#what even is horsepower

[goldensunset]

FINALLY

#that was. #wow. #lacey is a worthy opponent #love her as a character but like i did not expect her to be that wicked strong #think that was my… fourth attempt? #sheesh that took a lot of strategizing on my part #absolute wildest thing is i had my hisuian zoroark in first #disguised as my corviknight. as sort of an afterthought #and that thing stayed in the game disguised as corviknight until *the very last round* #or in other words it was not so much as targeted by ANY of her pokémon almost the entire match #talk about accidental strategic genius. if you send in a bunch of other meh pokémon that the ai would rather target #somehow your little buddy can fire off a nasty plot and kill everything the entire match and no one even realizes it’s a zoroark #man even *I* forgot it was a zoroark. in the end it got killed by excadrill’s high horsepower #i was stuck there confused for a second like i thought it was immune??? and then i was like oooooh #wow that was wild. i spent too many resources on that fight #hooo man and according to an npc: ‘despite lacey’s type advantage she’s never been able to beat drayton!’ #dawg if fairies can’t kill that guy’s dragons and especially this chick’s fairies #what hope do i have #the sv dlc experience #sv dlc spoilers

[talkdutchtome]

Do you know this tiktok trend where girls tell guys about paying at the mechanic's for premium air for their cars 😭 could you write a fic where y/n does that prank to Max?

"Premium Air?" - Max Verstappen

pairing . . . max verstappen x reader )

genre . . . fluff )

wc . . . 825 words )

read my other work . . . here )

request something . . . here )

“Oh Maxy, I was supposed to mention, I took your car to be serviced. I know you’ve been so busy lately I thought I’d do that and give you one less thing to worry about” You said to your boyfriend, trying your hardest to suppress any giggles that wanted to escape. Your phone sat propped up on the bookshelf, strategically hidden so Max didn't notice.  

You had been seeing so many videos on TikTok where girls would prank their boyfriends or husbands by convincing them that they had bought “premium air” for the tires of their cars; and you decided that since so much of Max’s life revolved around cars, it would be the perfect way to prank him. 

“Oh, thank you very much baby, that’s kind of you, everything okay with it?” he said, never lifting his head up from his phone. 

“You’re welcome, yeah everything was okay they just said something about low tire pressure or something? I don’t really remember but I sorted it.” You said, fighting the mischievous grin that is trying to take its place on your face. At your words Max finally lifts his head up and looked at you, his brows furrowed. 

“Really are you sure? They seemed to be fine last time I drove it” his voice has a hint of concern lacing though it, clearly unsure where this is leading.  

“I’m not sure, that’s what the man said anyway. But I got it sorted. I even sprung for the premium air for you!” Your excitement was clear and the second the words left your lips, Max put his phone down, his full attention now on you. Confusion was etched on his face, his brows furrowed, and his lips pressed tightly in a fine line.  

“Premium air?” he questioned 

You nod enthusiastically, maintaining your poker face. "Yeah! It's the latest thing. It makes your car run smoother, improves fuel efficiency, and who knows, maybe it even adds a few extra horsepower."  

Max looks at you like you’ve got two heads and you come so close to ruining the whole prank and bursting out laughing.  

“Premium air?” he asked again, like he couldn’t find any other words to respond to your ridiculousness. “How much did this premium air cost you?” he asked with a bemused smile, that smile however, dropped as soon as you answered his question. 

“Oh, it was a steal! Like €150 a tire.”  

His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "€150 per tire? Are you serious Y/N? There's no such thing as premium air!" 

You feign innocence, "Oh, come on, Maxy, it's a special service they offered. You can't put a price on a smooth ride” Max sighs, a mix of frustration and amusement on his face.  

"Baby, I think you’ve been scammed. There's no such thing as premium air. Next time, let me know before you spend money on something like this." 

You play dumb, widening your eyes in mock surprise. "Scammed? But how could I buy it if it doesn't exist?" 

Max laughs, shaking his head. "You're too precious. Next time, let me come with you to the garage, okay? I'll make sure you don't fall for any tricks." 

You're left feeling a bit confused. Most of the prank videos you’ve seen end with frustration or annoyance, but Max seems more amused than anything else. 

As you sit there, still feeling a bit bewildered by Max's surprisingly lighthearted reaction, you gather the courage to ask him the burning question. "Hey, Max," you begin cautiously, "why aren't you mad at me?" 

He looks at you with genuine confusion. "Mad? What do you mean?" 

You take a deep breath and decide it's time to come clean. "The whole premium air thing—it was a prank," you admit, pointing discreetly at the camera you had strategically placed in the room to capture his reaction. 

Max's eyes widen in realization, and he breaks into a hearty laugh. "You got me!" he exclaims, playfully pushing you. 

You can't help but smile at his reaction, relieved that he found it amusing. "Seriously, though, why aren't you mad? Everyone else in those prank videos gets upset." 

Max wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. "I didn't want to make you feel bad," he confesses. "You were just trying to do something nice for me, and I didn't want to ruin that by getting angry over a harmless mistake” You look up at him, touched by his understanding and kindness. "But I wasted money on something that doesn't exist. You could have been really mad." He leans down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Money comes and goes, but you trying to make me happy means the world to me.” 

"I love you," you say, a mixture of gratitude and affection in your voice. 

Max smiles, his eyes filled with warmth. "I love you too, baby. Just remember, next time you decide to prank me, I'll be one step ahead." 

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x y/n #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #formula one x reader #f1 imagine

[seat-safety-switch]

One of the things that nobody tells you about automotive repair is how much of the job involves cleaning. Brake cleaning. Contact cleaning. Interior cleaning. Wiping off pounds of mud so you can even see. Some fixes, you spend more time cleaning off the area than you do actually doing the work.

There are two schools of thought on this issue. Not everyone believes what I do, which is that clean cars run better than dirty cars. Some part of the immortal machine spirit smiles upon you for having treated it well. I will swear as I am being lowered into the ground that a car wash picks up, like, a quarter of a horsepower.

A couple years ago, I went out mudding in my buddy's Isuzu Impulse which had been inexplicably converted to a dune buggy. He tells me that some kind of entity came to him in the woods and told him to do it, but I'm pretty sure it must have been some stoned kids on spring break. Either way, it's very satisfying to pop the pressure washer and hose off five pounds of mud from each of the seats after we're done playing. It's by far my favourite kind of maintenance: done from afar, indiscriminately, with power tools.

Of course, there are limits to my love of the clean. For instance, my old Impala has a hole in the floor big enough to catch a mid-sized dog inside. Road salt and the oil leaking out of the engine make a huge mess in the interior. Cleaning it is futile until I've fixed the hole, and I can't fix the hole until I've cleaned it well enough to get a weld down on what's left of the metal. So instead, it's got some stolen hotel towels duct-taped over the hole. When one becomes too rancid, I put it in my neighbour's trash, and wear my hotel-maid outfit to go get a new one.

Don't worry; I do a little bit of tidying-up while I'm in there. Otherwise that towel cupboard would be so cluttered. How could anyone see what they're doing in there? Super dangerous to the workers, they should be paying me.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Introduction

The 1968 Dodge Charger R/T stands as an enduring symbol of American muscle car history. With its distinctive design, powerful engine options, and thrilling performance, this legendary vehicle has captured the hearts of car enthusiasts for generations. In this article, we’ll take a closer look at the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T, exploring its history, specifications, and the enduring appeal that makes it a true automotive icon.

The Birth of a Legend

The story of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T begins with its debut during the golden age of American muscle cars. Dodge, a brand known for its commitment to performance, introduced this model to compete with other muscle car giants of its time. The Charger R/T was an instant hit, thanks to its sleek, aerodynamic design and powerful engine options.

Design and Styling

Striking Exterior

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

One of the most distinctive features of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T is its unforgettable exterior design. The fastback roofline, hidden headlights, and full-width grille give it an aggressive and unmistakable presence on the road. It was a design ahead of its time, setting trends that would influence future generations of muscle cars.

Luxurious Interior

While the Charger R/T was known for its performance, it didn’t compromise on comfort and luxury. The interior featured high-quality materials, bucket seats, and a driver-oriented cockpit. This combination of style and comfort made it a versatile car, equally suitable for daily driving and spirited weekend getaways.

Heart-Pounding Performance

Engine Options

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Under the hood, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T offered a range of powerful engines. The most iconic choice was the 440 Magnum V8, producing a whopping 375 horsepower. For those seeking even more power, the legendary 426 Hemi V8 was available, delivering an astonishing 425 horsepower. These engines ensured that the Charger R/T lived up to its reputation as a high-performance machine.

Thrilling Performance

With its potent engines and well-tuned suspension, the Charger R/T delivered an exhilarating driving experience. It could accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in under 7 seconds, a remarkable feat for its time. The combination of raw power and precise handling made it a favorite among drag racers and car enthusiasts.

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Enduring Popularity

Cultural Impact

The 1968 Dodge Charger R/T wasn’t just a car; it became a cultural icon. Its appearances in movies and television shows, most notably in “Bullitt” and “The Dukes of Hazzard,” cemented its status as a symbol of American automotive excellence. Even today, the Charger R/T continues to inspire filmmakers and car enthusiasts alike.

Collector’s Item

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

In the world of classic cars, the Charger R/T holds a special place. Its limited production numbers and timeless design have made it a sought-after collector’s item. Restored and well-maintained models can fetch impressive prices at auctions, reflecting the enduring demand for this iconic muscle car.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T remains a timeless classic in the world of American muscle cars. Its bold design, powerful engines, and cultural significance have ensured its place in automotive history. Whether you’re a car enthusiast or simply appreciate the beauty of a well-crafted automobile, the Charger R/T is a vehicle that continues to captivate and inspire.

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

FAQs

Is the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T still in production? No, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T is not in production today. It is a classic car from the late 1960s.

What is the price range for a well-maintained Charger R/T from 1968? The price of a well-maintained 1968 Dodge Charger R/T can vary widely, but it often falls within the range of $50,000 to $100,000 or more, depending on the model’s condition and rarity.

How fast can the Charger R/T accelerate from 0 to 60 mph? The Charger R/T could accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in under 7 seconds, thanks to its powerful engine options.

What are some notable appearances of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T in pop culture? The Charger R/T is famous for its appearances in movies like “Bullitt” and “The Dukes of Hazzard,” where it played iconic roles.

Were there any special editions of the 1968 Charger R/T? Yes, Dodge offered special editions and performance packages for the Charger R/T, including the 426 Hemi engine option, which was a favorite among enthusiasts.

#car #cars #muscle car #american muscle #mopar #moparperformance #moparnation #moparworld #dodge #Dodge Charger R/T #dodge charger #charger #r/t

[vague-humanoid]

When I stepped into John Roe’s apartment early last December, slipping off my boots at the elevator that opens into the home, it wasn’t immediately clear that people inhabited the space, let alone a child. The four-bedroom, four-and-a-half bath Manhattan residence looked like a showroom. In the living room, a white minimalist couch with no arms confronted two white bouclé chairs. White couch, white lamps, white walls. Even Roe’s wife, Cherry, wore white. Charlotte of the Upper West Side has no dust, she told me—unlike the couple’s previous home, on the sixty-second floor of the Four Seasons Private Residences. Above my head, gentle classical music issued from invisible speakers.

Roe, a ruddy Asian man who wore a pink polo shirt tucked into khaki pants, is the developer of this nine-story brick and terra-cotta building, named after his daughter. His goal, Roe said, was to create the most immaculate and sustainable indoor environment possible. He obtained a Passive House Institute certification, which recognizes when buildings minimize the energy used for heating and cooling with airtight seals and insulation. (Such measures can decrease energy consumption by up to 90 percent.) To reduce residents’ inhalation of volatile organic compounds, Roe employed nontoxic building materials. Indeed, the star of Charlotte is its air. Each unit sports its own Swiss-engineered ventilation system, called Zehnder. On an iPad, Roe showed me the app that gives residents control over what they breathe.

The building’s approach to filtration is undeniably sophisticated. The air in each unit isn’t shared with any other. Outside air is brought in, filtered, treated with an ultraviolet-C light that kills 99.9 percent of pathogens, and completely changed out once per hour. Circulation can be boosted or slowed. Most apartments with similar systems recycle the air every four to five hours a day. “We were thinking, if we’re already going to build a Ferrari, then why would we only give it a 200-horsepower engine?” Roe said. “Let’s put a 1,000-horsepower engine into it.” The quadruple-layer, triple-paned windows feature museum-quality glass and are generally opened only for cleaning. Otherwise, you’d let in air far dirtier than what’s circulating inside.

At night, when Roe’s family is sleeping, it “smells like you’re camping, because the fresh air is getting pumped in at such a rapid rate,” he said. You know the air is good, he told me, because the hydrangeas last. Typically, when cut at the stem and arranged in a vase, the delicate flowers wither and droop in a few days. In his apartment, the blooms will stay perky for nearly two weeks.

@karpad @ubernegro @redstarovermoundcity @socialistexan

#they are literally creating personalized environments removed form the damage they are causing the world

[lovelybunn]

ㅤㅤㅤ ﹙ 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖽.﹚

warning(s): smut, swearing

author's note: this is lowkey so fanon it's not even funny but it's fine. and i love red guy so i'll project on him as much as i'd like, f u + ratio + leave if u don't like it idc. /lh

                      ༚ .  🍬 ◌  ꙳ .  ⊹  🖍  + ｡ ๋

"hm? you say you 'love' me? thank you. i guess i do, too." red flashes his canines at you; a warm, gentle smile welcomed you. it only lasted for a second though, before his focus went completely back on the television in front of him. you rolled your eyes playfully before laying down next to your boyfriend.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝖧𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖢𝖠𝖭𝖮𝖭𝖲.

his autism makes it a bit hard for him to show his affection/emotions, but he really does try his best.

he may act kind of cold and/or misunderstand certain social cues, but he does it all in good faith.

red loves being generally around you. there doesn't need to be a conversation– or even any touching for that matter, just being in your presence gives him a sense of comfort.

red speaks in a very monotonous voice, not intentionally of course, but it does cause confusion in translation. what makes it even worse is that sarcasm is literally his main sense of humor.

"hon, i left some chives in the fridge. can you go fetch them for me, please?" your boyfriend hummed. the smell of fresh cut onions frying in olive oil filled your nostrils. red was preparing some kind of dish, but he refused to tell you what it was. you about drooled imagining all the possibilities; no matter what it was, you knew red was bound to make it delicious.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝖧𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖢𝖠𝖭𝖮𝖭𝖲.

red unironically loves to cook, so his love language is to feed you with his culinary specialities.

he has an over 200 page recipe book that would be illegible and unorganized without the help of duck with a variety of dishes from tiramisu to korean style corn dogs.

the only thing he won't even think about cooking is red meat. it reminds him too much of organs and that makes him physically sick to his stomach.

if you guys are making bread or something, red will press his body close against yours and guide your hands while softly whispering you instructions.

"why do you keep staring at (name) like that?" yellow bellowed, his head tilted to the side with curiosity. red snapped his focus towards yellow. his tone was mildly harsh as he responded, "what? i'm not staring. i'm just looking at them. am i not allowed to look at my own partner anymore?" duck scoffed, flipping through the newspaper absent-mindedly. "don't get all defensive, he does have a point, it's quite... awkward to watch on the sidelines." before red could come up with a snarky remark, you pranced in, looking as happy as can be. duck smirked while yellow became a giggly mess. you didn't understand what the commotion was about, but red looked like he was about to explode.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝖧𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖢𝖠𝖭𝖮𝖭𝖲.

even in the long term, red acts like you're simply unreachable like his chances of ever finding his real family.

he absolutely adores viewing you from afar. your like some kind of abstract painting to him: weird, confusing, yet so beautiful in his eyes.

he even has little fantasies and daydreams about you two, but red keeps the thoughts to himself, afraid you may debunk his ideas entirely.

his two mates tease him to hell about you two, but he always keeps his cool no matter much he wants pop their little skulls open.

ㅤ𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚! 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗧 𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗨𝗧!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝖧𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖢𝖠𝖭𝖮𝖭𝖲.

he's 1000% a bottom, no question. he needs you to control and use him until he's nothing but a shriveled up disgusting milked dry mess.

forget a horse, all the horsepower you need is right in red's lap!

red is always in the mood for head, no joke it's almost as if that thing is always hard as mount everest.

in contrast to the point above, red's sex drive is really low, but when he is horny, it's like witnessing a dog in heat.

he's a whimper/mewler. he can't help it, you just make him feel so fucking good.

red's ability to speak completely shuts down when having sex. it just become incoherent babbles at that point.

pretty much inexperienced, but once red gets the hang of it, it's on and poppin' partner ;).

no bdsm. absolutely not. abuse? of him or you, especially you? hell no.

exhibitionism is also a no-no. red believes sex should be a private intimate experience, and he's already fully aware of who he belongs to and vice versa.

red's praise kink is down so horrendously that you can simply say "good job" in a casual conversation and he'll get hard.

red prefers to cum inside you, wouldn't mind if you were like "ew that's gross /hj"

speaking of his cum, he got alot of it, and it goes everywhere when you give him head.

#dont hug me im scared #don't hug me i'm scared #dhmis #dhmis show #dhmis tv show #dhmis tv series #dhmis red guy #red guy #red guy dhmis #red guy x reader #dhmis harry #harry dhmis #headcanon #headcanons #hcs #hc #imagines

[deliciousangelfestival]

Tears In His Ferrari || Chp 2 - Bucky

Character: Bucky Barnes x Farmer!Reader

Words Count: 2,414

Series: Chap 1 , Chap 2 , Chap 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7, Chp 8 , Chp 9 ,-

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Y/N led Bucky across the vast expanse of the empty land, gesturing to the possibilities it held for cultivating crops like potatoes, barley, and corn.

Bucky turned to Y/N, inquisitive about quick profits, "Which crops would bring in fast returns?"

Y/N replied with a smirk, "Barley. You could make beer."

A grin spread across Bucky's face, "Now that's more my style."

Y/N's smirk deepened, "It's not as easy as you think."

Little did Bucky know, he was about to learn the hard way. The first challenge came from a seemingly simple piece of machinery—the farm tractor. Y/N led him to the garage, revealing the aged tractor that awaited Bucky's command.

Inspecting the tractor skeptically, Bucky remarked, "Is it still working?"

Y/N chuckled, "Don't underestimate this machine. I bet it's stronger than your sports car."

Feeling a pang of offense, Bucky couldn't let his beloved Ferrari be belittled. "Hey, now, don't diss my Ferrari. It's a beast on the road."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, "Roads and fields are a whole different story, city boy. Time to see if you can handle the horsepower of a different kind."

With that, she gestured toward the tractor, silently challenging Bucky to prove himself in the unfamiliar realm of farming machinery.

Unfazed by Bucky's awestruck expression, Y/N rolled her eyes and led him toward the storage building. As the creaking wooden door swung open, Bucky marveled at the sheer size of the space.

Pointing towards a massive bag of seeds, Y/N explained, "Your father has provided you with various types of seeds – barley, potatoes, corn, tomatoes."

Bucky's eyes widened, his initial enthusiasm dampening as he took in the overwhelming array of possibilities. The enormity of the task ahead made him question the wisdom of his impulsive bet with his father.

Interning with a photocopier seemed like a more appealing option at that moment. "How am I supposed to plant all of this?"

Without missing a beat, Y/N tossed the tractor key in Bucky's direction, and he caught it reflexively.

"That's why you need to learn how to drive the tractor so you can plant the seeds," Y/N explained matter-of-factly.

Grumbling under his breath, Bucky muttered, "I'm a race car driver. This should be a piece of cake."

Y/N smirked, her eyes challenging, "Show me what you got."

His usual confidence wavered as Bucky settled into the tractor's driver's seat. The buttons and controls before him were a far cry from his sports car's sleek, modern interface, and his mind went momentarily blank.

He turned to Y/N, whose expression seemed to say, 'I told you so.' Y/N casually climbed into the tractor and closed the door, leaving Bucky trapped.

"What... what are you doing?" Bucky stammered, caught off guard by her sudden actions.

Y/N, seemingly unfazed, responded, "I'm going to teach you."

As Y/N took her place beside him, she explained the functions of the various levers and buttons. "This lever controls the speed, and these buttons engage different gears. It's not as fast as your sports car, but it gets the job done."

Bucky furrowed his brow, trying to absorb the information. "Wait, how do I steer this thing?"

Y/N couldn't help but be amused by Bucky's struggle. "Grip the wheel. It's not a race car, but it will go where you point it. Just don't expect it to handle like a Ferrari."

Bucky, feeling a bit challenged, took hold of the steering wheel. Y/N guided him through starting the tractor, adjusting the speed, and even how to handle turns. As the tractor chugged along the field, Bucky's initial frustration gave way to a sense of accomplishment.

Y/N, with a playful glint in her eye, remarked, "See, not so hard, is it? Now, let's tackle the next challenge: planting those seeds. Just follow my lead, and you might survive this farm life after all."

As the tractor rumbled across the empty plot of land, Bucky's initial confidence in driving the machine began to wane. Y/N, seated beside him, looked over and noted, "Now comes the real work, Bucky. We need to prepare the land before planting. First up, we're plowing the field."

Bucky, still grasping the basics of tractor operation, nodded hesitantly. "Plowing, got it."

But as the tractor started breaking up the soil, turning it over in preparation for planting, Bucky's initial sense of ease gave way to a growing realization.

Y/N continued her instructions, "After plowing, we'll need to disc over the field to break down any remaining clumps. Then comes harrowing to create a fine seedbed. It's all about setting the stage for a successful crop."

Bucky, now fully immersed in farming, couldn't help but feel the weight of the responsibilities. The tasks seemed to multiply in complexity as Y/N guided him through each step. "Checking soil moisture, adding amendments," Y/N listed the next steps.

Stress crept into Bucky's expression. The carefree city boy was now confronted with the intricacies of farming, and the reality of the challenge ahead began to dawn on him. The initial thrill of learning to drive the tractor now seemed like the calm before the storm of agricultural tasks.

As Bucky navigated the tractor through the various steps, the once-clear field transformed into a canvas of potential but also of hard work and uncertainty. Farming, it turned out, was not as straightforward as Bucky had initially assumed.

The complexities of each step weighed on him, and the realization that success required more than just driving a machine left Bucky feeling a bit overwhelmed in the vast expanse of the field.

Y/N, with a critical eye, examined the two rows Bucky had managed to plow. "Good start. Now, the most crucial part is marking the rows. Proper spacing is vital for each crop to have enough room to grow."

Bucky, feeling a renewed sense of determination, listened attentively. "Spacing, got it. I can do this."

With a pat on Bucky's shoulder, Y/N remarked, "I'll leave the rest to you. I'm heading to the storage to set up the planter. Just follow the markers and maintain that consistent spacing. You've got this."

Bucky nodded, a mix of confidence and a hint of nervous energy. He watched as Y/N walked away toward the storage building, disappearing from view. The vastness of the field lay before him, and the responsibility of marking rows and maintaining proper spacing now rested squarely on his shoulders.

As Bucky confidently guided the tractor with a touch of creativity, he failed to anticipate the storm brewing in Y/N's eyes. When she caught sight of the unconventional row, frustration and disbelief etched across her face, transforming the once tranquil farming lesson into a battlefield of precision.

Bucky, riding high on a renewed sense of confidence, guided the tractor with newfound ease. The once-daunting task of marking rows now felt like second nature. As he envisioned the thriving crops that would soon fill the marked rows, a touch of creativity struck him. With a confident smile, he decided to deviate from the straight path and add a unique twist to the rows.

However, when Y/N caught sight of the unconventional row, any expectations of praise were shattered. With a furrowed brow and an exasperated sigh, she approached Bucky.

"Are you an idiot?" she exclaimed, her voice mixed with frustration and disbelief.

Bucky, taken aback by the unexpected outburst, stammered, "I thought it added a bit of flair, you know? A touch of artistic expression."

Y/N, unamused, shot back, "This isn't an art project, Bucky. We need straight, evenly spaced rows for the crops to grow properly. Precision is key in farming, not whimsical curves."

The contrast between Bucky's expectation of admiration and the reality of Y/N's frustration added a comedic twist to the scene.

Bucky once again reminded of the challenges of farm life, begrudgingly adjusted the tractor's course to adhere to Y/N's insistence on precision in agricultural practices.

Y/N, initially poised for a straightforward mentoring session, found herself grappling with unexpected stress. The deviation from the meticulous plan heightened her frustration, but she pushed through, determined to teach Bucky the intricacies of farming.

In the heat of the moment, Y/N's instructions became more pointed, her tone reflecting her unexpected challenges. She corrected Bucky with a mix of exasperation and dedication, her initial ease replaced by the demanding reality of mentoring a city boy in the intricacies of agriculture.

For Bucky, who had never been lectured in such a manner throughout his privileged life, each correction felt like a blow to his ego. The vast gap between his accustomed world of opulence and the demanding simplicity of the farm became painfully apparent.

After tirelessly plowing the empty plot under Y/N's scrutinizing gaze, Bucky retreated to the solace of his Ferrari. The familiar sight of the sleek, modern interior provided a momentary respite from the challenges of the farm. However, as he looked around at the sophisticated simplicity of the car, a single tear escaped his eye.

In a moment of vulnerability, Bucky muttered, "It's not as easy as I thought." The weight of the unfamiliar reality sank in, and the contrast between the comfort of his luxury car and the toil of the farm highlighted the stark challenges he faced in adapting to this new, humble way of life.

As Bucky wiped away the unexpected tear on his first day, he couldn't shake the surreal feeling accompanying the shift from the farm to his new home. As he stepped inside, the scene awaiting him was anything but ordinary. A group of middle-aged women buzzed around his house, each engrossed in various tasks—cleaning, arranging, and transforming the space into a semblance of order.

Bucky, clearly taken aback, couldn't contain his shock. "Who are you people?" he exclaimed, his eyes darting between the industrious women.

The group paused their activities, turning to face Bucky with warm smiles. In their midst stood Y/N's mother, a matronly figure radiating hospitality. Their collective greeting washed over Bucky, and he found himself amid an impromptu welcome party.

This practice, a tradition among the locals, was their way of extending a warm welcome to the new neighbor. Unaccustomed to such communal gestures, Bucky appreciated their kindness, although hunger and fatigue urged him to seek some solitude.

Summoning a sweet smile, Bucky politely asked the woman to leave, expressing his need for rest. Understanding his request, the guests bid farewell, leaving Bucky alone in his newfound abode.

Just as he thought he could finally catch his breath, Y/N's voice cut through the silence with an unexpected remark. "They're here to butter you up," she deadpanned, her unfiltered words catching Bucky off guard.

His gasp was met with Y/N's nonchalant dismissal. "That mouth of yours," Bucky retorted, feeling a mix of surprise and amusement at her audacity.

Ignoring his comment, Y/N dropped a bag of groceries at his feet. "Your family sent this," she informed him, the gesture a mix of duty and detached concern.

Bucky, leaning down to inspect the contents, discovered essential supplies that betrayed a hint of paternal consideration. The realization that his father hadn't wholly forsaken him stirred conflicting emotions within Bucky. Gratitude mingled with the sting of newfound humility.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Bucky questioned Y/N about her earlier statement. "What did you mean with 'butter you up'?" he inquired, trying to decipher the cryptic remark.

Y/N responded with a disinterested glance, "Don't you know? Your family owns almost all the land around here."

Slowly shaking his head in disbelief, Bucky muttered, "Wow, really?" The weight of his family's extensive holdings began to sink in, and Y/N's nonchalant tone left him dumbfounded.

"Can't believe one day you'll be the head of the company," Y/N remarked casually, her tone a mixture of disbelief and detached observation.

Without waiting for Bucky's response, she turned on her heels and left his residence, leaving him grappling with her animosity's mysteries.

Left alone, Bucky found himself at a loss for words. "Why does she keep being angry with me?" he mused aloud, frustration building. He slammed the door shut in sheer exasperation, the resounding thud echoing his bewilderment.

As Y/N entered her home, exhaustion weighed heavily on her. Her mother, Samantha, observed her daughter's weary expression and couldn't help but smile. Y/N wasted no time in expressing her discontent, questioning the rationale behind the warm welcome extended to the new neighbor.

"Why did you and others welcome him?" Y/N's bitterness toward large companies like Barnes lingered, casting a shadow over her perspective.

Samantha, with a knowing glint in her eyes, let out a light giggle. "Oh, you, you have to welcome the new neighbor, besides, he's cute."

Y/N responded with an eye roll, unamused by her mother's seemingly lighthearted take on the situation.

Samantha sighed, aware of the pain Y/N still carried from letting go of the land they once owned. She took a moment to address her daughter's lingering resentment. "I know you don't like him because of what happened. But without them buying the land, all the farmers here would have ended up losing their source of living."

Y/N raised her head to meet her mother's gaze. Samantha continued, sharing a piece of history that shaped their community. "Back then, when your grandparents were still alive, there was a lean period where nothing could grow. Everyone was losing their source of income. Until the Barnes family stepped in because one of their own had grown up here."

"The Barnes allowed the farmers to live and work; they just needed to pay rent."

Y/N interjected, a hint of bitterness in her voice, "And the rent keeps getting higher."

Samantha shrugged her shoulders, acknowledging the harsh reality. "Well, that's how it is, but none of the farmers have complained, though."

She tenderly stroked her daughter's head, offering a comforting perspective. "Be kind to him. Just see him as a little kid learning how to walk."

Y/N nodded, absorbing her mother's words. She decided to take her mother's advice to heart, even if the road ahead seemed fraught with challenges.

Meanwhile, at Bucky's location, an unexpected sneeze escaped him. "Did someone talk about me?"

Unaware that he had just been likened to a learning child, Bucky continued navigating the unfamiliar farm life territory, oblivious to the nuanced dynamics at play.

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7

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[blackswaneuroparedux]

Les aspirations les plus absurdes et les plus téméraires ont parfois conduit à des succès extraordinaires.

- Vauvenargues

St. Moritz has been a famous health resort in Engadine since the 19th century. At first, it was only frequented by spa guests, before the village developed into a high alpine sports centre, and for a time it was a playground for the rich and famous. There’s still some of that element present but not as in its hey day of the 70s. For nine months of the year it’s just another picturesque village in the gorgeous Swiss Alps, with Lake St. Moritz lying at its heart.

Crucially it is quietly forgotten by the outside world. Residents can breathe and go about their daily chilled out lives. For those precious nine months it was great to hike and ski there as my boarding school wasn’t too far away from getting there. But the other four months of the year, the high season, it gets flood with skiers and altogether more showy crowd.

The frozen surface of the lake, which can only be described as a desert of snow, now serves as a symbol of the resort itself. From nine months of natural bliss to four months of chaos and madness. Every time the ice lends its surface to polo tournaments, horse races, and the wealthy and beautiful make the pilgrimage down the mountains from their grand hotels, St. Moritz seems to transform. St. Moritz’s newest ‘gimmick’ for the past three years or so has been to serve the International Concours of Elegance St. Moritz - or The ICE St. Moritz - as a kind of classic car museum with an adventurous character.

Since the first ever The ICE St. Moritz in 2019, historic rally cars have been exhibited to the sports car-crazy public on the opening day, before demonstrating their horsepower on the ice racetrack on the second day of the event. However, the fact that The ICE is taking place on Lake St. Moritz, of all places, is no coincidence. In 1985, a group of Scottish and British sportsmen drove their vintage Bentleys to St. Moritz to celebrate the centenary of the Cresta Run (an eccentric and high spirited toboggan amateur race). As part of the festivities, they drove their cars on the racecourse across the frozen Lake St. Moritz.

This year, however, the ICE St. Moritz evolved slightly differently. For the first time, the event was held on two days: Friday 24 and Saturday 25 February. On the first day, the lake was transformed into an open-air museum, where the jury evaluated the cars on display from an aesthetic perspective. Then, on the second day, the actual race took place, whereupon the jury evaluated the classic cars from a performance perspective.

This year there were five category winners. In the ‘Open Wheels’ category, the 1958 Maserati 420M/58 “Eldorado” held its own. Meanwhile, the ‘Barchettas on the Lake’ category crowned the Ferrari 500 Mondial Series II from 1955 as the winner. My personal favourite, the aforementioned Ferrari 250 Testarossa ‘Lucybelle’ emerged as the winner in the ‘Le Mans 100’ category. As expected, Lancia Strato’s HF Zero of 1970 came out on top in the ‘Concept Cars & One Offs’ category. Last but not least, judges crowned the 1958 Bentley S1 Continental Drophead Coupé as the winner of the ‘Queens on Wheels’ category.

The evening gala took place at Badrutts Palace, which towers over the city like a castle with its high stone walls. In the stimulating semi-darkness and under shimmering candlelight, riders, collectors, enthusiasts, the public and media from all over the world celebrated the conclusion of one of the most anticipated competitions in the Engadine. Overall it’s spectacular fun and contrary to what one might believe it really does draw the car enthusiast crowd rather than the snob mob. It’s a very chilled event and bags of fun.

#ICE st moritz #vauvenargues #quote #french #sportscar #racing #racers #driving #drivers #ice #st. moritz #snow #switzerland

[yandere-writer-momo]

Katou would proudly show reader his bike (because of course he is), reader praises him for the work he's done on it and I just KNOW he'd immediately picture reader and him doing it left, right and center on his bike because my mans couldn't handle the praise and takes it as an invitation.

Going absolutely feral over the attention our Sewer King is getting lately. My mans finally getting the attention he deserves and needs !!

I could definitely make a little short story about him and his fantasies. I also have a shower sexy time draft in my inbox (as per request). He has people in a chokehold right now…

And I love how he was in a sewer once and everyone calls him the sewer king 😭😭 ONCE.

I also love the idea of him having a big fat crush on the receptionist at the Shinshinkai dojo. He hates being a ‘simp’ but he’s so easy to tease, it’s not even funny. Kaoru probably isn’t used to getting hit on/ teased in a flirtatious manner.

Minors DNI.

TW: Yandere behavior, sexual fantasies, and adult content

🌶️ Yandere Baki Short Stories: Fantasies 🌶️

Kiyosumi Katou x Gender Neutral Reader

“I love the new additions!” You walked around Katou’s bike to openly admire the modifications he’s done to it. “Did you add some rear shocks?”

“I did… I also added quilted leather seats and new mufflers.”” Katou blushed a bit, his chest swelled up with pride. He was so happy that someone finally noticed the efforts he put into his bike. No one really gave him much attention other than Suedou…

You bent down to check out his mufflers, Katou’s whole face blushing a bright red when he noticed your pants hiked up a bit from the movement. The curve of your bottom was now more visible to his starving eyes. Katou had to look away before he became too visibly aroused. It was wrong to stare at the dojo’s receptionist like this…

Your eyes sparkle as you admire the chrome mufflers. Katou must’ve put a lot of money into this bike, it had a lot more modifications than you originally thought. “Wow… your bike is kind of sexy isn’t it?”

You laugh at Katou’s cherry red face. What was he so worked up about? You were just complimenting the bike…

Now Katou has never heard someone call his bike sexy before… or did you think he was sexy? Katou was a bit of a looker, wasn’t he? He might be a bit of a greaser, but he certainly didn’t think he’d be your type… you were such a goody two shoes.

Maybe you had a thing for bad boys? If you asked nicely, he’d bend you over his bike and have his way with you. He wondered how tight you were… how your skin would feel against his. How pretty your moans would be. If you’d be willing to get on top of him and ride him instead-

“How many horse power?” Your soft voice broke him out of his salacious thoughts. Katou nervously rubbed the back of his neck. Stupid. It was stupid of him to think of you like that. You were just being friendly…

“It’s 115 horsepower.” A brilliant idea went through his head and he blurted it out, “Do you… want to go for a ride?”

You smiled at him. He would take you on his bike? How sweet of him…

“I’d love to.” You go over to climb on the back of the bike,but Katou shook his head.

“H-here. Take my jacket.” Katou took off his leather jacket and offered it to you. Damn this stupid crush of his, he was acting like a simp.

You accept the leather jacket with a smile. Katou’s strong scent of leather, musk, and cigarette smoke overwhelmed you a bit but it was better to be safe than sorry. The jacket gun on your frame a bit due to his muscular build.

“Thank you, Katou.” You do a little twirl for him, your hands grabbing the front of the jacket. “How do I look?”

Katou bit his lip and shifted his legs to try to soothe the discomfort in his pants. He loved the way you looked in his jacket. Now he wanted to know what you’d look like in one of his shirts after the two of you spent the night together. Would you have a bit of bed head and tear stains down your cheeks? Would you make him breakfast in bed and sleep in with him until noon? Would you leave marks all down his back or would he leave them down yours-

Katou froze when your hands suddenly grabbed his. A blush on his cheeks when he realized you had just touched him.

“Earth to Kiyosumi Katou.” You joked with a grin. “Do I leave you speechless?”

“You look okay…” Katou turns his head the other way to try to hide his blush. He tried to lessen the damage to his reputation of not being a simp (he totally is).

You snicker at his attempt to play off his obvious ogling. Katou was your favorite to tease at the dojo because he was so easy to rile up. It was funny.

Katou got onto his bike and patted the small space behind him. His palms began to sweat once he felt you shift beside him. You climbed onto his bike with little difficulty.

He almost creamed his pants when you pressed your body against his, your arms securely wrapped around his waist.

“Wow. I didn’t think you’d be so built Katou. Crazy what that karate uniform hides.” Your jokes only rile him up even more. Thank goodness you can’t see his reactions from the back of the bike. He could easily pass for a tomato.

He wondered if you’d be willing to reach your hands into his waist band and touch him as he drove- why was he like this? Katou was hopeless. He was way too horny to be around you right now.

Katou took in a deep breath and started the bike. The motor came to life with a rumble.

“Are you ready? Hold on.” Your chest pressed against his back in such a delicious way, he almost lost himself in his head again.

Katou assured himself that for now, he could settle for this small amount of physical touch with you… this could satiate his fantasies for awhile longer. Your warmth gave him comfort and fueled his longing for you. You were a drug he would never quit.

But Katou knew that it wouldn’t be long before his desires started slipping through the cracks. So until then, he’d let fantasies be fantasies.

#baki the grappler #baki hanma #baki son of ogre #baki x reader #baki the grappler x reader #yandere baki #yandere #yandere fic #yandere imagine #female reader #gender neutral reader #baki #baki headcanons #baki dou #baki gaiden #grappler baki #kuro kiyosumi #kiyosumi katou #baki kiyosumi katou #katou kiyosumi #male reader

[strangerqueerthings]

The Camaro

Neil was adamant: Billy had to get his own car if he wanted to go anywhere that wasn't school, and he had to pay for it himself.

Billy was equally adamant that he was going to get his hands on one.

So he worked his ass off, starting at the age of thirteen. He started small and local, mowing lawns, or offering to help elderly neighbors with grocery shopping- and bringing them in for them afterwards.

The latter got him far more pinched cheeks than he wanted, but when he laid on the charm, he was paid well.

To his delight, an elderly neighbor, Mister Grant, gifted him with a bike. His grandson never visited anymore now that he was in college, and Billy had been so helpful with the yard work, so he was happy to give it to him.

Billy kept the bike at Mister Grant's, afraid that Neil would take it away, or worse, destroy it or give it away- if Neil knew that he'd been given something like a bike, he'd accuse Billy of being weak by accepting charity.

The bike opened up entirely new venues of work, expanding his reach. More work offers, thanks to the bike, and his work ethic- which was talked about, spread by word of mouth.

All the while, he checked out car maintenance books from the library, rode his bike to the closest mechanic and volunteered to help, in exchange for the mechanics explaining what they were doing, so he could learn as much as he could about cars.

By the time he was sixteen, three years of working in the sun, doing manual labor, Billy was tanned, fit, and had plenty of money to start searching for something even better than a bike.

His first car.

Billy had never even dared to dream about getting a new car, even a relatively new used car. He'd saved up nearly 1,500 dollars, had it hidden in various places to keep it out of Neil's reach, going to the bank to swap out coins and singles for bigger bills so it'd be easier to hide.

He had finally brought the bike to the house. He told Neil he'd bought it used, to help him get more work, and Neil had almost been pleased at his work ethic- but as Billy had expected, it was taken away as punishment whenever Billy pissed him off.

He browsed the sale pages in the newspapers, kept his ear to the ground for deals, and finally, a few months after his birthday, Sid told him a cousin was selling his Camaro.

"It's kinda shitty," he drawled, exhaling clove cigarette smoke into the summer air. "He swiped a few cars and a mailbox with it, so it needs body work. He also didn't do a lot maintenance on it, and it's a 79, so... yeah. He's selling it for cheap."

"Does it run?" Billy asked. That was all that mattered, really.

"Yeah," Sid said, nodding. "It runs, it just... it's a mess. Real fixer upper."

Billy hadn't minded in the least. He'd wanted something with horsepower, something that would be loud, go fast, but he'd suspected he'd get something rusted and slow with the money he had.

"How much?"

Sid shrugged.

"I think he said 900 or so, but you know... you could probably haggle."

Billy did just that. He ignored the scratches and dents- they were all cosmetic. What he pointed out were all the mechanical issues- just like the guys at the mechanics had told him.

'College kids who have something like a Z28? They don't know shit about cars, just the model,' Bert had said, and had showed him what to look for, and told him what to say to bluff his way into a reduced price.

"I don't know," he said, putting the dusky blue car into park after a test drive. "That clunk? That's a CV joint- either I'd have to replace the boot, or the entire front axle."

He popped the hood and got out, peering into the guts of the car he already wanted more than anything in his life- save for freedom from Neil. He winced audibly, a sharp, hissing intake of air through his teeth.

"Yeah, I dunno," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "The serpentine belt is starting to look a little frayed. I'd have to replace that before disaster hit."

He pulled the dipstick out, examining it, making a show of sniffing the oil on it, and made an overly exaggerated face.

"When's the last time you changed the oil, man? It smells burnt."

Derek looked taken aback, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Honestly... idunno," he said helplessly.

Billy replaced the dipstick, closed the hood with a loud clang and dusted his hands off.

"Yeah I dunno," he repeated. "Nine hundred bucks can get me a car that isn't riddled with issues- mechanical OR body."

"It's a Z28, man," Sid's cousin said, scowling.

"Yeah, but she's nearly fifteen years old, and she's been poorly maintained- and I'm being generous," Billy retorted. "I'd be better off saving up for another three years for something better than getting this heap. It'd cost me nine hundred to fix all the shit that's wrong with her."

Derek was quiet for a bit, and Billy shrugged, moving to pick up his bike and head home.

"Eight hundred," Derek blurted.

Billy paused, making a show of consideration.

"Six hundred."

"Seven hundred."

"Six fifty, and you write the bill of sale as five hundred so I don't pay as much on the title fees."

Derek sighed, defeated.

"Done."

Derek wrote out the bill of sale, and filled out the title. They both signed where appropriate, and Derek handed the title and keys over to Billy, who fought to keep his hands from shaking as he took them.

Registering the Camaro would have to wait- he couldn't take her home as she was. He took her to the shop, where Bert congratulated him on his haggling, and enthusiastically offered to help him fix her up.

By the time October came around, Billy pulled up at home in the Camaro, and Neil came outside, clearly surprised at the car his son had managed to find.

She was perfect.

He and Bert had changed out her fluids and filters, put new tires on her, replaced her old serpentine belt, put in a whole new front axle, and had hammered out and smoothed out the dents and scratches.

She looked good as new, gleaming in the driveway.

Billy handed him the title and bill of sale, showing him how much he'd paid, and Neil had immediately held out his hand for the keys.

"You may have paid for it, but legally, you can't own it until you're 18," he said. "When you turn 18, it's all yours, provided you don't do anything stupid."

Billy's heart sank, but he knew it was going to happen. He placed the keys in Neil's open palm, watching his father's fingers curl around them.

"I'm not going to ask how you got the money for a car that looks this good."

"She didn't," Billy blurted. "I worked on her. I fixed her up. She's been at Bert's. Bert helped me learn how to work on her, so I can maintain her upkeep without using my money for someone else to do it."

Neil glanced at the Camaro again, his look appraising, critical.

"And here I was worried that you'd learned nothing."

He turned to go back into the house.

"Glad to learn I was wrong."

Billy didn't dare read too much into it, but he could have sworn there was a note of pride in Neil's voice. It made the affection he felt for his new car swell in his chest.

Neil may have taken ownership of her for now, but he hadn't been mad. He hadn't punished Billy for taking initiative.

For once, he'd done something right, and the proof of it sat on four wheels, gleaming like a beacon of freedom in the driveway.

#billy hargrove #sqt drabble #Christine The Camaro

[clove-pinks]

Franklinheads, what is your top pet peeve when it comes to perceptions of the [historical] Franklin Expedition?

Mine is 100% the "most advanced technology of their day" concept of HMS Erebus and Terror. I think the origins of this are in the 1980s, when Owen Beattie's ice mummy exhumations propelled the Franklin Expedition into the spotlight. JUST LIKE THE SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER!—this was the pat comparison of the day. You could definitely draw some parallels if you tried hard enough, but no, I don't think the Space Shuttle Challenger is a very good analogy.

There was pretty much nothing unique or particularly new about the technology in Franklin's ships—not the tinned food, not the desalinator, not the heating system, and definitely not the puny steam engines—and Franklin's men knew this! They were aware that Erebus and Terror were beat-up old warships, one of the ships fought in the War of 1812 before most crew members were born! Fitzjames called them "old tubs," and Le Vesconte jokingly compared them to 17th and 18th century fictional vessels (Red Rover and Water-Witch).

Steam frigates with hundreds of horsepower were built even in the 1830s! But they couldn't carry fuel lasting for years; whereas Franklin's men had ~13 days of coal for their 20-horsepower engines, which at most might get them out of a harbour in unfavourable winds. As a child I read books that made such a big deal about the steam engines, I really thought they would be under steam all the time, crashing through the ice with their Advanced Technology just like the space shuttle.

If anything, the Franklin Expedition is part of a tradition of the British using obsolete ships and technology for polar exploration. Compare Terra Nova with the latest technology of the 1910s: she looks like the relic of an earlier age that she was.

#franklin expedition #polar exploration #hms erebus #hms terror #terra nova #polar #age of steam #this post turned out longer than i thought #but i am Annoyed by people repeating this 'most advanced technology of their day' trope #what makes the FE unique is the death toll not the pipsqueak steam engines #john ross brought steam engines to the arctic too (and they sucked)

[metalhoops]

Steve never liked the cities. 

They were always too crowded, too noisy. He liked Hawkins. He liked a quiet life in the suburbs. It was part of the reason he’d never gone to college, that and having to worry about his adopted band of misfit kids and the hell dimension that opened every year. Yet, somehow he found himself on a weekend trip to Chicago.

It was all Eddie’s fault. He had to pick some things up from a music store in town for the band, he’d mention strings or amps. Steve only half understood. It was an excuse for Eddie to take his van to Chicago. Steve had been surprised to find himself invited.

“You never leave town since Vecna went dark, dude. How are you going to travel around with six kids and a Winnebago if you never leave Hawkins?” Eddie asked, somehow managing to convince Steve to join him. 

They took turns driving Eddie’s van.  Eddie’s choice of music was questionable, but his version of road trip games was even more worrisome. They’d been travelling behind an old truck for the better part of an hour when Eddie kicked his feet on the dash and questioned,

“What do you think would be the worst way to die right now? Because I’ve spent the past half hour watching that guy’s toolbox rattle around and I’m convinced a nail gun to the head would be a killer way to go.” 

Steve should’ve known better, but he’d give anything for a distraction from the long stretch of road. 

“Probably getting set on fire at a pump while you insist you need a smoke the second we pulled over at the last gas station,” Steve noted, switching on his indicator and passing the vehicle, using all the horsepower the poor-beat up van had. 

“And here I was thinking I had a twisted imagination,” Eddie spoke, before listing off a series  of more gruesome scenarios. 

By the time the two reached their motel, Steve felt strangely lighter. Whether it was the distance from Hawkins and the trouble it had caused him or because he and Eddie had spent an hour listing out worst-case scenarios until they felt comical and absurd instead of real and imminent threats, he didn’t know. Being trapped in a town with a rip in the fabric of space and time had a way of making you always feel on your guard. That night the two slept quickly and soundlessly. 

It was when they walked through town Steve remembered why he hated cities. He was left shuffling through unfamiliar streets, elbow to elbow with strangers, trying desperately to keep up with Eddie as the man weaved and ebbed with the crowd as Steve used to slice through water. Eddie was one with the city. Steve was apart from it.

Without thinking, Steve reached out, grabbing onto the hem of Eddie’s jacket, letting himself be guided. Eddie showed him where to step, how to move. He kept his head down and followed Eddie’s lead to the music store. Much to his surprise, when they were all done, and once more ready to head back into the fray of the foot traffic, Eddie offered the crook of his elbow for Steve to hold onto. 

“Hey, it’s easier than you almost tugging a hole in a perfectly good jacket. You don’t have a good track record, Harrington,” Eddie teased. He had a point. 

He hadn’t meant to make a habit of it. Yet the small action of latching onto Eddie to keep him at arm’s length followed the two back to Hawkins. 

The thing about hanging out with Eddie was that the man was surprisingly hard to keep up with. He was always rushing places at the drop of a hat, jerked one way or the other by whatever flight of fancy caught his attention. 

He’d be beside Steve at the Family Video store one minute, then darting to the horror section driven there by some tangential conversation, which then of course, would lead him to remember some old sci-fi film and send him running to the sci-fi section, only to find it lacking. That would lead him to Robin and their extensive movie catalogue on the computer, all the while, he’d still be talking to Steve. He found it easier to keep up with Eddie if he had a hold of him. 

He’d find his fingers tucked into the crook of Eddie’s elbow, hooked in the chain of his jeans or clinging to the cuff or hem of his shirt and trailing in the wake of him. 

Contrary to popular belief, Steve wasn’t an idiot. Not when it came to social situations. He knew being extra touchy with Eddie was something he could only do in certain situations. He was hyper-aware of it when he’d made the mistake of hooking his thumb into the back pocket of Eddie’s jeans in the arcade. The two had driven the kids there and were wasting time bouncing between watching the kids and playing pinball. 

A group of teenagers had been gawking at the two already, likely trying to work out what twist of fate had landed the former king of Hawkins High and current school Freak together. With the action, the mumbled whispers turned into slack jaws and less favourable words muttered just loud enough for Steve to hear. 

Steve wasn’t an idiot. He knew what it looked like. He would be lying if he said he didn’t want it to be like that, not that he’d voiced any of it. Not yet. He needed to do it in a town where people didn’t know his name, so people wouldn’t talk if he was reading Eddie all wrong. He didn’t think he was, he was good with reading people. 

In a crowd, holding onto Eddie was okay.  On their increasingly frequent trips to the city, Indianapolis, Chicago, and Fort Wayne. When no one else could see, that was okay. In small-town Hawkins, in broad daylight, it wasn’t. 

Steve suddenly understood the appeal of the city.  

#steddie #steddie fic #drabble #steddie drabble #ficlet #steddie ficlet #stranger things #stranger things 4 #steve harrington #eddie munson #inside your brain there are two wolves #one is a headcannon #where you want Steve and Eddie to stay in Hawkins #have some small town bliss and break the cycles of generational trauma #while the other headcannon #wants them to move to a big city like Chicago or San Fransisco #and live their best open gay life #this was born of that conflict #Metalhoops writes

[sargeantposting]

ARTICLE: The Florida Man of Formula 1 (2023)

Source: Michael M. Grynbaum, The New York Times Series: F1, 2023

Logan Sargeant, the only American driver in Formula 1, is zipping around the narrow streets of Baku, Azerbaijan, at roughly 200 miles an hour. His head bounces inside the cockpit as a wheel shudders over a rumble strip. It’s hard to hear over the banshee shriek of his V6 engine, carrying three times the horsepower of a run-of-the-mill Porsche Carrera.

Then the noise stops, and Baku vanishes. We’re inside a low-slung brick building nestled in the Oxfordshire countryside. The track, projected onto a CinemaScope-sized wraparound screen, was a mirage, part of a sophisticated training simulator. (F1 rules prohibit driving the real cars between races.) Mr. Sargeant climbs out of a replica driver’s seat wearing athletic pants. He won’t need a fireproof suit until later.

In three weeks’ time, Mr. Sargeant will do this for real: wind whipping his visor, G-forces of up to six times his body weight pressing on his neck, the ever-present threat of a catastrophic crash as he is watched by roughly 70 million people around the world. For now, it’s time for lunch. “Is chili bad for you?” he asks, digging into a bowl at his team’s commissary. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

Williams Racing, in Grove, England. It was founded in Oxfordshire in the 1970s, but it’s now an American subsidiary: a Manhattan private equity firm, Dorilton Capital, bought the company in 2020 for an estimated $200 million.

F1 teams employ hundreds of employees and spend hundreds of millions of dollars developing the world’s most sophisticated racecars.

Reaching Formula 1, the highest level of international motor sport, is a big step for Mr. Sargeant, 22, a South Florida native who began racing rudimentary cars known as karts at 6 years old and this year joined the Williams Racing team as the first full-time American F1 driver since 2007.

For Formula 1 itself, finding a hometown hero for American fans is a giant leap.

Although it is enormously popular in Europe, F1 struggled for decades to break into the United States. That began to change in 2016, when the sport was purchased for $4.4 billion by the Colorado-based Liberty Media, owned by the cable magnate John Malone. Liberty ramped up its social media — F1 had barely kept a YouTube page — and backed a popular Netflix documentary series, “Drive to Survive.” Once geared toward aging white men, F1 now has a younger and more diverse fan base. American TV viewership is up 220 percent from 2018, and the sport made $2.6 billion in revenue last year.

Still, a subset of F1 devotees complain about what they see as an overemphasis on entertainment and ginned-up drama. Under Liberty, they argue, pure racing is taking a back seat to cheap tricks to reel in casual viewers. And they often use a dirty word for it: Americanization. “It is becoming more and more like Formula Hollywood,” Bernie Ecclestone, the 92-year-old Briton who built F1 into a global business, griped last year. “F1 is being made more and more for the American market.”

The backlash reached a crescendo at last week’s Miami Grand Prix, which was added in 2022 as a showpiece for American fans. In a prizefight-style pre-race ceremony, the rapper LL Cool J introduced the 20 drivers one by one amid swirling smoke and a squad of cheerleaders. Nearby, Will.i.am conducted a live orchestra playing the rap song he recently recorded with Lil Wayne as part of a “global music collaboration” with Formula 1. (The lyrics rhyme “Max Verstappen,” the name of the sport’s top driver, with “your champion.”)

“Pandering to the American audience is killing @F1,” wrote one fan on Twitter, echoing criticism that bubbled up across numerous F1 websites. Even the racers complained: “None of the drivers like it,” groused Lando Norris, a Briton who drives for McLaren. Undeterred, Liberty announced that the bombastic pre-race sequence would be featured at several more grands prix this year.

In the United States, F1 has long been associated with a certain European mystique, most famously, the louche glamour of the Monaco Grand Prix.

In the United States, F1 has long been associated with a certain European mystique. Its drivers race across the Ardennes forest (Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps in Belgium), the plains of Lombardy (Italy’s Autodromo Nazionale di Monza) and, most famously, the louche glamour of the Monaco Grand Prix. The sport’s stateside image could be summed up by the 2006 comedy, “Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby,” which featured Sacha Baron Cohen as a pretentious French F1 driver named Jean Girard, a snooty Eurotrash foil to Will Ferrell’s macho NASCAR cowboy.

In 2023, F1 can feel a bit more Ricky Bobby than Jean Girard. In Miami, drivers circled a track built in the parking lot of the Dolphins football stadium, past an artificial Monaco-style “harbor”: blue-painted asphalt topped with ersatz yachts. A new Las Vegas race in November will have cars zooming down the Strip past Caesars Palace. Meanwhile, traditional races in France and Germany are gone.

Katy Fairman, a journalist based in Brighton, England, who runs the F1 podcast “Small Torque,” said she was surprised by the spectacle when she attended a race in Austin, Texas. “There were girls with pompoms,” she said. “I remember watching it and thinking, Oh my gosh, this is so different from anything I’d seen F1 do in a long time.”

Ms. Fairman conceded that some Europeans find the American hullabaloo “tacky.” But she added: “When it’s something to do with America, I think Europeans are quite judgmental. I think it’s just a bit of lighthearted fun. You guys like to have a party.”

The arrival of Mr. Sargeant, who grew up about an hour’s drive from the Miami racetrack, has spurred new interest, including a profile and photo shoot in GQ, and he’s happy to play the part. “What’s up America, let’s bring that energy!” he shouted to the cameras after LL Cool J introduced him as “the local boy done good.”

But as with F1, there are growing pains. In Miami, Mr. Sargeant finished last, his race ruined on the first lap when he damaged a front wing. After the checkered flag, he apologized to his team, his voice barely a whisper: “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it.”

Weeks earlier, in an interview in England, Mr. Sargeant had demurred about the pressure of wearing the stars and stripes. “I try not to get too caught up in the talk of the role of ‘first American,’” he said. “It’s still very early for me, and I have a lot to learn still.”

If Mr. Sargeant doesn’t perform, there are dozens of drivers eager to take his spot. “At the moment,” he said, “I just have to worry about staying here.”

For a globe-trotting athlete, Mr. Sargeant can be soft-spoken and endearingly self-conscious. 

‘I just want to get back in the gym.’

Before his tough Miami weekend, Mr. Sargeant was asked how he would celebrate a top 10 finish. “Honestly, it might sound lame, but probably just go back to my house and get in my bed for another night before I go back to London,” he replied. “That’s all I want to do.”

For a wealthy, handsome, globe-trotting athlete, Mr. Sargeant can be soft-spoken and endearingly self-conscious. It’s not unusual for someone who, like a tennis prodigy or Olympian gymnast, has devoted their life since childhood to a sole pursuit.

Mr. Sargeant was 6 when he and his brother Dalton got a kart from their parents for Christmas. “No one in the family was really even that much into racing,” Logan said. “We just picked it up as a hobby, something to do on the weekend.” He began winning junior races around the country — too easily. To reach the next level and pursue Formula 1, he’d have to leave behind his friends and beloved fishing excursions for life on a different continent: “We just needed a higher level of competition, and at the end of the day, that was in Europe.”

Mr. Sargeant left Florida before his 13th birthday, bouncing between Italy, Switzerland and Britain as he raced on the European junior circuit; in 2015, he became the first American to win the Karting World Championship since 1978. “As a kid, it was tough,” he recalled. “Coming from Florida, being outdoors all the time on the water, great weather — it was literally vice versa.” He eventually settled in London, where he spends most days working out with a trainer. “I get away from a race weekend, and I just want to get back in the gym,” he said. “I hate that feeling of leaving slack on the table.”

It is incredibly difficult to nab a seat in Formula 1. Today’s drivers are physical dynamos trained to optimize their reflexes and performance levels down to how well they can withstand jet lag — critical in a sport that this year will include 23 grands prix spread over five continents. F1 teams employ hundreds of employees and spend hundreds of millions of dollars developing the world’s most sophisticated racecars. But it’s ultimately up to the driver to execute.

It also helps to have money. Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time world champion and F1’s only Black driver, is an exception, having grown up on a London council estate. Many F1 competitors are the sons of multimillionaires (and some billionaires) who can bankroll pricey travel and high-tech cars.

Mr. Sargeant falls into the scion category. He hails from a wealthy Florida asphalt shipping family. His uncle, Harry Sargeant III, is a former fighter pilot and onetime finance chair of Florida’s Republican Party who has been sued by the brother-in-law of King Abdullah II of Jordan and whose name turned up, tangentially, in the 2020 impeachment of former President Donald J. Trump. (Harry was not accused of any wrongdoing.)

Logan’s father, Daniel Sargeant, worked alongside Harry until the brothers had a falling out. In a 2013 lawsuit, Harry accused Daniel of misdirecting $6.5 million in corporate funds “for the purpose of advancing the international cart racing activities” of his sons, Logan and Dalton; that litigation was eventually settled.

In 2019, Daniel Sargeant pleaded guilty in federal court in New York to foreign bribery and money laundering charges related to his business dealings abroad. He is free on a $5 million bond and is awaiting sentencing. A Williams spokesman said that Logan Sargeant was not “in a position to comment” on any of the legal matters involving his family.

In F1, none of this particularly stands out. The mother of Mr. Sargeant’s Williams teammate, Alexander Albon, was jailed in Britain for swindling millions of pounds in fraudulent sales of high-end cars. A Russian racer, Nikita Mazepin, was booted from the sport after his oligarch father, a close ally of President Vladimir V. Putin, was sanctioned following the 2022 invasion of Ukraine.

James Vowles, the Williams team principal, said in an interview that he hired Mr. Sargeant for his speed, not his U.S. passport. “I’m incredibly pleased that the sport is growing in America, but I think it would be anything but disingenuous to say that Logan’s here for any other reason than I think he’s got this pure talent,” he said.

In his F1 debut in Bahrain in March, Mr. Sargeant finished 12th, outpacing this year’s two other rookies. “He has this insatiable desire to be better, to want more,” Mr. Vowles said. “He’s a perfectionist, and I like that in him.”

Tooting around in a Vauxhall Astra

Britain, where Formula 1 originated in 1950, remains the sport’s spiritual home, where most of its 10 teams are based. Williams was founded in Oxfordshire in the 1970s, but it’s now an American subsidiary: a Manhattan private equity firm, Dorilton Capital, bought the company in 2020 for an estimated $200 million.

It was an important cash infusion for a team that had struggled to keep up with rivals. Manufacturers like Mercedes-Benz pour enormous resources into their F1 teams, which double as an elaborate global marketing campaign and an in-house innovation farm; tech developed for F1, like engines that recycle braking energy as an accelerant, can trickle into consumer vehicles.

Formula 1 car simulators at the Williams Racing factory.

Formula 1 drivers practice on sophisticated training simulators.

The Williams campus is a humdrum brick pile that could be mistaken for an office park — a far cry from McLaren’s space-age complex an hour’s drive away. Many F1 teams provide their drivers with a high-end sports car for personal use; Mr. Sargeant commutes in a Vauxhall Astra, a compact.

Even the team’s sponsors are relatively down-market; whereas the official watch of Ferrari is Richard Mille (starting price: $60,000), Williams has a deal with Bremont, whose timepieces retail for significantly less. (On a recent visit, a Williams press aide was quick to extract a spare Bremont watch from his pocket and ensure Mr. Sargeant was wearing it whenever a photographer hovered.)

Given the huge costs, corporate partnerships are crucial to F1, part of the reason the American market, with its abundance of affluent consumers and wealthy brands, has proved so tempting. Gerald Donaldson, a journalist who has covered F1 for 45 years, recalled how cars were gradually taken over by corporate logos starting in the late 1960s.

“Marlboro paid all the Ferrari bills, including the drivers, for many years,” he said in an interview. “There are eager companies who want the publicity.” Mr. Sargeant’s car features ads for Michelob Ultra beer and an American financial firm, Stephens. In Miami last weekend, beachgoers spotted an airborne banner reading “Go Logan!” alongside the image of a Duracell battery.

Last year, the Miami race was viewed on ABC by 2.6 million people, the biggest American audience for a live F1 telecast. Ratings for this year’s race fell about 25 percent, perhaps a result of a duller-than-usual season dominated by one team, Red Bull.

Still, viewing data show that F1 is expanding beyond affluent cities associated with elite sports: In 2022, its top five American TV markets included Asheville, N.C., and Tulsa, Okla. ESPN is clearly betting on more growth. When the sports network renewed its broadcast rights last year, it agreed to pay $90 million annually — up from the $5 million-a-year deal it signed in 2019.

Liam Parker, a former adviser to Boris Johnson who now leads communications at F1, said the sport was intent on rectifying past mistakes. “We were too arrogant,” he said. “We couldn’t understand why the American fan base wasn’t falling in love with us.” But he also pushed back on the complaints that Liberty’s efforts to raise the entertainment factor had stripped F1 of something essential.

“This whole argument of ‘Americanization,’ it’s a very crude way to describe things,” he said. “We shouldn’t ignore things that can improve things for new and core fans. It’s about giving people more choices in the modern era. It’s modernization of access to everyone.”

Mr. Hamilton, arguably the biggest celebrity of the current F1 lineup, has offered his own endorsement of Liberty’s approach. “I mean jeez, I grew up listening to LL Cool J,” he told reporters in Miami. “I thought it was cool, wasn’t an issue to me.”

For all the debates over elitism, good taste and corporate rap collaborations, the core appeal of F1, when you get right down to it, may be something simpler — something Mr. Sargeant got at when asked in the interview if he had loved cars as a kid.

“I absolutely love driving, as you can imagine,” he said. “But to be honest, I’m not one of those people who studies cars and, you know, likes to know every detail of every single car. It doesn’t really interest me.”

“The part that interests me,” he concluded, “is driving them as fast as I can go.”

Eliza Shapiro contributed reporting from Miami. Kitty Bennett contributed research. Michael M. Grynbaum is a media correspondent covering the intersection of business, culture and politics.  A version of this article appears in print on May 14, 2023, Section BU, Page 1 of the New York edition with the headline: The Florida Man Of Formula 1.

#logan sargeant #year:2023 #source:newspaper #one of the best logan articles imo #feel free to message me if you want me to gift you a copy of this article from the NYT with my subscription

[seat-safety-switch]

Everyone in my town has been 3D-printing dogs lately. Even though although the local shelter isn't particularly happy about it, I've never seen my neighbours so cheerful. It turns out that all we needed to stop obsessing about our inevitable glum oblivion from ultra-capitalism is a button you can press to make a puppy come out.

Sure, a lot of houses are up to their metaphorical yin-yangs in dogs. Who can blame them? The most intriguing thing in our lives is the "new." What colour of puppy will come out next? What happens if I spin the breed selector with my eyes closed? Can this thing print food for the several dozen very hungry animals now occupying my workshop area?

I'm not the kind of person to neglect anything. Well, except for my cars, house, yard, health, employment status, and environment. Dogs, though, I'll take care of them no problem. So I've been going around to the neighbours and scooping up their unwanted, extra dogs. What am I doing with them all? Horsepower. Er, uh, with dogs. You know what I mean.

I got the idea when I watched one of those nature documentaries. Some dude up north was using a bunch of dogs to pull his sled through the snow. It seemed a little dorky to me, but it also greatly appealed. You see, I didn't have any running cars. The last of my Diplomats was busy bleeding out on the driveway, with a hole punched in the engine about the size of a grocery store budget coconut.

Sure, the puppies don't have much pulling power individually, but if you put about sixty of them in front of the car, then you can get perilously close to breaking the playground-zone speed limit. And yes, there isn't much in the way of control: they're young, they haven't been trained, they incessantly yap, and there's a lot of poop on the front of my car now. In terms of getting to work on time? I also don't do that. When I do show up, though, everyone is so happy to see the puppies that they barely notice when I turn around and immediately start heading home after feeding my canine propulsion units the contents of the break-room fridge.

[still-not-over-transformers]

“Strictly Professional”

(Knockout x Reader-insert)

Takes place after the events of Season 1 Episode 11: Speed Metal. An event that left Knockout without his driver-side door.

“Do you know how difficult that is to replace!?”

(Y/N) were bored. Painfully bored. Looking outside a mahogany-lined window pane, you had a stunning unobscured view of the sunset. The rolling hills were a lush green, and the sunset painted the sky gradient hues of gold, crimson, and lavender bordered by a tree-line comprised of spruce, pine, and cedar. It was a gorgeous view you had seen again, and again, and…. Again. (Y/N) sighed. Growing up in a stunning villa in upper New York state had its perks, but despite being able to do whatever you wanted you never seemed entertained. You see, money can buy a lot of things: houses, luxury cars, private jets, trips around the world, etc. But it could never seem to stop the ever-constant boredom you often experienced as nothing was ever unexpected. As if something else was missing.

*BUZZ*

*BUZZ*

*BUZZ*

You looked at your phone to see a reminder you had set for the Exotic Car Show you were attending that evening. You were mostly ready as it was, just touching up your makeup a bit. Then you grabbed your phone and clutch purse before making your way down the spiral staircase to the front doors. You had chosen to dawn an elegant but edgy silver dress with an asymmetrical hem and a single sleeve on the right arm. Your footwear of choice were classic black heels, but with a reasonable pump-height so you didn’t break your ankles. The doors were held open by your family butlers, as you made your way to the curb of the driveway at the front of your family villa.

Your family’s wealth came from a combination of significant shares in various luxury-brand car manufacturers; your father being on the board of directors for Mercedes, and your mother the Logistics Manager also for Mercedes. Obviously the same workplace is how your parents met. Throughout your life, your parents had given you the world, albeit requiring you to maintain a job. So you work alongside your mother as her assistant. For the past month, your mother had been off who knows where in Europe on a business retreat. While you had been invited, you knew it would be nothing but hanging around other snooty rich business-types whom were always dull company. Also, why were rich guys always old and/or ugly?

Your chauffeur was waiting with the car door open. You entered the vehicle and soon you were off to the car expo. On the drive, you had been reading up on the potential reveals and demos that might be at the event. You were primarily excited about the exotic vehicle demos, as you had an appreciation of exotic cars. The horsepower, design, curvatures of the body frame, were nothing short of thrilling.

As your ride pulled up to the event, you exited the vehicle as your chauffeur assisted you. You acknowledged the chauffeur curtly, before entering the event space. There were a few minor celebrities taking photo ops; some wannabe playboys posing near their cars with groupies and models; and then the actual cars themselves scattered about a massive lot. Each vehicle had an attendant to provide information as well as prevent unwanted touching of the cars. You passed a silver Bugatti Chiron, a brand new Corvette Stingray, luxury Jaguar and Cadillac models… But something else caught your eye. A glint of red made you turn and approach a vehicle off to the side.

As you got closer you saw a stunning bright scarlet Aston Martin One-77 with white highlights. You couldn’t deny that this was a sexy-ass car. “Damn…” (Y/N) muttered. You approached the luxury vehicle and drank in its sleek form, the curvature of the design, the stunning richness of the paint job. As you walked around the car, you were jarred at the realization that the driver-side door was completely gone. “What the fuck happened to you?” (Y/N) exclaimed, “Who in their right mind wouldn’t have replaced that by now?” Come to think of it, it was odd that this one car in-particular lacked an attendant which all other cars had present.

With the missing door, the temptation to climb inside was intense. The one thing her family wasn’t big on spending money on were cars. Your parents thought that spending money on lavish vehicles was an unnecessary expense. Fucking ironic. Even if you couldn’t have it, you were going to briefly experience the thrill of having such a stunning vehicle. You climbed into the driver’s seat and drank in the elaborate console, the impeccably clean interior, it even smelled brand new. You gently ran your hands over the steering wheel, imagining what it would feel like to drive it. As you indulged yourself for a moment longer, suddenly you found that the seatbelt was latched around you. “What the fuck? …When did i…?” (Y/N) said in confusion.

Before you knew it, the car shifted into gear and peeled out from its spot. Multiple attendees of the event panicked and flung themselves out of the way. (Y/N) shrieked once before desperately pumping the brakes, but to no avail. When you tried to move the gear shift into neutral, you found that it didn’t budge at all. After a few minutes of sheer terror and panic, you were no longer at the exotic vehicle venue, but instead on the outskirts of the city in a maze of alleyways. As the vehicle finally came to a stop, you heard strange sounds akin to shifting parts and an electronic sound. Before you knew it you were aloft in the air. In the hand of a giant robot who was giving you a highly-offended glare. You were frozen. You struggled to comprehend the situation, wondering if you might have lost your mind.

“Humans have no sense of respect! It’s bad enough that I’m missing a part, but now you decide it’s a bright idea to climb into a vehicle you don’t know” the Decepticon exclaimed. It talked (Y/N) thought. Knockout looked down at the tiny human in his grasp, “I hope you enjoyed the brief joy ride, but I think now I’ll punish you for daring to touch me.” With his free servo, Knockout’s servo transforms into a buzzsaw. You begin to panic, squirming briefly in the grip of the large metal hand around your waist before pausing. “WAIT! WAIT A SECOND AND I CAN HELP YOU!” (Y/N) shouted. The Decepticon raised an optic ridge and paused, “Oh? And how could an insignificant human as yourself possibly help me?” You took a deep breath to compose yourself, clearing your throat before speaking further. “I can replace your missing door. I have resources.”

Knockout was clearly interested in where this was going, as he had been having a nightmare trying to replace that door. “Go on…” You continued, “My job is literally ordering supplies and parts for luxury and exotic cars, I’m pretty sure I can order a replacement for you. Aston Martin One-77 right?” Knockout thought to himself for a moment, wondering when he would have such an opportunity to make himself whole again. The Decepticon turned his helm back towards the helpless human within his grip, “Correct. I see you do know your vehicles, human. If you can indeed supply me with the replacement part I require, I will hold off on exterminating you.”

(Y/N) breathed a sigh of relief, “I can make the call right away, if I would be allowed to reach my phone? And t-trust me, I’m not stupid enough to try to run in these heels.” “So now you make wise decisions. Very well.” Knockout chided before slowly lowering (Y/N) to the ground and releasing you. You briefly adjusted your dress and hair before opening your phone and making a call. You didn’t attempt any funny business, and reached out to one of your business contacts at Aston Martin Works. After a brief amount of small talk, you ordered the part and arranged its delivery. As you ended the phone call, you returned your gaze to the massive robot before you. “Alright I had the part ordered for you. And With express shipping.”

Knockout looked down at you, surprised you hadn’t soiled yourself as most humans would have by now. “And how am I supposed to receive this part? For all I know, if I let you out of my sight you’ll disappear and I’ll be left high and dry” he mused. Finding your confidence you replied to him calmly, “The part will be shipped to my home address at 11am sharp tomorrow. To prove I’m good for it, you can drive me home so you’ll know where to knock if I’m lying.” The Decepticon scientist was taken aback by this human. Giving up her home address so willingly confounded him. Knockout could easily decimate her and her entire home, yet this human was so willing to cooperate despite her best interest. “…You are a very strange human. You do understand I will squash you if you’re lying?” He placed a servo on his hip sassily. You watched his mannerisms and couldn’t help but grin slightly, he was so sassy.

“You are a giant transforming robot with a buzzsaw hand, and I’m not an idiot. I’ll keep my word. Besides, you’ll know exactly where I am since you’ll be taking me home. And stop calling me ‘human’ my name is (Y/N)” you smirked. Knockout raised an optic ridge, albeit impressed with this strange human. “Very well… but touch anything and I will crush you” he said before transforming back into vehicle-form. You took a pause before climbing into the driver’s seat, being careful not to touch anything. As the engine starts, you had expected the same aggressive driving as your previous abduction. To your surprise, the drive was fast but smooth. You tried to avoid speaking as much as possible, not wanting to push your luck, so instead you thought. You thought about the events prior to your encounter and pinched yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. It could’ve been worse to be honest. You could’ve been kidnapped by an ugly white pedophile van. At least you were taken by a sexy Aston Martin.

After what felt like brief moments, your captor arrived at the gates of your family estate. You punched in the security code in the keypad and the gates opened. Knockout pulled up to the front doors and parked. As you tried to exit the vehicle, the seatbelt wouldn’t unlatch and you looked back. “Remember, I’ll be close-by until our deal is seen through” Knockout hummed. You paused, “You sure are untrusting for a robot. I don’t have a car of my own so no worries on me going anywhere.” With that, the seatbelt released and you were able to make it inside of your home. As you climbed the staircase towards your room, you couldn’t help but clutch her chest. You felt a surge of adrenaline and you knew it wasn’t fear. No, this felt more like butterflies… You went into your room and immediately climbed into your bed. As your eyelids felt heavy, your only thoughts were of the intoxicating voice replaying in your mind. Until you fell asleep….

You felt slightly groggy as you awoke the next morning. Slowly as you climbed out of bed you remembered the last night’s events. Just to be sure you hadn’t dreamt it, you rushed to your window to look at the driveway. Sure enough, you saw the red and white Aston Martin parked there. A brief double-honk was audible, and you realized the robot could see you from the window. Your phone buzzed and as you opened it, you saw a security notification from the gates. You approved access and a delivery vehicle made its way up the driveway and delivered the part you had ordered. You made your way outside and signed for the delivery and the delivery employees carefully loaded the part into the Knockout’s trunk. As soon as the delivery men had departed from the property, you approached the driver’s side door and leaned forwards, “Looks like I came through on my promise. Think that makes us square?”

Knockout hesitated briefly before replying, “We shall see. After all you are technically a loose end, knowing of my existence and all. We will see if you’re worth more alive than dead.” As you lingered a moment longer, you couldn’t help but ask a question that had been burning within, “Just in case you do decide to continue doing business with me, may I at least know your name?” Dead silence was the initial response and it lingered in the air for what felt like an eternity. “You may address me as Knockout.” With that, Knockout revved his engine and quickly drove down the driveway and onto the main road. As he gained more distance between himself and the villa, Knockout questioned what he was to do about this human. He could’ve just killed her and be done with it, after all he did have the part he had needed. But a part of him didn’t want to end this odd human. He brushed it off as a start to a strictly professional relationship, and a potential supplier if he needed any more replacement parts in the future.

A couple months later….

After your first encounter with Knockout, you felt reinvigorated. That fateful encounter provided you with more excitement and adrenaline than you had ever experienced. After you had provided Knockout with the spare part, you were certain you would never lay eyes upon that robot again. To your surprise, you would have many more encounters with him. Apparently there were other giant robots whom Knockout would get into battles with, and would result in him needing replacement parts. With each encounter, you found yourself enjoying his company more and more. Finding both yourself and him to be fellow automobile enthusiasts. Your conversations even included some witty banter and jokes here and there. More than anything else, you found that your heart fluttered every time you laid eyes on him. You weren’t quite sure why, but nonetheless you enjoyed being around Knockout.

It was a Thursday afternoon and you had met with Knockout at your villa to provide another spare part, as Knockout had lost a side-view mirror in a scuffle with what you knew as “Autobots.” You had wanted to attempt a more friendly relationship with Knockout, but never wanted to risk it. Today was the day you decided to be bold. After all, you had sent the staff home early. You approached Knockout at the curb of your driveway, “You know, there is an International Auto Show being held in New York tomorrow night that will consist of the most expensive and luxurious vehicles from across the planet. I’ve got a ticket, but I’m afraid I’m short on a stunning ride to show up with.”

Knockout transformed from his vehicle mode and towered over you. He raised his optic ridge, wondering what on earth she was getting at, “You do understand I’m a highly advanced cybernetic being, not a taxi service? Besides, our relationship is strictly… professional and exists because I’ve chosen not to squash you. Yet.” You nod your head as you watch his body language. “Mhm. Mhm. All true, except for the fact I don’t think you’d want to squash me. I think you’ve gotten fond of our “professional” relationship,” she uses air quotes and smirks. “That and I don’t think a vehicle enthusiast such as yourself would want to miss out on an exclusive reveal of new models before the rest of the planet. A shame you’ll squash me and never experience it,” she says with an open smirk.

Knockout turns towards (Y/N) and gives her a look, a servo on his hip in his sassy mannerism, “Now now, I didn’t say no. Honestly it would be embarrassing if you showed up in anything less stylish than yours truly.” You could feel your heart skip a beat as you tried to reply in a nonchalant manner, “So you’re saying yes? I guess it’s a date then. The event starts at 7, so we should get an early start since it’s an hour drive.”

Knockout chuckles briefly before replying, “I’ll be here at 7. Always best to be fashionably late.” He smirks before transforming, the shine from his polished chassis gleaming in the light of the setting sun. He dramatically peels out of the expansive and large driveway before leaving the property. As the Decepticon’s frame disappeared from view, (Y/N) sighed softly to herself, “Always so dramatic…”

As Knockout began his drive back to the pickup coordinated for the Nemesis, he couldn’t help but have his gaze linger at the quickly disappearing villa in his rear view mirror. Perhaps the relationship between him and this human was a bit more than… strictly professional.

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#transformersprime #transformers one shots #transformers #transformers prime #TFP #tfp knockout #knockout #transformers oneshot #transformers fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #transformersreaderinsert #transformers knockout #oneshot #knockout x reader

[carionto]

I heard in the canteen that the humans once used a few antique combustion engines to start one of their portable stars. Any truth to the rumor?

Ah jeez, that was one hell of a day for that guy.

Yes and no. Where do I even being...

Okay. So this place up in Greenland called, uh... I'm gonna butcher this so bad, Hjeilhornhentrotnenheim, has an engineering museum, right? Right, and the guy in charge, his name is, ah fuck this is gonna be bad too ..., Hansinguaq Bjerresvontsgaardsen (I'm just gonna call him Hans from now on because uh yeah, no), collects all the things not fit for display in his personal transport ship. He's essentially converted it into his private mobile museum.

Not long after we established diplomatic channels and preliminary trade routes, Hans eagerly went off on his own to visit Alien equivalents to museums and such. Spent a solid three weeks traveling, sight-seeing, and adding things to his collection.

During a stop on the outer reaches of Coalition space his computer blue screened and forcibly shut down the reactor and pretty much wiped his communication array address book among other less relevant components. And no, I have no clue why he went so far out. He's 46, midlife crisis is my guess, telling him to go out on daring adventures or whatever. Anyway, he couldn't restart the fusion reactor while the inhibitor rod chambers were open, they open and shoot out the star canceler in an emergency shutdown, but one was stuck with the rod half-way in, so Hans had to manually open the reactor and fix it by hand.

Problem is, his transport ship, the Veritable Greenhorn, is fairly big, and the reactor's outer diameter was about 37 meters. Even in zero-g that's a lot of mass for one person to move, not to mention how much force you'd need to pry out a hyper dense metal alloy rod from a gate meant to withstand the pressure of a star right next to it. But he did have a lot mechanical power at his disposal, it just needed to be... rearranged.

Now, he did have backup generators that quietly hum in the background like on every Human vessel, but these are passive and nowhere near enough to charge the hyperdrive even if he could tell it where to go, let alone power machinery to counter a thousand ton jammed deadbolt. He needed something that had a kick to it, something you could really rev beyond its limits just long enough. He needed his V6s and V8s.

After almost two days of DIY engineering details I won't bore you with because I fell asleep when he explained them himself, Hans fired up the engines. It was a very tedious five hours of the engines rythmically tugging the deadbolt a tenth of a milimeter open and what is basically a massive jackhammer pummeling the rod back in. At one point he ran out of gas and was forced to sacrifice his alcohol collection.

Suffice to say it barely worked, all of the machinery he cobbled together became practically unusable, but it worked and he was able to restart the fusion reactor.

Oh, he didn't come home or anything by the way. Like I guess, midlife crisis. If anything, success has made him think nothing can get in the way of his Galactic exploration quest.

So that's the story. No, he didn't use combustion engines to start the reactor or anything, but lacking any other means to fix a problem I honestly didn't know could happen, the petrol guzzlers gave him the right kind of horsepower.

By the way, if you get a chance to tour the Veritable Greenhorn, I'd recommend it. I can't even begin to describe how that contraption looks, it's one of the main displays. I guarantee it's the most specific purpose built and rough pieces of Human engineering you will ever see.

#humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #humans are deathworlders #humanity fuck yeah #carionto #story #scifi