#in like 0.25 seconds

[heatherfield]

Verla, go lock the door.

Headless: A Sleepy Hollow Story, Episode 4 “The Star on the Stage” [x]

[oriharakaoru]

IT TOOK ME FOR FUCKING EVER BUT I GOT MY OWN SCREENSHOT I HAVE PEAKED IN LIFE

(they are insane for this) (i love them)

[thatone-highlighter]

hey i saw ur tags on that one fahrenheit post & i'd love to know more about base 6 (+ if you have any recs for understanding it) ! i'm not familiar with it but it sounds cool <3

Okay gonna be honest i have no idea what post youre talking about, but i am not going to turn down such a blatant chance to talk about bases so here we go!

So since 1. I dont know you or how much you know about bases at all (and you say you dont know much) and 2. I want this post to be as helpful as possible i am going to explain this as if you have never heard of a base before in your life, so if you’re more familiar than that just hang in there

So first off, what is a base? A base number is basically the amount of digits you have to represent a given number. For example base 10 would have 10 individual digits, base 12 has 12, base 2 has 2, etc you get the picture. The three main bases i can think of that most people would have at least some level of familiarity with are base 10, base 2 and base 60.

Base 10 is just your normal numbers almost everything is done in base 10 or if not is converted into base 10. Base 2 is binary, it has 2 digits 0 and 1. Base 60 is what we do time in, its kind of a bad example because we actually use base 10 to get the 60 digits you need but time and angles and all that stuff that caps at 60 or 360 is base 60 (pretty sure angles are technically base 60, could be base 360 but you get the idea).

Bases work by when you run out of digits in your base, the row to the left goes up one and you start over. For example in base 10 when you get to 9 thats the last digit so it ticks over to 1 and 0.(numbers in based start at 0 so the tenth digit in base 10 is actually 9 not 10, 10 is not a number in base 10, just as 2 is not one in base 2 and 6 is not one in base 6). The trend continues on as well, when you get to 99 it goes over to 100.

For general use tho, if you wanna know a base thats not base 10 you need to know how to convert it back into base 10, otherwise its only understandable to you or if you happen to come across someone who also knows that base. Warning This next part might get a bit complicated. To convert a non-10 base into base 10, you need to be a bit familiar with your powers, im gonna use 2 as an example because its small and easy.

Lets pick a random number in base 2, 1101001. So i have no idea what number that is those numbers mean nothing to you and nothing to me, lets make it mean something. To figure that out were gonna need our powers of 2,7 of them starting at 0. From right to left we can number the digits 0-6, and thats the power they are each get. The number im each of those rows (in this case 0 or 1) is going to be multiplies by 2 to the power of whatever power that row is, and then we add them all together. It should make a bit more sense in a minute after i do this example. So lets start from the left to the right.

1*2^6 , 2^6= 64, times 1 is 64.

1*2^5 , 2^5= 32, times 1 is 32

0*2^4 , 2^4= 16, times 0 is 0

1*2^3 , 2^3= 8, times 1 is 8

0*2^2 , 2^2= 4, times 0 is 0

0*2^1 , 2^1= 2, times 0 is 0

1*2^0 , 2^0= 1 (anything to the power of 0 is one), and then times 1 is just 1 still.

So now we take all of those numbers and add them together. 64+32+0+8+0+0+1= 105. So the number 1101001 in binary should be able to be rewritten in base 10 as, 105. And lookie if i chuck it in an online binary converter

So now that we know 1. What a base is and 2. The basic principals on how to convert based back into base 10, ill explain base 6, and then of course why i like it.

So base 6 is a base system with 6 digits, 0 1 2 3 4 and 5. When you get to where 6 would be, you write 10, because youve hit your limit of digits you dont have anymore you need to move one row to the left. There are other people who are more qualified and suited to tell you how to say what 10 in base 6 should be called than i am, but generally in my head i will just say the digits (example, instead of saying 14(fourteen) i would say 14(one four). Makes it easier not to get confused when you convert)(side fun fact 14 in base 6 is ten) and then if i say it out loud i will automatically convert to base 10.

Everything i said before with base 2 applies to converting base 6 into base 10, the biggest difference being because base 6 has more digits you wont get a small number represented with so many digits. Base 10 does use less digits to represent big numbers eventually but its a lot bigger than anything you would ever need to use it for. I personally have very rarely ever needed to go above 2 digits for what i use base 6 for.

One of the biggest reasons i like base 6, and what i use it for almost exclusively, is how it lets you count on your hands. So most people have five fingers on each hand yeah? And base 6 has five numbers (excluding zero). Therefor, using holding up no fingers as being 0, you can, using just your two hands, count all the way up to thirty-five. Just on your hands using your fingers. Thirty-five is a Lot more than the usual ten you can represent. Its really good for counting numbers that are just above ten you would normally have to just try and remember once you run out of fingers. You just count, every time you add one more after hitting 5 fingers, the “ones” hand goes back to zero and your “tens”(or i guess “sixes”) hand goes up one more, until either you get the number you need or run out of hands!

I hope this makes sense and is as informative as i want it to be! Im going to link some of the videos i watched that got me into bases and helped me learn if you would like to watch those. And please is you or anyone else wants me to clarify anything or has any questions feel free to ask! And inversely if anyone more familiar with bases than i sees an error i made please let me know!

Introduction to based and seximal(base 6)-

Elaboration-

(Also just in general would recommend this youtuber, they have a bunch of other very interesting niche sorts of videos like these ones on bases, i like the ones on W and hangman and also the entire conlang critic series)

[clowndensation]

so insane to me that you can just stick an inch and a half long needle into your body with no real pain

[azumasoroshi]

cant believe izaya canonically monologues as a coping mechanism

bro would be unbearable watching lassie or marley & me or fuckin. air buddies because he would be talking the entire time about how much he hates dogs (while gripping the seat like it's his only lifeline)

he would identify with sassy from homeward bound so much

plus bonus image i got because getting screenshots of quick scenes without being able to pause is incredibly hard

the fact that he's literally right next to a giant staircase too but he chose to climb up a giant pole instead. his fight or flight went off so fast it malfunctioned 😭

[gutsby]

Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: Stepdad!Joel x Reader

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

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

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

Word count: 8.3k

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

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

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

Okay, it was definitely porn.

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking loser.

Fucking triple-the-legal-limit dumbass motherfucker.

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

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

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

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

TRMAN22: Milk too. All over you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not here…not here…not—

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

—here, not here, not—

“EW!” you shrieked.

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

A pair of boxers, it seemed.

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

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

The boxers wouldn’t budge.

You tugged even harder. The fabric stayed put.

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

“Fucking…CUNT.”

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

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

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

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

To your horror, your finger was stuck.

“FUCK!”

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

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

“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!”

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

“Aw, shit.”

—Joel.

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

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

Someone behind you cleared their throat. Then coughed.

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

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

“Help me,” you hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could smell him.

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

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

At length, Joel’s voice dragged you back:

“What’s stuck?”

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

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

“No!”

“Then what—”

“My finger. My finger’s stuck.”

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

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

The look on Joel’s face was abnormally bright.

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

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

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

Your finger was kind of fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Just get me out!” you shrieked.

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

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

“Cool your pits, kid.”

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

“Okay, lemme just—” Joel started.

“Why are you home, anyway?”

The question came out more clipped than you meant it.

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

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

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

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

With that, the warmth was gone. Joel retreated.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gross.

Gross.

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

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

Your mother’s husband whistled and lifted something.

“Darlin’, this is just…disgusting.”

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

Doting, almost.

“Well I’ll be—”

“Will you quit?!” you snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel spanked you.

Spanked you.

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

He was firm—unrelenting in his hold.

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

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

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

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

“Joel.”

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

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

“Good?” Joel said.

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

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

“Please.”

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

No, not when Joel was squeezing like that.

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

He needed this worse than you, the fucking pervert.

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

“Now use your words.”

“But—” you sputtered.

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

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

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

That had to warrant a little defiance, no doubt.

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

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

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

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

“You aren’t my dad.”

“Said ‘a’ dad, didn’t I?”

“You’re not that either.”

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

“So that means I’m—”

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

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

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

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

He pressed harder, and the wetness only spread.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was right. ‘She’ was a traitor.

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

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

Joel whistled.

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

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

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

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

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

“No one.”

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

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

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

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

“They’re just clothes!”

“Just clothes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then somehow send those expectations even lower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t think you even saw me leave.”

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

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

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

“Y-Yeah,” you lied.

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

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

“‘Atta girl,” he praised.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, not knowing why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, rather, it—your finger.

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

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

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

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

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

Safe.

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

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

“Right here, baby. Look at daddy.”

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

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

His hand ascended your throat in a blink.

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

“I—”

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

“What you want—”

He squeezed harder.

“—what you need—”

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

“—is me, ain’t it?”

The gaze fixed on your face was alight with desire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost febrile beneath him as he tilted your head again.

“Who’s your daddy now?”

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

“Who’s your daddy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay to say it.”

“C-Can’t—”

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

“Please. Please.”

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

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

“Say it now. Who’s it for?”

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

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

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

“Y-You.”

“Who?”

“Joel.”

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet girl…” Joel groaned.

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

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

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

“Cum inside me, daddy. Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if remembering something.

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

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

“What? What is it?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, Joel, wh—”

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

You nearly choked on your spit. Joel kept grinning.

“You’re—”

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

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

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

“Between us—” he began, slowly.

“Get fucked,” you finished for him.

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

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

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

—

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

[baketothefuture]

Love how each new update makes tumblr's interactions with other apps even worse

[talesofsonicasura]

To Save A DogDay

I couldn't help but write this after seeing the constant dedication of saving the giant toy doggo. So here's something to assist you guys in the effort. I've done some research(even though Google was being an ass) and took a look at this particular post by @dafloof

First off, DogDay is surprisingly big despite being cut in half. If I have to compare his size then think of those giant plushies you win from a theme park or carnival game. Thus the only possible carry for the average person to safely escort him is bridal or hanging off like a koala on the side due to the grab pack. He might be able to shrink himself to a more manageable size if DogDay is similar to CatNap in body structure.

Although that doesn't mean the task is impossible outside of adrenaline. DogDay may be big you got to think about his possible weight. Bigger Bodies are still toys with the Smiling Critters being plushies. How much of him is stuffing and not organs?

The necessary body parts for him to still be alive are the lungs, heart, brain, stomach, and some sort of skeletal structure. Here's a weight chart for the average human. (Although these might be smaller if harvested back as a child than an adult.)

Stomach: 2-4 pounds/lbs

Brain- 2.5 pounds/lbs

Heart- 0.25 pounds/lbs

Lungs- 1.8 pounds/lbs

Human Skeleton- 15-25 pounds/lbs

Average weight here 21.05 - 31.05 lbs. His arm bones might be reinforced similar to the Prototype but they still wouldn't be that heavy. For carrying in your arms, 35- 55 lbs is what the the untrained person can hold. Body weight contributes to how much someone can carry with a 139 lbs untrained woman being able to deadlift around 74 lbs. For men it is 125 lbs for 148 lbs.

Adrenaline can help contribute to this as there have been feats done by people in dangerous situations. One example being a human mother fighting off a polar bear to protect her kids or someone moving a car by themselves to get free. We can do insane things when it comes to survival.

There's also the mental side to this. Our brains actually diminish the perception of how strong we are by 40%. If you carry something you love or cherish like a person, then they can weigh less just from that viewpoint. Sometimes thinking like the Little Engine That Could will make a difference.

Now I am not forgetting the dangerous little critters. There are ways to deal with them and have enough time to bring DogDay along. In his cell, there are two ports they can crawl out of. Blocking these whether by flares or stuffing them with nearby items can do the trick.

Second is bribery. We aren't restricted to the environment like in the game and throughout the facility there are intact vending machines. The toys obviously need to eat but seem unable get into the machines. YOU CAN.

Break the glass and stockpile as much snacks as possible. Finding bags or boxes to carry them wouldn't be hard. Offer these to the little Critters in exchange for DogDay. You can open one bag for further incentive as the chance to get a special treat is something no one will be able to resist.

DogDay might be able to drag himself so breaking the chains with the Grab Pack or a different tool is possible. They are probably rusty thus easier to break. It will obviously hurt for DogDay to drag his body so stealing something like a cushion from CatNap's hideyhole could ease the pain.

Should that not be the case then other options are available. Considering Playcare is a fun house, you might be able to find scooterboards or a platform cart to carry him. If not then a makeshift sled to pull DogDay about is the next best move.

Now there's actually another escape route. A duck ride that you couldn't access in the game due to bugs. I think Mob was planning for a chase down there as it is fully fleshed out with puzzles and an environment.

DogDay can hold onto the boat while you solve the puzzles to get out. For those who hadn't chosen bribery then flares will keep pursuing Little Critters away. Maybe set a fire as you escape since there's plenty of items to make a molotov cocktail if crafty enough.

I suggest finding some walkie talkies as someone needs to look after DogDay. The area under the statue can be a possible safe spot but being able to contact Kissy Missy and Poppy will better the chances of his recovery than just survival. Both know the factory's inner works enough to remain hidden so they might know where to find supplies. A possible ally with valuable info can sway them to help.

There is also the option of coming back to Playcare. DogDay might still be alive as you can hear his muffled cries during the chase. He might be worse for wear due to the little menaces piloting him like a bootleg Megazord. Walkie talkies can help you page Kissy Missy to help with escorting the Bigger Body safely.

It is possible to save DogDay if you are smart or crafty enough to use the environment. The factory offers a lot of potential options to help with that. Do know that you can turn a simple water gun into a flamethrower.

Why follow the rules of the game when there are ways to break them?

[eatingaburrito]

SNOOZE — oscar piastri

summary. in which, everyone finally meets oscar’s new girlfriend—who happens to be a ballerina. (part three)

genre. smau

previous ↺ next

you — 2min ago

the queen has arriveeeeeed

come get your queen pls

oscar baby — 1min ago

😂😂

Finally you’re here

Your plane took his sweet time

I was ready to join you in the sky bro

you — 0.59s ago

LMAOO WHAT

stop being obsessed with me 🙄

im collecting the luggage !!!!!!!!!

oscar baby — 0.53s ago

Be careful pls

I hate the fact that I couldn’t come pick you up at airport

Lando and I tried to convince them but we kind of failed

you — 0.45s ago

dw the other man of my life is coming to pick me up

oscar baby — 0.36s ago

I’m the only man of your life

Stop tripping

you — 0.32s ago

you’re spending too much time w lando

you start speaking like him

give me my sweet oscar back ☹️☹️☹️☹️

oscar baby — 0.28s ago

I’m still sweet my love

I got you a surprise

you — 0.25s ago

REALLY ????????????????

i think i’m in love w you

oscar baby — 0.21s ago

I think too

You’re good ?

you — 0.19s ago

uuuuh ill be good if random people weren’t trying to get pictures of me

like

for what ????

WAIT BRUH

SOME RANDOM GIRL IS NOT EVEN HIDING HERSELF SHES LITERALLY TAKING PICTURES OF MY BIG ASS FACE ????????????

ok i literally ran away

oscar baby — 0.15s ago

Wtf ? What are they doing ?

This is starting to get on my nerves

Why did I even asked the staff for permission, I should’ve picked you up that’s all

you — 0.12s ago

no no no

im good baby don’t worry about me

people are weird everyday !!!!!

oscar baby — 0.9s ago

That’s not helping but okay baby

Please just get to [Your best friend’s name]’s car safely

you — 0.7s ago

dw im already outside the airport

oh

wait

do you think there is a celebrity or something that is coming out the airport ????

bc there’s literally tons of paparazzi out there

um wait a damn second

WHY R THEY SCREAMING MY NAME WTF IM NOT SELENA GOMEZ

oscar baby — 0.6s ago

Oh shit

liked by lilymhe, danielricciardo and many others…

yourusername (if we ignore the fact that my big ass face is trending on twitter) im happy to be home 🤍

view all the comments

oscarpiastri And by home, she means me

yourusername obviously 🙄

landonorris can’t even breath next to oscar she’s hugging him like a koala

yourusername you see him everyday bro don’t get on my nerves

landonorris you scare me so yes

user THE PAPARAZZI PICS PLS ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️

user you literally flipped them off 😂😂😂

yourusername they were starting to get on my nerves bruh

user queen

user omg finally the return of yourname and oscar’s pictures 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

danielricciardo 😂😂

yourusername stop laughing

danielricciardo Ok Lord Farquaad

yourusername if we don’t fight at the next race i don’t understand

user OMG YOURNAME IS COMING TO THE NEXT RACE

landonorris LMAO I JUST SAW THE LADY’S VIDEO ON TWITTER

yourusername she literally zoomed on my pimples wtf ????????????????

lilymhe i wanna become bestie w you

yourbestfriend you’re not stealing my place ❗️❗️

lilymhe please ☹️

yourbestfriend how much would you pay

lilymhe can i pay you w food ?

yourbestfriend you BETTER pay me w food

user can we just stop and talk about the beauty of this woman

user like why are you being so gorgeous and for what reasons

liked by oscarpiastri

mclaren We missed your health walks in the paddock ! 😂🧡

yourusername i missed you too admin

oscarpiastri and yourusername posted new stories !

© eatingaburrito

[sekaithemystic]

An analysis of 3 seconds of Neverook because I can

We start with Rook reaches out to hold Neve's wrist with BOTH HANDS. If that is not peak simp behavior then I don't know what it is. At least Rook knows their place when it comes to Neve.

Now I thought Neve pushed Rook's hands away at first BUT NO. She steps in their space, which is why Rook lets her go. They are surprised by her taking the initiative. Notice how they slightly lean back (but they still step closer to Neve, not leaning in though).

Then Neve reaches up to touch their shirt/belt? No clue but it is not to pull Rook closer for sure. Maybe to keep them at a distance, maybe to tease? I feel crazy.

AND THEN SHE LEANS IN. YES, NEVE GALLUS LEANS IN. It's very hard to see but if you put the video at 0.25 speed at 1:52 you can see that Rook just stood there like while Neve slowly moves closer.

Anyway my conclusion is that Neverook is crazy you are welcome

[bad-tf-fic-ideas]

(308) Via an unwise Decepticon experiment back in his own continuity, G1 Jazz gets shunted straight through the shadowzone and lands in the TFP continuity instead.

He causes some tension with Bulkhead because he is flashy and fast and he shares Miko's love of making loud and hostile music, even though they like different genres.

But the tension really rises when he seduces Knock Out in about 0.25 seconds.

[mosaickiwi]

After reading your Ren/Angel writings (love them all ❤️)an idea poped up. Mc doesn't like the taste of artifical cherries so they avoid eating any cherry flavored candies. Ren knows this. But somehow Mc notices Ren seems to secretly love cherry candies so Angel surprises them with a variety of cherry candies 🍬

💝 Wondering how they find out hmm. Cherry scented cologne hidden in the bathroom? Ren taking 0.25 seconds longer than usual to pick a little treat in line at the grocery store? Detective Angel is on the case...!

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Very Cherry

The rustling of plastic bags was unmistakable as you opened all the things you'd bought, but [REDACTED] dutifully kept his eyes closed. You accidentally knocked one bag over and sent a few lollipops careening off the table with a loud clatter. A few fell into his lap. He pretended not to notice.

“Y’really don't want any he—”

“No!!” you quickly interrupted him, already picking the candies up. “It's a surprise.”

Finally, after discarding a few damaged goods, the bowl you'd set before him was full. All sorts of colorful sweets were piled together. Gummies, chocolates, hard candies and more, each with a cherry flavor to them that you were certain he’d love.

You made a face at the pile, but thankfully none of it was for you to snack on. “You can open your eyes,” you said, but changed your mind immediately. “Wait! Wait—” You ran around to sit opposite of them at the table. Seeing his reaction was all you could think of for the past few weeks. “Okay, now open them.”

Their eyes opened, neither shocked nor surprised, but excited nonetheless. “‘Was wonderin’ what y’were buying all this candy y’don’t even like for. Seemed like too much for the kids at the library.”

“Hey!” You didn't expect him to admit to stalking your internet history. “I thought you'd learn to stop snooping by now. Act surprised, or else.”

They grinned before doing their best soft and shy Haruko impression—a mockery of an act they'd long since dropped. “O-Oh, a gift? You're so sweet, Angel!! I can't believe you bought these for me. I promise I'll treasure it!”

You rolled your eyes, but answered with sincerity, “You're worth every cent. I like seeing you happy, Ren. And I like making you happy.”

“Shit…” [REDACTED] muttered and rubbed at his jaw, almost at a loss for words. “I... Thank you. Really.”

In spite of the genuine blush forming on the hacker’s cheeks, you could tell he had mixed feelings. Of course they'd be grateful for anything you gifted him. But if it was something that you were open about hating, the item in question would be avoided altogether. Regardless of his own feelings on the matter. It was a strange tendency they couldn’t really let go of just yet. 

Encouragement, and a little pleading, would do the trick, though. 

“I worked really hard to find all of these. And I was looking forward to seeing your face when you finally had some,” you said, practically pouting at them, your chin resting in the palms of your hands. “Just a bite?” 

Both the statements were true. Since you couldn't stand the flavor you thoroughly scoured all the online reviews before enlisting the pickiest of your friends to taste test, then repeated it all to find candies that suited him. Enough to get a wide variety. So the results from all that effort were very important to you.

Incapable of ever refusing the smallest request, your partner grabbed a wrapped candy at random from the bowl. It was a half moon shape, and a bright shade of red with a white line along the round edge. Kiara had suggested that one—but only after telling her all the expensive candies she sent would use up a huge chunk of your budget. 

You chose to keep that information to yourself as he carefully unwrapped the gummy candy. Any mention of another person would no doubt sour his mood.

[REDACTED] held the candy up to their lips, and instead of eating it whole, they took the tiniest nibble you'd ever seen. Still, his face lit up at the first sample. He took another tiny bite, then another and another. As if he couldn’t decide between savoring or devouring it completely.

“Do you like it?” You leaned forward on the table, relishing in his reaction. 

He swallowed to answer you right away, putting the candy—with not even half of it missing—back in its paper. “Yeah. ‘Like it a lot, actually.” 

The bowl’s many candies crinkled as you fished through it to pull more of the same type out. “They have a sour version, too. I'm sure you'll like that one even better,” you said. In the small pile of half moons you made, there were a few speckled with white sugar. He took another. “I'll order some more so you don't have to eat them like… that.” 

“‘M not trying t’save ‘em,” he mumbled, though the delicate way he unwrapped a sour gummy and started nibbling again like a hamster said otherwise. It was a fascinating sight, if not completely silly for the man decked head to toe in black clothes, intimidating accessories, and silver piercings. You had to keep yourself from giggling and he insisted again. “Really, Angel. I jus’ wanna be able to thank you properly when I’m done.”

You smiled at their consideration. All too easily, you could imagine your face scrunching up at the cherry taste sure to linger on your boyfriend's tongue if he kept indulging. “I'd still kiss you even if you taste awful,” you teased.

As if to test your confidence, he popped the candy into his mouth and watched you pointedly. They took their sweet time to chew it, giving you time to reconsider the idea while he fiddled with a lollipop from the bowl.

Your nose wrinkled as the faint cherry smell finally wafted over, the fruity scent stronger than you anticipated. “... Maybe only on the cheek, though.”

He noisily stood from his chair, and you knew right away he was leaving to brush his teeth.

[infinityinakiss]

hello, dead boy detective fandom! i know we're all rewatching the show to help it get renewed and i just wanted to send out some reminders so your time isn't wasted:

remember that when netflix is counting your views, it counts every rewatch as less and less (if that makes sense). this is overly simplified, but its like the first watch counts as 1, the second as 0.5, the third as 0.25 and so on. this means that no matter how many times you rewatch it, the best thing is to get other people to watch it once or twice. your rewatches still matter, but spreading the word is really going to help. pester your friends incessantly, i promise you they'll cave.

when rewatching, make sure to have your volume on. it can be very quiet, but it still has to be on. netflix won't count your views if the volume isn't on.

if you're watching on a computer, don't be on another tab while its playing. shrink it down and have it play in the corner of the screen.

do not skip around to your favorite parts, make sure to watch the whole episode all the way through, until netflix automatically plays the next episode. you do not need to see the credits.

make noise on other social media platforms. i know, this show is a tumblrina's fantasy, but most services don't pay much attention to what goes on around here. make sure to go on instagram, tiktok, youtube, and any other platforms where netflix promoted the show. you can make your own posts, or you can like, comment, and share other people's posts, especially netflix's posts.

i have gained this information by being part of other campaigns, and people much smarter than me are the ones who figured all this out, so if you have specific questions, i might not have the answer. check out my pinned post for general tips on rewatching shows.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗦 - part six charles leclerc  x  fem! driver! reader (angst) “… forgetting is troublesome especially when you used to be enemies.”

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous | next )

"What's happening? I don't have power." You pushed on the throttle time and time again. A 100% throttle yet the car was slowing down. "Can you hear me? . . . I don't know what's going on, the car just . . . shut down . . ."

"No . . . no." You watched as Max and Hamilton passed you, P1 slipping from your grasp. "No, please." You put your head in your hands taking a deep breath to calm yourself down.

"No no no. Come on, Y/N— FUCK!" You felt your voice crack and body slam forward into the seatbelt. Should've stayed alert. You didn't have time to brace yourself as Russell crashed into your rear, pushing you into the wall. That felt so embarrassing.

You sat on a piece of grass, waiting for your ride back to the pits under the red flag. You didn't want to take your helmet off, you didn't want to talk to anyone, you didn't want anyone to look at you. You couldn't. You couldn't let anyone see you in such a state of vulnerability and weakness, especially Charles.

"Stop following me." You scowled as you walked through the garage, your husband on your tail. "Speak to me, Y/N. Just talk to me. It'll make you feel better." He gently held your hand, pulling you back.

"No, it won't." You swiped your hands from his, folding your arms as he turned you to face him. Charles cupped your cheek from atop your helmet, flicking your visor up so he could look at your eyes through the peak. "Trust me. You can talk to me." He took one of your hands gently, holding it above his heart.

You looked away from him. A simple no. ". . . I'll score a podium for you. We can go home to your family after I'm finished. We can order pizza and watch clueless. Please, look at me, Amour."

He tried to undo the straps of your helmet but you held his wrists back. "Just for a kiss. Come on." Your hands fell to your side as he pulled off the balaclava, pressing the softest kiss to your temple.

"You held up amazing and I'm so proud of you." He titled you chin up, giving you a gentle kiss before gently brushing your hair out of the mess it was. "Go upstairs, Amour. Catch some rest."

How could you let him see your teary eyes like that? You should've never done that. Now he knows how weak you are.

You closed your eyes to salvage the bits of tears you had left. You could feel Charles pull you in a hug, rubbing your back gently. "It's all going to be alright."

He kissed your cheek one last time before going back to his car for the re-start.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"And that's Charles Leclerc with his fifth podium finish this season with P2 ahead of Sergio Perez who crosses the line to claim P3."

Charles threw his fist in the air as he passed by his team who were cheering for him at the pit wall. He was 0.25 seconds behind Max. Maybe, he could get him next time.

Once settled in front of the P2 board, Charles hopped out, ready to jump in your arms for a hug and to tell you "told you I'd get a podium for you." He looked around, greeting his team with hugs and cheers, but you weren't there.

"Where's Y/N?" He asked Andrea. "In the motor home. Last I checked, she was sleeping."

And you were. After receiving his trophy and listening to the Dutch national anthem ( he's memorized it at this point ) he walked straight to your shared driver's room.

"Y/N—" He found you laying on the couch, facing the wall. The live playing on his phone which laid on the pillow behind you, the British commentators continued talking as they summed up the end of this round.

"This drops down Y/N Leclerc 3 positions in the driver's championship behind Charles, Alonso and Perez." "Her most disappointing race so far this season."

Charles reached over, muting the phone before pocketing it. He set the champagne and trophy aside before laying down next to you. A deep sigh leaves your lips as Charles spoons you, conforming his suspicions that you are indeed awake.

"No one's telling me why." You mumbled with an annoyed grumble. "It was a mistake." Charles stroked your hair gently, trying to comfort you. "A mistake doesn't happen multiple times. Dutch grand Prix? Silverstone last year? Abu Dhabi!"

You could see the memories flash in your eyes when you felt the, apparently familiar, heart drop. You gripped your shirt feeling anger boil in your stomach. Turning in your place, you faced Charles with a glare. "When were you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Charles stuttered, holding your hand gently as an excuse to not look in your eyes. "Abu Dhabi! Of course."

you felt yourself heave and pant heavily. The checkered flag was two meters ahead but the car wasn't moving. Why wasn't the car moving? "There's no- I have no throttle! I have no-" you shouted into the radio, panic flowing through your very veins and blinding your eyes, rocking forward in your seat as if that would get the car to move. your leg pressed straight into the pedal as if it wasn't there. "no no no. i have no- i-i have- i-i-" panic attack.

You could still see the vivid memory of Max Verstappen passing you and taking the flag first. Your, of the time, sobs were clouding and ringing in the back of your head along with the noise that came along with clashing your hands on the wheel and your helmet in frustration.

"I- . .   I thought you found out already." Charles seemed relieved, but still felt awkward. "I'd like to remind you, I don't have my own phone." You huffed through your nose, gritting your teeth. "You are my source of information." You poked his chest.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"I feel like shit." You grumbled, paying on your side as you pet Kiki. You'd brought her with you, you didn't want to leave her alone even though Charles assured you she would be fine.

You heard your younger brother click his tongue as he passed by. "Cuida tu idioma. No me gustan las palabras americanas." [watch your language. i don't like American swear words] You grumbled with an annoyed huff. "I don't speak Spanish." You reminded him, feeling angry again.

"Right, forgot."

"Forgot?!" Your voice rang through the room with a dry laugh, fury meter increasing with each passing second. "Forgot about me?! I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW I SPOKE SPANISH TILL NOW. NO ONE IS TELLING ME ANYTHING! I DON'T EVEN KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MYSELF! WHO. THE FUCK. AM I?!" You threw your hands up, laughing as angry tears pooled in your eyes.

You wanted to break something. You wanted to hurt something the same way you were hurting. You felt like a soda bottle about to explode. You had to channel that energy outside of you.

You could feel your breaths picking up in speed with each passing second. Goosebumps crawled on your skin and you found cool sweat pooling under your shirt and neck.

"You should listen to me! I'm older—" "—God, you're just like him." You felt your breath hitch in your throat hearing the statement. The room fell silent as you watched your brother walk out the room, your sister following after as well avoiding eye contact with you.

"Fine then. Leave! I don't need any of you." You laid back down, curling and hugging yourself. "Stupid family. Stupid memory loss." You felt the cat nuzzle into your neck, the only haven you had at the moment.

"Y/N." "Leave me alone." Charles sighed as he crouched down behind you, putting his hand on your back with the intention of calming you down. "Go away, Leclerc." You pushed him away from his chest harshly.

"I don't need any. Of you." "You don't mean that." He got back up and forced you to face him. "I don't need you." You pulled on his grip. He was losing his patience with you. You were brought to ridiculous conclusions.

"Are you really that blind?" You wiped the tears from your eyes roughly. "I don't love you. I hate you, Charles. I hate you."

You stopped at every word, emphasizing the meaning. "You are nothing more than a dick that I can use to get myself off. A source of entertainment and pleasure. I am not your wife. That woman is gone. She's finished. She's not coming back."

"When are you going to see that?" Why were you the one crying? You don't cry. You shouldn't be the one crying. He should be. You were trying to hurt him.

"Not now." You pushed Kiki off as she tried to climb on your lap, not waiting a moment longer as you got up to leave your room. Charles sat frozen in his place. He could feel your words ring in his mind time and time again.

Words that you felt yourself regret as you emptied your sobs in the pillow.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Business class wasn't bad compared to Charles' private plane. You didn't hate it that much. You sat in the window seat. The first thing you got to do was unboxing the new phone and setting it up.

You didn't care to listen to the flight instructions or what not. You sank in your seat with a huff, finally feeling satisfied. "Posso avere il tuo numero di telefono?" [can I have your phone number] You handed your phone to your father who took the aisle seat beside you.

"Non ricordi il mio numero di telefono?" [you don't remember my phone number] He scoffed typing it in. "Non ricordo nemmeno che tu mi abbia schiaffeggiato, diciamocelo." [i don't remember you slapping me either, call it even] You huffed, watching the plane take off. You've gotten used to Charles holding your hand through take offs, but he wasn't here today.

Instead, you closed your eyes and tucked your hands under your armpits, the same way you brace yourself during car crashes. The only disturbance during the whole flight was your dad nudging your face with the phone to get your attention.

You didn't like the man. Never did. Amnesia couldn't even erase the memories that consisted of him. You remember everything, leading up to you running away.

Yet here you were, ruining back to the most horrible person you know. It's not like you had a choice anyways. You didn't want to stick around Charles since that day and you didn't want to go with anyone else.

Your dad was the only man that would put anything down and give you whatever you need when it comes to racing.

The flight was boring. You felt empty and dark the whole time. You could've watched something on the small TV screen or occupied yourself with your phone. But you didn't. Something was missing. Or was it someone?

You covered your face with a cap as you exited the plane after landing. You left baggage claim and taxi calling for your dad.

Much to your dismay, your hotel room was shared with Charles. He'd come a while after, finding you laying on the couch under a blanket, shivering. You'd left the bed for him.

You could hear him move around and unpack. Only when he gently covered you with a few extra blankets did you feel warm enough to stop shaking.

You couldn't understand him. Why was he still being nice to you after all what you've said? At least now you could scroll through the article concerning your racing career with steady fingers. That was the whole point of the phone after all.

Negative energy. There was a lot of negative energy that you wanted to throw out. The thoughts and feelings were getting too much. Running was the answer. It always has been. Just run. Run away.

You stretched out your legs before hopping in a jog. The Canadian weather wasn't bad. The sun was out but the wind was cool. But that wasn't what was bothering you, it was the media duties tomorrow held for you.

Just keep running, you remind yourself over and over.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Y/N! Hi!" You stood frozen in your place upon seeing a girl jump in front of you. You could hear the elevator ding and leave. A forced smile made it your face as you looked down at the teen girl.

"Hi." You replied simply. "I'm a huge fan. Can I get a picture?" "I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well, plus I'm really sweaty right now—" You tried to reject her politely only for her to cut you off and ramble on.

You held back an annoyed sigh, holding up a smile. "I really got to go now—" "But I didn't get a photo." "I don't really feel comfortable with that." Your patience was slowly emptying down the drain.

"What are you guys on about?" "Lando!" You winced at her loud squeal. Lord and Savior have mercy. "I told you to be here 15 minutes ago. Sorry we have to go." Lando smiled politely, lying you out of the situation.

"What is wrong with you?!" Lando whisper-shouted as he pulled you into the empty stairwell. "Everything! I have no recollection of the past 8 years. " You argued back as you stomped up the stairs.

Lando grabbed your arm harshly, pulling you back down. "Carlos told me everything." "What does Carlos have to do with any of this?" "Charles told Carlos because he knew if he told me, I'd tell you." "Well you still fuckin told me in the end."

This was stupid. Lando dragged you back up stairs. "I'm not climbing 16 floors." You tried to get out of his hold. "Bitch, you were just going to try doing that." You growled, stomping your feet annoyed.

"You told Charles you were using him? You shouted at him! Fucking God! You're acting like a fucking 16 year old." "I am a sixteen year old!" You tugged your arm out of his grip, taking a few steps away.

"I'm sixteen! I'm not that other woman! I'm a fucking sixteen year old girl who's fucking trying to understand what the fuck is going on right now." You could feel angry tears well in your eyes. You didn't like feeling like this. You wanted to smash something, rip something apart. "I'm a fucking seventeen year old girl, don't give me the expectations of a 24 year old."

You leaned on the railway gripping your hair. "You don't think I feel like shit about what I've said?! I regret it. It's been haunting my mind!" "Then apologize!"

"You think that's easy? You think it's that simple?" You said in a sarcastic tone with the most sour smile. "I would if I could. But every time I think about it, I feel like he's actually fed up with me. Like if he can't stand to look at my face and is going to ask for a divorce."

Charles closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh. Your cracking voice echoed through the stairwell, reaching to the seventh floor where he was descending to where Lando told him to meet him.

He felt himself get frustrated and agitated with all this mess. "And maybe we should divorce. He shouldn't have a shitty wife like me. All I've done is be mean and cruel to him. He doesn't deserve to live like that."

Crack, he felt his heart hurt.

"He wants his wife. And I get that. But I'm not her. Present Charles is a nice guy but I still can't return the feelings. You know what happened! Besides, he needs someone that loves him."

"That's you Y/N—" "No it's not! I'm not ready to be in such a committed relationship. Nevertheless married. Especially to Charles. He humiliated me in a featured race!"

Of course seventeen year-old you was still hung up on that. It was one of the reasons you grew all mean and brutal after all. Your reputation was tarnished for almost two years and you were barely able to make your way into Formula 3, with one of the lowest ranking teams of the time as well.

Charles leaned his hands on the railing, taking in a deep breath as he continued to listen to you rant on. He couldn't bring himself to keep up, quietly exiting out into the hall to find something else to distract himself with.

[tozettastone]

When I posted Deadbeat someone in the comments said they had reservations about SI/OC fics because they were uncomfortable with how such characters might be imbued with traits of the writer and it was a distraction to always be wondering if XYZ trait was actually how the author really was, and, "Like, is the stuff about liking vulnerable men true?"

It's not bad to feel like this. I'm not offended to hear it. And at the time I told that person that, y'know, perhaps the SI/OC genre as a whole was maybe not for them in that case (a sentiment with which I still agree). But now I'm writing this current fic and, okay, three things:

I think all characters adopt some elements of their writers, even canon ones, and you're just kinda stuck with that as a reader

The stuff about Maddie liking vulnerable men in Deadbeat is more intended as an expression of her problems with trust and control boiling over into yet another part of her life honestly. This personality has been with her through the cycle of death and rebirth LOL.

The part in the new fic where Maddie gets seasick in 0.25 seconds and vomits twice in a 30 minute boat ride, though. That part is the first part that's really 100% just frivolously projecting. Gratuitous self portrait of the author, hanging their head over the railing of a boat and sobbing into the spray. 🙏

[allgoldenelite]

okay so here's my summary of ibushi's latest 2 videos (here and here) from his youtube channel

pls make sure to read this at your own discretion. it's honest, but not exactly cheerful.

this summary is not entirely chronological; i've grouped some points together for cohesion

the vids were taken about 2 weeks after marufuji vs ibushi was announced, so around 12/17 ish (i'm just bringing this up bc i saw some confusion bc ibushi was reported by noah to be in the us rn until at least the 27th)

ibushi starts out the 1st vid by saying how completely different american and japanese wrestling are; the example he uses are cheers, [in aew] whenver anyone makes their entrance the crowd is chanting their name

in japan it has a different quality to it; [i assume he's talking about coming out at the noah show to challenge marufuji here] it's strange to him when he can only hear his theme and there's neither boos nor cheers, but he was glad it got a reaction

as for how he's doing physically: says he'll be frank: his left ankle and the back of his right hand (there's a visible dent on one side of the back of his hand and he says he doesn't have much grip strength there but for powerbombs and germans he grabs his wrist with his left hand so he can still do those) are fractured and his shoulder isn't healed cause he never got surgery for it

the ankle is the worst out of the 3, he can't jump or do highflying and walking 400 m (0.25 miles) is his limit, even walking around everyday is pretty rough

he's been able to benchpress 88 lbs now, with 200 as a one time thing, but he can't do much actual wrestling match practice, worries about what he can do; sums it up as that physically things aren't really on the up and up at all

but he believes marufuji is going through the same thing [being hurt in a lot of different places] and that the match won't be bad because of that; he believes it will be good precisely bc of the shape they are in, the injuries they've sustained

as he's said in the past, he doesn't care about what place he is on the card even tho ppl care a lot about match order, but he has the opportunity of being in the main with marufuji, so [he'll make the most out of it]

the ring remains a place for him to express himself, unable to highfly or injured as he may be, that's part of it too

he could go out there and be like "no i'm recovering i'm practicing hard everything's going swell" but that wouldn't change the fact that it's not true

he's doing what he can do get better, but operating within the limits of his body and how he can workout

even so, he won't give up and expresses confidence, [he seems motivated for the match and to go through with all of this], he's been doing this for 20 years and nothing scares him anymore

he says his instinct/6th sense for wrestling isn't as sharp [anymore] either since he doesn't really wrestle outside of aew these days, and again japanese and american wrestling are completely different and he's matching himself to wherever he wrestles, so he will do the same for the noah match

as long as it's getting a reaction out of ppl, he's happy; as long as he's getting something out of it he's happy, there's no right or wrong here for him

he's not nervous for the match at all, just hopes he can put himself out there in his purest form, so that ppl can decide for themselves what it is he represents for them/how they experience them

the video ends with him saying that he doesn't wanna be gloom, but if something unfortunate happens [i interpret this to mean another injury] this will be his last [match]

[he also then says make sure to watch his matches (since you won't know which one will be the last), and while i don't think he's lying with the sentiment here at all, my suggestion would be to take this as it is for now but not despair too hard about it]

the 2nd vid is mostly a recap of him seconding a kickboxer he trains for his match at korakuen hall on 12/17, interspliced with more footage from ibushi talking in the secret base

just as the fictitious "ibushi pro wrestling research institute" represents his status as a freelancer and a means by which he express himself in his purest form to ppl, it's also a means by which he can take on ppl under his wing

[ibushi has talked on twitter before how he has several trainees who are former/current kickboxers or MMA fighters wishing to become pro wrestlers] he thinks more of them will make their debut in the future; he's not doing this to boast that he's the one training them, it just naturally happened this way

even tho the ipwri is not actually a promotion, [ppl he's training and ibushi himself] get announced/lower third-ed as being from there, so it has established itself in the world

[there's a backstage scene here of ibushi talking to machida (machida lost the match) and altho there isn't much to tl (it's just ibushi basically giving him a pep talk), i still think it's worth checking out, it's very sweet]

lastly he says the institute is taking applications and as long as your feelings/motivations come across, he's happy to read them, even tho there are already too many ppl showing interest rn