#questions pendule

[clairvoyanceetheree]

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[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

[hauntedestheart]

The Ghost Of Hartford Manor (Male Possession)

"Frederick, what on Earth are you doing?!" Lady Priscilla shrieked to her son. "Get out of the water this instant!"

"Oh but it's such a hot day and the water feels so lovely!" Frederick called back to her, and then he turned his eyes to the other genteel folk attending the garden party. "Won't you all join me?"

He placed his hands on his hips, as if to draw attention to his nether regions, and everyone at the garden party gasped at the sight of the pendulous manhood swinging freely between his legs for all to see. Frederick beamed at the crowd without a stitch of shame (or pants) and waved his arms, beckoning them towards him, and the party erupted into whispers.

Frederick Hammlebutton, heir to the Hammlebutton fortune, behaving so shamelessly at a high society function? It was the scandal of the year! And if the women folk peeked at him over their fans, eyes drawn to the way the water made his tight shirt cling to his musculature, and a few gentlemen gazed at his cock for a few more seconds than was strictly appropriate... well, it was simply because they wanted to get the latest gossip, that's all. This was a big story.

Only one woman seemed immune to Frederick's charms,

"What a brute!" Lady Catherine Hartfort harrumphed, giving the unclothed man a stare icy enough to freeze the lake around him. "And to think, I almost considered marrying my daughter off to this man! This simply will not do." Catherine turned her eyes to her daughter, the lovely young Dahlia Hartfort, and sighed. "I'm sorry my dear, but the engagement is off."

"Is it?" Dahlia mustered up a forlorn sigh and a small shake of the head. "Oh, darn. And I was so looking forward to marriage."

Truth be told, Dahlia wasn't the least bit disappointed that her potential beau was making an ass of himself with his ass out- on the contrary, his behavior was her doing.

You see, Dahlia had no intention of getting married. She had gotten involved in this newfangled feminism movement, which had opened her eyes to the injustices facing women in their modern society. True. wasn't opposed to the idea of having a man beside her, but the laws surrounding marriage in the modern era were so draconian- the second a man put a ring on her finger, she would become his property. And Dahlia was not about to become someone's property! Besides, she quite liked running the family estate by herself and intended to do so for as long as she could.

Her mother, however, had other ideas. An old fashioned "proper" noble of the old guard, she was a stickler for tradition and stubbornly insisted that her daughter's husband be (quote) "a respectable man of means." And, thanks to the law, if Lady Catherine arranged a marriage with an eligible bachelor, her daughter was bound to follow through.

So since Dahlia couldn't change her mother's mind, and she couldn't say no, she had to find another method of getting her way.

That was when Norman came into the picture. Dear, sweet Norman.

Norman was a dead man, and Dahlia's secret weapon.

The same friends who had introduced Dahlia to feminism had also introduced her to spiritualism, and on one stormy evening she had invited a genuine psychic over to hold a seance. She and her friends had held hands, shrieked and laughed as the lights flickered, and then bid each other goodnight- however once everyone departed, Dahlia found that she was not alone.

A foggy shape hung heavily in one of the mirrors, and when she placed her fingers upon it, a face that was not her own filled the glass. It was the round face of a pudgy young man, with wild untamed hair and a brutal looking bruise around his neck, and most surprising of all- he bowed to Dahlia politely.

Shock held her tongue and prevented her from screaming, but the man in the mirror assured her that he meant her no harm. He introduced himself by the name of Norman, and he waited very politely while Dahlia gathered her wits about her enough to question the spirit.

Norman's story was a sad one: a faithful servant of the family since he was but a boy, he'd confessed his affections towards one of the butlers who had rejected him and in turn gotten him fired from his position with the family. Disgraced and with nowhere else to go, Norman had taken his own life in the study and his spirit had roamed the halls ever since. His existence had been vague and foggy until that very evening when Dahlia's seance had ripped the veil from his eyes and brought him back to the side of the living.

What stood out most to Dahlia about Norman's tale was her family's involvement in the poor man's death. She apologized profusely to the deceased gentleman, who politely accepted, but pointed out that it was probably a bit late for that. Still, Dahlia insisted, to chase someone out simply for who they loved... that was the true disgrace!

But Dahlia was shocked by the notion of two men engaging in amorous congress- how would that even work, she inquired? So Norman guided her to his well-hidden stash of erotic novels, and a quick skim of literature did wonders to change Dahlia's mind. In fact, upon thorough examination, she found the image of two men thrusting their bodies together rather appealing.

(Better they take that aggression out on each other than a woman, she rationalized. And the drawings in some of Norman's books made her mouth water,)

Despite their incompatible orientations the two found themselves to be kindred spirits, both individuals trapped out of time in a society that wouldn't allow them to be who they wanted, and Norman quickly became Dahlia's closest confidant. She was careful to keep their friendship a secret (because if her family knew she was "talking to ghosts" they'd have her institutionalized) but every evening, without fail, she would report to the study and give Norman the latest gossip, or share the newest chapbook she'd acquired.

And when she'd come to Norman one night, sobbing about how her mother intended to marry her off, he proposed a plan to her. Since the seance, his spirit had been growing stronger- strongest of all when he was around Dahlia -and one of the spiritualist texts she'd brought for them to read had contained an interesting idea.

"What if," he proposed to her. "I could superimpose my spirit into the body of another man? That way I could call the engagement off for you. Could be a good way to solve your problem!"

"And be a bit of fun for you," she teased, knowing full well that her friend often lamented his lack of a physical form, and Norman gave a lopsided grin.

She'd agreed, of course.

She still remembers the first man that the two of them had teamed up to take down. Lord Orson was a stunning statue of a man, so painfully gorgeous that Dahlia had briefly considered sacrificing her morals and becoming a dutiful wife if it meant she could be wed to such a prince of a man- until he'd opened his mouth and begun to complain about everything.

What an arrogant ass! Dahlia thought to herself, though she was all smiles on the outside.

His spoiled, sour attitude meant she'd felt little guilt about pulling him aside in the study for a "private chat" beside the old mirror. She watched with mild horror as his eyes rolled back into his head and his body pulsed, groans of agony issuing forth from his handsome lips, and for a moment she was afraid that she had made a mistake and the innocent man was dying- but then he straightened his back and gave her a lopsided grin.

That was her Norman alright.

Norman's first steps as Lord Orson had been strange- he stumbled about like a newborn colt, decades out of practice with having legs, and he complained to Dahlia that he was unused to being so tall. On the whole Lord Orson's physique was a far cry from the one he'd inhabited before his passing, which came as quite a delight to him. His hands pressed into his chest and squeezed at Orson's powerful chest- and when he lifted his shirt, Dahlia understood why the man had struck her as so arrogant.

Norman had been so excited to be amongst the living again that he'd immediately divested himself of his clothes, eager to explore Lord Orson's chiseled musculature, and while Dahlia had enjoyed the sight of the gorgeous man examining his body in the mirror, she had to beg him to remain decent at least until dinner. Norman begrudgingly agreed, but if anyone noticed that Lord Orson seemed strangely preoccupied with readjusting his britches all afternoon, they wisely kept their mouths shut.

Getting to spend the afternoon cavorting about with Norman had been delightful, and even her mother had been surprised by how well Dahlia and "Lord Orson" were getting along. She'd puffed herself up like a smug peacock thinking she'd found her daughter the perfect match- right up until she walked in on him buried balls deep in the stable boy.

And to think, her poor daughter had been struck frozen with shock at the sight and had helplessly borne witness to the whole thing!

Needless to say, Lord Orson was quickly dismissed after such a shocking display, and Dahlia was free to maintain her status as an unmarried woman. As for Lord Orson, the second he crossed the property line of the estate he claimed to have no memory of the events at all- though most people took these claims to be a shoddy attempt to save face.

The rest of Dahlia's suitors had met similarly strange fates:

The Duke of Chustlewitt was a slender thing, barely even of marrying age, but he threw himself at every man in his path with the appetite of a man twice his years and made eyes at them like he was a cheap whore. Lady Catherine had been horrified, but Dahlia insisted they give the man a chance- one that ended in the storeroom with the chef's assistant making very inappropriate usage of some butter.

The Earl of Trackspont, a great big bear of a man, had been dismissed after a few short hours when Lady Catherine realized he didn't plan to stop lifting his shirt up and shaking his own hairy belly at the slightest excuse to do so. He'd slapped at his stomach and called Lady Catherine a prude, and still managed to snag one of the serving boys on the way out.

Sir Timone had been a promising suitor, a dashing musician employed by the royal court, but when the guests at the afternoon get-together had begged him to play piano for them the song he'd sung had been shockingly lewd and concluded with him whipping out his hard cock and plunking it upon the keys.

Count Ludovich was an educated man with degrees from several universities, but he proudly informed everyone at breakfast that his proudest achievement was how many candlesticks he could fit into his buttocks. He'd made it up to four before he was forcibly removed from the premises.

Sir Barstew had made it all the way to dinner before stripping his pants and depositing his genitals into the stew- and then offering Lord Heckleston cousin a taste. (Dahlia had scolded Norman for that one- it had been too funny, she said, and she had almost burst out laughing at the table.)

And so on.

Unfortunately for Dahlia (but fortunately for Norman) each failure only seemed to increase Lady Catherine's determination to find a match for her daughter, and thanks to the estate's considerable means she found no short supply of suitors ready to take her up on the offer despite the unsavory rumors beginning to swirl around the Hartford estate.

Funnily enough, Dahlia had noticed that since she and Norman had begun their escapades, invitations to Lady Catherine's parties had become some of the most sought after social items in town.

Dahlia roused herself from her musings and returned her attention to the table, where the matchmaker was apologizing profusely to her mother.

"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into him!" The poor woman protested, eyeing the throbbing vein on Dahlia's mother's forehead. "He's always been such a polite boy."

"I'll tell you what's gotten into him-" Lady Catherine huffed, giving a haughty toss of the head. "He has the table manners of a horse!"

"And that's not all he has from a horse," muttered one of Dahlia's friends, drawing a snicker from the other girls at the table.

"And what is it that you lot are whispering about?" Catherine sniped, fixing her withering gaze upon the younger women, who all busied themselves with the tea and cakes.

"Merely remarking what a shame it is that such a remarkably gifted young man should go astray like this," one of them said quickly.

"Yes, such a shame," Damonia echoed, hiding her smile behind a sip of tea.

"How peculiar that this should happen to every single suitable bachelor that we have brought for you," Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes and glared at her daughter, and one eyebrow raised in an unspoken challenge.

"How peculiar indeed," Dahlia demurred, her face the picture of innocence. "It's so hard to find a proper gentleman in this modern era- it almost makes one think that the estate would be better off in the hands of, say a woman."

"Almost," her mother said, her thin lips pressing into an unimpressed frown. "But not quite yet. I've been in contact with another matchmaker and the Earl of Windton will be arriving in a fortnight- an upstanding military man, so we should expect no tomfoolery from him."

Dahlia smiled- a soldier? Norman would be most delighted.

She just hoped that Norman wouldn't be too rough on this one- he'd done such a job on the last beau that the poor man had fled to America to escape the scandal. This Frederick fellow had been humiliated enough, she would have to get Norman release him soon.

She glanced across the party towards the lake, where Norman was still frolicking about using Frederick's face and Lady Priscilla was still desperately trying to get her son's body out of the water.

"At least cover yourself!" Lady Priscilla wailed, then she lowered her voice to heated stage whisper. "Everyone can see your buttocks!"

"Cover myself? Why?" Norman gave a cheeky grin and his hands reached down to his backside and teased at the ample flesh of Frederick's cheeks. "I've got such a lovely bum! Everyone should get a chance to see it."

Dahlia vaguely recalled the matchmaker mentioning that Frederick was a horseback riding champion of some sort, and as she watched his copious buttocks jiggle, she could believe it.

She could talk to him later, she decided. For now, she was enjoying the lovely garden view.

[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”.

[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.

[sahhr-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.

[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

[gluttonemporium]

Smothered in the constricting duvet that was the endlessly gluttonous catboy’s slimy innards, her thoughts drowned beneath the chorus of distant belches, clapping fat rolls, and gastric lurching as his binge continued onwards seemingly forever—to say Haru was worried was an understatement. Quickly losing the energy to struggle in the restraining hold of Mona’s guts, her notion of justice was the only foothold the tubby heiress had to maintain consciousness as she spiraled ever deeper into the pit of Mona’s intestines with each of his glunking steps. As the wriggles of her friends grew further and further still muffled under Morgana’s *still growing* waves of trembling, cushiony fat the idea that they could all be stuck here for a *much* longer time became frighteningly real to Haru: what about the appointments she had scheduled for a few days from now? Her university work? She wasn’t certain anyone would accept the excuse that she was currently winding through the guts of a giant, very greedy, very hungry, and very possessive catboy. So she shoved down the fear that they could be trapped here… *forever*… with the hope that Ann would have to notice all of them missing and get them out eventually! The specifics didn’t matter, Haru knew that Ann was capable and strong—if anyone could fix this, she could!

*Thump* *Thump* *Thump*

Haru snapped to attention—she was certain she felt something distinct from the regular gurgling, struggling, and belches reverberate through Mona’s fatty form. While it could as just as easily been Morgana “making biscuits” in his own soft mattress of a belly, Haru was sure that it must have been her, that Ann had come to help—she could almost make out her voice muffled beneath the undulating, pillowy mounds of cat flab, and the wet, burbling groans of Mona’s still hungry stomach! She summoned all her strength to push her body to one side, shouting to let Ann know she was here—her efforts mounting as a melon-sized bulge stretching out before elastically rebounding into the gurgling, jiggling inky mass that was the insatiable catboy’s ocean of fat. Oh dear.

Outside, as his queen tumbled out of the constricting depths of his navel, Morgana couldn’t help but stare and drool as Ann’s entire body wobbled pendulously, sweat slicked fat rippling and colliding into itself—just as she was no doubt in awe of his quivering immensity and his impressive display of gluttony! He was hypnotized by the slow, steady beads of sweat trailing down from her every pore—thin rivers pouring along the round, wobbling curvature of her bra-straining boobs and pooling into the wobbling valley of cleavage between her two massive mammaries, or flowing downwards still into the cute divot of her exposed navel—the glowing sheen on all of her flab further accentuating the depths of her own ravenousness—she looked amazing with her own street filling, car sized curves, just as he would expect from Lady Ann! Morgana beamed, pressing his chest out best he could, “beguiling” his queen with a deluge of compliments and flaunting of his own impossibly large gut—rolling it like a belly dancer, waving and shaking the huge mass of fat, accentuating his size with its loud, gelatinous wobbling and low, heavy sloshes.

The Lady Ann in question, for her own part, was completely oblivious to Morgana’s posturing as he showered her with praise and proclaimed his undying love for her—she was more intent on understanding what exactly was going on here, but it was increasingly difficult to keep her thoughts straight over the audible *BOOWOB*s and *GLOORSH*es from the quivering column of lard Mona was barely visible atop of as he delivered meaty slaps to his belly, divots forming and remaining in his gutfat before rebounding back out, sending its mass sloshing and careening left and right.

Then, it happened. Morgana yelped as his overeager belly-play caused him to tumble forward, hurtling down from the wobbling heights of his double decker bus sized stomach to the pavement below. The sound of a violent flood of viscous, sloshing liquid filled her ears as Ann watched the tsunami of furry black cat flab come crashing down—bulked out by four enormously fat girls and a town’s worth of food and drink from all the restaurants, stalls, and remotely edible objects—there was no stopping the torrent of greedy catboy fat as it plummeted with a deep, colic *BRRGGBLGGRRBLlGLUNK*, as if a wobbling water tower had been overturned.

Mona fell faster and faster until, with a massive quaking *THUD-SLAP*, the greedy catboy’s belly kingdom slammed into the ground like an overfull inky water balloon, shaking everything in the Scramble. Jiggling rolls and folds splayed and rippled outwards from the impact for a moment, before bouncing upwards on a delay—crashing and slamming into themselves—one soft rippling ridge taking a whole minute to propagate through the undulating mass of catboy before receding and giving way to the next. The gelatinous waves even encompassed the fixtures and passerby of the Scrambles as they wobbled forward, grabbing on to any nearby items like a hungry blob: benches, payphone boxes, and frightened people were all smothered by the advancing wave of dough before the rubbery gutflesh dragged them underneath Mona’s mass—never to be seen again by the outside world.

The seismic impact knocked Ann back onto her two pale mounds of wobbling, sweaty asscheeks like two oversized mochi filled beanbags, her own fatty udders wobbling onto her face with a clap and blocking her view. Even smothered against her own curves like this though, Ann couldn’t help but feel insignificant compared to the girlmeat-enhanced mountains that were Mona’s own, still jiggling, inkly black cheeks—shifting and clapping into each other like rippling, syrupy waves, sending audible thuds vibrating throughout the Scramble. It was fair to say Ann herself was packing a truckload of butt, but Mona’s monolithic ass now looming above her looked more like two full, black moons, casting a shadow over them both, a doomsday meteor frozen merely a few feet away from burying her (or as frozen as something could be when it jiggled and wobbled like a mound of jello).

So all-consuming and vast was Mona’s empire of fat that it had completely consumed Ann’s ears and eyes again. Ann’s thoughts were inaudible beneath the cacophony of echoing, lurid *GROWROWL*s that shook Mona’s impossibly large gut and the ground beneath Ann, preventing her attempts to right herself as the needy sea of inky blubber churned and sloshed angrily with more movement than Mona thought he was capable of at his size—the catboy moaning in discomfort as he rubbed what he could reach of his bubbling tummy while it recovered from the shock. The only things that remained visible to her now that Morgana was so close were the face of the greedy catboy himself and what looked like to her to be an apartment building’s worth of pure, jostling, hungry fat—undulating at a hypnotic tempo as if to coax her closer, like a belly-dancing assassin.

As the last of the impact’s aftershocks wobbled away on her sloshing breasts and street filling hips, Ann was still completely out of sorts—only for Morgana to finally call her from her stupor, half hoping that she would forget his embarrassing tumble and that he could say that he just wanted to be closer to her: “…uh, Lady Ann?”

As he spoke, Ann was made aware of just how close to her Mona was now. She could feel a wave of hot, oddly sweet smelling, humid fumes pouring from Morgana’s eager lips rolling over her jiggling curves, already slick with sweat from her trek through the flabby, sticky crevice that was his navel. As she was washed with that warmth and face to face with the impossibly hungry catboy’s mouth, reality was finally beginning to dawn on Ann—keeping him company?

Ann shook her head before finally replying incredulously, “You really ate them? *All* of them?”

Mona’s gelatinous form rocked again as a hiccup jolted through him before he chuckled with pride, “Plus the food of a few restaurants and stalls along the way, and with room to spare!” He punctuated the statement by digging and dragging his digits along the soft catfat—purring in delight as they seemed to sink in even deeper than before—stroking what he could of his burbling, rippling inky dough, entreating Ann to admire the kingdom he had built for the both of them from the treasures his gluttony had won.

Despite his attempts, Ann remained disapproving, “Okay so whatever competition you guys were having, I guess you won—when are you gonna let them out? I mean, are you sure they’re all safe right now?”

Blanketed under enough layers of greedy catboy adipose to constitute an entire mattress store, there was hardly a notion of up or down anymore to the girls coursing through Mona’s intestines—but that didn’t stop them from feeling the impact of his giant, fatty form tumbling forward as he attempted to gloat to Ann—all of their squishy curves being rocked and jiggled like they were on spin cycle. Maybe it was a combination of the fact that she had been there the shortest or the raging passion of a gamer burning inside her… or the thrashing of the friend accidentally lodged into her deep, flabby belly button raging inside her… but Futaba knew this was her opportunity to make a break for it! Placing a hand to her pale bed of a belly in an attempt to soothe its restless occupant as her own curves wobbled against each other like a stormy sea, Futaba made a declaration, “Don’t worry Sumi, in a second we’ll be outta here! Time for my true power!” The massively bloated NEET lifted her thick thigh to deliver a kick to Mona’s guts… only for her foot to get caught in the sphincter above her—a flash of hope rocked Futaba—only for the sphincter to suck her boot off and leave her trapped in Mona’s intestines again—aw, c’mon!

Called out of his daydream, Mona drew his hands back from kneading his needy belly bed and stared wide eyed back at his queen, “Oh I’m sure they’re safe, I actually hea—,” Mona was caught off guard when the reality of the questioned dawned on him. Was his queen asking him to relinquish the belly kingdom he had built for her? Did she really not see the majesty in the once small catboy rising to meteoric heights of unrestrained street filling gluttony like he had, “Let them… out? W-well we agreed on a week…“ another ominous gurgle emanated deep from the pits of Mona’s engorged guts from across the Scramble, steadily and visibly rattling through the blocks Mona’s belly had completely flooded, growing in intensity enough to churn the waters of catboy bellyfat before a comically sized bulge crept up Mona’s throat and into his mouth—Mona thanked his catlike reflexes as he clamped his lips shut before it could erupt, his cheeks puffing out to the size of beanbags themselves. With a series of hearty, airy gulps Morgana’s cheeks slowly deflated as he sent the bulge sliding back into his stomach and continued, “Well I—“

Mona’s belly *roiled.* Clearly unsatisfied with the fat cat’s attempts to suppress its relief after the discomfort of the tumble, visible bulges *surged* with intensity along Mona’s belly, pushing further and further up like a huge pot of boiling, thick ink. Finally the commotion shot back into Morgana’s mouth before he was prepared.

Morgana and Ann locked eyes, his face clenched, eyes shut. Then, in an instant, Mona’s lips were blown open, the flabby fashionista flinching as she was blasted with boiling gastric fumes and pelted with spittle and undigested items. Windows rattled and cars jumped as the massive expulsion rung out across Mona’s rippling fat and the Scramble. When the roar finally subsided Ann did what she could to swipe the thick coating of drool off of her curves and right herself, glaring back at Mona, only to notice Futaba’s saliva coated shoe among the items. “Seriously Mona? Just Futaba’s shoe?! You gotta let everybody out!” Ann punctuated her statement with a pout, planting her hands on her own double wide car sized hips and stomping her foot indignantly—and she could’ve sworn from the corner of her eye that the twin jiggling mounds of Mona’s ass had grown even bigger somehow.

“Well I can try but they’re packed kinda deep in there… I sort of… pushed them all down into my intestines.” Mona squeaked out like a pet who had been caught with something they shouldn’t have, shoving his paws deep into his belly bed as if to illustrate.

“Your intestines?! Mona, they’re going to be there for a lot longer than a week at this rate—plus how do you get them back up now? They all kinda have lives and jobs they need to get back to, things they can’t do when they’re stuck in your guts!”

Try as he might to deny it, the logic had absolutely occurred to Morgana, but he was enjoying his prodigious size, sense of fullness, and satiating feeling of accomplishment to let concern overcome his greed—to let any of them go—especially when he had taken such great lengths to make their stay hospitable! Still though, being put on the spot by his queen like this made him nervous, how could he help her to understand? “I’m sorry Lady Ann! M-maybe I can try burping them back out!” Morgana was privately convinced that the endeavor would be totally fruitless, but more than that he didn’t want to give up his pets—especially not before he’d been allowed to enjoy them for at least a week. At the same time, Ann’s opinion of him was paramount, so while he worked and kneaded what he could reach of his quaking ocean of bellyfat he searched his mind for a compromise that would allow him to keep his pets while also ensuring they had access to everything they needed from the luxurious comfort of his belly.

Th-this was... it was... huh?

This wasn't going according to plan at all! How could Lady Ann, the pinnacle of beauty in this corrupt world, not see how amazing the mound of lard he had built for her was! W-was his belly not soft enough? His ass not fat enough? His belches too annoying?!

"Let them out?" The idea had been unthinkable to the hulking blob of a cat a few minutes ago... but only a short outburst from Ann had been enough to knock some sense into the gluttonous beast. Not quite enough to change his mind, but enough to rattle him-

But truth is, Mona had no IDEA how to get any of the jailed girls out of his winding stretch of deep guts! I-it was kind of implied to be a one-way thing, y'know? Cross that bridge when they come to it?! But the most he could retrieve from so far inside was this soggy shoe of Futaba's...

"Uh, Lady Ann? I, um... I might need your help..." The black cat mumbled. Admitting he had jammed their friends into a place where there was no real escape was a no go! But asking someone out here to put a little pressure where he needed it? That was a bit more doable...

"Okay, I think they can squeeze out if you... mash reeeeal hard on them from the outside?" Morgana sheepishly proposed, pushing his gelatinous wall of ebony pudge towards Ann's face. Not really to show off, but to show his surrender... that's how animals gave up, right? Showing their stomaches-?

"I-if you can push them a bit closer to my gut, I can belch them all out one after another!" He peered down at his Lady atop his wobbling mountain of adipose.

"...Probably."

Adding that last part under his breath, Mona still hadn't given up on claiming his queen. Remember how a thief does things - they pick their spot wisely, and wait for juuuuust the right chance...

[monmuses]

general-kalani asked: ❛  here, i noticed you lost this earlier.  ❜ { From my new boy Cobbs Pond HAVE FUN RESPONDING WITH ANY MUSE YOU WANT <3 } ; 🐝 * ― 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

She had expected to hear some kind of thief at her heels with something of hers in hand, but... nothing. Something that was genuine that was being offered right back to her that she seemed to drop - a pendulant of hers that she had pocketed as an old gift.

"Oh! Uh... thank you," she muttered. "Hey, uhm... real quick question, how long was this out of my pocket? Not to sound... accusatory, but I didn't even realize 'til now."

[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.   ❞

[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…

[bleachedjuice]

'To Whom The Bells Toll' pt 8.

Warnings: mentions of violence and cursing and angstttttt

This chapter was posted a bit later than I would have liked, but it was a fairly busy week. I apologize!

"One wrong move, and I'll muster your face to mangle into a more fucking ugly look."

You froze. Your heart beat jaggered a harsh pulse, jumping in the pits of your stomach as it fell short of shitting out of you at the mere moment. Your jaw locked as cold sweat shivered your spine with the feeling of the Gun harsh against the near rear side of your head. Your blind side.

Fuck.

You then felt an arm grasp you by the collar of your uniform and yank you to your knees and then yank to the point you had no choice but to un gracefully wobble to your feet, and there you stood, frozen and still like a spooked still deer. Your nostrils flared as you narrowed a side glare from your wide doe like eyes. You one-eyed pupil blew up from the adrenaline as well as fear. You could taste it on your lips. And you watering jaws.

"Now, where are the rest of your crew hm?"

Silence.

You could tell that the question was directed to you. You then heard the air whisp behind you as a loud thwack erupted from the back of your skull as your brain bounced like a pin ball in your skull.. with a shout, you lurched forward only to be pushed to your knees, a mere foot or two from the giant of a man who bristled at the seams.... as he watched you waver ever so slightly against the now ever dull pain that throbbed at the back of your skull from the whack you had just suffered from the butt of the gun that now reveled in a tight grip in this man's hand as be shotted in a forgein language as he waves the gun around until he pointed it at König, which obviously or evidently got a rise out of your now stiff and still body.

Silence...

"Where is the rest of you?"

You bit your tongue and bared your teeth crookedly like a beast would as you spoke.

"Their gone."

"But where?"

He then growled and backhanded König as the giant roared in German at the man. Silence now.. again... you felt the mere tension from Köniv as he obviously tempered himself into the urges of just killing the man before him...

And that man crept his way closer to you...the two dead both lay where they were...the injured groaning in pain as he slowly bled out, as his own teammate remained at the focused task of you two... and the gun returned to your head... and you saw from the corner of your good side... where the gun was held, that the man lowered himself to yourself height..your level as though to make himself seem more intimidating..scary to you... to emphasize the fact that he had the power and you did not right now.

"WHERE?!" A scream hoarded through this man's throat as his face reddened with either embarrassment or anger.. perhaps both as he then turned to König as König began to shout German again. And then man began to move, the gun now away from your head..and as soon as he leveled himself a meter two inches above your head, the gun swung to the opposite area of his arm as he got up... and you struck. The pendul in your hand sinking deep into the temples of the man repeatedly as screams cut through the air as two bullets braised your face, knicking it, and defeaning you as you leapt onto of the man and repeatedly stabbed...and deformed the man's face into nothing but chopped holes..until you were grabbed from behind and pulled off by an oh do familiar grasp.

König.

You whirled around with a snarl onto your face as it twisted with adrenaline until his hands held your face still, like a beating wing that was frantic for its other half.

His eyes gleamed as he attentived your face to his, steadying you.

You stilled and then huffed shakily.

"I'm fine. We need-"

You then tore yourself from his grip and whirled harshly before turning and twisting to the left and then the right, until you turned to face him again.

"We need to go..."

"Maus..."

"König...please..."

And with that, you both bolted like bats out of hell to the chopper revendous zone... and once the chopper had taken off...it was deafened silence....silence between the crews...and you and könig...

By the time you made it to the base and dispatched from Laswells office to your own...your door was slammed and your body was timid...

"Fuck..."

Muttering a whisper, you grumbled into your office chair, your hands covering your face as you exasperated a frustrating groan of yell.....

Then a knock....

Bitterly, you rubbed your nose bridge... before glaring at the door...

"Come in..."

And the knod twisted, and then the door opened... and then you held back a sucked breath as you stared at the figure in front of you, slammed the door shut.

[yumejo]

hook, line, and—floater...?

「jade x haru // jaderu」 ↳ for precious @kunehori !! title is just a little pun on haru's obliviousness hehe

“Azul, Mana-san asked me to bring you these reports—?” Pushing the door open to Azul’s personal office, Haru immediately felt her heart plummet into her stomach with dread as she stood frozen in the entryway.

Arched on his desk with his arms pendulously over the edge, Azul appeared lifeless and defunct; the pallidness of his complexion attributing to this grievous notion.

“A-A-Azul is d-dead?!” a disquieted squeak emitted from Haru’s quivering lips as she rushed forward, panicking on what she should do. She fished out her phone quickly, whimpering, “C-Call! Um! Eight⋯ One⋯ Ahh! What’s Papa and Mama’s number again?!”

“It’s 896-xxx, right?”

“O-Oh! Thank you! E-Eight, Nine⋯” Just before Haru pressed the next number, her finger stopped.

Peering down at her beloved cousin’s corpse, Haru nearly shrieked when she scrutinized Azul staring back at her—eyes rimmed with a weariness only worn by the dead. “Could you not,” he began with a croak, pinching the bridge of his nose, “barge into my office and presume I’m dead? And don’t try calling your own parents before even checking to see if I’m still breathing?”

“You scared me half-to-death!” Haru riposted with a petulant pout, resting a hand over her bosom in an attempt to placate her pulsating heart. “I’m so relieved I was wrong⋯”

“Oh? Showing care for me now, are we?” Azul quipped with an unimaginative wickedness, tone still dabbed with tinctures of fatigue as his slender fingers grasped his glasses and slotted them back onto his countenance.

Haru glowered with reproach, his comment evoking odium to rise into her throat, before she simply sighed, not giving him the satisfaction of a snit, “I was just worried about the cost of a coffin to fit you and all those tentacles of yours.”

Popping a vein on his forehead, Azul snapped back, “It’s your fault I’m like this, you know.”

“Wha—How so?!”

This type of asinine banter was to be expected from the two of them—their relationship akin to siblings than that of cousins. Growing up alongside Azul, Haru was one of the few people who stood by him throughout all his insecurities and plights.

“Because you didn’t like the cake Jade made for you,” Azul elucidated with a drained exhale, his lips twitching in vexation as he recollected all he had to endure, “He forced Floyd and I to eat so many different batches all night. Well, Floyd got bored and left half-way through—”

That made Haru pause, her eyebrows quirking in flummox. Jade was that concerned over a small comment she made the previous day? All she could remember was sticking her tongue out and saying ‘this is way too sweet!’ before nudging the plate away from her; but it seemed as if that was enough to galvanize Jade into an all-night cake baking bootcamp.

But⋯ why was Jade so obdurate on changing the recipe? It was a popular cake at Mostro Lounge.

“—I’m going to gain 10 pounds just from the sheer amount I ate alone. All those carbs and sugar,” Azul continued to grouse and lament his predicament as Haru was still lost in her ruminations.

“Did Jade⋯ find a suitable recipe?” Haru questioned, interposing onto Azul’s long monologue of misfortune, her skin emanating a warmth beyond her comprehension.

“Hm? I suppose so. He said he’ll serve it to you later,” Azul answered, shrugging his shoulders as he shook his head, “He even refused to let me put it on the menu. What a shame, it’s quite delicious with all the tweaks he made.”

Bringing her fingers up to her cheeks, as if doing that would suppress the heat overflowing from her cheeks, Haru murmured a soft, airy ‘oh’⋯ why did she suddenly feel so flattered and embarrassed?

[dispatchwithlove]

Hello!!! For the Sinday Sunday Ask! For my favorite fic The Boy, questions for the Shakarian couple on 🍏,🍎🍋🍌,🫐,🥝 Answer the questions you feel comfortable answering, have a good day, by the way your way of writing is very beautiful <3

Hello! Thanks for the ask, and the kind words! 1. Preference for top or bottom, sub or dom: So for top/bottom: Garrus loves both, and being bi he has extensive experience with both. Jane has less experience bc she has less experience relationship wise in general, but she gets very into pegging once they start dating. As for dom/sub, in my detective au Garrus leans dom and Jane leans sub, though they'll switch and play around. They just adore each other so much I think they both get too twitterpated while having sex to stick to any roles or plans 😁 2. Favorite type, looks, and personality wise? Garrus is attracted to Jane's strong personality, confidence, soft heart, and her ability to take charge. He's attracted to her hair, hips, and waist, and especially her delicate places that bend (ankle, wrist, neck, back) Jane is attracted to Garrus's heart, that fact that he's good at anything he tries, and his sense of humor. She's into his confident body language, seductive, pendulating hips, forearms, ass, voice...she's just really hot for him, all of him, haha. 3. Deep and slow? Hard and fast? Yes, haha. They're just horny for each other. I think they both lean more towards deep, slow, tender, but also intense and passionate. Jane leans way more into rough stuff than Garrus. In the latest chapter (6) I teased that Jane will enjoy some pain/pleasure play specifically because she finds she's really into aftercare. 4. Favorite position? Her in front, on her knees, against a wall or something else supportive (like the back of a couch) with him on his knees behind her. Or him sitting upright and her in his lap. These positions allow them to hold each other and kiss/nuzzle despite their massive height difference. (she's 5'8" and he's 7'). 5. Clothes off or on? They will take it anyway they can get it. But I think they both prefer buck fucking naked. That way they can enjoy gazing at every beautiful inch of each other. (yes they're the couple everyone rolls their eyes at) 6. Private Sexual fantasy Oh this is a hard one 😁 Well, during The Boy specifically, Garrus fantasizes most about getting Jane naked and running his tongue along sweet, sensitive spots on her body, like her ankle, wrist, and lower back. Jane fantasizes most about giving him a bj. She's a simple lady, and a giver, lol. Alright, bless anyone who read this whole thing because I rambled like a ninny. Thanks again for asking, Anon. Hope you enjoyed these answers, and take care 😊

[chibrary]

title: you ask the questions: charles leclerc source: stuart codling, gp racing uk format: article (interview) season: 2018, f1

Now listen very carefully: Ferrari’s latest star signing might not be afraid of Sebastian Vettel, but he’s not keen on snakes – and neither is he very sure of what to make of that ‘Allo ‘Allo meme that’s doing the rounds… “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 star-wrangler 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…

What was it like to see yourself on the front cover of a magazine for the first time? Charles Leclerc: It was very cool. It’s a special moment to see yourself on something like that for the first time. What does the underside of Alonso’s car look like? 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 anyway… 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 unclear]

In your company car, have you beaten the best commute times from Monaco to Modena set by Gilles Villeneuve and Jody Scheckter? 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? 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? 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? CL: I really shouldn’t say, because I was quite young!

What is your favourite childhood memory with Jules Bianchi? 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.