#questions pendule

[clairvoyanceetheree]

Pendule Divinatoire Fiable : Votre Guide Ultime 🌟

Vous cherchez à explorer l’univers fascinant des pendules divinatoires ? Vous êtes au bon endroit ! Dans cet article, nous vous offrons une plongée profonde dans l’art de la radiesthésie avec des pendules divinatoires fiables. Pour une expérience de voyance personnalisée, n’hésitez pas à appeler notre service de voyance au 📞 +33 01 75 75 44 89, disponible 24h/24, tous les jours. 🌟 Découvrez…

[hoseoksluna]

TANGERINE | myg (m)

pairing: boyfriend!yoongi x fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff — comfort

rating: 18+

summary: yoongi has figured out a way how to make your life easier.

word count: 3.5k

warnings: brief sexual intercourse — controlled riding, anxiety, crying, feelings of fear, provider!yoongi, hoseoksluna's inner child trope, smoking habits as a form of coping.

luna's note: i wasn't planning to post anything as i was just trying to stay alive this week. i tried to write something, but the words felt weird, so i thought i was to abandon writing for the week. that is, until i saw a reel of a guy, a girl and a tangerine (not spoiling it for you). so i ran to my yoongi and allowed him to make me feel better. this took two days to write, and i hope you enjoy. i love you all with all my heart. thank you for all your comforting messages. i read them everyday. mwah. luna loves you so much.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster, 

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, 

@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

It was the color of the ripest, the sweetest tangerine that unfolded across the pendulous clouds, undulating around their soft, puffy bodies before it entered them, saturating them with its potent tint. You had just finished your cigarette on the darkened street outside of your home with your boyfriend by your side, who had dropped the last hour of his office work and came straight to you—simply because he sensed that you needed him. 

Yoongi knew by your curt, short sentences, which lacked your usual zest and life, that something was wrong. He didn’t suffocate you with useless questions about the evidence of your sadness like anyone in his place would, but instead got inside his car and sped down the road, still wearing his midnight blue military shirt and dress pants that never fit him right. You always thought that detail perfectly illustrated how he doesn’t belong there, how he shouldn’t, in fact, be there at all. 

But the office work does him good, thankfully. He gets the job done and gets to come home right after the fifth hour of the day—into the warmth between his music-strung walls. Sometimes, you wait for him there with dinner ready on the stove. Sometimes, he asks where you would rather spend your night, attuned to your moods and wishes like no one in your life is. They’re as important to him as the fact whether you’ve eaten at all, as you have the tendency to forget. Especially, when you sink inside the wooden cube of your sadness. 

He knows, intimately, the color of the wood that once used to be a tree. Spent time inside that stifling confinement with you on many, many occasions. But something about this occasion is different. 

It seems as though he’s no longer willing to dwell inside that unlit space with you. 

On his way to you, he had called your favorite restaurant and ordered you a big bowl of beef broth with hotteok on the side. It’s the reason why he didn’t come up to your apartment, but instead called you and told you to come down so that you would both wait for the food to be delivered and go back inside. You grabbed your winter jacket, with your pack of Marlboros and your white lighter in your pocket, and, slipping your feet inside your thick-soled, fluffy outside slippers, you went down to him as fast as your legs allowed you. Your muscles were weary, influenced by your mental exhaustion, and they appeared to have loosened upon the sight of him, leaned against the sleekness of his black car, still wearing his military uniform, made discreet by the largeness of his long puffer coat. 

At this point of your three-years long relationship, he doesn’t have to get out of his car, but he does—despite the fact you’d recognize his car even if your vision failed you. He does it out of his unfailing respect for you, and he had told you so, once upon a time. Guys that don’t get out of their cars for their girls are lazy and they don’t give a f—they don’t give a damn about them. 

He never liked to swear around you. Said your ears were too precious to hear something so indelicate. Your heart swelled with a wave of such premature love for him at that time. It had been just the beginning of your relationship when his honesty, which bore such colored words as these, worked into the flesh of your too wounded heart. You knew, right then and there, that he was the one for you—the one you dreamed about having, the one you searched for in your closest and in strangers alike. No one was like him and it cost you welts that he regards as birthmarks, pathways of stars on your body that he likes to kiss. Likes to take care of. Likes to caress.

Husband, he became to you. At the freshness of it all. 

His eyes were glossy as your feet took you to him. You wore your fuzzy, pastel-hued sleep pants with a few sizes too big sweatshirt of the same material that had the resiliency to protect you from winter’s cold alone. Your smoking sweatshirt, your sleep sweatshirt, too. Someone had comfort food or characters; you had a soft, teddy bear sweatshirt that you clung to. Yoongi didn’t reflect any surprise to see you dressed in this outfit. His mouth was lopsided in a firm line as he sprung from his car and swathed you in his arms, cradling your head in his hand, which he then pressed into the crook of his neck. The wind filtered through your unbrushed hair, tousled from your post-work lazing around, and his palm smoothed down those little hairs that have always managed to get on your last nerve. 

He kissed them, too. Tamed them, for the sake of your mental health. 

That hug and that gesture of his unknotted your sadness, giving them airways to breathe through. Naturally, while inhaling the briskness of the winter’s breath, you pulled away, and Yoongi knew what you needed next. He fished a pack of his Raisons and while you smiled at the little elongated, elegant cat drawn on it that resembled him more than anything, he nudged the butt of the cigarette between his lips, lighting it up for you before he placed it between yours, holding it as you took a drag. 

Your heart palpitated—as if he did it for the first time in this lifetime, but he didn’t. 

Acts of service was his love language and him lighting up a cigarette for you was one of the many ways he showed you how much he loved you. You never grew tired of it. Hell, you never got used to it. It invariably flooded your irises with a wetness of tenderness, no matter how many times a month he would do it for you. 

No one could ever love you like he loved you. 

The tangerine tinges cast a certain glow of homely familiarity as you quietly smoked your cigarette, sharing it with him every two puffs. And once he threw it out for you in the makeshift glass jar ashtray you stash in the thickness of the bushes lining the pathway to the apartment complex, the tinges darkened to the midnight blue of his shirt uniform and Yoongi took your hand and hid you away into the heated snugness of his car. 

There he began to talk. 

“Did something happen at work?” 

You could only nod. Could only scoff with hatred for the cursed building and let out an unnecessary remark that felt necessary for your heart, for your mental well-being. 

“Like always.” 

And at times like these, when you emerge from the difficulties of your workplace, he never opens the suggestion of you finding another job. Your family members and friends, they always fling it at you, not aware of the deeper difficulty that would come with your leaving. They don’t understand that you have to push through, but Yoongi does—because he has done so many, many times throughout the eleven years of his idol journey. 

You’re most thankful to him for it. 

“Why didn’t you call me on your lunch break?” he asks, taking your flaccid hand in his, warming it up with gentle squeezes on his lap. His eyes glide over the side of your face, softly demanding your response, and you blink at the sudden pressure. 

Something has changed. Something feels bigger than your vision is able to take in. 

“I—I forgot,” you say, truthfully, inhaling this severity of the shift, and you straighten your spine, prepare yourself for whatever it is. “I’m sorry. I blanked out and then I ate, and then I had to go back to work.” 

Yoongi sighs, lifting your hand to his lips. “I could’ve helped you.” He kisses your knuckles, made rough by the winter’s icy touch. “I could’ve done something that would prevent you from going home like this.” His lips pucker against your upper knuckles, and then he turns your hand and rests the side planes of his face against that little half-cocoon of your palm. “Is that not what I’m here for?” 

Guilt compresses your clavicles, traveling all the way up to your throat. As you thickly swallow, a lump forms inside that column, triggering your tears that haven’t had the chance to pour out just yet.

“I know you don’t like to talk about what happened. I respect you don’t want to relive it, I understand, but it’s my responsibility to help you,” he rasps, his tone so low and woody, mimicking the surface of your sadness and destroying it in the process, for it punctures you in your gut, buzzing your butterflies for him with vigor. “I’ve thought about this for a long time and I came to a conclusion while driving to you.” The same glossiness that you saw filling his eyes liquefies and the extent of it all breaks his voice as he continues to speak. “Do you see your future with me?” 

Something akin to a rock bashes against your heart and your stomach drops. 

The panic doesn’t settle in. Not just yet. Not until you verify that you understood the meaning of his words in the way he was trying to get them across. You need clarity before the principality of it can force your world, your life to collapse over your delicate head.

“Are you breaking up with me?” you ask, whispering—because if you use your full voice, it’ll break just like his, and you’ll break, too. 

Like the tangerine hue unfolded across the clouds, pain permeates his countenance in the same way. Wrinkles dig into his skin as his features pull in, twisting them while he comprehends your question. The breath he lets out is short, coated with a kind of heaviness that you know by heart, that you know is induced by the enemy that carries the name ‘anxiety’. 

And then his phone rings. 

Yoongi wipes off his tears, lifting his head from the premises of the warmth of your touch. Clears his throat. Presses the green button on the screen of his phone. 

“Yeoboseyo?” 

He nods his head as though the other person on the other side of the phone call could see him, hums, talks and apologizes while you stand at the edge of the earth, about to be flung out into the bottomless space by one singular, uninterrupted sentence directed towards you. 

That much power he has over you; that much he means to you. 

Yoongi ends the phone call without saying goodbye, a fatigued huff of air escaping the small hole of his mouth as he stares down the screen of his phone, contemplating something. You can’t think about what it is, you can’t pivot on your feet and run away from the cliff to help him. Not when this is a life or death situation and you can’t breathe. 

“My boss just cursed me off for leaving an hour early without excusing myself,” Yoongi explains without sparing you a glance, his eyes glued still to his phone that he soon rubs with both of his hands whilst he tries to compose himself. “I fu—I hate it here so much.” 

A stab to your gut. You relate to him, relate to him in such heavenly and beyond heavenly measures that the tears that flow out next are for him, too. But this can’t be the matter to flesh out, not right now. You murmur his name, painfully so, bring him back to the airy context of your relationship because you need to know if you still have him. 

Yoongi glances at you, at last. This thumb and forefinger are instantly drawn to your chin and he tilts your head to him, leaning over. He doesn’t kiss you on your lips. No, he kisses the glimmering traces of your tears upon your cheek, which are the only source of light upon this sphere. No sun, no moon in sight. Only your tears, only the remnants of it—the tears that are so very often internal, let out merely on the inside of your body. Never in front of him, never externally. 

His kiss is hard, demanding once again, but this time you don’t know what he’s seeking. 

“Don’t cry,” he purrs against your skin, against the shine of your tears—and because he didn’t ask about the reason behind them, you perceive what he’s truly demanding. 

Mending. 

Solace. 

Mollification. 

There, beyond those wishes, hides his regret. You feel it strongly, as if it were the veins that lined translucently your skin. He’s not the only one who’s attuned to your moods and wishes; you’re connected to him by an invisible string, which lets you in on the different hues of his heart, his emotions, his lacks and his wishes. It’s a team play that works, watering each other like that, and right now you need to overbrim with the essence of his intelligence, dominance and spoken word. 

You need the truth. 

“Are you leaving me?” you ask again, choosing alternative words with more softness, demanding his response with more power than he ever used. There’s no time to give substance to the reasons—perhaps they were already painted on the sunset you both watched together while sharing a cigarette. You simply need to be shown the roads of yes or no. 

Yoongi blinks in this proximity, his wispy eyelashes brushing against your cheeks, and he withdraws, piercing his gaze through yours in a certain pensiveness, pain and poignancy that makes this even worse. 

“I want to marry you.”

You gasp in a soft manner, which is an oxymoron to the firework that begins to pelt against your internal flesh. Your vision blurs in the speed of light, your liquid emotions pouring down and following the trails your past tears left behind without an ounce of care. Yoongi purrs as he witnesses it, his hand coming to pat down your unruly hair, giving heat to your cold fear, but the sound he makes isn’t of endearment. 

It’s one full of ache. 

“For the longest time I thought about how I could make your life easier,” he begins to explain, his thumb rooting at the apple of your cheek to collect all of your ceaseless tears. “I know you can’t quit your job right now just like I can’t quit mine so I had to think of other options.” He wipes the digit on the underside of your bottom lid, catching the blackness of your mascara. “And the only option is that I buy a house in the future, I marry you and I pay for your health insurance.” His mouth cracks into a half-smile that ripples beneath the blurriness of your vision. “You can be at home, focus on your hobbies. Maybe you can get an income from those, too. Whatever you’d like.” 

You can’t hold yourself back from hugging him, and Yoongi can’t hold himself back from manhandling you and placing you on his lap. He rubs your thighs, let your feet rest on your seat, and he goes the extra mile to take off your slippers to be even more comfortable while you cling to his neck. And the way you transform into a little girl taken care of is the ultimate ointment to your stress-induced sadness. Its airways burst into smithereens, dispersing off and away from your system, and you begin to breathe in the aroma of his car and his personal scent as a girl forever changed, forever provided for. 

He kisses your forehead, cradling your jawline. “That’s why I asked you if you see your future with me. I want to do that for you. I want to set you free from your stress and take care of you because I can.” 

You whimper against the column of his neck, your fingers sinking into the length of his hair at the nape. “Of course I see my future with you. I can’t see myself with anyone else, Yoongi. I love you; you’re too important to me.” 

The purr he emits next is different, covered with an overflowing fountain of love and pleasure for you from your words, and the sound penetrates your mind, untwisting all of those bad thoughts and pushing them away. “I love you, too. You want to marry me, baby?” 

He pulls his lips away from your forehead to look down at you, that glossiness once again overwhelming his eyes, and you nod. “I do.” 

And with those words, you perhaps did tie the knot somewhere in the spiritual realm. 

Yoongi pecks your nose. “Are you gonna let me take care of you?” 

You hesitate, shy all of a sudden, thoughts of how it’s not right, how you don’t deserve it, how it makes you less of a woman than you are resurfacing in your mind—and it is as though Yoongi can read them because he smooths out the wrinkles on your forehead with his thumb, fighting them. 

“It’s your decision, think about it,” he says, softly, sweeping the belly of that digit down the slope of your nose. “And in the meantime when it gets bad again at work, I want you to remember it. Use it to distract your mind from the stress, even if you end up declining my offer in the long run. Nothing changes, I’ll still marry you, baby.” 

The thoughts, once again, wither in the overgrown bushes of your mind, and calmness like a tide washes over your folded body on his lap. You nod, tucking that reminder into your heart to remember later in the future, and you rest your head against his chest, his heartbeat the accompaniment to your ultimate peacefulness. 

Yoongi reposes with you for just a minute. He, then, begins to rummage through his glove box and only stumbles across a small tangerine that nearly gets lost in the width of his palm. He peels it for you while you watch—and once he’s done, he takes the ring finger of your left hand and holds the body of the fruit at the long tip of your nail. 

“I, Min Yoongi, promise to take care of you until the day I die,” he proclaims and slides the tangerine down the length of your slender finger until it sits at the base like a true promise ring. 

You hiccup, overloaded with another onrush of tears, and you scramble up to kiss him. And you do—you give him so many kisses until his lips are puffy and until your moment is again interrupted by another phone call. And it’s not his boss, who’s calling him this time around. It’s the food delivery guy, with your hot beef broth and hotteok in his bag, and together you step out of the car with carmine-wash cheeks. 

Inside your apartment, Yoongi watches you eat. Sitting on the sofa beside you with his elbows propped on his knees, his blush deepens with each spoonful of soup you take to your mouth. And when you begin to share your soup with him just like you shared your cigarette with him, Yoongi is so smitten, so endeared that he can’t let out a full sentence without stuttering, without messing up so bad that he hides his face in his hands, his gummy smile prominent and lighting up the living room. 

And then you’re in bed, but the love making isn’t as quick and lust-dripping like it traditionally is. Everything about the snap of his hips into your core is slow, yet meaningful as if he was fucking his promise into you. You’re supposed to be riding him, being on top like that, however Yoongi isn’t letting you. He’s fleshing out his promise of being the provider by having your wrists in a tight grip behind your back while he pounds your future into you with hard, yet controlled thrusts that empty your brain out of every little left-over fragments of your negative thoughts and emotions. His breathing is ragged as he works so hard, breaking a sweat as he changes your life, holding you upwards by your neck, maintaining an authoritative and vigorous eye contact that throws you over the edge. 

But it’s not the edge you feared so much. 

The bottomless space is a sea of his love he’s dipped inside of, ready to catch you with his arms stretched out in your direction—and he does. Together you swim in the afterglow of your orgasms, swim out into the openness of your shared future with you as a stress-free little girl and Yoongi as the provider. 

Yoongi breaks your wooden cube as he feeds you the half-moons of the tangerine he used as a promise ring and you chew them while half-asleep on his chest—because, truth be told, you don’t need it anymore. You have his promise to envelop you from the inside, to keep you safe and to keep you feeling comforted, even when he’s away in the office and even when he’s travelling around the globe, singing for the world and for your tender heart. 

You’re his wife and he’s your husband—and the bitter spirit of life can’t touch it. 

You’re protected, and you’re taken care of. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

[bellyyearner]

Office life at 550+ lbs

Word count: 1061

Extreme obesity, mobility issues, work environment, feedee perspective

No gender mentioned POV

Being a working feedee is hard sometimes, especially when your gain slows down to a snails pace despite how much you've been eating. In the last 3 years you've only put on another 40lbs, but you have an easy job that pays the bills and allows you to live comfortably so you can't complain too much. The only part of this job you hate though, is the journey inside.

As you exit your car you can already feel the sweat forming between your rolls, it's been taking a few tries lately to stand up after swinging your hefty left leg out onto the concrete. You've even questioned if you should bring your car to the shop to check the suspension just in case your fat ass crashing back down onto the driver seat a half dozen times a day might be causing issues. At the very least you were thankful for your personal parking spot only being about 250ft from the elevator up to the office floor. Only 100ft from the buildings entrance and the cold AC running throughout the building.

And so you begin your slow pendulous waddle, thighs scraping against each other with every step, causing so much friction your jeans always have a distinct wear pattern only a couple weeks after buying them. One foot infront the other you waddle, repeating the laboured motion as your breath grows heavy and your belly slaps against the tops of your thighs. Halfway to the door now you hear the clicking of heels against the concrete, 2 interns whizzing by you without a word. You can't even imagine moving as fast as they do, or why they'd even want to move that fast in the first place. Your sense of urgency left you a couple hundred pounds ago.

Another 20 heavy steps later you reach the door, a mailman on the other side who was about to leave opens it for you, clearly staring at your mammoth size and brow covered in sweat. You make it inside and can barely catch your breath to say thank you before he's gone. The AC graces your hot sweaty skin and you feel relief, you spot your double wide chair HR had fought to get installed for you last year, and plop down on it with a huff. All there's left to do is catch your breath for a couple minutes, walk 60 steps through the lobby, turn right, walk 10 steps to the elevator, a minute of standing, and another 30 steps to your cubicle. Where you will then chow down on a couple snacks you brought and rehydrate before looking at spreadsheets and grazing on more food for 8 hours. A routine you had grown so accustomed to that it became second nature.

You look at the handle bar bolted into the wall and remember when you found it insulting, but now it was a necessity. Gripping the bar you start to stand hoping a second try isn't needed because of how many people were in the lobby. You can feel your heart quake and your knees whine but thankfully you hauled your lard laden ass off the seat in one attempt.

The second journey begins and the heavy waddle ensues, gut bouncing, thighs scraping, mouth open and breathing loudly enough that you're attracting attention. You try to ignore their stares but it's only fueling your appetite, already making a mental list of what you're going to grab from the vending machine once you get off the elevator. A few minutes later you round the corner and take the final few steps only to notice a sign on the elevator. You can't read it yet but you can feel your heart sinking already. It can't be right? They would've told you. They would've sent an email or a text. "Out of order".

Panic sets in, you can't climb 4 flights of stairs, you bought a one story house for good reason, you haven't had to climb more than a curb in years at this point. Your mind is growing frantic as you feel the burden your legs are under grow stronger, anticipating if you're really gonna be expected to climb the stairs.

Your phone buzzes, a text from Susy in HR

"Hey! I'm so sorry 'your name', this just happened like an hour ago and I totally forgot to tell you. The elevator is having some major issues and we don't know when it'll be fixed. I dug up that old paper work you filed 6 months ago about work from home and I'm gonna push it through asap! I've sent Lucy downstairs with a work laptop for you to bring home, just take a couple days off while we get all the paperwork in order."

Relief washes over you as you hear the distinct clicking of heels coming down the stairs. You steady your breath and try to seem unfazed, almost certain you look ridiculous.

Lucy: "Hey 'your name', here's your laptop and a cherry cola, figured you would need it before heading back to your car ;). You know I'm gonna miss seeing you around here, less stuff to talk about and no one to gawk at. You have my number so just let me know if you need me to come over to help you adjust"

A quick farewell and her heels were clicking back up the stairs, but all you could think about was how you're never gonna see the inside of that office again. With no where to go and no decency to be upheld there was no reason you wouldn't finally break 600lbs. You chug the Cola, wanting to make one final show for the coworkers and acquaintances you've made over the years, and start the final journey, one to immobility.

With a gassy belly swaying from side to side, your humongous thighs atop fattened lard laden calves carry you through the lobby one last time. Not even trying to hide your burps and groans you walk out of the building, skipping the chair by the door you once saw as a refuge. Thoughts of what takeout you're gonna get delivered and a quickly growing Walmart order forming in your mind as you slowly waddle through the parking lot one last time. All fueled by the dream of being an immobile work from home piggy

Part 2

[lentiggine7]

The Yin and Yang of Engineering: Jinx/Viktor

Chap. 1: Tinkering with the absurd.

The scent of scorching metal and candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the residual ozone of active Hextech. The laboratory existing as an ecosystem of its own — a microcosm of calculated order, in which every movement was rigorously orchestrated, every instrument meticulously placed, every breath synchronized to the steady hum of interconnected machinery. The crisp scratch of graphite against parchment, the measured clink of tools — the usual praxis. Something, however, had already begun to disrupt its equilibrium.

Viktor sensed the disturbance before he saw it. A minute displacement in the air pressure, a fractional shift in the ambient acoustics; the subtlest irregularity. Then, the faintest creak from above.

He let his fingers continue their measured course along the Hextech circuitry before him, grip steady, focus ostensibly unscathed. A test, in part—to see how long the anomaly would linger before announcing itself.

He had already detected the pair of pendulous blue braids dangling into his peripheral vision; had already cataloged mass, velocity, and descent trajectories should the anomaly, as anomalies often do, spiral into a paroxysm of unpredictability.

"You look very ugly from this angle, y'know?" came the snickering, upside-down voice. The words were laced with a gummy, lopsided grin.

Viktor let out a stolid, measured exhale, slowly tipping his head up. “And you resemble a bat.” he replied evenly, tone as measured as his calibrations.

The statement elicited a gnarly laugh from Jinx, who was suspended from an overhead beam. Her entire body was folded into an improbable pose, legs hooked over the steel girder as though gravity were merely a suggestion.

The neon glow of Zaun’s skyline bled in through the lab windows, casting fragmented light over the contours of her rounded features, the faint smudge of soot dusting her jawline, the subtle asymmetry of her pupils—one slightly more dilated than the other. A tell, perhaps.

Viktor merely adjusted a stabilizer. “Should I begin to question how you got up there?”

Jinx twisted midair with a surprising economy of movement. The vertebral rotation was precise, controlled—almost acrobatic.

Then, without warning, she let go. Viktor tensed, a reflexive tightening of his grip on the edge of the workbench. The poor scientist had already begun to map trajectories, force differentials, probabilities of injury, only for the jinx to land in a perfect crouch, one hand brushing the floor for balance before springing up with the fluidity of a creature built for unpredictability.

Jinx twirled once, for no discernible reason other than self-amusement, then flopped onto one of his worktables, her limbs sprawling on the surface with careless abandon.

“So, Doc?” Jinx drawled, tilting her head toward the intricate lattice of Hextech components strewn before him. “whatcha cooking up in that fancy contraption of yours?”

"A minor enhancement,” he answered, gesturing at the faintly pulsating gemstone embedded in the device. “One that may stabilize Hextech output during large power draws. We—” he hesitated, momentarily considering whether to lump himself in with Piltover’s more refined approach "—some of us forget how violent these energies can be when not properly harnessed.”

“Violent energies, violent minds,” she mused, referring to his earlier statement, while patting down the dust on her patchwork trousers. “Nothing a little disorder can't fix.”

“Entropy requires boundaries,” Viktor corrected, keeping his voice gentle despite the admonition. “A container. Else it consumes itself and everything around it.”

"Alright, philosopher," she snickered, "so, what you're telling me is 'no boom'?"

“Absolutely not. No utility whatsoever in explosions."

Jinx's ebullient expression dropped to a saturnine one. “Boring,” she huffed, scrunching her nose. “why are you like this?”

“Functionality,” Viktor returned evenly, “is not contingent on spectacle.”

“Roger that.” she sneered. Jinx twisted at the waist, swinging gently like a pendulum.

She peered at him through the electric haze, turning a small metal sphere over in her hand—one of her bombs, he surmised, judging by the labyrinth of tiny, improvised coils etched along its surface. It was disarmingly compact, unpolished, but brimming with haphazard brilliance. There was artistry in its asymmetry, like a half-remembered blueprint from a dream.

She pressed the sphere into his palm. “Try to make this stable now, yeah?” her tone brimming with the same sardonic twang she always carried. Yet beneath that, a flicker of sincerity: an invitation to test the boundaries she had set.

Viktor’s metal brace squeaked softly as he shifted his weight, accepting the device with steady composure, analyzing the craft with composed fascination. “I am usually up for a challenge,” he replied, a faint thread of wry humor lacing his tone. “However… I must insist you not hang from my rafters again without warning. The structural integrity—”

“Yeah, yeah," she immediately interrupted him, snorting, "... deal."

Viktor set the bomb gently on the worktable and glanced at her. In the silent seconds that followed, there was no condescending tut-tut of a Piltover academic, no sanctimonious lecture of what she could have done better. Merely an unspoken accord that if they could each appreciate the other’s mania—and keep its calamitous potential in check—there was something worth building there.

He adjusted a delicate filament, the faintest suggestion of amusement sparking behind his amber eyes. “You mistake methodology for rigidity,” he randomly mused, glancing sidelong at Jinx.

Her nose wrinkled again, waiting for him to elaborate.

He rolled his wrist as he set a filament connector. “A scientist does not calculate every step merely to banish unpredictability. Calculation is comprehension—to understand a system so deeply that you know precisely where to push and when to pull. Not to prevent chaos,” he added, letting the final phrase hang, “but to direct it.”

Her lids flickered in hesitant acknowledgment; skepticism warred with fascination in her mismatched gaze. “So what you’re saying,” she pressed, “is that you do like messing with things, you quaint, boring guy.”

A soft hum escaped Viktor’s throat, ignoring the insults. “The core of invention is not the mere desire for control, but curiosity,” he continued. “The difference,” he said mildly, “is that I prefer my experiments remain intact by the end of it.”

She slid off the table and prowled around the lab, trailing her fingers over metal and wire, rifling through blueprints.

Jinx moved like she thought in tangents: erratic. Nonlinear. Pausing here, skipping entire sections there, only to circle back if something caught her eye again, in what one could call a stochastic, staccato fashion.

Viktor, wisely, did not intervene. He had long since learned that when it came to Jinx, indirect engagement was often a more effective deterrent than forbiddance.

Eventually, she plopped herself down at a workbench—one cluttered with Viktor and Jayce’s shared diagrams—scrunching them aside with a careless sweep of her forearm. Surprisingly, she took pains not to knock them to the floor or tear them. An almost incongruous note of consideration from someone so prone to what Viktor could only describe as deliberate rascality.

Jinx stretched until a series of pops echoed through the quiet workshop, then rummaged in her satchel. Out came the neon-splashed paraphernalia she called her toolkit: coil springs, nuts and bolts of questionable origin, and—of course—her beloved spray cans in garish, candy-colored hues. The stark contrast against Viktor’s methodical array of polished metal components was almost comical.

Yet neither commented on it. Viktor, engrossed in refining a fractal array for stabilizing Hextech surges, offered only the occasional sideward glance. Jinx, with her usual lack of ceremony, fished out a crude welding torch and got to work assembling... something. If the shape seemed headed toward destructive potential, Viktor refrained from remark—he had long discovered that sharing space with her was a delicate dance better navigated by trusting in her ad-hoc, if not entirely safe, sense of boundaries.

Hours passed in near silence. In place of conversation was the rhythmic hum of the lab, the hiss of flux as Viktor soldered circuit boards, the faint crackle of Jinx’s blowtorch. Occasionally, Jinx broke the hush with a sudden whoop or guttural holler, purely to see Viktor jump at the unexpected noise. Each time, she dissolved into snickering laughter. He responded with measured exasperation, arching one brow but saying nothing. Even so, a trace of bemusement flickered across his features, as though he found her antics strangely disarming.

Eventually, the overhead lamps dimmed, a subtle reminder that the hour was growing late. Viktor powered down his apparatus with a final flip of a switch. Jinx, yawning in an exaggerated manner, began stowing her things in a scuffed leather pouch. "Think 'm headin' out now. Night night."

"Night."

The woman had already crept back up with the grace of a nimble rat, scaling the ceiling pipes, her long electric blue braids once more dangling upon Viktor's forehead as he scarcely managed to push them aside. She then made her way to the same improbable entryway through which she had crashed into the lab, quietly humming an off-key tune before vanishing into the sooty shadows beyond.

Viktor, by contrast, had continued his work undisturbed, denying himself even the basic luxury of sleep. When his eyelids finally began to grow heavy and he awoke from a brief micro-slumber, elbows unceremoniously propped on the workbench, he caught, in a dazed haze, the blurred image of a bizarre object with distinct animalistic contours, stationed before him as though it were unnervingly staring at him.

Instinctively, he flinched, covering his head as if to brace himself for the expected detonation which, surprisingly, never came.

The odd bitzer remained still, with no sign of malevolent nature, glimmering quietly under the workshop’s neon gloom — a squat, mechanical monkey-like figure sporting metallic plating with a grotesque smile and an odd coil in its belly.

Viktor raised a brow as he took note of the small sprig attached to its left hand, that held the monkey's weight into an erect position while seemingly mimicking the scientist's own ligneous cane. His attention was then captured by the bright yellow post-it affixed to the metallic ape with a messy bit of tape, scribbled in a deliberately sloppy handwriting:

“name's cookie... he looks like you. yuo can keep it :o)

– J”

Beneath it, a wonky smiley face scrawled in lurid neon ink, as asymmetrical as its creator’s grin.

It elicited a smile from him, who examined it as it rested upon his palm. Albeit a bit rough in its form, the artefact appeared to be crafted with a certain intent, perhaps even care. He pressed a button to test the mechanism, still half-expecting an explosive cacophony. The monkey’s tiny arms flailed in a spasmodic dance, beginning to tremble as if preceding detonation, only to splutter out a few confetti which landed on his ivory jacket. Viktor shook his head, his expression softening to one of amusement.

He let his index carefully trail over its metal plating, before placing it on his workbench beside the half-finished stabilizer, the neon-paint smudges glaring against the refined Hextech casing. For all the incongruity, there was something undeniably… charming about it. Perhaps endearing even. He'd later hang it up in a corner of the lab, a testament to the newfound, improbable synergy.

For the first time since Jayce's abandonment of the lab in pursuit of his councilor duties, Viktor perceived a vague sense of vacancy following the disappearance of Jinx and her shenaningans, which alongside his exhaustion finally prompted him to call it a day and go home, an unfortunately rare occurrence for the inventor.

In truth, this measured respect and fascination had begun well before Jinx’s impromptu acrobatics in Viktor’s laboratory — it had taken root, ironically, in moments where they’d never even met face-to-face.

Viktor recalled being urgently presented with the disarrayed collection of fuliginous, hazardous mechanical constructs—agglomerations of metallic scraps, remnants of gunpowder cartridges, and nearly comical embellishments of dubious taste, alarmingly rumored to have derived from Silco's inner circle.

"The configuration is... rough, though there certainly is a certain knowledge of engineering, if not mere intuition." Viktor mused, carefully examining the device's labyrinthine wiring and ingeniously modified spark fuses of the complex apparatus beneath him.

"Would they be capable of figuring Hextech out?" Jayce wondered aloud, his steps resonating an anxious rhythm across the chamber's floor.

"Eh," Viktor hummed pensively, "I wouldn't exclude it. The possibility does exist."

"With a complete lack of the theoretical basis? No, no. Years of research and tests only for some... sick, delinquent mind to comprehend and emulate so effortlessly? No chance." he quickly retorted, the firm incredulity in his voice coming across as an attempt at self-regulation rather than genuine conviction. "This is merely a... well-thought attempt at scare tactics. To intimidate us into allowing independency."

"The absence of formal theory, or proper equipment, only serves to underscore the inventive potential of such mechanical artistry." Viktor countered, "If only such acumen could be channeled towards something more... constructive." he then mused, lithe fingers delicately twiddling with the disassembled filaments beneath him.

"Potential? Viktor, this is sheer madness. These are seeds of entropy threatening to contaminate the flourishing utopia that is Piltover. I can not tolerate nor allow this, and may be obliged to..." he paused, simultaneously recalling Medarda's words and anticipating the partner's disapproval, "take countermeasures."

The statement did, in fact, earn a mild glare from Viktor, who was intently scanning the device's subversive wiring.

"If I recall correctly, weren't Hexgems, too, violently volatile in their raw form?" Viktor extended his arm, the servos in his brace whirring faintly as he aligned the titanium-tipped cutters with the wire he had deduced to be the linchpin of the circuitry,

"Volatility is often the embyron of great potential," he continued, finally neutralizing the bomb, "the only requirement being the correct catalyst to refine and stabilize its essence."

[dialalagirl]

Oo I love seeing people's DiaLovers fanmade routes and worlds ( I have my own and its so much fun) do share yours with us! ( you don't have to make a whole route or anything I'd just like to hear a quick summary of what you had made or had i mind with your Suburu Route )

IEICBSIBCISBVHBIBSINJZ--I mean, yay *cough* it is so hard to sum up everything and maybe some may consider the plot a bit bland, butttttttttt imma try

I take a lot and your girl do mean A LOT of inspiration from HDB. I abandoned whatever bizarrio nonsense Adam-Eve plots infected all the sequels as well as the whatpadding that neutralized the spice of all the diaboys and even their irredeemable parents. like bruv, lemme sample true depravity in peace 😩

at the heart of it is a simple story of the sacrificial bride, Lilu. in her early years, she was raised in the same religious community as Yui. she shares many of yui's most endearing qualities: empathy/forgiveness to the point of self-sacrifice, exuberance, authenticity, altruistic kindness, and fortitude under great pressure. however, she has both the gift of gab and wit which eventually led her to questioning her church's teachings

when the church’s religious indoctrination proved ineffective for Lilu, they sent her to St. Thea’s Finishing School for Troubled Girls. their punishments do not include physical maiming, as to not tamper with the sacrificial bride’s chance to be accepted by Karlheinz. but rest assured, lilu got traumatized to the point she suffers from an extreme fear of touch and mania episodes, as well as has a conditioned response to be honest in response to pain. indeed, her cheerful attitude--while genuine--can often mask her internal feelings of self-loathing where she considers herself pathetic for her weakness

unlike yui, when arriving at the sakamaki mansion 'supposedly reformed', she knows her purpose: to be food. initially, she is apathetic at the possibility of dying, but--upon finding out yui is also there--recenters herself, devoting whatever few days she believes she has left to save Yui (her own and only friend) who matched herself with shu

so, she saddles herself with subaru, banking on his evidently violent tendencies to protect her from the whims of the other bros. from here, it is a tale of lilu trying to help Yui escape but not herself, as she does not want or feel she deserves happiness. slowly tho, she bonds with subaru and finds a strange sense of belonging in the sakamaki household

being torn between ordinary standards of what it means to live and be free v.s. the unusual circumstances of the sakamaki household, she is ultimately left with a choice:

stay with Yui for a reason other than seeking death's relief and make new beginnings with subaru (vampire ending)

try to escape one too many times, get brutally tortured, and eventually awaken as a vampire who kills everyone in the household in a tragic manic episode (brute ending)

use subaru to exact revenge on those which tortured her younger years as she finds herself unable to move on and forgive her past. while initially this soothes her, she eventually devolves into a state not unlike Christa's and begs Subaru to end her misery. he does and kills himself alongside her (manservant ending)

i can just smell the angst and it makes me happy. it's a problem, really

my most favourite prologue/epilogue (that paragraph thingy before the episode starts) that I wrote?

====================================

My thoughts pace walls, attempting

To scratch away raw stone,

To elope with my worry, 

Or to at least make the small a little less small.

My eyes stare straight into the pendulous sphere.

I haven’t felt the sun in years.

My thoughts temporarily wane in their restlessness

In face of stars that burn my eyes.

I would count them

And shoot them across the rest of my sight,

carrying thoughts to hear

echos of tepid steps

and that I have forgotten time again,

I’m stupid,

She always comes for me.

But, the light flickers off,

It’s dark,

And space is infinite.

My arms stretch out,

defy science.

The coarseness hurts.

My palms are subdued against the walls,

despite how much I want to push.

It feels so small.

I want to scream,

But the light flickers on. 

=============

[gratisdiamanten]

Most people are dual. They pendulate between a hands-up complacent deadness and the bright hateful heat of being alive. Tadej knows that then, above dyads, they hang in triads, stars. Child’s mobiles, God and other things. Cold, yielding, dead. Hot, angry, something. He quivers thinly between. Skill. It must be because he is young. When his brother went cold, they were also young. Then for a brief time he swung into the blinding heat. Perhaps to live. Or he thinks of an equilibrium.

The man drinks at the table, alone, not-real. Not-real how quickly Tadej sees it either that his pendulum is stuck. He is slow, undeliberate and pale. He is thin, with a gold cross on his neck. He has no undershirt: through the tissue cotton the slope of his rib. 

The man pinches the pendant. Trinity in itself which is why he must hold it there, God over his slow heart: Tadej has sharp pattern-recognition. I saw you in a book, once. I saw you on the road, once, maybe with blood. Maybe on the ground. He watches, maybe for a while, then sits.

Slowly the man acknowledges his acknowledgement.

“And you, kid. From Kamnik?” His voice is open mouthed, wandering. His voice looks while he keeps his eyes in one place.

“Closer to Komenda,” Tadej says.

“Do you smoke?”

“With my father,” he assents, sitting across from him. He looks at Tadej for a while, but if he is thin Tadej is too long in the arms and legs.

“Is there good work on the farms in Komenda?”

“I work in the summer, then I go to school, in Ljubljana. Class of 58.”

He blinks. A sluggish, dark motion. His face is too slender for his hands, which crinkle in the palms paperlike while he pulls a cigarette from the box. The shadow from his eyes pools under his cheeks. Tadej dresses a smile. Takes it in his lips and on his tongue.

“University?”

Tadej looks at him and the motion of his ribs butterflying for his breath, tectonic, slow. He does not move wastefully. This is abnormal, Tadej thinks, to be so stuck. Like a broken clock in some ways. Many such men since the war. Many such men buried in the earth or in time. Five minutes walk south of here there are hundreds under the grass. They of course do not say this. There are many things people can’t say anymore and any more I would have never been able to say.

“I look like I’m still in grammar school?”

The man shrugs. His shoulders point. The curve of a bird’s wing. “I think. Your face.”

“I’m twenty in September.” The ting-shkk of a lighter, and then Tadej sips in the smoke. Hot in his mouth it slips past the inner cooling in his throat, it greets itself in a long curl. 

“Your name?”

“Tadej,” he says. When the man looks expectant (surname?), he just blinks and smiles in response.

“Why do you smile so much, Tadej?”

“Do you think I’m trying to con you?”

“An act,” he says.

“Well. And your name?” The man in response stares. He is still unreal like superstition. He could be handsome, if he were not dead. “What, you think I’ll steal it?”

“Primož.”

“Alright. Why don’t you smile at all, Primož?” He says nothing, pinches his cigarette between his fingers and exhales, one long expiration.

Then Tadej tries: “Do you ever see your headless shadow?”

“I don't believe in superstition. I don’t look,” he replies.

“Okay.” He sighs down smoke. “Can I have coffee?”

“Yes, I’ll pay for coffee.” He goes to the door back to the kitchen, knocks on the frame. The light there falters yellow, cyclically. The woman back there chatters about: it is getting late, Primož. Oh, that is just Tadi. Our little cricket. He talks to everyone. He is like a housecat, he’ll make noise until you feed him.

He comes back with coffee in both of his hands. “There is, ah, a little brandy in it,” he cautions. “But you’ll probably want to sleep soon.”

“Thank you,” he says, honest.

“Now you will have to answer my questions.”

“And you thought I was just an act!”

“Well! What do you study.”

“History.”

“Well, uh. I have heard that the universities. What do they call it. Well, the layoffs.”

“I don’t think very hard about that. I study stories and folklore. I did papers on this, the Ljubljana dragon. You know.”

“Children’s stories,” Primož says, so flatly that it does not even carry the air of skepticism.

“I thought I looked like a child.”

“Well,” he reasons, studying his one hand on the mug. “Now you don’t.” Suddenly, his voice swerves uncomfortable.

Tadej rushes, “Joking”.

[a-room-of-my-own]

L'emphase mise sur les droits des femmes donne franchement l'impression que ce texte de Trump a été écrit par des féministes. Ça me déprime de penser que certaines ont dû voter pour lui à cause de ses prises de position sur le sujet. Je sais pas trop quoi dire, à part que je suis estomaquée qu'il faille un gouvernement autoritaire pour remettre les pendules à l'heure...

Je suis dans le même état 🫠

Ça reprend exactement les éléments de langage des féministes - surtout les britanniques. C’est absolument incroyable qu’il ait fallu en arriver là…

Trump est un animal politique. Je crois qu’il a parfaitement compris que outre les questions de pouvoir d’achat et d’immigration / sécurité, les questions sociétales pouvaient lui faire remporter l’élection. Pour remporter il avait besoin de ratisser plus large, et les progressistes lui ont servi l’élection sur un plateau d’argent grâce au transactivisme et aux manifestations pro-palestiniennes.

Ça lui a permis de faire oublier ses outrances sexistes passées et de se poser en défenseur des femmes, ce qui est juste à pleurer de rire. Ça lui a aussi permis de faire oublier ses sorties racistes : les propalo sont pires !

C’est exactement ce qui fera passer l’ED chez nous en 2027 🤷‍♀️

[altarfates]

@deadn30n ! It was as he had said, so long as Shen Yuan remained by his side Luo Binghe did not mind where it was they ended up. It had begun as a sworn oath, his shizun’s conviction unfaltering as he reassured his unruly disciple that never again should those two intertwined hearts be separate. It had filled him with an ineffable feeling, devotion sharing a delimitation with obsession, the covetous nature of his demon’s heart wanting nothing more than to keep his shizun at his side no matter the consequence. even if their reality had aberrantly twisted into something unrecognisable it did not bother him so long as they greeted each dawn together and lay beside one another as darkness eclipsed the resplendent sky at dusk. Attentively those dark eyes trace the contours of his hands, the prominent ridges of his knuckles, the lithe length of them, his mouth grows parched envisioning how they might feel urging his lips to part. It required a great deal of restraint to not implore Shen Yuan’s eyes to meet his, encouraging them to caress the sharp contours of defined muscle and marvel at the contrast between tanned skin and scarlet lace. All of this was for him, so it seemed only just that he partook at his leisure. finally, after setting his headset down beside his keyboard, he swivels in his chair to face him, the fluster that creeps along his throat is gratification enough for Luo Binghe’s efforts.

“ Shen Yuan…” the way the other’s name rolls off his tongue is an obscenity, his low-lidded gaze lingering up his countenance with a look of scarcely veiled hunger. when those clammy hands find his hips, firmly holding him in place, a pleasant shudder curls up his spine, the innocuous head tilt he offers was hardly endearing when lust glitters in his eyes. “ This disciple went to all of that effort to make them for you, won’t you at least try them ?”  the intensity of their eye contact is devastating, Luo Binghe’s own deft fingers ease the ribbon free and it hangs pendulously from his crooked finger for a moment before descending to the floor in a lurid spiral. “ Can I ..” it was a shameless question, plucking a single chocolate from the box and extending it to him in offering. “ Just one, then I’ll do whatever you ask of me.” it was a filthy excuse to press his fingers against the other’s mouth, craving the sensation of his tongue laving them clean from traces of that sweet confectionery. It is only after Shen Yuan allows him to feed him, idly caressing the pliant jut of his bottom lip, that he brings those same fingers to his own mouth and diligently sucks mostly saliva and faint hints of chocolate from them. “ happy valentines, shizun.” he whispers softly, forsaking that ornate box on the corner of the desk right beside his headset, reaching for his hand to guide him out of his chair and towards the bed. There was something inherently provocative about his silhouette in that lingerie and his long, dark hair framed his elegant features in wild curls. “ how do you want me ?” a question so shameless that it made even luo binghe flush a pretty roseate.

[lightacross]

Pendulation

For every push, there is a pull word count: 4.1k chapter 1/?

Seventeen days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter packs up all of his belongings and moves into Grimmauld Place.

It feels like the right thing to do.

Which is why, three months later, when Robards approaches him with a job offer to be a Junior Auror, he accepts. Because hunting down dark wizards and ex-Death Eaters seems right, correct— expected of him. Just like bringing Ginny back to Grimmauld to celebrate his new job and new house and new aliveness is right.

When Ginny breaks up with him six months later, he simply smiles and says of course we can still be friends— because it’s the right thing to do.

A month after that, while he is lying in bed— alone, unable to sleep and questioning how exactly he ended up here— he decides to clean out Grimmauld.

[chibrary]

“Brrrrrr!” says Charles Leclerc, on a chilly late afternoon in a São Paulo that’s enveloped in grey and pendulous cloud.

Cruelly denied a coat by our photographer, Charles hastens from the back of the Sauber garage to the welcoming environs of the team unit as soon as his duties are concluded. Glenn, our snapper, replaces a lens cap and shakes his head ruefully. “You can’t treat ‘em like kids,” he says. “Otherwise it starts with you letting them wear a coat and ends with you having to take all the blue M&MS out of the bowl…”

Perhaps in some cases, but Charles Leclerc is emphatically not cut from junior diva cloth. Though F1 starwrangler Nicolas Todt has steered his career, Leclerc’s talent and singular determination has provided the momentum. There is not a hint of the silver spoon about his rise to prominence, and that comes across in the respectful politesse with which he unfailingly conducts himself.

Now seated and beginning to thaw, Charles holds the question deck between finger and thumb and regards it with genuine surprise. “All these are from fans?” he asks, agog at how an F1 rookie could possibly generate so much interest.

Well, there’s a reason for that… [...]

source: gp racing (uk) series: 2018, f1

What does the underside of Alonso's car look like? David Foulston, UK CL: The underside? What's the underside? [The penny drops] Ah! Yes, when he went flying over me [at the start of the Belgian Grand Prix]. I tell you, it happened so fast that I could barely see anything. I certainly wasn't going to analyse it [technically]. It was definitely black, but that's the only thing I can say.

F1 Racing: Surely, given their relative position in the championship, Sauber don't have much to learn from Mclaren at the moment any- way… CL: Ah… [He glances in the direction of team PR Mia, who responds in startled fashion to F1R'S cheeky query. Charles giggles, though whether this is at the question or its effect on his colleague is un- clear]

In your company car, have you beaten the best commute times from Monaco to Modena set by Gilles Villeneuve and Jody Scheckter? Phil Darby, UK CL: [Laughs again] Errrrr… no! I'm not so quick on the road. F1R: In your position, you need to be responsible. CL: Definitely.

F1R: Were you aware there was a record each of them tried to break? CL: To get to the grand prix? F1R: To get to the Ferrari factory when Enzo rang up. They'd say, "Okay, be there in five minutes…" CL: [Laughs] For sure, I could never get to the factory that quickly. I'm not really racing on the road.

Is there any circuit you would love to see added to the F1 calendar? Matt Lloyd, UK CL: Laguna Seca. Even though it's very… yeah, I don't think F1 could go there in reality.

F1R: The run-off at the Corkscrew isn't very wide, and there's a cliff on the other side.

CL: Yeah? That would make it more, er, challenging… F1R: According to folklore, the corner is how it is because they were driving the bulldozer along, got to the edge of the drop, and then just turned left. CL: Nice story. But is it true?

What is your biggest fear? Severine Covens, UK

CL: Oh, snakes. F1R: Is it the creepy dryness of the scales, or their rasping forked tongues that creep you out? CL: I don't really know - I'm just not liking these animals. F1R: Have you ever actually encountered a snake? CL: I did, in Australia. Haven't you seen the pictures? I have it all round my neck. [He shudders at the memory] You'll have to ask the Sauber people why they did it…

What was the first car you drove? Kamil Zaotkowski, Poland CL: I really shouldn't say, because I was quite young!

What is your favourite childhood memory with Jules Bianchi? Chloe Hewitt, UK CL: Probably every Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday at his track. [Jules Bianchi's father managed the kart circuit at Brignoles] That and his birthdays in Saint-tropez. All the races we did together in karting. Fun times. F1R: Did you get to go to his party after he finished in the points in the Monaco Grand Prix? CL: No, I was too young, and in Monaco they're quite strict with things like that.

[clairvoyanceetheree]

Découvrez les Secrets du Tirage Oui ou Non en Voyance 🔮

La voyance est une pratique millénaire qui continue d’éveiller la curiosité et l’intérêt de nombreuses personnes à travers le monde. Parmi les méthodes les plus populaires se trouve le tirage “oui ou non”, une technique simple mais puissante pour obtenir des réponses rapides et directes. Si vous cherchez à éclaircir des questions précises sur votre avenir, ce type de tirage pourrait bien vous…

[akira-studiesmed]

JOURNAL ENTRY - JULY 7, 2024

I could say a lot of things. There is plenty to talk about. Plenty to share and even more so because I haven't been actually able to say anything. I can't ever verbalise what I'm feeling until I sit down for a few hours and write them down. Me suspecting autism for myself isn't far fetched.

I have my exams going on and I'm crawling. It's either they knock me out or I'm coming back up again- staggering and falling and crawling and barely moving but still trying.

I'm barely moving. I'm slow and I haven't figured anything out. I'm just trying as much as I can and going forward. I also know it's not enough at all and I'm going to fail.

These days are actually trying days. I have to fight a lot of things. My own self doesn't feel like a part of it. Especially since I don't see it as an enemy that I used to. I used to see myself as my own worst enemy but then hurting my own self over when I'm struggling and trying and still failing. I can't do that anymore.

I suppose the question I asked myself was— if I wasn't going to save myself, who would? If I wasn't going to be kind to myself, who would? If I couldn't be understanding towards my own self, who would? And if I couldn't love and accept myself with all my struggles and the existence of my being, who would?

My entire life I kept waiting— waiting that someone would care for me, care enough to love me with everything that I had ( all the good and bad ) and for everything I didn't have. I kept waiting in hopes that someone would comes and the pain would lessen because they would save me. It wasn't something that I banked on outrightly but it was rather a veiled thought perhaps? Always in existence and me never being aware of it.

Some days— most days it feels like an excuse though. This kind of thinking feels like I'm making excuses for what I lack, how much of a failure I am, for letting myself off the hook, not holding myself accountable for what I lack and only if I tried harder. That I lack. That perhaps I'm not worthy or enough or even anything.

And on those days I cannot decide whether me thinking like or more like— me feeling like this. Something that feels so natural. Is maybe merely an excuse to avoid working harder?

But then I feel myself feel again— if I wasn't going to be kind to myself, who would?

If I wasn't going to protect my own self, who would?

If I wasn't going to stand up for myself, who would?

And would it make any difference? If I hated on myself the most in the world— talked to myself the way I would never imagine talking to another. If I hated my existence.

Would it make the struggles easier? Or would it make me more competent? Or would I just be another person who doesn't Care what happens to my own self?

Yet I am like a pendulum— pendulating between being nothing and being everything.

At the same time. I'm nothing and I'm everything. Today it feels a little more like nothing and yet everything.

And writing all of this out here— that's an attempt that wishing someone/something would take the pain away.

Somehow— I shouldn't be struggling. I shouldn't be sharing if I'm struggling.

And I don't know how any of this or that is right.

[wildroseofarran]

The urge to kiss Sky's cheek almost took him, swaying forward an inch only to pendulate back and rise on his toes. Nothing new. Normal idle behavior for the cat. Sky would never know - maybe.

With a smile and a nod, he was on his way to the stage, disappearing behind the curtain to discuss his numbers and gauge the band's interest tonight. Two songs were always certain. Olek would always begin with 'Bésame Mucho' and end with 'Fever'. The in-between depended on the mood of the crowd more than anything.

Olek missed the nights his master would sneak in to watch. Retracing his steps in the middle of Peggy Lee's number to return home and pretend he hadn't stepped out of the house. He wondered what Sky would do.

Sky thought he might have gauged Olek’s true intent, but given their surroundings, it was for the best that the cat had changed his mind. Some things were best done in the privacy of one’s own home, where they couldn’t be judged or misunderstood.

The fox had barely taken his seat when a pretty waitress came to his table. Her interest in him was clear, as was her curiosity. But like Olek, she did not indulge.

Sky gave her his drink order and vaguely wondered if she’d work up the nerve to ask him the questions she wanted to ask as he watched her walk away. He also wondered if he’d be inclined to answer if she did.

No matter. He’d just have his drink and enjoy the atmosphere.

[didierleclair]

CANADA, NOS FOYERS ET NOS DROITS

Le Canada aura des élections fédérales bientôt. Selon les sondages, le parti conservateur serait en tête des intentions de vote. Les conservateurs sont loin devant les libéraux et en troisième position, on trouve le NPD.

Cependant, l’état d’esprit des Canadiens a changé depuis la venue de Donald Trump aux affaires. Nous sommes secoués par les provocations du président américain. Selon lui, nous ne faisons pas assez pour contenir l’immigration clandestine qui entre aux USA en passant par notre frontière. De plus, il nous reproche de ne pas assez lutter contre le trafic de drogue, plus précisément la vente de fentanyl. Il menace d’imposer des tarifs douaniers pour les produits canadiens de 25 %. Il joue avec nos nerfs car il vient de suspendre cette décision pour 30 jours.

L’état d’esprit général au pays n’est plus orienté sur des sujets comme la taxe environnementale sur les combustibles qui polluent. Ce sujet était le fer de lance du parti conservateur : permettre des exemptions sur la taxe carbone pour aider les ménages à faire face à la crise du coût de la vie.

Mais Donald Trump vient de raviver l’esprit patriotique des Canadiens. Quand il a commencé à surnommer le premier ministre « gouverneur Trudeau » et qu’il a proposé que notre pays devienne le 51è État américain, les priorités des Canadiens ont changé. La fibre patriotique canadienne s’est réveillée et les conservateurs s’interrogent maintenant sur la stratégie à prendre afin de conserver leur avance dans les sondages.

Alors, Pierre Poilievre change de fusil d’épaule. Si vous allez sur le site Internet du parti conservateur fédéral, on peut lire « Le Canada d’abord ». Le plan est en 6 points. Disons que l’essentiel est de faire siéger le parlement à nouveau pour imposer des taxes aux produits américains et « reprendre le contrôle de nos frontières ».

Certes, il est encore question d’exiger des baisses d’impôt pour les entreprises et « équilibrer » le budget. Mais la posture de Pierre Poilievre qui pointe du doigt l’incompétence de Justin Trudeau ressemble de plus en plus à quelqu’un qui dénonce le pyromane alors que la maison brûle dans son dos. Coupable ou pas, que fait-on pour éteindre le feu ensemble ?

Les Canadiens veulent un politicien rassembleur, capable de tenir la dragée haute à Donald Trump. On doit faire front commun et parler d’une seule voix pour que le message soit clair : le Canada n’est pas à vendre. Monsieur Poilievre est sûrement capable de prendre la mesure de la situation. Si ce n’est pas lui, ses conseillers vont exiger qu’il saupoudre ses discours de quelques passages patriotiques jusqu’au jour des élections fédérales.

Dans l’histoire du Canada, on a eu des premiers ministres patriotes. On peut mentionner le tout premier John A. Macdonald et sa contribution à la construction du transcontinental, cordon unificateur. Wilfrid Laurier, opposé à la conscription lors de la Première Guerre mondiale. Même si c’était peut-être pour des raisons de popularité, cela a créé un sentiment d’identité unique au Canada. L’internationalisme de Lester B. Pearson et la création du drapeau canadien durant son mandat sont des éléments qui permettent aux Canadiens de se sentir une nation à part entière. Mais Pierre Poilievre, est-il un de ceux qui peut transcender les orientations politiques et galvaniser tous les Canadiens ?

Quatre ans avec Donald Trump comme voisin, c’est long. On aura l’impression du double. Si en plus, il continue à appeler les premiers ministres canadiens des « gouverneurs », il ne suffira pas à Pierre Poilievre de dire « Le Canada d’abord » pour rassembler les Canadiens autour de lui. Il faudra hausser le ton et peut-il le faire ? Quelquefois, même avec nos meilleurs amis, il faut savoir remettre les pendules à l’heure.

Didier Leclair, écrivain

[abridurif]

Qui va m’accueillir ? Qui attend derrière la porte de la cuisine ? Une fumée sort de la cheminée, on prépare le café pour le repas du soir. Comment te sens-tu, te sens-tu chez toi ? Je ne sais pas, je suis très incertain. C’est la maison de mon père, mais chaque chose est froidement posée à côté de l’autre, comme si chacune était occupée de ses propres affaires, que pour une part j’ai oubliées, que pour une part j’ai toujours ignorées. À quoi puis-je leur servir, que suis-je pour eux, bien que je sois l’enfant de la maison, le fils du vieux paysan ? Et je n’ose pas frapper à la porte de la cuisine, j’écoute seulement de loin, de telle manière que je ne risque pas d’être pris à écouter. Et comme j’écoute de loin, je n’entends rien, j’entends seulement le bruit léger d’une pendule, du moins je crois l’entendre, venant jusqu’à moi du fond de mon enfance. Tout ce qui se passe dans la cuisine est le secret de ceux qui sont assis là-bas, un secret qu’ils ne me confient pas. Plus on hésite devant la porte, plus on devient étranger. Que se passerait-il si quelqu’un maintenant ouvrait la porte et me posait une question ? Ne serais-je pas moi-même comme quelqu’un qui veut garder un secret ? Kafka, « Retour », trad. C. David, Œuvres complètes II, Gallimard, 1980

[gemkun]

@raytm said : his synapses all at once ignited, punctuating lances of agony that temper into dull, resonate aches. Till’s arms hang by his side, laden and pendulous, enervated and all but lifeless. he thinks of death, how it would be a brisk and fortuitous moment, a kaleidoscope of every moment of suffering careening into each other as darkness flooded his vision and sparks flickered behind his closed eyes. he isn’t dead, the steady, anchoring pulse of a heartbeat keeps him vaguely conscious, he’s being carried, pressed flush to someone’s chest. slowly, with sheer force of will he pries his eyes open, peering blearily into a familiar, incomprehensible face. it’s Ivan. “you came ..” he rasps, his voice harsh and all wrong, wrangled sobs and desperate pleas leaving it raw and aching. “ why…” it’s murmured into the crook of his neck, the juncture where his shoulder meets his throat, as if all the answers to everything - all of this, could be found there.

      ⸻       in   the   garb   of   the   staff   ,   infiltrating   had   been   child’s   play.   what   had   not   ,   was   seeing   the   state   he   was   in.   roughened.   manhandled.   violated.   it   seared   ivan   ,   with   a   proverbial   inferno   ,   to   lay   eyes   on   the   wounded   lamb.

  unconscious   ,   and   without   a   soul   in   sight   ,   he   curses   inwardly   at   the   abandonment.   without   him   rushing   to   his   aid   ,   till   would   be   subjected   to   a   night   in   this   dreadful   position   ,   where   —   he   does   not   wish   to   entertain   the   scenarios.   instead   ,   he   wipes   them   from   the   slate   as   he   kneels   to   scoop   him.

  this   proximity   ,   was   not   per   se   foreign   to   him   ,   but   it   would   require   great   effort   to   obtain   where   he   now   resides.   inches   ,   from   the   face   in   his   dreams.   he   justifies   it   ,   as   an   act   of   reassurance   ,   whilst   he   nuzzles   the   battered   and   bruised   profile.   conveying   unspoken   affections   —   universally   known.

  but   he   must   not   delay   any   longer   ,   on   the   off   —   chance   that   his   intrusion   would   be   detected.   clasping   tightly   ,   he   curls   the   light   body   close   to   his   chest   ,   warding   off   harm.   his   safety   and   return   is   all   that   is   present   in   his   mind   ,   despite   the   creeping   sensation   ,   licking   at   his   clarity   akin   to   tendrils   attempting   to   infect.

  the   approaching   round   draws   near.

  halfway   ,   a   noise   alerts   him   ,   and   instantly   attention   showers   the   male   ,   captive   in   his   arms.   a   warm   smile   answers   first   ,   to   douse   till   in   assurance   rather   than   confusion.   though   ,   his   look   might   irk   the   guitarist   ,   considering   how   it   spells   out   —   ❛   haven’t   you   realised   ?   don’t   you   know   ?   ❜.

  he   shushes   him   ,   softly   ,   reminding   him   to   save   his   energy   rather   than   expend   it   on   trivialities.   ❝   save   your   questions   for   later   ,   when   we’re   home   ,   i'll   answer   everything.   ❞   home.   not   a   place   but   (   for   ivan   at   least   )   a   person.

  but   the   same   cannot   be   said   for   till.   not   towards   the   wolf.

  ❝   does   it   hurt   anywhere   ?   if   you   need   medical   assistance   ,   i'll   fetch   someone.   ❞