#h-vom

[imy2]

warning nsft

i wish i could go topless always . also wish for a haircut .

[lalalaugenbrot]

sneak peak into adam's secret crying playlist*:

J’ai compris tous les mots, j’ai bien compris, merci

I understood all the words, I got it, thanks

Raisonnable et nouveau, c’est ainsi par ici

Reasonable and new, that’s the way it is

Que les choses ont changé, que les fleurs ont fané

That things changed, that the flowers wilted

Que le temps d’avant, c’était le temps d’avant

That the time before, it was the time before

Que si tout zappe et lasse, les amours aussi passent

That if everything forgets and tires, loves also come to pass

[...]

Je m’inventerai reine pour que tu me retiennes

I will reinvent myself into a queen so that you hold onto me

Je me ferai nouvelle pour que le feu reprenne

I will renew myself so that you take me back

___

*vielleicht gibts die bald auch in echt zum anhören, bin noch dabei mich in adams spotify zu hacken

[canadachronicles]

"Oh... no. No, never! (...) No, no, we've never dated. No, there's no need to be jealous."

--Sarah (Mayko Nguyen) to Micheal (Andrew Bushell), when he wonders whether she and Charlie (John Reardon) are exes because they "were so in sync at the casino"!

It's true they are not (sigh!) exes, but both Rex (Diesel vom Burgimwald) and I reckon the lady doth protest too much!

[daryltwdixon]

Joel Miller x Reader drabble

Fluffy Jackson!Joel, age gap mentioned but not specified, angsty Joel thinking he doesn't deserve you I'm gonna vom I'm so emotional about Joel Miller this morning. Yeah it’s a little corny idc. Lightly inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's Slim Pickins

You never cared much for the boys in Jackson.

It wasn’t that they were all bad—not really. Some were decent enough, kind in that overeager way that made it clear they wanted to be seen as something more than just survivors. The younger ones, the ones your age, all had something to prove. Like they thought the end of the world meant they had to carve out their place in it with their fists, their bravado, their talk of patrols and takedown counts.

You weren’t interested.

You wanted someone steady. Someone who didn’t feel the need to boast, who didn’t make survival a contest, who wasn’t fumbling to figure out who they were even after all these years.

And that’s why your eyes always found Joel Miller.

He never tried to be charming. Never played the fool. Never talked just to hear himself speak. Matter of fact, you hardly heard him speak at all unless Ellie or Tommy were around. In any other conversation you managed to overhear, he was polite but always a man of few words. 

He was older, rough around the edges, sharp where others were soft. He was the kind of man who knew how to build things, how to keep them standing. You admired that. Admired the way his hands were always busy, fixing things, sharpening knives, reinforcing weak spots in the town’s defenses. Admired the way he looked after Ellie without making a show of it, the way he always sat with his back to a wall, eyes scanning like he could predict trouble before it came knocking.

The only problem was getting him to see what had been so obvious to you from the start.

Joel had been stubborn.

The first time you flirted with him—really flirted—he’d just blinked at you, like he thought he misheard. The second time, he’d scoffed, muttered something about "findin’ someone your own damn age." The third time… Well, that one had been his mistake.

Because you’d caught him looking.

It was just a flicker, just a second. But it was real. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered, the way his jaw tensed like he was biting down a thought he didn’t want to have. That was when you knew.

It was only a matter of time.

And now—now he was here.

Warm and solid beneath you, his arm heavy around your waist, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your bare skin. The room smelled like both of you, like sweat and shared warmth and something slow-burning, something that had taken its time getting here. You were tangled up in each other, bare bodies draped together in the low morning light, catching your breath as the quiet hum of Jackson began to wake up just beyond the window.

“Tell me somethin’,” he muttered.

“Anything,” you murmured, your lips pressing gently into the warmth of his neck.

He sighed, the sound more exasperated than anything, his head turning on the pillow to look at you. His big eyes were so full of tenderness, but something flickered in them—a hesitation, a question he’d been holding onto longer than he wanted to admit.

“Why me?”

You stared at him for a long moment before a smirk twitched on your lips, and you ran your fingers through his graying curls, watching the way his eyes fluttered at the feeling.

“Haven’t you heard?” you teased, voice laced with playfulness, “It’s the end of the world, Mr. Miller. It’s slim pickin’s around here.”

Joel huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, rolling his eyes like he wasn’t gonna let you get away with that answer.

But before he could grumble something about being an old man, you slid your hand down, fingers trailing over his chest, slow and sure, until you could feel the steady thump-thump of his heart beneath your palm.

"Good thing," you murmured, voice softer now, "you’re exactly the man I want."

Joel exhaled, long and slow.

And maybe, maybe that should have been enough to satisfy him.

But it wasn’t.

Because you knew he had lived too many years and lost too many things to believe in easy answers. He had spent too much time walking through hell to believe he had come out on the other side deserving of this.

His fingers curled against your hip, like he was testing it. The weight of you against him, the warmth of you in his bed. Maybe still half-convinced that this was something he’d wake up from.

You sighed, nudging your nose against his jaw. “Joel.”

He hummed, but it was barely a sound, like he didn’t quite trust himself to speak.

So you tried again. Softer this time. “Do you really think I would ever want anyone else?”

He didn’t answer.

You traced your fingers along his chest, slow and thoughtful, your mind drifting somewhere neither of you had ever dared to go before.

“I wonder sometimes,” you admitted, “what it would’ve been like. If we’d met before.”

Joel hesitated, his brows furrowing as he looked at you, eyes scanning your face. 

You let the thought settle between you, warm and quiet.

“Think about it,” you mused, your voice dipping into something thoughtful, something wistful. “Would we have even met? In a normal world?”

You could see the flicker of something behind his eyes. A life that could have been. A life that was gone before either of you had a chance to claim it.

“I was just a kid in Texas when everything happened,” you murmured. “Would’ve grown up, maybe gone to college, gotten some easy job that didn’t mean anything. You would’ve still been…” you swallowed, “you.”

A father. Maybe a husband at some point. A man with a life already built.

“Maybe I would’ve walked past you somewhere,” you continued. “At a store. A gas station. Maybe you would’ve held a door open for me, and I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.”

Joel’s fingers tightened against you like he was grounding himself in this moment. His voice was steady when he spoke. No hesitation, no doubt.

“I would’ve noticed you.”

You lifted your eyes to meet his, breath caught in your throat as your hand slid higher, up to the side of his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “Would you?”

Joel exhaled softly, leaning into your touch without thinking, his eyes tracing over your face like he was memorizing every piece of you.

“‘Course I would’ve,” he murmured. “Doesn’t matter when or where. Could’ve been another life, another world—" his thumb stroked absently along your waist, voice dipping into something quiet, something certain—"I still would’ve found you.”

The words settled into you, warm and heavy, threading through your ribs, curling tight around your heart.

Then, suddenly, he was smiling—just a little—as his hand came up to your face, cupping your jaw, his thumb sweeping along your cheek.

“Maybe in a normal world, I’d be the one pesterin’ you instead of the other way around.”

You laughed, tilting your chin up as you leaned closer. “I only ‘pestered’ ‘cause you’re too damn stubborn.”

Joel huffed softly, shaking his head like you were trouble, like you’d gotten under his skin in a way he’d never be able to shake.

But he pulled you closer, his fingers curled beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough. His gaze flickered over you—your eyes, your lips—like he was taking his time, like he wanted to make sure you were committed to his memory.

And then he kissed you, slow and deep, breathing you in. Like a promise. Like an answer to a question neither of you had to ask.

His hand moved to the back of your head, lacing into your hair, the other tracing a slow path down your spine, pulling you against him until there was no space left between you. You sighed into him, melting, your fingers tangling into his hair as he deepened the kiss, as he drank you in like you were something precious, something he never wanted to lose.

When you finally parted, just barely, your forehead resting against his, his breath was warm against your lips.

“See?” you murmured, softer this time, “Slim pickin’s or not, I still would’ve found my way to you, Joel Miller.”

He exhaled, low and content, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips before murmuring against them—

“I know.”

And this time, he did believe you.

[jarofstyles]

Please write us some extreme pda like I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but I love it 😩 like they’re out at a bar and all of their friends are disgusted and annoyed but they’re just so in love they can’t keep their hands off each other 😭😭 like just lots of kisses, neck kisses, lap sitting, whispering to each other, giggling, hair playing etc 🥰

Oh I love a sickly PDA couple but only in books bc I’ll probably vom if I see it irl. So sure!

Here is a bit from Leather and Lace since we just finished them up.

Check out our Patreon!

——

“I can’t believe you’ve turned to mush.”

“Shut up.” Harry grumbled, holding Y/N closer on his lap. His chin rested on the dip in her shoulder, lips pried away from the chaste kisses he’d been giving to her throat. It was probably obnoxious but Harry really didn’t care. His indifference to what people thought went soul deep. All he really cared about was Y/N, if he was being honest.

And maybe the milkshake she’d promised him on the way home for prying him out of her bed. That was a topic he went back to a few times tonight. 

“Oi, be nice.” Y/N laughed, placing her hand on top of his ringed one to squeeze it lightly. There wasn’t much heat behind her words, merely defending Niall so he wouldn’t be complaining as much to her.

“Thank you. Feels like m’constantly third wheeling now. Knew he had a hard on for ya, but I didn’t expect him to turn into a good old fashioned loverboy.” The man scoffed. Harry merely rolled his eyes, jaw setting slightly as he narrowed his gaze.

“We are not the only people here. Y’know that, yeah? There’s like, a dozen of your friends here. You can fuck off if you’re annoyed. Not my problem.” He hammered in the point with a smirk, kissing the girl’s cheek a few times to make him screw his face up in disgust.

“I was trying to be nice, you old grouch! Even being loved up you still find a way to be mean t’me.” Their friend pouted before sticking up his middle finger, excusing himself to get another drink.

“Baby…” Harry whined slightly, tapping at her cheek to encourage her to turn it. “He’s finally gone. C’mere.” There was no chance of her scolding him as he pressed his lips to hers. They were slightly sticky from the virgin strawberry daiquiri she’d been sipping on -extra maraschino cherries- and sweet to the tongue as he hummed happily against them. This was precisely what he wanted. People to fuck off and leave him to love on her.

Y/N was soothed by his touch, a light giggle muffled by his lips as he turned her slightly in his lap so he could kiss her properly. He’d behaved well enough- for Harry, anyways- so she wasn’t going to get on him too much. He hadn’t wanted to go out, as usual, so she’d bribed him with the promise that he could love on her as much as he wanted- but he had to keep it PG-13. Her fingers brushed through his hair, shivering slightly as his fingers dipped under the hem of her dress.

“Mm… careful.” She sighed, but made no effort to stop. As much as she wanted to be proper, it was hard to want to stop him as he touched her. She played it cool most of the time but she was just as far gone for him as he was for her.

“M’very careful with you, Butterfly.” He nipped lightly at her bottom lip. “Even when you beg me not t’be. But I’ve suffered these people long enough. If you want me t’be nice, I need my kisses.” His voice was quiet enough to not disturb the other people around. His sweet words were reserved solely for the girl who held his affections. Especially the dirtier ones.

“H!” She grinned against his mouth, leaning further in to kiss him again. Wrapping her arm around his shoulder, she leaned into him with a dreamy sigh. Hot fingertips ran over the silky skin of her inner thigh, moisturized to the gods in her shower routine today for this exact reason.

“I can’t help it, you’re always so soft. So sweet…” he cooed. “Want t’eat you up. Torture sitting here when all I want t’do is sit you on my cock to keep it warm while you talk t’me. That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

Harry never did play fair. Holding back the whine in her throat, she huffed instead. Giving his hair a little tug, she tried her best to look menacing- as menacing as she could in her pretty lilac dress he’d picked out especially for her tonight. “It is, and you’re bein’ mean to me by mentioning it. We can’t here.” Even if the thought made her hot between her thighs, it was too risky.

“I know. We should go home so we can.” The man was trying to coax her and knew where to hit it where it hurt, but they’d barely been out with friends since establishing themselves as a couple.

“Not yet, I’m sorry.” The pout on her face made him forgive her, even if there was still a hint of bitterness over the fact. “They begged for us to come out and it’s only been two hours. One more and we can go home, okay?”

Harry answered with a grunt, hiding his face in her throat again while he resumed with his throat kisses. As much as he wanted to leave, he wanted to make her happy even more. The weakness was real when it came to his Butterfly. Even more so because she’d paused her social tendencies for him. “Okay. But you’re gonna have t’make it up to me big time as soon as we get home, okay?” He was plotting for sure. “An hour straight of making out, a little feel under the dress, maybe a little begging with that cute pout for me to take it off. You know how I like it.”

[dampfloks]

SAXONIA – Die erste deutsche Dampflokomotive

Die SAXONIA war mehr als nur eine Lokomotive – sie war ein Meilenstein der deutschen Technikgeschichte. 1838 vom sächsischen Ingenieur Johann Andreas Schubert konstruiert, war sie die erste in Deutschland gebaute funktionsfähige Dampflokomotive. Gebaut wurde sie in der Maschinenbauanstalt Übigau bei Dresden – ohne konkreten Auftrag, aber mit großem Pioniergeist.

Ihr historischer Auftritt fand 1839 auf der neu eröffneten Leipzig-Dresdner Eisenbahn statt. Während britische Maschinen den Eröffnungszug führten, rollte Schuberts SAXONIA hinterher – als mutiger Beweis dafür, dass auch deutsches Ingenieurwesen auf der Schiene bestehen konnte. Technisch war sie ihrer Zeit voraus: Mit zwei gekuppelten Treibachsen und einer Laufachse bot sie mehr Stabilität als viele ihrer englischen Vorbilder. Ihre Höchstgeschwindigkeit lag bei rund 50 km/h – beeindruckend für die Zeit.

Nach knapp zehn Jahren im regulären Dienst wurde die SAXONIA 1849 ausgemustert und verschrottet. Doch ihr Name blieb: Sie gilt als Symbol für den Beginn des deutschen Lokomotivbaus und ebnete den Weg für eine eigenständige Eisenbahnindustrie.

Zum 150-jährigen Jubiläum der Strecke Leipzig–Dresden entstand 1988 in der DDR ein funktionsfähiger Nachbau der SAXONIA, der bis 2011 sogar unter Dampf fuhr. Heute ist diese Replik im Verkehrsmuseum Dresden ausgestellt – ein faszinierendes Zeugnis des industriellen Aufbruchs im 19. Jahrhundert.

Die SAXONIA ist bis heute ein fester Bestandteil der deutschen Eisenbahngeschichte – nicht nur als technische Errungenschaft, sondern auch als kulturelles Erbe. Wer in Dresden steht, sollte sich die Gelegenheit nicht entgehen lassen, diesem Stück lebendiger Geschichte persönlich zu begegnen.

SAXONIA – the first German steam locomotive

The SAXONIA was more than just a locomotive – it was a milestone in the history of German engineering. Designed in 1838 by the Saxon engineer Johann Andreas Schubert, it was the first operational steam locomotive to be built in Germany. It was constructed in the Übigau engineering works near Dresden – without a specific order, but with a great pioneering spirit.

Its historic debut took place in 1839 on the newly opened Leipzig-Dresden railway. While British locomotives led the inaugural train, Schubert's SAXONIA followed behind – a bold demonstration that German engineering could also hold its own on the rails. It was technically ahead of its time: with two coupled driving axles and a trailing axle, it offered more stability than many of its English role models. Its maximum speed was around 50 km/h – impressive for the time.

After just under ten years in regular service, the SAXONIA was taken out of service and scrapped in 1849. But its name remained: it is considered a symbol for the beginning of German locomotive construction and paved the way for an independent railway industry.

To mark the 150th anniversary of the Leipzig–Dresden line, a functional replica of the SAXONIA was built in the GDR in 1988, which even ran under steam until 2011. Today, this replica is on display at the Dresden Transport Museum – a fascinating testimony to the industrial awakening of the 19th century.

The SAXONIA remains an integral part of German railway history to this day – not only as an engineering achievement, but also as a cultural heritage. Anyone visiting Dresden should not miss the opportunity to see this piece of living history in person.

[brandwhorestarscream]

I need the whole story of D-16 and his sparkling with Sentinal! It's such an amazing story. Take ur time tho.

Well thank you for saying so, that's so sweet! And I'm pleased to announce that I'm givin ya'll the next chapter here and now!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

They have suffered enough for one day.

Alpha Trion departs swiftly, disappearing out through the tunnel they had explored to get here, leaving the four of them in solitude. They cling to each other in the darkness, exhausted and sick and hopeless. Orion and D-16 remain wound tightly around one another, the silver mech continuing to tremble with the stress of everything bearing down on him. Orion holds him, fully with both arms, wrapped as tightly and securely around his body as they can, keeping Dee snuggled against his chassis. Dee clings to him, desperate for comfort that isn’t coming, hiding his face in the underside of Orion’s neck. His EM field throbs weakly, sluggishly, exhausted even as potent grief and fear gushes off of him and contaminates the air around them. It’s impossible to escape, and the four of them stew helplessly in the aura of misery. They’re all contributing toward it, but none more than D-16. It’s just too much.

Alpha Trion finds them just where he left them, huddled together like frightened nestlings that flinch at every little sound, and their optics are full of fear when he returns, til they notice it’s him. Then the fear abates, replaced with longing and misery that he can’t soothe.

The fuel their guardian has brought is in liquid form, to their surprise. The energon they stripped from the mines was all solid, and even after processing became squishy and malleable, like thick petroleum jelly. Capable of holding it’s own form without assistance, but easy giving out under the force of pinching fingers. This wasn’t at all like that: it sloshed and splashed within the old cube, and was steaming, little ribbons of heat curling off of it and into the air.

“You first, Dee,” no one protests Orion’s insistence, propping his friend up. Dee has by now gone limp, optics faded and empty as he struggled to process everything, and the horrible, gnawing pressure of the choice he faced. Orion shakes him gently, but it’s like his friend can’t even hear him, optics listless as they stare deeply into space, as if he’s watching something a thousand miles away. Orion jostles him again. “Dee…? H-Hey, come on, you’re scaring me-!”

“Do not panic, little one.” Alpha Trion reaches out and gently presses the tip of one finger to D-16’s forehelm, and the silver mech jumps. His optics snap up to the old Prime, trance broken, and his expression remains blank for only a second before it crumbles back into devastation. He sobs, and turns away to curl further into Orion, shoulders shaking again. Orion rubs his back, laying his chin atop the other’s helm as his own optics sting.

“Dee…” Orion sniffles. “I-It’s time to eat.”

They shuffle around for a moment, and finally, Dee’s tearstained face peeks out, the epitome of misery. Oily tears dried and caked to his face, vents still shuddering and hiccuping and leaking little bits of backed up cleanser. His mouth is downturned, lips still trembling, optics narrow and sore from so much crying. He hiccups, clinging tightly to Orion. He swallows, and rasps out his first words since Onyx Prime had left them. “I…” his voice cracks grandly, tone hoarse and stuffy. His systems are clogged. “I’b not- h-hungry…”

“C’mon, you’ve gotta be hungry,” B-127 speaks up, wringing his servos worriedly. The journey here had taken them multiple days, and D-16 had been violently ill the entire time. He had to be running on empty! There was hardly anything left in his tanks to throw up, and- “Ohhh, I get it. You’re scared you’re gonna vom again, ri-”

“Don’t-!” Dee covers his mouth, optics squeezed shut. “P-Please, don’t…”

Onyx Prime’s blessing had chased away the worst of his symptoms, for now, but it wouldn’t last forever. For the first time in several decacycles, his digestive tanks weren’t sloshing and roiling like a stormy sea, but they were still incredibly tender and sore from all the abuse they’d endured. He was sure, if he tried to refuel, it would just come back up. His fuel gauge was at a measly 7%: any further and he’d probably drop into stasis lock, but the idea of food was downright revolting.

“You must try, little one,” Alpha Trion implores him. “You will not recover if you are starving.”

Dee’s systems make a high pitched keening noise, and Orion gently rubs his arm. “...please, Dee?” he asks, voice soft and hesitant. “Just try? For me?” He picks up the cube in one shaking servo, raising it to the silver mech’s face. Dee’s expression remains pinched and uncomfortable, and Orion gives him a gentle squeeze. “C’mon… one sip?”

Nearby, Elita huffs when D-16 still shakes his helm. “Well, I’m not refueling until you do.”

That gets his attention. He turns toward her, confusion painted on his face. “What are you-”

“If you’re going on a hunger strike then I am too,” she folds her arms in challenge, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a tight pout. “If you’re gonna try to starve yourself to death then I’m gonna starve to death, too.”

“Oh oh, oh! Me too, me too!” Bee eagerly waves one arm in the air. “I’ll go on strike too, I’ve always wanted to do a strike!”

D-16 glances back and forth between them, looking panicked. “Wait, no-”

“Me three,” Orion actually manages to smile. It’s small and frail, but it’s there, and Dee stares at him incredulously. “I’m not eating til you do, either.”

“Wha- bu-” at a loss, he glances at Alpha Trion for help, who looks just as bemused as he feels. “You guys, you c-can’t just-”

“Too bad,” Elita glowers at him challengingly. “You don’t want us to starve? Then you don’t get to starve, either. Fair’s fair.”

“Just ooone sip, Dee?” Orion looks hopefully, still holding up the cube of fuel. It’s begun to cool now, no longer steaming, but still every bit as thin and fluid as before. Orion gently sloshes the cube back and forth. “See, look, it’ll go down easy, you won’t even have to chew.”

Helpless against all three of them and unable to bear the idea of none of them eating because of him–especially after Orion carried him most of the way here and was probably painfully hungry as well–he nervously concedes. “...ok,” he swallows unsurely, eyeing the fuel with trepidation. Orion is gentle as he brings it forward to press against his mouth, and Dee tries to steal himself. The first sip flows into his mouth and he coughs, clamping one servo over his mouth and forcing it down. His tanks cramp painfully and he hunches over, but… nothing comes of it. He takes several slow breaths, then turns back to Orion, nodding.

His best friend smiles wider, and presses a gentle, chaste kiss to his temple before raising the cube once more. “Couple more, then we’ll have some, ok?”

Elita refuses to take the cube til D-16’s drained about 20% of the contents, at last dropping his face into Orion’s shoulder and telling them he really will get sick if he has any more. She gently takes it from him, refusing to let B-127 hold it, not trusting him not to drop or spill any of the precious fuel. “Open,” she commands, and he does as she says, letting her press it against his mouth and tilting it steeply. “Now chug.”

When he’s done gulping down his portion, she hands it back to Orion, who tries to protest. “No, uh, you go ahead-”

“Shut up,” she barks the order. “Drink, now!”

“Yes ma’m!” he squeaks, optics wide like a dipole-doe in headlights, drinking down the lukewarm energon.

Once they’ve all eaten–Alpha Trion included–the old Prime sits cross legged before them. There’s still more to talk about, like their missing cogs and the matter of D-16’s health. He tells them, in no uncertain terms, that so long as he hosts the sparkling within him? He’ll have to cater to its needs if he wants to stop being so sick. “I understand that this subject is very, uncomfortable for you,” he says, regretful. “But we cannot afford to delay. Your child will continue to sicken you until its material requirements are satisfied.”

D-16 seemed to shrink, looking queasy at the idea. “I- I can’t! Not with him, not after-” he gags and covers his mouth.

“No, not with him, little one. You have suffered his touch enough,” Alpha Trion shakes his head. “You shouldn’t engage with such things unless you are certain. But, in order for your sparkling to live and for your own health to improve, you must intake the proper donations, regularly.”

Dee huddles close to Orion, audials ringing and only half-listening as the much older mech explains. If they were still home in Iacon, it would’ve been easy. Ratchet could administer it artificially, he could be numb and not have to feel it. He could have his choice of donor; he knows plenty of his batchmates and fellow cogless would be more than willing to donate. He could have Orion next to him to hold his hand and distract him so he didn’t have to think about it.

Here, though…

Here, his options are limited. They don’t have the luxury of medical tools or numbing medication. No choice but to do it the old fashioned way, and the thought makes his tanks turn. He’s only just met B-127. He likes the little chatterbox well enough, but he could never be intimate with him. Ever. Elita, he knows her better, but their relationship had always been rather strictly professional, and the idea of her domineering and straightforward personality being directed at him while they… oh, Primus, no. The thought makes him want to cry. He… he never wants to interface again, honestly. Just considering it makes him feel dirty, makes shame burn at his cheeks and neck.

Alpha Trion made it clear that he would if asked, but D-16 can’t imagine asking anything more of the mystical mech that’s looking after them. Besides, they just met, and he’s so much bigger than them… about the same size as Sentinel. He shudders just thinking about it.

That leaves only Orion, but… he can’t ask him. He- He suffered the same thing that Dee did, Sentinel had violated him too, how could he be so selfish and ask him to engage in the most disgusting and horrible thing of all? How could he ask his friend to touch the same place Sentinel had, how could he ask him to help grow that monster’s spawn? Orion didn’t deserve to have such a choice foisted on him-

“...Dee,” Orion’s voice drifts into his audials like a soothing balm, so warm and gentle. “Hey, um… c-can I- I mean, I wouldn’t mind if-”

“What?!”

Orion makes a sound that almost passes as a humorless laugh. His weight shifts beneath D-16, and he snuggles him close. He hasn’t let go this whole time, keeping his carrying friend cocooned safely in his arms for several megacycles. He rocks them both back and forth for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I just... I- I know this’s gonna be… h-hard. Really hard,” he swallows and blinks rapidly, as his optics strain to fill with tears but his reserves are still empty. “B-But, we- uh-” his optics flit over to Elita and B-127. The femme takes the hint, pointedly turning away and loudly asking Bee a question. Orion lowers his lips to murmur softly in Dee’s audio receptor. “We were both there, I- I’ve already seen you and you’ve already seen me, so, it- it won’t be awkward, and I won’t tell anyone, and,” he presses his nose into D-16’s cheek, optics sliding closed. “I… w-wanna do it with you. Cuz-”

Because you’re not Sentinel. Because I trust you. Because I love you. Because I’m worried for you and this is the only way I can help you.

So many reasons, and all of the words die in his throat. Unable to speak, he cuddles closer to Dee, letting their EM fields mix and mingle. He doesn’t push, doesn’t try to force it, and instead just lets his emotions flow and ebb like the tide, lapping up against his dearest friend, hope and tenderness offering themselves warmly. To his relief, Dee heaves a sigh of relief and snuggles into him, one servo snaking around to gently interlace their fingers and squeeze him tight.

“You…” he takes a shaky invent. “Y-You really… wouldn’t mind?” Orion nods in affirmation, and Dee gives his first, weak little smile in days. It's sheer relief, realizing he won't have to suffer through it with a stranger and, instead, his best and most beloved friend. “Ok,” it comes out in a whispered rush. “Alright… y-yeah, ok… let’s- l-let’s do it.”

...

And that's a wrap on this piece! Hope you enjoyed it lol, next time prepare for schmoopy fluffy adorable healing sex between these two traumatized babies. Part 4 only comes when ya'll abuse my ask box for it, so~

[bejeweldskeleton]

Ulzhan - Das vergessene Licht (Schlöndorff, 2007), Shadow and Bone (Bardugo & Heisserer, 2021-2023), House of the Dragon (Martin & Condal, 2022-), Aespa: Armageddon MV (Yoon, 2024)

MMFF Edits: Istorii Sankt‘ya by @bejeweldskeleton

A look passed between them; a silent understanding that this might be the end for them, but not the rebellion. Dizzy with grief, Valeriya turned around and with a last, determined swing, brought the roof of the cave down, burying them all under the endless ice of the Fjerdan sea.

She is known as the patron saint of unexpected revelations and the faithful.

Lol. Ne Woche krank sein und man stöbert schon wieder ganz nostalgisch in Pinterestboards alter Ideen, die höchstwahrscheinlich nie das Licht der Welt erblicken werden. Istorii Sankt‘ya ist eine dieser MMFF-Ideen, die mich damals vor 2 Jahren unglaublich gepackt hat, dass ich sogar @hitching-hiker eine Zeit lang anstecken und zum lesen der Bücher bekommen konnte, bis … ja lol sich dann alles irgendwie unter den Ansprüchen des echten Lebens verlaufen hat und man nie wieder richtig in den Groove gefunden hat. Schade Marmelade.

Aber was war Istorii Sankt‘ya überhaupt? Ganz unschwer zu erkennen, ist die Geschichte im Grishaverse angesetzt und hat etwas mit dem Buch der Heiligen zu tun - ein Plotpunkt, der mir damals in der Serie auch viel zu kurz kam, wo ich die Ansätze von Religion und Volkstum um die Heiligen in den Büchern so spannend fand (minus die KOS-Duologie lol). Jedenfalls war der Grundpitch, den ich @hitching-hiker damals gemacht habe ein simples „Grishaverse meets Rogue One“: eine rag tag Gruppe an Grisha wird vom Darkling auf eine geheime Suchmission nach einem bestimmten wertvollen Artefakt - die reale Istorii Sankt‘ya von Morozova - geschickt, um endlich Freiheit für Grisha zu erlangen und sind dabei schön doomed from the start.

Wir reisen durch die ganze bekannte (und weniger bekannte) Welt des Grishaverse, gehen clues nach, formen uns unter trials and tribulations zu einer richtigen found family und entdecken dabei nach und nach, welche tatsächlichen Intentionen der Darkling mit dem Heiligenbuch verfolgt. Natürlich müssten die Charaktere sich dann entscheiden, was sie tun wollen, wenn sie die Istorii Sankt‘ya endlich in den Händen halten. Die Augen vor dem verschließen, was sie auf ihrer Reise erfahren haben und das Buch zum Darkling zurückbringen, koste es was es wolle? Oder … Hoffnung wählen, auch wenn es das eigene Leben kostet.

Und oh well. Doomed I say. Sie alle sterben und werden im Laufe der Zeit selbst mystifiziert, sodass sich ihre Geschichte, fantastischer und moralisch simpler als es irl je war, nahtlos in die ganzen anderen Heiligensagen der Istorii Sankt‘ya einreihen kann. Ich hatte dafür an so eine framing Struktur gedacht, sodass jeder Akt von jeweils zwei kurzen Mythenerzählungen über Sankta X und Sankt Y, Schutzheilige von XY, eingerahmt wären. Hach ja, große Träume lol.

Die o.g. und im Edit zu sehende Valeriya wäre mein Charakter gewesen, eine Inferni und das Bastardkind eines höheren Adligens, das er kommentarlos aus seiner Zeit in den Grenzkriegen mit Shu Han zurückgebracht hatte. Gläubig aus Überlebensnotwendigkeit in einem Land, das in ihr sowohl das Fremde als auch das Monster sieht, sollte sie einsam und ungeliebt aufwachsen sein und sich dabei stets nach einer höheren Bedeutung gesehnt haben. Diese begegnete ihr in ihrer Jugend in Form des Darklings, der sich ihr, in einer seiner Untertauchen-Phasen befindend, als Privatlehrer annähert, um über sie und vor allem ihre Family ConnectionTM wieder zu alter Macht zurückzufinden. Ergo viel ein wenig klassische, jahrelange Manipulation und voilá, the Darkling and his guard dog, kingmaker, most loyal disciple. Zumindest bis sie anfängt, die Rechtschaffenheit seines Handelns zu hinterfragen.

Zeitlich wäre die Story bis kurz vor den Ereignissen im ersten Band der SaB-Trilogie angesetzt gewesen, so direkt the gang sacrifices themselves for the greater good -> Heiligenbuch kommt irgendwie beim Apparat an -> Alina versucht die Schattenflur zu durchqueren und strahlt heller als LED-Scheinwerfer um Mitternacht.

[imy2]

livelaughlove

i cant stop LAUGHING at how my hand looks like it's floating in the last pic lmaooooo

[didhewinkback]

a something old ode to slane

---

“Ow. Ow. Owowow - H.”

“Hmm?” He asks, peeling his eyes away from the stage for a second to look at you before focusing right back to where Mitch was about to walk out, completely oblivious to how hard he was squeezing your hand, sweaty palm holding yours in a death grip, knee nervously bouncing up and down. 

“Squeezing the shit out of my hand.”

“Oh.” he says, looking down at your hands, his knuckles having gone white in their tight grip, laughing sheepishly as he lets go, squeezing your knee before clasping his hands together tightly, leaning forward on his elbows. “Sorry. Nervous.” 

“He’s gonna be great.”

“I know he is, I just -” he shakes his head, eyes not wavering from the stage. “Just need him to get out there already.”

“Mhm.” you say, watching the way his eyes keep darting from backstage to center stage to the crowd and back. “It’s like… you know he’s gonna smash it, and that he was absolutely born for this, but still in these few moments before he walks out your brain is running through a million and two things that can go wrong, so you just need him to hit that first note so you can take the first real breath you’ve taken in the last hour?”

He freezes a moment before he shakes his head with a laugh, grin growing on his face as he looks over at you, eyes crinkling when they lock with yours.

“Been around this block a few times before, have ya?”

“Broken quite a few hands in my day.” you say as he snorts. “Roxy still insists I permanently bruised her knuckles before that first Coachella weekend.”

“That was a good show.” 

“It was. Did think I was gonna vom when you took that 45 minute run from the top of the stairs to the mic, though.” 

“Think it was more like 15 seconds.”

“According to you.” you say as he huffs a laugh.

“Couldn’t have done those shows without you, you know. Any of these shows really... Like this one is gonna be mental.” he says, shaking his head in disbelief as he looks out at the crowd before turning back towards you, soft smile on his face. “No better feeling than knowing you’re out there watching me.” 

“One of my favorite places to be.” 

“One of?” he asks indignantly. “What are your other favorite places then?”

“Quite like being with you after a show,” you say, leaning in closer, smiling as his grin grows. 

“Speaking of Coachella….” 

You smirk at each other, both instantly remembering the afterparty from the second weekend, the two of you flying high on the energy and emotions of those two weeks ending with a bang (literally) with you riding him wearing nothing but his pink vest he wore on stage hours before. 

“And Nashville. And Tokyo. And Berlin. And Buenos Aires -”

“Can’t wait to add Slane to the list.” he muses as he leans in closer. “Keep talking like this and you’re gonna rile me up.” 

“Trying to distract you, is it working?”

“Little too well I think,” he says, eyes dropping to your mouth before looking back up at you. “Wanna distract me some more after their set?”

“Don’t you have a show to get ready for?”

“Could count as my cardio warmup.” 

“Oh my god -”

“Y’know, the owners did invite me here. Bet they’d let me fuck you in the castle -” 

You honk out a laugh, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him in as he nudges his nose against your cheek.

“Planning on giving me the royal treatment, are you?”

“Yeah, love.” he says, giggling against your skin. “Something like that.”

He plants a lingering kiss to your cheek, humming before he drags his lips in a line across your jaw. He pulls back to look at you, eyes grazing over your features.

“C’mon baby.” he says, nudging his nose against yours. “Give me a kiss.” 

You scratch your nails against his scalp as his breath mingles with yours, tilting your head just so - 

The roar of the crowd makes you both freeze in place, Mitch’s movement on stage catching the corner of your eye. Harry’s eyes dart to the stage and then back to you and then back to the stage. 

“I’ll have to distract you later.” 

“‘S that a promise?” he asks and you nod, kissing him quickly before pulling away as you both turn back to face the stage. 

You can see the nerves settle back in him, his shoulders practically tensing up to his ears, laser focused once again as Mitch and Sarah get set up. You slide your hand onto his thigh, palm facing up. 

“Squeeze away, babe.” you say, “It’ll help.”

He takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before holding tight, barely breathing as his eyes are locked to where Mitch stands center stage. Beside you, you can hear him take a shaky breath and you know he’s having that once in a lifetime experience of watching someone you love stand on the biggest stage they’ve ever stood on, just them and the songs they’ve written and a microphone. 

And you get it. 

You really do.

---

[techniktagebuch]

Januar 2025

Das Schlafzimmer als Kühlschrank

Meine Mutter besteht darauf, jeden Morgen ihr Schlafzimmer zu lüften, indem sie entweder das Fenster oder die Tür nach draußen öffnet. Dann verlässt sie das Zimmer und vergisst das Thema. Stunden später, manchmal erst abends, merke ich, dass es in der Gegend ihrer Schlafzimmertür noch kälter ist als sowieso schon in diesem Teil des Hauses. Bisher haben wir das Problem durch Vorhaltungen (ich) und gute Vorsätze (die Mutter) zu lösen versucht. Aber als wir gemeinsam das Haus verlassen und ich beim Zurückkommen feststelle, dass die Schlafzimmertür nach draußen die ganze Zeit weit offen stand, sage ich: So geht es nicht weiter!

Ich bespreche das Problem mit meinen Geschwistern und mit dem Techniktagebuch-Redaktionschat mit der Bitte um einen "möglichst einfachen" technischen Weg. "Zusatzproblem: sie hört nicht gut, einen akustischen Alarm wird sie entweder nicht hören oder er wird sie sehr erschrecken (letzteres hat irgendwie mit den Hörgeräten zu tun)." Verschiedene Lösungen werden vorgeschlagen:

Esther: "Vielleicht kann sie einen wichtigen Gegenstand (Brille, Fernbedienung) auf das Fensterbrett vom offenen Fenster legen, damit sie zeitnah auf der Suche danach wieder am Fenster vorbeikommt."

Vorteil: angenehm untechnisch, wartungsfrei. Nachteil: Ans Hinlegen des Gegenstands müsste sie denken, und zwar jedes Mal.

Lennart: "Mir fallen da spontan Sensoren von Shelly ein, die man an Fenster/Tür klebt. Die funken den Zustand in die Shelly-Cloud und man kann z.B. einen Zwischenstecker damit verknüpfen, der sofort oder nach fünf Minuten eine Lampe einschaltet oder so. Vielleicht ist das schon way beyond 'möglichst einfach'. Aber immerhin muss man dafür keinen lokalen RasPi administrieren."

Volker: "Das ist ein Dauerthema bei uns. Insbesondere wenn abends Frau oder Tochter im Bad waren und mal kurz lüften, dann aber vergessen, das Fenster zu schließen und ich im Winter morgens bei 7° duschen muss. Ich hatte da die Idee, dass ein Sensor beim Öffnen prüft, welches Bluetooth-Gerät gerade am nächsten dran ist, und dann anhand der MAC-Adresse oder so weiß, wer 10 Minuten später vom Smarthome eine Benachrichtigung bekommen muss, das Fenster wieder zu schließen."

Mia Culpa: "Ich habe keine Ahnung, ob ein automatischer Fensterschließer mit Zeitschaltuhr helfen würde, aber ich gebe zu bedenken, dass u.a. diese Features ausgelobt werden: 'Verbesserte Schnurführung durch den Rollenbügel', 'Doppelte Reißkraft der Kolben-Schnur Einheit (verstärkte Einpressung und zusätzliche Verklebung)', 'Deutlich verbesserte Charakteristik der Zeiteinstellung mit der Einstellschraube'. Schau mal Pügumat (der hat allerdings keine Zeitschaltuhr)."

Volker: "Das Fenster ist dann aber nur 'zu' und nicht zu. Der Griff ist nicht gedreht und die Riegel nicht drin, das heißt, dass es ziehen wird und Einbrecher sich verarscht vorkommen, weil sie das Fenster nur aufdrücken müssen."

Ich denke ein bisschen nach und komme zu dem Schluss, dass es nicht der Öffnungszustand der Fenster ist, der einen Alarm auslösen sollte, sondern die Temperatur im Schlafzimmer. Im Sommer ist es ja egal, wenn das Fenster den ganzen Tag offen steht (okay, die Tür weniger, aber es ist eine Gegend ohne viele Einbrüche, und es gibt bei der Mutter auch nichts zu stehlen.)

Dann finde ich heraus, dass in Handys Temperatursensoren drin sind und es deshalb Apps gibt, die bei bestimmten Temperaturen Alarm schlagen können. Ich installiere so eine App auf dem alten Handy meiner Mutter und lege das Handy erst ins Schlafzimmer, dann vor die Tür und dann in den Kühlschrank. Überall zeigt die App 25 Grad an. Ich lösche die App und verwerfe den Plan wieder.

Lennart hat auch dafür eine Lösung, nämlich den "Shelly H&T": "Das ist noch einfacher als die Fenstersensoren, weil man es aus der Steckdose speisen kann (also nie Batterien leer) und es im Gegensatz zu den Fenstersensoren direkt WLAN spricht. Jetzt überlege ich bloß noch, ob es was braucht wie 'Alarm nur wenn die Differenz zu Zimmer B größer als x°C' oder ob es eine universell gültige Temperaturschwelle gäbe, die als Indikator ausreicht."

Das mit der Differenz zu Zimmer B wäre toll, denn dann würde das System auch im Frühling und im Herbst ohne Nachjustieren funktionieren. Letztlich ist es zu diesen Zeiten aber wohl nicht so wichtig – Hauptsache, mitten im Winter steht nicht den halben Tag das Fenster offen.

Esther: "Hast du denn irgendwo bei ihr schon einen raspi am laufen? Bei uns empfängt ja einer via Funk die Messdaten von den Wetterfühlern und schickt uns Telegram-Nachrichten, wenn es zB zu kalt in einem Raum wird. Man kann zB den CO2-sensor von TFA Dostmann mit USB an den raspi anschließen, oder man gibt dem raspi eine Antenne, damit der die gefunkten Daten von ganz normalen Wettersensoren abgreifen kann. Diese Wetterstationen senden ja einfach über irgendeine Funkfrequenz, auf der der raspi lauschen kann."

Das gefällt mir gut, denn einen Raspberry Pi gibt es im Haushalt schon, und Telegram-Nachrichten wären ideal, die würde meine Mutter mit nicht mehr als zwei, drei Stunden Verzögerung sehen. Den Bot dafür habe ich auch schon geschrieben.

Lennart: Ich habe Olimex-Mikrocontroller für mich entdeckt, auf denen kann man Tasmota installieren, alle möglichen Sensoren anschließen und das dann an einen RasPi (mit in meinem Fall IOBroker) weiterleiten. Ich habe das exemplarisch mal hier beschrieben: SR04, Tasmota, ESP32, MQTT und IOBroker – Schuetz-IT."

Undine: "Meine Idee dafür ist ganz untechnisch: Wenn sie vor diesem Fenster einen Vogelfutterplatz einrichten würde, ginge sie deswegen öfter zurück ins Zimmer. Mindestens um zu gucken, ob dort alles in Ordnung ist, noch nachgefüttert werden muss, auch mal ein Kernbeißer auftaucht u.ä. So würde es bei meiner Mutter funktionieren."

Bei meiner leider nicht. Vor dem Fenster ist schon ein Vogelfutterplatz. Man sieht ihn aber aus der Küche viel besser, er muss nur einmal pro Woche aufgefüllt werden und außerdem bin ich für seine Befüllung zuständig.

Am Ende ist es mein Bruder, der eine einfache Idee hat: Man kauft ein Kühlschrankthermometer mit einer Funkverbindung zwischen Sensor und Pieps-Gerät. Bei diesen Thermometern lassen sich die Grenzwerte des Piepsens frei einstellen (zwischen minus weißnichtgenau und plus 60 Grad). Dann piepst es zwar – was ich eingangs als Problem beschrieben hatte –, aber es piepst nicht im Schlafzimmer, wo die Mutter es niemals hören wird, sondern es piepst nahe an einem Ort, an dem sie sich oft aufhält. Hören wird sie es also, und das Problem mit dem möglichen Erschrecken nehme ich in Kauf, weil die Lösung so schön einfach ist.

Ich bestelle für 20 Euro ein Kühlschrankthermometer bei Ebay, stelle den Alarm-Grenzwert für die Schlafzimmertemperatur auf 9 Grad ein und klemme den Sensor an den Schlafzimmerspiegel. In einem ersten Test funktioniert es sehr gut. Da man ja beim Kühlschrank auch nicht sofort angepiepst werden möchte, wenn man nur mal kurz die Milch rausholt, bildet das Gerät einen Mittelwert über die letzten zehn Minuten und piepst erst, wenn dieser Mittelwert unter dem Grenzwert liegt. Das ist zufällig auch für den Lüftungszweck ideal.

Damit ist das Problem hoffentlich entweder behoben oder durch ein bequemeres ersetzt.

Update: Zwischenstand nach wenigen Tagen – es funktioniert genau wie erhofft und ist sehr befriedigend.

(Kathrin Passig)

[dogfancier]

THE GRAND CHAMPION OF 1921 Grimm von der Mainkur, P. H. Champion of Holland 1920 U. S. Champion U. S. Grand-Champion 1921 "The ideal combination of the SHOW AND WORKING DOG. Proper type, proper gait, proper structure. Aristocratic appearance combined with intelligence and brains. His litter sister was Winners Bitches and his daughter Reserve Winners Bitches at the 1921 Specialty Show. His half-sister and kennel mate Dora vom Rheinwald won the 1921 Grand Championship in bitches." Published in The Shepherd Dog, 1922

[soft-for-yoongi]

Fever dream Taehyungie. I read some fics with this and I'm hooked.

Choose whoever you like as the caregiver and whatever other sickness you want to add. I have no problem with emeto 💜

Fever Dreams, Hyung's Don't Leave (sick TH)

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

Sick: Taehyung

Caretakers: ot7, Yoongi, Jungkook, Seokjin

Tw: emeto, vom**, mentions of nausea, stomach pain, dizziness, fevers, nightmares, puking

Word count: 1744

Thanks for the request, anon!! I really enjoyed this, and I hope it's what you had in mind 🫶

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

Cold. Taehyung was so so cold. And... where are his hyungs? One second they were right there, and now it's all dark? They were with him before he got sucked into dreamland? But now he feels freezing and so... alone. "Hyungs?" Taehyung wants to reach out but his arms feel like lead and won't cooperate.

Shadows were growing around him and his brothers were becoming distant, his cheeks are wet with tears and he wants to yell for them to come back but the sounds don't make it past his throat. Did they really leave him?

"Taehyungie!"

He woke up with a sharp gasp, almost instantly dissolving into tears that wrack his frame. Yoongi is quick to pull him into an embrace, cradling his head into his chest. Despite the younger being taller than he is, Taehyung looks so small in the rapper's arms. "You're burning up, Taetae." Yoongi says, feeling warmth radiating off of the younger's skin.

"I'm c-cold... w-wh-where are the others?" Taehyung's head perks up, eyes wide and scared. The dream felt so vivid. "Hyungie, are they gone?" Taehyung suddenly tries to stand up, pulling away from Yoongi's grasp.

"Woah, careful." Yoongi rushes to help Taehyung and sits him back down with little effort needed. "They're okay, Taehyungie." He comforts, rubbing his back in circles. "I-I need to see them, h-hyung—" Taehyung cries, gripping onto Yoongi like a lifeline.

"Shh, okay. Let me get Jinnie and the others." Yoongi takes out his phone, frantically spamming Seokjin's number. All of Taehyung's weight is up against Yoongi and the flow of tears has him biting his lip in worry. "Yoongi-ah?" Seokjin sheepishly walks into the room, rubbing his eyes and taking a split second to register Taehyung.

"Oh, Taehyungie, baby." Seokjin rushes over, petting and soothing over his hair as Taehyung instinctively reaches for the eldest. "H-hyung... I thought you left me." Taehyung mumbles, breaking out in tremors and moving to wrap an arm around his stomach.

"Of course not, baby. Gosh, you're so warm. Yoongi, what happened?" Seokjin turns to the rapper. "He was dreaming, kept calling out for us and now he's got a fever." Yoongi explains. They both look at Taehyung with pity, thinking on what to do. "We have to give him some medicine, he's way too hot." Seokjin concludes.

"No—I need to see Jiminie a-and Namjoon-hyung—" Taehyung sniffles, hiccuping between words. Yoongi sadly rubs his back, turning to Seokjin. "Aw Taehyungie... how about we go to the living room and I'll get the others?" Seokjin offers, using his thumb to wipe away the tears. Taehyung nods approvingly, somewhat calming down.

They go on either side of the younger, helping him to the lounge. Yoongi flicks on a couple lights, putting them on the dimmest setting. Taehyung reaches for Yoongi and he gladly holds him on the couch. Seokjin starts off at the closest bedroom. Jimin and Hoseok's.

"Hoseokie? Jiminie?" He calls into the dark room, walking in to find the two curled in each other's embrace, both their beds pushed together. They start to stir after a few taps. "Sorry guys, Taehyungie is sick and a bit emotional. Can you both comfort him in the living room?" Seokjin explains in a hushed voice. It wakes them up and Jimin's eyes are already glistening with worry. "Of course, hyung." Hoseok replies. Onto the next bedroom.

"Namjoon-ah?" Seokjin hears the snoring cut off. "Hmmg..? Hyung?" The leader groans. "Can you go to the living room, please? Taehyungie has a fever." He says, gaining a hum as Namjoon swings his legs out of bed. And now, the maknae.

"Kookie?" Seokjin moves straight to the bed, gently rubbing over Jungkook's thigh. "Jungkook-ah." He tries again, making the lump roll over. "Taehyung needs you, Bunny." And that finally wakes him up. "Huh..? Is he okay?" Jungkook rubs his eyes, making a move to get up. "Fever, bad dream." Seokjin summarises, letting the youngest follow him back to the living room.

Taehyung is still next to Yoongi but Jimin is giving him a kiss on the cheek, Hoseok tying back his hair and Namjoon is standing nearby, not wanting to crowd the boy. "Taehyungie-hyung?" Jungkook says when he catches sight of the second youngest. He looks up from the couch and is visibly relieved. "You g-guys didn't leave?" Taehyung's lip quivers. The six of them butt in to reassure Taehyung, telling him they love each other way too much to even fathom the idea.

"Taetae, do you feel well enough to take some medicine?" Yoongi asks, all too aware of the sticky heat coming from the singer. He's still so out of it. "Mm.. I don't know." Taehyung pouts, "does anything hurt? Your ears, throat, head, stomach?" Jimin asks, kneeling down in front of Taehyung. "Tummy.. and my head feels dizzy." Taehyung concludes, just now picking up on the nausea washing over him in waves.

He shivers and curls up to Yoongi. "Hyung... I think I'm gonna throw up." Taehyung whines, face squashed into Yoongi's shoulder. "Aish–right now?" Yoongi looks to Hoseok for help, "I'll get a bag—" Hoseok dashes off, right as Taehyung moans in discomfort, chills going up and down his spine. Seokjin leaves to grab some towels and medicine. Namjoon and Jungkook take a seat on the other couch, talking to each other worriedly.

Hoseok comes back with a puke bag, quickly handing it to Taehyung who grips it shakily. "You're okay, Taehyung-ah." Yoongi starts rubbing up and down his back, sympathising when he feels his muscles clench and a dry gag escapes. Taehyung feels like he's on a merry-go-round, he's not enjoying it. Before he was cold and lonely, now he's covered in sweat, about to heave up his dinner. What a night.

He looks up from the bag, noticing Seokjin returning and all his brother's concerned faces. It makes him think back to his fever dream and a tear slips before a nasty heave takes over. It leads to a string of drool and acidic taste in his throat. Jimin uses his small hand to wipe away the tears, moving to sit next to Taehyung. "Let it up, Tae." Yoongi slips into daegu satoori, hoping to comfort the younger some.

Taehyung sucks in a deep, shaky breath before bringing up a mouthful of sick. It gets the momentum going and before he can relax, another bout exits him. "We're right beside you, Taetae. You're doing great." Hoseok comforts, looking away from the puke bag but also trying to support his dongsaeng.

Taehyung retches, spine curling over as he vomits. He feels so hot and sticky, tshirt plastered to his back. Seokjin uses a damp cloth to wipe Taehyung's forehead, holding it on as he coughs into the bag. "Namjoon-ah, can you get the thermometer please?" Seokjin asks, tone filled with concern.

"Sure, hyung." Namjoon responds quickly. "Ughh—my tummy doesn't feel good.." Taehyung whimpers, fingers still clutching the bag. Jungkook watches with sympathy. "Poor baby, Taehyungie. You'll feel better soon." Jimin rubs the 95's knee, Yoongi tracing along his back.

Taehyung doesn't feel like he'll ever get better. He would make another statement that he's dying, but a painfully dry heave cuts him off. It highlights just how empty Taehyung now is. But his stomach sets him off anyways, into endless (about 3) empty gags. "Tae-yah it sounds like you're finished. Wanna try relax a little?" Yoongi points out, slowly easing the younger's grip on the bag.

"Yoongi's right, Taehyungie. I'm sure Jungkook's happy to give you some company on the couch?" Seokjin smiles, and Taehyung swallows down a retch before weakly nodding. Yoongi manages to take the bag, making note to keep it away from Hoseok's general direction before disposing of it.

Seokjin and Jimin wipe down Taehyung's face, just as Namjoon comes back with the thermometer, holding it out. "Ah, thanks Joonie." Seokjin says, grabbing the device and hovering it over the second youngest's forehead. It beeps and reads, "39.1° (102.4°)" Seokjin says out loud, "shit. Taehyungie, you're really warm, how about we take your shirt off?" The eldest adds.

Taehyung nods, face blank and zoned out. "Arms up," Jimin helps take off the top, leaving Taehyung exposed on the couch. "Can I lay down with Jungkookie?" Taehyung looks up at Jin, then glances at the youngest. "Of course, Kookie? Is that okay?" Seokjin turns to Jungkook, who responds with a reassuring nod. Jungkook motions for Taehyung to come closer. With Hoseok's and Jimin's aid, Taehyung gets nestled on Jungkook's chest, both of them long ways on the couch. Jungkook has an arm tucked around Taehyung securely, while he listens to the soothing rhythm of Jungkook's heartbeat.

"Promise not to be sick on me?" Jungkook jokes, retracting the statement when Taehyung frowns sadly. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well, hyungie. You can throw up on me, that's fine." Jungkook kisses Taehyung's temple, ruffling his hair at the same time. At least that gets Taehyung to whimper-laugh, his body still isn't happy with him.

Before Taehyung lets himself drift off, he opens his eyes and scans the room. He sees five pairs of eyes staring back lovingly, the elder members smiling at the fondness between the two youngests. "Don't worry, Taehyung-ah. We'll be right here when you wake up." Yoongi hums, beginning to settle on one of their armchairs, letting out a huff when Jimin sits on his lap, but not making him move either. Fully reclining the other couch, Hoseok is comfortably squished between the leader and Seokjin.

"Okay, I love you, hyungs." Taehyung murmurs softly. He surrendered to the warmth of Jungkook's embrace, the presence of his brothers soothing him to not worry about any more dreams.

Hours passed and they slept semi-comfortably. Seven people in one living room was a lot. Slowly, Taehyung stirred awake, greeted by the gentle caress of Jungkook's hand on his head. Blinking away the sleep, he found himself still tucked up to Jungkook. "Hey there, sleeping beauty." Jungkook whispered.

Taehyung grinned weakly, "did I throw up on you?" He asked, voice raspy but amused. "Not this time, hyung." Jungkook chuckled. The lounge room was bathed in a morning glow, Taehyung noticed his other hyungs, still there and their expressions more relaxed. The worry he felt during his fever-induced dream was replaced by comfort, yes he was still uneasy but he now had some support.

"I told you we wouldn't leave, Taehyungie." Jimin chims in, perched on Yoongi's lap. "Thank you, Jiminie-hyung."

[postsofbabel]

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[ella467c]

Der Trailer für Argentinien ist endlich da! Leider kaum H&M Scenen aber vllt wird es trotzdem gut.

Hello erstmal, ich bin da gerade er drüber gestolpert als ich nach Nusantara gesucht hab, wegen den hannamartin Scenen, wie man das halt so macht.

Anyway was haltet ihr vom Trailer?

[logi1974]

Südengland / Cornwall 2024 - Tag 14

Ladies and Gentlemen!

Heute haben wir wieder einmal Dreckswetter, deswegen streichen wir die ursprüngliche Planung Isle of Portland und entscheiden uns statt dessen für ein Ziel, das in der näheren Umgebung liegt: Montacute House in der Grafschaft Somerset.

Zusätzlicher Nutzen: auch diese Sehenswürdigkeit wird von unserer National Trust Karte abgedeckt.

Das honigfarbene Montacute House ist ein Glanzstück der späten elisabethanischen Architektur und des Designs der elisabethanischen Renaissance.

Mit seinen hoch aufragenden Glaswänden, der Fassade aus Hamstone und der umliegenden Garten- und Parklandschaft ist es ein überwältigender Anblick, selbst bei miesem Wetter, wie heute.

Schon während der Durchfahrt durch das Dorf Montacute mit seinen hübschen Häusern und malerischen Gasthäusern, die alle ebenfalls aus dem gleichen Hamstone, wie das Schloss, erbaut wurden, weiß man gar nicht wohin man zuerst schauen soll.

Dann erhascht man Blicke, durch das imposante zweiflügelige Tor, auf das beeindruckende Gebäude am Ende der ehemaligen offiziellen Zufahrt.

Dies ist das Montacute House, das von Sir Edward Phelips, einem wohlhabenden Anwalt und Mitglied des Parlaments von Elizabeth I., erbaut wurde - ein Ausdruck von Reichtum, Ehrgeiz und Schaustellung.

Als Sprecher des Unterhauses war Phelips ein einflussreicher Mann, der am Prozess gegen Guy Fawkes und die Gunpowder Plotters beteiligt war.

Das Haus wird William Arnold zugeschrieben, einem der talentiertesten Maurerarchitekten der Provinz seiner Zeit. Der Grundriss von Montacute besteht aus der orthodoxen H-Form, die in vielen Häusern dieser Zeit verwendet wurde.

Arnolds Verwendung von Renaissance-Motiven an der Außenseite – darunter klassische Gebälke, die die drei Stockwerke trennen, Segmentgiebel, die die vorspringenden Erker überragen, und die Nischen mit Muschelköpfen unter den Fenstern im Erdgeschoss – zeigen, dass Arnold das neue Haus mit Elementen verschönern wollte, die in der zweiten Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts aus Frankreich und Flandern nach England strömten.

Die Innenräume sind mit ausnehmend schönen Kaminen im Tudor-Stil und im darauf folgenden elisabethanischen Stil ausgestattet, sowie einer Reihe heraldischer Fenster aus der Zeit des Baus des Hauses.

Das Haus wurde um 1598 erbaut. Sir Edward Phelips war die visionäre Kraft und das Geld, die hinter der Schaffung dieses Meisterwerks steckten, das 1601 fertiggestellt wurde.

Das Haus war jahrhundertelang das Zuhause der Familie Phelips und bewohnt, bis es 1911 vermietet wurde.

Als man es 1929 zum Verkauf und Verschrottung anbot, wurde es 1931 vom Enkel von Thomas Cook, dem Gründer des bekannten Reisebüros, gerettet.

Er verfügte über die nötigen finanziellen Mittel und erklärte sich bereit, das Haus zu kaufen, um es dem National Trust zu übergeben.

Dieses denkmalgeschützte Gebäude ist eines der wenigen Häuser, die seit der elisabethanischen Zeit praktisch unverändert geblieben sind.

Die beeindruckende Ostfront mit ihren großen Sprossenfenstern vermittelt den Eindruck, dass die gesamte Fassade aus Glas besteht. Die Tudor-Westfassade wurde vom nahegelegenen Clifton Maybank House entfernt und 1786 in Montacute wieder aufgebaut.

Im Erdgeschoss befinden sich die Große Halle und die Küchen. Im ersten Stock lagen die Große Kammer zur Bewirtung sowie einige Schlafzimmer und andere Räume, die von der Familie und ihren Gästen genutzt werden.

Eines der Schlafzimmer im ersten Stock, die Gartenkammer, beherbergt eine einzigartige Einrichtung: ein Sanitärbad, raffiniert in einem Kleiderschrank versteckt!

Es wurde von Lord Curzon, Vizekönig von Indien, der von 1915 bis 1925 in dem Haus lebte, in seinem Schlafzimmer installiert.

Fun Fact: nach seiner Gattin, Lady Curzon, wurde die berühmte Schildkrötensuppe benannt - wahrscheinlich für alle Zeiten DAS! Aushängeschild der englischen Kochkunst.

Im zweiten Stock ist die 172 Fuß lange Long Gallery die längste ihrer Art in England. Neben der Sammlung von Porträts der Familie Phelips befindet sich eine herausragende Sammlung von Tudor- und frühen Stuart-Gemälden, die von der National Portrait Gallery ausgeliehen wurden.

Ganz besonders beeindruckt hat uns allerdings der abgedunkelte Raum im Erdgeschoss, in dem der Wandteppich, mit dem etwas sperrigen Namen: Knight with the Arms of Jean de Daillon, ausgestellt ist.

Der Ritter-Wandteppich ist der einzige aus dem 15. Jahrhundert, von dem bekannt ist, dass er bis heute überlebt hat. Es wurde 1480 fertiggestellt, als die Stadt Tournai den Wandteppich als Geschenk an Daillon „als Belohnung für zahlreiche Gefälligkeiten und freundliche Gesten, die er dieser Stadt erwiesen hat“ bezahlte.

Nach vier Jahren der Konservierung und Reinigung, unter anderem durch Spezialisten in Belgien, wird der älteste Wandteppich in der Obhut des National Trust wieder im Montacute House ausgestellt.

Allerdings nur limitiert und unter strengen Auflagen, ähnlich wie bei der "Blauen Mauritius": Licht, Wärme und Feuchtigkeit würden der kostbaren Antiquität schlichtweg zu sehr zusetzen.

Außergewöhnlich schöne Gärten umgeben das Montacute House und umfassen eine Sammlung von Rosen, gemischten Rabatten und die berühmten Wackelhecken (wibbly wobbly).

Es gibt zwei schöne Gartenpavillons, eine Orangerie, ein Eishaus, ummauerte Gärten und natürlich eine Teestube des National Trust.

Der Landschaftspark drumherum eignet sich hervorragend zum Spazierengehen und Picknicken. Markierte Wanderwege führen rund um das weitere Anwesen, zu dem auch der St. Michael's Hill gehört.

Das Montacute House hat natürlich auch schon in mehreren Filmen und Fernsehproduktionen mitgewirkt, darunter in der 1995er Version von Jane Austens „Sense and Sensibility“, im Film „The Libertine“ von 2004 und in der BBC-Adaption von „Wolf Hall“.

Wir waren wirklich zu tiefst beeindruckt und begeistert und haben diesen Notfall-Tag keine Sekunde bereut.

Den Nachmittag verbringen wir wieder mit Packen, denn es steht der Wechsel nach Cornwall an.

Unsere langohrigen Nachbarn beobachten unser Tun äußerst aufmerksam.

Good Night!

Angie, Micha und Mister Bunnybear (Hasenbär)