#Engine Oil Cap | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysleftbicep · 1 month ago

Text

swipe right 𐙚 b.b

pairing: grumpy!tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: just fluff 💌

summary: sam thinks bucky needs to get back out there. he suggests tinder—and really, who better to ask for advice than you? things change when he asks what you're looking for.

word count: 2.9k

author's note: hi loves, i really enjoyed writing this fic and i hope you'll enjoy it! based on this request | requests are open!

The sky was turning the colour of old peaches—that soft, late-summer blend of pink and orange that washed everything in warmth but didn’t hide how tired the day had become.

It was the kind of light that settled low on your skin, not burning, just clinging. The kind that said the hard part was over but didn’t promise peace.

The boat creaked as it shifted against the dock, rocked by the lazy rhythm of the tide below. Everything moved slow—the air, the water, even time itself.

Somewhere deeper in the trees, cicadas droned with that steady, hypnotic buzz that made talking feel like too much effort. But Sam had never been one to leave quiet alone when it started to feel too comfortable.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag that looked like it had already been through three summers too many. Tossed it over his shoulder, then glanced over at Bucky.

The man hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes. Sitting near the stern on a crate that creaked under his weight, arms resting on his knees, jaw tight. Staring at the water like it had something to answer for, the kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful, just full of something waiting.

“You’ve got that look again,” Sam said, twisting off the cap of a beer with a soft hiss.

Bucky didn’t move. “What look?”

“Like something’s been bothering you for a while and you’re pretending it hasn’t.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re brooding.”

A pause. Bucky exhaled through his nose, low and flat. “You want me to smile or something?”

“God, no.” Sam took a sip, then nodded at him. “That’d be worse.”

It wasn’t mean. It was easy. Familiar. They’d gotten used to this—talking without saying much, sitting in silence like it was some kind of truce.

The water lapped gently against the side of the hull. A breeze rolled off the bayou, lifting the heat just enough to breathe again. The air smelled like salt and engine oil and the damp underside of the dock.

Everything slowed.

For a while, that was enough.

Then Sam spoke again, voice casual like he wasn’t aiming for anything. “You ever think about dating?”

Bucky glanced at him, not sharply—just slow and skeptical, like he was checking if he’d heard right. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I mean��do you?”

Bucky shrugged, more a shift of weight than anything. “Not lately.”

“Maybe you should.”

“You suggesting I go flirt with someone at the grocery store?”

“No,” Sam said, half-smirking. “I’m suggesting you try talking to someone who doesn’t know what kind of ammo you carry.”

Bucky turned his head fully this time, giving Sam a look so dry it could’ve sanded wood. “You’ve got a real romantic pitch.”

“I’m serious,” Sam said, setting the bottle down beside him. “You don’t even talk to people unless they’re on the team or from your past. That’s not living, man. That’s just waiting.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He looked back at the water, but his jaw tightened, a little pulse at the side of it, quick then gone. Whatever was under that silence, it was old. And heavy. And still too close to the surface.

Sam didn’t press, not right away. Just let the quiet breathe a little before nudging again. “There’s apps for this kind of thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“You ever try one?”

Bucky shook his head once. “That stuff’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Bucky said. “And I don’t really want to explain... all of this.”

The pause after that wasn’t awkward. It was honest.

Sam nodded once. “Yeah. I get that.”

He picked at the label on his beer for a second, thoughtful, before adding, “Still doesn’t mean you don’t get to try.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I’m not built for that kind of thing.”

Sam leaned back, arms resting on his knees. “You don’t have to be built for it. You just have to show up.”

That was the thing with Bucky—he never said no right away.

He just let silence stretch out until it either hardened into a wall or softened into maybe.

This one softened.

Another beat passed. Then, low, almost under his breath—“I’ll ask her.”

Sam looked over, surprised but not shocked. “Who?”

Bucky didn’t turn. “You know who.”

Sam studied him for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before he spoke. “She’d be honest with you.”

“That’s the point,” Bucky said.

He stood without another word, like the decision had been waiting in him for a while and now it just had a direction. Boots thudded quietly against the dock as he walked toward the edge of the light.

Sam watched him go as he took another sip from his bottle.

He shook his head to himself, almost a laugh.

“About damn time.”

The sun’s lower now, bleeding into the bayou in streaks of amber and rose. It stretches long shadows across the dock, paints the water in color that looks like it shouldn’t belong to this world, too soft, too still.

You’re sitting near the edge, back leaned against a weather-worn piling, drink balanced loosely in your hand. Your bare feet nudge the warm planks absently.

It’s the first stillness you’ve had all day, and you’re not ready to let it go yet.

You hear him before you see him, the solid rhythm of boots on wood, measured and familiar. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just Bucky, moving like he always does, deliberate, quiet and steady.

He sits beside you without a word.

Just drops down next to you, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed straight out at the water like it might eventually give him an answer if he stares long enough.

You wait. You’ve known him long enough to know he only speaks when he means to.

Finally, he says, low,

“Sam thinks I should try dating apps.”

You glance over, one brow lifting. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitches. “I said the same thing” He huffs. “Apparently he thinks I’m too emotionally repressed to function without external help.”

You snort, tipping your head back to take in the sky, already turning violet at the edges. “Sounds like Sam.”

“He showed me one,” Bucky says. “Said I needed to ‘get back out there.’ Like I was ever out there to begin with.”

You hum, dragging your finger down the side of your bottle to catch a trail of condensation. “Did he show you Tinder?”

“I think so. There were… bios. And pictures. A lot of pictures.”

You take a slow sip. The drink’s warm now, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Then yeah. That’s Tinder.”

There’s a pause, one of those long, Southern summer silences that stretches without needing to be filled. The heat sits heavy on your skin. Everything is golden and slow.

Then—

“What’s it like?” he asks.

Not skeptical. Just curious, in that quiet way he sometimes gets. Like he’s asking about a world he doesn’t belong to.

You turn your head toward him slightly. “You actually want to know?”

He nods once, eyes still out on the water.

He doesn’t push. Just waits.

You lean back again, voice dry. “They’re like vending machines. If vending machines were full of unhinged men who think a selfie in a lifted truck is an acceptable substitute for a personality.”

Bucky lets out the barest huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough.

You keep going. “I’ve had guys open with ‘hey beautiful’ and follow it up with a dick pic. No hello, not even a name. Just bam, in your face."

That gets him. His head jerks a little like he wasn’t expecting it, eyes wide, blinking, then immediately looks away again. “Jesus.”

“Right?” you say, half-laughing despite yourself. “One guy put his venmo in his bio. Said I could ‘tip the talent.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a soft grimace pulling at his mouth. “That’s real?”

“Very.”

Another pause. He doesn’t speak, and you let the quiet fill in the spaces between sentences. It’s not awkward, just mutual disbelief settling across both of you like the heat.

You glance over.

“That’s the nice end of the spectrum. The ones who act normal? Worse.”

He raises an eyebrow, says nothing.

“There was one guy who said I ‘seemed cool’ and then launched into a rant about how feminism ruined dating. Claimed women used to appreciate a ‘real man’ who ordered for them at dinner.”

Bucky mutters under his breath, “That’s one way to die on a hill.”

You grin. “Exactly. I unmatched. But not before he sent me a voice note calling me ungrateful.”

That draws a small breath out of him, you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or just disbelief. Maybe both.

“So this is what people are doing now.”

“Apparently.” You nudge the bottle against your knee. “It’s bleak out there, Buck.

He looks down at his hands, his vibranium fingers flexing once—a small, absent motion like he’s thinking about something he can’t quite say.

“Sam made it sound like people meet that way all the time.”

“They do,” you admit. “But most of them walk away with trust issues and a weird story about someone who brought their mom to the first date.”

His head turns slowly. “You’re not serious.”

“Swear on it.” You pause. “You ever think about trying it?”

His expression tightens—not visibly, not in an obvious way. Just in the way his shoulders shift, his mouth presses slightly flatter.

“No.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing anything about me,” he says, voice low. “And I don’t really have a profile worth putting out there.”

“That’s what Sam’s for,” you mumbled. “He’d probably write something dramatic. ‘Ex-assassin looking for redemption and someone to eat pancakes with.’”

That gets a breath out of him, small and sharp, like he wasn’t expecting it to hit as close to funny as it did.

You glance at him and catch it, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile, not really. Just something close.

You watch him a moment longer. “You’re not sold.”

Bucky shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think I was meant for that kind of thing,” he says simply. “Not after everything.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You study him for a beat. The way he still holds himself like he’s bracing, even when he’s sitting still.

“Maybe you weren’t,” you say softly. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

That makes him look over. Really look. His eyes catch yours, not sharp, not guarded. Just… tired. A little older, like the fight’s still in him, but so is the weight of carrying it.

“You really think there’s people out there who’d sign up for all this?”

He doesn’t need to explain what this means. The metal arm, the red in his ledger, the quiet rage, that name.

You tilt your head. “You’re asking the wrong people.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then,

“Who should I ask?”

You smile, small, steady. Like it’s already obvious.

“Ask someone who already knows you.”

He doesn’t move right away.

Then he shifts, not away, just forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. His eyes stay fixed on the water, but his whole body reads different now.

Less guarded. Less armoured.

The air is thick with the smell of wood warmed by the sun, brine, and something else you can’t name. The heat hasn’t broken. There’s no wind, no relief—just the weight of what’s been left unsaid between the two of you.

Then, without looking at you, voice low,

“What about you?”

You glance over. “What about me?”

“What are you looking for?”

He says it like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it’s just conversation. But you hear the shift in his voice—the hesitation, the careful way he keeps his tone level.

You catch the way his fingers tap once against the dock before going still again. He wants to know. Not because he expects anything.

Because part of him is terrified to hope.

You breathe in. Let the silence stretch, but not too long. Then,

“I don’t know,” you say. “Someone who doesn’t need to be anyone else. Who’s not trying to sell a version of himself just to get picked.”

You’re not really looking at him when you say it. You’re looking past the water, past the trees. Somewhere further off. But you feel him — how still he’s gotten. How present.

You pause, let the words settle in your chest.

“Someone who’s real. Who doesn’t run when things get hard.”

There’s something brittle in your voice when you say that. Not cracked, just lived-in.

“Someone who carries things, but still shows up anyway.”

You glance at him now. And you mean it when you say,

“I think that narrows it down pretty fast.”

It’s soft and uncomplicated, but it hangs there like a match waiting to strike.

And maybe that’s the moment it lands.

Maybe not all at once—but enough.

Because now he’s turning his head, slow and unsure, like he’s still giving himself time to pretend it’s not what it sounds like.

“You talking about me?”

The question isn’t sarcastic. It isn’t cocky. It’s quiet. Raw. Like he’s afraid you’ll say no, but needs you to say yes.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah. I am.”

It’s simple. Not a performance. Not something meant to fix him. Just truth.

His eyes drop, lashes casting half-shadows. Then he looks back out over the water—not avoiding you, just... trying to breathe with it.

There’s a long stretch of quiet after that. You let it happen.

Because this is the part where people rush it. Where they try to fill the air. But not with him. Not now.

Eventually, voice low:

“I’m not... easy.”

“I know.”

He shifts again. Barely.

“I don’t have much to offer.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“Maybe not to you.”

You go still at that.

His tone isn’t bitter. It’s not sad, either. It’s just matter-of-fact. Like it’s something he’s repeated to himself long enough to accept as reality.

“I’ve hurt people,” he says, not looking at you. “I’ve messed up a lot of things I can’t fix. I don’t sleep much. I get angry. I disappear when it gets too loud. Some days I don’t feel like a person. Some days I don’t want to.”

Your chest pulls, tight and quiet. But you don’t interrupt him.

“And I know I’m not easy to be around,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “But I don’t want to lie about that. I can’t.”

You’re already shaking your head before he finishes.

“You don’t need to.”

He finally looks at you—and this time, he doesn’t look away.

His eyes are still that same unrelenting shade of blue, something between steel and storm, edged in shadow from the way the light hits.

Cerulean, maybe, if you wanted to get poetic—but the kind of blue that feels lived-in, exhausted, quiet. Tired in a way that most people never notice, and steady in a way that somehow always holds.

You’ve seen them angry. You’ve seen them distant. You’ve seen them blank, shut down so completely they didn’t feel like eyes at all.

But now?

Now they stay. Now they’re looking at you like maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’s letting someone actually stay.

“I’d still pick you,” you say, voice even. “I know what I’m saying. I know who I’m saying it to.”

And something in him breaks open—not shattered, not messy. Just exposed. In a way he hasn’t let himself be in a long, long time.

He doesn’t say anything.

But the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing something he didn’t think he was allowed to want—it’s enough.

You can see it, how hard he’s trying to stay still. Like if he moves, even slightly, it’ll break whatever fragile thread just opened between you.

The water laps soft against the dock. Somewhere nearby, a screen door slams. A dog barks. The world doesn’t know that something quiet and impossible is unfolding in the silence between two people who didn’t think this would happen.

Finally, carefully,

“If I asked…”

He trails off.

It’s not hesitation. It’s vulnerability, stripped down to bone. Not even a full question, just the offer of one.

You let him say it the way he needs to. And you don’t make him say it twice.

You answer without hesitation. Without softness-for-show.

“Yes. I would.”

That lands, you see it in the way his shoulders shift. Just a little. Like he’s trying to let the weight down slowly, afraid it might hit too hard if he drops it all at once.

So you keep going. Gentle. Honest.

“I’d date you in a heartbeat, Bucky.”

You pause, “you’re not your past. You’re not the burden it left on you. You’re the man who lived through it and kept going. That matters more.”

He looks down for a second, like the words are too much to hold eye contact through. Then back up, slower this time.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

The breeze moves past, soft through the trees. Neither of you speak for a long minute.

But something’s changed. Something settled. You feel it in the quiet, the kind that doesn’t need fixing.

When he looks at you again, it’s not with hesitation or doubt.

There’s no shift in his posture, just a quiet steadiness, like he’s finally stopped running from it, like he’s letting himself want this, want you, without pulling it apart or looking for all the reasons he shouldn’t.

2K notes · View notes

yueyimold · 1 year ago

Text

two tone gear lube bottle closure mold

China 2 component mold maker, offer 2 shot lubricating oil bottle cap, bi injection lube bottle cap, 2 color seal caps lubricant bottle, dual mold engine oil bottle plastic cover

#China mold #2 component mold #bi material mold #multi shot mold #two color lubricating oil bottle cap mold #2k lube bottle cap mold #rotary mold seal caps lubricant bottle #double engine oil bottle plastic cover mold

0 notes

multistan-247 · 3 months ago

Text

dilf!sukuna thinks it’s annoying how much you ogle him over the dumbest shit—but the smug tilt of his mouth says he eats it up. he was well-maintained for a man who ate the food for three people and went to the gym whenever time allowed him. infact, his trainer was surprised at his muscle definition, and asked tips from sukuna instead. his sharp words and scowls had mellowed, along with the addition of a few lines on his face, countable strands of grey in pink.

he's bent over the bonnet of his car, white tank soaked through and through, painted to his back. he was a sight for sore eyes, your husband, as he grumbled something about "fuckin' mechanics overcharging for shit—"

every muscle is on display, thick biceps flexing as he props the hood open with one arm, veins trailing down to thick, grease-smudged fingers. his wedding band flashes when he lifts his hand to rub at his lightly stubbled jaw, staring at the dozen hundred engine parts, deep in thought, that did something to you that you could never explain. one of the reasons why some of your fights never lasted for more than 2-3 days.

you hated summer, always whining about the heat and the stickiness that comes with it, but suddenly had a new-found liking for it.

"been calling your name like five times, woman. the fuck you starin' at?" he grunts, huffing as he lifts his top to wipe at the sweat collecting at his forehead. dilf!sukuna, whose abs peek out when he shifts, glistening like a damn oil painting, that stupid tank top riding up just enough to flash his happy trail and that sinful v-line you ached to trace with your tongue.

“if you’re gonna keep eye-fuckin’ me, at least be useful and grab me a cold beer.”

you roll your eyes, already halfway there to the fridge because—how do you say no, especially to a man like him when he's standing there, looking like that?

shirt clinging to his frame, grease staining his fingers and cheek like it belonged there, sweat trailing down his neck like it knew where it was going. you hand him the beer, and he pops the cap on the edge of the car hood like it's nothing. he takes a long swig, jaw flexing, throat working, and the scene before you seems to roll in slow motion. you shake your head to clear yourself of the haze that seems to consume you from head to toe, settling into a quiet ache between your legs.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, red eyes catching yours over the bottle like he knows what he's done. he always does.

and sure, this image of him reminds you of your apartment from before, the one you guys had before the bungalow. annoyed yells over the trail of socks he'd strewn around the place, or the way he'd let the dishes dry in the sink for more than two days, which would ultimately lead you to snipe at him, do the dishes yourself, or when you were at your limit, you’d shove at his chest, wild with irritation and sweat-slick fury, only for him to grab your wrist, drag you close, and say “do that again, I dare you."

the last time that happened, the AC had given up mid-argument. the place was already small to begin with, landlord couldn't care less about maintenance, the mess didn't help either. july was a damn furnace and you both were pissed, breathing in each other's heat, too hot and too stubborn to back down. and then, you had yielded when his calloused hands sought purchase on your waist, pressed you up against the counter, kissed you like he was picking a fight with your mouth, pawing at the silly excuses for clothes like he couldn't get it off you fast enough.

his name spat out in anger turned into unwilling moans he pushed inside of you—thrust after brutal thrust. he bent you over the kitchen counter like he owned it, like he owned you. one hand palming at the fat of your hip, the other in your hair, yanking you back so he could hear the way your voice broke each time he drove into you.

the sharp slap of his hand across your ass had you jolting forward, only to arch back with a desperate whimper. the sting bloomed, made your hips snap back to meet him harder, clenching around his cock, your body was begging for more. it earned you low, mocking words and a harsh tug to your nipples.

“where did all the fight go, hmm?"

he'd murmured into your damp neck, the vibrations of his words the last thing you remembered, your cunt clenching around him helplessly till the moment he found release in you, breathing heavily.

now? you’re here again. sweat trailing down your back. his hold, bruising the skin around your waist, pulling you flush as fingers tangled in his spiky, short pink hair while you chase at his lips like he’s your last meal. his hold, tying you to him, to this moment.

you're barely catching your breath when he mutters,

“when did you say nanami’s bringing the lil’ brat back?”

you blink, brain fried. “not ‘til evening."

he grins, his eyes flaring. “good. now get on the hood. haven't even started on you yet.”

maybe you do hate summer. but if this is what it looks like on him, you’ll happily burn for it.

A/N: had to get this out of my system. my ovaries are sobbing. currently summer here, it's soooo hot. and I'm prepping for exams. haven't written or posted in years. hoping this fed you as much as it fed me. might make this a series, based on requests. feedback is welcome!!

#dilf!sukuna #dilf!sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut

3K notes · View notes

ari-ana-bel-la · 4 months ago

Note

could you do alex albon’s 4 year old daughter getting lost in the paddock and having everyone panicking trying to find her?

Little Explorer

The Suzuka sun was already peeking over the horizon when Alex arrived at the paddock, his hand securely holding that of his four-year-old daughter, Yn. Her little pink cap was nearly too big for her head, threatening to slip down over her eyes every time she looked up at her dad. She wore a tiny Williams team shirt, complete with her name embroidered above the heart, and her backpack bounced with every excited step she took.

"Papa, is this where the race cars sleep?" Yn asked, eyes wide as she gazed around the bustling paddock.

Alex chuckled, crouching down to her level. "Not exactly, sweet pea. But it's where they get ready. Like a pit stop bedroom."

She giggled. “Do they have pillows?”

“If they do, they probably smell like engine oil.”

Yn made a face, scrunching her little nose, and Alex laughed. He stood up just in time to see Carlos approach them from across the garage.

"Good morning!" Carlos greeted with a big smile. He bent down slightly, holding out a fist for Yn, who bumped it without hesitation.

"Hola, Carlitos!" she chirped, her eyes sparkling.

"Already using the nickname, huh?" Alex grinned.

"She’s got good taste," Carlos teased. "How are you, princesa?"

“I saw a big tire! It was taller than me!” Yn said, stretching her arms to demonstrate the size.

Carlos gasped dramatically. “Wow! Did you try to lift it?”

“I did! But it was super heavy.”

“Well, we’ll work on your muscles later, okay?” Carlos winked at her, and Yn nodded very seriously.

Alex watched the exchange with a soft smile. It always warmed him how easily Carlos got along with his daughter. Though they kept Yn out of the spotlight, she had a way of making herself at home wherever she went.

"Hey," Carlos said quietly to Alex, "we have that strategy meeting in ten minutes."

Alex sighed. "Right. I almost forgot."

Carlos gestured toward a young Williams intern who was standing nearby. "She’ll be in good hands. We’ll be back before she can finish her juice box."

"Okay, sweetie," Alex crouched down to talk to Yn, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I need to go talk about grown-up stuff with Uncle Carlos. Can you be a good girl and hang out here with Miss Sophie for a little bit?"

Yn nodded solemnly. “I’ll be the best girl.”

“That’s my girl.” He kissed her forehead before standing up, exchanging one last glance with the intern. “Thank you. We'll be quick.”

With that, he and Carlos disappeared into the meeting room, leaving Sophie to keep an eye on Yn, who had now sat on a small bench, swinging her legs and sipping from her juice pouch.

But it only took a moment.

One glance away to check a message on her phone.

And when Sophie looked up again—Yn was gone.

Yn wandered along the paddock path, her eyes filled with wonder at the noise, the smells, the shimmer of the mechanics' uniforms and the laughter echoing from various corners. She clutched her little cap in one hand as she meandered away, drawn by the colorful banners and a sudden patch of green at the far end.

Flowers.

Tucked beside a hospitality suite, a narrow planter overflowed with bright blossoms—petunias, daisies, and tiny pink and white buds.

Yn gasped. “Whoa!”

She skipped over and crouched next to the flowers, reaching out to gently touch a petal. She giggled as a bee buzzed past her, and that’s when she noticed a man watering the plants.

Fernando.

He was pouring water over the soil with a plastic jug, humming to himself. He blinked when he noticed the tiny figure crouched beside him.

“Well, hello there,” he said in surprise, straightening up. “Where did you come from?”

Yn smiled up at him, not afraid at all. “Hi! I like flowers.”

“Do you?” he smiled warmly, crouching beside her. “These are petunias. They’re thirsty today.”

“I like that one!” she pointed to a pink one. “It looks like my blanket at home.”

“That’s a very good choice. Petunias are very friendly flowers.”

Yn tilted her head. “Do flowers talk?”

Fernando chuckled. “Only if you listen really carefully.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do they say?”

“They say, ‘thank you for the water, kind girl!’”

Yn burst into a giggle fit. “That’s silly!”

He smiled. “Not as silly as finding a flower princess all alone in the paddock. Where’s your papa?”

“My papa is with Carlitos. He’s talking about grown-up stuff.”

Fernando’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what’s your papa’s name?”

“Alex!”

That made Fernando’s eyes widen. “You’re Alex’s little girl?”

“Uh-huh! And George is my goddaddy.”

Fernando let out a low whistle. “You’re F1 royalty then. Come on, let’s get you back to your garage before everyone starts looking under the race cars for you.”

She reached for his hand, trusting and joyful. “Okay! But can we say bye to the flowers?”

He smiled softly. “Of course.”

Back in the Williams garage, chaos was brewing.

“She’s not here?” Alex’s voice cracked, already halfway through panic. “How is she not here?!”

Sophie looked like she was about to cry. “I—I just looked away for a second—I swear—”

Carlos rubbed a hand down his face. “She couldn’t have gone far. Let’s split up.”

George had already heard the commotion and appeared at Alex’s side. “You lost Yn?” he asked, voice tight with concern.

Alex could barely breathe. “I should’ve never left her. What was I thinking?”

“Alex,” George said firmly. “We’ll find her. Let’s go.”

Within minutes, it felt like the whole paddock was mobilized. Charles jogged off toward the hospitality area, Max checked around the back of the garages, even media members paused to ask what was happening. Word spread fast when it came to the drivers' kids.

Then—Alex heard a familiar laugh.

His head snapped toward the far end of the paddock, where a small figure in a Williams shirt was skipping along beside Fernando.

“Yn!” he called out, his voice trembling.

She looked up and grinned. “PAPA!”

Alex ran to her, scooping her into his arms and holding her close, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

“I was so scared,” he whispered into her hair. “Don’t ever wander off like that again, baby. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I just wanted to see the flowers.”

He pulled back enough to kiss her cheeks, again and again. “You scared me to death.”

“She was perfectly fine,” Fernando said gently. “We were talking about petals and bees.”

Alex looked at him with teary eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Fernando raised his hands. “She’s a lovely little girl. Very brave. Very curious. Just like someone I know.”

Alex turned to Yn. “From now on, flowers only when I’m with you, okay?”

“Okay, Papa,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “But can I say bye to Fernandito next time too?”

Fernando laughed. “Any time, little flower princess.”

Alex held her tight, grateful beyond words as the panic finally ebbed from his chest.

And for the rest of the weekend, Yn stayed by her papa’s side—though she did convince him to visit the flower patch together before they left Suzuka.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

Also, thank you for 1K followers. You guys are the best. 🥰😘

-🩷🎀

1K notes · View notes

wendichester · 3 months ago

Note

More teen!dean please ?

⋆˙⟡ milkshakes & car dates,

summary. skipping school with dean is always a great idea

pairing. teen!dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 895

notes / warnings. teen dean!!! that's the warning

The school day drags like wet paint.

Your math teacher’s droning on about parabolas or something equally tragic, but all you can focus on is the folded piece of paper tucked into the corner of your notebook. Ink smudged in the corner, slightly torn — unmistakably written in Dean Winchester’s messy, all-caps scrawl.

WANNA DITCH LAST PERIOD? I GOT THE CAR & A KILLER MIXTAPE

You glance up. Two rows over, he’s slouched in his chair like he owns the school — that cocky grin barely hidden behind the tip of his pen. When you meet his eyes, he winks.

You nearly drop your pencil.

Dean Winchester is trouble wrapped in a leather jacket and dimples. He doesn’t do straight A’s or science fairs. He does engine oil and motel beds and smuggles candy into class like it’s contraband. He’s also the only person who’s ever made you laugh so hard you snorted soda through your nose — and then offered you his flannel to wipe it off.

You don’t even remember agreeing to date him. It just sort of… happened. Between one prank war in history class and that time he walked you home in the rain with only his jacket and zero umbrella. He never actually asked, just kissed you one day after detention and said, “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

And honestly? You are.

“You sure your dad won’t freak?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat of the Impala, the vinyl still warm from the sun.

Dean smirks, throwing the car into drive with one hand, the other already reaching for the cassette deck. “He’s in another state and doesn’t know what day it is. We’re golden.”

The Impala purrs to life, and so does the music — loud and unapologetic, something with guitars and drums that make your heartbeat speed up even more than it already is.

“Where are we even going?” you ask, half-laughing, wind tossing your hair as he rolls the windows down.

Dean shoots you a look. “You ever had a chocolate shake from that diner off Route 17?”

“No?”

“Blasphemy,” he says, slamming a dramatic fist on the steering wheel. “Guess I gotta change your life.”

And weirdly… you kind of think he means it.

The diner is straight out of a movie: neon signs, checkerboard floors, waitresses who call you “hon” like it’s your actual name. Dean orders two shakes, extra whipped cream, no hesitation. You try to pay. He blocks your hand with a french fry.

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning. “My girl doesn’t pay.”

Your girl. Your stomach flips.

You sip your milkshake, cheeks warm, watching the way the sunset paints gold into his eyelashes. He’s telling some ridiculous story about Sam trying to iron a flannel while wearing it, and you’re laughing so hard you almost choke on your straw.

Dean reaches over, wipes whipped cream from your lip with his thumb, then licks it off like it's nothing. Like it’s not the most casually intimate thing anyone’s ever done to you.

“You’re staring,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“No I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it mid-air, winks. God, he’s annoying. And you want to kiss him so bad.

He leans in just a little. “You gonna kiss me or just keep drooling over that shake?”

You raise a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Winchester.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you swear it vibrates all the way to your spine.

It’s dark when he parks the Impala outside your house. The porch light is still on. Your heart’s racing.

Dean walks you to the steps, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He’s quiet, but not in a bad way. It’s like the night slowed him down a little. Let him breathe.

“I had fun,” you say softly.

He shrugs, eyes soft. “You always make it easy.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that buzzes with something new. Something gentle and real and teenage and too big to name. He reaches out, tugging a lock of your hair behind your ear, then just lets his fingers rest there — along your jaw, like he wants to remember how your skin feels.

“You make me wish we didn’t have to leave,” he says, like it’s not a big deal. Like it doesn’t make your heart ache in a way you don’t have words for.

You lean up, brushing your lips against his. It’s slow. Soft. Barely-there at first, until he kisses you back like he means it — like he doesn’t want the night to end either.

When you finally pull away, breathless and warm, he smiles like he’s just won a bet.

“Best. Shake. Ever,” he says.

“You didn’t even finish it.”

He grins wider. “Didn’t need to.”

You laugh, swat his shoulder, and turn to head inside. But he calls your name — soft, unsure, almost shy, and when you glance back, his voice catches a little.

“Hey… you think about the future? Like, what happens after this?”

You pause. “Yeah. You're there, without a doubt.”

“You too.” His hands are back in his pockets. “Just… makin’ sure we’re on the same page.”

You are. Even if you don’t know what the page says yet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say.

He smirks. “Not if I see you first.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #.req

544 notes · View notes

andy-15-07 · 1 month ago

Note

May I ask for some mechanic Joel, old Joel, grumpy, pervert Joel haha, reader is trying to change a tire in the middle of the road, her skirt is so short that she is showing her bare pussy, no panties, and then Joel sees her and he doesn’t even hide his desire, maybe some rough sex, spanks, pussy spanks, pet names, Joel has a tummy, big age gap. Thank you

That Ain’t No Way To Ask for Help, Sweetheart

PAIRING:Mechanic!Joel Miller x Younger!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1213 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Your hands were greasy, your nails chipped, and your patience was hanging by a single frayed thread. You didn’t know what possessed you to wear a skirt this short on a day you’d be driving on a dusty back road out of town , but here you were, crouched over your rear tire, sweat beading on your thighs, lips pursed in frustration. The damn tire iron wouldn’t budge.

And you were alone. Or… you thought you were.

The low purr of a truck engine came up behind you, slow and growling. You didn’t bother to turn , not until it stopped right beside you, and the creak of an old door opened behind the roar of cicadas and your annoyed breathing.

Then: a whistle.

Low. Appreciative. Dirty.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

You turned and met the eyes of a man leaning one hand on the truck door , tan skin, salt-and-pepper curls under a worn cap, lines carved into his face like he’d seen more than one war. He looked at you like he just walked in on a free show. His gaze went straight to your thighs.

Your heart skipped.

Joel Miller. The mechanic from down by the auto yard. You’d seen him a couple times , always covered in oil and sweat, thick hands and a grumble for a voice. Easily old enough to be your dad. Or… older.

“I-I got it,” you stammered, reaching for the iron again.

He didn’t answer. Just rounded the hood of his truck and came to crouch beside you, thick arms resting on his knees.

“Not wearin’ nothin’ under that pretty skirt, huh?” he asked, eyes glued to the spot between your thighs. “Jesus Christ, girl.”

Your breath hitched. You should’ve squeezed your legs shut , but you didn’t. Some twisted part of you liked how he looked at you. Like he could devour you whole.

“Didn’t think I’d be on my knees today,” you muttered.

Joel chuckled low, voice like smoke and whiskey. “Then you sure dressed for attention.”

You felt your skin heat. But you didn’t move.

“Flat tire?” he asked, glancing at the useless jack.

“Yeah. I tried. Can’t get the bolts off.”

Joel stood up with a grunt, his belly shifting under his stained t-shirt. He pulled a rag from his pocket, wiped his hands , and tossed it back with a nod toward your car.

“Get in the truck.”

“What?”

He licked his thumb, wiped a smear of grease from your cheek.

“You heard me. You look like you need a real man’s help.” Then, with a smirk, “And I ain’t changin’ no tire ‘til you’re sittin’ pretty for me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

You slipped into the passenger side of his truck. The seat was hot from the sun, the interior smelled like sweat, gasoline, and pine. Joel’s scent. He climbed in beside you after a moment, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“So what is this?” you asked, crossing your legs slowly, teasing. “You get off on rescuing dumb girls by the highway?”

He laughed once. “Not dumb. Just naughty.”

He reached over. One large, calloused hand ran up your thigh, rough from years of work. His palm was hot, greedy.

“No panties?” he asked again. “Walked outta the house wantin’ someone to see, didn’t ya?”

You bit your lip. “Maybe.”

Joel exhaled through his nose , like you’d tested the last of his patience.

His hand shot up and cupped your bare pussy, rough fingers dragging through your folds. You gasped, hips lifting.

“Slick already. You like bein’ caught like this, huh?” He leaned in, voice thick. “You’re just a needy little slut.”

You whined when he slapped it , not too hard, but enough to make your skin sting and your legs jerk.

“Ah, Joel.”

“‘Sir.’ That’s what you call me.”

You swallowed. “Y-Yes, sir.”

He did it again. A sharp slap right across your pussy lips. You twitched.

“Good girl.”

Joel leaned in, tongue licking a stripe up your neck. “Bet no boy your age knows how to treat a brat like you.”

You shook your head. He was right.

Joel yanked you across the bench seat. His belly pressed against your hip as he pulled your legs over his lap, his thick jeans rubbing your sensitive skin. He looked massive up close , broad arms, hands like leather, thick thighs, and a soft stomach that jiggled when he moved.

He hiked your skirt higher. You were already soaked.

“Need it rough, don’t you, baby?” he whispered. “Need an old man to knock the brat outta you.”

You didn’t answer. So he spanked your pussy again. Harder.

“Y-Yes!”

“Yeah you do.”

He pushed two fingers inside you , no warning, no teasing , and you cried out as your walls clamped around him.

“Fuck, you’re tight. This little cunt’s fuckin’ beggin’.”

His fingers curled just right, knuckles grinding your clit. You sobbed into his shoulder, clutching his shirt. The soft curve of his belly rocked against your leg with each thrust.

Joel kissed your jaw, then bit your earlobe.

“You gonna come just from my fingers, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically.

He laughed darkly, pulling out.

“Too bad.”

You whined at the loss.

“Turn around,” he ordered. “Face down. Ass up on the seat.”

You obeyed.

The truck door slammed open for air as Joel dropped his jeans , and you barely caught a glimpse of his thick cock before he was pushing the head right between your folds.

“Gonna fuck you so dumb, you’ll forget what a jack looks like.”

And then he was inside , one long, slow thrust that had you arching, your hands scrambling against the vinyl seat for grip.

Joel groaned like a man starved. “Jesus Christ, this pussy.”

He set a brutal rhythm, thick hips slapping against your ass. Each thrust shoved you forward into the seat, making you whimper with every slap of skin. His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back.

“Who do you belong to now, baby?”

“You, sir!”

He spanked your ass , then your pussy again , then grabbed your hips tight enough to bruise.

“That’s right. Just an old man’s fucktoy now, huh?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely think. The only thing that existed was his cock stretching you wide, the smack of his belly against your skin, and the heat building between your legs.

Joel grunted, pulling you flush against him.

“Come on this cock, baby. Let daddy feel it.”

You came with a scream , clenching around him, shaking, drooling onto the seat. Joel didn’t stop. He chased his own release with ruthless strokes.

“Fuck. Gonna fill this little pussy,” he growled.

He spilled inside you with a groan, thick spurts of cum painting your walls. You moaned as the heat spread inside.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Joel smacked your ass gently.

“Still think you don’t need help, darlin’?”

You giggled, voice wrecked. “Guess I should break down more often.”

Joel zipped up, smirked, and climbed out of the truck.

“Gimme five minutes. Tire’ll be fixed. And then I’m takin’ you home.”

“Why?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“So I can fuck you again. On somethin’ softer than a truck seat.”

659 notes · View notes

paradigmengineering · 8 months ago

Text

B58 oil cap for reliable sealing and engine protection

The B58 oil cap is a durable and precision-engineered component designed to provide a secure seal for the oil reservoir in your B58 engine. It prevents leaks and maintains optimal pressure, ensuring the smooth operation of your vehicle. Built from high-quality materials, this oil cap is resistant to heat and wear, offering long-lasting performance even under demanding conditions. With its straightforward installation and perfect fit, the B58 oil cap is an ideal replacement or upgrade for maintaining your engine's efficiency and functionality.

#B58 oil cap #engine oil cap #B58 engine parts

0 notes

violetrainbow412-blog · 16 days ago

Text

Worn Soft [B. F.]

Bob Floyd x fem!reader

wc: 2.3k

summary: Bob invites you to a charity event, but between cameras, persistent admirers, and the sweltering heat, he ends up seeking refuge in the only thing that keeps him calm: your presence.

masterlist

You didn’t have an official role or appear on the Navy’s payroll, but somehow Bob had managed to sneak you in as his assistant for the charity event the Daggers had been invited to. All it took was an access wristband, a name badge, and his "it's just protocol" expression for no one to ask too many questions. You didn’t mind. You were used to accompanying him to all kinds of odd situations—trainings, simulations, awkward dinners—but this was different. More public. More exposed.

The event was being held in San Diego, at a massive racetrack—one of those circuits where F1 engines usually roared and the stands overflowed with cheering crowds. At that time, however, it was all decorated with flags, military-branded banners, and sponsor tents. The goal was to raise funds for a foundation that supported families of fallen naval personnel. The Daggers were invited as the main attraction: young, successful, presentable—the Navy’s friendly face. And Bob, as always, tried to mask his discomfort in front of the cameras… though he couldn’t help scanning the crowd for you every time someone asked for a photo.

Some security guards were watching over the servicemen, and you walked closer to them than to your friend. You didn’t want to get in the way or seem out of place—you were just keeping an eye on anything he might need: sometimes his water bottle, some markers for autographs, something to hold. Even a sweet smile to reassure him that everything was going fine.

Bob walked a few steps ahead, smiling at the crowd. Now and then someone would stop him for a photo or a handshake. Small children got the softest reactions from him, especially the ones holding thank-you signs. With each interaction, he responded with genuine kindness, as always, though by now you could tell when he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

“Floyd!” a woman’s voice shouted from the stands. “I do want to have a baby with you!”

Some people laughed. Others clapped like it was a joke. Bob lowered his head slightly, held back a nervous laugh, and didn’t respond. You just rolled your eyes and kept walking.

A few steps later, another woman handed him a cap to sign. He did, like he did for all of them, but this one lingered longer than necessary. She touched his arm, winked at him. She said something you couldn’t quite hear, but it changed his expression for a split second. He didn’t stop. He kept walking like nothing had happened.

Some others asked him to autograph notebooks that just happened to have their phone numbers in them. Others were more shameless and straight-up asked him to sign their bras.

The rest of the pilots could probably handle situations like that with ease—in fact, you didn’t doubt they were getting hit on twice as much as your friend—but you could tell how overwhelmed it was making Bob. Every time a girl made him an indecent proposal, he’d turn to look at you, like making sure you were still there in case the women went feral and the crowd swallowed him whole.

To be fair, you couldn’t really blame them. Bob was wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a matching jacket, with his callsign stitched on the right side and some orange details. That day, he’d chosen to wear his contact lenses, which made it far too easy to get lost in the blue of his eyes.

He was also wearing his cap. Not just any cap—you’d given it to him a few months back. It was during one of those long afternoons when the weather had grounded flights, and Bob had been stuck in simulators for days. He’d sent you a short text asking if you wanted to go out somewhere, and you’d said yes.

You ended up going out to buy car cleaning supplies—something he’d been putting off for weeks—and stopped by a random auto parts store. While he examined oils with excessive concentration, you got distracted by a display of T-shirts, keychains, and hats. You spotted it immediately: plain, practical, without flashy logos. It was black, with the word MACK on the front and a stitched bulldog above it. You instantly pictured him wearing it.

“I’m buying this for you.”

“Why?” he asked without looking up.

“Because you’re always wearing that hideous gray one.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“And it still can be, but this one has... presence, you know? You can wear it on special occasions. It'll make you look handsome.”

He didn’t argue. You paid for it while he was still browsing for the right cleaner and handed it to him when he dropped you off at home, like it was a throwaway souvenir. Bob wore it the next day. And the day after that, too.

So seeing it on his head that day made you feel happy. In a way, it felt like he was saying something about your bond, even if no one else could really tell.

At some point during the walk, he glanced back at you with a quiet, resigned expression, like he’d been running a marathon for hours.

“This feels like a street market,” he muttered, adjusting the cap. “If one more person asks me to sign a boob, I’m hiding in the pits.”

“If it helps, I think Brad’s already signed three,” you replied, keeping your eyes ahead.

Bob let out a low laugh.

“I should wear a sign that says: I sign hats, not body parts.”

“Or you could just say you’re taken. Sounds more mysterious.”

He glanced sideways at you.

“It wouldn’t be a lie.”

You didn’t say anything. Not because you didn’t know what to say, but because of the way he said it—lighthearted, even a little flirty. The kind of tone that would’ve felt like a joke from anyone else, but from Bob… it was unusual. Unusual, and honest.

You both walked a few more steps, moving slightly away from the main group, until the noise settled a little. In the distance, the loudspeakers still echoed through the circuit and the crowd’s murmur lingered, but right there, the air felt easier to breathe. You looked at him from the side, closely.

“You okay?” you asked, lowering your voice. “Do you need anything?”

Bob shook his head at first, out of habit. But then he looked at you again, more slowly. With that expression he wore when he allowed himself to be honest. You handed him his water bottle before he even had to ask. He took a sip, slow, like he needed that moment.

You reached into your bag again and pulled out a small packet of wet wipes. It hadn’t been planned specifically for him, but you’d packed them just in case.

“Here,” you said, handing them over. “They’re menthol. Should help with the heat a bit.”

Bob raised an eyebrow slightly, intrigued. He carefully tore open the packet and wiped the back of his neck, then his arms. He let out a sharp breath, as if the coolness had jolted him back awake.

“You’re an angel,” he sighed, taking one of your hands like he actually meant it. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just what he said, but how. Tired, but grateful. Exposed, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“We can stop if you want,” you added, stepping a little closer and gently wiping his cheek with another towelette. “No one’s going to say anything if you need five minutes.”

Bob hesitated for a second. Then he smiled again, like just the offer alone had been enough.

“No. There’s not much left—we’ll rest soon. Just... stay close, okay?”

He gently wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. His head rested lightly against yours, like he was going to kiss your forehead but didn’t quite follow through. A soft, contained gesture, without crossing any lines.

“When this is over, let’s go get something to eat. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great,” you replied with a wide smile.

He gave your shoulder a little squeeze, then pulled away and continued walking the stretch still ahead. After the circuit walk, the pilots spoke briefly to the press, thanked the foundation for their support, and also thanked the crowd for making the event possible.

Two hours later, you were finally free from the commitment. The heat had eased, the sun had started to set, and he drove you to a nearby diner. The exterior was metallic, with red neon letters blinking above a wide window. You both sat at a booth against the wall, right under a lazily spinning fan, on burgundy vinyl seats.

Bob ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and a vanilla milkshake, almost like a hungry teenager. You ordered waffles with fruit and an iced coffee. You both laughed when the food arrived and he said it looked like breakfast and dinner at the same time, though he didn’t complain.

“God, I feel like my head’s going to explode. Too much noise, lights, the heat…”

“But think of all the support those families will get,” you said with a smile. “It’s a good cause, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I think it’s all worth it when you see it that way.”

He took a sip of his milkshake, leaned his elbows on the table, and looked at you with a mix of exhaustion and relief.

“Although I have to admit, the women threw me off a bit.”

“A bit?” you laughed, raising your eyebrows. “One asked if you wanted to get her pregnant.”

“Well, yeah…” He ran a hand over his face, pretending to be resigned. “She was pretty straightforward. I didn’t know whether to laugh or run.”

“You didn’t run,” you said, taking a bite of your waffle. “You handled it well. And honestly, it’s no surprise you have that many admirers. Just look at you.”

Bob looked down slightly, as if the compliment didn’t quite sit right.

“Yeah, but... that’s exactly what makes me uncomfortable,” he said more quietly. “I don’t feel like they’re seeing me. Just... the idea. The uniform. The image. And I know it sounds dumb, but I don’t want that. I don’t want admiration—I want to be known.”

He paused. Then smiled, like trying to soften the weight of what he’d just said.

“I guess I don’t have the kind of personality that stands out. I’m not the funniest, or the most charming. So when someone comes on that strong, I think… it can’t be real. They’re only doing it because of what they think I am.”

He meant it, but without drama. Like someone who’s carried that feeling long enough to speak it without cracking.

“I don’t think it’s strange to want something real,” you finally said in a low voice. “Someone who sees you for who you are.”

Bob nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on his milkshake.

“But you won’t find out unless you give women a chance to be in your life.”

“I don’t want to date those crazies,” he said, making you laugh. “No offense, of course. But someone asking to have my baby doesn’t exactly scream let’s take it slow.”

“They’re smart. You’ve got good genes,” you shrugged. “I mean, look at your dad. He’s still handsome at his age and hasn’t gone bald.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say my dad is attractive.”

“I’m just stating facts! Anyone you ask would say the same.”

“Yeah, well not everyone has shared Christmas dinner with my family. Where, by the way, my dad was very much present.”

His offended tone made you chuckle quietly, but he wasn’t smiling. He was watching you with a calm, almost calculating expression. Until he said, calmly:

“I look a lot like him, you know? That’s what I’ll look like when I’m older.”

He said it slowly, like it wasn’t just an observation, but a trap. Like saying his dad was attractive meant you were admitting something more.

“Relax, Bobby,” you laughed. “I’m not going to sleep with your dad. I don’t like older men.”

Bob tilted his head, holding your gaze.

“Then that’s lucky,” he said softly, like it was just a casual comment.

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Idiot,” you muttered, amused.

Bob just smiled, lowering his gaze to his milkshake, like he was used to you not taking him seriously when he actually meant it.

There was a brief silence, but a comfortable one. Outside, the sun was setting, and warm light filtered through the diner window. In that moment, Bob looked up again, a little calmer, a little softer.

“Thanks for coming today,” he said. “Not just for the event, but... for everything. For being such a good friend.”

He said it without dramatics, with a quiet sincerity that softened your chest. Without thinking too much, you squeezed his hand on the table.

“There’s nothing to thank, Bob. We’ll always be friends. That doesn’t change.”

He smiled, and then, as you both looked at the empty plates, you asked with a grin:

“But you’re paying for the food, right?”

Bob raised an eyebrow, like the answer was so obvious it didn’t need to be said.

“Of course. I’m a gentleman, after all,” he said in a light, almost teasing tone.

There was a small pause, and then, in a slightly lower voice, he added:

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” you replied. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

He called the waiter, who arrived a few minutes later, and he asked for the check calmly, not letting go of your hand right away. You looked at him with a smile, feeling like that small gesture said more than words ever could.

“When you get back to the hotel, book a massage or something at the spa. It’s on me.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course. You deserve it after everything today,” he said, giving your hand a brief squeeze.

You smiled, amused.

“Are you going to spoil me like this every time I go with you to an event?”

Your friend chuckled, raising an eyebrow at you.

“If you want me to, sure. Just make sure you bring those wipes for the heat.”

“Deal.”

Once he paid, you both stepped out of the diner into the fading afternoon light. Holding on to that warm, quiet feeling of a friendship that, without rush, had become something indispensable.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

#bob floyd #robert floyd #baby on board #bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick #top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd imagine #top gun x reader #top gun maverick x reader #pilot boyfriend #bob floyd x you #top gun fluff #lewis pullman

376 notes · View notes

fayesia · 3 months ago

Text

Greasin' the engine shaft

pervyold!Joel x younger!reader

Part 2 : here

His gaze followed you. Soft brown doe eyes contrasted the rough, sharp edges of his face. Joel hired you due to the sheer lack of staff in the autoshop. Only a few could take his harsh criticism. Many ended up with a black eye after an argument and their last paycheck the next morning.

The other few misogynistic fucks working whispered that you were just a pretty piece of ass Joel kept around as eye candy. You've done the books though, spent 3 months working through the shops finances, saving it from bankruptcy before you got to show where your real skills lie.

3 months until Joel got to walk into the shop every morning and see your body bent over the open hood of a car. The jeans you wore were old, baggy, and rubbed through with grease stains that no detergent stood a chance against. While your upper half was clad in a tight once upon a time white singlet, the material also dirtied with dark stains ranging from yellow to brown to black. But Joel couldn't imagine a sexier sight, the way your tits were about to slip out of your top and how you always wiped the dirt and sweat off your face with a makeshift rag made from his old flannel.

You noticed him too.

Somedays, you'd come to work and see Joel already getting through a job, his hands dirty and covered in oil stains as he wiped the sweat off his brow.

It was a carnal image, and you hated that you loved it.

Seeing the salt and pepper haired man in a tight tshirt soaked through with sweat, sleeves rolled up just enough for a slutty peak of his veiny forearms and massive biceps.

The perfect size to wrap around your neck while he pounded into you. Full nelson style.

You thought it must've been an accident at first. The way he'd have to move past you behind the counter and his hands would grip onto your waist, crotch rubbing against the curve or your ass, while you had to keep a smile plastered onto your face with the rudest karen of a customer.

It seemed less of an accident when you'd be working on a cars engine and notice Joel's presence behind you. Not too close, but under his watchful eye, something would slip and go wrong, immediately rushing to the scene, his hands wrapped around yours to help you. Body pressed flushed against your own where you could clearly feel his hard on. But he acted oblivious, twisting a cap back on before rubbing the small of your back and reprimanding you. Considering the rest of the workers could've landed with a slap to the back of the head, you'd take the groping.

It definitely wasn't an accident when you got stuck under a car while working on an oil change. The wheel to the car creeper jammed, and you were left stuck there calling for Joel, the only one working at the time, to come pull you out. His hands grabbed onto your ankles, then your thighs, then your hips, and once you were finally out, his large body loomed over your own. Hands resting on your ribs, but his thumbs were most definitely digging into the underside of your tits.

No doubt he was feeling up the weight of them. He had no shame either, absentmindedly asking if you were okay while his eyes were glued to your chest and apparently his hands too.

You simply thanked him, wanting to leave the awkward situation you were in with your fifty something year old boss. It wasn't normally for a twenty year old like you to have this experience...so why was the spot between your legs throbbing?

From then on, you noticed the subtle motions Joel made to simply be around you, stare at you, touch you, even talk to you about nothing relatively important. He knew more about your great aunts hip surgery than anyone you were friends with.

After that situation with the car creeper your body language with Joel became more than enployee and employer. You thought it as a silly inside joke between the two of you. But you couldn't have been more wrong as to what this 'joke' would lead to.

While he attended to a customer, you bent down to get something from behind the counter, ass directly against his crotch. Making a greying man like that stutter was in your top ten achievements.

You tried subtlety too.

During conversations, your hand would rest on Joel's bicep while you laughed at any joke he'd make. Even your lips formed a pout in response to every attempted reprimand he gave you, only angering your coworkers more when he'd fall victim to your puppy eyes. But upon remembering how the last guy who called him out for his leniency got sacked, no one said a word. Joel didn't care if it was just both of you left to run the shop. In fact, he'd rather prefer. He was accustomed to nightly thoughts of the two of you brandishing every part of the workshop with sex.

Over the counter, the hood of a car, the office desk, the inside of a customer's car, even the alley behind the store where a truck picked up the old car pieces.

He'd do anything to fuck you anywhere.

And he was getting impatient, the relentless teasing was getting to a point and he was gonna fuck you sooner than later.

One of the last few workers, Gary, mumbled something to you.

"Huh, what was that?"

"I said you don't mind closing up, would ya?"

Joel watched the interaction, waiting to see what you'd say, but you knew better than to confront these roughed up middle-aged men and simply nodded.

His voice rang out through the now empty shop while everyone drove off.

"Thanks, sweetheart. I'll reward you good with the extra hours, don't worry"

"It's fine, not too keen on heading to the bar to watch some old men flirt with girls half their age."

Nodding as he counted the money in the til, his head lifted up.

"You don't think that's fine hun?"

"What?"

"An old man with a girl half his age?"

His eyes sharpened as he questioned you, like the next answer you gave was critical.

"Just not for me, I guess, I mean, kinda weird, don't you think?"

Turning to face you, Joel moved towards you from behind the counter. He got closer and closed with each step.

"Can't keep answering my questions with more questions, sweetheart."

"I wasnt-i just-whys this even important, let's just drop it okay?"

"No, let's not."

Surging forward, Joel trapped your body between him and the back wall of the shop. His big hands kept you in place while his head lowered to your neck. His pointed nose leading a trail up your neck.

"Fuckk, smell so good, don't you, sweetest damn thing left in this godforsaken shop"

You froze. It was just a joke, right? All the flirting and the touching, you never pictured it going anywhere.

You could be his daughter for fucksake.

His grip was unrelenting, though. Tight against your upper arms to the point that it hurt.

"Please Joel, you're hurting me"

"Sorry hun"

Releasing you, his lips crashed onto yours. They were slightly chapped, and he could taste the sweet artificial lip gloss you had on. Your shock allowed his tongue to slide into your mouth. The taste of cigarettes and whiskey was strong, too strong against the bubblegum flavour of yours.

You hated the fact that the longer his mouth dominated yours, the stronger that feeling between your legs got. The subtle drumming as Joels hands grabbed your legs to wrap around his waist, the movements rubbing your core against the bulge growing in his jeans.

"Ngh please Joel stop"

"It's alright honey, can feel you wanting it"

Your limbs went limp, resting your body solely against his while his hands groped the curve of your ass. He pulled away from the kiss, letting out a chuckle when your head leaned forward to connect you two again.

Joel lifted your shirt off you, working on getting your jeans down while you unhooked your bra. Dragging you to the hood of that Karen customers car, he bent your over, reeling his hand to slap against your covered ass. You grunted from the force of it, certain he had left a mark even through your underwear. Kneeling down behind you, his face shoved into your centre, inhaling your scent through the cotton, while he rubbed himself through his jeans.

"Godd..sweet fucking young cunt, can't get enough of you"

His nose brushed against your damp centre, this time using both his hands to come down against your soft skin. Joel's tongue sticks out to lick the wet fabric, the taste of you enough for precum to start leaking from his tip, dampening the front of his jeans to form a dark patch.

You pushed back against his face, whining at Joel's teasing.

Joel couldn't believe this was happening. To be honest, your reaction at the other guys talking to younger girls seemed enough reason to back off, but when else would he get a chance like this with you. To have you humping your wet soaking pussy against his face like a dog in heat.

It was now or never.

And he couldn't wait to get to greasin' his engine shaft.

Looking back at Joel, you knew he couldn't handle the pleading look in your eyes. The look that screamed "fuck me please, I need you".

Deep down, you knew how disgusting this truly was. You were young, barely leaving your teenage years behind, and Joel was Joel. A greying man in his fifties who most girls in a bar warily turned away from to evade preying eyes.

But right now, you just needed him so badly.

"Please Joel, please"

"Tell me whatchu want sweetheart, exactly what you want this old man to do"

"God...please lick my pussy"

"Not my name, but if you're begging so much"

Laughing at his joke like it was the best one of the century, his hands tugged down your underwear, stuffing it into his pocket for later tonight. Where he could lay in bed, wrapping the cloth around his dick and jerk off to the memory of pounding into your tight pussy.

Snapping out of his future plans he focused onto the sight of your wet cunt, your slick clearly dripping through your folds. Dinner was served.

Joel smashed his lips to you, his tongue tracing around and between every fold, collecting all the fluids into his mouth before reeling back and spitting it onto your tight hole. The blob of liquid dripping down from your asshole to your clit as your moaned out into the empty store filled with the hum of the generator. Collecting it all before it could drip down, his mouth went straight back to work.

His tongue lay straight as he pushed it into your entrance. The sensation was unreal. At the same time, his nose nudged your tight ring of muscle.

"Oh God, Joel keep going, don't stop..please"

"Mhph"

Joel's muffled response vibrated on you, adding to the stimulation.

"Fuck da- Joel I'm gonna come"

The slip meant to go unoticed.

"Couldn't have gotten anymore perfect, now you're going and calling me daddy. Come for me hun, come for your daddy"

Letting out a serious of moans, Joel's mouth sucked at your clit taking you that bit further to climaxing. At this point you didn't care how you desperate you looked humping against Joel's face, especially when his strong hands gripped the flesh of your thighs keeping you in place.

Joel couldn't get enough of you, the taste of you or the feel of you. It was almost too much, smothering all of his senses to the point that he could barely think straight

Grabbing you by the shoulder, Joel pushes you to your knees before unzipping his jeans to pull his dick out. The unrelenting pressure finally gone as he groaned out while stroking himself.

Your eyes widened. Sure, you felt his bulge against you a few times, but you'd never guess it would be this long or thick. The tip had precum dribbling along it, streaks of the liquid running down over the numerous veins. It looked angry and painful.

"Time to help daddy out, sweetheart, took care of you real good, didn't I."

You looked up at Joel, eyes filled with hesitancy, the exposure of your naked body compared to Joel's entirely covered one internally shaming yourself for your lust.

But your daddy wasn't going to have that.

Fingers hooking your jaw open before shoving himself in, the immediate pressure was sure to leave a bruise, but you soon matched his pace. Tongue gliding along every ridge and bumb until your throat could memorise the pathway of that one vein travelling down his entire length.

"Gonna cum sweetie, swallow it for me yeah, swallow all of it."

Nodding your head, you could barely make out Joel's face through the tears brimming in your eyes. Your face soaked in spit, snot, and tears, but Joel couldn't care less. This is the picture he'd remember, how he liked you looking the best.

On your knees. Fucked out. Needy. Lusting.

With one last shove his hands held your face in place, spit dribbling onto his balls as he pumped your throat full of cum. You choked on it as he pulled out but his fingers pushed any escaping drops of cum back leaving nothing to waste. His dick still hung in front of you, surprisingly still keeping its length after cumming. Your tongue peeked out to lick the tip making Joel hiss at the overstimulation.

"I know hun you need me, but I'm an old man now. I can't keep up the way I could back in the day, gimme a few."

Part 2...perchance?

#smut #oneshot #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #tlou #tlou2

842 notes · View notes

jellyfishbug · 1 year ago

Text

POP THE HOOD F'ME

pairing. chris x reader genre. smut with plot. word count [5.2k]

content; mechanic!chris, flirty!chris, smoking (they share a cig), sex with a stranger ig? semi public, car head (m recieving), face fucking, big dick chris, reader has an eyebrow piercing, use of pet names, dirty talk, swearing

Maybe it was just dumb luck.

My dad has been promising me that his old ford pickup was gonna be mine when I got my license since I was ten. However, not long after my sixteenth birthday, he randomly decided that his promise had conditions.

I had to fix it myself.

I had been putting off working on it for years. I just didn't have the time, and it needed a lot of work. The list of things to be fixed was long, and I knew if I started then, I wouldn't have finished.

Finally, the time presented itself for me to start. I finally had a summer that wasn't so busy, so I decided in May of this year I was finally going to do it.

I was finally going to get my own truck.

So I did; I worked on it for two long months. Two long months spent in the garage on my back under the heavy pickup with my hands covered in soot and oil whilst sweat dripped down my face. Two long months spent fixing the paint job and fiddling around under the hood, my hair tied back to keep it off my neck while the sun beamed through the opened garage door.

I finally felt confident enough to take it out for a test drive today. It was starting fine in the garage, and I'd driven it around the block a number of times without fail.

I excitedly hopped in the driver's seat and shut the heavy door, jamming my keys into the ignition and grinning at the sound of the roar when the engine started. I made it pretty much across town without a single problem, and I thought I was in the clear.

So, maybe it was just dumb luck when not even an hour later, here I am, standing on the side of the road next to said pickup with the hood popped and smoke coming out of the cabin.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was dumb luck when I realized I was only three blocks away from an auto shop, and a guy pulled over to help drag my car there.

It felt like forever when we finally reached the parking lot. The red and white sign that hung over the opened garage doors read 'sturniolo's auto-repair".

For the most part, the slots were empty, except for a 58' baby blue Impala that was suspended off the ground, and a brand new silver Subaru outback that sat right next to it.

As we finally pushed it into the open slot on the far end of the garage, I let out a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat off my forehead with one hand and letting them both rest at my sides.

I thanked the stranger for his assistance and he wished me luck, mumbling about how much a repair on a truck like this was going to cost before wandering off. I scowled at him as soon as he turned away from me.

Walking away from the smokey and damaged shell of a car, I pushed open the clear glass door into the entry-way of the shop, and the sound of the ringing bells that were carefully tied at the top of the door filled my ears.

Near the desk stood two boys, both were brunettes that roughly stood at the same height. The first was wearing a red toyota nascar cap backwards over his brown hair, as well as a black tank top and a navy blue mechanic's suit that hugged his frame. The name patch on the chest of it read "Matt". He was speaking to another customer, flailing the rag around as he emphasized his points with his hands.

The other was standing behind the counter, a gray bandana tied around his head. He wore a navy blue button up that he left completely open with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, making the white tank top he wore under it visible.

The name patch on his chest read "Chris", and a white rag was thrown over his shoulder. A plethora of keys were hooked to a red carabiner that hung around the belt loop of his jeans. The desk hid his lower half below his waistline, and as I stepped closer, I saw a toothpick in between his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he jotted down words on a yellow notepad with a pencil.

I slowly walked up to the desk, my arms at my sides. He didn't raise his head to look at me, he just continued writing, so I cleared my throat.

His head shot up, and his expression fell into embarrassment.

"Fuck- sorry, I didn't hear you come in. How long ‘v you been standing there?"

I laughed lightly and shook my head. "Not long, I just walked in."

A smile painted itself onto his face as he set the pencil down and put his hands in his pockets just far enough that his thumbs still stuck out. "What can i do for ya?" He asked kindly, the toothpick in his mouth moving as he spoke.

"My truck broke down three blocks ago and wouldn't start. I tried looking under the hood to see the problem, but it was smoking, so I pushed it here." I explained, my hands finding each other and clasping together at my front.

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly. "Jesus, you wheeled it all the way here?" He asked, laughing breathily when I nodded my head in response. "Atta girl. What kind of truck is it?"

"A ford pickup," I responded all too quickly, my voice strained as I tried to ignore how my heart swelled in my chest from the impressed look on his face. He nodded as he opened the drawer next to him and pulled out a ballpoint pen, picking up the notepad once again to start writing. "What year and license plate?"

"85', boston plate, the number is 289 BTO. " I watched as he wrote mindlessly, the handwriting barely coherent.

"'M kay, I'll take a look at it for you." he said, setting the notepad and pen back down on the counter. He opened his palm, gesturing for my keys, and I dropped them into his grasp. He hooked the ring that held them together around his index finger.

"Wait here, should only be a couple minutes."

I nodded as he circled around to the end of the desk, walking past me and pushing open the door to the garage.

His absence gave me a chance to examine the decor of the office space. Family and baby portraits crowded on top of the counter below the window behind the desk. A mickey mouse clock sat above the side door, and a large OPEN sign hung in the window.

The wall was crowded with plates and signs. One that caught my eye was an eagle with its claws digging into a hanging mirror, the name HARLEY DAVIDSON displayed in bright orange letters above the eagle's head. Next to the register was a small bell with a sign that said "ring for service" and the words 'don't actually' were scribbled in sharpie above.

Just when I was getting lost in thought, I heard the door bells jingle a second time, and Chris walked back in. The rag was now hanging loosely in his palm as he approached the counter. He stood right next to me, reaching over for the notepad and throwing the rag back over his now bare shoulder, which is when I realized he had discarded his button up. My eyes dart down to see the keys to my truck now hanging on a different belt loop on his jeans.

"From what I can see," he starts, popping the cap of the pen off and leaving it in between his teeth as he spoke. "It looks like a coolant leak. The combination from the antifreeze leaking and the heat of the engine is enough to make it smoke, but it's not enough to cause the engine freeze up." he explains, his eyes meeting mine every couple of words to make sure i understand. "So, it could also be a fuel pump problem combined with the leak."

I nodded, chewing my lip nervously as he went on to explain the time the repair would take as well as the cost. When the words, "not finished until at least tomorrow" left his lips, I huffed in defeat, and tried to make my disappointment less evident as i crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"How long have you had it?" He asked, now leaning against the counter next to us with one elbow, crossing one foot over the other.

"I've only started to work on it this summer, but it's been my dads since before i was born."

He nodded. "It's a pretty ride," he confessed. "I honestly expected it to look worse when you said 85', but the conditions not bad. You been workin' on it a lot?"

"As much as I can." I shrugged.

He complimented the paint job, to which i confessed i'd done it, and he gushed. "Christ, you should work here. Matt can't paint to save his life. You could probably get him out of a job,"

Matt sent a glare his way. "Shut up, kid. Dad would fire you over me any day, especially if you keep sleeping in."

Chris laughed, a genuine sound that made Matt's glare turn into a small smile before he went back to rifling through the file cabinet.

He turned back to me, pausing to look back over the notes he'd written down. "If i had to guess, I'd say we can probably have it to you by tomorrow evening." he said, looking away from the paper and averting his gaze to instead look me right in the eye. "That work for you?"

I nodded slowly. Suddenly, the issue of a ride home became extremely apparent, and an anxious feeling started to blossom in my chest.

"Good. Just one more thing. . ." he pauses to take the pen cap out of his mouth and place it back on the pen, tapping it against the curve of his hand and grinning wildly at me.

"i'm gonna need your number to let you know when its finished."

He's just asking because he's supposed to; because he literally has to in order for me to get my car back. But regardless, i felt heat rise to my cheeks as i started shifting uncomfortably in place.

"Right," I said, moving to reach for the pen. He points to a blank part of the notepad, tapping lightly to tell me where to write it.

Quickly and shakily, i write out the numbers with dashes. I hand it back to him, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He rips the sheet off the notepad in one swift motion and folds it in half, placing it in his back pocket.

He glances towards the clock. Its nearing seven. He turns back to me, "d'you have a ride home?"

My eyes went wide. I'm reminded of my attempt to call my dad three times when the truck initially broke down, and how my shoulders slumped in defeat at the sound of his voicemail playing repeatedly.

I glance back over to him, ". . . Not exactly. I'll probably just catch the bu-"

"I can drive you,"

I swallowed, my lips slightly parted in surprise. His grin was still wide, awaiting my response.

It was a sweet offer, really. But considering my house was across town, partnered with the fact that he was literally on the job, i shook my head. "That's really sweet, thank you, but I'm far. And you're working, anyway." He shrugs, glancing at the clock once more. "It's fine, Matt's on desk duty and he's closing tonight. I don't mind."

I chew my lip. I'd be stupid to pass up on a ride, but i barely know this kid, and if my dad sees me rolling up with him and no truck, it wouldn't look great.

And then I think about the hour long bus ride that would be in the near future if I declined.

I screw my eyes shut. "You know what? Why not."

Despite the scenario i was in, my mind was pushing out any and all nerves as I watched Chris collect his things from behind the desk. He pulled his wallet, shop keys and jacket out of a cubby.

The two of us walked back into the garage and over to Matt, who was washing his hands in a sink bellow the tool shelves.

Chris bid goodbye to his brother, who looked at the clock and then frowned, turning the faucet off and reaching for the roll of papers towels.

"You're seriously slacking off? I already covered for you and Nate leaving early last weekend." He complained, discarding the wad of paper towels he'd used to dry his hands into the trash bin below.

Chris shot him a look. "And then i covered your sunday morning shift because you were hungover. You owe me."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just put your tools away when you open tomorrow. It drives me fucking insane when you leave them everywhere."

Chris salutes. "Roger that." He turned to me and winked, gesturing to follow him through the garage with a tilt of his head.

I followed behind him as he went out a different exit; this one leading to a parking lot on the back of the building. A large EMPLOYEE PARKING sign hung on the fence near the driveway.

He fiddled with the many keys on his carabiner before finally finding his and walking towards a car near the opening in the gate.

A blue, four-seater, convertible 65' mustang. The light from the setting sun literally reflected off of it. He mindlessly stuck the key into the passenger side door, twisting and pulling it open with a faint click.

He gestured his hand towards the seat playfully, "Ladies first."

I rolled my eyes, placing one foot on the floor of the car and ducking my head to sit down. "How gentlemanly of you,"

He grinned at me, closing the door and walking around the back of the car before popping into the driver's seat.

"This is.. wow." I mutter, admiring the small details and cleanliness of the car as he closed his door and threw his belongings in the back. "Jesus, this is yours?"

He smiled proudly, his tongue darting out to dampen his bottom lip. "All mine,"

His fingers twisted the key into the ignition and the roar of the engine made the car buzz against my feet. He rolled both of our windows down, the summer air blowing smoothly through the car.

His smile was wider and prouder than ever as he glanced into the rear view mirror, throwing an arm over the back of my seat to glance behind him as he reversed. We pulled out of the parking lot and turned left onto the main road, Chris letting the steering wheel slide back into place under his palm by itself once he'd done so.

"You said you were far," he mumbled. "What area are you in?"

The question pulled me back into reality. I'd gotten so distracted by the way he drove so carelessly, like he was completely relaxed and in control of everything movement the car made, like fear didn't even exist to him as he pressed harder onto the gas pedal with his foot, my eyes choosing to ignore the way the tic on the speed meter start to spike.

His jawline was illuminated in the dim light, and the toothpick that was still resting on his lips stayed moving as he spoke gently, waiting patiently for me to answer.

I started giving him directions, and he listened carefully and intently, glancing over to look at me to make sure he understood my instructions. Once we were on the freeway, he went even faster, lane switching if someone in front of him wasn't going as fast as he'd like them to.

Soft giggles left me as he did, basking in the view of his lips parted into a smile, showcasing pearly teeth between pink lips.

Once he pulled onto the off ramp and we were stopped at a red light, he turned to look at me again, the bright red turning the car a faint shade of crimson.

"What time do you need to be back?"

He asked with a tone of voice he hadn't used till now. The sudden lowness caught me off guard as I shrugged, "'Dunno, not for a while."

He hummed in acknowledgement. "You wanna stay on the road for a bit?"

I pull my knees up to my chest and let my head fall against the headrest, a careless smile on my face. "Definitely."

And we did; we ended up back on the highway pretty quickly, blasting music through a speaker Chris had propped against the dashboard.

His speed only got higher and higher as time went on, carelessly resting one hand on the wheel whilst the other gripped the gear shift. At some point, his hand had mindlessly traveled to rest on my upper bare thigh below the hem of my shorts, cold and partially ringed fingers pressing against my skin.

"Will you do me a favor?"

I raised my eyebrows and hummed in response. He gestured towards the glove box. "Theres a pack of camel blue 99s in the glove box, would you grab em for me?"

I bit my lip. "Depends, you sharing?"

"Duh."

I leaned forward, feeling my stomach flip when his hand didn't much as move an inch on my thigh, brushing against my lower stomach as I lurched forward to fiddle with the glovebox.

I propped it open and grabbed the pack and paused, "d'you have a light?"

He nodded. "Should be one in there."

I learned more forward and reached farther back, glancing around before locking my eyes on a silver flip top lighter and grabbing it. Once i lean back up, Chris is pulling into an empty lot. His hand leaves my leg to push the gear into park, and i try not to frown.

I flick the top of the cig carton open and hastily pull one out, dropping it into Chris's palm.

He places it hazardly between his lips and turns to face me, silently asking for me to light it.

I pop the lid of the zippo open and hold the flam to the end of his cig, waiting to pull away until his expression signifies that its lit enough. His expression relaxes as he breathes in before pulling it away from his mouth with two fingers and exhaling, the smoke filling the car.

"If I'm honest, I prefer marlboro reds." I say quietly in an attempt to break the silence, watching Chris flick the ash out the window lazily with his thumb and index finger. He shakes his head. "Camels are undeniably better."

I laugh lightly and raise my eyebrows in amusement. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

He takes another drag before holding it in between his fingers in front of my face, and Instead of reaching for it, I place my lips around the filter while it's still in his hand. Our eyes lock while I breath in sharper, the cool feel of the smoke filling my chest.

He licks his lips, and for a moment, his eyes dart down to look at mine, and he's starts he's studying my face. I'm doing the same.

His eyes are bright blue, surrounded by thick lashes, which are barely visible with stray pieces of his hair hanging down below the bandana on his head. Freckles lightly paint his noise, and his pink lips are slightly parted as his eyes scan my face.

"I like your piercing," he finally says, pressing his one hand to his eyebrow as if he had one himself. I breathe out the smoke i'd been holding in my lungs and smile at him. He's still looking at it as he speaks again, "Did it hurt?"

I shrug. "Not really," Because it didn't, but also because I'd feel like an idiot saying it did. "Just a pinch."

He nodded slowly. "Hm."

I take another hit from the cig which he's still holding up to my lips. Our faces are closer now. One of my elbows is resting on the center console as I look at him through my lashes.

"You should get one." I say.

He laughs, breathy and genuine. "Yeah? You think so?"

"Mhm," i reach my hand up to graze above his eye with two fingers. "It would look good on you." He watches my movements. "We'd match, too."

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, finally moving the cig back to his own lips and taking one more long drag before carelessly discarding it out the window.

All too quick, he's facing me again, and he leans even closer. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest, and a part of me thinks he can hear it.

Before I can even blink, he places his fingers on my chin and tilts his head, smashing his lips against mine hard.

Its all teeth at first, clashing messily as his hand leaves my chin and rests as the base of my neck. My hands are on his face, my fingers messing with the curls at the back of his neck while he grins against my lips.

He lightly bites my bottom lip, taking the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like cherry and camels, and I feel myself whimpering at the contact.

"Fuck," he mumbles into my mouth, and his tone is exasperated, partly because the console between us is making it harder for him to kiss me like he wants to, and partly because his attempts to pull me close enough for our chests to press together have been unsuccessful.

His hands reach down to tug at the belt loops of my shorts, trying to pull me onto his lap. I pull away for a second to push myself over the console, Chris's grip on my hips staying firm to assist me. I duck to avoid hitting my head on the roof of the car, and Chris giggles lowly.

I finally relax once I'm comfortable in his lap, straddling his legs below me. One of his hands is across my lower half, sliding his hand into my back pocket, and the other rests in the middle of my back, holding me in place.

We're kissing again, and this time it's more lips and tongue then teeth, but he's still lightly tugging at my lip.

I'm tugging at his hair as I push myself closer to his lower abdomen, pressing down, which elicits a groan from him. He pulls away from me, and I try to follow his lips with a whine, but he tugs at the back of my hair lightly so he can press kisses from my jaw down to my neck.

I'm already whimpering as soon as his teeth press against my throat, and he digs them deep, kissing the mark once he's satisfied with the shade of purple its turned before finding a different spot to do the same thing.

"Chris, fuck- please."

I can feel him below me, and it's making me crazy. He doesn't budge, even as I continue to whine breathlessly at him.

He only grins as he continues to nip at my skin, and i felt the smirk on his face against my throat. I tangle my fingers in his hair and tug as a silent plea. "What s' it, baby?"

Baby.

I practically keen at the nickname. He finally pulls away, a string of saliva connecting his lips to his previous spot on my neck. He grins proudly at the marks he's left before looking at me again.

"What d'you want?" his tone is cocky and assertive. His lips look red and bitten, and I start to feel embarrassed at the fact that we were sucking face so lewdly in a literal parking lot.

I want to squirm and writhe away under his gaze, but his knuckle tight grip on me won't let me. I fiddle with the neck of his shirt and avoid looking at him as i whisper, "I need you."

He grins madly. "How d'you need me, sweetheart?"

I lean forward and press my lips back against his, and he entertains for a little before tugging my hair lightly to pull me back. His fingers grip my chin, holding me in place to look at him.

"Tell me what you want."

I brush my hand against his belt buckle. "I wanna suck you off,"

It came out in a mumble, but he understood, nodding somewhat cockily with a shit-eating grin on his lips. A groan left him as he tugged me even closer so our chests were pressed together. "Yeah?"

I nod eagerly, another 'please' ready to escape my mouth as my impatience grows. He ducks his hand between the seat and the door to push it farther back, "On your knees, then."

I obliged immediately, sliding off his lap to rest on my knees below him. My elbows rest on either side of his legs as my hands flew to his belt, unbuckling it and tugging at his jeans and boxers.

He lifted his hips lightly to assist me. I pulled them down until they rested around his ankles, and I feel myself gawk.

He's big. Bigger then I expected.

A nervous feeling bubbles in the pit of my stomach, but the way he's looking down at me through hazy vision makes it vanish even quicker, and I wrap my hands around his length.

"You okay?" He asks, moving his hand to rest on my cheek, his thumb soothingly pressed on my temple.

"No- yeah, i'm good." I breathe. I hover myself over him, finally taking him into my mouth. A string of curses leave him in a hushed breath, and his head moves to rest at the back of my head to coax me farther down.

I pull back slightly, wrapping my lips around his tip and sucking lightly. His chest is rising and falling quickly above me, and his labored breathing is music to my ears.

His cock is heavy on my tongue, and its addicting. I take him farther down my throat, hollowing my cheeks to fit as much of him as i can while my hand is in a fist around his base. I bob my head and twist my hand, looking up at him to see his flushed face as he pants.

"Fuck, you look so pretty like this." He babbles, a throaty moan leaving him when I twist my hand faster, swirling my tongue along his cock as my head rises and falls.

I hum around his dick at the compliment, the slight sting on my scalp from him pulling my hair only pushing me to do more. He pushes me down slightly, and i choke at the burn of his tip making contact with my uvula.

I moan loudly on him at the feeling, tears building in my eyes as the vibration from the noises i'm making cause him to throw his head back, a blissed out expression on his face. "Fuck, so good. Just like that, god."

Drool seeps from the corners of my mouth as I speed up all my movements. Chris is a breathy, moaning mess above me, watching me through lidded eyes as I glance up at him.

He moves his other hand to rest on the side of my face, grinning at my fucked out appearance. "Fucking filthy girl, aren't you, baby." He says through gritted teeth. "You love this, don't you?"

I whine at him, furrowing my eyebrows in pleasure to say "yes', and watching as his eyes roll lightly back in his head when i start to suck lightly at his tip again.

My hand falls from his base to lay on his leg, the other holding the bottom of his shirt in my fist. I try to push my head farther down, whimpering faintly at the stretch.

Chris's hips jerk up lightly at the sensation, causing him to push himself down my throat until my lips hit the base. I start to choke, but I breathe heavily through my nose, screwing my eyes shut and hallowing my cheeks out to stop myself from pulling off.

"Fuck!" he grunts loudly, his grip on my hair turning animalistic. He mindlessly mutters out curses and praise as he pushes my head up and down with his hands, 'good girl', 'don't stop', 'takin' me so good, baby' 'just like that' . . .

My hands are resting completely at his sides as he guides my mouth on his cock, slightly bucking his hips to push himself as far as I can take him. His strokes turn sloppy, and I look up at him again to see him looking at me with a broken glance, bottom lip between his teeth. "Fuck, gonna cum," he gasps.

I begin to swirl my tongue around him, moaning messily on him as if to say, 'in my mouth, please', but he's already reading my mind, digging his nails into my scalp as he spurts coats of white down my throat, an incoherent string of "fuck fuck fuck"'s spilling out of him. Im swallowing as quickly as i can.

I pull off of him with a lewd pop, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I know i look completely ruined, but I'm still focused on catching my breath and looking at Chris's flushed pink face above me.

His hand rests on my face again, and his thumb soothingly rubs my cheek. "You okay? Was that too much?" he asks, his expression full of concern as he wipes the tears from under my eyes.

I smile, leaning into his touch. "I'm good, it was really good."

He nods, smiling dumbly. "Good."

He pulls his jeans and boxers back up, bucking his belt before pulling me off my knees and back onto his lap. He presses a soft, passionate kiss on my lips, and then trails kisses down the side of my face, pulling my hair back off my shoulders as we both catch our breath.

We're both startled by the loud ringing of my phone in the passenger seat. I reach over the console, sighing in relief when i flip it over and see my dad's name at the top of my screen.

I put the phone up to my ear, watching as Chris rubs circles into my side with his cold fingers.

"Hi," I breath out. I listen as my dad apologizes for not answering earlier. He tells me he heard my voicemail and asks if I'm okay. "M' fine, I just wheeled it to a shop a couple blocks over. I'm on the bus home now, should only be a bit."

Chris pouts at me, and i roll my eyes at him. My dad talks for a couple for seconds before hanging up, and i leave my phone in the drink compartment next to Chris's forgotten lighter.

"D'you need to get home?" He asked. I nodded, and he frowns. "I was gonna get you off in the backseat,"

part two? :)

thank you for reading! reblogs are DEEPLY appreciated. I hope you enjoyed. links below !

about me ! masterlists ! guidelines / info !

#Spotify #sturniolos #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #mechanics are sexy #smoker chris #jellyfishbug 🌺

1K notes · View notes

hederasgarden · 1 year ago

Text

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.

♡

I no longer have a tag list, please follow @hg-library and turn on notifications.

#scott #twisters #twisters fic #twisters fanfic #scott twisters #scott x reader #scott x you #scott miller x reader #scott miller x you

1K notes · View notes

yueyimold · 1 year ago

Text

gyratory spout HDPE lubricant oil seals mold

China 2k mold maker, offer multi shot screw on lube oil cap, double screw cover engine oil cap mold, two color screw lubricant cap, bi mold spout HDPE lube oil seals

#China mold #2 component mold #Bi material mold #multi shot mold #two color screw on lube oil cap mold #2k screw cover engine oil cap mold #rotary mold screw lubricant cap #double spout hdpe lube oil seals mold

0 notes

bunny-jpeg · 7 months ago

Text

burnin' tire

max verstappen

cw: smut/pwp, masturbation, fantasies, mad!max, post-dutch gp, mechanic!reader

love the fic? leave a comment! really love the fic? suggest your own!!

second.

second was first place for losers. that was what he had been told his entire life. second, seconde, secondo, however he could slice it, it still looked bad. so when he stomped back into the paddock with fire in his heart and a storm cloud over his head, the mechanics scattered.

they even went as far as to push you, their newest addition in front of max so they could get a head start away from mad max.

he looked down at you, something in his gaze left you a little shaky at the knees. this was your first race with the team, and you couldn't secure a win for max. it was almost embarrassing.

"i'm sorry, mister verstappen!" you pouted, "i'm really sorry! we tried to move as fast as possible, but i guess we couldn't keep up to mclaren." you worried about your job! you had just started, you were far from home and this was your dream to work for, "i'm so sorry!"

you almost had tears in your eyes, which deflated the anger from max's stance. he dropped his arms and looked at you. he replied, "there's nothing to be sorry about, it happens." as if he hadn't been on a losing streak for some time now.

your bottom lip quivered and your eyes grew watery, "this was your home race. and i'm just so sorry! i just wanted to do good, i wanted you to win!" a few tears fell and max was dumbfounded.

he was used to tearing into the mechanics and the engineers. he was used to snapping his words and letting rage consume him. instead he reached out for you, "hey, it's okay! don't cry. it's alright.'" he even wiped your tears away as your lip wobbled.

you got into his arms and gave him a bit hug. you looked at him and said, "i promise we'll win the next one! i promise!" even in those baggy coveralls you looked cute. if not beautiful.

max felt the anger disappear in his gut and he smiled at you, almost warm, "yes... yes we will." and when he patted you on the head and turned away and out of the paddock.

the other mechanics were in as much shock as you were. and while max would've loved to continue holding you, even reassuring you about the race in monza the following week. max was painfully hard from your brief interaction. it was like all the anger went to his cock and he needed to get out of there before he caused a scene.

back in the red bull motor home, max thought he was going to burst a blood vessel in his head. it was a pain to get into his jeans after he got out of his racing clothes. everything felt like a live wire, to go without masturbating for that long felt painful. especially when the source of his erection was playing in his read.

you smell like motor oil and warm vanilla, your touch was soft when you hugged him and that pretty face. even with the smear of grease on your face and the red bull cap on your head.

"mister verstappen." your voice rang in his head and he didn't even make it to the bed before his cock was in his hand. his palm covered in his spit as he sat on the couch and stroked himself still clothed.

he knew that the team had hired a new mechanic, but to see you in action made his brain feel almost rotten from the lust he felt. he barely paid attention to who was working on the car during the race but he knew you weren't working alone. and yet, you still carried all the responsibility for the team on your shoulders.

you poor thing. he continued to stroke his cock and he panted heavily at the feeling. thoughts of you were in his head as he pleasured himself. he wished you were there to do it for him. even if you wore you coveralls and covered in grease, if you were on your knees in front of him, your mouth on his cock as you pleasured him.

he wondered if you had even done that before. if you had any partners, or even one at the moment. he tried not to let the jealousy curl in his gut. he wasn't even sure, but he wouldn't have been surprised. you were beautiful, and who didn't love a gentle soul. you wanted max to win and max in turn felt towards you that he felt towards no other mechanic. he wanted you to work on his car, but also taking you out to dinner. to show you the finer things in life.

he wondered what colour panties you wore, and what cut. he knew you weren't wearing a thong, no when you were lifting heavy tires all day. he imagined something red, maybe a boy short. something that moved with the curves of your hips and thighs. he thought excited him, it really turned him on. made his face as red as he hoped that your panties would be.

how they'd curve to your ass, when you ran around the pit stop. how you would lift tools around. the strength to you. max liked models, but there was something about you the captivated him. and you didn't even know. you were just a humble mechanic, and you drove max wild.

he continued to stroke his cock heavily. he panted heavily as he felt his dark t-shirt cling to his back. his pace was quick up against his cock, he even spat on his hand once more to just to get the right friction. it was a head rush. he was not immune to masturbation, max did it almost daily if he had the time.

but to picture you in your bra and panties made him excited. hungry like a dog as he fucked his hand. he wished it was your pussy. he wished that he could bully the tip of his cock against you. he wished he could bend you in half and fuck you with a vigor that there were no other words for.

he wondered if you were loud, if he'd have to silence you with your panties. if he's have to cover your mouth or gag you, or would you just burst into tears like you did in the garage. the wet eyes,staring at him, promising that you'd do better next time. it made max want to fuck you even more. he wanted you every way he could have you.

"shit." he groaned through grit teeth as he continued to stroke his cock. he could feel his heart beat in his ears as he continued to masturbate. you were just a little thing, even with your skills as a mechanic, you were still so small. max felt he need to protect you.

he wanted to make sure you needed for nothing. he wondered if you'd have him as your lover. as your partner. the thought made him shudder as he continued to stroke his cock. he felt the head rush it all, he panted heavily as he stroked his cock.

his pace continued and he let himself get lost in the feeling. when it got overwhelming, he finished all over himself. your words rang in his mind, the promises you made. next time will be better. he'd win next time! and as cum dribbled all over his hand, he panted heavily with the head rush. he panted heavily and felt a shudder through climax. he wondered if you were touching yourself tonight, which made his cock twitch in his hand.

he was covered in cum at the waist and he felt hot all over. he rubbed his face with his free hand and for a moment felt in the post-orgasm shame. but it didn't last long.

with the after shivers of euphoria, he knew he had to do something. he couldn't be jerking off in private anytime he saw you. max was a man of action so after he cleaned himself off, he texted horner,

"i was wondering if i could properly meet with our new mechanic, show her the ropes. i think things will be promising with her." he tried to sound as professional as possible, but as thoughts of your watery eyes filled his mind. he knew he'd have to get himself off again soon. <3

727 notes · View notes