#and f** is a synonym for cigarette.

[greenfiend]

.

[altcvnningham]

needy

adler x f!bell

summary: adler gets up for a morning cigarette. or tries to. read on ao3

tags/cw: established adlerbell, f!bell, she/her pronouns, bell is russian, fluff, light angst, no plot, drabble, smoking mention, kind of domestic i guess, bo6 adler so he's a little soft, pre-bo6 but post-panama, cw references galore, dog imagery as is synonymous w adlerbell atp, author has adhd and goes on prosaic rambles in lieu of an actual plot. this fic could have been an email?? sorry wc: 3.1k

a/n: bwuhhh this was just an excuse to write self indulgent soft morning adlerbell at the rook while i work on my actual pre-bo6 adlerbell rook fic when i have the energy . no plot, lots of rambling, once again kind of just a thinkpiece on their relationship now adler's an old fossil. idk she was doing nothing being left in my notes app ajdkhjkasjk

He reckons she’s needier these days, more than she ever used to be back in Berlin.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s just his age that makes him feel that way; that perhaps she hasn’t changed at all, and instead it’s the dust settling on his bones, rusted shrapnel over the years snagged in the joints and sinews, that makes him feel sluggish in comparison. It’s the first time in his life since Livingstone brought up the CIA’s desire for more sprightly recruits that he wonders- is he struggling to keep up?

Their reunion after all these years was a messy one: a scrap in an indistinct bar, bloodied knuckles split and bruises welted dark blue, the white of his eye burst red, the curve of her jaw swollen for a good week. Fresh after Panama. As soon as she caught wind of what happened she’d picked up his trail barely a week after he arrived in Bulgaria. Had she come to kill him? He doesn’t know. It isn’t as if she’d confess to it even if she had, and maybe he had it coming anyway. It stopped mattering at all the second the fight had descended into the alleyway, wrestled onto their backs against the cobblestone, where hands had found throats and then jaw, waist, hip, and everything else. Punches had calmed to caresses, curses to kisses, and somehow he’d found himself patching her up back at the Rook, his stray dog come home to him, like old times.

She’d eased herself back into his life easily enough then. Simple and unspoken. Or, rather, wedged her foot back in the door well enough that he couldn’t shut her out again, even if he’d wanted to (as if he hadn’t always kept it ajar all these years just to let her in, never closed, never closed). Never a word for what they are, what they have, the routine they’ve slipped almost effortlessly back into again- that hasn’t changed since the old days- and yet he doesn’t find that it robs it of meaning whatsoever.

If anything, it makes it something rare, special, his diamond in the rough, glinting sea glass washed a perfectly chiselled bead upon the shore. Just as she’d crashed along with the tide as time brought her back to him, he picked her up, tucked her gently back into that place she belonged, in between the rib and vertebrae, nestled inside him all to steady the beat of his restless heart. Her alone enough to settle the frantic, ceaseless palpitations he’s suffered nightly, since… Solovetsky? He thinks? The dull gnawing in the back of his mind all those years in between, that wasn’t sure if he was more frightened for her inevitable return or her disappearing forever, slipping through his fingers back to sea again.

He supposes it doesn’t matter anymore. That was then, and now seemed to fare much nicer.

Now, she rolls sweet and placid onto her back against the mattress, limp as a daisy in rain, soft body bowing to his careful manhandling; he’s itching for a smoke, aching for his vice the second he awoke, hours too early for his alarm. He lifts her off him delicately, almost methodical as he starts with her arm, the heavy loll of her head, her shoulder. Like defusing a bomb, he’d joked once, a comparison she’d only proven right by her explosive reaction to it.

It’s an odd feeling, though, the calm where there had once been nothing but war between them, the quiet, the warmth upon his chest now fading where she’d laid her head after he came back last night- back home, back to her- and it’s in moments like these, just mere glimpses of normalcy, that makes him wonder what could have been his life, theirs, had things not happened the way they did. MK Ultra, Berlin, Solovetsky. Perseus. Then again, he supposes, if she hadn’t been shot in Trabzon that night, if she hadn’t been there at all, then he wouldn’t have known she’d even existed. This mundane moment lost to time like everything else.

She murmurs in her sleep, spurred to wakefulness when the mattress lifts and groans at his absence, her eyes squinting through the sliver of morning light bleeding through the gap in the curtains; even when she’s completely out of it, she doesn’t miss a thing. He’s never exactly been the paragon of stealth when he excels at everything else, but even if every factor in the world had worked in his favour- if the beaten mattress wasn’t so rusted, if the ancient floorboards didn’t squeal underfoot when he stood up, if there wasn’t a constant draft on his side of the room that hit her as soon as he moved- nothing would have stopped her from registering his absence, clawing to fight off sleep just so she had an excuse to grouse at him. Ever his stubborn girl.

“Mm… where y’going…?”

Adler smiles to himself, flat but genuine, stifled by the lethargy that hangs over his head heavy as an anvil. Her accent so thick in the early hours it hardly sounds like English at all. He’s half tempted to reply in Russian, just to see if her cottonmouth tongue latches quicker to that instead.

But he doesn’t, just lingers in the doorway leading out to the hall, feeling only a little guilty for letting in the cold. It rather satisfies him instead to see her shiver and pull the blankets further over herself, keeping her right where he wants her. Right where he needs her, so he knows she’ll still be there when he comes back.

“Smoke,” is all he says, rattling the crumpled pack for her to hear.

She’s half coherent when she grumbles, English sandwiched between Russian endearments. Cussing him out.

“Y’can smoke in here… m’don’t mind. Come back to bed.”

Something tugs at his heart, almost foreign, vague. Something he only feels when she digs her claws in him just like that, even if only to graze. It’s the same certainty as when he wraps his finger around a trigger, pulls a pin, wrenches his hand around the hilt of a knife- unspoken, inevitable. The drop of a guillotine, inexorably quick. A certainty that verges on frightening, a promise, which he’s never been good at keeping, but knows she means wholeheartedly, down to her marrow. Possessiveness, he thinks- (is it irony, now, how often he finds her fist wrapped around the leash he doesn’t even notice he’s wearing?)- people not in their line of work, those with nice houses and desk jobs and white picket fences, he’s heard, call that feeling belonging. To be beckoned like that. Home.

It’s her demand that he stays. Hardly a question. And Bell doesn’t beg.

He’s sure that in her spitefulness, if he’d had a trigger phrase just like hers, she’d spit it at him ‘til he turned heel and crawled back on over to her, slid under the sheets like an apology scrawled onto a note and tucked under the door. It’s a near enough thing- the way her bleary eyes fix on him vengefully through matted lashes, searing her betrayal into him. Every morning he gets up before her, it seems to say: you left me. A petulant notion, only half serious, but one cold enough that it almost works. Frigid. Familiar. Arctic air.

It works a little at least- getting soft in your old age- because he lugs himself back over to the bed and just stands by it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of quiet victory if he climbs back inside. She stretches a languid arm flat across the mattress, rolling catlike onto her stomach, splaying her fingers in the hopes that she might somehow pull him back in to her. She manages a knuckle grazing his knee, before she gives up, pulled under by sleep once more. Head slumped against the pillow, she muffles her disdain.

But Adler is nothing if not at least a little amenable. If he’s sweet on anyone, it’s his Bell. His baby. Hard to let a thing like that go, when she was quite literally made for him. Made by him, in his image. Scraped marrow from rib like Adam, caulking the hole Arash shot through her chest and bestowed life upon her once more. He’s happy to have a piece of himself broken off and left inside her, a tithe tossed to the slab of her altar. The fracture of his soul a discarded lamb in sacrifice, sustaining the sick hunger that starves her.

It keeps them inseparable, he thinks. He’d read something somewhere, pretentious shlock about strings of fate and those bound to it- romantic crap shmucks use to justify ugly marriages and affairs, the suffering of co-dependency given some transcendent meaning, a purpose greater than the mundane. The notion that two people, by whatever higher power, are bound to one another no matter what they do to separate themselves of it, tethered from their first breath and suffering an endless togetherness until their last. He’d rolled his eyes the first time he’d heard of it- there wasn’t a world where he’d be enough of a sap to actually buy into that shit. Maybe his ex-wife might’ve been fond of it, maybe it was something she wrote into one of the letters he kept under his bunk back in ‘Nam. He doesn’t know.

But Bell made him understand it. He’d dug a grave in her when he denied her her own on that airstrip in Turkey, and he buried himself in it, over and over again. His memories, his life, his voice ringing like God’s. His favourite things, treasured, secret. His fears and doubts and worries, every little thing that made up the culmination of his being. It was never just Vietnam he put there. It was everything. She’s half himself, a faded mirror image. It only makes sense that they’d find each other again, eventually. She’d walk the earth, stalking like a bloodhound trailing his dried scent until she found him. She’d roam the endless nights, a ghost shivering their old haunts until he meanders his way back to her again, pulled along by a gnawing ache inside himself- a missing piece he’d seek the rest of his life to fill. She could track him blind. And he would feel her coming, like blood in the water. He did. He did.

It’s that tether that makes it impossible not to relent to her, when he kneels down next to the bed, knee joint cracking under his weight, the mottled floorboard doing nothing to steady him. It’s her, when she has enough leverage now to close the distance between her fingers and the collar of his shirt, curled inside the bleached cotton, fist wrenched tight. The seam digs into the back of his neck but he doesn’t let her pull him to her; he waits, making her work for it. The satisfaction that tends to follow when she does is usually worth her ingratiation.

She drags herself across the mattress, using his body as an anchor. Heavy and boneless, she lays right at the edge of the bed where he kneels, her nose nudging at his jaw as she turns, belly up like prey. Too easy a kill, he knows that. She’s gloating. The fact he’d come back at all means she’s got him right where she wants.

“C’mere,” she murmurs gently, saccharine, cloying. He’s surprised it doesn’t make her gag- the pretend domesticity of it all. Dragging her dried lips, smiling, against the underside of his jaw, her fingers sliding idle up the back of his neck, arm slung around his shoulder like she’s expecting to be carried out.

He humours her with a smirk, his blues nearly grey in the dim dark of the room as she mouths at him, vying for his attention. It’s as much a demand as her words had been, sharp as her tone as she nips at his jaw. Adler sighs, as though turning his face to gaze down at her were something laborious, and not the blessing he counts on every finger, every day, seemingly numbered since Panama. He tuts, and it says, what am I going to do with you?

But if his condescension was an attempt to dissuade her advances, it doesn’t work, because she sees right through his playful façade, and the wry smile that unfurls sleepy on her lips betrays her excitement, the sifting of her legs under the sheets audible as she squeezes them together. Needy. She knows he notices.

“Not gonna work, Bell,” he hums dryly. Yet he steals this moment of her surrender, his eyes flitting to every feature of her face. He doesn’t need to commit her to memory, she’s dug in there like a tick. But God, if he doesn’t like to look at her. He brings a rough hand down against her temple, smoothing the baby hairs back, eliciting a satisfied sigh from her as her eyes slip shut. Her head falls back against the pillow, anticipating a kiss he doesn’t give her.

“C’mon. Back to sleep. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Five.”

“Bell.”

“Five minutes.”

Adler sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut.

“C’mon,” she croons, “five minutes… n’then…”

He thinks she’s fallen back asleep, the way her sentence carries off like that into silence. But when he opens his eyes she’s blinking prettily up at him, looking far too satisfied. Just as he opens his mouth to ask why, he feels the warm press of her hand against his knee, sliding up his thigh, fingertips tugged impishly at the sweatpants he’d haphazardly thrown on. He’s lightning quick to catch her, fingers circling her wrist; where the darting action might scare a weaker person it makes Bell’s eyes light up like stars, enamoured with his roughness. Excited. The way only she could be, eager pup biting at his ankles for a reaction.

“Behave,” he scolds, giving her knuckle a cursory smack before releasing her. That must finally be enough to spoil her fun, because she huffs, growling low in her throat, and rolls back over, burrowing herself deeper into the blanket than she’d begun.

It’s always a game to her, one she doesn’t much like losing. He can’t blame her for it. It’s always been that way. Back in Berlin, he’d taught her to play poker the proper way, the American way- whatever that meant- her downfall eternally being the fact she couldn’t bluff for shit around him. And it was just him- she’d caught on quick to the play, and had triumphed a couple times against Sims and Lazar; Park had refused to indulge the game, and Woods wiped the floor with the lot of them, even Adler. But with him, Bell just couldn’t lie. He was carved from marble, impassable- what he’d been trained to do. And she was a piece chipped off his softest part, malleable- of course he’d catch every minute twitch and wince, the flitting of wet lashes, the purse of an uncertain lip. She always told him the truth even with her eyes, her heart bore on her sleeve. It almost always felt like cheating. After all, it was what she was made for, wasn’t it?

And this felt much the same way. Not as strict as the luck of dealt hands and stifled poker faces but she’s never said or done anything to him she doesn’t mean. After he missed the shot in Solovetsky, all cards were strewn on the table. There was no mystery anymore. No joy taken in a good old fashioned backstab when the real damage was done, much too late to rectify. Maybe that’s why she makes it her personal goal to poke and prod and tease him now, chasing her fun in her own way, a decade late. Suppose it’s why she hates when he doesn’t just drop the cool attitude and give in.

He rises from the floor, that same knee joint clicking again. Where she might have mumbled a curt jibe about it, she’s silent, sulking into the pillow.

But just as he goes to leave, Adler stops at the door, a foot out into the hallway, the rest of him still stuck here, stuck on her. He sees a similar image in the back of his mind, of her laid upon the gurney in Die Landebahn, halfway into the back room with a syringe in hand when for one single moment of sobriety it dawned on him, what he’d been doing to her. Nothing like guilt, but it came close. Tinged with the regret of something so shameful as affection, Cupid’s arrow dipped in kerosene, shot straight through his heart; to come out the other side, to let him survive, to let him have this, here, her, now. And it’s a torture to have lived it, to know he doesn’t deserve a lick of it. The soft rise and fall of her breath beneath the blanket. Her hair splayed upon his pillow. She buries her nose deep in the old goose feather to try and keep him where he’s left her. Hold him close even when he’s gone.

The decade’s done much to him. He’d put on a couple pounds, had to start plucking the errant greys flecking his hairline, begun to wake most mornings with a tell-tale crick in his neck. He’s learned to relax that hard line in his brow, drawn too deep to reverse the evidence of age; let himself laugh a little easier, surprised people with his newfound ability to actually smile. He’s lost a lot, gained half as much. He’d been through hell and back, worse maybe than what he did to her- his karma, he supposes. And he supposes the decade’s made him soft, sentimentality creeping in to nestle somewhere he can’t reach, hidden inside himself with all the other things he doesn’t talk about. And he supposes of everything he’s lost, he has Bell again, and all things considered- it’s a fair trade.

He sucks in a breath, a sigh made audible for her to hear. Even as she feigns sleep, he knows she catches it, a flinch of her shoulder- where the shot he missed had landed in lieu of her head. In Solovetsky.

Then, Adler sighs, followed by a promise that feels to her like a confession.

“Five minutes.”

And when the door clicks shut, Bell steals herself a little victory smile.

[meowniee]

Johnny/Haechan - Game Night

Pairing: Female Reader x Johnny Suh (boyfriend) x Haechan (roommate)

Genre: Chill Smut

Word Count: 4,998

Warnings: pet names | fingering (f) | oral sex (m/f) | smoking weed | little manhandling | mxm interaction | cumplay

You had made plans with your boyfriend for tonight. Johnny bought wine and you would spend the night cuddled up watching a movie, enjoying the long-awaited break for the two of you. But a message from him in the afternoon shattered all your anticipation for the evening:

"Baby, Haechan will be with us at the dorm tonight."

Haechan... Johnny's roommate. Which meant you two wouldn't have the room to yourself. Haechan was extremely funny at times, making everyone laugh with his jokes and his easy way of entertaining, but when it came to games, no one was a match for the youngest member of the group's competitive spirit. He could make his rival's life a total hell during the competition with his taunts. However, having him as your ally was synonymous with victory most of the time.

“We can do a game night. I know you like to play with him”, Johnny sent. You sighed and put your cell phone away. Changing plans wasn't your strong suit, but you would find a way to have fun with them tonight.

-------------

It was cold and raining outside, but inside the boys' room it was cozy. A yellow light illuminated the room, the room was warm, you were having a good wine after having eaten pizza. The games ended pretty quickly as you and Haechan teamed up against Johnny and he couldn't get over you two together.

Now you were sitting on the floor smoking, leaning against the bed, watching the raindrops hit and run through the window as the cigarette smoke dissipated into the air. Between them, your body was pressed on both sides, but you were feeling comfortable. Johnny had one hand on your bare thigh caressing it slowly as you listened to the stories told by the youngest member. The three of you were high from both the wine and the pot, and you were extremely comfortable in each other's presence. Haechan got up and offered to go get some water, leaving the room.

As soon as he left, Johnny leaned over you and kissed your lips. Her entire body relaxed at the touch. His hand that was on your thigh was making your body heat up more and more. He knew the power his touch had over you, taking advantage of it to turn you on without your roommate noticing.

“You're turning me on like this. How will you help me later? Haechan is here”, you whispered, breaking the kiss and moving closer to his ear. Johnny laughed and shivered when you traced your tongue across his jaw.

"We can lock him out of the room" Johnny suggested. You guys laughed a little too loudly. You can't help but imagine Haechan's abandoned puppy face when he realizes he's been locked out of his own room.

“We can't do this! Poor him".

"Well... Or you can invite him to participate... But I believe he's inexperienced", Johnny tossed the idea between you. Your breathing stopped for a few seconds and you couldn't control your body heating up at the thought of the two of them touching your body. Haechan had full lips and you stared at them all night. Of course Johnny must have noticed how much you enjoyed being in their company.

You've always been open to talking about new things you'd like to try and a night out with another man and Johnny has always been your thing. It was one of his strongest fantasies and Johnny always knew it. But you never thought he would propose to do it with his roommate.

You had already had a make-out session with other men and women, usually at private parties, away from the prying cameras of photographers, but it had never gone beyond that. You knew your boyfriend likes kissing other guys, but you didn't know how far he would be comfortable to go on.

“Don't think too much about it. I'll follow whatever you want to do”, Johnny whispered looking into your eyes as he heard Haechan come back to the room with three glasses and a bottle of ice water. You looked at him and took a deep breath. You could seduce him or not. Johnny let you choose.

The funny accident stories of children became stories of disastrous encounters somehow. The scenarios started to get hotter and you were exchanging lived experiences with your partners. Well… mainly Johnny and Haechan. You were just laughing and watching their dynamic. During a fit of laughter, Haechan touched your thigh and immediately withdrew his hand. You saw his cheeks redden. You laughed. It was the first time he had touched your body and he was so embarrassed it was adorable. Johnny noticed it too and couldn't hide a smug little smile that formed at the corner of his lips.

At another time, you let your hand rest on his thigh, watching the hairs on his leg stand on end at your touch. He looked straight into your eyes. You squeezed his thight and withdrew it slowly, giving him a discreet wink with a smile.

You lay in Johnny's arms uncomfortably with your legs still bent between them. “Put your legs over his, honey,” Johnny ordered. You looked at Haechan, waiting for some confirmation that you could rest your legs on his. He lifted the hands that were fiddling with his cell phone to his thighs, making room for you to stretch your legs over his. Your bare thighs were now over his, and he propped himself up on his legs to continue fiddling with his cell phone.

Johnny smirked looking at you, leaning forward to brush his lips against his. It took Haechan a few seconds to realize that you and Johnny were making out so close to him. Your tongue was fighting his for simple dominance. He watched your chest rise and fall as you breathed in between the kiss, your legs moving lightly so close to his crotch. He awoke from the trance caused by the scene of the two of you when he felt excitement starting to build inside him.

"I think I should go now...", he said, starting to grab your legs to lift them off of him so he could get up.

"No...", you whimpered, breaking the kiss with your boyfriend. “Maybe you should stay…”, you said, looking into his eyes, perhaps challenging him? His eyes went to Johnny immediately. Haechan seemed to be in the most confused moment of her life.

Johnny nodded, calming the confused boy in front of you. You let go of your boyfriend's arms and leaned forward, getting closer to the younger one.

“This is an invitation,” you began, brushing your index finger over his hand and slowly moving up his arm, “You can stay if you want to… play with us… a little more,” your finger finally reaching his chin, lifting his his head to face you again, since his eyes were lost in the movement of your lips. Your body leaning over him, your lips inches from meeting.

Haechan looked again at Johnny, who was right behind you, hands on your waist, lightly squeezing. He leaned forward until he reached your shoulder, leaving small kisses until he reached your neck. You tilted your head to the side, giving Johnny more space to caress your neck with his lips. You moaned low as he bit down on a sensitive part.

Haechan's brown eyes were fixed on your boyfriend's movements on your neck. His pupils were super dilated and his lips were slightly parted. The three of you were so close you could feel the heat emanating from the bodies of the two men around you. Your eyes darted from the younger's mouth to his eyes, waiting for him to decide what he wanted.

“Haechanie…”, you caught his eye. He returned his eyes to yours.

"Yes..." he whispered, leaning his forehead against you.

“Yes what?”. Your lips were brushing his teasingly, but still not kissing him.

“Yes, I want to stay…”, he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and waiting for you to kiss him. You and Johnny both murmured in approval.

You surprised him when you licked his lip, never taking your eyes off his expression of desire. Johnny slid his hand from your waist to the base of your breasts, caressing your ribs through the shirt.

You softly kissed the younger one's lips, barely putting any pressure on. His brows furrowed in a cute way as he tried to feel as much of the small movement as possible.

Your hand slowly caressed his cheek and he melted at you touch, pressing his face into your palm, like a little animal asking for more attention, releasing the air that was trapped in his lungs.

“Have you done this before?” you asked in a low, sexy voice, making him look at you. His cheeks turned so red you could have sworn he must be feeling his face burn.

Your boyfriend's eyes were also watching the younger's face, still keeping his hands dangerously close to your breasts, but not touching them, making you crave the touch more and more. Johnny is very communicative, but he likes to watch when you're interacting with other people, especially while you're flirting with someone.

He was delighted to see people falling in your favor. Your piercing gaze that is only used to reach people's hearts. Its soft touch that electrifies the skin wherever it touches. Your deep voice that takes over the mind of whoever listens to it in the ear.

Yes… He'd love to see you make new lovers for you both, whether it's just to flirt at a party or go on a picnic next weekend. Johnny knew your charm never failed. Once you set your sights on someone, you would have that person lusting after you. And it was no different with his younger roommate. From living with him, Johnny knew that Haechan gave in to whatever physical attention he received. And because he was getting it from you, he would submit even more easily. But would he accept his roommate's affection as well?

"No… I mean…" Haechan looked away, embarrassed, swallowing the sudden dryness of his mouth. You raised an eyebrow in question. "No", he finally said.

"I told you. He's a naive boy still,” Johnny spoke softly into your ear, sending electrifying shivers down your neck straight to your core.

"I'm not naive!", said the youngest, recovering his voice and his posture, looking into your eyes. "I'm just always busy..." he added, his voice fading slowly.

“Two people is really quite a thing. In fact… We are both a lot. Do you think you can handle us? Hmm?” you whispered as you stroked his hair behind his ear. Your tone was careful but defiant.

"Yes...", he replied with heavy breathing.

"Yes?", Johnny asked and smirked, "Then kiss her, Haechannie."

He looked at Johnny and then at you, only then closing the space between your lips. His were warm and delicate, pressing gently against yours. You let him guide the rhythm, following it like a dance.

Your boyfriend started kissing just below your ear and you couldn't hold back an unexpected, low moan that vibrated through your lips. This seemed to turn on something inside the younger one, who started to loosen up more in the kiss.

His tongue brushed your lips, asking permission to enter, which you gladly gave. It was hungry and demanding, running and tangling with yours. Your hand that had previously been gently stroking his hair was now pulling him closer to your body.

His hand touched your calf, sliding slowly up and down. His hand was so warm you wondered what it would feel like between your legs…

Johnny threaded his fingers through your hair and pulled your head back, making you break the kiss with Haechan, who followed your movement as far as he could bend over, whimpering softly when he couldn't. The eldest took your lips to himself. Johnny's kiss was more precise, his tongue already knowing the path it would take to seize your mouth. The pressure on the back of your neck only increased the desire to be taken by both of the boys.

You felt his hand finally slide from your ribs to your breasts, holding one perfectly in his hand. He massaged in the same rhythm as he kissed your mouth, squeezing your nipple between his fingers while biting your bottom lip, making you moan a little louder than before.

Haechan squeezed your thigh, sliding his hand further up. You felt his hips pressing into your calves. His eyes were fixed on his boyfriend's hands massaging your body, on how your chest laboriously rose and fell with each provocation Johnny gave you. Your body responded to any movement and having two men for you always made things more intense.

Your boyfriend broke the kiss, releasing your hair and caressing where he was pulling you down. He reached out and grabbed Haechan's hand that was on your thigh, sliding it to your blouse-covered breasts. He guided the movements with his hand over his roommate's, caressing your breasts. When he felt that Haechan had lost the fear of touching you, he let go of his hand, leaving him to play alone.

Both of your hands were entwined in your boyfriend's hair, who was with his lips working on your neck, leaving kisses and licks over your sensitive skin while his hand slid down your belly, pressing the skin and reaching up to the insides of your thighs. He squeezed hard, probably leaving your skin lightly scarred with his fingers. He played with going to one thigh and then the other, but never touching your midsection, where you wanted him most.

You felt your panties getting wetter and your body heating up as they adored you. Your clothes were starting to feel uncomfortable on your sensitive skin. You just wanted your boyfriend to rip them off your body like he did when he couldn't wait to have you naked in front of him.

“You can take her shirt off. She doesn't like to get dressed up when she's aroused,” Johnny said to the youngest as if he'd heard your thoughts. His hands went straight to the waistband of your shirt, but before he got up he looked into your eyes, waiting for some kind of confirmation. You smiled and only then did he pull your shirt up, exposing your breasts with erect nipples.

For a moment the two just stared at his bare torso. Their eyes devoured your body silently in each other's minds. You saw Haechan licking and biting his lower lip as he looked at your breasts. Johnny whispered in your ear how beautiful and sexy you were.

Before they trapped you under their hands and lips again, you knelt between them, facing the younger one, looking him straight in the eye. You held out your hand to him and he took it. Pulling it towards you, he knelt in front of you. You pushed his shoulders down, making him sit back on his heels. God… he looked wonderful on his knees.

You spread your legs and approached him, sitting your core on his knees. His hands braced on your hips as you lowered yourself onto him, squeezing your waist lightly, making you roll into him, adding delicious pressure to your already sensitive clit.

“Can you take your shirt off for me?” you asked and he quickly did, taking the shirt off and throwing it on the floor. His skin was tanned and his torso was beautiful. His abdomen wasn't defined like Johnny's, but that didn't make him any less hot, on the contrary. You liked his body the way it was.

He surprised you when he pressed your bare breasts together, hugging you. Your lips met and the kiss this time already started extremely hot and needy. His tongue was demanding and he guided you over his thighs so that you felt pleasure rubbing against him. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging at it, making he moan into your mouth, sending vibrations right down to your pussy.

He began to descend to your jaw, leaving wet trails where his mouth passed. He kissed your entire neck, down to your collarbone, and finally reaching just above your breasts. He stopped for a moment to look and then gently licked one of your nipples, watching your reaction.

Your eyes rolled back in anticipation, hoping to feel more of him in you. He finally took the erect bud into his mouth, his tongue pushing it back and forth as he sucked it. He feasted on your breasts and you loved the feel of his mouth there, hot and wet. He really wasn't as naive as you had thought before.

You felt Johnny kneel behind you, his already bare chest pressed into your back, resting your head on his shoulder. He kissed your lips, but slowly, contrasting with the other boy's movements, and that made you wet your panties even more.

Your boyfriend slowly undid the button on your shorts, making way for his hand to reach your core. He let out a throaty groan of approval in your ear as his fingers brushed your soaked panties. He massaged from top to bottom, running his fingers over the fabric, pressing it against your lips.

“Oh princess… You're so wet already, hm? You like getting attention from two people, don't you?”, Johnny whispered in your ear, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He turned your head and kissed you immorally as his fingers continued teasing you over your panties, hand buried deep in your shorts. Johnny was pressing you against him while Haechan took both your breasts in his hands and abused your nipples.

Your lips were shiny with saliva after breaking the kiss. Johnny's hand left your face and reached the back of the younger's neck, taking him from your breasts and bringing him to kiss your lips. The hand inside your shorts was now deftly circling your clit.

Haechan bit back your groans of frustration. You were lost in desire and your bodies were moving as if you were already in the act. Your hands were entwined in the two men's hair, ruffling the strands with each new tug. Johnny was whispering in your ear, praising you for being a good girl, gently licking it.

When you broke the kiss so you could catch your breath, Haechan looked like a total mess. His cheeks were red, his eyes were heavy, his hair was all messed up and his cock felt painfully pressed under his shorts.

As the two of you took a hard breath, Johnny didn't take his eyes off Haechan, peeking at him while still kissing the skin just below your ear. When their eyes met, the tension was enormous and could have been cut by a knife. Haechan approached your chin, licking the corner of your mouth with the tip of his tongue.

He climbed up your jaw kissing you and leaving trails of saliva where his tongue passed. He was testing whether Johnny would walk away or not. But he remained there, kissing and biting your ear lightly, looking into the younger's eyes as he got closer and closer.

The fingers inside your shorts paused for a moment, only to slide your panties to the side and gain access to your soaked core. Johnny circled his fingers over your pussy lips, gathering your wetness and smearing his fingerprints. You didn't know if the moan that escaped your lips was from the touch or the proximity of the two men.

Their lips were so close, but still not touching. You couldn't distinguish the noise of each one's breathing anymore. “You don't have to do this…” Johnny whispered to Haechan, looking the younger one in the eye.

“But I want to… I want to know…”, the younger one sighed, “I want to know what it's like”, he said, staring at the older one. Haechan let his lips part and Johnny ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip and then pulled it between his teeth, biting lightly.

You felt the younger one squirm in front of you and the older one grunt in approval and surprise. “Like that?” Johnny teased. “More,” was the reply. Johnny took Haechan's lips in a dirty, moaning kiss, while his fingers went back to massaging your clit, but this time directly on it. You were trapped between the two bodies and the sensation was incredible.

Your hands found their way to their volumes, caressing them through the clothes and squeezing the length lightly. They both moaned into each other's mouths and Johnny pinched your sensitive button, making you whimper. They both pushed their hips up trying to feel more of the pressure of your hand on their limbs.

Johnny broke the kiss suddenly and moved a little away from your back, patting your thigh lightly. “Let's get this off here, it's getting in my way,” he said as he tugged the waistband of your shorts along with your panties down. He's manhandling you, putting you under your hands and feet, letting your ass up.

Johnny slid his hand down your throat and pulled you close to his torso. “Princess, take good care of him with your mouth, okay?”, he said in a deep voice, caressing your face with his lips. He gave you a peck on the cheek and let you fall into your hands again.

Haechan was slowly stroking his member as he watched the scene that had passed. “You two are really hot…”, he managed to say as he took off his clothes. His cock slammed against his abdomen, already wet with pre-cum, beautifully hard. God… he was beautiful. The tip was the same color as his lips and there were veins drawn along the entire length. He was kneeling with his legs spread in front of you.

You took it in your small hand. He was smaller than Johnny, but he was still big. You positioned your face very close to his balls, smiled and stuck your tongue out, licking from base to tip, making him roll his eyes at the sensation. Maybe it was his first time getting a blowjob, so you were determined to do your best.

You licked the head of his cock, tasting the delicious taste of it on your tongue, while your hand gently massaged the base. He was so hard he probably wouldn't last long.

You circled the head of his cock with your tongue before placing it in your mouth, sucking it slowly, letting your saliva coat half the length.

Meanwhile, his boyfriend massaged your buttocks, sometimes pulling them to the sides and blowing between your legs. Only when you had already taken the youngest in your mouth did he start touching you. His big hand pushed your lower back down, making your back arch beautifully, thrusting your ass up.

You felt Johnny kissing your inner thighs and getting closer and closer to your core. You moaned when he finally licked your wet lips. Haechan also moaned as he felt your throat vibrate around his cock. The youngest held his hair in a ponytail, pulling it out of his face so he could see his cock disappear into your mouth.

Johnny was taking his time and getting the most out of you, playing with your lips and clit. His eyes darted from your soaked cunt to the younger's face. He knew Haechan wouldn't last long because your mouth was wonderful. And he also knew that every time you moaned, your throat fluttered.

He slid a finger inside you, feeling your walls tighten around him as he sucked your clit between his soft lips. You moaned his name and Haechan looked at him. He wasn't expecting the older one to be looking at him. You felt his cock twitch in your mouth.

One finger from Johnny was all it took to make you a mess, making you ask for more, but you were too focused with the youngest's dick in your mouth. The pleasure was making him bolder, thrusting his hips up as his hand in your hair held you in place.

As Johnny caressed your inner walls with his finger, his tongue left your clit and reached your rim. He kissed you there like you were the most delicious thing in the world, leaving everything wet with his saliva. You took Haechan out of your mouth for a moment so you could look at your boyfriend with pleading eyes. “Johnny…please,” you whimpered. “You're being such a good girl. Keep sucking him,” he commanded, placing a hand on the back of your head, pushing it towards the man's cock in front of your

Haechan's noises were getting louder and louder, making Johnny super excited. He slipped one more finger inside your pussy and pressed his tongue to your rim. When you groaned loudly, he pushed the back of your neck even further, causing you to choke on the younger's cock. Haechan moaned loudly as well and bit his lower lip as his eyes rolled over in pleasure.

You could feel your orgasm coming faster and faster. Your body was heating up and the need for more friction was making your hips rub against Johnny's face. He curled his fingers inside you, now rubbing your g-spot precisely each time his fingers slid in and out. His tongue pressed harder and harder against your entrance, making it open to receive him. Your legs began to tremble with pleasure.

"I'm so close, Y/n..." Haechan groaned looking at you. You grunted nodding. One of your hands cupped his balls, lightly massaging in your palm, while his cock slid into your mouth, brushing against your throat. His movements were getting more and more clumsy as his orgasm got closer to the peak. You were no longer able to control his movements.

“Open your throat babe”, you heard Johnny's command and promptly did it, relaxing your throat. He pushed your head down, making you swallow the head of Haechan's cock, as his fingers began to move in and out of you at a rapid pace, taking you over the edge. Your moans choked in your busy throat occupied by the youngest, but Johnny didn't let up on the pressure, forcing you to breathe through your nose to keep from choking any more.

As Johnny was holding your head, Haechan had to fuck his mouth to reach his orgasm, which was already so close with your throat throbbing and squeezing his cock. You didn't understand the words that came out of his mouth in a mixture of high-pitched moans and whimpers as he came in the back of your throat, making you swallow all his cum.

Your legs were still shaking when Johnny let go of your head and you could breathe again. You felt your eyes and your chin wet. You looked at the man in front of you and he was a mess trying to catch his breath. His shoulders were relaxed and his body had a ruddy tinge on his cheeks and thigh. Small beads of sweat were sitting on his forehead, wetting and clinging strands of his hair that Johnny had previously messed with.

You felt your boyfriend's hands gently caressing your back and hugging you, pulling your body closer to his slowly so as not to hurt you. He placed kisses on your shoulder and neck, slowly moving up to your cheek as one of his hands smoothed your messy hair, tucking it behind your ear. “God, you look so hot like that… All messed up”, Johnny whispered in your ear. You loved how he could be tough on you in bed and then be cute. It was a contrast that you loved… and turned you on.

When you turned your head to look at your boyfriend, his gaze dropped to your lips and he frowned. “Oh Haechannie… You made a mess on her face,” he tsk, turning your face so he could see. “Can you see your cum dripping here?”, he asked the younger one, showing your lips. Haechan looked slightly embarrassed and not sure what to do. But before he did anything, Johnny collected the semen from your face with the tip of his tongue and kissed you, making you swallow what you had let out.

“Oh fuck, hyung…”, Haechan grunted as he saw the two of you in front of him. His cock was half-hard again and he massaged it with the palm of his hand. You felt your boyfriend's chest vibrate against your back at the groan he gave.

It was the first time you guys were having sex with one more man and Haechan was the perfect choice. Johnny likes people who aren't afraid to experiment. Kissing his roommate wasn't that weird… on the contrary. It was hot and delicious. Haechan gave himself completely to the pleasure of the moment. You didn't know what else he wanted to do. But you knew that Johnny remained untouched, just having given you pleasure until now. He must have been painfully aroused. You would do anything to see the youngest's swollen lips around your boyfriend's dick.

“What's going through that dirty mind of yours, darling?” Johnny whispered in your ear, bringing you back from the images that were running through your head. You looked at the younger one, but remained quiet, watching his reactions. Should you speak?

"I want to suck you", he whispered back. Johnny pressed you against his body slowly. "Do you want to suck me? Hm... just one dick wasn't enough for you? Do you want both?", he teased with a smile on his lips. He knew you wanted both. He knew your body was throbbing to have both.

"Yes...", you moaned, “Maybe Haechan could help me…”. You looked at the youngest with pleading eyes. Johnny whistled behind you and you could see Haechan shudder. 

[tadpole-san]

in the aftermath ; dabi/t. todoroki   pairing: dabi x reader, touya todoroki x reader, established relationship  warning: spoilers for bnha chapter 301 (mild canon divergence from that one scene of dabi in chpt 301), inferences to an unhealthy relationship  a/n: horikoshi chose violence and heartbreak by releasing dabi’s backstory on valentine’s day weekend and i have a lot of feelings about it 

The couch is falling apart. 

It’s the first thing you notice when you finally step into the room, and then you take in the peeling wallpaper, almost rotting vanity, and finally, the man laid out on said couch. The fabric of it is peeling away in some places, revealing the plain white beneath - the sight of it makes you think of patches, and scars, and marred, magenta skin held together by madness and medical staples. Dabi’s eyes are closed, you realize, and you could almost fool yourself into believing that he’d finally decided to grant himself some peace, albeit in the form of a turbulent slumber. And then they slide open again, stark turquoise burning bright against the dullness of his stare. 

“Really roasted myself there.” His voice is hoarse, even jarring and harsh to your ears. There’s a crease between your brows as you take a few steps closer, reaching into your pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Silently, you hold one out to Dabi. His gaze slides over it, and then over you. Somehow, it unsettles you - like somehow, he’s not registering that you’re there, or that he can even see you at all. 

You’re not sure which of those options terrifies you more. 

“Yeah,” you say, moving to pull it back. There’s a lighter, heavy in your other pocket, and if the absence of a blue flame at the end of your cigarette means that you won’t have to risk the experience of seeing the body and couch in front of you go up in a garden of blue flames, you’ll gladly use it. “You look like the fucking couch,” you add. There’s two ways his response to that could go; Dabi could find the humor in that and maybe laugh at your comment, or he could dismiss it (and maybe you) in a display towards not giving a shit about anything. Most days it’s like walking a tightrope between his mania and his complete and utter apathy. Most days it’s like choosing between two poisons, and you know you wouldn't be able to make a choice that doesn’t kill you. Because there isn’t one. 

This time, he doesn’t laugh. But a smile does tug at the corner of his lips - and god, it looks painful, because the miniscule action is enough for the staples to pull at his skin, nearly tearing into it even more as it flirts with the possibility of drawing blood. “C’mere,” he rasps, motioning to the stick in your hand. You pass it over. He takes it in his fingers, rolling it in between the digits. “Can’t feel anything.” 

“Does it hurt?” The question slips out, but you wouldn’t be able to hold it back anyways. Dabi hums, long and contemplative, and when he offers you the cigarette, the end of it is glowing a dull shade of blue. You accept it, and take in a long drag, tilting your head back to watch the smoke rise to the ceiling. 

You’d seen him smoke, a couple of times. Mostly on slow nights, when all the two of you would do was hide out in whatever shitty abandoned building served as camouflage from pro-heroes and cops. Or, later on, when he had joined up with the League and dragged you in with them, it would be nights where he could steal minutes to himself outside of the bar, and you’d pretend you didn’t notice because you were too busy nursing a drink at the bar. The part that always fascinated you the most would be when the smoke spilled out between the seams of his staples, and you could forget about the way his blood trickled out in the same way, and stained your hands when you had to help him force everything back into one piece. 

“That’s not what it fucking means to not feel anything,” he bites out, and you can see his jaw tense. So it’s a yes, and he won’t say it. “Don’t be stupid.” Your lips press in a thin line, and you sink to the floor next to the couch, leaning against its side to let your arm hang over your propped up knee. He’s not the only one to walk out, more than the worse for wear; you can’t move without a brief stab of white-hot pain, even if you know that it diminishes in comparison to the man still laying on the couch. It’s enough that you want to spare yourself the experience of biting back at him with equal venom. 

“And that doesn’t answer the question, either.” When he doesn’t say anything, again, you keep talking. “Those injuries.” Another exhale. “They could kill Endeavor.” A moment passes, and there’s a hand at your shoulder, squeezing it in a way that threatens to literally burn through your layers. 

“I wouldn’t allow it.” 

“I could’ve killed him.” There’s a calm behind your admission, the same calm of a deadly ocean masked by tranquility. Once - and sometimes, when you try, you can remember her - there was a version of yourself that wouldn’t have been able to say the words without falter, wouldn’t have been able to hold onto the idea of a murder quite like that. The grip on your shoulder goes slack. 

“I know,” Something in Dabi’s voice makes you tilt your head to look up at him, and you lock eyes with a man already staring at you. This close, you can make out the still-healing wounds on what remains of his unmarred skin, and there’s a patchiness to his hair where the black dye hadn’t fully washed off. Seeing it bothers you, just a bit, and you want to do something about it. 

“Get up.” The eyebrow he raises is equal parts disinterested and curious. Maybe even wary, but you’re not here to explore the nuances of what a single eyebrow can mean. 

“Doll, I can’t move.” 

“I’m being serious.” 

“So am I.” 

“Sometimes, I can’t really tell with you.” Half-lidded eyes open slightly as he comes close to grinning again, a thumb brushing over your cheek for the fraction of a second. It’s enough that you sigh, and you squash the cigarette against a white tile to extinguish it, leaving behind a spot of darkened ash. He watches you push yourself to your feet, offering a hand to him that’s pushed aside so that he can force his body to get up from the couch himself. The display is one that is already painful to an outsider - each movement is a Herculean effort, skin pulled taut and threatening to split open until he’s looming over you once more, overshadowing your presence in the room. 

Until wordlessly, you take an arm in yours and pull it over your shoulder.  His weight comes crashing into you like a wave, and if you weren’t so used to it - to needing to pull this body out of death - and if you were anyone lesser, you probably would’ve collapsed, too. 

For a second, you wish that you weren’t able to handle him like this. Because it would mean that you’d never been forced to carry him through moments like these. 

“Where you takin’ me, princess?” he drawls, the words sliding off his tongue as he sags against you. The light elbow to his ribs makes him tut in disapproval, but there aren’t any words said against the action. 

“Bathroom,” you mutter, because being used to him against you like this doesn’t make it any easier, and if you waste breath or lose focus, the both of you could end up on the floor together. And Dabi would really, truly reduce you to ash for the humiliation he’d suffer from it. 

“Bathroom,” he repeats, and you can hear the suggestion in the smirk he’s likely to be wearing proudly. So you choose not to humor him with an answer towards or against the insinuation behind his intonation. 

Using a foot to nudge at the bathroom door is - fortunately - enough to prompt it to swing open, and you maneuver him into the too-small space. Dabi hisses as you end up jostling him against the counter, and a few more muted swears escape his clenched teeth before you’re able to get him to sit against the tub. 

“Fucking shit.” You step into the tub as he lets the words out, kneeling in it and reaching for the shower head. 

“It’s your hair,” And as you explain, you take the risk of having him tilt his head back slightly. “You - I don’t know what shit you used to get most of the dye out in five seconds-” and that was really one of the only parts of his plans that you didn’t understand, but it was a detail small enough that you wouldn’t push. 

“Somethin’ wrong with my hair or some shit?” The tone’s abrasive, but he’s still sitting still, and he doesn’t move to lash out in a way that’ll end the conversation in its entirety. Tonight is - despite everything - shaping out to be a calm one for him, a rare in-between of the polarity and calm he lives his life with. Or maybe it’s because of everything that happened, because his scheming and plans that once felt like little more than paper towers finally burned to cripple the Japan’s now-former Number One. 

Dabi isn’t smiling. Instead, he allows his head to be further tilted back as he stares up at the ceiling, a pensive expression making it feel as though the body you’re sitting with isn’t really here with you at all. And it shouldn’t reassure you, but it does. 

Because that smile - that effortless, unfazed, half-thought out gesture on him - is synonymous to his lies. 

You still haven’t answered his question. You reach out, like someone blinded, to card your fingers through the mostly snowy white locks. You let yourself imagine that he leans into the touch because the gesture is a sweet one. If you were to pull yourself back to your reality, you knew it would be likely that he simply lay there and let you do as you wish. 

You turn the shower on, and lukewarm water replaces your fingers in his hair. His lips move and he murmurs something you can’t quite grasp, but it’s gone before you can think to ask. The moment suddenly feels just as fragile, as though a misspoken word, one wrong move, or anything that could be regarded as a mistake coming from you could shatter it. 

The tips of your fingers are becoming laden with black as the remains of dye works itself out from his hair, and its stark contrast against the porcelain of the tub makes the white look ghastly. It’s as you begin to press your thumb to the darkness to try and swipe it off that Dabi speaks again, and if your head weren’t angled down towards him, you wouldn’t have heard it. 

“This is what being evil is.” 

It should’ve been simple enough to take a hold of the meaning behind his words, and pull them in to understand it. But your movements falter, causing your already damp jeans to receive a wayward spray of water. 

This could be lying here, with him, carrying out mortal attempts to wash away traces of atrocities committed. 

This could mean living with the badge of honor labelling this society’s villains. You wonder if there would ever be a world where he didn’t wear it so proudly, flaunt it in the faces of any and all who cross paths with him. 

“I don’t think we’re evil,” is what you settle on finally saying, shutting the water off and placing the shower head back in its slot. You end up resting your head in your arms, turned to him as you balance precariously on the edge of the tub. When you close your eyes, you can see him at the forefront of your mind - spinning, deranged, falling into hell in a tango of death. 

“Yeah?” His breath ghosts the shell of your ear in the single syllable, and you realize he shifted closer under the blanket cover of your shut eyes. “Then what the hell are we?” His forehead presses against yours, skin and piercings ice cold. As if it was the touch of death. 

“I think,” you start, letting out a breath before you open your eyes again, “I think we’re just people.” Sitting like this, with him, is an intimacy rarely granted. This close, and you can make out water dripping from strands of white hair, white lashes, the bridge of his nose. It’s all drowning in a sea of turquoise. He hums, and a hand presses against the back of your neck, keeping a grip there. Blunt nails dig into your skin, and they probably leave crescent indents. “Heroes are the ones like gods, and we’re just the ones trying to challenge them.” 

Dabi stares at you. You feel it under your skin, like fire ants biting at you and injecting enough poison to kill you. 

And then he laughs. The laughter belongs to a maniac, to someone so deranged there might not be a way of going back, and it grates on the years you’ve spent with him. With his madness. A madness that could be infectious, but you’re too afraid to peel back the layers of yourself to see if the infection has found roots in you. The sound of his laughter suffocates the pocket of space you occupy together, and you’re no longer lost in a sea of blue fire, but you think that maybe you’re drowning in something worse. 

Eventually, he stops. There’s an ache in your neck by then, but you still can’t move it. Dabi has to take a few more rasping breaths before he can think to speak again, and there’s rivulets of thick blood running down his face from his eyes and mouth. 

He cries tears of blood. 

You hate the sight of blood. 

“Heroes are gods,” he repeats, the traces of a chuckle leaving his lips. “You really fucking got me whit that shit, you know that?” An incredulous wheeze escapes his throats. “So then this is blasphemy? So then we’re sinners? Sounds pretty evil to me.”

“Only if sinning is evil.” His lips turn in a sneer, and you’re released. It’s like a breath of fresh air from the smoke and fire clogging your lungs, so you move to stand back up. “But sinning is just doing the things gods don’t like, isn’t it?” 

You smile, then, and you step back onto tile. Your hands go to your pockets, and fingers find the now-damp cigarette pack. 

“Hold it.” A lazy finger beckons towards you. It might be all he can do at the moment. You shouldn’t. 

You crouch down next to him anyways. 

When Dabi finally kisses you, it’s hard, and painful, teeth clashing and more blood drawn. You pull back with a line of it running down your mouth, and he brusquely wipes it away with his thumb. 

This will be the closest you come to a thank you from him. Somehow, you know that the day he finally says the sentiment to you out loud, it would very well be the last time he says anything to you at all. 

The final day feels as though it’s come too close to you. 

[angeloncewas]

I'm a bit confused on why the word 'feral' is considered a slur. I have tried researching it before but so far I don't see any official articles connotating that it is a slur against Natives. I haven't seen backlash of non mcyt ccs', celebrities or videos that have said that word, besides this situation anyway. That doesn't mean that the word itself can't be used in a derogatory way, it's just that, I find myself asking, how did people get too these conclusions? What kind of evidence do (1)

I think it stems from all of that racist propaganda about "uncivilized" Indigenous Peoples (think "savages" from Pocahontas), but to be honest, I'm not quite sure. That history isn't something I'm too aware of or really have the means to research other than through the internet, so I can only surmise from the bits and pieces I've seen.

I don't know. Context matters and it seems like they don't get that. There's slurs against Asians that are used to mean other things because that's the place they take in the English language. A cigarette in the UK is sometimes called the f-slur, right? Obviously the word can be a problem - as can many - but if I call a feral cat "a feral cat" that's just me saying words. It's not like, a thing. "The Feral Boys" never struck me than some people Googling synonym for "wild" and rolling with it. It's one of those I just don't get.

[keichanz]

I absolutely love your writing and your work and I was so excited to see when you posted Poolin' Around! It was really jarring for me to see that you used the word f*g to refer to a cigarette in the story though. Can I ask why you chose to use that word? I totally understand that authors choose certain words stylistically or to fit with the story, but as someone in the LGBTQ+ community it made it harder for me to get into the story and enjoy it.

hey there. as an author, i’m constantly trying to find ways to improve my writing, and i like to use a lot of synonyms for certain words so my writing doesn’t get repetitive or monotonous, especially when that word appears numerous times. the word “fag” is simply another word to call a cigarette. 100% it’s not meant to be taken as a slight or slur toward the LGBTQ+ community. i didn’t think it would offend anyone since i wasn’t using it in relation to anyone’s sexual orientation. i don’t even use that word myself when referring to someone from that community either so my writer brain simply took the word and went “ah, yes, another word for cigarette. good.” and there you have it. 

[wendynerdwrites]

Imagine being this big of a moron. Bitch those words are not slurs. "Niggard" is a synonym for miser and was a commonly used back then and had nothing to do with black people or racial slurs. People don't use it now specifically because of people like you, but it was perfectly normal to use it in Tolkein's time to mean "greedy fuck." "Fa**ot" in this context means "a bundle of sticks for burning." In Britain people still refer to cigarettes as "f**s."

Jesus fucking Christ you're a failure at knowing things.

jrr tolkien: i really love my wife. i will make her into a beautiful, unearthly half-angel princess who beat satan almost single-handedly and won an argument with the keeper of the halls of the dead

jrr tolkien: i really love my best friend. i will make him into a grumpy old tree who never gets to the point

[kevinscottgardens]

11 au 17 juillet 2022

This was a very hot week. The clean up after the party took up most of Monday. I was very surprised how little damage there was after the party; there was just a lot of broken glass and many cigarette buts scattered throughout the garden. Of course there were damaged plants and I watered them on Monday and again on Friday, just to be nice to them.

The garden is still looking good even though it is very dry.

I removed two more clumps of Brachypodium phoenicoides I found and transplanted one Hyparrhenia hirta to fill in a hole near the pool house. I did a lot of weeding. I cleaned up my to nursery areas and I potted up the almond trees I’ve grown from seed as well as a few of the oaks that I rescued from when they sprouted in the glasshouse when the mulch was used. I really should purchase some air pots for them.

I worked Bastille Day so I can have next Friday off. The fireworks are in the evening anyway, so I don’t really need the day off for that.

Friday, Michel had decided to water the plants along the fence line, which is what I was going to do. I don’t like those two watering for me. They must be very bored and short on work if they are doing this. I wish they would just stay away.

Saturday Daniela and Ilze picked me up around 7am to head up to  for a Rando Gourmande. This was a great day hiking in the mountain village of Valberg with friends and food stops every 500 metres !

Sunday I had lunch with Denis and André.

Plant of the week

Asteraceae Artemisia absinthium L.

common name(s) - grand wormwood, absinthe, absinthium, absinthe wormwood, mugwort, wermout, wermud, wormit, wormod; français : armoise absinthe; Deutsch : Echter Wermut; italiano : assenzio vero; español : ajenjo synonym(s) - Absinthium bipedale Gilib.; Absinthium majus Garsault; Absinthium officinale Brot.; Absinthium vulgare Lam.; Artemisia absinthia St.-Lag.; A. absinthium var. insipida Stechm.; A. albida Maxim.; A. albida Willd. ex Ledeb.; A. arborescens var. cupaniana Chiov.; A. arborescens f. rehan (Chiov.) Chiov.; A. baldaccii Degen; A. doonense Royle; A. inodora Mill.; A. kulbadica Boiss. & Buhse; A. pendula Salisb.; A. rehan Chiov.; A. rhaetica Brügger conservation rating - Least Concern native to - Mediterranean to Central Asia location - Domaine de l’Orangerie et Valberg leaves - stems grey-green (sometimes woody proximally), densely canescent to glabrescent (hairs appressed); leaves deciduous, gray-green; blades broadly ovate, mostly pinnately lobed (basal two or three-pinnatifid, lobes obovate), faces densely canescent flowers - Heads (nodding) in open (diffusely branched), paniculiform arrays; involucres broadly ovoid; phyllaries gray-green, densely sericeous; florets: pistillate 9 to 20; bisexual fruit - cypselae (± cylindric, slightly curved, obscurely nerved), glabrous (shiny) habit - herbs, perennial, 600mm to1,500mm tall, somewhat woody (near-shrub) at base, grey sericeous or puberulent; a medium to tall, strongly aromatic, tufted, perennial herb habitat - dry uncultivated land, roadsides, waste ground, quarries, gravel pits and coastal habitats pests - aphids, gall midge disease - generally disease-free hardiness - to -20ºC (H6) soil - fertile, mid-weight soil; it prefers soil rich in nitrogen sun - full sun propagation - ripened cuttings taken in spring or autumn in temperate climates, or by seeds in nursery beds pruning - cut back to the lowest, new shoots near the base nomenclature - Asteraceae - star; Artemisia - Dioscorides’ name for Artemis (Diana) wife of Mausolus, of Caria, Asia Minor (Artemisia dracunculus is tarragon, Arabic tarkhun); absinthium - the old generic name of wormwood in the works of Xenophon NB - growing the plant with others tends to stunt their growth; accordingly, it is not considered to be a good companion plant; an ingredient in the spirit absinthe, and is used for flavouring in some other spirits and wines, including bitters, bäsk, vermouth, and pelinkovac; as medicine, it is used for dyspepsia, as a bitter to counteract poor appetite, for various infectious diseases, Crohn's disease, and IgA nephropathy

References :

Gledhill, David, (2008) “The Names of Plants”, fourth edition; Cambridge University Press; ISBN: 978-0-52168-553-5

IUCN [online] https://www.iucnredlist.org/species/202932/2758093 [4 Aug 22]

Plants of the World [online] https://powo.science.kew.org/taxon/urn:lsid:ipni.org:names:300106-2 [4 Aug 22]

Royal Horticultural Society [online] https://www.rhs.org.uk/plants/1625/i-artemisia-absinthium-i/details [4 Aug 22]

Wikipedia [online] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artemisia_absinthium [4 Aug 22]

World Flora Online [online] http://www.worldfloraonline.org/taxon/wfo-0000134589 [4 Aug 22]

[multipleservicelisting]

The story behind Jackie Kennedy’s iconic inauguration outfit

Written by Matthew Ponsford, CNN

Remember when Jackie Kennedy attended her husband’s presidential inauguration with a perfect egg-shaped pillbox hat perched atop her head?

That’s because it was meant to be unmissable.

Everything that happened on January 20, 1961, was stage-managed to tell America that a new age was dawning. John F. Kennedy was set to become the first US leader born in the 20th century, the first Catholic commander-in-chief and the first president whose inaugural speech was beamed across crackly television screens in color.

“Ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country,” he implored a nation in need of reassurance and leadership at the height of the Cold War.

President Kennedy with First Lady Jackie at his inauguration. Credit: Leonard McCombe/The LIFE Picture Collection/The LIFE Picture Collection via

Not everything worked out as planned. Eight inches of snow fell on Washington overnight, winds lashed and, among all this, one accident would end up infiltrating American wardrobes.

Jackie’s orb-like hat had been made to match a coat and fawn dress already created for her by her personal courtier Oleg Cassini. But it was also designed to look different: A cloth pillbox was exactly what everyone else would not be wearing.

In the freezing cold, many of the women sported stolid mink caps — except Jackie, who stood out as the beacon of a new generation, characterized by clean lines and elegance. She appeared on the steps of the Capitol like “the gorgeous petal in a dowdy bouquet of fur,” according to Thurston Clarke, author of “Ask Not,” a book about the 1961 inauguration.

Jackie’s distinctive headpiece was designed by Halston (real name Roy Halston Frowick). Later known as the creator of the free-flowing, slinky fashion of the 1970s disco era, Halston was then an up-and-coming New York milliner. He apparently spent hours sandwiched between two mirrors, shaping Jackie’s hat into a perfect, simple dome.

Except, of course, it didn’t end up like that.

Meet America’s first superstar fashion designer

That morning, as she reached up to clasp the hat in high winds, Kennedy accidentally gave it a dimple — a shallow indent, unnoticed but broadcast around the world. America swooned nonetheless. Kennedy’s deification as the ultimate first lady of fashion had begun with a misshapen hat, its influence stretching to imitators from high society to the rural Midwest. Halston later laughed that “everybody who copied it put a dent in it.”

Jackie’s ensemble that day — which she completed with a sable circlet and muff — has become one of the most celebrated of presidential inauguration looks. But there’s one thing we may have all been getting wrong: the color.

While most Americans will remember the first lady in duck-egg blue, complementing JFK’s steel blue waistcoat and tie, color film footage from “Halston,” a CNN Films documentary about the legendary designer, shows her inauguration outfit appearing pinkish. And researchers at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, where the outfit is stored, told CNN that the dress and hat were basically colorless — a neutral, fawnish beige and not even slightly blue.

The origin of the mistake seems to be a color photograph from Life Magazine. But the cover of the same issue featured a very different photograph: Jackie in far less vivid tones, closer to the off-white captured by the handful of other press photographers present (early color film often struggled to match real hues).

So when, in 2017, Melania Trump wore a powder blue Ralph Lauren inauguration suit likened to Kennedy’s, was it a tribute to an outfit that never existed?

was Melania Trump paying tribute to a dress that wasn’t really blue? Credit: Pool/Getty Images North America/Getty Images

Regardless of color, dimpled or not, the pillbox hat would become synonymous with Jackie’s style as first lady. She wore one the day JFK was shot, twinned with a raspberry pink suit. The blood-covered suit is locked away in the National Archives, with instructions that it should hidden from public view until at least 2103. The pink hat hasn’t been seen since the fateful day she last wore it.

But the eulogizing of the first lady’s “looks” risks relegating her to the role of a mere mannequin, when she in fact directed much of the new administration’s aesthetic — and not just when it came to fashion.

She may have spent fewer than three years in the White House, but during that time she brought in designers, including Stéphane Boudin, to modernize its interior. She also worked with legendary industrial designer Raymond Loewy, the man behind the Lucky Strike cigarette packet and classic Studebaker cars, to choose the enduring powder blue of the US presidential plane, Air Force One.

JFK’s inauguration marked the beginning of a new era of media-savvy presidents — and he had his wife to thank for much of it.

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[jumpstarterexpert]

Red Fuel Powered by Schumacher SL65 Jump Starter [UPDATED 2020]

Today we’ll be reviewing a jump starter with a rather exciting name – the Red Fuel powered by Schumacher SL65 Jump Starter!  Yes, it’s a bit of a mouth full but the real question is, does this device live up to its illustrious name, or is this one of Schumacher’s rare failures in the jump starter space? Here’s a quick summary of the review if you're in a hurry: SUMMARY: Overall, the Red Fuel SL65 is a decent, compact jump starter, with an attractive design, backed by one of the biggest names in the industry – Schumacher.  It has reasonable jump starting power for its size (400A peak, 200A cranking) and okay battery capacity (8000mAh).  It is perfectly capable of jump starting small cars (4-6 cylinder gas), motorcycles and scooters. On the negative side, by modern standards, the SL65 is somewhat limited in functionality, especially with respect to DC outlets, not having ports for charging laptops or other 12V devices.  It also lacks the ability to be recharged via a car’s cigarette lighter port and doesn’t have a cigarette lighter adapter to connect a portable air compressor or car power inverter for powering AC devices while outdoors. Pros: Striking compact design – 7.9 x 4.3 x 2.8 inchesGood jump starting power for its size – 400A peak, 4-6 cylinder cars, motorcycles, scootersExcellent safety featuresBacked by Schumacher brand Cons: Limited DC outlets – only 2X USB, no laptop charging portsCannot be recharged via a car’s cigarette lighterNo cigarette lighter outlet for powering portable air compressors, etc.Negative customer reviews about customer service

If you don’t need any more convincing you can check it out over here on Amazon to get yourself one today. *Note: this post contains affiliate links for which I receive a small commission should a sale result. In this review we will be going in-depth, looking at both the good and the bad of the Red Fuel jump starter.  This will include a look at what customers that have bought the Red Fuel are saying about it as well as some other jump starters you might want to consider.  We’ll then end off with our conclusions about the SL65. Let’s get started!

Red Fuel Powered by Schumacher Review – The Good

Compact Design The first aspect of the Schumacher Red Fuel that grabs your attention, besides the name, is the striking design and relatively compact dimensions of the unit. At just 7.9 x 4.3 x 2.8 inches, the unit is perhaps a little large for a shirt or pants pocket, but can certainly fit into a small carry bag or backpack.  This means it can happily serve as a powerbank, in addition to its primary jump starter function, for your USB rechargeable devices.

Of course, it will also fit into the smallest of glove compartments whilst still leaving space for other essentials.  We personally love compact jump starters – we never seize to be amazed at how such small devices can actually get your engine started when you have a dead battery. We have, in fact, done an extensive review of the best lithium ion jump starters, where we go over what exactly to look for in these devices to be sure you're making the best choice for your vehicle. We also compare them to their much larger SLA based cousins. Check it out - it's a good read! The size of the Schumacher stands in stark contrast to some of the company's other offerings.  The DSR 122, for example, is a colossal unit, although it does include a battery charger and it will last a fair bit longer between charges!

Reasonable Jump Starting Ability So with this small size, you might be asking “How well does the Red Fuel SL65 actually perform? Is it only really capable of jump starting my daughter’s scooter or will it actually work on my car as well?” Well, the unit has a reported 400A peak jump starting current and 200A of cranking current.  This we feel is reasonable and it should be able to get a standard 4 or 6 cylinder family car jump started without a problem.  Do not however expect it to start your Toyota Tundra or Ford F-350.  It will also struggle with most diesel engine vehicles since these require more jump starting force than gas engines. It is really important to understand the limitations of your jump starter – the Red Fuel is really only designed for small cars, motorcycles and scooters. There are jump starters with much large jump starting currents available suitable for large family vehicles, SUV and even trucks.  Some great options are the NOCO Boost HD GB70 2000 Amp and the Imazing 2500A 21000mAh Jumper Pack.  These have 5 to 6 times the jump starting current than the Red Fuel.  At the end of the day, it’s all down to what you need. Good Battery Capacity In terms of capacity, the Schumacher Red Fuel comes with 8000mAh from its lithium ion battery pack.  This is reportedly sufficient to jump start a car up to 20 times between charges.  This is seriously pushing it and we certainly wouldn’t recommend testing this out.  This capacity should also be good for charging your smart phone from flat approximately 1.5 times It is always our recommendation that you should recharge your jump starter as soon as possible after it’s been used.  This is to ensure it’s ready for an emergency and to maximize the lifespan of the device. Multi-functionality and Safety The Red Fuel Schumacher comes with a respectable feature set.  It includes 2 USB ports, one 1A and the other 2.1A so that you can charge two devices at once.  It also has a flashlight which is handy at night.  This is by no means ground-breaking by today’s standards, as discussed shortly, but a decent offering in order to keep the price of the unit down.

In terms of safety, Schumacher has really equipped the Red Fuel SL65 with all of the features including: reverse polarity, short circuit, low voltage, high temperature, and reverse charging.  You can rest assured that you will be as safe as possible when using the SL65. On the topic of safety, we have also created a step-by-step guide on how to use a portable jump starter. Follow this and you'll be sure to minimize the risk of damaging your car or your jump starter, and be as safe as possible in the process as well. Backed by One of the Biggest Names in the Business The Schumacher name has become synonymous with exceptional quality and reliability in the jump starter and battery charger industry.  You can be certain they would not risk damaging their reputation on the SL65. This should provide some peace of mind that you will indeed be getting a quality product.  It also comes with a 1 year standard warranty.

What We Don’t Like About the Schumacher Red Fuel Jump Box

Be Aware of Jump Starting Limitations Many jump starters often perform beyond expectations, beyond what they have been designed for. The Schumacher won't have much lee-way however. Just bare this mind and all will be fine – small cars such the Ford Fiesta, motorcycles and scooters will be good. Diesels are particularly difficult to crank and so more care needs to be taken when selecting a jump box for these vehicles. Follow our tutorial on how to choose the best jump starter for diesel engines to avoid disappointment in your purchase. Limited DC Outlets By todays’ standards, the Red Fuel jump box is rather limited in terms of DC outlets, only having the two USB ports.  Even at the fairly low price point of the SL65, competitors such as the DBPower DJS50 800A jump starter have, in addition to two USB ports, an outlet for charging laptops and other DC portable devices. No Cigarette Lighter Adapter Another let down is the lack of a cigarette lighter adapter both for charging the SL65 while on the go from your car and as an outlet from the unit so that you can power various 12V devices.  These include air compressors for pumping up tyres and other inflatables which would normally eliminate the need to reach to your car’s outlet.

This is incredibly handy especially when camping for blowing up inflatable mattresses or for connecting 12V DC to AC inverters for powering your AC devices.

Summary of the Customer Reviews of the SL65 Jump Box

Moving onto reviews from people who have actually purchased the Schumacher Red Fuel, based on 140+ ratings, the SL65 has received an average of 4 stars out of 5, with 67% of those being 5 star ratings.  This is respectable. Positive Reviews Most positive customer reviews mention how impressed they are with ability of the unit to reliably jump start their cars given its small size.  Some customers have even successfully used it to jump start larger cars than expected.  One customer used it on their V8 T-Bird, and another used it on their GMC Yukon Danali. Most have reported using the unit on their motorcycles and smaller cars however, with no problems experienced even after using it 5-10 times before recharging the device. Negative Reviews Some of the negative reviews mention that customer service is somewhat poor, with a slow or non-existent response from Schumacher when reporting issues with their SL65.  This is disconcerting but it should be noted that this is only the experience of some people. Be sure to register your unit with Schumacher to ensure the best support. Still further negative reviews mention that the Schumacher’s 8000mAh rating is inaccurate – that it doesn’t provide the expected charging duration for their phones, tablets, etc. Other negative reviews say that after fully recharging the Red Fuel SL65, and then not using it for more than a month, that the unit was “dead” and would not even accept a charge.  We see this time and again here at JumpStarterExpert.com.  It is vital that you recharge your jump starter every month while in storage, even if it is not used at all.  Jump starters experience self-discharge which is a natural, unavoidable phenomenon with ALL battery powered devices.  Your cell phones, for instance, will do this as well.  To maximize the longevity of your jump starter, please follow this advice, as some manufacturers may not honour your warranty if they find that you left your unit in storage without frequently recharging it.

Other Jump Starters to Look At Besides the Schumacher SL65

DBPOWER 800A Peak 18000mAh Portable Car Jump Starter We mentioned this one above, but the DBPower 800A is really a cracking jump starter and pretty stiff competition for the SL65.  It has double the peak jump starting current rating, suitable for gas engines up to 7.2L and diesel up to 5.5L.  It also has 2 USB ports, an outlet for charging laptops, a cigarette lighter adapter and an 18000mAh battery capacity – over 2 times that of the Schumacher.

To top it off it, it comes with a staggering 3 year warranty. All this does come at a slightly higher price than the Red Fuel Schumacher, but its definitely is worth a look. Noco GB40 1000A Car Jump Box The Noco GB40 is arguably the best selling jump starter of all time, with over 7000 reviews on Amazon!  There’s a reason for this – it does exactly what it’s supposed to, it does it well, and it lasts.  Not quite as feature packed as the DBPower above, it does however deliver even more peak jump starting current – 2.5X that of the SL65.

It comes with a single USB outlet port, a 3-mode flashlight, and it can be recharged from your car’s cigarette lighter or from any USB charger.  It also has a larger internal battery than the Red Fuel Schumacher, but also costs slightly more.  The GB40 is a solid alternative to consider.

Conclusion – Should You Buy the SL65 Red Fuel?

Overall, the Red Fuel SL65 is a decent, compact jump starter, with an attractive design and backed by one of the biggest names in the industry – Schumacher.  It has reasonable jump starting power for its size and okay battery capacity.  It also has 2 USB ports, a multi-mode flashlight., and an excellent safety feature set. With a 4 star average customer rating, many customers were impressed with the unit’s performance, being able to jump start vehicles larger than anticipated, and with the device lasting at least 5-10 jump starts before being recharged. On the negative side, by modern standards, the SL65 is somewhat limited with respect to DC outlets, not having ports for charging laptops or other 12V devices.  It also lacks the ability to be recharged via a car’s cigarette lighter adapter, useful when on the go, and doesn’t have a cigarette lighter adapter to connect a portable air compressor or car power inverter for powering AC devices while outdoors. Negative customer reviews also reported somewhat poor customer service and that the 8000mAh rating is inaccurate – the device supplying less than this. The Red Fuel Powered by Schumacher SL65 jump starter is a respectable jump starter as long as you bear in mind the above limitations.  There is however stiff competition out there from the likes of the DBPOWER DJS50 Portable Car Jump Starter and the Noco Genius Boost GB40.

Get the SL65 from by clicking the link below: Read the full article

[badfoodcv]

Tre saker jag lärde mig om Hemma Tandblekning ing från World Of Warcraft

Det är således bättre att sno ett sal såsom äger odla ringa fönster och dörrar såsom genomförbart, ehuru bilden blir innerligt förbättring, finare samt skarpare ju mörkare det befinner sig i rummet som hane har projektorn inom. Idag är det massor personer som villig har någon bildkanon inom sitt lokal eller inom sin lägenhet / residens, odla att herre får någon så tätt bio upplevelse som genomförbart, utan att man riktig behöver plocka sig till en biosalong. Det finns samt dom människor som tillfullo struntat inom att tillverka en duk och bara inneha ett vit vägg såsom duk istället. Ju större duk du inneha, desto större display kommer du kunna lite. Detta gör att ni har gällande att hitta prima produkter såsom sannerligen erbjuder någon duktig monitor för dej och din filmupplevelse, inte med att det kostar skjortan. Ibland kan det finnas odla att man inneha förut långt yta emellan projektorn samt duken, ändock emedan inneha man chans att byta ut ställe på duken istället, ity saken där i massa rättssak går att sloka opp i taket och då kan du därför också anpassa platsen gällande saken där.

The Hidden Truth på Tandblekning Hemma Bäst I Test Exposed

Tandblekning med jäsningsmedel: Blanda bakpulver tillsammans diväteoxid eller citron odla att ni får mot ett lättarbetad makaroner. Diafarm Tandkräm Till Hund Med Enzymer tog hem vinsten inom mellanklassen och Aptus Bucadog Tandpasta blev vår specialare. Vår favvis blev budgetvinnaren Beaphar Tandvårdsset nära följt utav Virbac Tandhygienset inom premiumklassen. Tänk gällande att dom behandlingar såsom nämns i denna artikel borde användas tillsammans måtta därför vår emalj kan drabbas bruten irreparabel skada. Citronens blekande fallenhet är robust och det är massor såsom använder citronsaft när de vill bleka tänderna med naturliga ingredienser. Missfärgningar och fläckar kungen tänderna kan innehava flertal orsaker. Många av oss inneha missfärgningar villig tänderna såsom de önskar att bli av tillsammans. Över tidrymd missfärgas tänderna av livsmedel, fika, te, vin, dricka och tobak, vilket är svårt att sky. BeConfident tillhandahåller tillika märklig bruten dom mest kostnadseffektiva lösningarna stäv nyss tandblekning och ett från deras mest populära kit kostar 449kr samt innehållet allt som ni behöver därför att komma igång tillsammans att bleka dina garnityr. Boka tid för någon undersökning samt utlysa oss att du vill bleka tänderna. Att bleka tänderna med hemma kit befinner sig spartanskt samt tar ungefär 6-30 timmar mirakel 1-2 veckors epok. Ju mer du känner till om var procedur, desto större är förstås chansen att ni tillåts ett faktisk fullträff tillsammans metoden ni väljer. Detta odla att karl får en odla kanon fotografi som genomförbart när man tittar kungen film gällande sin bildkanon. Eftersom odla massa forskare äger utvecklat annorlunda projektorer och motsvarighet elektroniska apparater, odla går det himla omedelbart in inom framtiden. Många forskare idag äger börjat utveckla mobiltelefoner och klockor tillsammans exakt synonym teknik som finns i projektorer, fasten befinner sig det huvudsakligen lasrar såsom då används. Passar mot: Asiatiska smaker, Elwira cocosmjölk samt kanhända med en subtil passion. Är ni ängslig slut ditt projektor vinst, tag då i odla stänk glimt gällande de olika apparaterna som är gällande Rea, så att ni kan återfinna ett projektor som passar okej dig utan att dom kostar mycket tillsammans olika hundralappar. Bland andra med två vita såsom har ledsen alkoholhalt (9-9,5%) samt såsom är tappade inom lättare, miljövänlig glasflaska. Näringsfattig och otillräcklig måltid utför att bland övrigt tänderna blir dåliga. Topp 10 är ett sortiment bland vitt vin över 200 kr i fasta sortimentet, såsom helst inte befinner sig tillfälliga viner. Vinbanken äger listat topp 10 vita viner mirakel 100 kr - årets ultimata! Vinbanken provar pågående Systembolagets viner. Men olika laxrätter ger olika smak, för den skull passar lite skilda viner. Smaken matchar ideal till ett grillad firre! Passar mot: Till skaldjur samt andra lindra fiskrätter. I Aftonbladet kan vi läsa om hurdan somliga gör så att de tar en mogen jordgubbe som mosas och sedan mjukt gnuggas kvar tänderna, ju mer mogen desto bättre - äppelsyran inom bäret gör tandytan proper samt skapar någon vitare look. Frukt och grönt befinner sig positivt, både pro kroppen och förut tänderna, men inte när det innefatta tandblekning. Även försåvitt emaljen är omild odla kan det omsider uppkomma ringa sprickor som kommer resultera i att kulör från foder förmå greppa sig in samt missfärgar tänderna, berättar Svendsrud. Vill du rentav lite någon odla prima bild som genomförbart tillsammans din bildkanon, enär är det suverän ifall rummet är odla mörkt som genomförbart.

Tänk dock villig att om du faktiskt vill tillverka bäst resultat av din bildkanon, emedan lär det kosta någon pusselbit kapital också. Är man alltså någon bio älskare, odla lär karl behålla mynt genom att bringa upp någon biosalong i sitt eget hem istället! Idag finns det en rad annorlunda projektorer, men även om det ganska låter dyrt att hava en biosalong inom sitt hushåll, odla går det minsann att hitta någon slampig bildkanon, ifall herre blott lägger fokus villig det! Gör såsom 100,000 tals andra svenskar samt validera märklig utav dessa beprövade tandblekningsprodukter som är testade itu tidningar, bloggare samt en länga kändisar. Idag finns det en länga skilda projektorer, oavsett om det gäller mot skolan alternativt försåvitt det är en bildkanon hemmabio såsom karl tala om. Vill karl endast bleka tänderna litegrann, kan t.ex. de mest milda metoderna, såsom till och tillsammans ett blekande tandpasta existera tillräckliga, ändock befinner sig det mer dramatiska utfall man befinner sig omodern postumt tvungen herre självklart kora någon bruten dom mest effektiva metoderna istället.

Intressanta faktoider Jag slår vad om att du aldrig visste om Vita Tänder Bakpulver

Omdöme: Skönt, kry rödtjut tillsammans finemang smak. Omdöme: Klockren samt mitt inom prick. En självklar vitt sneaker, total lätt. Testpanelen anser: En något chunky dödsblek sneaker, som gör sig bäst mot ett samtida streetstil. Testpanelen anser: Detta befinner sig två retrodoftande basketskor från Nike. Kanske åt ett par smala byxa, ett par snygga träningsbyxor och en bombarjacka? Skulle det vara så att ni inneha projektorn inom ett kammare med stora fönster, emedan befinner sig det nog skarp att iaktta två gardiner som verkligen får dän solljus alternativt åt samt tillsammans heltäckande persienner, odla att rummet verkligen inneha öppning att minsann bliva becksvart. Bakpulver behandlingen vara tvungen man enligt en granskning finnas till eftertänksam med på grund av bakpulvrets slipande verkning kan fördärva emaljen. Vi diskuterar även hur man håller tänderna vitare med White Now tandkräm. Precis såsom tillsammans samtliga elektroniska saker, så befinner sig det samt betydelsefull att damma från projektorn emellanåt odla att det icke hopas fördämning kring alternativt kungen saken där.

Den största fördelen ihop att bleka geler befinner sig att de är odla grundliga. Med Dentway kan du bleka tänderna själv gällande en lätt fason. Vi håller med Jane försåvitt att pennan möjligtvis är det enklaste alternativet när det innefatta tandblekning. Här hittar du tips pro tandblekning hemma samt hos en yrkesfolk. Lite mindre huskurliga vägar mot vitare garnityr är att bleka dessa, hemma alternativt hos tandläkaren tillsammans alltsammans ifrån skenor mot gel alternativt väteperoxid. Även försåvitt den befinner sig märklig år veteran, odla är saken där likväl funktionell samt erbjuder ändå en super kvalite villig skärmen tillsammans sin bildkanon TV. När du inneha valt din bildkanon odla behöver ni också sedan kolla över vilken slags filmduk ni ska ha. Man ska avstyra färgade foder, röd vin, snus, cigaretter, kaffe, te inom upp mot två dygn. Borsta tänderna noggrant ett par gånger ifall dagen och undvik fika, te, rödvin, prilla samt rökning såsom kan missfärga tänderna. Därefter befinner sig det kalas att skrubba tänderna återigen inte med tandpasta. Vad åtnjuta vet är att oljan dessutom inneha stora fördelar när saken där används som ett ersättare förut kommersiell tandkräm. Förut använde karl projektorer i skolarbeten, samt de används ännu idag, odla att alltsammans klassen enkelt kan observera en skrivelse villig ett display istället därför att kartong delas ut åt respektive lärjunge. Den vanligaste typen utav projektorer som används idag kallas även pro ett videoprojektor. RAID står pro redundant utbud bruten billiga diskar. Det ingår samt ett mindre kärl skada ännu krävs till fyllest med fluid därför att vispen ska funka optimalt. En TRX erbjuder alltså möjligheten att till exempel producera armhävningar med händerna (eller fötterna) inom öglorna, handla omvända rodd, utfallssteg med någon fot i öglan, med mera. Du ska helst tangera bröstkorgen i golvet, med rumpan något högre opp, samt efteråt krysta till raka armhävningar. Oil pulling har använts inom Indien i tusentals år även introducerades i USA för ett tag sedan etta gången på upprinnelse av 1990-talet itu en doktor bred benämning Dr. F. Karach, såsom med framgång använder oil pulling inom sin medicinska sedvänja. Efter 10 minuter tittar karl etta nyansskillnaden med blotta ögat. Om ni undrar hurdan det promenerar till och försåvitt det är sannerligen så kan ni studera här hurdan du skall producera och hur karl får vitare tänder med tandblekning utav kol. Under tre till sju dagar får det stoppa inom tanden, samt kommer nedanför denna epok att skänka ifrån sig små mängder väteperoxid. Du kan ringa svar villig alltsammans ifrån hurdan man betalar mot vilket schampo såsom borde funka för dej. En bildkanon är menad därför att påvisa en foto till en större foto, ungefär som ett förstoringsglas kan man tala om. Så dess grundliga funktion är sålunda att visa opp någon fotografi, oavsett försåvitt den befinner sig stilla eller gällande, så att ett större gäng folk äger utsikt att titta på likadan bild alternativt video. När karl ser kungen en filmprojektor, odla är det dessa som folk idag äger inom avta hem istället stäv ett TV-apparat. Om du befinner sig vacklande ovan något specifikt territorium odla inspektera med Dentways kundservice. De flesta projektorer skapar bilden via att den skiner blond via en subtil transparent lins, dock finns det modernare projektorer såsom kan sång bilden bums med assistans av en laser projektor. Sedan kan det samt hamna damm framför lamprona eller lasrarna som finns inom projektorn, såsom kungen odla metod kan skövla bilden såsom du i själva verket vill ha så gjord och tydlig som genomförbart. Ju mörkare det befinner sig, desto bättre samt skarpare kommer bilden att bestå.

2 -Andra trick För Bästa Tandblekning Hemma

En blekning kan hålla opp mot åtskilliga år, ändock det beror villig vilken tillvägagångssätt som väljs, hurdan rund emaljen befinner sig, hur ålderstigen ni befinner sig samt hur dina levnadsvanor ser ut. Dessutom testar vi blekning! Får ni ett yrkesmässig blekning tillåts du betydligt högre dos från peroxid, vilket leder till förbättring blekning av tänderna. Det befinner sig genom dessa kunskapskontroll man enklare får ett överblick ovan va projektorn rentav kan åstadkomma och om den äger märklig begäran gängse utrymme samt ljusstyrkan i rummet. Varje spegel motsvarar en pixel som visas på ytan och samt saken där epok det tar före ljuset reflekterar kontra duken samt bestämmer då ljusstyrkan. Det finns roterande hjul i dessa DLP samt dom äger grundfärgerna blå, grön och röd odla att ljuset blir färgsatt och så det blir färg villig duken eller ytan. När hane pratar om en LCD, så finns det tre stycken skärmar såsom inneha oerfaren, röd samt blå såsom emedan är grundfärgerna.

Tandblekning Bäst I Test 2019 Och kärlek har Sex gemensamma saker

Det finns märklig skilda projektorer idag, så dom funkar samt villig olika taktik. Förr inom tiden odla fanns endast projektorer i skolsalar eller på biosalonger - nu för tiden odla skaffar ytterligare och fler personer en projektor i sitt revir. Tyvärr är erhålla människor födda tillsammans fina friska vita garnityr. Men det befinner sig betydelsefullt att en tandläkare är med samt bedömer vilka vurpa som befinner sig lämpliga. Därför att undersöka om dina tänder befinner sig nog friska därför att prestera blekningsmedel kan ni konsultera tillsammans din tandläkare. Idrottsrelaterade skador hos kvinnor kan även undvikas genom ett speciellt träningsprogram pro knäkontroll; med ökad stärka, uthållighet samt flexibilitet samt genom neuromuskulär öva därför att utveckla både balans därtill förväntan- samt landningsteknik. Neuromuskulär exercis (t ex balansträning villig balansboll alternativt grammofonskiva) inneha visat sig veta motverka skador hos kvinns samt således är koordinationsträning angelägen för ökad neuromuskulär förmåga. När beställningen gott befinner sig lagt tar det vanligt endast enstaka arbetsdagar innan du har en förpackning tillsammans tandblekningsprodukter hos dig.

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[mintyvan]

roadtrip

This is going to be a multi-chaptered fic based on a few prompts I’ve received:

“one where Van helps you pick a college even though he isn't going?”

“im english but ive always wanted to go on a roadtrip in the states like in the movies. could you write van driving you around on a roadtrip one summer?”

“could you write van with a girl who he’s broken up with before but still loves but the girl is trying to get revenge on him but ends up falling in love with him again”

Note: I was inspired to have a go at third person point of view because of @vanfic‘s writing style - go check her out! She’s amazing! 

I hope this satisfies everyone’s desire for some good old fashioned roadtrip fun.

______________

PART ONE of SEVEN

It's evening when she and Van load the car.

She doesn't ask why. Most people leave in the morning, because it makes sense, because they’re awake then and the world is new and waiting in the horizon. He says he's slept all day but she rather thinks it's because he likes driving at sunset, in the evening cool.

It is June on the east coast.... small insects slapping the windshield in the indigo twilight, the thin, chilly air flowing over her arm as it hangs out the open window, dancing, curving over the airwaves.

She throws her two duffel bags in the trunk, standing there in the pale gloom, framed by the brilliant dark blue sky, arms and legs at all angles tracing her silhouette in black. Her hair has grown dark and long, messy, and the summer sun has brought the first freckles onto her face. Van hauls one last duffel into the backseat which she recognizes as the CDs, stands back, rubs his hands and looks at her.

"Ready?"

"One minute."

She runs towards the porch where the still form of her mother is standing, holding a tea mug, with big, watery eyes and thin lips. Her face is uncertain and yet resigned, worried. The girl hugs the older woman, whispering to her earnestly, reassuring, comforting. They hang on tight to each other, as though they know after this things will be different. The move to the states was the first sign that their lives were about to change.

"So, write me a postcard from each college, ok? And none of that Tom Green road trip stuff," says the older woman. She nods.

She runs towards the car without looking back, slamming the heavy, rusty door. She looks at her mother through the window, very serious, very pale, hopeful, scared.

They wave as the gravel spits behind the car, raising up a cloud of dust which lingers after they're gone, and to the woman on the porch, it looks like a ghost.

They are floating down the highway in the darkening evening light, mauves and aquas and navy blue surrounding them like a painting full of living shadows. The forests line the highway, the old trees of this new, mysterious land that the world discovered and which became a flawed utopia. The car is racing down the winding gray line which takes them further and further into the night.

She props her feet up on the dashboard, moving her toes to the beat which the air snatches and carries out the windows. Her hair sticks to her lips and snakes around her throat, floating around her head as though she were underwater. Her strange brown eyes glisten darkly like the evening above her cheeks. The air around them is warm, but begins to chill after a while, and she wraps one of his old ratty sweaters around her shoulders and studies her long, knobby legs as they stretch out before her, toes pressed against the windshield. She pretends Van is a random boy, looking at him sideways, letting her imagination wander.

The boy is her age, pale and Irish looking, with thick, sandy hair and a mouth permanently dimpled by too many laughs. He has cheekbones and a good body, and he knows this is his advantage; he is aware that he is capable of many things, and he's good with his hands. For these reasons he believes his future to be as secure as it will be uncertain and ever changing. Sometimes he looks at the girl beside him as though he cannot believe she is really there, cautiously, like a person who is used to having all that is good taken away. Out of fear and respect, he does not take his shirt off as he drives.

They are grungy, careless, clean, for now anyway. She picks at the fringe of her cutoff shorts and nestles into the ratty sweater, flipping radio stations as it becomes deep night outside. At midnight she is hungry.

"When did you eat last?" he asks, cautiously. He still doesn’t know if she knows how he feels.

"If you knew me well you would know that doesn’t matter," she replies, offended at his parental inquiry.

"I don't think I do." They both know this is true. It rests between them like a silent creature sitting in the backseat, waiting to bare its teeth.

"Satisfy my curiosity," he sighs.

"I ate a little while ago. Are we stopping?"

He pulls into a roadside exit. They drive slowly down a small street, and stop at a flickering neon sign that says Blue Pl te Spec al.

"Very local color,” he joked.

"Synonymous with health sanctioned,” she said, tone stern.

"Mmm." He opens the door for her, and she is inwardly surprised but is too well-bred to show it.

It is an average greasy spoon, small, with bad music, and cracked red vinyl booths which scratch her bare legs. There is the shine of dull metal, worn countertops, and the smell of frying in the air along with cigarette smoke. She scrunches up her nose as he inhales deeply and this means something to her.

A thick woman with panty hose, socks and sneakers sporting a checkered apron comes over to their table. Her blonde hair has almost black roots, and her mouth is lined sharply in mauve, then frosted over. She looks as tired as the makeup creeping into her wrinkles. She snaps her gum loudly.

"What'll it be to drink?"

They look at each other.

"Tea."

Snap, snap. Scribble.

"And eats?"

They quickly look at the menu, and stall a little.

"Burger and chips," she says calmly. “Ah - fries.”

"Grilled cheese. And uh, onion rings. You know what? Never mind, I'll take the tuna melt," Van says.

The waitress cocks an eyebrow. "Uh, hello, Three to Tango."

"Make that grilled cheese again," he quickly backtracks.

The waitress gives him a dirty look, scratching out and scribbling again. Snap, snap.

"That all, you Brits?"

"Cherry pie," she adds, unfolding her utensils and scrupulously examining them for stains under the low hanging lamp.

A very irritated snap, snap, and another look. They watch her heavy rear depart.

She blows on the knife, and then quickly rubs it with a napkin, holding it up to the light again.

"I'll be surprised if we don't find human matter in our food. Maybe a big old hair. Maybe they save tapeworms for people like us," Van comments, a small smile on his lips as she sighs and puts her silverware down.

"It's part of the adventure."

"Food poisoning?" he laughs.

"The risk, oh doubter you. Where's your joie de vivre? You're supposed to be the Clyde to my Bonnie, the Thelma to my Louise. This is like that movie where the college kids go on a road trip, without us exactly hating each other."

"That movie was terrible. I can definitely do without having a guy sexually assault me,” Van says, biting into his grilled cheese, not realizing how insensitive he sounded. She knew how he could get sometimes. “But I bet I'd be good at that convenience store robbin’ thing."

"Yeah I bet," she snorts. "You can be the Anson to my Britney. But then I'd have to hate myself."

"So would I. But if we were to follow the movie, we should have sex first."

He notices her silence and red blush, and decides to be more careful in the future.

"Sorry."

"What for?" She quickly retorts. Silence. She takes a quick breath and starts talking quickly to fill up the space. "Are you vegetarian? You ordered grilled cheese, and I didn't know, so I didn't want to offend you, you know, be the bloody cow killer eating it right in front of you like a carnivorous, voracious beast...thing...."

He let her quick, embarrassed change in subject slide, amused by her rambling.

"No. But Helga there wasn't looking too friendly, and cheese is safer. This kind of place I never order meat if the waitress is pissed at me."

"What worldly wisdom."

"That's me, the debonaire blue collar Joe GQ. Should I ask how their wine selection is here?" Van clinked his fork against his tea mug, making a shrill noise bound to irritate the waitress further. Mischievous.

She played along. "I think your choices are Bud Light, Natty Light, Miller, and some of that stuff Billy Bubba brewed in his backyard last week."

The rest of the food arrived, thin, grease-spotted paper lining the baskets, a chip in her ceramic plate. She looks at her burger dubiously.

"Where's your joie de vivre?" he sneers.

Bravely, she picks it up with both hands and takes a big bite, smiling a wobbly smile as she chews fast. She swallows and smiles proudly.

"I think there's a fingernail in it," he says gravely, and points.

She’s deathly scared and stares at her burger in horrified fascination, but the blood rushes back to her cheeks as she hears him chuckle.

"Very funny, asshole."

Pushing her burger aside, she stuffs fries into her mouth.

"Whoa there, remember to breathe," Van grins, biting an onion ring.

She makes a face at him and keeps chewing. Her borrowed sweater has slipped off one shoulder, the lamplight casting small shadows into the hollows of her neck. His eyes are fixed on her, thoughtful. She bugs out her eyeballs at him sarcastically, and he realizes he's staring and quickly looks away.

"Have you never seen someone eat before?" she says, downright hostile.

"You eat like a prisoner of war set loose in a buffet."

"And you eat like Larry."

"Now that was not nice," he frowns, inspecting his sandwich. "I have not opened the sandwich and written my name on the cheese with little pepper dots."

She pours on ketchup obstinately.

They finish, picking at crumbs on the cherry pie, and Van wonders how long they can go before their history will all come out into the open, filling the air with poison and setting them both aflame. He absently thinks about how he will explain himself, and if she will understand.

"You can have the last piece," she smiles, mellow, pushing the plate towards him.

Van toys with it. "I wonder if you'll still say that when the shit hits the fan."

She stiffens, but does not respond, and suddenly he knows she was thinking the same thing as he was.

They stare at each other nervously.

"Check," interrupts a loud voice, and breaks the spell. Grateful, they mutter, and take the paper from the waitress, who rolls her eyes and departs.

They are on the road again, driving, changing places, stopping at four in the morning.

"Take this exit," she commands sleepily.

They find themselves in a small residential town full of matching suburbs and fast food restaurants; taking care to write down the roads, they wander into a quiet little neighborhood and park under a big oak, turning off the lights.

"What are we doing?" she mumbles, opening her eyes.

"Saving money."

"Okay, not a good idea. I don't know if you ever heard that story about the guy with the hook and the girl and guy in the car and how he comes up and opens your door. This isn't Elm Street is it? Cause if you don't like nightmares-"

"Get in the back."

She is too tired to complain further.

"I hope the hook guy kills you first so I can at least watch before I die and be satisfied," she says, and promptly falls asleep, breathing heavily.

Van stretches out on the bench seat in the front, locking the doors with his long fingers, and that is how they are found in the morning when the little girl in the pink dress taps on the windshield.

They pull out of the neighborhood, tires screeching, Van cackling, leaving a very surprised little girl on her lawn staring.

She awkwardly crawls into the front seat, and he unashamedly checks out her legs as she does so. She is warm, mellow, half-awake and shivering from the cool morning air. She tucks her legs under herself and drops back the front seat, ignoring the seat belt. Her lips have a secret smile on them, small and hidden, as though she is having a dirty dream. He smirks, thinking this to himself.

They are driving fast in the early morning, blinding sunlight high above them, air warming fast; she wakes up and grabs a book, and insists on stopping in another town that has a Wal-Mart.

"What the hell for?" he counters.

"Because."

"Natalie Portman had a baby in one,” he announced.

"Ok, now the valid reason. And I hope you know she didn't really have a baby. It was just a movie. We can't eat out every meal; we'll run out of money quick. We stop, get a jar of peanut butter, some bread, baby wipes, microwaveable pizzas, a pack of diapers, you know," she says lightly.

"No, I really don't. First, thawed pizza is about as edible as the seat you are sitting on."

"Wrap it up in tinfoil and stick it under the hood while we drive."

"I'm assuming this works with burritos, baked potatoes, filet mignon, maybe a souffle....." he trails off. She continues.

"Baby wipes for cleaning. I did bring toilet paper."

"Good, then we don't need the diapers now."

"Ugh, Van, the diapers are for bathing. You soak one in water and then use it to wash your whole self off. None of that nasty sponge bacteria. You get a big pack cheap."

"The amazing Y/N and her lists," he grins, forgetting his annoyance. "We could stick one on the radiator too if it starts leaking."

"Yeah! Or use one to clean the windshield!"

"Or strap one on you so we won't have to stop for restroom breaks until we hit Maryland!"

"You're pushing it, Van," she scowls.

"You're the diaper enthusiast."

They stop in front of the Wal-Mart and park. The sun has grown glaring hot, reflecting off the gray cement. When they enter the dark lobby, he sees the strange grin on her face at the hilarity of their list of items. She looks over at a stand of fruit and groans before the words even come out of his mouth.

"Van, get away from the bananas." He’s shocked, but knows they’ll go bad easily in the hot car.

"Fine."

They wander around, reveling in the cool air conditioning; they pile stuff onto her mom’s credit card, not thinking too logically. They are enjoying this too much, this random impulse spending. He buys a pack of undershirts, she gets a headband with bunny ears on it, they throw in a nerf football, a pair of cheap flip flops, a glittery sequined thong which she keeps throwing out and he keeps throwing back in. He momentarily strays to grab some Doritos, and when he returns to the frozen food aisle, he is momentarily struck still.

She is pressed against an open door, clouds of freezing steam floating out around her, turning her cheeks pink; strands of damp hair stick to her neck and shoulders. Her eyes are closed, breathing in the chilly air, her shoulder fogging up the glass, and she's rubbing a packet of frozen french fries on the back of her neck.

"Y/N."

She quickly looks up, caught, quickly throwing back the french fries, letting the door fall shut.

"What the hell were you doing?"

"Just.....chillin'...."

They both groan. She can't help giggling at her own corniness.

"I can't let you out of my sight for a minute and you're getting intimate with some french fries?" he quipped.

"Ok, it's really hot out there. I was sweating in the car."

"Get a cooler," he commands, turning the cart around.

"What?"

"A cooler. We'll get a bag of ice and use it in the car. I drove like that ‘cross country last summer when we had that fuckin’ heat wave, remember? Hate that all our buildings are insulated to keep heat in."

She looks at him, horrified.

"Are you saying the air conditioning’s broken in your car?"

"Not saying no," he said as he walked faster, trying to steer the cart away from her as she picked up speed in nervousness.

"God!"

"Are you allergic to hot air?"

"I'm allergic to you!" she snaps, and stomps down the aisle, peevishly throwing in a carton of ice cream.

He's a little surprised at her outburst, but not angry. He can understand. Things will be this way until they really talk about what has happened, and he knows it will not be easy. But they are both here right now, pretending everything is fine.

They stand next to each other in line silently.

"Will it make you feel better if I throw out the glitter thong?"

"Yes."

The first fight is resolved, and as a peace offering, she throws some mint Lifesavers in the cart. He knows this is potentially very meaningful. You don't need mint Lifesavers if you're around someone you hate. You can just let them suffer from your dragon breath. But she put them in the cart; it means she is no longer irritated. This is how he establishes that self-sacrifice is a good method of keeping her happy, and then he knows he should have done this last fall, when all the bad things happened.

They drive across New York, stop at Columbia University, and Maryland, then Washington for a night to see Georgetown U. They are walking in the evening, because she wanted to buy something pretty, and he wanted to see the house where the Exorcist was filmed. Later, they sit on the edge of the Reflecting Pool under the purple night sky, shaded by the orange streetlights. They eat Indian food in take-out containers, danging their feet and talking about things that flow into each other smoothly like seconds flow into time.

"Nothing fabulous so far."

"Dunno why you're looking. You've already sold your soul to Yale," he mutters into his curry.

"Oh c'mon. My mom is leaving for her two weeks of honeymoon with Jeff. You’re on a trip in a completely new country as my friend helping me decide what college to go to. We have nothing to do. Pretext is the vocab word for the day."

"Kind of a dastardly situation, love. What the hell were we supposed to do back home?"

"Nothing. By the way, we should have bought some plug in Glade. We'll smell like Indian food for a few days." She shrugs, watching the lights shimmering darkly in the reflecting pool. The shadows flicker on their faces in the warm night air, thick with city sound, streetlight, and the salty smell of the Potomac.

"It shouldn't matter if we never fall in love with each other," she says thoughtfully, sending a sort of queer stab through him.

"Yeah."

The wind ruffles her hair, drawing it in lines above her eyes, painting it in streaks glinting below her eyes. Small, white teeth peep from between her chapped lips; she is smiling.

"What are you smiling  for?" he asks, strangely sad.

"Nothing. It's just a beautiful night and we're getting along and I....just feel nice. This is nice."

It is then that Van realizes it will be a long time before she forgives him, because it is her turn to torture him now, her turn to make him hurt as he had hurt her.

She leans back, grinning, and he smiles sadly.

"Yeah, this is nice."

So they drive this way: all windows down, bag of ice between them on the floor. The wind flings their hair everywhere, they put ice down their shirts, they eat it, rub it over themselves while they drive to keep reasonably cool. They are damp, minimally clad, overheated. He has given up on the shirt; she does not seem to be offended, only jealous. They have a larger collection of bugs on their grill than the Smithsonian. The backseat floor is littered with junk food wrappers, soda cans, diapers they have filled with ice and used as neck-rests, and half a million empty coffee cups. The ash-tray is brimming, discarded dirty clothes have made a pile behind Van's seat and the windshield is covered with her toe-prints.

He points this out to her, and she shrugs.

"It's part of the roadtrip magic."

"It's disgusting. Something's starting to smell," he says pointedly.

"Maybe it's you."

"Very mature, babe. Maybe it's that half a peanut butter jelly sandwich you dropped between the seats two days ago."

"Maybe."

"I suggest it's time for a rest station stop." He asks her to look at the map they’ve brought along. They were intent on conserving phone battery for emergencies.

"Ooh, can I buy one of those Virginia Is For Lovers mugs?"

He ignores her hidden stab that goes deeper than she knows.

"You can buy whatever. When we run out of money, you'll be the one who has to dance on tables just to get enough gas to get to the next county."

"Only if you can sing me the entire Wyclef's Strippers Anthem," she scowls, scratching her neck.

"Sorry. But remember, it don't make her a ho, no."

"I am not dancing for money."

"Neither am I."

"So.......what are we gonna do? Sell our hair? Donate a kidney or some blood? Wash dishes for a few days?"

"Rest station stop."

They pull over, and he puts the trash in the garbage, the dirty clothes in a bag and empties out the ashes. He stocks up on some cigarettes while she eats a popsicle that turns her lips blue as she washes the windshield. Her legs are getting a few shades darker, her shorts are getting rattier, her black tank top sticks to her ribs while her arms vigorously scrub the windshield. She's cracking out of her mold, like a damp butterfly struggling to open her wings, hair fluttering in the humid breeze. She's a little more brash than the innocent girl he'd found almost two years ago.....a little more conscious of her own power.

Every twitch of her toes moves a muscle in her thigh that he finds starts a pulse in him; every yawn and stretch shows a sharp hip-bone in the low, loose waist of her shorts or an innocent strip of cotton. Every time she sleeps her mouth falls slightly open. Yet she never acknowledges it. Sometimes she makes him physically uncomfortable, but never seems to notice his tense, thin, drawn lips or clenched fingers. He struggles just not to touch the freckles on her shoulder while she sleeps; to stare straight ahead is supreme control.

// Part 2 is here! //

[myautisticpov]

hectic--skeptic replied to your post “Can you please tag the word "f*g" on that last post? I know that it's...”

generally people would type the word "f*ggot", but f*g would still fall under the "f slur" blanket, which is what they're generally tagged as, which is what i think anon meant

Thanks for letting me know, I’ll be sure to use the tag.

Not that I’ve ever had need to use the word before. And I know from stories of Brits in America how badly its use as a synonym for cigarette is over there, so I generally don’t type it myself (even though it’s the word I use most often for them irl).

Anyway, it’s still helpful to know for future reference.

[ecstaseagayle]

In Admiration

We were, at that time, fighting, quarreling, skirmishing, arguing, every word synonymous to that,

We were talking about how everything was, about how we evolved into this, from my selfishness

About how we got here, about how we were arguing, about how we were talking about that one Thought that she thought about, that one thought I never did. How did she ever thought of it? How did? Here, I’m,

In front of my laptop, my acer, how lucky I was that my father did give it. Here, I am tainting

My fingers, not with ink, but with keys, keypresses, the dust on my keyboard. For her, the sand shall be swept,

For her, I will write this poem, a poem of a hundred lines, and with a quarter of it as syllables

The poem she requested, I shall bestow, for no matter the sun rises and sets, she is my queen, yes

For her this poem is written, for my queen, for her, just for her. Solely hers is this poem to be written

Heed closely, for there is love, there is death, there is confusion. There is everything Everything she asked

How did this poem, of a hundred lines and a quarter of it as syllables came about? How did it?

You see, I the author, stupid, wretched, foolish, I became a monster. I was very, a trouble

“It can’t be that bad” You see, I had done what even death could be acceptable over that hell deed

It was always hell day for her, for I created her hell, and how strong she is to make it heaven

She is a complete hurricane, for she drove me insane whenever I see her, her beauty, herself

With her, I have never felt the urge to die more than when I was with her, for I was dead over her

Yes, she was-and is-my everything, my ecstasy, me insanity, my drug, the beads on my wrist,

But how could I have messed up? Well, I promised her I’d never hurt her, I lied, I was such a huge fool

She wrote it down, I pulled her heart out, and ended up losing it. I killed her, thinking we were happy

I was a snake, venomous, a traitor, an epitome of lies, the epitome of lying

Even if I did everything to revive her, I could not erase it from me. She was at death, but

breathing, confused but aware. She was living , while dying, through the lies I fed her, those daggers of pain

I grabbed her by the neck and choked her thoughts of peace, for her, I destroyed her world by being the liar

I left her alone to die, for I had done something grave, and with the hurt, she thought, “suicide is good”

With it, they all started to unfold. The shattering of her from his heartbeats, from the lies out of his

Mouth, filled with filth, filthier than dung, filthier than criminals, filthier than genocide and all

Quiet whispers hold the loudest pain, and her cries destroyed every cell in my body, for I had tried

to do better, be contented and accept, but the damage is clear, and I, my entirety of

stupid destroyed my treasure. It seemed, to her that I would leave her as a pile of nothing, it ached her

She thought that I can walk away, and with it, to her kitchen, she got and held the knife close to her chest

She was ready to leave, for the rejection and judgement is a fragment of her memory, it hurt

That never ending misery, that burning passion to just explode like a grenade inside a body

That addiction to suicide just came out of nowhere, from the deserts of pain, hurt and misery

It fogs the mind, drove her mad, she was hurt, for for all the people that could’ve did, it was her lover

Fortunately, she dropped the knife, she contemplated, “I am strong, and I can walk away” and she stayed

She wanted to erase it from her, from her memory, her clouds, her thoughts, her hard drives, her pictures, movies

She wanted nothing to ever bother her again, she wanted nothing of me, she wanted nothing

“I will be with someone else” she could not say it, however, for she loved me, anchored me to her ship

“I can’t seem to let you go”, she thought, furious for she still loved me no matter what, for her love did stay

She was astounded, but enraged. Engulfed with fury, but mesmerized, for her thoughts of love came forth

Even if I was killing her from the inside out, she stayed strong, her words and her blood was of her strength

Through all the pain and the loneliness, she was still on her feet, fighting, getting back up from the ashes

However, what I couldn’t see, was that my tongues had turned her thoughts into this monster of lamenting

And then again, those thoughts came about, and for the seconds, minutes, it seemed like death was calling her forth

He wanted to engulf her, into his eternal embrace, his eternal sleep, and he was waiting for

Her to join in his world of eternal slumber, for her to forget, to dislodge herself from myself

She started to cry, she started to weep, and as she looked to her right, she found a blade, a sharp rusty cutter

She picked it up, examined it, grabbed it up from her wooden floor and held it near her delicate wrist

Again, she thought, “the damage is clear, I should leave”, and started to place the rusty blade upon her palms

But then, as she was about to slit the skin from her, she had thought about someone, “I should say farewell”

She reached her phone, clicked that blue square with an “f” on it, and searched through the screen for the button with a logo

But when she clicked on the name, and saw the picture, she dropped the blade and started to weep, for it was him

It was the guy, the guy who lied to her, the guy who broke her, who stabbed and shot her, the fool, himself

She just could not bear it, the thought of the romance planted on her heart with his image glued to itself

“I never knew I could love someone who has done nothing but hurt me” she said, furious about her thoughts

She can’t stop crying, for the demon on her left said “kill him along with you”, he wanted her to die

However, the angel, with the halo on her right, replied “no, revive yourself along with him, live”

She gave them both an ear to listen, however, with much fortune, she listened to the angel so kind

She gave it, *blink* and slowly, the thoughts of hope and love consumed her emotions and her determination

She’s addicted to a broken, or should I say breaking, person, but she did the last the she would do

She gave him a chance

Thinking, I am, “I can never fix her”, for I had just lost her, killed each good memory from her mind

I had just ran her over, bloodied her with the speeds of my endless train of cruelty, that murdered her

Her lungs, were so fine, until I, the deadly secondhand smoke, invaded her, it was like every

Deadly inhale of intoxicating cigarette, I was the reason why she was breaking, dying

With the sadness, destruction dealt, I had concluded; “everything turns out to be almost like nothing

However, as I was demeaning, degrading my entirety, a message popped on my phone, *beep*”

“Fine, I’m gonna give you a chance” I had read, I was confused, blended with emotions, for I had read

A profounding message from the girl I broke, wanting to fix what I had destroyed, with me, together

It felt like the utopia I can never have in this reality, the only difference,

It was just real, and it was perfect

So here I am still in admiration, of how strong she is, and how she could bear what seemed like never-

Ending misery. Despite what was an addiction to suicide, she still manages to be well,

She had slit the strings of despair, the strings that puppeted her, and started to write her own happiness

All her secrets, her secret strength, her secret faith, could not be consumed. And the demons ponder upon;

“Why can’t it be official? Her loss, her death?” her tears fool you, her frown disguises her strength within

Even though it seemed that our love left like a wrecked ship, it still sailed the harsh sea and returned, stronger

As if our bond was now lovely, herculean, unbreakable, great, rather than broken and empty

I will be happy without her, happy to die. If she is to leave , I would be a tribute to death

If she was a blind heroine, I am of luck, for she saw me despite my flaws and rescued me

Yes, she is a suicidal dove, for she killed herself by loving me again, but she made life seen

to the both of us

And here I am, the author, proud of my babe, my fierce, fighting Jaguar, who never gave up on her love

Here to explain, what my fingers have typed through the night with the acer, with the keys and those keypresses

My dear, you have asked to never bother you again, to erase myself from you, to be with someone,

Someone better than a girl with suicidal hands, desperate to take away everything from life

You said that I will be happy without you, without your foolish heart. To be a grain of sand, dispersed

Honey, of all the things you would ask me to do, all these saddening, deathly matters, I cannot do

For this poem, is about how you, the girl I had damaged, hurt, destroyed, and stabbed without your knowledge

Became the girl that had stood firm, be the rose among her thorns, and welcomed me into her arms despite

The blood that I have shed and the daggers that I have said, you have remained faithful and proud towards me

And my dear, I cannot simply think of anything, besides adore on how you have remained for us two

I cannot be of negative thoughts, seeing and feeling the warmth of your love, tasting your sweet, sweet care

And doubting your own value, do not, for you are of value to me, having written this poem of a

Hundred lines, and a quarter of it as syllables. Love, I am not perfect, and I have died reaching

The end of my time that I couldn’t have finished this story for my queen, in her desired hour

But please know that this poem is for you, my princess, the woman of my life, the faithful damsel of mine

The poem that I thank you in, for latching on to me, despite all the storms that have arrived to destroy

You are my prime, my first, you are the sole soul who can put a smile on my face when it rains heavily

The woman, whom I’ve been ungrateful towards, and whom I have been blessed enough for being the woman

Who has been thankful for me, and with me, ever since we have met, and until now, when we are reading

And writing our own stories, poems, epics, adventures. To my dear, in admiration, I love you

And if at one point, you have told me “God bless you”

I would thank God everyday

For blessing me with you

- a poem i told you to write for us not to fight (January 7, 2016)

[metmatimaamar]

Biographie de Metmati Maamar

Je m’appelle Metmati Mâamar et je suis né le 12 décembre 1967 à Puteaux (92) ville où mon père décédé, a travaillé toute sa vie. Je suis d’origine Algérienne et de nationalité Française. Ma mère comme la plupart des femmes arabes de cette époque, est une mère au foyer. Les familles arabes sont souvent nombreuses, il est donc très difficile pour ces mères, de travailler à l’extérieur et de s’occuper de la maison. De plus, l’Islam on le sait, restreint la sortie de la femme, non pas qu’elle n’ait pas le droit de sortir, mais disons que son devoir est de s’occuper du bon fonctionnement du foyer, il appartient à l’homme de travailler et de subir la société. Même s’il est vrai que l’on confond souvent principes religieux et traditions ancestrales, sur ce point, la tradition semble être en harmonie avec l’Islam à la seule différence, que l’Islam accorde un statut à la femme qu’on le conteste ou pas, alors que dans la tradition, la femme n’a pas son mot à dire, ce qui constitue purement et simplement de l’arbitraire. Arbitraire que beaucoup d’ignorants et d’ennemis de l’Islam ont volontairement utilisé pour faire croire que ce que

         subissait la femme arabe était la conséquence non pas de

                    traditions débiles, mais bien la faute de l’Islam.                                  

Et j’ai toujours été contre l’arbitraire qu’il touche un proche ou un inconnu, un ami ou un ennemi. Et dans cet ouvrage il s’agit bien de ça, d’arbitraire, dont je suis à présent une véritable victime. Une véritable victime depuis maintenant six années, depuis que j’ai décidé d’écrire. Mon père était également commerçant, ce qui lui permettait comme on dit, d’arrondir les fins de mois.

Il vendait des vêtements masculins sur les marchés de la banlieue parisienne et c’est donc très tôt, j’avais à peine huit ans, que j’ai appris la vie, la vraie vie, la mentalité des gens, la valeur de l’argent, le froid qu’il faut pourtant affronter pour survivre, les défis de la concurrence, l’art de négocier… etc. etc. Le marché est une très bonne école, dure mais efficace. Pendant que les jeunes de mon âge dormaient et s’amusaient les jours de repos scolaire, moi j’allais au marché et me levais à cinq heures. Cette expérience me servira toute ma vie, elle a fait de moi un jeune pas tout à fait comme les autres, un jeune qui n’avait pas contrairement à ses copains, besoin de faire des bêtises pour pouvoir aller au cinéma et au Mc Donald. J’étais plutôt un businessman, ce qui m’a évité jusqu’à ce jour bien des soucis. Après les horribles matinées passées au marché, je rentrais dans ma cité rejoindre mes copains et notre seule distraction était de nous balancer des cailloux sur la tête. Il m’est arrivé de rentrer chez moi le visage ensanglanté. Dans cette cité tous les locataires étaient arabes, tous, sauf un qui était portugais, il n’y est pas resté longtemps. Mon loisir préféré était de grimper sur un mur haut d’environ deux mètres cinquante et étroit d’une largeur de pied, c’était un mur comparable au mur de Berlin. Il contournait une bonne partie de la cité. Je m’amusais à monter sur ce mur et le jeu consistait à courir sinon à marcher le plus vite possible et lorsque l’on tombait cela faisait très mal, et on tombait assez souvent. Quoique « grâce » aux chutes, j’étais devenu le plus fort. Un autre jeu ou plutôt c’était une distraction, consistait à prendre une aiguille à la tremper dans de l’encre de chine et à se tatouer les avant-bras, des tatouages qui ne représentaient strictement rien et que je porte encore à ce jour. C’est aussi à cette période que j’ai commencé à fumer des cigarettes, des gauloises, gitanes et des P4. A défaut de cigarettes, il m’arrivait parfois d’enrouler un bout de papier, de l’allumer et de le fumer. Ca fumait donc je fumais ! Sinon on passait notre temps à fouiller les poubelles ou plus exactement les bennes à ordures. Non loin de la cité, il y avait sur le bord de la Seine une benne à poubelles destinée aux locataires des résidences des alentours, qui y jetaient parfois des objets que nous considérions comme ayant de la valeur, étant donné qu’ils étaient français donc significativement plus aisés que nous, nous les apaches arabes. Il arrivait alors souvent que l’on trouve des choses relativement intéressantes. La seule qualité requise pour ce genre de « sport » était de courir vite, très vite. En effet, puisque nous étions une petite bande d’une dizaine de personnes à peine âgées de huit ans, c’était le premier arrivé qui prenait la part du lion, ou plutôt la part du chacal. Malgré toute la misère, je garde un très bon souvenir de mon enfance, de cette période de ma vie. J’ignore pourquoi, c’est comme ça. Peut-être parce que cette période de ma vie fut la plus insouciante et la plus chaleureuse. J’ai toujours connu mes parents musulmans, même si ce terme est utilisé un peu n’importe comment aujourd’hui. En effet, nombreux sont ceux qui se qualifient de musulmans parce qu’ils s’appellent Rachid ou Mohamed et parce qu’ils sont arabes, ou même parce qu’ils font le ramadan et la prière. Cependant, l’Islam nous enseigne qu’un musulman est avant tout un être soumis à Allah et donc qui respecte le coran, tout le coran. Et nous savons que le coran n’est pas composé seulement de deux ou trois versets. Que disent les autres versets ? Bien des choses, certaines d’une importance du même degré que la prière, le ramadan et la zakat. (Trois des cinq piliers de l’Islam) Il est cependant vrai que nous vivons une époque d’ignorance et d’hypocrisie, car des fois on sait, mais on ferme les yeux. C’est tellement plus facile de fermer les yeux. La cité qui était située à Nanterre (92) était composée de baraques préfabriquées. Démunies de douche et de salle de bains. Ma mère nous douchait dans des bassines après avoir fait chauffer l’eau sur le gaz. On vivait avec les cafards, on avait des relations tout à fait amicales avec eux dans la mesure où j’ai toujours vu des régiments de cafards, j’en concluais donc que leur présence était normale aussi normale que le toit de la maison. De plus, je ne considère pas que la présence de cafards dans une maison soit synonyme de misère. En France la misère n’est pas comparable à la misère de nos frères palestiniens par exemple. Dire que j’ai vécu dans la misère matérielle serait un peu excessif, mais j’affirme haut et fort avoir vécu l’injustice sociale, puis pénale. J’affirme haut et fort que ma vie comme celle de nombre de mes amis, a été terriblement dure et que notre dignité a souvent été bafouée. La misère matérielle est je pense, bien plus facile à supporter que la misère de l’être. La couleur du sol, des mur, des fenêtres de notre baraque était celle d’une prison, gris béton, ou d’un jaune pourri. En dépit de cela, ma mère qui avait mis au monde dix enfants, n’a jamais négligé son travail, elle n’a jamais faibli face à la difficulté et pourtant elle ne jouissait d’aucun confort ni d’aucune rentrée d’argent. Et bien que mon père ne fût pas doux avec elle, elle n’a jamais failli à son devoir de femme avec un grand « F ». Des souvenirs en ce sens m’ont fortement marqué. Il n’y avait ni eau chaude, ni machine à laver, ni aspirateur et pourtant, jamais, je dis bien jamais, à l’école profs ou élèves ne m’ont fait de réflexion quant à l’état de mes vêtements ou de ma propreté.

Bien au contraire, j’étais plus propre et mieux habillé que certains français qui eux habitaient les résidences non loin de notre ghetto. Nous étions tels des indiens parqués dans des réserves, ce qui devait être des cités de transit, étaient en réalité des cités où nous devions vivre pour un long moment. Cependant, je ne regrette rien de ce que j’ai vécu dans ce que j’appelle les camps de regroupement, car je sais que la rue vous apprend la vie et si vous triomphez de la rue, vous triomphez de la vie. Bien que je regrette et que je pleure nombre de mes amis d’enfance lesquels ont eux été avalés par la rue. Ils étaient tellement vulnérables et mentalement faibles, tel un lapin qu’un gros serpent engloutit d’un seul coup de mâchoire. Peut-être pourrontils compte tenu de leur âge et donc de leur état d’ignorance, bénéficier de la clémence du Créateur. Je l’espère vraiment. Comme j’espère que les autres, c’est à dire nombre de dirigeants qui se prétendent chrétiens, juifs ou musulmans seront soumis au feu ardent qui dévorera leurs tripes. Ce pour leurs crimes et leur hypocrisie. «Un jugement inexorable s’exerce en effet sur les gens haut placés ; Au petit, par pitié, on pardonne, Mais les puissants seront examinés puissamment.

Car le Maître de tous ne recule devant personne, La grandeur ne lui impose pas ; Petits et grands, c’est lui qui les a faits Et de tous il prend un soin pareil Mais une enquête sévère attend les forts » A travers l’expérience de mon enfance, je ne peux que reconnaître que la femme doit être considérée avec un respect et un honneur évidents. Même s’il est vrai que les femmes de cette qualité sont extrêmement rares, surtout en cette époque. Et c’est probablement ce souvenir resté en mémoire, qui fit que, le grand nombre de livres religieux que j’ai lus dont l’orientation n’était pas très favorable à la femme, n’eut aucun effet sur mon point de vue. Je ne peux contester l’évidence et cette évidence m’interdit d’adopter un comportement hautain à l’égard de la femme. Qui peut nier que nombre d’hommes n’arrivent pas à la cheville de certaines femmes ?

Je fais allusions à Marie mère de Jésus (sur eux la paix) et à Fatima (que Dieu soit satisfait d’elle) fille du prophète Mohammed (paix et prière sur lui) et ce ne sont pas les seules. Chaque époque a son lot de grands hommes et de grandes femmes, comme elle a son lot de crapules et de vauriens.

Et je crains que nous vivions une « belle » époque de fumiers ! Je reste néanmoins complètement accroché au Coran et à la tradition prophétique sur ce sujet. Contrairement comme je viens de le dire, aux livres de certains théologiens qui manifestent un mépris évident à l’égard de la femme. Avant d’entrer dans le vif du sujet, il est absolument nécessaire pour comprendre mes ennuis, de revenir au début de mon militantisme c’est à dire en 1993, quant à ma conversion elle date de 1988. Je me permettrai de raconter très brièvement ma vie avant ma conversion à l’Islam.

Mâamar Metmati - Extrait du livre; "Comme dans un film"