#Plaza de la Paz

[rabbitcruiser]

Street Lamps, Haro (No. 1)

Although for a long time it was taken for granted that Haro together with Jerez de la Frontera were the first Spanish towns to have public lighting by electricity (so much so that when the first centenary of the installation was fulfilled, 1990, an attempt was made to carry out a twinning between these cities to commemorate this fact, although it was not effective), although it was not effective),36new documents show that the installation carried out in Haro was based on previous experience of installations in other locations,37since during the elaboration of the project the existing ones in Bilbao were mentioned38or Pamplona.39Although being something new drew attention to nearby towns and those who passed through Haro on the railway, giving rise to phrases such as "We are already in Haro that the lights are seen" (included in the anthem of the city) or "Haro, Paris and London" and at the time, for lack of precise research, That assertion came to be true.

On the arrival of light, on August 26, 1887, electric lighting was installed in the flour and fertilizer factory "La Minerva" in Haro by means of a Bleguet dynamo machine assembled by the Cork e Hijos de Santander house, becoming the first factory in the province that had successfully tested industrial electric lighting through the Austro-Hungarian system.

​​ Source: Wikipedia        

[juanfuerte]

Dactilología

«La lengua de signos está llena de belleza y es capaz de crear magia de la poesía, el alma que se escapa por sus dedos es para ellos la vida misma» –Oliver Sacks

Con motivo del Día Nacional de las Personas Sordas. Plaza de la Paz, Centro Histórico. Morelia, Michoacán, Mex. Quetzal Fuerte, 2020.

[cristinabcn]

COLOMBIA: "Magdalena", Barranquilla da vida a la Obra Efímera Callejera más Grande de Latinoamérica en la Plaza de la Paz

COLOMBIA: “Magdalena”, Barranquilla gives life to the Largest Ephemeral Street Work in Latin America in the Plaza de la Paz LINA MAR GARCÍA, Periodista, Escritora. Prensa Especializada Barranquilla, 22 de noviembre – En un esfuerzo sin precedentes por fusionar el arte con la conciencia ambiental, en el día de ayer se inaugura “Magdalena”, la obra de arte efímera callejera más grande de…

[elcorreografico]

Inauguración del techo de la Estación de Trenes de La Plata

#Política #PBA #BuenosAires #Servicios | Inauguración del techo de la #EstacióndeTrenes de #LaPlata

El presidente Alberto Fernández apareció en la inauguración de la obra integral de renovación del histórico techo de la Estación de Trenes de La Plata de la línea Roca, que beneficiará a 18.000 pasajeros que utilizan el servicio diariamente y mejorará las condiciones de trabajo para el personal de la operadora ferroviaria, con una inversión de 986 millones de pesos. “Esto es parte de todo el…

[generaldavila]

HOMENAJE A 23 SOLDADOS DE ESPAÑA. CUBRIR EL EXPEDIENTE. Rafael Dávila Álvarez. General de División (R.)

HOMENAJE A 23 SOLDADOS DE ESPAÑA. CUBRIR EL EXPEDIENTE. Rafael Dávila Álvarez. General de División (R.)

El 8 de noviembre de 1992 salía de Málaga la Agrupación Táctica “Málaga” con dirección a Bosnia –Herzegovina en misión de interposición de las fuerzas contendientes en la guerra civil existente en la antigua Yugoslavia. Hace 30 años de aquello. Desde aquel día más de 46.000 soldados españoles han desarrollado allí su misión encuadrados en la ONU, OTAN o UE. Se les concedió el Premio Príncipe de…

[aerismus]

ꗃ╰  bahnhofplatz (plaza de la estación de tren)

" quién dice que está muy frío para tomar helado ¡cheers! por que suban esos ánimos y que los de la paloma blanca nos dejen en paz. " su voz suena apagada, aún así alza su copa de helado como si fuese champaña, e intenta sonreír. estaba preocupada, no sólo por lo que sucedió en toledo, sino también por la posición de su equipo, no quería que terminaran como mabom. mas necesitaba tiempo para despejarse. " ¿de qué sabor escogiste? "

[estefanyailen]

Entre Latidos: La Danza del Estrés

En el pecho el peso del mundo me agobia,

el estrés, torrente que nunca amaina.

Como una válvula que cede y exhala,

busco alivio, intentando dejar que el miedo se vaya.

El corazón, testigo de esta vorágine,

latiendo apresurado, ¡qué torbellino tan grande!

El estrés se cuela, sin pedir permiso,

cada latido, un recordatorio impreciso.

El torrente del estrés, en su vaivén,

se cuela en la vida, sin pausa, sin tren.

Con palabras sentidas, sin tecnicismos crudos,

una historia de latidos desnudos.

El silencio del latir, cardias afónico,

susurros de infarto, un miocardio preso.

Angustia, sin colores, sombra en proceso,

un nudo en la aorta, eco estruendoso y crónico.

Torrente en la piel, noche oscura,

recovecos de isquemia ansiosa,

rubor venoso, vida morosa

arteria estrecha donde el miedo perdura.

Miocardio herido, y un eco que reclama,

sangre errante en su murmullo sutil,

luz en penumbra, desvelo incierto,

un mudo testigo, de ablaciones y arterias en riesgo.

El síndrome del seno enfermo,

al amor se rinde,

cada pulso, un soplo,

cada latido, un linde.

El amor, una resonancia magnética de pasión,

un eco de emociones, un rubor, una canción.

En el nódulo auriculoventricular se entrelaza,

cada latido, un sueño, cada impulso, una plaza.

La insuficiencia cardíaca un riesgo se presenta,

pero el amor, como marcapasos, se adentra.

Entre trombos de incertidumbre y ansiedad,

la arteria fluye en su verdad.

El nudo sinusal, un lazo de conexión,

como un stent, mantiene viva la atracción.

En la reestenosis del deseo, un desafío,

un trasplante, un nuevo brío.

El músculo cardíaco,

cada sílaba, un latido, eterno rumor.

Así entre sinapsis y corriente,

fluye persistente y coherente.

un sentir profundo,

un lenguaje, eterno y fecundo.

El silente estruendo de un AIT,

el corazón que batalla sin cesar,

el marcapasos luchando en desigual.

El férreo alambre guía de precisión,

en su danza entre venas y razón,

busca, palpa, encuentra la lesión.

Aleteos desenfrenados, arritmias en pavor,

en la aurícula, el ventrículo, en su interior,

un ballet caótico sin director.

El aneurisma, fiel sombra que acecha,

una arteria herida que sangra y trepa,

la angina, cual grito en la pechera.

Este cuerpo, entre arterias y tejido,

un viaje sin retorno, un latir perdido,

en el mar del corazón, un baile infinito.

La enfermedad en su estrecho muro,

coronarias angostadas, un preludio

del ataque al corazón oscuro.

Placas acumuladas, riesgo latente,

angina, ataques inminentes,

corazón que responde, valiente,

al riesgo de un final urgente.

El epicardio cubre su anhelo,

la estenosis, un paso hacia el duelo,

estrechez mitral, su desconsuelo.

El estrés, un peso en cada latido,

la hipertensión, el corazón herido,

el estrógeno, un manto escondido.

El corazón, en su danza y tormento,

busca alivio, paz en el aliento,

enfrenta la fibrilación con intento.

En el estudio con radionúclidos su destino,

el gasto cardíaco, su medida en camino,

el IMC, alerta en el desatino.

Entre enzimas, un rastro de sufrir,

el estrógeno, un velo por descubrir,

la homocisteína, su señal de ir.

En el ruido, un soplo, señal temblorosa,

la resonancia traza su melodía amorosa,

el corazón, en cada latido, un mapa, una prosa.

Sarcoidosis, sarcasmo del destino,

el corazón luchando, sin ser vencido,

en su viaje, un corazón valiente y divino.

Síncope, suspiro en desmayo contenido,

la taquicardia, un latido desmedido,

en su batalla, un corazón comprometido.

Ahora, entre soplos y valvular caída,

el corazón sigue, en su danza, su vida,

en cada latido, su historia tejida.

Un final en susurros, un cierre completo,

el corazón, en su lucha, su reto,

un poema de amor, un corazón discreto.

Este corazón, envuelto en incertidumbre,

en su pulso yace su propia cumbre,

un baile con la muerte, su disfraz, su lumbre.

_ ᙓXƮᖇᗣᙁᒍᙓᖇᗣ ᙏᙓᙁƮᙓ 🧠

[fragmentos-adolescentes]

La plaza fantasma

En la plaza fantasma, donde el sol se esconde,

y las sombras alargadas te acechan,

un miedo sin nombre te invade, te inunda,

como olas que azotan tu mente en calma.

Las calles vacías, un laberinto sin fin,

un eco que resuena en tu corazón,

te preguntas si estás solo, si hay alguien más,

en este mundo de silencio y desolación.

Las paredes se cierran, el aire se enrarece,

te falta el aliento, te ahogas en el miedo,

quieres escapar, correr, buscar un refugio,

pero la plaza te atrapa, te tiene prisionero.

Los ojos se nublan, la visión se distorsiona,

la realidad se mezcla con la fantasía,

te aferras a un recuerdo, a una imagen lejana,

de un tiempo en que la vida era libre y radiante.

En la plaza fantasma, donde el tiempo se detiene,

luchas contra el monstruo que vive en tu interior,

un monstruo de ansiedad, de inseguridad,

que te roba la paz y te niega la libertad.

Don Ggatto

[xjulixred45x]

Yandere Nobara Kugisaki Drabble: Dress up Darling (TRADUCCION)

no mires a nadie en particular...no hables con nadie demaciado tiempo...no sonrías en público, no hables en público...no hasta que ella llegue.

es lo que se repetia para si misma lectora, mientras esperaba a su "novia" en una de las tiendas departamentales que ella frecuentaba mientras iba a buscarles algo de comida.

una parte de ella sentia que debia agradecer el tiempo a solas, pues Nobara tendia a ser un tanto ...sobrecogedora cada vez que se juntaban para este tipo de citas (comprar ropa, gracias al interes de Kugisaki por la moda Y por su pareja) pero lectora sabia mejor.

lo unico mas engañoso que la actitud sin preocupaciones de Nobara era la falsa sensación de seguridad y libertad que daba.

lectora era bien conocedora del lado mas oscuro de su "pareja", incluso sin haber hecho nada desmedido, incluso sin haberle hecho daño, Nobara encontro formas de hacerle ver a los extremos a los que llegaria para alcanzarla...

incluyendo ir tras la gente que queria.

por lo que lectora se vio obligada a ser la mediadora, la que trajo la paz, para el desagrado de su familia y la alegria de Nobara. fue lo mas complaciente posible con ella para evitar incidentes, pero tambien dio su opinión. trato de dar gestos dulces y "romanticos" propios pero que fueran genuinos hasta cierto punto.

y lo mas importante, dejo en claro que solo tenia ojos para Nobara. nadie mas. asi nadie saldria herido. era la mejor manera de manejar la situación.

y Nobara obviamente quedo extaciada con esto. era lo mas cercano que tenia a una relación "normal" con su amada y nisiquiera tuvo que recurir a métodos más brutales. estaba FELIZ con esto.

siendo honestos, si Nobara no hubiera demostrado este lado mas...oscuro de su persona, lectora hubiera considerado seriamente el haberse involucrado con ella.

hubo momentos...buenos entre ellas. Nobara era sobrecogedora, si, pero la atención y el afecto constantes eran algo nuevo y hasta...halagador en cierto punto.

este tipo de citas, las de ropa, si bien eran tambien para que Nobara pudiera vestirla en ropa bonita, tambien se sintio como un momento para sentirse bien consigo misma, pues Kugisaki la llovia de halagos y palabras bonitas sobre como se veia. la hacia sentir...bien en cierta forma.

era tan extraño, y enfermo.

-" ¡oy lindura! ¿viste algo que te gusto? podemos ir a verlo cuando termines de comer"-

viendo las cosas en retrospectica, si nadie lo dijera, ambas solo parecían una pareja de novias normales mas que una acosadora forzando a su víctima a serlo. y a veces eso era lo las difícil, fingir que no era asi.

Nobara llevo a lectora a comer a una de las esquinas de la plaza con menos personas y simplemente la vio comer(parece que ya comio de camino a la tienda?)con una sonrisa en su rostro. Para el malestar de lectora.

una vez ella terminó, empezo lo que, para Nobara, era la "verdadera diversión", vestirla.

Nobara la llevo a la tiendita que lectora habia estando "ojeando" y escogio algunas prendas que considero le quedarían bien a su "novia" mientras lectora hacia lo mismo para Nobara. era una parte de esta costumbre que siempre ponia a lectora nerviosa, pues si bien Nobara nunca se enojo con ninguna de sus opciones, ella no era tan conocedora de la moda como Kugisaki, temia generar algun mal momento.

normalmente los atuendos que Nobara elegia para lectora era cosas bastante cute o pasteles, con el ocacional toque urbano, no era lo que lectora normalmente usaria, pero no podía decir que no se veia bien.

cada vez que Nobara la veia con un nuevo atuendo aplaudiria ligeramente mientras diciendo cosas como:

-"¡te vez absolutamente adorable!"- o -"¡te vez hermosa bebe!"-

cosas por el estilo.

y no importaba cuantas veces habrian hecho esto, lectora se sorprendia de como a Nobara parecia genuinamente gustarle las opciones de ropa que ella le habia elegido, incluso tan lejos como para usarlos en citas posteriores o darle besos en los cachetes cada vez que le daba uno.

al final del dia, como de costumbre, terminaron llevando mas bolsas de las que podian cargar, y Nobara llamo a este amigo suyo (¿Yuji?) para que lo hiciera por ella, amenazandolo con que le arrancaria los ojos si miraba a lectora o se le caia algunos de los artículos que le compro.

a estas alturas lectora no sabia si era una mera exageracion entre compañeros o una amenaza fortuita.

solo sabia que esta relación era mas jodida de lo que pensó. porque no todo era tan malo después de todo.

[wosoluver]

200 followers celebration 🩷

I kept the list short, so I'll be able to do all of them!

Choose your prompt + a player from my request list

Songs promp list

Aquel nap ZzZz

"Tú dormida encima de mí

La brisa viene del mar

No te dejo de mirar

Eres mi niña de cristal"

Algo Mágico

"Es algo mágico

Que tiene tu mirada que me hipnotizó,

Todo comenzó algo casual con momentos eróticos

Ahora el estado de mi corazón es crítico

Ya no es tan solo su físico"

Beso

"Ya yo necesito otro beso

Uno de esos que tú me da'

Estar lejos de ti e' el Infierno

Tar cerca de ti es mi paz"

Dame

"Porfa, dame un motivo para no tenerte en mis plane'

Aunque es tarde pa' que este bobo te reclame

Pero, porfa, no me pidas que no te ame

Ni que no te llame"

Playa del Inglés

"Y cada vez

Que te veo me acuerdo ma' de aquella vez

Del perreíto en Plaza en Playa del Inglés

Yo no quiero ser tu ex

Hoy va a haber noche de sex

A ti te gustan isleños, venga, dale, niégate"

Ojitos lindos

"Y solo mírame con esos ojito' lindo'

Que con eso yo estoy bien

Hoy he vuelto a nacer"

La canción

"Pensaba que te había olvidao,

Pero pusieron la canción,

Que cantamos bien borrachos,

Que bailamos bien borrachos,

Nos besamos bien borrachos los dos"

Mami chula

"Hoy conmigo te va' a ir

Baby, la suite ya está reserva'

Vi que estás separa', pues entonce', 11:11 y se nos da

De aquí te va' enjeva'

Tú lo sabe', por eso fue que viniste prepara'"

Perro Negro

"yo no sabía que tú era' así

Te juro que ahora me cae' mejor

Me contaron muchas cosas de ti"

Neverita

"Déjame untarte el sunblock pa que no te quemes

Aquí hay muchas nenas lindas, pero tú la tienes

Jugar conmigo, eso te entretiene

No seas mala, me tienes de meme"

Te felicito

"Te felicito, qué bien actúas

De eso no me cabe duda

Con tu papel continúa

Te queda bien ese show"

Players you can request for this

Patri Guijarro

Claudia Piña

Misa Rodriguez

Andrea Medina

(Sorry Obi girlies, I'll make it up to you, promise)

If you guys want to add any details you want, please do! 🩷

Thank you guys! Really! To many more!

[rabbitcruiser]

Street Lamps, Haro (No. 2)

In 1888 the lighting of the town by oil lamps was deficient, so at the beginning of January 1889 a letter was presented to the town hall regarding the installation of electric lighting and a commission was created for its study. On December 31 of that year the first bases were presented to place public lighting by means of electricity in the population.​

On January 26, Mayor Benito Francés read the economic conditions for the auction of public lighting through electricity, being approved.​

On March 10, he realized that the first auction for the facility had been deserted. It was presented again to auction on May 15 improving the remuneration for the service and only Gonzalo Hernández Zubiaurre was presented, with whom the contract would be formalized on May 23. There should be 8 light bulbs of 1000 spark plugs force that illuminate all night and 260 incandescent lamps of 16 spark plugs. The dynamos should be direct current.

The partial inauguration of the lighting took place on Sunday, September 7, 1890 at eleven thirty at night in the Plaza de la Paz, in which light bulbs were lit but there were problems with the spotlights, which would begin to work days later. At the end of the month there was the first installation of light in a private house, that of the titular doctor Antonio Ruiz Lapasapuente. The complete installation of the lighting according to contract was completed on January 1, 1891.

​ ​​ Source: Wikipedia        

[ghostwise]

four little crows, off to meet the Maker 5.5k words tags: childhood trauma, child death, past child abuse, ableism, religion, original characters, canon-typical violence, zevran arainai/male warden

It was early when Zevran went to the Chantry on Nueva de la Paz, and already the street was teeming with bodies.

More punctual than the birds’ dawn chorus, florists were preparing fresh flowers to sell, bakers were pulling hot bread from big adobe ovens, and pious Antivans were counting prayer beads and mumbling petitions on their way to the cathedral for morning worship. In this sleepy haze of productivity Zevran knelt before a figure of Andraste, and despite his reasons for being there, his prayer was sincere.

It was a humble plea, made more so because the things he was praying for were things he already had: Good health and comfort, a steady heart, a clear mind, and as always, the Warden.

His Warden! Privately, Zevran wondered if the Maker had willed their meeting and made their ensuing happiness possible, but the idea died quickly. He was deep in prayer; lying would not befit him now, and the All-Knowing would certainly recognize any attempts at dishonesty.

The fact was, the Maker could receive no credit for the glory that was Hamal Mahariel.

Zevran had once told him that he would storm the Dark City itself to be at his side. Was that blasphemous? Perhaps. Better yet, it was true.

The thought was interrupted as a figure kneeled beside him.

Here at last was the true reason he had come. The Chantry sister bowed her head. She held out a satin-lined box, and he carefully placed a diezmo of a silver and two copper coins within.

“Four innocents,” she whispered. “To be sent into the Maker’s arms after midnight.”

Then, with a soft rustle of fabric, she stood and walked away.

.

The city was coming awake now, sun pouring over the rooftops. A pigeon shit on the stone path outside the Chantry, and Zevran glanced at the spot where he’d stood only a moment ago.

The entire courtyard was littered with birdseed and droppings. Iridescent feathers tossed about in the warm breeze, and it was easy to believe that Andraste was watching over him, shooing away pigeons and assassins alike.

Surrounded by all this, a laugh escaped him.

Antiva City was more beautiful than he remembered. Never had he felt so free wandering its streets. When last here, he had been a man chained by sorrow and the Crows. Now he walked leisurely, an equal to the markets and the plazas and all the people there.

It felt so lovely to simply be awake before the heat of the day set in. On his way back, he purchased a whole bag of pan dulce and a package of dark and fragrant coffee beans—expensive ones, simply because he could—then he perused the stores until he found a handheld coffee grinder to replace the one they’d lost in the Blight (a word all but meaningless to him now, relevant at present if only for the loss of that trusty coffee grinder).

Treasures in hand, he walked to the old sawdust inn, dodging shoppers and messengers and street dogs. And because he was a bit of a fool, he ignored the front door, climbing instead onto a bin in the alley, hoisting himself over a wall, pulling himself onto the roof, and rapping insistently at the wooden shutters of the second story third window until it opened.

Quickly, before gravity won its fight over him, he tipped into the room, where Hamal was waiting with his arms open, to gather him into a cohesive whole, and tie down his straying thoughts with a kiss. It was a perfectly indulgent moment, a reminder of how sweet life could be. Zevran prayed it would last a little bit longer.

“Quite a dramatic entrance,” Hamal chuckled once Zevran had righted himself. “Dare I ask what you were doing?”

“I was procuring breakfast for us, of course,” Zevran said, setting the packages on the table. “Here. Smell this.”

New love was silly. Here he was bustling with excitement over something so commonplace, so simple. As Hamal breathed in the aroma through the brown paper package, Zevran grinned from ear to ear.

“You bought coffee!” Hamal exclaimed.

“Ha! I thought you might like that! Roasted right here in the city. You will never taste better.”

“And here I’d just gotten used to going without it, after so much time on the ship. Ma serannas, vhenan.”

That was how he knew he’d done very well indeed, for Hamal’s words slipped out in the language of his home only when he truly meant them, and this always seemed to summon a little echo within Zevran of that same feeling. He smiled, watching as Hamal hugged the package close, singularly focused on the scent.

And Zevran found that he had no time at all to think of what awaited him tonight at the Chantry. Not when he had the Warden to kiss, and coffee to make, and the entire morning to live through.

.

It was so strange to be back.

Returning to the city felt like a curious beginning, the sort that looped around to the tail end of Zevran’s adolescence and picked up where he’d left off. As a young Crow in training, he’d never had the privilege of wandering the streets. The gardens and shops were then unfamiliar to him, as were the cobblestone bridges and canals. He only got to know the city as an adult, and even then, he never experienced it the way he did now with Hamal.

“That is City Hall,” he said, nodding towards one of the many historic buildings on their walk. “And that over there is the mayor’s manor… two or three mayors ago. I understand it is a sanatorium now. He was killed by the Crows quite some time ago.”

Hamal listened to all of this, rapt and attentive. That sort of attention still made Zevran a bit shy, though he’d never dare show it. Instead, he translated signs. Repeated words slowly, so Hamal could hear them clearly. Smiled when he tried them in that accent of his, twisting Antivan into something Zevran found strangely lovely, where alameda became almendra became all may dream.

“Close enough,” Zevran said, and despite Hamal’s frown, he kissed him.

Antivan into Common, into Elvhen, and back again, like steps to a dance. In this manner, the day passed them by quickly.

 “Do you consider this your home town?” Hamal asked later.

They were back in their rented room, sharing a plate of empanadas for dinner while the sinking sun cast lines of light upon the table. Zevran looked at him, mulling over the question. As with all things, there was a short answer, and a long answer. The latter called for a rather personal tale.

Perhaps it was overdue. If not now, when?

“Yes, in fact, though I was not born here,” he said. “It feels bittersweet to be back.”

“Oh, you missed it,” Hamal said, propping his chin up on the heel of his hand. “I could always tell, you know. I was homesick too, so I could see it clear as day.”

“You were very perceptive,” Zevran said. “And I was very homesick. I longed for the sea, for the people and the music and the food of my youth… though it was not home in the traditional sense, I was created here. The boy, melted down, and the man, built from scratch.”

Recognizing the weight after his words, Hamal allowed him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“There is a training villa, somewhere in the city,” Zevran continued. “I do not know exactly where. It is where the vetted recruits are brought to, you see, to begin their… education. It is where Taliesen and I were brought to, where we met as boys. I’ve been searching for it for years, but…”

“They kept the location from you?” Hamal asked.

“It is easier to deal with runaways who do not know where they are,” Zevran said with a shrug. “We were blindfolded during the journey, and during every outing we made after. We wore caps with a cover in front.” He paused and pointed to his eyes, forming a v-shape. “A mask, like the blinkers they put on horses. We seldom left the villa, but I do remember one thing very clearly: the funerals.”

Hamal listened intently. He already knew what Zevran was referring to.

The children who did not survive their training.

“We are raised to be so devout…” Zevran said. “Did you know the Antivan Crows began as an arm of the Chantry? It is not talked about, but it’s true. It’s easy to kill with impunity if you believe the Maker is acting through you. As part of the charade, the buying and selling and abusing of children is seen as a tragic and necessary sacrifice. Lambs at the altar. The Crows do love their departed children.”

Zevran took a deep breath before continuing.

“They are given lavish funerals, honored as soldiers who fell in battle. It is never public, of course. The matter is too unsavory. The services are held at night. I was about eight years old when we lost Rafael and Erwin. We were dressed in our best clothes, marched up onto a hearse, and taken to the Chantry. We were told in clear terms: ‘This is what being a Crow is about! Remember them! Honor them! You will follow them soon enough.’”

“And that is why we are here,” Hamal said softly.

“I found the Chantry.”

Somehow, it became real then. Zevran brushed his hair back and rubbed his eyes.

“I’ve been searching since we arrived, and I’ve finally found it. This is the one, I am certain of it. And just in time; there is a funeral tonight.”

“What are you going to do?” Hamal asked.

“Nothing,” Zevran said quickly. “I hope to follow them back, and finally discover where the villa is. Only with that information can I plan the next step.”

“You should have said something sooner,” Hamal said. “We have to prepare—”

“Amor,” Zevran interrupted him. This was the part he’d been dreading. “I’ve already prepared.”

Hamal sat up in his chair and looked at him, brow furrowed.

How could Zevran make him understand? Something within him squirmed at the thought of Hamal being there, in that Chantry, seeing—

Seeing him. His upbringing, and all the shadows of his past.

Zevran winced at the thought. “This is something I’d like to do alone,” he said.

“That’s… Zevran…” Hamal shook his head, grappling with what Zevran was telling him.

“It will be easier this way. For me. Please.”

Food forgotten, Hamal sat back in his seat. Zevran met his gaze, and saw within it a turmoil that made him ache. But he was resolute, and after a very long moment, Hamal looked away.

“Will you be in any danger?”

“No,” Zevran said honestly. “I won’t come near enough to be in any danger. This is strictly information gathering. But so much has changed. I’ve changed. I am not sure how I will react when I see them.”

“That’s all the more reason for me to go with you, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Zevran conceded. He bowed his head, worried that Hamal would succeed in wearing him down.

Truth be told, it was hard to say no to him, because he loved him, and because he knew Hamal’s fear. He’d felt the same fear not long ago, in Denerim, seeing him off to battle.

“Please,” he repeated. “Alone.”

Hamal let out a low sigh. Then, mercifully, he reached for his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

“Very well, vhenan. I trust your judgment. But please, please be careful.”

“Ah, but of course!” Relieved, Zevran brought Hamal’s hand up to his lips, where he kissed each knuckle, twice. “Home before you know it! You’ll barely notice I’m gone!”

.

Tristeza Huitz had met Zevran Arainai three days ago, in the Chantry. It was hard not to notice the young man, for a number of reasons: Firstly, his hair—light against his brown skin—typical to certain Dalish clans West of the city, though he was not Dalish; secondly, his tattoo—sharp, along his temple—which she recognized as the mark of a Crow; and thirdly, the look on his face when he entered the Chantry—not reverence, not comfort, but something akin to recognition.

Feeling bold, she struck up a conversation. She learned he was an orphan, like herself. She learned he was born in Rialto, like herself.

And so it was the Maker’s will that the man who had set out to destroy the Crows should meet one of the few Chantry Sisters who knew what the Crows did with their fallen, and certainly the only one who was opposed to them as fiercely, passionately, even religiously.

“I will help you,” she whispered without hesitation, a fire in her eyes that surprised Zevran. “It is vile, what they do! I cannot believe that all this is as the Maker wills it. Come back to see me in a few days. Ojala, by then, I will have information that will help you.”

Yes, Tristeza thought that night, reading in her bedroom and finding herself unable to focus on the words. I know it is Your will, or it would not have come to pass! And yet, I am terrified. Maker forgive me. I know it is right to oppose the Crows but what is my little life, even in its greatest capacity, compared to the whole of them? Maker, I humbly beg of You: Protect us! Guide us! Keep us from harm!

In the end all she really did was whisper the time to him. The conveniently unlocked cellar door was just luck, or a fluke, or perhaps it was the Maker’s will. She threw a prayer in for Zevran Arainai as well.

Unbeknownst to both of them, it did reach him.

.

The records were just where Sister Tristeza said they would be.

The ornate architecture of the old Chantry on Nueva de la Paz lent itself to shadows and tricks of the light. Perhaps whoever built had made this a conscious decision: to festoon it in gilded pillars and stained glass, with statues in every corner, chock full of roses, thorns, ivy, faces, a weeping Andraste, a spiral like a snail, a long mantel for hundreds of lit candles to dance their flames upon, and windows so vast and colorful one could stare at them for hours and still not see every detail in them. Such beauty could make one forget all their sorrows.

Zevran allowed himself a moment to appreciate the artistry that surrounded him. Then he corrected himself; this was not the work of the Maker, but the work of the Antivan people.

Centuries of their rich history could be found within the Chantry’s archives; births and baptisms, marriages and funerals. And though not every Chantry had ties to the Antivan Crows—the Crows served the Chantry, not the other way around—this one carried on the proud tradition of affording them protection and blessings. There were others throughout the country like it. Chantries where the clergy accepted coffins too small and bodies too battered without question. They already knew what had happened to them. They didn’t need to ask.

These documents were records of untold crimes.

Working fast, Zevran found the drawer labeled with the most recent dates and emptied it. Then he emptied the year prior to that, and the one that followed. Each emptied drawer was filled with blank parchment, which would hopefully eclipse the theft for a few days, at least.

He took as many records he could reasonably carry. Then, taking care to leave the room just as he had found it, Zevran quickly left.

Keeping to the shadows and moving with every means of stealth at his disposal, he slowly made his way to a spot hidden in the rafters, where he waited for the service to begin.

He waited. He waited, and then waited a while longer.

Zevran massaged life back into a cramping muscle in his leg. He’d sat here, immobile, for over an hour. In his line of work, this was never good. Every second that ticked by risked his discovery or worse.

He cursed inwardly, shutting his eyes. There was much of his life that he could reflect on as he waited, hidden in the Maker’s sights, but this was no time for introspection. He was nervous. And he was itching to learn something. Patience had never been his strong suit, alas.

Desperate for anything to happen, he felt a shameful sense of relief when the doors finally opened. Almost immediately he chided himself—for here he was, grateful that his night would soon come to an end and he could return to his warm room and his lover and his rented bed, while the first coffin was being brought in. Shame was always his first reaction, where the Crows were involved. He swallowed it quickly and his eyes fixed on the scene that unfolded beneath him.

One, two, three, four little coffins. Then came the most somber procession he’d ever seen.

Even the caps were the same, pointed in the front. Seven boys filed in, the oldest looking to be around 10. They were dressed in their finest clothing, with black brocade fabric, clean linen shirts, and shoes polished just so; only the very best for such a grand occasion. He’d worn such clothing himself once, long ago.

He’d wondered what it would feel like, seeing these shadows from his past, but he had not prepared himself for this.

Zevran felt nothing.

As the Cleric began to speak, as the young Crows took their seats among the pews, Zevran searched within him and saw that he was empty. He tried a little harder to draw out a reaction; imaged Hamal at his side, how surely the Warden’s heart would buckle under the sight of children being interred, and found that he still felt nothing.

Not sorrow, not pity, not anger.

Carefully, Zevran removed himself from the scene.

It was not for him to say goodbye to these boys, and he made his way outside, unnoticed, where after making sure the street was well and truly desolate he continued his surveillance from a nearby rooftop: An old mill, long abandoned, its red-brick façade wearing away.

Once there, he let out a sigh. A heightened tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding within him left his body in a rush, leaving him a bit fuzzy around the edges. He forced himself to refocus. Whatever he’d felt or hadn’t felt in the Chantry didn’t matter.

What was I expecting, anyway? he wondered. Too damaged.

Still, it was a relief he had not fallen apart at this, the first step of many to come.

Looking down at the street, Zevran spotted a carriage a few buildings off of the Chantry. There was nothing too luxurious about it, from the plain construction of the vessel down to the horses drawing it. The Crows preferred not to draw attention to the training villas. It followed that this was how they had arrived tonight.

He would have to wait to confirm that suspicion. Antivan funeral masses were long affairs, and the Crows added a layer of pomp, with prayers and speeches, anything to reaffirm in the young recruits’ minds just how fortunate they were to have been selected thus by the Maker.

And he had felt special, hadn’t he? Yes, he had. Once.

Zevran closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the brick wall.

.

By his internal clock, nearly two hours had passed before he heard the Chantry doors open again.

The unassuming horse-drawn carriage pulled forward until it reached the entrance. One by one, the Crow recruits filed out the same way they’d come in; quiet and orderly. A tall figure followed after them, shutting the door behind them, and with that the carriage departed.

Zevran waited, watching as the distance between he and the carriage grew. Better to be cautious, however; he quickly made the decision to follow, leaving his perch atop the old mill.

He hadn’t done this sort of thing in years, but he hadn’t forgotten. A rooftop chase under a new moon was the sort of thing he was expertly good at, all of his muscles working in concert; a leap here, a short scramble up a water tank there, his keen elven eyesight penetrating the darkness, careful not to get too close while still tracking the target from afar. A growing sense of apprehension took hold of him, too.

Finally, he would know where he’d lived all those years. His life had begun in the most humble of settings, the brothel El milagro. From there he had been shuffled to a cramped apartment in Antiva City’s leather-making district, no more than a holding area, in fact, and a house of horrors. What followed from there… had always been a mystery.

But this was all wrong. As Zevran moved from roof to roof, even dropping into an alley at once point when the way ahead was not viable, he saw his surroundings changing. No more chipped paint, no more crumbling stone. The carriage led him to the wealthier neighborhoods now. Lawyers and well-off merchants, artists and scholars lived here. Not Crow children!

Zevran pulled himself onto another roof and let out a strangled curse. Money meant security. With all this wealth there would surely be hired guards in these homes, and city police in the streets. It was not possible!

Just as he was beginning to tire, the carriage drew to a stop.

Zevran crept forward and watched.

The door opened. The tall figure stepped out. The man that had trained him all those years ago closed the carriage door and made his way to his wealthy, comfortable home. And the carriage, so out of place amidst this opulence, carried on further into the wealthy mercantile district.

“Shit,” Zevran said, giving voice to his anxiety for the first time that night.

Master Atanasio had been the first Crow he’d ever met, and he’d made all the ones that followed seem meek in comparison. Far from the slavers who’d acquired him at the brothel, beyond the landlord who’d kept him and the others in that dirty apartment, even greater than the starvation and neglect meant to cull the weakest among them, Atanasio’s cruelty and precision were unmatched and unparalleled. He was given children as young as five. The only way out for them was in a casket or as full-fledged killers.

Zevran was no fool. He’d known that the possibility of encountering people from his past had always been there. He was returning, after all, to the halls and torture chambers of his youth. He was returning to root out the monsters that resided there. To ensure nobody else went through what he went through—what Rinna and Taliesen went through. But this was… unexpected. This was…

“Shit!” Zevran exclaimed, louder still.

He’d let himself be distracted. And the carriage, with its cargo of young Crows, was gone.

.

The decision that followed was nothing if not pragmatic.

A Crow really was such a fragile thing, all bluster and bravado, but at his core remained something malleable; something for one’s betters to shape and manipulate as needed. Such a grand organization could scarcely get by if its masses held too much agency, and by his own agency did Zevran make his way into Atanasio Trepidus’ estate, where he confronted the old man on the stairs.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d never thought to imagine what such an encounter would entail, but oh, his heart was beating in his chest loud enough that surely Atanasio heard it before he saw him. He had to remind himself that he was no longer a Crow—and that the man before him held no power over him.

Most of all, it had to be true.

Atanasio paused at the foot of the stairs. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“So,” Atanasio said, and Zevran felt his resolve waver. After just one syllable! But his voice was the same. Hateful, cold, and calm.

Unbothered, Atanasio walked across his darkened study, sliding a desk drawer open and rummaging through its contents. He withdrew a set of matches, striking one to light an oil lamp upon the wall.

Now illuminated, Atanasio gazed at him, searching. Then, he let out a sigh. He looked the same. Grayer, certainly, but unchanged. Here was the moment where any professional assassin could tell you the job had gone awry.

“Zevran Arainai,” he murmured. “I am… not surprised it is you.”

“What,” Zevran said, and found that his mouth had gone quite dry, “do you mean by that?”

“You’ve come to kill me, no?”

In mere moments Atanasio had maneuvered himself behind the desk—yet another clumsy mistake on Zevran’s part, but he himself was quite unable to move from his spot on the stairs. Not when every part of him screamed at him to get away from this man.

“You were expecting me?” Zevran managed.

“Not you, exactly, but someone. After all, my dear boy,” Atanasio said, and the words made Zevran’s skin crawl. “Look at my line of work. Sooner or later, someone was going to come. And you… you always had a little spark to you. Yes, even back then. Took every lesson without question but Maker forbid I set a hand to one of the other boys. One little bruise and you’d be glaring daggers at me all night.” He chuckled, as if they were reminiscing of good times. “I advised the Grandmaster of this: ‘A bit unruly, that Zevran, but he has potential-’”

The oil lamp shattered beside his head, sputtering sparks before plunging the two of them into darkness again.

“I have plenty more daggers where that came from,” Zevran spat, and took a step forward. “Enough talk. You will answer my questions. Where is the training villa?”

“I don’t know. It changes. By magic.”

“Where do the Crows source their slaves from?”

“Not my business. I do not ask.”

“I am supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want. I am in fact retired; have been for years.”

“And yet you were burying more of your victims tonight! You will tell me what I need to know or-!”

He’d drawn up to the old man now, pressing a dagger against the thin skin of his throat. Atanasio stood stock-still, unable to see Zevran save for a shadow.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked. “A Crow does not lose his composure like this. Have you so quickly forgotten everything I taught you?”

“You taught me nothing!” Zevran said, and he continued, fiercely, “You only cut at me—again and again!—until the scar grew so deep that nothing else remained! Until my mind knew nothing else! It was cruel! Erwin had a weak heart! Rafael was epileptic!”

Atanasio was right about one thing: A Crow did not lose his composure. Even with a line of blood beginning to form at his neck, the man looked at Zevran with a wholly unimpressed expression. He remained thus, quietly thinking, before answering.

“Who?”

Zevran slit his throat.

How he would have liked to say something more to him, but all the feelings he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in the cathedral hit him in a devastating wave. He found himself on the floor just as Atanasio fell, blood sputtering from his wound, soaking the plush carpet.

Zevran had once been a Crow, but no longer. A ragged sob heaved out of him, and he wept.

.

Antiva City was awake, and beginning a day like any other, when Zevran returned to the inn.

The door to their room opened before he could knock, and Hamal looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes heavy with lack of sleep. In one quick sweep, he took in the blood-stained clothes. Zevran shook his head. He pushed his way in.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I may have… underestimated things.”

As he spoke, Hamal set about a more thorough examination. He slid a hand from Zevran’s shoulder down to his forearm, where he tugged gently at his sleeve, looking at the blood upon it.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, searching for the source.

Zevran glanced down. It had been a messy kill, and he hadn’t explained himself. Stopping Hamal’s hand, he held him still for a moment.

“I am unharmed.”

“Thank the Creators! Zevran-”

“Please don’t. You must know I did not plan this.”

Hamal stood before him, but Zevran could not meet his eyes. Then, worse than any beratement, Hamal simply asked, “What am I supposed to do, Zevran?” His voice very soft, he asked him directly, “What am I to do if something were to happen to you and I never found out?”

A short exhale left him, and Zevran chuckled, finding the question far too incisive.

“I suppose you would be better off not knowing what became of me.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Don’t say that.”

Zevran walked to the table. He removed his gloves, and unlaced his collar, suddenly feeling crowded in.

“I need a moment,” he said, and he sat down. Hamal sat with him, but quickly realized he couldn’t bear the quiet.

The Warden pushed off of the table and set about doing something in the background, puttering here and there while Zevran rested his face in his hands. When Zevran looked up again, he saw a bowl of freshly boiled water had been placed before him, along with a washcloth.

Hamal picked up the washcloth and wrung it out, fingers turning pink from the heat. Zevran sat up in his seat and turned to him, wordlessly allowing him to clean the blood from his hands and face.

“You must let me face these things with you, Zevran,” he spoke after a moment, not content to let their conversation end.

“They are horrible things, amor,” Zevran told him. “The danger-”

“I’m aware of the danger. I did not leave my clan to come with you on a whim. But if something happened to you, I would be left alone. In a country where I do not know anyone, or speak the language, and still, I would spend the rest of my life here, to mourn you in your homeland.”

Zevran’s eyes filled with tears as Hamal continued.

“I wouldn’t know where you had fallen, so I would honor every street. I wouldn’t be able to guess at where your remains were, so I would plant trees in every town. And if I could, I would find the ones responsible and avenge you, or die trying. But wouldn’t it be better, vhenan, if we faced these things together?” He paused, crouching down before him so as to better see him. “Then we’d protect each other.”

“You realize what this would entail,” Zevran said, fighting to keep his voice even. “Would you kill to follow me down this path?”

“I would,” Hamal said firmly.

“Kill not darkspawn, but people.”

“Yes.”

“Not just murderers or slavers, but unassuming people playing tiny roles in something very large and nefarious—decent people save for an occasional contract, a business deal with the Crows here and there—or even to kill without explanation, if I asked you to?”

“Yes,” Hamal said again.

Zevran shook his head. Impossible to believe, and yet, he felt like a drowning man being pulled from the cold water. His words came out in a rush.

“I’ve done horrible things. I have blood on my hands and I do not feel even a little sorry for it. I intend to draw more blood. Even knowing that… even knowing…”

“Yes, even knowing.”

“And… what if we never succeeded? What if this truly is all a fool’s errand? What if we pressed on for years, for decades, for the rest of our lives, seeking to end something insurmountable—would you stay?”

“I would.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

“Would you kill forever? Would you maim?”

“Yes—”

“Would you marry me?”

Hamal’s eyes went wide, and Zevran, quite beside himself now, continued, impassioned.

“Would you marry me in a Chantry? Before the Maker? So He knows then, if I die- when I die-”

“Yes! I would marry you anywhere, Zevran! Even before the damned Divine herself if you asked me.”

Zevran looked at him. “Really?” he asked, shocked into gentleness.

“I will marry you,” Hamal said again. “Zevran, I will. I’ll marry you.”

Zevran made no further effort; he only threw his arms around him and held him tightly, feeling Hamal press his face into the crook of his neck. Saying no more they clung to each other in silence, knowing the fear and sorrow were all just marks of the deep love that had found them.

He felt resolute now, more than ever, of what needed to be done.

The Maker did not hold a candle to this feeling. Neither did the Crows. And if he died fighting them he knew all his deeds would be carried by his trembling spirit to the Beyond… where marrying Hamal Mahariel would stand out as the best thing he ever did with his mortal life.

[estaba-aburrida]

("No tan" +18) Yo y el exhibicionismo fuera de una webcam

En mis anteriores relatos he dicho ya que mi exhibicionismo era un fetiche explorado por cámaras... Pero siempre tuve dudas de lo que me haría sentir en la vida real. Aún así, siempre tuve miedo... Me daba pánico ser reconocida, me daba miedo que se corriese la voz, etc... De alguna forma, el exhibicionismo me parecía una buena idea cuando yo no tenía nombre ni rostro... Cuando era simplemente un objeto, me gustaba serlo.. Era cómodo...

Todo esto cambió en un fin de año, no recuerdo ya de cual... Donde por las fiestas de navidad y año nuevo, unos familiares me pidieron ir a cuidar su casa. En esta época yo estaba tratando de salvar el semestre en la universidad, por lo que la oferta de tener una casa para mi sola era muy seductora. Además, tenían 2 perros que cuidar, por lo que negarse era algo completamente contra mi naturaleza. El cuidado de esta casa debía ser entre la segunda semana de diciembre hasta la segunda semana de enero. Un mes completo... Un mes donde podía estudiar en paz y donde podía tener sexo para festejar que había aprobado... O para consolarme por haber reprobado... Era simplemente el mejor negocio de mi vida.

Cuando llegué a la casa, todo parecía normal, los perros eran muy viejitos por lo que su cuidado era sencillo... Me dejaron utilizar una pieza cómoda para una persona, por lo que apenas vi esa cama de una plaza, supuse que de invitar a alguien, el sexo sería en el resto de la casa. No podía quitarme esa idea de la cabeza, por fin podía tener sexo sin importarme el ruido, masturbarme sin pensar en que alguien entraría a mi cuarto... El estudio estaba muy detrás en mi lista de prioridades.

Dentro de las instrucciones que me dieron, era que no hiciese fiestas (Me daba igual, nunca he sido tan social como para ser anfitriona de un evento) y la más importante era que debía dar señales de que la casa no estaba vacía. En el frontis de la casa, normalmente tenían los 2 autos que daban claras señales de que había vida adentro, sin embargo, sin los autos debía valerme de todo tipo de estrategias para simular vida humana allí... Como por ejemplo, regar, dejar música relativamente fuerte, salir constantemente a recoger las cartas, etc...

Por el diseño de la casa, habían 2 habitaciones con grandes ventanales que podían ser vistas desde afuera (en caso de abrir las cortinas), la primera era una especie de despacho o sala de estudios y la segunda, el comedor... El primer cuarto era donde trataría de salvar mi carrera universitaria y el segundo era donde seguramente recibiría a cualquier invitado, ya sea con fines amistosos o pecaminosos.

Sería interesante para este relato, decir que los primeros días no hice nada más que pensar en sexo, invitar hombres, orgías u otro tipo de cosas. Pero no, los primeros días estaba desesperada por salvar el semestre. Tenía mis sesiones breves de auto-satisfacción para poder dormir tranquila, pero más allá de eso, todo era consumir cafeína de forma poco saludable, estudiar hasta quemarme los ojos y cuidar a los perros.

Muchas veces hacer actividades como regar las plantas o preocuparme de limpiar el ante jardín eran acciones terapéuticas para mi estrés académico. Saludaba a los vecinos de vez en cuando, explicándoles que era la niñera de unos perros y no una violenta ladrona de poco más de metro y medio que se había tomado la casa.

Fue en una de mis sesiones de jardinería que me fije que en la casa del frente, había un joven... Lo había visto antes entrando a su casa, tenía unos 19-20 años, su apariencia era de alguien que había entrado en la universidad hace muy poco. Lo descubrí mirándome por el ventanal de lo que sería, la sala de estudios de su casa. Me estaba mirando entre las cortinas, queriendo pasar desapercibido, pero sin lograrlo. Apenas enfoqué mi mirada en él, vi las cortinas moverse y seguramente creyó que no me percaté de que me estaba mirando. Asumí que era simplemente un vecino husmeando, no le di otra connotación... Seguí con la jardinería y de reojo, pude ver que la cortina se volví a entreabrir... Y así, estuve unos 10 minutos haciendo jardinería y se quedó mirando por 10 minutos. ¿Creepy verdad?

Al comienzo pensé que era un tipo loco, seguramente un pervertido. Además, ese día que me percaté de que me miraba, traía ropa ligera, pero en ningún momento ropa sexy. Nadie que esté trasnochando todos los días estudiando se pone ropa particularmente atractiva. Pero esto me había dado al menos un minijuego para poder distraerme. Me puse como meta, darle material para que mirase, pero sin que se diese cuenta de mis intenciones.

Obviamente, no me iba a maquillar ni verme fabulosa para seducir a este tipo, no tenía más intenciones que jugar un rato. Además, la distancia entre ambas casas era de más o menos 2 autos. Nos separaba un pasaje lo suficientemente grande para que no notase mis ojeras, pero lo suficientemente chico como para que pudiese devorarme con la mirada.

Entrando en la casa, volví a mis estudios pero pensando siempre en lo que podría hacer para llamar su atención. Por lo que en la noche, prendí la luz de la sala de estudios / oficina y dejé las cortinas cerradas. Con eso podría verme a contraluz sin problema. Me quedé mucho tiempo de pie, dando vueltas por el cuarto, fingiendo que movía cosas, haciendo tiempo... No era capaz de saber si es que me estaba mirando, pero eso lo hacía divertido. Por lo que después de un rato, salí del cuarto y fui hacia el living o sala de estar. Y sin prender las luces, fui yo la que se asomó entre las cortinas y pude notar que la cortina de su cuarto, estaba entreabierta... Pero no podía verlo porque su luz estaba apagada... Decidí asumir que estaba ahí mirando, esperando que volviese al otro cuarto... Y eso hice

Una vez en el cuarto, decidí cambiarme de ropa, me quité mi polera, mis pantalones y me puse un vestido. Luego me senté y comencé a tocarme. Desde su perspectiva, solamente me podía ver desde los hombros hacia arriba, por lo que sabía que no podría darse cuenta de lo que hacía. Pero para darle un poco de ayuda, fui particularmente ruidosa esa noche.

Una vez que acabé, decidí seguir con mis estudios y que continuaría con mi misión al día siguiente.

A eso de las 4 de la tarde, salí al antejardín en el mismo vestido que usé en la noche. Mi plan era simple, salir, hacer mucho ruido, toser y que los perros ladrasen para que supiese que estaba ahí.

Cuando comencé a barrer, me percaté de que estaba ahí el muchacho. Esta vez, fue más evidente que me estaba mirando y que además, se estaba masturbando. Podía notar sus brazos moverse y era indudable que lo estaba haciendo... Por lo que hice todo lo posible para hacerlo disfrutar la vista. Me agaché innumerables veces. Mi vestido era lo suficientemente corto para que pudiese ver la mitad de mi culo al agacharme y al estar usando colaless, puede que se haya incluso imaginado que no tenía ropa interior. Me divertía esa idea. Me mojaba demasiado saber que estaba ahí, queriendo hacerme suya, tocándose sin parar mientras yo simplemente estaba ahí, existiendo y dándole un pequeño empujón...

Así pasaron un par de días, yo exhibiéndome, él tocándose... Después de cada una de mis salidas al ante jardín, volvía a la casa a tocarme... Y así después de poco menos de una semana, logré liberarme de la presión de la universidad.

Me dispuse a dar un paso más adelante, se acercaban las fechas en las que me tendría que ir de la casa y pensé que quizás podría dar un paso más adelante con este chico. Además, desde mi perspectiva, éramos cómplices... Asumía que era imposible que no se diese cuenta de que mis provocaciones eran intencionales y que además, él era pésimo en ocultarse...

Me quedé atenta mirando por la ventana cada vez que podía, atenta a cualquier ruido para poder ver si salía o volvía de su casa, para poder salir y saludarlo, al menos de forma casual. Hasta que un día eso ocurrió... Lo encontré saliendo de su casa, mientras cerraba la reja con llave, salí de la casa y me dispuse para saludarlo.

Salgo de la puerta, me ve de reojo y digo "Hola!", un saludo que había repetido varios días saludando a los vecinos cuando me los topaba... Y él no hizo nada... Me acerqué a la reja un poco... Se puso sus audífonos y se dispuso a caminar rápido... Me indigné y dije "Hey, holaa?" Y cuando pronuncié esas palabras, caminó más rápido y se fue... Me ignoró por completo, nervioso, asustado...

Pensé que quizás se le pasó por la mente que lo iba a insultar o encarar por lo que hacía... Porque después de ese día, no volví a ver su cortina entreabierta nunca más...

Si bien no pude concretar nada con este muchacho, aprendí el placer de ser vista con otros ojos... Y comencé a poner más atención en mi día a día... Cuando ocupaba el metro y usaba vestido, trataba de ponerme delante de chicos que me pareciesen atractivos... Que es algo que hago hasta el día de hoy... Siempre que sé que usaré el metro, procuro usar pantalones apretados, o faldas cortas... Siempre buscando a alguien que me miré evidentemente de forma sexual.... Pero aún así, nunca más he vuelto a experimentar una interacción tan directa e indirecta a la vez con nadie más...

[elcorreografico]

Los testigos de Jehová vuelven a las calles luego de dos años

#Sociedad #Religión | Los #testigosdeJehová vuelven a las calles luego de dos años #JW #TJ

Tras una ausencia de más de dos años, los testigos de Jehová de Argentina y del mundo entero vuelven a su ministerio público en persona. Los exhibidores portátiles con publicaciones bíblicas gratuitas, que formaban parte del paisaje en las calles más concurridas antes de la pandemia, volverán a estar presentes por todo el planeta. En la región, si por casualidad pasa esta semana por Plaza Moreno,…

[vaniinh]

No sé en qué momento comencé a sentir miedo. Probablemente empezó a los seis años, cuando no entendía las palabras que albañiles me gritaban mientras comía mi lunch en la primaria. O quizá surgió en la secundaria, a los doce años cuando un compañero dos años mayor me tocó en honores a la bandera, y los profesores no hicieron nada. O a los 17 cuando un tipo intentó manosearme en el transporte público y llegué a llorar a casa mientras mi mejor amiga me calmaba por mensajes.

Cómo olvidar las dos veces, ya en mis veintes cuando dos sujetos me siguieron. La primera en la calle, la segunda en un parque y una plaza. Cómo olvidar que por semanas en el trabajo un individuo llegaba a la misma hora que yo en su moto, sólo para verme entrar y hacer llamadas mientras me miraba asquerosamente. Tuve que llamar a mi papá, y como niña chiquita tuvo que llevar a su hija adulta al trabajo porque el tipo me esperaba hasta que saliera. Actualmente sé que no soy libre, no puedo salir a la calle sin el miedo constante de estar en riesgo. Ojalá pudiera decir ya puedo salir a la calle tranquila, caminar en paz. Pero sé que no es posible.

No sé en qué momento comencé a sentir miedo, pero sí sé que estoy harta de sentirlo.

[manessha545]

Sucre

Capital of Bolivia

Sucre is a city in the southern highlands of Bolivia. The whitewashed Casa de la Libertad, where Bolivia’s Declaration of Independence was signed, houses galleries related to the city's past as the national capital. Also on Plaza 25 de Mayo, the main square, is the Catedral Metropolitana, an ornate colonial church. Nearby is the Museo Universitario Charcas USFXCH, featuring religious artifacts and contemporary art. 

Tiled Roofs and Colonial Architecture - Sucre - Bolivia

The state government building (Sucre is the capital of Chuquisaca Department) was originally the Palace of Government of Bolivia when it was completed in 1896, but then the government moved to La Paz in 1898. On the roof flies the Bolivian flag of red, yellow, and green stripes which are repeated (except for blue instead of green) in the colored-glass window surrounding the Bolivian coat of arms at the top of the entrance arch. The flags flanking the entrance are the Wiphala flag of multi-colored squares representing native peoples of the Andes and the Chuquisaca Department flag of a Cross of Burgundy with a golden crown in the center. Sucre (elev. 2,810m/9,214ft) was founded by the Spanish in 1538 as Ciudad de la Plata de la Nueva Toledo (Silver City of New Toledo). It became the judicial, religious, and cultural center of the region. Bolivia achieved independence from Spain on 6 August 1825, the last country in Latin America to do so. In 1839 the city was declared the capital of Bolivia and renamed in honor of Antonio José de Sucre (1795-1830), a leader of the fight for independence who was a close friend of Simón Bolívar and served as the second president of Bolivia from the end of 1825 to 1828. (The administrative capital of Bolivia shifted to La Paz in 1898.) The Historic City of Sucre was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1991. On Google Earth: Prefectura de Chuquisaca 19° 2'53.52"S, 65°15'37.22"W

Sucre, Bolivia

Elevation: 2,790 m

Area code: (+591) 4

Climate: Cwb

Demonym(s): Capitalino (a); Sucrense

Department: Chuquisaca Department

Founded by: Pedro Anzures as "La Plata" in 1538

Sucre is divided into eight numbered districts: the first five of these are urban districts, while Districts 6, 7, and 8 are rural districts. Each is administered by a Sub-Mayor (Spanish: Subalcalde), appointed by the Mayor of Sucre. The rural districts include numerous rural communities outside the urban area.

Sucre - Wikipedia