#forte programmer

[oldmanyaoi-jpeg]

Tell us about the top three sports in oblivion. And also which one you'd play if they were real

Hayden and I are both giant nerds so sports are not really something we've touched on. so here's just all the sports since there's not much substance to most:

The biggest one is EASILY @erezar-zaral-rezanova's Planet Dusting. It's racing taken to the furthest extreme, building a ship to go as fast as possible, with the only limit being how fast you can go before your ship is ripped apart from the speed. It gets its name from the tracks of the big leagues, where racers are going around entire planets. Smaller leagues have smaller tracks, but when you think of Planet Dusting you think of ships circling the entirety of a barren planet in mere minutes. It's pretty popular in both the Court of Trifalla and the Zion-Itan Alliance's space.

Merzen has a few that we've really only touched on a bit- being such a cold planet, they're big on "winter" sports. They have one that's essentially hockey-football, though we haven't done much with that. They do have a full-contact soccer too, played with a solid ball because the ferocity would destroy a normal soccer ball. Magic is also allowed, the only rule is that you can't kill the audience. Killing other players is allowed though, and they usually don't go a season without at least one death either on or off the field. Percentage-wise, they have the same death and dismemberment rate as unregulated factories.

Lots of Solraine societies, Especially Zion, have a really healthy coliseum/sparring culture. Unlike Merzen, you're genuinely not allowed to kill your opponent, but watching some of the big name spars is a Real show. Especially when king Grisvaldt steps on the field.

If you permit Nerd Sports in here then Ita is (probably, waiting on a response) rife with all sorts of competitions. Battle bots, engineering competitions like rocket design, large-scale science fairs, etc. Most interesting to me personally would be the existence of something like FIRST Robotics, where teams compete to complete tasks faster than the other with robots they build at the start of the season. Each season is different and requires use of a different robot- partially because those are the rules, and partially because the tasks can be wildly different every year. (Though maybe I'm biased because I used to compete in FIRST)

[fitnessmith]

Programme force + conseils nutrition pour devenir fort

NOUVEAU 👉 Programme force + conseils nutrition pour devenir fort. Rendez-vous en bio @fitnessmith, cliquez sur le lien, fitnessmith.fr/news puis dans « les nouveautés» - Ou rendez-vous dans votre boite mail pour les fidèles auditeurs #musculation #podcast #fitnessmotivation #gym #abs #shredded #minceur #regime #nutrition #dietetique #alimentation #alimentationsaine #keto #cetogene #vegan #vegetarien #carnivore #workout #france #sante #musculation #powerlifting #force #entraînement #nutrition #musculationfrance #muscleup #gainz #forcephysique #programmeforce #bodybuilding #strongman #training #gymfrance #objectifforce #musculationnaturelle #fitnessfrance #renforcementmusculaire #programme6semaines #nutritionmuscle #développécouché #soulevédeterre #squat #forceetpuissance #musclebuilding #progressionforce #forceetnutrition #muscleetforce #hypertrophie #strongisthenewsexy

Pour développer rapidement votre force, il est essentiel de suivre un programme d’entraînement spécifique. Tous les types de musculation permettent de développer la force, mais pas tous dans les mêmes proportions. Si vous souhaitez gagner en force de manière efficace, il existe des programmes approuvés par les powerlifters spécialement conçus pour augmenter la force. J’ai effectué des recherches…

[hmslusitania]

Ask meme! For TimKon, either 17. “Please stay.” or 34. “When did you know for sure?”

May I offer you: an angst with a happy ending? (who am I kidding; it's you, of course I can)

“When did you know?” Kon asks, staring out well past the horizon. Tim thinks that surely, he must see it, must be able to tell, he’s got fucking super vision of various sorts, but… But he sounds so dejected about it. Like he… like he hadn’t been able to tell. “For sure, I mean, when did you figure it out?”

“Um,” Tim says, and picks up a handful of sand on this very not-at-all real version of Kon’s favourite beach in Hawaii. “Last… night.”

Kon’s face burns bright red and Tim can’t really look at him anymore.

It all feels too real, even though this place isn’t anything of the sort.

And he’s pretty sure that includes Kon.

It had been a smart plan, Tim can tip his hat at the villain du jour for that, at least metaphorically. Trap Tim in a simulated reality, but instead of making it somewhere he knows inside and out, like Gotham, like Happy Harbour, they’d programmed him into a place he only knows in story and rumour. Tim wouldn’t really have any way of determining if there were differences between the real Hawaii the real Kon’s been talking about for as long as Tim’s known him, and this fake, simulation of it. And the programmers had done a pretty perfect job with Kon, too, except for the parts where he can’t tell that this whole place is a simulation, and the part where…

“My Kon, I mean the one who’s not a computer programme, because, like, he’s not mine, mine,” Tim starts. “He’s not… y’know. In love with me.”

Kon is silent for a minute, just staring out at the water and at the small waves lapping steadily higher up the beach while the sun rises. Tim would find this whole conversation a lot less excruciating if computer!Kon was wearing more than boxers with the House of El logo on the crotch, but, well, this simulation was designed to trap and torture him, so he’s not.

“I don’t feel like a computer simulation,” Kon says finally, and buries his toes in the sand like he’s making a point of feeling the sensations. “I remember — I remember meeting you when you were still Robin and I didn’t know who I was beyond Superman’s replacement, and I remember Bart, and Young Justice, and Cassie, and the Teen Titans, and dying and—”

“They probably built you off a brain scan of the real Kon,” Tim says. Tact and gentleness have never been his fortes but, fuck he tries this time.

“Right, and just, like, tweaked my memories so that I can remember being in love with you half that time, and the entire time I was lost in Gemworld, and—”

“Yeah, I guess they must’ve,” Tim says, even though it makes him want to puke. “This place is too… it’s too perfect. You’re too perfect.”

Kon scoffs, and makes a choked off noise that’s all too familiar after last night and Tim flushes with shame that he knows what Kon sounds like now. The thing is, it’s a very, very good simulation, and this isn’t knowledge Tim should have, because out in the real world, Kon doesn’t want to share that information with him.  It’s none of Tim’s business, no matter how desperately he wants it to be.

���Nice to know I’m apparently good enough in bed to convince you it’s all too good to be true,” Kon says, with forced bravado.

Tim swallows, because that assessment isn’t untrue, but it’s only part of the story. “Also I think my biometrics must’ve spiked high enough to temporarily overload the system, because a bird clipped through our room while we were, uh…”

“Oh,” Kon says, blushing even harder. “So, um, now that you know this is fake, does that mean you’re going to escape?”

“Yeah,” Tim says. He swallows. “I just have to crash the programme, make it generate something so insanely huge its processing power can’t keep up.”

“Oh, right, just that,” Kon says. He very gamely swallows, and because he’s built on a very convincing facsimile of Tim’s real Kon, he stands up and nods. “So what do you need me to do?”

**

Tim is not surprised when the explosion they trigger in the simulation tips him out of it’s destabilising pixelated mess into a sketchy futuristic lab. Spaceship? Probably spaceship by the black starfield outside the windows.

He is surprised when his own exit from the gel couch matrix situation is echoed by someone else in another matching chair thing behind him.

He grabs for any kind of weapon available and rounds the central structure, ready to strike, only to find himself face to face with—

“Kon?” he demands. “You’re here too?”

Kon defuses the heat vision that had been starting to build behind his eyes, and then just stares at Tim, blushing a violent red like the heat vision had dispersed through his cheeks.

“Of course he is here too,” an annoyed voice that gives major evil scientist vibes says over the PA. “The simulation traps work best when there are two parties within them to reinforce the shared folie à deux!”

“Sh-shared?” Kon asks.

“Both of us were in the same—” Tim starts, and he understands Kon’s blush better now because he can feel his own viciously taking over his face.

“You thought I was a simulation,” Kon says, floating out of his matrix plug in chair to loom over Tim even taller than he usually is.

“You’re in lo—” Tim starts, but their captor’s voice crackles over the PA system again.

“Yes, yes, teenaged angst. You may continue your argument once my assistants have placed you back in your simulation!”

“We’re twenty-one, actually,” Tim corrects. “And you can—”

He means to tell the disembodied voice exactly where he can expect Tim’s bo staff (as soon as he finds it in one of the cargo pods here in this space station situation they’ve got going on) but Kon cuts him off by pulling Tim’s face into his hands and kissing him.

No birds clip through the walls this time, and the sensation of Kon’s TTK sweeping over him, like it’s not enough to just be touching Tim with his hands, like he has to touch all of him at once, is one that Tim hadn’t been able to fully conjure up out of his imagination. It’s different enough that Tim actually forgets for a second that they’re imprisoned on a space station and have been under for god knows how long, and he seriously considers simply climbing Kon like a tree right then and there to get the actual physical details mapped out.

“I can’t believe you thought my love confession was a simulation,” Kon murmurs against Tim’s lips.

Tim hums and kisses him again. Really, actually kisses Kon. Who really, actually wants to kiss him, too. “I meant it when I said you’re too good to be true.”

“Good thing we’re in a really shitty situation we need to figure our way out of if we want to get back to earth so I can show you the real version of that beach,” Kon says. “Because that part feels pretty on par.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, and sighs. He can hear the distant thuds of whatever sorts of robocop automata their captor has coming towards them now, and this fight’s gonna kinda suck, he thinks. At least there will be one hell of a reward for making it through to the other side. “Ready to fight for our lives?”

“With you?” Kon asks, and can’t help himself but to pull Tim in for one more kiss. “Always.”

[feyhunter78]

I just found your page and I totally didn’t read all of your Miguel O’Hara fics. One I love how you write kissing you caught that spark off a kiss with someone you love in a way most books don’t get right.

I can’t sit here and sing your praise all day but I do have a question. Fully up to you and if it’s just a Drabble that ok but will you ever being writing something else for Side walk kisses? It’s so cute and I can see more moments with Miguel and Y/N just being silly cute mindless college students so helplessly in love. Fluff smut angst whatever you decide to Drabble in I will be fully ok with

(This is the first time I’ve done an ask so sorry I I seem a little over excited)

AHHH I love when I'm people's first asks, it always makes me feel so special!!! I thought I'd try my hand at a bit of angst for you anon!

Insecurities

You know you shouldn’t be jealous. Shouldn’t feel bad about yourself, shouldn’t be debating making up some excuse and dashing off to the humanities building to rid yourself of this pit in your stomach like a snake sheds its skin.

But that would require leaving Miguel alone with Xina, and you think you’d rather die than do that. So, you’re stuck in the courtyard right outside the library, holding onto Miguel’s bicep possessively as you struggle to keep up with the flow of conversation.

Now you wouldn’t say you’re an insecure person, sure you have your insecurities like everyone else, but they don’t plague your mind, or weigh heavily on you as you go about your day-to-day business. Right now, though? As you take in Xina, her long thick dark hair, her stunning almond eyes that sparkle with intelligence, the flawlessness of her skin, the way she so easily keeps up with Miguel as they discuss the intersection between genetics and robotics, you’re feeling pretty insecure.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking, when making your calculations you have to factor in the deficiencies in the code, just as you have to factor in potential genetic flaws.” Xina says, a smile tugging at the edge of her lips, excitement clear on her face.

“Of course, with genetics it’s harder to eradicate flaws than in code, but I could see it following a similar pattern.” Miguel responds, nodding at her words.

You’re so lost. If they wanted to discuss the intricacies of the English language or the way philosophers can so heavily affect the development of a nation’s culture you would be there, front row and ready, but science? Science is not your forte.

Xina laughs and smacks Miguel’s arm, pulling you out of your thoughts, Miguel is laughing too so you do the same which draws her attention to you.

“Oh, y/n, I’m so sorry, we’ve been so rude, what do you think?” She asks, and you can’t tell if she’s genuinely curious, or just hates you.

You stumble for a moment, then say, “I agree with Miguel.”

She laughs again. “You think Charles Darwin would be a good computer programmer?”

Miguel joins in, and for the first time ever his laughter sounds sour to your ears.

“Oh, um, no, I just—”

Xina smiles sympathetically at you, but it feels a bit patronizing. “It’s okay, not everyone can keep up with us.”

Okay, maybe running and hiding was a good idea.

“Y/N is actually top of her sorority for GPA, she’s read more books than anyone else I know, and she helps me write all my lab reports.” Miguel jumps in.

“That’s so cute.” Xina coos, looking at you as if you were a kindergartener presenting her with a crayon scribbled drawing.

You give her a tight smile, then squeeze Miguel’s bicep. “Hey, I’m gonna head to class, but I’ll see you later?”

He nods, and lets you go, reabsorbed in his conversation with Xina.

You toy with the bracelet Miguel got you as you sit at your desk, waiting for class to start. It’s a pretty thing, a birthday present, simple and elegant, highlighting your birthstone, the words, mi dulce, engraved on the inside in a small, flowy script. It jingles pleasantly as you mess with it, and glints under the florescent lights.

“The professor isn’t here yet, right?” Kelsey slides into her desk next to you and starts unpacking her bag.

“No, he’s running a little late.” You say, absentmindedly shading one corner of the blank page in your notebook with your pencil.

“Okay, good because I have something kinda fucked up to show you.” She says, pulling out her phone and scrolling until she finds what she’s looking for.

You lean towards her, the thought of gossip perking you up a bit.

“So, you know that Ava girl, the bitch who used to date your man?”

“I wish I didn’t, but yes.” You grumble, feeling that familiar gloom settle back over you.

“Okay well she’s been trying to get with this Kappa Sig, and you know how the brothers are like obsessed with me because my brother is their president and an absolute legend as they always remind me.”

“Yeah, it’s the reason we got into their parties freshman year.”

Kelsey’s brother was a decent guy, all things considered. Older than you two by a year or so, with the charisma of a cult leader but lacking the desire to start a cult. Throughly satisfied with his fraternity and the Fortune 500 company he’ll go on to work at once he graduates. He was nice enough, extending his protection to you and anyone else close to his sister while in the Kappa Sig house.

“So, one of them texted me about her trying to sleep her way through the frat, but then, my brother sent me this video. I gotta warn you, it’s not school appropriate.” She says as she slowly turns the screen towards you.

At first, you recoil. It’s Ava, half naked, and some guy, on a bed that looks vaguely familiar. The guy’s face is out of the frame, but he’s shirtless, his pants pushed down exposing his dick to the camera, Ava’s hand wrapped around it pumping furiously. “Um, what the fuck is this?”

“Just wait.” Kelsey says quietly, glancing around the room to make sure no one else is watching. They’re not, they’re too busy with their own phones or side conversations.

You half watch the video, feeling weird about watching, your idea of a good time isn’t watching your boyfriend’s psycho ex jack some guy off.

The guy finishes, his hips bucking and Ava saying something you can’t hear since Kelsey’s sound is off.

The camera shakes as Ava picks it up and shows off the face of the man. Dark hair, glazed brown eyes with hints of crimson, perfectly formed lips parted. You know that face, but you don’t want to accept it.

“Is that Miguel?” You’re horrified, sick to your stomach, head spinning, every unpleasant feeling and sensation you could feel erupting all at once.

You can see Ava go to grab his face, guide him lower, moving to take off her underwear, and you turn your head, unable to watch any longer.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know when it was filmed, but Darren said he had one of the brothers send it to him yesterday then made all of them delete the video from their phones. He knows Miguel’s your boyfriend, said he was just looking out for you.” Kelsey puts away her phone and looks at you, eyes searching your face, before giving you a one-armed hug. “I’m so sorry y/n, I can ask him to see if he can find out when it was filmed?”

You want to cry, you really, really want to cry. “It looks recent, that’s Miguel’s bed, I’ve been there, I’ve slept on that bed, I—I can’t think about this right now. Thank you for telling me, and tell your brother I said thanks too.”

Kelsey nods and squeezes you tighter before letting go and giving you a sad smile.

The professor finally shows up, and you throw yourself into your notetaking, graphite digging into the pristine white paper as you try to drown out the images in your head with the sound of your professor droning on.

Part 2 here!!!

TL: @bat-bae, @nyctophilic0vitnir, @smokeywhalee, @obi-mom-kenobi, @prowlingforfood, @penggion, @crystal-crax, @oharasfilipinawife, @generalkenobitrash, @melsimps, @chrishy973, @farrowroyale, @palesatan, @scaryplanetdestroyer, @denzmallows, @36namey, @scoobysnakz, @ihateuguys, @idkbros-world @smartyren, @deputy-videogamer, @blackrose8425, @amberpanda99, @marshhbs, @queerponcho

[zorume-star]

Front Populaire ! Union de la Gauche aux Législatives de l'Urgence

À l'initiative de plusieurs député·es de gauche, le Front Populaire nait ! En espérant que ça aille très vite très loin et qu'on remporte les élections législatives que notre président nous impose en moins de 20 jours...

https://frontpopulaire-2024.fr/

Pour rappel :

les élections européennes finissent avec l'extrême-droite en premier parti en France, et de manière globale une montée de l'extrême-droite et des conservateurs,

la gauche a fait des résultats médiocres, les partis écolos sont descendus en flèche... Bref, rien ne va,

Macron a annoncé la dissolution de l'Assemblée Nationale dans la foulée des résultats, nous imposant des élections législatives pour la remplacer les 30 juin et 7 juillet.

Il faut répliquer, vite et fort ! Ce n'est pas le moment de se décourager, mais bien d'agir !

Interpellez les député·s (ou candidat·es) de gauche de votre circonscription pour lui demander (imposer) de rejoindre le Front Populaire. Cela inclut évidemment les écolos, il faut remettre de l'écologie dans la politique. C'est vital.

On a pas le temps pour chipoter, pour choisir un programme parfait ou quoi que ce soit. On doit avoir une liste commune et tou·tes voter pour, c'est tout. Sinon les fascistes (Rassemblement National) risquer de frôler la majorité...

Faites tourner, ne restez pas seul·e dans votre coin, rejoignez un groupe local de votre parti (même si c'est juste pour avoir les infos et ne pas forcément participer aux réunions ou quoi, osef), collez des affiches, gueulez dans la rues, sortez en manifestation, faites en sorte de ne laisser personne se dire que voter RN c'est pas si mauvais que ça.

Y'a des vies en jeu.

Si vous ne le faites pas pour vous, faites-le pour vos ami·es, ou juste par sympathie/compassion/empathie pour les autres. Pour le futur. Whatever. Y'a toujours une bonne raison de se battre ✊

[wladimirkaminer]

Unser Misstrauen anderen Menschen gegenüber hat bekanntlich zwei Gründe. Der eine Grund ist, wir kennen die anderen nicht. Und der zweite Grund ist, wir kennen sie nur allzu gut. Ich hatte große Zweifel, dass der Heizungsinstallateur, laut eigener Bezeichnung ein „Spezialist für Wartung, Lüftung, Klimatechnik“ tatsächlich wie versprochen am ersten Montag des neuen Jahres um 8 Uhr kommen würde, aber für alle Fälle stellte ich den Wecker auf zehn vor acht. Wenn er nicht kommt, dann frühstücke ich in Ruhe und rufe ihn an, so dachte ich. Meine Heizung war alt und machte komische Geräusche, ich wollte mich nicht blamieren, wenn Habeck mal in meine Küche kommt. Ich wollte nicht, dass er friert.

Bewundernswerterweise erschien der Spezialist noch bevor mein Wecker klingelte. „Und der Merz wird es auch nicht schaffen,“ sagte der Heizungsmensch statt einer Begrüßung, so als hätten wir uns nicht vor drei Jahren, sondern erst gestern Abend in der Kneipe das letzte Mal getroffen. „Danke fürs Kommen“ antwortete ich. Er fuhr seine Politinformation weiter fort: die AfD wäre vielleicht die Lösung, aber auch Schnee von gestern, ihr Programm sei doch das der CDU von 1990. Die AfD war ihm also auch zu lasch. „Wir bräuchten einen wie Putin, einen echten Mann mit harter Hand, oder?“ Damit wollte er mir, einem Russen, wahrscheinlich ein Kompliment machen. Aus meiner Erfahrung mit Angehörigen der Berufsgruppe „Dienstleister“, weiß ich, dass Taxifahrer und Handwerker oft radikale politische Ansichten pflegen, während Frisöre und Bäcker eher liberal eingestellt sind. Wäre Putin bloß Taxifahrer geworden, hätten wir einige Probleme weniger, dachte ich und versuchte diplomatisch das Gespräch in Richtung Grönland und meine Heizung zu lenken.

[kilfeur]

Décidément j'enchaîne les épisodes préférés ! Pour Raoul je m'étais déjà demandé ce qui arrivait aux criminels pendant la menace du Papillon. Est ce qu'on les gardait en prison ou bien est ce qu'ils étaient placés en dehors de Paris ? Et le programme seconde chance montre que justement son père veut profiter de ce programme et va utiliser son fils pour un vol. Et Ivan ne veut pas le faire, laissant une lettre à son père. Et bien sûr, son père le prend mal et est akumatisé. Ivan aime son père mais de l'autre, il craint de devenir comme lui. Et c'est compréhensible, son ressenti est complexe et c'est difficile à gérer surtout pour un ado de son âge. Et justement l'amour qu'il a envers son père et refuser de faire part à ses magouilles ne sont pas incompatibles. Et sa relation avec son père contraste avec celle d'Adrien, qui lui croit que son père est un héro. Ivan sait que son père n'est pas une bonne personne mais veut se reconnecter avec son père mais selon ses termes.

C'est pour ça que la scène où il fait face à son père est forte. Cette fois ci, il peut contre attaquer avec l'aide de Ladybug et Chat Noir. Et en tant que Minotaure, il montre que son fils a été plus fort que lui. En reprenant la lettre, Raoul décide de faire un effort pour son fils. Et il a intérêt à ne pas revenir sur sa parole sinon il pourrait très bien perdre son fils pour toujours ! Et Adrien, on voit que Gabriel n'a pas été un père abusif dés le début. Il aimait faire rire son fils mais lorsqu'Emilie est tombée malade ! Il a commencé à changer et Adrien n'arrive pas à comprendre ce changement.

D'ailleurs Gabriel avait laissé une lettre et cette lettre montre bien qu'il ne connait pas vraiment son fils. Il a juste une image de fils "idéale" et "parfait" qu'Adrien devrait suivre. Mais justement Adrien a pu aller de l'avant concernant le deuil de sa mère chose que Gabriel n'a pas été capable de faire. Même vers la fin de la s5, il choisit de mourir avec Emilie plutôt que d'affronter les conséquences de ses actes. Et Marinette au début, se demande avec Nathalie si elles doivent détruire la lettre. Mais en voyant les questions d'Adrien, elle préfère le cacher. Alors au premier abord, c'est vache ! Mais quand on y réfléchit deux secondes ça fait sens, Marinette veut le mieux pour Adrien. Nathalie veut protéger son fils en détruisant la lettre. Marinette en le voyant pense qu'il vaut mieux garder ça secret. Chose qui revient dans Revelator quand elle dit que c'est une "cruelle vérité" ! Elle pense qu'ainsi Adrien souffrira moins. Or elle ne voit pas qu'Adrien souffre de son mensonge. Le message de cet épisode est clair, ça fait peur de faire face à la vérité mais il est important de le faire pour grandir. Et il dit ça en regardant Adrien. Ce qui est assez similaire avec ce qu'a dit Alya sur la vérité est nécessaire pour se construire !

Quand au conseil, je vois pas l'intérêt de Nathalie de trahir Marinette. Elle a rien à y gagner en faisant ça en revanche comme elle était l'assistante de Gabriel. Elle se retrouve coincée et elle doit reprendre la relève. Et le conseil sait que désormais Ladybug a menti et il est probable qu'ils s'allient avec Chrysalis pour récupérer les miraculous de Ladybug et Chat Noir.

Clearly, I've got one favorite episode after another! For Raoul, I'd already wondered what happened to criminals during the Hawkmoth threat. Were they kept in prison or placed outside Paris? And the Second Chance program shows that Ivan's father wants to take advantage of this program and is going to use his son for a robbery. And Ivan doesn't want to do it, leaving a letter for his father. And of course, his father takes it badly and is akumatized. Ivan loves his father, but on the other hand, he's afraid of becoming like him. And understandably so: his feelings are complex and difficult to deal with, especially for a teenager his age. But his love for his father and his refusal to take part in his schemes are not incompatible. And his relationship with his father contrasts with Adrien's, who believes his father is a hero. Ivan knows that his father is not a good person, but wants to reconnect with him on his own terms.

That's why the scene where he confronts his father is so effective. This time, he can counterattack with the help of Ladybug and Chat Noir. And as Minotaurox, he shows that his son was stronger than he was. Taking back the letter, Raoul decides to make an effort for his son. And he'd better not go back on his word, or he could very well lose his son forever! As for Adrien, we can see that Gabriel wasn't an abusive father from the start. He liked to make his son laugh, but when Emilie fell ill! He started to change and Adrien can't understand it.

Besides, Gabriel had left a letter, and this letter shows that he doesn't really understand his son. He just has an image of the “ideal” and “perfect” son that Adrien should follow. But it's precisely Adrien who has been able to move forward in mourning his mother, something Gabriel has not been able to do. Even towards the end of s5, he chooses to die with Emilie rather than face the consequences of his actions. And Marinette, at first, wonders with Nathalie whether they should destroy the letter. But when she sees Adrien's questions, she prefers to hide it. So at first sight, it's a bit nasty! But when you think about it for a second, it makes sense: Marinette wants the best for Adrien. Nathalie wants to protect her son by destroying the letter. When Marinette sees it, she thinks it's best to keep it a secret. Something that comes back in Revelator when she says it's a “cruel truth”! She thinks it will make Adrien suffer less. But she doesn't realize that Adrien is suffering because of her lie. The message of this episode is clear: it's scary to face the truth, but it's important to do so in order to grow up. And he says this by looking at Adrien. Which is quite similar to what Alya said about the truth being necessary to build yourself up!

As for the council, I don't see the point of Nathalie betraying Marinette. She has nothing to gain by doing that but since she was Gabriel's assistant. Now she's stuck and has to take over. And the council knows that Ladybug has now lied, and it's likely that they'll join forces with Chrysalis to get the miraculous back from Ladybug and Chat Noir.

[ervikirvi]

Headcanons that eventually I’m going to turn into an AU once I figure out how to make a Visual Novel:

- Kinger taught Queenie how to use a gun, with deadly accuracy

-Queenie was much better at building the pillow fort than Kinger

-The pillow fort used to have fairy lights

-The pillow fort also used to have blankets to make it a little more comfortable

-Queenie’s weapon of choice would be a machete

-If Kinger knew how, he would’ve hidden Queenie in his room when she abstracted

-The fact that he didn’t still haunts him to this day

-Kinger kept himself away from the others after Queenie’s abstraction in fear that he’d hurt somebody

-The others had a secret meeting to vote on what they should do with Kinger after Queenie’s abstraction (they thought it wasn’t going to be long before Kinger abstracted, so they treated him like he was a threat)

-Kinger could do nothing but stare silently at Queenie’s picture during her funeral, he looked like he was on the verge of crying but couldn’t get it out

-Kinger and Queenie were absolutely the mom and dad of the group, and were essentially the leaders

-Kinger wishes that he could remember the others, but only when he’s in darkness for an extended period of time + has something to remind him with he can get glimpses or random facts about them

-Kinger used to go into Queenie’s room all the time to sob into one of her robes (“If he isn’t in his room, then he’s crying in Queenie’s”)

-Ragatha is Queenie’s successor, so she got to witness Kinger’s descent into insanity

-Dobby made the king and queen chess pieces (of their respective colors) to look like Kinger and Queenie, which he showed to them in the pillow fort

-After Queenie’s death, the black queen chess piece went missing, it only showed back up after Dobby’s death in front of his door

-If Kinger went into one of the abstracted player’s rooms, he’d be able to remember them

-Kinger’s room is a complete mess, much like Kaufmo’s, but everything is torn apart and Queenie’s name is scribbled all over the walls along with “I’M SORRY”, “WHAT IS HER NAME?”, “WHAT ARE THEIR NAMES?”, “IT’S MY FAULT”, and a bunch of other things

-Kinger’s hyperfixation on bugs started whenever he went into Queenie’s room, got all stressed out, broke the butterfly enclosure, and one landed on his hand (It grounded him to reality)

-Dobby and Ragatha quickly became friends, and were the only ones who defended Kinger during those secret meetings (mostly Dobby because Ragatha was kind of scared of Kinger)

-The worm-on-a-string abstracted first while Kinger was on a solo adventure with Caine, so Kinger had no clue what happened and came back to his friend being dead (he didn’t believe she was truly gone at first because it’s already been established that they can’t die)

-anyways so whenever Queenie abstracted, Kinger was the one who discovered her, you can only imagine how that went

-Dobby was 16 (nearly 17) when he joined the circus, and the only minor TO join the circus

-Dobby was a volunteer as C&A

-Dobby was very close to Queenie and Kinger, so after Queenie’s abstraction, basically both of them died that night so Dobby did not last long after their deaths

-The “Originals” to the circus are: Kinger, Queenie, Dobby, the purple bat-rat, and the worm-on-a-string

-Back then, adventures were pretty much once a week since Caine was still new at this

-Kinger and Queenie were the lead programmers in making the circus, so Kinger felt personally guilty for everyone being there and made it his personal mission to get everyone out. Queenie on the other hand, understood that it wasn’t their fault this happened, and was Kinger’s voice of reason when he started to spiral because of it

-After the worm’s death Kinger was hellbent on finding and exit even more, he stopped listening to Queenie’s reasonings

-Abstraction terrified Kinger, the thought of any more of his loved ones succumbing to it kept him up at night

-Kinger was around the other’s less because of him desperately trying to find an exit (which also led to him accidentally neglecting his wife)

-Now Kinger wishes that he spent more time with them, and that he tried harder to stay sane for them

-After Kinger went crazy, any sense of normalcy and structure fell apart

-The worm, Queenie, and Dobby’s abstractions were only months apart from each other, with Queenie and Dobby’s being much closer (The rest only lasted for like a year before abstracting)

-Abstraction is a parallel to suicide (poor Kinger did not know that until he almost abstracted)

-While they technically don’t need to sleep, they can still get mentally tired and sleep anyways

-Kinger and Queenie flip flopped between who’s room they’d sleep in (they always slept in the same bed, or just with each other in the pillow fort)

//I will be deleting this once I start the Visual Novel, these are mostly just facts and scenes I’ve been thinking about since October

//Be warned that these will change based on what routes you take, especially the order of abstraction and character relationships

[papakhan]

A Khan’s death shroud. But rather than the white linen of the Followers, the Khans laid him to rest with his weapons. Shrouding the dead was something Luke had done many times at the Fort. It was a four-man job. To clean and dress the body. Luke imagined Jessup and McMurphy tucking a bottlecap into his cold palm, wrapping dead fingers around a knife that wasn't theirs. Kneeling to button his coat, like one might with a child on a cold night. He should have found it morbid. The thought of accomplices to his murder playing with his corpse like a doll after his death should have been grotesque. But he couldn’t help but feel cared for. Just the same for all the patients he had wrapped in white linen. The courier gig was supposed to be a break from the stress of emergency medicine. Luke Thorn is a man of science and healing, a man who knows the cold grip of death.

Hiii this is my latest fic and the First to star my courier. Jessup Companion Recruitment Fic!!

CW: Descriptions of death and deadly medical disease, medical procedures, blood and gore

Mirrored right here and on Toyhouse [6.6k words]

It was difficult to climb the rubble that was once Boulder City with hands raised and palms open, but when walking into an active hostage situation, one should not take any chances. Luke Thorn stumbled on the crumbling concrete and landed hard on his feet, the slap of his boots echoed through the broken buildings. A Khan with a hefty-looking automatic rifle shifted uneasily behind the twisted remains of an old-world bus stop. 

This was not a subject on the Follower’s Emergency Medical Training Programme, which Luke was starting to believe was an oversight. The Khan had her gun trained on him and watched him. Luke cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. ‘Hello’ felt redundant, but what else was there to say? ‘Good morning are you the fine fellows holding some soldiers hostage who may or may not have also shot me in the head some weeks back?’ Don’t be ridiculous. 

Luke licked his lips. The Khan had an eyepatch, something that should have made her distinctive. Still, she didn’t look especially familiar… but nobody did these days. As it turned out, taking a couple of bullets to the brain scrambled a few senses. But not so bad that Luke couldn’t see that the Khan was growing nervous. And nervous raiders with heavy weaponry only increased his chances of being shot. 

“Uh-- Hi!” Luke said, his voice pitching with his own apprehension, “Can I talk to the guy in charge, please?”

The Khan squinted at him, “Who are you?”

“Luke Thorn, EMT. I’m a Follower of the Apocalypse,” Used to be, at least. 

The Khan glanced away and towards a nearby building. If Luke had to guess, she was exchanging quiet words with another Khan. And if she was so confident to look away, there must be another Khan with a gun trained on him somewhere unseen. Comforting. 

“Come closer,” She said, eyes on him again, “Keep your hands up.”

Luke picked a careful path through the rubble. He eyed the buildings, looking for more Khans. One in the doorway, two on the roof, and another two further in the building. The last pair weren’t paying attention to him, they watched someone else. Hostages, if Luke had to guess. 

Bus-stop-Khan rose to her feet, her gun still pointed at Luke’s chest. She tossed her head in a direction and Luke walked in it, towards the only building still mostly intact. Inside was lit with dim lanterns burning oil. Years ago, this place was probably a shop, but now all that was left were countertops and bare shelves. Glass crunched under Luke’s boots as he was ushered inside. Behind the counter, a dirty curtain separated the once shop from what Luke could only assume were the storage rooms. It looked like the place had been hit with a bomb, and as far as Luke knew, it had been.  

“Jessup,” The Khan hissed into the dim, “We got a Follower here.” 

The tense stillness Luke had become accustomed to shattered. Someone groped at the curtains and whipped them away. Jessup, the man who stumbled out was all limbs, tall and trim, with pale freckled skin and bright ginger hair. He stared at Luke with the wide eyes of a wild animal. There were dark rings under those eyes, and what had once been a mohawk had particularly collapsed, some of it laying slick against Jessup’s forehead. An old instinct whispered to Luke, telling him to run. He ignored it. 

“What the fuck,” Jessup croaked, “You’re that courier…”

Ah. 

“Were you the one who shot me?” 

Jessup scrunched up his face and his lips parted in a sneer, revealing crooked white teeth, “I didn’t shoot you. That was that snake, Benny.”

Benny. That was the name Manny had mentioned. 

“Listen it’s-- fine. I don’t have a thing for faces anymore, just wanted to check I wasn’t talking to my murderer. Just-- an accomplice.”  

Jessup had a difficult face to read, or maybe that was just the head injury. His lips formed a thin line as he squinted at Luke across the room.

“I didn’t know you were a Follower,” He said, "Wouldn't of taken the job if I did."

The Followers and Khans were friends once. Luke had not been part of the medics sent to train the raiders in advance first aid and minor surgery. Too many emergency cases back at the Fort. But he knew Ezekiel, the man in charge of the relief efforts. Ezekiel had been most understanding of Luke's departure from the Followers. As enthusiastic as Ezekiel was about his job, even he felt the NCR's stranglehold on the region was beginning to impact their work. 

"I don't wear the coat these days," Luke muttered, "Let's forget about it for now. I want to help you guys out of here." 

“NCR knows our terms,” Jessup growled, “Look, I got a guy hurt back here. If he doesn’t get help he’ll die. What else am I supposed to do?”

“I’ll help him,” Luke felt the words come from his mouth before he could stop them.

There was a glassy shine to Jessup’s hazelnut eyes, Luke could see that even in the dim light of the broken room. He blinked rapidly and pursed his lips tight. Looked at Luke then looked away. Luke knew the feeling well. Knew it every day he worked in Old Mormon Fort. Stressed. Overwhelmed. About to break. 

“It’ll be okay,” Luke said, his hands still by his head, “I’ll help you.”

Finding a vein on the other Khan’s arm was as easy as breathing. McMurphy, the injured Khan, was a young man, strong. Good arms and good veins. Even in the dim light, Luke could feel where he was meant to go. Back in the Fort, he’d have another with him, a nurse or EMT, someone else to prepare the drugs. But he didn’t have that luxury here, just one anxious and suspicious raider hovering beside him. Luke slid the needle into McMurphy’s arm. 

He ran through medical checks in his mind. Airways, breathing, circulation. The first two were fine, the third. He’d been shot in the abdomen, close range. Jessup said the bullet came out the other side. They’d dressed the wound well and Luke didn’t dare disturb the white gauze. Could be anything. A high heart rate and low blood pressure indicated internal bleeding. Haemorrhage at best, perforated bowel at worst. At least with a haemorrhage, he could do something. And if he couldn’t the death would be quick, merciful, like falling asleep. Especially with the morphine the Khans had already given McMurphy. A perforated bowel though? Death by sepsis. A slow killer. Faeces would leak into the body, contaminating other organs. The mind would give way to infection, boil the body alive trying to fight it. Luke had seen it before, smelt the death of it. He dressed the cannula and reached for his bag. 

He had an IV bag of fluid meant for someone else. Julie would understand. Why are you doing this? He connected the line and held it to Jessup. 

“Hold this above your head,” Luke said.

Jessup did as he was told, looking for all the world like he had surrendered. Hands by his head, fear in his eyes. Luke caught him glance up at the bag, squint at the words on it. But he didn’t question. Didn’t fight. He watched the drip, drip, drip of the IV. 

“It’ll make your arm feel cold,” Luke warned a barely conscious McMurphy. He was going through the motions, a dance he’d done a hundred times before. Head injury or not, some things you did not forget. 

Luke rummaged in his bag again. Say it was a perforation. A cover of antibiotics wouldn’t save him, but it’d give them time. Time for what exactly? Luke didn’t think that far ahead. The man deserved a chance. All of them did. Luke’s fingers curled around a cold vial of powdered antibiotics. Why are you doing this?

“Has he had penicillin before?” Luke didn’t expect an answer.

“What?” Jessup asked, then shook his head, “I mean, yeah. I think. He broke his leg when we were kids, n’ the bone poked out his skin. They gave him some shit. Penicillin, I think.” 

Of course, the Khans and their drugs. Penicillin was simple enough to synthesise. It was an equal shot that this vial could be from Red Rock or Boneyard. Just the same as the morphine syringes littered on the floor. Luke shook his head. He tried not to think about how Jessup and McMurphy knew each other from childhood. 

“Right, good, because I don’t have anything else.” That was bad practice. Lots of people were allergic to penicillin. But what could you do?

 Luke mixed the penicillin with saline and shook the syringe. A yellowish goop formed inside as it sloshed and rolled. He pinched the IV line and pushed in his antibiotics. Give it slow, is what the textbooks said. Give it fast, screamed the world. 

“Why are you doing this?”

A question Luke thought he’d heard before. He frowned, “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No,” Jessup said, quick like he was afraid Luke would vanish into thin air, “No, I just-- Don’t get it.”

Luke didn’t have an answer, not a real one. Not one that made sense. Why? Because a long time ago Luke learnt that life was precious. Because no one deserved to die like this. Because he hated the NCR. Because this was the only way the Khans would accept their terms. He gave the answer he thought most acceptable, “I’m a Follower.”

Jessup wrinkled his nose and his grip on the IV bag wavered, “Followers left us to rot before now, that ain’t it.” 

Penicillin was best given over four minutes while watching carefully for any adverse reactions. Not that Luke had any adrenaline for an allergic reaction.

“I can’t leave when folks are hurting,” Luke said, watching McMurphy’s breathing, “Can’t ever turn my back. It’s why I left them.” 

“Left who?” 

Luke glanced at Jessup and knew that he knew. Jessup’s lips pressed into a line again. His eyes looked like glass marbles. Shiny and smooth. He was wary. Of course he was. Luke felt like he had no control over his mouth. He’d always bickered, always kicked back before. But never talked himself in circles like this before. He decided it best to answer the unasked question.

“I left because-- I couldn’t take it anymore. The stress got to me. But I know what I’m doing.” 

Jessup was quiet. He watched McMurphy. The steady rise and fall of his chest. Luke could talk himself into believing that breathing was steadying. That IV fluids and antibiotics would save a life that night. But fate was never so kind. Luke eyed the bandages poking out under McMurphy’s leathers, blood kissed through the layers of off-white. 

“We buried you like a Khan, you know,” Jessup said. 

Luke shuddered. What was the saying? Like someone walked over his grave? His eyes trailed from McMurphy to Jessup. Those eyes were on him again, shiny and wet. Luke looked away and watched his antibiotics. 

“How so?” He asked.

“Knife in your hand, gun on your hip, caps in your pocket and one in your palm. We untied you too. And I buttoned your coat,” Jessup’s voice sounded dreamlike as if recounting hazy memories. He huffed a humourless laugh, “It’s so you have shit with you in case you come back.”

Luke’s frown only deepened, “Do your dead do that often?”

“Once. It was an old story.”

A Khan’s death shroud. But rather than the white linen of the Followers, the Khans laid him to rest with his weapons. Shrouding the dead was something Luke had done many times at the Fort. It was a four-man job. To clean and dress the body. Luke imagined Jessup and McMurphy tucking a bottlecap into his cold palm, wrapping dead fingers around a knife that wasn't theirs. Kneeling to button his coat, like one might with a child on a cold night. He should have found it morbid. The thought of accomplices to his murder playing with his corpse like a doll after his death should have been grotesque. But he couldn’t help but feel cared for. Just the same for all the patients he had wrapped in white linen. Even those who came to the Fort with no one, those who died with Luke as their only company. He couldn’t help but feel warm hands on his cold skin. Feel the attention and care of the Khans who thought of their stories and prepared him for the cold earth like he was one of them. 

“We should have just scared you. That’s what I wanted to do, what I told Benny to do. Rob you, scare you, let you go. But Benny wanted you dead. Called you a loose end. Should have known he’d think we were loose ends too.” 

Luke didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Nothing sensible. Nothing that made sense. He pushed through the rest of the antibiotics and unpinched the IV line. The fluid dripped through again. 

“That’s all I can do for now.”

Jessup chewed his lip. 

"So what happens now? Is he gonna live?" 

Probably not. 

Luke sucked on his teeth, "He'll still need a clinic, at least. Even just to stabilise him before Old Mormon Fort-- or Red Rock." 

"There was a doctor in Novac," Jessup said. 

Novac was a lot closer than any Follower outposts Luke knew off-hand. In theory, it was the best idea. But if Ada Stratus had been a doctor anywhere Luke had worked, he probably would have strangled her. Medical know-how was only half the story, but no one should trust a doctor who couldn't respect her patients. If they took McMurphy to her, Luke would probably find himself performing surgery on Manny Vargas' kitchen table. 

Surgery was a bad idea at this stage. If it wasn't a perforation, cutting into him would only risk more bleeding. And with Ada Stratus at the helm, probably a risk of her slicing into his bowel. Luke looked down at McMurphy's dressing. IV fluids could bulk out blood lost from a haemorrhage, but they were no replacement for a blood transfusion. Luke couldn't see himself trusting any blood products from Ada either. He would have to go with them to keep the so-called doctor from doing anything dangerous.

"You guys know your blood types?" 

Jessup peeled back McMurphy's jacket. There were off-white patches stitched to the inside, each scrawled with seemingly random information. A date, some map coordinates, and some words Luke didn't recognise. One square of fabric proudly read "AB+". Luke thanked whichever Follower doctor or medic had the patience to teach the Khans drugs and medicine. 

"Think it's that," Jessup said sheepishly, tapping the square. He pulled back his own jacket and read what Luke assumed was his own stitched patch, "Mine ain't the same." 

"Doesn't matter, your friend is a universal receiver. He can have any blood." 

"Great, he can have mine," Jessup looked hopeful, half a smile on his face, "Let's do it now."

"Let's get out of a hostage situation first," Luke said. 

Jessup's face fell and his eyes darted around, remembering himself. 

"I ain't surrendering, Murph' needs help and that soldier will let him die." 

"He needs to get out of this building, soldier or not," Staying here was a death sentence, but giving up your only bargaining chip probably felt like one too, "I helped you now you help me. Let me take the hostages and I'll negotiate with the NCR." 

Trust me, please. Don't make this any harder. 

Jessup's mouth formed that thin line again. His fingers drummed on the IV bag. Luke watched him consider it, weigh up his options. His pink tongue licked his chapped lips. He watched McMurphy's breathing. Please. 

"All right, take the hostages," Jessup hissed through his teeth. His brown eyes looked hard at Luke, "You better make sure NCR keeps their end of the deal, though."

If they didn't, those fluids and antibiotics would have gone to waste, Luke thought but did not speak. 

*

“I repeat. All troops, stand down,” Lieutenant Monroe’s voice crackled through the radio one of the troopers wore as Luke passed by them again, “Let the Khans pass with the Follower.”

The troops grumbled and glared out from under their helmets but they held their guns loose, just waiting for an excuse to draw them. At least they were obedient. Monroe had been more reasonable than Luke had expected, but at the same time all too quick to dismiss the Khan's situation. Sometimes it’s better to call a win a win and Luke was grateful Monroe understood that. 

McMurphy was in no state to walk-- or really even be upright-- but right now Luke and the Khans did not possess the luxury of choice. He was awake enough to keep his head up. But whether from the morphine or the blood loss, not awake enough to keep his legs moving. Luke, with IV bag in hand, trotted beside Jessup and bus-stop-Khan, who Luke found was called Destiny, who half carried, half dragged McMurphy through the rubble. 

Half of all bowel perforations end in death, even with treatment. Luke had been taught long ago that if someone was to die, they should be made comfortable, not dragged halfway across the wasteland. Even if it wasn’t a perforation, all this movement could dislodge the clots holding in blood, and he could haemorrhage again. Luke hadn’t thought of that before insisting they move. But he couldn’t turn his back. Part of him always fought. Always hoped. 

Novac was a three-hour walk but a half-hour drive. The Khans had their motorbikes, the things they were famed for. The how and why of their ability to outpace Luke and his delivery of the platinum chip. According to Jessup, they were hidden just before the 188.

“Benny said he wanted to walk from there, be less conspicuous, he said,” Jessup huffed, spitting every symbol of conspicuous, “Didn’t get why. Now I know. Was so he could shoot McMurphy and run without us catching him.”

“He’s fast?” Luke asked.

“Didn’t need to be,” Jessup said, adjusting McMurphy’s arm around his shoulders as they walked, “He fired at those soldiers and ran at them like he was running from us. Like we’d fired at them.”

Luke did not want to admit Benny was smart but even he had to admit there was some serious forethought in that move. Conniving might be a better word. It seemed he was a little too reliant on the killing power of a 9mm pistol. Seemed to have a little too many enemies left alive.

Not that Luke felt like Benny’s enemy. He couldn’t even remember his face. But he had to find him. Even if it was just to ask him ‘why?’. Why was his life so meaningless? So easy to throw away? Why did so many have to die for some fancy old-world collectable? And then maybe he’d shake him. Or slap him. Or kill him. Luke did not enjoy the thought but it crept into his mind regardless.

“Bet he’s back at the Strip by now, laughing at me,” Jessup growled.

Being left unable to recognise Benny was a significant disadvantage, no matter what Luke planned on doing with him when they finally crossed paths again. If Benny recognised him, there was no telling what he’d do. Having someone around who knew his face, knew not to trust him, would be helpful.

“I’m going after Benny,” Luke said, eyeing Jessup for a reaction, “I’d appreciate the company.”

Jessup barely reacted at all, eyes hard and straight ahead, “One thing at a time. I ain’t losing another brother to that snake.”

Luke squeezed the last of the fluid through the IV line, trying not to feel the fool for being spurned, “Alright, that’s fair enough. I’ll stick with you till he’s stable but after that…”

“We’ll talk,” Jessup said, “Revenge can always wait.”

The rest of Jessup’s crew crowded up ahead in the shade of a burnt-out old world building. Luke counted six all together, including Jessup, McMurphy and Destiny. They hauled their motorbikes out from under covers and sheets of metal and other impromptu hiding places. Luke was relieved to spot one of the bikes had a sidecar. 

“If the NCR found these, they’d confiscate them.” One of the Khans said to Luke, as they together shuffled McMurphy into the sidecar, “Weapons of war, they call them.”

It was a sentiment Luke could understand. The 80s ruled Utah with these machines for a reason. Luke knew very well. He’d personally felt the fear the Khans evoked by chasing down targets.

Like the NCR’s vertibirds or power armour. It didn’t justify confiscating them, but Luke could understand why. 

“How you holding up, ‘Murph?” Jessup asked.

McMurphy adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable, and his arms shook with the effort. Luke winced. A sheen of sweat on McMurphy’s skin shone under the sun. He didn’t look well. But he was awake, at least. 

“What’s going on?” McMurphy managed, his voice small and hollow. Luke hoped he was just confused from drifting in and out of consciousness, and not the start of a septic infection. 

“We’re going back to Novac,” Jessup threw a long leg over the bike’s leather saddle and pounded his foot against the kickstart. The motorbike roared to life and Luke felt the rumble deep in his chest.

And just like that, he was back. Back to that night. Luke had just spotted the humble glow of Goodsprings in the distance when he heard that rumble in the dark. The distant growl of engines creeping closer. He’d panicked. He’d run. But running from a machine like that was always futile. Easier to outrun a charging bull. The slap of his boots on the ground was drowned out by the roaring engines of the Khans bike. Then it was the cemetery. And then…

“Hey doctor guy, you with us?” 

Jessup stared at him from behind the handlebars. Luke blinked. He had half a kind to correct him. Tell Jessup and the other Khans that he wasn't a doctor, that he was more like a glorified paramedic or emergency nurse. But he knew that was no comfort. No reason make these people doubt him. Especially considering what they'd already done to him. 

But Luke thought of his grave again. His death shroud. He chewed his lip. 

Luke had never ridden a motorbike before. He’d straddled a horse before and had sat in the back of a jeep once. This felt like a blend of the two. The engine shuddered into his thighs as the machine roared beneath him. The Mojave whipped past with the wind as they flew across the baked earth, he and Destiny. Luke squinted hard into the sharp winds, wishing he’d pulled the goggles out of his bag to better enjoy the view. Though he wasn’t sure if ‘enjoy’ would be the right word. He held onto Destiny even though she had told him not to. But what else was there to hold onto? Luke tried at least to be tasteful and hold onto her jacket rather by his fingers than wrap his hands around her waist. 

It was a rush he'd never felt before. No sound but the wind. No smell but the air. Nothing to see except the blur of yellow orange earth and blue sky all around. And it was over before Luke had time to process it. 

The air he’d felt on the bike couldn’t have been more different than the air caught inside Manny Vargas’ apartment. Hot and suffocating. It fell on Luke like a blanket the second he’d stepped inside. The fan spinning lazily overhead did nothing to alleviate any of the five people inside. Luke felt the sticky warmth of his sweat-soaked shirt begin to stick to his back.

Manny Vargas had spotted them through his scope. Heard them too most likely. Luke watched the way Manny fumbled with his keys in panic, tossing the door open and ushering them all inside. He had insisted on McMurphy taking his bed, tried to comfort him with fluttering, loving hands while Jessup ran for the doctor. Like with Jessup and McMurphy sharing a childhood, Luke tried not to think about the way Manny had cupped McMurphy's face. Luke politely ignored the tears Manny scrubbed from his eyes. These men were close. All of them.

When the doctor arrived, Manny ushered most of the Khans outside. Left Luke alone with McMurphy, Jessup, and Doctor Straus' entourage.

“I mean Jesus, he looks half dead,” Ada Straus said, “This is gonna be expensive, you know that, right?”

Of course, the conversation did nothing to make Luke sweat any less. Jessup sat beside McMurphy, sprawled out in Manny’s bed, “How much?” 

“One hundred caps, at least.” 

“You haven’t even looked at him,” Luke hissed.

“I’m looking at him right now!” Ada threw her hands out, “It’s gonna be a lot of work! And a lot of my supplies!”

“As I’ve already explained: he’s been shot, he’s cannulated, and he’s had fluids, antibiotics and analgesia. He is of a universal blood group and we have one willing blood donor,” Luke explained, rapidly losing patience, “That’s at least half of what you’d be using.”

“Yeah, that hundred caps was a discount! I was gonna charge you two hundred!”

Luke rolled his eyes so hard his head hurt. Ada’s two guards shifted uncomfortably in the small room. While Manny had insisted that the other Khans give everyone some space, the room was still cramped with furniture and spare mattresses. The heat was starting to get to all of them.

“Just-- look at the wound and tell me if he needs surgery or not.” If the answer was ‘yes’ Luke would encourage the Khans to take McMurphy elsewhere for the procedure. 

Ada folded her arms across her chest, “Second opinions cost seventy-five caps.”

“Are you serious?” Luke snapped.

“You better stop fucking with us, lady,” Jessup spoke through gritted teeth. 

Luke watched Ada’s guards exchange a wary look behind her back. The younger of the two looked no older than twenty. His scruffy facial hair and pockmarked skin fought valiantly to make him look older, but it was clear to Luke that he was a teenager. The other guard could have been four times the boy’s age. Old but skilled, Luke did not doubt that between the two of them, they could protect Ada well against whatever got past Manny’s sniper scope. But here in this room, they were on edge. Luke could see that. And it didn’t take him long to realise why. Luke’s eyes trailed from them to Jessup, hunched over the bed like a coiled snake, glaring out at Ada from under a scowl. 

Ada was undeterred, “I’m not fucking with you. Frankly, you two are fucking with me! I’ve gotta make a living here.”

Luke glanced at Jessup. There was a gun strapped to his thigh, some shotgun-type thing, and another thrown over his back. His hand was a fist on the bed. Fighting Ada would be pointless. It would destroy Manny Vargas’ reputation, for one, and if Jessup killed her, it would mean the town would lose its one medical provider. No matter how deplorable Luke believed her to be, stripping the town of the one person who could treat radiation sickness and seemingly supplied the med-x would be a bad idea. 

“Now let’s all just-- calm down,” Luke attempted his best Julie Farkas impression, raising his hands passively.

Ada huffed through her nose. Jessup did not move. The guards didn’t either.

“I’ll give you the caps just please--”

“You ain’t giving her shit,” Jessup was on his feet and across the room in less than a second. 

The young guard raised his gun in warning. Jessup smacked the pistol from his hands. A shot fired harmlessly into Manny’s carpet. Jessup loomed over Ada as her guards backed into the door. The older guard held his arm protectively in front of the younger.

Jessup had been sat down so long Luke had forgotten how tall he was. How his spiked hair only made him look bigger. Luke bit the inside of his cheek as he stood, heart in his throat, unsure of what to do or say to de-escalate things.

“You guys alright in there?” Manny’s voice drifted from outside, alerted by the gunfire. 

“Fine,” Jessup said.

He leaned down to Ada until his face was inches from hers and growled. 

“If he dies because you didn’t do shit, I’m gonna kill you.” 

Luke believed it. He didn't want Ada dead but he believed Jessup. He would kill her. 

Ada gaped at him. Luke could see her mind working. Watched her squirm under the Khan's gaze. She glanced in the direction of her guards. Back at Jessup. Worked her mouth but made no sound. Evidently, the guards were not paid enough to mess with Khans. 

"Jesus Christ, fine!" Ada said, "I'll take a look."

Luke chewed his lip as Jessup stepped aside, a silent order for Ada to move. She shot a glare at Luke that he barely registered. Then she approached McMurphy on the bed. Jessup followed, stalking behind with a hand on his shotgun. Ada gingerly raised her hands, flexed her fingers and reached for McMurphy's skin. Then she stopped herself, pulling back and digging in her bag. She produced a dusty pair of gloves and Luke remembered himself. 

"There's a sink," Luke said. 

Ada sighed. She shot a pointed look at Jessup, who swung his head towards Luke and then back to Ada. 

"Go on then, I ain't gonna shoot you."

Yet. Luke felt the silent threat. 

Ada washed her hands in Manny’s sink and Luke followed suit. Jessup loomed over Ada as she worked. 

“I’m gonna poke you,” She said to McMurphy, who squinted suspiciously back at her, “So don’t let your friend kill me.”

McMurphy was more awake than he had been earlier, perhaps from the morphine wearing off. He lifted his arm and peeled back his jacket, presenting the bloody gauze to her.

Ada prodded at McMurphy’s skin, pushing from the wound at first and then moving closer to it. McMurphy groaned when she pressed close to his wound. Luke knew what she was doing. Feeling for swelling, distended abdomens filled with blood or the contents of one’s intestines could be felt from the outside. As she worked, Luke felt compelled to do something too. He pulled his manual blood pressure kit from his bag and started performing his vital signs. He wrapped the cuff around McMurphy’s arm and hooked the stethoscope into his ears before pumping the cuff full of air and taking his measurements. McMurphy’s blood pressure was higher than before, so the fluids had done their job at least for now. His heart rate still ran high, but small steps.

“How are you feeling, McMurphy?” Luke asked.

“Like shit,” McMurphy answered.

More aware of himself than he had been before, in Luke’s medical opinion. He felt that he could safely rule out any shock-induced confusion for the time being. Ada poked around some more before peeling carefully back the blood-stained dressing. Luke held his breath, waiting for blood to start gushing. But to his relief, the wound did nothing more than ooze a sticky deep red of half-congealed blood. Ada raised the gauze to her face and inspected it, then lowered her head to the wound. 

“I don’t think it’s a perf.” She said, leaning away to dig through her bag. 

“How so?” 

“Doesn’t smell like shit.” 

Luke had to admit, he hadn’t considered that line of thinking before. He wasn’t entirely sure it was accurate, but it made sense in the moment. 

“That’s good?” McMurphy asked, staring at the ceiling. 

“It’s one thing. The bullet could have hit something else. A kidney, an artery, maybe even the spleen if yours is in a weird place.”

Kidneys and spleens hadn’t been on Luke’s mind either. He chewed his lip. 

Ada produced a penlight from her bag and shone it above McMurphy’s wound, “What kinda peashooter was this?” 

“9mm.” Jessup groused.

Ada dabbed at the blood by the bullet wound and McMurphy hissed through his teeth and batted her away. Ada tutted. 

“Would you just man up, please?” 

Luke jumped in before Ada could say anything else she might regret, “Don’t you have any local?”

Ada stared at him, eyebrows furrowed, “Local what?”

Luke stared back at her incredulously, “Local anaesthetic?” 

“Oh. For an examination?”

It was going to be a long night.

*

A full course of antibiotics; some stitches or staples; tranexamic acid; some kind of scan; and possible surgery. Dr Ada Strauss’ prognosis and recommendations were equal parts helpful and unhelpful. Luke was just grateful that she didn’t further anger the Khans by asking for payment. She had more antibiotics and some tranexamic acid, which Manny Vargas paid for. But McMurphy still needed a clinic. Not Luke and not Ada. A real doctor and a real clinic. The Followers were their only choice.

And of course, the Khans did it without question. Luke had to admire the commitment to their kin, if nothing else. 

At this point, Luke felt it was his duty to see it all through. Though he desperately did not want to visit the Old Mormon Fort. The New Vegas Medical Clinic was closer, anyhow. 

They’d arrived before sundown, their path illuminated by the fire-orange sky. Doctor Usanagi needed no prompting before getting to work. Questions of payment were answered with a handwave and “we’ll figure it out later.”

Now the sun had set and the sky was alight once more with the glow of Vegas’ city. An artificial, glaring light that cast harsh shadows all around. The stars up above struggled to gain purchase against the unwavering neon city.

McMurphy had been in the theatre for an hour by the time Luke found Jessup. Shrouded by the dark of night, he sat cross-legged on the roof of the clinic, a squashed cigarette pressed between his lips. White smoke curled from his mouth and floated up to the sky as Jessup picked at his leather boots with the tip of his knife. 

“I shoulda listened to you,” Jessup called down from the roof, and it took Luke a moment to realise he was the one being spoken to, “About that Novac doctor.”

“Oh,” Luke said. What else could he say? ‘Told you so’ hardly felt prudent, “Hey, we’re here now, right? That’s what matters.”

Jessup snorted. 

There was no response save for the gentle ‘tink’ of Jessup’s knife as he picked a stone from the sole of his boot. Luke waited before he realised Jessup was done talking. He stuffed his hands in his pocket, trying to think of something comforting to tack on.

“Doctor Usanagi is a great doctor. I used to work with her.”

“Still don’t get why you’re doing this.”

Luke wasn’t any closer to the answer himself. He shrugged his shoulders, “It’s the right thing to do.”

Jessup unfurled himself, plucking the cigarette from his lips and letting his long legs hang over the roof of the clinic. In the pale moonlight, Jessup’s thin face appeared all the more gaunt. Like a ghost of a man. The hours of stress had not been kind to the man. He squinted down at Luke, nose wrinkled.

“So why you going after Benny?” Jessup asked, “You care so much about doing the right thing, whatever that means. If the right thing is helping ‘Murph n’ me, ain’t the right thing to do to let him go?”

“That’s different.”

“How?” 

It just is. “I just want to know why he did it.”

Jessup studied Luke from his perch. His face ever unreadable.

“It was ‘cause you had the package. Don’t think it was personal.”

Luke knew he was only trying to be helpful, but Jessup’s assessment of the situation only tied knots in Luke’s stomach. But why? But why?

“But why!? For some kitschy poker chip? It doesn’t make sense. I just…” Luke sighed, deflated, “I don’t know.”

Jessup sucked on his teeth and brought one knee up to his chest, propping his arm up on it. He wasn’t very good at sitting still, “Who were you delivering to?”

Luke had read the receipt so many times he had it memorised, “I was supposed to meet someone at the entrance to The Strip. I don’t know who, just some ‘agent’ at the checkpoint.”

“Makes sense he’d want you gone in Goodsprings, then,” Jessup said, “‘Murph figured Benny stole that chip from his boss.”

“His… boss? Wait, who is Benny?”

“He’s some big shot on the Strip, part of the Chairmen,” Jessup waved a hand dismissively, sending ash from his cigarette fluttering to the ground, “‘Murph said he must be stealing from his boss, otherwise, he’d of robbed you in Freeside. Wanted to be so far away no one could snitch.”

Luke didn’t frequent the Strip, only Freeside. He wasn’t familiar with the gangs who ran it. ‘Chairmen’ meant nothing to him. Jessup continued. 

“Chairmen used to be like us, like Khans. Last I heard they were run by a guy named Bingo. Heard someone killed him though, dunno who's in charge anymore.”

Luke scrubbed his stubbly face, the unshaved hairs biting into his palms. This was becoming more and more complex. Benny was somebody important. Somebody near inaccessible. Both physically by the wall that separated the Strip from the rest of the world, and by status. But the need for answers burned in his chest. And this conversation wasn’t helping any. What Luke needed was a plan. Something to focus on, now that McMurphy was out of his hands.

“What if we tell Benny’s boss?”

Jessup’s laugh came like a hiss of air through grinning teeth.

“We? Are you asking a Khan to snitch?”

When you put it like that… Luke faltered, bunching his hands into fists, “How else would we-- would I catch him?”

“Find ‘im, bust his head. Simple.”

“I don’t do faces anymore, remember?” Luke shook his head, “An-- and he’s on the Strip. You said he’s important. I doubt w-- I could just walk up to him like that.” 

Jessup sucked on the last glowing embers of his cigarette. He blow out smoke and stared at the ground. Then at the roof and then at the sky, pouting all the while like a petulant child.

It was then Luke was struck by how young Jessup looked. Not a young man by any means, not nearly as young as Ada’s guard, but not the grizzled mercenary-raider type of Khan plastered on NCR wanted posters back West. Sketches that depicted their horned helmets as if the horns were part of their skull.

“Squealing to one suit ‘bout another,” Jessup scrunched up his nose, “Benny gets disappeared and another suit takes his place. Not the type of revenge I’d want.”

That pricked Luke’s ears just enough, “So you do want revenge.”

“Never said I didn’t,” Jessup said, “I just wanna know if I’m gonna get your knife in my back.”

Luke thought of his burial. His death shroud. 

“I wouldn’t.” 

Jessup hummed as he took one last drag of his cigarette and ground it out on the roof., “No, I don’t think you would.”

“Does that mean you’re coming with me?”

“I gotta focus on ‘Murph now. But I’ll find you in Freeside. Here--” 

Jessup produced a square of silver from inside his jacket. It glinted in the moonlight. He tossed it down to Luke in a carefully telegraphed motion. To his own surprise, Luke caught the hunk of metal, warmed by the heat of Jessup’s body. A lighter.

“It’s Benny’s. Shove it up his ass if you catch him before me.”

[notesdunevieordinaire]

Samedi

En ce samedi gris, mon petit-fils qui va avoir 3 ans va venir illuminer mon après-midi. Au programme, pate à modeler et peinture, un peu de Pat Patrouille et de puzzle car il adore ça. J'ai 4 grands enfants et un seul petit-fils qui risque de rester le seul un bon moment, vu que 2 de mes enfants n'en veulent pas et que le dernier n'a que 18 ans. Mais au moins, on profite à fond l'un de l'autre et le lien que nous créons n'en sera que plus fort.

[dorminchu]

Every Day Like The Last: Chapter I

Summary:

A year has passed since the Battle of Heaven and Earth. P. Galliard and P. Finger are married. Vice Captain A. Leonhardt steps down, waiting for her ailing father to outlive her. Eren Jaeger is exiled from Paradis as a renegade to spend his days in Liberio as an expat. Without the threat of Titans or a country to divide them, what comes after the armistice?

Rating: T

Pairing: Annie/Eren, Pieck/Porco

Genre: Drama | Hurt/Comfort | Romance

a/n: Formerly titled despicable animal. The beginning of my (penultimate) swan song for Attack on Titan. Big shoutout to @vaegtersang and @lazyveran for listening to me ramble about this AU of an AU and generally being very supportive. And to @lunarcrystal for her VC!Annie AU and all the brainworms :)

Can also be read on ao3 | ffnet

Sgt. Magrath's successor T. Mueller assumed the position before the funeral took place.

In the weeks following the Battle of Heaven and Earth it was decided that the Warrior Programme would be disbanded. While Marley already struggled to maintain both a victorious air and its tenuous cooperation with the Mid-Eastern Alliance, the Queen of Paradis came forward. Rather than put Eren Jaeger to death as a traitor to Paradis and humanity alike, he was deemed fit to stand trial. 

Mueller suspected the reason had less to do with the good of humanity, and more with Paradis’s wealth of untapped natural resources. Without the Pure Titans and Walls, there was nothing to stop the rest of the world from pouring in. Kiyomi was eager to act as a mediator between the Mid-Eastern Alliance, Marley and Paradis. Now, Paradis’s Queen was open to the possibility of trade, but not before reformation of its own borders. This had been the subject of every other meeting for several weeks, aside from the exact details of the armistice.

According to the latest report, the trial deemed that the Founder's influence had driven Jaeger into a state of psychosis, and he could not be held entirely responsible for his actions within Marley or Paradis after killing Wilhelm Tybur and his collection by Paradis's Scouting Legion. To many in Paradis, he was a renegade who swore annihilation against all who would oppose him, rather than a defender. So he was to spend his remaining years in exile. A good deal of Jaegerists demanded to be exiled as well. Unlike their namesake, there was no Titan-induced psychosis to excuse the myriad reports of destruction and savagery unleashed upon the inner circle under their reign. Their consolation was a firing squad.

Mueller was ethnically Marleyan, but had first-hand experience with Marley’s use of zeppelins within Fort Slava. He saw the surviving Eldians not as monsters but humans that had been given power beyond their understanding or ability to control on their own terms. They were not to be ostracized without first giving them a chance to prove themselves rational, as many had pledged their alligance to Marley before and died for that same cause. Now, with the death of Ymir and The Worm, so too did these Eldians lose their connection to the devil that slept within their blood. There was no immediate reason to fear retribution from the Titans or their kin. To eradicate them now would be an act of genocide.

While the world was preoccupied with rumors of Paradis' retaliation, the Titan Biological Society was quietly disbanded. The details of Warrior Unit and its invention were similarly declassified. Civilians who grew up with Warrior Programme in their formative years were exposed to the horrors behind their most prestegious and dangerous branch of the military.

Eldians and Marleyans alike would gather outside the wraught-iron gates of the HQ. They rallyed around the surviving Warriors as an example of a civilized Eldian. This sentiment was growing quickly, much to the disgust of the Mid-Eastern Alliance whose only experience with Eldians came down from the sky in zeppelins.

"God damned kids," muttered Otto, a fellow Captain who had been present when the aeroplanes were first sent during the last year of the Paradis Operation. "The internment zones and hospitals are already flooded with Eldians. And now you want to bring in their figurehead." Otto scoffed around the cigarette in his mouth. "It's madness, all of it."

To say Mueller had his work cut out for him was being charitable. At a tenuous stage such as this, Marley's success was just as much about the politicking as a show of force. The younger generation was the future, and had more energy behind them than the embittered servicemen or displaced, smaller nations that lacked Paradis's berth of natural resources to justify their existence. It was true that the Warriors had not asked to be made into monsters. They had survived despite the devil in their blood and it was only right that they eke out their remaining days as civilians.

"He's only a renegade," Muller said. "If we let Jaeger die a martyr, this will only get worse."

Otto had no argument. He flicked the butt of the waning cigarrette out of the train window without looking to see where it landed. "You'd best hope you're right."

The Azumbaito family had encouraged Marley to accept Jaeger into their settlement as an expat where Paradis would not. They argued that Jaeger's actions, in part, had brought mankind together to end the war in a twisted way. Jaeger was a traitor and renegade and war hero, depending on what was most convenient. After weeks of reasoning with Marley's top brass, they had set aside an hour for Muller to speak with Jaeger, who would be sent in by boat and kept in a holding cell. If Mueller could convince him to cooperate, Jaeger could be rehabilitated, just as the others of his kind who grew up in Marley. The only difference between them, Mueller argued, was their willingness to concede.

Jaeger had been living in a burgeoning Marleyan settlement, the remnants of what was once Fort Slava. In the cell, he was no pariah or Devil of anything. Just another prisoner of war, rebuilding the very civilization that was trampled at the behest of his enemies.

Sgt. Mueller had his own interests in agreeing to the plan. He could accept that Jaeger had his uses, but selling him as anything other than a lesser evil to humanity was going to take time. As an inheritor of Eldia's power and its curse, Jaeger wouldn't live long enough to see the outcome of his survival. He was the perfect candidate for Mueller to work with.

Jaeger, a taller man than he was in the photographs, looked at the red armband and back to Mueller's face without emotion. He was dressed in a simple button-up shirt and chinos that were cleaner than Mueller had expected. A white scar stuck out across his throat. His dark hair was cut short.

"The Progenitor didn't want to let go," said Jaeger, holding Mueller's eyes. "They had to cut me out."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Muller said, "You haven't been healing. Isn't that as easy as breathing for someone like you?" Jaeger didn't respond. Muller tried another approach. "I hear you left a lot of supporters behind. The Jaegerists, weren't they? In Paradis. You must have had a good reason to abandon your people."

"They cared nothing for the country. Only what they could destroy in my name." His eyes, closer to green than gray, bored through Mueller and the wall behind him. The guard shifted in place, fingering his rifle. Mueller ignored him.

"If you were to emigrate to Liberio, you'd have a pension and a tenement. Perhaps a chance to explain yourself. There are those among us who would be willing to listen, I'm sure you've seen the protests." Mueller's lip curled. Jaeger was unmoved. "Your own countrymen didn't afford you the same opportunity. The strain of spinal fluid that was introduced into your bloodstream is no determinant of your worth."

Jaeger glanced down the hall. "You must have hundreds of men like me back in Marley's hospitals. But they're out of their minds or too burnt up to speak in your stead."

Mueller paused. He made an effort to keep his face placid. This gutsy son of a bitch was exactly the man he was looking for, even if he refused to accept it himself. "It's true that I could just as soon leave and find one of them. But you're cognizant and able to reason with me. Most are not."

Jaeger levelled with him. "That's why you're here."

Mueller forced a smile. "I'd ask you to think about it, but three years isn't forever, and in that time Marley could just as well decide Eldia isn't worth preserving without Titans. If you refuse you'll go back to breaking rocks with the other POWs. If that's your wish, I won't refuse it."

Jaeger shifted from one foot to the other, his expression difficult to read. He looked at Mueller. "The block in Liberio was destroyed."

"It's been rebuilt," Mueller said. "You'll have a roof over your head. Then you can drink yourself to death in the privacy of your own apartment, if that's really what you're after."

For the first time Jaeger chuckled. "When was this decided?"

"Last month, by Marley. And a few of your sympathizers in the Azumbaito family."

A flicker of comprehension in Jaeger's eyes. Mueller saw cruel satisfaction. The prospect of reaching the very people that once considered him scum. If he could not wipe them out directly, he could get into their heads. Manipulate the minds of their progeny. Idealistic and desperate to prove themselves, who else could know better than him.

"Fine," he said. "I'll agree to live here."

Mueller was taken aback. "You've no other conditions?"

Jaeger stood up. "No, sir."

Mueller had expected more of a pushback. Evidently he was mistaken. But he kept his nerve and said, "You'll be situated here by the end of the week."

As he walked out of the cell, he didn't look back. Jaeger made no sound.

After the declaration of war, the Mid-East Alliance and other civilized nations decreed to destroy Paradis with the full might of their aeroforce and naval ships. Eren's first mistake was to entrust the rebels as anything more than a distraction. His second was to force Historia's hand as a terrorist. If not for Mikasa, he would have succeeded in eradicating all of Paradis's enemies abroad, but not on the island itself. So Paradis would be left to rebuild its forces in peace.

Not much had changed from the last time he set foot upon Marley's shores. The ampitheater was still in ruins, but he'd not gone by to see for himself. New faces took place of the ones he'd slain. A family next to him and an aging vet whose brother wound up in one of the zeppelins. They were Eldian, but none of them Warriors. Eren had yet to speak at length to one of the Warriors at length. His new life was an echo of the ten months he'd spent as Eren Krueger. Without the imperative of a war on the horizon, he was only subsisting.

He kept a relatively clean apartment. He took up journalling to retain his purpose and give himself something else to think about beyond the pit of ennui in his gut. Keeping down dates, small happenings. He got by, even as a serviceman looking for work. The Marleyan who ran the post office took to him like a second son, or else he was eager to appeal to the political wave of empathy towards Eldians. Eren had no interest in asking.

Five days a week he would sort letters in the back of the store, out of sight of customers, and attend clerical duties once the son moved further towards the countryside in pursuit of his own fortune. The father would lament about this often, but appreciated Krueger's talent with a bucket and mop. Krueger rarely said much.

Despite the influx of Eldians into Liberio, the old security measures were still in place. So, there would be no letters couched in innuendo to his compatriots back home. Nothing that would be sent outside the internment zone. Despite the ocean of difference his thoughts were consumed by the home he'd given up.

On his off-time Krueger had been visiting the newsstand. Lately he was keeping tabs on the Tybur family's whereabouts and who had inherited the Titan Biology Program. The Warrior Unit was dissolved on public record. Most of those Eldians who were injected wound up in hospital. Some were stable enough to move into the tenements. The ones too advanced to release were shipped off to parts unknown. Warriors were still discriminated against by their non-Titan Shifting Eldians and Marleyans alike. There was no reason to pretend to respect them, now the war was over. A bunch of devil-blooded freaks who lost the war in spite of their God-like power and cost Marley a fortune.

Galliard and P. Finger were to become ambassadors for Marley by next year, but there were other Eldians with serum in their bodies who never made it into the papers. Vice Captain A. Leonhardt had stepped down around the same time of the dissolution of the Warrior Unit, but he could find little mention of her afterwards. B. Hoover and R. Braun were marked down as MIA.

The same circle of Marleyan policemen in plainclothes would follow him about his daily routine, as if he were unaware or plotting another revolt.

At times the old pull of the Founder ushered him downwards into an endless oblivion. He could drink himself into a stupor, but escape was fleeting. Everything he'd fought for, watched other soldiers die for, the culmination of that falsehood lay before him in an expanse of unbroken sky. Despite his exhaustion he strained to reach out and feel the freezing air against his face. No longer fighting for the sake of his friends, safe in Paradis. 

The Hallucigenia clung to him at the nape. Hundreds of tiny legs piercing flesh. It burrowed and burrowed past his steaming flesh into his brain, connecting to him as he had once connected to the other body in miniature. Burdened with a taste of power, then wielded by an inhuman, timeless entity, he must relearn how to live as a mortal man.

When he was still recovering, the Marleyan doctors expressed a great interest in these dreams. They'd chalked it first up to shellshock, but they'd also told Eren to document as much as possible so that future generations might understand the burden of inheriting their closest approximation of God himself. Eren had thought little of it at the time. What could a Marleyan possibly understand? It was not the wielding itself but the act of being wielded by something far greater and impenetrable to understanding. He had been connected to the Founder in spite of his common blood.

There would be no epiphany or God to heal him or bring back the friends he'd lost. Pledging his life for their survival was a hell of a lot simpler when he was convinced they would outlive him. In the end they would still go on and he would give his life for humanity as he'd wanted as a boy, beneath the old chapel in Mitras.

He slept lightly. Old friends occupied his waking moments. A zoetrope of faces trapped in time, hounding him in dreams. Every night he'd wake up in a cold sweat. The pain in his knee was a new development. He couldn't fix it and throw the remains behind the butchershop like he used to. He got up and felt around in the dark for the edge of the mattress. Throwing his legs over the bedside. Testing his weight. He could walk, at least, despite the discomfort. Nothing worse that what he had endured before. He sat there until his eyes adjusted to the room, underlit by moonlight.

He walked slowly over to the desk. There was enough light by the window that he could write. In the blueish light of the moon the ink stained the page, close enough to blood.

He wrote for half an hour and sat in silence until the sun broke over the horizon. He checked his wristlet before getting ready for work. He was en route to the train station and decided to stop by the newsstand out of habit.

Today was an off day. He'd been so wrapped up he had forgotten. With little to occupy his time, perhaps his best bet was to make contact with the surviving Warriors. They were closer to his own countrymen. If he was to remain off of Paradis for the next two years, what harm could come of speaking among his own kind?

"Sir," the man said, "you're going to have to buy that if you want to read it."

Eren went home without buying anything. He walked about Liberio, considering his approach. He had a few hours to burn. He went back to the tenement with a newfound mania. The old man downstairs had bought a phonograph and was very pleased with it. He'd play music from the outside world. Eren would stand and listen. Even if he couldn't pick out all the words, the dialect was familiar.

Eren shook himself from recollection. The old woolen jacket he favored had a few holes. Nothing he couldn't mend. His upbringing in Shiganshina and time as a serviceman had taught him plenty, so he didn't stick out here aside from his foreign accent. He fixed the jacket to his satisfaction and replaced it and the sewing kit. For the hell of it he did a preliminary dust check. It wasn't yet noon, and he might sleep through the day if he chanced a nap. Exhaustion had run its course, giving him the opposite problem. He was too exhausted to let himself relax.

He read through his old notes on his father's journal. He transcribed a little more of it to the best of his recollection, then walked the length of the room and back again.

There was no grasp at freedom. Just a bigger cage full of people who would not learn from their ancestors. For the same reason Armin had nothing to say to him, and Mikasa agreed to kill him if it came down to it. No soul on Paradis could understand the brunt of what he once did, but neither did he, sitting here with bloodied knuckles and bruises and a rush of blood fading from his head. He'd convinced himself of the lie, for it was simple when he was ready to give up his life. He'd always been so simple, even as a boy.

The armistice was not his only way forward. Its true purpose eluded him still. He'd thought it all simple, back then. If he were to revert his choices and pledge himself now, it would not be for some child's idea of glory or freedom. Perhaps there'd come a day when their faces became indistiguishable. But he'd be long gone by then. He could content himself with that, just as he had before.

Asking around for names was risky, given his previous involvement. He'd kept quiet up to this point. Anyone who wanted to have business with him would've come forward by now. He had little to lose by trying, at least.

There were a number of Eldian pubs he could look into. The Warriors, despite their prestige, couldn't leave the internment zone without a waiver. It was less hassle to stick to the ghetto than deal with the paperwork, just for the chance for a Marleyan to spit in your drink. A boon for Eren, as it lowered the number of places to look.

A few days of hanging around. No one gave him trouble. A second glance was the most notoriety he'd experienced after a few attempts. He always sat in the back and watched the customers.

Today, the usual. A man with a red armband sat at the bar. Krueger was in luck. He took the seat next to him and ordered.

"I haven't seen you around before." Krueger turned. The man offered his hand. The glint of a band around his finger caught his attention. "I'm Galliard."

Krueger shook. "Tomas."

Coming from the same Galliard he'd used to crack open Tybur's shell and funnel her remains, he was unsure what to expect. "My wife should be along soon. We're waiting for a colleague to join us." Eren gauged this possibility. Could be an old friend from the war. Could be anyone. As long as he kept his emotions in check, there was no harm in playing along. "She's never been very sociable," Porco muttered. "She's been taking care of her father a lot. Lousy son of a bitch isn't even appreciative."

Krueger's hand on the counter tensed. "Your wife?"

Porco paused. "Oh, but of course you wouldn't know." He chuckled. "I'm sorry. The colleague is a mutual friend of my spouse. We served together in the same unit while the war was going on." He shrugged. "Now that the war's over, we come down every week or so and drink."

Krueger said nothing.

"Do you think you're better than me?"

"No," said Krueger. "I just don't usually come here to talk."

Porco barked out a laugh. "You're right to the point. You'd get along with Leonhardt."

"Is that her name?"

Porco froze. "I&emdash;oh, damn it, look. If you see her, you didn't hear from me."

"I won't," Krueger said.

The doors opened. Porco glanced over and his expression changed. "Thank God, she's here. With the situation outside of Liberio as it is, I wish she'd take the same train as I do."

A small, dark-haired woman took a seat next to Galliard. "Sorry I'm late." Her eyes moved from Galliard to Krueger and fixed there. Krueger watched from his peripherals as he took a drink. "There was a delay on the train. Nothing serious."

"I'm just glad you're here," Porco said, oblivious to what was happening.

"I was about toe were fighting the wrong enemy," Porco said shortly. "It's never been about Eldia or Marley. I didn't always see it that way."

Eren fell quiet.

"He's just drunk," said Pieck. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

"Leonhardt is still in Liberio?"

Porco frowned. "What business is it of yours?"

It was Pieck who said, "Don't mind him."

Krueger stopped and the silence prolonged itself past comfort. Porco's expression changed. In Paradis he might have been a renegade and in Marley he was simply a had-been. A lifetime of service had conditioned Pieck and the other Warriors to be secretive. Of course it struck him that Annie wouldn't be thrilled to learn he was alive. She would rather regrow her arm tendon by tendon than talk about her personal feelings. 

"I've seen you before," said Porco in a low, uneven voice. "You're lucky the war's over." He slapped his money on the counter and got to his feet. "Pieck."

The woman kept her seat. Porco stared at her in disbelief.

"I have no interest in causing any harm," said Krueger. "To you or anyone else." 

"Go to hell," Porco said, and left.

The woman watched him go. "I suppose that's better than you expected."

Krueger, glancing at her, said, "You're ambassadors."

Pieck shrugged. "Moreso in name. Someone has to make sure Marley and its enemies don't forget the past too quickly. The younger Warriors don't care much about politics. Porco took to it, though." Her fingers drummed idly on the table, idiosyncratic. "I suppose Reiner would've made a good diplomat if he'd lived." She kept her tone warm and easy, but her eyes trained on him were anything but. "You spoke to him before, didn't you? During the Paradis Operation."

Krueger didn't answer. 

"I didn't mean to pry," Pieck said. "I just wondered what you must think of everything, now that you're here."

"What does it matter?" It came out acerbic, without pretense. "It's been settled, even if we won't live to see how it ends."

Pieck didn't flinch. She looked at him with an expression he could not describe. Too close to pity for his liking.

"A week ago," she said, "I was supposed to be dead. Porco will have ten years. Maybe I only have a week left. Or a year, perhaps ten years. Without the constant strain of regeneration, there's a chance we might regain some of the time we'd have otherwise lost."

Krueger was staring fixedly at his drink, untouched. She set her money on the counter with a sigh and stood. He paid and followed suit.

"I suppose this must be awkward," she said, "now that we're not speaking around a gun." Krueger laughed. She gave him a wan smile he wasn't used to. "I hope we can talk about it next year."

"Yeah."

Eren watched her leave. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, then moved on himself. Rage simmered in his blood with no purpose outside its expulsion. A question brewed in her absence, interfering with the easier promise of his early death. He walked along the street, blood in his ears. Figures moved past his gait. He bumped into one and kept moving. A man's voice shouted. Krueger turned to face it.

He'd never gotten in a fight in Marley. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind. But he was crippled then. Growing back his leg just to get into a pointless fight was more expenditure when he could simply redirect his energy into fixing his eye. In this moment the capacity to survive longer than his term limit was unbearable as subsistence.

Years of training ingrained against the promise of a scrap, just to feel anything. The older urge won out. Bloody and senseless. As a boy he didn't care about winning or losing. Just hurting something else that could feel the same pain as him. The shock of healing like a normal man. This existence his father sought to deny him, pitiable and fragile, he could finally claim for his own.

Stumbling home. He went over to the armoire and opened the bottommost drawer and fetched some gauze. He took a seat and bound his hand in silence. 

[scotianostra]

Happy birthday Scottish weather presenter Carol Kirkwood born on May 29th, 1962 in Morar.

Born Carol MacKellaig, her parents ran a hotel at Morar, she has 7 sisters and brothers.

Carol was educated at Lochaber High School in Fort William before studying Commerce at Napier College in Edinburgh, qualifying with a BA. Carol joined the BBC’s secretarial reserve in London and it wasn’t long before she was presenting short slots on Radio Scotland, Radio 2 and 4.

She got married to hockey player Jimmy Kirkwood from Northern Ireland, they divorced in 2008. at the time Carol took a break from broadcasting, in recruitment and then as a training consultant for a management consultancy, returning to now defunct cable TV channel, Windsor TV, latterly called Wire TV, along with Sacha Baron Cohen, rejoining the BBC as a freelance reporter in 1993, also working on Independent television for Harlech Television (HTV) in a bi-monthly show Talking Issues.

In 1996 Carol started doing the job we know her best for, on The Weather Channel but after it closed down she underwent training under the guidance of the BBC at the Met Office, and returned to the BBC after her training, where sh has been ever since, working mainly on the morning news programmes. She presented the BBC’s The Weather Show and is also a regular contributor and reporter for The One Show.

Kirkwood won awards for best TV Weather Presenter in 2003, 2008, 2009 and 2012–2017.She received an Honorary Fellowship from Inverness College, part of University of the Highlands and Islands in 2015.

[camisoledadparis]

saga: Soumission & Domination 327

Sosthène

Le second Escort de diversification est d'origine martiniquaise. Né à Fort de France en 2006, il est arrivé en France tout petit et n'a pas l'accent chantant de là-bas. Il est déjà en 2ème année d'études de lettres (doué le petit) et pratique la course à pied. Famille de fonctionnaire (parents professeurs, lui de français, elle des écoles), il est le second d'une famille de 4 enfants (soeur 20ans, lui 18 ans, frère 17ans, soeur 11 ans). Le rapport me souligne qu'il est homo outé dans sa famille et parmi ses amis. Sans petit copain actuellement, il change souvent de partenaires sans non plus en consommer 20 par mois ! Il utilise plus facilement internet que les lieux de drague, même s'il lui arrive de sortir dans certains bars gays.

Le portrait me va. Je compte y aller direct avec lui. Premièrement je ne cours pas le marathon même si j'ai bien récupéré de mon accident et deuxièmement je me fatigue à chercher des approches discrètes.

Muni de son dossier, je me pointe à la sortie de sa fac un soir de semaine. Je l'aborde et direct je lui montre mon dossier. De voir son nom sur un carton l'intrigue. Je lui dis que j'ai sa vie dedans et que j'aimerai lui proposer un travail en relation avec ses capacités. J'ajoute pour qu'il ne se méprenne pas qu'il ferait un escort superbe. Je n'ai plus qu'à attendre sa réaction.

Elle ne tarde pas. Après m'avoir scruté bien 5 mn, il me dit qu'on peut aller boire un verre et que c'est moi qui paye. Ça me va.

Même s'il y a toujours un café à côté de l'entrée des facs, il me demande d'aller plus loin, il y connaitra moins de monde susceptible de troubler notre conversation. Dixit Sosthène dans le texte !

Quand on arrive devant ma voiture, il me demande si c'est celle de mon père. Je ne réponds pas et lui dis de monter. Il hésite mais accepte quand je dis qu'il y aura plein de monde pour décrire la caisse dans laquelle il est parti au cas où je voudrais le kidnapper. Il rit et monte dedans. On roule pour trouver un bar en centre-ville. Puisqu'il est "out ", je choisi un bar gay.

Il accepte un demi et je prends pareil. Il me demande alors d'éclaircir ma proposition. Je lui explique les prestations de ma société et lui dit clairement que je suis à la recherche de diversifications ethniques. J'ajoute en riant qu'il fait partie d'un programme de discrimination positive. Il me demande son dossier. Je le lui tends. Il le lit consciencieusement, revenant sur certains paragraphes. Il me demande qui a fait ce travail et m'avoue qu'il est très complet. Il trouve les infos sur ses parents et l'analyse de leur situation financière un peu intrusif et limite illégal. Je le rassure et lui dit qu'il sera détruit dès qu'il m'aura donné sa réponse, qu'elle soit positive comme négative. Je lui dis que ce dossier me permettait juste de contacter les personnes les plus susceptibles d'accepter.

On vide un peu nos verres. Je le laisse réfléchir. Il me pose quelques questions concernant le temps que ça risque de lui prendre. Il ne veut pas que ça interfère trop avec ses études. Je l'assure que bien qu'il sera sûrement très demandé, je serais en mesure de limiter ses prestations à 1 par semaine si cela lui convient. Il me demande alors combien il se ferait dans cette configuration de travail. Quand j'annonce le chiffre, il n'en revient pas. Je précise que c'est le tarif en cas de prestations classiques ++. Il me demande si ce que j'entends par ++ serait de type sexuel. J'acquiesce. Avec des mecs ? Re-acquiescement de ma part. Ouf de sa part, il avait craint devoir assurer avec des cougars !     

Il accepte et me dit que ça fera du bien qu'il s'assume tout seul vu qu'avec ses 3 frère et soeurs, ses parents comptent leurs dépenses.  Je lui donne ma carte et on fixe un rendez-vous. Je le ramène chez lui car il se déplace en Tram. Il me fait le lâcher au coin de sa rue.

Il passe au Blockhaus le jour prévu. Il me téléphone du trottoir, persuadé que je lui ai fait un plan foireux. Je descends le chercher. Quand il entre, il regarde partout. Quand il voit le parc de véhicules, motos comprises, il me demande combien il y a d'appart. Je lui dis qu'il n'y a qu'un seul logement, tout ici est à moi. Il a du mal à le croire. Je le pousse dans le monte-charge et nous allons à mon bureau. Depuis peu, à l'instigation de mes Escorts, j'ai décoré ses murs blancs par une frise de leurs photos, toutes prises dans la même position avec le même maillot Aussiebum. En plan rapproché, ils remplissent bien le format A4 (photo en pied).

Ça accroche le regard de Sosthène qui ne me parle qu'après avoir maté toute la série. Il me dit qu'il comprend. Ça manque un peu de couleur tout ça. Il ajoute qu'il ne devrait pas faire tâche sauf côté couleur bien sûr ! Je remplis le dossier des infos qui me manquent. Notamment la taille exacte de sa queue. Pour cela je lui demande de se mettre nu. Il s'exécute avec assez de grâce. J'en profite aussi pour voir sa pilosité. Il la maitrise déjà beaucoup, son torse et ses membres sont glabres. Ses dessous de bras sont tondus à 2 ou 3 mm tout comme son pubis proprement taillé. Ses couilles sont lisses et aucun poil ne sort de sa raie du cul. Sa queue pend entre ses cuisses. Le gland circoncis dépasse ses couilles de bien 6cm. A la mesure, au repos il fait dans les 14cm. Mais le fait de le prendre ne main change sont état. Il bande vite et se redresse à la verticale et pourtant y'a de quoi faire ! Je garde ma main dessus tant la sensation est agréable. Quand il me dit qu'il ne fera pas mieux, je mesure à nouveau. Le nombril est couvert depuis déjà quelques minutes, j'utilise ma main gauche pour tirer la hampe vers l'horizontale (ce qui n'es pas chose aisée) et pose le mètre ruban. En pleine forme mon nouvel ami développe un engin de 23cm x 5,8 de diamètre après un gland dont la couronne affiche un 6,2cm elle.  Couleur de l'ensemble plutôt foncée avec éclaircissement de la circoncision au gland et ce dernier d'un violet tirant vers le rose.     Je lui demande de confirmer sa " recto/verso bilité ". Il le fait et je lui demande quel côté il apprécie le plus. Pas de préférence c'est selon. Ça me va.

Je lui demande son statut sérologique, à sa dernière analyse il était séronég. Je lui dis qu'il ne pourra travailler qu'après une nouvelle analyse. J'en profite pour lui donner les principes de l'entreprise : rapports SSR exclusivement. Il prend l'adresse du labo.

Je lui brosse aussi le portrait type de mon client :

Particularité : de nombreux " neveux " !

Il tique sur la taille des bites. Je balaye son appréhension d'un revers de main et lui dis qu'avec un peu d'entrainement c'est faisable, qu'il regarde bien tous les mecs qui nous entourent. A part les quelques qui sont sur le marché féminin, tous les autres ne s'en portent pas plus mal. D'autant qu'à un rythme moyen d'une fois par semaine, il n'y a pas surutilisation.

A poil devant moi, son excitation commence seulement à retomber bien que cela fasse presque 5mn que nous discutons. Je lui demande comment il se trouve question " self défense ". Sa réponse est rapide, " nothing " ! Je lui dis qu'il y a une habitude dans ma société c'est d'être en capacité de se défendre de tout un chacun, du client qui outrepasse son contrat à la petite frappe qui croit que taper du PD c'est valorisant en passant par l'homophobe convaincu pour qui c'est un devoir que de nous casser la gueule. Il me dit n'avoir jamais été concerné jusqu'à présent. Je lui indique que je mets à disposition mes installations sportive (plateau muscu et combat + piscines) deux soir par semaine pour l'entretien du physique. L'encadrement est réalisé en interne. En natation par un vrai maitre-nageur et en sports de combat par des pratiquants de haut niveau en Karaté, Krav Maga, Capoeira et même par deux Commandos.

Il me demande où j'ai trouvé tous ces mecs. J'élude et lui propose de visiter les installations. On se lève et comme je m'approche du monte-charge, il me dit qu'il ne va peut-être pas y aller à poil. Je lui lance son slip et il l'enfile comme la porte s'ouvre.  Au second je lui fais visiter la partie muscu et son tatami central dédié au combat, les sanitaires et la piscine/jacuzzi. Puis nous descendons dans la serre.

Quand on arrive au rez-de-chaussée, PH entre en moto. J'attends qu'il la mette sur sa béquille pour approcher et présenter Sosthène. Il lui serre la main comme si ce dernier était tout habillé. J'ai l'impression que cela le trouble le nouveau ! PH me roule une pelle dès qu'il a retiré son casque, puis nous accompagne dans la serre/jardin. Le bassin surprend Sosthène surtout quand je lui dis qu'elle fait 25m.

Nous remontons ensemble au premier. PH nous laisse et continue vers les hauteurs.

Il est convaincu et signe le contrat que je lui mets sous le nez (il y a un codicille annulatif en cas d'analyse non conforme) . J'ajoute que j'ai oublié que le contrat comprenait aussi un véhicule de fonction. Il rit et me dit d'arrêter de plaisanter. J'ouvre le contrat au paragraphe et il lit que le véhicule est mis à disposition permanente avec sa carte de carburant pour l'équivalent de 300 € / mois. La marque et le modèles est à la discrétion de l'employeur. Il me demande si c'est pareil pour tous les contrats. Je lui explique qu'il n'est pas question que mes escorts se trimballent dans de vielles caisses pourries, il en va du standing de ma société. De même les transports en commun sont prohibés pour des raisons de pratiques, horaires, ligne... Donc il devra passer à ce garage (dont je lui fournis l'adresse) pour prendre sa voiture. Comme pour les autres, il a droit à une RCZ. Il hallucine quand je lui dis le modèle.

Quand il me demande quand il commence et que je lui dis mardi prochain. Réaction " déjà ? " Je complète par " entrainement physique ".

Avant qu'il ne parte, je lui demande pourquoi il a accepté de discuter avec moi. Après tout mon entrée en matière était un peu brusque. Il me dit que si j'avais été moche il aurait coupé court. Mais là, je l'ai intrigué et il s'était dit que si ça finissait par un " coup " il aurait pas tout perdu. Je m'approche alors et je lui roule une pelle pour le remercier d'avoir pensé cela. Je lui dis que la dernière étape, le test physique rapproché, aura lieu dès l'obtention de ses résultats même si on baise sous kpote.

72h plus tard, il me téléphonait pour me demander un rendez-vous pour " étudier " ses résultats d'analyse.

Quand il entre dans mon bureau, je remarque qu'il s'est vêtu avec un peu plus de recherche. Plutôt il a laissé ses vêtements de tous les jours à la fac pour des un peu plus branchés et de marque. Il me tend la feuille. Comme prévu tous les résultats sont négatifs, ce qui est positif pour son admission dans ma troupe. Alors que je lis il est déjà en train de se déshabiller. Quand je relève les yeux de mon papier, il est en boxer blanc ES. Et son début d'excitation le rempli bien !

C'est lui qui fait le premier pas. Il s'approche de moi, se colle contre moi et me roule une pelle des plus agréable. Ses lèvres pulpeuse mais pas trop grosses sont douces et contrastent avec sa langue râpeuse et exigeante. Il cherche le mienne et se bat avec elle dès qu'il la trouve. Cet échange me fait bander et je sens sa bite se développer entre nos deux corps. Elle court vers la droite, empêchée de se redresser à la verticale par l'élastique du boxer. Je glisse une main entre nos deux corps et décolle la ceinture du boxer de ses abdos. Sa bite des redresse immédiatement et je relâche. Il entreprend de me mettre nu. Le retrait de mon t-shirt lui permet d'attaquer mes tétons et sa bouche délaisse la mienne pour venir les lécher, sucer, aspirer et pour finir les mordiller. Je suis sensible et ma queue bande encore plus, comprimée par mes jeans. Il le sent bien mais me laisse dans cet état le temps de bien dresser et faire gonfler mes deux tétons. Seulement alors, il glisse contre moi pour se retrouver à genoux et les yeux en face de mon bassin, il s'attaque enfin à mon pantalon. Il prend son temps pour l'ouvrir, bouton par bouton. La surprise, c'est lui qu'il l'a quand ma bite sort comme un diable de sa boite. Oups ! J'avais oublié de mettre un slip !!

Elle passe rapidement d'un emballage de toile par un en muqueuse naturelle et vivante. Très vivante même ! Il fait en sorte que ses joues collent ma hampe alors qu'il m'aspire vers sa gorge. Sa langue au passage tourne autour de mon gland, repousse encore plus mon prépuce alors qu'elle parcourt le dessous de sa corole. Ses mains posées sur mes fesses, il me pousse vers lui et je vois ma bite disparaitre en totalité. Bien callé entre ses amygdales, mon gland se fait masser par des déglutitions rapides qui l'attirent vers son estomac. Putain que c'est bon ! A part la question des dimensions, il maîtrise bien la pratique. Je pose enfin mes mains sur sa tête. Ses cheveux courts glissent entre mes doigts. J'affermis ma prise pour le diriger un peu. Mais ce n'est pas nécessaire vu comme il se donne.

Je dois même le calmer pour ne pas me mettre à jouir aussitôt.je le prends par les épaules et le relève. Il colle sa langue sur ma peau de mon gland jusqu'à ma bouche. L'effet est agréable. Quand il me donne sa langue, j'y retrouve un très léger goût de ma bite. Alors qu'on s'embrasse encore, il enjambe ma bite et la coince sous ses couilles. Ses balancements de bassin font frotter mon gland contre sa rondelle. Je mouille et ça lubrifie les glissements. Il se tourne brusquement prend appuis de ses avants bras sur mon bureau, cambre les reins et balance du cul pour m'appeler. Je n'y résiste pas et m'accroupis pour lui bouffer la rondelle. J'aime les gémissements de plaisir que ça lui fait sortir. Sa rondelle s'assouplie vite et je me redresse prêt à le planter. Vite une kpote et je m'enfonce d'un seul et long mouvement. Le temps de me pencher sur lui, d'attraper ses épaules et je donne le coup de rein final qui enfonce mon dernier cm. Bien qu'il se soit préparé, je le sens, il serre bien ma queue et de son côté semble apprécier la prise. Ses halètements me le prouvent. Alors que je me retire pour encore mieux y retourner, il me prend de vitesse et recule pour se planter lui-même. 

On se fait du bien mutuellement un bon moment dans cette position avant que je le tourne et ses chevilles sur mes épaules, son dos sur mon bureau, je mène à mon tour la danse. Il s'accroche au plateau alors que je l'encule virilement. Les coups de bassins secs et profonds alternent avec de lents mouvements qui me font sortir le gland de son cul. J'aime ses gémissements qui me signalent qu'il prend du plaisir. Comme leur fréquence est en train de raccourcir, je lui dis de se retenir je voulais qu'il m'encule à son tour. Je veux voir son côté actif. De mon côté je ralentis aussi mes va et vient avant de sortir complètement. Je lui tends une kpote et alors qu'il l'enfile, à mon tour je prends la position. En levrette, j'attends son assaut. Je suis grave excité mais il prend quand même le temps de me lécher l'anneau. Il fait même plus puisqu'il fait pénétrer sa langue d'au moins un cm dedans. Rapidement je me sens prêt et lui dis d'y aller. Ses mains se posent sur mes hanches (comme si j'avais envie de lui échapper !) et son gland se présente à ma porte arrière. Je pousse un peu et il me met ses 23cm entiers. J'ai bien senti le passage du léger bourrelet de son gland et chaque cm qui a suivi.

23cm c'est long mais c'est bon ! En même temps qu'il s'enfonce, je le sens basculer le bassin en de lentes rotations qui aident son avancée. Quand il est bien au fond, je passe mes mains en arrière agrippe ses fesses et recule brusquement pour m'assurer que j'ai bien tout en moi. C'est le cas et je relâche ma pression pour le laisser gérer. Il n'a que 18ans mais il me baise avec une science consommée du plaisir. Nous sommes de même taille et alors qu'il me laboure le cul, il se penche sur moi et ses lèvres posées sur mon cou me donnent des frissons supplémentaires. Il joue de sa langue avec mes oreilles. Quand je tourne la tête nos lèvres se collent et bien que nous nous roulions une pelle profonde, il ne cesse de me limer la rondelle. J'aime ça aussi. Je me décolle et lui demande depuis combien de temps il baise et qui l'a initié pour qu'il soit aussi bon. Je me tourne sur le dos et on se retrouve face à face. Il me fait un clin d'oeil et me dit que non ce n'est pas un pro plus âgé qui l'a initié mais qu'il a bien étudié sur internet et qu'il a adapté lors de ses mises en pratique avec des mecs de son âge.

Nous continuons à baiser et il me fait jouir. Le frottement à chacun de ses passages du renflement de son gland sur ma prostate a vite fait eu raison de ma résistance. Je me couvre de mon sperme et mes contractions anales qui bloquent ses va et vient de façon discontinue le font exploser dans sa kpote. Quand il se retire, je note une dose plus importante que la moyenne. Il n'y a pas que son sexe qui soit plus que la norme !

Sous la douche, je lui parle du fait qu'il n'a jamais baiser avec un " vieux " et lui demande s'il ne craint pas de blocage. Il me dit que non mais par précaution je vais le faire tester par Marc puisqu'il rentre le WE prochain. Avec ses 47 ans, et ses 22cm qui adorent les jeunes mecs, j'aurai une certitude sur ma nouvelle acquisition.

Je lui en fais part. Il est d'accord bien sûr. Comme je lui dis qu'il sera rémunéré comme une prestation normale, il se récrie que c'est encore une phase de test, qu'il n'a pas à être déjà payé. Je lui dis juste qu'avec Marc, il m'aura aussi ainsi que deux autres de mes hommes. Donc ce sera aussi une petite touze à 5. Il rit et me demande combien j'ai d'amant. Je compte sur mes doigts et par ordre d'apparition dans ma vie je liste : Marc 47ans, PH 21ans, Ernesto 21ans aussi et Ludovic 18ans. J'ajoute que ce sont tous mes maris aussi. Dans le sens où l'on s'aime tous. Il trouve ça spécial et me dit que lui n'a encore pas trouvé le grand amour, ni même l'amour tout court.

Une fois secs, je le félicite sur son boxer, il me dit que c'est celui qu'il porte quand il part en " sexe ". Il n'en a qu'un parce qu'ils ne sont pas donnés. Ça me donne l'occasion de parler de ses vêtements. Il n'a pas de costume et encore moins de smoking. Comme aux autres je lui donne l'adresse de mon fournisseur officiel. Pour les sous-vêtements, je l'emmène piocher dans le stock. Il hallucine de voir toutes les marques sur lesquelles il a bavé sur internet. Alors qu'il hésite entre deux boxers (ES et Addicted), je lui mets les deux entre les mains et l'oblige à en choisir d'autres. Il est comme un gamin devant ses cadeaux de Noël !

Il me dit qu'il n'a pas encore été chercher la voiture, il voulait que je sois sûr de l'embaucher. Du coup je téléphone au garage et leur dis de préparer une RCZ, qu'on venait la chercher. Quand on arrive, le concessionnaire est là. C'est vrai que cela fait un moment que je ne l'ai vu, on s'arrange au téléphone. Son fils est avec lui et c'est lui qui a préparé la voiture. Beau jeune homme d'une vingtaine d'année, il me dit que c'est lui qui est maintenant en charge de ma flotte de voiture. Je ne perds pas au change. Son bleu de mécanicien, propre, ouvert sur son torse glabre et très musclé, le rend très désirable. Désolé, c'est plus fort que moi, je dois être un peu obsédé ! Il nous conduit jusqu'à la voiture. Elle est noire et son polit la rend plus brillante qu'un diamant. On fait le tour et je ne peux m'empêcher de chercher son reflet sur la tôle. Je remarque quand même que je ne suis pas le seul intéressé par le mécano. Je vois mon Sosthène boire littéralement les paroles du beau mec. C'est sûr que ça le change des minets de sa Fac. Je me dis qu'il est temps de les laisser entre-eux. Justin me raccompagne à ma voiture. Alors qu'il ferme ma porte, il me demande si c'est aussi un employé de ma société. Je confirme son intuition et j'ai droit à un dommage qui sort du fond de son coeur. Je repousse la portière et le rappelle. Il se rapproche et je lui glisse que je ne gère pas leurs vies personnelles, s'il tenait à le savoir. Il me quitte avec un grand sourire. Serait-il des " nôtres " ce joli jeune homme ?

Curieux comme une vieille chatte, je ne peux m'empêcher d'appeler Sosthène une bonne heure après. Sous prétexte de savoir si tout va bien avec sa nouvelle voiture, je lui demande incidemment s'il avait réussi à avoir le n° perso de mon mécano. Je l'entends s'étouffer à l'autre bout ! Je lui rappelle qu'il fait ce qu'il veut de son cul entre les prestations mais avec toujours en tête le SSR. J'ajoute que s'il n'avait pas été avec moi, c'est moi qui me le serais fait avant de rentrer. Il se choque. Je lui demande alors s'il était rentré tout bandant ? S'il n'avait pas profité de mon départ pour visiter les toilettes du garage ? Il me dit qu'il n'est pas comme ça. Je me moque un peu et lui dit qu'il a peut-être loupé le coup du siècle. Le mec m'avait l'air très intéressé par lui et je lui avais quasiment donné ma bénédiction quand il m'avait raccompagné.

Sosthène me rappelle le lendemain midi pour me remercier. Quand je lui demande de quoi, il me dit qu'il avait osé rappeler Justin et qu'il avait fini la nuit chez lui. Que c'était trop bon et qu'il croyait être tombé amoureux. Je lui dis de ne pas s'emballer. Ce doit être l'effet " encanaillage ", opposition de milieu et de type de vie. L'un travail avec un boulot manuel, l'autre est en fac et de lettre en plus ! Difficile de faire plus éloigné. Il me dit que non, avec moi c'était très bon mais avec lui c'était comme ça n'avait jamais été avant.

Soudain, je pense qu'il a peur que je crois qu'il va me quitter parce qu'il m'assure que cela ne change pas notre contrat. Ils en ont parlé Justin et lui. Je le remercie pour la discrétion. Il rigole et me lance qu'avec tous les mecs que j'ai envoyé chercher une caisse dans ce garage, je n'avais pas fait non plus preuve de cette même discrétion que je lui reprochais d'avoir oubliée. Justin savait pertinemment ce que faisaient mes employés.

En attendant il me dit qu'ils sont d'accord pour qu'il honore son contrat de travail. Ouf ça l'aurait embêté de perdre un escort prometteur avant même qu'il n'ait commencé.

Jardinier

~~

~~

~~

[au-jardin-de-mon-coeur]

Programme du dimanche...

Randonnée matinale le long du Littoral et baignade au pied du Fort de Brégancon...tranquille....juste bien...la vie est belle !

#au-jardin-de-mon-coeur ✒️

[coovieilledentelle]

Programme du week-end ... l'évasion ...créez-vous des moments inoubliables... des souvenirs forts avec l'être aimé

[ascle]

🎁 CINÉ-CADEAU 🎄

Si vous passez au Québec pendant la période des Fêtes, si vous connaissez un Québécois (né ici) de 55 ans et moins, fort à parier qu'au fil d'une conversation vous entendiez parler de Ciné-cadeau.

Mais qu'est-ce que c'est?

Depuis 1982, Radio-Québéc (devenue télé-Québec en 1996), une chaîne de télévision québécoise publique à vocations éducative et culturelle, diffuse de la mi-décembre aux premiers jours de janvier une programmation spéciale jeunesse pour les Fêtes!

Films et séries, d'ici et d'ailleurs se succèdent. C'est grâce à Ciné-cadeau que ma génération a connu Astérix, Tintin, Lucky Luke, Garfield, Mafalda, Charlie Brown et j'en passe. Chaque année, la divulgation de la programmation engendre l'euphorie. On retrouve avec nostalgie nos premiers coup de coeur et on découvre avec joie les nouvelles trouvailles.

Le film le plus emblématique de Ciné-cadeau est sans AUCUN doute: La guerre des tuques. Premier film de la série "Les contes pour tous" de Roch Demers. Sortie en 1984, a été distribué dans plus de 125 pays. Il raconte l'histoire d'un groupe de jeunes cherchant à s'occuper pendant les vacances de Noël décide de se diviser en 2 groupes et de se faire la guerre de boules de neige. La chanson thème "L'Amour a pris son temps" est tout aussi classique que le film lui-même, chanté par Nathalie Simard.

Un remake d’animation a été produit en 2015. Il a reçu un bon accueil, mais rien ne surpasse la version originale. Céline Dion a même chanté sur la bande originale de cette version.

Je ne peux que vous suggérer fortement de voir ce film tellement il est magnifique. Toutes les répliques sont cultes.

Sur une note plus personnelle, un de mes plus beaux souvenirs de Ciné-cadeau est le film suédois sorti en 1982: Peter le chat sans queue. (J'imagine que ça vous surprend qu'à moitié ^^) C'est tellement un beau film. Si vous avez des enfants ou si vous avez toujours votre coeur d'enfant, regadez-le aussi.

Sur ce, bonne journée! Et si vous me cherchez à 15:30, je serai devant Astérix chez les Bretons! Parce que oui, malgré mon âge ancien, je regarde toujours Ciné-cadeau!