#AHFES news

[byregot]

farming player comms by joining duties and saying the most off the wall shit and walking out with 2-4 comms

[motherofagony]

FIRE WALK - one shot

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: au, no outbreak!joel x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+, minors dni word count: 6.5k summary: a chance encounter at a motel has you crossing paths with a stranger in a blue t-shirt. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), very brief references to past non-con encounters (not with joel, no details just shitty men in general), soft!joel, alcohol, mentions of family trauma and ab*se, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f + m receiving), A Scene With a Belt™, slight mentions of reader's clothing but no physical descriptions otherwise, love as consumption and women as fruit a/n: this was a brain-worm of a one shot, so i had to press pause on AHFE and get it out. consider it a dirty love letter to strangers with stories in shitty motels. and i have to give the biggest thank-you to @iamskyereads for stepping in and offering to be my beta reader in the final hour. she was so unbelievably thorough and thoughtful and kind. i owe you big.

New-age boogeymen hang two-way mirrors and jiggle motel door handles with broken hangers.

That’s what the news says.

August licks an unforgiving line of heat up your back, and cutoff denim and halter tops do nothing but give the sun more skin to burn. 

It’s sweltering, brutal as an Arizona summer is, and The Palms Motel promises a pool and a mini bar on their dirty marquee. You’ll take what you can get, can’t really afford to be picky with fifty dollars in your pocket, but at least maybe you’ll live like royalty tonight.

Some guy you met — Tom, Tim, Jim, whoever — pulls his convertible up to the front office. Your knees knock together over the speed bump, cartilage kissing bone.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come close to a chauffeur, but the chauffeur you see in movies doesn’t usually take liberties with trying to work his grease-speckled mechanic hand up the passenger’s shirt.

You met him at a gas station in Tucson, thumbing your way from northern Texas to put as much distance between you and your whiskey-breathed dad as you could. He’d torn your clothes apart at the seams with his eyes when he spotted you in the parking lot, swimming in blood-infested waters with sharp, sharp teeth.

There was no plan, no directions penned and cities circled on a folded map, just glass in your hair and a final straw.

He asked if you could buy him some booze — revoked license, baby, y’know how that goes — and you shouldn’t have, but when he flashed a leather wallet thick with cash, you knew you’d be stupid not to.

You hid behind a shelf inside the gas station while he idled in the parking lot and plucked a fifty from the wad, stuffing it deep in your bag. You grabbed some shitty malt-something from a fridge along with a 6-pack, flashing the slack-jawed cashier a wink. 

He didn’t try to hide the eye contact with your tits, but neither do most men. Sometimes you milk it in your favor, sometimes it just makes your lunch rise to the back of your throat.

And when you’re by yourself, it’s hot iron, ready to strike. A doe in their headlights, a buck with a nice rack. Skipping through the center of their bullseye.

You bought a little palm-sized bottle for yourself and tucked it safely next to the stolen cash in the abyss of your purse. These tiny cons got you by, made power surge deep in your belly. It made loneliness feel worth it, knowing you had an upper hand to lean on if you were ever in a bind.

He bitched about inflation when you came out with less than was reasonable for the amount you spent, and you just shrugged. Not your cash, not your problem. 

You bartered for a ride to the nearest motel, and now Tom-Tim-Jim is asking you over the purr of the engine if you need company for the night.

If you were feeling a little more you, you might’ve taken him up on it. Maybe he would’ve even paid for the room, maybe he wouldn’t get angry like your dad does. Maybe he’d be able to fuck you without hitting you.

You’re good at diffusing the temper in most men, can touch them in ways that make them grit their teeth, can be a good girl and go fetch.

But you’re not in the mood to bend, to give someone’s son — someone’s husband with a tan line around their ring finger — a place to wipe their shoes on. You don’t feel like wiping their dirt, your mascara from your eyes and saying thank you while they zip up their pants.

And you sure as fuck don’t fancy being on a milk carton.

“I’m alright, sugar. Thanks for the ride,” you say, dipping your chin to peer over your sunglasses. “I know where to find you, don’t worry.”

Yeah fuckin’ right.

He doesn’t try to conceal his disappointment, just sucks his teeth and squeezes at the exposed skin of your thigh. His way of saying goodbye to something he could’ve dripped sweat on, came in too early. You think your flesh might rot off in chunks. 

You open the door and swing your legs out in a way that’s a little too eager.

Tom-Tim-Jim waves solemnly with two fingers up and two bent, and then he’s gone in an aggressive rev.

The motel might’ve been a kitschy dream in its heyday. It’s not a total dump; more of a vintage skeleton of washed-out pink and umbrellas that’ve been ripped by weather and overuse. There are a million faded emblems of cartoonish palm trees. It’s almost endearing how tragic it is.

You can tell that it was popular and swarming with tourists at one time — there are dusty, water-stained pamphlets lining the wall next to the front desk that brag Named one of Arizona’s top destinations in 1996!

A mounted fan whirs and oscillates, but it might as well be someone blowing hot breath down your neck. 

There’s a tired woman holding down the fort at the desk with a name tag that claims Brenda, and she looks surprised to see you. You figure most customers are stopping in for a night’s rest on the way to somewhere more important, their final destination. But you don’t look like you have anywhere better to be.

“Hey, honey,” Brenda trickles, laced with an accent that’s more New Orleans than Arizona. “Need a room?”

“Yeah, just for the night,” you say, fishing out your wallet with confidence that doesn’t meet your eyes. “How much?”

“Forty-five a night, ‘less you wanna upgrade to the honeymoon suite.” She looks somewhere over your shoulder.

That’s nearly everything you have, but it sounds a lot like tomorrow’s problem. At least you’ll be safe tonight from the prowling stares of nighttime predators, and the leftover change will give you a decent vending machine dinner.

“Just a normal room’s fine,” you smile, sliding over the crumpled, stolen fifty.

Brenda types busily on the keyboard, asking for your name but nothing else. And when she hands you a plastic keycard, you finally relax your shoulders. Untangle the nerves in your lower back that are choking one another.

Room 17, it reads. Your oasis awaits!

You thank her, spin on your heel, and immediately bump chest to chest with something hard.

You’re eye level with a worn, cornflower blue t-shirt, ringed with a light stain of sweat at the collar. They’re grasping both of your arms to steady you, and you’re snagging the gaze of a tousled man with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” he murmurs, but it isn’t reprimanding or mean like you’re used to, just sickly sweet and Texan. Syrupy in a way that drips right down between your legs.

You don’t remember seeing anyone else in the lot when you’d pulled up. And the stealth of him entering soundlessly behind you sends a jolt of electricity up your spine, the clench of something that would be fear if it were any other stranger.

But he doesn’t look at you with intent to devour or to claim. Just eyes you like you’re anyone else. An equal. The bare minimum, but rare and shiny nonetheless.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he’s releasing you a little too quickly for your liking. Leaving brands on the creases of where your forearms meet upper and elbow.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

So you don’t.

You brush past him on the way out, a polite nod. And that’s that. 

The heat is the kind that feels hotter, unbearable when paired with the shrill sing of cicadas. An endless buzzing that you think might be the sun sizzling on the concrete. If you stood in one place for too long, your flip flops might very well melt you in place.

Your room key clicks to unlock Room 17, and you push the door open to a heavy, humid space that smells vaguely of mold. You’re so grateful for the privacy that you can’t even bring yourself to wrinkle your nose.

Flip flops discarded, your toes sink into shag carpet — a dirty luxury that makes you moan. It’s only been two days since you left home, fled home, but it beats sleeping with one eye open on a bus stop bench.

You up-end your leather bag, dumping all of its contents onto the bed. Cigarettes, some loose film canisters, your toothbrush, a lighter. There wasn’t much time to pack, nothing worth bringing, and the less, the better. Nothing to weigh you down if you had to dip at a moment’s notice.

It takes you only a couple minutes and a light sheen of sweat to realize that the A/C is busted. Smothered, you try to crack open a window in the bathroom, but it’s no cooler than the hell you’re standing in.

When you let Brenda know, she just shrugs with an apologetic kind of half-smile.

“Most of ‘em are out these days, honey,” she says, and you decide then that it’s a small price to pay. “We got someone comin’ to look at it next week.”

You shoot her a smile, figure that she’s had enough rotten backtalk in her day. You scoop a set of flamingo-themed matches from the bowl on the counter and turn around, only to see a familiar blue shirt waiting his turn.

His eyes try not to roam, but he’s giving you a nod and stepping up without hesitation, asking Brenda for extra towels.

The way that she titters and blushes, you’d think he’d asked if he could spit in her mouth.

It irritates you, and you can’t say why.

The door chimes behind you as it closes, and you linger, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. When he emerges, a stack of towels so high it’s hitting his chin, you step in stride on the walk back. Tracing his footsteps, catching up with his shadow.

“You followin’ me?” you quip, a cigarette dangling from your mouth. The cherry ignites on every breath, smoke erupting in tendrils that hug each word.

He answers with a laugh, turns and squints back at you with one eye. Almost as if he was expecting you to ask.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Could say the same to you.”

You stop in front of 17, hand over your brow to shield from the sun that’s winding its way down, getting ready to tuck itself in for the night. There’s nothing that touches your tongue that doesn’t sound exactly like a fuck yes. So you don’t say anything.

“Enjoy your sauna,” he chuckles over his shoulder, passing you with his towels on the way to Room 20.

—

Led Zeppelin filters out through the radio, half-static, half-electric. Your legs are crossed in the air behind you, and you’re posted up face down on the bed, kicking along to the beat while you flip through whatever Cosmopolitan someone left behind in a drawer.

Someone raps a few times on the door, and if it’s a repairman, they’re getting their fucking dick sucked.

You army-roll off the flowery duvet, abandoning a how-to on finding your g-spot, and you peer through the peephole.

Your breath hitches on a soft swear.

When you open the door, you see Blue T-Shirt standing there, skin creasing around his eyes slyly. An unopened beer hangs and swings from his restless fingers. He offers it up wordlessly, the butt of it pointed at you.

It’s ice-cold and slippery to the touch, erupting goosebumps on your forearm. Saliva coats your tongue, and you don’t think it’s the thirst for alcohol, but maybe the tall drink of water. 

“Um… thanks?”

“Figured you’d either be dead by now or parched,” he says smugly, and it’s velvet to your ears.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks. I got the fan to work at least,” you mutter, jerking your thumb vaguely behind you.

“Listen, uh —”

He’s rubbing the nape of his neck, and you catch the way the network of muscles flex from his elbow to the seam of his armpit. He looks like he’s in pain, struggling with the fit of a puzzle piece into something rough and jagged.

Something he shouldn’t be trying but has to see it through, exhaust it until it’s definite one way or the other.

You just squint, sucking in the corner of your lip between your teeth. You nearly grin, but it’s much more fun to watch than to connect the dots for him.

“A/C works in my room, so ‘f you wanted to… y’know,” he trails off, not even sure in his own offer. “No pressure. It’s hot as hell outside, don’t want you t’get heat stroke ‘f I can help it.”

This kind of approval you like. This kind that sizzles girl-honey between your legs, winning it from a man that’s playing to earn, not to cheat.

“I try not to make a habit out of going into motel rooms of guys I don’t know the names of,” you harp sweetly. But it might as well be a done-deal.

“D’you make a habit outta accepting beers from ‘em?”

You smile. Typically, yes.

“Joel.”

His hand shoots out, strong and suggestive. Fingers like alligator teeth that’ll grip you, hold you under until you thrash. 

And you pluck your cigarettes and gifted liquor bottle from the bed, arms full when you carry them down to Joel’s room.

—

You’re sprawled on the full-size bed next to his, head propped up on hand propped up on elbow.

You’ve been trading your little fist of bourbon back and forth, swapping stories in the same way. Somehow, you fall into it easy like old friends, and it’s nice to follow someone’s lead instead of keeping one step, three, seven steps ahead. Arm outstretched to the door knob, feet ready to break into a run at the change in tone, blackening of pupils.

Without meaning to, you’ve wordlessly agreed that the person in possession of the bottle has the proverbial mic, and they swig to help with details and theatrics. It’s counter-productive in flow, but it makes you laugh when Joel exaggerates the story he’s telling on purpose, reaching out to pass it back and suddenly yanking it back, remembering a shade of gray or a funny expression.

Your knuckles keep zapping each other, brushing a little longer than the time before. There’s no numbness to consensual touch.

Joel’s mid-40s. From Texas, like you. He came to visit his daughter Sarah at college, says she’s growin’ up too fast, doesn’t need her old man anymore. It’s a thrill to see someone talk about their own flesh with love, admiration for who she is and who she’s becoming. You find yourself leaning in, enraptured that there are no IOUs or fine-print that you know to come with a parent’s love.

Mentions of his stubborn brother Tommy who he works with and who just can’t stop getting into trouble. The unspoken guilt that maybe he could be the one to keep him out of jail if he tried harder. It doesn’t work that way, and you tell him so.

You tell him about your dad when he asks about your life, your story, and you don’t know why you do but maybe you know exactly why. No one ever gets close enough to ask, so it comes leaking out of the corners of your mouth.  

You’ve never told anyone, not even your diary, not even the guidance counselor who slipped a note to your fifth grade teacher and pulled you out of class. Shaky fingers, shaky limbs when they asked if they could roll up your sleeves just to see and you said no. 

Crying because you knew your dad wouldn’t let you go back. Not to school, not to your friends.

You omit the nitty-gritty details, but Joel gets the gist. Swigs his share of the liquor a little too angrily with tight lips. Not like your dad does, but you don’t miss the irony of it all.

He holds anger for you, on behalf of you. It simmers as he listens to you in patient silence, coming to a boil at the bad parts when he gets up and starts walking lines in the shitty carpet. Pretending to look outside in interest at his truck parked at the end of the lot, but gripping the curtains until you can see every expanse of bone in his hand.

You don’t need this from him. It’s a hurt you’ve wedged between the pages of a book and doused in flames of acceptance long ago. But it spreads from your toes to your ears, the burn of someone feeling like this. For someone like you.

He finally settles down in an armchair by the window, a funny corduroy thing that would probably light up under a blacklight on one of those crime shows. Legs parted, a warm stare on the way you take up space on the bed. Facing him comfortably, your vision buzzing around the edges. A loose smile shared as if this room was meant for the two of you all along.

“So, what’s your plan?” Joel’s humming, his words getting lost in an echo of the bottle neck.

You don’t have one. Can’t have one when you have nowhere to go but gone.

It stretches on and on between you — a mouth opened and closed too many times on possibilities. If you admit to it, you end up with pity or an upper hand dealt to a stranger. You can’t afford to owe anyone a favor, nor can you front the cost of needing one.

But you’re so tired.

“Dunno. I’ll figure it out.”

“You got enough time for that?”

And you know what he means. Enough time in the motel, enough time before you’re a thief at wit’s end, doing anything for survival. He doesn’t need to ask to know you don’t have a destination, some relative waiting for you in a California dream.

You’ve excused yourself to the bathroom, soft radio bleeding in under the door, arms braced on the sink, all glossy eyes.

You want him, bad. But he won’t make the first move, won’t take advantage of what isn’t his and what others before him took without asking. You’re a pawn, entitled to the first move. The rejection would kill you, but not knowing would be worse.

He could hold you soft, give you something to think about when tomorrow rips you both in opposite directions.

When you pull open the door, Joel’s frozen in mid-stride towards you, like he’s just made up his mind about something.

He straightens but he’s still. Afraid of moving too fast, saying too much, scaring you into flight. Out of the unlocked cage of his room — something he did on purpose, because he doesn’t expect anything from you and wants you to know he doesn’t.

You meet him in his dusty shag quicksand. You take his wrist in your hand, kiss the thrum of life in the dip where veins meet palm. An offering.

Joel looks like he’s in pain, like what you’re doing is excruciating and thorny. The front of his jeans strains. He’s searching you for any hesitation, any obligation because he did something kind. He knows what currency you feel the need to pay in, and this isn’t that.

“Please,” you whisper simply. And he nods, accepting, succumbing.

There’s a careful meeting of lips, wanting to do it the right way, in the right order. When you push your tongue in, used to the pace of animals, he just holds your face and slows you down. It’s languid, his mouth showing you what sweet and gentle can taste like. Your tongues take their time, and your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, all ribbed muscle with a sprinkling of hair.

He shudders against the lightness of your feather-fingers.

Joel’s hands are peeling your shirt off, his thumbs resting to press against pillowy hips. He’s not letting your lips go, something like impatience stirring in you. 

Doesn’t he want to fuck you hard? Fuck you fast and selfish?

Isn’t there a catch?

He’s taking his shirt off now, up and over. Carved by Michaelangelo, thrown up on a ceiling in a library book you read once. You’re touching him in reverence, but not letting yourself learn too much of him.

His eyes are molten. Joel walks you back to the edge of the bed, scratchy quilt tickling your thighs when you fall back on it. You start to pose yourself, angles that make you look more desirable, pliable. But he’s not paying attention to that, just unbuttoning your shorts, kissing the jut of every curve and permeating down to the bone, punching out a soft groan when he slides the denim off and sees the shining ambrosia that’s waiting.

He’s kneeling, tugging you down to meet his waiting mouth. And you’re just breathless, flinching when he pulls you apart, guiding your legs over his shoulders and wasting no time devouring you. Your legs, his bib.

Joel’s tongue flicks through the shell of you, teasing you in alternates of quick and slow, starving and full. It feels like a slice of heaven. 

You pitch out a tangled gasp, hands instinctively moving to knot in his hair. Anything to hold onto, a different kind of grounding.

“So wet f’me,” he vibrates lowly into you, all husk. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

He sinks a middle finger into you, and you’re keening, hips canting and unable to stay glued to the mattress. You feel him smile against your cunt, just pressing his forearm across your lower half to keep you still.

Joel’s twisting and working into you, onto you, and you’re so fucking close from just this — a tiptoeing to the edge that grows longer, more erratic in stride. He sucks your clit — pulsing sensitive, so swollen — into his mouth and grazes it with the tip of his tongue just so. Baring his incisors and closing around you in a delicious scrape like a Venus flytrap taking its meal.

You think you see God behind the flutter of your eyes.

You’re close enough to warn him, to rasp it out in the symphony of moans. His free hand reaches up to roll your peaked nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and he stretches you with an added ring finger. You’re writhing. Possessed.

He’s watching you through thick lashes. Letting your heels dig into his shoulders as the drenched sounds of you fill the room.

“Joel, please — I’m gonna —”

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he just murmurs.

You feel that little pull at your navel.

And you’re tipping in a freefall, seeing stars. You clench down around his fingers, fingers that are still pumping against that spongy spot deep inside you. Your arousal gushes, wet and sticky against the scrape of his beard. He laps you up, the sight making heat creep up your chest and wrap around your neck.

When he lifts his head, he’s high on it. Pupils dilated like tiny, round moons. Your orgasm glistens on him, smeared over lips and chin. The fur of a peach peeled back far enough to sink teeth into.

It’s fucking filthy.

Joel places open-mouthed kisses from your hip up to the center of your breasts, a trail of your orgasm shiny on your skin in perfect, sloppy Os. His breath meets your throat where he nips at you, and you don’t have time to drag in a breath before you’re tasting the saltiness of yourself on his tongue.

Your fingers fumble on his belt, practiced with years of releasing the tension on the metal prongs, the slithering sound whooshing from the loops of pants. You’re good at it, like you used to be good at gymnastics until your mom stopped getting out of bed to drive you. 

There was always a little gold for contorting your body.

He detaches from you unwillingly, putting all of his weight on his knees and shins as he straddles the space of your thighs.

You’re pulling yourself up in a sitting position, pushing denim and boxers down past his hips. Letting his cock spring free, the head a dark pink and beaded with precum. You swipe the flat of your tongue against it, peeking up at him while you soak up the taste of it. 

When you push the length of him into your mouth, ridged hard with veins, Joel tips his head back, chin to the ceiling. He groans something brutish yet helpless, cradling the back of your head. You’re seated in the driver’s seat, all control. 

It’s new, different.

But then he’s moving his hips back, pulling himself from your mouth, wiping the saliva from your chin with a steady thumb.

“Don’t need t’do that,” Joel whispers hoarsely. “Not ‘f you don’t want to.”

Confused, you knit your brows. He laughs darkly, shaking his head.

“Didn’t mean it like that, it’s — it feels fuckin’ good,” he says, awestruck. “Would just rather make you feel good instead.”

Oh.

He doesn’t wait for an answer or a negotiation. The rest of his clothes pool on the floor in a pile, and he’s climbing back over you, an anchor or a buoy in a storm.

He lines himself up at the seam of you, puffy and so wet from before, nudging the tip of his cock at your warm center. A thumb coaxing the bud at the apex of you in lazy circles.

Joel’s sliding in slowly by each inch, filling you full until there’s nothing left and his patch of hair prickles the pearl of your clit. All you can do is whine and tense around him.

He’s resting tentative hands on either side of your face, indenting the weak mattress with handprints. He groans, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give in when you try to rock against him.

“This alright?”

You’ve forgotten how to do anything, hoping that digging your fingertips into his forearms is communication enough.

“I’m gonna need a yes, baby.”

You feel around in the dark for the tether back to your body, and it jerks you like a marionette, giving him a nod.

“Yes. Fuck.”

That’s enough. He’s rewarding you with a roll of his hips, and you feel like you’re on fire. It’s a stuttering, painfully slow pace at first, his mouth so close to your ear that every grunt is amplified. But it evolves into something eager, unsatiated, snapping up into you with a relentless sort of fucking.

He’s hitting that place so deep within you, letting you unravel and grow hoarse from the moans tearing their way up your throat. That pressure is roiling, the kind that you get only when you touch yourself but intensified by a million.

It just feels so right, because there’s nothing to prove. 

You’re ships passing in the night, strangers making a pit-stop on the way to nowhere. There’s no backstory, no history to make mention of. No shame in the morning when he inevitably rolls over and pretends to be asleep, and you scrub off the smell of him with your provided travel-size shampoo.

It’s not love, but it might be the closest you ever get.

The glow of him above you, a deity with his face screwed in agony. Chasing after you when he feels the tightening of your cunt, the easy glide of every thrust that tells him you’re close.

Then, you’re snapping like a rubber band. Gushing in a dripping mess that trickles to where your ass meets thigh. Crying without tears, overstimulated but blissful. Joel is quick to follow, like he’s been waiting his turn.

He’s trembling, emptying inside you in a warm flood. Groaning low and beautiful, gripping your hips to keep you flush to him.

When pulls out, tearing himself away, he’s slinging an arm over his eyes on the pillow beside yours. One hand on your leg to make sure you don’t go anywhere.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him mutter.

At some point you drift off, his arm draped over you. You open a bleary eye to a neon 2:49AM that casts a halo over the nightstand. Joel’s tucked you in, the thin duvet snug up to your shoulder. He’s not snoring but not not snoring, just breath getting caught in his throat in a satisfied, well-spent way.

It’s all too much, too pure to be real.

Before you let yourself change your mind, you slink out from under the warmth of your generous stranger. You step in your shorts one foot at a time, tugging them up gelatin legs too springy from coiling and uncoiling.

You promise yourself that you’ll take just one mental picture as a keepsake, and it’s this. A sleepy Joel who will be well on his way to a second cup of coffee on the way out of Arizona, maybe even nursing a little headache behind his right eye. And he’ll remember an apparition of some girl he fucked in a motel. The touristy thing to do, a sight to see. 

He might even tell Tommy, say you were a crazy little thing with too much baggage, but it was fun to stay up past his bedtime.

You don’t mean to do it, really you don’t, but you flip through his wallet that lays innocently on top of the TV.

If you take a little something, that’ll turn this into another one of your stories that you tell your kids born from a loveless marriage somewhere in the crevices of a future from now. It won’t pull on the tendons of your heart.

And it won’t mean anything. You won’t let it.

—

The next morning, there’s a soft knock at the door, and it’s probably housekeeping kicking you out for overstaying your welcome. Time to turn down the bed for the next lost soul. You imagine Joel’s long gone, hopped in his truck and back to a reality you’ll never meet him in.

Your fingers are slow to gather up your purse, and you’re shoving your toothbrush in from its place on the sink.

“I’ll be out in a second!” you yell in a voice that reeks of years of diner-flavored customer service.

More persistent knocking that borders on pounding. It shakes the chain in the deadbolt.

You’re yanking open the door, and there’s Joel, white shirt and jeans. And it isn’t that cushion of admiration from last night, no greeting with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Just a wolf coming to claim his continental breakfast.

Fuck.

You try to shut the door, suddenly too ashamed of what you’ve done, and to someone undeserving. Someone that showed you kindness, empathy.

But his boot catches the door before it can close, and he’s inside, slicing through the space between you. It’s not quite anger, but it’s shadowy. Sardonic.

Your shoulder blades kiss the cheap wallpaper.

“You’re real funny, y’know that?” he starts, and he’s smiling but not really.

Shrinking small, so small that maybe you’ll disappear.

There’s a tick of silence. His thumb skates to your collarbone and then to the hollow at the base of your throat. He wants to squeeze but he doesn’t, his fingers wrapping loosely around the column to fix you there. Heat creeps up the back of your neck into your hairline.

The instinct to flinch bubbles up against your joints, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Y’think you can fuck me,” he muses, disgustingly deadpan, “‘n steal from me.”

Dread weighs heavy like lead in your stomach. You can’t stop yourself from shaking your head, still playing dumb.

He bristles at that, thunderous. You both know it’s a lie; you’re a hundred dollars richer than you were last night. His fingers briefly flex around you in a way that you’ve seen before, and horror hits a fever pitch in you.

Tears prick your eyes, and you’re putting your palms on his chest and shoving, but he doesn’t give. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and all that.

It’s not so much the blaring punctuation in a sentence, the ticking of dynamite ready to blow. He’s confronting you with proximity, with your own dishonesty. Wanting to shake you and tell you that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Joel just leans in closer, almost grazing noses. You try to breathe around the lump of panic.

“The hell’s the matter with you?”

It’s disbelief, it’s hurt. In the same way, it’s understanding, incredulous. It’s him stepping back and loosening the hold around your neck like no one’s ever done; it’s softening and imploring.

He’s shoving his hands in his pockets, guilty and recoiling. Sorry he could even make himself look like one of them — a forced penance in the flesh.

There’s no answer that can justify what you did. Nothing simple about nothing personal. But truly… that’s all it was. A pie wafting steam on an open windowsill. Something to make you feel better about the void he’d leave.

“‘F you needed money, you coulda just asked.” 

He’s disappointed, desperate. In a tone that really says, I would’ve done anything you wanted.

A dam inside you gives, crumbling deep at the foundation and knocking the walls down around you. Words don’t come, but you shove your hand in blind into your bag, pulling out the loose bill and extending it.

Joel sees the regretful offering and your heart with x-ray vision. That you think of yourself as a doll, less valuable without her box. Used without tags. Free to a good home.

He shakes his head, the softness of a keep it barely peeking out of his mouth.

You’re skinning yourself raw, wanting another way out but having none. With half a mind to say that the next night could come with fangs.

You feel the stab of relief, and shame. So much shame.

Like a soothsayer, he foresees the coldness of a bench, the shrinking of you into the safety of an alley.

You drop to your knees in exaltation, thinking you know what’ll fix this. You can’t see through the watercolor blur of your tears, but you touch his belt with fingers that are cold to the tips.

But Joel knows what you’re doing, shaking his head no no no.

He won’t let you do it like this. He drags you up gently by the elbows. Pulls you into his chest, says stop stop stop. Kisses your hair, then your lips. You cry until he can taste the tears, until the front of his shirt is damp.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp out roughly. “I’m so sorry.”

He tells you to never say sorry to him again.

—

Joel pays for a room for two more nights, but only one — his with the working A/C.

You move your toothbrush and your bag over to Room 20.

You go to the pool, swimming laps around him in a tank top and your cherry-embroidered underwear, squealing and splashing in a flail when he swims underneath your legs and stands up to hold you on his tan shoulders.

Sunscreen streaks greasy on your stomach when you lay out together on the loungers after. Joel likes a cat-nap with his face under a towel, grumpy and tired from the sun. But he never snaps at you, never gets impatient when you ask too many questions while he’s dozing off.

You learn the pinched expression he makes just before he comes. That his right palm has hundreds of lines you can see best by lamplight. He misses the noise of Sarah in his house, of sharing the coffee pot with someone. He doesn’t like the small piling of toast crumbs left only by him on the kitchen table.

He learns that you apologize for wet, clean hair on his pillowcase, for laughing too loud. Things that don’t need a sorry. A collection of oversaturated manners that might take time to unlearn, but he promises to teach you.

He learns that you approach an orgasm with tentative toes in cold water, almost unbelieving that sex can give, give, give instead of take, take, take. He learns that you like the meeting of eyes when he’s buried between your legs, pushing your thighs apart to keep from suffocating. That when he does let you get on your knees for him, you know just the spot to caress with your tongue on the underside of his cock.

Joel’s belt is snaked under your stomach, across your hips, fists intertwined in the leather as he pulls you back, slams himself forward. It bites and creates indents in your flesh, and you don’t care. He gives you marks to love, to admire in your reflection, never ones that are ugly. Never ones out of hate over spilled milk.

There’s a dirty slap of skin, growing louder, competing with your moans. Your nails are tearing into the cheap sheets, and Joel’s so close but won’t come until he coaxes another out of you. A grand total of at least four by now, but you’ve lost count.

At long last, you splinter around him. Pitching off the cliff in a cry. Joel’s leaning — his chest, your back — and spilling deep, holding onto you for dear life. You hear him whimper in a strangle. Big, tough game that’s been taken down with an arrow in his chest.

Hot tears are flowing out of you, stuttering sobs close to follow, and Joel pulls out slowly. Seems to know why. And he rolls you over, into him, hand careful in slow strokes against your hair.  

You’ve never been good at goodbyes. Maybe that’s what this is.

Men like to say that women like you are insane, too analytical, too tear-streaked, too conscious of the way they look when they sleep. Because waking up with your mouth open, a drying corner of drool threatening your cheek is too human, not pretty.

Sometimes women like you are dead, rotting pomegranate flesh. Long forgotten in decay on the ground when the weight became too heavy to hold yourself up. And those men pick up your seeds and shove them squelching back into places where they don’t fit. 

The winters come bitter and harsh, but you’re always reborn in the spring. And without fail, you grow back fiercely into a tree reminiscent of Eden, low-hanging apples plucked and bruised and bitten into once and spit out in tart disgust. 

Women like you choke men like this with your pits, strangle them with vines, poison them with berries. They can consume, but so can you.

But then, in the ripe, cool shade of summer, you’ll have a visitor like Joel that will come with a basket and a blanket and they’ll stay and read books beneath you. They’ll enjoy your fruit, you’ll drip from their mouth and dry tacky like flypaper, and they won’t be able to imagine a day before you. 

They’ll collect all the pieces of you on a Tuesday morning and give you change to get a Coke after checkout. They’ll tuck you into the front seat of their truck, let you put your feet up on the dash, hand protective and calm on your thigh while the other steers you both back to Texas. A new home without shouting and bottles thrown.

And they’ll stay through every season.

[penguinpartypalooza]

I N D I G O M I S T

Story by @lilmissrandom4607

more under the cut

AHF is assumed a robot. Wearing an air tight mask with an oxygen tank disguised as a fuel can, they lug around survival equipment and their trusty flamethrower. They come from another dimension, one that trained them hard. Them and their trusty bunny Buni are ready to take on the mist, but would they avoid getting infected? It's unknown if either can. Due to the assumed robo-role, no one realizes that AHF could most likely get infected. How the two didn't when traveling dimensions is a mystery. Buni always wears a gas mask. He's the only one that knows how to unlock AHF's air tight robot head. They welded their mask shut, no more mouth and their hair tightly in the metal head as any flesh is covered. Being the EPF's fire lead in their original home, they make sure to have several things on hand in case they need to run in a pinch. Their mask is now tuned to be a heart monitor, showing their status to Buni. Both communicate via tapping. The code they use helps them to figure out what their plans are. Let's hope they they'll be able to navigate this new island together. Let the stress not get to them after barely escaping their old island.

[its-a-hatty-family]

Hats

For the sake of this blog I'm going to assume that people know about gameplay mechanics, such as hats and weapons, from A Hat in Time. But in case they don't, I will restate them as they function the same in this au.

Hats are a gameplay mechanic that allows Hat Kid to interact with her environments in unique and fashionable ways. In AHF specificly, Hats are made by collecting yarn and finding blueprints. Once a blueprint for a new Hat is acquired, Hat Kid can use yarn she is able to find around the different chapter locations to make said hat.

Hats are activated by pressing a button or key on the player's choice of controller. Some hats may have a cooldown effect after being used, which can vary in length. This was present in A Hat in Time.

Types of hats

Kid's Hat: This hat is the only hat not earned from a blueprint, but is instead acquired during the tutorial phase. This hat is able to locate goal-related objects, such as timepieces, plot related items, or boss locations.

Sprint Hat: This hat allows the player to run faster, which is useful in boss fights or time-based challenges like those in Death Wish missions. When paired with some badges, the Hat will gain a cosmetic change where instead of running, Hat Kid will instead ride on a scooter.

Brewing Hat: This hat allows Hat Kid to throw an explosive ranged attack. This is good for bossfights or enemies you don't want to get close to.

Ice Hat: This hat turns Hat Kid into an ice sculpture, how cool! If activated over a spring or launch pad, hat Kid will be able to bounce incredibly high. If activated near enemies, an icy shockwave will slip them up and make them tumble to the floor.

Dweller Mask: This mask allows Hat Kid to manipulate solid blue and transparent green platforms so that she may cross them.

Timestop Hat: This hat allows Hat Kid to freeze time for a few seconds. This can give her a leg up in speed-centered platforming areas, races, or can help her bypass fast moving objects.

Hover Hat(New to AHF): Based on the cut concept from A Hat in Time, this hat allows Hat Kid to glide for a few seconds after activation. Once the hat activates, Hat Kid will slowly drift downwards, and can move in any direction. The length of this glide can help her reach far-away platforms. This hat functions like a tanuki leaf power up in the Mario 3D land/world games.

Gravity Hat(New to AHF): This hat allows Hat Kid to reach high vertical platforms when activated. In this brief state, Hat Kid's movement is slowed, and she will be unable to attack.

Yarn and Blueprints

Unlike in the original Hat in Time game, Hats are not obtained by collecting certain types if yarn and having a certain amount of yarn required to stitch the hat.

In the au, Hat Kid can obtain blueprints, which are instructions on how to make new hats. These can be obtained in treasure chests, secret rooms, or are given to hat Kid as a means of plot progression.

Hat Kid can't just make a new hat by collecting a blueprints though, as the instructions on the blueprints require yarn. Yarn is a collectable item and consumable resource placed around the different chapters of the game. Once Hat Kid collects enough yarn, she can use said yarn to make the hats blueprints allow her to make.

[blindbeholder]

New joj theory/hc/story.

Yoshihiro found out about Yoshikage's first murder immediately and responded by taking the family on a vacation to Egypt, where he took that photo of Enya with the Arrow before talking to her and being given that same arrow, using it with her guidance to awaken AHF and KQ.

Evidence: the timeline more or less matches up, kira's first kill was in the early-mid eighties, and she bought the arrows around the same time, which is also when DIO became active again, yoshihiro states he met Enya in egypt and was taught to use the arrow by her.

His stand is based around photography and I'm not going to get into it too much but stand abilities are based in obsessions, so it would make sense if he's taking a bunch of pictures on vacation, and it was a lot more acceptable to photograph strangers in the mid eighties when they weren't being spread on the internet.

[claudiosuenaga]

LA's Morrison Hotel, made famous by Doors album, to become affordable housing

By ABC7.com staff

Wednesday, December 20, 2023 1:02AM

LOS ANGELES (KABC) -- The Morrison Hotel in Los Angeles - made famous by the legendary Doors' album of the same name - is set to become affordable housing.

The AIDS Healthcare Foundation acquired the downtown LA hotel property for $11.9 million earlier this month and plans to convert the building into 111 units of low-income housing.

On hand to make the announcement Tuesday were Doors drummer John Densmore, 79, and photographer Henry Diltz, who shot the iconic album cover more than 50 years ago.

"The people who work in the city can't afford to live in the city, so the Morrison Hotel is now going to be a solution to that problem," Densmore said.

The single-room occupancy hotel was built in 1914.

The Doors made the hotel's front facade famous when band members snuck in while the clerk was busy and Diltz quickly shot a series of photos under the "Morrison Hotel" lettering, with singer Jim Morrison front and center in the window.

The 1970 album is highly regarded in rock history, featuring classics such as "Roadhouse Blues" and "Peace Frog."

The AHF says a developer had originally planned to demolish the building and turn it into a luxury hotel, but the developer defaulted on the loan. AHF's plans call for adaptive reuse of the existing structure, "saving a piece of rock and roll history."

Copyright © 2023 KABC Television, LLC. All rights reserved.

O Morrison Hotel de Los Angeles, que ficou famoso pelo álbum Doors, se tornará uma habitação a preços acessíveis

LOS ANGELES (KABC) – O Morrison Hotel em Los Angeles – que ficou famoso pelo lendário álbum de mesmo nome do Doors – está prestes a se tornar uma habitação acessível.

A AIDS Healthcare Foundation adquiriu o hotel no centro de Los Angeles por US$ 11,9 milhões no início deste mês e planeja converter o edifício em 111 unidades de habitação de baixa renda.

Presentes para fazer o anúncio na terça-feira estavam o baterista do Doors, John Densmore, 79, e o fotógrafo Henry Diltz, que fotografou a icônica capa do álbum há mais de 50 anos.

"As pessoas que trabalham na cidade não têm dinheiro para viver na cidade, por isso o Morrison Hotel será agora uma solução para esse problema", disse Densmore.

O hotel para ocupação de quarto individual foi construído em 1914.

The Doors tornou a fachada frontal do hotel famosa quando os membros da banda entraram furtivamente enquanto o funcionário estava ocupado e Diltz rapidamente tirou uma série de fotos sob as letras "Morrison Hotel", com o cantor Jim Morrison na frente e no centro da janela.

O álbum de 1970 é altamente considerado na história do rock, apresentando clássicos como “Roadhouse Blues” e “Peace Frog”.

A AHF diz que um desenvolvedor planejou originalmente demolir o prédio e transformá-lo em um hotel de luxo, mas o desenvolvedor não pagou o empréstimo. Os planos da AHF prevêem a reutilização adaptativa da estrutura existente, "salvando um pedaço da história do rock and roll".

Saiba mais sobre Jim Morrison (1943-1971) e o The Doors em meu Patreon. Torne-se o meu Patrono e tenha acesso a mais de 500 posts exclusivos:

O dia em que o espírito deixou o corpo: o último show de Jim Morrison com o The Doors

The day the spirit left the body: Jim Morrison’s last show with The Doors on December 12, 1970 at The Warehouse in New Orleans:

Phantom's Divine Comedy Part 1, o disco lançado em 1974 que insinuou a volta de Jim Morrison três anos depois de sua morte:

The Bank of America of Louisiana: O livro apócrifo lançado por Jim Morrison em 1975, quatro anos depois de sua morte:

Os 80 anos do nascimento do Rei Lagarto: Jim Morrison foi uma testemunha do Caso Roswell?

Os 80 anos do nascimento de Jim Morrison: As portas da percepção estão abertas... para os Illuminati:

80 anos do nascimento de Jim Morrison: Quem matou o Rei Lagarto?

[talexior]

Timelapse: https://youtu.be/ahf-9qgEoK8

Been busy for a little while, but I've built up some new art to show you guys over the next days/weeks!

This is Ophelia Cedarmoon, a druid of the Fire Ashari, that I was commissioned to paint recently. Hope you like the artwork!

[jvluso]

hey good news for everyone that dislikes AHF: prop 34 passed and their days of being shitty AIDS profiteers are over now or they lose their nonprofit status.

Rent control is on the ballot for California voters this November.

I uh, get that tumblr isn't exactly sorted by geography, but this is a huge deal.

It's a huge deal even for people who don't expect to be personally affected by it -- rent control is a protection against the poorest people living in a city being forced out, and that's just bad for everyone. When you have a city where only medium well off to rich people live, you get their service employees coming in from a suburb an hour and a half away (blech) or else you get people stacked three to a room. Or people holding down a job or three while trying to earn enough to get off the street or, well, out of their parents' place or away from the abusive partner they can't afford to break up with. Point is, a lack of housing that people can just keep living in at the same price, means a lot of bad things for society, and we probably aren't going to socialize housing within the next ten years but maybe we can get rent control back.

[indiasportshub]

India to host 20th Asian Women’s Handball Championship for the first time

Asian heavyweights to feature as the tournament kicks off in New Delhi from December 1 till 10 South Asia’s first women’s handball league, the World Handball League (WHL) India – Women, will be hosting the historic 20th edition of the prestigious Asian Women’s Handball Championship in New Delhi from December 1 to 10, 2024, with the support of the Asian Handball Federation (AHF), the South Asian…

[greensparty]

Shows In Town: Alex Henry Foster

Fri. 10/18/24 @ The Sinclair (Cambridge, MA)

AHF

This Friday at The Sinclair in Harvard Square is Canada's Alex Henry Foster. If he sounds familiar it's because he is the former frontman for Your Favorite Enemies. He is on tour promoting his recently released album A Measure Of Shape And Sounds. He's got a new song "Cinematic Insight" that is actually quite cinematic!

For info on Alex Henry Foster

[chemanalystdata]

Anhydrous Hydrofluoric Acid Prices | Pricing | Trend | News | Database | Chart | Forecast

 Anhydrous Hydrofluoric Acid (AHF) prices is a highly valuable and versatile chemical used extensively across various industries, including petrochemicals, pharmaceuticals, and electronics. The pricing of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid is influenced by a complex interplay of factors, including production costs, market demand, regulatory policies, and raw material availability. As a critical component in the production of fluorine-containing compounds, AHF's price fluctuations can significantly impact the cost structures of downstream products and processes.

The production of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid involves several key stages, each contributing to its overall cost. Initially, the extraction of fluorspar, the primary raw material, involves substantial mining and processing expenses. The fluorspar ore is treated to produce hydrogen fluoride, which is then concentrated and dehydrated to obtain anhydrous hydrofluoric acid. The energy-intensive nature of these processes, combined with the need for specialized equipment to handle the corrosive properties of hydrofluoric acid, contributes to the higher production costs.

In addition to production expenses, market demand plays a crucial role in determining AHF prices. As industries such as electronics and pharmaceuticals expand, the demand for anhydrous hydrofluoric acid increases, driving up prices. Conversely, economic downturns or slowdowns in key sectors can lead to decreased demand and lower prices. The balance between supply and demand is a critical factor in the pricing dynamics of AHF, as producers adjust their output to align with market needs.

Get Real Time Prices for Anhydrous Hydrofluoric Acid Prices: https://www.chemanalyst.com/Pricing-data/anhydrous-hydrofluoric-acid-1472

Regulatory factors also significantly impact the pricing of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid. Due to its hazardous nature, AHF is subject to stringent environmental and safety regulations. Compliance with these regulations often requires significant investments in safety measures, waste treatment, and emissions control. Additionally, changes in regulatory policies can affect production costs and, consequently, the price of AHF. For example, stricter regulations may lead to higher compliance costs, which are often passed on to consumers in the form of increased prices.

Global economic conditions further influence the pricing of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid. Fluctuations in currency exchange rates, changes in global trade policies, and geopolitical events can all impact the cost of raw materials and production. For instance, trade restrictions or tariffs on key raw materials can lead to increased production costs, which may be reflected in higher AHF prices. Conversely, favorable economic conditions and stable trade relations can contribute to more stable pricing.

The global market for anhydrous hydrofluoric acid is also characterized by regional variations in pricing. Different regions may experience varying levels of supply and demand, leading to price discrepancies. In regions with high production capacities and efficient supply chains, prices may be lower compared to areas with limited production and higher transportation costs. Additionally, regional regulations and local market conditions can further influence price variations.

In recent years, there has been a growing focus on sustainability and environmental impact in the production of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid. As industries and governments prioritize environmental responsibility, producers are increasingly adopting greener technologies and practices. While these initiatives contribute to long-term environmental benefits, they can also result in higher short-term costs. These costs are often reflected in the pricing of AHF, as producers invest in cleaner production methods and technologies.

Technological advancements also play a role in shaping the prices of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid. Innovations in production processes, such as more efficient extraction and purification techniques, can lead to cost reductions and potentially lower prices. Conversely, the development of new applications for AHF or the introduction of advanced materials may increase demand and drive up prices. The interplay between technological progress and market dynamics continues to influence the pricing landscape of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid.

In summary, the prices of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid are determined by a combination of factors, including production costs, market demand, regulatory influences, and global economic conditions. The extraction and processing of fluorspar, regulatory compliance, and regional market variations all contribute to the overall cost structure of AHF. As industries and governments continue to emphasize sustainability and technological innovation, these factors will likely continue to shape the pricing dynamics of anhydrous hydrofluoric acid. Understanding these influences is crucial for stakeholders across various sectors to navigate the complexities of AHF pricing and make informed decisions.

Get Real Time Prices for Anhydrous Hydrofluoric Acid Prices: https://www.chemanalyst.com/Pricing-data/anhydrous-hydrofluoric-acid-1472

Contact Us:

ChemAnalyst

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15a Cologne, 50823, Germany

Call: +49-221-6505-8833

Email: sales@chemanalyst.com

Website: https://www.chemanalyst.com

[mediamaze]

#gianninaazar #miamiswimweek #kissmykite #mediamaze #jennadykstra #artheartsfashion https://www.kissmykite.com/runway-fashion

w/ Art Hearts Fashion

DESIGNER Giannina Azar MODEL Jenna Dykstra PHOTOGRAPHER Tony Filson AGENCY KissMyKite Fashion PRINT World Fashion Media News

HOST Art Hearts Fashion EXEC PROD & CEO Erik Rosete AHF MKTG DIR Libby AHF BEAUTY DIR April Love

MODEL @jennadykstraa

HMU Key Makeup Artist: @meilyartistry Key Hair Stylist: @garybakerunite

ART HEARTS FASHION @libbbiiieee @18milemedia @anthonyallenserrano @phaleciar @designingthedistrict

BEAUTY DIRECTOR @aprillovebeauty@mastermakeuponline

SPONSORS & MORE HMU

@unite_hair @billiondollarbrowspro @thebeachwaver @themakeuplight @aqualynahair @japonesque @empress1908gin

[kissmykite]

w/ Art Hearts Fashion

DESIGNER Giannina Azar

MODEL Jenna Dykstra PHOTOGRAPHER Tony Filson

AGENCY KissMyKite Fashion

PRINT World Fashion Media News

HOST Art Hearts Fashion

EXEC PROD & CEO Erik Rosete

AHF MKTG DIR Libby

AHF BEAUTY DIR April Love

MODEL @jennadykstraa

HMU

Key Makeup Artist: @meilyartistry

Key Hair Stylist: @garybakerunite

ART HEARTS FASHION

@libbbiiieee

@18milemedia

@anthonyallenserrano

@phaleciar

@designingthedistrict

BEAUTY DIRECTOR

@aprillovebeauty @mastermakeuponline

SPONSORS & MORE HMU

@unite_hair

@billiondollarbrowspro

@thebeachwaver

@themakeuplight

@aqualynahair

@japonesque

@empress1908gin

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Tony Filson (@kissmykite)

[penguinpartypalooza]

question what is herbert drinking in your new piece

AHF's blood :) tw for violence description under cut

For anyone who doesn't know my au shit, the piece depicts a younger AHF in the EPF round when blackout happened on their og island. Herbert is actually a murderous polar bear there as well as any other villain more ramped up. I enjoy playing around with darker themes and traumatizing my more beloved ocs.

In this, AHF's mask has been sliced through by Herbert's claws, their face bleeing from wounds now on them where their tube will be coated the more they bang on it with blood. By the time a few remaining agents and AHF's puffle Buni were able to save the rest of the team, they were faced to open the cryotube that was just red. Barely a way to see in, it looked worse than it was. AHF barely survived, though due to the freeze, their wounds never healed. Maybe i'll post the fic i wrote abt this, maybe I won't, eh either way i gotta rlly write my island lores down

[dtba]

Art Hearts Fashion Kicks Off Miami Swim Week 2024

Words by Shirley Reynozo

Miami Swim Week is the ultimate fashion extravaganza, where the hottest swimwear trends take center stage against the backdrop of Miami's vibrant culture and stunning beaches. This annual event showcases an array of innovative designs from renowned and emerging designers, highlighting everything from daring bikinis to elegant one-pieces to fashionable cover ups. 

It's not just about the runway; Miami Swim Week is a celebration of creativity and inclusivity, with events that bring together fashion enthusiasts, influencers, and industry professionals. With over 30 designers, this week was filled with inspirational moments. On Friday May 31st, Designers Gyv Me Body, Bad Sisters, Pink Melon Swim, Asola Swim, Ca Rio Ca, Willfredo Gerardo, Xbqini,  Chavez Inc, and many others showcased their collections at the iconic venue as well. Each designer brough ingenuity to their swimwear collection, more than just bathing suits they represented a culture around body positivity. Breaking from the traditional expectations of what is considered beautiful on the runway. From plus size models, to middle aged models, trans, non binary, to even destigmatizing plastic surgery, Art Hearts Fashion worked tirelessly to represent the multiplicity of our existence. One may say to themselves, it’s just swimwear- how can you make an entire week of shows around bathing suits. Well clearly Art Hearts Fashion has it figured out!  

Art Hearts Fashion is the leading platform dedicated to bringing innovative designers and artists to the forefront of fashion week. Their coast-to-coast contemporary events get the most renowned designers and the sharpest up-and-coming emerging designers to the runway in New York, Los Angeles, Miami, and beyond. Founded in 2010, AHF has become a driving force for fashion, art, and entertainment. 

Art Hearts Fashion is more than just a fashion platform; it’s a thriving, inclusive community. From the moment I stepped into their vibrant world, I felt the warmth and genuine camaraderie that defines their team. The environment is less about competition and more about collaboration, creating a familial atmosphere where everyone is welcomed with open arms. Whether a model, a publicist, events staff, photographer, influencer or editor, everyone joined collectively to orchestrate a phenomenal runway experience.  

I felt embraced when I met team members such as Timur Tugberk (PR), Tara Gaines (PR) and Erik Rosete (Art Hearts founder). The space didn’t require code switching, if anything they encouraged you to show up as your whole self. This differs from my NYFW experience, as there are different rules for social conduct and etiquette. At Miami Swim Week those unspoken norms go out the window. You’re encouraged to yell at the models at the top of your lungs, which I’m sure gives them the momentum to keep strutting down the runway. This sense of belonging and support fosters creativity and innovation, making Art Hearts Fashion not just a place to showcase talent, but a home where designers, models, and fashion enthusiasts can truly thrive together.

As models strut down the catwalk, the atmosphere buzzed with excitement, setting the tone for the swimwear styles that will dominate the season. Whether you're looking for high fashion or beach-ready comfort, Miami Swim Week is the place where summer fashion dreams come to life.

Special Thanks

Thank you to Art Hearts Fashion, the king of Miami PR - Timur Tugberk, Tara Gaines and to The Gabriel Miami South Beach, Curio Collection by Hilton. 

Thank you to our stylish sponsor, Kendria owner of Dria Dair for uplifting women of all backgrounds. 

Thank you to our phenomenal sponsor, Snatched Plastic Surgery, who has truly made Miami Swim week a phenomena experience. The Founder & CEO Claudia Borges, is a dynamic and accomplished professional experienced Medical Executive with a demonstrated history of working in the medical practice industry. Skilled in Analytical Skills, Sales, Medicaid, Spanish, and Managed Care, Claudia is a lovely example of a Latina entrepreneur with beauty, brains, and community oriented philosophies. Thank you for making this Miami Swim Week Season memorable for us all!

Paula Callejas

Cody Chris Collection

Caroline Derpienski

Giannina Azar

Pink Melon Swim

Asola Swim

Ca Rio Ca

Chavez Inc.

[delveinsight12]

Acute Heart Failure Market to Grow Positively at a Paltry CAGR During the Study Period (2019–2032), Assesses DelveInsight

New York, Nevada, Las Vegas, DelveInsight’s “Acute Heart Failure - Market Insight, Epidemiology and Market Forecast – 2032” report provides current treatment practices, emerging drugs, Acute Heart Failure market share of the individual therapies, current and forecasted Acute Heart Failure market size from 2019 to 2032 segmented by seven major markets. The report also offers current Acute Heart Failure therapy algorithms, market drivers, market barriers, and unmet medical needs to curate the best of the opportunities and assesses the underlying potential of the Acute Heart Failure market.

Acute Heart Failure Overview

Heart Failure (HF) is also known as congestive heart failure. It is also bifurcated as left-side HF (when the heart is unable to pump enough oxygen in the blood to the body) and right-side HF (when the heart is unable to fill itself with enough blood). Another term for HF is corpulmonale which means that right-side HF is caused by high blood pressure in the pulmonary arteries and right ventricle.

There are two types of heart failure: acute and chronic. Acute heart failure has a sudden onset and symptoms can appear without warning. However, in chronic heart failure, that difficulty is ongoing and long-term. It was observed that majority of patients are affected with Chronic heart failure. Acute heart failure (AHF) is a kind of syndrome that is defined as the new onset (de novo heart failure (HF)) or worsening (acutely decompensated heart failure (ADHF)) of symptoms and signs of HF, mostly related to systemic congestion. 

The clinical presentation of AHF is characterized mostly by symptoms and signs related to systemic congestion (that is, extracellular fluid accumulation, initiated by increased biventricular cardiac filling pressures). Symptoms of acute heart failure include: Shortness of breath while moving or lying flat, also known as dyspnea, Feeling tired, Swelling of feet, ankles, legs, abdomen or veins in the neck, among others.

Acute Heart Failure Epidemiological Insights

According to the study conducted by Mozaffarian et al. (2015), acute heart failure constitutes the first reason for hospital admission in the elderly, with a total of approximately 1 million admissions per year in the US and a similar number in Europe.

Acute Heart Failure Treatment Market 

Congestive HF is a morbidity that is increasing worldwide due to the aging population and improvement in (acute) care for patients with cardiovascular diseases. The prognosis for patients with HF is very poor without treatment. Furthermore, hospitalizations for cardiac decompensation cause an increasing economic burden. It is a chronic long-term condition that gets worse with time. There are four stages of heart failure (Stage A, B, C and D). The stages range from "high risk of developing heart failure" to "advanced heart failure," and provide treatment plans. These stages are different from the New York Heart Association (NYHA) clinical classifications of heart failure (Class I-II-III-IV) that reflect the severity of symptoms or functional limits due to heart failure (Cowie, 2017)(Tanaka, Sawano, Ramani, Friedman, & Kohsaka, 2018).

Globally, acute heart failure (AHF) remains an ongoing public health issue with its prevalence and mortality increasing in the east and the west. Almost 6 million Americans have heart failure, and there are an additional 500,000 new cases diagnosed each year. 

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), about 5.7 million adults in the United States have heart failure. Heart failure happens when the heart cannot pump enough blood and oxygen to support other organs in the body. Heart failure is a serious condition, but it does not mean that the heart has stopped beating. About half of people who develop heart failure die within 5 years of diagnosis.

Acute heart failure can be severe and anyone with symptoms should see a clinician as soon as possible. Treatment is initially focused on alleviating life-threatening symptoms, then on the examination of underlying causes and treatment of residual symptoms. Hospitalization is generally required while cardiac performance improves. There are a range of potential treatments for acute heart failure. The treatment that is applied will depend on the person’s symptoms and the underlying issue causing them. For an instance Shortness of breath (dyspnea): This symptom is treated with supplemental oxygen. The severity of dyspnea will dictate whether oxygen is supplied through a tube in the nose or a face mask. Sitting upright can help with breathing. Buildup of fluid: Intravenous diuretics are used to treat buildup of fluid within the body. A pulmonary edema will also be treated with diuretics, as well as oxygen and heart failure medication.

Promising Therapies in the Acute Heart Failure Pipeline

Empagliflozin

Forxiga

APD418

And others

Discover more about Acute Heart Failure therapies in the pipeline @ Acute Heart Failure Drugs

Leading Companies Working in the Acute Heart Failure Market

Boehringer Ingelheim

Eli Lilly and Company

AstraZeneca

And others

To understand key companies related to the  Acute Heart Failure Market, get a snapshot of the Acute Heart Failure Regulatory and Patent Analysis.

Scope of the Acute Heart Failure Market Report

Study Period: 2019–2032

Coverage: 7MM [The United States, EU5 (Germany, France, Italy, Spain, and the United Kingdom), Japan]

Key Acute Heart Failure Companies: Boehringer Ingelheim, Eli Lilly and Company, AstraZeneca, and others

Key Acute Heart Failure Pipeline Therapies: Empagliflozin, Forxiga, APD418, and others

Therapeutic Assessment: Acute Heart Failure current marketed and emerging therapies

Acute Heart Failure Market Dynamics: Acute Heart Failure market drivers and barriers 

Competitive Intelligence Analysis: SWOT analysis, PESTLE analysis, Porter’s five forces, BCG Matrix, Market entry strategies

Unmet Needs, KOL’s views, Analyst’s views, Acute Heart Failure Market Access and Reimbursement

Table of Contents

1. Acute Heart Failure Market Key Insights

2. Acute Heart Failure Market Report Introduction

3. Acute Heart Failure Market Overview at a Glance

4. Acute Heart Failure Market Executive Summary

5. Disease Background and Overview

6. Acute Heart Failure Treatment and Management

7. Acute Heart Failure Epidemiology and Patient Population

8. Patient Journey

9. Acute Heart Failure Emerging Drugs

10. 7MM Acute Heart Failure Market Analysis

11. Acute Heart Failure Market Outlook

12. Potential of Current and Emerging Therapies

13. KOL Views

14. Acute Heart Failure Market Drivers

15. Acute Heart Failure Market Barriers

16. Unmet Needs

17. SWOT Analysis

18. Appendix

19. DelveInsight Capabilities

20. Disclaimer

21. About DelveInsight

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