#Hard Drives Market size

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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[gutsby]

Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: Stepdad!Joel x Reader

Summary: You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Deadbeat-Perv-Peepaw LOVES corny porn tropes and women over half his age. Stepcest & dubcon technically bc Reader’s locked inside an appliance, but she’s into it (getting fucked, not stuck). One (1) kick in the dick. Spanking. Brat-taming. Choking. Daddy issues. Size kink. Praise kink. Infidelity. Creampie.

Note: Saw this post by @ovaryacted and started BARKING. For my Old Man lovers/daddy issues crew, this one’s for you.

Word count: 8.3k

It was the closest thing to porn you’d ever done before.

Still, you weren’t quite ready to call it that.

And why should you? Financial straits were no anomaly to a girl your age, especially in this economy, and almost everyone you knew had a side gig of some kind. It just so happened that your job required slightly skimpier attire. And a webcam. And some very special…accessories that would likely send your grandmother into cardiac arrest if she ever took a peek inside your bottom dresser drawer.

Okay, it was definitely porn.

But you never showed your face, so it didn’t really count as the same kind of stuff that your family condemned.

You scampered out of your room the second you heard the front door to the house slam closed all the same. Arms laden with G-strings, stockings, satin bralettes, lace and tulle bodysuits of almost every style imaginable, you ran a quick, perilous path to the living room window and made sure to keep your head ducked low as you did. You peered out through the gap in the curtains and had to squint hard to see anything in the midafternoon sun.

Then you saw it and felt instant relief—they were leaving.

Your grandma for one, your mother for second, and wherever the latter was headed, you knew her shadow would be soon to follow. You saw a thick plume of smoke outside and surmised that Joel was somewhere around the other side of the SUV, smoking and droning on about how he was perfectly fi-i-i-ne to drive, don’t be like that.

By ‘like that’ he meant sensible. And by ‘perfectly fine’ he meant two Miller Lites shy of completely shitfaced. You could already imagine the wry smile on your mother’s lips as she tried prying the keys from his hands. Your stepdad would probably plant a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek to win a ‘yes’ in return—and when she shyly reminded him that he couldn’t afford to get another DUI, he’d get pissed and yank them out of her fist anyway.

Fucking loser.

Fucking triple-the-legal-limit dumbass motherfucker.

It didn’t bother you as much today because you knew they were only driving a couple blocks away to get to the farmer’s market, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hope he’d get caught. Again. Maybe blow a 0.25 this time and land his old, ungrateful, law-breaking ass in Travis County Jail, where his little brother Tommy was likely keeping a cell bench warm for him, per usual.

At any rate, you didn’t have time to be fantasizing now. It was your turn to embody some guy’s grossest wet dreams for the next two to three hours. Stripping away layer after layer of your latest, tightest ‘costume’ while catering to whatever requests happened to float in your inbox, you knew you’d be up to your eyeballs in work. Though almost routine by now, you had to hurry up.

If you could just get the rest of this ridiculous gunk out of your clothing, you’d be all good to go for the job.

TRMAN22: Pour honey on your tits in the next vid???

TRMAN22: Milk too. All over you.

Looking back, you probably shouldn’t have obliged that request. Now you were facing the consequences—forced to throw all your clothes in the washing machine because the milk and honey you’d dumped on yourself for that video had gotten everywhere, and then swiftly congealed while wasting away in a pile of laundry for over a week.

The whole heap smelled rancid. Still felt sticky, too. Presently, you chucked each one inside the washing machine while holding your breath, and as soon as the last was discarded, you sniffed the shirt you had on.

Tolerable. With the rest of your stuff in the wash, you hoped to get at least one request off the checklist:

TRMAN22: Bet you’d look sexy in a schoolgirl outfit!!

TRMAN22: Why don’t you try one on for me?

It was gag-worthy and gross. Slightly alarming for a man who was more than likely twice your age and old enough to remember Watergate, but you agreed to play along. Your old school uniform was, after all, the only clean clothes you had left, and ‘TRMAN22’ was, unfortunately, your top subscriber. He’d paid $300 for this video alone.

TRMAN22: Wear some NEON pink panties for me too ;)

You squatted in front of the washing machine and stuck a hand inside. You sifted around, furrowing your brows.

The brightest undies you owned were in there, soiled, but you figured you could get away with one gross article of clothing, all things considered. You reached a little further and continued to dig. When you couldn’t find it by feel alone, you peered inside the circular, metallic cavern of the washing machine and craned your neck.

Not here…not here…not—

You tilted forward, venturing a closer look with your head, then shoulders, pushing into the machine.

—here, not here, not—

“EW!” you shrieked.

In your search, you’d inadvertently brushed up against a mildewed piece of clothing that had gotten wedged between the grooves of the washing machine’s interior.

A pair of boxers, it seemed.

You recoiled as soon as your fingers grazed the wet and smelly thing. Your skull went crack against the low-sloped ceiling of the appliance, and a jolt of pain was quick to course through you at the contact. You groaned.

Of course Joel had forgotten some old, cum-stained scrap of fabric out of his last load. Always leaving his shit around for you or your mom to pick up like he owned the place. And here you went, again, angrily plugging your nose and pulling as hard as you could on the shorts to get them free from the washing machine. You hardly thought twice, just made a face and then yanked on it.

The boxers wouldn’t budge.

You tugged even harder. The fabric stayed put.

Something akin to a grunt and a whimper, only far more pathetic, slipped out of your mouth, and you slapped the half-hollow steel wall in frustration. Surrounded as you were—fully encased in metal—the sound just echoed.

“Fucking…CUNT.”

You weren’t sure if you were talking to the shorts, the machine, or Joel Miller in the abstract. Or maybe all three. You just hated the thought of washing your lingerie with your stepdad’s skivvies, and no amount of rational thought or practical reasoning could hold you back now.

The tip of your index finger sank deep beneath the same ridge of the wall where the boxers had gotten stuck. You curled it inward, trying to loosen the material up a little. You wriggled your knuckle even further. And just when you managed to get a hold of the cusp of the tangled fabric—just when it seemed the green plaid cluster was about to give way—you heard a low pop. You felt it, too.

Shortly, your finger was pinched inside the deep, blunt valley of steel that had similarly snagged Joel’s boxers. It seemed you’d pushed the tip of your finger so far that you were caught straight down to the second knuckle—trapped between two grooves of unforgiving alloy inside the washing machine tub with no clear means of escape.

You jerked your arm back, panicked. When the metal sank its teeth even deeper, you didn’t stop. Completely heedless of the pain, you operated on impulse and by the feeling of needing to get the fuck out of that little space, quickly, and instead yanked your hand back even harder.

To your horror, your finger was stuck.

“FUCK!”

You stared down at the poor digit, only half-visible inside the wall at this point, then glanced down at the heap of sweaty, sticky, slutty pieces of clothing that were presently strewn about you, and felt an even deeper stab of dread. Stuck inside your family’s washing machine with every bit of damning evidence one could hope to have—and wearing your old school uniform to boot—you realized at once you were fucked if you didn’t get out.

You slammed your palm against the nearest wall once more, shaking your other wrist like an unruly child.

“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!”

You weren’t good at solving problems. In point of fact, you sucked at all things prudent resolution-related and regularly made it a habit to capitulate whenever you sensed loss inevitable. You were a little like your mother in that way, quick to give in to life’s uglier challenges. The only way you could conceivably claim to be stronger, the only place you always had the strength to say ‘no’ was—

“Aw, shit.”

—Joel.

Your throat tightened as soon as you heard the voice. Your eyes went wide, and the rest of you went numb.

Bent at the waist and kneeling with half your body inside the washing machine, you remained there, motionless. Back arched and ass out. Thanks to the way you’d rolled your old plaid skirt, the fabric covered almost zero cheek.

Someone behind you cleared their throat. Then coughed.

And coughed again, again, and again. Evidently trying to clear the smoke out of his lungs and the surprise from his eyes as he drank in your sight from the doorway.

“What in the—wh—th—” You could hear Joel wheeze, beating his chest with his fist, “What— in— the hell?!”

“Help me,” you hissed.

You weren’t sure why you chose that as your go-to. It just sounded like the right thing to say, and frankly, you weren’t sure how else to distract from the fact Joel was probably gawking at your ass as he coughed up a lung.

“The fuck do you mean ‘help’?! What are you doing?”

The coughing subsided, if only momentarily. You tried pulling back on your finger again to get out, but couldn’t.

“I-I’m…I was just…” you stammered, heart racing.

You heard the tread of heavy footfalls. You felt them.

“Just—trying…” you ventured again, suddenly at a loss for words and breath alike as you felt a presence draw in.

You could smell him.

That realization alone made you want to stop taking in air altogether. It happened out of instinct, really—feeling the shift of two huge boots settle behind your feet and then flinching inward, further inside the metal tub for…safety? A pang of abject humiliation? You were far past the point of civility with the man, caring what he thought, or fearing for your modesty in a position like this, but something about the proximity now just made you itch.

You wished your finger wasn’t jammed inside this appliance so you could give that feeling relief, somehow.

At length, Joel’s voice dragged you back:

“What’s stuck?”

Too calm. A second passed. Then he added, more stern,

“This some fuckin’ joke’a yours or somethin’?”

“No!”

“Then what—”

“My finger. My finger’s stuck.”

You tried to crane your neck to see behind you, but all your eyes had to feast upon was denim. Bluish-grey stonewashed denim, faded with years of use. Joel stood back for a second, as if considering what to do, and then you saw two hands descend to brace themselves against his knees. He bent at the waist to get a better look below.

When his eyes locked with yours, you got the same twist in your gut as you’d felt before, only sharper. Shameful.

The look on Joel’s face was abnormally bright.

“And how on earth did that happen, dumbass?”

Your shame morphed into chagrin in a blink, seeing the ghost of a smile bleed into your stepdad’s features.

“‘Cause of you, leaving your shit in here!” you snapped. Your chin jerked toward the green fabric, “I was just trying to get your boxers unstuck—and my finger…”

Your finger was kind of fucked.

Joel cast a look inside at the source of your frustration. He extended his left arm and reached over your torso, and as he did, you felt the slightest, albeit solid, sort of warmth press in. The man let out a low groan of exertion—likely at the strain the movements placed on his joints.

The warmth got worse. You weren’t sure where it started.

Vaguely, you were aware of Joel’s thumb pressing into your hand. Gliding down your finger, stroking across the spot where your knuckle had gotten caught, he circled over it, slowly, and made another sound in his throat.

“Well that ain’t…good.” Not one to mince words.

By now, your whole body was on fire. You barely had the strength to keep kneeling, much less speak to the man thumbing your hand and pressing his heat so close—

“Just get me out!” you shrieked.

You heard your mother’s voice in that. A shrill, impatient lilt in her speech that came out, invariably, around Joel. Normally, he would have done something to deserve it. But today, with his hand splayed over yours and his breaths as calm and even-keeled as he could hope to have them while he tried to help, he was blameless.

Evidently, he heard a trace of your mother too, because you heard him laugh. You felt the reverberations of his amusement travel up from his belly all the way to his lips.

“Cool your pits, kid.”

For that, you would’ve loved nothing more than to reach back with your free hand and hit him in the balls. But, as it was, this man was your only hope for escape, and he was being tolerably polite, anyway. He pinched your finger between the tips of two of his and gave it a tug.

“Okay, lemme just—” Joel started.

“Why are you home, anyway?”

The question came out more clipped than you meant it.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Joel countered evenly.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

You reckoned he could probably feel you roll your eyes, even if he wasn’t able to see you do it right now. He waited another moment, then leaned back on his haunches and withdrew his arm from the tub.

“Mama don’t like me drinkin’ and drivin’, you know that.”

With that, the warmth was gone. Joel retreated.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

You heard him exhale a little harder through his nose. When he’d steadied himself against the washing machine, gave his knees another second to prepare for getting up again, you could feel his eyes back on you. Maybe he lingered longer than his legs really needed.

Maybe if he hadn’t stayed crouched like that, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to give your surroundings a second look. He wouldn’t have stopped to watch the rate of your breaths pick up or the way your skin startle to bristle with some strange, unknown sensation. He certainly wouldn’t have felt for himself the fever leaking out from the base of your spine right then.

Today just wasn’t the day for keeping secrets, it seemed.

“And what’s this?” You could feel Joel lean back in.

He was looking again. Peering inside. Steadying his weight with the edge of the washing machine gripped in one hand, while the other snaked its way back inside.

You’d already squeezed your eyes shut by the time Joel got a hold of something. You didn’t know what it was.

But it became painfully clear that it wasn’t just one ‘thing’ that had grabbed his attention at all, but rather a series of items that his hands were just now getting to explore. You didn’t have to see his broad and tan, callus-streaked fingers to feel them roaming over your clothes.

Gross.

Gross.

“Gross,” Joel agreed, as if he’d read your mind. Grinning.

If you thought the embarrassment was bad before, you really only knew a fraction of what humiliation could be. Your finger throbbed along with the pulse in your skull.

Your mother’s husband whistled and lifted something.

“Darlin’, this is just…disgusting.”

You winced. You tried not to pry an eye open, to steal a covert look through the frame of your lashes in that dim and crowded spot, but the inducement was too great—Joel was dangling one of your lime green G-strings like it was a fish he’d just caught out on the lake. Boasting it.

Doting, almost.

“Well I’ll be—”

“Will you quit?!” you snapped.

You grabbed the thing out of his hand and threw it aside.

“Can you be serious? For one fucking secon—”

“Oh, I’m bein’ serious, sweetie,” Joel cut in. Cool as ever, “Serious as the business end of a .45, I swear.”

He paused. Then he reached for a white nylon bustier, drenched in a layer of honey that was as hard as a rock.

“Do you always keep your little…skank tanks so filthy?”

That was it. You kicked your heel back—and up—and made a pass to hit your stepdad square in the balls.

Your aim wasn’t the best it’s ever been, seeing that half your body was trapped inside a home appliance at the moment, but what your jab lacked in accuracy, it made up for in force: your foot plunged into the seam of Joel’s jeans full throttle. From the way the back of your heel plowed into his crotch, and the sound that clawed out of his throat the same instant, you reckoned you did okay.

What you weren’t expecting was a smack in return.

An answer in kind—delivered by the palm of Joel’s hand.

A taut, thoughtless THWACK on the swell of your ass.

Your mouth fell open. Your body barely had the chance to recoil when, shortly, another blow landed on your cheek.

Joel spanked you.

Spanked you.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he spat. His palm had slid up with the weight of his last slap, and now his fingers were clenched in a fist in the back of your skirt. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel him gripping fabric. It was firm.

He was firm—unrelenting in his hold.

Kneeling behind you, yanking back a handful of tartan skirt like it was nothing, then sidling up behind you.

And just when your attention was drawn to some other firm thing, it was shortly diverted by another sensation.

“JOEL!” you shrieked as he gave you another spanking.

The bare skin of your cheeks was on fire. Joel hit hard. Just when you feared you might legitimately whimper with the sting of that last blow, and while the imprint of his palm was still fresh, you felt it move again. Lower.

“Joel.”

That came out more like a whine than a cry of protest. And how could you, now, when he was soothing the raw bite of his hand with a touch that was kneading the skin?

Working the soft, supple flesh of your ass in his hand like he’d never dream of being anything else but gentle to it.

“Good?” Joel said.

Your head flinched to nod, but your brain thought better.

It did feel good. So good, in fact, that your eyelids were starting to droop just a bit and your back was subtly arching into the touch, but those were only instincts. Stupid, useless, brain-rotted reflexes born of years of paternal neglect and replete indifference, the likes of which could bring a grown man to his knees, begging—

“Please.”

But the entreaty was your own, and the voice that spoke it was hoarse. Your belly sank into the circular aperture of the washing machine, and you could feel your ribs scraping close to metal. Nevertheless, you didn’t mind. That ditzy lizard brain of yours was starved for physical touch, and who were you to deny her at a time like this?

No, not when Joel was squeezing like that.

Groping was the more appropriate word for it, really. Notwithstanding the decades of sexual experience that no doubt preceded the man that was standing before you—behind you—today, Joel was unduly coarse. His broad, weathered hand made as if to cool its former sting, but the motions themselves were jerky. Desperate.

He needed this worse than you, the fucking pervert.

Just when the realization had begun to settle over your mind and your legs were getting to feel a little less like jelly, knowing you weren’t the only weak one here, Joel’s palm slowed down. He pressed the heel of it into your flesh as if to force himself to stop, then he took a breath.

“Now use your words.”

“But—” you sputtered.

“I said,” Joel resumed, and you could sense it was through gritted teeth. His movements came to a halt.

“We use our words when we want somethin’, hear?”

It was the first you’d heard Joel attempt to enforce anything close to discipline with you in your life.

That had to warrant a little defiance, no doubt.

Under your breath, quiet: “So ‘we’ includes ‘you,’ too?”

Beneath that one, seemingly innocuous question was lurking another, and both of you knew it: Remember that time you put a fist through the kitchen wall? Was that a good example of what it means to ‘use words,’ Joel? Whether it was adequate provocation or not, you could sense what was coming next before you’d even finished. When the spank landed on your right cheek so loud that it echoed, you didn’t flinch. You did snag your lip between your teeth to keep a sound from spilling out.

“A dad makes rules. Ain’t his to follow,” Joel growled.

You blinked and bit down harder. Watched the broad, amorphous shape of the man’s reflection shift along the back metallic wall in hues of grey and blue and wished you had the strength to turn around and face him then.

“You aren’t my dad.”

“Said ‘a’ dad, didn’t I?”

“You’re not that either.”

Heat was rising to your cheeks again, this time for different reasons. For a cause you were far better acquainted with to date—annoyance at Joel.

“So that means I’m—”

“Nothing. You’re nothing to me,” you finished, tone wry.

Nothing to anyone, you wanted to add. Not with a shiny gold band latched onto your left hand to tell the world that you’re married to my mother, a pack of smokes tucked away in the jeans she washes every week, or a couple years spent under the same roof as me. Nothing.

Your teeth clamped back down—and almost sank clean through your lower lip this time—when next you felt a touch at the plush, covered mound that was normally shielded between your legs. The spot that was hardly ever tilted up in a position like this, exposed to the air and a man’s hungry gaze, now invaded by the press of a single thing: a warm and soft middle finger at your core.

Joel brushed the tip of it against your entrance, through your panties, and sucked a breath through his teeth when both of you felt a tiny squelch at the pressure.

He pressed harder, and the wetness only spread.

You didn’t have to be in Joel’s position to know what he was seeing, but the feeling from his finger overpowered any better sense to speak—or tell him to stop. He traced his slow, cruel circles against your warmth and moved it up to where he knew he’d find your bud, and when you whimpered, he simply added his index to the mix. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind you were leaking heat at that point. You could feel it seeping beneath his touch.

“Nothin’, huh?” Joel breathed, voice low. Your arousal made a sickening hiss beneath his fingers as he rubbed you even harder, “This feel like nothin’ to you, honey?”

You couldn’t speak. He knew you weren’t capable of it.

“‘Cause this sure don’t feel like nothin’ to me.”

Wet and tacky beneath his touch, your warmth supplied the answer that your mouth couldn’t form. It came out in more of a tap, tap, tap, punctuated by breaths that were toiling in earnest not to turn into moans too soon. But, as hulking and clumsy as his hands had once shown themselves to be, the old man knew where to put them, at least. He made circles on your clit with practiced ease.

“You can try lyin’ to me, but she can’t.”

He was right. ‘She’ was a traitor.

You could deny it all you wanted, but the proof was there.

Indeed, she was crying. Aching. Bleeding with desire. Throbbing beneath the pads of Joel’s fingertips and growing only more desperate as he increased the speed of his touch. When he notched the drenched cotton to the side, you had to grit your teeth to keep in a whimper.

Joel whistled.

“See? Seems like she likes me just fine right here.”

Your jaw stayed wired shut with the weight of your own humiliation. Instead of answering aloud, you hummed. Made a sound low and soft in your throat like, ‘Uh-hmm’ and tilted your hips, as if you didn’t know how else to ask. Joel couldn’t see inside the washing machine, but he must’ve felt the gesture, because he greeted it with a motion of his own: he chuckled, and he puckered his lips.

And when you felt the warmth of his spit hit you between your folds, your shame should’ve tripled. Should’ve made you flinch away from his touch and tell him that was so fucking gross, Joel, stop, but then he smeared it up your slit. He pressed in and mixed it with the rest of your arousal; any reproach died on your tongue in an instant.

A part of him was on you now. Trickling in, sticking to the most sensitive part of you, and settling into your skin like a glaze. With his other hand, he found your skirt again.

“Who’re ya wearin’ this for, sweet pea?” Joel murmured.

“No one.”

Another glob of spit landed between your cheeks. Now, the man used the lubrication to sink two fingers inside you—pushing them in until the rim of your cunt met his knuckles. You whined at the stretch, felt him coax your walls open with a consciousness and a carefulness that felt almost mean, but then he stroked down the base of your spine with the hand that still held onto your skirt. He soothed your startled cry with a curl of his fingers.

And he found the soft, spongy patch of flesh inside that made your eyes roll straight to the back of your skull, quickly. Working his fingers in and out, flattening the base of his free hand over the skin exposed by your flipped-up skirt, and watching your body give way to the force of his fingers, he was uncharacteristically patient. Exacting in the way he worked your body open to him.

“What do you care?” you groaned. You winced when you felt a squelch signal that he’d stretched you even wider.

“‘Cause,” Joel started, slow. Pumping his fingers through your folds and likely wondering when he’d add a third, “You got your hand stuck in a fuckin’ washing machine, a treasure trove of this slut stuff piled in a heap…I mean…”

“They’re just clothes!”

“Just clothes?”

In the wake of those terse, incredulous words, you tried your best to match his tone—call his bluff—but the only sound that came out of your mouth was punctured by a pitiful whine. He tried another finger but couldn’t fit it in. As wet as you were, and as strong as he was, your cunt wasn’t quite ready to accept all three of Joel’s thick, probing digits inside. You’d fit more than a thing or two with a girth even greater than that in the past, but you figured your nerves might have something to do with the way you were tightening around the man’s fingers now.

Why you couldn’t take more of him in, as much as you wanted him there, felt, at present, like something of a shortcoming, and a pathetic one at that. You let out a breath, and a second later, Joel slowed his motions.

You didn’t expect him to stop. Didn’t hold out a hope he might curtail his pace and talk you through a quiet, gentle arrangement for fitting a third finger inside you—that just wasn’t him. You didn’t have to share a paper-thin bedroom wall with your mother and her husband for the last however many years to know that Joel Miller was not a tender lover. It simply wasn’t in his nature to care.

So when you heard the clink of a belt coming undone a moment later, your senses strangely flooded with relief. He wouldn’t care, wouldn’t inquire, wouldn’t coddle with false, romantic ideals of how a woman should be treated.

In that way, Joel shared something in common with your father after all: he set standards as low as they could go.

“Just clothes?” he repeated, snapping your underwear against your ass and jerking the fabric further aside.

Then somehow send those expectations even lower.

There was a hand splayed out across the small of your back. Another fiddling with the front of his pants, wrestling the button and zip of his jeans in little more than one, two, three careless seconds, before he drew in closer to your rear. Your slit was messy, wet, and exposed to his eyes once again. For a second, you almost took comfort in the fact that your hand was still wedged inside a groove of steel and you couldn’t meet his gaze.

That was, until Joel slid his bare length along the seam of your cunt. When the inability to see him made it so you had no other choice but to be surprised when he finally touched you was unnerving, to say the least.

And when the head of his cock blended seamlessly between your folds, was drenched in less than a blink and nearly notched straight into the place you needed him most—well, that had an effect on him, too. Joel moved his flat and sweaty palm up your back, found purchase in the hem of your blouse, and gripped it. Tugged it down a little more and let a low groan billow out of his throat while he rocked his hips back and forth.

Desperate, clumsy, pussydrunk Joel was back before you’d even realized he’d left. Only now he was keen to put the disquiet and hesitations to rest; he needed to fuck you before either one of you wisened up just then.

Your parts and his commingled again. First, with the lethally warm trail of precum leaking out from his tip. Then the intrusion that followed, inevitably, glossed with self-indulgence and desperation—soiling any semblance of platonic affection or parental attention—as he fed you the first inch of him. Barely half the head got fitted inside and your grip on that was like a vice. Joel’s was bruising.

Suddenly firm on your hips, carving crescents in the skin:

“When’s the last time you got fucked, baby?”

You reckoned Joel had a guess—and it wasn’t correct.

“Last…week,” you whimpered, words punctuated with a sigh as his cock tried to make room for more of him.

Joel sucked in a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. He’d barely gotten an inch past his tip, facing more resistance than he’d felt in a long, long time, and you were wet, but so tight. He was big but not so massive as that. He couldn’t fathom what you were saying was true.

“That…fratboy fuckstick you went out on a date with?”

“Didn’t think you even saw me leave.”

Joel withdrew, gripped your hips even tighter, then drove his cock to nestle three solid inches inside your cunt. It was extra snug, but he made sure to try to loosen you up with a couple short, shallow thrusts and a hand gradually drifting down between your legs. Of course he saw you.

The circles on your clit and slow-growing movements may as well have been kerosene in your veins. With what limited range of motion you had in that grey, compact space, you let out a sigh and dug the fingers of your free hand into the closest scrap of fabric beside you. Joel’s own touch gradually moved from your hip to drag your hand behind your back, clasping his. He fucked in deeper

“So that’s who this is for?” Thumbing your skirt.

“Y-Yeah,” you lied.

“Wanted to send naughty pics in the schoolgirl getup?”

“Yes,” you lied again. You closed your eyes when Joel sank his cock even deeper and made you stretch inside.

“‘Atta girl,” he praised.

It might’ve been the first he’d validated you in your life.

“Grippin’ this cock extra tight, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Never in a million years would you have imagined it’d come this late—or leave Joel’s mouth in a way like that.

‘Elastic’ wasn’t a word you’d ever used to describe your body, either. Frankly, there was no need for it to be; every one of your partners before had been average-sized, and every other object that went inside you, too, had almost always been a comfortable squeeze between your walls. Outside of maybe your first time and a once-off awkward hookup now and again, you were never forced to feel a stretch to this degree. Joel felt huge moving inside you.

He was nearing your cervix and still nowhere close to the base of his cock. Meanwhile, you were stuffed to the brim, saturated with arousal and his spit, and practically keening at every stab of his hips. You couldn’t reach back because Joel’s fingers were still enmeshed with yours, gripping them hard behind your back. As wore down, fucked out, and desperate as you already were, you were less than only a second away from asking him to ease up.

And then he stopped.

Joel pulled out, let go, and pressed onto the old washing machine, where you heard his touch echo through metal.

He was leaning against it. You were about to turn around. Before you could, though, you felt his form mold into yours—this time not in it, but on it, as he drew closer and once more reached into the space where you were stuck.

“Can you be brave for me, baby?” Joel murmured.

“Wh—” you started, soft, only to feel the words plucked straight from your lungs as Joel leaned his body inside. Carefully, and with concerted effort, it seemed, he was trying to squeeze his way into the O-shaped hole of the washing machine, snaking his arm around your torso.

Pinching your finger again. Breathing just gently enough for his exhales to tickle at your shoulders and your neck.

“Can you be brave?” he repeated, and you weren’t sure you’d ever heard him so soft-spoken, or felt him so close.

You nodded, not knowing why.

Without another word, your stepdad pinched the digit even tighter and yanked it out from where it was stuck.

It all happened so fast. Joel freeing your finger, squeezing it tight, helping you out of that hot and crowded space while your legs gave way like mush beneath your weight—and your hand throbbing in pain. You’d never thought a single finger could cause a feeling as strong as that, but it stung like hell. You almost raked your nails through the man’s arm when he tried to hold you back, holding you up just as well as you stood.

“Joel!” you screeched, like the whole thing was his fault.

You flexed your hand and wanted to sob. You could feel the streaks of pain start to claw up your wrist, were just about to shove Joel aside and wallow in agony, when at length, he did something strange and unexpected again.

This time, he lifted your index to his mouth and kissed it.

It wasn’t a sensual kiss. Coming from Joel, it hardly even seemed affectionate. His lips were so warm and firm and decidedly unacquainted with anything approaching a threat of tenderness that his act read almost aggressive. He let your finger rest loosely against his mouth, and he kissed it again, while his eyes burned holes into yours.

‘You’re okay’ came out muffled against your hand.

“You’re okay—hey—baby, you’re good. Don’t cry.”

You hadn’t even noticed the tears had started to form. You blinked and felt one trickle down your cheek. With the hand that wasn’t holding your wrist, Joel brushed his thumb against that lone trail of moisture. He didn’t cup your face, hold you close, or stroke your cheek in the seconds that followed, though he did keep kissing you.

Or, rather, it—your finger.

Joel didn’t have to care for you at all. He just feared he might’ve pulled on your hand too hard in getting you out.

‘You’re okay’ was being mumbled away like a fractured refrain, touch descending gently to your hip, and his eyes grew softer by the second, surely he had to be thinking it.

Sinking inside you, again. He was standing; your hips were tilted to his, and your ass was pressing flat against the front of the washing machine. All it took was an inch or two off the ground and your limbs hanging limply around his hips for Joel to fuck back into you. He sucked on your finger so hard you feared the skin might actually bruise—a hand hickey, of all fucking things—and when his grip tightened on your side, you knew he felt it too.

His teeth succeeded his lips in an instant, and he was biting, gnawing pathetically as a groan shuddered through his chest. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said the sound was veering perilously close to a whimper.

Fully sheathed inside you, Joel Miller didn’t seem to care. His lids fell like lead across the upper half of his brown, glossy eyes, and the expression behind them was blank.

Safe.

“‘S’alright, baby,” he grunted. Maybe he’d just seen you wince, as he cradled your hand and withdrew another inch, “Keep squeezin’ me, it feels real good. Right here.”

Out of instinct, your gaze drifted down to the spot where his body joined with yours. The sight was hardly a shock, but the feelings it evoked were not—he had you split along two-thirds of his dick, a pretty shelf of belly protruding beneath and gleaming with the arousal he’d drawn out from your body. Tufts of silver and grey littered his skin in every direction, aged muscles tensed with the weight of each thrust, and the warm weathered hand that hadn’t dared touch you once before today was now cupping your chin. Tilting your head closer to him.

“Right here, baby. Look at daddy.”

Wild, unbridled heat flooded your brain in a second. The thing seared the insides of your skull with all the force of a fire and stole the air from your lungs just the same—still, you couldn’t refrain from making a face in disgust.

“What the fuck, Joel?” You shouldn’t have liked it.

His hand ascended your throat in a blink.

“Ain’t that what you want, sweet pea?”

“I—”

Just as you started to answer, though, his cock took a dizzying plunge, hitting exactly the right spot inside you. Like clockwork, your mouth fell open, a whine tumbled out, and Joel took that as his chance to grip your neck even tighter and push your hips against the washing machine, where his height afforded him an easy hold.

“What you want—”

He squeezed harder.

“—what you need—���

You gasped, starved for air. It wasn’t every day a man took your breath away. Not like Joel could, anyway.

“—is me, ain’t it?”

The gaze fixed on your face was alight with desire.

“Bet you miss him somethin’ awful, huh? Been needin’ a man to fill that spot ever since he left, haven’t ya, baby?”

‘He’ required no further clarification. The words stung. You communicated as much by wriggling your hips back and pressing your hand against Joel’s chest, just quit it.

Keep fucking me, but shut the fuck up about my father.

“I don’t miss shit,” you sniffed. Felt the head of Joel’s cock carve a shape somewhere deep inside your body and couldn’t pretend it wasn’t filling a metaphorical void someplace else. You hadn’t got this much attention from a man as many years your senior since…well, ever, really.

You preened beneath his touch. Wanting to feel. Wanting to please. Wanting, more than anything, to be needed.

Joel sated each craving with a simple hand smoothed over your face. His palm moved from your throat to your chin to the hinge of your jaw before coming to rest at the nape of your neck. This time squeezing lightly, bringing your face in close while he fucked you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and your stomach tightened inside you.

“That’s alright,” he said, words hardly above a whisper, “No need to miss that man at all, ‘cause I’m right here.”

For once the assurance came as somewhat of a comfort. You suspected it had something to do with the fact he was balls deep inside you and pushing you closer and closer to the brink of release with each painstaking stab of his cock. You fisted his flannel, holding him there. Spreading your legs, accepting his thrusts, taking each movement with ragged, shallow breaths and moans that blended with his own, you felt your body grow warmer.

Almost febrile beneath him as he tilted your head again.

“Who’s your daddy now?”

You winced, shaking your head. You hated that word.

“Who’s your daddy?”

Joel lowered his hand and began to thumb at your clit. Hot pleasure coursed through you, made you whine at the contact and dig your heels even deeper in his back.

“Who’s your daddy, baby? It ain’t that hard to say.”

But it was. Joel stroking your clit, stuffing you full, ghosting his lips against yours without ever furnishing a kiss, just goading you on with: ‘I know you wanna say it.’ Tough grey stubble teased your mouth with each word.

“I know she needs to cum, sweet girl. Know that poor little pussy’s taken a beating—and she’s done so good for me—but she needs to let it out now. All over me.”

His gaze held yours. You couldn’t turn away.

An unmistakable tenderness pervaded that look, and it didn’t seem keen to depart. No matter how tightly you pursed your lips, made fists in his shirt, or choked his cock between your walls in fluttering, desperate pleas, the man remained calm. Attentive. The eyes didn’t stray.

“It’s okay to say it.”

“C-Can’t—”

“Sure can. Be the easiest thing you ever do—D-A-D-D—”

“Please. Please.”

You hardly even knew what you were asking for at this point, only beholden to that big, swollen something in your tummy starting to give way beneath the push of Joel’s cock. Tightening up, leaking out, practically drooling down the length of this man who seemed relentless in his current pursuit. Two more circles on your clit and you were keening, whimpering pathetic as ever:

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

“Say it now. Who’s it for?”

Above you, Joel’s teeth gleamed in a smile—or a snarl, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the pleasure, the concomitant pain of having to contain this desperation while his thrusts sped up. You were bouncing on him, getting fucked against the washing machine in the raw and terrible central Texas heat wearing a sheen of sweat and a set of clothes that no longer fit your body, but that was just fine. You were okay. Joel was here, and he was holding your head, lips hovering less than an inch away.

“Who’s. Your. Daddy?” His words were slow. Coarse. Spilling into your mouth with every short puff of breath.

You couldn’t take it. You felt a band of pressure come to a head in your belly and the brush of Joel’s cock making its rounds in and out of your swollen cunt, pushing hard, and you knew that you’d had enough. He knew it, too.

“Y-You.”

“Who?”

“Joel.”

“Who?”

Your wet, pearly slick rang a deafening pitch. Enough.

“You, daddy! Daddy—please, fuck—I-I-I’m gonna cum.”

“Gonna cum for me? Make a mess of your old man?”

“Make a m-mess— yes, daddy, yes—” you slurred.

Joel drove his cock, fully coated in you, down to the hilt. He captured your lips in a kiss and didn’t even mind your mouth was whining, hissing, whimpering its filthy pleas for him to fuck a nice, big orgasm out from your body.

“—want yours inside,” you added, without realizing it.

“Sweet girl…” Joel groaned.

You didn’t know what you were asking him for. How badly he wanted it, too. His cock dragged in and out of your precious cunt and was barely more safe from the threat of its grip when you spasmed, at the last. Joel should’ve expected no less, after all the time he’d spent teasing and edging, then begging you gently, in grunts, ‘Cum for daddy, baby. Let me have it, that’s it, good girl.’ Still, somehow, he wasn’t prepared in the slightest.

When you squeezed your eyes shut and kissed him back—that was all it took. When you clenched on his cock, gave the front of his shirt a tug, locked your ankles about his hips so you could more properly increase that friction by fucking him back, grinding in place, he feared he might fairly make an irreparable, unforgivable mistake.

And when the whites of your eyes appeared again—eyelids fluttering open while your lips were glossed with his spit and a lazy smile—and said what you said next, he sensed that his fate was sealed. The old man was fucked.

“Cum inside me, daddy. Please.”

Joel couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. He shuddered, then flooded your insides with rope after rope after rope of his spend, burying his face in your neck and taking your hips in his hands like a looser grip might lose you to him forever. He fucked his cum deep, deeper, darlin’ don’t move, can’t lose a drop, baby, please, he let out a whimper that made your walls pulse again. You felt him fill you to the brim and keep rutting his hips. Your body and his were shaking by the last of it.

And when he was finished, Joel dropped a kiss along your limp, glistening lips. He slid you back on the metal. By the expression on his face, it was plain to see he was loath to withdraw, but he had to. That tender little hiss and the sounds of your shared fluids trickling out were all the impetus he needed to act quick. As soon as he’d pulled out, Joel was back leaning against the washing machine—tilting your hips back a little, then lowering his sweaty, handsome head to the spot between your legs.

The wrinkles to the sides of his eyes grew more pronounced when he smiled. A happy grin, plastered across his lips, would have struck you as almost smug, were it not for the look of sheer adulation that followed it.

Joel was enthralled, watching his cum leak out of you. He kissed your thighs, flickered his gaze to your own, briefly, then damn near sank his nose inside the place he was watching before your fingers stopped him cold.

It was your body, after all. He had already had his fill.

Hardly knowing what came over you in that moment, you sank two fingers inside your wet, drooling hole and watched the eyes of the man beneath you go wide. He soaked in that sight completely: you pushing his cum back in, drawing it out, using the viscous white liquid as a lubricant of sorts before releasing a pleased little sigh.

Joel closed his mouth reluctantly. It took him more than a second to tear his eyes from that place, but when he did, the motions were quick to grow assured, by turns.

As if remembering something.

In a second, the innocent smile you’d seen before was being infiltrated, slowly, by a look you couldn’t place. Joel’s grin morphed from gentle to contented to plainly enthused and beaming ear-to-ear with a conceited glint. With his finger, he tugged your panties back into place.

“Baby—” he started, only to be cut off lightning-quick.

“What? What is it?”

His smile stretched even wider. By that act alone, you were half-tempted to forget the events of the last hour and set your jaw in a scowl. You looked down, unamused.

“What?”

“It’s just…” The man trailed off, and as he did, his gaze descended with it—straight down to your bare pantyline.

You cast a look there too—“What the fuck is it, Joel?!”

At that, two brown eyes flitted back up to you.

“I thought I asked for neon pink underwear, baby.”

Your breaths slowed. His gaze didn’t waver. Your heart came to a standstill in your chest, and you were amazed you had even half your present willpower then to speak.

“Wait, Joel, wh—”

“Shame you couldn’t get around to filmin’ today. Had me hard as a fuckin’ rock with all that milk and honey stuff.”

You nearly choked on your spit. Joel kept grinning.

“You’re—”

The guy. That fucking subscriber. The one who’d paid almost $500 in commissions in the last month alone.

You stared at Joel with eyes as wide as saucers, and were about to press on, when you heard the front door to the house shriek back on its hinges. Two sets of footsteps followed it, and their entry inside was loud.

Immediately, Joel rose to his feet. It seemed that grin wasn’t meant to stay long on his lips, because the next thing you knew, he was dropping a kiss somewhere soft and sweaty on your face and flipping your skirt back into place, holding his index up to his lips and stepping away. Your mouth twisted into a frown but stayed zipped out of sheer necessity. Seeing this, and likely unable to help himself, your gross, depraved, grinning old man leaned back in and planted his hands on either side of your hips on the washing machine. His nose nudged into your own.

“Between us—” he began, slowly.

“Get fucked,” you finished for him.

Joel nodded his assent, smirk faint. He cast a look over his shoulder, and, hearing what sounded like your mother’s footsteps drawing closer, lowered his voice.

Rubbing his thumb under your chin, making you tip your head back to meet his for one final look—then a kiss:

“You keep my secret, I keep yours, alright?”

—

Note: I’ve never done a real writing challenge before, but hopefully this fic will work for #hotdilfsummerchallenge !!! @hellishjoel this is such a fun ass idea & i hope you enjoy❣️

[electronalytics]

Precision Rotary Potentiometers Market Analysis,Growth and Global Industry Outlook by 2032

The precision rotary potentiometers market refers to the industry involved in the manufacturing, distribution, and sales of precision rotary potentiometers. A potentiometer, also known as a pot, is an electronic component that can be used to vary the resistance in a circuit. Rotary potentiometers are a specific type of potentiometer that can be turned or rotated to adjust the resistance.

Precision rotary potentiometers are designed to provide accurate and precise control over the resistance value. They are commonly used in various applications where precise control and measurement of voltage or current are required. These applications include audio equipment, instrumentation, robotics, industrial automation, medical devices, and aerospace systems.

Key factors driving the growth of the precision rotary potentiometers market include the increasing demand for automation and control systems, advancements in sensor technology, and the expanding range of applications requiring precise voltage or current control. The market is also influenced by factors such as technological advancements, product innovations, and the need for high-quality and reliable components in electronic systems.

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[buckyalpine]

Could U PLZZZ name the Reader Isabel!! plz some smut, bucky barnes, choking kink, kinda innocent... mainly winter solider look!

PRETTY plz it would mean SO muchhhh

Okay but imagine you have an up and coming mission which requires you to take on a new identity. Isabel Rosa, the young daughter of a business man, looking to buy art in the black market. You're to attend a gala hosted by an investor so you can get some intel on the target but you're nervous because you've never done this before.

To make sure everything goes well, you're given a "bodyguard" to ensure no one messes with you or tries anything when you attend that night.

And the plan works perfectly because no one dares look at you twice when you stroll into the event dressed in your pretty pink dress with the 6ft+ winter soldier attached to your arm. There isn't a soul in the room who doesn't know who that is. Dressed head to toe in an all black suit, his dark chestnut hair framing his face, piercing blue eyes enough to make everyone look away. He wears his mask as he escorts you and you can feel all the weapons he has strapped to him when he puts his arm around your waist.

"Relax bunny" He whispers when you shiver nervously, plucking a flute of champagne for you. "it's gonna be fine. No one can touch you as long as I'm here"

You silently nod, taking a small sip while he scans the room, guiding you to the target so you can get closer. He knows his job is to focus on keeping you out of harms way and he does that with ease but he can't help get a little distracted each time you nuzzle further into his side. He loves the way you tightly cling onto him each time you introduce yourself to someone. Its hard to ignore the way you make his pants feel too tight and his composure starts to falter when you both go to an office room to grab a flash drive.

He locked the door behind him while you crack open a safe, pocketing all the contents inside. You gasped, suddenly feeling him right behind you, his tall form towering over you.

"Isabel" He purrs into your ear while you bite your lip nervously, his gravelly muffled voice making your heart race. "Such a pretty name, bunny, y'know that"

"James, we have to go" You squeak, ignoring the throb between your legs while he shakes his head, grabbing you and plopping you onto a large wooden desk.

"Shhh" The rough, hard material of his mask brushes against your shoulder as he continues to whisper, "Don't think I can't smell you bunny"

He gathers the skirt of you dress up, shamelessly shoving his hand into your panties, letting his fingers gather your slick before playing with your sensitive clit.

"Look at you Isabel" He teases, pushing a finger in without warning making you cry out. As soon as a sound slips out, his metal hand grabs your throat, softly squeezing the sides. "Quiet, before all your little investors hear what a whore you are"

You instantly shut up while he continues his slow torture, loving the way you whine and whimper for more.

"What's wrong love" He cooes at your glassy eyes, pressing his erection against your dripping cunt.

"Please soldier" You quietly beg and who is he to say no to such a perfect doll asking for his cock. He legs go of you for a second to undo his pants and pull his length out, pumping it while you gape at the size.

"Never seen a cock before, bunny?" Bucky smirks, using the head to flick at your button a few times, guiding you to look down at the way his pink tip leaks, making your clit sticky with his arousal. "Gonna fill you right up, doll, don't worry"

He hasn't forgotten the mission, his eyes still glancing at the door, ears still sharp for footsteps but he's not about to let this opportunity go. He slides in, shoving his cock in all at once, grasping your neck again before you could scream. He starts to pound relentlessly while your arms and legs cling onto his body, silently sobbing from pleasure.

He growls feeling your cunt squeeze him making his cock throb, smacking your thigh when he feels you clench. He knows you want to scream so bad, the quiver of your lip driving him insane. He takes his mask off, shoving it in your mouth.

"We're gonna be here a while Isabel, better he quiet"

[seat-safety-switch]

There's a small burger joint near me. It's not one of those chains, which is sort of uncommon these days. Most of them are owned by some kind of insanely large corporation the size of a planet. This small place is good: it's not the best I've ever had, but it's cheap and it's on the way to the bad junkyard, and the owner is nice.

Here's what I like about it: it's still like one of the old-school drive-ins, at least in aesthetic. Those were all destroyed long before I came into this Earth, and nobody roller-skates up to your car to serve you the burger. It's more egalitarian, nowadays, and you gotta hoof it into the restaurant yourself or pay a dude $25 ($7 of which he keeps) to drive it to your house in his leased Mercedes.

Because it's a drive-in, though, it gets rid of the ugly decor that clogs most restaurants. Replaced by cars. In fact, some shadowy figure has begun an all-night, every-night classic car show there. Lots of fantastic Mopar products from about 1974 to 1983, when things started to get real bad in the heart of America. Cars are parked there every night, a mysterious judge issues a "best in show" award, and everyone has a good evening.

Of course, I can't guarantee that this translates to sales. Sure, it looks very busy, and I'm sure that convinces passing non-classic cars that "the burgers must be good there," but I'm no marketer. You'd have to ask my cousin, who conveniently is unavailable at the moment due to some legal complications with his work visa.

Hell, I'm not even involved. I just love a good burger, and approximately 35-1/2 parking spaces' worth of places to shove old cars for a couple hours without the fuzz getting too interested. It's really hard to find swap space these days, what with all the neighbourhood streets bulging with hoopties. Why don't you stop asking those questions and come on by the burger joint? It's authentic and real, not at all like the mysterious offshore corporation that owns and self-insures all those decrepit cars.

[adastrael]

Cod: mw ii characters as type of kisses (pt.3)

Pairing(s): gender neutral reader / könig, kim "horangi" hong-jin, alex keller, farah karim

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: mentions of canon typical violence, talk about anxiety and insecurities

A/N: the last part is finally here! I know most of these guys aren't technically mw2 characters, but I couldn't just leave them out of the fun haha! On another hand, I'm sorry if this seems more rushed than the previous ones, I haven't had the chance to get to know these characters as well as the others yet. Anyhow, thank you for all the love on this series, it means a lot to me! :)

König - "breathy kiss"

One of your favorite things was to share kisses with him. He was always so responsive to your touch, whole body reacting to every slight brush of your skin on his. It felt like he was comfortable enough to show you how he truly felt through them, not even trying to find a way to deny his love. It never failed to drive you crazy in the best way.

If there was someone easy to fluster, it was definitely König. Those times he happened to be confident were limited to when he was out in the field, so during the time you two spent alone together, it wasn't difficult to make him bashful. You tried not to take advantage of his reactions and contain the giddiness you felt when he got into such a state, but it was a feat; he always looked adorable tripping over his words, cheeks a nice shade of red and hands fidgeting as he tried to come up with an answer to you. You couldn't get enough of his shyness, but you made sure to never cross any lines and boundaries you two set up. Sure, messing with him was entertaining, but the most important thing was to never make him truly uncomfortable or upset. Not to mention, you could spend time with him without trying to make him crumble with cheeky words, and have just as a great time — if not even better.

A regular Friday forenoon, the weather was perfect for taking a stroll and visiting the markets nearby your house. There were a few things that needed to be replaced anyways, so you had a good reason to go out, besides the fact that you wanted to enjoy the Sun on your skin of course. Since your boyfriend was back home from his latest deployment, it was natural you wanted to ask him to accompany you. Any chance you had, you wanted to take and spend time with him, especially since he was away from home a lot. However, there was one little problem with that: the company of strangers put him into a heavily uneasy state.

It wasn't correct to say he was terrible with crowds; König always swore he was, but you knew he handled himself just fine. Of course you knew how bad his anxiety spiked when put into situations like that, but from the outside he usually looked like he didn't have a problem in the world — you always made sure to let him know how well he did every time you two went out, no matter what situation he had to ease into. You knew it was difficult for him to read and react to social situations, but he tried his best and you were more than grateful and proud of him. The longer you were in a relationship together, the more often he joined you for outdoor activities, and it made you extremely happy to see him make an effort to become better. And flattered for sure, knowing he wanted to get better at this for your benefit.

So, with the knowledge that he wouldn't say no to you this time either, especially since this would be a short and easy trip, you went to talk to him.

Quickly finding König in your shared bedroom, you softly knocked on the door to get his attention.

"Hey König?"

"Ja?"

"Would you come along with me to the market today?"

Sitting on the king sized bed in his worn out comfortable clothes, he looked so much smaller, no matter the fact that he was a 6 feet something giant of a man. As he started to fidget with his hands a little, gaze directed to the sheets under him, it was hard to resist the urge to join him on the beddings and caress his knuckles to reassure him.

"How far are we going?"

"Just to the end of the street, I only want to visit Dominik's and then Sophia's on the way back."

You knew it was important for him to know exactly where you would be going and who you had to meet, because it helped him prepare mentally in advance. It wasn't a bother to share your exact plans with him in any way, and it made him feel better, so you were always happy to make sure to share the needed information.

After a few seconds of him considering it, pointedly looking anywhere but you, you received a little nod from him.

"Okay."

In your defense, he looked too irresistible sitting there all shy, you just couldn't help yourself; flashing him a bright smile, you skipped over to the bed, gently cupping his face in your hands.

"Thank you. I promise I will be quick."

Leaning in, you intended to give him a chaste kiss, just something to show your gratitude besides words. König seemed to have other plans however: pushing his lips onto yours a little more firmly, he sighed through his nose and made a little sound in the back of his throat. He was usually clumsy when it came to kissing, but this time he seemed to get the handle of things. Pulling back only a few millimeters, gasping for air, then diving back to connect your lips together, his body was slowly melting under your touch, the previous uneasiness leaving him. You loved when he got passionate like this; anxiety absent from his mind, body shivering where your hands wandered, harsh breaths leaving his mouth as he poured his emotions into the kiss. You knew this was a way for him to let all the worries go, to show you how genuinely he felt, and it never failed to make your head fuzzy and heart warm with fondness.

Truly, you could have stayed like that, interwined with him forever, but unfortunately there were still things to do. So, with a gentle hand on his cheek, you managed to pull away. Gazing into his eyes and softly stroking his heated face, König was almost panting into your embrace, quick breaths leaving his mouth and a dazed expression on his face. He really was a beautiful sight to see.

Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin - "hesitant kiss"

He was confident in every sense of the word. His cocky, sometimes too narcissistic attitude should have been annoying, but it looked good on him, fitting if you got to know him. You never noticed a thing he did without his usual courage, not up until you two got into a relationship. Funnily, he wasn't such an egotistical man when it came to showing affection.

Finally finding the motivation to get up from your place on the couch, you popped your joints after sitting for so long. The TV show you've been watching just ended for the night, and as much as you would have loved to stay in a lying position, you still had to shower and get to your actual bed to sleep. It was better to avoid back pain after all.

"Where are you going?"

Looking down at the voice, your boyfriend was blinking bearly at you from between the pillows, clearly having just woken up. He always offered to keep you company while you watched your shows, even when he himself wasn't interested, but that sometimes resulted in this; him sleeping peacefully next to you, tucked under the blankets and pillows. You didn't mind too much to be fair: he was quiet when asleep, the opposite of what he was like when awake. You didn't mean it in a bad way of course, he just had a habit of commenting on whatever you were watching, often making you slightly irritated. Lucky for him that he was good at making it up to you, so it was hard to stay mad at him for long.

"Taking a shower."

"Come back."

You almost laughed at the way he reached his arm out towards you, then let it uselessly flop back onto the couch. You barely understood what he was mumbling, but you had the routine of these nights to help.

"Sorry baby."

"Why not?"

"We can sleep in our bedroom, you know?"

"Please?"

It was rare he begged, so taking pity on his pouting form, you sighed and turned your body back towards him.

"Fine. But what do I get?"

"Come here."

Plopping yourself down into his open arms, Horangi leaned up with the intention of kissing you. Before you could appreciate his affection though, he stopped suddenly, just barely before your lips could have met in the middle. His body went still under you, eyes more awake and blinking uncertainty up at you.

"It's okay, go ahead."

At your soft encouragement, he seemed to come back to himself. Blinking a few times he moved, finally cutting the distance between your lips short.

You knew he was insecure about the scars adorning his face, as much as he tried to hide it. Horangi always acted confident, no matter what he did or who he was with, but when it came to showing you who he really was, sometimes he seemed to shrink into himself and try to hide. You weren't giving up however; he's been doing much better with showing his love openly for you and not letting his insecurities get in the way of his actions, so you were proud of him for trying. You knew it wouldn't get solved from one day to another, but he has already given you much to love and believe. It was only a matter of time before he was his usual self-assured self when it came to kissing you too.

Alex Keller - "passionate kiss"

Any chance he got, he managed to make physical contact with you, one way or another. A hand on the small of your back, an arm across your stomach, forehead resting on your shoulder; you name it and he has done it before. This might have been because of the fact that he spent a lot of time away from home, but physical touch was simply just his love language really. Besides, you didn't mind how touchy he was, enjoying the closeness just as much as he did.

Thankful for the previously cut up vegetables on the wooden board, you turned just in time to catch your boyfriend entering the house. Closing the front door behind him, Alex looked a little rugged; he's been mowing and watering the lawn all morning, so it wasn't anything you haven't expected. Still, the sight made you shake your head with a fond smile, directing him to the bathroom upstairs for a cleanup before he even considered touching and dirtying you. He complied easily enough after some good-natured banter, promising to come back down clean a few minutes later.

Just as you were ready to put every ingredient into the pot placed on the stove, two strong arms wound themselves around your middle, pulling you into a solid chest behind you. As kisses found their way onto your neck, you couldn't help but laugh at the feeling of a mustache tickling your sensitive skin.

"Alex! Come on, you know that tickles!"

"But I'm clean now, so it's free game!"

"No please."

Slightly pulling away while giggling, you turned in his hold and laced your arms around his neck.

"You might be clean, but I have a soup to cook. If you distract me, lunch won't be ready anytime soon."

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

At his cheeky reply, you let one of your hands hit his chest gently, shaking your head at him. You couldn't deny how happy you were however, a smile ever-present on your face.

"It would. Now, let me work please."

"Just give me a minute."

Before you could reply, his left hand came up to hold your face tenderly. Leaning down, Alex kissed you, silencing whatever protest was on your mind at that moment.

Humming into his mouth, you reciprocated immediately, not caring too much about the food behind you anymore. As you deepened the kiss, enjoying the feeling of your lips on his, you let more of your body weight rest against him, making his hold tighten slightly. His other hand soon sneaked up from your waist, grasping into your hair lightly. He made sure not to pull and hurt you in any way, he was just anchoring you to himself even closer — more securely. It was a habit of his you learned to love very quickly, and he wasn't one to bother hiding how much he enjoyed it every time either.

After a few minutes have passed locked together like that, you finally pulled away and put some distance between the two of you.

"Don't think I will let you get away with this."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Farah Karim - "forehead kiss"

Constantly fighting wasn't an easy thing, not for the body nor the soul. After days, weeks of being on the field and putting up with everything happening around you, it wasn't a surprise when relaxing and letting go became difficult to anyone who has experienced it. For her, it seemed especially hard, but with your help, she found there was a way to calm the storm inside her.

Your girlfriend wasn't big on showing signs of affection in public and you didn't blame her for that in the slightest. As a Commander and highly respected soldier, Farah had a front and reputation to uphold, and there wasn't really a place for being openly emotional. That didn't mean she didn't love you, and you always got reassured by the little things she did for you — waving when leaving from base, giving you a subtle nod to let you know something, sending you a little smile in a private way. It was hard to stay loving and affectionate when operating a whole Force, and you understood it enough to not demand anything she couldn't give or do.

Routinely, when Farah finally came home after a long period of time, it took her a few days to ease back into a calm state. She was always level-headed, out in the field or in everyday life, but all the fighting took a mental toll on her. She didn't like to let you know when she was doing bad or just had a difficult time getting used to the quiet and calm of home, but you always noticed anyways. It wasn't hard: when you know someone as deeply as you two knew each other, it was nearly impossible to miss signs like those. Fortunately, you had a good way of helping her, one that didn't require more than a little patience and your love.

"Love?"

You stepped into the bedroom while calling out for your girlfriend, putting a mug on the nightstand.

"I'm here."

Feeling her presence behind you, you turned and greeted her with a smile.

"Can I read to you?"

It was usual for you two to end up under the soft covers tangled up together, but free just enough to read one-one book by yourselves. It wasn't unheard of either that one of you offered to read aloud, because both of you found it calming and a good way to spend time effectively together. Now, Farah had a slight frown on her face, visibly considering your offer. Her stance was still stiff, gaze often darting back and forth in any room she stepped in. You understood of course; she was barely back from a long mission, it was tough to get back to your usual routine. After a few seconds though, her expression softened and with a nod, she closed the door behind her.

Turning around, you made quick work of the sheets and pillows, laying down in a way your back was still propped up onto the bed frame. Grasping a book you were half finished with, you opened your arms in an open invitation.

"Come here."

It didn't take long until you were both comfortably under the blankets, legs interviewed and her head on your shoulder. The room was quiet except for your soft words, and within minutes, Farah was breathing steady next to you, body finally relaxing.

It went like that for some time, and when you went to turn the page and start a new chapter, her voice stopped you.

"Thank you."

Untangling herself a little, she pulled herself up and gently kissed your forehead. It was unhurried and entirely chaste, just like her kisses usually were; in this form, they meant more than anything else in her book, and by default, in yours too. Sensing how grateful she was, you gave her a warm smile, and with a gentle hand on her back, you directed your attention back to the book in your other. It wasn't long before she was snoring softly against you, quiet breaths rhythmically hitting your chest.

[bellzsq]

“5 more minutes”

Y/n wakes Pablo before he has his first training back with his team.

Warnings: none.

Y/ns pov

“Baby, time to wake up.” I said as I opened the curtains to our bedroom.

“Amor… no..” Pablo groaned as he covered his eyes.

“Yes. It’s your first day back.” I pulled the sheets off of him.

“5 more minutes” Pablo pulled the sheets back making me loose my grip.

“You take forever to get ready, plus I’m driving you and I need to go to the market for groceries.” I told him.

“Great so we both really have no where to be in a rush,” he smiles at me sarcastically as he sat up.

“Get dressed.” I rolled my eyes before making my way to our bathroom to brush my teeth.

“I made you breakfast, it’s on the counter and your protein shake is already made so I suggest you hurry up before it gets runny and you don’t drink it.” I said.

He groaned loudly before pulling his body up from our king size bed.

“What’s even for breakfast?” He yawned.

“Pancakes..”

“Junk ones or the protein banana ones?” He put his white plain shirt on.

“What do you think?” I shot him a quick glare before putting my toothbrush in my mouth.

He put his arms up in surrender. “Just making sure,” he smiled before he made his way downstairs.

After I was done brushing my teeth I went into our closet and picked out a simple alo yoga outfit.

It was just a simple black pair of leggings and a navy blue alo sporty bra.

I put random Nike socks on with my black Nike tennis shoes.

I went back to our bathroom and used a little bit of gel and put my black/brown/blonde (whatever color your hair is) hair in a slick back bun.

Pablo came back into our room and changed into a pair of Nike sport black shorts and his black Nike long sleeve with Nike air maxes.

He brushed his teeth as I got my purse and my phone off the charger.

Once we were both ready and downstairs I got the car keys to my white Mercedes and I got in the drivers seat and he was in the passenger.

“Don’t go too slow, you know how much I hate it when you make me late.” Pablo had a bit of attitude.

“What’s your problem?” I looked left then right to see if cars were coming then I turned right.

“The pancakes were burnt on the bottom!” He raised his voice a little.

“Are you serious?! Pablo it’s a pancake. There’s nothing special. And you had a protein shake you will be fine.” I rolled my eyes at his sass.

“Whatever. You just never wanna admit that you messed up,” he opened his phone.

“I do admit. Here! ‘I burnt the bottom of your pancake because I was finishing a text to my mom. Sorry.” I stopped at the red light.

“My phone didn’t even charge last night,” he put his phone on the charger in the middle under the radio.

“Are you excited for your first day back?” I said with a small question in attempt to clear the tension.

“Yeah, pedri said that everyone is really excited to see me and help me recover.” He looked out his window.

“That’s good, they wanna help you through your hard time…” I turned left into camp Nou.

“Okay, have a good time shopping. Don’t forget the chocolate protein powder and bananas.” He grabbed his bag and his phone.

“I never do… have a good training.” I said before he shut his door.

After me and Pablo had arguments, even slight disagreements we never say I love you for a couple hours.

But it’s a normal thing for us. It’s not out of hate or envy. It’s just how we both are.

I watched him get into the training ground building where the boys change before staring training.

I pulled out and seen taia, raphinhas wife was behind me and she did 2 honks to say hi.

I drove to the market 20 minutes away then grabbed my purse and phone and locked the door.

As I strolled through the isles I made sure im everything I was getting was low calorie and had atleast some protein and fiber. If not Pablo would have a fit.

After I was done shopping there I seen a new flower boutique so I dropped off all the groceries in the trunk then went in.

They were all beautiful and my eyes landed on beautiful red roses.

Red was Pablo’s favorite color, plus they represent love so I got them and bought them to the checkout.

The woman checking out the flowers was a beautiful middle eastern woman.

“Today your total will be $92.68. But would you like a costume note?” She asks me.

“Yeah that would be great,” I smiled kindly at her.

“It would be another 10 dollars if you still wanna do it.” She says as she took the small papers out.

“Of yeah go ahead I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, what would you like the note to say?”

“Happy first day back”

“Okay…” she wrote the note in beautiful hand writing and I signed my name at the bottom in sharpie.

I handed her my card and as it was processing I spoke up.

“So is this a new boutique? I feel like I’ve never been in here before..”

“Yeah we just opened this weekend. We haven’t had many customers yet and I feel like the price isn’t helping much. But we need money to pay rent to this place.”

“Yeah I understand. In my perspective this is a very nice place you have.” I said as she handed my card back and the bouquet.

“Thank you very much. Have a great day miss,” she smiled.

I smiled back kindly then left the store back to my car.

It was about time to go get Pablo. He was leaving training early because Xavi didn’t want him being too active his first day back.

Once he got in the car I reached behind his seat and handed him the flowers.

“What’s this…” he held them in his hand observing the flowers.

“Amor.. you didn’t have to..” he read the note getting a little teary eye.

I don’t blame him. It was his first day back being with his people, he was probably overwhelmed.

“I had to.. I’m so proud of you pabs..” I kiss his pink lips softly.

“I love you..” he smiles at me softly with a sparkle in his eye from the tears..

“I love you so so much hermoso..” I rub his cheek softly.

I started driving again.

“How was training? Was it worth the wait?” I ask him.

“It was great. Nothing changed between any of us. It was like the good days..”

“Good I’m happy it’s going well.”

Sorry guys I know that was maybe a bit boring but yeah that’s all I have for today.

[omamorens]

Do you have any HCs with Ivy and Ink Blade?

OH BOY IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE. ivy is a very interesting character to me (fhjy spoilers: and im glad she survived). tho people might not really like her that much, i think shes neat and could have a lot of nuances if her character could be explored enough

ivy (pre and post shatter-star) is a regina george mean girl but with pop-punk rock aesthetics.

she’s a girls girl and much like her canon, she loves fashion.

loves fashion in a sense that she loves it for Herself and not because she wants to impress anyone.

she does not give a shit about what anyone thinks of her actually, and that generally comes off as “mean”.

ivy only sees her attitude as a filter for those too weak to be acquainted with her.

though she has a hard exterior, she does have a soft spot for those who could actually stick by her.

riding off on that “loves fashion” part, i think ivy is particularly good at finding good deals and the best bargains. she doesn’t go for the most expensive stuff because that’s just wasteful.

she’s the type of friend you want to go to the flea market with because this girl drives a hard bargain.

riding off of that, ivy always takes oisin out to shop because there’s not a lot of dragonborn-proof clothes for him so when they do find stuff, its too expensive to be worth it unless ivy is the one bargaining for him.

oisin is always grateful of her for it.

in her shatter-star state, ivy’s “mean” attitude got nastier and more cruel

ivy has a hard time asking for forgiveness (oisin will tell you that she almost never says the word “i’m sorry” genuinely), but she does it in her own way.

sometimes when she passes by mazey in the halls, ivy genuinely compliments the bard on her badidas.

“nice shoes. they’re the 90’ exclusive line, right? those were the best quality shoes they released. such a shame their next series went downhill from there.”

mazey, apprehensive of ivy at first but open to having this conversation with her, “no, yeah, you’re absolutely right. these are the only pairs i can both dance and fight in. its been a year but theyre still going strong.”

and the girls continue talking about finding the best deals and the most practical clothing they could have as adventurers. fabian is not very happy about this.

mazey of course is not required to forgive ivy for things she said and done, and ivy is not at all actively seeking for verbal forgiveness anyway

but they can be courteous to each other and bond over similar interests

lucy, being a frost genasi, absolutely knows how to knit. she knits her own clothes sometimes because not much clothing items in stores have her size.

when ivy found out about this during freshman year, ivy asked lucy to teach her and they absolutely bonded over knitting.

at some point both the girls have knitted some stuff for all the members of their party.

everyone still keeps their knitted gifts, even if they’re frayed or have grown too small for them to use.

surely i will have more to write on her character but for now these are what i have on the top of my head. ivy embra they dont get you like i do (ivy hcs with inkblade i will continue in another post because this one got too long)

[rotworld]

20: Instinct

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you're the primary caretaker of a lorleian child who was raised in captivity. to help her learn how to survive in the wild, you've had to enlist the help of an adult lorleian with extremely territorial streak.

->original work. explicit; contains dub-con, mentions of child neglect/abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, murder, breeding kink and dirty talk, tentacles, terato, mentions of hard vore/cannibalism.

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It’s a two hour drive from the Marine Life Rescue Center to the particular stretch of beach where Awimi has her rewilding lessons. The journey requires preparation: a custom child’s car seat, upholstered with soft absorbent padding that maintains moisture. A barrel of saltwater solution with an attached spritzing nozzle that dispenses in five-minute intervals. An array of increasingly complex plastic puzzle boxes, central chambers stuffed with shrimp and minnows. The van smells like a fish market but you only notice for the first ten minutes. You take a snaking coastal highway, the windows rolled down to let in the sea breeze, the scent of brine and the squawks of gulls. 

“I’m hungry,” she complains. You can hear the squeal and creak of plastic coming from the backseat, and the sounds of her suckers popping off of things.

“You’re going to eat so many fish in just a little bit,” you assure her.

“Want fish now.” 

“There’s fish in your box.” 

“Want better fish,” she insists. One of her tentacles scoots down the side of your seat, playing with your seatbelt. “Fish that move.” 

“Soon,” you promise. “I bet Ishi’s saving all the best ones for you.” 

She pouts. “He better.”

You glance at the mirror frequently to make sure she hasn’t unbuckled her seatbelt and started sliding around. So far so good. She’s hard at work on one of the puzzle boxes, her enormous eyes and squiggling pupils trained intently on a stubborn sliding mechanism that she keeps prodding and picking at. It’s no wonder she’s so hungry with how big she’s gotten. Her tentacles used to dangle off the edge of the car seat without touching the floor and her hair-like head tendrils were just short, wiggling nubs. 

Malnutrition and time spent in a cramped enclosure have impacted her growth and she’ll probably never be as large as an average adult of her subspecies, but she might get to be your size, at least. You’d worry a lot more if you weren’t certain she won’t be facing the open ocean alone.

“What are you most excited about today?” you ask her.

“The reef!” she says. Bored of the puzzle box, she passes it from her hands to her tentacles. They keep working on it even as her attention wanders to the rolling waves outside. “It’s pretty! And the water is good! And there’s lots of fish, and shells. Ishi is really good at shells. They should be easy to open but they’re not. You have to be really strong. Ishi is the strongest.” 

“He is,” you agree. “But I bet you’ll grow up to be really strong, too. You’re already stronger than me.”

“Really?” She sounds suspicious.

“Yep. You remember that sardine jar I gave you last night?” 

“Tasty,” she says.

“I’m not supposed to give you the whole jar,” you admit. “But I couldn’t get it open.” 

Awimi grins. Her teeth are like rows of spikes. 

There’s always a moment of tense, solemn silence when you pass beneath a rocky cliff with a view of the water. There’s an exit lane snaking up a steep hill to a sprawling, empty parking lot. The words “SEA SAFARI” are no longer mounted atop the decrepit ticket gates but their ghost remains in faded paint stains. You only saw the place once, and only in the midst of it being gutted and drained following a series of ruinous lawsuits. Awimi had crammed herself into the corner of a completely bare and featureless enclosure. She was clearly sick, her tentacles pale pink like raw clam when they should’ve been maroon speckled with white spots. Her chromatophors sparkled a warning when you waded in. She bit your hand when you offered her food and wrapped her tentacles all around your arm, suckers pulling harshly at your skin. 

When you didn’t do anything—didn’t move, didn’t yell, didn’t try to hit her—she blinked her large eyes, banded like colorful marbles, and her suckers loosened. She was so small and weighed so little that you could lift her up and carry her in your arms, her tentacles winding around you like the straps of a harness. The Rescue Center had brought a tank to transport her but she wouldn’t get in. You spent the entire ride back with her clinging to your chest, misting her with a spray bottle while she tried to camouflage herself with the colors of your shirt.

“No more bad place,” Awimi says quietly.

“No more,” you promise her. The property’s already been sold as part of Sea Safari’s liquidation. They’re going to build a new shopping center aimed at summer tourists. “No one is allowed to catch you and put you in a little tank anymore.” 

“What if they try?” she asks.

“Then we’ll stop them. So will Ishi. You know how strong he is.” More accurately, he’d kill them. He’d do it for a lot less. “Almost there,” you say. Awimi flicks her tentacles impatiently. You hear the snap of the puzzle box opening and then the crunch of shrimp. 

Your destination is a shingle beach. Rocky, far from anything and bearing a horrific reputation of drownings and disappearances, it’s a quiet place that’s made for the perfect meeting spot. You park at the top of a steep, dirt hill and strip down to your wetsuit. Awimi is out of the van the moment you open her door, flinging off her seatbelt and oozing out in a flurry of excited movement. She’s a bit floppy on land but she’s perfectly capable of getting where she needs to go. She’s snuck out of her enclosures at the Rescue Center more times than you can count to grab a midnight snack from the freezer down the hall, the only evidence of her brief adventure a trail of puddles on the floor.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” she says, suckers pulling at your ankle. You check your scuba gear one more time before you follow her down the bumpy slope. “Ishi’s here! Ishi!” 

That’s unusual, you think. Usually he waits at the cove. When you look down the beach where seafoam trickles over the rocks, your stomach clenches in fear and revulsion.

There, at the very edge of the water, you see an enormous creature perched on the rocks. It’s an adult lorleian, the same subspecies as Awimi. His head tendrils are fully grown into gelatinous strands, smoothed back from his face and plastered flat to his back and shoulders like wet locks of hair. The webbing between his fingers is thicker than Awimi’s and not quite as transparent, and his torso is covered in old scars—everything from shark bites and serrated squid tentacle scrapes to knife wounds. He’s much larger than either of you, his lower half a mass of squirming, enormous tentacles, each one long, thick, and wrapped around a man in a waterproof coat who flails like he’s fighting for his life.

“Wait here for just a second,” you tell her.

“Why?” Awimi says. 

“I have to ask Ishi a grown-up question. It won’t take long, I promise.” She pouts until you grab a puzzle box from the van, and then you rush down the beach. You hear awful gurgling sounds the closer you get, muffled screams and groans of pain. The man is almost entirely engulfed in the slithering grasp of unyielding tentacles. He thrashes and wails, limbs trapped, the full weight of a lorleian pinning him face-down in the shallow water rushing over the rocks. 

“Ishyr,” you say, your voice firm. 

The lorleian looks up and a shiver runs down your spine at the predatory coldness in his gaze. Like Awimi, his eyes are large with swirls and speckles of fantastic color. His pupils are long and narrow like a leering glare, constricted in the harshness of surface sunlight. “Yes?” he says, sounding bored. 

“Stop.”

“Mm. No.” He holds your gaze while his tentacles squeeze tighter. One of the man’s arms is wrenched behind his back at an unnatural angle and then yanked out of the socket. You hear him try to scream, shoulders trembling and heaving. “He brought a crab trap. To steal my crabs. Isn’t that illegal?” 

“Yes, but you can’t—”

“Then stop me.” Ishyr hunches over his prey possessively, leering at you. “Go on,” he says. “Try it. Come a little closer.” You don’t think he’d kill you in front of Awimi but you’re not certain. There’s no safe approach. His reach is long enough in every direction to catch you before you’re close enough to do anything. He watches your frown deepen with faint amusement and makes a rumbling sound, a grating purr that sets your teeth on edge. “Mhm. That’s what I thought.” Ishyr doesn’t dislocate the other arm. He wraps a tentacle all the way down, shoulder to wrist, and squeezes. You hear a series of sharp crunches as bones snap and shatter beneath ripping skin, blood darkening the man’s sleeve.

You move in sheer desperation, lunging at Ishyr. You don’t even get within arm’s reach before he has you encircled, two tentacles wrapped around your body with a threatening, bruising grip. He drags you closer until you’re ankle deep in the rising tide, seafoam tickling your ankles. 

“That wasn’t smart,” he says. “You could die. I could strangle you. Snap your neck. Hold you under until you drown. That’s always fun. I could even do this.” His claws seize the man by the hair, dragging his head out of the water so you can see his bulging, terrified eyes and the tentacle threatening to break his jaw. You can see it bulging beneath the skin of his throat as it undulates and slithers deeper but you know he’s keeping it tightly compacted. The same way you might clench your first, Awimi and Ishyr can flex their muscles and alter the thickness of their tentacles. Useful for dragging prey out of tight spaces. “I can reach all kinds of things like this,” Ishyr murmurs. “Things you really don’t want me to reach.” 

“Don’t,” you beg him. “Ishyr—”

He never looks away from your horrified gaze as he unclenches his muscles. The tentacle instantly expands to its full girth and you hear several things crack and pop inside the man’s body. Blood trickles from the ripped skin at the corner of his mouth. His eyes roll back in his head and you desperately hope he’s unconscious. Ishyr lets his head drop back into the slick stones gracelessly and something else crunches unpleasantly. He smirks at you. “Today’s lesson is how to open shells. Isn’t it?” A tentacle wraps around the man’s neck and twists sharply.

Your stomach churns. Ishyr lets you go and you stumble away from him, nearly losing your footing. He calls out to Awimi in Enteroctal Lorleian, a language of melodic trills and chirps that’s almost ear-piercing on the surface without water to muffle it. Awimi slowly scoots down the beach, glancing between the two of you. “Do you have to do that in front of her?” you whisper. 

“Does she look upset to you?” he asks. 

She doesn’t. Nervous, yes, the way she always does when you argue, but her eyes fall to the dead man as Ishyr snags the back of his shirt with a tentacle and starts to drag him into the water. She doesn’t look afraid, or disgusted, or even confused. She looks hungry. That’s the look she gives her puzzle boxes when she can smell fresh fish inside. Her suckers lap at the blood on the rocks. It doesn’t matter that it’s human. It’s flesh, and Ishyr killed it, so it must be meant for eating.

“Can I try?” she asks shyly.

You pointedly ignore the smug look Ishyr gives you. “Yes,” he answers in Lorleian. “But you have to open it yourself. I’ll show you.” 

It’s an uncomfortably long swim to Ishyr’s cove, but only for you. Awimi blossoms once she’s in the water. She unfurls her tentacles in a big, shivering stretch and then she spins and flits around with bubbles jetting behind her. You can’t hear what she says to Ishyr or what he says back. Everything is muffled to your ears, Lorleian sounding like musical warbles and grunts. But she’s smiling, laughing with high-pitched tinkling sounds like dolphin squeals, her tentacles grabbing playfully at his, and Ishyr is so gentle with her. His tentacles make little grasping curls where they touch her skin, rubbing with featherlight gentleness the same way their subspecies strokes their soft, vulnerable eggs. 

In the waving green stalks of a kelp forest, Ishyr suddenly comes to a stop, lower body flared defensively. He passes the corpse to his hands and engulfs Awimi with his tentacles, hiding her completely from view. Another lorleian drifts by—big, thick with muscle, a gray back and shoulders with a white underbelly. You recognize the sharp-tipped fins of a shark knifing through the kelp. It circles you once, then twice, slightly closer. Your heart leaps into your throat when something loops around your ankle and pulls. 

Ishyr drags you over with a tentacle until you’re close enough to grab with his claw, long fingers wrapped all the way around your neck. You struggle when he lowers his mouth to your neck, dagger-like teeth pricking your wetsuit. He makes a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than you hear, a vibration quivering all across your body. The other lorleian circles one more time, staring at you intently, before it sneers and swims away. Ishyr waits for some sign invisible to you before he suddenly lets you go and starts swimming again, his tentacles parting to allow Awimi to swim back out. 

He keeps you close after that, you notice. He looks back to make sure you’re still following several times, gesturing impatiently with a curl of the nearest tentacle. 

The next time you surface is on the sandy beach of the cove. Ishyr and Awimi stop swimming and start snaking along the ground, pulling themselves out of the water. There’s a scattering of large rock formations and tide pools with small, colorful creatures darting around, and the mouth of a sea cave up ahead. Bones litter the shore, sun-bleached and picked clean. Some animal. Some lorleian. Some human. Ishyr drags the corpse with his tentacles, leaving a soggy, blood-speckled trail up the beach. He stops to glance back over at his shoulder. 

“Might want to wait out here,” he says. 

You don’t argue. You can smell dead fish and decay, and you have no desire to see his food stash again. He chirrups at Awimi and she makes a similar sound back, much higher in pitch. You swear he almost smiles. 

You wait in the shadow of the cave’s entrance, watching the tide roll in and wisping clouds drift by. It’s peaceful here. Nothing but the whisper of the ocean and the faraway song of seabirds. You see crabs scurry around and small fish dart back and forth. A pod of dolphins cruise by in the distance, followed by a group of sleek gray lorleians. Coves like these are common spots for lorleians to rear young, whether they’re laying eggs in shallow nooks and burrows or whelping in the sand. It’s odd that Ishyr is the only one here, using it as a place to store his extras, but maybe he wasn’t alone once. 

All those months ago when he first saw you with Awimi in your arms and tears in your eyes, maybe that’s why he showed himself—sliding slowly and carefully up the beach with a pensive expression—instead of just swimming away.

Their voices echo from further in the cave. Ishyr uses a very different tone with Awimi than he does with you, evident even when he speaks Lorleian. The sounds are longer and drawling in sharp contrast to Awimi’s quick trills. Patient, you think. He goes slow and he listens intently. You also hear some truly sickening sounds—the shredding of meat, the crack of sinew, the wet slurp of soft tissues and slippery organs sliding around. 

It’s easy to lose track of time. Eventually, the chatter stops and the wet noises of a body coming apart fade to silence. You risk peeking deeper inside, only to find Ishyr very carefully depositing Awimi in a tide pool. She’s fast asleep, her tentacles curling and uncurling in unconscious motions. They cling to Ishyr’s arm when he sets her down until he plucks them off with his own, the gentle grip of his suckers seeming to soothe her. Ishyr strokes her head-tendrils. 

“Say something when you come in,” he mutters, keeping his voice a low, quiet hiss. “I don’t like surprises, especially here.” 

“Sorry,” you whisper. He glowers at you over his shoulder. “How is she?” 

“Mm. She’s doing well.” That almost sounds like pride in his voice. “Very stubborn. It’s a good thing. She doesn’t give up, even when she’s frustrated. She speaks better. Do you practice with her?” 

You wish you could. You don’t have the right organs to make the noises necessary for Lorleian, but you’ve studied to understand as much as you can. “There are recordings online,” you say. “I play them, and then we both try to figure out what they’re saying.” 

Ishyr sloughs towards you, tentacles squishing wetly against the stone floor. He flicks his hand towards the entrance of the cave and you follow, easily keeping pace beside him. His tentacles keep wandering over and sliding against your legs. You wonder if he even notices he’s doing it. Awimi’s the same way—her limbs all have minds of their own and sometimes grasp or smack things when she’s not paying attention, acting on their own impulses. 

“Do you have young of your own?” Ishyr asks. He doesn’t look directly at you but he watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye. 

“Me? No,” you say, startled by the question. 

“Mm. You could.” One of his tentacles slithers up to your thigh and you almost stumble. “Very easily, you could.” Ishyr snags you by the waist this time. You’d be more frightened if you weren’t so confused. His tentacles aren’t squeezing like they usually do. They’re loose and slippery, suckers plucking at your wetsuit and caressing your body. “Take this off,” he says.

“Wh—huh?” you ask. 

Ishyr cups your chin and makes you look him in the eye. “Take this off,” he repeats with a sharp smile. “Or I will rip it off of you.” 

“Ishyr, what—are you—wait a second!” You pull frantically at his tentacle when one of his suckers tugs threateningly at your sleeve. “What are you doing?” 

Another tentacle winds up your thigh, the tip settling directly between your legs where it starts to stroke and writhe. You completely lose your train of thought at the sensation of his suckers clinging and releasing in short bursts. It feels like a kiss, like a hot, sucking mouth trying to get at your sex through your clothes. “Is it not obvious?” he asks, claws grasping your jaw.

“It’s unexpected,” you insist. “Do you even like me? Like, in any way?” 

He regards you with narrowed eyes, searching your face for deception. “I haven’t been subtle.” 

This is news to you. “You threaten me every time I see you—”

“And yet you live,” he says wryly. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. More bones on this beach.” A tentacle drapes over your shoulder, the suckers honing in on your nipples and teasing them, pulling gently. The more you squirm, the more you’re surrounded by grasping, groping limbs. You’re surprised when he presses his lips against yours. They’re slick and salty, sharp teeth nibbling at your lower lip. “You’re here,” he murmurs, hot breath warming your mouth. “In my cove. My territory. I’ve invited you here, over and over, and I’ve let you leave alive. Either you’re kin, or someone trusted.” 

He starts tugging at your wetsuit again and you find yourself complying. This doesn’t feel real. The truth is you’ve snuck a few glances at Ishyr in the time you’ve known him and had some thoughts you’re not too proud of about his tentacles. Never in a million years did you imagine he’d be hooking his claws around the zipper of your wetsuit and tugging it down with such hunger in his eyes. 

“I’ve been contending with my instincts,” he admits. “But probably not the ones you’re thinking of. There’s a part of me that wants to bite when I see you doing stretches on the beach. You expose your neck…your belly…weak spots. Very enticing.” His tentacles squeeze those spots he likes so much while he speaks, suckling at your neck and wrapping around your stomach. Your face feels hot. Was he there when you did your warm ups before getting in the water? You don’t remember seeing him. Unless he’d stayed in the water, lurking somewhere just out of sight without saying anything…

Once your zipper’s down far enough, his tentacles are all over you. They’re helping, you think, trying to peel it off, but they’re also touching, fondling, feeling like tongues and fingers and firm hands and something else all together, all at once. Ishyr doesn’t waste any time. You’ve still got one leg in the wetsuit when you feel his suckers toying with your sex. You gasp and the tip of a tentacle fills your mouth. The taste is strange and briney, the texture slightly bumpy. 

“Shhhh,” he whispers. “Awimi is sleeping.” It’s infuriating how calm and collected he is, not even panting as he encloses you in constant pleasure. A tentacle rubs your sex while another toys with your entrance, the rest coiling sensually around your chest and hips and thighs, suckers sliding wetly over your skin like thousands of tongues. “Had you ever seen our young? Before her? I bet you hadn’t. We’re very solitary and the shore is too dangerous for the little ones. For us, when we see a happy, healthy hatchling swimming alongside a beautiful mother…a dedicated father…a lorleian, strong enough to rear young and protect it…” He shivers with a groan. “Mm. I would’ve mated you in the sand the day we met if we were the same species. Given the little one a sibling…or two…or more.”

He’s getting excited the more he talks about it, pulling the tentacle out of your mouth and replacing it with his tongue. The sensation of being covered in him, draped in licking, sucking kisses and caressing hands, pushes you rapidly towards climax. He must be able to tell because you hear him moan into your mouth and then everything gets harder, faster and more intense. The tentacle engulfing your sex feels like it’s pulsating, the suckling sensation making you buck your hips and whimper against Ishyr’s tongue. He wraps around you firmly, urging you to rut against him harder, to ride the wave of ecstasy as long and hard as you can. 

“If I could breed you, I would,” he murmurs, nipping the corner of your mouth. He trails kisses along your jaw to your ear, curling his tongue around the lobe. “You wouldn’t leave here empty. No, you wouldn’t leave at all. You’d be so, so full, it would only be a matter of time. Mm, you’re lucky I can’t. Seeing you with my eggs might ruin me. All I’d be able to think about is breeding you again, and again, and again.”  

He pulls you against his body when you come, your chest pressed to his and your hips pumping frantically in the wet, pleasurable warmth of his tentacles. You’re still catching your breath when you realize he hasn’t stopped babbling, muttering in your ear about breeding and eggs and how unbearably sexy you’d be guarding his little translucent bundles of joy. He stiffens suddenly, tentacles suddenly going rigid before his whole body relaxes and he sags against you.

“Ishyr? Ishyr!” you hiss. He’s too heavy and you both end up on the floor of the cave. He’s not bothered about it, if the way he immediately wraps around you is any indication. “Did…did you…?”

“I had to calm myself,” he mutters, his speech slightly slurred. “Can’t mate you today. We need time. You have to take Awimi back when she’s finished napping.” 

“Time?” you ask, intrigued. “How much time?” 

Ishyr rolls onto his side and brings you with him. You’d call it spooning if he wasn’t somehow on every side of you simultaneously, warm and comfortable. “Mm. The better part of a day, ideally.” 

“A day?” you echo, incredulous. “Do lorleians really mate that long?” 

Ishyr smiles. It’s wide, sharp and threatening, the same way he smiles when he casually threatens to bash your skull open against the rocks for questioning what he’s teaching Awimi. Did he think you’d realize he was kidding somehow? Was that its own strange form of flirtation? “I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?” he purrs, tracing your lips with his claw. 

You meet him halfway when he leans in for another kiss. You guess you will.

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

what do you like about cars?

I think you knew, upon asking this, that I could only ever have answered with either an ironic one-liner or a dozen-part novel. And unfortunately, this is already the second line, so novel it is. So then, without any further ado than the literal half year that’s gone by since this was asked, let's go.

1. Engineering matters

At the end of last year (aka when I started writing this, yikes) my dear old iPhone 6S moved on to a new home because it simply wasn't keeping up with me anymore. (And again, I was using an iPhone 6S in 2023. If I say a phone is too slow, it's too slow.) I had plenty of criteria for the replacement: a smallish screen not overboard on resolution, ideally a physical media control button and/or vibration toggle, repairability, a FUCKING AUX JACK... Something like the Sony Xperia 10, whose only real issue is marketing so trash you've only just now learned Sony never stopped making phones.

And yet...

This fancy wallpapers-sporting foldable is a Motorola RAZR 5G, a phone whose too-big screen already broke (though at the edge due to adhesive issues) and those who dared try warn repairing it will be as hard as phone repairs get. Why the fuck did I buy this? Well, because it has something more important than the aux jack, proper sizing, and good cameras: it made me go “That’s so cool!”, and when’s the last time a phone made you say that? It's the cusp of a new technology, and whether it becomes the future of phones, a future of phones, or just a weird footnote, it is an island of interesting in a sea of boring. And sadly, even this island is rapidly sinking. The drive for new form factors has already boiled down to the same two phones and their evolution is sinking into the usual millimetric proportion tweaking, camera rearranging, touchscreen expanding, case material switching, fingerprint sensor moving, and spec improvements not even manufacturers can come up with use cases for. I mean, seriously, how does the iPhone 15 differ from a software-updated iPhone X (which is apparently not pronounced "x", so I guess the iPhone Twitter)? Nothing is new. Nothing is tackled differently. The user experience does not differ. And why should it, when iPhone users will get a new one out of habit anyway and many are so tech illiterate moving a button could hospitalize them? Five generation newer and 150% faster are numbers you basically have to trust, because they don't make a difference that matters.

But in cars? 150% faster will matter alright. Even just looking at it. Cars are a visceral experience to even witness, let alone ride in or drive, and the frantic engineering pursuits for performance and overall capability actually have impactful real world implications beyond "some pockets will bulge 1mm less". And their engineering involves so many fields that there’s always a breakthrough going on somewhere - which leads to another reason their engineering is so interesting: there’s simply so much of it that anyone interested in engineering will find something for them, no matter their level or sector of expertise! Interested in mechanics? Well, obviously you’ll have a field day! Aerodynamics? Don't even get me started! Electronics? You're getting more goods by the year! It spread from engine management to safety assists to infotainment to ergonomic adjustments to even suspension and aerodynamics! Sound design? Even just working on the way engines sound is a profession of its own, let alone making these barrels of metal and glass propelling themselves at triple digit speeds through hundreds of explosions a second things you can comfortably have a conversation in - and that's not even mentioning horns and chimes! Hi-Fi? We’ve spent most of a century trying to get concert hall sound from a tiny tin can where everyone sits off-center and everything bumps and shakes around and you have maybe room for two components* a third the normal size and speakers can only be in a handful of places you wouldn’t want them which may well be the next room over**!

And this is just engineering.

*Like everything in the car world, there are exceptions to that

**For those unfamiliar, subwoofers, the speakers dedicated to, indeed, sub-bass, due to their frequent humongousness are often installed in the trunk.

[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.

[miseta]

Novias de vacaciones

Misa Rodriguez x Marta Cardona

ONE SHOT 7K words

Summary : Misa and Marta spend their vacation in the beautiful town of Donostia, enjoying local specialities and attractions together. Maybe they will leave with bigger souvenirs than they expected. 

Fluff, fluff, fluff and a bit of smut +18

English, nor Spanish is my first language, feedback or advices are always welcomed ! Hope you like it !

☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀

“Why did you want to come here, it’s so crowded you can’t drive!” Misa exclaims, braking at once as a group of pedestrians crossed the street recklessly. 

The soft laugh of Marta fills the car and she looks fondly at her girlfriend. “It’s Donostia, middle of July, Misa. Wasn’t it you who insisted visiting the city where I played for two years?” 

The goalkeeper snorts, presses the accelerator again, turns right to the docks to queue behind a long row of cars and releases a long sigh. 

Marta side eyes the moody girl again “Misa! Don’t you lose your temper yet, Holidays hasn’t even started Dios mio!”

“We’ve already been stuck in traffic for hours! I remind you we were supposed to arrive before lunch! It pisses me off we spend another half hour dragging because of dumb guiris!” Misa moans. 

“Maria Isabel!”

“What?!” Misa turns her head to her girlfriend, she knows she’s pissing Marta off too but she’s hungry and has an urgent needs to pee that doesn’t improve her mood. 

“I will not endure the grumpy Misa during the only off week we have in common this summer!” The winger calls out with a hard stare. 

It sends the taller women quiet for the rest of their incredibly slow drive to the hotel. 

After what seemed like a while, they do arrive to a tall fancy building facing the bay. Marta gets out of the car to pick their luggages while Misa goes to park. They meet up at the reception shorty, Marta announcing their arrival at the welcoming desk. 

“Hola, I’ve a reservation for four nights at Marta Cardona de Miguel, por favor.”

The receptionist replied with a large smile. “Hola, yes indeed, room number 224, king sized bed with a view on the bay, no breakfast though, is that correct ?” 

“Sí, that’s it, gracias.”

“Vale, here’s your room card. Have a great stay and don’t hesitated if you need anything”.

The two women thank the receptionist and find their way to the elevator, opened the door number 224 and drops off their stuff in the room, Misa rushing to the WC at once. 

“Lo siento Pollito, I’ve calmed down.” Misa says when she exists the bathroom with a bashful look before she takes her girlfriend hand. 

The shorter women stands on her tiptoes to put a swift kiss on the goalkeeper lips “I’m glad you are… until your next tantrum!” This time Marta is satisfied to see the pout on Misa’s face reappear. 

☀

Misa and Marta eat all they could at a cute Pintxos near the market. They devour toasts of foie gras, shrimp and fish skewers, various croquetas accompanied by two large glasses of sangria. It feels so good to let go of their strict diet and enjoy their no calories counting meal together. 

After lunch, the couple set off to the docks surrounding the bay. On the way, they wandered through the narrow streets of the old city. 

“Oh Pollito! This T shirt’s looking good! I want to go inside the shop.” Misa tells Marta as they pass in front of a showcase with colorful items. 

“Vale, I think I saw a nice ensemble I’d like as well.”

Inside the shop, there are many people and the two girls manage to walk around the shelves to look at the displayed clothes. They shortly select a few items and go to the small fitting room together. 

Marta is the first to took off her clothes to try on the ensemble she spotted earlier and even if she has seen her girlfriend in sexy underwear countless times before, Misa can’t help but feel slightly aroused of the toned curves of the winger reflecting in the mirror, squeezed in the cramped room.

The goalkeeper pulls off her T shirt to hide the burning blushing she’s feeling on her cheeks as Marta bent over to pick up a flowing dark gray pants. Between quick glances, the taller girl grasps a white T shirt with hand-script letters and pulls it over her head. When her eyes emerged from the collar, Misa can only stare at her girlfriend who’s now fully dressed up. 

Marta is looking at herself in the mirror, her short silhouette nicely branded out by the pants and sleeveless top silky anthracite fabric. She sees the reflection of Misa’s dropping jaw behind her shoulder and breaks a large smile before turning over to the goalkeeper.  

Like a teenager, Misa feels herself smiling stupidly as she takes in Marta from head to toes, accentuating the throbbing she’s feeling down. 

The winger leans toward her, her smile has changed to something mischievous. “I guess you like it too, Bebé.” she says and planted a kiss on her lips. It takes everything in Misa not to enfold Marta in her arms to make the kiss last longer when she pulled off to stare at Misa’s own fitting. “I don’t think your T shirt’s worthing the price though. Try this one instead.” The winger says. 

Misa scowls and takes a look at the mirror. The T shirt does seem a bit too adjusted and the letters “Sun hills and bay” too big on the front but she’s not ready to let go. “But the design is brutal! Maybe it’s just too small?”

Marta continue to wag a piece of dark red fabric under her nose “It’s not giving Misa, I’m sure this will fit you better!”

Reluctantly, Misa take off her T-shirt to try on Marta’s suggested cloth. She’s irritated to find it’s fitting her very well, the dark wine red color really matching her complexion and the sleeveless and V-neck shape enhancing her muscular shoulders. She fakes a snort, unwilling to admit the better find of Marta before adding “Yeah, I guess it’s alright”. 

“You’re kidding me, we both know you’re looking sexy as hell in that.” The winger strikes back, pulling a smile from the goalkeeper. “Let’s take those to the cash desk and go the docks at last!” The winger concludes and Misa obediently follows her back in the shop, somehow wishing they’ll be heading back to hotel instead.

☀

When they arrive in front of the shore, the sun is lower and stretches the hundred of tiny shadows of people playing and sunbathing on the beach below. They lean on the guardrail for a few minutes, enjoying the view before they walked all the way to the ocean where they fall at the entrance of the aquarium of Donostia. 

The two women exchange a glance and go in at once. The tickets bought, Misa and Marta enter the dark place. The dim blue light of the tanks barely lightening their faces, they peer at the colorful marine species. 

After a moment, the goalkeeper pulls out her phone to take a picture of a particularly tiny fish with a prominent mouth and big eyes topped by a black stroke. “It’s you Bebé, it has your eyelashes!” Misa teases the shorter girl who just roll her eyes at her and goes over a huge tank filled with hundred of exotic fishes. 

Misa’s joins her girlfriend in front of the glass wall and the two girls loose themselves in the depth of blue water swirling with colorful shapes. Her hand creeps along her girlfriend’s back who quickly respond by resting her head on the taller women’s shoulder. “Es muy bonito…” Marta smiles as she finds Misa’s hand. “I’m glad to be here with you, Bebé.” 

Misa kisses her girlfriend’s temple and squeeze her hand tighter. “Mi tambien mi Pollito. Do you think we could go take ice cream after?” she asks innocently. 

☀

The end of the day goes quickly. They skipped the ice cream (to Marta’s delight, Misa pouted again) to have diner in an intriguing bask mixed asian restaurant-brewery in Gros neighborhood. They order dumplings, fried chicken wings and noodles. Marta convinces Misa who isn’t found of beer to try a sour and fruity one when she’s having a classic blond one. They chat lightly, enjoying every minute of the buzzy and warm atmosphere of the bask city while they eat the delicious food. 

It’s passed eleven when the couple is back to the hotel and Marta has a precise idea of how she wants them to spend to rest of evening. She has put that sexy underwear on purpose, which has already proved been efficient on her goalkeeper earlier. 

Once in their room, Marta goes in the bathroom a moment to check her make up and hair. She has an intense need to drive her goalie crazy tonight, so she goes out the room in underwear ready to jump on her girlfriend without waiting another second.

Marta’s eyes fall on the silhouette of the brunette lying on her side, still half dressed up, in bed. She sighted and watches her fondly. Misa’s eyes are shut tight and her lips parted, the sound of the deep breathing of sleep is filling the room with her chest’s rising up and down. 

☀☀☀

Next morning, Misa and Marta wake up early, not on purpose but rather by habitude, and decide to do a quick work out session at the hotel before going to the beach. The two girls are passionate and rarely miss their sport routine, even during holidays. They like to share it when they can, their combined energy driving each other and their equal dedication pushing the other’s limits.

Then the couple leaves the hotel, grabs a large cafe con leche and set off to the bay. They lay their towel neatly on the sand and change quickly. 

Misa is the first to ran in the waves, the fresh water is barely stopping her to directly plunge into the water as she gets away from the shore. Marta is following her at her pace, a less rushed one, enjoying a moment the contrast between the foam licking at her knees and the sun kissing her shoulders.

Her girlfriend is already far away, crawling in the bay at full speed. Marta looks around her, sighs of ease, and dips in the water entierly. Marta swims fast too, she reaches the goalkeeper in no time and stops a little ahead of her. Misa’s still swimming rapidly toward her and doesn’t slow as she gets closer. 

She dives underwater at the last moment, the goalie’s arms wrapped themselves around Marta’s waist as her head resurface. She wipes the water from her eyes and pulls the winger to her. The ocean is swaying them gently as they exchange a long and salty kiss. 

"You taste better without sea water! We race to the buoy ?", Marta suggests, smiling wide at her girlfriend. 

Misa doesn’t waste a second and propels herself toward the to red floating ball in the distance. 

"Cheater !", Marta snorts under her breath and flings herself in the goalkeeper’s foaming trail. The winger’s powerful arms breaks the water easily, she’s feeling in her element, her moves almost as precise as she is with a ball. It’s not long before she overtakes Misa, the goalie taking a glimpse through the drops in her eyes doubles her effort not to get left behind. She knows Marta’s faster that her but she’s determined to pull up a fight. 

The floater is getting near and the two athletes are elbow to elbow as they put all their strength in the last meters. A hand fall on the buoy and it’s Marta’s. Being out of breath doesn’t keep her from pulling a smug smile at Misa. 

"You win, Flash Cardona !" the goalkeeper acknowledges. Misa’s never mad about Marta being ahead of her and a sparkle of admiration shines in her eyes, pricking with salt, as she remembers how she fell for the winger when they where both at Real Madrid.

Marta let out a soft chuckle at the mention of the nickname fans gave her years ago, from being really fast on the pitch. "That feels so good !", she says. "Now, let’s tan on the beach for hours !"

☀

After an hour of sun tanning, the couple decides to return in the hotel room shortly to get a shower before lunch. Alone in the cabin, Misa’s mind is running wild. She wants to buy her girlfriend a gift and rakes her brain to find the proper present. Clothes or jewels ? Marta has plenty already. Flowers ? Not as long as they’re staying at the hotel. Books ? Marta likes them but the goalkeeper’s not sure she’ll find something accurate. Food ? It’s too complicated with their diets. Misa wants something special and right on spot, and she continues to search her mind as she shampoos her hair. 

“Misa qué haces ? I’m starving !” she hears from behind the door. She has stayed a while under the shower, somehow wishing the water would pour ideas in her blank brain. She finally drops it at the sound of Marta’s impatient voice. 

Wrapped up in a towel, Misa exits the bathroom and her eyes fall on her girlfriend sat at the edge of the bed, wearing the gray ensemble they bought yesterday. A shy smile stretches her mouth and she comes right in front of Marta to look down naughtily at her. “Why did you put that on ? Weren’t you starving ?”

Marta blinks her heavy lashed eyes several times. She pulls out an innocent grin “Yes, I’m starving Bebé, I just got dressed for the rest of the day”. However, the brunette’s hands are already grasping Misa’s towel, the taller women’s just holding her breath when she’s been pulled between Marta’s legs. “Let’s go eat something, shall we ?” the winger asks, her fingers unknotting to towel, which fell on the floor, leaving Misa’s bare stomach centimeters away from Marta’s face. 

The goalie shy smile has changed into pinched lips, her desire growing at an incredible speed as Marta’s lips kiss her abs softly before going up to her breast. When Marta presses her face against the soft flesh, Misa can no longer contains herself. She straddles the shorter woman, cup her face in her large hands and crashes her lips on her mouth. The force and weight of the goalie almost unbalances her completely and she falls back onto her forearms as Misa’s literally eating her mouth.

Breathy whimpers escapes her lips, the two women drags themselves onto the middle of the bed, becoming a mess of brushing hands and moans, Misa’s ones working to take Marta’s fancy cloth off and throwing them in the room with little care now they’re not on her hot girlfriend anymore. Her hands fall onto her chest to caress it a moment.

Lost in a kiss, Marta realizes Misa’s hand has leaved her breast when she feels her palm brushing the inside of her thighs. Her own fingers dip into the goalie still wet hair and Misa’s fingertips are already on her core, making her quiver at the sudden contact. Misa’s rushing and Marta’s not really wet yet but her girlfriend’s eagerness in working her out like crazy. She sighs, and the goalie moans again, wanting nothing more than to please Marta beyond reason, as her hips wriggle under her touch. 

Misa’s caresses are doing their work, her wetness’s coming out abundantly now, and Marta’s hands press the nap of her head to deepen their kiss. The goalie’s fingers slip inside, snatching an obscene cry from the winger. Marta’s body’s arching as waves of pleasure wash over her every time her girlfriend’s going in and out. She’s whining louder and louder, driven by Misa’s own aroused moans and comforted by her warm body moving above her.

Feeling her orgasm building as her body’s being rocked rhythmically on the bed, Marta enclosed Misa’s board shoulders in her arms. Her cries of pleasure fall directly into Misa’s ear who intensifies her trusts inside and out, feeling herself not only getting drenched but drowning in her love and desire for Marta. 

It only takes a couple of minutes before the winger releases a deep whine, breathing out her liberation and melting in the pleasure swallowing her. Her orgasm is still lingering when she feels the goalie lips on hers, soft and demanding. 

Misa’s always tender and caring after love and Marta is too content to be simply cuddled as she relishes on the last notes of her enjoyment. However, Marta has now a precise idea of where she wants to be.

She grabs Misa’s thighs and pushes her upward, sliding down between the women’s legs in the same time. The goalie throaty gasps tell Marta that her girlfriend has guessed her intentions and seems rather appealed by the prospect. Therefore, the brunette doesn’t do any detour and she grasps Misa’s ass, pressing the woman intimacy directly onto her awaiting mouth. 

The goalie’s loosing her head already, not only because of her girlfriend’s tongue doing wonders but also because she’s feeling Marta’s smile spreading and her muffled laugh vibrating softy on her pussy. On her side Marta’s enjoying the ego boost Misa’s giving her by dripping all over her face and making her barely able to breathe. Nevertheless, she continues to kiss Misa’s core in all the way she knows she likes and Misa rises to hold herself onto the head board of the bed as she arches to squeeze herself on Marta’s mouth even more.

Suddenly, the winger slides down to free herself and Misa dare to glance timidly behind her shoulder at her girlfriend regaining her breath. But the tall brunette is not waiting much. Marta comes over the goalkeeper from behind, one of her hands caresses her back as the other slide down between her legs. 

Her fingers dip inside of her easily, her muscled arm find the right pace in no time. Misa’s letting out strangled sounds as she feels Marta hips and thighs pushing against her butt. The winger’s sensing her own pussy throbbing, taking in the gorgeous body of the girlfriend, from her swaying hair to the small of the back, bucking madly in front of her.

“No te detengas !” The goalie cries, chasing her orgasm, and Marta other hand brushes along her flank, passing on her stomach to her pelvis as she keeps filling her from behind. Misa’s pushed over the edge at once as she feels so many fingers working simultaneously on her core. Her sighs fill the room, loud enough to be heard from the adjoining floors but she doesn’t give a fuck, feeling so fucking good from cuming and as soft and loving hands strokes her relaxing back. 

A few seconds later, Misa collapses onto the bed and pulls the winger close to her. Both women smiles mildly, happy and weaken by their work out, swim and now by cuming pretty strongly, moreover when they have barely ate anything since diner. Misa’s belly rumbles and Marta acknowledges in a sleepy voice “Me too, Bebé”.

She shakes herself, Misa grunts as she leaves her arms and gets out of bed. “Let’s go devour another meal full of fat, salt and sugar !” Marta announces happily and the goalkeeper mouth waters in anticipation. 

☀

The couple achieve their ambition by finding a trendy burger restaurant near their hotel. They savor every bits of it, the steak and bacon loaded with sauce, the French fries cooked in duck fat, and even the small portion of sweet and sour coleslaw on the side. 

Digesting their consistent meal, Misa and Marta are so tired the tree coffees they get after can’t prevent a come back in the hotel room for a well deserved nap. They sleep all afternoon, waking up jet lagged and disoriented, only when night is falling. 

“Madre Mia, the firework !” Misa exclaims in a pasty voice. “It’s in ten minutes! We’re going to miss it!”

“We can still be on time, let’s run on the way!” The winger replies as she pulls Misa out of bed after her. 

Marta is right. The couple joggs to the docks effortlessly, trained and rested just fine for that kind of performance, and arrives in the compact mass of people already waiting for the spectacle. Misa grabs Marta’s hand and pushes her way through the dense crowd along the shore. After a few meters, she finds a space in the front just behind the guardrail but only big enough for one person. She pushes Marta in front and settles herself just behind, the winger being that short compared to her she doesn’t block her view at all. 

Marta’s feeling on a cloud wrapped up in the goalies’s strong arms, in the front row to see the show. Warmth fills her when her girlfriend puts a cute kiss on her cheek. 

“It’s starting bébé!” She says grasping Misa’s hands in hers. “Te quiero…” 

“Te quiero bebé” Misa purrs and the first lights of the firework light the sky. 

☀

“Vale, that was dope ! Did you see the ones that were drawing smiley faces ?” Misa’s saying happily as the couple headed back to the hotel. 

“Sì ! So pretty and fun ! Though I’m always bothered by the noise, explosions are so loud. It’s kind of freaking me out every time.” Marta tells her, putting a hand on her forehead. They’re doing a detour the avoid most of the crowd scattering in the streets after the fireworks has ended. 

"We should have taken earplugs for you", the goalie says with a hint of worry in her voice. 

Marta shakes her head, "Don’t worry, I’m not deaf yet… I can even hear that bird or whatever’s doing that mess…" 

"Qué ?" Misa’s looking perplexed at her girlfriend. What is she talking about ? But then she hears it too, high pitched and piercing screeches coming from nearby. “What is it ? It’s close !”

Marta is listening attentively "It’s seems like a mouse or… a kitten !" 

"It does sounds like a kitten", Misa approves, heading toward the source of the noise. The winger’s following her closely and they circle a blue car parked along the sidewalk. The meowing intensify as they get nearer. "It must be under the car", the goalie concludes. 

She crouches and peers at the space between the pavements and the vehicle. Everything’s dark and Misa only sees a small round black shape detaching against the light flittering feebly under the car. The goalie pulls out her phone and turns on the light, she angles it slowly but not directly toward the little bundle, in fear of scaring it away. 

"Pollito ! It’s a kitten indeed ! Come !" Misa tells Marta when the light reveals a really tiny cat meowing restlessly and looking completely panicked. 

"Oh ! Poor thing !" the winger says, almost laying on the road to take a glimpse of the miserable creature looking at them. Misa makes an attempt to calm it and does kissing sounds, speaking softy. "Gatito ! Come over, Gatito ! We won’t hurt you."

"It won’t work Misa, he’s too scared..." But to Marta’s surprise, the kit starts to walk toward them, still letting out terrified squeaks. 

Misa extends her hand to make contact. The kit stops meowing at last and leads its small truffle to sniff the goalie’s hand, almost as big as itself. The two brunettes aren’t daring to speak as the smelling lasts, the kitten deciding if it should trust that large hand coming to it. Without transition, it ends up rubbing its tiny head against Misa’s fingertips. 

"Oh ! That’s it Gatito, come over here !" Misa withdrew her hand while moving her fingers playfully to keep the kitten’s attention. The kit is bitting at the bait and follows her hand until it exists the under of the vehicle, the goalkeeper taking it carefully in her hands before it gets the chance to run away. 

Under the streetlights, the couple can properly look at the poor animal. The kitten is really small, fluffy, brown with black stripes and round filled with fear eyes, its frail body shaking uncontrollably against the goalkeeper torso. 

Misa frowns "He’s freaking out. I bet he was terrified by the fireworks and got lost in the streets !" 

Marta’s bitting her lips, approaches her hand with much care and tries a light stroke on the kit’s head who closes its eyes at the touch. "He doesn’t seem to fear humans at least. What are we going to do ? We can’t let him in the street and it’s far too late to call any pet rescue association…"

"We’re taking him to the hotel and figure it out tomorrow", the goalie decides, holding the kitten a little tighter against her. "Let’s go in a shop to buy at least a can of cat food and something to make a litter for the night."

"But I don’t think the hotel’s accepting animals, Misa", the winger worries.

However, the goalkeeper puts a final word to the discussion. "I won’t let a lost baby all by itself in the streets !"

☀

Misa lays two bowls in the bathroom, one of cat food and one of water. She has put a litter bin a bit further and is now looking, satisfied, at her organization of the room. 

"Stop it, little monster !" she hears Marta chuckling in the bedroom. The shorter girl has taken the kit in her arms which is trying to catch her long hair in its tiny paws. 

"Gatito, Gatito ! Come and see what we’ve gotten for you !" Misa calls from the bathroom and Marta releases the baby cat on the floor which sprang toward Misa at once, its tail risen excitedly. The kit immidialaty drops its head in the bowl of food and starts eating with gluttony. 

"He’s so hungry ! I’m glad we found it, at least he’s safe here until we find a solution", Marta confesses, looking adorably at the little creature. "Let’s go to bed Bebé, I’m tired as if we hadn’t slept all afternoon", she adds with a yawn. 

Misa and Marta undress themselves and slides under the duvet. As they turn off the light , they hear tiny footsteps on the floor, followed by a rustling noise at the bottom of the bed. Shortly, they see the kit’s head popping, clawing its way up the duvet before trotting proudly toward them. 

The kit settles between the two women and begins to wash, licking its paw before rubbing it on its round face, under the softened stares of the couple, Misa bitting her lips when it starts to purr loudly. 

"I guess you found your spot for the night, Gatito", she whispers. "Pero bueno. Buena noche Pollito."

"Buena noche Bebé Misa, buena noche bebé gato", the winger answers with a sight. 

☀☀☀

Marta blinks several times before she fully remembers why she looking at something that cute, straight from waking up. 

Her girlfriend is laying on her side, still fast asleep and snoring feebly, her arms forming a hook in front of her. Inside of that hook is curled a bundle of brown and black fur, a small ear coming out of the perfect round shape. 

Marta’s heart’s melting at the sight but it’s a bitter sweet feeling and she frowns as she imagines how Misa’s going to feel when they’ll bring the kitten to the shelter later.

She gets up silently, goes to the bathroom, and sights of relief when she sees the kit has used the litter to do its business. The winger does a clean up and goes to shower quickly. 

In the bed, Misa is steering as she emerged from a deep and long sleep. She feels a jolt as something prickles her arms and her eyes falls on the kitten stretching awake too. "Oh ! I almost forgot you Gatito ! Dormiste bien ?"

She scratched the kits ear, which purrs at once, and sees Marta exiting the bathroom, "Hola Bebé, look how cute he is !"

The winger comes back onto the bed and look at them both fondly. "You didn’t see the two of you sleeping together earlier. I swear you were so cute it was painful !" Marta lay a kiss on Misa’s forehead, the taller women rises her face to receive another kiss on the lips and smiles.

"He’s beautiful, like an overcooked pan… or like negro chocolate. Un bombon !"

"Oh, pequeño Bombon !", Marta repeats. "Come on Misa, let’s go get breakfast. I’ll call the shelters around Donostia when we’ll be there."

"Vale...", Misa says, although she’s not hungry. 

☀

"Yes, a kitten… Sí, today would be great, we can’t keep him at the hotel anymore…Vale perfecto, esta tarde. Muchas gracias." 

Marta hangs up and crosses eyes with the goalkeeper, who looks away and peers at her cafe con leche quietly. Her heart tightens and she puts her hand onto the goalie’s."He’s going to be alright, Bebé."

"I know, let’s go back to the hotel to check he’s not doing nonsense." 

On the way back, Misa picks up a thin fallen branch with a few leaf still attached to it, announcing "I wanna play with Bombon before we take him away", at the curious stare of her girlfriend. Marta’s getting more tensed, even a bit anxious, she realizes Misa’s becoming really attached to the baby cat in the short last of time. It’s going to be so hard for to let him go…

☀

Misa opens the room door in a hurry. She has barely pushed it a tiny head pops at her feet in the corridor, meowing happily.  

"Bombon !" she greats him before taking him in her arms and entering the room. Marta can only stare at her girlfriend stroking and kissing tenderly the small fur ball, her insides slowly knotting. 

The goalie delicately puts the cat down, waves the branch on the floor and the kitten doesn’t waste a second before running to it and jumping excitedly. "Muy bien Bombon ! Vamos ! Vamos !". The goalkeeper continue to play with him a moment, chuckling at the baby goofy movements. 

"Play with him, Pollito!" Misa encouraged Marta, handing her the branch and the winger quickly finds herself laughing like Misa as she leads Bombon running all around the room. 

To reward his determination to catch it, Marta drops the piece of wood on the floor, the baby cat starting to bit the thiner parts eagerly and tearing the remaining leaves into pieces.

The two women looks at Bombon and then at each other. They know they’re thoughts are connecting right now, Marta bitting her lips again and Misa looking pleadingly at her. 

"Misa… we can’t…", she tries to stay sensible. 

Misa’s eyes are getting shiny now, "But Pollito, we can’t leave him…" 

"We’re traveling most of time, have some reason! That’s why we didn’t take a dog in the first place."

"I know, but precisely, he’s not a dog. Cats are more independent and we have friends to look after him if we’re away. I lived with a cat, it’s far more manageable than a dog."

Marta takes Misa’s hand in hers, and place the other onto her cheek. The goalie’s almond-shape eyes stay locked on hers, unblinking. "Bebé… you like him already that much ?" 

"Yes...", Misa murmurs at once, her voice quivering. To emphasize her words, Bombon comes to rub at her legs, purring like a motor engine. 

The shorter woman’s sensing her resistance ebbing away, "I think he has a crush on you too…" She grabs the small cat and her heart melt again at the sight of his astonished little face. "Qué lindo eres, Bombon…"

"You… you mean you’re ok we keep him ?", Misa dares to ask. 

"I can’t break your heart, Misa… and we found him, maybe it was destiny…"

"Oooh, Bebé !" Misa enfolds Marta in her arms, the baby cat still in her arms, squeezed in the middle of their embrace. A second later, Misa’s surprising herself by feeling tears running down her cheeks and she holds the winger tighter. "Thank you, Bebé. I love you so much..." 

The kit’s fidgeting in her arms and Marta pulls back to let him go. She discovers the goalie’s gleaming face, and feels her own eyes prickling. Marta adorably wipes the tears off Misa’s face. "You’re so sweet, mi portera favorita", she says before kissing her plump lips. 

"I wanted to find a present for you but in the end it's you who is giving me the greatest gift I could have asked for", she confesses with emotions. 

"Bombon is a gift for both of us. As a dog person, I would never have thought of taking a cat if it wasn't up to you !"

Marta’s smile, combined with her words, dazzles the goalkeeper with pure love and happiness and she leads her to the window facing the city’s wide bay before kissing her again with passion, Bombon at their feet, playling with their shoelaces with little care for what is going on up between the two women.

Adopting Bombon is going to shorten the couple holidays. Misa and Marta now have to return to Madrid to deal with everything that comes with taking care of a new family member, and they are super excited about it. 

☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀

[pandiongames]

While I was cleaning up our project folders today, I finally created a Project Template that I can just copy/paste when starting a new project.

I figured since it took me hundreds of hours of procrastination and 18 months of disorganized frustration to finally get that setup, I'd try to save someone else the trouble of doing the same, and released the whole folder and its templates zipped up on itchio.

The zip file includes:

The full folder structure we use when starting a project.

ProjectName.gdoc - A writing template with basic headers and our in-line project management method.

We use this for our core writing, collaboration, editing, and project management.

ProjectName.afpub - A basic A5 zine layout setup for print, with basic master pages configured, page numbers, CMYK color profile, margins, and bleed.

We don't like baseline or grids by default. They're not configured in this file.

Images Folder - We store all game export images here. Such Page or Spread exports, marketing images we've assembled, etc. We don't store images that will be imported into the game here. That's in Resources.

Images/Itchio_Socials_Template.afpub - This template has all of our common needed image sizes setup for marketing and setup of our itchio project pages.

PDFs Folder - This is where we export PDFs to. Final PDFs ready for upload go into "Itchio Final" and Print-Ready PDFs are uploaded to "Mixam Final".

We work really hard to only keep the most current PDFs in the two "Final" folders. If you want a v2, v3, or v1.2.222.final.v8.pdf in the main folder, that's fine. But I highly encourage you to spend the time to keep the "Final" folders clean.

Tip: Check out the "Manage Versions" feature in Google Drive. 

Press Kit Folder - Contains our press kit gdoc template, an assets folder, and another PDF folder.  We end up sharing this entire folder out for Press, and link to this folder within the Press Kit document itself.

If you want more information how to write a Press Kit, check out PlusOneExp's fantastic video on that.

Resources Folder - This is where we put inspirations for the game along with art and design assets to use in the game itself. This folder gets pretty messy by the time the project is done.

[st-just]

hi I like your blog. I have a question that may be too personal so no hard feelings if you don't answer but could you talk a little bit about more about what you like/don't like about Halifax? im considering Dalhousie for grad school but have never been! and would like to have as much information about where I might spend the next 2 years of my life. thank you!

Oh sure! Though like, it depends on where you're coming from? Everything here is very relative. And also I'm absolutely certain I will forget numemrous vital things, do ask followup questions.

Most important thing is that the housing market is horrifying - the city's population started booming during COVID and the zoning and construction is only really starting to catch up now. Especially within walking distance of Dal getting a place to live at anything approaching affordable is going to be vicious. (This has unsurprisingly coincided with a large uptick in homelessness. Unremarkable to walk by a tent in a corner of some public park now).

Relatedly, the bus system is like - okay I'm not sure it's notably bad for a mid-sized-ish north american city, but it's damn sure not any better. You can get by bussing around on the peninsula, anywhere beyond 20 minute drives turn into 40-60 minute rides.

You will not have a family doctor, figure out the nearest walk-in clinic you can use for anything non-emergency.

The city's economy runs on some combination of students, tourists, sailors and soldiers. There are as many bars as you might expect (had the most per capita in the country for a while, don't know if we still do). Some of them are actually very good!

Relatedly, weed and liquor are both only legally sold by the crown corporation monopoly and a few weird specialty places.

None of them are massive, but there is a very nice amount of parkland and green space scattered throughout the city. The public (botanical) gardens are really beautiful in the spring-summer, and most are well-maintained (they just renovated and expanded the outdoor pool on the city Commons last year, even).

The waterfront has been thoroughly gentrified for the cruise ships over the course of my lifetime, but it's all still open to the public and grabbing one of the armchairs or hammocks to read in during the summer is lovely.

Provincially the government is the most thoroughly domesticated/red tory party in the country (they fairly literally ran to the left of the liberals). Full of corrupt backslapping, constantly getting into pissing matches with the municipal government, will probably govern for the next decade.

For reasons that I assume are downstream of all the students and having the closest thing to a regional theater scene east of Quebec, the whole city is IME very queer-friendly. For reasons I absolutely not understand, pride is in August here.

The public library system is basically the only part of the municipal government I think anyone involved should be unequivocally proud of, but it is great.

I don't really know the crime stats offhand but like, I left my apartment door unlocked probably 7 times in 10 through all of undergrad and it never bit me in the ass?

[centrally-unplanned]

Its fucking 2 AM lets keep ranting about this! Genshin isn’t popular the way people think its popular. It is currently one of the most financially successful games ever:

But it doesn’t make 20 quadspillion dollars by being the game with the highest player count - and certainly not by being the game with the highest player count in Japan. It has a ton of players, don’t get me wrong - looking like 60 million monthly users.

That isn’t that much though! 

All the big games clean its clock - and it looks even less pretty in Japan itself:

Mobile games ranked by installs. Do you even know what that second game is, by the way? 

Uma Musume Pretty Derby: Horse Girl Racing & Breeding game, absolutely more popular than Genshin in Japan on mobile (which most people estimate is how Genshin is played in Japan & China, vs PC in the US). Which I am singling out specifically, because beyond just ‘numbers’ you have metrics like intensity of the fanbase, how much do the devotees talk about the game and such. That sets trends more than numbers do, right? And hey look Comiket in Japan just happened, what do you got for me - lets rank number of doujins sold at comiket in the gatcha-style games category:

Type-Moon: 848 

Uma Musume: 728

Hololive: 620 (Vtuber)

Kancolle: 654

Touhou: 596

iDOLM@STER Starlight Stage: 474

Blue Archive: 446

iDOLM@STER Shiny Colors: 232

Genshin Impact: 230

Nijisanji: 194 (Vtuber)

Touken Ranbu: 192

Project Sekai: 172 (Includes Vocaloid)

Arknights: 123

Azurlane: 120

Girls und Panzer: 118

Fuck yeah Girls und Panzer. But anyway 9th place? Pretty good! Very respectable...and fucking wrecked by the HORSE GIRL BREEDING MOBILE GAME Uma Musume

How about some streaming data! Japan only ofc:

So now here its pretty low, but I will grant that its the best ranking anime-style game. Genshin is popular, for sure. But all this taken in, Genshin just aint that big - its a very popular game, probably the most popular “fantasy fluffy anime game”, but its not like, insanely popular, running the show.

The reason you think its popular is two-fold; one is that its a gatcha game, so it is monitizing its player base way above other large games. Not crazily so btw, the average Genshin player has probably spent $70 dollars on the game, the normal price of a game - but still its competing with other “free” games which always have much bigger player bases, its hitting hard in relation. It is, absolutely, one of the most financially successful games ever. And the second reason is its cross-country popularity - its really rare for a game to be huge in China AND Japan AND America. The fact that its a top game in all three countries is a big feat, and it makes you hear about it, it gives it a playerbase scale from the sheer market size.

But if you are Japanese company Nintendo, making a game that is *not* a gatcha game, for a company that is famously pretty parochial about branding their games for the Japanese market uber alles, that is making a *console* game on a console that famously did not sell well in China...why would Genshin stand out to you? Its just one of the games, competing with a totally different model, on a totally different device, and in totally different markets. It is a trend, but it is not driving trends, it is not the trendsetter - certainly not for a Switch game. Engage would have no reason to try to copy it over other game styles.

TL:DR Fire Emblem Engage is taking inspiration from the horse fucker game and if you can’t prove that wrong I don’t want to hear it.