#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

[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.

[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.

[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.   ❞

[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?

[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…

[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 😊

[fstbmp-a]

@royalreef sent: There comes a tilt to her head, a slight movement to one side over the other, a rotation that places one cheek lower than the other, one eye higher than other. It's the casual, thoughtful movements of something with a head like hers, heavy and large and easy to only see one eye when glimpsed from the side, supported by a neck equally as thick as the rest of her body. Powerful, in a statement given by the slow, weight and mass suggested by the time it took to move such equipment. More tectonic than gesture, more statement than the shrug in suggestion. Miranda lowers her head some. Coming even with Amelia's, resting where she might be equally perceived and closer than is strictly polite, and likewise giving perfect vantage to see the places where they differ. Ridges contrasted with softness, meat with bone, scales with glittering gold. Fine muscle movements in her eye make her pupils contract, fluttering little movements that bespeak to alive as quickly as it bespeaks of an intelligence lurking beneath the surface, a shadow glimpsed and darting away but surely waiting, parsing what dwelled above as much as it was being seen in turn. It gives her some familiarity, but not in any way Miranda will speak of. If she recognizes anything about it, if she understands anything of it, she does not show it, and all she gives is a tilt of the lips, a flash of her cutting teeth, and a smile that could quicken the heart in a thousand different ways. "I do not think we have been introduced as of yet." Swift comes her voice, spoken more in her chest than against her tongue and throat, low and strung through with a growl, a cello strum, a melodic note dark and deep as the ocean and richer than all her royal vaults. "Might I have your name?"

A strange thing, to Amelia. Though, in truth, what wasn't to one such as she? There was no differentiation between the normal and the bizarre, so everything teetered the line for it. So, instead, perhaps it was best to call this person 'new'. Yes, this person was new to Amelia.

New in every way. The lagomorph 'stood' there, hovering just-so off the ground so minutely most wouldn't even notice lest she moved. The fluffiness of fur and softness of form betrayed not a muscle beneath the surface. All curves and nary a strong angle to be seen. Not quite matching a proper rabbit in the way it's form seemed cartoonish in it's fluffiness. Like it was made with the exact purpose of being cutesy and large, yet someone lost the design notes partway through.

Dark blues and tinted grey contrast the burning red of the eyes staring back at the other, black squares within, housing red in the center of the empty shapes. A slight glow to them, as if they were trying to illuminate everything that caught their gaze to see it better. How said gaze sweeped over the other, the light shining on spots before the eyes themselves moved; as if there were a delay between what truly happened and what the body did.

White gloves politely held themselves together in front of black dress when the other spoke, head tilting to one side as ears flopped from the movement. Like they were lowering those pendulous things in order to catch all the words better. There's a long drawl of silence between Miranda finishing and the other's response. It took so long one may assume it didn't hear her--

"No." That was it, for a moment. A simple answer to the question.

Why would Amelia give her name away to a stranger? That would be quite rude to the name, it thought. It had worked rather hard on this one, after all, and it would be insulting to give said name away after that hard work. No, no. This was it's name, assuredly, and it wasn't going to let that go so easily.

"I quite like it, so I want to keep it for now. Maybe when I have more names of my own to spare, I can loan you one; if we get to know one another better."

[tacogrande]

Hiii! I saw your video a while back of Pendulous Threads by Incubus and was wondering what ither bands / types of music do you like ?

(Btw the art in that video made me bOnkers!!!!!!!<3)

owaaaaa, OMGGGm IOSAIOWHA this makes me so happY ;_;!! haha i remember my professor seemed a bit nervous when i presented my progress boards (cause it had over like 12 , LITTLE DID HE KNOW... I HAD NEARLY FINISHED IT BY THEN!)

BUT HANK YOUUU so much! thank you for watching it! and oh man..... that's a hard question, i listen to so many things but ill bring it down to at least 5!

been recently listening to Prefab Sprout! "King of Rock N Roll" is a really fun one, that and "Cars and Girls" and "Hey Manhattan" !

Endless Love- byt diana ross and lionel ritchie, has been on repeat recently!!

around the late winter i was DEEP DEEP into listening 2 BUCK-TICK! "Illusion", "Die", and this song are one of my faves! (the last song has been on repeat...so many timES mDIOSHFS

Since i watched John Wick, the ending song that rina sawayama wrote 'eye for an eye' (i think its called!) and ;where u are' , have been my go to ! i think i played the john wick song for almost 10 minutes mdiosamdoiasj ITS SO GOOOD

lastly, a song that i latched onto instantly, found on on eof my bestie's bil and ted playlist...is 'If I Were You' by stevie knicks!! its a really pleasant sounding song, it always makes my heart swell idk IT JUST SOUNDS PRETTY

thats all i can think of in terms of most recent but yee!! i hope u can find some songs you might like in there! :-)

[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.