#rectangle drum shade

[pingtopong]

Enclosed Dining Room in Chicago

Large transitional dining room with blue walls and no fireplace in the background, with a brown floor.

[withacapitalp]

Happy birthday Cass!!! I don't know if you remember this, but this was the first thing I wrote that started our friendship so I wrote a little add on as a birthday present and I hope you like it <3 @henderdads

Eddie noticed everything.

Eddie noticed the exact shade of brown that Steve’s eyes turned when the sunlight hits his face. He noticed that Steve cut Dustin’s sandwiches into triangles, El’s into rectangles, and always took the crusts off of Mike’s. He noticed that Steve stuck money in Wayne’s wallet when he knew that Wayne is dead asleep in his easy chair. Never enough for Wayne to catch on, just enough that Wayne could always afford a new pack of smokes if he wanted.

So of course Eddie noticed Steve's…thing about numbers.

The first time was with the shoes. Steve always seemed like a bit of a neat freak, but he had this especially weird thing about always making sure everyone’s shoes were lined up in perfect order.

The next thing was the steps while they were walking. It was like his boyfriend would purposefully miss the doorway, walk a few steps farther just so he could turn around and walk in on the right number.

But the rings….it’s the thing with the rings that makes Eddie confront him.

When he came home that night and found Steve shaking in a ball on the floor, Eddie had just held him, and then he had done his best to try and let them move past it. Steve would pick his rings in the morning, and Eddie would be content to just let Steve have his quirks. That would work.

But the curiosity continued to grow as the coincidences continued to mount and before too long Eddie couldn’t ignore it any more.

“So what’s special about seven?” Eddie asked as Steve slid the last ring off for the day. It was a thick black one with angel wings on one side and demon wings on the other. It was Steve’s favorite.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve said with far too much casualness, keeping his eyes firmly on their joined fingers.

“Baby,” Eddie said softly, leaning in close and touching their foreheads, “You don’t have to tell me, but please don’t lie,”

“Nothing,” Steve finally whispered, pulling back, “There’s nothing.

God, Eddie loved Steve with all his heart, but sometimes it really was just like pulling teeth.

“Stevie-”

“I’m not lying,” Steve said, quickly cutting Eddie off. He was starting to tap again, drumming the fingers of his free hand against his thigh in that oh so familiar pattern, “There’s nothing special about the number seven. Nothing important,”

“But?” Eddie prompted when Steve trailed off. His boyfriend oepneed and closed his mouth a few time

“But I can’t stop counting to it,” Steve blurted out in a rush, turning away from Eddie and burying his face in his hands

“To seven,” Eddie clarified, still unable to understand.

“Seven kids, Seven adults, my birthday is July 7th.” Steve said, muffled but clearly filled with shame, “I can't stop looking for sevens, because if I stop, then someone will get hurt, and it'll be my fault,”

Eddie's breath left his lungs, making the room feel too small. He knew Steve had a thing about sevens but this…this was beyond anything he could have thought of.

He must have been doing a pretty terrible job of hiding the horror on his face, because the second Steve looked up he huffed out a bitter little laugh and wrapped his arms tight around his middle.

“I know that makes me crazy, okay? I know that. I know that I'm crazy, I know that it means nothing. I know, I know, I know,” Steve said, growing more and more frantic with every word. Eddie crawled to the edge of the bed next to him, putting an arm around Steve's shoulder and holding him tight.

“But I can't stop, Eddie. I can't stop, I can't stop,” Steve admitted in a broken whisper, falling into his arms and breaking down in a very uncharacteristic, very terrifying way.

“I can't stop because if I do you'll get jumped at the school, and Robin will get in a car accident, and the gate is gonna reopen, and the kids are gonna die and, and- I can't stop. I can't stop. I can't stop.”

Steve continued to mutter into Eddie's shoulder as he fell apart. Over and over, until he cried himself to sleep.

He couldn't stop. Which meant Steve had tried to.

Which meant Steve wanted to.

The word finally hit him as Eddie tucked the blanket around Steve and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's forehead, lying down next to him and holding him close. It really was the perfect word for the situation, but the word that created a host of other complications. Still Eddie couldn't make it leave his head as he laid awake the entire night.

Not a habit. Not an addiction.

It was a compulsion.

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Summary - When you keep crossing paths with the security guard who works the night shift at Freddy Fazbear’s, you think it’s a coincidence.

Dave Miller sees it as Kismet. Fate. Destiny.

Also available on AO3

The 24 hour self service laundromat is empty.

As it should be at 3am. You love coming here at this time, having the place to yourself. Just a short walk across the now deserted city street from your apartment. Laundry basket settled onto one of the washers marked Out of Service. Scooping a cup of powdered detergent onto your clothes tucked around the drum. Adjusting the settings. Now settled in one of the rows of seats that face the glass front of the building. Rifling through the pile of magazines on the table beside you. Pulling one free, flipping through it briefly and setting it back down. You’ve been through this one several times. They really needed to get some new reading material. You should bring a book next time.

The wall mounted television displays an infomercial. Some kitchen gadget that the host is singing the praises of. You slip your headphones on and hit play on the Discman. The sound of the CD spinning muffled from within its placement in your denim jacket. You reach for the button to advance the tracks. You know it by feel now, no longer needing to see the device, tracing the smooth rectangle that displays the track number and palpate two squares to the right. Depress it twice. It always seems like the best tracks are the third cut on any given album. Maybe it’s just coincidence.

You hear the motorcycle before you see it, the engine loud even competing with your headphones. Black sport bike, shiny in the streetlights. Pulling up to the curb outside the laundromat. A thin man riding it. Keys pulled from the ignition, long leg swung over. Canvas bag bungied to the back released. He shoves at the door to the entrance. Dumps the bag on the counter and removes his helmet. Everything he’s wearing the same shade as his ride outside. Even his hair is dark. A little mussed from being inside the helmet. Black leather gloves that cling tightly and don’t seem to want to part from his body. Tip of the material casing his middle finger clutched between white teeth, tugging until the glove loosens. Long fingers. Large hands. The zipper of his leather jacket pulled down. A couple of flashes of silver. Tie bar. Badge. A security guard uniform. Gloves shoved into the pocket of his jacket. Helmet lifted in one hand, laundry bag in the other. He turns and seems to notice you for the first time since he’d entered.

Your eyes dart away nervously, your hand moving to your pocket to turn the volume of your music down. You know you’ve been staring. In all the months you’ve been coming here you’ve never bumped into anyone at this hour. His skin is so pale. High cheekbones. Sharp nose. Full, pouty lips. Difficult to determine his age. Late thirties, early forties maybe. Certainly your senior. You try a smile and it’s not returned.

Now you hear the stranger fiddling with one of the machines behind you. Decide maybe it’s best to leaf through a magazine after all, just for the excuse of something else to look at and occupy you. He descends into one of the plastic chairs in the row that lines the front of the establishment. Across and diagonal from your own position, roughly. Helmet set on the seat beside him. One ankle coming to rest on the opposite knee. Selecting one of those Auto Trader magazines that’s always on hand. Seemingly immersed in its pages, but you aren’t fooled. You think he’s very, very aware of his surroundings. You can’t say precisely what it is about him, but there’s this aura. Dangerous. Intriguing.

You feel your cheeks growing warm and you turn the page of the magazine you’re holding so rapidly it tears right through the advertisement for hand lotion. Your eyes stare sightlessly. The next song that comes on isn’t your favorite but you refuse to let go of the magazine. Eyes flicking up to find him regarding you. A little twitch of lips that might have been a smile but there’s nothing friendly in that gesture of amusement. There are dark stains under his eyes that have the look of permanent fixtures. A chronic insomoniac like yourself. Who else does laundry in the middle of the night?

The hour passes slowly. You’re relieved when you hear the buzz signaling your load is finished. Wet clothing thrust back into the basket before you reach the dryer. Perfumed sheet added. Quarters thumbed into the slot. Another hour with the dark haired man.

A televangelist program begins airing. An infinitely worse selection than its predecessor. You swap out your CDs. An ancient copy of Woman’s Day now clutched in your grasp. A recipe for something using jello and ingredients that most certainly didn’t belong anywhere near gelatin. An advice column with someone lamenting their neglectful husband. An article about the merits of pressing and hanging curtains. God, was this what you had to look forward to in your future?

Boots drumming on linoleum that’s overdue to be mopped. The man’s turn to transfer his laundry to a dryer. Draped back in the chair across from you again. He doesn’t touch the stack of magazines this time, instead opting for removing something from his pants pocket. A knife. One of those Swiss Army type deals, you guess. The blade snapped open. Paring his nails. You’re struck again by how massive those palms are, the lengths of the fingers he's manicuring. Force yourself to study the same coupon advertisement that’s been spread open on your lap for the last five minutes. The music in your headphones is white noise now. You’re not even aware of what song is playing or who the artist is. Too focused on this strange scenario that’s unfolding.

The knife is tucked away. Sleeves of the leather jacket creaking slightly when the man folds his arms. Face turned to the television, a disapproving scowl apparent on his profile. Well, that was one thing you had in common, anyway.

The dryer buzzes. You’ve never moved so fast before, canvas sneakers squeaking as you lurch from your seat, tossing the magazine aside. Wrench open the door and drag your clothes back in the basket. Headphones hooked back around your neck. You push the glass front door open with your hip, grateful for the flood of fresh air that wafts over you, a welcome change from the warm, perfumed interior of the laundromat.

“Have a good night.”

You freeze, your eyes meeting the stranger’s. Pale and dark at the same time. You don’t even know how to describe them. His pupils shouldn’t be so wide in that brightly lit space. A narrow ring of iris that could be as transparent as worn sea glass in some shade between blue and clear.

A slight jerky movement of your head that was intended to be a nod. Then you finish pushing your way through the exit. Hurrying back across the street. Forget hitting the button for the crosswalk, forget checking for cars, of which there are actually starting to be a few of, early morning commuters just starting their day.

The feel of those eyes still clinging to your skin, stirring hairs, raising goosebumps on your arms, on your neck. A sensation that still lingers after dawn.

***

You’re just about ready to call it a night.

You’ve finished one last sweep through the cages, making sure there’s no lingering excrement, water and food bowls full. The latest intake, a litter of unwanted kittens, is having a final play session in the next room. You gather them up one by one, carefully shutting the door in between each visit. Five gray tabbies secured. Now just the tuxedo left, a feisty girl who seems a little braver than her siblings. You crack open the door and the small feline takes the opportunity to dart through it.

You curse, scrambling to catch it before it can reach the back door propped open for ventilation. The air conditioner has been broken for months, funds needed elsewhere.

Of course it finds that escape route. Easily. More profanity as you chase her. The completely wrong approach, but you’re desperate now. Return to grab a bag of dry food. Maybe the sound will entice it. Force yourself to slow your pace. Shaking the bag. Eyes darting over the parking lot. A tiny meow. There, on the side of the building. Heading towards the front.

Luckily the shelter isn’t on one of the main roads, but it’s still dangerous to be in the street. You’re doing your best to try to remain calm. Making little smooching noises with your lips, trying to summon the creature. It halts in the middle of the road, looking back at you. You stop and shake the bag of kibble. It’s definitely interested. You resume walking forward slowly. It begins washing its front paw, feigning indifference, waiting. You utter some more soothing noises, affectionate sounds, crouching down when you’ve nearly closed the distance. Dumping a few pieces of dry food on the pavement. The kitten takes a tentative sniff and then snatches a bite of the offering. Crunching loudly, a rumbling purr beginning. Almost within reach. Greedily following the messy trail between you. There. You scoop it up, clutching it against your chest, reaching for the bag you’ve set down.

The sudden sound of a motorcycle engine. The kitten’s claws dig painfully into you but you don’t let go. Everything happening in slow motion. Headlight blinding you. Trying to move out of the way. The rider swerving at the last moment. You and the kitten are safe. The engine choking and dying abruptly. Metal scraping asphalt.

Everything snapping back to real time. You feel the small animal in your arms struggling to be released, squirming, claws still unsheathed. The bike looks similar to the one that man in the laundromat had from the other night. No, not similar. The exact same. The lean figure on the ground instantly recognizeable. It was him.

He pushes himself to his feet, unfastening the strap of the visored helmet and wrenching it free. His eyes on you. Breathing a little heavily. You’re not exactly calm yourself. Your heart is hammering in your chest. So close. If he hadn’t moved…But then again, he’d been going way too fast. A flurry of emotions washing over you. You’re not sure which one to go with.

“Are you alright?”

You nod. “You?”

“Yeah, just scratched my hands up good, should have had my gloves on…what the hell were you doing in the middle of the road?” Concern now shifting to blame.

“I was trying to save this kitten. And you were the one speeding.”

“I wasn’t going that fast. You should have been paying more attention.”

“I wasn’t the one driving!”

He shakes his head, turning his attention to his bike. Some power in that wiry body of his when he rights it with what appears like little effort. The paint is scratched, but you can’t see any other significant damage.

“I have to get her inside.” Your charge has not ceased squirming the entire time you’ve been arguing.

“Yeah, fine, go.” He hits the kickstand, setting the motorcycle upright.

You retrieve the bag of food, hesitating to leave the man standing there. “You um…you can come in if you want. Wash up. I’ve got first aid supplies.”

He sets the helmet down on the seat and looks at you. Stern features softening a bit when he focuses on the miniature cat. He strokes its head and the feline instantly grows calmer. Index finger tucking under the tiny chin and you can feel and hear the animal purring again.

“Well you’re a natural. You have pets at home?” You turn, leading him to the rear entrance.

“Not exactly.”

You glance at him, trying to decipher what the heck that was supposed to mean, but he’s already found his way to the stainless steel sink, scrubbing at his hands. You make sure your escapee is secure before you go find some antiseptic solution and gauze and tape. He’s already finished washing and is now looking over the caged animals, crouching to see a lop eared rabbit munching on alfalfa.

“Yeah, that’s our odd one out right now. Mainly we just have cats. Sometimes ferrets, mice, hamsters, the odd chinchilla here and there. Dogs are next door. We get a lot more rabbits after Easter, once they grow up and the kids don’t want them anymore.” He nods, pushing a finger through the bars to scratch the twitching nose, slipping between the drooping ears. The bunny flops down, food forgotten. What was this guy, an animal whisperer or something?

”Let me see your hands.” He rises, that long body unfolding to tower next to yours, offering one palm up. You wince at the red gouges. Shallow, but a lot of them. “This is going to sting.”

“Go for it. I’ve had worse.” No reaction when you apply the solution. Letting it air dry before you apply gauze and tape. Repeat the process for the other hand.

“Okay, all patched up for now.”

You grab your denim jacket and make sure the back door is locked behind you. Walking beside the dark haired man, you realize you haven’t even learned his name yet, offering your own.

“Dave Miller.”

“You just getting off work? In a rush to go home?”

“Actually heading to it.”

“Late, huh? Is your boss a jerk? You gonna catch heat for being absent this long?”

The smirk is back. “I’ll manage.”

“Where do you work?”

“Freddy Fazbear’s.”

Oh. That place. The children’s party themed restaurant that had closed its doors after a number of children had gone missing. You’d been there a few times when you were younger. Watching the animatronics onstage. Eating pizza and playing in the arcade. Then your parents had stopped taking you after the incidents.

Dave seems to see the recognition on your features. “You were a patron at one time, right?”

You nod, folding your arms across your chest. “Yeah. Before the kids went missing. People say it’s haunted now. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to break in.”

“Oh, quite a few still do. That’s why I have the job, after all. Thieves and vagrants. Kids on a dare. You know.” He shrugs, lifting the helmet. “You ever been on a bike?”

“Never.”

“You want to go for ride? Just around the block.”

“What about work?”

“We won’t be long.” He holds the helmet out to you. “Better put that on.”

You haven’t even agreed to go but he seems certain you’ll accept anyway. You reach for the helmet uncertainly. “What about you? Don’t you have to wear one too?”

“No. Optional in the great state of Utah for anyone over the age of 21.”

You chew your bottom lip. “You’re not going to speed, are you?”

“No. Promise.” He mounts and backs the bike up slightly while you push the helmet down over your head. “Foot peg to help you climb up.” He nudges it with his heel. “You’re going to want to keep your feet there. A lot of heat is generated from the exhaust. Keep yourself in line with me when we make a turn.” You hoist yourself onto the pillion. The seat is very small and narrow, barely any padding to cushion you. “Hands around my waist. Lean close and hold tight.” You hesitate, gingerly embracing the security guard from behind. “Closer. Probably easier if you reach under the jacket.” You scooch forward and tuck your hands under the open leather coat, letting your hands link tightly around his waist. You’re willing to bet he’s smirking again even though you can’t see it. Why were you agreeing to this, exactly?

The engine rumbles to life and you feel the heat kissing your ankles. No show socks and canvas sneakers were less than ideal gear. “Ready? Let’s go.” The momentum still catches you off guard and you grind your teeth, clinging tightly to the man in front of you. If this was obeying the speed limit, you’d hate to feel what he had when he’d dragged across the asphalt. The stop sign is a short distance away. Your first turn feels awkward, but there’s almost a kind of pressure that guides you to maintain the correct position. Picking up speed gradually. You’re still squeezing probably more tightly than necessary. Warm through his shirt. Accelerating yet again. The protest dying when you realize it’s actually kind of fun. Exhilarating. Parting early summer evening air. Another slight dip as the next corner is rounded. Traffic light now. Car beside you blasting a rap song. You feel Dave leaning back against you. The end of his secured tie grazing your knuckles. The light turns green. Moving forward again.

It doesn’t take long to complete the circuit. Back in front of the shelter before you know it. You climb down, stumbling a bit but his arm braces you until you regain your footing on the ground. You unfasten the chin strap and hand the helmet back to Dave.

“You enjoyed it.” It’s more a statement than a question but you nod. You surprisingly had.

Your eyes fall to the hands on the helmet. A little blood seeping through the gauze. “Dave, your hands…”

“I’m fine.” He settles the headgear into place and flips the visor open. “You want to ride again some time? Longer?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“We’ve got to get you some proper gear, too.”

You nod. The visor slides back down. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He's out of sight before you even reach your car.

[yandere-toons]

I saw one of the anon ask if your write for underverse.

Do you think you could gives a scenario with yandere nightmar sans? Anything really. Just a small drabble is all I ask:)

WARNING: implied depression, blood, fantasy violence, grief.

WORD COUNT: 3.125

The cloud cover had swallowed the sky in a veil of fog and torrential darkness, but on nights when the crickets sang no more and the frogs kept to the water, it parted under the patchwork of stars waiting to twinkle at the unconscious countryside.

The moon's eye skirted the ribbons of a tattered curtain and fluttered across the wooden frame set atop a bedside table, which bore the crumpled photograph of a family. Those rising curves of joy on their lips, the same assault of happiness his brother oozed like the sun bled heat, drew a low hiss from deep within Nightmare.

The thrashes of a tentacle or two whipping the air overhead punctuated the rumbling crackle rolling between his gritted teeth. Every second he brooded, the shadows of lamps, bedposts, and a chest of drawers thickened and stretched farther. The room grew dank and instinct with pressure until breathing was akin to having a pair of hands wrap around your neck and squeeze.

That facial atrocity had a name; smiles, he recalled, but even the word repulsed him like the acrid stink of vomit. It conjured up visions of two siblings reclining under the shade of a tree swaying with bountiful leaves, of promises made and then broken, of a schism between brother and brother, light and dark.

You played among the joyful souls in the photograph and shared in their touches and sandwiches, looking a far different person than the heap of sweat and nerves turning over in your bed. Nightmare allowed his gaze to linger for a bemused instant before the pull of that bitter edge lurking in his every thought called him back to the happy little fools and their sepia stares.

The willingness with which they shoved at him a sick buoyancy defied his power and mocked his work. The urge to tear that lightsomeness away from them and plunge them into misery began to burn within him, spurring his tentacles to writhe until one whacked the picture frame off the table.

It flew into a spinning collision course with the wall and caromed off it to crack the peace of a fitful sleep. The battered frame thudded against the hardwood floor, lying face down in a pool of glass shards.

You jumped into a scrambled consciousness at the clamour like a cannonade, and your eyes, encrusted with an awkward mix of bleary and vigilant, swept the room in anticipation of some calamity. Motionless and impregnable darkness, perfect camouflage for any terrors, met your search rather than the feared intruder charging through the door or the tremors of an earthquake.

Howling winds raged past your walls and produced a sustained groan approaching something human, a cruel and grotesque imitation of a lost soul calling out. Each gust tapped the windows like the fingers of someone asking to be invited in from the cold.

This shallow comfort allowed you a moment to peel back the sheets, wherein you noticed and floundered with how tangled about you they had become. With a streak of adrenaline pounding as drums in your head, you fumbled out of bed and made a beeline for the light switch protruding from the adjacent wall.

As your next step pressed down upon a sleek and scattered surface, a crunch popped the silence as a needle would a balloon. Sharp pain sliced the sole of your foot, and in the excruciating jolt up your leg, the skin seemed to catch fire.

You clamped your teeth on your lower lip and sucked in a puff of air, withholding the yelp that had leapt to the roof of your mouth. Opening your eyes from a tight squint, you peered down into the shadows and reached out to something by your foot.

The rigid ends and cool, smooth sides of a wooden rectangle slid against your fingertips. The silvery gleaming of crimson droplets on the clear sheen of fragmented glass was reflected in the coarse surface of a wrinkled photograph, its image spotty and worn away around the edges.

Those who helped form some of your happiest memories looked back at you, and this reminder took the pang from your foot and redirected it to an ache in your heart. A wave of dizzying exhaustion and the urge to slump into bed again washed over you, no matter how much you had slept the previous days away.

Time had faded many of their features into obscurity, but the twist of that old contentment they left with you was a wound forever open. You rubbed your thumb across the bumpy, sandpapery face of someone no longer around, and just for a moment, the distant peal of their laughter echoed from a room you had not touched in months.

How sweet to drink from the bottle of grief until you found it had no bottom. The tower of dirty dishes by the kitchen sink rose higher, and each time you chose a third nap over chores, Nightmare got stronger. He fed on your lethargy and silent aches like a flea on a dog's back, every bite taking a little more out of you.

Sleep, once a beloved respite from the agony of an empty house, now plagued you with hair-raising visions of inhuman faces hovering outside your windows, looking in while you had no voice to deter the eyes moving over your body. As you fought against your sheets as if they were a beast at your throat, something insidious whispered for you to fall into that comfortable trap and let the idea of escaping it, the burden of hope, slip away.

In the centre of the bedroom, a sphere of brilliant starlight glimmered in the image of the heavens. Its rays upon you were like the sun on your skin after a bleak and drizzly winter. This beacon promised a better future as it dimmed into the shape of a golden-eyed face, which chased away the darkling tendrils coiling around your bed.

The nips of biting air, once thick enough to drown in, lifted, and you grew weightless, seeming to float between silk sheets instead of your mangy bundle of loose threads, a mattress of clouds rather than your glorified boulder, and a velvet pillow instead of your flat-as-a-board, handmade one.

Dream walked among the dark and the cold and filled it with your fondest smell from childhood. He had no flesh or muscle, a being of pure bone cloaked in the greens of seafoam, the pinks of twilight, and the yellows of gold.

An eternal warmth flowed from him, calming the shakiest voice and stilling the throbs of your pulse to a steady and relaxed rhythm. He glided to your bedside in golden boots and cast one sympathetic look at the draggled sheets before pulling them back to their rightful place, careful not to disturb you as he did so.

Dream hummed a soft melody with the earnest compassion of a parent soothing their child. It was quiet to keep you asleep but distinct enough to spread the snug blanket of security over your thoughts.

The taut lines of veins bulging along your neck and forehead, the ball of pain swelling in your jaw, and the shaky curls of your fingers bunching handfuls of the sheets all started to wane. When you were sinking into your first minute of genuine rest in ages, the mood in the room dove faster than a flightless bird over the side of a cliff.

It was a plunge so steep and abyssal that you cried out at some ghastly vision while Dream staggered as if one wrong footfall away from falling. He recovered in a moment of resigned understanding of what lay behind him, but many more seconds passed before he found the strength to turn and confront the corrupted shell of his brother.

Dream saw the thrill of malice rush onto Nightmare's face as your sounds of distress rang and tilted his head down, hardening his frown. In the privacy of the gloom, Nightmare glowered at Dream with an eye that blazed against the black sludge streaming o'er him.

“Well, always here to spoil my fun, aren't you, brother?” Temptation and menace intertwined in his voice, honeyed and gravelly at once. It snaked through the crisp air and commanded awe with the booming richness of a king, and it burrowed into the back of the mind as whispers beguiling lost souls into letting loose all vices.

The visceral rage with which he spat the word “brother” so contorted his face that all sleeping mortals who looked upon it would have awoken screaming. Around his pupil expanded a vast sea of black, aglow with a fervour that dulled when Dream marched to the end of the bed and stood between him and you.

Nightmare collapsed his exaggerated snarl into a more subdued look of amusement, as though the idea that Dream could block his path was the peak of wishful thinking.

Dream, his eyes never wavering lest a moment's hesitation allowed Nightmare to slink near, swung his hand to the side and swished his lustrous cape. The threat of a golden bow sparked in his open palm, a sight that twisted the corners of Nightmare's mouth like a gulp of sour milk.

“You poisoned their grief, Nightmare. They need to heal.” Dream uttered this sentiment with unflinching certainty and gave to it a sublime voice meant to lighten the spirit of all who heard it; however, to the blackened soul residing in Nightmare, it only starved him.

He fixed a spiteful grin on Dream and widened his eye until it resembled a pit. “They don't want to heal. They're tired.” The venomous spiel rolled from him as it would a demonic salesman, and had you been awake to listen, you would have believed him. “They want to be told it's okay to give up.”

Dream glanced over his shoulder at your tussle with imaginary tormentors, his narrowed eyes pierced with a gleam of pity. He could have implored his brother to make an exception, but asking Nightmare to leave a cry for help untroubled was like the gazelle begging the lion for mercy.

Instead, he was readying another point of argument when an instinctive sweep of his arm deflected the sharp tip of a slender tentacle hurtling towards his skull.

Nightmare retracted the tentacle through a strip of moonlight, allowing it to glisten and weave before disappearing. The faraway ticktock of a clock stressed the passing of each second, baiting an attack from either brother and counting down to the moment when noise so bloodcurdling would rip the air asunder and forever banish peace from the area.

All at once, you sprung to an upright position and wailed as if you might never have the chance again. Your eyes, open wide but seeing nothing, held a glassiness that contrasted with your mindless thrashing at a hidden assailant. You began to hyperventilate between shouts for someone to get out of your house, and the guardian in Dream took hold as he hurried over to stop you from tumbling out of bed.

Before he could land one final step to reach you, a tentacle swooped down and knocked him into the chest of drawers across the room. It clattered and overturned a lamp atop it, which smacked the wood and threatened to roll off the edge. Dream cracked open one eye before the other and unhooked himself from the metallic handles.

Under the wan cover of night, Nightmare appeared to slide over the floorboards like some amorphous blob of black and blue. He eclipsed the moon on your weeping face, his tentacles bobbing on invisible waters and casting writhing shadows upon the wall behind you.

His head snapped towards Dream's weakened but defiant stance, and as flecks of silver silhouetted much of his body, his teeth were distorted into fangs that shone through the ooze cascading down him. A twinge of fear skittered the length of Dream's spine; the creature before him was his brother in name only, having become drunk on your anguish and consumed by a sort of eldritch savagery.

With each shriek rocketing out of you, Nightmare dispersed further into the darkness and outpoured his evil into every crevice. He propelled himself onto a tentacled throne and towered above Dream, who sensed the cold and aching drain of his presence in all directions and scoured for even a fleeting whiff of positive emotion.

The air stood still when Dream glimpsed the needle-like tentacles poised around him in the dark. They awaited a silent order to volley forward and gore him, an order made imminent by the resonant chime of the clock striking a new hour. Against his collarbone sat the round clasp of his cape, which he clutched with one hand overlaying the other.

Dream shut his eyes, tucked his chin into the back of his hand, and visualised a portal to the nearest spark of happiness. A blinding surge of starlight enveloped him, then vanished moments before a tentacle speared the chest of drawers in a shot that would have run through his rib cage.

Nightmare deflated a bit, disappointment gnawing at him that he did not get to see his brother's golden blood splatter the hardwood floor. He yanked his tentacle free of the unlucky drawer, paying no mind to the sizeable hole it had created, and resumed basking in your sorrow like a lizard in the sun.

* * *

A hulking weight sat on your chest, and with every swell of breath you forced down, it sucked half of it back out of your lungs. You might as well have been a pair of eyes without a body, with the absolute numbness coursing through your limbs begging the question of whether they were still attached.

The darkness crept a little closer, bottomless and braver with each sweep of your eye. Waves of black and splotches of silver melded into a gaunt face dripping wet. Malevolence seeped from the monstrous entity pouring out of the unknown depths of that corner, the kind that threw babies into crying fits and ripped frantic barks from every dog in a neighbourhood.

The snowy radiance of a moon free to dominate the sky glinted across teeth whiter than any dentist could hope. They filled out a lipless mouth as the entity, a living nightmare, engulfed the floor and ceiling in an ever-growing current of blackness. His jaw unhinged far beyond the limits of nature to yield a gaping hole lined with vertical strips of muck, each as dark and slippery as a jagged rock hanging in a damp cavern.

A dozen tentacles snaked out his back and pulsated outward, their slender lengths draped in inky slime. He loomed over your paralyzed state and dredged up all memories of fear and pain until your heart thundered with the desire to burst out of you. The sheets tucked in tighter to the point of constriction, and tears brimmed for the silent scream wrenching around your mind.

The place where his right eye should have been was overflowing with tar, and his left eye glowed like the beam of a lighthouse. Turquoise with a tinge of midnight blue watched your struggle and revelled in it with the passion of a vindictive god.

To peer into his eye was to lose yourself down a tunnel that winded through every facet of despair, hatred and horror, to behold a creature who embodied it all and realise you could do nothing but wait. Such a gaze crushed you, and it never even had to touch you.

Periodic buzzes, beginning as a foghorn but then rising to a metallic trill, came and went every few seconds. They invaded the room with an unquenchable urgency that your brain raced to identify, shrilling louder and louder until your body jolted forward in an abrupt return of control.

You inhaled as if having swum from the deep of a lake, but instead of bouncing your forehead off the warped skull, you passed through nothing but clear space. The instant before your eyes began darting, the flicker of a figure dissolved into a patch of darkness in your peripheral vision.

The first rays of dawn shimmered across the hardwood floor and dappled the shadows with all the colours of fire. A clash of pinkish and gilt swirls subsumed much of the dark, delivering you from the trenches of a receding night to the peach-tinted embrace of a day starting anew.

The jarring call of a telephone poked your ears and vibrated on a round table in the corridor.

Following you to the bedroom doorway was the impulse to ignore that plea for your attention and continue languishing beneath the same old sheets. The ease with which you could lay back down and slip away from everything tapped you on the shoulder and beckoned you to sleep.

Dust bunnies wafted after your feet, which you heaved and then slammed down again a mite closer to the ringing as if wading through the reeds of a billabong. A slew of thoughts on the taxing demands of holding a conversation, on the dreadful risk of exposing how badly you were drowning, tugged at you like an impatient child.

When you picked up the cooling metal of that telephone, the voice of a dear friend hit you as a refreshing breeze on a hot day. They talked to you and listened even if you let out a sombre remark or stumbled over familiar words, a nearly forgotten sound, like a song unheard for years. Eventually, they said, “How about lunch at your favourite place today? My treat.”

You hugged the cord with each finger of one hand, and with the other hand, you pressed the cradle to your abdomen. A dab of moisture started to blur your vision, enabling you to take a breath without the air of heartsickness that had milled around the home for so long.

Watching you lean into the handset, into that faint voice daring to help, and allow yourself the ghost of a smile was like acid on Nightmare's eye. The frenzy of hunger stabbed him as the intoxicating taste of misery, a minute ago so bountiful, was evaporating.

What rapture it would be, twining one of his tentacles around that interloper's neck and squeezing until they never spoke another word. The vision of their bulgy eyes reddening as they clawed at the tentacle in vain, forced to look him squarely in the face and give every detail of their agony, to entreat his mercy only to be denied, flashed to him.

It kept him in the shadows and replayed before his mind's eye, each time seeming nearer to reality, to soothe the roaring emptiness in his stomach.

[icntstop]

Placing Your Work Desk and Floor Lamp

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[taxidrain44]

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[goodbysunball]

Bring it on home

Comparatively easy listening from the set of records showcased this time around, but there's a world of grief settin' your jaw to grind. You deserve a neck massage and a cocktail; lean into these after you put your misery rectangle aside for a spell.

Astute Palate, s/t (Petty Bunco)

Emily Robb, David Nance, Daniel Provenzano, and Richie Charles got together and hammered out this LP during "48 sleepless hours" in Philadelphia. It's definitely a fairly rough documentation, but if you know the players, that's generally what you'd be gettin' into with 'em anyway. Gotta admit that I'm not a huge fan of what I've heard by David Nance - respect his hustle, though - and the same goes for the tracks he leads here; in particular, the studied classic rock caterwaul employed on "Stall Out" basically rolls my eyes for me. I am, however, fond of David Nance the Guitarist and his heroics on "Stall Out," and "A Little Proof" definitely has me more curious about his recent solo work I've skipped. These are pithy grievances, though: the album rules, as a whole, but it's just hard to stomach some of Nance's lyrics when they're side-by-side with bonafide jammers like "Bring It On Home" and "Treadin' Schuylkill." "Bring It On Home," in particular, with its Velvets-inspired chug and Robb's bleary vocals coolly beckoning you to do as the title says, heats to a boil with the blustery, fried guitar interplay. For me it wipes the floor with anything else on the album, and pretty much anything else I'll hear this year, so let's put all my petty complaints aside and declare this the Summer of Astute Palate, OK? Looks like the secret's out - the LP's sold out from the source, but can be found hiding in various distros and shops. Hunt it down, crack a tallboy, and embrace the sweltering heat of our melting planet with Astute Palate.

Maraudeur, Puissance 4 (self-released)

New and best LP yet from Leipzig's Maraudeur, self-released with some of the best packaging/artwork I've seen in a minute. My memory's usually a bit faulty, but I recall the band being a three-piece on their last, still very good LP from Bruit Direct Disques. I'm inclined to think that the group's ranks have swelled to five anyway, since the sound here is a bit more bright and full, lots of different moving parts zipping and moving around, giving the crisp recording some effervescence. Compared to older songs like "Computer Dreams," Maraudeur sounds sharper, capable of backing up any threats rather than coming across as deflated and listless. Even the slower songs on Puissance 4, such as "Slow Dress," thrive on tension, guitar strings set to snap amidst the robotic/hypnotic vocals. The band seems to have located a sweet spot between the simmering minimalism of Household and the technologically damaged vision of Chrome, and "TWYWYS" basically sounds like a collaboration between the two groups. Guitars are used as window dressing, favoring instead synths and showcasing the chops of the rhythm section. "Face/Figure" and my favorite track "C'est Caché" are the best examples of Maraudeur's rhythmic foundation, but nearly every track causes inadvertent head bobbing. While accessible and familiar on the surface, Maraudeur's dry humor, the carefully camouflaged layers of sound, and whatever is going on in "I Am Here" keep boilerplate post-punk comparisons at bay. Puissance 4 is a refreshing, addictive brew from the not-too distant future, and probably a blast to experience live.

Astrid Øster Mortensen, Gro Mig En Blomst (Förlag För Fri Musik)

New Gothenburg talent alert! Mortensen is apparently a newcomer to the scene, and her debut LP fits in nicely amongst the Förlag För Fri Musik discography. Gro Mig En Blomst features lonely and debased late-night solo explorations with guitar, piano and what sounds like an accordion, accented by electronic manipulations and the found sound that accompanies most FFFM records. It's dreary and stark, and can quickly bring the mood down when it's on. For me the most obvious reference point is Grouper's Ruins, in that both are recordings so intimate that it feels like an interruption to move while it's on. But I also get bits of Picastro's Whore Luck ("Hvor Kommer Mørket Fra?" sounds like it was plucked directly from that album), and there are similarities to Chloe Alison Escott's solo work, on the title track and "Piano i" and "Piano ii." Gro Mig En Blomst is a far cry from more traditional singer-songwriter music, dabbling in Stars of the Lid-like drone on "Brud ii" and jumping into the "Is there a record on or...?" genre on "Solen Er Et Lille Hus" and "Brud i." I can't say I go out looking for records this fragile and surface-level bleak anymore, but Mortensen's work is more often beautiful and calming than hopelessly gray. Another keeper from FFFM, sure to be one of the most sought-after records from the label, and for good reason.

Nightshift, Zöe (Trouble In Mind)

Travel back in time with me, if you will, to a time when "indie rock" was a genre label that had some meaning. After getting rid of the bad taste in my mouth and shaking off the embarrassment at who I was when I largely listened to stuff that'd broadly fall under that label, I'll allow that Nightshift is making a strong argument for some of the music released during the comparative naiveté of the late '00s/early '10s. Across Zöe, you get shades of Broadcast, Lower Dens' Twin-Hand Movement, the UV Race ("Spray Paint the Bridge"), Belle & Sebastian and A Sunny Day In Glasgow ("Power Cut" and "Romantic Mud"). The trick to Zöe is that it folds all these reference points in neatly and places it on a sturdy percussive base. I won't argue that every song here is memorable, but they're all enjoyable, and the songs that hit - "Outta Space," the title track, "Infinity Winner" - send chills down my spine every time. Guitars are plucked and scraped for leading beats, accentuating shuffling drums and giving the bass the spotlight. The vocals are dreamy and lyrics direct, and for the duration of Zöe you're relieved of the pessimistic present and allowed to rigidly dance to Nightshift's hesitant groove. They've charmed their way through my cynicism, and Zöe's been on heavy rotation despite my reluctance. Take it for a spin, and fall under Nightshift's spell.

Hugo Randulv, Radio Arktis: Samlade Ljud Från Den Norra Polcirkeln (Förlag För Fri Musik)

First solo LP from Hugo Randulv, an active presence in the Gothenburg scene with his involvement in Enhet För Fri Musik, Skiftande Enheter and Amateur Hour, among others. Though typically a guitarist, on Radio Arktis, he drops the guitar and instead fills both sides with glacial synths and dusty samples. The label's original write-up for this record called it "grand ambient," though to me it sounds and feels much more personal than something that would soundtrack the Olympics. His use of samples, most notably on "Radio Reykjavik," sounds intimately tied with some fleeting memory, the music serving to enhance or exorcise the feeling tied to it all. It reminds me most of the Fun Years' "God Was Like, No" in that both records used the tools common to ambient/drone music but applied a much more personal touch, that certain nameless attribute that keeps drawing a listener back in. Can't put my finger on it, but both records just sound like they had to be made, rather than serving as a genre exercise or one-off exploration. I don't know that Radio Arktis is going to change anyone's life, but it could, and I've been hypnotized by its wordless, sparkling gray tones for weeks. Even though the "solo musician embraces synths" thing is usually pretty tired and pointless, Hugo Randulv's contribution shows why it's an alluring proposition at all.

Sunhiilow, Beyond the Cycle (Ikuisuus)

More solo synth, this time coming from Valerie Magisson and her Moog Mother-32. Magisson's Sunhiilow project veers into new age/ambient with its bite-sized kosmische explorations. There's something about the combination of the short length of these tracks and the sense of movement present within each that allows Beyond the Cycle to transcend the lifeless drivel that's usually tagged "new age" and "synth." It seems intentional that Magisson was trying to capture the mood of each track title in its corresponding music, and she is largely successful, though its unclear if the title provided direction or was applied afterward. The somewhat jarring introduction of "Wilderness Bloom" and the stoned growth of "Circle Motion" are my top picks, but the album works best as a whole and played very loudly, the overall effect immersing the listener into heady zones traversed by the Nightcrawlers. Leave it to Ikuisuus to release an "ethereal ambient music" record that satisfies, and sounds and looks great to boot. Sunhiilow's a lot more tame than most of what Ikuisuus releases, but it's an accessible, recommended starting point to one of the best active labels. HOWDY.

[kkruml]

STAY  CH 15

A/N: My word. I’ve written about a dozen iterations of this chapter and deleted them all. Nothing felt right, no next step seemed logical or natural in moving these characters to where I want them to be. With some serious hand holding, love, and, encouragement by @abreathofsnowandwaffles, @missclairebelle and @ecampbellsoup​ I hope I’ve managed to stay true to these characters and this story.

A sincere thank you to anyone out there still reading this story. 9 months is an insane amount of time to wait between chapters so I am really grateful for anyone who still finds this story worthy of their time.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

AO3

Mood Music

Previously

“Ye’ve spent sae many hours scouring my bookcases looking for Laird knows what- this is a better- and more entertaining- use of yer time.”

“More entertaining, you say? For whom, exactly?” Feeling the smile in her voice, he let out a heavy sigh and nuzzled his nose into the curls at the nape of her neck. Her voice was shy as she asked, “Would you show me a few more?”

This just might work.

Slowly, and carefully, he showed her cord after cord. Pausing occasionally as her crude British tongue broke his concentration, he watched her fingers move slowly from string to string. Kissing her shoulder, and feeling confident he had shown her enough cords to pique her interest, he reluctantly disentangled himself from her.

Slowly shuffling to the hall, he turned at the doorway for a final look. He stopped to take her in.

A look of determination set on her face. Her left hand was rotated and gripped the guitar’s neck with purpose. The loose white shirt, his shirt, hung off her shoulder- exposing the faintest of black ink on her shoulder.

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he swiped the screen and held the phone up. He watched her form come into focus on his screen and hit the shutter button, watching a freeze frame of this moment flicker and disappear.

CLAIRE

Visualize the movement. Breath on the down-stroke. Focus.

You can do this Beauchamp.

Fingers trembled in place as they spread over the strings, stretched and suspended- waiting.

C. G. Am. 

Her fingers struggled to steady as she found the last chord. 

F.

“Ha!” she exclaimed triumphantly as the strings hummed pleasantly under her fingertips. 

“Ye’ll be chargin’ folks to hear ye play before ye know it, Sassenach.” Deep yet playful, she heard his cautiously optimistic tone seep through his breezy banter.

“Don’t distract me,” the words came out but there was no real weight behind them. Just beneath the surface, she could feel- almost touch his eagerness to be near her. He hadn’t broached the subject of sex or intimacy since the accident, save a few small reflexive nuzzles and small kisses into her hair. 

And of course- those three words. 

They hung suspended between them. An intimacy she never dreamed of and yet, there it was. Since that proclamation, she’d felt shy. Unsure of herself and whatever recollections she lost- and with them the moments between them she couldn’t get back.

She pried her eyes open long enough to see a tautness to his jaw, his stubble lining the curve of his cheek, the line beautiful and potent and all at once innocent. A foreign yet familiar sensation pulsed just below her navel. 

All at once, her mind drew vivid images of them tangled in a sea of white. Like the shutter of a camera, flashes of movement filled her vision- her hands locked in his above her head, the motion of his hips against hers, the line of his lip that curled with each pulsation. Feeling like a voyeur into the memories she already had and the dream for the moments she wished to be true, she blinked and looked away.

She’d noticed him observing her for a few days now.  At first, he was watching rugby but the volume was a low hum instead of a raucous roar from the living room. Then it was his finding every excuse to meander to and from the kitchen- offering to refill a barely touched water glass or to inquire about a dram of whisky. 

Finally he set about cleaning the bedroom or rather, shuffling piles of his laundry from the bed to the chair, studiously inspecting the contents of each garment with great effort.  

Her eyes would linger on the nape of his neck, auburn curls kissing the skin as the ripples of muscle flexed under the cotton of his shirt. Like the night they met. A flicker of a memory- or was it a memory? The thought lingered just long enough before fading into the deep like a wave receding from the shore.

Right on cue, Jamie sauntered into the room- whisky in hand. 

Eyeing her glass, he paused before uncorking the bottle and splashing a few drops into the tumbler. Setting the whisky down onto the nightstand, he waited. His hand dropped to his side, index finger drumming against his thigh. Every line in his body was tense and unsure, searching for something. His voice was hoarse but warm, “Did ye… need anything?”

Neach-gleidhidh. 

Guardian.

Cocking her head to the side, her eyes shifted to his face. Smiling, she said, “You call that a proper pour?” 

                                          _________

JAMIE

They were awoken by the melodic whistle of a small Stonechat just outside their window, and the soft sigh next to him that accompanied it filled the room. 

Instinctively, he stretched his limbs to the corners of the bed. Feeling her form next to him, he paused. Still hesitant and unsure, he resisted reaching out to her. He felt her warmth, thrumming and inviting. He thought he felt her sharp intake of breath.

“Oh-Jamie!” Soft, delicate fingers reached for him and settled on his forearm with a gentle ease. Her voice, clear and awake despite the early hour, hummed with a verve that pulsed between them. “I saw there was a pick your own strawberry patch just a few towns away. What do you say to a bit of fresh air?”

Her fingertips burned into his skin. 

Sorcha. 

The sensation was intoxicating. His flesh buzzed with an almost dizzying energy.

She’d resisted leaving the flat for more than her medical follow ups since the accident. A cloud had hung over their flat, a quiet melancholy that melded with moments of comfort. Long stretches of rain cast a shade over the apartment, but this morning was a most welcome hint of spring breaking through. 

“Oh,” he started, trying to wrestle with the excitement in his voice. “I suppose I could.”

“I would kill for some caffeine,” her voice was suddenly small, quiet. “Could we stop for a cuppa on the way?”

Small steps forward, lad.

“Aye Sassenach.”

                                         _________

CLAIRE

Where the bloody hell are his keys?

Fingers impatiently swept across folds of material as they searched through his satchel. A solid metallic rectangle shuffled loose and made a thud against the worn wood floor. The screen lit up and her eyes caught the distinctive pattern of a brick wall, a swirl of curls, and white chucks. 

The night they met. 

The image, his view of her, was staring back at her. Seemingly meaningless but yet, he wanted to take it. To keep it. To keep that snapshot in time, forever. 

Her fingers twitched as she carefully picked up the device, trembling slightly as she swiped the screen as a new image came into view. A profile of her shoulder, a mess of curls interrupting the white ivory skin. Peeking through a tangle of brown, stark lines of black wings seemed to dance across the screen. 

The heron. 

A whisper echoed in the room, a faint but distinctly familiar voice, her father. When in doubt, love, remember the heron. 

Carefully, she set the phone back on the table, face up. Watching the screen dim and fade to black, she let out the breath she had been holding. 

“Are ye ready, Sassenach?” His voice echoed from the hallway and snapped her from her thoughts.

Ready. Was she ready? 

She wasn’t sure. But she needed to get out of their flat. 

Their flat. 

The thought made her smile, and slowly she felt the tension between her shoulders recede. Shoving his phone and keys back into his bag, she grabbed the leather straps and clutched it close to her chest. With a new resolve, she strode towards the door and into the sunshine.

                                          _________

JAMIE

With a new cup of Oolong in one hand and black coffee in the other he hurriedly made his way back to the car, muttering a few course words for the barista- and the fresh and still steaming stain on his pullover. 

This is no’ the time to be mussed up or late… again.

“Thank you,” she said softly, reaching for her tea. Her fingers grazed his and she paused. Like a bolt of lightning coursing through his veins, he flinched but did not draw his hand away. “Though… you were gone so long I feared you had stood me up… again.”

“Och ye see…” he started before he caught the bite of her lip as she smiled. Their second date. “A witch are ye then- able to read my thoughts?”

“A witch- as in green with ruby slippers?” she said with a smirk and fake indignation. Her eyes gazed down at her hand- smooth ivory skin taught the lines on her palm. Her voice softened, “Well no but… perhaps a white one.”

A white witch.

Ban-druidh.

                                         _________

CLAIRE

“Did ye ken the surname ‘Fraser’ isna Scottish?” His voice was wistful, thick with centuries of history behind it.

She paused, watching the sun light his hair in a soft afternoon glow. Meandering through another row of bushes, each step was more tranquil than the last. “Oh wot- no ‘History of Scotland’ lesson today then?”

Letting a most decidedly Scottish grunt speak for him, he crouched down to a nearby plant. Inspecting each strawberry with a nimble index finger and thumb, he turned back to look at her. “There’s nothing more Scottish than yer clan’s history, ye ken.”

She could see the story bubbling from within him. She longed for the lilt of his voice as he expounded centuries of Scottish history. Yearning to hear more yet reticent to seem too eager, she exhaled and gave an exaggerated eye roll for good measure. “Oh aye… And?”

A deep hum rolled in his chest and his lip pulled at the corner, giving way to a heart stopping smile. It took her breath away. 

This man. 

The cock of his head, the set of his shoulders. The look in his eye. She’d seen that look before. A heady stare, behind it held whispers in the dark and promises made between them in early hours of the morning. A truth between them. A promise. 

This man loves me.

He settled back onto his heels, his knees pressed into the soil and his hands resting on his thighs. She recognized the posture- it was the same he adopted when regaling her of tales of his time in France with his brother-in-law Ian, and when settling in with a dram of whisky while telling stories of his time at Uni.

Pulled to him like a magnet, she knelt down beside him. Leaning forward with anticipation, an honest smile spread across her lips.

“Ye see, Sassenach… I am a Highlander- born and bred. But our name ‘Fraser’ is French. A Monsieur Fresiliere came across from France wi’ King WIlliam. ‘Tis a long story, but he took a piece of the Scottish mountains. Part of that land included what became Lallybroch.” His shoulders straightened with pride, his voice dripping with humor. “Even if our tower doesna have a face.”

North-facing tower. 

She had studied that one. Had repeated it over and over to herself since he took her to his childhood home. 

“Turarach.” She said softly to herself. 

                                       _________

JAMIE

Had he not etched that word into his heart as a wee lad, he might have missed it. But there it was- clear as day.

He taught her that word. 

He took her home when Jenny had her bairn. They had spent the day exploring Lallybroch, and he had taken her to the broch- or what remained of it. He had painstakingly repeated the word to her, syllable by syllable. And he watched her English tongue stumble over the vowels in a most endearing way. 

Clearing his throat, he attempted to collect himself. “Och, aye lass. I see ye’ve kept up yer studies.”

Her eyes widened and a soft shade of blush spread across her cheeks. “Well…there’s only so much Rugby I can watch without taking to your bookshelf for solace.” 

Or my guitar.

His heart constricted as he watched her face struggle to maintain composure. “Are ye makin’ fun of me?”

Fighting a smile, she replied, “Oh I would never, Monsieur Fréselière.”

He shifted towards her. “Monsieur is it? I seem to remember ye called me Laird.”

                                      _________

CLAIRE

A memory. 

Safely tucked under dark linens and surrounded by the stone walls of his childhood room, she’d had a glimpse into the past. Splashes of tartan mixed with the heat of campfire and starlight filled her vision. In that moment she’d called him ‘Laird,’ and felt the prophecy behind it. 

The weight of his gaze burned her skin.The safe haven of that room, the intimacy of that moment filled the space between them. Blinking her way into the present and determined to meet his stare, she countered, “Did I?”

“Oh aye.” The mood shifted as he breathed out the words, an almost palpable energy pulsated between them. A deep purr erupted from his chest, his accent thick. “I felt more whole in that moment than I had in a long time.” 

Whole.

The word danced around the corners of her mind. Her eyes shifted from him to the golden hues splashed across the sky. Was she whole? Twisting her wrist for inspection, she felt no sharp pain, just a dull ache from use. 

No longer broken. 

Now came the recovery. As a doctor she had seen the scans, she knew the rehabilitation trajectory. Yet here, with him, the statistics and analytical journal findings faded from mental view. Here, in this moment, she was simply Claire. With Jamie. Her Jamie. An overwhelming sense of calm washed over her.

“I think I know exactly what you mean,” drawing her gaze back to him, she exhaled contentedly. Instinctively, her hand reached out for his, taking it gently. “Thank you, Jamie.”

“Och, ‘tis nothing lass.” Dirt-stained fingertips pressed into her skin. His warmth encompassed her.

“Jamie…” she started, her eyes lowering to see their fingers intertwined. Blinking hard and tilting her face to meet his, she finished, “I don’t just mean for today.”

An echo of a smile tugged at his lips and he exhaled.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach,” His voice hummed, soft and tender. “There’s the two of us now.”

His words were so simple. But there was something in the blue of his eyes that spoke to the depth of his meaning. Her breath caught as she felt the same weight of prophecy to his words.

[bluesfortheredj]

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

Sitting cross legged on the floor, you look up in awe at the makeshift stage that was to be the backdrop for the Live Aid concert. Rami, Joe, Ben, and Gwilym are all in position as themselves for now, and the music starts to play. Rami starts hitting the keys on the piano, then leans his body back and tilts his head up to the sky as his fingers make their way over the black and white rectangles in front of him. Ben sits at the drums as he taps out a beat with the sticks, and Joe stands in front of the drum kit with his bass, stepping back and forth and turning his body from Ben to the front of the stage. Your eyes eventually land on Gwilym, trailing up from his black and white Vans trainers to his black jeans that hug his legs tightly, and they hover on his hands that pluck at the strings on the guitar and move up and down the neck of it with trained ease. You manage to tear your eyes away to carry on your journey up his body, his white jumper with the sleeves half way up his forearms distracting you for a second, then you finally reach his face, the black baseball cap casting a small shadow over his face as he leans back a little and starts to bite his lip while playing.

Everyone around you stares in silence at the men on the stage, and Brian and Roger look utterly captivated at the scene playing out in front of them. It’s one of those moments that you all know it special to everyone here, and it takes your breath away as you watch the four men do their thing in front of you. When the rehearsal ends, no one moves for a few seconds, and the silence is deafening until Brian and Roger start to clap. They walk up on to the set and start to chat with the four men as the spectators such as yourself disperse, going back to where they should be on set, and you slowly get up off of the floor, your legs stiff from sitting still for so long. Taking one last look at the group on stage, Gwilym catches your eye from over Rami’s shoulder, and he flashes you a smile that makes your cheeks heat up. You return his greeting, then quickly scurry off to the wardrobe department where you belonged.

A few minutes later as you’re sorting out the rails for lead actors, a shy knock sounds out on the door, and you call out a questioning ‘hello’ to confirm what you heard. The door opens to reveal a very familiar tall figure, and he sweeps his cap off of his head as he shuts the door behind him.

“Did you like what you saw?” he asks, and you clumsily hang up a jacket, missing the rail the first time as you think about how to reply, “the performance, I mean,” he clarifies with a smile, noticing your shaking hands.

“It was incredible,” you reply, your eyes darting to the ground under his gaze.

“Thank you… On behalf of everyone, of course,” he says, inwardly cursing himself for sounding like a fool.

“You sound like you’re accepting an award,” you chuckle lightly, noticing the awkward tension filling up the small space.

“Getting some practice in,” he winks as you finally look up to meet his eyes, “I just wondered… If you’re not busy later on… Do you like coffee? Do you want coffee?”

“I like coffee, and I would like to go and get some with you if that’s what you’re asking,” you smile.

“That’s exactly what I was trying to ask. Thank goodness someone made sense of it,” he laughs in embarrassment, his cheeks flushing a light shade of red, “when do you think you’ll be free?”

“In about an hour or so if that suits you?”

“Absolutely,” he says, a relieved sigh following soon after the word. He gives you another smile, then exits the room, and leaves you standing there with a stupidly large grin across your face. You’d both acted like embarrassed teenagers around each other since the first day practically, and it hadn’t taken long for everyone else to notice; the both of you now teased daily by the rest of the cast. Finally one of you had got the guts up to actually say something, and you were already feeling giddy with excitement about meeting him later in a more casual environment.

Exactly an hour and fifteen minutes later, Gwilym was back, and you were just putting out the last couple of outfits for the next day. He stands in the doorway for a couple of minutes before announcing himself, just watching you potter around the room for a while before he disturbed you.

“Hi,” he says quietly, not wanting to make you jump.

“Just in time,” you smile, grabbing your coat from the back of a chair. Gwilym stifles a yawn as you approach him, then you tilt your head at him in a questioning manner.

“Are you sure you’re alright for this? We can do it another time,” you offer.

“No, no, I’m fine, just been a long day,” he nods, “sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve got coffee in your hotel room, right?” you ask, and Gwilym does a double take at your question.

“I… umm… well, yes.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to get in your pants straight away, Gwil. But if you’re going to fall asleep mid sentence, it may as well be somewhere you’re comfortable.”

“Who said I was worried about that prospect?” he smirks, “let’s go.”

You can feel a redness making its way up your cheeks at his comment as you walk side by side to the hotel just a couple of streets away, and just as you get to his door, Ben and Joe walk out of the lift down the hall. They spot you both straight away and Gwilym rushes you inside before they get the chance to start making comments.

“They’re going to knock at-” a banging comes from the door, cutting you off, and you cock an eyebrow at Gwil.

“(Y/N), we have a couple of questions about our costumes,” Ben giggles through the door.

“Gwil, I have a question about… your intentions with (Y/N),” Joe laughs.

“Subtle,” Gwilym sighs, rolling his eyes. He walks back to the door and opens it just enough to see the two men standing there with smug grins on their faces. “Yes?”

“Can we come in?” Ben smirks.

“No. In the nicest way possible, please go away.”

“Come on Ben, let’s go harass Rami and Lucy instead,” Joe winks. The two men giggle their way down the hall and Gwilym shuts the door, then leans his forehead against it and sighs before turning to face you.

“So sorry about that. You know what they’re like...”

“Oh boy, do I,” you chuckle.

“Now how about that drink? What do you fancy? I think I have a bottle of wine somewhere.”

“Wine would be perfect if you have it.”

“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly after rooting through a bag, “I only have paper cups though.”

“I’d drink it out of the bottle if I had to, so paper cups is all good with me.”

“Woman after my own heart,” he sighs, placing a hand on his chest. You smile shyly as you sit down in the armchair in the corner of the room, then he hands you your cup and perches himself on the end of the bed opposite you.

“So…” Gwilym starts, unsure of where to go from there, “sorry, I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Done what?” you ask, taking a sip of drink.

“Liked someone and tried not to make a fool out of myself in front of them,” he shrugs.

“I think you’re forgetting the fact that I fell up the stairs in front of you the other week,” you laugh.

“Oh my goodness, yes! Are you okay now?” he asks. You lift your skirt to show him your still bruised knees and a large cut that was healing but sure to leave a mark, and he winces.

“I think the bruise it made on my ego is pretty permanent though,” you add, “my fault for trying to run away from you.”

“Why were you trying to run away from me?” he smiles kindly as you lower your skirt again.

“I’d been horribly sick that morning, and didn’t want you to see me looking so ill. That backfired though, didn’t it?!”

“Really? You may have looked a little pale, but I thought that was from the fall. You looked beautiful to me, anyway. Always do,” he replies, and you have to redirect your gaze from his eyes as your breath catches in your throat, and you have to take a gulp of wine.

“Oh,” you blush.

“Don’t tell me that’s the first time someone’s said that?”

“Well… You know how it is, don’t get much interaction with people when you’re working all the time.”

“(Y/N),” he sighs, placing his cup on the table as he walks over to you, “I can’t believe no one’s told you how beautiful you are.”

You shrug out of embarrassment, not really wanting the fact you’d never been in a proper relationship to be aired like this, and fix your eyes to the floor as Gwilym hovers above you. He comes into your vision when he kneels in front of you and tentatively places two fingers on your chin to lift your head to look at him.

“Looks like I’ll have to tell you everyday, then,” he whispers, then a warm smile spreads across his face.

Part 2.

[theterrencejohnson]

How to Purchase a Light Shade 

The fitter is actually the cable portion of a cover that attaches it to the light body system. Fitters are actually certainly not compatible, thus make sure to utilise a cover along with the proper trimmer for your light.

A brand-new lamp shade is actually a cost effective and also very easy technique to inhale lifestyle right into your beloved light. The good news is, brand-new or even substitute light tones can be found in a variety of measurements, designs, colours, and also types. Whether you intend to duplicate your previous tone or even opt for a various appearance, your purchasing take in may be exciting and also effortless when you adhere to the correct measures.

Optimum light bulb electrical power: 40-60 watts (as kept in mind in item particulars). Safety and security Recommendation: Due to the fact that clip-on hues are actually commonly close to the light bulb, they are actually certainly not suggested for usage along with greater electrical power light bulbs than those taken note over. For brighter light, make an effort changing in low-wattage LED light bulbs.

Listed here are actually a number of the best well-liked ornamental forms: bell-shaped colours, drum light tones, egg-shaped, rectangle-shaped, and also area.

[islamfakrul]

Top 10 Best chandelier for rectangular dining table [2022]

Top 10 Best chandelier for rectangular dining table [2022]

1. Maxax Rectangular Crystal Kitchen Island Chandelier, 5 Lights Rectangle Ceiling Lighting Beaded Drum Shade, Flush Mount Pendant Light for Dining Room, Living Room, Kitchen, Antique Black Buy On Amazon ✧Aesthetic Design: high-quality cut crystal combined with solid metal, stunning embedded modern style chandelier, adding a sense of luxury to life. ✧Easy to Install: 35.8″ D * 36.6″ H, moderate…

[kawaiiaerie]

How You Can Reuse And Re-fill Sibling Brother Printer Driver Download For Windows

Brother Printing device Ink cartridge

The refilling of this container is messy as a result it is encouraged that hand protection needs to be donned and where refilling is accomplished should be engrossed in a newspaper as well as other absorbent fabric.

The following methods can guide you with an straightforward re-fill of your sibling inkjet printer tubes. The many Brother Printer Driver Download For Windows include very little different versions from the processes other staying exactly the same.

Buddy printer ink cartridge LC01C, LC01Y, LC01M and LC01BK (MFC 7000 series)

1. Position any absorbing materials like a bath towel underneath prior to refilling the brother printer ink cartridges.

2. Following satisfying ink cartridge within the syringe container remove the needle and placed the cone designed adaptor on it.

3. Obtain the pit inside the container whereby the printer passes out and change the get out of harbour down going through your lap.

4. Slowly and gradually inject the printer from the syringe package into the container until the ink cartridge begins being released of the vent opening and is not foamy.

5. Now convert the cartridge another way circular so that the vent pit facial looks you and also the get out of port is towards your lap.

6. Position the needle into the syringe container and inject the needle in the vent hole. Continue injecting till the printer is released of the exit golf hole and ceases foaming.

7. Depart the container within this place for approximately ten mins. Then perform repeatedly the sixth stage and let it rest for an additional 10 minutes.

8. Install the printer cartridge within the printer. If it needs to be transported then an electric tape can be used to pay for the exit and vent holes but should be taken away just before generating.

Sibling inkjet printer container for Buddy MFC-7150 and MFC-7160

There is a sponge within the printer cartridge making the refilling procedure sticky. The first task remains to be the exact same.

1. Locate the exit pit towards the bottom in which there is a sizeable connect.

2. Also track down the vent hole towards the bottom which is present about the same aspect as the big deal with on the top of the cartridge.

3. Turning the exit port towards the lap set the vent opening to the correct and vice versa. Seal off the exit harbour with a black electric tape.

4. Remove the take care of at the top of the cartridge. Inside of you will see two metal closes, small 1 circular and the larger one particular rectangle-shaped. Both eliminate the seals or make pockets in them.

5. To fill up the syringe package with ink squash the syringe package and the needle be placed into the printer ink package. Loosen up the traction and enable the syringe suck the ink cartridge in to the package.

6. Utilizing the syringe container gradually inject the ink to the sponge deeply with the rectangle hole till the sponge saturates.

7. Also inject ink inside the rounded golf hole up until the outer chamber is whole. Right after injections close the round pit with black power adhesive tape carefully. Also seal the rectangle-shaped pit with tape.

8. Position the plastic-type material handle again on top. Take the container to a sink and take away the adhesive tape in the bottom part. Permit the more ink falls movement out.

9. Printer needs to be mounted now.

Brother printing device container LC41C, LC41Y, LC41M, and LC41BK

In this particular model the printer ink is retained since of the device. The initial step is the identical.

1. Find the content label stating LC41 with all the characters this kind of as C, M, Y or BK which represents hues.

2. Positioning the brand part up, on the correct part get a window for the leading of the printer cartridge. Make a opening within the home window with a smoldering steel or some warmed steel factor.

3. Fill the syringe container like phase 5 mentioned previously.

4. Inject the ink gradually together with the syringe bottle in the home window on the top correct of the ink cartridge. Complete the complete printer cartridge.

5. Seal off your window with black electric powered tape.

6. Install within the computer printer.

Sibling printer cartridge HJ100 and HJ400

There is extremely difference within this cartridge. The first task remains to be the same.

1. Start with a screw in the vent hole which is opposing towards the longest part of the ink cartridge which is opposing to the produce go.

2. Pull the plug by helping cover their screw. Load the syringe package half with ink and insert from the pit. Inject little by little and seriously into the sponge.

3. Assume some leaking. Adhesive tape the printer cartridge you ought to transfer it.

Laser Toner Cartridge

The refilling of a laserlight toner container is quite mush just like incorporating fuel or fuel to the car. The refilling of toner should be carried out at a spot where there is no breeze. It might burn up so job and then there is no fire. Also do not suck in it as it is irritating.

The three basic varieties of laser toner cartridges are:

o Canister: a pipe for keeping toner

o Drum: a container with equipment and a drum which includes a gelatin coating

o Toner and developer: comparable to drum cartridge but utilizing toner and developer each.

Canister Container

1. Distribute some absorbing materials like a towel or newspaper. Identify a connect by the end of cartridge.

2. Remove the plug if you believe it is. If you don't then create a golf hole which is outside the paper path (easy plastic material surface).

3. If you generate a golf hole then carefully get rid of the shavings. 4. Shake the package of toner and put the whole jar in the container with a funnel or paper funnel.

5. Position the plug rear and seal off it with a black electrical adhesive tape.

6. Mount inside the inkjet printer. The refilling of these cartridges can be carried out a great deal of times.

Drum Cartridges

These are more complicated replacements. The 'pretty' drum might have 3 colored coatings: reddish, blue or natural. Well before refilling you need to find the toner hopper and also the waste hopper.

o Identify the drum and suppose that it goes to the end of the printer cartridge.

o Set it right down to how the drum works from remaining to right in front side of you. The side in close proximity to to you is the 'near side' and the a single far away from you is 'far side'.

o One of these aspects is larger than one other.

o The biggest area is 'toner hopper' and small one particular is 'waste hopper'.

Now to re-fill follow the adhering to actions.

1. Track down the drum but tend not to contact it. It might be under a shutter.

2. Find the toner hopper. You will see a transparent plug using one aspect. Get rid of it. If you usually do not believe it is then produce a opening inside the toner hopper away from the paper path.

3. Vacuum the drum of shavings but do not feel the drum.

4. Shake the jar of toner and fill the full bottle in to the cartridge with a funnel. 5.Seal off the hole with all the pug or a black electrical tape.

Toner And Designer Cartridges

This container is similar to the drum printer cartridge but it has two plugs. The bigger one is for toner and small one for designer. You will need medium sized flat and cross going screwdrivers.

1. Find the squander pack by the end of the cartridge and take away the anchoring screws. There is a moving door for that squander container.

2. Associated with the spend package is a plastic-type dish organised by a single attach. You are to set up it such a manner in which the natural shaded aspect is to the upper proper and screw to decrease still left. Screw it wide open.

3. There is a clip above the environmentally friendly aspect. Drive it with a flat screw driver to release the plate.

4. You can see a sizeable cover for your toner. Leave the cap or make a pit inside it.

5. Fill the ink cartridge with toner and seal off it.

6. To the still left middle is a tiny plug to the programmer. Make a opening or disconnect it.

7. Fill up the hole with creator and seal off.

8. Position the plastic material platter and also the waste materials package.

9. Shake the container gently.

[mr-adamantiumlegs-blog]

Learning to Fly - You Will Never Forget Your First Solo Flight

There are numerous developments en route to accomplishing your Private Pilot's wings, yet the one that you will recall clearly is your first solo. Get some information about theirs and he or she will likely look thoughtfully into the separation to review the time they initially flew and airplane all alone. Indeed, even veterans with numerous hours in their logbooks always remember the day their teacher let them lose interestingly.

The primary solo speaks to a move between the individuals who can just fly under the vigilant gaze of a teacher and the individuals who have enough learning and expertise to empower them to fly unaided. Obviously there's significantly more to it than that and your teacher will at present be watching you eagerly but from the beginning of the seat next to or behind you!

What is the primary solo flight?

Your first flight as pilot in order will be one circuit of the landing strip. The circuit (or example in the USA) is a nonexistent rectangle comprising of the runway, the upwind leg (the part flown soon after take-off as you move out to circuit tallness), the crosswind leg (at right edges to one side of the runway), the downwind leg (parallel to the runway however the other way to take off and landing), base leg (inverse of crosswind leg) and last approach i.e. the segment in which you are arranging and plunging in arrangement for landing. It's just as simple as that take off, fly one circuit and land.

It might sound convoluted to you now in case you're a tenderfoot understudy without any hours in your log book yet as with all things it gets simpler with training. Your initial 10-20 hours of flight preparing will include flying machine taking care of noticeable all around, climbing, sliding turning, radio calls inside the region of the runway, departures and arrivals. Once you've aced the fundamental treatment of the flying machine your teacher will go through a few lessons with you in the circuit showing you how to fly every leg. You'll realize what to keep an eye on every leg, which radio calls to make and when to make them.

You'll additionally figure out how to perceive natural historic points around the landing strip as it can be shockingly simple to getting to be plainly muddled without this information and it'll make the experience significantly less unpleasant in the impossible the occasion that the Control Tower requests that you circle over a specific point to clear a path for another airplane. There's little possibility of this occurrence as your educator ought to have picked a period when the runway is relatively peaceful and he/she ought to have educated the Tower that you are an understudy about the fly your first solo, however in the event that it happens then being readied will help you to complete the Tower's guidelines with the base measure of disturbance to your flight.

So when would it be a good idea for you to hope to fly your first solo and how might you get ready for it? Rest guaranteed that your educator won't send you solo until the point that he or she is sensibly sure that you are prepared. The day will arrive when you've both been in the flying machine 'circuit bashing' i.e. flying one circuit after another until the point when the entire procedure from take off to landing is drummed into your mind and your reflexes by consistent redundancy. You may even end up getting somewhat exhausted of this training and the insightful teacher will detect this weariness and take it as flag that the time has sought you to fly all alone.

My first solo was on July fourth 1985 at Southampton Airport (EGHI) in a Grumman AA5-An, enlistment G-BFTE. The procedure lessons were altogether based on flying the circuit more than once until the point that all means had gotten comfortable. Amid these training sessions I had handled the flying machine a few times with no mediation from the teacher close to me. I realized that one day soon amid such a lesson he would request that I taxi onto the smock and stop while he cleared the flying machine and gave me the thumbs up to fly a circuit all alone. On this specific day we flew a few circuits and he instructed me to stop before the Tower. Half of me was trusting that the lesson had finished and the other half realized what was coming. Once the air ship was stopped he opened the shade and got out onto the wing. He inclined in to the cockpit and stated, "Right. One circuit just, at that point back here . Off you go."

Before I had sufficient energy to challenge he had slid the shade close and strolled off without a regressive look. I was allowed to sit unbothered in the air ship. I gave a radio call to the Tower, "Southampton Tower, Golf Bravo Foxtrot Tango Echo, radio check and maneuver to the hold." Approval was given immediately. I was en route. It maneuvered to the holding point, ran my eyes over the instrument board and gave another call to state that I was prepared to leave (take off). A couple of second later the flying machine was gathering speed along the runway and I was soon airborne.

The principal thing that struck was that the air ship was lighter and dealing with in an unexpected way, and obviously it was because of the way that there was one less grown-up in the correct hand situate! With every one of the things to focus on the following couple of minutes go in a blaze. I didn't generally settle down and take supply of the occasion until the point when I was in the downwind leg where there was a moment or two in which I could retain the way that I was flying all alone. No sooner was I beginning to salute myself when I understood that I needed to get ready for the arrival. Radio calls and pre-landing checks took after and inside a moment or two I was looking down the length of the runway focusing on my velocity, tallness, and the position of the flying machine's cowling in connection to the finish of the runway.

My educator's voice was in my mind directing me down. Presently I comprehended why we rehashed this activity so frequently and under fluctuating conditions. I made slight alterations where fundamental and it wasn't well before I felt the knock of the primary wheels touching down on the runway. Once the nose wheel was down too I delicately connected crushing and navigated spirit to the cover to stop. With all the post arrival checks finished and the flying machine close down I emptied and strolled over the cover to the fundamental terminal building. My knees were somewhat unsteady yet with each progression I grew a foot taller. When I achieved the building I was radiating.

[justanotherbandomdevotee]

Another Day, Another Cliché.

Pairing- Brendon Urie + Dallon Weekes. Brallon.

Era- Vices And Virtues.

Word Count- 1,995 Words.

Warnings-

 Pretentious

 Mentions Of Drug Abuse.

 Mentions Of Alcohol.

 Terribly Written.

 Unnecessarily Long.

Author’s Note- This wasn’t requested or anything, I just felt like writing something so I wrote this catastrophe. Feel free to leave comments, constructive criticism, and to point out my mistakes. Also, please send in asks or submissions or stuff, I don’t bite, I swear. Unless you are into that kind of thing… -The Sentient Potato.  

Dallon Weekes had never felt complete contentment. The sheer happiness and fulfillment that it brought. The elation and general sense of gratification that it brought. Its not like he couldn’t feel it, no he could have felt it at some point in his life. It just never happened, until now.

Lying on the cool surface of the expensive cotton threads in the hotel room with the sun just breaking the horizon, Dallon felt content and he liked it. Liked the way he felt, as if he were floating on a cloud up and high near heaven, though it could have been the sheets and the mattress. He liked the constant buzz that he had in his palms, fingers, feet, and toes. It felt like he had warm, melted chocolate flowing through his veins instead of blood. He also had a permanent grin on his face. Sometimes it was visible, too.

Sitting against the propped pillows in the dawn light lit room, he couldn’t help but grin. Grin at the fact that he was in love with the marvel asleep next to him. Yep, the cyan eyed man was in love and he wasn’t afraid by the prospect of being in love anymore.

Had it happened a few years ago, there would have been a giant Dallon shaped hole in the dry wall of the home studio where he had admitted his feelings to his boyfriend. That’s how people will know where Dallon had stood after Dallon’s demise, the Dallon shaped holes in walls and doors because he’d rather avoid responsibilities and feelings, but not anymore.

The room’s silence was only broken by his lover’s snores and the skip of his stuttering heartbeat. Dallon chanced a glance towards his boyfriend and practically felt the rush of Dopamine, adrenaline, and serotonin when he managed to make out the sleeping outline of his boyfriend in the dimly lit room. Everything was a varying shade of black and blue because the sun was just breaking the horizon. Long streaks of yellows and oranges were chasing away the azure and black of the previous night.

Dallon could only see a part of the ever expanding sky through the narrow slit between the drawn peach curtains. The velvet of the curtain blocked any other ray that tried to filter its way into the room. The sun was taking it’s time with the rise and Dallon was taking his time to fall further in love. He always thought that he’d have a clichéd love story, boy meets girl, the world stops revolving around the sun and starts revolving around them, everything turns in a slowed down mesh of an artistic European movie, vibrant and pretty but so boring and after a few tragedies and end of the world fights he’d marry her and have 2 kids, a boy and a girl, and then he turned 30 and watched the girl of his dreams turn into the boy of his dreams.

Dallon had walked into the audition without knowing a damn thing about the band’s songs and with his heart and mind in their designated places along with his bass. He had walked out without his heart, his mind in frenzy and his bass guitar.

Dallon had fallen for Brendon the moment his blue eyes had landed on the boy in a white button up, black skinny jeans, converse, and so many drugs in his system that he was still high from the weed that he had smoked two days ago.

Dallon had initially found his feelings for the lead singer childish and stupid. He was a 30 year old man who knew what he preferred sexually, his didn’t develop crushes, that’s what he had chalked it up to, over the course of 10 minutes of being in the same room as the person of his affections, but there he was in his apartment smiling at the very thought of Brendon.

Dallon had quite a few inhibitions after his realization. The most obvious one being that he couldn’t possibly fall for a 24 year old, he didn’t even remember what his life was like when he was 24. The age gap jarred him, a lot, but then he started hanging out with Brendon and after the drugs were cleared out of his system, Brendon wasn’t half bad. He had a great sense of humor, an amazing music taste, a liberal, and was very open minded about things. Dallon hated tunnel visioned people. Dallon still didn’t give in, though. He remained adamant about not being in love with Brendon, that he just had a school girl crush on him, he certainly acted like one around him. But then the fateful night at the studio happened.

Brendon had knocked back 3 glasses of scotch and smoked a few puffs of the blunt before his smile had dropped along with his walls. In the bright yellow lights of the soundproof home studio, Dallon could almost see the charismatic confidence and Brendon’s calm, cool and collected ways leaving him. Slowly, very slowly Brendon started coming out and showing his true colors. His scared and doubting colors. His big brown and expressive eyes were dilated and were screaming to be held. He was shaking as his wet lips enunciated all of his troubles and doubts. He was being self-destructive. A broken string of incomplete pleas were falling past his lips and diminishing in the heavy air of the room.

Brendon was hyperventilating against Dallon’s chest when all of Dallon’s inhibitions had fallen into a dark abyss, also known as ‘Fuck it, I am in love with him.’ and it scared him. It scared him so fucking much, but he didn’t care, he was in love with the exhausted person who had cried himself to sleep in Dallon’s denim covered lap.

Dallon muses that he fell in love with Brendon’s vulnerability, Brendon muses that Dallon fell in love with his ability to take cock.

Dallon’s heart still stuttered and broke when he had flashbacks of that night. His limbs still alternated between being cold and numb and hot and sensitive.

The sun had completely risen now. The narrow slit was allowing a bright strip of light into the room. It burned a long, narrow, and diagonal rectangle into the soft grey carpet. The dust particles that hung in the air were being showcased in the bright light of the yellow sunlight. Everything around the slit was illuminated by a glow that got weaker as the distance of the things progressed. The shadows danced as the curtains moved because of the cool air that the A.C was humming out.

Dallon turned to his left and leaned on his arm as he marveled at the aesthetically pleasing human who was breathing deeply next to him. He had one hand thrown over his bare chest while the other was lying lazily between him and the man about whom he was dreaming. His head was lolling towards Dallon and his nose kept twitching. Dallon smiled at his boyfriend.

Dallon was certain that he fell for Brendon because of his soulful beauty and his vulnerability, but god damn was his boyfriend good looking. His big and well defined pink lips, his deep lip dimple, perfectly centered nose that had a gentle dip, freckle dusted cheeks against which his long lashes rested, and his expressive brown eyes made him the most beautiful sight in a room full of future super models. Hell, it made him the most beautiful person in a room with super models. He was beautiful, inside and out and always chuckled when Dallon gave him the compliment. He was an easy going, easily excited person, but he had the lowest self esteem. Good thing that he was great at hiding it.

Sometimes the strength of Dallon’s feelings for Brendon scared them. Dallon got scared because he thought that Brendon found it overbearing. Brendon got scared because he wanted to reciprocate the feelings to the same level of intensity but couldn’t do it without sounding like a cheesy romance novel writer.

Brendon sighed lightly and snuggled into the crease of Dallon’s supporting elbow while Dallon smiled at his boyfriend. He realized that he used the term boyfriend a lot, but it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t ever think that Brendon would go out with him, even deem a second glance. Dallon smiled again as Brendon mumbled something inane in his sleep.

Dallon leaned back a little to look at Brendon’s sleeping face and decided to do the corny and clichéd thing of waking him up with a kiss. He licked his lips and grimaced at the dry feeling and chapped slivers that lightly poked his tongue. The fact that his lips still tasted like sleep did not help matters either. He leaned to his right and blindly started closing his fingers around one of the many bottles on the side table.

Once his fingertips finally came in contact with the plastic ridges of a mass produced plastic bottle that probably carried more carcinogens than actually water, he closed them around it and chugged it down. He released a silent burp after chugging it all down and allowed the bottle to drop on the floor unceremoniously. The grey carpet muffled the sound of the free falling empty bottle coming in contact with the floor.

Dallon leaned at an awkward angle and expelled one last breath before he leaned in. He could feel the slow movements as each muscle worked to transition his jerky and uncertain movements into a lean. He could hear the pre kiss drum roll, He could feel Brendon’s breath tickling his upper lip’s lip line. Dallon could almost taste the kiss. His eyelashes had just fallen shut when his brain went into overdrive and produced scenes of Brendon laughing and mocking a tomato faced Dallon. All of Dallon’s confidence evaporated and he leaned out of the kiss. Dallon could feel the heat from the hypothetical situation staining his cheeks a pale red. He shook his head and tried to convince himself that he was being over-dramatic. His brain started producing even more stupid and over the top productions with the same story line to counter it’s logical side when the logical side tried to convince the brain otherwise.

“Just kiss me already.” A sleep laced tone spoke from Dallon’s left, his lover’s voice was soft. In the dim light of the powerfully glowing sun lit strip, Dallon felt his heart melt and bleed into his veins after he heard Brendon’s morning voice. It made him feel fluttery and fluffy, like he was lying on one of those gigantic bears that were bigger and heavier than most fully grown human beings. Dallon felt his brain stop the blown out of proportion production of the over-reaction complete with background music. He felt calm, he felt content.

“What makes you think that I wanna kiss you?” Dallon questioned Brendon in a tone of faux confusion as he furrowed his arched eyebrows together for the full effect. Brendon’s eyes were closed, but Dallon still managed to make out the eye balls rolling under the lids.

“Well, if you won’t do it, I will.” And with that Brendon leaned up on his elbows and slotted his pillow-y soft lips with Dallon’s equally soft and damp ones. The kiss was drawn way past it’s necessary time period and when the couple did pull away, it left them breathless and wanting more. They were greedy when it came to kissing the other. They wanted to feel the butterflies and fireworks, wanted to feel that desperation and drive for more, they wanted to feel like a young and naïve couple that was experiencing its first love, passionate but immature. They wanted to feel the love and felt it every time they kissed. It was beautiful, raw, and so, so desirous. It was love, actual requited love and it made them grin like idiots.

“Good morning, Baby.”

“It certainly is, Angel.”

[ghostpatrolinspiration]

Claes Oldenburg I Am For… (Statement, 1961)

I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum. I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a starting point of zero. I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap and still comes out on top. I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary. I am for all art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.

I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.

I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky. I am for art that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced off a passing fender. I am for the art out of a doggie’s mouth, falling five stories from the roof. I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper. I am for an art that joggles like everyone’s knees, when the bus traverses an excavation. I am for art that is smoked like a cigarette, smells like a pair of shoes. I am for art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses like a handkerchief. I am for art that is put on and taken off like pants, which develops holes like socks, which is eaten like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt like a piece of shit.

I am for art covered with bandages. I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps. I am for art that comes in a can or washes up on the shore. I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds hair. I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on. I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist. I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.

I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind man’s metal stick. I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch. I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetie’s arm, or kiss like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on like an old tablecloth. I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with. I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is. I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

I am for the art of the washing machine. I am for the art of a government check. I am for the art of last war’s raincoat. I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer holes in winter. I am for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worm’s art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs.

I am for the art of neck hair and caked teacups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater. I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red-and-white gasoline pumps. I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs. I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art of dead birds. I am for the art of scratching in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.

I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I am for the art of kids’ smells. I am for the art of mama-babble. I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beer-drinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a barstool.

I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. I am for the art of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic art of dog turds, rising like cathedrals.

I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night. I am for art falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off. I am for the art of fat truck tires and black eyes. I am for Kool art, 7UP art, Pepsi art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15 cents art, Vatronol art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, L&M art, Ex-lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamryl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99 art, Now art, New art, How art, Fire Sale art, Last Chance art, Only art, Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Franks art, Ducks art, Meat-o-rama art.

I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rat’s dance between floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples. I am for the art of meows and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes. I am for the white art of refrigerators and their muscular openings and closings. I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn meat hooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue, and yellow meat. I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. I am for the art of crayons and weak, gray pencil lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub. I am for the art of teddy bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, exploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes with men sleeping in them.

I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums and tambourines, and plastic phonographs. I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs. I am for an art of water tanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades. I am for US Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-Eat art, Best-for-Less art, Ready-to-Cook art, Fully Cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art, pork art, chicken art, tomato art, banana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art, cookie art…

[leannemcclean1978-blog]

Quoizel Brigade 22"W 4-Light Antique Nickel Drum Pendant ❤ liked on Polyvore (see more rectangular ceiling lights)