#clean carburetor

[spitefulsatanfics]

🕯️🎼 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝑰𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 🎼🕯️

“Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.” — Dean Winchester, Supernatural

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Pairing: Dean Winchester x Hunter!Y/N (She/Her Reader) From: Supernatural (TV Series) Tone: Fluff, Feel-Good Romance, Domestic Romance, Humor, Lovesick!Dean, Found Family, Birthday Feels, Emotional Softness Rating: 17+ Warnings: Language, emotional vulnerability, domestic fluff overload, Dean’s aggressively obvious love language Based on: Supernatural, Season 11–12 (Canon-Adjacent, Rated 17+) Word Count: 6,812 Synopsis: Y/N doesn’t expect anything for her birthday—hunters don’t do cake and candles. But Dean Winchester has a funny way of rewriting the rules. And when your gift comes on four wheels and looks suspiciously like his Baby? Well. That’s Dean for I love you. 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢: 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 ♡ 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 & 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍: 𝙼𝚊𝚢 𝟸𝟿, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟻™

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The idea starts on a Tuesday. Cold beer in hand, classic rock humming low through the bunker’s speakers. Dean’s alone in the garage, turning a wrench over something busted on Baby’s undercarriage when it hits him—not the idea, not yet. Just the thought of her.

Y/N.

She’s somewhere upstairs, probably cleaning her guns or arguing with Sam over some lore. Probably rolling her eyes at something Dean said earlier. Probably still thinking birthdays don’t mean a damn thing to hunters.

Which is bullshit. And he’s gonna prove it.

It starts small.

A search. Then another. Then five. Craigslist, junkyards, forums full of greased-up freaks with busted knuckles and rusted dreams. Dean burns through listings like salt on a grave, until one night—two weeks before her birthday—he sees her.

Not Y/N. The car.

A 1967 Chevy Impala. Same body. Same soul. She’s rough around the edges, all grit and potential, sitting under a tarp in a field two states over. The guy selling her doesn’t know what he’s got. Dean texts him at 2AM and buys it blind.

And then the real work begins.

° ° °

He drives out in secret. Lies through his teeth to Sam—some solo salt-and-burn he’ll "handle quick." Three days. Two gas station burritos. One overheated radiator. But Dean gets her home.

The new Baby’s a mess. Her engine rattles, her upholstery’s torn, and there’s a damn wasps' nest in her glove compartment. But Dean looks at her like he’s found treasure.

Because this isn’t just a car.

This is how he says I love you.

° ° °

Every night, after hunts, after meals, after Y/N crashes early with bourbon and a book, Dean sneaks back to the garage.

He spends hours in the quiet, sleeves rolled, music low, fingers working through wires and carburetors. He polishes chrome and reupholsters seats. Customizes her stereo with a killer cassette deck. Installs hidden weapons compartments under the trunk lining.

It’s muscle memory and magic. Blood, sweat, and Motor City soul. And through it all, he’s smiling like an idiot.

Because he can already see her face.

° ° °

Her birthday morning comes like any other—except it isn’t.

Y/N stumbles into the kitchen in a flannel too big and socks too mismatched, bleary-eyed and unprepared. She’s halfway through a coffee pour when Dean appears behind her, suspiciously chipper.

“You busy today?” he asks, casually sipping his own mug.

She narrows her eyes. “Define busy.”

“I need you outside.”

“Dean, if this is another ‘teach me how to rebuild a carburetor’ stunt—”

“Just trust me.”

She does. Of course she does.

He leads her down to the garage, heart hammering like he’s about to pop the question instead of pop the trunk.

The air still smells like fresh gravel when he stops her short.

“Hands out,” he says.

She raises a brow. “Dean—”

“C’mon, birthday girl. Humor me.”

Sighing, she offers her palms, and he drops the keys into them—cool metal against warm skin.

Then—

“Open your eyes.”

° ° °

There she is.

Black as night. Clean as sin. Gleaming like a mirror to Dean’s own Baby—but with her own spark. Her own life. A twin, but not a clone.

Y/N’s mouth parts. No sound comes out.

“You didn’t.”

Dean’s grin is all pride and grease-stained love. “Oh, I did.”

She circles the car slowly, reverent hands brushing the hood, the doors, the chrome.

“You built me my own Baby?”

Dean shrugs. “Figured it was easier than saying things out loud.”

Y/N turns to him, eyes soft and glassy. The kind of look that melts something inside him—something he's kept bolted tight for years.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispers.

“An idiot who loves you,” he says.

Then she tackles him.

° ° °

They take her out that night.

It’s a salt-and-burn an hour out, nothing dangerous—just a chance to let her drive. Let the new Baby get her wheels bloody. Let Dean watch her behind the wheel like it’s the sexiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

Which it is.

“You ever tell me,” he drawls, sunglasses perched, “how stupid-hot you look driving a '67 Impala?”

Y/N snorts. “You ever shut up?”

“Only when I’m kissing you.”

She quirks a brow. “Then stop stalling, Winchester.”

They don’t make it past mile marker fifty before pulling over.

° ° °

The moon’s high. The sky’s velvet. And they’re sprawled in the backseat like a cliché and loving every second.

Her legs are over his lap, his fingers trailing slow circles along her knee. There’s music playing—some old Zeppelin track that bleeds through the speakers like smoke. Their breath mingles in the dark, warm and unhurried.

“You know this is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” she murmurs.

Dean leans in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Just wait till next year. I’m thinking matching flamethrowers.”

She laughs into his chest.

They stay there for hours—talking, kissing, existing in a world that, for once, doesn’t want to burn them down.

° ° °

Back at the Bunker, they stumble into the kitchen at 2AM, half-drunk on love and moonlight. There’s cold pizza and warm beer and a silence that’s safe, full.

Y/N leans on the counter, watching him.

“You didn’t have to do all that, you know.”

Dean shrugs, suddenly shy. “Yeah, I did.”

She smiles. “You could’ve just said ‘I love you.’”

“I did,” he says, walking up to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Every bolt. Every polish. Every hidden blade in that trunk. It all said it.”

Y/N kisses him.

Not like a thank-you. Not like a birthday gift.

Like she means it. Like he means it.

When they part, Dean rests his forehead against hers.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

She grins, eyes shining. “Best damn one I’ve ever had.”

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🛠️ 🖤 𝙀𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙇𝙞𝙣𝙚. 𝙋𝙤𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙠. 🖤 🛠️

[actuallybean]

Cupid's Shuffle* | Part Three

Cupid’s arrow was supposed to patch things up with Sam, not point you straight at Castiel—and resisting it might just be harder than falling. *Contains sexual material, slow-burn, brief mentioning of a past relationship with Sam Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader(former), Castiel x Reader (Eventually), Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic) A/N: Sorry it's been a while since I've updated this series! My mind has been running with new ideas and I've been trying to get other stories together... I just have a lot to give ya'll lol Part Four Taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @this-is-me--1998 @scary-noodlesblog @ratkidcalledallie @fox-saturn @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester had made a lot of mistakes in his life.

Like, a lot.

There was the time he accidentally summoned a Norse god while trying to order Thai food in Enochian—don’t ask. Or when he tried to fix Baby’s carburetor with a cursed monkey paw because “it looked like a wrench.” And of course, the crown jewel: when he accidentally jumpstarted the literal apocalypse by trusting a demon with a Meg Ryan haircut. That one still held the gold medal for catastrophic poor judgment.

But this? This was a new personal best in dumbassery. A masterclass in well-meaning disaster. Even for Dean.

He was pacing—again—across the bunker’s library like a tiger in a cage, his boots echoing sharply against the cold stone floor. Each step hit the ground with irritated precision, the sound almost rhythmic, like the heartbeat of his anxiety. The air inside the Men of Letters bunker was thick with old paper, cracked leather, and the kind of silence that smelled like regret. Somewhere beneath it all lingered the faint scent of motor oil and Castiel’s cologne—something between clean laundry and a lightning storm.

Dean’s jacket flared with each frustrated turn, the hem brushing against shelves groaning under the weight of ancient grimoires and demonology texts, as if even the building itself was judging him.

In one hand, he held the evidence of his failure—a small glass vial, now empty, glinting mockingly in the amber lamplight.

“This was supposed to work,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the little bottle like it had betrayed him personally. “This was supposed to fix it.”

He could still hear Cupid’s infuriatingly chipper voice in his head, from that cursed little “favor.” An interdimensional vending machine of poor decisions.

“It’s harmless,” the winged menace had said with a sparkle in his eye and a cocktail that looked like it came from a unicorn’s minibar. “Just a nudge. A romantic Red Bull. Helps people see what’s already there. Trust me—practically a rom-com in a bottle.”

And Dean—idiotically, stubbornly hopeful Dean—had bought it. Hook, line, and glittery, goddamn sinker.

Because something had to give.

You and Sam had been walking around like strangers trapped in a shared ghost story—never speaking, never meeting each other’s gaze. The kind of cold silence that made the temperature drop. Dean had tried to stay neutral, tried to play Switzerland, but even he had his limits. The tension in the bunker was so thick it could’ve been bottled and used for demon traps.

So he came up with a plan.

A harmless, subtle, stupid plan.

Two cups—your favorite herbal tea and Sam’s apocalyptic-grade black coffee—each laced with a few drops of Cupid’s rose-gold tonic. Not a love spell, nothing twisted. Just a little clarity. A push. A moment of courage for two people who clearly still loved each other and were too damn proud to admit it.

Then a movie night. Something nostalgic and safe—The Princess Bride, maybe. He even fluffed the goddamn couch pillows.

But of course, fate—or God or Chuck or whoever the hell was playing puppeteer these days—had other plans.

Castiel had wandered in mid-setup, looking like he’d just stepped out of a cologne commercial for divine angst. And with no ceremony, no warning, he reached out and grabbed a mug like it had been preordained.

Dean had watched, horrorstruck, as the trench-coated drama magnet picked up Sam’s cup.

He’d twitched so hard he thought he might pull a muscle. “The one time you decide to be spontaneous, and this is it?” he whispered under his breath. “You don’t even drink coffee, Cas!”

Now Dean was neck-deep in a situation so absurd it felt scripted by the writers of Supernatural: The Musical. A romantically-charged, emotionally-vulnerable Castiel. A confused, blushing you. And a thoroughly screwed Dean Winchester pacing himself into a coma.

Which led, inevitably, to this moment.

Where Dean, shoulders tight with the weight of yet another catastrophic idea, finally stopped pacing and made the one call he’d been dreading.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Time to bring in the big guns.”

✦

Somewhere in the War Room—lit only by flickering overhead lamps and poor life choices...

A summoning circle of red chalk sat on the floor, surrounded by six half-melted candles, a bottle of Glenfiddich, and a strand of Mardi Gras beads (Rowena’s bizarre but non-negotiable requirement). It looked less like a magical rite and more like a drunk wizard's failed Pinterest spell.

Dean stood just outside the circle, arms crossed, every inch of him radiating grim resignation.

“Rowena MacLeod,” he intoned, voice deep with ceremonial sarcasm, “we call upon thee—Mistress of Magic, Queen of Drama, and World-Class Pain in My Ass...”

The circle flared crimson, air shimmering with heat and perfume.

In a swirl of fire and expensive silk, Rowena appeared, looking like sin in high heels and a robe that could kill a man. Her expression was one part irritation, two parts amusement.

She swept her gaze around the room, nose wrinkling. “Honestly, darling, couldn’t you have at least vacuumed?”

Dean didn’t miss a beat. “You’re lucky I didn’t summon you in a Waffle House.”

Rowena smirked. “Tempting. But you don’t have the gall.”

Her eyes finally settled on him, sharp and knowing. “Alright, moose boy’s older brother. What’ve you done this time? Cursed object? Misfired summoning? Did you finally turn into a were-chicken?”

Dean held up the empty vial like it was damning evidence. “Love potion. For Sam and Y/N.”

Rowena’s eyebrows launched upward. “Scandalous. But those two were already quite... entangled, weren’t they?”

“They broke up,” Dean muttered. “It’s been hell around here. I just wanted them to talk. Clear the air.”

She grinned like a cat with a new toy. “Ahh. So you meddled.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “Castiel drank Sam’s cup. Y/N drank the tea. And now it’s... escalating.”

Rowena cackled, throwing her head back in delight. “You let a repressed, emotionally-stunted celestial drink a love elixir? Oh, Dean. That’s not magic. That’s bloody sitcom-level chaos.”

“Can you fix it?”

She tapped her crimson nails against her chin. “Fix? Technically, yes. But clean? Emotionally tidy? Oh, sweetie. That ship has not only sailed—it’s already sunk and become a haunted reef.”

Dean groaned. “Just tell me how to stop Cas from making heart eyes at Y/N before they start braiding friendship bracelets or summoning love doves.”

Rowena purred, “Now that, I would pay to see.”

✦

She stepped toward the chalk circle with predatory grace, robe whispering across the stone like a living thing. She plucked the vial from Dean’s hand, inspecting it like a fine wine.

“Let me guess,” she said. “The spell’s kicking in?”

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “They’ve been... hovering. He made her tea again. She laughed at one of his jokes. Something about soufflés and angel blades.”

Rowena’s grin was wicked. “Adorable.”

Dean’s phone buzzed.

He checked the screen—Sam.

Dean sighed and picked up, already bracing for impact. “Hey.”

“Where are you?” Sam’s voice was low. Tense. Controlled in the way only seriously pissed off Sam could manage. “Cas and Y/N are in the kitchen. Together. Baking.”

Dean blinked. “Baking?”

“Cas said it was symbolic,” Sam growled. “He called her his emotional constant. She let him tuck her hair behind her ear. I swear to God, Dean, it’s like watching a Nicholas Sparks scene unfold in real time.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Okay. Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” Sam said tightly. “I just want to know why our emotionally constipated angel is acting like a Disney prince on ecstasy.”

Dean winced. “I may have… tried to help. A little.”

“You drugged us?”

“No! I—well. Yes. Technically. But not you. It was meant for you and Y/N.”

Silence.

Then: “You absolute jackass.”

“I know! That’s why I called Rowena.”

Sam was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You are not dragging Rowena into my love life again.”

“Too late,” Dean said, watching Rowena pour scotch into a teacup with alarming cheer. “She’s already here. And she brought alcohol.”

“Of course she did.”

Dean hesitated. “Also… the potion might’ve made Cas a little emotionally available.”

Rowena cackled. “That’s not the potion. That’s years of pent-up yearning and too much Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’m coming down there,” Sam snapped. “And we are fixing this. Now.”

✦

The bunker doors slammed open with theatrical fury.

Sam Winchester entered like a man on a mission, boots echoing like war drums. His eyes were sharp, his jaw clenched, and he looked every bit like an avenging angel in flannel.

Dean flinched. “Sammy—”

“No,” Sam snapped, marching into the chaos of the summoning circle. “You summoned Cupid. You summoned Rowena. Behind my back.”

Rowena gave him a flirtatious little wave. “Hello, darling. You look positively edible when you’re furious.”

Sam ignored her. His gaze was locked on Dean like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You went behind my back. You tried to… manipulate me. Her.”

“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you,” Dean snapped. “I was trying to help! You two were just—circling each other. Miserable. Like a couple of ghosts. What was I supposed to do? Just watch you both rot in silence?”

“I didn’t need you to fix it, Dean!” Sam shouted, voice echoing off the stone walls. “You think this is something a potion and a pillow-fluffed movie night is gonna solve?”

Dean crossed his arms. “No, I think this is something that needed a push, and you’re too damn proud to admit it!”

Sam stepped forward. “And you think I’m proud now?” His voice dropped, raw. “You think I’m okay watching her laugh with Castiel in the kitchen like he’s already replaced me?”

That landed hard. Dean’s mouth parted, but no words came.

Sam’s chest heaved as the fire behind his words dimmed into something more broken.

“I walk past her room and it smells like her still. I sit at the table and I look at the chair she used to drag sideways because it didn’t face you or me—and now Cas sits in it. I hear her laugh, and it’s not for me anymore.”

He turned away for a moment, hands on his hips, like he was trying to keep himself from unraveling completely. Then his voice cracked—just a little.

“I don’t need a potion, Dean. I need a chance. A real one. I need her to choose me. And now…”

He faced Dean again, eyes glassy but hard. “Now you’ve taken that from me. You’ve turned this into a goddamn game. You’ve turned us into a cosmic joke.”

Dean swallowed, guilt hitting him like a sledgehammer.

“Sam—”

“No,” Sam said, quieter now. “You don’t get it. You think this is just another mess to mop up with magic and snark. But if this doesn’t get fixed… if she and Castiel fall into whatever the hell that potion’s doing to them…”

His voice trailed off, and when he looked up again, his pain was naked. “Then I lose her. For good.”

There was a silence that even Rowena didn’t dare fill.

Dean stepped forward slowly. “Sammy… I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” Sam said, softer. “But you did it anyway.”

He turned his eyes on Rowena then, sharp and unforgiving. “You gonna fix this?”

Rowena gave a delicate shrug, suddenly more sober in her theatrics. “I can neutralize the potion’s influence. That part’s easy. But the rest? That’s between the three of you.”

Sam nodded. “Fine. Then do it.”

Rowena raised a brow. “And what will you do in the meantime?”

Sam didn’t hesitate. His voice was steel.

“I’m going to remind her why she loved me in the first place.”

[shamrockqueen]

The summer of 79

Pairing : Robert Pronge x Reader (70s style)

Warnings : R18, Naughty behavior, caught him by surprise, smut, he hates to see you leave but loves watching you go

Word count : 3167

Chris Evans Masterlist

Robert didn’t particularly like this neighborhood, and he certainly didn’t care for the pressed-shirt types that populated it. But, the house wasn’t expensive, and it suited all of his needs. The way he saw it, as long as he kept his distance from all the white picket fence type of people, he’d do just fine.

He was working on a shitbox car in the attached garage—another cheap purchase, but it did just enough to carry him this far. The summer sun was cooking him in the un-air conditioned space, even with the garage door pulled up to allow the occasional breeze to come in.

Robert cursed upon catching his finger on a poorly placed hole near what he was sure was the carburetor. He jerked back, tossing an oily rag against the ground in a huff before nursing his sore finger.

He tried to take a breather, wiping his clean hand over his neck. Better to clear away the sweat that had built up on his skin before stepping away from the mess. He went into the driveway to catch that bit of breeze that rolled past the house, and it didn’t come alone.

You were riding past the house on your bike, hair blown back in the wind and the sun kissing your exposed skin. It was the first thing that caught his eye, with the last being your cutoff denim shorts tightly hugging your ass.

You had ole Robert turning his head just as you passed his trash bins. It was until you rolled your pedals back to brake, coming to a solid stop as your shoe hit the pavement. He quickly averted his eyes the second they connected with yours, leaving him to miss the small and mischievous smile that pulled along your lips.

You caught the moment he dared to look back at you, giving him a friendly wave. He stared back for a second, confused by any actual neighborly behavior, let alone from someone like you.

He waved back before you turned away, watching as you kicked back off the road and cycled away. You left him with just the short memory of your shapely figure working over a blue cruiser bicycle.

He tried to clear his mind by putting his focus back on the car, but he never made much progress. He was quickly admitting defeat after an hour of fucking around with it.

Tossing his tools back in their box, he reached for the pull cord to yank the door to the garage closed when he heard a familiar spin of bicycle spokes. He spared a glance out at the road and was surprised by a familiar face.

You were off your bike this time, choosing instead to roll it along the road.

He offered another wave, much like you had upon your first passing, only this time you spoke back to him in return.

“Hello”

Your voice sounded sweet, even airy, and it easily caught Robert off guard. “Uh, hey there.”

“What's your name?” You chirped back.

“Me?” He mouthed back, barely audible. You recognized the gesture all the same.

“Is there someone else in there with you?” You laughed.

He scoffs before answering the previous question. “My name’s Robert.”

“Do you have a bike pump, Robert?” You asked.

“What?” It was all he'd given back as a response, somewhat dumbfounded as to why the hell you were even talking to him in the first place.

“Do you..” you began to repeat, only to be cut off midway.

“I heard you; I just…why?” He finally spit out the question. Why?

Why were you smiling at him, batting your lashes in his direction? Why were you even giving him a second glance, let alone asking him for anything?

“My tire went flat.” You say as you roll your bike closer, crossing onto his concrete driveway and overstepping an invisible boundary.

Robert didn’t answer again, standing mostly agast with the garage cord still in between his fingers. He doesn’t know how to talk to gentle young things like you, and he gaped at the absurdity of the conversation like a fish out of water.

“You don’t want to help me, Robert?” You said with a soft pout as you dug the toe of your shoe side to side on the concrete.

He counters back quickly, although his words end up being fumbled. “No…I.” He had to think for a second, “I can help; just give me a second,” and with that, he pushed the garage door back up and turned back to look for the needed bike pump.

You follow him inside, rolling your bike alongside you as he disappears behind the car. It annoyed him a little bit that you didn’t just stay put; in fact, you seemed to linger just a little too closely for his own comfort.

You’re just a peach, and he’s anything but sweet.

Your skin was a little sweaty from your afternoon ride, giving you an unearthly glow. He, on the other hand, felt grungy from the perspiration that stuck to his clothes and hair after working with the car.

He’s digging for anything that resembles a bike pump. He had agreed without thinking about whether he actually had one. Yet, low and behold, just the right item was found buried within some unpacked boxes.

“So you’re new around here?” You asked, a sweet lilt to your voice as you ignored any of the negativity in his body language.

“Uh, yeah. Moved in a month or two ago.” He answered back as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

You bounded back over, nearly splayed across his shoulder, as you watched him examine the tire for any holes. He did find another reason for it to have gone flat.

“Shit, it looks like the cap for the air valve is missing. It’ll just run out of air aga…”

“Oh, here you go.” You quickly and conveniently pulled the little black cap from your shorts pocket, holding it out for him to take.

Robert is well confused as to why it’s in your pocket instead of on your bike, but as his brows knit together, he found he didn’t care to ask. He only wanted to get this shit done. It was hard enough to work while trying to keep an eye on the beautiful creature that had just invaded his space.

“So, what made you decide on this neighborhood?” You asked, rocking back and forth on your heels as you stood back up from your hunched position.

You toed around his garage as he pumped the bike tire out of his line of vision but not his mind.

“Uh, I don’t know. The house was cheap, I guess.” He answered back.

You ran your finger along the dusty lines in a small fridge at the corner of the garage as you continued to speak. “Meet any other neighbors?”

“Uh, no. Hey, I’m trying to do this, so if you could..yeah.” He couldn’t string together the precise words, but his meaning came through. He wanted you to cut out whatever the hell you were doing where he couldn’t see.

Not that you would actually listen, but you did give him a sassy “Sor-ry.”

“Thank you for helping me. I promise I’ll be very appreciative.” You said as you cracked the door open on the little fridge, feeling the cool air on your shins, before leaning down to look at its contents. The sound only just made him stop tinkering with the bike and toss you a glance over his shoulder. It wasn’t until he heard the ‘pst’ of someone cracking open a can of his beer that it spurred him back onto his feet.

“Hey, get the fuck out of there!” He yells behind his shoulder before fully standing. He watched, fuming a little, as you brought the open can to your lips for a taste.

He rushed across the small garage to rip the cab from your fingers, shouting out, “What the fuck do you think you're doing?!” before knocking the cab down instead.

It spilled out over the both of you, coating your clothes and his hands.

“Jesus, god damn it!” As he shakes the beer from his fingers as he sets the now empty can aside, trying not to just throw it at you.

You only gave a little “oh no” as you pulled at your now wet clothes.

He was already tearing at his soggy t-shit to pull it free from his body, not wanting anymore sticky skin. You followed suit, pulling your top over your head and letting your soft and unencumbered breasts fall free from the fabric. A cool breeze blew through from the opening of the garage, making your bare buds perk up against the chill.

Robert was at a loss for even a single thought at the sight of you. That breeze is the first thing to snap him back into reality. He’s at a loss as to what to do first: cover you up or shut the garage so no other neighbors could see the display you’d made.

He moves quickly now, jumping after the cord for the garage door and yanking it down until it hits the cement with a hard clunk.

He turned back as you began to unbutton your shorts to free yourself from the wet denim. He has to rush over and grab the hem of your shorts just to keep you from slipping them down your body and completely exposing yourself to him.

He shouts out at you with “What the fuck are you doing?”

“My clothes got dirty.” You say this as if it were a matter of fact, like this was something completely normal to do in the presence of a strange man.

“What?!” Robert was entirely confused, half certain that none of this could be reality. Surely he had passed out from the heat, and this was some gorgeous fever dream.

“You spilled beer on my clothes; I have to take them off.” You spoke softly, more demure as you slid your hands over his as he gripped your undone jeans. You were gentle, especially compared to the stiffening of his muscles as you ran your nails lightly up and down his arms.

When Robert wasn’t immediately responsive, you taped at the nose piece of his glasses, pushing them up his face as you taunted him. "Geez, you’re thick.”

You had gotten close, nearly tickling the tip of his nose with yours.

“You know, I was hoping to say that when I actually got your pants off.”

You were devious. You had never seen ‘Robert’ in the neighborhood before and you sure as hell hadn’t seen any moving trucks to signal a new neighbor's presents in your cozy little burb. He looked wild, messy long hair, wide shoulders and a thick air of aggravation around him. The muscles in his neck had tightened as he had fought against the inner workings of his car.

You had thought you had a shot, but he had seemed so unreceptive. You definitely didn’t account for the spilling of the beer you had taken, but you worked it in your favor.

He simply puffed out a sharp breath, looking down at your exposed skin and realizing the absurdity of fighting against you. It was the first time he actually stopped to ask himself why he was trying to stop you.

He let you take his hands in yours, helping him push the wet denim down your body until they finally fell to the dusty floor before you kicked them away.

His voice was much more subdued, almost weak, as you cornered him against the side of his car. “What the hell are you doing?” He spoke more in awe this time. He was never this lucky, so you’d have to excuse his consistent skepticism.

You smiled once his hands had left the hem of your shorts and spread along your bare skin. You nuzzled over his cheek, leaning in to ghost your lips along the scruff of his mustache and beard. Whispering lowly, “I think you know exactly what I’m doing,” before finally stealing a heated little kiss.

It was quick, even searing. Even within this sweltering garage, he made your skin flush even hotter. At first, he hadn’t been as receptive as you’d hoped he would be, but as he pressed into the kiss you knew he’d finally come around.

Robert completely switched, becoming more aggressive with the way he handled you as he dragged his teeth over your lower lip before sucking it between them. You smiled with a happy whine as his mouth tore away to pepper sloppy, desperate kisses over your jaw and along your neck and shoulder.

Your fingers spread over his wide shoudlers, pulling him closer until his chest was squished against your plush breasts. His hands gripped either side of your waist, holding on tight as if you could fly away at any moment.

His fingers didn't wander over the parts of your body where you needed them the most. Out of a little frustration, you basically had to grab his digits too harshly so as to guide him to drag them over your hip. His hand didn't want to leave your soft flesh, and you laughed as you forced it over your belly and down the front of your panties.

“C’mon, I need you to touch me, Robert.” You sounded impatient, but you were met with an equally needy growl of agreement as it rumbled from his chest.

His fingers kicked into action as soon as a tip touched one of your hidden folds. You hummed with joy, giggling against his lips as you stole another kiss.

His fingers wove through your lower lips to play at your entrance. You’re raking your fingers through his long hair as he’s dragging his thick digits through the soft petals of your soppy cunt.

His left hand traveled further down your body, sliding through the waistband of those lace panties. His right fingers pumped through your wet sex as he fought to gain purchase around the thin material of your underwear. His mind was too preoccupied with bumping his knuckles along your inner walls as he broke his lips away again to bite at your neck. The bruises he’d leave would bloom angry and purple by tomorrow.

An animalistic part of his brain became fed up with this last scrap of fabric as it stuck to your body, and his nails tore through it in protest before he ripped it with a sickening crack of snapping seams. It stayed stuck around the side of your other leg but fell to ribbons alongside the other.

His hands reached further, gripping your by the back of your soft squeezable thighs and hoisted you up so that your sneakers dangled a good 6 inches off the floor.

Your ass crashes against a shabby tool bench that helped to sandwich the two of you next to the car. It came with the house, and he was planning to just chuck it out, but somehow it became incredibly useful.

With you more or less safely perched at cock height, he began tearing apart his belt buckle so he could shimmy his jeans down to his thighs.

“Is this even fucking real?” He growls under his breath, moreso to himself, but you laugh anyway.

His hands were hungry, dragging and clawing over your body. It was as if he needed to memorize its shape, as if by some stroke of terrible luck you could disappear within an instant.

His boxer band is on display before he grabs a handful of cloth and denim to pull it down to his thighs. His cock is more alive than it had been in months, and with the option of real pussy on the line, it was throbbing, bobbing against his stomach as he pulled it free.

“Oh shit. Are you sure?” He still doubted, frustrating you just a little bit more.

You nod back, whimpering, “Yes, yes!”

“You’re not gonna turn back into a pumpkin the second I stick it in, will ya?” He chuckled, finally letting himself relax.

“Oh what, you think you’re fuckin funny all of a sudden?” You say as you wrapped your legs around his back to pull him flush against your lower body.

This time he’s taking the hint and aligning the tip with the soft pink opening of your flower. He nearly wanted to commit the image of it to memory, but for now he couldn’t leave either of you waiting a single second, and he pushed through your tight little opening.

Oh, what a beautiful young lady you were! You were practically flexing around his cock as he pushed further in.

“Fuck Me.” He gritted out as he ground his teeth together.

He fucks you just like that, bent over your splayed body, carefully pumping through your tight channel. He was eager now, paying no mind to your tight expression as he stretched your walls apart.

His hips started to piston back and forth, making the old wooden legs of that work bench creak in protest of the misuse. You were hanging off the edge, one shoed foot propped up by the heel on the side of the bench, and the other grazing against the cement floor in the hopes of balancing itself.

You whine at the tickling and the flutter of his cock dragging along your inner walls, stirring your pussy and making you cry. You sang his name—a tune he’d never thought he’d hear sung from such sweet lips.

The garage is humid, with thick and sticky hot air clouding over you both as he plunged in and out of your wet heat. Each slam of his hips sent a ricochet of something hot, like a satisfying burn shooting up your belly and smoldering against the back of your eyelids.

Each shot of that white-hot bliss built into a waiting inferno until it all burst apart. You nearly couldn’t breathe as you unraveled around him, and he ground his teeth together as his own end neared.

For as fuck drunk as you had made him, he still had some sense to pull himself free from your gushing flower before his cock began to seize. Instead, he spilled out all over your soft belly.

His cock continued to twitch, dribbling out a last few beads of white nectar before beginning to soften.

Robert was fighting to catch his breath while being suffocated by the cloud of heat the two of you had made in that small garage.

“Fuck.” He groaned as he pulled his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face, pushing up his glasses in the process.

You had to push yourself to sit up before carefully hopping down. The cum was still thick and wet, threatening to drip down your stomach and between your legs from the change of position.

“You’ve made me all dirty.” You whined.

“Uh, sorry.” His eyes were lidded, barely registering your words other than those that required an apology from himself.

“Well, I’m gonna need a shower.” You spoke, but he wasn’t really listening anymore. He’s still so dumbfounded as you saunter right for the entrance to his house from the measly little garage.

It took him a minute to regain his bearings; only after taking a breath did he realize that the strange temptress that had bested him was now wandering through his house.

“Wait, a fuckin minute!” He shouted as he ran after you.

[matchadobo]

hi! i love ur fics :)

can you pls do the "a word from you about this and i'll set you on fire" but with pegging! >:D

KIDD; switching roles?

words: 1589 dialogue: "a word from you about this and i'll set you on fire." warning/s: no actual p3gging it's just suggestive in here :), fem reader, nsfw 🔞

eustass kidd has always and will always be the dom. ever since you two met, he had always carried himself with much assertion. always the abrasive one, refusing to be second to nothing nor to no one. and you find that hot, really hot when he takes the lead befitting of a captain of his ship. or when he's got everything covered and taken care of and all that's left for you to do is sit pretty in his lap. or when he knows how to put you on your place with just one glance.

that's why even now that you two got together, it had always been like that. you're not one to be docile, which is one of the things he loved about you, but it feels nice to be under his command. to be under him and act according to him. and you two agreed to it. he likes to always be in charge so it's no problem.

but all it takes is for you to take his place and he suddenly sees the world in a different lens. neither had you two to thought about it but what if you were the dom for once?

a knot got stuck in kidd's throat and he was a coughing mess when your body pressed way too hard onto his back and you caged him from behind with both of your arms by the bar table just as the ship jolted. and then it suddenly smelled like burning charcoal. it's that fucking engine again acting up.

kidd was steaming. the grip on the handle of his mug was about to break apart from how hard he was holding it. because it's as if a switch flipped in his head and he was rock fucking hard it was actually painful keeping it in his pants.

it began when you were just taking a stroll on the victoria, near the bar and kidd was settled on one of the stools, having a drink for himself.

"killer! can you make me a mojito?" killer who was busy wiping off the mugs he previously washed gave you a cordial nod, setting the mugs down to get on with your request. you passed by your captain, both of you minding your own business.

"maaan, i've been on that carburetor for a while now. i'm exhausted." you sighed stretching to reach the skies as your sides hurt.

"yeah, i'll get that changed up when we dock at some port." kidd responded, taking a sip of his scotch. he figured you just returned from fixing up the ship engines and remembered he also had to fix something up too.

"well get on with it, unless you want a rollercoaster of a ship." you huffed, leaning by the ship railings to have a whiff of the salty, sea breeze. "i somehow made it viable until tomorrow, just enough for your birthday, love."

"here's the mojito, name." killer called out, placing your glass next to kidd.

as you were approaching to get it, the ship jolted and you lost balance. you had to grab support, almost toppling over as you caged kidd on his seat with your hands by his sides placed on the high table of the bar.

"it's fucking up again?! for fuck's sake i told you ruffians to clean up the oil otherwise the ship will jolt." you berated the rookies who had just emerged from the engine room.

at that moment, kidd looked over you and the world stopped once again for him. he took in the sight of you with dried up grime and sweat. minor swipes of soot in your cheeks down to your neck. kidd could smell you, the tiredness and the sweltering of your body. it somehow fucked him up no matter how disgusting it sounds.

"i'll take care of it fast, yeah?" you told kidd before placing a kiss on his cheek. already barking out commands on what to do and who must do it as you headed down the engine room.

kidd had a good amount of silence on the outside but his head was fucking screaming, whining at the thought of you. you were so fucking hot. what if you were the one barking orders at him? you take charge for once and put him in his place? this must be what you feel towards him all the time. desperately want to be told what to do.

kidd shook his head and laughed dumbly, as if he'd ever admit all of that.

"something the matter, kidd?" killer broke out, sensing his bestfriend in the middle of a warzone despite the quiet demeanor he projects. "missing name so soon?"

"shut up, killer." kidd said through gritted teeth.

"i have never found you in such a helpless situation that you actually had a boner because name got too close." killer snorted, he had to put the mugs down because of how he was laughing too much.

kidd grew annoyed that he was right, he had to excuse himself to his quarters just to take care of his mess. that is until you caught him pleasuring himself on your side of the bed when a couple of hours had passed.

"hey baby i'm finally do...ne." you almost tripped over yourself, barging in only to see kidd's head thrown so far back, his grip on his cock tight as he drowned in the smell of your pillow. it didn't even seemed like he heard you. you kicked the door shut silently, feeling ecstatic at the sight of him like this.

"f-fuck! what the fuck, name?!" kidd hid himself with the comforter, burning red at the sight of you before him as you crossed your arms with a nasty grin on your face. "how long have you been there?! coulda gave me a heads up or some shit, fuckin' hell." kidd was blurting out curses one after the other, but really, he was just flustered.

"i could very well leave the damn engines to one of my guys and have a little break ourselves, but what made you so selfish enough to keep all the fun to yourself?" you pulled your sweaty shirt off your body and tossed it elsewhere in his room.

kidd gulped, because somehow he sees you differently. like you're assertive and it made more blood rush to his cock it felt like it'd implode. he couldn't do anything but gawk at you, eyes trailing down your sweaty breasts glistening from the faintly lit lamp beside him.

you knelt down and flipped your hair behind you. normally, kidd would grab a fistful of it and start fucking your throat. but kidd was anything but normal, he melted when you got busy slurping him up. all he could do was bury his face in your pillow. it made you let go and confront him about it.

"hey, is everything okay?" you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. you tapped on his lap but he still wouldn't respond. "are you sulking because i've been busy? sorry, bab-"

"it ain't fuckin' that." he said through the muffled pillow. you sat at the same edge of the bed to face him. "forget it." he stood up and pulled his pants up, he was still hard but he walked it off to the bathroom.

you caught his wrist and tried pulling him back. "kidd, baby, let's talk. we haven't had the chance to today, love. come on, please?" you pulled him a little more before he finally gave in and had sat beside you. "just tell me what's wrong."

"i'm still hard. i wasn't gettin' turned on , you know why? because you want me to fuck you. and i want you to fuck me." he blurted out, cheeks embarrassingly as crimson as his hair. "t-that thing you brought up a while back, p-pegging was it." he refused to look you in the eye as he said with crossed arms.

you tried fighting off the smile in your lips as you pressed them together so as to not embarrass him. "so you finally want to give it a shot, huh? what's the big idea about it?"

"see this is why i wanna shut up abou-" he was about to stand up in annoyance but you laughed a little and pulled him once more.

"alright alright. we won't get into the details." you kept the laugh in you but your smile still is very much wide. "i'll just take a shower and we'll do something about it-"

"no." kidd finally looked at you, vehement in his protest.

"what do you mean no?" you tilted your head in perplexity.

"bathe after we do it or somethin'." he looked away again, ears red as fuck. then you got it, like a bell rung in your ears.

"okay, you know what? this new side of you couldn't have come to light at a better time because," you bent down to reach for a box underneath the bed, still on your side.

you unearthed a black box and it was full of strap ons and what ever else women use to dom and the like. "this is your present for tomorrow!"

kidd felt faint, he felt like he was gonna die. from the colossal size of those dildos to the handcuffs and other freaky devices he had no idea what's the use for. but his cock was way too excited for it. "a word from you about this and i'll set you on fire."

thank you for the request anon! i hope i atleast did your req justice TT 🌷

omg i think i kinda fumbled this one :c i really dk how to write pegging LMAOFOAOFSFSH maybe i'll try again with another post lmk if i should make a part 2 TT

happiest bday to my baby, my wife, my husband, my daddy🌷 his fic is boutta come soon istg

if you're interested for my 500 follower event, it's still open for requests you can check out this post

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

This 1958 Chevrolet Corvette underwent a pro-street-style metamorphosis between 2008 and 2011. It is endowed with a 383 cubic inch stroker V8 engine, harmonized with a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission, and a narrowed rear axle featuring a limited-slip differential. The rear suspension has been upgraded with a ladder-bar configuration, adjustable coilovers, and the addition of a lift-off hood. The body, painted a striking red with white coves, comes with a detachable hardtop. Inside, a roll cage has been installed along with a B&M Pro Stick shifter, a shift light, aftermarket gauges, and black Procar bucket seats. The enhancements also include dual Edelbrock carburetors, Hooker headers, side-exit exhaust pipes, 15” alloy wheels, and front disc brakes. Acquired by the current dealer in February 2024, this modified C1 Corvette is now part of the Coffee Walk Corvette Collection in Wylie, Texas, and is offered without reserve, complete with build records and a clean Pennsylvania title.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The fiberglass exterior is adorned in red with white coves and includes a removable hardtop and a lift-off hood with an integrated air scoop. A Stewart-Warner fuel-pressure gauge is mounted on the cowl, and the right-rear corner features a battery cutoff switch and external terminals. The gallery reveals cracks in the weatherstripping, pitted chrome, and paint imperfections.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Polished 15” alloy wheels are shod with 25.0×5.0” front and 29.5×11.5” rear Hoosier drag tires, installed in April 2024. A crossmember supports the rear suspension, which has been modified with ladder bars, a diagonal link, and adjustable coilovers. The braking system includes front disc brakes and rear drums.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The interior is equipped with a roll cage and Procar high-back bucket seats in black. Enhancements include a B&M Pro Stick shifter, an MSD shift light, rocker-switch controls, and fabricated metal door panels. The gallery displays flaking paint and wear on interior surfaces.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The three-spoke steering wheel is positioned in front of a 160-mph speedometer and auxiliary gauges. An AutoMeter pedestal tachometer is mounted atop the non-functional factory tachometer. Additional gauges for coolant temperature and oil pressure are located in the center console. The mechanical odometer is inoperative, and the total mileage remains unknown.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

A Harwood plastic fuel cell is mounted in the trunk, which has been tubbed with fabricated aluminum panels to accommodate the rear wheels.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The 350ci V8 engine block, bored and stroked to 383ci, features four-bolt main bearings. The build includes forged pistons, ARP fasteners, a polished Edelbrock intake manifold, dual Edelbrock carburetors, an MSD ignition module, and Hooker long-tube headers that flow into side-exit exhaust pipes.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Power is transmitted to the rear wheels through a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission and a narrowed Dana 60 rear axle with a limited-slip differential.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

[praxcrown5]

Unhinged Cars or Planes Headcanon Wednesday: Sheriff

Been wanting to gush about my beloved donut car for a while, now. Enjoy!

-Sheriff's full name is Sheriff Royce Campbell (Factory Designation M8C1949255CU09281934). He is the oldest of two children sired to Sergeant Henry Campbell and Maryanne Elizabeth Campbell nee Sheetwelder. He was manufactured on September 28, 1934 at the Ford Factory in Detroit, Michigan, and was modeled in the likeness of an Old World, 1949 Mercury Eight two-door coupe.

-Most everyone in his family is a cop or works for the police/FBI in some capacity.

-Sheriff grew up in Charlotte, North Carolina, and he enrolled in the Charlotte Police Academy when he turned nine, just like his father.

-He received the Honor Graduate Award in 1945 for his academic acumen, high level of proficiency with a firearm, and his technical driving skills. He was hired by the Charlotte City Police Department almost immediately thereafter, with his father serving as his FTO.

-He was recruited into a revenuer task force in 1947 under the command of Captain Lorence Camber where he would achieve the rank of Corporal.

-For reasons unknown he was demoted back to officer status and transferred to Carburetor County, Arizona in 1949 where he served as a deputy under Sheriff Randy Coldweld. Coldweld's way of policing was unlike anything Sheriff encountered in Charlotte. He fully believed that empathy and compassion were FAR more effective at controlling crime than fear, and he worked bumper to bumper with Stanley and Lizzie to make sure that the residents of Radiator Springs had access to affordable food, housing and education.

-Coldweld was forced to retire for medical reasons in 1950. A special election was held that year, and Sheriff was elected to replace him.

-He only keeps in touch with his brother, having been disowned by his late parents shortly before moving to Radiator Springs.

-Sheriff knew Doc's true identity--having figured it out pretty early on in their friendship. He never let on because he respected Doc's privacy, though he came clean after the tie-breaker race.

-Despite his conservative upbringing, Sheriff is bisexual, though he prefers male company. He and Doc have been in a relationship since 1958; sort of a best friends with benefits situation

-While working for the CCPD, he had a pair of .378 H&H Magnum rifles mounted to his undercarriage. He swapped them out for parking boots when he became the sheriff of Radiator Springs

-He loves Lightning like a son

[campgender]

[If I could be anything in the world] by Emily Drabinski. photo credit: “beauty in the driveway” by jeanieforever on Flickr. in Because the Boss Belongs to Us: Queer Femmes on Bruce Springsteen (March 2011). available on the Queer Zine Archive Project (link)

image description: page 16 of a zine with an indistinct map as the background. a square of text pasted on the top half of the page reads:

If I could be anything in the world, I would be Bruce Springsteen’s car. Listen to him in the opening stanza of “Open All Night”: I had the carburetor cleaned and checked / with her line blown out she’s hummin’ like a turbojet / Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks for a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks / Took her down to the car wash, check the plugs and points / I’m goin’ out tonight I’m gonna rock that joint. Oh how I’d love to be up on his concrete blocks.

the lower half has a black and white photo of a car outside in the driveway next to concrete blocks. end image description.

[wheelscomedyandmore]

JACKIE GLEASON SECRET TO THE PERFECT MARRIAGE

1. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, have a little beverage, good food and companionship. She goes on Tuesdays, I go on Fridays.

2. We also sleep in separate beds. Hers is in California and mine is in Texas.

3. I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back.

4. I asked my wife where she wanted to go for our anniversary. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested the kitchen.

5. We always hold hands. If I let go, she shops.

6. She has an electric blender, electric toaster and electric bread maker. She said "There are too many gadgets, and no place to sit down!" So I bought her an electric chair.

7. My wife told me the car wasn't running well because there was water in the carburetor. I asked where the car was. She told me, "In the lake."

8. She got a mud pack and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.

9. She ran after the garbage truck, yelling, "Am I too late for the garbage?" The driver said, "No, jump in!".

10. Remember: Marriage is the number one cause of divorce.

11. I married Miss Right. I just didn't know her first name was 'Always'.

12. I haven't spoken to my wife in 18 months. I don't like to interrupt her.

13. The last fight was my fault though. My wife asked, "What's on the TV?"

I said, "Dust!".

Can't you just hear him say all of these?

I love it. These were the good old days when humor didn't have to start with a four letter word or political. It was just clean and simple fun. And he always ended his programs with the words, "And May God Bless" with a big smile on his face.

[apassionateman]

RED SKELTONS SECRET TO THE PERFECT MARRIAGE

1. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, have a little beverage, good food and companionship. She goes on Tuesdays, I go on Fridays.

2. We also sleep in separate beds. Hers is in California and mine is in Texas.

3. I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back.

4. I asked my wife where she wanted to go for our anniversary. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested the kitchen.

5. We always hold hands. If I let go, she shops.

6. She has an electric blender, electric toaster and electric bread maker. She said "There are too many gadgets, and no place to sit down!" So I bought her an electric chair.

7. My wife told me the car wasn't running well because there was water in the carburetor. I asked where the car was. She told me, "In the lake."

8. She got a mud pack and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.

9. She ran after the garbage truck, yelling, "Am I too late for the garbage?" The driver said, "No, jump in!".

10. Remember: Marriage is the number one cause of divorce.

11. I married Miss Right. I just didn't know her first name was 'Always'.

12. I haven't spoken to my wife in 18 months. I don't like to interrupt her.

13. The last fight was my fault though. My wife asked, "What's on the TV?"

I said, "Dust!".

Can't you just hear him say all of these?

I love it. These were the good old days when humor didn't have to start with a four letter word or political. It was just clean and simple fun. And he always ended his programs with the words, "And May God Bless" with a big smile on his face.

Richard "Red" Skelton

Born July 18, 1913

Died Sept 17, 1997

[cuzikan]

RED SKELTON'S RECIPE FOR THE PERFECT MARRIAGE

1. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, have a little beverage, good food and companionship. She goes on Tuesdays, I go on Fridays.

2. We also sleep in separate beds. Hers is in California and mine is in Texas.

3. I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back.

4. I asked my wife where she wanted to go for our anniversary. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested the kitchen.

5. We always hold hands. If I let go, she shops.

6. She has an electric blender, electric toaster and electric bread maker. She said "There are too many gadgets, and no place to sit down!" So I bought her an electric chair.

7. My wife told me the car wasn't running well because there was water in the carburetor. I asked where the car was. She told me, "In the lake."

8. She got a mud pack and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.

9. She ran after the garbage truck, yelling, "Am I too late for the garbage?" The driver said, "No, jump in!".

10. Remember: Marriage is the number one cause of divorce.

11. I married Miss Right. I just didn't know her first name was 'Always'.

12. I haven't spoken to my wife in 18 months. I don't like to interrupt her.

13. The last fight was my fault though. My wife asked, "What's on the TV?"

I said, "Dust!".

Can't you just hear him say all of these?

I love it. These were the good old days when humor didn't have to start with a four letter word or political. It was just clean and simple fun. And he always ended his programs with the words, "And May God Bless"with a big smile on his face.

[bellygunnr]

Trueno Twitterpation

A commission piece for @lyndexv of their OC Geoff reviving a sentient AE86! It was an absolute blast to write.

----

The AE86 was a cowering, sorry mess when he first discovered her, wheels stuck fast in dry-wet-dry again mud ruts and strapped down by voracious forest overgrowth. How she got there evades Geoff still, as her previous handler had long since passed and the one before him just wanted her gone. He'd all too eagerly dragged her out of her mire and onto a tow truck. The sunlight'd been good for her on that trip, though. Under the muck, her paint had taken on a faint glow, which he kept an eye on until she was practically a fireball trailing him home.

Now she's clean. Physically, at least. Her tires are new and so is her paint. And she stares at him plaintively from his driveway, headlights popped up, drawing his full attention repeatedly until he can do nothing but give in to her call. It's nice outside, at least. A pleasant day with a breeze. His skin itches, like he imagines the Trueno's does, a restless buzzing that urges him to unlock her driver's door and drop inside, stretching out to fill the cabin with all the languidness of a cat in a sunbeam.

He runs his hands along the hard edge of her utilitarian dashboard, key pinned against his palm with his thumb. Dust floats up in fits and bursts as he does so, becoming a thin veneer that the low outside sun diffuses in. The restlessness becomes electric, then, and he hurries to turn the key in the ignition over.

The dashboard lights gradually warm to life. The engine, not so much. The AE86 trembles under his hands, her anxiety as acute as a storm's ozone, her shame a pulsing heat between his eyes, like tears. 

"Hey, hey," he says gently. "Don't be upset. I know it's hard. It's not your fault."

The Trueno's frame judders hard with the force of the engine cranking. Fuel sparks, but it's both too much and not enough, and he sees smoke filter pitifully from her backend through the rear view mirror while the engine sputters back out. He pats the top of her dash consolingly.

It's terrible. She's willing, he can feel it, but there's-- problems. Barriers. Age. Disuse. Abuse. And it's killing her.

"I'll be right back. Alright? I've got a couple ideas."

He runs his hand across her dash one more time. Heat bleeds between them, lingering all the way to the hardware store, which he bikes to. When he comes back, he's significantly poorer and weighed down by car parts.

But it's a nice day. They've got time to burn. He has the tools.

And she's willing.

--

Geoff pulls out spark plugs that are black and burnt. He swaps them out for new iridium-tipped ones. Then he pulls the air filter and the carburetor and that's a new round of problems-- running is to survival as driving is to living, can't have one if you're the other, so he's glad he bought a rebuild kit for the carb. 

"Guess we'll have to go for that drive tomorrow. Sorry, girl," he sighs. "But this won't take long. I'll get you put back together."

The wind blows. One of the headlights abruptly droops, as if the '86 is winking in acknowledgement. Geoff carefully lowers the hood down and clamps it shut.

"Just sit tight."

He ducks into his garage.

---

The carb body has to soak and dry, and be brushed through. He sits at his workshop bench with the flood light on and goes through the floater, the jet screws, all of it, until it is whole and hale. His back burns with the full attention of the AE86 (or maybe he's just imagining it). (It's getting hard to tell).

It's dark out by the time he's done and that's okay. He drags his light source out with him, making multiple runs for the tools, until the AE86 is open and waiting. She's cool to the touch now that the sun's gone. She patiently abides Geoff's fumbling around in her engine bay.

"That should help with some of it. New air filter. Rebuilt carburetor-- I changed the settings, too, just to keep up with things. That'll feel good in the morning."

He's numb with cold by the time he's done. She bounces on her suspension when he closes her hood one more time, finished for the night. His hands linger on the panel of her closed headlamp.

"Good night," Geoff says.

---

He ends up sleeping in too late the next day. The shrill beep of a horn-- not French, he thinks bizarrely-- wakes him up with a shout. He's halfway out the door in just a t-shirt and boxers before his brain catches up with his body and he stares hard at his driveway, confused.

Clouds skate across the sky. A bird lingers atop his mailbox.

The AE86 has not moved an inch. But--

"I'm gonna go get dressed," he tells her. 

And he does, in record time. The Trueno's key bites into his palm with a sort of nervous energy. He's still not fully awake, but he's jittery in a suppressed adrenaline, pre-interview, post-accident kind of way. It's usually not a good start to a day. But this feels alright.

The driver's door is ajar before he even pulls the handle. He pauses, but shrugs and slides into the seat, letting muscle memory guide him until the engine is cranking.

It hangs.

"Come on, girl," he urges quietly. 

He twists the key again.

With a pop, the four cylinders start to go, and everything buzzes to life.

"Brilliant!" Geoff cries. "I knew it! I hope that feels good!"

His face twinges from smiling so broadly. Experimentally, he revs the engine, watching the needle smoothly sail from idle to 2000, 3000, and drop back down. There's some rough bubbling-- but she's not quitting. Good. Fantastic, even.

He drops into first gear. Very gently, they work together, easing out of the driveway and onto the gravel road beyond. She snarls a little passing into second into third, but stays true.

Excitement suffuses him. He can't tell if it's all his emotions or something else. But it doesn't matter. Geoff cranks the windows down, waves at a passing motorist. They don't understand.

That's okay.

They end up driving to the coast. After some time, he feels the urge to pull off onto the side of the road, where a breeze has picked up and drags in the scent of the sea, mixing in with the tang of grass. It's picturesque. His heart is still beating fast.

The Trueno idles along. Geoff tenses suddenly.

Thank you, he hears.

"What?" He blurts out.

Thank you, is repeated. For saving me as you did.

The voice is entirely in his head. Yet he can hear it. Hear her. And he knows in his bones that he's hearing Her, the '86, her chassis trembling with the raucous motion of her engine. This adrenaline. This joy. His, but not his alone. Hers, too.

"I'd do it again," he says stiltedly. "And I'll keep fixing you up until there's nothing wrong with you."

He hears her wheels crunch in the gravel. The blunt curve of a fender presses up against his legs.

Of course. I have full faith in you.

Geoff scrubs at his face, trying to hide a rapidly rising blush. She can't just SAY that! He turns around, only to find the Trueno shaking on her rear-suspension, in a rather identifiable pattern. Of course. 

"The feeling's mutual," he gets out.

They're both glad it's such a nice day out.

[highoctanebelle]

— BASICS

Name: savannah "savvy" mcrae Age / D.O.B.: 30 & May 31st Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: cisfemale, she/her, bisexaul Hometown: birmingham, alabama Affiliation: civilian Job position: race car driver Education: some college Relationship status: single Children: n/a Positive traits: determined, charismatic, hardworking, resilient, & loyal Negative traits: stubborn, impulsive, risk taker, impatient, & reckless

— BIOGRAPHY

born and raised just outside birmingham, alabama, savannah mcrae came into the world with a V8 engine practically purring in her blood. her daddy ran the only garage in town worth a damn, and from the time she could walk, she was shadowing him through the shop like a grease-streaked shadow. while the other girls were playing dress-up, savvy was learning to tear down carburetors and rebuild engines. her southern charm was unmistakable — all soft smiles and sugar-sweet drawl — but so was her grit. she didn’t just inherit her father’s talent with machines, she inherited his unshakable fire to win. savvy started racing go-karts at 12, and by 16, she was sneaking onto dirt tracks with a fake ID and nerves of steel. at 20, she made her NASCAR debut — one of the youngest women to do so — and spent the next decade earning her place on the circuit. known for her aggressive racecraft and fierce determination, she clocked multiple wins and a reputation as the one to watch. sponsors loved her clean-cut looks and charisma, but on the track, she was anything but gentle. she raced like she was born to — fast, focused, and fearless. but now, at 30, savvy’s hunger isn’t satisfied by just turning left. she’s set her sights on IndyCar — sharper cars, tighter tracks, higher stakes. It’s not just a career shift; it’s a whole new game. she’s trading in stock car muscle for open-wheel precision, and she knows she can’t fake her way through it. that’s why she’s turning to heath — the man who just cemented his legacy with the triple crown of motorsport and a dominant Indy 500 win. if anyone can help her make the leap and thrive, it’s him. savvy’s never been afraid to be the only woman in the room, and she sure as hell isn’t scared to be the rookie again. what she lacks in IndyCar experience, she makes up for in adaptability and pure racing instinct. she doesn’t just want to keep up — she wants to lead the pack. and even though she’s stepping into heath’s world, she’s not coming in to ride coattails. she’s coming to compete, to learn, and eventually, to win. on the surface, she’s still got that southern belle polish — blonde curls, bright blue eyes, and a wardrobe that somehow mixes boots and fireproof suits — but underneath it all, she’s steel. she’s had to fight her way through every assumption, every patronizing pat on the head, every whispered doubt. And she’s done it all with a smile, a wink, and her foot hard on the gas. now standing on the edge of a new chapter, savannah mcrae is more than just a crossover story. she’s a racer with legacy in her hands, ambition in her heart, and a fire that refuses to burn out. IndyCar might be a different kind of battlefield, but make no mistake — she didn’t come to play. she came to take the checkered flag.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS ~~coming soon~~

[thesweetestsupervillains]

Person:

"Germs and Genes are not the cause of disease, any more than flies cause garbage. We must not fear or focus on germs and genes. You are not a helpless victim. You have power to control your internal terrain. A clean, well stewarded, highly functional internal terrain will keep the “bad” genes turned off, the “good” genes turned on, and the trillions of microbes that live in you and on you (including staph and strep), in a robust and healthy balance." "Cells must create energy and clear exhaust. When you have an efficient cellular carburetor (aka mitochondria) your cells will make robust energy and be able to effectively clear the minimal exhaust. This internal environment is not a hospitable place for germs to thrive and keeps cancer genes turned off. You are not a victim of germs or genes. You, not your doctor or your pharmacist, have power and control over the state of your internal environment."

Gina: AHHHHHHHHHHGHGHGGHGHGH I'M GOING TO MURDER YOU

[whipplefilter]

How exactly did Stanley pass away?

When Stanley was built, cars were more a dream and a concept than a quintessential fact in the world. Cars were coming into being with a distinct sense of possibility, if not a grand blueprint for what life really meant, as an automobile. Some scholars argue this was the most vital, authentic period of the living machine. Others say that only later, once the notion of a car gained stability and variety, did true life for cars begin.

Regardless of one's school of thought, mechanically speaking, cars of Stanley's generation are fragile. They are prone to poor compression and engine management; they aren't near so complicated as their modern cousins, which in some respects makes fixes simple. But it also makes the needs of fixes more common, and the number of built-in failsafes less robust. This stresses the body, and leaves fewer footholds for the ghost in the machine. It's a tenuous thing, that ghost. Even to modern medicine it is still not clear what determines its ability to anchor, to persist, to spark life in metal. But the research is quietly suggesting that a life lived wildly--vitally--is not a life that lends itself often to longevity.

Racecars, for instance, are hardy creatures. They wreck and are remade; they endure full rebuilds--new panels, new components, new hoses, new entire engines--far better than most cars could. They've trained for it; they've weathered it. What could kill a street car is just another Sunday for a racecar. But sometimes that's not true, and wear does compound, and sometimes old racecars leave this world. Too soon? maybe, but glad, at least, that they are leaving more than several empty cups.

Stanley was never a racecar, but he survived the winters of northern Arizona, carburetor and all, and overheating so bad it popped his radiator cap clean off. He lived wildly and vitally and at the edge of possibility, with his body full of dreaming and at a time when the very notion of what it meant to be a car left almost wholly to one's own interpretation. It's a good way to live.

But all things end.

[blameth3playr]

Carburetor Rebuild and a Distributor Cap Upgrade

I just got some new parts in I can’t wait to build!

There’s something deeply satisfying about working on cars, especially when it’s a my VW Beetle. My latest project involved giving some much-needed attention and love to the carburetor for my 1971 Beetle. I also decided on swapping out the old orange distributor cap for a new clear one. Both jobs were small but make a huge difference in performance and aesthetic.

Rebuilding the Carburetor:

The carburetor had seen better days. Years of grime and buildup were making cold starts difficult and making it have performance issues. I opted for a full rebuild rather than replacing it, mostly to retain authenticity and because I want to learn how to repair my vehicle and be able to say that I built my own car. After removing the carburetor from the manifold I carefully disassembled it. I took note of the position of every spring and screw. I made sure to take few pictures and videos before opening it up making sure to properly mark where every screw and spring went. I also had to make sure I had all my cleaning and removing tools such as a can of carburetor cleaner, a can of compressed air, and a rebuild kit with new gaskets. The biggest challenge was making sure every passage was completely clear, especially the idle jet circuit. The carburetor in my car has also been swapped out before. At the moment I have a Solex H30/31Pict, the car from the factory had a Solex 34PICT3. My carburetor is smaller and it may have been done before in order to save on fuel. At the moment I have been able to rebuild the carburetor but it has not been placed back inside as I have found another issue or challenge I will need to work and so I will be keeping the carb off as I will be doing some work on the engine and having the carb removed will make the next steps easier.

Distributor Cap Swap

The distributor cap on the Beetle was the classic Bosch orange style, absolutely nothing wrong with it, it just looks boring. I replaced it with a new modern clear cap. Some purists might be mad at the idea, but I love being able to see the spark arc through the cap. It adds a bit of modern look and makes being able to see if the spark is going off a lot easier. Installing the new cap was a simple swap, but in the time of replacing the cap I took the opportunity to inspect all of the contact points as well. Everything was in decent shape, but a quick polish of the contacts ensured strong spark delivery. I will have to most likely get some new wires as well as the car is very old and rusting.

Rebuilding the carburetor reminded me why these cars are so beloved it was simple, mechanical, and endlessly rewarding. The clear distributor cap is a small touch that adds a spark of personality under the decklid. I hope to make the entire car custom. I am even thinking about going as far as creating my own wiring harness for the beetle replacing and creating the wires inside, but that is for the years to come.

If you’re restoring a Beetle, don’t underestimate how much these little updates can transform your every day ride.

If you guys like the cap or think I should keep it stock let me know! I hope you keep getting curious everyday and learn something about your car today!

[corvidaengine]

Broken Generator - 1

Today I received a broken generator, to experiment with. I intend to take it apart, and if I can, fix it. I’ve never done something like this before, so I’m super excited to see what I can learn.

Here’s what I know about it:

The fuel tank is not connected.

The carburetor may need to be cleaned, according to the person who gave it to me.

It has been outside, exposed to the elements for a long time.

It seems to be the 73536i model.

She gave me a copper spark plug, a carburetor, and something that looks similar to a cabin air filter for an automobile.

There’s two loose rubbery pieces that look like gaskets. One seems to match the carburetor:

The other I’m not sure:

Here’s the fuel tank:

And here's the part that reminds me of an air cabin filter for an automobile. I’m not sure what this is.

Here's the owners manual for the model I believe this to be: https://www.championpowerequipment.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/73536i-om-english.pdf