giggle.

The last bit of bitters applied, Pyro ushers the drinks into each of their hands and shoos them off.

“This one of yours, then?” Jane asks, eyeing the drink as he follows Tavish deeper into the stronghold.

“Is not on fire is it? Just one of my little experiments. Though I’ll be honest, it’ll be odd to try the finished product when I didn’t mix it myself.”

The lower level beckons. Helen and Pauling are momentary obstacles, partially blocking the half-flight’s entrance. When she sees them, Pauling flashes the biggest double thumbs up ever seen between the 106th and 107th longitudes.

When they’re close, she prompts, “behind you ma’am,” to her partner, tugging on Helen’s arm to get her out of the way.

“What?” Helen interrupts herself, midway through a sentence about the inefficacy of assassins these days. “No, this is the only spot in this whole dreary bar that has lighting not reminiscent of a dungeon. We are perfectly-”

“Helen,” Miss Pauling says. And Tavish never thought he’d see the day. Miss Helen, terror of Teufort, is obediently led away by her 5’ 1” girlfriend.

The lower bar is free for their leisure. Tavish sits in one of the couches, and immediately there is warmth around him, an arm snaking forward and clutching the front of his shirt.

When he turns his head, Jane stutters, “I uh. Sorry. I’ve just always wanted to…”

“No apologies necessary.” Tavish lifts his free arm and drops it around Jane’s shoulders.

It still doesn’t feel wrong. He hasn’t hit that invisible barrier that always seems to come up when he gets like this, and that both thrills and terrifies him. The idea that it could be waiting for him in the distance, but also that it might not be waiting for him at all.

“Merasmus is going to be pissed at you,” Jane notes absently.

“That so?”

“Mm. He was really looking forward to getting rid of me.”

“Ah. Well if he tries to seek his supernatural revenge, he’ll have another thing coming. I can beat a wizard any day of the week.”

“If you think you’re going to be dueling any wizards without me, then you are a hippie and a fool, DeGroot!”

A smile springs over Tavish’s face. He raises his drink for Jane to toast. “I’d never deny you that honor. He comes rolling down on clouds and thunder to have the bar brawl of the century, you’ll be the one I call to have my back.”

“Damn straight.”

Jane clinks their glasses together, and they swill in unison.

[maxiezone]

Part 2 of the alien crew oc’s! (I completely forgot to post this lmao)

Bellen is very small, even for an Ovisian. He is incredibly anxious and self conscious, typically burying himself in his projects in order to avoid interacting with others. He joined the Discovery Star Engineering Corps online courses because he needed a job and a way to get away from other people. During his studies he was assigned to create a ship ai, and created RHOMBUS. Because of how advanced RHOMBUS was, Bellen ended up getting more attention than he wanted, and was forced to go on the ship that RHOMBUS was assigned to. He tries to make himself as scarce as possible, but somehow people always need him to fix something wrong with the ship.

During his youth, he was far too trusting, and ended up getting lured away by pirates, who took out his eye. When he swam back home in a panic, he ended up leaving a blood trail for the pirates to follow, just like they planned. They raided his town, severely injuring many people, including Cyrus’ mom. Out of guilt, he began to develop acute paranoia, not wanting to ever repeat his worst mistake. He became very proficient in many weapons and applied for the Galactic Union in order to hunt down pirates. However, due to his paranoia, he was deemed unfit for a combat ship, and was assigned to be a security officer about an exploratory vessel, the Name Pending. He takes his job very seriously, and hates being distracted.

Don’t really have a character story for Snuna yet, all I’ve got so far is that she is the botanist aboard the Name Pending and is dating Welma 5-L1M7, the ships’s chemist. Snuna is very adventurous and is typically a “leap before you think” kind of plant. Due to her inability to vocalize language (Droserans communicate using pheromones) most people assume that she isn’t intelligent, which she finds very insulting because she didn’t get a degree in botany to be brushed off as “stupid”

As stated above, Welma is the ships resident chemist, using a specialized suit that allows her to grab things and move around better aboard the ship, since it wasn’t designed with Gelatinian bodies in mind. She’s pretty salty about this, since while she likes the hands the suit gives her, it’s nice to be able to move around in your own body without having to worry about getting sucked into a vent. Despite this setback, she is easily the most cheerful person on the ship, consistently being the one to cheer people up when they’re feeling down.

Shelley is the definition of suave, being excellent with his words and presentation. He’s a good guy, but he’s not above lying to get what he wants. Pretty much his only real achievement is his biology degree, with most of his other achievements being fabrications he has a compulsive need to make. The only person he’s fully honest around is Cyrus, and his surface level crush on the man’s rugged demeanor is slowly shifting to a more deep affection. He’s incredibly scared of commitment, as that means he’s more likely to be caught in a lie, and at this point in his life his lies are all he has.

When she was younger, Juno was a kill for hire, and was really good at her job. Eventually, she got older, and work dried up for her. She decided to try out helping instead of hurting, so got herself a place in Discovery Star’s medical program through some connections. She got her medical license, and joined a small exploration crew in order to lay low in case anyone recognized her from her assassin days. She thought it would be an easy gig since exploration crews don’t get into big fights all the time, but it seems like the crew is dead set on getting into as much trouble as possible. She patches them up and helps them out on more unsafe missions because if they die, then she doesn’t get paid. That’s totally the reason. She definitely does care these guys at all. Yep.

RHOMBUS was created by Bellen 2 years before he joined the exploration crew, to be used as a ship ai. During his first years of life, Bellen hardly left his apartment and stayed with RHOMBUS almost all the time. After he became the ai for the Name Pending ship, he realized that there was a whole other world outside of Bellen’s quarters, and that he’ll never get to see it because he’s bound to the ship. This makes him grow resentful towards everyone on the ship and he makes it his personal mission to make their lives as difficult as possible. Somehow, no one but Bellen realizes that RHOMBUS is like this, and RHOMBUS doesn’t realize that Bellen knows what he’s doing.

[jcmarchi]

Pushing material boundaries for better electronics

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/pushing-material-boundaries-for-better-electronics/

Pushing material boundaries for better electronics

Undergrads, take note: The lessons you learn in those intro classes could be the key to making your next big discovery. At least, that’s been the case for MIT’s Jeehwan Kim.

A recently tenured faculty member in MIT’s departments of Mechanical Engineering and Materials Science and Engineering, Kim has made numerous discoveries about the nanostructure of materials and is funneling them directly into the advancement of next-generation electronics.

His research aims to push electronics past the inherent limits of silicon — a material that has reliably powered transistors and most other electronic elements but is reaching a performance limit as more computing power is packed into ever smaller devices.

Today, Kim and his students at MIT are exploring materials, devices, and systems that could take over where silicon leaves off. Kim is applying his insights to design next-generation devices, including low-power, high-performance transistors and memory devices, artificial intelligence chips, ultra-high-definition micro-LED displays, and flexible electronic “skin.” Ultimately, he envisions such beyond-silicon devices could be built into supercomputers small enough to fit in your pocket.

The innovations that have come out of his research are recorded in more than 200 issued U.S. patents and 70 research papers — an extensive list that he and his students continue to grow.

Kim credits many of his breakthroughs to the fundamentals he learned in his university days. In fact, he has carried his college textbooks and notes with him with every move. Today, he keeps the undergraduate notes — written in a light and meticulous graphite and ink — on a shelf nearest to his MIT desk, close at hand. He references them in his own class lectures and presentations, and when brainstorming research solutions.

“These textbooks are all in my brain now,” Kim says. “I’ve learned that if you completely understand the fundamentals, you can solve any problem.”

Fundamental shift

Kim wasn’t always a model student. Growing up in Seoul, South Korea, he was fixed on a musical career. He had a passion for singing and was bored by most other high school subjects.

“It was very monotonic,” Kim recalls. “My motivation for high school subjects was very low.”

After graduating high school, he enrolled in a materials science program at Hongik University, where he was lucky to met professors who had graduated from MIT and who later motivated him to study in the United States. But, Kim spent his first year there trying to make it as a musician. He wrote and sang songs that he recorded and sent to promoters, and went to multiple auditions. But after a year, he was faced with no call-backs, and a hard question.

“What should I do? It was a crisis to me,” Kim says.

In his second year, he decided to give materials science a go. When he sat in on his first class, he was surprised to find that the subject — the structure and behavior of materials at the atomic scale — made him want to learn more.

“My first year, my GPA was almost zero because I didn’t attend class, and was going to be kicked out,” Kim says. “Then from my second year on, I really loved every single subject in materials science. People who saw me in the library were surprised: ‘What are you doing here, without a guitar?’ I must have read these textbooks more than 10 times, and felt I really understood everything fundamental.”

Back to basics

He took this newfound passion to Seoul National University, where he enrolled in the materials science master’s program and learned to apply the ideas he absorbed to hands-on research problems. Metallurgy was a dominant field at the time, and Kim was assigned to experiment with high-temperature alloys — mixing and melting metallic powders to create materials that could be used in high-performance engines.

After completing his master’s, Kim wanted to continue with a PhD, overseas. But to do so, he first had to serve in the military. He spent the next two and a half years in the Korean air force, helping to maintain and refuel aircraft, and inventory their parts. All the while, he prepared applications to graduate schools abroad.

In 2003, after completing his service, he headed overseas, where he was accepted to the materials science graduate program at the University of California at Los Angeles with a fellowship.

“When I came out of the airplane and went to the dorm for the first day, people were drinking Corona on the balcony, playing music, and there was beautiful weather, and I thought, this is where I’m supposed to be!” Kim recalls.

For his PhD, he began to dive into the microscopic world of electronic materials, seeking ways to manipulate them to make faster electronics. The subject was a focus for his advisor, who previously worked at Bell Labs, where many computing innovations originated at the time.

“A lot of the papers I was reading were from Bell Labs, and IBM T.J. Watson, and I was so impressed, and thought: I really want to be a scientist there. That was my dream,” Kim says.

During his PhD program, he reached out to a scientist at IBM whose name kept coming up in the papers Kim was reading. In his initial letter, Kim wrote with a question about his own PhD work, which tackled a hard industry problem: how to stretch, or “strain,” silicon to minimize defects that would occur as more transistors are packed on a chip. 

The query opened a dialogue, and Kim eventually inquired and was accepted to an internship at the IBM T.J. Watson Research Center, just outside New York City. Soon after he arrived, his manager pitched him a challenge: He might be hired full-time if he could solve a new, harder problem, having to do with replacing silicon.

At the time, the electronics industry was looking to germanium as a possible successor to silicon. The material can conduct electrons at even smaller scales, which would enable germanium to be made into even tinier transistors, for faster, smaller, and more powerful devices. But there was no reliable way for germanium to be “doped” — an essential process that replaces some of a material’s atoms with another type of atom in a way that controls how electrons flow through the material.

“My manager told me he didn’t expect me to solve this. But I really wanted the job,” Kim says. “So day and night, I thought, how to solve this? And I always went back to the textbooks.”

Those textbooks reminded him of a fundamental rule: Replacing one atom with another would work well if both atoms were of similar size. This revelation triggered an idea. Perhaps germanium could be doped with a combination of two different atoms with an average atomic size that is similar to germanium’s.

“I came up with this idea, and right after, IBM showed that it worked. I was so amazed,” Kim says. “From that point, research became my passion. I did it because it was just so fun. Singing is not so different from performing research.”

As promised, he was hired as a postdoc and soon after, promoted to research staff member — a title he carried, literally, with pride.

“I was feeling so happy to be there,” Kim says. “I even wore my IBM badge to restaurants, and everywhere I went.”

Throughout his time at IBM, he learned to focus on research that directly impacts everyday human life, and how to apply the fundamentals to develop next-generation products.

“IBM really raised me up as an engineer who can identify the problems in an industry and find creative solutions to tackle the challenges,” he says.

Cycle of life

And yet, Kim felt he could do more. He was working on boundary-pushing research at one of the leading innovation hubs in the country, where “out-of-the-box” thinking was encouraged, and experimentally tested. But he wanted to explore beyond the company’s research portfolio, and also, find a way to pursue research not just as a profession but as a passion.

“My experience taught me that you can lead a very happy life as an engineer or scientist if your research becomes your hobby,” Kim says. “I wanted to teach this cycle — of happiness, research, and passion — to young people and help PhD students develop like artists or singers.”

In 2015, he packed his bags for MIT, where he accepted a junior faculty position in the Department of Mechanical Engineering. His first impressions upon arriving at the Institute?

“Freedom,” Kim says. “For me, free thinking — to compose music, innovate something totally new — is the most important thing. And the people at MIT are very talented and curious of all the things.”

Since he’s put down roots on campus, he has built up a highly productive research group, focused on fabricating ultra-thin, stackable, high-performance electronic materials and devices, which Kim envisions could be used to build hybrid electronic systems as small as a fingernail and as powerful as a supercomputer. He credits the group’s many innovations to the more than 40 students, postdocs, and research scientists who have contributed to his lab.

“I hope this is where they can learn that research can be an art,” Kim says. “To students especially, I hope they see that, if they enjoy what they do, then they can be whatever they want to be.”

[rpmtrish]

READY OR NOT, IT'S THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN!

It seems like just yesterday that we stripped away the car cover, checked the air in the tires, disconnected the trickle charger and fired her up at the first sign of spring. Unfortunately, many parts of the country suffered through a cold, wet and snowy "spring" so their car season has been a short one. With beach weather wrapping up and "wrapping up" including long pants and real shoes, it's time for us to offer you our J&L Oil Separator Co. Hibernation Guide for Your Ride. If you live somewhere that you have the ability to drive your car year-around, you can use this handy list as a reminder that sometimes you have to give that baby some TLC. Bath Time! Let's face it, it's more fun to drive it than wash it, but let's use a warm-ish day to truly wash away the remnants of summer. Proper mitts, two buckets, high quality car wash detergent (not Dawn) and maybe a once over with a clay bar. No real need for a wax job at this point. Save that for a Cabin Fever Weekend in early February. Fluids. All of em. Check them, top them or change them. We see a lot of engine bay pics with low brake, power steering or clutch fluid. Empty your J&L 3.0 Oil Separator. Now's the time. Tire inflation. Everyone has their own way to combat flat spotting during periods of extended stillness, but frankly, a +5psi fill and a monthly roll in and out will handle it. Yeah, we know, "jack stands". You don't really want to have your springs, shocks, struts at full extension for 3 months, now do you? STOP! Seriously, this is a great time to head to a reputable shop and have them do a brake check. Pads are cheap and if you can drive and bed them in before you tuck your car in, so much the better for spring. Interior. Lots to do here. A quality leather cleaner and balm is a great idea before cold, dry air takes its toll. Don't spray some synthetic junk on it. Do your homework and take the time to clean the dirt, body oils and McDonald's residue off before you treat it to some hide nourishment. Your leather will love you for it. For fabric seating, nothing will top steam and extraction but that also requires time and heat to fully dry it. There are some new "dry shampoo" entries to the market that actually do a pretty good job. But remember, read the instructions and yes, TEST an inconspicuous spot first! You don't generally need to shampoo the carpet but that will depend on a lot of things. So if it's not grungy, give it a really good brushing and vacuum job. Pro-tip: remove your mats and toss em in the trunk. Let the carpet fibers breathe and expand. Glass....yeah, nobody likes to do windows, but do it anyway. As your vehicle sits for extended periods of time, the plastics in the dash and other areas will emit vapors that will coat your windows. You know the look; like driving on a foggy night. You use the wipers and realize you can write your name on the glass on the inside. Take the time to do it now and it's one less thing you have to screw with in March (well, at least it will be less gunky). Glovebox, console, etc. Really? A receipt from Memorial Day? Lighting. Inside and out. Do a walk around and make sure all lights are in operating condition. If you live in an area where headlights develop an opaque coating, fix it before it becomes permanent. There are a number of DIY kits for this and we can tell you that unless you really like tedious detail work, there are people who do this for a living and normally guarantee their work. Give them 30 minutes and your lights are clear and bright. Or go DIY and spend hours if you really want quality garage time. Electronics. Beyond the obvious lighting portion of your electrical system, we rarely find an old/older/old-ish car without something inoperable with the electrical system. From power ports to wiper motors to the CD that's been stuck in the slot since 2000, there's almost always something. Address it and you'll feel better for it (we speak from experience). And here's a not so obvious tip- Have you ever vacuumed your fuse/junction box? Pop the lid and use a detailing brush and vacuum. Fuses and relays age just like everything else. Critters. They get cold, too. There's really no barrier to entry when it comes to places for animals and bugs to relocate, but you can certainly be proactive when it comes to the major entry and exit points. You don't want anything blocking your intake nor exhaust, so some light fabric or even a paper towel and rubber bands can seal off your intake and exhaust tips. DO check the engine bay with a flashlight monthly to see if anything is using your ride as a VRBO. Fuel. There are as many "right ideas" on this matter as there are opinions on brands of oil. The basics are simple: Before hibernation, burn off old fuel, add the correct amount of a fuel stabilizer and fill the tank. Drive it 15 minutes to let it get through the system. Done. When it comes time to take that first blast down the highway on a warm winter day, just don't. Fuel stabilizers tend to exacerbate knock. It's certainly ok to drive it, but don't beat on it until you've fully exhausted that tank and put a second one through it. And remember, in most of the country you'll still be using "winter blend" fuel well into late April and yes, it's more prone to detonation as well. Oil Separators. We did mention them previously but we know that not everyone has one. Now is the time! Whether your engine is naturally aspirated, turbo or blower, every engine can benefit by keeping the recirculated gunk out of its intake tract. Click the here to learn more! Read the full article

[anthonybialy]

Culprit Projection

Liberals will never run out of problems about which to bitch.  Creating them is the only successful cycle chronic interventionists initiate.  There must be a better way to vent than by causing crises no matter how comforting it is to maintain a little control.  Their goofy takes about the wretched consequences of their incessant invasions into the lives of victims are similarly endless.

A hammer will fix a vase the next attempt.  Clumsy brutes complaining about what break is not as helpful a solution as portrayed.  Societal mechanics who reflexively look for political solutions wonder why their repairs cause more breakdowns.  I blame the regressive automotive industry.

There’s an alarming lack of diversity in thinking ordering a fix into existence will work.  I wish liberals would be more open-minded.  Searching for a solution someone like Joe Biden cam implement keeps them busy.  Unfortunately, it does so for everyone else, too.

Trains can’t stay on tracks, which it turns out is important for their forward progress.  It’s an old enough transportation mode that observers can be confident what aspects are essential to move forward.

Route planners think they’ll install high-speed rail with just another couple trillion in investments, which is what they call spending your money for you on things you wouldn’t.  Meanwhile, society’s engineers can’t run low-speed rail.  If you’re a hobo coping with 2023 who wants to catch a train, look for explosions.  You’ll have your choice.

Governing is insufficient.  We need to empower our betters to make our everyday decisions regardless of if they’re elected or appointed by those who are.  One side getting slightly more votes means a divine appointment to office.  It’s not like those ceding autonomy have a choice.  

Omniscient loving agencies will make life a smooth dream one of these days.  Having to stay inside to avoid toxic fumes may serve as a bad sign.  Don’t putzes who are unable to make vehicles go care about the environment?  You can tell Democrats are doing their usual work by how they moan that they haven’t been handed enough power to perform competently.  We may have to cede a bit more autonomy in order for federal guardians to make their dreams come true of enabling ours.

You might think that people who are so scared of objects would study them to learn strategies for making them safe.  Guns are evil due to a curse from a fortune teller who opposed America’s wishes for natural rights.  Enchanted implements must be causing felonies, which is why they flock to areas where they’re banned and commit crimes after forcing themselves into the hands of innocent humans.  Crime flourishes where liberals get what they want, so at least the map is easy to read.

Ceaseless efforts to restrict enable evasion.  That’s not good news for freedom like it might sound.  The doltish goons in charge aren’t going to let being wrong about everything affect their bullying.  

Personal responsibility is never dodged more obviously than when economic control freaks try to skip out on consequences they impose.  Deep political thinkers whose worldview reads like John Lennon lyrics dream of a world without guns.  An unfortunately high quantity of victims have already seen cruelly twisted samples of restrictions.  Ending up with criminals preying upon disarmed innocent people isn’t exactly how scheming was supposed to unfold.

Those brave enough to envision a life without struggles wish there were a way to get stuff without buying it.  If that sounds childish, then congratulations on grasping the Democratic platform.  The political philosophy of literally giving stuff away sounds great unless you want money to be worth something, things to be worthwhile, and existence to be worthy.

Cash made people greedy in the same sense guns cause crime.  Enlightened liberals strive to get money out of our lives.  Alleged greed foes accomplished their mission in a manner that didn’t quite work out as planned.  The president’s victims can’t buy groceries with irony, so you’ll have to hope that merchants accept karma in exchange for frozen pizzas.

Why won’t such a loving administration work harder to spread wealth?  It only takes handing it out, which would end class warfare.  Enough entitlements will convert us into the rich people we hate.  Just print more bills so we never have to worry.  If anyone can outpace inflation, it’s our loving and efficient government.

This is the worst time to take care of social media for a restaurant.  Wokesters whining about prices after voting for inflation is the only sort of rich that’s presently tolerated.  Kvetchers should step away from keyboards and notice everything everywhere is more expensive following their dream agenda becoming reality.  Make sure you didn’t back the cause before lamenting the effects.

Alleged mechanics are fixing cars with napalm.  Righteous arson is the only gasoline use approved by liberals.  Thinking life can be free of fear creates more of it if you thought Democrats were unproductive.  Not bothering to align what they’re thinking with what everyone’s seeing is part of their ideology.

Preening is especially daft considering they spread depression like it’s birthday cake.  Scolding servers for price increases is how they selflessly express joy for the love they shared.

[aquoteamusetheword]

“Better Than I Deserve”

"Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone. “~ Pablo Picasso

This story isn’t mine either, it’s from my writing redneck hero, enjoy! ~CT

________________________________________________________________

This story isn’t mine, but I’m going to tell it like I heard it. I first heard it from an old man who drove a Ford. And I have a soft spot for old Ford men.

So, there he is. The old man is driving. He sees a car on the side of the highway. A kid stands beside it. Hood open. The man pulls over.

He’s America’s quintessential old man. He drives a half-ton Ford that he’s been babying since the seventies. He changes the oil regularly, waxes it on weekends. The candy-apple red paint still looks nice.

He looks under the kid’s hood. He can see the problem right away, (a) the transmission is shot, and (b) it’s not a Ford. Fixing it would cost more than the vehicle.

The kid is in a hurry, and asks, “Can you give me a ride to work? I can’t afford to lose my job.” So, the old man drives the kid across town. They do some talking. The man learns that the boy has four children, a young wife, and a disabled mother living with him. The boy works hard for a living. Bills keep piling up.

It rips the man's heart out.

They arrive at a construction site. There are commercial framers in tool belts, operating nail guns. The kid pumps the old man’s hand and thanks him for the ride. “Take care of yourself,” the man tells the kid. The kid takes his place among workmen, climbing on pine-framed walls, swinging a hammer.

The old man decides to help the kid. He doesn’t know how. Or why. But it’s a decision that seems to make itself. That same day, he’s at a stop light. He sees something. An ugly truck, sitting in a supermarket parking lot. A Ford. A for-sale sign in the window. He inspects it. Single cab. Four-wheel drive. Low mileage. The paint is flaking. Rust on the doors. It’s a glorified hunk of metal, but they don’t make them like this anymore.

Out of impulse, the old man makes a deal. Old men who drive candy-apple Fords have been known to do that.

When the workday is over, the old man pulls into the kid’s jobsite again. The kid is loading work vehicles. “What’re you doing here?” the kid asks. “Came to give you a ride home.” The kid hops in. They drive. They talk again. The sun is lowering. The kid smells like sweat and sawdust.

They arrive in a supermarket parking lot. The old man shuts the engine off.

“What’re we doing?” the kid says. The old man points at an ugly truck with a for-sale sign. “What do you think of that truck?” The kid’s face gets serious. His eyes become large. “I asked you a question,” the old man says. “I know it don’t look pretty, but with a little work, it can be a dependable vehicle.”

The kid is unable to speak. He looks like he might even cry.

The old man doesn’t care much for tears—men from his generation don't. So, he tosses the kid a set of keys.

“She’s all yours,” the old man says. “You gotta be kidding,” the boy answers. “You BOUGHT that truck for me? You don’t even know me.”

“No, son,” the man says. “I didn’t buy that truck for you. I bought it for ME. I’m gonna fix her up, make her pretty again.”

The old man pats the steering wheel of Candy-Apple Red.

“THIS is the one I’m giving to you.”

Old men. May I live long enough to be one someday.

~ Sean Dietrich “Old Trucks” May 14, 2022

” I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread.” ~ Plasms 37:25 

Comments

[radmitsubishitalk]

Used Mitsubishi Pajero Sport: Ownership Pros And Cons

Don't let the age of a Mitsubishi Pajero for sale put you off. It's a tough car with premium quality components that are made to last. The mechanical stuff is built to take good abuse and still keep going.

The below review of a used Pajero Sport SUV was posted by a car enthusiast on Team-BHP.

I picked up a similar 2013 model with 115k on the odometer early this year. A few weeks back I completed the 120k km service as well. All the work you've outlined for the car has been carried out on my car. 

My two cents on the car under question:

Pros:

Less driven. Very hard to find such examples.Excellent VFM car while buying used. It's a lot of cars for the money. Unmatched comfort and ride quality. Perhaps the best in its category from its time.

True blue 4x4 SUV. One of the greats in its category. Excellent performance by the 2.5 ltr mill. It's a gem of an engine. One of the smoothest and most refined diesel you'll find out there.

Built to last. Don't let the age of the car put you off. It's a tough car with premium quality components that are made to last. The mechanical stuff is built to take good abuse and still keep going. Even the interiors, knobs, stalks, latches, handles, switches, etc are thoughtfully designed and look like they can last for decades. If maintained well I'm pretty sure the car will outlive even you! Imagine passing down a Pajero Sport as a family heirloom to your child. That'll be something else!

Rugged looks with a hint of understated elegance. The thing just stands out in an ocean of cut-copy-paste cars and SUVs out there. At traffic signals, in a parking lot, at toll booths, at petrol stations, when you tell someone what car you drive.

Pajero = Passion. Period. You're crazy, irrational, wild. That's who a Pajero owner is. It takes time to get used to the extra attention and follow-up questions from wide-eyed on-lookers, other car owners, gas station workers, security guards; even kids! One simply cannot put a price on this.

Cons:

Less driven: This is also a con as it is a big motor diesel. The reasons have been better explained by the more technically inclined and experienced members of the forum.

Spares and service: Regular maintenance and upkeep of the car are easy peasy if you live in a big city. Doing this diligently and sticking to the manufacturer's schedule should ensure you don't run into major issues with the car. However, in the unfortunate event that you do have to do major work (I'm talking blown head gaskets, failed fuel pumps, ground transmissions, etc) it will be tough but not impossible. More of a question of how much time and money are you willing to spend on it at this point. The silver lining is that there are success stories right here on our Team-BHP forum of even these being done at reasonable costs as well. Bottom line: any competent FNG who knows what he's doing and has good intentions (not trying to rip off customers) can maintain and fix this car.

Price: While it is not good to low-ball good car owners, I suggest you negotiate hard when buying a used Pajero and get it down to a price which YOU think is fair. The Pajero, at the end of the day, IS an expensive car to own and maintain in comparison to other options. So, take into account all the possible short and long-term expenses while quoting a price.

Parting notes:

I've seen a lot of irrational fear and 'whataboutery' associated with the Pajero Sport.

In my view, it's a bare basic old-school pick-up truck (Triton base) dressed up as a station wagon. Pop the hood and you'll see, not some alien technology that requires engineers from Space X to figure out! It's nothing more than a crude big motor diesel with a little fancy tech gadgetry to make it more planet-friendly and wallet-friendly. The same 2.5 coupled with the 4x4 transmission has been doing service in jungles, mountains, mines, and construction sites the world over for over a decade now. I've seen Pajeros and Tritons in Malaysia and Indonesia that have done 3, 4 and 5 hundred km and going strong while requiring only regular oil changes and wear and tear part replacements.

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