#Double Chopp

[basu-shokikita]

36 for skwistok???? 🤭🤭 ur my favorite skwistok writer

Omg thank you? 😳😳😳

From this ask meme

36. (Kiss) to give up control

Skwisgaar couldn't tell what it was. The drugs and alcohol? The exhaustion? The euphoria maybe?

Toki had played so well at tonight's show. Not a single miss, his completely aligned with Skwisgaar's, harmony and melody fusing beautiful into one perfectly constructed sound. It's almost like practicing actually did pay off.

And, for some reason, he looked so different too. He wasn't the usual goofy idiot that couldn't understand double-entendres or would accidentally drop someone's drink while talking, no. He was glowing, oozing confidence in his movements and his self. His smile was so dashing that not even the foam on his top lip only added to his charm.

He felt like a different person.

Or maybe Skwisgaar felt like a different person, admiring the bandmate he was so used to chastising. It was almost embarrassing how easy he was. Toki played like shit for years but didn't fuck it up for once and Skwisgaar suddenly was thinking he might not be the only divine being in Dethklok?

Ridiculous.

He chuckled to himself in disappointment and Toki seemed to notice, his gaze straying away from the groupies flocking around him like cawing birds. His big blue eyes were curious but he flashed a grin, raising his chop at Skwisgaar.

Everything else felt dulled. The noise, the girls, their bandmates...In a room full of people, it felt like they were the only two in it. As Skwisgaar clinked their glasses together, he couldn't help wondering what it would be like, if Toki did this well every night. Where would they be, musically wise or...

Nobody could judge him inside his head yet it was singularly alarming that Skwisgaar had never felt this level of connection with anyone else in his life. If he wasn't as inebriated as it was, it would be scary. Right now, though, it was strangely tempting.

Skwisgaar watched Toki's Adam’s apple bob up and down as he dawned what was probably his third beer of the night. His sharp profile looked so good under the dim, warm lights and the sweaty fabric of his dark blue shirt contoured his toned biceps and pecs. He wasn't the only one that had noticed this, he observed, watching the girls surreptitiously fondle the rhythm guitarist and fawn over his physique.

He couldn't tell if something about his expression gave him away because Toki gently chased the girls away. They left in quiet murmurs, throwing glances at Skwisgaar before merging into a different crowd. Really now, did they forget he was the lead guitarist?

"Tells me how I dids." Toki said with a dopey smile.

"I already dids." Skwisgaar brought the brim of the chopp to his lips. "You did goods."

"You saids greats earliers."

"Twas de post concerts-glow." Skwisgaar retorted though he was incapable of keeping the distant facade tonight. "But ja, you was greats. Sees what happens when you pracktise?"

Toki was too elated to mind the scolding. He dragged his stool closer to Skwisgaar. "Tells me more."

"Don'ts push it."

"Please..." Toki placed his hand on Skwisgaar's forearm, thumb lightly rubbing against his skin.

He would've pulled away, but something drew him in, instead. "I...cants stop thinkings it 'bout it." He confessed, his eyes trailing on an undefined point of Toki's chest. "How we sounds togedors. It ams like magicks." Unconsciously, Skwisgaar raised his gaze to Toki's lips.

"Hah, yous lookins at mine-"

"No, I donts."

"Yes, you ams!"

"No, I-" Skwisgaar cut himself short when he realized how close Toki had gotten. He was so handsome, so stupidly handsome, with the half-lidded eyes and the parted lips in a crooked smile.

He knew Toki wouldn't reject him. In fact he had seen it in Toki's eyes, countless times over the years. Skwisgaar had always felt indifferent about it or at least he wanted to believe he did. Everyone looked at him like that anyway, it wasn't special.

So why did it felt so special now? Why did his insides burn at the sight of those adoring blue eyes? Why was his chest aching with pride for Toki? Why did his thoughts felt impossible to suppress tonight?

"Kom hit..." Toki whispered, his hand now grabbing Skwisgaar's arm to bring him closer.

Skwisgaar chuckled while shaking his head. If he was going to let his impulses get the better of him, might as well do it on his own terms. "Du, kom hit." He said, pulling Toki by the neck of his shirt. The surprise on Toki's eyes pleased him and he closed his own to let their mouth meet.

They had barely locked lips before it turned into an open-mouthed kiss, tongue and teeth involved. It was intense and desperate and it would've been funny how quickly Toki was gripping at Skwisgaar's elbows, urging to bring him closer if Skwisgaar wasn't fighting the desire to do exactly the same.

Surprisingly, it was Toki who broke it off when they were still getting used to each other’s movements. Breathlessly, he asked, "Comes to mine rooms?" His cheeks were darkened, barely conceived hunger in his gaze.

Every other day, Skwisgaar would’ve told him off. Tonight, though, he smiled. “Only if you shows me more of dat playingks.”

[halfadeckofcards]

Too Late I'm Dead

After rushing out from a Jigsaw survivors meeting, you meet another survivor who isn't exactly intent on attending group therapy. A companionship blossoms, and then a friendship. And then, something else.

Rating: Explicit, NSFW 🔞 Fandom: Saw Pairing: Amanda Young x AFAB!Reader Word count: 5.1K Content warnings: Gore, mentions of self-harm (both in the Jigsaw trap context and the more typical context), trauma, PTSD, angst, discussions of disability (since a lot of Jigsaw traps are disabling), Saw is its own warning, smoking, alcohol consumption, flirting, kissing, making out, biting, vaginal fingering, friends to lovers, as is Saw tradition gay shit goes down in the bathroom, reader is AFAB but gender neutral AO3 link: Here

Author's Note: And here’s Blood Fest Week 3, with the keywords “twisted” and “fixation” and the prompts “traps” and “rage”!! “Traps”, of course, got me thinking about Saw. And since I’m down terribly bad for Amanda and have seen appallingly few fics for her��. well, why not? Underrated characters are kind of my signature anyway. Hope y’all enjoy! <3

“Hi everyone. My name is Brandon and…. I’m a Jigsaw survivor.”

A subdued chorus of Hi Brandons echoed around the small church room. You barely even bothered to mouth the words. The gesture felt about as empty as the tipped over plastic water bottle you’d discarded by your chair some time ago. There was coffee at the sad makeshift snack table too, as well as a box of pastries that looked a few days past their prime, but you figured you didn’t need the caffeine to make you any more jittery than you already were. Your leg was bouncing enough as it was.

“It’s been about a year since uh. Well.” Brandon smiled nervously and made a vague, fluttery gesture with his hands. “Well. You know.”

A quiet, obligatory response from the other people – a murmur, a nod of heads. You stared at your bouncing knee.

“I’ve made great progress with my recovery. My knees have healed really well. I can fully walk on them again, even run if I’m careful. My dog Rex doesn’t really like it when I’m careful though.” He laughed fondly. A couple others offered the obligatory chuckle. “They hurt if I get too eager with stairs. Or if it’s too humid. But it’s going really well. I’m really, really proud of the progress I’ve made.” He nodded, as if assuring himself.

He’d had to break both his knees in order to get out of his trap. Was in a wheelchair for months and only recently started moving around without it. Or so you’d been told.

You weren’t sure you’d be able to break your own knees.

“Somedays, though.” Brandon looked away from the loose circle you all formed. Blinked rapidly. “Somedays, it feels like I haven’t made any progress. Somedays it’s hard. Really hard. And it feels like I didn’t survive that trap. Or if I did, some part of me got left behind.”

Everyone else was nodding, some with sad, understanding smiles on their faces. Your own pulse thundered in your ears like a distant, approaching storm.

“It’s really hard to have hope on those days, but…. what else can I do?” He shrugged, a helpless smile on his face. “Give up? Wallow around in my own misery? I can’t live like that. No one can live like that. Not forever. You just have to choose. You have to make a choice, just like the choices we made to be here. You have to choose to live. You have to choose hope. Or else you just can’t survive.”

You shot to your feet, heartbeat pounding in your ears, chair scraping back. Every face in the room turned to look at you. The church felt too small. Your ribs felt too tight. You felt too…. seen.

Who was he to judge you for wallowing in what you’d fucking gone through?

You spun around and bee-lined for the exit.

The cool city air against your face was a relief as you barged through the church’s double doors. But you stopped in your tracks as you spotted someone else already there. A woman was sitting on the church stairs. She twisted around, eyebrows raised and half-hidden by the choppy, irregular bangs across her forehead.

“Uh. Hey,” you said, somewhat awkwardly.

She paused, as if uncertain. Of what? You weren’t sure. “Hey,” she eventually said back. Then, after another pause, she twisted further around, a frown crossing her features. “Is the meeting over?”

“No. I just needed some air.” Fuck, you needed something to calm yourself. You dug around in your jacket pockets until you found a lighter and a cigarette. “Um. Do you mind if I…?”

She stared at the cigarette in your hand with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher, but eventually shook her head no. You internally shrugged and lit up. The first drag uncoiled the tension that had built up in your muscles, and you breathed the smoke out on a relieved sigh.

The woman glanced between you and the church doors. “Having fun in there?”

Did she know? The place didn’t exactly advertise, but it wasn’t exactly a secret either. You scanned her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place her. Had you seen her in the meetings before? “Oh, yeah, lots. You know. Fun therapy shit.” Supposedly, anyway. It was supposed to be some sort of Alcoholics Anonymous shit, but instead it was for the few survivors of an active fucking serial killer. Jigsaws Anonymous or whatever the fuck.

“Must be going well if you’re out here,” she said dryly, resting her chin on a propped-up fist.

You shrugged, taking another drag. “Well…” Did you really want to tell her about how Brandon’s words had hit just a little too close to home? How they’d made you feel too small, as if the sticks you’d used to prop up your fragile post-trap reconstruction of the world had suddenly snapped, and the weight of it all was now bearing down on you? She was a stranger waiting outside the church. She could’ve been some Jesus freak for all you knew.

Not that she really looked like one. Not with the sheer red shirt over a black bra and fishnet undershirt, or the combat boots, or the sheer exhaustion around her eyes.

She looked less like a Jesus freak and more like you did on the days you could bear to look in the mirror.

So you just shrugged again. “It can be a lot,” you said. “What about you? What’re you doing out here?” You hesitated. “There’re still seats open if you wanted to…”

“No thanks. I’m good.” She offered you a close-lipped smile. “I’ve heard enough of the sob-stories.”

Yeah. You could understand that.

She didn’t look like she was going anywhere, and you didn’t exactly have plans of your own. So you gestured to the stairs next to her. “Mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

You sat to her right so the wind wouldn’t blow cigarette smoke into her face. The smooth grey stone steps were wide enough that it didn’t feel quite so awkward sitting in silence together. Even though you could feel her analyzing you as you took another puff.

You blew the smoke away and smirked dryly at the cigarette. “Think Jigsaw’s gonna put me in another deathtrap for smoking?” You ignored the tightening in your chest as you said the words. Ignored the tremor of unease. Surely it wouldn’t be enough. Surely lightning wouldn’t strike twice.

“He wouldn’t do that.” She said it with such simple certainty, as if it was an inarguable fact. Even still, you found yourself stubbing the cig out and searching for a trash can to toss it into. You didn’t want to just flick it into the grass. Maybe Jigsaw would get you for littering. Maybe he was really passionate about saving the planet.

Who needed to be God-fearing with the possibility of Jigsaw watching your every move?

You shook the thought off. Introduced yourself to the woman. You smiled awkwardly. “Um. I’d offer you my hand but my, uh–” Personal hell “–Trap involved a hand thing so. I’m not a big fan of handshakes these days.” It had taken a long time for the nerves to repair themselves in your hand. A long time and a shitton of agony and medication and physical therapy. You still hadn’t totally gotten rid of the tremor. Fine motorskills were still harder than before.

Before. That.

But the woman just gave a rueful, understanding sort-of smile. Funny how people smiled so much in the presence of trauma and pain. “Amanda. I still have trouble going to the dentist sometimes.”

Shit, that’s where you knew her from, wasn’t it? You’d heard of her, read about her before, seen a clip of her punching a journalist square in the nose when she tried to follow her. All the photos you’d seen had been such shit quality that you hadn’t recognized her immediately.

Amanda Young. The person who killed a man and rummaged around his guts to free herself from the machine hooked into her jaws. The first person to walk away from a Jigsaw trap. The first survivor. In a weird, fucked up way, it was almost like meeting a celebrity. A celebrity for the most depressingly specific thing possible.

You weren’t sure whether it would make things weird to bring that up. So you just nodded. “So. What’re you doing here then? Are you waiting for someone?”

“Mm no, not really.” Amanda scraped at the chipped black polish on her nails. “I just like to come here sometimes.”

You stared at her. Something about her reminded you of a deer, twitchy and ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. Or maybe not a deer. Deer looked like they’d snap in half if the wind blew too hard. Amanda…. did not. She was twitchy, but for some reason you got the feeling that she was just as likely to start kicking as she was to start running

Permanently caught between fight or flight.

You went with freeze, yourself. Or wallow, as Brandon had put it. Anger and embarrassment burned against your ribs.

“Hell of a place to visit.” You weren’t sure if you meant it as a light-hearted joke or a deadpan remark. The words came out somewhere in between.

“You’re one to talk.” She finally turned to you. It was the first time she’d actually met your eyes, you realized. “You actually believe all this bullshit?” she asked, gesturing to the church.

“Not really,” you admitted. “My therapist wanted me to go. Said it would help me to be around others who understand what I went through. That it would help me get closure or something. I didn’t want to. But he insisted.” You shrugged. He’d pestered you about it until you finally gave in a few weeks ago. He thought it would be good for you. Would help you heal. Really, it just made you want to fling yourself out of one of the church’s fancy stained-glass windows.

Amanda gave a derisive snort. You almost took offense until she said, “Half of the time these therapists don’t even know what they’re talking about. It’s a bunch of bullshit, too.” She propped her cheek on her fist again, giving you a side-long grimace. “People don’t change until they have to. Or until they’re forced to. A bunch of psychoanalyzing isn’t going to do anything.”

You…. strongly disagreed. But the slim scar peeking out from her sleeve kept you from saying that. “Bad experience with a therapist?” you asked, flicking your gaze away.

“It never really worked for me.”

“What did?” you asked cautiously.

She paused. Thought about it. Stared at you with an intensity that had you wondering what the hell was going on inside her head. Until eventually, “Jigsaw.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to figure out how to respond to that.

She thought…. Jigsaw helped?

You didn’t want to judge. Fuck, that was exactly why you’d stormed out of the church. You were self-aware enough to realize that. Different things worked for different people, and different people responded to trauma in different ways, but….

The church doors squealed open. You both shot to your feet and turned around. Your fellow Jigsaw Anonymous members were leaving, the meeting over, spilling out from the doors with all the speed and excitement of molasses being poured out from a jar. You stepped to the side to let them come down the stairs. Amanda did the same, arm brushing yours, and you wrestled the urge to jerk away. You weren’t sure of the last time you’d actually touched someone, or the last time someone had touched you, aside from the gentle but coldly professional hands of doctors and emergency personnel. It was as startlingly foreign as it was familiar.

Amanda seemed completely unaware of your clashing emotions as her gaze locked onto something. You followed her stare to Brandon slowly making his way down the steps. A man with sandy-blond hair and a cane was with him, chatting, the both of them completely oblivious to either of you.

Did she know them? She was staring at them with such an undecipherable intensity and it was the only explanation you could think of. You glanced at the two men again, then back at Amanda. No… she wasn’t staring at them. She was staring at the blond man specifically.

It really wasn’t any of your business, but you couldn’t help but ask, “Do you two know each other?”

“Sorta,” was as much of a response as you got.

Once Brandon and the man reached the bottom of the ramp and went separate ways, Amanda turned back to you. It was just the two of you on the stairs now. And it was a little embarrassing how flustered you were just by her proximity. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even know her.

Maybe your therapist was right. You did need to get out and be around people more. So you could remember how to fucking act normal again.

“Well.” Amanda bumped her arm against yours again. This time deliberately. You were pretty sure the facial expression you made was not a normal one. “See you round.”

Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants, hopped down the steps, and just. Walked away. You stared after her for longer than necessary.

She was impossible to get a read on. Weirdly confrontational, weirdly evasive, and weirdly magnetic anyway.

You kind of hoped you’d see her again.

She didn’t appear for the next few meetings you obligatorily dragged yourself to. It wasn’t until about a month later that you found her sitting out on the steps again. When you, again, had rushed out to clear your head when the room got too small.

“Hey stranger,” she said, tone somewhere close to teasing. It made you smile. Just a little.

“Hey,” you replied, approaching the stairs. And again, you gestured to the space beside her. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

And so you developed a bit of a routine. She appeared on the steps about once a month, for a reason she never shared and that you never really minded. You would sit on the stairs with her, and the two of you would shoot the breeze. It was a comfortable, casual companionship born from a common factor and convenience. It was never anything very deep. Neither of you were there for therapy, not really. You kept it light, casual. That was the point, wasn’t it?

At least until one day when Amanda was standing by the stairs before the meeting had even started. You didn’t bother to hide your surprise as you approached her and exchanged your usual heys.

“You coming in today?” you asked.

“No. I thought we could head somewhere else.” She tilted her head at you. There was a playfulness to her expression, her smile. A playfulness that made you both a little bit cautious and a little bit excited. “Somewhere a little more fun. Unless you want to stay here. For therapy.” She pointedly lifted her eyebrows at you as she said therapy.

You glanced at the church doors behind her. Really, talking to her about anything but the fact that you were both Jigsaw survivors had done a lot more for you than going to these stupid fucking meetings had.

“Only if you promise not to put me in a death game for smoking,” you joked. Or tried to, at least. It really wasn’t that funny. You winced at yourself. But Amanda, to her credit, just linked her arm through yours. You almost preened at the friendly touch.

“Deal,” she said.

She ended up taking you to a bar. A gay bar, more specifically. You were a bit surprised she’d clocked you so easily but never said a word – but then again, neither had you about her. So you supposed you couldn’t be too surprised.

From there, your casual companionship escalated into something much more like a genuine friendship. You got to know each other properly. You talked about your personal lives and hobbies and interests. You even talked a little bit about Jigsaw, and everything after that. You told her how you’d been struggling with insomnia and how you’d lost your job when you stopped showing up. Because of, y’know, being stuck in a deathtrap. And being too terrified to set foot outside your door for a while after. You told her about the new job you’d gotten and struggled to adjust to. And you told her about your hands.

Nails through the palms Jesus-style. Because according to the hoarse voice on the tape that now haunted your nightmares – “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop”. She’d winced as you told her the story one evening. You’d winced as you’d recollected it. The pain shooting through your fingertips, up your arms, into your very fucking bones. The squelch of blood and muscle, the way you hadn’t been able to stop from screaming or the tears from spilling as you twisted and ripped your hands free of the metal spikes.

It was a miracle they didn’t introduced any infections into your bloodstream, the doctors had told you. A miracle.

You told Amanda how your hands still shook, were still a bit weak. How some days they were worse and some days they were better. And how fine motor skills had become hard now, whereas before you’d taken them for granted. God, had you taken them for granted. You’d been able to write your name, use a knife and fork, all that shit, so damn easily.

It had taken a lot of getting used to.

Amanda has just listened and nodded her head. Understanding. Not offering the grating sympathy people so often flung your way, all the while looking uncomfortably unsure of what to do with your presence and your hands and your experience and your trauma. But Amanda understood. Because of course she did. She knew what you’d been through and where you were coming from.

And she’d even smiled a bit mischievously, glancing down at your hands on the bar counter, and said, “Well, if you ever need help with anything, I’m pretty good with my hands. I could always lend a finger or two.”

Maybe it was the little smirk on her face, the glint in her eye when she said it. Maybe it was the loneliness and then the sudden friendship. Or maybe you’d just been a little too buzzed, but her words had remained lodged in your mind as you tried to go to sleep that night.

Amanda had shared things about herself, too, in the time you’d spent together. It had taken a little longer for her to open up – she was a bit slower, a bit more cautious. She seemed a lot more eager to listen than to do the talking. And you couldn’t fault her for that. But eventually, you learned that she worked as a mechanic, knew a lot about fixing and building machines and shit like that. She had a pet guinea pig that she’d acquired entirely by accident. His name was Pigeon. Her favorite color was red, her favorite bands were Nine Inch Nails and Hole, and her favorite movie was The Princess Bride. Her dad was a piece of shit she hadn’t seen in over a decade, and her relationship with her mom was strained at best. She was an only child.

You’d also learned more about her Jigsaw trap. How she’d become a drug addict in prison, how she’d woken up in a Jigsaw trap for it. How the little puppet with swirls on its cheeks had rolled out of the darkness on a tricycle and told her that she’d survived. And how she’d ended up in a trap a second time, a hellish prison of a house with several other people, most of whom had died.

The news had nearly brought your drink back into your throat. Lighting did strike twice after all. He did pick the same victims more than once.

God, maybe you really did need to quit smoking.

Amanda had placed her hand on your arm. Touch gentle but grounding all the same. And she’d assured you that that wouldn’t happen to you, Jigsaw wouldn’t choose you again. He had no reason to. She said it so confidently, and you so desperately wanted to believe her. That you wouldn’t be taken a second time. Or that she wouldn’t be taken a third. Not that she seemed too concerned about it.

That was the strange thing about her. When she told you about what had happened, she stared down at the counter. Her hands shook a little bit. The memory terrified her.

And yet…. she had this fixation on the idea that Jigsaw had helped her. The trap had gotten her off drugs. It had put her on a completely different path in life. Rather than dying from a drug overdose, she’d gotten clean. He saved me, she’d said, eyes wide and earnest and afraid.

You’d fought against the urge to argue that, to say No, he didn’t save you, he almost killed you. The idea of Jigsaw possibly helping – all while you struggled to sleep and were plagued by nightmares as you did, while you struggled to make your handwriting legible, while you fought the urge to bolt back home as soon as the sun started lowering in the sky? The idea felt like swallowing glass.

Had Jigsaw ever made anyone do that?

But you didn’t say any of that to her. People dealt with trauma in different ways. You supposed this was just her way of dealing with it. And it wasn’t really hurting anyone, so who were you to judge?

It certainly didn’t stop you from going to the bar with her regularly. It didn’t stop you from laughing with her, from getting close to her both emotionally and physically till the edge of your seats were almost touching and your arms were practically interlinked.

It didn’t stop the spark of warmth in your chest when she offered a genuine smile. Or the electric feeling that shot through your veins when she traced her fingers over your knuckles one night, after the conversation had lulled and your drinks had gone lukewarm.

“I wanna try something,” she said, voice soft enough that you would’ve missed it had you not been sitting so close your thighs were pressed together.

Eye contact right now would’ve been like staring into the sun. So instead, you stared at her hand on top of yours. Her knuckles were scratched up as if she’d gotten into a fight. “Sure,” you said slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

Amanda turned to you. You cautiously met her gaze. Christ, it really was like looking at the sun. Warm and beautiful but intense. Burningly intense.

Confusion turned to shock as Amanda hooked two fingers into the neck of your shirt and tugged you closer till her lips were hitting yours. You must’ve made a noise of surprise, because she drew away almost immediately. It was all you could do not to chase her and ask why did you stop? A small crease appeared between her eyebrows and she opened her mouth. And God for a second you thought she was going to apologize, when in fact she really didn’t need to because holy shit.

“Oh thank fuck,” you blurted. “You were flirting with me.”

Concern turned to surprise. Then Amanda laughed, the sound pure relief. “Yeah, I was. Did it take you that long to figure it out?” she teased.

“Uh.” Your face warmed. “Maybe.”

She grinned, then grabbed you by the shirt and kissed you again. Gentle but insistent. Her other hand curled around your nape. You didn’t know what the hell to do with your own hands until one curled around her back and the other ended up braced against the bar counter.

The bar counter. Right. You were very much in public. Sure, it was a queer bar, but it was still public.

So you reluctantly pulled away. Amanda looked confused for a moment before you said, “Hey, maybe we should… do this somewhere else?”

She blinked at you. Then, wordlessly, she wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you off your seat. She dragged you past the other patrons and tables – it was a quieter night, so you didn’t have to fight through a sea of people – and pushed through one of the bathroom doors, yanking you in with her and locking the door behind you.

“There,” she said. There was a look to her eyes, a look that made your heart stumble and your entire body go warm. “We’re somewhere else.”

This time when she kissed you, you let her fully take the lead. You slid your arms around her and melted into the kiss, sighing against her. It just made her more eager. She prodded at your lips with her tongue, slipped inside with a sweet little moan that had your heart racing. Sent your head spinning. You backed up till you hit a wall, dragging Amanda with because fuck you weren’t breaking this kiss. Not as she was getting to know you with her teeth and her tongue. She tasted like alcohol and peaches, smelled of loam and sweat and faintly of men’s store-brand bodywash. It was heady, intoxicating. Addicting.

Her hands slipped under your shirt. You shuddered at the exposure to the overly air-conditioned bathroom. Shuddered harder at her warm touch roving across your skin, the slight drag of fingernails over your stomach. Amanda broke the kiss with a wet smack as your muscles tensed underneath her.

“You’re so cute,” she teased. She dragged her fingernails over your skin again with just a little more pressure. You arced into her touch. Fuck. Fuck.

You wished you could come up with some kind of response. Something to convey just how much you were aching for her, both emotionally and physically. How badly and how deeply these emotions were running through you. But words were currently beyond your grasp.

Amanda leaned in and nibbled at your neck as her fingers slid past your waistband and teased the edge of your underwear. You clamped your teeth down on your bottom lip. Heat swirled through your veins, in your stomach, at the base of your spine. You moved your hips a little, just a little, to urge her on. Nails dug into the soft flesh there. A whimper escaped.

“Mandyyyyyyy.”

“Yeahhhhhhh?” She was all mischief and smugness as she looked back up at you. It just made you more desperate.

“Mandy. Please?” You gave her your best pleading look.

“You’re so impatient.” She said the words lightly, playfully. But she must’ve been impatient too, because she was pushing your underwear down. When her fingers brushed against your clit, you gasped and dropped your head back against the wall. Fuck, God, yes, right there –

“You sure you only just figured out I was flirting with you? You seem pretty fucking wet already.” She punctuated her words with a slide of her fingers against you. Because yeah, you were fucking wet. It would’ve been a little humiliating if you weren’t so achingly desperate for her touch.

“Yeah, well.” You drew in an unsteady breath as she circled your clit. A teasing touch that wasn’t quite enough. Fuck, it was impossible to form a coherent thought. “You’re just…. really fucking hot.”

It was hardly eloquent. But her breath puffed against your neck in a laugh. And you figured it would do for now.

She kissed the hollow of your throat, firmly rubbed her thumb against your clit. You practically bucked against her. Her other hand hooked under one of your thighs and lifted, and you threw your leg around her waist. Let out a moan at how it changed the sensation. “Yeah, like that,” Amanda breathed. “Just like that.” She said it as if you were touching her, as if she wasn’t the one doing all the work, wasn’t the one making you writhe and whimper and leak over her precise fingers.

Christ, you hadn’t felt this good in a while.

The pace was languorous, exploratory, testing what made you shiver and dig your nails into her shoulders and gasp for breath. As if she was intent on taking you apart and finding out exactly what got you going – a machine to figure out and put back together. Slowly, slowly, but in a way you savored, you felt the tension inside of you building up and coiling tight like a spring. You were quivering. Your clothes clung to your sweat-sheened skin. The music spilling into the bathroom from the bar wasn’t quite enough to cover the ragged breathing and wet, rhythmic noises, and it just made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Especially with how Amanda was panting against you, as if she was getting off just from you getting off and fuck it made you clench.

When she picked up the pace, you weren’t able to stop the gasps and moans that spilled out of you, the way you panted and pleaded her name. The sound of her fingers squelching against you had you burning. And when your release hit you cried out, clenching, shaking, clinging to Amanda’s shoulders and digging your nails in as you rode out the high. She didn’t stop, didn’t relieve the pressure against your clit. White hot pleasure burned through your body till tears pricked at your eyes. Distantly, she said something. Soft, sweet words that didn’t quite reach your ears as they rang from the intensity of your orgasm.

She only stopped when you went limp against her. Only pulled away from the mess you’d made – that she’d made too, really – to wrap her arms around your hips and kiss you, deep and slow, as if trying to commit you to memory. You lazily brushed your tongue against hers. Your muscles felt like taffy, worn out in the best way.

“You were right,” you said when you parted. “You really are good with your hands.”

Amanda grinned so widely and genuinely that you couldn’t stop yourself from capturing her lips again. Fuck. You might’ve been a little bit in love. Or maybe that was the post-sex endorphins talking. You weren’t sure. You didn’t particularly care either way.

“I think I owe you an orgasm,” you said.

Amanda brushed her nose against yours. For the first time since you’d met her, she actually seemed truly, fully relaxed. As if she’d properly lowered her guard just now, just in this moment, just for you. “Maybe next date.” The words sent a flutter through your chest. Next date. There’d be a next date. “But first,” she said, moving away to grab some paper towels, “we gotta get you cleaned up.”

[antopll]

Lettre ouverte à Victor W.

Mon père est décédé le jeudi 20 décembre 2001, à 02h30.

Il était depuis toujours fan de country music, et avait en adoration Johnny cash. Il ne jurait que par lui.

En vrai amoureux du far west, il répétait souvent que dès la retraite acquise, il irait à fort Alamo. Hélas il nous quitta à l’âge de 53 ans.

A ses funérailles je lus un texte écrit de ma plume, qui disait entre autre: « Mon père aurait été ravi, fort Alamo Davy Crockett et sergent Bowie ».

Je venais à peine d’avoir 15 ans.

Ceci étant dit, démarrons, vous allez comprendre.

Samedi 18 janvier 2025 donc, Victor Wembanyama met en place un concours sur les réseaux sociaux pour assister aux deux matchs opposant sa franchise des San Antonio Spurs aux Indiana Pacers.

Il y dévoile des coordonnées GPS dans cinq villes de France afin de gagner des places pour assister à cette double confrontation. Plus tard j’apprendrais que trois des gagnants seront invités le jeudi, les deux autres étant invités le samedi pour le re match.

Le lendemain, après un match assez relou chez le leader en d2 Finistère (où loin du « flu game » de Mj je colle quand même 7 points en 2 minutes sous Covid), je vois sur X qu’un mec a trouvé le Qr code à Paris et qu’il l’a donc partagé sur les réseaux.

Ce faisant, nous scannons le dit code à la maison, qui renvoi sur un site avec un questionnaire afin de s’inscrire à un tirage au sort.

Naturellement je le partage (le QR) sur le groupe messenger que nous avons avec les Seniors de mon club.

Pour la suite, vous n’êtes pas prêt. Doigt dans l’engrenage, pied à l’étrier, c’est un non sens total qui montre et démontre qu’il faut savoir enfoncer des portes (entre) ouvertes.

Le mardi suivant, soit le 21 janvier, je rentre chez moi le midi, et sur le messenger du basket, E. met un message comme quoi une certaine C. l’a contacté. « Bonjour E. vous avez été tiré au sort etc… ».

Bon, tout le monde est bien gentil, mais ça ressemble à un scam. À une chose prêt: il a joué au même concours que moi du coup via le QR, et un scam normalement t’invite à cliquer et à renseigner des données confidentielles. Ce qui n’est pas le cas ici.

Dans le même temps il m’envoie un message en mp pour me dire que c’est chelou toussa toussa et me demande si ça m’intéresserais d’y aller, si c’était vrai, car lui était bloqué par le taf. Je réfléchis longuement (2 secondes) et je tente un truc.

Via le screen qu’il m’envoie je choppe le numéro de la fameuse C. et je me fais passer pour un des gagnants, demandant si c’est légit ou non. À quoi elle me répond: « vous êtes qui? J’ai contacté les gagnants mais je ne vous connaît pas ». Malaise.

Alors, avec l’accord de E., je lui dit que je m’appelle Cédric et que j’ai voulu vérifier la véracité de ses propos, car aujourd’hui on voit tellement de choses louches etc…

Dans le même temps je lui demande, étant donné que E. Me dit qu’il ne pourra pas s’y rendre, si je peux me substituer à lui, où si les places seront remises en jeu.

Elle me dit qu’elle a posé la question et que si E. valide mes propos, c’est ok pour elle et pour sa boîte. On est à 48 heures d’un truc de zinzin mais je le sais pas encore.

Après quelques échange avec C. je lui communique à sa demande mon adresse mail. Elle me demande alors pourquoi dans mon mail je m'appelle Anthony, quand je lui ai dit m'appelr Cédric... Premier couac.

je lui explique que mon pote avait peur d'une arnaque, en toute sincérité. Bingo.

J'émet des réserves, et elle m'invite à l'appeler en vocal pour me rassurer, ce que je ne fait pas.

Elle me donne son insta, que je check aussitôt, et que je recoupe avec le nom de sa boîte etc... Tout est fucking réglo, ça paraît iréel mais je commence à y croire.

Le soir même je lui demande plus de renseignements, car je dois m'organiser, étant de bretagne etc... Deuxième couac. En effet le gagnant est censé avoir gagné à... Paris.

Je tricote, ça passe.

Elle me dit que j'aurais les billets du match le lendemain. Alea Jacta Es.

Le lendemain arrive, mais pas les billets. Bon...

Entre temps, j'ai bien sûr dit à mon fils que j'avais gagné des places et que j'allais y aller avec sa soeur et non pas avec lui, comme le con que je suis...

D'ailleurs quand je l'ai annoncé à ma fille, je n'ai pas eu le temps de la mettre en garde d'une possbile arnaque qu'elle avait déjà les larmes aux yeux, et le sentiment d'être heureux pour elle, mais aussi de se sentir coupable de l'avoir fait rêver pour rien, c'est assez indescriptbile.

Mercredi donc, J-1, j'envoi un message à C., aucune réponse.

Dans le même temps sur insta, après plusieurs messages de ma part elle m'envoi un vocal pou rme rassurer, me disant que la prod. réfléchit à savoir si les billets sont remis avant l'évent, ou alors sur place avant le match, car il y aura peut-être un sujet avec tf1 qu'il n'y a aucun risque et que je peux réserver le train et l'hotêl...

Je ne sais plus quoi penser...

Je réserve quand même le transport et le dodo, pour moi et ma fille...

Jeudi arrive, le jour J. Nouvelle tentative par message et sur insta (oui ça peut ressembler à du spam), et j'ai assez tôt une réponse. Je suis assez dérouté, un coup elle me tutoie, la fois d'après c'est le vouvoiment qui est de mise.

A ce moment précis je suis prêt à tout annuler, et elle fini par m'envoyer deux billets pour le match.

Soulagement, mais un doute persiste. Les billets font très vrai, ce sont des invitations "Loges et Salons", mais un détail m'embête. Le nom sur les billets. JORAN HOWENSTINE!

Je google ça dans la foulée et je vois assez vite que JORDAN HOWENSTINE est le dir com des Spurs. Soulagement, mais appréhension à cause de la faute dans le prénom, ça ressemble tellement à un fishing, mais à aucun moment on m'a demandé de cliquer quelque part, ou encore des infos confidentielles...

J'ai les billets, le train est dans une heure (je me suis arrangé avec le taf pour poser mon jeudi Am et mon vendredi matin), j'ai plus qu'à aller chercher ma fille au collège, après tout, on a qu'une vie...

Entre temps, E. me dit qu'un certain J. de chez Comsport l'a contacté, et il me passe son numéro car c'est moi qui me rend à Paris finalelent...

On échange par message et je fini par lui dire que je suis au travail et que je l'appelle quand on monte dans le train. Ce que je fais in fine sur le quai de la gare, d'ailleurs au bout du fil tout est cohérent de sa part, on doit se capter devant Bercy, le rêve prend forme pour autant je ne cesse de conditionner ma fille. Je lui répète à l'envi que peut-être est-ce une arnaque, que nous faisons surement Molraix Paris pour rien, mais qu'au pire ça nous fera une ballade (sic).

Plus de marche arrière possible.

Il faut savoir que dans le même temps je partageais sur le messenger de mon club ainsi que sur le whatsapp que j'ai avec mon équipe TTFL, et que beaucoup étaient sceptiques, à raison d'ailleurs à ce moment là.

Durant le voyage et après avoir posté sur les réseaux le début de notre périple en TGV, S. un ami travaillant pour les FDO sur la capitale me demande ce que je monte faire à Paris, où et à quelle heure.

Je dit à ma fille en rigolant "imagine il vient nous chercher à la gare avec la sirène etc...", visionnaire le type...

Pour les voyages en train je vous renverrais à Grand Corps Malade, mais enfin et affamés nous arrivons à Montparnasse, moi même et ma fille de 13 ans, sans la certitude de l'heure suivante, ni de celle d'après d'ailleurs.

S. me dit qu'il arrive, nous patientons. Je décide de l'appeler, et sensation étrange, dans mon téléphone et pas loin de moi j'entend en écho le même tintamare.

C'est à ce moment que je vois un véhicule banalisé venir vers nous, je peut m'empêcher de rire nerveusement.

A peine montés nous demande t-il si nous avons peur en voiture, la suite appartient à l'histoire mais sachez que Paris à ce moment ça paraît tout petit...

Il nous dépose à l'hotêl, et me dit qu'il reste en stationnement le temps qu'on se change, et nous dépose en ville pour aller manger ensuite.

Une fois cela fait, nous arrivons à Bastille pour manger dans parait-il le meilleur mexicain de Paris, aka "BOCA MEXA".

Je peux pas me prononcer sur le hit parade tant j'en ai fait q'un mais sûr qu'on se rapproche de la vérité, en témoigne ces texans à l'accent reconnaissable venus tabasser des fajitas à quinze heures...

S. nous quitte alors, le travail l'appelant.

C'est ainsi que nous avons pris la direction de Bercy à pied, avec quoi qu'il advienne des souvenirs pleins les poches, tantôt en course poursuite dans Paris, tantôt escortés comme des VIP...

Nous arrivames à Bercy vers 16h45 de mémoire, le ventre plein et les poches pleines de rêves.

On y étais et c'était réel. On pris le temps de déambuler, nous allames au NBA store pop up sur le parvis, Je pris un pull à L. une casquette pour moi, et une écharpe à E. tant je lui devais au moins ça.

18 Heures et l'ouverture des portes arrivèrent à toute vitesse, et après confirmation préalable d'un des agent de sécu, nous nous sommes mis à faire la file pour rentrer dans Bercy.

Gros moment de complicité, nous deux et rien d'autre.

Casquette des Spurs visé sur le crane, deux mecs en costard passant devant nous et l'un deux me dit dans un accent bien texan "YEAH MAN GO SPURS GO", il s'agissait de R.C. BUFFORD et Franck MICELLI, rien que ça, le rêve pouvait commencer.

La pluie s'invite mais qu'importe, la file s'assombrit et on reconnaît ici et là quelques têtes (des youtubeurs, mais aussi les gars de trahstalk entre autres). On voit les consultants de Bein passer aussi, on prend des photos, vraiment le mood est total.

On a jamais été aussi près, il reste dix minutes et je répète encore à L. que c'est possible que les billets ne passent pas... Et Dieu sait que j'ai un pressentiment, à juste titre.

This is it, nous sommes les premiers, tapis rouge etc...

BIP, lumière rouge sur le scan de l'agent, billet refusé.

Deuxième billet, deuxième bip, deuxième lumière rouge, billet (aussi) refusé.

Echange de regard, les yeux de ma fille sont toujours bleus mais rougis aussi.

L'agent nous invite à décaller avec son collègue, idem. Fin du monde.

Sentiment étrange d'être démuni à l'autre bout du monde, avec une petite à consoler, sans avoir les mots adéquates.

Hors du temps, hors sol.

J'envoi un message à C. de chez Yard, elle ne comprend pas alors je l'appelle, elle me dit alors de voir avec J. de chez ComSport. J'appelle J. et il me dit de voir avec C. de chez Yard, car il ne sera sur place que dans 1 heure...

Je me sens si con, dans quoi ai-je entrainé ma petite?

J. me dit quand même d'essayer l'entré principale sur le parvis, malgré la mention "loges et salons" sur les billets. Légère éclaircie, de courte durée...

Parvis? Même problème, billets invalides. je relance et relance, C. de chez Yard, et J. de chez ComSport. Ils se renvoient la balle, puis J. fini par me dire que son patron va appeler la nana de chez Yard pour gérer tout ça, et qu'il m'appelera ensuite.

Il me dit aussi de retenter avec les screens des billets, peut-être que les Qr ont perdus en lisibilité dans l'impression... Dans le même temps C. me confirme les échanges, mais la nuit tombe, l'heure du match approche, je perd espoir, commençant à culpabiliser d'avoir entrainé ma fille là dedans, elle si belle et si désabusée dans son pull que nous venons d'acheter pour l'occasion...

Enième message au gars de chez ComSport et littéralement il me répond "cest en cours!".

Je suis au point où j'abandonne, et je dit à Lola que c'est pas grave, q'uon va trouver un restau où regarder le match, quand mon téléphone sonne, sur whatsapp, d'un numéro inconnu.

Décrochant j'entend alors une dinguerie, du genre: "Bonsoir Anthony, I. agent de Victor. je suis désolé de ce qui t'arrive, on va trouver une solution, où es tu, comment es tu habillé, bouge pas j'arrive dans deux minutes."

Il me décrit sa morphologie, sa tenue, pendant que nous sommes sur le parvis de Bercy commençant à voir poindre la désillusion...

Pendant son laius je dis désabusé à Lola "à ce qu'il paraît c'est l'agent de wemby", et là il me coupe et de facto "wesh mais c'est vrai mec, je suis vraiment son agent, tu me prend pour qui?", je me suis senti con à ce moment précis...

Bien sur dans le même temps, mes collègues du basket suivent mes pérégrinations, certains me disant que ça force le respect quand d'autres me disent que je suis complètement fêlé...

Et quand je leur dit que c'est bon, que l'agent de Victor vient de m'appeler et qu'il arrive, imaginez la suite...

Qui y aurait cru?

Durant les dix minutes que nous avons attendus, il faut savoir que dès que ma fille voyait quelqu'un qui pouvvait correspondre (brun, deux mètres), elle trépignait, en vain...

Bêtement je lui ai dit que nous allions attendre à côté de la sécu, car "on ne sait jamais", ça pouvait être une arnaque, le mec nous demandant de le suivre etc...

Puis il vint.

Poignée de main chaleureuse, regard avenant, un vrai gendre si on me demande.

Veste LV, Air Jordan Travis, les derniers doutes commencaient à s'estomper, mais quand bien même.

Lola me fit remarquer que sa veste était la même que celle que Victor avait la veille au JT de TF1. Il s'avérait que d'après ses dires c'était bien elle.

Je lançait les hostilités, répondant à ses politesses avec une pointe d'ironie, lui faisant remarquer que oui, de sa poche sortait un tour de cou "nba" mais que rien ne prouvait que c'était un vrai et qu'il y avait possiblement un badge au bout.

Cela le fit rire, et donc il sorti le badge de sa poche me disant "regardez, il y a mon nom et ma photo dessus, soyez rassuré, et ne vous inquietez pas, on va vous faire rentrer.".

Dans le même temps, il prit son téléphone, qui qu'il fût à ce moment là, et je compris très grossièrement qu'il était en communication avec les Spurs. C'était tellement bien fait que j'en resta bouche bée.

Je profitais de son inatention envers ma personne pour googler son nom, et la dernière chape de plomb tomba.

Il était le messie, en chair et en os, il était vrai!

J'eu du mal à contenir mes larmes, et Lola compris alors que c'était bon, et ce moment restera gravé à jamais.

A cet instant précis, je le vis regarder mon écran, mettre en sourdine sont téléphone, pour me dire "mais tu m'espionne! je te répète que tu n'as rien à craindre, mais tu m'espionne?", ce à quoi j'ai eu du mal à répondre.

Il raccrocha, et me demanda de lui répéter le déroulé de nos écueuils.

Ce que je fit, lui expliquant point par point nos échecs, finissant par lui dire qu'après avoir vu nos billets refusés aux deux entrées, dans une ultime tentative vaine, nos billets avaient fini par dire "billets déjà scannés".

C'est là qu'il me dit alors que j'aurais dû commencer par là, et dans son élan il reprit son téléphone, malgré mon anglais assez mid je compris très vite à qui il parlait, et de quoi il parlait.

Il finit par raccrocher, posa sa main sur mon épaule, finissant par me dire, on m'envoi de nouveaux billets, t'as AirDrop? De toute façon si ceux là passent pas t'es avec moi, vous rentrez quand même, à chaque fois c'est pareil, dès qu'on organise un truc ça coince. Vous avez de la chance en plus, vous êtes surclassés.".

Et devinez quoi? On est rentrés.

Lola et moi on s'est regardé, je suis resté digne mais mon coeur disait clairement le contraire...

J'ai demandé à I., avant que nos chemins se séparent, si on pouvait faire une photo, ce à quoi il a dit oui, non sans avoir fait remarquer qu'il aurait dû dire non tant je croyais pas en sa bonne parole...

La suite appartient à l'histoire.

Par pudeur, j'ai pas osé poser, envoyant ma fille au front pour des clichés qui resteront dans la légende (Monsieur Pesquet, Omar Sy, J. Noah, Rodri, Sabrina Ionescu, Jalen Rose et j'en passe), mais on était au deuxième rang à Bercy, et on est ressorti de là des souvenirs et des étoiles pleins la tête...

On a enfoncé une porte (à moitié ouverte) et une heure avant le départ j'étais sur le point de tout annuler.

J'ai pris le risque de traverser la france en One Shot avec ma fille de 13 ans, avec la carotte de vivre un rêve, sachant celui ci quasi impossible...

Alors voilà, merci E., merci C., Merci J., Merci S., Merci I., et surtout merci Victor.

J'ai tant à dire, mais je suis si fier de faire avec mes enfants ce que je n'ai pu faire avec mon père.

Celà fait écho au début de mon texte, Mon père a rêvé en vain de Fort Alamo, et Fort Alamo est venu à moi.

Ce soir là je me suis couché sachant que je n'avais que 3h de sommeil devant moi car il fallait rentrer en Bretagne, mais j'ai pris le temps de penser à mon papa que je rendais surement fier, mais aussi à ma femme qui me laissa partir avec ma fille dans l'inconnu et l'expectative.

Victor, même si j'ai gagné à ton concours de manière non conventionelle, ma fille a rencontré Sabrina Ionescu grâce à toi. Rien que ça, à 13 ans. L'écrire 3 semaines après m'émeut toujours autant...

A Daniel Riolo je dirais alors que ses propos sur cet évenements sont vains. Daniel vous avez voulu faire de l'absurde cet événement quand votre moitié le fait si bien sur C8. Laissez les gens rêver.

Moi aussi j'ai pu penser que ce genre d'événement était réservé à une élite, mais quand bien même je suis la preuve qu'il n'en ai rien, et trois semaine après j'ai à la maison une petite qui veut devenir la meilleure joueuse du monde.

Merci Victor.

[gastronominho]

Começou o "Triplo Chopp" na Picanharia dos Amigos

A casa traz primeira promoção 'Triplo Chopp' de São Paulo, em todas as suas unidades.

A casa traz primeira promoção ‘Triplo Chopp’ de São Paulo, em todas as suas unidades. A Picanharia dos Amigos deu início para a sua promoção “Compre UM chopp e leve TRÊS” Para aqueles que gostam de drinques, a double caipirinha é uma opção que está no cardápio da casa. Além das novidades do bar, a cozinha também terá novos pratos serão incorporados aos cardápios de todas as unidades. A partir…

[admiral-mason]

You Reap What You Sow - Chapter 7

Genshin Impact SAGAU x Iron Harvest 1920+

Rekindled Knowledge

Warning: Mentions of Aether being the traveler.

You were walking with the Tsaritsa to the "Divine Archives" of this palace to learn more about yourself. Despite being the supposed 'divine creator,' you didn't really know much about yourself. You and the Tsaritsa were all alone, your rifthound and Sluga buddies playing with the Harbingers.

The archives had a different door compared to the other doors within the palace, which were all in different shades of light blue. The archive door, however, was a dark blue with various symbols correlating to you engraved on it. These symbols included the seven elements alongside the seven gnoses. There was also a hole which appeared to be in the shape of the Cryo gnosis.

"Here we are, your grace. The Divine Archives, where I have all the different scrolls and books focusing on you that I could find." She took out her gnosis and placed it in the hole before taking it out and opening up the double doors to them.

The room was large. Bookshelves and chandeliers of ice littered the place. Various pieces of furniture were also around the area. You looked over one of the images on the wall. It depicted you wearing a hood, overshadowed and mysterious. However, you also held out your arms in what seemed to be a hugging position, symbolizing your mystifying yet kind nature.

You took out a maroon-red book from its shelf, sat down on a soft chair, and opened it up. It depicted how you have created the world of Teyvat.

In the beginning, there were volatile masses of ever-changing matter.

In the midst of this nothingness, a singular, lone, but sentient light existed, wandering aimlessly around the world.

The light, feeling lonely, decided to create something using the matter of this dark realm.

They first created some stable chunks of matter, which are solids, liquids, and gases. They created seven starting elements: Anemo, Geo, Electro, Dendro, Hydro, Pyro, and Cryo.

As this light grew more advanced, they learned how to create life. They gave rise to the Seven Sovereigns, and later on the Primordial One. The Primordial One was a test to see how tough their newest creation, mankind, can get. They managed to defeat the Seven Sovereigns and shaped the Human Realm. The light then created a form for themselves, and it is here where they first have the formal title of "Divine One."

Over time, Humanity grew stronger, and Celestia rose to power. Khaenri'ah was also founded as a godless nation, something which the divine creator was impressed at. Then, Celestia gave seven seats to those who are strong and heroic enough to claim them. This led to the Archon War.

The Divine One hated this war. So many dead, so many lost. Finally, when the war was over, the creator watched as the new gods took their place. Only Barbatos and Morax of the original seven remained.

Finally, the world was at a shaky peace. Or was it?

The Cataclysm occurred, and the Divine One watched in lamentation once more at the sight of their creations fighting. While Khaenri'ah was a threat to the natural order of Teyvat, the creator couldn't help but feel empathy for the destruction of what could have been a wonderous, prospering nation.

Then, the Travelers arrived. The Divine One breathed life into these two siblings as a method to observe other potential worlds, and ultimately their final creation before the Divine One stored away their powers in order to rest. They unfortunately did not expect the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles to separate them from each other. The female was trapped in Teyvat and witnessed the Cataclysm, and the male lay dormant for 500 years. As the male traveler began their Journey in Mondstadt, the Divine One learned something atrocious from their acolytes.

Their acolytes had been punishing those who bore the same face as them. The Divine One looked at their hands as they witnessed a citizen of Mondstadt have their head chopped off through the eyes of the traveler, all because they had the same looks as the almighty one.

You closed the book right there and then, and the memories came washing back. The Archon War, the Cataclysm, everything. You internally panicked, remembering all of the chaos and destruction you saw. You further remembered the time that your own acolytes tried killing your own self. The Tsaritsa, sitting next to you, sensed your panic and tried to calm you down.

"Your grace, look at me, please." She softly said to you, before enveloping you in a slow and soft hug. "I am sorry for defiling your personal space, but I could sense that you were panicked."

"No- no, it's fine." You replied, reciprocating the hug.

You further read upon different subjects in the archives, such as further into on Khaenri'ah, the Fatui, etc. However, one golden-covered book caught your interest the most, and it was on the topic of your powers.

It turned out your powers were greater than you could imagine. You could create ANYTHING you wanted, whether it be a pink sheep or an indestructible chunk of rock, you could do so. However, since you were reborn, it would take a while before you could create totally anything. You had heavy restrictions placed on your current, more fragile form. Then, you reached the topic of revitalization, and the information it had to tell hit you.

The Divine One can revive chosen individuals, but they must be assisted by large amounts of an element during the process.

You drew a conclusion from this: in order to revive La Signora and Rostam, you just needed to supercharge yourself with TF-610 Baterijas from Tesla's Factory.

However, by the time you learned that information, you were growing tired as the drowsiness starts to hit you. "Hey, uhhhh... Tsaritsa? I think I'm done for the day."

The Tsaritsa smiled as she lead you outside of the Archives and to a bedroom dedicated to you. It was near the archives and away from other rooms so you could have a lot of privacy. It was also incredibly gorgeous, boasting a comfortable king-sized bed, lavish furnishing, and a decorated crystal chandelier. There was also an ocean-blue door which you would explore tomorrow. Oh, and your rifthound buddy was here alongside the Slugas. The whelp is sleeping, and the robots are powered down. You also found a changing room with some dark blue nightwear.

As you got settled in for the night in said nightwear, Columbina entered the room. "The Tsaritsa suggested to me that I should sing a lullaby to help you sleep." She said, smiling at you with her closed eyes. Childe may fear her, but you certainly don't.

"Alright then, Damselette. Go ahead." You replied as you closed your eyes.

Genshin Impact is owned by miHoYo. Iron Harvest 1920+ is owned by Jakub Różalski and KING Art Games.

[zakynthosnews]

30/01 - 06/02 a previsão para essa semana é mínima de 6° e máxima de 13°, preparem os casacos. a praia vai ter que ficar pro mês que vem, provavelmente. depois de uma abertura incrível do museu, as suspeitas acerca do assassinato seguem rolando solta! durante toda a semana vocês verão policiais, detetives e pessoas fardadas andando pela cidade! vamos se mexer, polícia, quem vocês acham que foi o culpado? e pra piorar a situação, parece que alguns pontos da cidade estão sem água quente? é o que parece... esperamos que não demore muito tempo para arrumar. dia 01/02 teremos a inauguração da Nárkissos!! uma loja de cosméticos naturais de zoya pyatov! as aulas nas escolas locais voltam essa semana, o trânsito volta a ficar intenso! boa sorte a todos os papais. parece que no sabádo será dia de happy hour no oásis e teremos double drinks e chopps!

[botecodebolso]

Savannah Steak House - Terça, 02/07/19 - 19h

Savannah Steak House – Terça, 02/07/19 – 19h

E não é que deu Brasil e Argentina na Copa América? E em um clima totalmente propício com Parrilla, espetinhos e Double Chopp 🇧🇷 a gente te convida a vir torcer para a nossa Seleção Brasileira. Não perca, vai ser bem divertido! Esperamos você!

Conheça a melhor Steak House de Santos! São várias opções de blends, com os melhores cortes de carne!

Aberto de Terça a Sexta a partir das 19h,…

[allanknon]

Nesta Quinta-Feira, 30/05. Você pediu e o quarteto musical mais talentoso de Americana e região está de volta. Allan K-Nôn, Cido Moreno, Valéria Cruz e Odivan Bezerra interpretam os melhores clássicos da MPB desde a bossa nova, o sambinha carioca, o pop paulista, o rock tropicalíssimo e muito mais. Se na outra edição você não esteve presente, essa é a chance de presenciar momentos prazerosos como se estivesse nos melhores bares da Lapa ou da Garoa Paulistana. Ah! E tem Happy Jonnes com 25% de desconto em todos os pratos do cardápio, entre 18 e 20h. Além, é claro, do Double Chopp a noite toda. É muita coisa para perder fala sério? Info/Reservas 19 99422-6565 Rua José de Alencar, 456, Vila Jones, Americana-SP Face/Insta @mrjonnesamericana Couvert R$ 5,00 #musica #musicaacustica #mpb #samba #rock #pop Tudo Acontece no Mr. Jonnes (em Mr. Jonnes) https://www.instagram.com/p/ByDQNO5DsbD/?igshid=10sqfvsy9cdqw

[sweetamoraconfeitaria]

Beers Festival🍻 🍀 Educação Especial🍀 🍀Saint Patrick 's Day 🍀 🎸🍺🍕🐶🛍️ @beersfestival Em São Bernardo do Campo @culturasaobernardo Pa��o Municipal Praça Samuel Sabatini, 50 Entrada Gratuita: 🍚Colabore com 1kg de alimento Sábado 18/03 e Domingo 19/03 Das 12H às 22H 🎧 Apresentação e Discotecagem do DJ @rod_branco 🎸Música ao vivo 🎮Espaço Kids 🍕Área Gastronômica 🍺Cerveja Artesanal variada 🐶Evento Pet Friendly 🛍️Artesanato, Decoração e Acessórios💍👕🪆📿 🍪Doces 🍰🥧🧁🍦🍩🍬 🎸SÁBADO 18/03 • 13H | Tribute Red Hot • 15H15 | Double IPA • 17:30H | Led Zeppelin • 20:00H | Tributo Metallica 🎸DOMINGO 19/03 • 13:00H | Neon 80 • 15H15 | Raimundos Cover • 17:30H | The Offspring Cover • 20:00H | Ozzy Cover #beersfestival #CervejaArtesanal #chopp #choppartesanal #foodtruck #moda #acessorios #decoracao #modarock #acessoriosrock #decoracaorock #showderock #bandas #rock #doces #artesanato #petfriendly #ozzy #offspring #raimundos #redhotchillipeppers #metallica #ledzeppelin #saintpatricksday https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp30sUru6Ib/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[jashinkun]

Givenchy (Armani), Balenci (and Dolce), and Fendi (and Chloe), Versace

Fuck me up (lights out)

Fuck me up, baby

Fuck me up (lights out)

Guess what got more drip than anything a bitch put on?

This pussy (oh, oh), this pussy (oh, oh)

Now, guess what got more drip than anything a bitch put on?

This pussy (oh, oh), this pussy (oh, oh)

Come and motorboat me today

Titties sittin' like Rolling Ray

Hit it twice, double tap this page

Make the pussy stretch like minimum wage

Kill the pussy, nigga, dig its grave

I'm an accomplice, may I just say

Actin' like I like him 'til he pay

'Cause mortgage ain't free, man, okay?

I'm such a motherfuckin' freak (uh-huh)

Snatchin' daddy's soul like Tariq (oh)

Tall nigga, let me climb the tree

Chiropractor, from the back he beat

Drain the dick, I put it in a drought

Jenga game, he hate pullin' out (out)

I'ma skate after we fuck

So, on the dick I just roll, bounce

And I'm poppin', and I'm poppin', and I'm poppin' this twat

Fuck a two-hand twist, I got the dick on lock

I just make a nigga shiver when I swallow every drop

I look up, nigga shakin' like he NLE Chopp'

Then that dick bust a nut in my eyes when I wake up

It's serving UK Black girl makeup

Throat full of little babies, wait, wait, bruh

Shout out to Jayda Wayda

Guess what got more drip than anything a bitch put on?

This pussy (ah, ah), this pussy (shh, ah)

Now, guess what got more drip than anything a bitch put on?

This pussy (ah, ah), this pussy (ah, ah)

Suckin' on it while I look in his eyes

The pussy serve courtroom, make ya dicks all rise

You only gon' catch me where the money reside

I want a nigga head up like he got baptized

'Cause I'm the motherfucker that he like to brag about

Stick it in from the back like the tag was out

Throw the GPS, make him come the fastest route

He 'bout to straight sink in, like he crashed them couch

That nigga 'bout to drown tryna rock this boaty

He cut the condom in half, now the dick gotta floaty (uh-oh)

He gon' wave his wand all around my throaty

Like, "You are now watchin' a Disney showy" (uh-oh)

Throw it back, reachin' for them balls again

The fingers backwards, look like Mr. Crocker's hands

He got black balls, a dick only grow as I plan

But I support black business and make it expand

I'm not the one, two or three

The dick like a bungee jump inside me

Got butterfly doors, my legs up, he skeet

But first he pump gas, my tank was on E

Nigga, eat the ass and lick between cheeks

Head game stupid, remind me of Zeke

I'm the pussy fairy every day of the week

So I'm ridin' on his cockpit, I don't fly cheap

Guess what got more drip than anything a bitch put on?

This pussy (ah, ah), this pussy (shh, ah)

Now, guess what got more drip than anything a bitch put on?

This pussy (ah, ah), this pussy (ah, ah)

Now, guess what got more drip than anything a bitch put on?

This pussy (ah, ah), this pussy (shh, ah)

This pussy, Givenchy

This pussy, Balenci

This pussy, and Fendi

This pussy, Versace

This pussy, Armani

This pussy, and Dolce

This pussy, and Chloe

This pussy, and Louis

Ah, ah, shh, ah

[cinema-neilton1962]

Credits: @choperia.numero1 Nossos maiores amores, chope e Tricolor 🍺🇾🇪 Estamos abertos de ter a dom ✅ Happy Hour com Double Chope de ter a sex das 17h às 19h ✅ Entrada gratuita ✅ Estacionamento gratuito ✅ Vista para o gramado ✅ #Tricolor #SPFC #Morumbi #saopaulo #chope #chopp #dentrodomorumbi #bebacommoderação #happyhour (em Tijuca, Rio De Janeiro, Brazil) https://www.instagram.com/p/CRNnqkYHSgB/?utm_medium=tumblr

[kessbierexpress]

Hoje o Bierpunkt abre com double chopp Kessbier Pilsen das 18:00 às 20:00 hs. Vai perder essa? Vem pra Kess! Prost 🍻🍻! - #regrann (em Kessbier Express)

[botecodebolso]

Butiquim Itachopp - Sexta e Sábado, 07 e 08/06/19 - 18h

Butiquim Itachopp – Sexta e Sábado, 07 e 08/06/19 – 18h

Venha experimentar nosso rodízio de espetinhos 🍢🍢 com buffet de saladas e Caldos incluso😋 com muitas novidades e por um preço que cabe no seu bolso 🤑

FESTIVAL: QUINTA a SÁBADO- R$ 35,00 INFANTIL: R$ 16,00 (de 6 a 11 anos)

*Crianças de 0 a 5 anos não pagam.

e mais…

👉Você é aniversariante? Traga seus convidados para comemorar aqui conosco e ganhe: 🎁1 festival , a cada 15 festivais…

[mrlupulo]

A Küd Overdose é uma Double New England IPA, com aroma de frutas amarelas e uma seleção lúpulos e de maltes especiais que remetem ao som pesado da Overdose, uma banda de rock mineira contemporânea. De coloração amarelo ocre opaco, com espuma de ótima formação e boa persistência. Aroma cítrico e frutado. O sabor acompanha o aroma, cítrico e frutas amarelas, laranja, e nuances de pera, traz um leve maltado, bom amargor e teor alcoólico perceptível. Possui corpo médio para alto, textura aveludada, densa, ótima carbonatação, final seco e amargo. ——————————————— Cervejaria Küd Estilo Imperial IPA Álcool (%) 7.6% ABV IBU 69 Temperatura 4º a 6º Graus Copo Ideal Pint . . . #mrlupulo #craftbrew #craftbeer #craftbeers #instabeer #instacerveja #beergeek #ilovebeer #craftbeerporn #cerveja #cerva #beer #bier #breja #chopp #cervejadodia #beerlover #apaixonadosporcerveja #lovebeer #cervejagelada #cervejaartesanal #bebamenosbebamelhor #hophead #amantesdolupulo #lupulomaniaco (em Cervejaria Küd na Estrada) https://www.instagram.com/p/CIa8C-XjRdW/?igshid=hgtprcw5hzvt

[radiobiss]

Galera amanha os parças do Beergod(@beergod_oficial) farão uma Brasagem aberta. Bora?? ⠀ ⠀ Amanhã teremos uma AMERICAN IPA Brassagem aberta na Beergod 🍺 📅 14/11 a partir das ⏱ 18 hrs, com a participação no nosso amigo cervejeiro @viniciuspetter . E quinta-feira é dia de Double Chopp até as 21 hrs #vemprabeergod ⠀ @brejabox @fishingbier @espacogarten @cervejariadoisgordos @cervejariasinestesica @undertapbrewingco @cervejaria_minnesota @quatromaoscervejaria ⠀ #Beergod #beers #glass #microbrew #craftbeer #beerstagram #beerquest #beer #cerveja #cervejaria #artesanal #americanIpa #amigos #brassagem #abc #santaterezinha #quinta ⠀ www.radiobiss.com.br 📻🎤🎶🎸🎻🎷 ⠀ #webradio #radioweb #radiobiss http://dlvr.it/RJC1r4 http://dlvr.it/RJC1r4

[allanknon]

Você é daquela pessoa de bom gosto musical, que aprecia a arte da música popular brasileira? Então você precisa estar no Mr. Jonnes nesta quinta-feira, 07 de novembro, a partir das 18h, para degustar um fina mistura entre Bossa Nova e MPB, no talento de ODIVAN BEZERRA. Um resgate único de Vinícius de Moraes, Tom Jobim, João Gilberto, Gonzaguinha, Cartola, Adoniran Barbosa, Noel Rosa entre outros que deixaram sua marca na história da música nacional. DOUBLE CHOPP DEUTSCH A NOITE TODA! Info/Reservas 19 99981-3780 Rua José de Alencar, 456, Vila Jonnes, Americana-SP Tudo Acontece no Mr. Jonnes! #bossanova #mpb #musica (em Mr. Jonnes) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4hnCGRDmWt/?igshid=9ef00g96eymp