#merci Paris

[deinbester089de]

Bye Bye #Paris 😘❤️ #ThankYou

#Danke und #Merci #Dziękujęmy

#FürWas #ForWhat #ZaCo ?

Das #SiehstDu #ImVideo

103 Sekunden #AusParis 2024

Nimm bitte dieses #Video als eine #Art #Kunst oder #VideoMakerTutorial

Diesea Jahr war es ein außergewöhnliches #Event #Olympic #LetsMove #LoveParis

Von der #Eröffnung über #Fairplay #Boxen die schöne #Stadt

Für das #Andere gibt es ein Wort namens #Karma , da bleibe ich #KommentarLos #NichtsFürUngut #LoveSports Und du Lucy, de kriegst den Finger in der Mitte dee Hand. #DuWeisstSchon ✔️

[forthyfoursblog]

The Paris Olympic and Paralympic Games have just come to an end, and I'm feeling very emotional right now. Being able to experience these games in my own city is the most beautiful thing I've ever experienced. I'm very grateful to the athletes and all the emotions they brought us, especially the french athletes. They made us so proud 🥹. And thanks to my dear Phryge for making us laugh 🤣🫶🏻.

Merci Paris 2024 🇫🇷 ! L'une des plus belle experience de ma vie ! 💙🤍❤️ On ne l'oubliera jamais.

[knockknockwhosthereartistism]

Why did no one tell me Helen of Troy was cool as hell

[weyounthevorta]

Andrew Paris gifset (Phantom Empire 1988)

Kidnapped and Rescued

[laurapetrie]

Rose Desgranges "La Rose Du Faubourg" Candle

[paingoes]

Crash Out

Mercy

(Content: whumper turned whumpee, ex royal whumpee, sadistic whumper, female whumper, alcohol, physical abuse, choking, guns, blood, begging, broken bones)

game (noun) /ɡām/ 1. a form of play or sport, especially a competitive one played according to rules and decided by skill, strength, or luck. 2. a person's performance in a game; a person's standard or method of play. 3. a secret and clever plan or trick 4. wild mammals or birds hunted for sport or food.

game (verb) /ɡām/ 1. manipulate (a situation), typically in a way that is unfair or unscrupulous.

Thales Courtyard. Seven years old.

Paris sat on the steps, a mess of sharp angles. It was a bright summer. Thales’ children grouped in bunches across the lawn.

“You’ve never played?” One of the boys asked him. 

Paris shook his head. The boy got closer. He took both of Paris’s hands in his own and intertwined their fingers. For a brief moment, it felt intimate. He’d been too young to feel repulsed by that yet.

“It’s easy. The first one to say ‘mercy’ loses,” the boy explained, waiting to see Paris’s reaction. He wasn’t afraid; he nodded his assent.

In a swift motion, their hands rotated outward. The boy pressed Paris’s wrists back up against the sockets, bending back the fingers. 

“Mercy!” Paris yelped.

The boy let go instantly. Paris shook his hands out to relieve the ache. He had hissed at first, but he quickly broke back into a smile.

“Let me try again,” he said.

House party. Sixteen years old.

Paris leaned down to light his cigarette on the stovetop burner. He’d been drinking a lot that year. The novelty had yet to wear off. All the kids that orbited him clattered around in the kitchen, seeing who could make the worst cocktail from the pre and the sugar and all the alcohol they’d stolen from the host’s parents. The ones who weren’t busy with the concoction were playing stupid games.

“You go.” One of them tapped his shoulder. He swatted the touch away on instinct, but he straightened up. The boy he played against was younger — shorter hair, shorter stature.

It wasn’t even a competition. Years of fencing had strengthened his grip to an obscene degree.

“Mercy!” the boy cried out, “Fuck, dude, stop!”

The alcohol had slowed his reaction time. It took Paris a few seconds to process the words; he’d kept pressing in the meanwhile. By the time boy pulled his hands back, there were rings of bruises around each of his fingers.

“What the hell, man?” He rubbed at the marks, shooting the prince an accusatory look.

“Baby.” Paris rolled his eyes, “Let’s play the knife game.”

The Thorn. Eighteen years old.

Paris bent Delta’s wrist back at an odd angle, pushing threateningly against the bone of his middle finger. Delta stared back with half-lidded eyes. His expression was placid — and unmistakably bored.

He did not ask for mercy. Delta never asked for anything. It was no use. Paris let go. Delta fell limply at his feet without the grip holding him up. It took longer than usual for him to get back into the kneel.

Paris kicked him roughly in the chest, forcing him back onto the floor just as soon as he’d steadied.

Wildflower patch. Nineteen years old.

Her knee pressed directly in between his shoulder blades. She was putting her full weight on it; she had to if she wanted to keep him there. Her left hand gripped the nape of his neck. Her right forced his arm back, threatening to pop out of its socket. 

It was a good pin. Paris cursed himself for having been surprised. Johanna always fought like she was feral, but there were moments it was clear just how thoroughly she must have been trained. 

He pushed up with his free arm, which only made the pain in the other worse. Johanna’s grip tightened around his neck, readjusting herself in anticipation of struggle.

“Say mercy.” Her smile was audible. She said it like she was joking. She was joking. He knew that if he had said nothing, she would’ve just let it go.

“Get the fuck off of me, you crazy bitch.” Paris’s voice was venomous. She could still hear the panic infusing it. Her heart swelled.

“Say it,” she insisted now, her voice still light. She levered his arm further up. It was slow, but without signs of stopping. Paris could tell it was about to snap. He knew her well enough by now to know she’d do it without a second though.

“Mercy,” he blurted out.

Johanna laughed, releasing him.

Nettle’s Campsite. Nineteen years old.

Once she learnt she could get it out of him, she wanted to do it every time. 

She didn’t always accomplished it. Paris wasn’t helpless, especially not if Lorelai was close. Sometimes he won. Most times, he just got away.

Not now. She twirled the length of the chain around like it was a lasso. The gesture was eerily similar to one Lorelai would’ve made. He wondered if she was making fun of them. 

Paris knew he couldn’t win. Today was one of the bad days. His breath was short. His spine wasn’t listening. He held the sword out in front of him, knowing exactly how bad it was about to be.

The chain caught on the blade, an attack he still hadn’t found a good defense against. He swore it was magnetic. With a flick of her wrist, the saber landed several meters away, totally useless. The other end of the chain came down again across his chest. It hit the sensitive skin of the scar. Johanna moved quickly, toppling him into the ground. 

Paris elbowed her in the face, starting to scramble back. She moved the chain deftly, managing to fix it around his neck. Victory was certain. She could enjoy it now. She pulled tight, pressing the metal flush against his skin.

“Say mercy!” she smiled.

His mouth only opened to gasp for air. Speech was impossible. He tapped limply at her hand. Her eyes widened in recognition. Tap out. She loosened the chain.

“Say it.” Johanna encouraged.

“Fuck you,” Paris managed through ragged breaths. She started to lift her arms up again. The chain rattled. He held a hand up. Stop.

“Mercy,” he choked.

She only got to enjoy it for a second. She had just heard the brushes being pushed aside before Lorelai’s bullet passed cleanly through her skull. Her not-quite-dead body collapsed on top of him, temporarily deprived of its motor skills. His mouth had been open when the blood splattered. It tasted like aspirin and battery acid.

Johanna’s Ship. Nineteen years old.

She really fucking had him this time. The chains were tight against his torso and around his wrists. She barely needed them. His body had entirely given out on him, no fight left at all. 

She was running out of positions to try, points to poke at, joints to press. He’d endured all of it, hoping the stupid fucking game would end like last time, that she might finally get satisfied after she’d made him repeat it twenty fucking times. There was no part of him now that didn’t hurt.

Irritation showed on her face just as easily as it did on his. She grabbed his wrist again, pushing it back. The same one she had started with. Hard and fast.

“Mercy.” His breathing picked up, the pain radiating throughout his arm. She let go, a little slower on the release this time around. 

“Jo, stop. You made your point.”

She moved her hand up to his palm, intertwining her fingers with his own. Pushing it back again. Starting over.

“Fucking stop.” He tugged his hand back as best he could with the chain binding it. His best was not much. She didn’t let up. “Mercy.”

She released the tension in his wrist, but she did not get off of him. With a slight smile, she brought her other hand up. One gripped his palm tightly, trapping the thumb. The other wrapped around his index finger. Pushing it back again. Paris let out a small sound of frustration. The chains rattled when he thrashed.

“God, stop, I’m not even fighting you anyone, I’m not even fucking fighting, can you stop, what the fuck, fucking stop stop-“

Crack.

He shuddered as the torn sound escaped his throat, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Johanna giggled, slipping her fist off of the broken digit. She moved it a single space over, around his middle finger. The pressure started slower this time. She wanted him to catch his breath. 

“Did you forget how to play or something?” Johanna smiled at him crookedly. His eyes were shut tight. She patted his cheek lightly, trying to coax them back open. She waited until he was looking.

“You are terrible at this game."

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[julianmorrow52]

Un regalo inaspettato. Mi attendeva stamattina,ben imballato e con tanto di fattorino curioso.

La nostra Parigi.

Hai commosso questo vecchio eremita,amica cara.

Grazie @byronnight2

#sourir

#ritrovarti

#regalo

#amicacara

[only-one-brain-cell]

Imagine if Carmy not only knew Italian but also French.

[licorishh]

Replayed Modern Warfare 3 2011 on Veteran tonight and goooooooood night. Blood Brothers never gets any easier to watch no matter how many times you've done it and the ending really never misses huh

I apologize for the amount of yapping in the tags I reread it all on mobile and started giggling because it went on for so long but eh. Blessed are those who won't shut the freak up and all that

[orthodoxadventure]

The way to God lies through love of other people, and there is no other way. At the Last Judgement I shall not be asked if I was successful in my ascetic exercises or how many prostrations I made in the course of my prayers. I shall be asked, did I feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the prisoners: that is all I shall be asked.

-- Mother Mary of Paris

[indeedgoodman]

[walker-diaries]

[ayumoandlongani]

On a dû faire barrage en votant divers droite à Saint-Hilaire-le-Châtel, mais je me suis mise aux couleurs du NFP aujourd'hui (et Mel et Maman se sont chargées de l'affiche des fachos la veille 😌) 🤧 🦫🦫🦫

[theinternetisfulloftrash]

Oh my God.

RIGHT!?

This man is a fucking menace. A criminal. That is all.

[gameofthronedd]

Alicent and Shiv and Labour by Paris Paloma have permanently altered my brain chemistry and there's no fixing it.