#poly flash rouges

[dcpolyampolls]

dc polyamorous polls (round one)

poly flash rouges: (leonard snart/mick rory/james jesse/mark mardon/sam scudder/digger harkness)

stephcassmia: (stephanie brown/cassandra cain/mia deardren)

[heich0e]

begin - nicholas wolfwood/f!reader (trigun) prequel to the poly!au, bounty hunters!au, wild west-ish, tw BLOOD/INJURIES, reader is patching up a bullet wound so warning for all the expected nastiness that entails, tw mentions of attemped assault (not reader and not in detail), mentions of sex work, gratuitous mentions of nico's stubble

BOUND - poly!au masterlist

You live in a nothing town, in the dead middle of nowhere, called The Bend.

It’s called that because a long time ago—long before your days, or your daddy’s days, or even your granddaddy’s days—there used to be a wide, rushing freshwater river snaking through the valley, and right where the town centre now sits is where it used to turn east to the far-away sea. 

But the river’s dried up now, and it took the green grass with it.

The sea is farther than you could ever hope to travel. 

And the B on the sign that marks the border into your dusty little nothing-nowhere town has rusted off and decayed away with the years, which means the only warning that any misguided traveller has to tell them where they’re heading is an ominous old sign, half-rotted, that reads:

Welcome to The  end.

It’s fitting, you think. An omen to give anyone who wanders within spitting distance of the border a final caution that they have one last chance to turn around. A choice to get out while they still can.

It’s a choice you never had.

You were born and raised in The Bend. Your blood runs thick with the dust that coats the decrepit old town. It’s all you’ve ever known, and all you ever will know; your beginning, your middle, and your miserable, inexorable end.

Because that’s the thing about The Bend: few people ever show up here and those who do aren’t stupid enough to stay. And the unfortunate few that are born from the dusty earth and dried up riverbeds, like you? Well, those ones never leave.

There’s some comfort to be taken from that, you suppose; a kind of stability that comes from monotony. From certain inevitability. Every day the same, unchanging. A familiarity to the nothingness of your little town, your little house, your little life.

But then, on a night just like any other, something changes.

One night, you meet him.

Nicholas isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, but he isn’t all that surprised either. 

There’s something kind of undeniably fitting about bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere, supported on either side by two of the finest prostitutes The Bend has to offer—and flanked by a handful more as the group guides him through the dark, dusty night.

The Bend isn’t the first hellhole town Nicholas has ever stumbled into. His line of work has brought him to more than his fair share of seedy dumps just like this one. Towns like this are the perfect place for someone to hide from the law after all, because not many people would bother to come looking for you in places that might as well not exist. Most bounty hunters don’t even know about this particular town, and they don’t care to learn, especially since half the maps on the market don’t even bother marking its sorry half-existence down.

But Nicholas isn’t like most bounty hunters.

That’s what brought him to The Bend.

There’s a vicious flash of lightning that suddenly forks through the sky overhead, lighting up the dim, depressing town and the dusty valley beyond it as brightly as the midday sun for just a blink. It’s followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that makes the packed earth under his unsteady feet tremble, and Nicholas knows that means the lightning’s closer than he cares for it to be.

“’s it gonna rain?” he slurs, tearing his eyes away from the sky and looking over to the woman supporting him on his right (or is that his left?)

He wracks his hazy, addled brain as he tries to remember her name. Starts with a V, he’s pretty sure. Victoria? Viola?

She snorts, her ruby rouged lips lifting at one painted corner. “Honey, it’s been almost five months since we’ve seen a drop of rain around here, and even then it was nothin’ to write home about. You just focus on puttin’ one boot in front of the other, and don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.” 

All at once, Nicholas is reminded of the burning pain in his arm; the searing, radiating agony of a bullet nestled deep into flesh. 

Oh. Right.

He got shot.

It’s not the first time he’s suffered a similar wound, nor will it likely be the last if he makes it through the night—God, or whatever all-knowing bastard’s out there, willing. That doesn’t make it any less of a miserable bitch to deal with, though.

How the hell did he get shot, again?

He ponders this question for a moment, reflecting on it through alcohol sodden introspection, and the answer comes back to him in bits and pieces as he keeps aimlessly shuffling along through the night.

The sound of heels clicking overhead at the town saloon—that’s the first thing he remembers. The clacking metronome of Big Annie’s working girls crossing the wooden floorboards of the brothel that operates above the only place in this awful little town to get a half-decent drink.

A drink. 

Yes, it was something bitter and dark—completely nauseating to presently even think about. It burned on the way down, and now it sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach as he walks. The girls had made him down the better part of a bottle after he’d been shot—to help with the pain, they’d said, and he’d been anything but reluctant to heed their advice—and he’d already had fair a few glasses earlier in the evening as he’d occupied his table in the corner of the bar on top of that. Panic had palpably sizzled between the women while they watched the tattered cloth Nicholas held to his arm ink steadily darker with scarlet in the lamplight of the old bar following the shooting—the tension building amongst them like the perspiration beading at his temple. They were bickering about something then.

No, not something.

Someone.

“We gotta take him to see Mama!” 

It was Charity who said that, he recalls—the pretty little thing with full lips and a mane of thick, curly hair that Nicholas had complimented the first time he ever saw her traipsing through the saloon. She can’t be a whole lot older than 20, and her voice is still high and childlike; even more so that particular evening as she stomped her foot petulantly, looking over at him with worry-filled eyes as she made her plea to the other girls watching him bleed out in the musty wooden booth.

“Mama won't want anything to do with this one.”

That was Violetta who’d replied to Charity’s fractious appeal. She’s one of the older girls who works for Big Annie at the brothel. She’s got a sort of seasoned air to her, with a husky rasp in her voice—like the sand that blows through the empty streets in town has roughened it. She’s still undeniably pretty, but she comes across a little tougher than the rest of them. Doing the job she does in a town like this one, Nicholas doesn’t blame her for it.

Violetta’s the one currently supporting his right side, leading him through the night towards the woman who’s supposed to be his saving grace.

Towards Mama.

But who the hell is that?

He’s sure he’s heard the name in passing while he’s been kicking around the town saloon between his work, nursing half-noxious drinks and flirting harmlessly here and there with Big Annie’s working girls—who seem to have taken a liking to lingering around his table between visits from johns. 

Nicholas wasn’t even supposed to be staying in The Bend long, only for a day or two to follow up on a bounty lead he’d caught wind of three towns over—but the lead went cold, and a few days turned into almost a week. Nevertheless, while his stay may have been extended, he just he never thought to ask any more questions about this mysterious matriarch all the working girls seemed to know so well and speak so highly of. But now, as those very same girls are dragging his half-conscious ass to the other side of town in search of this Mama, he wishes that maybe he’d dug a little deeper.

“Mama’s gonna get you all fixed up, handsome,” little Charity appears on Violetta’s other side, her eyes wide enough as she stares at him that they reflect the next flash of lightning as it rips through the dark of night. She looks worried, in spite of her words—even in his present state of drunkenness and blood loss fuelled delirium, he can tell that much. 

They all do. Even the toughest, Violetta—though she seems reluctant to let on as she stands stoically at his side and shoulders his flagging, stumbling weight. 

Charity nods, but it’s a gesture that seems more to reassure herself than anyone else. “Mama always takes care of us; she’ll have you good as new by morning.” 

Ah, so this woman must be a doctor of sorts—or as close to it as a shithole little town like this can offer.

It’s Nicholas’ turn to nod, a bobble of his cotton-filled head the only recognition he can muster to her words, as he just keeps staggering on under their guidance. He’s lucky that The Bend even has some kind of doctor to look after him, even if it’s just some old lady who looks after the saloon girls.

The unlikely group soon arrives at the doorstep of a little house at the edge of town—as slummy and dilapidated as all the rest of them—and Queenie, the girl who’d moments before been supporting Nicholas’s injured left side, raps sharply on the door.

“She’s not gonna answer,” Violetta mutters dourly under her breath, still at Nicholas’ right side.

“She will,” Charity counters with her arms crossed over her chest, punctuating the assertion with an indignant little huff for good measure. “Mama always answers when we come knockin’.”

But Nicholas worries for a moment—a long moment as the door stays firmly shut—that Violetta might just have a point. It’s the middle of the night after all, and this ‘Mama’ could very well be sleeping like any other reasonable person would be at this hour. 

Queenie knocks on the wooden door for a second time, this time with an open palm. This series of raps is a little louder. A little more insistent.

“Mama? It’s us! Open up!” she calls, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Nicholas—who’s got his entire weight slumped over onto poor Violetta, now.

Nicholas is bleeding out on the front porch, and part of him still almost feels bad for waking up some poor, unsuspecting old—

The door flies open.

“What the hell do you want?”

Oh.

Nicholas knows that his eyes travel up your frame in a way that can only be considered wholly impolite. But he’s not really in his right mind, after all—or at least that’s what he tells himself as he justifies his immodest stare. He starts at the uneven cuffs of your paper-thin trousers, before climbing up, up, up your body to the tight white undershirt your wear—appreciating the way it clings to the curve of your waist and sits snug around your chest, and he particularly admires the pretty little edge of lace that frills around the neckline at your breasts. Finally, his gaze makes it to your face, and you look irritated to say the absolute least on the matter.

He’s not all that sure what he was expecting to find on the other side of the chipped paint of this shabby front door, but he can say with a steady hand to his foolhardy heart that it certainly wasn’t you.

For a moment, Nicholas is convinced they’ve got the wrong house—as improbable as that might be in a town as small as this one. At the very least, he waits for someone else to come to the door—a mother, or grandmother even—because surely you can’t be the one that these women have been calling—

“Mama! You gotta help us,” Queenie exclaims. She’s luckily perceptive enough to stick out her foot once she sees you fully process just what’s waiting for you outside, keeping the door jammed open with her heeled boot as you rush to slam it shut.

“I haven’t gotta do anything,” you counter sharply from around the edge of the door, your face pinching in a blatantly vexed expression at the way the woman is keeping it ajar.

Your eyes flicker over to Nicholas through the gap between the door and its frame, surveying him with a look of disdain that might just have been enough to offend him if he were a little more himself.

“Mama, he got shot!” Charity suddenly bursts into what can only be described as a spectacular display of tears—blubbering noisily between each word as she elbows her way through the group towards your door. She reaches across the threshold and desperately clutches at the front of your shirt with both hands as she pleads to you. “P-please let us in, y-you’re the only one who can h-he-help him.”

“Bertie, what in God’s merciful name is wrong with you?” you sigh aggrievedly, roughly batting her hands away from their grip on your clothes. In the next breath, you wrench open the front door to your home, stepping back to allow your unexpected visitors the space to cross through the doorway. “And cut the waterworks or you’re gonna wake up half The Bend and get us all shot.”

As the girls help Nicholas inside and across the gnarled, warped floorboards of your little house, you slip wordlessly away into another room out of sight. When you return moments later, you’ve pulled on a creased button-down over that pretty little undershirt of yours. 

Nicholas can’t help but notice that you’re dressed practically like a man, especially in comparison to the painted faces and petticoats of the other women in the room. But it strangely suits you, for reasons he can’t quite place.

“He got shot fightin’ some bozo tryin’ to rough up Ada on her way home,” Violetta explains when you look to her with an expression that demands context. She’s the most level-headed of the five woman gathered in your tiny home, so no one can blame you for turning to her first. 

Nicholas feels dizzy, the modest lamp-lit room around him reeling like a child’s toy spinning top gaining speed. 

Did he do that?

He remembers hearing something out back in the alley that runs behind the saloon and the inn when he went out to take a piss late into to the evening, well after it had dropped dark. He was already sufficiently drunk by that point, but there was no mistaking the sound of a woman putting up a fight the moment that he heard it. He followed the racket and found the pair quickly—on instinct more than anything—grabbing the drunken man by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off the poor girl he was trying to force himself on. In the ensuing scuffle, the man pulled a gun that Nicholas wasn’t expecting. With his senses drink-dulled, he didn’t react quickly enough to miss the shot entirely and caught it in his arm—but he’s lucky the guy had such terrible aim to begin with, or the night could have turned out a whole lot worse.

But who’s this Ada? He thought the girl he’d helped’s name was Priscilla—having met her a few times in the saloon. She was always quieter than the rest of them, a little more reserved. She didn’t say much to anyone from what Nicholas had witnessed in his time spent in The Bend. But Ada’s not the first name he’s heard since showing up at your door that’s unfamiliar to him.

“You've got a lot of nerve dragging some no-good, half-cocked brute to my door like this in the middle of the damn night, Sarah Jane,” you hiss through your teeth, your eyes flickering from Violetta over to Nicholas once more.

Violetta snorts, but offers no argument.

“Please, Mama,” Priscilla (or is it Ada? Nicholas can’t keep track anymore) says quietly, though her tone is unmistakably earnest. It’s the first time she’s said anything since the girls came stumbling through your door with the injured man propped between them. First time he remembers her saying anything at all—at least other than when he heard her screaming and chased off the scum that was hassling her.

Your attention suddenly turns to where Priscilla stands just off near the corner of the little room, with Theodosia (another one of Big Annie’s working girls) at her side with a comforting arm looped around her waist. It’s not hard to see the way the woman trembles as she holds her shawl around her shoulders. She’s got a bad scrape across her cheek, and her lip is split—evidence of the ordeal she’d gone through earlier in the evening. Her skin still looks clammy and sallow from the shock. 

Your expression softens as you contemplate her.

“C’mere, Adaline,” you beckon to her, reaching out a hand. “Step into the light and let me take a look at you.”

She approaches you without any reservation, and you carefully inspect her wounds after taking her face gently in your hands. A long, resigned sigh slips from your lips once a moment has passed, having turned her face this way and that to fully scrutinize her condition. You look around at the women gathered in your home, and the man slumping between them, then your head hangs in defeat. Your hand lifts to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Bertie, go grab my bag from my room. Georgie, fetch some clean water from the basin in the kitchen.”

Charity and Theodosia move briskly once you’ve issued the order—like they don’t want to give you the opportunity to change your mind.

Nicholas finds it a little funny how easily these women yield to you, though most seem to be your seniors—you’re just a scrappy young thing, only a few years into your adulthood if he had to guess. As he watches you, he sees that you carry yourself with a  certain quality that’s beyond your years—every action and word steeped with a sort of weary assuredness that you haven’t even lived long enough to properly earn. 

He watches you move with the grace of a woman, and listens to you speak with the authority of a man—and It could be the blood loss talking, but Nicholas thinks you might just be the most interesting thing he’s stumbled upon in this god-forsaken little town.

“You’re a doctor?”

You freeze, your head snapping in his direction when you finally hear him speak.

Your lip curls and you bare your teeth to him, and Nicholas is suddenly reminded of those city cats that wander the back alleys in Julai, hissing with their hackles raised when you happen across their path.

“Do I look like a doctor to you?” you sneer at him derisively.

For some unplaceable reason, Nicholas almost wants to laugh—the sensation bubbling up in his stomach in the wake of your harsh words.

(Though, that might just be the liquor.)

“Her daddy was a doctor,” Queenie whispers to him quietly as she and Violetta help Nicholas up onto the wooden table at the centre of the room at your instruction, leaning him back until he’s laid flat across it with a grunt. “Only one The Bend’s seen in the last 80 years."

“Prudence, you better shut your damn mouth if you want me to do anything about this mess,” you snap without looking up, busy rifling through the ancient leather medicine bag that Charity just dragged in from the other room.

You tend to Priscilla first, fixing her up with a compress on her cheek and a salve for the cut on her lip. She’s not the most desperate case in the room, but no one tries to turn your attention to the man on the table until you’re good and ready to do so of your own accord—a unanimous, though entirely unspoken, pact of silence lest your precarious agreement to help be withdrawn. Once you’re satisfied that the woman’s been sufficiently looked after, leaving her once more in the dutiful care of Theodosia, you finally turn to Nicholas.

The lamplight is fairly dim, even though you’ve moved it closer to the table to help illuminate your work—and there’s very little oil in the grimy reservoir of the glass lamp to keep it burning.

You approach him slowly.

“You a lefty?” you ask him, plunking yourself down in the wooden chair nearest to his injured left arm.

“Luckily not,” he slurs, his head lolling over to look at you as you sit beside him at the table.

“Luckily?” You huff, and Nicholas thinks that maybe it’s as close to a laugh as someone as mirthless as you ever gets. “You must not’ve heard: luck left The Bend years ago, and it’s not coming back.”

Nicholas really does find himself laughing then in the face of your plain, bur distinctly dour expression—and he immediately winces as a sharp pain shoots through him from the strain of trying to hold it back.

Your eyes survey the sopping, blood-soaked handkerchief he’s holding to his injury, then you lean over towards the medicine bag and begin digging through it again. He watches as you pull out an inhumanely large needle and some thread.

“Clear out, ladies,” you remark flatly to the group of onlookers without glancing up from the contents of the bag before you. “None of you are gonna wanna see this.”

The girls delay momentarily even after you bark out the order, as though worried that once they leave the room your willingness to help may exit with them.

You lift your face in their direction, some gauze and a corked flask of an indistinguishable transparent liquid in hand. Your lips pull down noticeably at the corners when you see the way the women are hesitating. “Go on, then. I’m making this exception for you once, and never again. Get Ada back home safe, and then the rest of you oughta do the same.”

Still, no one seems keen to heed your words.

You and Violetta share a pointed look, and it’s clear your patience—hardly-there to begin with—has worn dangerously thin.

“Alright, whores—clear out!” the older woman says, turning on her heel and corralling Queenie, Charity, Priscilla, and Theodosia towards the door with her arms outstretched. “Unless one of y’all are keen to be the next one who needs stitchin'!”

It takes a moment to get everyone moving—Charity in particular putting up more of a fight than the rest of them—but eventually Violetta succeeds in ushering them out. She casts one final glance back from the doorway, and Nicholas catches the exchange of almost imperceptible nods of thanks between you.

It’s unbearably quiet once they’re gone.

You move swiftly but silently, and set to work without a single word exchanged between you and the man stretched across your table. Without hesitating, you drag a thin blade in two strokes up the front of Nicholas’s bloodstained shirt—one cut along the torso and then another up the sleeve—and then pull off whatever’s in your way. You don’t so much as bat an eye as the tanned skin of his chest and abdomen is suddenly bared; there’s no distinguishable emotion or thought on your face that Nicholas can make out, but he’s also fairly distracted as he bites back the groans of pain that threaten to slip out each time you jostle his injured arm too roughly. 

Next, you begin cleaning the surface of the wound—as best you can given that it’s still unstitched—in preparation to fish out and remove the bullet still stuck inside. That little flask from earlier has some sort of antiseptic in it, which Nicholas discerns by the acrid smell and unbearable burning that rips through him as you let it trickle over the open gouge in his skin. He cries out as it happens, and the sound even takes him by surprise—guttural and completely instinctive.

“Don’t be a baby,” you sniff, dabbing away at the blood and antiseptic around his wound with some clean gauze.

“Sorry,” Nicholas mumbles through his panting breaths, pressing his opposite hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

Your eyes flicker up to his briefly in the wake of his apology, and your gazes meet. You’re the first to look away after the momentary hold.

Next, you tip the flask into your hands, coating your palms in the stinging, astringent antiseptic. The lamplight catches in the little droplets as you shake them from your fingertips.

“My daddy told me once that doctors have to tell lies to keep their patients calm,” you say quietly, your lips pursing forward as you wrap one cool hand underneath his bicep. “Said that it’s just part of the job.”

You suck in a little breath, meeting his gaze briefly once more.

He can’t help but think your eyes look pretty when the light reflects in them like this. 

“But I’m no doctor—and this is gonna hurt like fresh hell.”

Outside your rickety little house on the edge of this forgotten, nowhere town, another peal of thunder roars.

You don’t often patch up bullet holes.

In fact, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve tried.

But you’re not a professional, and you’ve never claimed to be; you’re just a doctor’s daughter who used to follow her father on his rounds through town, helping out whenever and wherever it was needed. Unavoidably, you learned some things along the way—like treatments, and time-honoured remedies, and how to sew a stitch so it won’t pucker when it scars—but you’re about as far as anyone could be from trained. You’ve got no education beyond your reading, writing, and basic arithmetic—what little education the school house in town could offer you until you just stopped going altogether—and your experience is limited only to the care you offer to Big Annie’s girls: whether it’s cleaning up the messes left by their particularly nasty customers or treating them as best you can when they fall ill. 

You don’t bother telling any of this to the man bleeding all over your table, though. You doubt it would do him much good.

Daddy used to deal with gunshot wounds all the time. They’re about a dime a dozen in a town like The Bend, after all, where tempers are high and spirits are low—not to mention where the men outnumber the women by about ten-to-one. 

And if there’s one thing you know about men, it’s that they all love slinging guns but less than half of them ought to be allowed to—because it always leads to injuries like this. It’s rarely ever women who walk around town getting themselves shot.

But in spite of all that, and your lack of experience, you watched your father go through the motions frequently enough that the movements come to you now like second nature: disinfect, remove, keep pressure, suture, bandage. You know the order of things, and you find your mind clear and your hands steady as you set to work—starting by cleaning him up as best you can to prepare to extract the bullet. 

You can see the very butt of it in peeking out from inside his ugly wound; a pesky little thing, slick with blood that catches in the light when his arm twitches towards the lamp. It’s not nestled too deep in there, thankfully, and he’ll probably be fine if he lets it heal properly—but it’ll still hurt like a bitch to pull out. 

But that’s his problem, not yours.

Unfortunately, you don’t have a pair of tweezers you trust to pluck the bullet out—at least not a pair that isn’t rusty—so your god-given tools will have to be what you use for the undertaking. You disinfect your hands as best you can before you begin.

“Would you stop squirming?” you mutter under your breath as the man on your table flinches the first time your fingers graze his open wound.

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, and your eyes flicker up to his face again briefly. 

This man keeps apologizing to you. 

It’s unsettling.

His dark eyes are heavy lidded, but you can still sense them tracing along the lines of your face as you work. There’s visible sweat beading at his temple as he lies flat on his back atop the wooden table in the centre of your home, and his bare chest rises and falls with heavy, laboured breaths that shake every so often on the exhale—the lamplight at your side catches in the perspiration glistening there too, near the little smattering of hair that sits at the highest point of his sternum.

This guy—this stranger who’s bleeding all over the table you eat your meals on—really pisses you off.

He’s got an awful lot of nerve to show up here in the middle of the night, looking for your help after he went and got himself shot. A small part of you knows that’s not entirely fair to think, because he got shot helping Adaline and it was the girls who’d brought him to you in the first place, but you still can’t help but be resentful. 

You feel yourself frown.

Your fingertips dip inside the wet heat of his wound for the first time, and he lets out a gasping, wretched groan from deep in the centre of his chest—so loud it almost makes you flinch.

“Don’t pass out,” you warn him flatly, pinning his injured arm more firmly to the table and prodding further in as you try to get a grip on the evasive little bullet with the very tips of your fingers. “You’re dead weight if you’re unconscious, and I’ll drag you outta this house in parts if I have to.”

“Noted,” the dark-haired man says through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to stomach the pain.

You don’t have anything to offer him to dull the sensation—though you’re not sure you’d waste something so precious on him even if you did. After a while, and a bit more poking and prodding, he seems to acclimatize to the agony anyway. 

Or at the very least he gets better at masking it.

“I’m Nicholas, by the way,” he grits out after a while of you unsuccessfully trying to remove the bullet—frequently having to pause and wipe away the blood that’s continued to seep from the wound, slicking you down to your wrist. It stains the cuff of your shirtsleeve now, and you regret ever pulling it on to begin with, because you know it will be a nightmare to pound out in the wash.

“Didn’t ask.”

“I know,”—miraculously, he manages to laugh a bit, even as you’ve got two fingers digging around inside his arm—“just thought I’d tell ya anyway.”

You don’t bother replying, your eyes honed in solely on the task at bloody hand.

“‘M grateful for your help, y’know. Even if it’s just an exception,” the man—Nicholas—slurs next, his head tipping to the side on your kitchen table. You can tell that he’s talking, if nothing else, to distract himself. A lonely bead of sweat drips down his throat as he looks at you. “It’s awfully nice of ya to take pity on a no-good brute like me, Mama.”

You feel a crick of irritation tighten in your jaw then, as he parrots your earlier words back to you. Your fingers, still poking around to retrieve the bullet in his shoulder, twitch—and you aren’t sure the gesture is entirely involuntary. The man on the table before you yelps, flinching away from the pain, and you lean closer with your eyes still fixed on the wound piercing his skin.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss through the dull scrape of your teeth grinding tightly together.

Nicholas lifts his right hand to his mouth, curled into a fist, and his pearly teeth bite down hard into the flesh at the base of his thumb as he pants through the pain. You finally, mercifully, manage to get a grip on that damned bullet, plucking it out and tossing it into the waiting dish atop the table with a delicate, terribly anticlimactic clink. You swiftly press a pad of clean gauze to the wound to staunch the bleeding while you reach for the stitching needle you left set off to the side.

“Hold this,” you order him, and the man lets his hand slip from the bite of his jaw to do as he’s told while you rifle through the bag at your feet. You can see the marks his teeth left in his skin as he takes the gauze from your hand into his own and begins to apply pressure.

You stand and wash your hands off as best you can in the basin of water Georgie brought in for you earlier, poised at the end of the table. The liquid tints pink as you first dip them in, and then slowly it turns an even darker, uglier colour as you properly scrub his blood from your skin. You shake as much of the water off your hands as you can, and then use the front of your shirt to sop up the rest—faintly rust-tinged handprints left in the cotton.

You take your seat once more, and Nicholas watches you through mostly-closed eyes as you set about sterilizing the needle.

“How come I can’t call you that?” 

You light a candle using the lamp at your side. Then you swish the needle around in antiseptic before running it through the flickering flame until it sparks—careful not to let it lick too close to your fingertips. Your eyes slide over to Nicholas as you pluck it from the fire.

With his face tilted towards you, another little drop of sweat has tracked down his cheek towards his prominent nose, and it glistens against his flushing skin in the warm light of your oil lamp. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, too—from what you don’t doubt is the combination of pain and whatever booze he’s been guzzling to numb it—and lips part on a shuddering exhalation as you survey his face.

“Call me what?” you mutter, averting your eyes and turning again to search through your medicine bag for a clean roll of bandage.

“Ma—” A sudden, harsh glare cuts him off before he even has the chance to say it. He smiles a little, the expression half-delirious, and you can’t help but think that if he weren’t so weakened from the pain that wracks him, he might have even managed another laugh.

You kiss your teeth quietly. “Only the girls call me that.”

The man bleeding out in the middle of your table clearly knows your tone of voice means not to push it, because he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head until he’s staring up at your dingy ceiling once more, though you can tell from the faraway look in his eyes he’s not seeing much at all. 

“The girls,” Nicholas remarks quietly, speaking more to himself than anything. “You don’t call ‘em by their names.”

That’s right: he’d only know the girls by their working names. You’re surprised he even caught that.

“The hell I don’t,” you mutter, turning back to face him in your seat once more with your last roll of bandage clutched tightly in your hand. You set it down atop the table as you set your supplies up just how you like them. “I call them by the names their mothers gave them.”

Nicholas hums thoughtfully. “Sarah Jane, that’s Violetta?”

You grunt out an affirmative, threading the freshly cleaned needle with nimble, dextrous accuracy. 

“And Charity, her real name’s Bertie?”

“Bertha May,” you correct him, snipping away the excess thread with a little pair of mostly-dull scissors—careful not to take more than you’ll need, but still giving yourself sufficient supply to work with.

“Priscilla’s name’s Adaline,” Nicholas continues, his eyes still tracing the cracks in your ceiling. “And what about Theodosia and Queenie?” 

“Georgina and Prudence,” you supply flatly as you secure a tight knot in the end of the stitching thread.

Nicholas sighs before slurring, “’s a lot to keep track of.”

You snort. “Wait until you find out Big Annie’s real name.”

He looks over at you with wider eyes than you’ve seen on him since he came staggering through your door. He catches the expression on your face and his own softens, clearly sensing that you’d said it only in jest. 

Annie’s just short for Annabelle, after all. Madam’s rarely need to take up new personas—why would they need to be someone they’re not if they aren’t the ones doing the dirty work?

Nicholas watches as you tug on the stitching thread one last time to test its strength—eying the glinting needle warily. You set the threaded implement carefully off to the side once you’re confident it’s ready.

“So you learned all this stuff from your daddy, huh?” he asks you next.

You swallow over the unpleasant lump you suddenly feel in the back of your throat and reach up, nudging his hand away from where he’s holding the gauze to his wound. He’s become a real chatterbox now, and part of you wonders why you’re even tolerating it.

You clean the area with antiseptic again—and Nicholas is just as dramatic as he was the first time as a low moan of pain tears through him. For a moment you worry he really might be on the brink of passing out, the whites of his eyes taking over as they begin to roll back, so you know you need to keep him focused.

“He used to take me with him on his rounds,” you mumble a reply to his earlier question. 

Nicholas’s eyes open a bit wider when he hears your voice, a little more focused now than they had been.

“My daddy, I mean,” your tone is dismissive and flippant, but it seems to be an effective distraction. “I just picked things up here and there while I watched him work.”

“You’re a natural.”

You snort mirthlessly in the wake of his reply. “Don’t know about all that.”

“You just pulled a bullet outta my arm with your bare hands, that’s gotta count for something.” Nicholas hisses as you press the antiseptic-soaked gauze to his wound one last time, then he sucks in a sharp breath. “And the girls trust you a lot, so you must be good at it.”

“Somebody’s gotta take care of them.” 

Lord knows no one else around here does.

You set the scarlet saturated gauze aside in the dish with the discarded bullet, then pick up your needle.

You make neat, even sutures through his skin, and you take your time to do it right. You’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even when you were young. You were born with a keen eye for detailed work like this, and your daddy used to get you to finish up the smaller wounds he was called to treat that needed finer stitching—said your little hands were just better at it than his own big, life-roughened ones. He always used to tell you that you got your steady hands from him, but your nimble fingers from your mother.

Not that you’d know anything about that.

Nicholas has stopped flinching now, a little more relaxed than he’d previously been, and you can’t help but look up at him every so often as you work—wondering if that steady, even rise and fall of his chest means that he’s finally knocked out. Especially since he’s suddenly gone so quiet. 

But each time you check, you find his eyes are still open—though only just barely—and are peering up towards the ceiling. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you too.

Once the wound has been fully closed in a tidy little line of stitches, you wrap the roll of bandages around it with some gauze tucked underneath, just in case.

“You’re all done,” you say quietly, slumping back in your chair once you’re finally finished.

All at once, you feel exhausted—the adrenaline you didn’t even know had been rushing through you disappearing in a blink. It reminds you of how the wind dies in the valley in the wake of a bad storm, like it took the breeze with it. You’re all too conscious of the fact that it’s the middle of the night now, and that you ought to long be asleep.

“Thank you,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up onto the elbow of his uninjured arm, though he still winces at the movement. You don’t make any attempt to help him.

His shirt is in pieces, and he discards it since it���s of so little use to him now, shaking his right arm to free it from the only sleeve that remains in tact on the garment. You watch as he pushes himself fully upright, throwing his long legs over the side of the table to stand. When he does, he dips slightly—like the sudden movement makes him woozy, and his knees are weak—and his right hand shoots out to balance himself on the edge of the tabletop on instinct. You suppose it’s not unexpected given the amount of blood he lost.

You watch his toned, tanned back as he stretches himself out as much as his injury will allow; observing how his skin pulls taught over the defined musculature that surrounds his spine. He’s littered with scars—a map of wounds that weren’t stitched as neatly as the new one on his upper arm—and part of you can’t help but wonder how he got them all. Can’t help but wonder what stories those marks tell, written in a language you don’t know how to read.

You look away, feeling an inexplicable heat flood rapidly to your cheeks.

You stand and quickly slip off your own overshirt—just some old button-up left behind from your father, though you have no memories of him ever wearing it. You clutch it in your fist and stick it out for him to take.

He eyes it in surprise for a moment before accepting it.

“Those blood stains are yours, anyway. You might as well have it,” you say, eyeing the red mark at the cuff on the right-hand sleeve as the garment passes from your hold into his, “in any case it’s in better shape than the one you came here with.” 

It saves having to clean it, too. So it’s all the same to you.

“I’ll pay you,” he slurs, still unsteady on his feet as he begins rifling awkwardly through his pockets with his only useable hand. He almost tips right over in his haste, but you quickly slip beside him and steady his frame.

“Yeah, you will,” you agree, holding tight to his right arm to keep him standing. “Worry about it tomorrow.”

Nicholas’ bare skin radiates warmth with only your thin, lace-trimmed undershirt left separating you as you stand pressed into his side. He peers down at you curiously, blinking slowly like he’s being called to sleep. From this close, with him standing properly upright for the first time, you realize just how big this man is—tall, with a broad chest and defined muscles, and stubble dusted along his sharp jawline that you hadn’t noticed before. You take a sudden step away to put much needed distance between the two of you, these realizations making something stir in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel squeamish. 

“Do you know your way back to the inn?” you ask him, your arms crossing over your front.

Nicholas bobs his head in a completely unconvincing nod. It’s not like the town is big enough to get lost in in the first place—and he very well might know his way if it were daylight, or he weren’t half delirious—but sending him out into The Bend in his current state would be as much of a death sentence as it would have been to turn him away when he first showed up at your door. 

You sigh in resignation.

“Just sleep on the floor here for tonight. I’ll check your stitches again tomorrow morning before you leave.”

The man looks taken aback, but he nods quickly—as though he doesn’t want to give you time to rescind the unexpected offer.

You fish around in the depths of your father’s old medicine bag, eventually pulling out a bottle of murky liquid as Nicholas gets settled with an old cushion and a threadbare quilt near the unlit hearth of the fireplace. You use the edge of your nail to uncork it, take a quick whiff to make sure it’s the right one, and then tread towards the man on the other side of the room.

He peers up at you from his makeshift bed on the floor, resting with his knees apart and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. You pass the little glass bottle to him, your fingers brushing as it passes from your grip into his. “Drink this, it helps to fight off infection.”

He eyes it warily. The outside of the bottle is suspiciously grimy, and the putrid colour of the liquid inside is no less reassuring. “What is it?”

“Hog Fennel.”

He grimaces, peeking into the opening of the bottle with one eye closed. “Sounds foul.”

You snort. “It is."

Nicholas doesn’t draw it out any longer, tipping the vial back an draining it all in one shot. He winces once he swallows it down, his pink tongue peeking out a little as he pants through the taste—which you’re sure is bitter and disgusting.

“How was it?” you ask him wryly.

“I’ve had worse, honestly,” he says, shooting you a little grin you can’t believe he’s able to manage not only in the wake of such a disgusting concoction but considering what he’s been through that night.

You blink, your brow furrowing, and then eventually nod dismissively before turning and shuffling off towards the other side of the room where the door to your bedroom is found.

“Thank you.” 

Nicholas speaks again as you’re just shy of crossing the threshold into your room, you consider pausing in your shock but then think better of it.

“You already said that,” you reply, your tone annoyed, and shut the door behind you.

You open it again a second later to poke your head back out towards him.

“I’ve got a gun in here, by the way, and I won’t miss. Just in case you were thinking of trying anything funny.”

Across the room, Nicholas is already laying down on his pitiful excuse of a resting place, looking strangely content.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smile, though his eyes stay closed.

Part of you is annoyed at how comfortable he seems. How easily he talks to you. How normal his presence feels in your home.

Another part of you—one that’s deeper, locked away and hidden out of sight in a place where you think you’ve lost they key—isn’t.

You slip back into your room and close the door behind you with a soft click. 

And in the silent stillness of your little bedroom with your shoulder blades pressed back into your bedroom door, you realize that the thunder outside has stopped but you can hear the softest, faintest pitter patter of raindrops through cracked glass of your window.

Rain came back to The Bend.

Maybe luck would follow.

[wordy-little-witch]

Silly incorrect quotes bc I am a trash mammal and I need serotonin, Cross Guild Poly with queen platonic Shuggy

Mihawk: hm.

Buggy: hm? What's up, Hawky?

Mihawk: it's nothing. Merely pricked my finger on a thorn

Buggy, setting aside his book: oh! Here- *he pulls out a handkerchief, knotted to a line of others, and cleans the hand and applies a bandaid* and the finishing touch! *he kisses the bandage*

Mihawk: .... why did you do that?

Buggy, smiling faintly: just something captain, Rayleigh and their wife used to do for Shanks 'n I as wee lads. Kisses make booboos better, Mama Rouge used to say. A-anyway, sorry, just... didn't think.

Things go quiet for a time before they part ways. Later on...

Mihawk: Crocodile, I require your assistance

Crocodile: I already told you I will not give you an extension on your eyeliner budget-

Mihawk: no, punch me in the face

Crocodile:

Mihawk: lips, preferably.

Crocodile:

Mihawk:

Crocodile: why do I always fall for the batshit ones-

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy, half drunk: -and it's really a wild thing to insinuate that he wasn't a progressive novelist in the first place! It's like comparing peaches to pomegranates! Both are good, but they're only tangentially related and you HAVE to take the situation into account, and this motherfucker has the audacity to tell me I'm trying to "make everything needlessly gay" like SIR WHAT THE FRESH FUCK-?

Crocodile: What is he even talking about.

Mihawk, nursing his third glass of wine, face mask and robe in place: the homoerotic subtext between two fictional characters in a fantasy novel from well over thirty years ago.

Crocodile: why haven't you shut him up then

Mihawk, sipping elegantly: because he's right and should say it. I ship Bagginshield too.

Crocodile, exhausted by his nerds: I know several languages and this is none of them.

Buggy: AND ANOTHER THING-

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Shanks, still on the Oro: oh my gosh do you like like Buggy??

Mihawk, sitting next to him in bandages following his most recent challenge to Rayleigh: what? Do not be ridiculous. I merely find him appropriate company. It is not as if I find my thoughts plagued by him in the night.

Several hours later...

Mihawk, wide awake in his hammock, circus music and flashes of blue and blobs of red playing in his head: .... oh son of a-

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Crocodile, staring into the camera like in the office: if I had a nickel for every time I found myself enamored by an idiot, I'd have three nickels. It isn't a lot, but it would go towards my therapy bills. Something must be wrong with me.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Crocodile : What are you writing?

Mihawk: The government wants to know what kind of weapons we have in the house. I'm letting them know it's private information.

Buggy, looking over Mihawk's shoulder: This just says 'fuck around and find out' in calligraphy.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Mihawk: We can’t tell you because you’re not a member of the club.

Buggy: What club?

Crocodile : The hating Buggy club.

Buggy: …The fuck? I should be the leader of that club!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: I just found out that humans are capable of fitting a light bulb into their mouth with ease but can’t take it out without shattering it, and now I have to physically restrain myself from putting a light bulb in my mouth

Crocodile:

Mihawk:

Buggy:

Crocodile: why would you-

Mihawk: the forbidden gumball

Crocodile: NO

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: Being half asleep and feeling someone gently plant a kiss on your forehead is one of the purest kinds of love in the world.

Mihawk: Unless you're home alone.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: Hoodie pockets are so great. I can fit like three sandwiches and a grenade in there and my hands are still warm.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy, dressed like a sexy nun: Forgive me Father, for I have sinny-sin-sinned.

Mihawk, sighing as he pinches the bridge of his nose: why do I attempt anything with you

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Crocodile : Mihawk, my old friend!

Mihawk: I think you tried to kill me at some point.

Crocodile : That was obviously just my way of getting to know you.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Mihawk: Happy Scorpio season. If you have to burn a bridge, do it safely!

Buggy: With NAPALM.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: *slams books down in front of Crocodile*

Buggy: Boil up some Mountain Dew. It’s gonna be a long night.

Crocodile: You could have said literally anything else.

Buggy: Cauldron boil and cauldron bubble, Baja Blast to fuel my trouble.

Crocodile: I’m going to just stop challenging you when you say random shit. I won’t win. I realize this now.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy, pulling up with heart shaped sunglasses: Hello, McDonald's, I would like to purchase 130 chicken nuggets. Prepare yourselves.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Mihawk: *yawns*

Buggy: Yeah, being that pretty must be tiring.

Mihawk: Then you must be exhuasted.

Crocodile: Will you two shut up? Some of us are running a multilevel marketing scheme - I mean. A business.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Mihawk, winedrunk off his ass: You want to know why people are so afraid of clowns? Well you know what people say about how their feet aren't the only thing that's big? And how people who drive really big cars have small dicks? Well clowns are out there with their big feet and tiny cars...

Crocodile: oh by the Seas you have a point. The Fool could be packing some serious business in that suspiciously large and baggy pillowcase. We must look into this further.

Mihawk: yes of course. We must know thy enemy.

Crocodile: indeed. And furthermore we must know what secrets and strengths the Guild may leverage. This is for the company, truly.

Alvida, who just wanted to eat her salad in peace:

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: What, in the name of sanity, have you got on your head?

Crocodile : It's a fez, I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool.

Mihawk: *snatches the fez, throws it in the air*

Buggy: *shoots it*

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: Arson? Oh, you mean "crime brûlée". Gyahahahaha-

Mihawk+Crocodile, internally: gods he is so stupid. I need him carnally

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: FUCK THE CHAIR. PARDON ME FOR MAKING MYSELF COMFORTABLE DURING A SINCERE HEART TO HEART DISCUSSION WITH A DEAR FRIEND IN NEED!

Buggy: BUT THE TIME HAS COME FOR ME TO CEASE STRADDLING THIS DEEPLY OFFENSIVE PIECE OF FURNITURE! AWAY WITH YE, FOUR LEGGED TEMPTRESS! DISTRACT US NO MORE WITH THE MOST BASIC AND UTILITARIAN FORM OF COMFORT YOU SUPPLY!

Mihawk: Buggy just threw a tantrum about a chair.

Mihawk: I just won Buggy Tantrum Bingo.

Crocodile: fuck I was so close...

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Crocodile : I baked you a pie!

Buggy: Really?! What flavor?

Crocodile: *pulls itemize bill out of the pie* DEBT!!!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Mihawk: While you were caught up in your heterosexuality, I studied the way of the blade!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: I am not a whore, and, not that I’ve done the math, but, if I were, I’d be the super classy kind that gets flown to Dubai to stay in an underwater hotel.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Crocodile : I'm not creepy.

Crocodile : I'm petty.

Crocodile : There's a difference, ya' know.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Shanks: Do you guys hear something?

Buggy: I hear the sound of you shutting the fuck up.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: Ugh, crushes are so dumb.

Shanks: I know. Whenever I’m near the person I like I just start acting stupid.

Buggy: But you’re always acting stupid?

Shanks: ...

Shanks: Yeah, don’t think about that too hard.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy, turning to Shanks: Stop calling yourself hot, the only thing you can turn on is the microwave.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: Name a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety. I’ll wait.

Shanks: You and me!

Buggy: *tearing up* Ok.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Shanks: That’s the key slice of truth we need to complete the entire truth pie.

Buggy: Ooh, can we get some actual pie?

Shanks: I like the way you think.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: I want to kiss you.

Shanks, not paying attention: What?

Buggy: I said if you die, I wont miss you.

[brainless-snail]

More Echoclan cats.

As always, lore below the cut

Ripple She/Her (Top left)-

Ripple doesn't have a ton of lore. She was led to the clan by Starclan, interestingly, but other then that not much. She's invited two cats to the clan on patrol. She also may have some doubts in Starclan and worries about being forgotten. However I'm desperate for lore and a cat that joined the clan looks kinda look her so I'm considering making them be siblings (they'll be in my next post). (Also I love their design so much patterning like theirs is so pretty :) )

Ryestripe He/Him (Top Right)-

Ryestripe was originally a barn cat that decided to join the clan. It kinda backfired though since he was chased by a dog and got saved by the clan. Like four moons later he got kidnapped by twolegs and returned four moons later. During this time he brought back to the barn where he began questioning if he even wanted to the clan. All of the injured cats and dangers he'd directly seen or heard of terrified him, as much as he didn't want to admit it. He does decide to return though, deeming clan life better for him than boring kittypet life.

Sunnygrass She/Her (Middle Left)-

Sunnygrass is one of Pebblestar and Leapflicker's kits. She was mentored by Breezehorse and honored for her strong will at her ceremony. She helped save two loners being chased by dogs (Ryestripe and I forgot who the other cat was because I didn't write down their name) However she hasn't bonded with any cat, even her family, much. (To give you an idea none of her relationship bars go into the green) I think after an incident caused by her own ideas she began to distance herself out of guilt. She also has ghost sense so that could be relevant later.

Flowerweb He/Him (Middle Right)-

Flowerweb is Sunngrass's brother. He was mentored by Girly Pop, who helped him become less nervous with her more risk-taking way of training him. She often used hands(paws?) on experience to teach him, being an overall fun mentor. However his sister convinced him to sneak out of camp with her, ending with them fighting a fox and Flowerpaw getting a broken bone. It caused him to get his warrior name extremely late and have to spend more moons training to get caught up. He feels very insecure about this and like he has to prove himself. Like his siter, he's distant from most other cats. He doesn't resent his sister for the accident but wishes she would at least try to talk to him. Also he is the first trans cat and came out on the same day as his warrior ceremony so that's nice.

Rarity She/Her (Bottom Right)-

Like most ex-kittypets, Rarity doesn't have much lore. She was a bit of a brat but that's it. However she actually died in a flash flood along with some other cats, something that happened after I drew this. (I'll get to them with the final cat and the next post) Overall there really isn't much to say about her.

Skytalon He/Him (Bottom Left)-

I skipped over this cat because there's so much lore to him that I wanted to save it for last. One, Skytalon can see ghosts. But the main thing right now is that he was in a hinged poly relationship (I believe that's what its called) with Stemmouse and Fuzzyflick (Who was his apprentice and I didn't notice until looking at the lore document for stuff to put about him. However Skytalon and Fuzzyflick are not mates and had no feelings towards each other so there was nothing incredibly weird) However Stemmouse died in the flash flood and he took it hard. There's also the possibility that Stemmouse was indirectly murdered by another cat. (I plan to get into this one in another post but it is a cat I've shown before) He doesn't know about this by the way but I felt now might be a good time to add it on. He's also adopted all of Stemmouse's and Fuzzyflick's living kits and is try to bond with them and be a father for them since their other two fathers are dead (Idk if I mentioned it before but Fuzzyflick was killed by rouges). He also gave Cavesong his moth wing at his apprentice ceremony. Other then that, he used to talk with Stemmouse about herbs a lot. I feel so bad for him

[pinkandblueblurbs]

kinktober day 26- cock ring

poly marauders x fem!reader. sub james, sub reader, switch/dom sirius, dom remus. edging, cock rings, d/s, punishment, crying, teasing, hand jobs, blowjobs

“Gods, Remus,” James grits out as the lycanthrope works the ring onto his soft- though quickly swelling- cock, his face contorted in discomfort. “I’m sorry. Please, y’gotta let me cum.”

“We don’t have to do anything, baby boy, especially not after the attitude you gave us earlier.” Sirius retorts, gaze severe as he pulls your shirt over your head then moves on to help you step out of your skirt and panties, leaving you nude.

“‘M sorry.” The male whimpers, his tone already turned breathy and weak. Part of you feels for him; James is usually so good, it’s not like him to act up- and when he does, punishments are rough for him.

“It’s too late for that, angel. Its been decided.” Remus says, sounding not mean but firm. He turns to look at you where you stand a few feet away, right in front of Sirius, his cool hands resting on your bare hips. “Now come here, bunny. You’re gonna help us punish James.”

“I feel bad, daddy.” You mumble as Sirius guides you closer, your gaze fixated on James’s pouting lips and furrowed brows. Remus scoffs.

“No need to feel bad, darling, he deserves it. We punish you when you’re bad, yeah? ‘S only fair he gets the same treatment.” He explains, nodding his head in James’s direction. “So c’mon, I want you on your knees in front of him.”

You frown but do as Remus instructed, shooting James a sympathetic look as he whimpers and his cock throbs at the sight of you lowering to your knees before him.

“Gods, she looks pretty down there, doesn’t she, baby boy?” Sirius taunts with a low whistle, smirking as he sits beside the bespectacled male and slings an arm over his shoulder. James lets out another whimper.

“Go ahead and touch him, doll. Stroke that pretty cock.” You pout at Remus’s command but again obey, spitting in your hand before reaching out to grasp James’s reddening shaft.

“Fuck,” James grits as you make contact with his heated skin. You can feel the member throb in your grasp as you give it a slow, firm stroke.

“The ring makes you all sensitive, doesn’t it?” Sirius croons, smirking as he watches the way James’s abdominal muscles twitch with his effort not to thrust upwards. “So sensitive, but you still can’t cum. Poor thing.”

James only groans in response as you speed up your stroking, relishing in the way his cock strains within the restrictive silicone. The head is turning almost purple as he’s continuously stimulated and denied any release.

“Use your mouth too, bunny.” Remus instructs. You flash James an apologetic look before leaning forward to lick a stripe up his stiff length. Then you run the very tip of your tongue through his slit, tasting weak traces of precum there. James lets out a choked sob at the attention to his sensitive tip, and you notice tears pricking at the corners of his pretty blue eyes.

“Daddy,” you whimper upon seeing the oncoming tears, sounding remorseful. “He’s gonna cry.”

“‘S okay, bunny.” Remus assures with a smirk as Sirius chuckles. “This is a punishment, remember? A few tears’ll be good for him. Might remind him to be a good boy for us.”

“I’ll be a good boy, daddy!” James gasps out, fingers curling desperately in the duvet below him. “Please.”

“A bit longer, James, you’re alright.” Remus dismisses his plea for mercy, resulting in another sob from the submissive boy. “Keep going, Y/n.”

You lean forward once more, now taking the head of James’s cock between your lips, suckling gently and swirling your tongue around it. James cries out at the feeling, and fat tears spill from his waterline to roll down the expanse of his rouged cheeks.

You suck for some time- feeling his shaft pulse and twitch inside your mouth- until he’s reduced to continuous, pitiful sobs. Sirius is rubbing his back, cooing condescendingly about what a “poor thing” he is, and how “if only you’d been good, then you’d have cum already.”

Eventually you hear the metallic zip of a fly from behind you, and Remus’s voice pipes up.

“Alright, bunny, that’s enough.” You pull off James’s cock with a pop and he lets out a relieved sob. His face is red and tear streaked, his eyes are glistening with fresh tears, and his chest is heaving- he looks absolutely debauched.

You turn your head and see Remus taking his long, hard dick out of his own trousers. “Now Jamesie’s gonna watch you make Pads and I cum.”

[what-if-i-imagine]

Challenge: Post the Titles of all your WIPs

I saw @bipolarmolarfanfiction do this and decided to totally expose myself to my followers with this challenge. The challenge is kinda self explanatory, you just post all the titles of the WIPs you have in your folder no matter how odd they are.

Send me asks about my WIPs if any of them seem interesting to you to see what they’re about or if you want a line or two from them.

(I’m sticking to my DC WIPs to hold onto a shred of my sanity. The main ships or gen group will be put after each title.)

Olivarry Omegaverse Sick Fic (Olivarry)

A/F Convergance (Olivarry, Felicity/Iris, Gen Flash and Arrow fam)

Olivarry Torture ft. Savitar (Olivarry)

DC is a Poly Mess (Well, it’s a poly mess I can’t really list them all)

Angel/Demon (Olivarry, Superbat, Natalia/Talia)

Poly Mess: Batkids Getaway (the poly mess ships with a focus on Gen Batkids)

Father Todd (Gen Batfam)

JKW2020 Daycare for Outlaws and Lanterns (Jaykyle)

RHatO Rewrite 1 (Gen Outlaws)

Frostbite and a Good Family (Gen Outlaws)

Jason’s Pups [The Demon Children] (Gen Talia Kids)

Shiva and Tangu (Gen Jason&Shiva&Cass)

Children of Gotham (Gen Jason&Cass&Steph)

Voice Mails (Olivarry, Birdflash, Jayroy, Gen Arrow and Flashfam)

An Assistant and a Neighbor (Superbat, Super and Batfam)

The Future (Martha/Thomas, Superbat, Super and Batfam)

RHatO Rewrite: You Love him, Don’t You? (Jaykyle, Jayroy)

Remedy to Lonliness (Jayroy, Timkon, Stephcass, Birdflash, Batfam)

Interlude IV-Batman (Jason&Bruce, Batcat, Demonbat)

The Fifth Scarlet (Terry&Jason)

Baby Scandal (Jason&Bruce, Bruce&Alfred)

Fast Enough: One Month Later (Jayroy fam)

A Better Father (Jason&Duela)

The Seven Crowns (Outlaws, Justice League, Young Justice)

All Hands on Deck (Batfam)

fear for the one who crosses my love (Jason&Bruce, Superbat)

Black Lantern (Jason&Hal, Lanterns, Batlantern)

Did You Forget the Contract You Signed (Clark&Jason)

The Numb Days (Batfam, Jayroy)

Green Eyeliner (Jason&Bruce)

NightDad (Jason&Dick, Birdflash)

Titans ABO (Titans)

Doctor Jason (Batfam, Jaykyle)

Prince of Gotham (Jayroy, Batfam)

18 (Jayroy, Titans, Jason&Dick)

A Marriage in the Family (Jayroy, Jason&Bruce, Outlaws, Batfam)

Brick Walls and Forget-Me-Nots (Jayroy, Batfam)

Vampire Jason (Natalia&Jason, Jason&Bruce, Batfam)

Time to go Home/Swallow (Batfam)

Hunger Games Batfam (Jason&Steph&Duke, Batfam)

Words of Love (Jayroy, Batlantern)

Nanny McJordan (Batlantern, Batfam)

Hurt Me Once (Jaykyle)

Titans Ave. (Outlaws, Titans, Jayroy, Starae, Rose/Artemis)

The Garzonas Case (Jason&Dick, Jason&Bruce)

Bizarre (Jayroy, Jason&Bizarro)

Undercover Quadruple Date (Timkon, Jayroy, Birdflash, Damijon)

Biz’s First Gala (Jason&Bizarro, Batfam)

An Omega’s First Gala (Jason&Bruce)

Parallel Darkness (Jason&Bruce, Batfam)

Date Night [Proposal] (Jayroy)

Sailor Bat (Jason&Eddie&Rose, Jayroy)

How to be a Villian Parent (Rouges Gallery&Jason)

Kitten (Jason&Selina, Batcat)

fall from the nest, far from the tree (Batfam, Jason&Cass)

players in a game I don’t intend to lose (Jayroy)

Dick&Jason’s Death One Shot (Titans, Jason&Dick, Dick&Bruce)

[Instert Girlfriend’s name]’s Story (Jayroy)

heal what has been hurt (Jason&Bruce)

Shugo Chara! (Jayroy, Jaykyle, Outlaws, Batkids)

Mer Eggs (Jayroy, Batfam)

Date Night (Batkids&Jason’s Kids, Jayroy)

Baby Batfam (Batfam)

Little Black [Sheep] Bird (Jason&Batfam)

Never Know, Never Forget (Jason&Bruce)

Birds and Arrows (Jayroy, Bat and Arrowfam)

Childhood Love (Jayroy, Roy&Dick, Titans)

Need Your Help (Thad&Barry, Flashfam)

Nightwing and Flamebird (Dukechris)

[leraconteurdudimanche]

La correspondance

#4 [RACONTAGE SPÉCIAL HALLOWEEN]

31 octobre 2021, 23h à Paris sur la ligne 4.

Le métro de Camille arrive à la station Châtelet-les-halles. Son portable vient de vibrer et la tirer de son état de somnolence. Une notification lui indique qu’elle doit descendre alors que la sonnerie du métro annonce la fermeture des portes. Elle se lève d’un bond pour sortir de la rame et éternue dès qu’elle arrive sur le quai. Une odeur aigre vient de lui chatouiller ses narines pourtant bien bouchées. Il y a un an les personnes autour d’elle l’auraient fusillée du regard, mais ce n’est qu’un souvenir lointain.

Aujourd’hui c’est Halloween et pour célébrer les infirmiers, les blouses et les tuniques médicales sont à l’honneur. C’est la première année qu’elle voit autant de personnes jouer le jeu. Les blouses de docteur tâchées de sang et les infirmières démoniaques pullulent. La victoire des hommes sur la maladie lui fait lâcher un petit sourire et elle commence sa quête.

Chatelet est un véritable dédale de sorties et de lignes. Il faut qu’elle se dépêche si elle veut vite rejoindre ses amis. Elle déteste Halloween et ne se sent pas vraiment bien. Sa rupture avec Ahmed l’a dévastée. Elle pense en plus avoir un début de grippe. Sa copine Daffy lui a forcé la main pour qu’elle sorte et ne reste pas seule chez elle à déprimer. Elle porte du maquillage noir et une fausse verrue sur le visage en dessous d’un voile léger noir. Sa longue robe noire, son collant troué et son balai à manche complètent son style et font d’elle une véritable sorcière avec tout l’attirail.

Cela fait plus de cinq minutes qu’elle marche sans trouver la ligne 7. Certains panneaux l’envoient tout droit, tandis que d’autres lui indiquent de faire marche arrière. Aucun agent de la RATP n’est là pour la renseigner et les personnes déguisées n’ont pas l’air d’être ouvertes au dialogue. Toutes ces infirmières pleines de sang ne la rassurent pas. En plus de cela, un homme déguisé en membre du Ku Klux Klan vient d’attirer son attention. Il porte une longue robe blanche et une capuche pointue masquant son visage. Elle a l’impression de l’avoir vu dans sa rame de métro mais elle chasse vite cette idée de son esprit. Il est impossible qu’il se soit perdu comme elle dans les couloirs de la station.

Camille s’arrête un instant pour réfléchir. Elle tente de se rappeler de la dernière fois qu’elle a réussi à trouver le bon itinéraire. Elle ferme les yeux un instant et c’est alors qu’une main lui agrippe le bras. Son cœur fait un bon dans sa poitrine et lorsqu’elle ouvre les yeux elle voit un jeune homme déguisé en Dracula. Ce dernier ayant vu sa réaction s’empresse de la rassurer : « Vous avez l’air perdue Madame, je peux vous aider ?

-Ah oui, vous m’avez fait peur. Je cherche la ligne 7, vous savez où c’est ?

-Oui bien sûr, il vous suffit de prendre cette direction ».

Il lui indique alors d’aller vers un portail électrique derrière lequel elle voit un tapis roulant. La mémoire de son dernier passage en ces lieux lui revient. Elle le remercie avec un sourire poli et éternue à nouveau en partant. La même odeur aigre vient de chatouiller ses narines.

La sorcière avance avec son balai vers le tapis mécanique et s’appuie contre le rebord. Elle commence à se sentir fébrile. Les gens autour d’elle lui sont bruyants et lui semblent excités, sûrement à cause de l’alcool. Une fois arrivée de l’autre côté, elle se rend compte que l’accès est fermé. Une main frôle le dos de Camille qui se retourne brusquement. C’est une infirmière ensanglantée avec des yeux de démons et des couettes. Cette dernière souhaite lui indiquer la bonne direction pour rejoindre la ligne 7, il faut aller dans la direction opposée. La jeune femme la remercie brièvement avant de continuer sa route.

La situation l’exaspère. L’heure tourne, ses pieds commencent à lui faire mal et elle trouve les gens de plus en plus bizarres autour d’elle. Ils parlent bruyamment. Leurs yeux sont rouges et elle en voit même certains se bagarrer. Elle a bien fait d’emprunter la voie non mécanisée, au moins elle évitera de se prendre un coup perdu. Sur le chemin une porte attire son attention, elle s’arrête devant elle. Il y a une indication affichant le logo de la ligne 7 et informant que la zone est en travaux. Elle ouvre la porte, entre et la referme derrière elle. Cette dernière mettant un peu de temps à se fermer elle décide d’avancer dans l’obscurité.

La jeune femme sort son portable afin d’activer son flash mais aussitôt allumé, il s’éteint. Il n’affiche que 10% de batterie. Elle soupire et évalue la situation. Il fait froid et sombre mais elle préfère quand-même continuer dans l’obscurité plutôt que de rebrousser chemin et côtoyer tous ces gens qui lui font peur. Leur comportement n’était pas normal. Toutes ces personnes déguisées l’oppressaient. Elle avance donc à petits pas, en mettant son balai devant elle pour s’assurer que la voie est dégagée.

Le bruit d’une porte qui se ferme se fait entendre derrière elle. Camille est pourtant certaine qu’elle aurait dû être fermée depuis un moment. Cela doit être son imagination. Elle continue son parcours en essayant quand-même de l’éclairer avec la lumière de l’écran de son portable, lorsqu’il ne se verrouille pas. Son balai finit par toucher quelque chose de mou. Alors qu’elle commence son inspection, elle touche une plus grosse masse et entend un miaulement strident. Elle hurle et se met à paniquer, Camille a la phobie des chats.

La jeune femme court pour faire marche arrière et dans sa course elle heurte quelqu’un qui tombe en même temps qu’elle. Les yeux de Camille sont habitués à l’obscurité et elle distingue juste une longue masse blanche complétée par une capuche pointue. Elle crie à nouveau. L’inconnu ou les chats ? Elle se relève, et court dans l’autre sens, elle choisit d’affronter le chat et sa proie.

Qui était-ce ? Sûrement un homme. Mais le seul qui aurait pu la suivre jusque-là était habillé en Dracula. Aucun bruit de pas derrière elle, étrange. Elle en profite pour enlever ses talons qui la gênent et recommence à courir balai à la main, mais pieds nus cette fois.

Le sol est glacé et elle sent des bouts de pierre traverser la plante de ses pieds. Elle s’arrête un instant à cause de la douleur mais n’a pas le temps de souffler car elle entend des bruits de pas accélérés se rapprocher d’elle. Elle continue sa course et essaye d’utiliser son portable pour appeler quelqu’un.

Sur son écran s’affiche un message d’Ahmed : « T’es où ??? » a-t-il écrit. Camille panique de plus en plus et se demande la signification de ces mots. Elle soupçonne alors son ex petit-ami d’être son poursuivant. Un flash lui rappelle qu’elle a croisé quelqu’un déguisé en membre du KKK plus tôt dans la soirée. Il n’y a que lui qui aurait assez de mauvais goût pour se déguiser de la sorte. 

Alors que les pensées et les suppositions se bousculent dans sa tête elle heurte violemment une barrière et fait une chute dans des escaliers. Son corps fait une roulade dans les marches qu’elle cogne une par une violemment. Ses phalanges et ses genoux sont en sang lorsqu’elle atterrit dans une flaque d’eau. Son balai qui ne lui a pas échappé des mains lui sert d’appui pour se relever. Elle n’a pas le temps de souffler, car elle ressent la lumière du flash projeté par son agresseur venir d’en haut.  

Ses pieds baignent jusqu’aux chevilles dans une eau glacée, elle sent une forte odeur aigre et des moustiques lui foncent dans les yeux. Il n’y a qu’une seule issue éclairée, elle n’a pas le choix. Elle doit avancer dans ce sens-là sans se retourner et prier pour que ce soit ouvert. Pendant un instant elle se demande pourquoi Ahmed la poursuit. Ils se sont quittés en très mauvais termes mais rien ne justifie une telle poursuite dans le métro. Elle est certaine qu’il n’est pas ici pour lui faire une mauvaise blague.

Toutes ses questions l’empêchent d’avancer rapidement. Son poursuivant est presque au même niveau qu’elle. Elle crie de toutes ses forces « Laisse-moi tranquille !! » tout en continuant d’avancer vers la seule issue qui ne semble toujours pas se rapprocher d’elle. L’agresseur masqué finit par la rattraper et la plaquer au sol.

L’homme à la capuche pointue retourne alors sa victime, qui a maintenant l’arrière de la tête sous l’eau, et essaye de l’étrangler. Camille hurle et se débat. Elle crie :« Ahmed arrête ! Par pitié ! ». Tout en s’égosillant à crier au secours, ses mains touchent la poitrine de son bourreau qui reste toujours silencieux. Elles palpent des seins et elle comprend que son poursuivant est en fait une femme. Cet instant de surprise et de relâchement où elle aura utilisé son énergie pour demander « Qui c’est ? » lui sera fatal. La femme masquée a désormais totalement pris le dessus et ses mains sont solidement ancrées sur sa gorge. L’étrangleuse lâche alors un rire diabolique. C’est bel et bien une femme.

Camille ne comprend pas. Elle va mourir sans même savoir pourquoi. Son odorat qui ne l’a pas encore lâché, lui fait encore sentir la même odeur aigre qui avait piqué ses narines plus tôt. Elle tousse aussi fort que les mains de la folle qui l’étranglent le lui permettent. Alors qu’elle commence à abandonner et à perdre connaissance, elle croit entendre la femme au-dessus d’elle dire « Enfin débarrassée de toi !! ». Son incompréhension est encore plus grande, à quelques instants de la mort. Un flash commence à l’éclairer. Serait-ce la lumière du fameux tunnel ?

Un bruit de course succède à la lumière et elle voit sa future-ex meurtrière tomber sur le côté. Ses yeux voient flous et elle se met à tousser. Elle n’entend pas bien et commence à se sentir bizarre. Quelque chose monte en elle. Camille reconnaît l’infirmière démoniaque qui lui avait indiqué le chemin plus tôt. Elle n’entend que quelques mots : « … vu vous suivre… croyais… blague… au cas où ». La jeune femme qui vient d’échapper à la mort fait juste un geste de la main en remerciement, elle ne comprend pas tout. Elle souhaite juste prendre sa sauveuse dans ses bras. L’infirmière l’enlace et la réconforte. Quelques secondes passent lorsque soudain, les muscles de sa sauveuse se contractent. Cette dernière la serre de plus en plus fort dans ses bras et commence à l’étouffer. Elle souhaite des remerciements et se met à l’embrasser de force.

Camille, totalement dépassée et excédée, lui arrache la langue avec ses dents. Son nouvel agresseur crie de douleur et se tient la bouche. Enragée, l’ancienne victime cherche son balai sur le sol. Aussitôt retrouvé, elle hurle et tape sa sauveuse à la tête avec le manche. Cette dernière tombe d’un coup. Mais ce n’est pas assez pour la sorcière, elle continue de la taper au sol jusqu’à ce son maquillage blanc devienne totalement rouge sang. Elle ne veut pas s’arrêter et décide d’infliger le même châtiment à la femme masquée. Son pied accompagne le balai qui frappe la tête de son premier agresseur sans s’arrêter. Elle se met à gueuler comme un animal. 

Elle enlève la capuche de la femme qui attenté à sa vie afin de l’identifier. Un sentiment de stupeur s’empare d’elle lorsqu’elle reconnaît la nouvelle copine de son ex : « Thaïs ! ». Cette fois c’est décidé, elle va tous les tuer, un par un : Ahmed, le Dracula qui lui a mal indiqué le chemin, son voisin en vis-à-vis qui essaye de la mater, sa mère qui la saoule, Daffy, son dernier employeur… Dans cette bouffée d’adrénaline et de colère, la sorcière se sent toute-puissante. La douleur ne l’affecte plus. Elle marche d’un pas déterminé avec son balai vers la seule issue qui s’offre à elle.

C’est une pièce éclairée dans laquelle il y a un autre escalier. En traversant la pièce, elle voit un miroir dans laquelle il y a son reflet. Le voile déchiré met en exergue le maquillage qui a coulé. Ses habits sont déchirés et trempés. Ses cheveux mouillés et volumineux lui donnent l’air d’une folle. Sa seule réaction est de rire diaboliquement comme une véritable sorcière. Camille emprunte l’escalier et arrive sur une autre porte.

Lorsqu’elle l’ouvre, c’est une scène invraisemblable qui s’offre à elle. C’est le quai de la ligne 11, le métro est à l’arrêt et tous les usagers du métro sont en train de taper leur voisin. Des jeunes femmes bastonnent des femmes âgées à terre alors que des vieux hommes tabassent des enfants avec leurs cannes. D’autres jeunes hommes eux se mettent des droites et des gauches tout en se cassant des bouteilles de verre sur la tête. La sorcière, crie de tous ses poumons et arme son balai pour taper la foule et participer au chaos qui régnait déjà. Elle se déchaîne jusqu’à ce que tout devienne sombre pour elle.

Camille se réveille en sursaut à l’hôpital, menottée à un lit. Elle a mal à la tête. Dans son dernier souvenir, la sorcière se rappelle avoir vu des personnes avec des masques à gaz débarquer sur les quais, et balancer des fumigènes qui ont endormi tous les fauteurs de trouble. La télé est allumée et sa mère qui a remarqué son réveil grâce à ses soupirs, engage la conversation : « Tu vas bien ma fille ? Tu es drôlement amochée.

-Tu vois bien que je ne vais pas bien, pourquoi est-ce que tu me poses des questions stupides ?

-Calme-toi. Tu ne sortiras pas d’ici avant que l’on soit assurés que tu as totalement repris tes esprits.

-Où suis-je ? Pourquoi est-ce que j’ai des menottes ?

-Tu es à l’hôpital. Il y a eu une fuite de gaz hier à Châtelet et tout le monde a perdu les pédales. Il y a eu beaucoup de morts et de blessés. C’est une chance que tu sois quasiment indemne.

-Du gaz ? Quel genre de gaz ?

-Un gaz inconnu. On pourra en parler plus tard, pour le moment repose-toi. »

Quelques heures plus tard, lorsqu’on lui apporte à manger, un homme en blouse blanche entre dans la pièce. Il se présente et demande à Camille de lui raconter sa soirée et ce dont elle se souvient. La jeune femme raconte alors son récit dans les couloirs de la correspondance de Châtelet-les-halles. Dans un éclair de lucidité, elle omet la course-poursuite et les deux femmes gravement blessées qu’elle a laissée derrière elle dans les souterrains. Pendant qu’elle déclare ne plus se rappeler ce qu’il s’est passé après avoir perdu connaissance, elle a des flashs du massacre de la veille. Elle résiste pour masquer le plaisir qu’elle ressent à la mémoire de ces doux souvenirs de rage.

L’homme lui explique alors ce qu’il s’est probablement passé selon la police et lui ajoute qu’elle a eu de la chance, étant donné le temps qu’elle a passé au sein de la station. Camille feint d’être soulagée et joue les victimes pour rassurer sa mère et le docteur.

Ce dernier la libère de ses menottes et lui annonce qu’elle pourra partir après quelques questions des policiers. Elle le remercie poliment et lui souhaite au revoir. Camille repense à nouveau à tout ce qu’elle a subi et aux deux fois où elle a échappé à un sort funeste. La meurtrière vomit lorsqu’elle repense à la langue qu’elle a arrachée et aux crânes qu’elle a fendus.

Sa mère lui propose de dormir chez elle quelques jours, au cas où il y aurait des séquelles. Elle accepte et une fois chez son hôte, la fille demande à sa mère une feuille et un stylo pour prendre des notes. Son portable étant perdu elle n’a plus aucun support pour pouvoir le faire.

La sorcière inscrit alors plusieurs noms sur la feuille et entoure le premier. Sa mère voyant cela l’interroge : « Tu as fait une liste de noms ? C’est pour ton anniversaire ?

-Non, Maman. Ce sont les personnes que je souhaite remercier. Grâce à elles je me sens bien dans ma vie en ce moment.

-Ah, j’espère que je suis dessus alors !

-Oui bien sûr, tu es la première, regarde. Je viens d’entourer ton prénom. » dit-elle d’un sourire qu’elle ne tarda pas à déformer en rictus lorsque sa mère lui tourna le dos.

Illustration de @paulinegwczillustrations

[gwhuntin]

ZULUBALL 2020: BTS of Every Detail

2.24.2020 “Flight 561 with service to New Orleans is now boarding”, said the Southwest Airline serviceperson. I began towards the gate with butterflies, excited for the weekend’s festivities. 

The weekend before Fat Tuesday is always the peak of the celebration, with all of the parades, tourists and most importantly coronation balls. The Zulu Ball, hosted by the Krewe of Zulu in my opinion, is the kick-off for the festivities leading up to the big day. Everyone from the city piles into the Marc Morial Convention Center in downtown New Orleans for a night of black elegance and grandeur.

Now, given that I had not attended the ball in two years, and also being the fact that it’s 2020 this year was a year of the comeback.  I knew I had to attempt to create a moment, which is what fashion is all about. The overall planning took an estimated two months to execute, but if you’re curious how the idea was created…here is everything you need to know.

Finding Inspiration: December 27, 2019 (56 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020) 

The overall inspiration for the look originated from Eugene Lee Yang, Content Curator, Activist, and 1/4 of the Try Guys. He donned an all pink draped custom suit by Menagerie for the 2019 Unforgettable Gala. When I saw the look instantly knew it was the one. The wheels in my brain instantly begin churning to figure out how I could make this my own.

Suit Up: January 3, 2020 (49 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020)

I can honestly say this was the easiest part of the whole planning process. I knew once I saw the inspiration and the detail that would it be easier to have someone attach the draping effect rather than creating a custom suit from scratch. The suit, both blazer, and pant were from ASOS. I figured that for timing and alteration purposing ASOS would be the best bet due to the swift delivery and spot-on sizing.

Swatch This: January 18, 2020 (34 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020)

Now that I had the suit, we needed the fabric for draping. I hauled up to the Fashion District of NYC to go every Project Runway fan dream Mood. Unfortunately, I didn’t find the resident puppy, but I was able to find the multiple fabrics that could be used for the drape effect which ranged from satins, silks, and even poly blends. I ultimately chose a black silk charmeuse, due to the lightweight and easy fold of the material.

Make It Your Own: January 20th, 2020 (32 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020)

In efforts to make the look my own and put my spin, I solicited the help from two friends, who opinion I hold dear, Sky Milan Howard, and Lorenzo Joshua. I knew two things, they would be honest in letting me know if I could pull it off, and what’s the best way to style it if I could. We all agreed that the white boot would be a great contrast against the black velvet/satin material, the gloves would add a touch a class given the event, and that jewelry would the right touch without taking away from the overall look.

Behind the Lens: January 22nd, 2020 (30 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020) 

The photography inspiration was a mixture of Diddy’s 50th Birthday Party and Vanity Fair. I knew there was only one person that could probably execute this and make me feel comfortable in front of the camera and that was Ahmad Coleman. Ahmad was the visionary who helped create Cinderfella so it was a must he was on the shoot. The original date was February 15h, but given the fact, Ahmad is taken and practically married. We planned to shoot February 8th, given to allow time for editing.

The Runaround: January 27th, 2020 (25 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020)

I was able to find a local designer in Baton Rouge, Louisiana that I have been dying to work with. However, due to timing, we were not able to coordinate shipping, fittings, etc. This is where we hit a hard one, I went through over a dozen tailors and designers before I could find someone to alter the suit. I had heard everything from, “Oh no that’s too complicated,” or “I only do custom pieces, no add no’s or alterations.” Discouraged, and on a whim, I went to google and searched, “Alteration’s in NYC” and found the amazing team at Alteration Specialist on 5th. It took a total of three tailors, and fitting of almost two hours to get all of the draping detailing to fall perfectly.

Click Flash: February 8th, 2020 (13 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020) 

The photoshoot went well, I was able to secure my friends Ricci Bostick, and Tyler McGlothen aka Miss T to help direct the shoot. I am usually, very shy when in front of the camera so having them there made me feel at ease. 

Are You Sure: February 17th, 2020, (5 Days Until Zulu Ball 2020)

After seeing the photo’s which I LOVED. I still faced a lot of self-doubts, “What if it flops?!” or “What if people don’t get it, am I doing too much?!” The reality of it is confident as I may seem on the surface, I am always in the constant question of it I’m doing the right thing. One of the hardest and most courageous things one can do is freely be themselves, which is a battle I struggle with on the day, but I am slowly learning to overcome. However, I truly appreciate all the support I receive any comment, mention, and re-share assure that “hey you might just be doing something right!”

The END: February 21st, 2020 (Day of Zulu Ball 2020)

I am filled with excitement, nerves, and jitters, I hope everything goes well, I am ready to celebrate and have a good time. I just wish two things happen tonight, everyone makes it there and home safely, and by the end of the night, I will have hopefully inspired one person to push boundaries, and truly be themselves.

[lamergelee]

“La vie conne et fine de Gustave F.” [épisode 9]

[Lire les épisodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4 bis, 5, 6, 7, 8] Le jour 9, il voulut retisser du lien social. Depuis le parquet de chêne foncé, tendre et poli par des générations de pieds sales où il prenait sa dose quotidienne de vitamine D dans un rai de soleil, Gustave se disait qu’il avait malgré tout des amis. De vrais potes. Au moins des connaissances. Le bouillonnant Rodolphe bien sûr, il en a été question l’autre fois, qu’il connaissait d’une formation obligatoire au Pôle Emploi du temps où tous les deux pointaient, et qu’il avait hébergé durant une courte période ensuite, après que Rodolphe lui avait fait part de ses difficultés lors d’un apéritif de fin de session qui avait tourné en beuverie, une amitié récente mais vite éprouvée par la cohabitation, au bout d’un moment Gustave supportait mal de se ranimer le matin dans des effroyables migraines et de trouver Rodolphe en slip qui en écrasait sur le divan du salon, au milieu d’un champ de bouteilles en ruine et de cartons de pizzas dévastés, c’est comme ça que Gustave avait préféré le conduire dans la longère familiale en province, Rodolphe faisait un peu grise mine et demandait comment il allait se ravitailler ici, où il n’y avait pas de caviste ni même un bistrot, Gustave était resté quelques jours avec lui et il avait fait le plein de courses, puis il lui avait laissé de l’argent de poche et les clés de la voiture, après quoi il était reparti en train le cœur léger, satisfait de se retrouver enfin en compagnie de soi-même, il avait eu la paix chez lui durant une petite semaine et presque réussi à récurer les sanitaires de toute vilaine persistance de Rodolphe, c’est là qu’il avait reçu un coup de fil de la gendarmerie locale, au bureau de poste Rodolphe s’était lié d’un peu près à une factrice et avec le mari, agent municipal, il y avait eu du grabuge, les deux étaient retenus en dégrisement à la brigade et la mairie avait signé contre Rodolphe un arrêté d’évacuation forcée, la voiture de Gustave avait été poussée par un tracteur dans une mare et Rodolphe dans sa fouille n’avait pas de quoi pour le train, aussi lui demandait-on à lui, Gustave, de bien vouloir revenir pour reconduire son ami hors de la commune. Tout de même, quoique leurs rapports par la suite se fussent espacés, ça n’avait pas laissé Gustave tout à fait insensible que, dans la détresse où il était, Rodolphe ait demandé aux gendarmes qu’on le prévienne lui. Bref, en ce neuvième jour, Gustave pensa qu’après tout il n’y avait pas meilleur moment que ce confinement général pour retisser du lien, pour prendre des nouvelles et réveiller les sympathies qu’il gardait à certains. De son vieux correspondant berlinois Frithjof Helgomar, Gustave – qui par commodité l’appelait Fridolin – reçut comme ça des informations internationales résonnant d’ailleurs avec sa propre expérience, des considérations d’ordre surtout hygiénique ; on voyait au passage que dans l’Europe unie, la pandémie n’effaçait pas les clichés entre voisins. Ainsi du papier-toilette. Dans une émission télévisuelle satirique, lui expliquait Fridolin, un présentateur allemand s’écriait : « Vous voyez, les Français, qu’est-ce qu’ils achètent en premier, craignant la pénurie ? une bouteille de rouge et des capotes ! Et nous ? du PQ ! » Et ce n’était pas faux, Fridolin en avait fait lui-même le constat en plein centre de Berlin. Il était descendu quatre fois au supermarché : rayon PQ, rien de rien ! Le cinquième jour, dans l’angoisse, il s’était même levé plus tôt ; arrivé devant le magasin, des personnes seules s’en évadaient, serrant amoureusement contre elles des emballages plastiques pleins de la précieuse cellulose. Las, arrivé au rayon, il ne trouva que trois paquets de papier imprimé où alternaient les rouleaux verts façon billet d’un dollar et ceux gris figurant un portrait en noir et blanc de la juvénile future chancelière lors de ses débuts en politique. À la guerre comme à la guerre ! Fridolin les rafla. Tout en racontant cela par téléphone à Gustave (confiné pour confiné, celui-ci l’écoutait, ça faisait toujours passer le temps), Fridolin se rappela qu’il devait avoir encore quelque part, dans un vieux carton, ce summum de l’art Biedermeier, un de ces petits bonnets en dentelle au crochet qu’on pose sous la lunette arrière des véhicules pour avoir l'impression d’être toujours chez soi (Trabi ou Mercedes, accroupis dans les fourrés en bord de route nous sommes tous égaux ! et puis : My car is my castle...). Fridolin ne savait comment nommer cette chose en français, il s'escrimait à épeler le mot Klopapiermütze à Gustave qui s’acharnait à ne pas vouloir comprendre. Les deux loustics mirent fin à la conversation en décidant qu’une fois l'épidémie surmontée, il faudrait ajouter ce mot à la liste des intraduisibles, entre Dasein et Aufhebung. De fil en anguille, Gustave pensa qu’il serait bon aussi qu’il passât un coup de fil à Jérôme. Un ou deux jours plus tôt, dans un moment sentencieux et grave, Gustave avait déjà repensé à son ami d’enfance et de jeunesse, Jérôme, rejeton d’une connaissance incertaine du côté maternel, et avec lequel il avait souvent passé des vacances dans un autre coin de campagne, à trois cents kilomètres au sud de Paris. Séparation dans l’espace, discontinuité dans le temps, humeur capricieuse de l’un et de l’autre : tout avait concouru à bousiller une complicité autrefois proverbiale. Depuis des années, Jérôme vivait reclus. Après des études brillantes, après avoir même exercé quelque temps un métier trop peu solitaire à son goût, il avait sombré dans la dépression et l’alcool mais, hélas pour lui, sans rien perdre de sa lucidité. Doté d’une forme d’humour qu’on qualifie parfois de ravageur, l’ironie sans merci dont il usait envers le monde, les autres et soi-même finirait sans doute un jour, songeait Gustave, à le faire se jeter par la fenêtre. Souvent, Gustave s’en voulait de ne plus lui téléphoner. Oui, maintenant, il le fallait. Car Jérôme, ce contempteur de toutes choses ou presque, ce rouspéteur impénitent, cet implacable aristarque du siècle, l’ami qui l’avait converti à la vénération de Polycarpe dont il prétendait avoir chouravé chez une bigote dijonnaise une phalange qu’il conservait précieusement auprès d’une lampe perpétuelle, Jérôme en ces jours confinés apparaissait soudain à Gustave comme une sorte de prophète. N’avait-il pas, depuis des années, enjoint sa mère (ils habitaient dans deux logements distincts, à deux cents mètres de distance) de lui porter ses repas et son linge sans entrer chez lui, de les déposer simplement sur le paillasson ? Un jour lointain que Jérôme avait demandé à Gustave de lui apporter le journal, il l’avait accueilli par ces mots : « C’est quel journal ? » Gustave avait été interloqué : on le voyait bien quel journal c’était, le titre était en blanc sur rouge et se reconnaissait de loin ; c’était la feuille de chou locale, et celle du jour. Mais Jérôme avait dit : « Tu en as pris un du dessous, hein ? » Et il était parti dans un long discours sur le danger qu’il y a à faire ses courses, sur tout ce qui volète, invisible, et sur le manque d’hygiène de l’humanité toute entière. Gustave avait compris alors pourquoi Jérôme se mouvait si étrangement quand il était hors de chez soi. Dès qu’il se trouvait devant une porte à ouvrir ou fermer, il prenait position pour une solitaire et asymétrique danse des canards, les genoux un peu pliés, un coude écarté du corps, pour attraper ainsi la poignée ; ou bien il projetait une jambe en avant pour arrêter un battant de porte qu’avait ouvert une âme charitable, ou inconsciente, ou irresponsable ; il haïssait les pommeaux et ne jurait que par les loquets et, mieux encore bien évidemment : les portes automatiques ; bref, il avait toujours été en avance sur son temps. La distanciation sociale lui était comme naturelle. C’est aussi pourquoi il avait toujours préféré les ondes au papier. Dans les années 90, il avait imaginé une radio libre ; n’ayant pas le matériel, il s’était résolu à ne diffuser ses émissions que par téléphone auprès de ses rares amis. Cette chaîne, il l’avait d’abord appelée Radio-Village, avant d’opter pour Radio-Ploucs. Elle émettait pour ainsi dire vingt-quatre heures sur vingt-quatre. Jérôme pouvait appeler à toute heure du jour ou de la nuit (car son temps peu conventionnel et quasiment déstructuré, lui aussi, anticipait l’époque actuelle des confinés). Le téléphone sonnait et une voix, parfois un peu avinée, lançait : « Radio-Ploucs, le flash info » ; la chaîne ne se contentait pas d’un slogan ; « Radio-Ploucs, Chroniques de Clochemerle », « Radio-Ploucs, Le désert parle à la France », « Radio-Ploucs, La voix du désert français », « Radio-Ploucs prêche dans le désert », « Radio-Ploucs, Ici la France » ; Gustave avait particulièrement apprécié, en l’honneur de son père né au moment de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, un bulletin nocturne entonné à trois heures du matin : « Radio-Ploucs, Les Français parlent aux Français. » S’ensuivaient des longs monologues entrecoupés de silences infinis ; Jérôme racontait ce qui lui passait par la tête (beaucoup de choses) et ce qui se passait au bled (pas grand-chose), lisait de la poésie, commentait ses musiques préférées. Cela pouvait durer des heures. Un jour, Jérôme avait cessé d’appeler. Il ne répondait pas non plus. Gustave avait eu de ses nouvelles par sa mère ; rien de nouveau mais rien de mieux non plus. Quelle tristesse. L’heure était vraiment venue de renouer. Jérôme était à présent l’homme des temps nouveaux, et puis il pourrait raconter aussi à Gustave un peu de la France d’en-bas, du vrai pays réel. (A suivre).

[dcpolyampolls]

dc polyamorous polls (round three)

[anonfanfic]

what we are || Clexa ficlet

Clarke woke up slowly, feeling the soft bed beneath her and the warm furs covering her body.

Day 116.

She had been in Polis almost four months and with every passing day she felt Lexa drifting further away from her. When Lexa had asked Clarke to stay in the capitol and be an ambassador for her clan Clarke had thought they would finally have time. Time together to explore the feelings they had touched on in Lexa’s tent and again in the throne room before the great war.

Now Clarke wasn’t sure what Lexa wanted from her, if anything at all. Maybe Lexa had just wanted the power of Wanheda on her side when they faced off against Nia and Azgeda. Clarke opened her eyes, greeted by the soft golden rays of sunshine shining through the large window in her bedroom.

Clarke took a deep breath and pulled the covers off her body and began her day as she had the last few months. The hope that she had Lexa would talk privately fading like a dying candle in her chest with each passing day.

She looked at her reflection in the freshly shined piece of metal hanging from the wall and took a deep breath through her nose. If Lexa didn’t have the same feelings that Clarke had than Clarke deserved to hear that from her. Clarke let the breath out sharply through her nose and steadied herself before walking out of her room and down to the main hall for breakfast.

Clarke walked the familiar path to the main hall. There were people filtering in and out of the room, some in deep conversation and others clearing having just finished their meal. A large bearded man nearly knocked Clarke to the ground as he came around the corner picking his teeth with a wooden twig.

He looked down at the person who had gotten in his way, a look of annoyance on his gruff features. The moment his dark eyes met Clarke his expression changed to fear.

“Wanheda.” The man bowed deeply, moving out of Clarke’s path almost tripping over his own feet.

Clarke gave the man a stiff nod before walking away. Her reputation around Polis had only grown since they defeated the Ice Nation. Wanheda had now taken down the mountain and helped put down the rouge Queen. A thought struck Clarke and she stopped mid-step.

Could that be why Lexa was being distant? Had Clarke’s presence in Polis cast a shadow on her role as Heda? Clarke was not more determined than ever to get answers from Lexa. She continued into the room and saw Lexa immediately sitting at the head table in deep discussion with two men Clarke recognized as fellow ambassadors.

Clarke lifted her chin, a renewed energy coursing through her. An energy fueled by desire and confusion. Clarke needed answers and she was done waiting for them. She walked through the crowd, aware of the stares, but not acknowledging them.

Her blue eyes were locked on their target. Clarke turned to stand in front of Lexa, the large wooden table the only thing between them.

Lexa looked up at Clarke, her eyes showing only a little surprise at Clarke’s appearance in front of her.

“Can I have a minute of your time, Heda?” Clarke asked, as formally as she could.

Lexa’s head tilted in confusion, her eyes narrowed as she tried to read Clarke’s face.

Clarke, I’m in the middle of something. Can this wait?” Lexa replied, giving Clarke the same cool dismissal she had for months.

Clarke chewed her lower lip for a moment longer than was comfortable. The two men stared at Clarke, both clearly afraid to say anything in front of two of the most powerful women on the planet.

“Fine.” Clarke turned to leave and saw Lexa nod before returning to her conversation. Clarke spun back around and locked eyes with Lexa once again. “Sunset in the throne room?” Clarke wasn’t going to leave this open-ended. It was time they talked and she was going to force Lexa’s hand.

Lexa’s jaw tensed and she gave a stiff nod this time. Her eyes flashed brightly before once again turning to the men at her table.

Clarke walked away from the table, a tightness releasing from her chest and dropping directly into her stomach. She felt her breath catch. This had been what she wanted, to finally get Lexa alone, but what if everything she had feared was confirmed? Living with the questions had been what kept her head above water. Now she felt herself sinking even deeper into the dark pool of uncertainty.

The day passed quickly, though Clarke felt the weight of each passing hour. She had no idea what to expect as she walked toward the throne room. Would Lexa even be there?

Clarke took a deep breath, feeling a deep pain in her lungs as she quickly released it. Her hand grabbed the door and opened it. She saw Lexa sitting on her throne looking over a piece of parchment.

Lexa looked up as the door closed behind Clarke.

“Hello, Clarke,” Lexa greeted her again with an icy edge to her tone.

“Lexa,” Clarke replied, moving closer to Lexa and hearing the echo of her footsteps with each step.

“What was so urgent that you needed to interrupt me during a meal?” Lexa stood up and crossed her arms behind her back. She didn’t step down, keeping the high ground over Clarke. A power move that Clarke had seen so many times.

“Lexa...I…” Clarke started, feeling the nerves and agitation fighting for dominance in her stomach. “Why-Why have you been so distant with me since I got here?” She finally stammered, closing her eyes briefly as she heard the question fall from her lips.

“Did you need someone to hold your hand? I thought the mighty Wanheda would be fine on her own.” Lexa plastered a smirk on her face that made Clarke’s anger flare.

“I knew this was about that stupid title. Lexa, I never asked for any of this. I never asked for you to abandon me on that moun-”

Lexa’s hand shot up and the smirk was erased from her face. She took the two steps down to Clarke in an instant.

“I will not hear this again.” Lexa spoke through clenched teeth. “I swore fealty to you. That is sacred. If you think what others think of you influences my thoughts than you must think so little of me.”

Clarke knew bringing up the mountain was a cheap shot. Clarke didn’t blame Lexa for her actions, she had learned so much about Lexa since that moment that had proven her true character.

“Lexa, I think more of you than I could ever tell you. And I think you know that.” Clarke didn’t back down she stood, face-to-face with someone who could kill her before Clarke could beg for mercy.

Lexa blinked a few times. Clarke could almost see the thoughts moving through her as she continued to stare at Clarke. Lexa’s features softened for only a second before she took a few steps back and once again became stoic.

“What is this about?” Lexa asked, her eyes no longer meeting Clarke’s gaze.

“Lexa, why are you avoiding me? If it’s not what they think of me, it has to be something.” Clarke pleaded, taking a step forward.

Lexa looked around the room before looking back at Clarke.

“I’m falling in love with you and that can’t happen.”

Clarke’s heart jumped in her chest. Those had been the words she had dreamed about hearing for so long. Lexa loved her.

“What do you mean it can’t? You’re the commander, you answer to no one.”

Lexa smiled sadly and shook her head.

“I answer to my people and to my birthright. When I took the Flame I knew what was required of me. Love is weakness. I think I told you that once before.”

Clarke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had yearned to be with Lexa for so long and they were so close and still couldn’t act on their feelings.

There was a long silence, both women looking from each other to different points in the room.

“No.”

Clarke spoke clearly and loudly enough to have the word bounce off the stone walls.

“We’ve given enough to our people. We have sacrificed enough. I won’t lose you.” Clarke walked over and wrapped her arms around Lexa’s waist. She felt Lexa stiffen under the touch. Clarke pulled her closer and rested her forehead against Lexa’s closing her eyes.

“Tell me you felt weak when we were together in your tent. Tell me that I make you feel weak and I’ll walk away.”

Clarke felt Lexa tremble and grasped at her coat to pull her even closer.

“I don’t.” Lexa’s voice faltered, but her words were strong. “I don’t feel weak.”

Clarke smiled and opened her eyes to see Lexa looking back at her. She could feel Lexa’s warm breath against her lips.

“We’ve overcome so much since we’ve met. This is just something else that will make us even stronger.”

Lexa nodded and smiled. Clarke saw a single tear slide down her cheek.

“Will you come to my room tonight?” Lexa asked, her own arms slowly moving around Clarke’s waist.

Clarke smile broadened as she leaned in and gave Lexa a short, sweet kiss.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

[tel-haut-gamme-blog]

Iphone XR

Vue d'ensemble

L’Apple iPhone XR est le troisième iPhone à être lancé cette année, après l’iPhone XS et XS Max. La XR peut être considérée comme le modèle "économique" d'Apple - bien que j'utilise ce mot avec hésitation, car la moins chère coûte encore 1 229 S $ - avec un design similaire, des fonctionnalités et une expérience similaire à celle de l'iPhone XS, mais à un prix de départ S $ 420 moins cher.

Qu'abandonnez-vous pour ce prix inférieur? Le XR a un écran LCD de résolution inférieure avec des cadres plus larges tout autour et ne prend pas en charge 3D Touch. Il est légèrement plus épais et plus lourd. Il est fabriqué en aluminium au lieu d’acier inoxydable et n’a qu’une caméra à l’arrière.

Mais à part ça, c'est assez similaire au XS. Il a le même design plein écran avec le même cran, les caméras TrueDepth et Face ID, le même processeur A12 Bionic, et la seule caméra à l'arrière est identique à la caméra grand angle 12 mégapixels à l'arrière de les XS et XS Max.

 Le XR est également disponible dans un choix de couleurs bien plus vaste, soit six au total: noir, blanc, corail, jaune, bleu et rouge, ce qui en fait l'iPhone le plus coloré de tous les temps.

 Apple iPhone XR (256 Go)

 Apple iPhone XR (256 Go)

Lancer le SRP   À partir de 1469 $

Dernier prix    À partir de 1150 S $

Système opérateur

·         iOS 12

·         Processeur

·         Hexa-noyau bionique Apple A12

·         Mémoire intégrée

·         3 Go de RAM

·         Afficher

·         Rétine liquide 6,1 pouces / 1 792 x 828 pixels (326ppi) / LCD

Caméra

·         Arrière: 12 mégapixels (f / 1,8, 28 mm) avec autofocus à détection de phase, OIS et flash à quatre DEL (double ton)

·         Avant: caméra HD FaceTime 7 mégapixels, f / 2,2

Connectivité

Wi-Fi 802.11 a / b / g / n / ac, 4G LTE Cat 12 (600 Mbps), bi-bande, hotspot, Bluetooth v5.0, A2DP, LE, GPS, GLONASS, connecteur Lightning

Type de stockage

256 Go de stockage interne

Batterie

2,942mAh

Dimensions

150,9 x 75,7 x 8,3 mm

Poids

194g

Conception

La conception de base du XR est à peu près identique à celle des XS et XS Max. La monture n'est pas aussi brillante car elle est en aluminium mat au lieu d'acier inoxydable, mais l'arrière est toujours en verre et la lunette avant est toujours noire, peu importe la couleur.

 Notre modèle d'examen vient dans cette nouvelle couleur unique - Coral.

Notre modèle d'examen vient dans cette nouvelle couleur unique - Coral.

 Parlant de couleurs, le XR est l’iPhone le plus coloré qui ait jamais été lancé par Apple avec six couleurs disponibles au lancement (pour un aperçu plus détaillé de chaque couleur, consultez cette galerie). Sur chacun, le cadre en aluminium est assorti aux couleurs du dos du téléphone, à l'exception du modèle blanc, qui présente une finition en aluminium argent non peint.

J'aime beaucoup les modèles noir et blanc, car le noir profond et le blanc intense me rappellent les couleurs des anciens iPhones, avant que Space Grey et Silver ne les remplacent. À mon avis, l'iPhone 4 en noir ou en blanc est toujours l'un des plus beaux téléphones jamais conçus.

Si vous envisagez l’une des options les plus colorées, le modèle Project Red est absolument magnifique avec sa couleur rouge foncé, tandis que le corail est probablement le plus intéressant, avec sa teinte rose orangé unique.

 Comme le XS et le XS Max, le XR a une vitre à l'avant et à l'arrière. Il est intéressant de noter que, pour le XS et le XS Max, Apple affirme que le verre à l'avant et à l'arrière est le plus durable jamais utilisé sur un smartphone, tandis que pour le XR, Apple affirme seulement qu'il possède le verre avant le plus durable. De toute évidence, le verre arrière n'est pas aussi durable.

En termes de taille, le XR se situe juste entre le XS et le XS Max. C'est en fait une grande taille, et pour moi, l'écran 6,1 pouces est le meilleur des trois téléphones. Le XR est légèrement plus épais que le XS et le XS Max, mais ce n’est pas perceptible et il n’est pas lourd à manier.

 À l'arrière, une caméra arrière unique remplace les configurations à deux caméras des XS et XS Max. La bosse d'appareil photo est assez grande, mais c'est quelque chose qui est devenu typique de tous les iPhones. Une touche agréable est que la bague entourant l'appareil photo est de la même couleur que le cadre du téléphone.

 Une autre différence à noter est que les lignes d’antenne supplémentaires en haut et en bas de l’iPhone XS et XS Max ne sont pas présentes sur le XR. En effet, le XS et le XS Max prennent en charge la 4G LTE jusqu'à Cat 16 (1024 Mbps), alors que le XR ne la prend en charge que jusqu'à Cat 12 (600 Mbps), comme l'iPhone X de l'année dernière.

Du côté positif, les lignes d’antenne manquantes rendent le bas de la XR plus symétrique, avec six trous de chaque côté (bien que, comme pour les XS et XS Max, le son ne sort que des bons). Cela dit, le XR n’est pas dépourvu d’aspect bizarre, le port Lightning étant plus bas et légèrement décalé par rapport aux grilles des haut-parleurs, ce qui est probablement dû au fait que l’écran LCD occupe plus de place en interne.

Enfin, le XR n'est certifié IP67 que pour la résistance à la poussière et à l'eau. Cela signifie qu'il n'est pas aussi résistant à l'eau que le XS et le XS Max et qu'il ne peut être immergé que sous l'eau jusqu'à une profondeur de 1 m au lieu de 2 m. Je ne peux pas imaginer que cela puisse réellement briser l'accord, mais c'est néanmoins quelque chose à prendre en compte.

Tout le reste est à peu près le même que sur les XS et XS Max. Le bouton d'alimentation allongé se trouve toujours du côté droit, avec le seul tiroir pour carte SIM situé dessous (comme le XS, le XR est une carte double, mais la deuxième carte SIM est uniquement eSIM), tandis que les deux boutons de volume et la bascule du silencieux restent à la gauche.

 Dans l’ensemble, bien que le XR ne soit pas aussi beau ou poli (littéralement) que le XS ou le XS Max, il n’a rien de bon marché ni d’inférieur, et il a l’air et la sensation qu’il est aussi haut de gamme que tout autre smartphone vedette.

[rupin111]

Jeux De Société

de lunettes de marques dans l'espace de logement ou avec une ligne de décoration Maison de mode italienne Emilio Pucci se joint à ses concurrents dans la conception de Miami District pour appel de l'afflux des consommateurs nantis dans le domaine. Un patient et artiste s'dédié éplucher les couloirs d'un musée ou une structure historique, tirez what spécial et faire Magasin De Jeux des bijoux de qualité qui refl��te avec exactitude. Sept ans Knapick se souvient de levage de la Katherine couvercle sur la boîte de long et plat pour révéler une chaîne de poli étincelant de Sterling Silver à la lumière. Son multi-fonction de minuscules jouets pour enfants Puzzle 4 En 1 Boucle d'Or & Petit Ours Haute De Gamme d'un mélange de cailloux, telles que l'aigue-marine etde culture d'eau douce gris combiné avec Sterling Silver ou de grosses pierres et pendentifs combinés avec des matériaux exotiques comme sculptés jouets pour enfants store champs elysées bonefish. Extérieur de grand magasin PrintempsFrench jouets pour enfants Printemps célèbre son 150e anniversaire avec une campagne multicanal que points simultanément à son passé et à son présent. White Gold et Platinum Bijoux nuptiales c'est encore l'aspect dominant, mais l'or jaune est en forte montrant comme succession morceaux obtiennent fashion Spotlight. éléments seront rendus identique à la création d'une centaine d'articles de mêmes dimensions. La victime a été relâchée après traitement à l'hôpital Johns Hopkins. J'ai senti le luxe était de l'autre côté de la ville, et nous sommes un luxe. En tant que consommateur se préparer à des climats plus chauds, Publicité partenaires comme, Eres et axés sur les dressing avec publicités pour maillots de bain et des lunettes de soleil.LISA CIMINOLe enroulé silver, les cônes de texture que Lisa Cimino fashions sur un tour à partir de moules de cire sont les définition de l'élément de chaque nouveau code promo jouets pour enfantsstore ou paire dans son Chee-Me-Aucune ligne de joaillerie d'art. Rook art bijoux prend de nombreux chemins, et puise son inspiration dans les racines, Jeux De Société les cônes de pins et d'autres découvertes naturelles. Hackford a également examiné la capacité de données à briser la frontière entre en ligne et hors ligne Jeux De Société.mise sur une partie faceClinique veut réaliser des prom-allant des filles en glamour déesses avec son ressort-y trousse de maquillage du même nom. La maladie visée à n'était pas l'angine pectoris - Douleur à la poitrine causée par manquant d'approvisionnement en sang au coeur - mais d'une angine de Ludwig, une infection potentiellement fatale du cou et qui peut fermer un circuit respiratoire du patient. Mais contrairement aux parties à domicile, l'hôtesse ne dispose pas de nettoyer sa chambre, organiser ou livrer des ordres du parti.lèvres qui ne quitPssst -- oublier de rouge à lèvres qu'il faut constamment renouveler. vente flash sejour jouets pour enfantsland n'a pas répondu par la presse date limite.

www.magasin-jouets.com

[rouelibre]

Les filles de pattes 1

Les néons la narguaient doucement, entre les rayons. Sur la tôle de Paris la pluie crépitait, cette tôle défraîchie qui laissait passer quelques gouttes insidieuses. Dans les rayonnages du MégaSuper les gens se pressaient dans cette hâte du lundi soir, cette inspiration après la rétention à vide du dimanche. Entre les allées, on se collait, presque faxé pour attraper un paquet de couches ou un bidon d'huile. L'effervescence de la foule gagnait chaque gondole, chaque empaquetage des étagères. Perchée à environ 1.30m du sol, Odette commençait à s'ennuyer ferme. Deux mois qu'elle se traînait pour voisins les gaines amincissantes prétentieuses et les soutifs rembourrés aussi pédants que les étudiantes en philo qui les attrapaient en roucoulant. Deux mois qu'elle faisait des oeillades au technicien de surface pour qu'il l'attrappe, l'emmène loin du plafond goutteux, dans des aventures rocambolesques au fin fond des montagnes, qu'il l'enfile encore et encore, et ne s'en sépare qu'une fois fanée et défraîchie. Mais voilà, Odette est une chaussette rouge. Pire encore, elle partage son étagère avec Lucette, son deuxième pied qui finalement passe plus de temps à ronfler ou à converser avec celle de derrière, la taille 43 en noir que les gens remarquent encore moins. Odette ne se rappelle pas vraiment quand elle est née. Peut être loin d'ici, comme l'a dit un monsieur l'autre jour avec sa femme en regardant son étiquette "made in china", elle ne sait pas vraiment ce que ça veut dire mais vu l'expression qu'il a prise au milieu de ses cheveux en bataille, ça avait l'air de vouloir dire "vraiment pas top". Elle soupira. Encore une journée somme toute normale, étirée par l'ennui, polie par l'oisiveté qu'aucun pied nu ne vient raviver. Elle avait compté les enfants qui avaient manqué s'essuyer sur elle depuis leur siège, leurs doigts baveux et chocolatés. Elle avait compté les sommes de Lucette, finalement réveillée par une des gaines taille XL qui ne s'entendait plus parler. L'étagère l'ennuyait, elle avait la sensation de se décolorer sous les néons, de perdre peu à peu son joli rouge carmin qui faisait pourtant sa fierté. Le magasin commençait à se vider petit à petit. Les annonces de fermeture imminente accéléraient le flux de clients vers les caisses, ce fut à ce moment là qu'Odette l'aperçut. Elle n'était pas bien grande, la trentaine, de jolis cheveux châtains repliés sous une barrette, des mèches s'échappant encadrant un joli visage arrondi et de grands yeux bleus. A demi étranglée par son écharpe, traînant son panier roulant, elle avançait presque en courant, à la vitesse d'un TGV avant de s'arrêter d'un coup sec devant l'étagère de sous vêtements. Si Odette avait eu un coeur, celui-ci aurait frôlé l'arythmie. Elle intima aux autres de baisser d'un ton, c'est vrai quoi après tout on les regardait !  Cette garce de gaine XL et ce prétentieux de soutif bonnet E pouvaient bien continuer de la railler, ils ne tiendraient jamais sur les hanches et la poitrine de cette jeune femme !  Elle la regarda, hésitante, se demandant si enfin ce fameux jour dont les autres lui avaient parlé était enfin arrivé. Le jour où un client trouverait chaussettes à son pied. La jeune femme l'attrappa doucement, Odette usa de ses fibres pour doucement laisser couler ses mailles de coton contre la paume de la jeune fille. La main était assez grande, douce et chaude. Lucette, qui était donc retournée face au visage de la jeune fille, sortait encore de sa sieste. "-Tu la vois ? Qu'est ce qu'elle fait ? Elle a l'air d'avoir envie de nous acheter ? - de quoi ? de qui ? - La jeune fille ? elle a l'air satisfaite ? - Le gros truc qui nous regarde là? bah ...grouamf!" Lucette n'eut pas le temps de répondre, l'inconnue les avait catapultées dans le panier avant de reprendre sa course infernale dans les rayons. Entre les interstices du panier, serrée contre la bouteille d'huile et un sachet de poireaux surgelés, Odette regardait s'éloigner son ancien rayon, avec ses comparses qui lui souhaitaient une bonne nouvelle vie. Pleine d'espoir, elle avait encore du mal à y croire, ça y est ! On les avait enfin choisies elle et Lucette pour chausser de jolis pieds, vivre une vie de chaussette bien lavée et bien séchée, pleine d'aventures ! Elle commençait à se réjouir quand son étiquette vint cogner la bouteille de vin, grâce à un virage pris trop vite. Les bips de la caisse se rapprochaient, elle allait enfin voir le monde extérieur ! La jeune femme les déballa sans ménagement sur le tapis froid et humide, Odette se rappela de vieux souvenirs de sa naissance à l'usine de tissage, des réminiscences de coton. Le scanner de la caisse lui fit honte par contre, une sensation un peu fourbe d'être photographiée contre son gré par un flash trop curieux. L'inconnue les fourra à nouveau dans un sac de courses, où elle se laissa balloter, dans le flot des circonstances. Le vrombissement doux de la voiture la berça, mais un virage pris un peu sec fit valser le contenu du sac sur la banquette arrière. Encore un virage ! cette inconnue était décidément loin d'être délicate !  La chute des courses les projeta près de la portière, où Odette remarqua une paire de gants lovés contre le siège conducteur. "- Oh ! des petites nouvelles ! Bonjour les filles ! - Qui êtes vous ? et où allons-nous ? - Je pense que Rose nous emmène à la maison, elle vient de finir les courses et après je pense qu'elle vous rentrera dans sa chambre ! veinardes ! Nous les gants, elle nous laisse ici et ne nous prend qu'en cas de froid.... tu parles d'une carrière près du corps ! C'est vraiment l'arnaque ! - Rose c'est la dame qui nous a achetées ? - tout à fait ! mais vous devrez peut être attendre un peu avant qu'elle vous décharge, parce que parfois si elle aperçoit Bastien c'est fichu y'en a au moins pour un quart d'heure ! - Bastien ? - C'est son nouveau voisin, on est pas des spécialistes mais d'après son manteau et son gilet qu'on croise parfois sur la banquette arrière, elle a l'air d'avoir eu le coup de foudre, la petite ! " La voiture ralentit, puis s'immobilisa. Rose descendit puis ouvrit la portière arrière. "- Et merde ! j'ai encore tout renversé !" Pliée en quatre pour attraper les boîtes de sardines sous son siège, elle n'entendit pas arriver la voix qui s'adressa à elle "-Salut, Rose" La jeune femme sursauta et se cogna contre l'appuie-tête. Odette, encore étendue sur la banquette, en profita pour examiner le visage de cette voix. Plutôt pas mal, il ressemblait à ceux qui achetaient parfois les boxers sport sur l'étagère d'en face. Grand, allure sportive, un visage avenant. "- Ahhhhh Bastien, salut !"Fit Rose en se frottant le crâne. La voilà qui devenait cruche à présent !  Odette sentait sa maîtresse s'électriser tandis qu'elle les attrapait, le poing se refermant sur elles par la nervosité qui la gagnait. "-Dis, je me demandais, ça te dirait de venir danser avec les copains samedi ? - Samedi ? oui pourquoi pas ! mais je ne pourrai pas rester tard, j'ai des copies à corriger ! - Pas de problème, on partira ensemble si tu veux vu qu'on habite à côté ! - super ! hi hi , à samedi alors !" Le Bastien s'éloigna tandis qu'Odette et Lucette, étranglées par le poing crispé autour d'elles, essayaient tant bien que mal de défroisser leurs mailles. Rose les reposa dans le cabas, puis les emmena dans la maison. En montant les marches, Odette aperçut les extérieurs du bâtiment. Une petite maison de brique rouge, plutôt mignonne, mais un peu vide, un peu triste. Comme une chaussette orpheline.

[oneyearinreddeer]

2e Billet

Je jure solennellement que mes intentions sont du pur racontage de vie.

Oui, un Tumblr. La plateforme que je connais et maîtrise le mieux. Et en tant que tumblr bitch, ça me semblait évident.  

Bon. Je voulais attendre le premier jour de cours avant de commencer ce blog, mais j'ai déjà beaucoup de choses à raconter.

Après des aurevoirs goulus avec mes amis et ma famille, j'ai mis les voiles. Et si certains ont failli m'arracher une larme, je me suis abstenue de leur dire. Vivez dans l'ignorance, je me tairais à jamais.

Je n'ai pas dormis la veille de mon départ, occupée à regarder des monuments du cinéma tels que Shrek 2 ou Madagascar. J'ai donc rattrapé mon sommeil sur la route en voiture vers Amsterdam. J'ai partagé un café avec mes parents puis les aurevoirs. Et si ces idiots (j'ai le droit de le dire, je suis trop loin pour qu'ils me fassent quelque chose.. Et je leur manque trop pour qu'ils en aient envie) ont réussi à m'émouvoir, ils sont bien les seuls qui auront la chance de le voir.

Comment fait on sa valise pour un an ? Excellente question, envoyez moi la réponse, elle m'intéresse pour la prochaine fois. Ma propre valise est composée à 50% de livres, 30% de carnets (pour raconter mes secrets sans doute), 10% de choses inutiles et 10% de vêtements. J'ai tenu à amener ma bibliothèque avec moi, en effet.

Bref, entrons dans le vif du sujet. Le vol s'est bien passé. J'ai boudé l'hôtesse et ses verres d'eau, hantée par l'idée d'aller dans des toilettes de 40cm² où vingt autres personnes auraient vidés le fruit de leurs entrailles. La personne près de moi était souriante et silencieuse, ce qui est tout ce dont j'avais besoin.

En atterrissant, j'ai réalisé deux choses :

1) les personnes travaillant à l'aéroport portent des chapeaux de cow boys

2) je n'avais pas mon papier à remplir pour l'immigration

Or, ça posait problème. En effet, ce papier pose des questions capitales pour la sécurité du pays. Comme "Allez-vous visiter une ferme au Canada ?" (: JE NE SAIS PAS ? VAIS-JE ? LE ROTARY L A-T-IL PREVU ????).

Mais je m'en suis tirée, et j'ai du patienter plus d'une heure pour mon VISA. Heureusement, j'étais en compagnie d'une tchèque qui partait elle aussi avec le rotary. Sa bonne humeur et son impatience m'ont fait beaucoup de bien. Finalement, une fois mes papiers et mes valises avec moi, j'ai pénétrée dans le pays du sirop d'érable.

Et j'ai été accueillie par applaudissement et flash, telle la star que je suis vraiment. Ma famille d'accueil est composée de Rob (père), Ann-Hetty (mère), Tori (sœur), Joe (peluche de caribou). La dame avec la veste rouge vient du rotary et est là pour m'accueillir.

Changement radical n°1 : ma mère d'accueil n'aime pas faire à manger. Si vous connaissez ma propre mère, vous connaissez en général sa cuisine. Depuis que je suis là, je n'ai pas mangé un seul plat maison. Pas que je m'en plaigne, tant que c'est bon..! Nous avons donc été dans un restaurant à Calgary où j'ai lutté contre la fatigue victorieusement.

Jusqu'à qu'on entre dans la voiture et que je m'effondre comme le bébé que je peux être parfois.

Red Deer est une ville de 10 000 habitants, avec deux supermarchés, une tonne de starbucks et Tim Hortons, pas mal de McDo, un KFC et un burger king. La ville est située à distance égale entre Edmonton et Calgary, les grosses villes d'Alberta.

La province d'Alberta est la plus riche du pays, merci au gaz et à l'essence dans son sol. Certaines choses sont beaucoup moins chères qu'en Belgique (je pense fringues) mais l'internet... Ne vous plaignez plus jamais du prix de la 3G, vous ne vous rendez pas compte du prix que ça peut être ici !

On m'a présenté ma chambre. Elle est jolie, je l'aime beaucoup. Elle est au sous sol et tout l'étage m'appartient : de la chambre à la salle de bain jusqu'à la salle télé. Ca va être dur de revenir et de devoir koter dans une chambre de bonne (j'exagère). Aussi, à chaque fois que je veux aider ici, on me repousse avec un sourire poli et un petit "no need".  

Ok mais le retour à la maison va être douloureux.

Le premier jour, j'ai discuté avec eux sur ce que je voulais faire au Canada. Voir un match de hockey et de football américain sont déjà prévus. Le parc national Banff le sera aussi.  

Le lendemain de mon arrivée, première réunion rotary : BOUM ! C'est le lundi midi et je suis la seule étudiante du club. Comme on m'a sagement appris, j'ai dis bonjour à tout le monde. Et, étant donnée, que j'avais apporté des pralines j'ai du faire un petit discours imprévu. Chose que j'ai faite. Les vrais diront "frotte balle".

Ca s'est très bien passé. Quelques surprises : ils font grâce et chantent l'hymne nationale. Ma famille est en effet plutôt croyante. Mon père d'accueil m'a proposé de rencontrer la communauté musulmane de Red Deer, ce qui est sympa. Mais inutile.

J'ai remarqué qu'au Canada, y'avait pas mal de mobile home. Il s'avère que les vieilles personnes en achètent, passent l'été ici et descendent aux USA en hiver. On les appelle les "snowbirds".

J'ai, ce jour là, rencontré la fille aînée de ma famille d'accueil, qui était très gentille.

Je n'ai rien d'autre à ajouter, je le crains.

Le troisième jour, j'ai enfin été voir l'école. Plus jamais je ne me plaindrais de l'organisation de l'IND. JAMAIS. MAMAN SI TU ME LIS, ILS SONT TRES BIEN A NOTRE DAME CROIS MOI. Deux heures d'attente pour que je voie quelqu'un qui me dise de regarder une brochure avec mes options (quarante à peu près). Une autre heure pour choisir les cours. Une demie heure pour attendre avant de voir un prof. Une demie heure à discuter avec un prof sur les options possibles. Ensuite, j'ai pris ma photo de ma carte étudiante (que je ne montrerais pas), ai été payé pour mes livres (gratuit, et toc l'IND !), ai été les chercher (en fait j'en avais pas). Je suis allée voir pour les classes et mon casier. Et franchement, c'est la merde, faut avoir fait ingénieur pour ouvrir cette bêtise.

Vous verrez des photos de Tori m'expliquant gentiment le mystère derrière un casier.  Vous en verrez d'autres de l'école, moi et une carte de l'école.  

Au Canada, j'ai cours de 9h à 15h40 du lundi au vendredi. J'ai le même horaire avec les mêmes cours tous les jours jusqu'au premier février puis j'ai un second horaire (mais les mêmes cours dans le mêm ordre tous les jours).

Premier semestre :

Etudes sociales/lunch/techniques d'apprentissage/histoire du monde/anglais

Deuxième semestre :

Anglais comme 2e langue/anglais/cuisine/histoire du monde/techniques d'apprentissage et, en option "cours interculturels".  

Pas de temps pour le lunch !

Je suis en douxième année, histoire d'avoir une jolie cérémonie de diplôme et prom!

Ensuite, nous avons été mangé (ENFIN). Sur le chemin j'ai croisé un passage pour piéton homosexuel (lol) et un personnage important pour Red Deer.

En fin de journée j'ai eu une grosse phase de nostalgie : mon chien me manquait (sorry papa et maman).

Ce qui m'amène à la journée d'aujourd'hui ! Je suis allée peindre un mug avec Tori et une amie. C'est étrange d'être conduite en voiture par quelqu'un de plus jeune que soit (16 ans). Mais ils ont la conduite accompagnée à 14 ans ici. Je mets des photos de mon mug, mon inexistante capacité artistique a eu son moment de gloire et la mettra en sourdine pour les dix années à venir.

Je tiens à préciser qu'on doit encore mettre le vernis, respectez moi un minimum. Et pour que vous gardiez une estime de moi, je ne montrerais pas les mugs de Tori et son amie.

Nous avons ensuite été boire un café et discuté potins et garçons, certaines choses sont internationales !

Ensuite, j'avais rendez vous avec un Thaïlandais et une finlandaise. Nous avons été au centre commercial, avons discuté et nous nous sommes promenés. Vous pourrez admirer des photos de ma balade champêtre. Un proche m'a récemment envoyé les photos de sa propre balade dans les bois, et je crains que mes photos ne soient pas aussi jolies.

J'ai pu discuter des voyages proposés pour les étudiants au Canada, je pense faire celui à Tijuana au Mexique. Qui, en plus d'être une ville étudiée en géographie, promet d'être exotique. Surtout, c'est du volontariat. On va faire de l'urbanisme. Je n'en ai pas encore discuté avec mes parents, je ne sais pas encore le prix, nous verrons bien.

La Belgique me manque-t-elle ? Pas encore, heureusement. Ma famille d'accueil me tient occupée, demain c'est la rentrée. Vendredi école et du weekend nous allons dans leur châlet. Ensuite école et weekend d'après j'ai une activité prévue par le rotary.

See you soon !

Méfaits accomplis.

[effyeahthundershield]

by RisingQueen2 (FallenQueen2)

Just a place for all the ask box prompt's I got over on Tumblr

http://ift.tt/2mSsBIQ

Current Status: CLOSED

Words: 25913, Chapters: 26/40, Language: English

Series: Part 21 of Tumblr Requests

Fandoms: Merlin (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Covenant (2006), Teen Wolf (TV), The Flash (TV 2014), Arrow (TV 2012), Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Kingsman (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Descendants (2015), Sherlock (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M, Multi

Relationships: Knights of the Round Table/Merlin (Merlin), Knights/Merlin (Merlin), James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Leon/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Caleb Danvers/Tyler Simms, Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Savitar/Barry Allen, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Hartley Rathaway/Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Oliver Queen/Slade Wilson, Sam Wilson/Thor, Barry Allen/Leonard Snart, Mark Mardon/Leonard Snart, Barry Allen/The Rouges, Barry Allen/Leonard Snart/Mick Rory, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark/Clint Barton, Tony Stark/Thor, Tony Stark/T'Challa/Sam Wilson, Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso/Bodhi Rook, Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Hartley Rathaway/Harrison Wells | Eobard Thawne, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Jay/Carlos de Vil, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Bruce Banner/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark/Thor, Thor/Steve Rogers, Tony Stark/Steve Rogers

Additional Tags: Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Blow Job, Spitroasting, Anal Gaping, Come Marking, Come Inflation, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gwaine Being Gwaine, Wall Sex, Rough Sex, Asphyxiation Kink, Dom/sub, sub training, Spanking, Punishment, Subspace, Edging, Misuse of powers, Magical Sex Toys, Orgasm Control, ruined orgasm, Bondage, Spread eagle, Ball Gag, Sex Toys, Dirty Talk, Creampie, Manhandling, Praise Kink, Lingerie Kink, selfcest, Masturbation, Cuckolding, Cock Slut, Slurs, Voyeurism, addicted to sex, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pregnant Sex, Knotting, Biting, Mpreg, Wax Play, Cock Warming, Safe Sane and Consensual, butt plug, Cum Inflation, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, werewolf!Len, Speedster Demon!Barry, Breeding, Temperature Play, psychrocism, evil!tony, evil!bucky, pre-serum!Steve, Come Eating, Rimming, Felching, Consensual Gangbang, pleasure slave, Window Sex, Spreader Bars, Bit Gag, Teasing, Clone!Eggsy, Docking, Master/Slave, Leather Kink, Crossdressing Kink, Alpha!John, Omega!Sherlock, poly!Avengers, Lion hybrid!Steve

via AO3 works tagged 'Steve Rogers/Thor'