#Intake Kit

[vividracing]

New Post has been published on https://www.vividracing.com/blog/new-kn-intake-kit-for-the-mustang-gt-s650-makes-15hp-dyno-verified/

New K&N Intake Kit for the Mustang GT S650 Makes 15hp - Dyno Verified!

K&N has just released their new intake kit for the 2024 Mustang GT S650 V8 engine. This intake is a complete upgrade to enhance your Mustangs engine performance and sound. The intake is includes a reusable and recleanable air filter. Intake kits are a bolt on design and will not void warranty. Designed using roto mold intake tubing and a high flow air filter matched to the engines horsepower, this intake dyno tested making 15rwhp and 19ft/lbs of torque!

If interested in getting a K&N Intake or any other parts for your Ford Mustang GT S650, visit us here – https://www.vividracing.com/index.php?keywords=Ford+Mustang+GT+2024

View Installation Instructions Here

View Dyno Chart Here

[scoreframes]

fuck it mad max granny biker gang viera in their 300s

[rotocareengineers]

Pressure washers are essential tools for both homeowners and professionals, but like any mechanical device, they require periodic maintenance. One key component that often gets overlooked is the Unloader valve Kit.

[hspdiesel]

HSP Cold Air Intake for 2020-2022 Ford Powerstroke F250/350 6.7L

Find your 2020-2022 Ford Powerstroke F250/350 6.7L with the HSP Cold Air Intake Kit. Improve performance and efficiency with precision-engineered intake technology.

[black-diamond-unlimited]

Enhance the power and efficiency of your diesel vehicle with our wide selection of high-quality performance parts and accessories. From exhaust systems to turbochargers, we offer top brands like Banks Power and BD Diesel. Get expert advice and compare options for your vehicle at Black Diamond Unlimited.

[minitruckgarage]

Upgrade Your Honda Mini Truck with the Right Parts

Honda Mini Trucks are beloved for their compact size and impressive versatility. With the right upgrades, you can boost their performance, appearance, and functionality. Whether it's for work or play, this article will guide you through the process of choosing and installing the perfect upgrades to make your mini truck stand out. Read on.

[prosourcediesel]

An intercooler, also known as a charge air cooler, is an automotive component that cools the hot, compressed air from a turbocharger or supercharger before it enters the engine for improved performance and efficiency.

[shurisneakers]

HIII, HOW ARE YOU

I was thinking if you could write Bucky's version of "Who did this to you" 🥰 Also, I love you writing so much! The way you describe things makes it so easy for me to imagine the scenes

a/n: hello my love! thank you for sending this in, I hope you like it<3

this is part of misery loves company but is just a stand alone fic. you don't need to read anything before this

warnings: blood and hurt, implications of violence and killin klg, hurt comfort, swearing

The longer you spend in this business, the more sleep feels like a favor the universe begrudgingly grants. Rest without nightmares is a luxury, and your salary simply did not budget for it.

So when it’s 3 a.m., and someone slips into your room without a word, you’re already awake before the light in your bathroom flickers on.

You hear the faint shuffle of movement, the sound of cabinets opening and closing. His silhouette moves inside, quiet and deliberate.

There’s no urgency to it, no noise loud enough to wake anyone else. He knows better than that. He just doesn’t know better than to pick your bathroom to raid.

Sighing, you push off the bed and head toward the bathroom.

The door creaks when you nudge it open, and he doesn’t even flinch. He’s still bent over the sink, head in your cabinet, his shoulders slumped like he’s half-asleep himself.

“Go to bed,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, not bothering to look at you.

“Sure, right after you get the fuck out of my bathroom," you reply, leaning against the doorframe. “You know there’s one in your room, right? Or did you get lost again?”

“Crazy. Here I was, thinking I’d take the scenic route,” he deadpans, pulling out a bottle and squinting at the label. “Must’ve missed my bathroom. Maybe it’s hiding behind a bookshelf or something.”

You roll your eyes and press a hand to his shoulder, shoving him aside as you rifle through the cabinet yourself. “Move. You’re just making a mess.”

Bucky doesn’t protest, just leans back against the wall with a sigh, watching as you shove aside bottles and boxes. When you finally find the first-aid kit, you shove past him with more force than necessary.

“Sit down.”

To your surprise, he obeys, perching on the edge of the bathtub. His silence almost irritates you more than his usual backtalk.

You crouch in front of him, ignoring the way his gaze follows your every movement as you pull out antiseptic wipes and gauze. You don’t want to look at him yet. You don’t need to see his face to know he looks like hell.

But when you finally glance up, it’s still worse than you expected.

If you hadn’t trained yourself to stay composed in the worst situations, your breath might’ve hitched. His lip is split, an eye swollen shut, cuts scattered across his face, and a dark trail of dried blood streaks from his nose to his jaw. The faintest smudge of crimson still lingers on his temple.

"What?" his voice comes out sharper, like he's testing you to see your reaction.

He sits too stiffly for it to just be his face. There are ribs involved, at the very least.

You don't grace him with a reply.

"I'm fine," he says, as if that’s enough to wave away the mess of him.

“Didn’t ask,” you reply flatly, though your jaw tightens.

“Did someone teach you how to be this kind, or is it a God-given talent?” he mutters dryly.

You don’t respond, ripping open a packet of antiseptic wipes and crouching in front of him.

“How’d your day go?” he drawls, voice flat but testing.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“God, the hospitality,” he drags, voice dry and cracked. "For a second there, I was worried bleeding out in your bathroom might make you care.”

“So fuckin' dramatic,” you breathe, swiping a wipe across his busted lip with a gentleness you hate admitting to. “You’re not bleeding out. And I don’t care."

The silence stretches as you clean him up. He doesn’t flinch-- not at the antiseptic or the sting of your touch-- but you notice his sharp intake of breath when you press a little harder on his ribs.

“Who did this?” you ask lowly, your tone sharp without meaning to be.

He exhales through his nose, something like a grunt. “Why? You plannin' on punching them for me?”

"If that'll keep you out of my damn bathroom at night."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and unyielding, but you refuse to meet it, focusing instead on wiping the blood crusted beneath his nose.

Finally, he mumbles, “Doesn’t matter. Kids are safe."

“Good,” you say, but the word sticks in your throat like glass.

When you glance up, his good eye is already on you, his gaze sharper than it has any right to be. His breathing is steady, heavier than usual but not alarming. Whatever he’s looking for, you don’t know, but it’s enough to make you shift uncomfortably.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, softer this time, almost like he’s trying to convince you.

“Didn’t ask,” you mutter, though your hand slows for a fraction of a second before you move on to the next cut.

His lip quirks at that, the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Noticed."

When you move to dab at the cut above his brow, something in his hair catches your eye. Your fingers brush against it, and you pull the strand closer for inspection

That’s when you notice it.

The small braid in his hair, crooked and messy, like it was done by clumsy hands.

You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers tugging gently at the braid.

"Who did this to you?” you ask again, this time biting back a smile.

“Don’t,” he mutters, ducking his head to pull away, but your hand finds his neck, stilling him. His skin grows warm under your hand.

“One of the kids?” you press, voice softer now.

He clears his throat, his cheeks flushing faintly. “The jet was too dark. They needed a distraction.” He pauses, as though considering how much to share. “Missed that one, I guess.”

Your thumb brushes his jaw as you inspect the braid, lingering a little too long. “Shame. It makes you look less hideous.”

Bucky huffs, more exasperated than offended. “You’re shit out of luck, then. Gotta put up with this mug as it is.”

You realize you’ve been staring too long when his eyes flick to yours. Clearing your throat, you drop your hands and reach for another wipe.

He leans back slightly, his gaze dragging over you. “You look like you’re about to punch someone.”

“Surprised there’s anyone left to punch.”

“There isn’t,” he replies breezily, though the weight of his words hangs in the air.

“Good, I don't have to waste my time cleaning up after you.” You swipe the antiseptic across his lip, slower this time, and your fingers linger a fraction longer than they should.

You don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your hands as you tear off another wipe, the way his jaw tightens when your fingers brush against his skin again.

“You’re happy you don’t get to punch anyone?” he asks, “Careful, or I might start thinking you care.”

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you press the antiseptic down just hard enough to make him wince.

Bucky hisses, but his lips twitch, and you hate how much you want to smile back.

Instead, you pack away the first aid kit and push it into his lap.

“Go to sleep,” you mutter, turning away.

“Sure thing,” he says, but when you glance back, he’s still sitting there, watching you like he’s not quite ready to leave.

Like maybe you don’t want him to.

"C'mon," you say quietly. "It's late."

He finally pushes himself off the tub, and drags himself silently to your bed.

[asiatic-apple]

If requests are open, maybe some fluff with a fem reader with caleb please? go any way you please, and ty

Thanks for the req, nonnie! I was so excited to make my own choice for this one. Prompt #17 reminded me of when he notices a small cut on MC’s hand by stalking her Moment posts lolll—so I wanted to write something comical in the same vein. Hope you enjoy!

Last chance to send a request!

Playing doctor

Caleb x female reader

Prompt: carefully bandaging the other’s wounds, even if it’s just a tiny cut

Content: a little bit suggestive…especially at the end, caleb is such a mother hen, possessive!caleb

You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, your back against the couch, surrounded by the chaos of tiny plastic parts and instruction booklets. Caleb’s plane model kit has taken over the entire area in front of the coffee table.

The glossy box it came in promised “historically accurate parts and museum-quality realism.” What it didn’t mention was that building it would feel like doing surgery with tweezers and a prayer.

While you carefully sort dozens—or maybe hundreds—of parts into organized piles, Caleb lounges beside you on the carpet, elbows propped on the table.

Excitement radiates off him like heat. He’s been infodumping about fighter jets for the past thirty minutes straight. And honestly, you’re enjoying it. His voice pitches higher when he’s animated, and his hand gestures get wilder the longer he explains the mechanics of wing flaps and thrust ratios.

He’s so adorable that your teeth ache. Something else, much lower in your body, aches too. But you try to ignore it for now. You’re barely looking down at the pieces in your hands anymore, too enamored by how passionate he is.

“And the thing about the intake valves,” Caleb says, flipping the instruction manual around to point out a diagram like it’s a national treasure, “is that most people don’t realize the way they rerouted airflow in this design actually boosted acceleration by–”

He gasps, loud and sharp, his face stricken in horror.

You glance down at the model parts in your hands, panic spiking. Surely you didn’t break something. There was no snapping sound, no loose plastic. Everything looks intact.

“What? What did I do?” you ask quickly, heart in your throat.

His large hands gently engulf yours, forcing you to drop the parts onto the floor as he peers down at your fingers with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

“Pip-squeak,” he scolds softly, brows drawn. “I told you to be careful.”

“Huh? I was being careful. I didn’t break–"

“The wingtips are sharp.” His voice is low and reminiscent of when he’s reprimanding his subordinates at the Fleet. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

You frown, examining your hand. There’s no blood. No scratch. Nothing.

But then he presses lightly on the pad of your pointer finger, and a faint sting blooms. One single drop of blood beads up at the tip like it had to fight hard to exist. You’re not even sure how he noticed something so miniscule before you registered the cut.

Caleb inhales like you’ve been shot.

You scoff. “You’re kidding, right?”

He is not.

Before you can protest, he drags you down the hall, mumbling about risk of infection and tissue trauma like you’ve barely survived a Wanderer ambush.

You don’t resist him tugging you toward the bathroom. Not because you agree with him, but because you’ve learned there’s no reasoning with him when you’re hurt. Even slightly hurt.

But growing up with him made you stubborn. And you like to push his buttons.

“Caleb,” you whine dramatically, “it’s literally a paper cut. I’ll be fine.”

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’ in that insufferably cute way of his. “It’s plastic. Which makes it worse than a paper cut.”

You snort as he pulls out the first-aid kit from the medicine cabinet like a man preparing for battlefield surgery. With the help of his Evol, you’re deposited on top of the bathroom counter while he digs through antiseptics and gauze with military precision.

“Uh huh, and is that your professional diagnosis?” you tease.

“It is,” he counters, holding up the antiseptic like it’s holy water. “You’re bleeding. And I’m not risking it getting infected. Not on my watch.”

You bite your tongue instead of pointing out how annoying or stifling his overprotectiveness can be sometimes. Mirth flickers in your eyes while you watch him gently dab a cotton round with antiseptic before hovering it over your finger.

“Sorry, pips. This might sting.”

You grin and hiss dramatically as soon as it touches your skin. “Oh god…the pain!”

He hums sympathetically, his lips twitching with a smile. “Shh, I know. It’s okay. Doctor Caleb’s here.”

He is such an ass sometimes. But you snicker anyway. “You know you’re insane, right?” you mutter, sticking your tongue out at the overbearing doctor.

He wraps your finger with one of the ridiculous smiley-face band-aids he likes to keep around for “emergencies.”

“Yeah. Insanely in love with you,” he retorts, kissing your bandaged finger with a proud little grin.

God, he’s insufferable. And you stupidly love him anyway.

You jump down from the counter and let him take your good hand before leading him back toward the living room.

“Come on, Doctor Caleb,” you deadpan. “Your patient still has a jet to build with you.”

“As long as you promise to let me handle the sharp parts,” he mutters, shooting the scattered pieces a distrustful look when you enter the living room again.

“No promises.”

He sighs heavily. “Then I’m saving the kit for later and wrapping both your hands in gauze.”

To prove his point, he grips both your wrists, locking them against his chest while you laugh and try to escape. He tugs you closer, the look in his eyes becoming a bit darker once you’re close enough for his lips to brush your temple.

“You should listen to your doctor.” His voice is lower, a delicious-sounding threat edged in his words. “I’m the only one who knows what he’s talkin’ about,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, confused for half a second—until you remember Zayne. The actual licensed doctor who’s patched you up on more than one occasion. Who Caleb wishes you didn’t have to see anymore.

You smirk, deciding to play along. “But Doctor Caleb forgot something important,” you whisper, running your bandaged finger down his chest. “You didn’t prescribe any medicine for the pain.”

His brows arch, curiosity and heat mixing in his gaze.

You lean in just a little closer, your voice dropping to a teasing purr. “And I was such a good little trooper, helping you with your model kit all afternoon. Don’t you think I deserve a reward?”

💕 tag list: @heartyluv @doeeyes515 @lethalasylum @starryeyed-apple @starlitfics @craeatio @rafayelslittlestar @ruralamours @alyssac9 @blushofeve @alastor-simp @nezuswritingdesk

🍎 tag list: @walleeli @honeymoonfleur @stargirlygirl @floatinginaer @k-lq20 @sweatybonkhumanoidranch @gravity-pilot @honeycrispangels

Want to be added to my tag list?

dividers by @/sister-lucifer

[vividracing]

New Post has been published on https://www.vividracing.com/blog/the-ultimate-buyers-guide-for-ram-trx-cold-air-intakes/

The Ultimate Buyer's Guide for RAM TRX - Cold Air Intakes

When it comes to aftermarket intake kits manufacturers, one brand stands out from the rest, and that’s aFe Power. Advanced Flow Engineering abbreviate to aFe has been on top of their game as a company since 1999, as they manufacture racing air filters, air intake systems, exhaust systems, turbochargers, intercoolers, electronic programmers, throttle body spacers, diesel fuel systems, and other performance parts. The brand has recently released must have intake kits for RAM TRX, the powerful off-road focused engine such as the one the TRX has deserve only the best aftermarket upgrades.

In this blog we are going to go after each one, giving you the best info on which one will fit your truck model, and all you should know to spend your money wisely when purchasing these new upgrade.

Track Series

For owners of the 2021-2023 RAM 1500 TRX Hemi V8 6.2L Gas who are looking for an intake kit upgrade, this one is designed to fit your truck perfectly. The aFe Power Track Series Carbon Fiber Cold Air Intake System w/ Pro Dry S Filter for Ram 1500 TRX V8 6.2L 2021-2023 delivers dyno-proven gains of up to +19 HP and +17 Lbs. x Ft. TQ, and outflows factory intake by 30%.

If that’s not enough, this intake system was designed with lightweight and durable parts that deliver maximum performance, great filtration efficiency and dust holding capacity and aggressive air intake sounds making it best suited for street use. Click the blue link below to grab it right now!

Momentum GT 

This one is for owners of the 2021-2022 RAM 1500 TRX HEMI V8 6.2L Gas, and it is best suited for street and light off-road use. This intake system delivers dyno-proven gains of up to +28 HP and +25 Lbs. x Ft. TQ, and it outflows factory intake by 30% just like the track series one. With this intake system providing your engine with high-flowing air, which results in power gains, your TRX will pull harder and faster than ever before, and the sound will be even more pronounced than stock.

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Momentum GT Pro Dry S Cold Air Intake System RAM 1500 TRX Hemi V8 6.2L 2021-2022

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Momentum GT Pro 5R Cold Air Intake System RAM 1500 TRX Hemi V8 6.2L 2021-2022

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Momentum GT Raising Hell Red Cold Air Intake w/ Black Pro 5R Filters Ram 1500 TRX HEMI V8 6.2L (sc) 2021-2023 (Limited Edition color way)

Magnum Force Stage 2 

If you own the 2021-2023 Ram 1500, or the 2021-2023 Ram TRX, then this intake kit is built for you. The system delivers a dyno-proven gains of up to +19 HP and +17 Lbs. x Ft. TQ, and it outflows factory intake by 32%. This system is perfect for street and/or track use, so if you are looking for an intake that will deliver maximum performance and high flow rate to your engine in order for you to make the most out of your adventures, this is the one to go for.

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Magnum Force Stage-2 Cold Air Intake System w/ Pro Dry S Filter Ram 1500 TRX Hemi 2021-2023

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Magnum Force Stage-2 Cold Air Intake System w/ Pro 5R Filter Ram 1500 TRX Hemi 2021-2023

Super Stock 

aFe POWER Super Stock Induction System w/ Pro 5R Filters for RAM 1500 TRX V8-6.2L 2021+ doesn’t deliver as much when it comes to power gain and torque compared to others but still it is superior compared to stock intake. Guaranteed to give your engine a dyno-proven gains of up to +11 HP and +10 Lbs. x Ft. TQ, this kit outflows factory intake by 19% and delivers better performance on street and/or track use.

Replacement Filters 

aFe intake filters are designed to provide maximum performance whether it is the Pro 5R Air Filter, Pro DRY S Air Filter, or the Pro-GUARD 7, they are all durable, easy to install and have filtration efficiency. You should buy the Pro 5R Air Filter if you ride is for street and/or track use, if your truck is for street use only then you should go for Pro DRY S Air Filter, but if you want a filter with the highest filtration efficiency and which is guaranteed  to increase flow and has greater dust holding capacity, then you should go for the Pro-GUARD 7 air filter.

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Magnum Flow Pro 5R Air Filter for the Ram 1500 TRX HEMI V8 6.2L 2021

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Magnum Flow Pro DRY S Air Filter for the Ram 1500 TRX HEMI V8 6.2L 2021

CLICK HERE to buy the aFe POWER Magnum Flow Pro GUARD 7 Air Filter for the Ram 1500 TRX HEMI V8 6.2L 2021

At Vivid Racing we love giving you more options to choose from, because we know that upgrading to aftermarket kits is also about personal taste. So if aFe intake kits aren’t your cup of tea, Click Here to Shop All Intake Kits and Filters for the RAM TRX 

[yunniverse]

Risky

౨ৎ PAIRING— world z!jung wooyoung x reader

౨ৎ GENRE— angst, danger, fem!reader

౨ৎ WARNINGS— angst, mentions of wounds and blood, world z

౨ৎ WORD COUNT- 2.3k

౨ৎ SUMMARY- wooyoung finds himself wounded and in need of help. luckily, you quite literally bump into him on the street.

౨ৎ A/N- my first wooyoung story! i hope you all enjoy, and lmk what you think :)

Wooyoung knows he messed up, that he wasn’t careful, that he should have taken Yunho up on the offer of backup. Right now, however, he can’t think about much besides getting somewhere safe to examine his injuries.

He needs to find someone he knows, preferably not the authorities, who also know him quite well by now, and not in a good way.

He hisses as he falls against the side of a wall once again, his side pulsing with pain, his head spinning. He still has the fake mask on, donning a different identity, one that was supposed to keep him hidden.

Unfortunately, he had been stupid and it had cost him. Hong Joong is going to kill him if his wounds don’t kill him first 

With a sharp intake of breath, Wooyoung stands shakily to his feet again, his muscles sore and his vision blurry.

He hasn’t been able to take the face covering off, and he’s honestly scared too, since he can feel that his lip is busted, and he doesn’t know what the rest of his face could look like.

“Watch out!” someone shouts, making Wooyoung look up just slightly too late. With a grunt, he falls to the ground, earning a gasp from the person he had bumped into.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” he hears a girl’s voice exclaim as she bends to help him up. “I should have been paying more attention, but the groceries were kind of blocking my vision, and then you came up a little too fast.”

Wooyoung’s head is spinning as the girl talks, and, before he can stop himself, he shushes her, a hand moving to his head.

The girl’s eyes widen as she stops, gently gripping Wooyoung’s arm, “Are you hurt? I didn’t mean to actually hurt you!”

“I’m fine,” he clenches his jaw, trying his best not to cry out at the pain in his side, which is only worse now that the girl had bumped into him.

“Do you need help? My house is just down the block, if you want.” Wooyoung glances up at the girl, weighing his options. It would be a good way to get off the streets, but it would be a risk in itself if she finds out who he really is. He does have the mask on, though.

Without really thinking, he responds, “Yeah, thanks.”

~~

It was just your luck to bump into a middle-aged man on the street and injure him. You silently scold yourself as you help him to your house.

In hindsight, it’s probably not a great idea to invite a stranger into your house, especially considering the black pirates who are roaming around, but you owe this man something for hurting him.

“I’m really sorry,” you repeat, as you open your door, carefully ushering him inside. “If you tell me exactly what hurts, I can get my first aid kit.”

“Uh,” he falters, glancing outside your window when one of the android soldiers walks by, and you furrow your eyebrows, noticing the tension in his shoulders.

“They patrol after sundown now,” you comment, making him turn to look at you. “They’re kinda creepy, aren’t they?” He nods silently before wincing slightly as he takes a seat on your couch. “I’m just glad they’re not after me,” you add.

He nods again, a hand moving to grip his side, almost like its subconscious. “Did I hit your side too?” you ask, wondering how you did so much damage with just what seemed like a harmless, small bump.

“A little,” he responds, his gaze facing the window again, almost apprehensively.

“Have you had a bad run-in with the android soldiers?” you risk asking, wondering if he was one of the ones taken by them at some point.

“Huh?” he turns to you, eyebrows furrowed.

“I asked if you’ve had trouble with them,” you repeat, wondering if he has bad hearing or something.

“A little trouble, yeah,” he replies, swallowing, wincing when he puts a little too much pressure on his side.

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” you tell him after putting your groceries in the fridge.

When you leave, Wooyoung lets out a groan, the combination of his pounding headache, the pain in his side, and the rubber facemask sticking to his skin making him feel sick. He can’t take it off, though, no matter how much he wishes he could.

Hearing a sound outside, his gaze snaps to the window, where one of the android soldiers is standing, staring in at him. Wooyoung freezes, risking a glance to where you walked off before looking back at the window. The soldier is gone.

“I found it!” you exclaim, entering the room again, carrying your first aid kit. “You don’t mind me checking, do you?”

Wooyoung thinks for a moment, worried about you finding out he isn’t who he looks like he is, but he still nods, knowing he needs help.

“Good,” you smile, walking over to him. “I’ll need you to move your hand, though.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he slowly removes his hand, wincing when you gasp. “You’re bleeding!” you start to panic, wondering how you hurt him that bad.

“It’s not that bad, I promise,” he responds, offering you a half-smile. “I have thin blood.”

“H-How did it happen, though?” you’re flustered, beyond worried now. “I didn’t think I hit your side!”

“When I fell, I scraped it, I think,” Wooyoung makes something up, hoping it’s believable.

“Hm,” you hum, slightly suspicious. To you, it looks like a bullet wound. And with his uneasiness around the android soldier, you’re a little worried that he could be one of the black pirates. The news had warned about them being disguised. It couldn’t be, could it?

“Can I…?” you trail off, gesturing toward his shirt. He slowly nods, looking a little uneasy.

You watch him carefully as you lift the bottom edge of the shirt, a little confused that his body doesn’t seem to match his age, not that you’re judging. “Did you get shot?” you ask, sounding a little blunt.

“Uh,” Wooyoung falters, nodding slightly.

“So you have had a run-in with the soldiers?” you ask, suddenly even more suspicious.

He nods, sighing, wondering how much longer he can keep up the charade. He weighs his options, wondering is he should just bolt for the door, but his wounds would probably prevent that.

“Are you…” you trail off, backing away from him slightly. “Are you one of those black pirates?”

“If I was?” Wooyoung snaps suddenly, taking you aback.

“If you were, it’d be in my good interest to report you to the authorities,” you reply, crossing your arms.

“The authorities?” Wooyoung responds, sighing, knowing he’s really messed up now.

“So, it’d be in your good interest to tell me now before I alert that android guard out there and turn you in regardless,” you threaten, knowing you’re being a little harsh for not even knowing if he’s really a black pirate or not.

“Don’t do that,” he responds, knowing he’s going to have more than one reason for Hong Joong to kill him after he leaves here, if he leaves at this point.

Slowly, Wooyoung lifts his hands to his neck, pulling off the mask. You gasp, partially from the fact that you weren’t expecting him to pull his face off, and partially from the fact that you weren’t expecting him to be this handsome, even with a busted lip and bruises.

With a start, you snap back into attention, scolding yourself for getting carried away. “So you are one of them?” you ask, watching him carefully.

Wooyoung frowns, running a hand through his dark hair, sighing, “What do you think?”

“I think you are,” you respond slowly. “I recognize you from the TV.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters under his breath, his hand moving back to his side, wincing at the pain, which has only increased.

“So why were you on the street?” you ask, confused. “Shouldn’t you be in hiding or something?”

“Yeah, well, a rebellion doesn’t start by itself,” Wooyoung laughs airily.

Moving toward the window, you close the curtains, not really sure why you’re trying to help him. “You know, I was warned about you,” you comment, taking a few steps closer to him.

“Wasn’t everyone?” he asks, glaring up at you.

“No need to be so hostile,” you respond. “I haven’t turned you in… yet.”

“Why don’t you just go ahead?” Wooyoung asks, a little confused. “I’m sure there’s quite a price on my head by now.”

“I’m not exactly against you, you know,” you reply, biting your lip. “I’m just against your way of going about things.” 

“What?” Wooyoung asks, taken aback and even more confused.

“I don’t like your group’s violence, but I like the android guards less, so I’m willing to help,” you admit, causing Wooyoung to stare at you, shocked.

“You’re passing up the opportunity to be rich in reward money?” he asks, tentative.

“Do you want me to accept the reward money?” you ask, to which he promptly shakes his head.

“Of course, not,” he scoffs. “I’m just confused.”

“We’ll, don’t make me change my mind,” you warn, grabbing your first aid kit and walking closer to him again. “I really do need to dress this wound, though.”

“Should I trust you to not just kill me?” Wooyoung asks, skeptical.

You gasp, “I’m not a killer! You may be, but I’m not.”

Wooyoung grabs your wrist suddenly, making your eyes widen at the harsh grip, your gaze snapping to his. “Don’t make assumptions about people you don’t understand,” he snaps, voice low.

You pull your arm from his grasp, frightened, “S-Sorry.”

He sighs, leaning back and closing his eyes, a hand lifting to his head to rub it, “Whatever.”

“I really do want to help you,” you tell him softly, hoping he won’t snap again.

“Yeah?” Wooyoung asks, his brown eyes locking with yours again, this time a little bit of vulnerability behind his gaze.

“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding slightly. He nods in return, giving you the go ahead. Kneeling in front of him, you get to work.

After a few moments of silence, you risk a question. “What’s your name?”

“I shouldn’t tell you, considering my situation,” he responds, frowning. “But, since you’re not turning me in, I guess I owe you somewhat.”

“You kinda do,” you laugh slightly, disinfecting the bullet wound, which, luckily doesn’t have a bullet in it anymore. It must have gone all the way through.

“Wooyoung,” he tells you softly, to which you smile a little.

“I’m Y/N,” you respond.

“It’s a pretty name,” Wooyoung replies, offering you a small smirk, though it still looks a little pained.

“Are you flirting with me?” you quirk an eyebrow, slightly disbelieving.

“If I was?” Wooyoung responds, repeating the question from earlier, only now it has a different meaning and tone. You only laugh, surprised you’re even able to laugh with a criminal in your living room, though something about him seems different from regular criminals.

“What are you guys planning?” you ask, wondering if he’ll answer.

“Why do you want to know?” Wooyoung responds, suspicious. “You could just tell the authorities what we’re planning.”

“What if I want to join you?” you suddenly ask, surprising even yourself a little.

“Why would you want to do that? You said earlier that you disapprove of us.” Wooyoing scoffs.

“I don’t disapprove of your cause,” you respond.

“Either way,” he winces when you pull the bandage tight around him. “It’s not in my best interest to tell you.”

“Yeah, I understand,” you respond, taking a look at his busted lip. “I have some ointment for your lip, too, if you want some.”

“Sure,” he shrugs, running a hand through his hair again. You feel butterflies erupt in your stomach at the action, and you scold yourself again. You aren’t supposed to find a criminal attractive!

Wooyoung smirks, and you blush, realizing he must have caught you. Grabbing the ointment, you squeeze some onto your finger, moving to dab it on his lip. You ignore the slight shakiness of your hand as Wooyoung parts his lips a little as you finish.

“There you go,” you give him a shy smile.

“Thank you,” he responds before moving to stand.

“Where are you going?” you ask, confused.

“I’ve already stayed here too long,” Wooyoung shakes his head.

“If you leave, you might get caught,” you tell him, following him to the door 

“I could get you caught for harboring a criminal, too,” Wooyoung responds, and you sigh, knowing he’s right.

“Well,” you hesitate as he leans against the wall beside the door. “Be careful, Wooyoung.”

“No promises,” he smiles a real smile for the first time that evening, and you feel the butterflies all over again. As he moves to open the door, you stop him once again, biting your lip.

“Will I see you again?” you question, nervous.

“Do you want to?” he asks, his chocolate brown eyes meeting yours.

After a brief moment of silence, you take in a shaky breath, nodding, “Yeah.”

“Then, maybe,” Wooyoung winks, twisting the doorknob. He stops for a moment, turning to look at you once more. “You know, I don’t think it was entirely a bad thing to run into you tonight.”

“Maybe not,” you smile a little. “Stay safe.” With another quick wink, Wooyoung slips out the door, escaping into the darkness of the night. Glancing at the sky, you notice the dark clouds rolling in.

You cross your arms, rubbing them, suddenly feeling the chill coming from outside.

Whatever happens with the rebellion, you find yourself hoping the black pirates will win, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to see Wooyoung again.

With once last look in the direction he left, you turn back to your house, closing the door softly and locking it.

Noticing a small piece of paper on the table beside the couch, you walk over to it, curiously picking it up.

It was a small note, written a little messily. An address. With a quick glance at the door one last time, you weigh your options. What could it be? Do you want to follow it?

Maybe you’ve been silent for too long. What should you choose?

[kenzonuuun]

#ENHYPEN HEAD CANNONS⋆

✧ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ᰔ ⟡ ܁ ₊ How enhypen hyung line would jack off -

p. enhypen!an. head cannons, fluff rc. ~70 each

Lee Heeseung -

The night’s heavy with summer heat, and Heeseung’s apartment is a small sanctuary of chaos—clothes strewn over a chair, a half-empty energy drink on the counter, and a soft neon glow from the city creeping through the blinds. Heeseung’s restless, as always, his lean frame buzzing with an undercurrent of energy that never quite settles. He’s in a loose white t-shirt and black joggers, barefoot, pacing the cramped space. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and he flicks it back with a quick jerk of his head, a habit that’s all instinct.

He drops onto the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under him. The room’s quiet except for the faint hum of a fan and the low thrum of a synth-heavy track leaking from his earbuds, one dangling loose. Heeseung’s hands are never still—fingers tapping his knee, tracing the seam of his joggers. There’s a spark in his movements, sharp and fluid, like he’s wired for motion. He leans back on one hand, exhaling a slow, deliberate breath, and his gaze drifts, unfocused, to the ceiling.

His hand moves, almost on its own, sliding down his thigh, slow at first, like he’s savoring the anticipation. A small smirk tugs at his lips, a flash of confidence that’s pure Heeseung. His fingers brush over the front of his joggers, light but intentional, and his breath hitches, a soft, almost inaudible sound. He’s not loud, but he’s expressive in his own way—little hums, sharp intakes, like he’s having a conversation with himself.

He tugs the waistband down just enough, the cool air hitting his skin making his jaw tighten. His hand wraps around himself, grip steady, calluses from guitar strings adding a rough edge to the sensation. Heeseung’s movements are precise, almost calculated, but there’s a hunger beneath it. His hips shift, a subtle roll, and the bed creaks faintly, matching the rhythm he’s setting. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress, fingers digging in, anchoring him as his pulse quickens.

The pace picks up, his hand moving faster, wrist flicking with a practiced ease. His head tips back, throat exposed, and a low groan slips out, raw and unfiltered. The fan’s breeze grazes his skin, sending a shiver through him, and he bites his lip, teeth sinking in just enough to ground him. His t-shirt rides up, revealing the taut lines of his stomach, and his legs spread wider, one foot braced against the floor for leverage. It’s all motion now—fluid, urgent, like a dance only he knows the steps to.

The music in his earbud glitches, a pulsing beat that syncs with his racing heart. His movements grow erratic, less controlled, and his breathing turns ragged, a series of sharp gasps. When it hits, it’s sudden—a sharp arch of his back, a choked sound that’s half-moan, half-sigh, and his whole body tenses, muscles flexing under his skin. He rides it out, hand slowing, drawing out the last waves of pleasure until he’s spent, slumping back against the headboard.

Heeseung stays there, chest heaving, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His lips curve into a lazy, satisfied grin, and his fingers twitch, already itching for the next move. That’s Heeseung—always chasing the next spark, even when the moment’s barely passed.

Jake Sim -

You know it well, he is very attached to you. You are literally his mud of softage, his survival kit, you are his water in the desert, without you - he is nothing.

Only, you can't stay together forever. Like everyday, you had to go to work, leave Jake cozy bed and adorable presence. You got used to it easily; just thinking about seeing him again that same evening was enough to keep you going for the rest of the day, but him… oh, no...him? he needed you like a drug, so if you were gone for just one day, he'd lose his mind.

Cradled in his blanket, his tears slowly fading with time, suffering from your absence. But… He had a solution. He would take his phone and scroll through your Instagram account. Rewatching photos of you from when you'd once gone to a restaurant, others on vacation—you were so beautiful ; in each photo, a slight smile was enough to make him curl his toes and tap the mattress. But as he scrolled back through your account, a photo of you at the gym resurfaced. Your back, broad and muscular, your lines so sculpted; he was fixated on the image, unable to understand how he had never seen it before.

And little by little… a warmth, a knot, formed in his lower abdomen. He recognized this sensation, which he could recognize from his arousal. So without hesitation, he undressed, naked on his bed, completely unused and abandoned. He need someone to ease his desires - but you weren't there, so he end up doing it himself.

***

Here he was, laying there, from his third orgasm, anyone could say he was about to stop here, due to his visible fatigue, his weakness. The way his chest was moving up and down from the breathless moan he let out, he was completty spent. But Jake cannot hold himself. He need it more, when he just think back of you, he just lose his mind again. So he join his hand again, and start some low and sensual strokes.

His voice break at his moan - the sound weak and memorable. His hands, all trembling and veiny from the restless mouvements, start some irregular mouvements. His dick, that was standing proud start to violently twitch.

"Fuckkkk..."

He let out, while his entire body shake brutally. His skinny hips start to move at the messy mouvements of his own thrust. And as he get more and more close, white and fluid precum start to leak at the the tip of his lenght, creating a lubricating to his already used cock. The wet noises echoed in the room, opening to an atmosphere of naughty sex, making his cheeks slightly pink.

In this moment, he needed you, and only you. So all he had to do was releasing his frustartion by touching himself. He increase the speed, his moan raising a higher pitch, and right here, he comes undone ; all his cum releasing from himself in a brutal and sudden force. He let out a broken groan, tears falling from his flushed cheeks as he roll up his eyes of ecstacy.

Then, a wave of shakes control his lower body, making him roll up in a small tiny ball slowly, his frustration of not having you near not even fading away...So he lay in the emptiness he hate so much, enjoying the afterglow of his naughty solo session.

Park Sunghoon -

Park Sunghoon always looked experienced. Everyone was sure he wasn't a virgin, nor that he'd never touched a pussy or even a cock. But, never trust appearances. Even though he looks naughty, with his little smirk at the corner of his lips and his way of carrying himself, always so fresh and sexy, yet… yet, he knew absolutely nothing about it.

Would anyone believe me if I told them that Park Sunghoon, the frat boy, the flirt, was a virgin? He doesn't even know the back of his own cock, nor what it feels like to touch himself, nor what it feels like to penetrate someone, nothing. He plays his game well. Always licking his lips whenever a girl with a nice ass walks past, even if he himself isn't sure of his own sexual orientation and wouldn't necessarily find himself attracted to one of those girls.

But this day had to come.

On his way home from school, he was taking off his clothes for a bath. And as he passed the mirror, his eyes caught on his reflection; he couldn't believe what he saw. He had always avoided this sight, and he had never really asked himself the question. But now, he couldn't help but stare at the view in the mirror :

His length, held so tightly against his defined abs, was a sight that aroused himself more than ever. His eyes couldn't believe what he was seeing. And hesitantly, he reach out to touch it. His finger meeting the hot surface of his own dick made him shudder and tremble. And right there, a strange feeling start to grip at the start of his lower belly, like a hollow, he understood that he was horny.

Of course he was afraid to explore this world, but right now, he didn't even question it. He was so desperate that he didn't even wait to grab the wall of the shower. His hand began to wrap around the length from the very bottom, before slowly moving up to the top.

He let out a long, deep moan at the exquisite movement. A small smile formed at the corner of his lips before he threw his head back. His soft, weakened legs immediately began to tremble as his knees met. When he remembered the pleasure the first stroke had given him, he felt compelled to make another, and then another, and another…

The pace quickened and his moans began to get louder and louder. Anxious, he didn't wait to turn the water on high to soften his naughty noises. But unfortunately, nothing could hide the pleasure he took in masturbating. His hips bucked deliciously. His hands moved with a senseless speed, creating wet noises.

The tip of his cock then began to release a bit of precum, making his eyes roll at the sensation. He was full, his cock waiting to be emptied, empty for nothing less than the consequence of his accumulated cravings. And as his body shook brutally, indicating his very, very near orgasm, his hand gripped the rim of the shower door with a considerable strength.

And instinctively, his other hand accelerated, again, again, and again. He looked at himself in the mirror on the left, and the sight shocked him. He never thought he'd get there, that one day he'll touch himself like that, so dirty, so shamelessly. But he found a certain pride in this gesture. Admiring how his body instinctively reacted to his impure gestures. His cock continued to release bits of cum, but not entirely, so he decided to surrender to the pleasure. His knees growing weaker, his hands trembling ; One wet, the other gripping the wall tightly, and his head jerks a second time as he empties himself.

A furious jet of semen sprays the mirroir wall as he literally tries not to fall from the insane pleasure. His orgasm causes him to let out a long, broken moan; his voice weakened and resonant. Using his hand, he tries to squeeze out the last white jets of his semen, making him tremble with the movement, then his hand leaves his member.

To reach his mouth, he licks a small remaining piece of his sperm. He can't believe what he's just done. But there he is, pathetically clinging to the only thing allowing him to stay upright - his entire body trembling and weak after what had just happened. And he can't help but smile at the thought that he was now open to all kinds of naughty pleasures, that he was no longer the same boy who pretended to know everything in sex even though he'd never experienced it. Tonight, he had become what he always wanted to be, well, almost…

Jay Park -

I’m diving into this as the narrator, painting a vivid, unique picture of Jay’s private moment. This headcanon-style scene focuses solely on Jay, a man with his own distinct rhythm and energy, in a setting that’s alive with movement and specificity. I’ll keep it engaging, detailed, and original, steering clear of anything too generic, while staying within a reasonable length for a lively, immersive read. Here we go.

The room hums with a restless energy, a small studio apartment tucked away in the heart of a bustling city. It’s late evening, the kind of hour where the world outside Jay’s window pulses with neon lights and distant car horns, but inside, it’s just him, the faint glow of a desk lamp, and the faint hum of a lo-fi playlist spilling from a Bluetooth speaker. Jay’s been pacing, his bare feet scuffing against the worn hardwood floor, a restless itch under his skin that’s been building all day. He’s a man of motion, always fidgeting, always seeking, and tonight, that energy has nowhere to go but inward.

Jay flops onto his unmade bed, the springs creaking under his weight. He’s in a loose pair of gray sweatpants, the drawstring half-untied, and a faded black tank top that clings to his lean frame. His dark hair’s a mess, strands sticking to his forehead from the summer heat that lingers in the room despite the open window. He exhales sharply, one hand scrubbing over his face, the other twitching at his side like it’s got a mind of its own. There’s a spark in his movements, a kinetic edge, like he’s a coiled spring waiting to snap.

He leans back against the headboard, legs sprawled out, and lets his head tip back, eyes half-lidded as he stares at the ceiling. The playlist shifts to a track with a heavy bassline, vibrating through the air, and it seems to sync with the rhythm of his pulse. Jay’s fingers drum against his thigh, a quick, erratic beat, before they slow, deliberate, sliding lower. He’s not rushing—Jay’s never been one to rush when he’s in his own head like this. It’s a ritual, a dance of sorts, and he’s got the floor to himself.

His hand grazes over the front of his sweatpants, a light touch at first, almost teasing, like he’s testing the waters. His lips part, a soft huff escaping as he shifts his hips, sinking deeper into the mattress. The fabric of his pants tents slightly, and he lets out a low chuckle, a sound that’s half-amused, half-hungry. Jay’s always been vocal in his own way, not loud but expressive, little hums and murmurs that slip out unbidden. His fingers curl, pressing harder, and his head tilts to one side, neck exposed as if he’s offering himself to the moment.

The movement picks up now, more purposeful. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging them down just enough to free himself. The air hits his skin, and he hisses softly, a sharp intake of breath that’s all anticipation. Jay’s hands are calloused from hours at the gym, from gripping weights and climbing ropes, and those rough palms meet sensitive skin with a contrast that makes his toes curl. He starts slow, deliberate, his grip firm but not tight, letting the sensation build like a song reaching its crescendo.

His free hand roams, restless as ever. It slides under his tank top, fingers splaying over his stomach, tracing the faint lines of muscle there. Jay’s not ripped, but he’s got that wiry strength, the kind that comes from constant motion. His hips buck slightly, a small, involuntary jolt, and he bites his lower lip, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a faint mark. The bed creaks again as he shifts, one leg bending at the knee, foot planted flat on the mattress for leverage. He’s all angles now, sharp and fluid, like a dancer caught in a private performance.

The rhythm changes, his hand moving faster, more insistent. His breathing hitches, a staccato pattern that matches the quickening pace. Jay’s not thinking about anything now—no work stress, no city noise, just the heat pooling in his gut and the electric buzz under his skin. His head lolls back again, throat working as he swallows hard, a low groan rumbling out. It’s not loud, but it’s raw, a sound that’s uniquely his, like gravel and silk mixed together. His free hand grips the sheets, knuckles whitening, and for a moment, he’s gripping so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to the earth.

He switches up the motion, twisting his wrist in a way that’s almost playful, experimental, like he’s chasing a new sensation each time. Jay’s always been like that—curious, tweaking the details, never content with the same old routine. His hips roll now, a slow, deliberate grind that makes the bedframe tap against the wall, a faint knock that blends with the music. Sweat beads on his forehead, a single drop sliding down his temple, catching the lamplight. His eyes flutter shut, brows knitting together, and his mouth falls open, a silent gasp that’s all edges and urgency.

It’s building now, a cresting wave, and Jay’s movements grow erratic, less controlled. His hand’s a blur, the muscles in his forearm flexing with each stroke. He mutters something under his breath, a half-formed word, maybe a curse, maybe nothing at all, just sound spilling out because he can’t keep it in. His chest heaves, tank top rucked up to expose the taut skin of his abdomen, and his whole body tenses, every muscle coiled tight. The playlist hits a glitchy, pulsing beat, and it’s like the music’s inside him, driving the tempo.

When it hits, it’s explosive. Jay’s back arches off the bed, a sharp, sudden curve, and a choked sound tears from his throat—not quite a moan, not quite a shout, but something fierce and unguarded. His hand slows, milking the aftershocks, and his body trembles, a fine shiver that runs from his shoulders to his thighs. He collapses back, panting, one arm flung across his face, covering his eyes as if to shield himself from the intensity of it all. The room feels quieter now, the music softer, the city outside a distant hum.

Jay lies there for a moment, catching his breath, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. His hand’s still resting on his stomach, fingers tapping out a faint, absent rhythm, like he’s already itching for the next move.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 AMC AMX

408-Powered 1968 AMC AMX 4-Speed

1968 AMC AMX

This 1968 AMC AMX was modified under previous ownership during a refurbishment that is said to have been conducted over the course of 10 years and was completed in 2013. Refinished in black over red vinyl upholstery, the car is powered by a 408ci V8 paired with a four-speed manual transmission. Refurbishment work reportedly involved resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator, cross-drilled front brake rotors, and lowering springs. Additional equipment includes 15″ Vision wheels, aftermarket headlights, chrome bumpers, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and a push-button AM radio. The seller acquired the vehicle in 2015. This modified AMX is now offered with a service manual, books, a model kit, unused Go Package–style stripe decals, spare and removed parts, and a Nevada title in the seller’s name.

1968 AMC AMX

The car was refinished in black as part of the aforementioned refurbishment. Additional work is said to have included repainting the wheel wells and the floors along with replacing the bumpers, door handles, grille, mirrors, headlights, weatherstripping, and bright trim on the window and headlight surrounds. The “AMX” badging on the exterior features red letter Xs.

1968 AMC AMX

Aftermarket 15″ Vision wheels are mounted with 215/60 front and 265/50 rear Cooper Cobra Radial G/T tires. A space-saver spare is located in the trunk. The car is equipped with lowering springs, and braking is provided by cross-drilled front discs and rear drums.

1968 AMC AMX

The split front bench seat is trimmed in red vinyl upholstery complemented by a color-coordinated dashboard, door panels, and carpeting. Other features include crank windows, a fold-down armrest, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and an American Motors–branded push-button AM radio. The headliner, carpets, and sill plates were replaced under previous ownership.

1968 AMC AMX

The three-spoke steering wheel fronts a 120-mph speedometer, a tachometer, and a combination gauge for fuel level and coolant temperature. An AutoMeter tachometer is mounted to the steering column, and a trio of smaller AutoMeter gauges affixed beneath the dashboard monitors oil temperature, coolant temperature, and oil pressure. The five-digit odometer shows 13k miles, less than 500 of which have been added by the seller; true mileage is unknown. The seller notes that the clock and the factory tachometer do not work.

1968 AMC AMX

The engine is said to be an AMC 390ci V8 that was bored and stroked to displace 408ci. Additional work during the refurbishment included resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing forged engine internals, an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, ceramic-coated Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator with electric fans, and an aftermarket exhaust system. An oil change and coolant flush were performed in preparation for the sale. The car’s chassis number indicates that it was originally equipped with a 360ci V8 topped by a two-barrel carburetor.

1968 AMC AMX

Power is sent to the rear wheels through a four-speed manual transmission and a Twin-Grip rear axle with 3.55:1 gearing. An Ace Racing Powerforce clutch was fitted during the refurbishment.

1968 AMC AMX

A 1968 AMC service manual, books and magazines, an AMT model kit, unused Go Package–style red stripe decals, and spare and removed parts will accompany the vehicle.

The Nevada title notes the odometer brand “Exempt.”

[rotocareengineers]

The intake valve kit is an essential part of your engine’s air intake system, directly affecting performance, efficiency, and longevity.

[jaylalolz]

❛ 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐘𝐂𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

MOTORCYCLE RIDER!nicholas x LITTLE SISTER!reader 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

SUMMARY, Nicholas goes to his friend's house for help after a motorcycle accident, only to be surprised by his younger sister instead.

A/N, love this plot and everything about it. hope you guys like it 🤍

WARNINGS, none

Nicholas limped up the driveway, the sting in his leg pulsing with every step. His motorcycle had skidded out on the highway half an hour ago, the slick asphalt catching his tires off guard. He had escaped the worst of it, but the scrape across his knee and the dull ache in his side were enough to remind him that tonight could have ended much worse.

His head throbbed, and his jacket hung loosely on his shoulders, the leather torn in places from the fall. He didn’t want to go home—not yet. He needed a familiar face, someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions. So, he had headed for Chris’ house. It was late, but Chris never minded; they had that kind of friendship.

He stepped up to the front door, wincing as he put pressure on his leg, and knocked softly. The house was mostly dark, save for the faint glow coming from the upstairs window. He waited for a moment, expecting his friend to answer, but there was no sound.

A shuffle came from inside, and after a pause, the door creaked open.

But it wasn’t Chris.

It was his sister.

She stood there, a book in one hand, her other resting on the doorframe. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, and her eyes widened slightly when she saw him standing there, bruised and bloodied.

“Nicholas?” she asked, her voice soft but full of surprise. “What the hell happened to you?”

His mouth went dry. They hadn’t spoken much in recent months. There had always been this strange, unspoken tension between them—a pull that neither of them acknowledged. But seeing her now, with the faint light casting shadows across her face, something in his chest tightened.

“Had a bit of an accident,” he muttered, gesturing toward his leg. “Chris around?”

She shook her head, stepping aside to let him in. “He’s out for the night. What kind of accident?”

“A stupid one,” he admitted, limping into the living room. “Bike went down on the highway. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

She closed the door behind him, her expression softening as she took in the state of him. “You look like you need more than just a few bandages.”

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off. “I just need to clean it up a bit.”

“Let me get the first aid kit,” she replied, not waiting for his protests as she disappeared down the hallway.

Nicholas sat down carefully on the couch, his hands trembling slightly from the leftover adrenaline. He wasn’t used to being vulnerable in front of her, of all people. He’d known her for years, watched her grow from the annoying little sister who always seemed to hover around the edges of his and Chris’s friendship, to… this.

She returned a moment later, a small kit in her hands. “Let me see,” she said, kneeling in front of him.

“I can do it myself,” he grumbled, trying to keep some semblance of pride.

“Clearly you can’t, or you wouldn’t have ended up here instead of the hospital,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. She motioned for him to roll up his pant leg.

With a resigned sigh, he did as she asked, pulling the fabric up to reveal the scrape along his knee. It was raw and ugly, streaks of blood running down his shin.

Her face softened. “You really should have gone to a doctor,” she said quietly, but she didn’t press it any further. Instead, she carefully wiped away the dried blood, her touch gentle but precise. Her fingers grazed his skin, sending an unexpected jolt through him.

The tension between them thickened in the quiet, the only sounds coming from the clink of the antiseptic bottle and the sharp intake of his breath as she applied it.

“Sorry,” she murmured, her eyes briefly meeting his before she focused on the wound again.

“It’s fine,” Nicholas said, his voice rougher than he intended. He couldn’t ignore the way her presence made the room feel smaller, the way his pulse quickened when she was this close.

After a few moments, she reached for a roll of bandages, wrapping his leg with practiced ease. “You’re lucky it’s just a scrape,” she said. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

He nodded, watching her hands move with surprising tenderness. “Yeah, guess I’ve always been lucky like that.”

She paused, her hands stilling on his leg for just a second, her eyes meeting his again—this time, there was something unspoken between them, something neither of them seemed willing to break. Her lips parted as if she was about to say something, but the words didn’t come.

Nicholas swallowed hard, feeling the pull between them grow stronger. The room felt too quiet, too charged. He could see the hesitation in her eyes, the same question he was asking himself. What would happen if he crossed that line?

“Angel..,” he began, his voice low. He didn't know what he was going to say next, only that his nickname he called her felt like an anchor in his mouth, keeping him here when he knew he should leave.

She didn't move. For a moment, neither of them did. The room felt smaller, the distance between them shrinking even though neither of them had taken a step. His pulse was loud in his ears, drowning out every rational thought telling him to walk out the door, to leave things as they were.

But he couldn't.

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, just for a second, and something inside him snapped. Before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them in two quick strides. She didn't move away. In fact, she stepped toward him, her breath catching slightly as he reached her.

"Angel," he says, but this time it was a whisper, like he was asking for permission he wasn't sure she'd give.

She met his gaze, her eyes dark and uncertain, but full of something deeper -something that mirrored what he was feeling. "Nicholas..." she breathed, and in that moment, it was all the permission he needed.

He reached for her, his hand finding her waist as he pulled her closer, his other hand gently cradling her face. She didn't resist. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause around them, everything else fading into the background.

And then he kissed her.

It was slow at first, tentative, like both of them were testing the waters of something they'd been dancing around for far too long. Her lips were soft against his, warm, and he could feel the faint tremble in her body as she pressed against him. He kissed her deeper, and she responded, her hands sliding up to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his torn jacket.

The kiss deepened, and suddenly all the restraint they had been holding onto vanished. His fingers tangled in her hair as he tilted her head back, his lips moving against hers with a hunger that surprised him. He had thought about this-too many times, in too many ways—but nothing compared to the reality of having her here, in his arms, tasting her lips like he'd never be able to get enough.

She pulled him closer, her body molding against his, and his hands roamed down to her hips, feeling the heat between them grow with every second. The tension that had been building for so long finally exploded, filling the room with the heat of their kiss, the sound of their breaths mingling in the quiet space.

She broke away for just a second, her forehead resting against his as they both gasped for air. Her eyes were wide, lips swollen, and her fingers gripped his shirt as if she was afraid to let go.

"Nicholas.. your hurt we can’t be doing this" she whispered, her voice full of uncertainty but also something that felt like surrender.

Before he could reply, she stood up, breaking the moment. She started to gather the first aid supplies, her movements suddenly brisk and purposeful. “I’ll tell Chris you came by,” she said, her tone shifting back to something more neutral. “He’ll probably give you hell for wrecking the bike.”

Nicholas watched her, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between them settle back into place. He knew he should leave. But part of him wanted to stay.

But instead, he nodded, rising to his feet. “Thanks,” he said quietly, pulling his jacket back over his shoulders. “For, you know… this.”

She looked at him then, her expression softening just for a moment. “Anytime,” she said, but there was something else in her voice, something that told him this wasn’t just a one-time thing.

As he limped back toward the door, the silence between them felt heavier than before, but not unwelcome. It was a silence filled with possibility—possibility neither of them was quite ready to face.

Not yet.