#windowframe

[anbuarchive]

Something in the distance. Something that stayed even after I left.

[fieldpractice]

[c0rpseductor]

i do realize it must sound kind of bleak to frame potential anemia as like, a cost advantage for utilities vis a vis air conditioning during the summer. however, i cannot fucking imagine how much more intolerable the heat would be if i were not probably some level of iron deficient, and it is genuinely important to be careful about the electricity we're using, so. if you think about it, ive kind of gamed the system

[vimbry-moved]

[cantankerouscatfish]

sideways related to an extended family member/friend dying and you getting a bunch of their stuff is when a coworker's pet dies and they give you a free 50lb bag of cat litter and bags of canned food.

[bitegore]

Incredibly. I think Bayverse Getting Drunk And Sitting Marathon may have given me the ability to draw digitally back.

[elibeeline]

Fighting the demons in my head one cup of coffee at a time

[sconesfortea]

Was fully asleep when I either dreamt or hallucinated a massive spider on my ceiling that I could see clear as day despite not having my glasses on and my ceiling being 15ft away and it being dark in my room.

Still spent 15 minutes standing stock still in the middle of my room just in case, searching my room with my phone light like some kind of human lighthouse.

[westeckwindows]

It's #TipTuesday!

A quick tip on Care and Maintenance of your Westeck Windows

*Clean window and door frames with a mixture of mild dish detergent and water.

Abrasive cleaners or solvents are never recommended because they might cause permanent damage to frame finishes. Mild non-abrasive soaps are usually safest for most dirt and stain removal. Always rinse completely with clear water and wipe dry.

Ensure drainage holes are always clear of dirt and debris that might obstruct free flow of water, both inside and outside of the window or door in the bottom of the frame and sash.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

I'm watching interior design videos on youtube and I can't tell if the youtubers are fucking with me or if I just can't tell what looks good.

"As you can see, something is 'off' about this room. Let's fix it!"

That looks like a normal room to me.

"And now that we've added this lamp for interest, moved the furniture to create more balance, and repainted those horrible clashing windowframes to better fit the tone of the room, look at what a difference it makes!"

That also looks like a normal room to me.

[complete-gay-chaos]

boy who wacked him fucking head

[david-watts]

it fucken wimdy

[leo-regulus]

My website title page is going to look SO GOOD when I'm done this art. SO GOOD.

You ever just have A Web Design Idea and then drop everything to start properly sketching it out, and then you get far enough into making it that you can see what it'll look like, and it's GLORIOUS, EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANTED, PERFECT IN EVERY WAY?

Yeah babey. B)

[slurmdog]

modern businessman luo binghe is having a bad day - he's running late to his next meeting, his car broke down, his apartment has a leak, and he has mud on his shoes while walking to an important interview.

that's why when someone wolf whistles and goes, "hey sexy, need a ride?" he feels like he's going to unleash the fury of the gods on that person for catcalling him on, perhaps, the worst day of his adult life

binghe turns on his heel and walks up to the open window of the mediocre car that pulled up - the driver's face overcome with an ashen pallor the closer he gets - and suddenly realizes that this is the most beautiful man he's ever met. so then binghe finds himself leaning on the open windowframe and twirling his hair going, "yes, actually,"

the driver looks behind binghe and winces. binghe gives him his best eyes and the driver says, "i meant, um..."

"your jokes aren't funny, shen yuan," a woman says behind binghe, and then she gets into the backseat. binghe is strangely dismayed - the driver who must be shen yuan must've been catcalling her as a joke, not him. shen yuan meets his eyes, inexplicably blushes, and gestures at the unlocked passenger door.

binghe gets in. he bats his eyelashes at shen yuan and blithely gives the address of the building he's interviewing at, makes conversation, then gives shen yuan his number and name on the way out.

[ning yingying climbs from the back seat to the front passenger without opening the doors (sue her! it's a sketchy warehouse area!) and says to shen yuan, "so he's probably a murderer, right?"]

[wri0thesley]

Oh for lucas to wake up in the dead of night and find your side of the bed empty and start to panic, only to see you leaning in the open window clad in just his unbuttoned shirt staring wistfully at the moon and stars

cw: kidnapped reader, yandere character, allusions to past non-con/dub-con, references to cannibalism.

The breeze is just cool enough to be bracing, your fingers tight in the wood of the windowframe as you feel gooseflesh rise across the back of your neck, the open collar of Lucas's shirt. It is just enough to remind you that you are real; that you exist beyond sitting quietly at Lucas's side, at washing up dishes and smiling sweetly and keeping your mouth shut.

The moon is full tonight. You wonder if, somewhere else, the other people you love are looking up at that same moon. You wonder if they are wondering about you; whether your picture is splashed in newspapers, taped to flyers on streetlamps, shared on Facebook again and again with pleas for you to come home. It would not matter if it were; none of those things make it here, to this cabin in the edge of nowhere.

The sheets rustle. The bedframe creaks, and you feel your spine stiffen. You hear a low mumble of distress that quickly becomes a growl of anger, and you find yourself frozen still in fear as if, if he does not see you move, he will not see you at all.

It's instinctual for him to roll over and crush you against him in his sleep. You'd been amazed when you'd woken up earlier that night and had found yourself not in his bear-like grip; your cheek not squashed against the steady beat of his heart, your limbs not bound by a muscular thigh slung over yours, cuddling you close like a favourite stuffed animal that isn't quite yet worn enough to be disposed of.

You'd seen the moon and been drawn to it like a hypnotic force, as the reminder of where you are had crashed back down on you and choked you with longing to be somewhere else. You'd hated your life once - can you believe it now? You'd hated the monotony, every day the same, your own four walls and the knowledge that your life was probably going to stretch on like this forever--

But that monotony was certainly preferable to this. Get up, go to work, buy a nice sandwich from the artisan bakery, a walk in the evening wherever you wanted to go . . . you would give anything to have that back, rather than 'wake up in the arms of a monster and smile nicely and bite back your anger and pretend that it's alright that he feeds you people'.

"Darlin'?" There's a note of warning in his voice. Something steel-edged beneath the sweetness. You'll have to play this carefully. You're not stupid enough to run, and you're certainly not stupid enough to try and run through an open window when you're only wearing his shirt and no underwear (and too, when you can still feel what he left in you not hours ago, sticky on your inner thighs).

"The moon's full," you say to him, turning around and giving him a soft, sweet smile the way that you've learnt he likes. No teeth; a hopeful shine in your eyes, a naive kind of excitement at the wonderment of everyday life. If faced with it yourself, you'd scoff and think that you were laying it on too thick - but the reminder of the feigned naivety is one of the quickest ways to get Lucas to calm down.

(A pout and a sniffle and an apology, when he'd caught you on the front porch without him one afternoon, and you'd told him you just wanted to see the chickens he told you so much about. A sigh and a wistful look about your own favourite childhood movie, when you'd grown tired of the Western VHSes Lucas favourited - a romance, of course. A fairytale. Something that was set in a pretty cottage in the woods, that you told him with such a guileless look that you ought to have won an award for it reminded you of him).

"Isn't it beautiful?"

He stands up from the bed and it takes all of your grace not to flinch at the reminder of his height and breadth, at the scars scattered across his body in the moonlight, highlighted by what little he wears. You keep your eyes wide and your smile pretty, and you practically see the tension unknotting from his shoulders.

You heave a sigh of relief that you disguise as a sigh over how pretty the night sky is.

"You got outta bed just to look?" He says, with only the barest note of warning left in his voice now - it's been far too tempered by indulgence, because you have played the game so well that he's willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. "You scared me for a second there."

The part where you're barely dressed and nervously toying with the hem of one of his own shirts where it sits high on your thigh and the reminder of how you'd sighed and clung to him earlier probably doesn't hurt, either. Give and take. It's not so much, is it, to give him your body for that hunger to avoid it being used for any other kind?

"I'm sorry," you say, contrite, and you let your face fall the merest fraction. You will tears to the corner of your eyes. "I--I didn't mean to-- I just wanted to look, the night's so clear and pretty . . ."

Jackpot. One of them slides down the apple of your cheek and Lucas takes a slow, shuddering breath that he thinks you don't notice. He steps closer and then he's behind you, and one big hand is sliding over your hip, around your waist.

"It's cold," he says to you. "Lemme shut the window; it's just as pretty when you're not shiverin'."

Was it worth it, you wonder - that brief moment of remembering that life is still going on, even though you're trapped here? You think it might have been, even as Lucas presses a kiss to the nape of your neck and guides you back to the bed.

"Besides," he murmurs, the proof of how much your tears have affected him obvious in the want in his voice. "Ain't no moon that could ever be half as pretty as you."

The next morning, Lucas goes into the spare room and returns to the bedroom with his arms laden with red gingham. He asks for your help holding them whilst he puts the curtains up, and you pretend not to notice that the uneven but tiny hem stitching suggests they were made by hands other than your own or Lucas's.

He closes them carefully before you lay down to sleep.

[aloysiavirgata]

Loved your Skinner POV. I am the ultimate sucker for a Margaret Scully POV. Do one? *doe eyes*

Cancer. How can it be cancer, how can Fox already have been at the hospital, how can they plot and whisper and conspire; how can Dana have cancer?

Margaret is so angry and so afraid. So, so angry.

Terrified.

She has the wild, insane thought that Dana is too beautiful to have cancer, as though Melissa hadn’t been too beautiful to be casually murdered.

Fox looming and lurking in hallways and corners and sunsets and pre-dawn stillness. Like a grim guardian angel, like the beautiful statue of Lucifer Bill once took her to see at Liège.

Margaret sees Fox kiss her daughter’s bright hair one night, kiss her daughter’s sad, smiling mouth.

She doesn’t know what she wants for them. She crosses herself and walks away.

***

She doesn’t understand the situation with Emily, not really. She listens to everything Dana says about induced hyperovulation and surrogates and she nodded, dutiful, because she can hear Dana’s throat so tight, trying not to cry.

Emily is very sick, Dana says. The courts have no precedence for this, Dana says. I want to help her, Mom.

If Emily is Dana’s, if she really is, then she’s Margaret’s granddaughter and Margaret, to her shame, doesn’t want her to be.

Fox stands in the corner of the room, staring out the window at nothing, his jaw hard as stone. He radiates a quiet steadiness and Margaret feels her strange, lovely daughter draw strength from it, like a solar panel on a bright day. Are there lunar panels? Mulder’s eyes are nothing like the sun.

He radiates a cold fury and Margaret almost has pity for the target of it.

“When I was abducted by Duane Barry,” Dana begins, her voice mostly steady. “Wherever he took me had some kind of program where-“

Fox slams his fist into the windowframe and Margaret jumps, gasps. “Fox!”

“Mulder…” Dana breathes, her eyes closed.

He stalks from the room like a panther. Like an assassin.

***

“I’m pregnant,” Dana says, a little blushing laugh. Her hand splays over her flat belly.

Margaret surges with such piercing love for this incomprehensible child she birthed. “Oh honey,” she breathes.

Dana drops her head to the side, cheek to shoulder. “I’m so tired already,” she confesses. “I don’t know how you had four with Daddy away.”

She reaches for her daughter’s slim fingers. “I wanted five. Eight, if we could have. Three miscarriages after Charlie and then….” she is appalled at herself. “Dana, I’m so-“

Dana squeezes her mother’s hand. “Miscarriages aren’t some kind of thought virus, Mom.”

Margaret squeezes her hand back. “I know, I know. It just feels like bad luck. And Fox, will he be….?”

Dana looks up, a flush high in her cheeks. “Why are you bringing Mulder up?”

Margaret rolls her eyes. ““I’m a Vatican I Catholic, Dana. Not an idiot.”

Her daughter has the grace to look away. “He wants me to marry him,” she murmurs.

Margaret loves Fox. She loves him the way people love barn cats and funny cock-eared dogs and every pied beauty. But all of a sudden it’s Fox at Thanksgiving, Fox properly at Christmas this time. Uncle Fox, wedding-anniversary Fox, Fox calling her…what? Mom? Surely not Mrs. Scully still.

Margaret knows her children have done the math on her oldest son’s birthday, that he was mighty hefty for a “preemie.” She knows her latest grandchild deserves to be born in wedlock, she knows every Catholic from Father McCue back to Saint Peter would be absolutely appalled with her.

“Be sure of what you want,” she says to the chestnut tree just past the living room window. To Saint Mary Magdalene, to all repentant sinners.

***

William, six. William clever and tall for his age and gingerbread-colored like his father, with his mother’s round lapis eyes. Fiona, four, happily squirting colored water into a large plastic bin of shaving cream. The twins - Silas and Clara- are nearly three and getting bathed in the sink by their father. Dana, a tenured professor, lolling on the couch. Dana pregnant with number five.

Dana yawns like a cat over some tedious medical journal. Dana ever rail-thin since her cancer. Dana still looking depleted of essential nutrients. Phosphorus? Zinc?

But Dana is still a doctor, so Margaret is silent.

“Are you all right?” Margaret asks her irritable daughter. She beams at Clara, absurdly chubby, with her Aunt Melissa’s coppery curls. Clara with her plump hands like little stars. Silas, rosy and dark-haired, howls in general indignation. Silas with his father’s fairy-forest eyes and impossible lashes. Silas who loves to pat his grandmother’s cheeks.

“Mother I’m FINE,” Dana sighs. “Sy, hush. It’s only warm water.”

Margaret watches her son-in-law for a time, watches his long hands and his furrowed brow as the twins laugh and splash and protest in the deep farmhouse sink. Her Bill could never have done what Fox does.

“Loretta Lynn said she stopped having babies when they started coming in pairs,” Fox observes, sluicing water over his anguished twins. Clara laments pitifully. Silas has a broken air about him, weary as his mother.

Dana laughs, sweet as communion wine. “Stop knocking me up, then,” she grins, hand over her enormous belly.

“Not until you marry me,” Fox replies, thumbing Silas’s fat cheek. Kissing his darkly curled head.

Fiona on the carpet, giggling as William makes farting sounds in his armpits. Fiona with the blackest hair and the bluest eyes and the most perfectly sprinkled freckles like her Uncle Charlie.

William like a wood-elf, so tall and bright.

Dana laughs again. “No priest would ever, would they, Mom?”

Margaret, exhausted and happy, sighs at the pair of them.

In the oven, turkey tetrazzini from the Thanksgiving leftovers. Potty-training sticker charts on the fridge. Will’s perfect math homework, Fee’s wobbly I LOV YU!! above a careful crayon drawing of her family.

Margaret could have never predicted this, could never have seen Fox in sweats and baking Texas Sheet Cake for the PTA. Fox staying home and juggling nap schedules so that Dana could tell anecdotes about maggots to her adoring students.

Fox has a blog, which is Quite The Thing nowadays. Fox is a bestselling author. He’s made the talk show circuit and the girls from bunko send her newspaper clippings.

Fox towels off his exhausted babies. He diapers them, dresses them in fleecy pajamas. They look at him with enormous, reproachful eyes. They pout.

Margaret holds her arms out, draws them in when they toddle over.

The babies nestle, nuzzle, make sweet baby sounds as the sink drains away. Their little mouths pop open, lashes curled on their flawless cheeks. She’s never expected Dana, of all of her children, to be living this life. Cold, prickly, distant Dana with her lunatic partner and her brain cancer and her dead little girl.

“There are infinite infinities,” William tells Fiona. “But some infinities are larger than others.”