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screampied · 11 days

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#OOHMAMI! g. suguru

☆ sum. cuban link, diamond cross—you’re a big fan of suguru geto, the top street racer in tokyo. he doesn’t wanna win any more races, he wants to win you this time. keep at it and he might have to fuck you on the highway.

wc. 5.7k

warnings. fem! reader, street racer! geto, pwp, unprotected, suguru has a (dick) piercing / tats, semi-public, riding, brief ōral (f! receiving), you get eaten out his window lol, overstim, dirty talk, praise, size kink, impact play, petnames, drive safe.

an. chase atlantic inspired me ¯\_(ᵕ—ᴗ—)_/¯

“you, yeah you. wanna ride?”

stop thinking dirty, stop thinking dir—

you stop dead in your tracks, hearing the deafening vrooming of a certain nissan skyline gtr along with a raspy deep voice. you knew that voice, in fact you’d be a fool not to recognize the voice of the suguru geto, infamous street racer who’s won more races around the world than you could count. he’s got a big hand on the steering wheel with his dark purple helmet cracked open. growing pathetically sheepish, you could barely get any words out before you start to feel your feet gradually dragging toward his rumbling car.

“really?” you mumble, barely even pressed up against his tinted window and you could smell his loud rich cologne from there. you couldn’t help but fangirl—and oh, did he look so much better in person. geto’s got pretty long tresses of black hair that’s usually down, but in every race it’s always pinned back. a few loose strands run down his face, peeking out of his helmet and his glove grips tightly against his bedazzled steering wheel that had ‘s. geto’ carved into the material as it flawlessly spiraled around the wheel.

“reaaally,” he tauntingly repeats your word, cocking his head to get a better look at you. you could smell the thick puffed smoke that weeps out of his silvery flashy tailpipes and he hums. slouching back against his seat manspread, his foot eases off from the break and you watch as the flashy racer’s seat flies open on its on, and you step in. “i take it you’re here to see the race?”

no, no you weren’t.

you couldn’t lie to yourself—you were here to see the race, but you were to here to see geto also. you’ve only seen him during his interviews, magazines, and sometimes on tv where his races would be broadcasted for the entire world to see.

but, you managed to snag enough money to actually see him in the flesh.

without a second thought you make your way inside. on the inside, you were screaming. you were currently living every one of his fangirl’s dream. immediately once you sit down, you’re surrounded by the balmy welcoming warmth of his beloved str. you assumed it was an older model but he made it work anyway — it had cushioned seats with blaring speakers and oh, the smell . . it’s almost as if the vehicle had a signature cologne scent of its self. it’s really masculine and it makes your thighs squeeze together once you recline back a bit. his seats warmed up your backside automatically and you glance around the rest of the car, taking in its glitzy beauty.

it’s pretty, you’ve only seen pictures. ogling near his rear view mirror, you see fuzzy dice dangling as he’s adjusting it. the rest of the cars usually gathered near the meet up spot before the race actually starts.

“she’s pretty, isn’t she?” geto snickers, noticing you gawking at the inside of his car.

indeed, you heard about how geto built this entire thing from scratch. before doing street racing as a little side hustling hobby, he used to be a mechanic. a well known one, but that wasn’t as fun as actually racing.

geto tosses an arm behind the head rest of your seat, preparing to go in reverse. “had her for about two years. haven’t lose a match, since.”

“not one?” you murmur, wanting to call his bluff. sure, you’ve never seen anyone covering him losing a match but that was a bit hard to believe.

“doubtin’ me, sweetheart?” he rasps, and you feel the rough jittering of the car. geto’s backing up safely, curving his wheel briefly to drive out of one of his many garages.

sweetheart, you don’t know why but that single pet name had you feeling hot for a moment. once your eyes dart back toward him for a split second, you spot a toothpick sticking out from the corner of his crooked lips. he’s so pretty — he’s got a natural smirk that’s tugging against the corners of his lips. as he starts to drive toward the starting point for the highly anticipated race, a gloved thumb taps against his furry steering glimmering wheel. with a low hum, he glances at you. “seatbelt, silly girl.”

shit, you snap on your seat belt moments later and notice even his signature’s all over his seatbelt covers. ‘suguru geto’ in bright bold letters.

drafty air wafts against your skin as he’s still creating distance with just a few miles. once he reaches near the starting line, you hear his foot tapping against the break.

one, two, three . . three, two, one . . he’s bored.

geto positions his rear view mirror for the millionth time before noticing you zeroing your eyes at his gear shift that glistens from the dozens of rhinestones that glue against the cover. countless diamonds stick up and down the leather skin of the handle and it’s so pretty.

“hold on, sweetheart,” geto purrs, his eyes slowly locking onto the flagger that’s stood in front of the row of cars.

geto’s still got a firm hand gripped onto his wheel, his right foot just barely hovering over the gas. come on, he just wanted to get it over with. you could almost smell the competitiveness dripping from his body.

it was intense, you could almost feel the anticipation as if you were in the driver’s seat. the tall woman that’s dressed in nothing but sheer black carries a hefty checked flag, swaying it in the air every few seconds. as she safely spaces herself between the cars, she does it two more times and you realize it’s almost time for take off.

the cars that were lined up beside and next to geto start to rev their engines and so does he. it’s a roaring groan, and his rousing wheels burn into the hardened cement, his gold pipes coughing up clouds of purple smoke. geto gives his wheel one more tap with his thumb before glancing at you with a cunning grin. “lie back, i take off pretty fast, heh.”

and he wasn’t kidding.

the moment the flagger does a final up-down sway motion with the flag, all race cars accelerate quickly past the starting point. you sink back into the plushy seat as he meanly yanks back his stick shift.

his engine’s loud, and within seconds he’s already in the lead. it’s like he wasn’t even trying. frantic turbo spits through his rusted pipes and you can feel his car speedily pass through each poor vehicle that tries to get in his way.

vroooooom, he’s flying by each checkpoint and you could almost smell the adrenaline that’s coursing through his pulsating veins.

the thrill . .

you felt it all ghost through your own veins, feeling the frigid air roaming through his vents tickle against the hairs that stand up on your arms. geto makes a few sharp turns, keeping an eye on the time every so often. his personal best was around five minutes and seventy-seven seconds. with a coarse grip, he’s tilting his steering wheel while the thunder of his engine growls louder and louder within each whizzing mile.

over time though—you can’t help but be a bit nosy. your eyes shift toward the racer and god, you’re just now noticing how handsome he was.

geto usually wore sweats along with his street gear. he didn’t have to wear his helmet but he preferred it just in case. its all black with a splash of purple—you can see his signature lazily signed near the very top. outlined beside his name was a curling design of smoke. the part where he sees through was all darkly tinted so you could hardly see his face unless you squinted or he took it off.

it’s like it added more to his appeal in a way. he sat manspread and doing so, it gave you a one way ticket to stare straight down at his barely hidden bulge.

fuck, your mind started to ponder. you had so many unanswered questions. isn’t it painful driving around that hard—

“hey,” your raunchy thoughts get rudely interrupted and you don’t even realize how many minutes had passed from you being cooped up in your own lewd fantasm. geto’s driving a bit slower now, around sixty mph instead of his usual two hundred. he’s way in the lead, first place. one hand’s lazily on the steering wheel and he fakes a yawn.

oh he’s cocky.

with a quick glance out his mirror, he knew the other cars were far behind him and he now starts drifting near the freeway. with an intrigued hum, he notices just exactly what you were staring at. his lap. “don’t tell me this was the ride you thought i meant, sweetheart.”

“i—”

it’s like his cologne got louder.

you choked on your words, wondering if you were hearing right. suguru, the suguru geto was flirting with you?

and the thing that got you the most was that he wasn’t even looking at you anymore—every few seconds, you’d lock eyes against him near the ear view mirror, feeling hot once his eyes slowly rove down your figure through his dark tinted helmet.

not only was his cologne loud but so were your thoughts—shamelessly, you did think he was referring to that kind of ride minutes earlier.

and the more you stared at his hardened bulge through his grey sweats, the more you started to think. .

but, little did you know your dirty wish would be granted.

not even a few moment later, you’d find yourself fucked - literally.

geto positions you on his lap, halfway pulling down his loose sweats just so you could ride something else entirely.

instead of riding just his car — you rode his dick, and fuck was he just ridiculously big.

too big, and he knows it. geto groans once he’s buried full inside, lodging his thick cock in between your slimy gummy walls. “shit,” he’d hiss, his head occasionally tossing back once the ring piercing that’s stuck on his tip tap tap tap’s away against your precious g-spot. it swirls all around the inside of your cunt and your thighs struggled to stay open. it tickles, but you were far from laughing. he’s so big, easily rearranging your insides and be barely even had to move a muscle.

he’s ruthless - but your hips were even more ruthless though, far more.

geto knew all too well that this was dangerous—just one swerve from the swerving stimulation of bodies smacking against his and game fucking over.

you moan, burying your face into his neck as your hips continue to move against him. he’s still burning gas as your cunt’s just merrily drooling all down his length from each slapping thrust.

belatedly, your brows furrow, almost forgetting why you even showed up to this event. well, part of why you came. “f- fuck, what about t- the race?” you speak in a breathy tone, your tempo becoming more and more relentless. the salaciously enticing jerk of your unsteady hips gradually turn into rough unstable bounces and he kisses his teeth. geto feels the convulsing veins that run down his cock pulse right through him and between your walls, you feel it too.

“oh, sweetheart,” he huffs, his back of his helmet hitting against his headrest. looking at you with hazy hooded eyes, he flashes you a sleazy grin. “technically, i already won,” and you gasp, feeling him reach a gloved hand down between your rickety thighs. his touch was so gentle, you felt yourself shuddering from both twin digits that drag further down your chest. he cups one of your bouncing tits that pop out of your tank top, brushing a thumb against your sensitive nipple. “god, what a pretty fuckin’ body. look at you girl,” and he’s still got a hand on the steering wheel.

a trembling whimper dies out your throat at the feeling of his swollen fat cockhead vigorously thrusting in and out of your dribbling entrance.

you’re just so soaked. it’s like you can’t help but be sopping wet on his lap and he loves it. sloshes of sobs echo out of your pussy and your legs pathetically quaver directly on top of him.

both of you groan in complete unison and a big hand of his creeps further down, giving your ass a teasing squeeze. “fuuucck, reel those nasty hips. ride it baby, ride me, yeah,” and you hear the grumbling revs of his engine ring against your ears louder. it makes the entire car shake a bit despite him pushing down a few miles. with widened dewy eyes staring at the back of his car, you squint, seeing dozens of cars trying to catch up to geto.

they didn’t have a chance,

they looked like tiny splotching dots in the far distance. geto even had the audacity to not do his usual speed and yet he was still dusting the other racers.

typical.

“s- suguru,” you whine, the undersides of your thighs sticking against him. each time you bounced back on his cock, each ruthless ‘pap pap pap’ of your skin mashing against his and the clingy recoil never fails to leave you brain dead for a few seconds. he’s so thick. you swivel your hips around him, gasping every time his dick piercing scrapes against your clit. the cold material makes a good portion of your thighs quake and you can’t help but coo out a few sweet ‘ooh’ or ‘ah’s right next to the shell of his ear. your panties were lazily shoved to the side and he didn’t even bother taking them off.

yet.

“so fuckin’ big, shiiiit.” you’d whimper, trying to swerve your way all around him. he’s just too big, you were even surprised he fit. you had to go down slow, aligning yourself against him — every few seconds his cock would pop out of you, making that cute squelch sound that makes his suck his teeth in annoyance.

“mhm, ‘n you’re takin’ it so well. you’re a big girl, fuckin’ take it,” he rasps in a hushed tone, nipping a few teeth near the inside of your neck. his helmet along with his toothpick ends up falling near the side of his seat with a loud thud.

your hips were killer.

unlike any opponent he’s had to go up against. you’re happily squeezing around him like a vice, taking in his curved inches like a champ. “f- fuck, who taught you how ‘ta ride? heh, tryna give me a run for my money, hm pretty?”

your whiny moans only pitch louder once he grips a nice chunk of your ass with one hand, peering at his bedazzled dash. the speed was a bit over one fifty now but it didn’t even feel like it.

“ugh, ‘m gonna cum,” you gasp, growing more and more dumb the faster you bounced on his heavy throbbing cock. his peeling sack hangs from underneath and he’s so swollen, you feel it.

maddened angry balls entirely reddened and puffed up from the delicious stimulation. with every sharp pull of your hips bouncing up and down, he feels himself shriveling — he’s so sensitive inside of you, and he can almost taste his own pleasure. whilst you continue to twirl your ass around in rotation for him, you couldn’t help but shamelessly salivate at the thought of imagining just how full he might be.

“sugu—fuuuckk,” and a bead of sweat races down the side of your face. geto’s primarily focusing on the road, it’s an easy straight shot and with how it was practically the middle of the night it wasn’t that many cars except for the one’s participating in the annual street races.

“bet you are. sloppy girl,” he huffs, groaning at the echoing loud smacks of your ass. you’re mercilessly clamping down his lap over and over, preparing to gush all over the dick that’s currently nestled inside of you. he’s got such a mouth watering curve of his cock that makes your stomach twist and churn.

the kind of curve that doesn’t involve his motor vehicle, that kind.

geto’s dick knew how to do swerves on its own, it even knew how to carve an entire bumpy race track allllll through your insides with his fat pink tip. “touch yourself, pretty. gimme a show before you mess up my fuckin’ seats.”

you could hear the sass in his voice along with a drip of vex and you’d giggle if you weren’t being ruthless stuffed full of inches. “o- okay,” you breathe through clenched teeth, guiding your hands up and down your body. geto’s dark eyes stare at you intently.

he stared at the way your hands caress your pretty plump tits, feeling down the valley of your exposed chest. his eyes flicker toward you then back at the road, then at you again - he repeats it, feeling his own muscles starting to tighten through his clothing. “ngh, suguru. can’t hold—”

your addictive slams against his cock got more intense until he’s fully buried balls deep inside of your squeezing cunt. you hear the saturated plops that’s squealing out of your pussy and you can’t even believe that’s you that’s sounding like that.

your poor sweet cunt was louder than his radio, completely shrieking over some random chorus of a heavy metal song you didn’t even know was playing in the background.

“fuck, cum then. cum on me, girl,” he grunts, one hand grabbing a nice fat piece of your ass again before spanking it.

you moan, the sharp brief twinge of elation sending you a shiver that immediately sends convulses between your thighs. lewd filthy thoughts foil at your brain and pretty soon, the car steams up with steamy clouded fog.

erratic sharp breaths match each other’s pace and you’re left breathless. geto feels your legs on the verge of giving out and he snickers, bringing a gloved hand to stroke against your sopping pussy. “go on, don’t be shy. should make ya lick up the mess later anyway.”

whimpering, your release comes and fuck, a sharp scream ripples out from your throat once you’re finally coming undone on his cock. the wrinkled skin of his base continues to stick against his sack due to you bouncing against him.

it’s hot, literally.

with both plush mounds of skin harshly plummeting on top of each other, the heat of the car made it feel like the air conditioner wasn’t even on. “thaaat’s it, work those hips, goddamn,” and abruptly, he cuts off from his words after feeling his mushroom tip reach a certain spongey spot that’s buried way inside of your gripping walls.

you gasp once you feel him throb inside with a soft upward shimmy of his hips. milliseconds later, your thighs collapse down on him and you feel yourself succumbing. you’re creaming down his shaft with your slippery slick while at the very same time, struggling to catch your breath. as you weakly try to continue your grinding with your feeble knees, geto uses a single hand to quickly make a detour.

he was close.

the race car makes a swift turn to the left lane, driving a few more miles before he then turns the opposite direction — pulling over safely. with a cooing skrrrrt, his rubber tires come to a cruising stop and geto groans, gripping at his tensing bouncing thigh with his glove. the finish line was just a few feet away but he could care less.

once he puts his car in park, geto falls back into his seat with own sable dark eyes flickering back to the very depths of his skull.

you rode him good, good to the point where he doesn’t even know what to say for a hot second. blinking twice, geto smears his glossed lips together before exhaling, “phew,” and he swats another palm against your ass. black unkempt strands of hair tape against the center of forehead like glue whilst he’s finally got a good grip on your hips. “fuck, ‘m gonna cum too,” and your puffy folds continue to dribble with honeyed slick.

you’re damping his cock and the squelches you make, they were loud.

so wet and slimy. he could listen to it all day, just the sound of your sweet cunt whimpering out sweet sloshes of nothing. the overwhelming sensitivity leaves a sourly candied taste in your mouth and you whine, feeling him squeeze a hand against your right hip. with a raspy out of breath tone, he strokes a thumb underneath your quivering bottom lip. “ ‘s okay if i cum inside, pretty?”

“y- yeah, please,” you babble out in broken cries, feeling your tummy frantically heave in and out.

as he grabs your hips, steadying you—you intake a breath, remembering how many inches he was buried inside. your tummy tucks inward and you whimper, feeling him preparing to shoot pure blanks. with a size like his, geto’s cock never failed to leave its sloppy infamous mark.

you’re just marveled at how fat his tip is, it’s voluntarily french-kissing up against sweet beloved cervix that’s screaming out curses just as much as you. he’s got two hands on your veering hips, smooth fabric of his racing gloves sliding up and down your wobbly. with pouty compressed lips, you moan, bringing your hands to grab onto his shoulders. “cum, cum in me—fuck.”

geto huskily groans, tossing his head back once your hips zealously reel into him right as he gives you the final perfunctory thrust that finishes him off. immediately, he’s shooting out ribbons of hot cum that pour into you. you’re panting as he slows down, glossy eyes raking at his body. you could see a bit of his tatted sleeves peek from underneath his shirt - his tense muscles bulging.

“god, better take all of it,” he groans, pretty black lashes sticking against his droopy hooded sockets.

it spurts out slowly but surely.

globs and globs of frothy cum bubble down the swollen sides of his cock and you feel it all. it’s toasty and warm and as he’s pouring his all into you, painting your gummy walls his pristine-white color, you couldn’t help but lean in.

geto’s matching your breathy irregular pants before he feels your trembling lips crash onto his. “mmf,” he moans against your lips, tilting his head back slightly to a certain attractive degree. a hand of his reaches toward his radio, turning the middle notch all the way down just to hear the squelches of his own seed slobbering down your slick cunt.

he tastes sweet. you moan at the lingering taste of fresh cooling mint that lives on his tongue, feeling his hands tighten around your waist.

oh, he’s obsessed—

screw the race by this point, all he wanted at this moment was you.

geto’s still got such a large load that’s dumping into you raw and it even oozes down past your thighs, a few creamy droplets plopping down on his velvet seats. he grunts, both twisting tongues ferociously tangling against each other whilst your pussy’s still squeezing down on him like a vice. a glossed translucent ring forms around his base and he feels you trying to touch yourself with two curious fingers.

with a slight smack, he swats your hand away and you whine in his mouth. “heh, hands to yourself,” you pout because earlier he let you touch yourself but now, no. he teases, breaking away from the hot kiss. a stringy cobweb of saliva tears back from both lax plump lips before he playfully nibbles on your chin. geto notices how slumped out you were and a broad open hand of his crawls between your legs. “ooooh,” and he lifts you up from his swollen flaccid cock, gazing at just how much of a fill he’s pumped into you. “well look at that,” and you whimper, feeling him strum a thumb down your drooling cunt. “would be a shame if it all went to waste,” then he quirks a brow, sliding a tongue across his lips. “princess, stick your head out the window for me real quick.”

“out the wind—”

and not even seconds later, you find yourself literally being bent over, halfway hanging out of his rolled down tinted window. geto wasn’t done, at least not yet.

your sheeny glossed lips immediately part into an ‘o’ as a sweet gasp leaves your lips. with clammy hands, they grip onto the edge of his window and you whimper once he delves his long tongue inside of your cunt. your fingers gripped against the window so hard that it ends up leaving dozens of your cute fingerprints against the tinted glass.

“oh my goddd,” you babble out in elongated sweet syllables. with your pretty eyes bulging, you gasp at feeling the tip of his tongue swirl all around inside of you.

geto lowly grunts, lapping his twitching pink muscle down your runny folds back and forth. between your legs—he’s a menace, and it was no prying him off.

at all.

he doesn’t even bat an eye at the simple fact that he’s eating his own cum out of you, unapologetically savoring the bittersweet taste that lands right on his flavored tastebuds. your legs were so weak and you can feel his warm breath continuously fan against and on your sopping folds as he chuckles.

“my my, look at her. this prize’s way better than some money,” he hums, using a leather thumbed glove to swipe down your entrance. he’s slow, dragging it all the way down just to watch spurts of your slick pop onto his digit. you’re just so wet, metallic fingers of his ghost further down your clit before you whine. geto sees your cunt pulsing from the sheer thrill and he snickers, smacking a palm right against your slobbering core. “she’s fuckin’ nasty today, yeah?” and his eyes flicker toward your drooling cunt, giving it a teasing suck. “mmph, listen to her with me, gorgeous,” and one spank against your pussy turns into one, then two, then three.

growing quiet, you listen to the weeping sounds purring out of your own cunt. so loud, so shamelessly loud. you could hear it and he barely even had to touch you. you’re drenching up his seats and you couldn’t help but bite your lip, feeling your heart pound ruthlessly out your chest. his tongue knew just where to go—it’s creating a path of its own, laying flat against your clit before sucking against every tender spot. your legs were on its final hinges. you felt like they were about to snap shut. you’re staring out the window, still not seeing any cars which was good.

if anyone saw you like this, being eaten out in this kind of position, you don’t know what would happen.

geto resumes to flick his long tongue down your swollen slit, lapping up the last few droplets of his own cum that tries to dribble down the crevices of your thighs. another final swat from his mean palm sets against your clit and you let off a cute squeal, your tummy instinctively caving in. “so much back talk from a pussy this fuckin’ sloppy. oughta teach it some manners, pretty girl,” he grumbles, and your eyes blissfully roll back once you hear him starting to sluuuurp.

geto had no shame — it was decided, this was far better than any race he’s ever had.

his teeth nip near the inside corners of your thighs before he trails back to munching on your clit, burying his nose deep. “mhm,” he groans, and it only takes a few seconds before his jaw finally locks. geto reaches down, giving his cock a few solid pumps. his pretty reddened tip was angry, it still had dried spurts of cum racing from the sides and he grunts at the memory of being inside of you only just a few minutes ago. whilst his face’s shoved right between your thighs—you don’t even realize you’re trying to reach back to grab onto his hair. you’re hesitant though, and he finds it cute. departing his wet slick lips briefly, a wry grin spreads against his lips. “kinky,” the dark haired man flicks a tongue across his lips, savoring your juices that smeared against his mouth. “don’t be shy. do it,” and you moan once he teasingly whistles against your pussy, kissing against your nub. “pull my hair girl. pull.”

you give it a good yank and his head pushes forward into you—geto’s lengthy tongue dips further inside your cunt and you whimper, gnawing the inside of your stiff jaw. “fuck,” you gasp, and as his tongue gradually curls various bubbly letters inside of your pussy.

it multitasks, continuing to send your entire body a plethora of fluttering butterflies. he was so sloppy, seeping from the corners of his mouth with your slick and just your slick. his head moving side to side eagerly and every few seconds, he’s got to flick away long shaggy strands of his hair. geto’s proudly devouring you entirely whilst you’re just literally hanging out his window.

“oh, come on. harder, sweetheart. even i can do better than tha—ngh.”

with more force, you tug roughly on his pretty black strands and you heard the most sluttiest moan pour from his lips. god, he was so close that you could literally feel that infamous smug grin spread against his lips. geto brings a fat round thumb to run down your drooling cunt, giving it a ‘good job’ kiss. “atta girl. that’s my girl.”

geto ends up coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of over and over and over again.

he’s mean with his tongue, slurping everything out of you until you had no more - nothing more to coal his chin with. his favorite thing to do was to playfully bite against your clit, feeling you writhe and shiver all because of his mouth.

you end up leaving his entire chin with a pretty stream of your syrupy slick. geto’s panting, falling back after talking you through your nth orgasm, and with a peek through his rear view mirror, he spots the remaining race cars that were finally approaching the finish line.

“ah, about time,” geto rolls his eyes, sliding his lips near the corner of his chin where a bit more of your slick laid.

he acted like it was nothing, like he didn’t just have his tongue shoved inches deep inside of your cunt, stuffing his race gloved fingers in and out of you until you gushed right down his lengthy thick digits. you’re just sat on his lap, and you’re too dumb to move an inch. “heh, comfy?” he purrs, dragging his seatbelt across both stacked bodies. you fall against his chest, inhaling his signature manly scent and feel the car jolt once he puts it back in drive.

needy silence was your only reply and he tsks, resting his chin on top of your head before driving toward the finish line. it was barely even a few feet away, and waiting there was a bunch of fans that were awaiting to greet their new winner.

geto couldn’t care less though—he had you on his lap and he could already feel himself bulging again.

he found it cute how you were just clinging onto him now.

maybe you were delusional—maybe it was the fangirl in you screaming, begging for more, but your body wasn’t just begging anymore, it ached for more.

he drives you back toward the car meet up spot, helping you fix back your skirt. with wobbly legs, you step out of the flaunting vehicle with the help of his burly arms wrapped around you. “t- thank you,” you pant, trying to catch your breath, even still. geto stands up tall and he completely towers over you. you feel so small all of a sudden, watching as he puts his helmet back on.

“anything for a fan,” he coos, and he brushes a thumb against your lips. just a single gesture just as that felt so intimate. your eyes lock with his for a long moment, and just before you could say anything more, he mumbles. “oh, you probably want an autograph?”

your eyes light up and you grow sheepish, awkwardly tugging on the vip-checked lanyard that wraps around your throat. “yeah, please.”

“such manners like a good girl, cute,” and you bring out a magazine with his face plastered on it as a headline for this week’s up and coming races in tokyo. “nah,” he waves it away, and as your brow quirks, he takes out a sharpie. geto slides the cap in between his teeth before he glances at you. “pull your shirt down real quick, sweetheart,” and without a second thought, you tug down the hem of your shirt, barely exposing your chest.

geto’s eyes rove down your skin before he swiftly signs right against your left tit. the ink softly runs against your skin and you gasp, watching as he marks up the upper part of your chest. “aaaand, perfect,” he concludes, adding a ‘xo’ at the end of his signature. geto puts the cap back on and he flashes you a sly expression. “so i’ll see you at the next race?”

he starts walking away before you could even reply and you feel the weight of your shaky legs grow heavy. “y.. yeah,” and with dewy eyes, you watch as he steps in his car, playfully revving his engine at you.

the cool air sets against your skin once more as you stood there with shaky legs. the car meet slowly gets more crowded as the rest of the racers pass the finish line.

but, your brows furrow once you realize you felt a bit . . . empty between your legs.

with a soft gasp, you squint near the inside of geto’s car before he pulls off.

hanging over his rear view mirror instead of the fuzzy dice you once saw—was nothing other than your panties,

his real prize.

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ravcnism · 3 months

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HEY uhm.. i've been having this idea.. like imagine kenji sato x m!reader athlete as well? help, i just thought the dynamic would be cute. it could be a rival team on the baseball league or another sports. I just thought it would be cool!

STRIKEOUT. — KEN SATO x Male!Athlete READER

Summary: The Hiroshima Toyo Carp may have a new player in town, but his name is nowhere near unheard of. The prized star pitcher of The States takes the country by storm when he spontaneously shows up against the Yomiuri Giants. Ken Sato’s career is given a run for its money.

# # TAGS: Longform, Enemies to Lovers but like Still Enemies as Lovers, A LOT of Tension, Sports Anime-Level of Ridiculous, Star-Athlete!Male Reader, Author Doesn't Actually Know Anything About Baseball, Sort of a Slow Burn? No Beta We Die Like Onda

# # WARNINGS: Mild Violence, Mature Language, Eventual Smut if I’m Brave Enough, English is not My First Language, Around 2000 Words, Part One of ??

Night fell promptly upon the Sato residence. The sun had tucked itself into the sea and left a trail of gold in its warm, glistening wake. From afar, the ever-lively city of New Tokyo lit up street by street.

Beneath the water, in the basement, a newly-bathed Emi waddled towards her corner of the house; smelling of fresh sakura petals, and cuddling a half-crushed Nissan Skyline GT-R. Full from dinner, and satisfied by her shower, she felt the gentle arms of sleep coaxing her to a nap. With a squeaky yawn, and a stretch of her arm, she succumbed to its calls and laid on her spot on the ground. A very amused Hayao Sato came walking after her. “Silly girl. The bath and snack combo never fails to knock you out, huh?”

Kenji Sato, well-dressed for a night out, entered after. He was preoccupied by his sleeves, fingers fumbling to button them shut. “Remember, Dad. No videos after 10 pm. We can’t ruin her sleep schedule again.”

“Of course, Kenji.” His father waved him off with his cane. “You act as if I don’t know her routine like the back of my hand.”

“I’m just making sure.” He was fixing his hair, then, gelling it into place. His eyes narrowed at his own reflection, trying to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. “And of course you’ve got Mina to help.”

“Definitely, Ken.” As if on cue, the round hovering bot came floating in. “We have everything under control. You needn’t worry about us here.”

Professor Sato chuckled at his son, leaning on his good foot. “You seem to have a lot of nervous energy in you, Kenji.”

The batter sighed, tugging on his collar one last time. “I’m always nervous when I’m not playing.” Deciding he looked alright, Ken left his reflection alone. “No idea why. Might have something to do with my dislike towards things that I can’t control, but I’m not gonna get into that right now–” He shuffled about, searching frantically for his jacket. “Mina, where did I put my–?” An extended robot arm appeared from the floor and handed it to him. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Try to enjoy yourself anyway, Kenji.” Professor Sato had walked over to Emi, who was fast asleep, snoring slightly. He lifted a hand and rubbed her head. “I think it’s good that you go to these games even when you’re not scheduled. I can tell it lifts your team’s spirits.”

“Yeah, well, honestly I’m still trying to get used to it. The whole sportsmanship thing.” Ken sprayed his cologne on. He made a quick jog towards Emi and kissed her cheek. “Sleep tight, Sweetie.” He looked at his dad. With his motorcycle keys now in hand, he walked backwards to their glass elevator. “If anything happens, call me. You know the drill.”

“Yes, Ken,” replied Mina. “We do. Rest assured, there will not be a repeat of last time.”

“Right, right. Last time.” Kenji forced out a laugh. “Look, if she wakes up and I’m not home yet, try to get her to tire herself out. Load up a park. Throw some balls. But no flying outside, please? You know she gets carried away.”

“Understood.”

With a final glance, and a reluctant sigh, he stepped into the lift. “I’ll be back soon.” Leaving her 20-foot Kaiju-of-a-daughter never got any easier — no matter how many times he had gone and done it. He waved his family a quick goodbye, before disappearing from their line of sight.

His dad was right. It was good that he was going. The Giants had a game to win.

"Good evening sports fans! Ladies and gentlefolk, we welcome you to the highly anticipated matchup between the Hiroshima Toyo Carp and your Yomiuri Giants.”

The stadium was bright and buzzing with excitement. Ken was used to the energy, but he never grew tired of it. There was something almost magical about having this many people in a stadium together. Something electrifying about hearing their collective voices. Whether or not he was set to play, the crowd was what grounded him into focus. He adored their cheers, regardless of who it was directed to.

“We’ve got an intense start to the game so far, the home crowd doesn’t look too happy with Tateoka’s second strikeout.”

“How's it looking?” Ken appeared beside his teammate, Yuki, who was watching the game by the barriers.

“Bad. We're dying out there, Sato. Tateoka's our second batter. We're down one strikeout.”

Ken's brows knitted together, intrigued. He had gotten here a little late and missed a good chunk of the first inning. He had missed most of the commentary, too, so he was pretty much left in the dark. All he knew was that the home crowd didn't look too cheerful. And neither did Coach Shimura. ( Though technically, he couldn't remember a time when Shimura looked anything less than disappointed. ) Ken settled into his spot, nursing a canned soda.

The pitcher’s back was against him, his jersey name too far for him to read. He couldn't see who it was. Ken took notice of their form. Their figure. “Wait, who's throwing again?”

His teammate dropped a name so familiar it sent Ken choking on his drink.

“Fucking, who?” He dropped the name of a famous star-athlete. A name he saw on billboards, news reports, articles. A name so expensive it put his vintage cars to shame. A name with a strikeout rate so disgustingly high it had the best teams falling to their knees. A staggering 1.75 ERA. Almost zero walks. Your name, sent a shiver down Ken Sato’s spine. You, the Mets’ notorious Bullet, now a surprise player of the Toyo Carp.

He watched as you turned around. Your face came into view. You were frighteningly calm. The Giants’ batter was one strike away from an out. Kenji swallowed thickly. “When the hell did he get here?”

“Yeah. Apparently they traded him to Carp a week ago. Didn't get much buzz for some reason.” Yuki scoffed. “Think they covered it up? Element of surprise? It was a pretty big move.”

The fact that Kenji had never been put up against you before was sheer dumb luck. That's what he thought, anyway. Despite the fact that the both of you had been celebrities in The States, the seasons just never aligned well enough to get the both of you to play at the same park. But he hadn't dreamed of it. Who in their right mind would? Like a bullet from a gun, your pitches were unstoppable. You had a mutant-like control over the ball. There were studies on the physics of your technique. Even the best batters would miss your throws. And at that moment, as he watched his teammate strike himself out, Kenji wondered if he'd miss, too.

He wouldn't have to keep wondering. Understanding the weight of your presence, the Yomiuri Giants opted to bring in the calvary.

“Sato.” Ken flinched at Shimura’s voice. He looked over his shoulder, facing him. “Locker room. Get dressed — I'm calling you up.”

He laughed, nervously. “You sure that's legal, coach?” He wasn't scheduled to play today, and spontaneously entering a non-player into the field was only allowed upon certain circumstances. Like an injury, for example.

“Of course it is.” Shimura grumbled. “Tokuda just broke his arm.”

The mentioned Tokuda stood behind him, sipping on some soda, with his obviously not-broken arm. “You heard the man, Ken. I just broke my arm.”

Ken grimaced, heading for the door. “The press is going to love this…” Japan's finest batter, versus The States’ fastest pitcher. Oh, this would make the headlines for sure.

Kenji did as he was told. He walked into the locker room, then walked out in full-attire. The speakers crackled to life. There was a steady rise in the crowd’s demeanor. People were slowly piecing the situation together. The announcers were losing their minds. “And It looks like — oh my goodness, folks. I don't believe this. Ken Sato has been called up into the field!”

The stadium went alight. Ken walked into the park and wondered if the lights were a little brighter than usual. He was doing his stretches, rolling his shoulders. His bat was handed to him and he flipped it in his hand. He allowed the cheers to boost his energy, and perhaps a bit of his ego.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we might be witnessing baseball history tonight! Two of the opposing team’s star players have come face to face for the first time ever. And it's happening right here, right now.”

You met his eyes. Ken’s breath hitched. You were so… intense. He couldn't properly describe it. You watched him move into position like a lion stalking its prey.

“Will Sato stop the Toyo Carp’s brand new Bullet? Or will he walk out of this game bleeding?”

The trick was to look them in the eye. A pitcher was no different from a batter when it came to a game. They shared the same weight of responsibility. The only time a stadium is silent is when they're standing face to face. Like a duel. One of Ken’s techniques was staring them down and reminding them that he was a force to be reckoned with. He was Ken Sato, for crying out loud.

Unfortunately for him, you were unshaken. Which he would’ve been offended by, if he were younger and more immature. No matter, he had other things to look for. Like the cues. Each pitcher had their own cue; a sort of tell that told Ken what kind of throw they’d be going for. He didn’t hit those pitches out of pure luck. Contrary to popular belief, he was actually thinking these games through. There were a plethora of things to look at. A pitcher’s stance, their position, which hand they were using. In an easier game, Ken would be able to read these pitchers like an open book.

But if you were a book, then you would've been written in a different language. He could find no such cues. He didn’t really have anything to calculate. You were as unpredictable as you were quick. None of his usual techniques seemed to be working on you.

The last resort: keep your eye on the damn ball, and freakin’ swing.

You held your hand outward, fingers pointed at him. There was a kind of hunger in your eyes, an expression that made Ken’s heart skip a beat. Your focused glare made him feel as if a red dot had appeared on his forehead. Like you had marked him for prey. It felt… personal. Like it wasn’t a part of the game, and you were only pointing at him. A threat. A dare.

You pulled your pitching arm back. He swore he heard a gun cock. The stadium went quiet. The crowd held its breath. So did Ken. He tightened his grip on his bat. He waited, eagerly, for you to make your move. He was counting the milliseconds, watching you, anticipating your throw, waiting for you to shoot.

And you did.

Ken blinked, and the ball was gone from your hands. He released the breath he was holding through a disbelieved scoff. He turned, and the catcher had stumbled slightly, holding your ball. The crowd grew into disarray, a rising cacophony of cheers and boos. They just couldn’t believe it. Ken Sato not only missed your pitch, but wasn’t able to move at all. He couldn’t even swing. You were too fast. Too abrupt.The ball was a white blur, there a moment, then gone the next. It wasn’t an issue of the curve, nor the direction. It was just too fucking fast.

His teammates couldn’t believe their eyes. And neither did his coach. Ken craned his head to look at you. You stared back at him, stone-faced.

He took a breath to regain his composure, resuming his earlier stance. He would never admit it, but he was rattled. He was trying to understand how that throw was humanly possible. How he had somehow forgotten to move. He could do nothing more but stand haunted as he heard the resounding “strike one!” from the umpire. This wasn’t the first time he’d missed, but it was the first time he froze. It was a spectacle to all, and a moment of horror for his fans. Did the Unstoppable Ken Sato finally meet his match? Even if he did, he was determined not to lose a second time.

“Okay,” he whispered. He took a deep, focused breath, slightly shifting his stance. He kept his feet firm on the ground, bat at the ready. “Okay, Hotshot. Bring it on.”

You kept your eyes on him and him alone. You stared at him as if you were the only two people in the stadium. The crowd went silent once again. The Giants fans were desperate to give Sato the focus he so-terribly needed, but the Carp fans were just curious to see how the second pitch would go. The air was thick and heavy with tension.

Like before, you threw your hand out, fingers pointed at Ken. You drew your pitching arm back, like an archer, and there was that sound in his mind again. The cock of a gun. Ken waited. He counted you down. He was a hunter dressed in camo, waiting for a deer to move.

Then, for the first time since he’d seen you, your expression changed. You grinned at him.

Then you winked.

Shit.

You threw the ball. Ken swung.

But he missed.

The crowd erupted into chaos. There was an indistinguishable pandemonium of disdain and celebration. People screamed and jumped and waved their banners as high as they possibly could. A number of them had already entered a state of acceptance — the Giants would lose to a perfect game. No batter would ever get through the wall that was you. But a lot of them kept their faith in the ever-notorious Sato. He could hit the last shot. He could pull this off. He might have been struggling to match your speed, but he would figure it out. They believed in him like he was a god.

And at that moment, as Kenji heard the echoing “strike two!” he certainly felt the anger of one.

Did you just fucking wink? Did you seriously have the audacity to wink at him? Kenji took it personally. Who did you think you were? Though his lips spoke nothing of the foul words he wished so eagerly to shout, it was clear on his face that he wanted you gone. It was one thing to embarrass him with a fastball, but another to rub it in. He wouldn’t let that slide. He wouldn’t allow you to strike him out.

Yoshimura was gripping the barrier so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.“Eyes up, Sato!”

Kenji breathed. Through his nose, this time. He drew a long breath into his entire body and blew it out through his lips. He wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t miss. While he might have already taught himself the humility that came with losing, he hadn’t taught himself jackshit about losing to you.

“If looks could kill,” whispered Ami Wakita, the reporter who watched the game from the press booth. Typing into her laptop, she wrote: “There seems to be obvious tension on the field. Nothing new for Ken Sato, yet, significantly different. Japan’s star player has finally met his match. This game has been a long time coming.”

This was his last chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it. Kenji raised his bat, and narrowed his eyes. You weren’t blind to his added efforts, and smirked at him again. Oh, how it made his blood boil.

Point.

Pull.

Throw.

Swing.

This time, the ball made contact.

The crowd blew up once more, exhausting their lungs as they watched the ball fly across the field. Kenji had hit it. Kenji had managed to catch your bullet-of-a-pitch. He dropped his bat to the ground and ran for his life. Base to base, corner to corner. Kenji leapt across the field and jumped for home.

“Safe!”

The crowd went wild. He had heard stadiums cheer for him before, but he didn't think he had ever heard anything this loud. With a relieved laugh, Kenji got up from the ground, and finally caught his breath. His teammates ran to greet him, though they had only passed the first inning. With a round as intense as that one, they felt it was only right to celebrate a little early.

And then he looked at you. Your eyes met. You were smiling at him again. He didn't like the lack of concern on your face. He didn't like that you didn't seem challenged. And he especially didn't like the fact that he was out there playing for his life, while you seemed to have played for a weekend game at the park.

Kenji was glaring at you, as if he was burning holes into your head. You lifted a hand and threw him a casual salute, flicking two fingers towards his direction. Dammit, he thought. That wink really threw him off. Which it shouldn't have.

Unfortunately for him, the game was nowhere near the last time you'd interact.

And there'd be the after-party to boot.

#ultraman rising #x reader #kenji sato #ken sato x male reader #kenji sato x male reader #ken sato #ken sato x you #ken sato x reader #kenji sato x reader

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bokutooooo · 1 year

Text

Dream Ride

warnings: strong language! flirting? age gap!! (LEGAL)

"Hey Neela, who's this red neck?" I laugh and Neela rolls her eyes. "This is Sean he just moved here try to be nice." "Hey nice to meet you y/n" he puts out his hand "Hey, have you showed him around yet?". "Yeah I showed him around a bit, you coming tonight?" "I think so my car finally ready, i'm so excited to show it off."

Neela and I are getting ready at my house. "Soooo going to make a move yet? I mean you guys eye fuck each other all the timeeee, you've had a crush on him for years." I laugh "He's turning thirty In like 3 years" "so what? I think you should make a move, It's likely he feels the same". It's true me and Han do flirt a lot but it never went anywhere, plus he is way older than me. "yeah yeah, just keep getting ready missy"..

We pull into the the race centre In my newly improved Nissan Skyline GT-R, of course it isn't just a boring plain car It's pink and white with a glossy finish don't even get me started on the interior. "this car Is so hot, I love it" I smile, proud of what I did "I know right! it's so perfect". I park In a spot near Twinkie's Hulk themed car, makes me grin every time I see it. Neela's already talking to Sean as I'm speaking with Twinkie "I see you're already best friends with red neck huh?" "yeah, seems chill, thought maybe he'd like to come with me tonight. He's seems really into cars." I look over my shoulder at Neela and Sean "You know DK's going to get mad right? Just look, already glaring at him." twinkie looks over, DK already on the move, eyes widen he's quick to rush over. I'm quick to follow behind him "Hey hey hey DK how's going I see you met Sean" I look over at Neela who looks a bit worried. Neela and DK have been dating? for awhile, I mean I don't know if I'd call it dating but best friends with benefits? DK has always been possessive over Neela but sometimes it's a bit much. "Who's this gaijin?!" Neela steps In front but Twinkie is quick to speak up "DK he's here with us, we don't want any problems just here to race. "really? can he drift." I swallow, Sean is probably so confused. "I can race, wanna race?" Twinkie and I look at each other wondering if we just heard the same thing. Now don't get me wrong DK doesn't scare me just I know damn well he's an amazing racer and going up against him Is kind of dumb, especially If you're Sean and have never seen DK race before. DK chuckles "alright gaijin sure, but uh whatcha gonna race with? that?" he looks over at the Hulk car. "He can use mine, see what the kid's got."

I recognize that voice so fast I don't even need to turn around to see who it is. "Really Han? gonna let this kid race with your car? .. alright I won't stop you, I can add it to my collection." he smirks he knows he'll win.

Me and Neela are listening to Twinkie lecture Sean about his stupid decision "Do you even know what DK stands for?" Twinkie crosses his arms waiting for a reply. "No? Donkey Kong?" I laugh and shake my head "It means DRIFT KING Sean, basically Twinkie's telling you that you're going to get you're ass kicked." I smile and watch Sean's face "Maybe I'll win? you never know" "the chances of you winning red neck are slim to none, than you'll have to pay back Han". I lean back against my car, "What about me?" I turn to see Han shoving his mouth full with chips. I smile seeing him shoveling food in his face he's always eating "just explaining what's going to happen after he loses" "hey have some faith in him, maybe he'll win".

"keyword Han. MAYBE, I just feel bad for you sucks you're gonna lose another car." He just laughs and looks at Sean "just try, you'll still owe me though."

"alright let's go! chop chop!!" Han hands his keys over to Sean to his 2006 Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution IX. "Han man this car is too nice for this."

Han shrugs "Y/n lets go up a level" Neela tugs at my arm "alright good luck Sean, see you at the finish line.. if you ever make it..." I giggle walking towards the elevator. "wait up!" twinkie and Han jogging towards us.

The elevator Is filled with the talking of Neela and Twinkie, the two of them stand close to the door while me and Han are In the back. I watch as Han leans down, "Hey y/n how have you been? it's been a minute since we last talk, missed you" he whispers it so Nel and Twinkie can't hear. "Just been working on Kai, finished her a couple days ago. I'll show you after if we go back to the garage." He's teasing me..I know he is, and I'm enjoying every second of it. "Sure, forgot you name them. I know you've been working on her for awhile, congrats." I smile and the doors open, we step out into the crowd of people. Music's blasting and people are shoving their tongues down each others throat, dancing/gridding. "Do you guys really think he'll win this" i ask looking at Neela and Han "probably not but why not give it a shot"

"Okay!! Let's get this started!!!" a girl steps up between the two cars who keep revving their engines while glaring at one another. "READY?" she looks at the two cars "SET.." the room goes silent for maybe 3 seconds. "GOO!!" and off! both cars race off around the building, twists and turns and all you can hear is screeching noise of the tires. There're quick to go up another level and people rush to get up there. "Come on!" Neela grabs my hand as we run.. or at least try to In our heels.

Once we reach upstairs everyone waits patiently to see who will reach the finish line first. And whoosh! DK stops perfectly, I sigh but already knew what the outcome would be. a minute later Sean screeches In and stops. People are cheering and surrounding DK as I walk towards the scratched up, dented car. Han, Twinkie and Neela are already talking to Sean "You own me a car red." Twinkie's laughing and Neela's talking with Sean. "So that didn't really go to plan huh?"

"Yeah guess not, but I'll just practice till I know for sure I can beat him" I just chuckle at his remark "Han, maybe you can teach him how to drift, a couple of lessons wouldn't hurt." Han turns to me and smirks "maybe you should baby" I glance at him, cheeks reddening at the nickname "why because I drift better than you?" I raise an eyebrow at him with a cocky grin on my face. "whatever you say"

"I wish you'd just race me already! I've been waiting so long" I groan, he smiles "maybe later" he shrugs "you always say thattt!" walking to his car "meet me at the garage, think there's a party going on." I turn back to Sean Twinkie and Neela.

"you guys up for it?"

-----------

Might make another part^!

#Han lue #tokyo drift #fast and furious #racing #tokyo #drifting #movie series #street racing #Sung Kang #movie #x reader #writeblr #han lue x reader #cars

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kenniel-fanfic-readerinsert · 1 year

Text

Forget the Past, Enjoy the Present (Jack Salter x Reader)

lame *ss title.

Disclaimers:

1. I should be sleeping

2. It's been like... 6 years? since the last time I wrote a fanfic

3. I am sorry for the cringey writing, I needed to get this out of my system

4. I only saw the movie 1 time, I hope I can go again before they remove the movie in the cinema

5. annddddd I don't own brands, names and etc. Only the cringe plot

5.5. I don't know much of how motorsports work, maybe when I have more free time I will write something really good, in the meanwhile, I ' m r e a l l y s o r r y

6. Jesus, David Harbour, I love you

Part 2 or a remake of this, yess

There is like a 10 year age gap, I believe Jack was in his 30s when the accident happened, so Reader is in their 20s making their way on racing things.

Italics for past time and details about yourself

-----------

15 years ago…

“This is devastating” a car race has gone wrong before, but this wrong? “Jack Salter seems to have lost track of his path along with another racer. Everyone at the expectation of what is going to happen next.

“Is he all right?” Jack asked while the paramedics were taking him into the ambulance “He seems to be stable, we need to hurry”, assured his trainer.

“You’ll be okay, Jack, don’t fall sleep” he heard a familiar voice before getting unconscious.

Present Time

Jack got a call from that stupid gremlin Danny Moore while he was working. Gamer racers? People who probably never drove a real car before on these powerful vehicles? Crazy idea, but here he was.

“Oh, but our special team is not complete yet” Danny was showing him the GT Academy, but once they reached the racetrack for the academy he stopped at the pits. Jack just sighs. “Now what?”

“I want our racers to have a different kind of life experience besides yours” Moore gave him a little smile.

“Stop talking around the bush, who is it”

“Well, you know them”

Jack just closed his eyes.

A demi sport sedan of (your design) was nearing them on the pits. The driver’s door opened reveling a (your hair color) person. They got closer to them. The marketing expert clapped his hands and opened his arms to embrace Y/N in a hug.

“Can’t believe you still are so energetic, Daniel” Y/N greeted him. He smiled but also sensed the tension between the other two. He pulls apart from Y/N and gestured to Jack “I’m pretty sure you remember this big guy”, Moore gave Jack a gentle pat in his belly, making the taller man grunt.

“Of course, hard to forget a man with his nose. Hello, Jack”

“Hello, Y/N” they gave each other a quick look and turn their eyes to any other place possible.

Danny clapped his hands again “Well, let’s get to it!” He gave both Jack and Y/N a pat on their backs before leaving to greet the players.

Once they saw the gaming racers arrive and Jack gave them a depressing speech, Danny introduced Y/N to relieve the pressure of the competitors. “Hello, I’m Y/N, I love racing so much that I’m an Industrial Designer to understand better everything about cars. I’m a racer but since I was young, I participated in street racing. That’s why Daniel here wanted me in the team, to teach you about how savage real racers will be with you.” They gave them a wink before getting in their place behind Danny.

“All right, get comfy guys, but not so much because you start your training tomorrow” the marketer for Nissan dismissed everyone.

Jack was left confused, so they got a degree to understand more about cars?

A couple months before the accident

“Hey, you know it wasn’t your fault, right?” they said, Y/N’s fingers touching only with the tip of the fingers in his shoulder.

“Yes it was, I should’ve more careful!” he got angry, everyone kept saying that it wasn’t his fault, that maybe could have happened with another person. He push Y/N’s hand away, but they got used to that reactions.

“Besides, what do you know about safety? The only track you know is the street, you have never been in a real race” He added fueled by the anger remembering the crash and the loss of a life.

“Is as dangerous if not more, but whatever, I tried everything to cheer you up, but it seems that you never bear my presence. I’m sorry, I hope you find peace someday.”

Y/N met Jack when they started to become more interested in racing in a professional way, not that they doesn’t enjoy street racing, but earning cups and medals looked really nice.

Jack doesn’t say anything nor gives them a glance. They picked their things up and left him alone in silence.

The team of Danny Moore, Jack Salter and Y/N worked just fine, even if the racers ended up with mixed instructions from the older racers. Moore found it problematic, he needed Jack to be synergic with Y/N so the racers could get better and better.

“Jack, my brother”

“We are not brothers”

“Oh, c’mon, we been working for days now.”

“Whaddaya need” Jack didn’t enjoy when people interrupted his Walkman’s sessions.

“Welp, always straight to the point. The three of us, we are making a great team, but no perfect.”

If Jack got a cent for every time he sighs for something that came out of Danny’s mouth, he will have tons of money. “Now what, just tell me and I will work on it”

“Nice of you to say that. Apologize to Them”.

Jack lifted his eyebrows surprised. “You think that’s the issue? We are fine, we talk the necessary.”

“Yeah, like divorced parents. That’s the problem”

“…”

“I liked the turn you made on that weird curb, but next time…” Y/N really takes pleasure in giving feedback to the young drivers. Jack approached and cleared his throat; the other instructor paused at the interruption and turned their head.

“Yes…?” Y/N raised a brow, clearly confused because Jack never shared a word with them aside from things related with the competitors or Danny (Danny himself is a topic).

“Can we… uh, talk, like the two of us” he tried to say as quiet as possible so the others couldn’t hear.

“Sure, let me finish with them” Y/N gave some last instructions to the gamers and then followed him far from the pits.

“Well, I don’t know how to start”

“Why are we here, then” Y/N crossed their arms.

“Fine, fine. Look, I’m sorry” he ran his hand over his face trying to find the courage. “I… what happened 15 years ago wasn’t my fault, you were by my side even if I never liked it. I was young and stupid to push you like that. I’m sorry” he ended and looked at the (your eye color). "I also took you for granted as a driver, hell you drive better than most of those assholes out there"

They cast their face down for a moment and then up to his eyes. “It’s fine, I appreciate your apology. Everything is in the past now” Y/N offered a small smile to him. He nodded his head. "And thanks for the compliment, it means a lot coming from you."

After that they manage to find a better rhythm of teaching the competitors. A couple of weeks have passed, Y/N and Jack became friends (the first time they met doesn’t count to Y/N since it was one-sided). Sharing meals together without Danny.

Danny Moore got an eye for perfect opportunities, and again he found one. He noticed the long glances Jack gave to Y/N, and how he worries when Y/N got in a car to give the gamers extra lessons.

“Jack, my brother” He said to Jack once they were in the press room alone.

“Jesus Christ, now what?”

#gran turismo #jack salter x reader #gran turismo imagine #jack salter david harbour #david harbour #david harbour x reader #reader insert

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things-about-cars-in-posts · 4 months

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I know you're not Identifying-cars-in-posts, but could you tell me about this car? Best pic I could get. It's got such a creature face, I really like it

First off, PLEASE feel free to treat me as a makeshift @identifying-cars-in-posts. I'm pretty sure I said as much at some point, but I should update my pinned to reflect that. Second off, I genuinely did the held in snore-laugh WHAT IS THAT THING

And I did indeed not know, due to the gaps in my knowledge of SUVs that size caused mainly by them barely ever coming to places like Europe, whose human-sized environments are not comfortably navigated by these absolute fucking monsters - hell, I live near a two way road that gets almost 25cm narrower than this thing. Oh, for yanks, that's just over the length of my- you know what actually let's not give that information to the public I can think of something else, uhhhhh that's about a head's width right? Lemme look it up on Wikipedia. Nope, apparently it's about from your chin to your hair. Did you know Wikipedia has a subsection on median human head measurements on the not at all creepily named article "Human head"? There's a table from lowest 99- wait, what were we talking about? Oh right, that thing. How did I get sidetracked like that? I swear that never happens.

I know it's a recent SUV by Nissan's luxury brand Infiniti because it looks recent and has an Infiniti badge that's visible from space, so I just did what I usually do, type what I know into Google Images (yes, DuckDuckGo users, you get to feel superior to me) and glance around at the results to see if I stumble into it. "Infiniti SUV", however, net me zilch. So I figured, since the damn thing so big and goofy it makes the picture you sent look like an Animorphs cover where a car turns into a semi, it could not possibly be anything but the top-of-the-range QX80, and thus googled that next. However, all the behemoths I saw looked much more acceptable, making me begin fearing I'd have to delve into the absolute mess that is the Infiniti naming scheme.

But then, I had an idea.

First result. B)

So what you saw is the second generation of, as I'd suspected, the Infiniti QX80. But also technically not.

See, the one below is the 2004 Infiniti QX56, based on the Nissan Armada based on the Titan based on me, but we(eee!) are never ever ever wait that's not how the song goes.

In 2010, out came its now Nissan Patrol-based second generation, who saw the awkwardness of the first one's roofline realizing at the end of the rear door that it actually can't slope down like that and its front end deciding it may need to be different but who said it must be better and emphatically asked it to hold its gas station sake.

But, in 2015, they did a restyling, in which they sprinkled some LEDs into the lights and fiddled with the bumpers creating the model you saw on the road and I found on Google - and used the occasion to transition the model to the new naming scheme.

You see, Infiniti had realized nobody could parse or remember their seemingly random letters and engine size names, so they started shifting to calling every car Q (or QX if it's vaguely gesturing towards the concept of off-roader) and use the numbers, like in many other brands, to denote where they sit in the range - thus the range topper got the highest number, going from QX56 (denoting its 5.6L engine) to QX80.

(good God.)

So technically, you could argue this to be the first generation of Infiniti QX80, since before this specific restyling there was no Infiniti QX80 because it was called QX56. But that logic would dictate someone who transitioned a year ago is a baby, and honestly if one stance on car names bars me from sex with trans people I'll pick the other.

Either way, they ran with that restyling for three years until they were like "Oh when y'all asked for a restyling you meant you wanted us to make it stop looking like a whale telling its daughter she is not going out dressed like that? Oh okay! Coulda said it earlier!" and gave it the second restyling that carried the model up to this year.

I'm not sure if it actually looks nice full stop or if it's just the whiplash from the Multipla-rivaling previous model, but at least the fender vents now look like they came from Infiniti and not Walmart. Though this generation is now getting sunset altogether, since in the mean time they figured out how to make the damn thing even larger.

This pedestrian mower's headlights have a 'bamboo forest design motif', which I'm very excited by, knowing many people that named their headlights' lack thereof as the key reason for their waning will to live. It's expected to cost Too Much and have a gas mileage rating of You Spent Six Digits On A Drivable House You Don't Get To Even Ask.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

#infiniti qx80 #infiniti qx56 #nissan armada #nissan titan #nissan patrol

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phoenixyfriend · 1 year

Text

Ko-fi prompt from @thisarenotarealblog:

There's a street near me that has eight car dealerships all on the same lot- i counted. it mystifies me that even one gets enough sales to keep going- but 8?? is there something you can tell me that demystifies this aspect of capitalism for me?

I had a few theories going in, but had to do some research. Here is my primary hypothesis, and then I'll run through what they mean and whether research agrees with me:

Sales make up only part of a dealership's income, so whether or not the dealership sells much is secondary to other factors.

Dealerships are put near each other for similar reasons to grouping clothing stores in a mall or restaurants on a single street.

Zoning laws impact where a car dealership can exist.

Let's start with how revenue works for a car dealership, as you mentioned 'that even one gets enough sales to keep going' is confusing. For this, I'm going to be using the Sharpsheets finance example, this NYU spreadsheet, and this Motor1 article.

This example notes that the profit margin (i.e. the percentage of revenue that comes out after paying all salaries, rent, supply, etc) for a car dealership is comparatively low, which is confirmed by the NYC sheet. The gross profit margin (that is to say, profits on the car sale before salaries, rent, taxes) is under 15% in both sources, which is significantly lower than, say, the 50% or so that one sees in apparel or cable tv.

Cars are expensive to purchase, and can't be sold for much more than you did purchase them. However, a low gross profit margin on an item that costs tens of thousands of dollars is still a hefty chunk of cash. 15% gross profit of a $20,000 car is still $3,000 profit. On top of that, the dealership will charge fees, sell warranties, and offer upgrades. They may also have paid deals to advertise or push certain brands of tire, maintenance fluids, and of course, banks that offer auto loans. So if a dealership sells one car a day, well, that's still several thousand dollars coming in, which is enough to pay the salaries of most of the employees. According to the Motor1 article, "the average gross profit per new vehicle sits at $6,244" in early 2022.

There is also a much less volatile, if also much smaller, source of revenue in attaching a repairs and checkup service to a dealership. If the location offers repairs (either under warranty or at a 'discounted' rate compared to a local, non-dealership mechanic), state inspections, and software updates, that's a recurring source of revenue from customers that aren't interested in purchasing a car more than once a decade.

This also all varies based on whether it's a brand location, used vs new, luxury vs standards, and so on.

I was mistaken as to how large a part of the revenue is the repairs and services section, but the income for a single dealership, on average, does work out math-wise. Hypothesis disproven, but we've learned something, and confirmed that income across the field does seem to be holding steady.

I'm going to handle the zoning and consolidation together, since they overlap:

Consolidation is a pretty easy one: this is a tactic called clustering. The expectation is that if you're going to, say, a Honda dealership to look at a midsize sedan, and there's a Nissan right next door, and a Ford across the street, and a Honda right around the corner, you might as well hit up the others to see if they have better deals. This tactic works for some businesses but not others. In the case of auto dealerships, the marketing advantage of clustering mixes with the restrictions of zoning laws.

Zoning laws vary by state, county, and township. Auto dealerships can generally only be opened on commercially zoned property.

I am going to use an area I have been to as an example/case study.

This pdf is a set of zoning regulations for Suffolk County, New York, published 2018, reviewing land use in the county during 2016. I'm going to paste in the map of the Town of Huntington, page 62, a region I worked in sporadically a few years ago, and know mostly for its mall and cutesy town center.

Those red sections are Commercially Zoned areas, and they largely follow some large stroads, most notably Jericho Turnpike (the horizontal line halfway down) and Walt Whitman Road (the vertical line on the left). The bulge where they intersect is Walt Whitman Mall, and the big red chunk in the bottom left is... mostly parking. That central strip, Jericho Turnpike, and its intersection with Walt Whitman... looks like this:

All those red spots are auto dealerships, one after another.

So zoning laws indicate that a dealership (and many other types of commercial properties) can only exist in that little red strip on the land use map, and dealerships take up a lot of space. Not only do they need places to put all of the cars they are selling, but they also need places to park all their customers and employees.

This is where we get into the issue of parking minimums. There is a recent video from Climate Town, with a guest spot by NotJustBikes. If you want to know more about this aspect of zoning law, I'd recommend watching this video and the one linked in the description.

Suffolk county does not have parking minimums. Those are decided on a town or village level. In this case, this means we are looking at the code set for the town of Huntington. (I was originally looking on the county level, and then cut the knot by just asking my real estate agent mom if she knew where I could find minimum parking regulations. She said to look up e360 by town, and lo and behold! There they are.)

(There is also this arcgis map, which shows that they are all within the C6 subset of commercial districting, the General Business District.)

Furniture or appliance store, machinery or new auto sales - 1 per 500 square feet of gross floor area

Used auto sales, boat sales, commercial nurseries selling at retail - 5 spaces for each use (to be specifically designated for customer parking) - Plus 1 for each 5,000 square feet of lot area

This is a bit odd, at first glance, as the requirements are actually much lower than that of other businesses, like drive-in restaurants (1 per 35 sqft) or department stores (1 per 200 sqft). I could not find confirmation on whether the 'gross floor area' of the dealership included only indoor spaces or also the parking lot space allotted to the objects for sale, but I think we can assume that any parking spaces used by merchandise do not qualify as part of the minimum. Some dealerships can have up to 20,000 gross sqft, so those would require 40 parking spaces reserved solely for customers and employees. Smaller dealerships would naturally need less. One dealership in this area is currently offering 65 cars of varying makes and models; some may be held inside the building, but most will be on the lot, and the number may go higher in other seasons. If we assume they need 30 parking spaces for customers and employees, and can have up to 70 cars in the lot itself, they are likely to have 100 parking spaces total.

That's a lot of parking.

Other businesses that require that kind of parking requirement are generally seeing much higher visitation. Consider this wider section of the map:

The other buildings with comparative parking are a grocery store (Lidl) and a post office (can get some pretty high visitation in the holiday season, but also just at random).

Compare them, then, to the "old town" section of the same town.

There are a handful of public parking areas nearby (lined in blue), whereas the bulk of the businesses are put together along this set of streets. While there is a lot of foot traffic and vehicle passage, which is appealing for almost any business, opening a car dealership in this area would require not only buying a building, but also the buildings surrounding it. You would need to bulldoze them for the necessary parking, which would be prohibitively expensive due to the cost of local real estate... and would probably get shot down in the application process by city planners and town councils and so on. Much easier to just buy land over in the strip where everyone's got giant parking lots and you can just add a few extra cramped lanes for the merchandise.

Car dealerships also tend to be very brightly lit, which hits a lot of NIMBY sore spots. It's much easier to go to sleep if you aren't right next to a glaring floodlight at a car dealership, so it's best if we just shove them all away from expensive residential, which means towards the loud stroads, which means... all along these two major roads/highways.

And if they're all limited to a narrow type of zoning already, they might as well take advantage of cluster marketing and just all set up shop near each other in hopes of stealing one of the other's customers.

As consumers, it's also better for us, because if we want to try out a few different cars from a few different brands, it's pretty easy to just go one building down to try out the Hyundai and see if it's better than a Chevy in the same price group.

(Prompt me on ko-fi!)

#economics prompts #marketing #zoning laws #ko fi prompts #ko fi #auto industry #automotive dealerships #car dealerships #phoenix posts

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tenjiiku · 9 months

Text

on my mind / 18+, au

Springtime in Stockholm this year is particularly sunless. Nearly everyday since April it has rained. Under any other circumstances you would rejoice in such a situation. But you were a lonely adult with no ambitions — and the idea of romanticizing your life, at your cynical age, sent an unpleasant feeling to your stomach. So, you decided to surrender to these negative emotions for once and become a headache for everyone.

You had accommodated your afternoon to lounging around naked in your apartment and pleasing yourself on the sofa — but a spontaneous fire had broken out in another residence on the second floor of your building and they started evacuating everyone, so your plan had went bust the moment it had just started to become interesting.

At least you had done a bit of makeup and took a shower in the morning. You grabbed your keys, wallet, walkman, earbuds, coat, descended the stairs of your building with a skip to your walk and listened to The Smashing Pumpkins on the way to nowhere.

(You got rid of your phone to avoid confrontation from your in-laws. This was when you still resided in Japan — when you still tried amending for things out of your control.

You quit your full-time job and resorted to the frugal life you used to live when you were just a student. In hindsight, it was a terrible idea. You could have sold it and made some money. It probably would have paid for rent. Alas, it was quite cathartic watching it fall into the river below the bridge you stood over at the time — alone, pathetically alone — humming a Beethoven piece.

You watched it go down, down, down. And then you had started to cry and sob and bawl and scream — alerting the parents of the few children who passed by you on the way to the slide. You remember being particularly happy only about the fact that no one in the neighbourhood knew who you were or what exactly you were doing. You lived like a ghost in your own community. The ducks in the pond gazed at you though, unwary by your strident behaviour and all too familiar with your strangeness.

Twenty minutes after the deed was done you had acquired a walkman to listen to your tunes.

You remember getting very drunk that day.)

You make it three kilometres past your building, walking soundlessly on the pavement, nearing a park when a Nissan pulls up beside you. You flinch a little, and hurry your pace — believing someone is about to abduct you. However, when the driver rolls down the window of their passenger seat you stop when you hear a familiar voice call out to you to slow down.

“You’re going to catch a cold, idiot.”

You turn and your grimace fades into a smile at the sight of the man.

“And will you take care of me if I do, Oliver?”

He doesn’t answer your question, making you pout — not because you feel upset at his indifference, but because you do not care to be cordial with anyone anymore. Oliver has matured with the years and you have become a shallow, rude person. A tall infant.

It is funny, what ageing does to a monster.

“Why are you roaming the streets during a storm?”

“Because I love to be dramatic. It is one of my favourite hobbies. I like to think that someone is watching from their balcony,” you point to a complex nearby, “and is fantasizing about what they’d do with me if they had the chance to buy me a drink and treat me to dinner. You know, I am mysterious like that.”

Oliver stares at you soundlessly.

“Get in.”

You get in without another word.

You sigh at the warmth of the heat permeating in his car. Sinking into the leather seat, you ignore the way he looks at you like a wet dog. You gaze down at yourself, the silk dress shirt you brazenly chose to wear is soaked through, exposing the lovely lace you decided to put on beneath it. The mini-skirt also presses against your equally soaked legs, and you think if you adjust your position in any other way you will expose your underwear. You decided that since you were unable to get yourself off someone else would be willing to.

Meeting your old acquaintance from many seasons ago today, of all days, was not on your mind.

Your trench coat — your ex-husband’s trench coat which you stole because it is three thousand dollars of authentic leather — is soaked, but you use it to cover your chest. Though you have known Oliver since you were eleven years old — and him five — and know almost everything about him, you do not want him to know you this intimately.

He merges into the traffic. You turn away from him, not knowing what to say to fill the silence. You wonder if he had tried to contact you when he came back to Japan. Last time you saw him you were getting married and he was seeing four women simultaneously (Ai-chan, Sana-chan, Emi-san and you forget the name of the fourth one).

That was ten years ago. You thought Oliver would never change. Looking at him now, he looks tepid. Tame, compared to his twenties.

You laugh at the concept. Oliver looks at you, stopping at a red light.

“My building burst into flames,” you sigh offhandedly, a snort of amusement escaping your lips.

He turns his head to you so animatedly it is hard to hold back your smile.

“What?”

“Relax. It is not my apartment. Someone on the second floor was barbecuing in their balcony,” you hum, grinning at him with your teeth because you whitened them the other day. He looks away from you with a grimace, so you continue to talk, “I thought they were testing the fire alarms until I looked outside and saw everyone running for the hills. I wandered around for a bit outside but they aren’t letting anyone back in for a few hours. This is the second fire this month, I am starting to think this community is bad luck.”

Oliver does not respond. You have half the mind to ask him how he found you. A friend of a former friend in your old neighbourhood told you that everyone pronounced you insane when you first left. A divorced women living alone with no children — the title alone was considered blasphemy in your congregation. They were right about one thing — but it was not because of your many qualms or your failure to keep a spouse that caused you to lose your mind.

You think this festering feeling had begun to grow when you were merely seven years old. You were better at hiding it back then. Oliver was terrible at it — making the world his oyster.

Everything has changed. You are thirty three and he is twenty seven.

“Were you looking for me?” You ask softly.

Oliver clutches onto the steering wheel. His neck jolts to the left but it doesn’t make a sound. He purses his lips and turns up the speed of the windshield wipers.

“I was in the neighbourhood. My date flaked so I bought pad thai.”

You nod your head, mouth forming an O-shape. He says something under his breath to the effect of Yeah, I know. Feeling a bit awkward talking to a young man about failing to get laid, you stare out the window and place your frozen hands beneath your thighs. A minute later, you respond.

“Can I have some?”

He laughs. You tilt your head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Realizing this is the first time you have seen Oliver in many, many years, you correct your behaviour. Though the possibility of him becoming normal is thin, it is never impossible. You murmur lowly, “I mean… I am sorry that happened to you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, shaking his head.

You decide that is enough talking for now. The heat of the car, though it dries your clothes, makes you feel uncomfortable. Your dress doesn’t stick to you anymore and you feel colder than ever. Raising your hands to the blower motor, you sigh, feeling a shiver go down your spine. Oliver makes a left turn into a residential street, a more relaxing environment.

“I’ve tried to reach you for the past two weeks, since I got back. Did you change your phone number?”

Humming and stretching the tendrils of your neck, you make a noise akin to a choke and a grunt.

“I threw my phone in a river.”

Oliver snaps his head towards you, eye wide. You sink further into your seat, feeling embarrassed that a man like himself is pitying you.

“I erased it beforehand. If some creep fished it out everything important is already gone.”

A moment passes. Then two.

“You’re crazy, woman. Really. Absolutely psychotic — you do know this?” He huffs, shaking his head before looking back out the front mirror. You find it wholly amusing that Oliver, of all people, is calling you such. But it is nothing out of the ordinary.

You grin like a crazed girl. “Oh. Tell me more. Keep going.”

He makes a face that cannot be described. He shakes his head and murmurs a profanity beneath his breath.

“Come on,” you sing, hitting his shoulder with your hand, “You are nice to everyone but me.”

He grins a little. He tries not to. You know a lot about men like him. Spent a decade trying to decode their behaviour. You never got anyone. You are stupid.

“Yeah. Because you’re different,” he says. Though you have an inkling he is lying.

“Different in a good way?”

“Different in a way that you know how to talk my head off.”

“Awh. That makes me special, doesn’t it?” You ask, batting your eyelashes.

He doesn’t answer. Which makes you think you said something offensive or wrong. So you shrink back like a good girl and shut up, because that is what you are best at. You look out the window and start to think.

Oliver is old. You are old. Oliver is levelheaded. You are a child.

Everything is new. Everything is scary.

Things have always been the same ever since you were 19. Except you were not really sure when exactly you turned 19. You still strongly believe you are 17. Time has felt as more of a concept than a real thing. You miss your mom most days then remember a sour memory and feel instantly better. You feel ugly — a decrepit mutant living in the skin of a woman. Most days you want nothing to do with yourself. Other days you believe everyone in the world wants you — truly desires you.

You cannot afford a therapist. You cannot go back home. You cannot quit working, because then you cannot afford a coffee everyday. You would be fine living in a cardboard box, if it called for it. You think you would be fine with doing anything — including inviting yourself into a past childhood friend’s home whom you haven’t seen in many years.

(He can be a psychopath. This could be the last people hear of you.)

“Why do you own a fucking walkman?” He asks as you disassociate on his sofa. Your walkman is tossed on top of your wet coat that lounges on the coffee table, because Oliver doesn’t own any hangers.

“I have to listen to my tunes… I’d go insane! Keeps me closer to my roots,” You exclaim, a little louder than you wanted to. You make a small, indistinguishable choking noise. You try to brush it off as you crack open the can of soda Oliver’s brought you (he’s been sober for 6 months, shockingly). But you think he notices, because he stares at you like you have a ghost seated between you both.

“You’re so damn weird.”

You nod, tucking your bottom lip into your mouth. Oliver coughs, rummaging with the bag of takeout. It smells good but you do not feel hungry. Oliver shoots you a look and you shake your head. He probably feels the same way you do, because he gets up from his spot next to you on the love-seat and takes the pad thai with him into the kitchen.

You take the twenty seconds he’s gone to scope out his apartment. It is cleaner than you expected it to be. Smaller, too. There’s a hallway that leads somewhere deeper into his apartment. You have half the mind to wander off. He probably would not mind — you deserve to be intrusive considering he took over most of your adolescence dealing with his erratic tendencies. He has an abstract painting of a monkey and a cloud hung up over a table where multiple appliances sit — a rice cooker, coffee machine, four clocks and a small ceramic plate with multiple keys sitting atop it.

Oliver returns with a soda in hand. He sits next to you. You lean your head back against his couch, looking towards the popcorn ceiling. He copies you.

“What have you been up to, recently?”

You giggle, “Well, I wait for my alimony payments. Then, I like to frequent the ICA five minutes away and make stories about the people there. If they are kind to me, I like to picture them with the loves of their lives. If they are not, I like to imagine them bitter and alone.”

Oliver stills beside you. Then he sighs.

“Any other recent activities that you actually enjoy?” He asks, sighing. He has been doing that a lot, you realize. You have half the mind to accuse of him accusing you of not enjoying judging others, but you let it pass because you are all forgiving.

“Recently I have been trying to workout.”

He chuckles, “How’s that?”

“I just run around in the park and scare the children. None of the parents like me, I think.”

“Yeah. I’d understand them.”

You raise a foot to kick him. Oliver catches it. His hand is cold against the sole of your toes and you feel your stomach drop.

“Let go of my foot,” you say, trying to wiggle free. But the grip Oliver has on your foot is too tight.

“Apologize.”

You don’t want to but you want this exchange to end so you murmur a small, “…Sorry.”

“Good girl.”

He lets go of your foot. You cringe a little at the name he referred to you as and the way he said it. You wonder if he is also regretting uttering such a thing. You cannot believe you are in his apartment. You don’t say anything else, the sudden awareness hitting you like a truck deems you unreadable and full of anxiety. You want to go home.

“Any ladylike habits you’ve developed during the time I’ve been gone? Or do you still like to behave like a stray cat?”

You really want to go home. You sigh, a little peeved, even more than usual because for the first time you do not have alcohol in your system. Curling your feet up and resting your chin on your knees, you wrap around your legs and stare at Oliver soundlessly.

“You’re exactly like baba. He didn’t think I’d be able to manage for this long either,” you accuse.

Oliver nods slowly, drinking your words. A little harsh, but the truth. The elephant had been in the room for quite some time. Was in the car ride here as well. But you are feeling angry and uncomfortable so you have no qualms with uncovering it right now.

“Is that why you refuse to come back home?”

Oliver asks, his voice the softest you have ever heard it to be. Usually you would get a sample of it when he’d call girls in the middle of a family gathering, tucked away near the dining area while you were made to clean the dishes. He’d join you after the call to tell you about her and the other girls he ran into at the bar. He was only eighteen at the time. You probably should have looked after him a little better — but you had your own variety of problems at the bitter age of twenty four and you were scared of teenage boys and teenage love. So you forgive yourself if only for a fraction of a moment before your mind rudely invades your senses and reprimands you for your sheepish behaviour and cowardly disregard.

The cycle continues again and again and again — a clock with no arms but endless of tickings. It never stops. You don’t think it ever will. You don’t think you will ever want to go back to feeling like that — to go back home. What ever were you doing for twenty years?

“I don’t want to come home for a plethora of reasons,” you murmur.

“Plethora. That’s a big word. Where’d you learn that from?”

You seethe as his audacity and roll your eyes. Your tone is blatantly drenched in annoyance, “From basic grammar classes. You’d know if you actually paid attention in junior high and didn’t pay me to do your assignments.”

You sounded meaner than you intended to be. Oliver brought out the worst from you. Though you know you are a terrible person, he never reminds you of it. Rather, he brings to you a sense of awareness that is enough to make you drop to your knees.

The rain outside is loud — imposing and beautiful. Blue light drenches the room. It paints Oliver’s chiseled features and it soothes you.

“I missed you,” he whispers into the quiet.

You shift slightly where you sit. You look down at your lap, caressing the sides of the soda you hold with two hands.

“Okay…”

“I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“Like, really. I mean it.”

You laugh uncomfortably, cracking your neck. Your eyebrows raise and you feel your pupils shrink, “I mean, thanks, I guess. I don’t know.”

The rain sounds louder now. With Oliver sitting beside you, you feel as though you are in Japan. You feel at home. It is a disgusting, horrid feeling. You never want to go back.

“You’ve changed.” He whispers into the soundless room. His voice and his attitude have shrunk from his early twenties. He seems like a petulant child who has been left alone for several days.

You turn your head to him. You furrow your eyebrow and pick at your bleeding cuticle of your right index finger. You hate him. You hate people like him. Assuming you are a constant fixture — like a lamp they bought once, believing you will illuminate at their command.

“You’ve changed, asshole.”

Oliver laughs at this, pissing you off more.

“How?”

“You’re clean shaven.” You mumble, pressing your thighs together and raising your legs, turning them away from Oliver’s, “I mean… no rough patches. And your hair is more… put together.”

Oliver hums and his lips lift into a half-smirk, “So, what you’re saying is that I’ve mellowed out?”

Your lips lift up into a pitiless grin, “I mean. Yeah. A little.”

“You’ve gotten shorter.”

“That’s not a thing, idiot.”

“I know. It’s just…, you look so much more…unkempt.”

“That’s a unique choice of word. Maybe you were paying attention in school.”

The conversation dips into a small lull. You hear the vents start up and the white noise sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. You wrap the sherpa-lined throw around your body. It smells like Oliver. You rub your legs together.

“Sayori-san got married last month. Ma told me.”

(Sayori, your high-school boyfriend’s, Makato’s, illicit affair. You have never had luck with men. Or their taste in women.)

“That witch got married? Let me guess, to that pushover, Makoto?”

“Nah. Some foreigner who works at a bank in America. Think his name is Leon.”

You snort at this.

“Can’t believe that wench got into a committed relationship before me.”

“Well, least it’s not Makoto marrying her.”

“That asshole can have her. I couldn’t care less,” you spit, chuckling into your soda. You take a sip and feel Oliver’s eyes examine the column of your neck. You feel a little self conscious so you massage it with your cold hand, turning away and looking at the carpet by your feet.

Oliver is silent for a moment, then he says, “You’ve grown more vulgar. You used to be so nervous around everyone. Ma made me go with you everywhere.”

You look at him and feel Oliver shrink under your gaze. You smile. You both came from the same congregations — both of you knew the rules. You, sooner than Oliver. Him, later than you. And yet years later you are the only one suffering the consequences, it seems. What good was it — all those years wasted on something that was to only die? Oliver was shameless, egocentric and everything above overzealous. But he lived fruitfully. You could not say the same for yourself. Not back then, and not even now.

“Well, you sort of lose all of your apprehensions when you’re in your mid-thirties and have been through your first divorce.”

It comes out before you can stop it. You do not care anymore. Oliver’s pity comes swiftly and with pain.

“I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and sigh. You open your mouth and a noise between a gasp and yawn leaves. You open it, close it, and open it again.

“You know. I think I loved him at one point, and I hope he loved me. But I don’t think he ever did. I dropped out of school for him. Worked three jobs for him, at one point. Quit, because he told me it made him look bad. I listened to his every word. I made his interests mine. I think I fell in love with the times he chose to love me.”

Oliver is too quiet. You look at him and swallow the breath that becomes stuck in your throat, sighing softly.

“How come you never told me this?”

Your lips lift slightly, and you bite your bottom one to stop from smiling. Shrugging your shoulders, you mumble tepidly, “You would have called me stupid. I mean, I was. I guess I was sort of in denial. And, you were in your own little world. Who am I?”

“What made you leave?”

You laugh at his question. It is funny that Oliver is the only person offering you sympathy in this situation. When you had told your mother she’d called you stupid.

“He was sleeping with a coworker. I found them leaving a love hotel I passed by on the way home, carrying groceries to make him dinner.” You huff a little, feeling a tightness grow in your throat. “Mother told me stay with him, ‘He makes good money. You should stay with him. He’ll fix his habits if you give him a little more attention. Lose some weight.’ I knew he started working at a good company. I managed to stay a while longer.”

You feel Oliver come closer to you. His body radiates a warmth that feels very familiar and comforting to you. You do not dare voice this concern. You hope he notices how your legs twitch and your knees touch.

“He asked for a divorce soon after. I agreed, thinking it would make him happy. He got with his coworker three days later,” you laugh again, feeling a little nervous with Oliver’s eyes on you, “I am a stupid woman! But I guess you wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re not,” he hisses, and he sounds mad. Which does not make any sense. It does not make sense why he is so angry at the accusation of your being stupid. And what is more concerning, is why Oliver of all people is mad on your behalf, “You’re not stupid. Not in the slightest.”

You rub your eye and you finally turn your gaze to him. You smile at the way his face falls flat, “Thanks for the words. Maybe Watari would have stayed if I told him them.”

You look at Oliver. Really look at him. He really is clean shaven. His hair is no more, a shaved buzzcut replacing it. You sort of miss the way his hair would fall on his forehead. Staring at him like this feels wrong. Like the two of you are children again. In a way, you almost could be taken for such, given your behaviour in the recent years.

“You two always got along quite well. I should have known.” You mumble, shaking your head and smiling down at your can. You sigh, placing it on the coffee table as Oliver utters.

“What are you talking about?”

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that?” You retort, looking at Oliver accusingly. He stills and you think he knows what you are getting at.

“You’re exactly like Watari. He thought I was stupid. I can be oblivious sometimes but I’m not daft,” you furrow your eyebrow, suddenly growing mad. You do not know why you are angry. “I’m not a little girl anymore. Everyone… everyone thinks I’m dumb. I’m not. I never was.”

“I know,” Oliver says, sternly and louder than you. It scares you and you flinch. He sighs and rubs his forehead .

“Fuck. You think I don’t know?” He mumbles. He is closer than ever now. A large palm suddenly touches your cold face. You melt into it and feel your lips tremble.

“I want to kill him for what he did to you,” he hisses. And for the first time in your life you can confidently state that Oliver is telling the truth.

It makes you smile. You feel his breath against your lips. The winds of the typhoon grow louder. The ticking of the clock you gave Oliver years ago, hangs on his wall, and is loud and imposing. The drink you had earlier might as well have been alcoholic.

“Are you going to touch me?” You whisper.

You feel Oliver’s hand twitch.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he mumbles.

Taking that as his omission, you take the other large hand resting on your thigh to your breast. Awkwardly and nervously, he touches you.

“Touch me here,” you murmur lowly, sighing as he kneads the muscle.

He listens, the knuckle of his index finger teasing your nipple. You moan softly, dragging him closer by the collar of his shirt and pressing your lips against his.

His mouth is warm and inviting. Unfamiliar, which was to be expected considering you had never kissed anyone but Watari before. The idea makes an itch grow between your legs. You feel your knees buck, and Oliver senses this too. He breaks the kiss, flushed cheeks and all, and helps you undo your shirt and bra.

“Yeah? Where else?” He mumbles against your collar, and you mewl when his warm hand travels down, under your skirt, “Where else do you want me, baby? I’m yours.”

You arch your back, tears filling your eyes when his hands find purchase on your underwear, massaging your clit through the lace. You laugh a little (suddenly realizing who it is who is touching you), which slowly morphs into a moan as Oliver kneads it a bit rougher — probably in response to your amusement.

“Oliver,” you whine, hissing as he peels your wet underwear off and massages your clit directly. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, whimpering as he slips in a long, thick finger — reaching a part of you that has not been touched in months.

“Yeah? Yeah, baby?” His voice is deep and naughty, raspy in a kind way. He asks you gently, nibbling at your earlobe as you drench around his digits, “You like the way I touch you? Yeah?”

Your hips buck when he slips in a third, and you feel yourself starting to reach a high already. It feels scary and unfamiliar, but you welcome it because it is so close.

“Please—Please?” You whimper, a questioned tone to your wrecked voice. Oliver does not response directly, choosing to furrow his eyebrows at your moans and swallow them with his mouth.

His fingers dig deeper into your cunt, and you bite down on his lip when you come. He hisses in your panting mouth, and as your chest heaves up and down, you watch as he licks the fingers that were inside you moments ago, languidly, with his tongue. You blush, and look away, not knowing how to respond to his attempts of seducing you. And you suddenly realize you are half-naked on the sofa of your childhood friend you abandoned, who just made you come on his fingers as though it was second-nature to him.

“Oliver,” you whisper, voice raw. He shushes you, and stands up with you in his arms. You let your head fall on his broad chest, and you shiver as his warm body envelopes your cold one.

“Let’s take this inside,” Oliver murmurs against your temple, softly and gently. He treats you the same — like you are fragile and precious, like you are worthy of being treated like fine goods.

His bedsheets are warm and they smell of the laundry detergent your mother used to wash your clothes. You were fifteen when she stopped doing so.

It is why you are gone in the morning before he awakes. Leaving a memo behind and stealing 200 SEK from the jar by his nightstand and your underwear on the floor by the bed-frame.

Oliver. It is not because of you I left. It is not because of Watari. It is not because of anyone. Thank you for everything. Truly.

#writing #nsft #oliver aiku x reader #oliver aiku x female reader

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assistantcaptainmitchmarner · 1 year

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hi, I saw your post about car shopping? I have a few things I stick to (just had my car totalled recently too, it sucks) I would say 1) know the kind of car you want going in, if you have the time shop for a specific make/model. Always google the reviews of a type of car to see how it holds up over time (esp the year. had a friend almost buy a 2012 nissan that her car dealer "friend" wanted to sell her, all the online reviews said the transmission fails at like 70k miles and guess how many miles were on the car) Also, if you're seeing a lot of one particular make/model on the used market that means people are trying to get rid of that car, so stay away from it. Here I kept seeing a ton of toyota prius and fiat 500's. They might be cheaper because there are so many, but it will cost you in the long run. Toyota is the best for low maintenance and reliability, but they might be harder to find 2) details details details. in the states we have a huge problem of flooded cars (from hurricanes) being brought up north and resold. Ask for detailed maintenance records, be VERY sus of a car originally from super far away popping up near you. Look in the trunk or under the hood for signs of another paint color to make sure it hasn't been totalled before and repainted. I try to look for single owner cars, two prev owners or more is a sign there might be something wrong with the car. I hope this helps, if you have any questions or anything feel free to ask me! unfortunately I know the pain of car shopping well

hi, thank you so much!!! unfortunately i don’t fully have the luxury of being able to pick make and models (used car market in canada is wild rn - the whole car market actually) but that’s a great point about googling the car, i’ll definitely do that before buying anything.

and thank you for the details section, it’s exactly that stuff that i know is important but don’t know (didn’t know now, thank you) how to check. thank you so much again and good luck in your own search if you’re still looking!!

#thank you so much!!!!!!!#car stuff #andie.txt

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wehrwolf · 1 year

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so this week I flew across the country by myself to see my favourite band in the entire world. practically nothing went amiss. I had random interactions with lovely people. my hobbling faith in humanity has straightened its spine a bit? I’ll be cringe about this below because I want to remember, let’s have some positivity for once.

I hate that I like nissan rogues, I know the transmissions are dogshit. rented one for a day to avoid dragging luggage all over hell’s creation. sound system fucked hard. LOUD paul barker. ate hella steak, eggs and pancakes at pancake chef near seatac. alright alright alright.

killed time before hotel check-in, visited lakeview for brandon and bruce lee, ended up perusing the cemetery with a multi-talented guy from LA for about an hour swapping perspectives, observations on the human condition and tombstone critiques. glossy black crow perched on an equally inky granite headstone embellished with a huge cross - oh my goth, bro. eric, I’m sorry your cat died, you are rad and I will try to find your music online. be water, my friend.

the fashionable gentleman who checked me into the hotel was a sweetheart, down with skinny puppy, name dropped wax trax, awesome taste in rings.

dipped out for coffee, asked directions from coffee-holding stranger in glasses to make sure I was headed the right way. ran into him the next day in my new hoodie post gig, he mentioned how he used to work at a record store in edmonton, sold records to cEvin. what? insane.

seattle has too many hills, someone should do something about this. but very walkable. always move confidently with purpose, shoulders back, mean mug, look like you want to curb-stomp god. never appear lost.

found a 24 hr cafe near the kurt cobain twin tower / frasier obelisk that served a mean breakfast and was blasting tunes at 9:30am. several compliments on my filthy rat nest hair. what is this fever dream? unwashed hair is in. pancakes are my passion.

wandered to the paramount to get my bearings, saw justin by the tour bus and that metalworker ephraim dude’s sick rusted-out mad max’d honda cr-v. meandered around for the rest of the afternoon before skuppy-prep time. incredible roast beef horseradish sandwich. cool and good.

hung out in the GA line for a while, no VIP this time, wind picked up and it was pretty cold for a may evening. ended up next to a tough looking dude during the show, chatted a bit, he was a kmfdm roadie for a few tours. said his best puppy show was new orleans, I can only imagine. he reminded me of wez from the road warrior. thank you R for the gum, it gave me a second wind.

the paramount theatre is something out of a golden fairytale, gilded to the gills. generous stage for alien abuse. fantastic acoustics. reminds me of the hippodrome. I relished irving plaza’s intimacy but the paramount was my favourite venue.

I will never tire of seeing lead into gold. soundtrack for slowly asphyxiating in a warm tar pit but make it erotic. thank you paul barker, long-legged light of our lives.

no surge/mosh at this show- if so, I didn’t notice. the energy was on point. denver had some choice dumbasses in the crowd, no such issue here. seattle mirrored silver spring imo, excellent all around. I made a brief, wonky post touching on this but in denver ogre was still obviously uncomfortable. that made me feel fucked up... and quiet afterwards. this time around he seemed in great spirits, tons of energy, spinning the mic around a bunch, writhing all over the place to thwart tormentor!dustin (our boy is flexible). everyone was going wild, we all yelled ourselves hoarse. got to use their A setup with the big projection sheet. justin and cEv on risers.

side note: big love to matthew for his crowd engagement and bubbly enthusiasm this entire tour. honestly he comes off as just a literal cinnamon roll of a guy and the tour diaries have been a real treat. at the end he reflected on otherness and a need to be kind to one another in an unkind world, which really oddly summed up my seattle adventure... and the general vibe of skinny puppy’s unique fans (as others have mentioned here far more eloquently).

also real talk does ogre do belly dancing or something BECAUSE jesus fucking christ man he makes my mind literally fucking blank with all that fluid gyration absolutely knuckle dragging cave woman looney toons wolf beating the shit out of itself with a hammer feral. he knows what he’s doing too, god bless him. there were gals behind me that just started SHRIEKING like it was beatlemania, fucking ogremania with every slutty little hip movement (”go daddy gooo”). also like... cock grabbing causing me irreparable brain damage. then he legit straight up purposefully spit/drooled and it was just... super hOrny NOT like... mouth trauma symptom salivation (I hope? oh god.) his spit makes me insane. ok.

this was the first time I had the pleasure of hearing god’s gift (maggot). we were graced with smothered hope at earlier shows... so I think I basically experienced everything الحمد لله رب العالمين screaming. they ended with candle again, huge plus. ogre practically pranced off the stage after the encore. everyone came back out together for a heartfelt round of goodbyes. no concerts have moved me like these puppy gigs. I am so thankful, down to the marrow. there are probably other details but I have slept ~two hours in the past 48 so... ✌️👽

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journey-of-the-ip · 4 months

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Thursday June 6th

I guess I’m starting a new day even though it’s still the middle of the night in home time.

Bleghh kinda finished the flight zombie mode. The flight was only 8-9 hours which is pretty short imo, and I only “slept” probably like an hour or two? Probably less honestly. It’s crazy with map projections we took a short cut over the top of the globe cause that’s how globes work. Weird.

Upon landing I finally figured out the roaming data with Mint but my coverage is garbage and I couldn’t get signal in most of the airport.

Also the airport WiFi wasn’t working so I was like damn, also I walked past and then subsequently couldn’t get back to the SIM card shop in the airport double damn. I also walked past and couldn’t get back to the money exchange in the airport. Triple damn.

I was anxious that my credit card would be declined and I wouldn’t have any euros so I wandered around a bit by t didn’t really get anywhere, brain was feeling very shot so I just went up to the taxi stand which luckily was really easy to find and got a taxi to my hotel.

Card was accepted, all is good. Is this frontal lobe anxiety finally kicking in? (Albeit too late for me to have done anything about it) I guess just need to practice being more proactively anxious.

At the hotel, I can’t check in until 2 (it’s 11 at this point) so I have 3 hours to kill till I can brush my teeth, shower, and feel human. Also it’s HOT which makes sense because it’s June but Seattle has lulled me into a false sense of security. This trip is gonna be sweaty.

Anyways my hotel is near the airport which means it’s near nothing interesting. I’m between a Nissan dealership and an IKEA.

I have a long vent about globalization which I hopefully get back to because I’m writing this as I’m waiting to check into my room still.

Luckily, seems like there’s a shopping mall about a 15 min walk from the hotel so I go there and grab a bite to eat and hide in the air conditioning for a while. i didn’t realize how ravenous I was bc I wasn’t really craving any of my snacks, classic. After I made my way back to the hotel where I am now.

Schleepy. Hopefully will write more later.

Okay I slept from 3-8pm and then from 10pm-2am. It’s now 7:14. I guess I’m still including this in the day before because I don’t have any pictures yet and these thoughts are from yesterday. Anyways here is my vent I was too sleepy to transcribe yesterday.

Being here is kind of uncanny. Except for a few things, you could easily mistake this place for the US, or Mexico City. Most of the stores I see are international brands. At the mall I saw Starbucks, Sephora, guess, H&M, etc etc. when I was looking for food, I saw Italian, sushi, frozen yogurt. It felt like being in any other urban mall. (One store I thought was funny was straight up the Aliexpress store?? It was like a cross between a dollar store and one of those stupid tech shops that had like massagers in the early 2000s.

Of course some things are different, I found a more traditional tapas place and got some food you wouldn’t normally see in the US. Everyone smokes here, drinking is much more casual, and they’re fond of this weird sloped escalator that’s like half way between an escalator and those airport fast walk things. Maybe it’s wheel chair accessible? But that thing is still pretty steep idk

I’m also not in a touristy spot but like, I feel like the mall I went to was a very authentic local person mall. The people just looked like normal Spanish people not tourists. Even so, Everyone here speaks English, they had an English menu ready for me, it’s all so… samey? Easy? Idk

I think this is part of why I’m not caring as much about traveling these days. Why spend all that money to just go, be somewhere with a slightly different skin? Anything I could want I could personally also get on Amazon, or at my own malls, idk.

I’m going Morocco will be more different. This is definitely bias but it feels like different == poorer. Where cities if given the option will homogenize into a globalized urban center.

When I reflect back, I feel like Saigon had more character and differences even though it also felt like a global city. Anyways.

Gonna chill and rest here until late morning and then hopefully stay out all day today. We’ll see.

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markmiller97568 · 5 months

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iwantjobs · 5 months

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4/24/2024: The problem with conservative Americans who don't understand the terrorists' point of views for they are humans too and God gave them have their own Islam land in the Middle-East. The terrorists said they won't harass America and hate America if America pulls out all their Christian -American troops out of their Islam land and they them deal with their own Islamic fighting among themselves. Plus, if conservative Americans hate terrorists and Muslims, don't do business with them by buying cheap oil from them--start digging your own oil in your American back ground. Very simple. I bought a cheap used Nissan Leaf to trot around since I was too hurt my a young lesbian Muslim at Starbucks. Also, if you use American tax payers' money to fund a genocide with your free 2,000lb bombs in Gaza where 35% of the population is children who never voted for the Hamas terrorists as their government by your best friend Israel who just crawled out of Nazi's gas camps and immediately started killing Palestinians, kicking them out, stealing their land, and shoving them into 2 areas of Israel with one area having no access to drinking water from the river demanding their ancient land back from 3,000 years ago while calling themselves democracy of equality and freedom. While you conservative Americans call yourself land of the free and equality in your American democracy. You conservative Americans win the Oscars for the biggest hypocrites in the history of mankind, next to Israelis, then Jews who support Israeli's taking back their ancient Jews land from 3,000 years ago in the name of the Torah while calling themselves victims of Nazis, civilized people, and all men are created equal religious words of Judaism. I, Trang, don't want to play with your conservative Americans anymore. I'll vote for your presidents and work to get MAGA people's money to protect the border. After this, I will relinquish your American citizenship eternally. Yes, I, Trang, might be an evil terrorist lover, evil Hamas terrorists lover, BUT I am not an evil genocider, evil land grabber, and evil colonizer. FYI, the Indians and the blacks would like to remind your conservative Americans that if you support colonialism of Palestinian land by the British and land grabbing work of the Israelis while placing Palestinian in an apartheid system with military and border wall fencing that prevent them from seeing their grandparents, the evilness of raping native Americans and black slaves by your American ancestors is the same as the evilness of the Hamas terrorists today. Yes the Hamas terrorists are animals to still acts so barbaric, but you conservative Americans are animals too to give 2,000lb bombs using our tax American money to bomb babies and children in Gaza who also defend their right to exist on their land of 400 years. Same evilness of the Hamas terrorists and you conservative Americans, except the Hamas terrorists are bad news from all angles, but you conservative Americans are bad news by back stabbing (the most evil enemy of all). You call yourselves civilized, equality, freedom, and you stab people in the back when people trust you. At least with the Hamas terrorists, I know to avoid them by running away from them to avoid being killed. Whereas in your American conservative democracy, you lure me in with your kindness of equality and freedom, and when I am not looking, you stab me near death for coming out as the female Buddha. What ever conservative Americans. Stop eating and sit on your potato couches, and get up to build more of your 2,000lb bombs and send them to Israel to bomb off thr Gazan babies and children to make your Jesus proud, because your Bible did tell you to return to the Holy land to rebuild your God's kingdom with the second of your Lord Jesus. I am off working as fast as I can as a crippled, mental, and semi-homeless to return to gook country assuming the gooks haven't been too gay-put; or Cambodia and Laos.

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justnissans · 5 months

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Aftermarket Nissan Parts Australia: Quality Upgrades for Your Nissan Vehicle

Nissan Second Hand Parts: Affordable Options for Your Nissan Repairs

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