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Napoleonville [Chapter 10: The House Of Saint Honoratus of Amiens] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, weddings, Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Rice-A-Roni.

Word Count: 6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @bungalowbear @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Thank you so much for loving this strange, sexy, sweet story. I hope you enjoy the finale. 🥰🧁

Your bare feet in warm grass, your hands around the ropes of the tree swing, no sounds except the ancient psalms of the earth: cicadas, mourning doves, goldfinches, bumble bees, bullfrogs, wind in the leaves of the dogwoods and southern live oaks. The adolescent alligator is at one end of the front yard, sunbathing up by the mouth of the gravel driveway; in the opposite corner are several nutria nibbling on cattails. The sky is a calm, cloudless blue. It’s hot, mid-80s, even when 5:00 p.m. comes and goes; but the breeze is cool as it evaporates the sweat from your temples, your palms, the nape of your neck. It’s as close as Louisiana ever gets to Heaven. It’s a good day for a wedding.

You remember thinking that it was the end of the world when you found out you were pregnant almost exactly eleven years ago, and then again when you realized you would have to divorce Willis, and so you have lived through enough moments like this—these quiet, infinitesimal apocalypses—to know that there will be a future beyond Aemond marrying Christabel. The sun will rise tomorrow, and then it will set, the lightning bugs will appear and the stars will tell myths in the night sky, and the phone will ring as orders come in for the bakery, and Cadi will be back in her bedroom playing her Nintendo, and life will roll on like currents through the bayou: slow, opaque, inevitable. The world isn’t ending, you know that. It’s just full of beautiful things that aren’t for you.

Out on Route 401, a Plymouth Gran Fury zooms by the house, squeals to a halt, and then reverses until Willis can take another look, squinting through his tinted windows. He turns down the driveway and steps out into golden July daylight. He doesn’t pay any attention to the gator as he strides past her. He belongs here, in a place that is old and strange and savage and full of beasts. You have carved out a home for yourself in the swamplands; Willis was born with veins like the roots of a mangrove tree and ancient silt instead of marrow in his bones.

“Hey, sugar,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. The wind ruffles the dark curls of his mullet, the bumble bees flee as he tramples clovers. “Ain’t ya supposed to be at the weddin’?”

“I’m sick.” A lie. “But Cadi’s fine, she’s with Amir. She was so excited she actually wore one of the sundresses my mom bought her and had Amir braid a dogwood flower into her hair to match his. You should have seen it. You would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m always proud of her,” Willis says, smiling. And then: “Ya don’t look sick.”

“I am.”

“Ya got one of your headaches?”

You pause. You don’t, but this is a convenient excuse. “Yeah.”

Willis stalls, his hands on his belt. His pistol is there; you remember how he used it in the bayou, how he helped save your life. But he wasn’t the one who jumped into the water. Aemond was willing to risk his body for me, but not his soul. What kind of sense does that make? “Ya had me scared for a minute there,” Willis says.

“What? When?”

“When I thought ya were goin’ to end up with that Rockefeller boy.”

“Aemond?” you say, like it’s so shocking. “No. Absolutely not. It’s impossible.”

“And why’s that?”

You stare into the trees so Willis can’t see the tears welling up in your eyes, the tension in your throat as embers kindle there, pulsing with heat that could char flesh to the bone. “He can’t marry someone like me.”

“I could,” Willis replies, grinning. You glare at him until he recants. “Alright, alright, oublie ça. Pardonne-moi.”

“Why would you be afraid of me and Aemond being together?”

“An oil tycoon? A millionaire? He would never stay here for long. In a town like Napoleonville? Soon as he was done getting’ those rigs up and runnin’, he’d go jettin’ off to some other corner of the world, and he’d take you with him. And Cadi too. I wouldn’t be able to fight that. What’s a parish sheriff to a Targaryen? Who would listen to me? Cadi would be gone and I’d never get her back. It would kill me. It would rip the heart right outta my chest.”

You look up at Willis from where you sit on the tree swing, the soles of your feet colored with soil and grass. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” he asks, perhaps suspicious, perhaps hopeful.

“No,” you promise. “Cadi loves you. Cadi needs you to be in her life. I would never try to take her away from you, Willis.”

He nods; he seems to believe you. And something relaxes in him, like there’s been a tension in the lines of his spine and shoulders that you didn’t notice for years. “I’m sorry about your petit ami.”

“Yeah. Me too.” It comes out like a whisper, brittle and frail. “I’m sorry about Lake Verret.”

“They might be able to fix it. Talk around town is they got some kind of desalination”—he says this with each syllable enunciated distinctly, like he’s put great effort into memorizing it—“process that can take the salt back outta the water. And if that don’t work…” He shrugs with a sly smile. “I’ll survive somehow. The world’s a big place. There’s always another lake.”

You consider him, and you remember—like a dream from the night before that just returned to you—how Willis can be unexpectedly deep, randomly tender. “They should put that on bumper stickers.”

He chuckles and waves as he heads back to his car. “I’ll pick Cadi up on Tuesday. Back to the usual schedule.”

“Sure.” Back to real life. Back to before I met Aemond. And you find yourself wishing that you could forget what it had felt like to be with him; the absence he left feels so much heavier than the nonspecific longing that existed before. Willis’ Plymouth Gran Fury rolls out of the driveway, and you stay precisely where you are on the tree swing, absentmindedly pushing yourself back and forth with your tiptoes and trying to believe that tomorrow this will feel easier, and then even easier the day after that, and eventually it will cease to be anything but a vague recollection, a relic in a rarely-opened drawer, a whisper, an echo. One day, you will stop missing Aemond. One day, you will stop wondering whether a sliver of his life would have been better than none at all.

Inside what Cadi calls the Fall-Down House, the phone rings. You ignore it; if it’s an order for the bakery, they can leave a message. But then it rings again, and again, and you have to answer it. What if your mother had a heart attack? What if Cadi and Amir were in a car accident? You hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone, pink to match the little Panasonic boombox that is presently silent.

“Hello?”

“Hiiiiiii,” Amir says, slow and something else too. Disoriented? Evasive?

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Where are you calling from?” There are definitely no phonelines running to the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens, a tiny brick-and-stucco edifice built in the 1830s.

“I’m at a McDonald’s up the road. I’ve paid them $5 to let me use the phone.” And then, because he knows it’s the first place your mind will go: “Cadi’s fine. She’s eating Chicken McNuggets. Everyone’s fine.”

“Okay…?”

“I think you should come over here.”

“What, to the chapel?!”

“Yeah.” He’s talking to someone; you can hear an indistinct tangle of voices through the hand he undoubtedly has clasped over the transmitter.

I can’t see Aemond. I can’t see Christabel. There is a lurching in your guts; you are a fish that swallowed a hook. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding.” I can’t handle it. It might kill me.

“Yes, we did, but now…um…I think you will want to make an appearance.”

“Amir, what happened?”

There is more muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Look,” he tells you. “Things, uh…things are…occurring. And I think it would be better to explain in person.”

“Did you drop the cake?”

“No,” he says, defensive. “The cake is perfect, thank you for your concern. Not a single frosting wildflower was mutilated in the delivery.”

“Then why—?”

“Do you trust me?” Amir asks.

The answer is obvious. Of course. More than anyone. “You know I do.”

“Then go get in your car.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but you know it’s going to take me like 40 minutes to drive to Belle River.”

“That’s fine.” He confers with someone else. “Yeah, that’s good actually, that will work.”

“Great,” you say uncertainly.

“See you soon!” Then Amir hangs up, leaving you alone in the creaks and groans of your ailing house.

You take Route 70 around Lake Verret, gliding past fields of soybeans and sugarcane, paddocks of cattle and horses, marshes of cordgrass occupied by blue herons and white egrets and prowling alligators, stirring awake as the sun begins its descent into the west. More than once, you notice that your Chevy Celebrity’s odometer reports you are travelling well below the speed limit. You aren’t in any hurry to reach the chapel; you don’t want to carry the weight of what you will see there, Christabel in her wedding dress, Aemond in his suit, Alicent anxiously fidgeting and gnawing at her fingernails, Viserys parading around triumphantly. You can’t imagine that there is anything less than torturous for you there. You don’t remember what you’re wearing until you reach Belle River, a small, old town full of double-wide trailers and jetties that run far out into the lake: a simple cotton sundress you threw on this morning without much thought, modest but white and therefore forbidden for a wedding guest. The sky is turning from a sun-drenched cerulean blue to something more soft, more muted, as dusk lurks just a few hours away. The radio is playing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car.

The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens was built by a man in extremis. An acclaimed mason by trade, he had been born in France and settled in the New World in Louisiana when it was still in the possession of Napoleon. The mason had a wife and children—some people say 5, others say 8 or 10, though details always seem to grow more elaborate in the retelling, don’t they?—and he loved them dearly. But tragedy struck when every single member of the family, except for the mason himself, fell ill with tuberculosis. When healers of the earth failed to offer sufficient remedies, the mason appealed to a higher power. He built the chapel to implore Honoratus of Amiens, his wife’s favorite saint—she was a baker and a florist, both professions that Honoratus presides over—to intercede with the Almighty on their behalf. This effort proved futile, and as each member of the family died, the mason interred them in a brick vault beneath the altar where they would spend eternity together. Perhaps this makes for a peculiar wedding venue, yet for over a century couples rich and poor, religious and secular have traveled to the chapel to exchange their vows. Perhaps there are few things more romantic than loving someone in the face of total futility: illness, distance, unrequitedness, prohibitions, death.

The chapel sits in a clearing surrounded by live oak trees, massive, hundreds of years old, hanging with Spanish moss, blotting out the sunlight as aisles cascade through gaps in the leaves. As you park in the grass—joining an army of Lexuses, Audis, limousines, Porsches, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Aston Martins, Alfa Romeos, and Amir’s blue Ford Escort—you observe that there are perhaps fifty guests in formal attire milling aimlessly around the building. You peer down at your white sundress, frowning. Well, I can’t go naked. The faux pas will have to be forgiven. You step out of your Chevy Celebrity and make your way across the clearing towards the chapel.

There is a long table set up in the shade with a tower of champagne glasses, an ice sculpture of a dragon, and the banana bread cake you and Amir baked for the wedding. Grim-faced servants in black suits are cutting slices and handing them out to guests on green china plates. You recognize Aegon’s wife Stephanie chatting with a flock of young women in extravagant gowns, golds and emeralds and sapphires. Helaena is among them, wearing a shimmering blue-green color like the scales of her chameleon Dreamfyre. Evidently, the Targaryens’ exotic pets have been left at the mansion for this excursion.

“Well,” the princess of Monaco says sardonically as she takes a bite, the white cream cheese frosting covered with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. “At least the cake is good. What is this, banana? Whoever heard of a banana wedding cake? I mean, it’s delicious, but still. I knew that Christabel girl was daft. Did you see her positively absurd dress? It looks like children doodled all over it…”

Is it over? you think as you weave through the crowd, largely unnoticed. Is the ceremony done already? Why would Aemond want to see me? To try to convince me to be his mistress one last time? To show me what I’m missing by severing ties with him?

But no: something else has happened. Viserys and Christabel’s father the marquess are embroiled in a heated argument; a nun and two priests are trying to haul them apart.

“You’re dead to me, Viserys!” the marquess roars. “And you’ll be dead to everyone back home once I tell them what you’ve done!”

“I did my part! This has nothing to do with me! Wait…wait…we can figure something else out! Wait! Wait! You can have Daeron!”

Wedding guests are gawking and snapping photos with their polaroid cameras. Upon hearing his name, Daeron glances over towards his father wearily. Alicent’s youngest son is kneeling beside where she has collapsed to the grass, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder as she sobs into a green cloth handkerchief. Criston is there too, trying to soothe her with sympathetic murmurs and a flute of pink champagne glittering with bubbles of carbonation.

“How did this happen?” she wails, peering up at Criston with her vast, dark, glassy eyes. The gold rings on her fingers clang and glint; they match the single hoop earring that Criston wears. Alicent’s gown is purple like royalty, but Criston is dressed in a suit of pale pink; it’s the exact same one Daeron has on. Groomsmen? you wonder. “He knows better than this! We raised him better than this!”

You think, stunned and petrified: Aemond, what the hell did you do?

As you approach the chapel, you note that it appears empty inside; you don’t spot anyone in the pews. Somewhere, a boombox is thundering Higher Love. At the entrance of the building, Christabel is sitting on the brick walkway in her wedding dress. It’s the one you told her to choose: elegant and timeless, long train and short flowing sleeves, silk wildflowers sewn into the white lace. Her bouquet is lying forgotten on the ground beside her. Her lips are a deep, lovely pink; her eyeshadow is gold. She’s smoking, something you’ve never seen her do before. There is a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter in her left hand, a single lit cigarette in her right.

“Um, hi, Christabel,” you say. And then, something equally brainless: “Is everything okay?”

“I should have known.” She’s staring out at the crowd, not at you. Her large blue eyes are dull, vacant.

“You should have known what?” Your heart is in your throat; blood pounds in your ears like the hooves of a racehorse.

“That he didn’t care,” she says listlessly. “I could tell that he didn’t. I could feel it. But I didn’t want it to be true, so I told myself it wasn’t. Isn’t that interesting? How we can lie to ourselves? Not that it was entirely my error. Other people meddled plenty. ‘Oh no, Christabel.’ ‘He’s just emotionally stunted, Christabel.’ ‘He’s busy with work, Christabel.’ What man is too busy with work to handle a five-minute phone call? It’s not like he was on the moon. He could have made time if he wanted to. I bet he made lots of time for you.”

“Uh.” You try to decide what to say. “I broke up with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be his mistress. I didn’t think that was fair to you.” Or me, obviously, but right now doesn’t seem to be the opportune time to voice my own grievances.

“Next time, I’m going to choose who I marry,” Christabel insists, puffing on her cigarette. “He has to talk to me. He has to like me.”

Aemond called it off? What did he say? What is he going to do now? “Christabel…do you know where Aemond is? Or Amir and Cadi?”

“Alicent is so upset,” she says instead. “Poor woman. She’s sweet, in her own way. But I don’t want to end up like her.” Christabel holds up the pack of Marlboros and the lighter. “She feels guilty, I think. She gave me these. She had them in her purse, she has so many neurotic little habits, doesn’t she? It’s not very ladylike to smoke, but it’s not ladylike to get left at the altar either, so fuck it.”

You ask, afraid to know the answer: “Do you hate me? I didn’t know Aemond was engaged when I met him. And then…” Why lie now? What’s the point? “Then I was in love with him and it was kind of…too late to try not to be. But I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Christabel replies immediately. “I know he would never be allowed to marry…someone like you. Your options were limited.”

You don’t know if this is meant to be an insult or not. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever loved him either,” Christabel realizes, exhaling smoke. “I think I idolized him. I think I loved my fantasy of what our marriage would be like. But I didn’t love Aemond. I didn’t even know Aemond. You did, I suspect. Good luck with him. He’s a bit…complex.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, rather compulsively. You aren’t sure what she expects from you. Abruptly, from wherever it’s coming from, Higher Love is cut off. “So, is Aemond, like…around, or…?”

“I don’t regret the sex part.”

“Okay.” You examine the crowd in the clearing again. You still don’t see Aemond.

“That went well,” Christabel muses. “I’m glad my first time is over and done with. I was terrified it would hurt like hell. And so few people know, so it’s almost like it never happened, right?”

“Right,” you say obediently.

“I think I’ll have a new rule. I won’t marry anyone unless he likes me and we sleep together first. Life is too long to spend it with the wrong person, don’t you agree?”

“I totally do.”

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Christabel says, flicking ashes towards the gaping doorway of the chapel.

“Really?” you peer into the shadows; there is indeed a solitary figure standing at the altar. “So…what exactly is happening…?”

“Go,” Christabel urges, and takes a drag on her cigarette. You leave her and cross through the doorway into the chapel.

The light is dim and gentle; fading sunbeams slant in through the glass of the cathedral-style windows. The mason’s inspiration was Gothic architecture, imposing, cavernous. Two candlelit iron chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; the floor is made of tiles of black and white marble. Small stone sculptures of angels watch over their realm like benevolent gargoyles. There is a single stained glass window above the altar: circular like a ring, red and gold like the sun.

He’s waiting for you in a pale pink suit, long disheveled hair, thin mustache with flecks of white powder in it, mischievous smirk. “Hey cake lady,” Aegon says.

“Um. I’m not marrying you.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Aegon offers you his hand and you take it with some hesitation. “I’m here to be your guide. Just like on the Oregon Trail.”

“What…?”

“Let’s go.” He pulls you out of the chapel, past where Christabel is still sitting at the entranceway, and across the clearing towards the trees. When you look to the crowd, Otto is elbowing his way through disgruntled guests towards a limousine, already idling.

Viserys bellows at him: “Where the hell are you going?!”

“Back to Kiribati!” Otto shouts back, not breaking his stride. He vanishes into the limo.

“Hurry,” Aegon says. He leads you into the forest, a thick canopy of verdant leaves and Spanish moss and the narrow rays of sunshine that tumble down through the gaps.

“Aegon, I don’t think we should be in the woods, it could be dangerous—”

“No, this part is fine. We already checked.”

“Who’s ‘we’?!” You’re wearing flip flops that catch on gnarled roots; the shrieking of cicadas grows loud. One of them buzzes towards Aegon and he screams as he backhands it away.

“You good?” Amir’s voice calls from farther within the trees.

“Yeah. I’m fine. We made it.”

You turn to Aegon. “What’s going on—?”

Suddenly, there is booming music that startles you: “Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth! They say in Heaven, love comes first, we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth! Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”

“Aegon, what is that?”

“Uh, I think it’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

“Yes, okay, but why?”

“Ask that guy.” You round a thicket and there under a colossal southern live oak tree, surrounded by hundred-year-old branches that twist down to the earth, is Aemond; but he’s not looking at you. He and Cadi are lighting the last of the candles. She picks them up, he ignites the wick with the same lighter he uses to smoke his Marlboros, and then Cadi places them back on the ground or on top of a branch. Amir is standing by the large black boombox, the same one Aegon always listens to by the Targaryens’ pool. Amir grins craftily, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. His suit is orange, the single dogwood flower in his hair white.

“Did we get them all?” Aemond asks Cadi.

“Yeah, I think so. Wait, no, there’s one over there!” Cadi darts to it and Aemond lights the candle, then spins around and sees you. He smiles. “Hi, Cupcake.”

“Hi,” you say, so shellshocked you can’t form any of your very vital questions.

“Okay, so we have the candles,” Aemond informs you as Cadi and Aegon go to join Amir. “White with wildflower patterns.” And you recall how Alicent mentioned needing to pick out candles with Christabel, and how you didn’t see any scattered around the chapel. They brought them here. They did it for me. “And we have some actual wildflowers.” He takes the boutonniere off the lapel of his white suit and tucks it into your hair behind your left ear. “And we have Heaven Is A Place On Earth.” He gestures to the boombox. “And I think those were the three things you said you wanted if you were ever going to get married again.”

I did say that. Just once, months ago, the first time he ever came over, the first time he ever touched me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” He takes both of your hands in his own. Amir lets out a little squeal and covers his mouth as his eyes begin to glisten. Aemond takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t have a speech, because this is very last-minute. I mean extremely last-minute. But you were right about everything. And I realized I couldn’t live that way. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to me, but it wouldn’t be fair to Christabel either. So I broke it off.”

“Literally at the altar,” Aegon says. “In front of everybody. It was so fucking awkward.”

“Those are not necessary details!” Aemond snaps, then looks back to you and is smiling again. “I know what I want. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you. But I wasn’t a strong enough person to make it happen. I’m so sorry. I should have done things differently. I can’t change the past. But everything is going to be different now.”

You gaze up at him as Belinda Carlisle sings, thinking: This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up now.

“On the night we met, you told me you’d never felt chosen,” Aemond says. “I’m choosing you. And, you know.” He nods to her. “Cadi too. And Amir. And the bakery. And dealing with Willis too, I guess. All of it. I’m choosing you and your whole life and that’s exactly where I want to be.”

You can feel the warmth in your face, beaming and hopeful and full of possibilities. Under the shade of the southern live oak, the first lightning bugs are blooming in the air like stars. “What about your family?”

“I’ll figure it out. I don’t think my father can entirely disown me…turns out I’m the only one who understands how the stock market works. But no matter what, you and Cadi are the priority. And my father will have to learn to live with that.”

“Or he can drop dead,” Aegon says. “Whichever.”

It’s possible? We can be together? Not just for a night, an afternoon, a stolen moment, but forever?

“I said I don’t have a speech.” Aemond tells you. His right eye is bright, elated, gleaming like a mirror. “I don’t have a ring either. But I’m going to get you one, if you’ll let me. So I’m asking you, Cupcake: Will you marry me?”

“Say yes, Mom!” Cadi yells, and Amir bursts out laughing.

“Say yes, cake lady!” Aegon adds. “Unlimited Cap’n Crunch Treats!”

When am I going to wake up? When is this going to end?

But it’s not a dream. It’s real. And Aemond reads the answer on your face before you can say it, and so it’s only a murmur as he kisses you, a whisper, a prayer: “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you drive from the new house all the way to San Francisco; you still call it the new house, even though you’ve owned it for a full year. The journey takes seven days, with overnight stops in Dallas, Wonderland Amusement Park in Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and Bakersfield. Aemond sold his Audi Quattro and replaced it with a Dodge Caravan. It’s July 1989, and Tom Petty’s brand new single Runnin’ Down A Dream is strumming from the radio. It’s always temperate in San Fran, in the 60s even at the height of summer. The sky is overcast and grey. When Cadi complains that she’s cold despite the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie you packed for her, Aemond gives her his Marlboro jacket.

Amir, his boyfriend, and two other roommates share a sunshine yellow Italianate townhouse in the Castro District. Aemond parks his wood-paneled Caravan on the steep, inclined street—he narrowly misses colliding with a whooshing cable car, which he blames on poor depth perception—and then helps you carry the luggage inside. There are no alligators on the front porch, but there are neighborhood cats that Amir puts out Friskies for; there are no screaming cicadas, but there are swooping seagulls and the melodies of sidewalk musicians. When Amir opens the door, he nearly tackles you with enthusiasm. He still wears his loud colors and short shorts, but he’s traded in the dogwood flowers he once wove into his hair for dahlias.

Amir’s boyfriend is named Don, but everyone calls him Donald Schwarzenegger because he looks so much like the Austrian bodybuilder turned actor. When Amir first arrived in the city, he got a job as a cake decorator for a very popular bakery, and quickly segued into handling much of their marketing as well. He’s thinking of getting a degree in advertising and trying his luck in corporate America. You very much enjoy teasing him for being a sellout; what would socialist Bayard Rustin say?

“Call your Daddy and let him know we made it safely to the West Coast,” you tell Cadi once her things are unpacked in the guest room she’ll get all to herself; you and Aemond are consigned to the living room futon. Cadi chats with Willis for a while, then says he wants to talk to you. You take the phone, slightly concerned; you hope nothing is amiss with the house. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with this horse?” he demands. “That ain’t no pet. That’s a demon. It’s a goddamn Rougarou.”

“I told you not to try to touch him,” you say, amused.

“I feed him and water him, don’t I? Ain’t that the least he can do? Lettin’ me scratch his big ol’ idiot head?”

“Patches is not very well-behaved. But Cadi loves him.”

“And don’t even get me started on the dog. Ugliest fuckin’ dog I ever saw. Growls every time I show up. Shows its teeth and everythin’. I’d take twenty gators over that son of a bitch any day.”

“Vhagar is a girl,” you say. “Thanks for watching them while we’re out of town.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Although I still don’t understand why the bon a rien can’t do it.”

“Aegon isn’t always…reliable.” But he does seem to be improving. He’s cut back to mostly just booze and marijuana, because otherwise he and Sunfyre aren't allowed to stay at the new house for sleepovers. There’s a guest bedroom, but Aegon prefers the sunken conversation pit in the mauve pink living room. He likes to be where anyone can stumble across him if they wake up in the middle of the night for pancakes or ice cream. He likes to be where people are; he likes to be included. “Anyway, I gotta go. Cadi will call again tomorrow. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Will do. Maybe I’ll toss your accursed animals in as bait.” Lake Verret is still a bit too brackish for a proper freshwater lake, but that’s changing gradually with Daeron’s desalination efforts and a subaquatic plug affixed to the opening of the breached salt dome. He views it as a pioneering experiment in reversing such drilling accidents, potentially for application globally. Now there are more bass and lampreys and catfish, and less breams and gars, but life goes on in Napoleonville’s 14,000-acre lake. Daeron has replaced Aemond as Viserys’ heir apparent, and he is thriving in the role. He is bookish yet empathetic, focused but never ruthless. Furthermore, he happens to be genuinely in love with his aristocratic fiancée: Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Aemond was right; Viserys didn’t disown him, but he did fire him, ban him from the mansion, and reduce his available funds to a modest living stipend. Fortunately, Viserys has a very limited comprehension of how money works for normal people, and he considers $200,000 per year to be “modest.” With that plus your bakery earnings and a paid-off house, you, Cadi, and Aemond will be living comfortably for the remainder of your lives. Also fortunately, no one else will enforce the no-Aemond rule at The Last Desire, so anytime Viserys is out of town—which is far more often than not—you get to visit the Targaryens at the mansion as much as you please. Cadi loves the water slide and the koi pond. She’s named the fish after Greek deities, her latest obsession: Zeus, Narcissus, Athena, Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, Echo. Viserys will not acknowledge you, but the rest of the family is polite enough now that the drama of the broken engagement has blown over. When you finish the cookbook of Southern baked goods that you’ve been working on, Alicent had pledged to mail copies to all her friends and relatives back in the U.K. Otto has offered to take a box of them with him next time he jets off for Kiribati; the wealthy housewives marooned in paradise are always on the hunt for new reading material.

On your first night in San Francisco, Amir serves a dinner of cioppino, sourdough bread, and (not homemade) Rice-A-Roni. You provide dessert, a recipe you’re still perfecting: Saint Honoratus cake, a pastry that dates back to Paris in the 1800s. You want to be able to include it in your cookbook, along with photographs from your wedding in the chapel this past May, almost exactly a year from when you and Aemond first met. Your engagement ring has a gold band and pink diamonds arranged to resemble a rockrose, a dauntless little wildflower native to Aemond’s ancestral homeland of Greece. For over a decade you have loved that wildflowers are grown and not bought, small but tenacious, humble yet untamed. They do not wait for other hands to tell them where and how to grow. They are the architects of their own fortune.

When everyone is finished with dessert and gathers around the tv to watch The Golden Girls, Aemond says he’s going outside for a smoke break; but you know he’s trying to quit. You follow him into the small backyard and as soon as your bare feet touch the grass, he’s pushed you against the wall of the house, forced your thighs apart, slipped his hand down the front of your shorts as he watches the amazed, electrified desire rise in your face like heat from a stove. “It’s been a week, and I need you,” Aemond murmurs, his lips ghosting across your throat, his hips braced insistently against yours, and then he kisses you to stifle your moans as you bury your fingers in his hair, to swallow down the vicarious ecstasy of every wondrous thing he’s ever done to you and ever will. “I don’t even need you to get me off. I just need to see you like this.”

Trusting him, wanting him, letting him make me come.

Aemond has been accepted into UC Berkeley’s History PhD program and will start there at the end of August. He wants to write books about underrecognized heroes, extraordinary and yet unassuming people like Bayard Rustin and Bobbi Campbell and Phillis Wheatley. You’ll miss him of course, but there will be breaks for holidays and summers when he can return to Napoleonville, and you can fly out to visit him too, and there are phone calls, and postcards, and one day you’ll be able to go anywhere together—

You gasp, a shaky, starving breath, your lips grinning into Aemond’s. You’re close, you’re so close.

There is a shrill whistle from the back porch of a townhouse from the row behind Amir’s. “Get it, honey!” a man in a leopard-print robe cheers, waving the newspaper he’d been reading. You and Aemond unravel from each other, laughing hysterically.

“Okay,” you tell him, still panting. “Bad plan. We are clearly not accustomed to city life.”

“Tonight,” Aemond says, low and commanding. He returns to you, kissing the side of your face: temple, cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. His voice is dark, jagged glass; his lips are soft like kind dreams. “On the futon, on the floor, anywhere.”

You want it too, but you know the game. “No.”

He pins you to the wall again, powerful, irresistible, his hardness grinding against you through his jeans, everything about him—voice, flesh, rhythm, soul—promising you the peace only he has ever given you, proving that being at the right person’s mercy can make you free. “I’m in charge now. Let me take care of you.” And for a split second you almost beg: Just do it, Aemond, right now, please touch me again, I don’t care if a stranger sees. I want you now, I want you forever.

Instead you smile up at him, the whirls of your fingerprints skating harmlessly over his scarred left cheek as you answer: “Yes sir.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond

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objectsurfaceword · 2 years

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Working across a range of mediums, Anna Barriball (b. 1972, Plymouth) investigates how the aesthetics of everyday objects, from brick walls to windows, can be reimagined or transformed in unexpected ways. Much of her work generates a dialogue between surface and image, or appearance and sculptural form. In her series Windows 1–10 (2006), for instance, the artist placed small, found photographs of windows on a white background, creating disembodied portals into imaginary spaces.

'It is never only about the surface; it’s about the whole presence of the object and surface together. This is when it starts operating in a sculptural language.'

The seven videos are shown on floor-based monitors and represent the culmination of a number of moving image pieces made by the artist over the last two years. They feature images of shadows and reflections, exploring the effects of both natural and artificial light. Each video is tinted in a different colour, inspired by silent films’ use of tinting to convey certain moods or lighting effects; amber for night, yellow for day etc. Some of the images appear almost abstract, a result of the artist taking photographs through windows at night in an unlit building. Here Barriball is interested in the surprise and reveal of the image; what the lens automatically picks up. Sometimes it is the dust on a window-pane, at other times the vague picture of a world beyond the window, or simply the reflection of the camera flash. The images are turned into negative and edited together, sometimes following in rapid succession or melting into each other. Punctuating this flow is a single monitor displaying shadows of garden flowers thrown through a window and onto a wall by sunlight, the shadows darken or fade according to the strength of the sun.

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hotniatheron · 6 years

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me sitting in my muscle car: yeah other vehicles might get better gas mileage but do they have the panache? the pure fuck energy of a chevrolet chevelle? the iconic silhouette of a mustang? the hoe power of a pontiac trans am? I think not!

#do they have room in the back to get raw dogged by your man like a plymouth barracuda?#sorry but i'm a fast car bitch #i pass a solid black shelby mustang gt on my way to work every morning if the owner ever rolled down their tinted window #i'd by like HEY! PLEASE TELL YOUR CAR I THINK SHE'S SEXY

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kpoptrassshhh · 4 years

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Pebbles & Stones

Part of the EXO ongoing series- 1976

Genre: SkaterAU! X HighSchoolAU!

Rating: (PG-13) (M-some parts)

Pairing: SkaterGirl!FemReader X SkaterBoy!Baekhyun

Setting: California, 1976

Summary: Sarcastic. Rude. Down-to-Earth. Blunt. Just a few of the words people would use to describe you. People seem to think only two things of you. One, you’re a very intimidating person. Two, you and your skateboard are attached to each other. Skating is the only thing that has truly ever brought you happiness, besides your best friend Asia. Well, it was the only thing that brought you happiness. Until a man by the name of Byun Baekhyun decided to hop into your life. The only thing you keep telling yourself? He’s damn lucky he skates.

Warnings: teenage smoking and drinking (wild i know)

“He’s gonna fucking kill us,” Asia spits at you, speed walking down the hallway towards Mr. Kims English class. This is the third time you both have been late this week.

“Hey, would you relax? We’ve got a great reason,” you say, rolling by her on your new Sector 9, longboard cruiser.

“Oh yeah! Let’s just walk in there in front of the whole class and say, ‘I’m so sorry we’re late Mr. Kim! Y/N got pissed last night and instead of chilling out and listening to music like I told her to, she decided to break her skateboard for the second time this week, so we had to run to the strip mall before school so she didn’t have a mental breakdown without holding her fucking board!’” she sarcastically screams.

“It’s the truth,” you say shrugging, stepping off the board and kicking it into your hand as you hear a stressed sigh come from your best friend of six years.

“I give up. Lord, if you can hear me, I. Give. Up. With. This. Child.” she says exasperatedly, looking up to the ceiling with her hands flying up along with her shoulders.

“Yeah, you said that six years ago too. Annndd he still hasn't taken me from your life,” you say smartly, smirking at her as she stares straight daggers at you.

“Come on, let’s just get this over with,” she says defeatedly, walking up the classroom door and knocking loudly.

Mr. Kim glances at us through the window of the door with a disappointed and somewhat annoyed expression. He walks over to the door, unlocks it and stands in front of the entrance to the room.

“There better be a good reason as to why you two have been late for my class for the THIRD time this week,” he says in a booming voice that would make almost anyone cower in fear. But not you.

“What up Mr. K? You see what happened was-” you begin but are abruptly cut off by the tall man standing in front of you, waving his hand dismissively.

“I don't care. I’ve had enough of this, both of you have detention this afternoon,” he states plainly, walking to his desk and pulling out a pink slip, writing both of our names on our on respective slip.

“Both you take your seat,” he demands.

Asia practically runs to her desk while you roll your eyes and saunter over to yours, throwing your book bag onto the ground and setting your board down gently before looking out the large window beside you.

It’s a nice day. Sun shining, blue sky, a cloud or two here and there. It’s a great day to go skating. Except, you’re stuck in a prison where you’re told how to think and act for eight hours a day. You wouldn’t say you hate school exactly. But if you had to choose between school and never skating again, you’d most likely choose the latter.

Just as you’re about to zone out, you see an unfamiliar car pull up into one of the parking spots in the front of the campus. Squinting slightly, you see two men emerge from said car.

The driver is tall and slim with long, bright red hair and yellow tinted sunglasses. He has on a very loud shirt, that looks to be silk, paired with distressed light blue skinny jeans and some off-white converse.

The other guy is much taller than his friend but shares the same slim stature. His hair is a somewhat short and colored a light pink. He wears a tie-dye Bob Marley shirt under a Hawaiian styled button down, paired with dark blue skinny jeans and black combat boots.

You watch as they make their way to the office and then disappear out of sight as they walk into the building. Sighing, you turn your head back to the front of the room, somewhat listening to the boring lecture from your English teacher.

An hour goes by sluggishly and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, the bell for free period rings and you silently start thanking all the deities for ending your suffering. Gathering your things from the floor, you slip your book bag over both shoulders and take your board into your hand, walking out of the room and leaning against the lockers outside the classroom, waiting for Asia to also walk out.

“You just had to have that damn skateboard,” she huffs, starting down the hallway full of other teenagers.

“Hey, lay off. It’s probably the nicest thing I’ve ever owned,” you say in defense, walking a little ahead of her, turning around and starting to walk backwards so you can talk to her face-to-face.

“Well, thanks to your new prized possession, we have detention,” she scolds, holding up the bright pink slip of paper.

“Then let’s ditch,” you deadpan, watching as her face contorts into the face you know all too well.

Her ‘I can’t believe you just said what you said and we’re probably gonna end up doing it anyway’ face.

“We’re gonna get in even more trouble!” she shouts, throwing her hands into the air for probably the seventh time this morning.

“We’ll be fine. Don’t you trust me?” you ask, shooting her your best puppy dog eyes.

“No, not at all,” she says, making you laugh loudly.

Turning back around, you’re met with the hard chest of a stranger.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you apologize, looking down and then back up to the stranger.

Your eyes widen at who it is. The man and his friend that you saw this morning walking into the office. He shoots you a blinding white smile, and lets a chuckle erupt from his throat.

“It’s cool, don’t worry about it,” he says in the most gorgeous voice you’ve ever had the pleasure of being graced with.

Shaking your head slightly, you snap out of whatever trance you found yourself slipping into. You hear footsteps behind you and suddenly a low voice speaks.

“Oh, cool, you met Y/N,” Kyungsoo says as the rest of the boys are following closely behind him.

“Oh! So you’re the Y/N everyone has been talking about!” the pink headed man speaks up, sounding somewhat surprised.

“Guilty as charged,” you nod, taking a step back and standing beside Asia.

“Y/N, Asia, this is Chanyeol and Baekhyun,” Jongin introduces with a slight snicker which is suddenly hushed as Sehun lightly elbows him in the gut.

“That’s all well and cool, but Y/N and I have to go,” Asia says, taking you by the arm and dragging you with her.

“What did she do this time?” Jongin asks, receiving a glare from you and another gut hit, this time from Kyungsoo.

“She got us detention because she just had to have a new skateboard,” she snaps.

You roll your eyes and retort, “longboard, thank you.”

She grimaces and you can’t help but giggle.

“Come on! I told you, we can just ditch. It’s easy, plus Coach Anderson doesn’t even take roll anymore. It’s foolproof,” you explain as her pace slows once reaching the courtyard.

She loosens her grip on your arm, allowing you to slide out of her hand. Taking your other hand, you rub softly on the spot which was attacked.

“Come on, let’s just go get some lunch and hang out. We don’t have to be back until two,” you offer.

At the mention of food, everyones eyes light up in happiness.

“Yeah! Let’s go, I’m starving,” Jongin whines.

“Didn’t you just eat last period?” Jongdae questions, watching as Jongin turns to him and retorts, “that was just a snack!”

Laughing at the interaction, you start walking towards the front parking lot, hearing footsteps behind you and listening to Asia talk about some stupid English project you couldn’t be bothered to listen about in class.

Funnily enough, you all got incredibly lucky your senior year of high school, as all of you are parked next to each other.

You and Asia hop into your yellow 1970 Pontiac GTO Judge, as Kyungsoo and Junmyeon get into Kyungsoo’s black 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS 454. Minseok and Jongdae duck into Minseok’s Grey 1973 Plymouth Duster while Jongin and Sehun sit inside Jongin’s red 1970 Chevy Camaro.

Looking down a few cars, you see Chanyeol and Baekhyun climb into, what you assume is Baekhyuns, orange 1970 Ford Mustang Convertible.

Turning the key of your car, the engine roars to life and you slip on a pair of your favorite ray-ban sunglasses before turning to Kyungsoo and yelling out the window, “Meet at The Depot!”

With a nod, he turns to tell the others, but you’re already peeling out of the parking lot onto the main road, headed for the best diner in town.

#baekhyun fanfic #exo fanfic #baekhyun au #exo au #baekhyun smut #exo smut

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iainwrites · 4 years

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Rereading Ghost Story, and on a whim, decided to see what a Plymouth Road Runner actually looks like.

Damn, Butters. If you paint that black and tint the windows, that's in consideration for a Batmobile prize.

#Iain reads #Dresden Files

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saey-bae · 6 years

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Know You By Heart (Pt. 2) - Saeran/Reader

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

hellohello !! here’s part two :)

a little note here: you are not mc --mc, rika, and v are out of the picture in this series-- so i’ll be referring to you as (Y/N) (L/N), which is “your name” and “last name,“ respectively

if you’d like to be tagged for the rest of this series, make a comment of it below !!

as always, thanks for reading 💜; the rest is under the cut

It’s one of those lazy Sunday afternoons; the kind of day where time seems to move lethargically; the kind of day that casts sunny glows in living rooms and fills confined spaces with a false sense of idyllic peace.

Not in Saeyoung's bunker, though. There isn’t a single ray of sunlight that makes it past those titanium and steel walls-- the only source of light found in the room is a flickering artificial light that imitates the beauty of the sun; it's an insult to compare the natural glow to this fluorescent falsehood.

Saeran sighs, lowering his novel as he rubs at his eyes. A part of him longs to go out, to feel the warmth of the sun caress his cheeks and kiss his pale skin, but apprehension arises in his chest at the thought. Any yearning he feels dissipates entirely as he remembers the last time he went out-- while it seems like ages ago, in reality, a little more than a month has passed.

Going to a local park for a stroll was supposed to be a simple pleasure. It wasn’t supposed to go so wrong.

There had been too many people, too many noises, too much of everything. It was overwhelming, and he felt himself losing his composure when he realized didn't have any control over the situation. His chest had constricted in a way that made it hard to breathe, as if his lungs refused to accept the oxygen he drew in desperately-- it was a feeling that terrified him. It still does terrify him.

Memories of incessant chattering still linger in the recesses of his mind, as do the strange looks he had received when he covered his ears and whispered to himself under his breath. Judgmental looks that told him he was a misfit, a freak. Someone who wasn’t right in the head. He vaguely remembered how Saeyoung took him home immediately after that, and how it took an hour before that feeling left his heart, leaving him drained.

He hasn't been out since.

The sound of the bunker door opening shakes Saeran out of his reverie. He swallows hard, pushing down the memories before glancing up to see his brother conversing with someone at the door. He catches a glimpse of silvery-white hair when Saeyoung steps aside to let whomever it was in. Zen.

The young man smiles at Saeran as he crosses the threshold, though he makes no move to come closer. There are very faint remnants of grey and red make-up on his alabaster skin, as if he had rushed to get here after a production. "Hey, Saeran. How are you doing?"

Saeran shifts, straightening. His mind runs through various things he could respond with, but all that comes out is, "Fine."

"That's great." The smile never wavers, and there is a genuine sincerity in his tone that makes Saeran feel guilty for being so curt with him, but Zen doesn't seem to notice.

"Anyway..." His crimson gaze turns back to Saeyoung as he digs out crumpled paper from his pocket. Tickets? "My friend's holding a piano concert tonight at a small venue downtown. It fits about a fifty people, but only forty are confirmed to come so I thought I'd invite the RFA --in person-- on her behalf.“

"Yeah?" His brother accepts the tickets with an uncharacteristic hesitancy as he glances back at Saeran. There’s a muted worry in his golden eyes, and Saeran doesn’t doubt that he’s remembering the incident as well. "Do you want to go?"

"It'll be fun!" Zen pipes up enthusiastically, a charming and persuasive grin tugging at his lips. "She's a really talented musician."

Saeran feels an inner turmoil, a strong tug from both sides that threatens to tear him into two; a part of him is curious and wants to go the show, but the other part tells him that forty people is a big crowd.

"Saeran?"

"Yes." The word comes out before he can stop it. A deep regret resonates through him at such a hasty decision. "Let's go."

The lethargic afternoon is swallowed up by the evening far too soon, but even hours after confirming they would go, Saeran still feels a sense of regret and anxiety thread through his limbs, weighing him down. However, he also feels the need to go through with his commitment and changes his clothing accordingly, throwing on a crisp black button up and a pair of jeans half-heartedly before heading out to the garage.

Saeyoung is waiting in one of his cars, a sleek black 70s Plymouth Hemi 'Cuda. He rolls down a tinted window, watching Saeran with the same look of worry he had on earlier. "We don't have to go if you don't want to."

"It's fine." He climbs into the passenger's side, leaning back against the leather seat as he buckles up. “Let’s get going. It’s supposed to start at six, right?”

“Yeah.” His twin pulls out of the garage and, soon enough, he’s cracking stupid jokes while he fiddles with the radio system.

Saeran stays silent, turning his head to gaze up at the sky. Crimson red streaks, as thick and vivid as acrylic paint across a canvas, highlight the smoldering oranges and soft yellows mingling in the atmosphere above. Even through the dark tinted window, the sky looks like its on fire, alighting all of which it touches.

“Hey, Saeran?” A gentle nudge against his arm. “Ready to go?”

He turns to look at Saeyoung, then realizes that they’ve stopped moving. His eyes flicker up to the old building they’re parked near; the red bricks are weatherworn and faded, the dark grey paint on the front door chipping, and some delinquents have taken it upon themselves to decorate the side of the small building with spray paint. It looks practically abandoned. If not for the other cars parked along the sides of the street, he would have thought it was the wrong place.

He grimaces as he steps onto the street, remembering that there were supposed to be another forty people crammed inside the venue, and anxiety begins to gnaw at him.

The twins head into the concert venue, only to bump into the rest of the RFA members. Saeran greets them with a brief nod, his head lifting when he notices Zen standing off to the side as he talks animatedly with a girl in her early twenties... you. You’re wearing a casual t-shirt and jeans, a pair of headphones clamped around your neck like Saeyoung usually does-- it doesn’t look very professional.

The two of you laugh, and Zen gives you a quick peck on the cheek before noticing Saeran. The actor smiles brightly at him, and the you look up in turn. Somehow, to Saeran, your smile is even wider than Zen’s, and it’s directed at him.

And he can’t tear his eyes away from your happy look.

The silver-haired man takes the your hand and practically drags you over. “Hey, you two made it! We thought you weren’t coming.”

“We said we would.” Saeran’s voice is quiet, flat.

A silence breaks out over the group, and no one is quite sure what to say. But then,

“Thanks for coming,” you say cheerfully. Your voice doesn’t betray the fact that you’re trying to make up for an awkward moment, and Saeran appreciates it. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

His gaze meet yours. He’s silent.

Your eyes are impossibly bright and vibrant. They look like the burning sunset outside, like they hold fire and beauty and they could set the world alight with just a glance.

Meanwhile, his brother babbles on when Saeran doesn’t respond. “I’m Saeyoung and this is Saeran. Funny, we look pretty alike but we actually met a few years back and he’s been my roommate since.”

You laugh at that, but Saeran doesn’t find it particularly amusing.

”Sorry, he’s pretty quiet, but if you give him a bowl of rocky road ice cream with peanuts, you can get him to say almost anything.” Saeyoung grins, his voice lilting playfully.

Saeran elbows his brother in the ribs so fast, no one is quite sure if it actually happened, but you just smile. “I’ll remember that.” You take Zen’s hand and give it a little squeeze before letting go. “Alright, we’ve stalled for long enough. I’ll see the lot of you inside.”

With that, you turn and leave, ducking into the large wooden doors at the end of the hallway.

“Well?” Jumin looks at the other members, his voice holding a touch of impatience. "Shall we?”

Zen’s brows knit together and he opens his mouth to retort something --probably about his tone-- but Yoosung and Jaehee beat him to it.

“I, too, would like to listen to Y/N’s playing, if you wouldn’t mind, Zen.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” the blond agrees quickly, “Let’s go.”

Saeran is still a little out of it as they file into the small room and take their seats near the front of the room, where you sit at a grand piano. The lights have been dimmed and the atmosphere seems warm, comforting, even with all these unfamiliar people around. He subconsciously relaxes, and realizes his anxiety has melted away at some point, though he doesn’t mull over that for long because you’ve started playing.

Your deft fingers shift slowly, waltzing across the black and white keys, and he loses himself in the moment.

The gentle sound of the instrument reverberates around the room and his heart swells at the indescribably tender, beautiful sound. Saeran doesn’t realize how empty he’s felt until the music fills him, wraps its arms around him in its gentle embrace.

His eyes close as he lets the lilting notes and rhythms wash over him and, for a moment, he remembers the person sitting at the piano. The person who’s weaving a plethora of notes together to create something entirely ethereal in its beauty. He remembers those bright eyes of yours, and how there was so much light in them, and he wonders if they look even brighter while performing.

However, he’s too afraid to peek at you, too afraid that this fragile, peaceful moment would fade all too soon if he looked. So he sits there, his eyes closed, picturing how your eyes would shine as you played.

“Mm...” Those eyes --the ones that had so enamoured him three years prior to now-- open slowly.

Saeran, who had pulled up a chair by your bedside some few hours ago, straightens up in his seat in an instant. When his gaze meet yours, he’s swept up in an ineffable feeling that ebbs in his chest, not unlike the first time he had seen that burning gaze of yours.

“Y/N...“

But yet... that light is no longer in your eyes when you look at him. Instead, they're dulled with a quiet confusion.

“Who are you?”

Your whisper threatens to break him.

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research-in-practice · 3 years

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Anna Barriball

https://www.dailyserving.com/2012/03/anna-barriball/

March 28, 2012 Written by Magdalen Chua

A solo exhibition of works by Anna Barriball (1972, Plymouth) from the past decade is on show at The Fruitmarket Gallery in Edinburgh till 9 April 2012. The exhibition presents selected works developed from a practice centered on repeated engagements with and between the languages of drawing and sculpture.

Copper pipes is an example of the way that Barriball uses materials that she works with on paper, from paint, ink and pencil, to create drawings or paintings that embody a three-dimensional quality from the texture or sheen, amplified by its mode of display. Sheets of paper that are rolled and inclined against the wall appear as copper pipes, with a density and lustre anchored by the coats of copper-tinted acrylic paint. In Mirror Window Wall I, II, III, IV, strongly marked paper rubbings of a wall result in a series of drawings that are titled in recognition of its framing – installed behind glass that one can peer through as a window into a wall, or as a reflective mirror. The works speak to a preoccupation not only with acquiring transfers to capture the imprints and textures of surfaces, but also a deep interest in the way that surfaces are inhibiting and constrain, yet can be imbued to evoke an expansion of space beyond the architectural confines of interior and exterior.

From walls to doors and fireplaces, these surfaces that wrap around or border zones of habitation are treated as animate. Draw (fireplace) is a video installation in a darkened end of a room, of a sheet of tracing paper that is placed over the fireplace. From gentle movements of the tracing paper to intervals when it is adhered against the grate, the chimney as a passage through which air flows becomes personified as a person drawing in breath.

Draw (fireplace) is one of several works in the exhibition that seem to veer away from the technique of drawing. Yet, in this sculptural intervention re-presented as a video projection, the search for the life beneath with an undercurrent of seeking to attribute presence to the invisible, is a thread that runs through Barriball’s works. Perhaps, as aptly titled, one draws not just to form marks and lines, but as an expression of breath and life. As a way to enter Barriball’s works, this idea opens a view to seeing her works as explorations of air in motion – within and through objects and spaces, as breath and wind, and as passages between the animate and inanimate, life and death.

This idea takes form in 36 Breaths, composed from the blowing of a drop of black ink placed right in the centre of each of 36 photographs arranged into a grid, creating a symphony of splatters. As black and white found photographs of people from a previous generation, there is a sense that these are images of people perhaps no longer existing. The drawing and releasing of one’s breath becomes an unsettling gesture, as if wanting to breathe life into these unknown individuals, to reawaken them, whilst at the same time, with an exhalation creating a blotch that physically blackens and erases them from history.

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adswindowfilms · 2 years

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ADS Window Films

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We are widely recognised as leading experts in window films and window tinting with over 25000 happy customers across the United Kingdom. We work with fully accredited installers and have a dedicated office support team.

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masterofmunson · 7 years

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Hc that one day as Billy's driving home, someone speeds past him, honking their car horn. Billy senses a race coming on and boy, it's on. He notices his challenger taking the road to a clearing near his home that's when Billy pulls out all the stops. Eventually, he ends up beside the challenge and he looks to see the person challenging him. But the windows are tinted black. Once they reached the clearing, it's unsure who won. But Billy doesn't give a shit. He just wants to see the asshole that -

had the balls to challenge him. Just as he steps out, the door to the other’s car, he notices it’s a muscle car, a ‘70 Plymouth Hemi Cuda, to be exact, and out comes the girl who sits at the back of his English and Mathematics class: The quiet but active-in-class student. She has a smirk on her face and shades resting on her head. “So how’d I do, Hargrove?” And Billy just smirks back.

oh my god yes and he can’t look at her the same way anymore because all he can picture is just her in her sexy ass muscle car. he totally has the hots for her now!!

#amanda answers #billy blurb #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove headcanon #billy hargrove

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ingloriousblasters · 7 years

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Second Chances

Okay, so here it is, the beginning of the story I mentioned last week. A Merle x OC story set in an AU so no zombies. This is Chapter One and I really like backstories, so that is what this is. No Merle yet....Im sorry! But there is a shoutout further in the read!

(I also made an image to go with the story when I couldn't concentrate, as you can see above lol!)

Alright, so here we go. Hope you like :)

*slowly backs away from computer*

Chapter One

The light blue Plymouth sat idling on the side of the little two lane road on an unusually cool, summer morning.

“We there yet Mama?” Anna asked.

Nora Buckley glanced at her daughter through the rearview mirror and took a deep breath. Memories of years gone by rushed through her body as she shifted her gaze back to the view in front of her. In a way, it felt like she had never left. Of course, that wasn’t true. The little bundle of blonde curls in the back of the car reminded her of that. Nora’s eyes roamed over the same faded wooden bridge that gave access down to the minuscule town of Redwater, Georgia. In the distance she could see the pristine, white chapel of Redwater’s only church against the pink and yellow tinted sky. This view, the one Nora had inked into her memory for nineteen years, the one she thought she had finally forgotten, was staring right back at her.

A light gust of wind moved through the half rolled down windows of the car. It was then that Nora realized she had been gripping the black leather steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were as white as paper. If someone had told her 5 years ago she would be back in Redwater, she would have dumped a whole pitcher of sweet tea over them. She had vowed to herself to never come back after word got round of her “mistake.”

5 years earlier

Everything’s going to be fine, Nora thought to herself as she stared at the chocolate shake sitting in front of her at DeDe’s Diner. She was meeting Rodger there after he was done with his last exam at the University of Georgia. Nora adjusted her position as the red plastic booth cushion started sticking to the bottom of her legs. Her body had started to become clammy, even while drinking the cold beverage. Everything’s going to be fine, Rodger loves you, you love him. You’ll work it out somehow. It had been a couple weeks since mother nature had rung her doorbell. At first, Nora thought it was just nerves. She and Rodger had been fooling around since they graduated high school, but she had never missed her period before. It wasn’t until the unmistakable nausea, fatigue and bloating started showing up that she knew. She was pregnant. Pregnant, nineteen, not married, and living in the 2,000 population town of Redwater, where word spread like wildfire.

Nora heard the familiar chirping of the singing bird clock above the diner counter, letting her know it was now 9pm. Rodger was late. It was a good 2 hour drive from Redwater to Athens, but Nora knew if he wasn’t going to make it he would have phoned someone to let her know. The ice cream from the milkshake was starting to separate from the chocolate as she stirred the remaining portion of it in haste. The metal of the spoon clinking to the glass in a fast paced rhythm. The later it got, the more it occurred to Nora that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, go home until he showed up. Past the point of no return. If she didn’t tell Rodger tonight, she didn’t think she could do it again until a baby appeared nine months later. Surprise!

As time ticked on, Nora’s thoughts wandered to the future she hoped would come true. That she and Rodger would get married. They had always talked about it every now and then while out in the fields looking at the stars. Get married and start a family. Well, now it would be start a family and get married. Same future, but just different means of getting there. They could all move to the new city while Rodger did his studies to be a doctor. She would take care of the baby, maybe do some more painting on the side. She could try to sell them to the students on campus and help with the income. Nora focused her energy on this future, a decent future. She couldn’t bare to think about the imminent future of having to tell not only Rodger’s parents, but her own mother. At least she knew she could count on Rodger.

The crowd in the diner started to dwindle as the clock was nearing 9:30pm. Every now and then, Nora would glance up at those passing her booth. DeDe’s attracted all types from town. There were the older folks, eating their customary dessert after choir practice, a few teenagers Nora recognized from when she was in school, and a couple families of moms, dads and tired children, trying to stay awake as long as they could. Nora was smiling to herself as she watched the little boy across from her booth slowly nodding his head every now and then, while his father went to the counter to pay the bill.

Just then, the chime of the front door rang and Nora’s head snapped quickly to the door. A tall, slender guy with dark brown hair, parted to the left side and combed back in neat streaks entered. Nora felt her heart rate pick up again, it was Rodger. Rodger glanced over the diner through his thick, black rimmed glasses until he spotted her. Smirking, he walked over to the booth Nora was at and slid in the opposite side.

“Hey doll!” He quipped, while sliding the chocolate shake over to him. “Ya gonna finish this?”

“Uh..nn…No” Nora scratched out, she hadn’t realized how dry her throat had become since waiting in the diner all this time. Rodger eagerly dug into the rest of melted shake while Nora tried to think of something to talk about. Slowly ease the conversation towards what she knew she needed to bring up. She asked him about his exams, about the drive home, and what plans he had for the summer. Rodger’s replies were the typical ones she had come to expect. The drive home was alright, he hated once he left the city and had to maneuver the winding country roads to get back. His exams were decent, he prepared well for them, but thought he could have done better. And as for his summer plans, well, he planned on working all summer at the local doctor’s office just outside Redwater. The more experience he gained, the better he would be prepared for when the time came to do his residency. Rodger wanted to be a doctor more than anything, Nora always knew that. But sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder if it was truly Rodger’s dream, or one his parents subtly thrust upon him his whole life.

After a few minutes of silence, Rodger noticed Nora sitting and staring at her lap. “What’s wrong doll?”

Oh god. This is it. Do it Nora, just move your mouth and spit it out. Nora slowly lifted her eyes from her hands and looked Rodger square in the eye. She inhaled a deep breathe before she spoke. “I’ve….I’ve got some news.”

“Good news or bad news?” Rodger asked, arching his brow.

“Uh, well, I don’t know.” Nora could feel her entire body tensing as the moment drew closer. She had no idea how Rodger was going to react and the more she realized that, the faster the future she dreamed about was slipping away.

“How can you not know? Come on, just tell me.” Rodger reached out his hand for Nora to take. She looked down at his open palm. Hesitantly, she moved hers from her lap and laid it down in his. “Rodger, I…..Rodger, I’m ppregnant.” Instantly, Nora felt all the tension she had built up within her body release. It finally felt good to let it out, it was not longer a secret she was keeping from him. Nora felt Rodger squeeze her hand, but it didn’t feel like a reassuring one. It was hard, tight and starting to become uncomfortable.

“What?” Was all he said. Nora repeated the statement. “Are you sure? Have you gone to the doctor, done tests?” His voice was starting to elevate the more he started speaking. Nora tried to get him to lower his voice, but nothing she did would work. She glanced around and noticed those left in the diner starting to eavesdrop on their conversation. Assholes. If she had known the diner would be as quiet as it was tonight, she would have asked Rodger to meet her somewhere else.

“I mean are you really sure? The doctor can do better tests. Test your urine and stuff.”

“I don’t need a freaking rabbit test, Rodger. I’m pretty sure it’s a done deal.” Nora could feel herself getting frustrated with Rodger. Of course he wouldn’t show any sign of emotion, he jumped right into doctor mode. They sat in silence for what felt like hours, not looking at each other. Their hands still together, but barely touching now.

“Say something.” Nora said.

Rodger leaned in closer to the table, lowered his head and softly asked, “Have you thought about getting rid of it?” Nora could feel the stinging of tears coming to her eyes. What? What was going on? Why would he suggest such a terrible thing. This was their child.

“NO!” Nora shouted, causing the other patrons of the diner to come out of their dazed state of watching the two and going back to their own business. She got up out of the booth, and started putting on her light pink sweater to head out the door. Nora was pushing through the front door when Rodger finally called after her. She turned around to face him, trying to force the tears in her eyes to go away. Rodger stood in front of her, but didn’t reach out to her, he just looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. Nora felt a little glimmer of hope, before he had finished his statement. “But, I just can’t do this.”

****

Nora didn’t return to her house till almost midnight. After Rodger had tried to reason with her, she walked out of DeDe’s and straight on down the road. She walked all around the perimeter of Redwater, trying to clear her head over what just happened. At one point, she found herself over the railroad tracks and down near the overgrown fields. The sky was clear and she could see thousands of stars in the night sky. Far in the distance she noticed smoke rising in the air from the old farm house. Some family owned it, what was their names? The Dixons, she thought it was. Nora remembered all the stories she heard about them growing up, especially when the first farm house had burned down with Mrs. Dixon inside. She felt a pang of guilt for judging them as she now realized she was soon to become the town’s new favorite topic of gossip.

When she finally reached her home, Nora’s heart dropped as she saw the light in the living room. Oh crap. Her mother was up. See, wildfire. Just like wildfire. Slowly she made her way up the concrete walkway, opened the screen door, and turned the knob on the wooden one. The aroma of alcohol and smoke hit her nose immediately. As she walked through the door she saw the silhouette of her small framed mother sitting in the rocking chair next to the green shaded lamp. The end table on the side holding a small glass of whiskey. Making eye contact with her, Nora forced a weak smile onto her face.

“Mama.” Her mother didn’t respond. Just took another slow, long drag of her cigarette. After a few more minutes of silence, her mother finally spoke.

“There somethin’ ya wanna tell me?” Nora stood there watching her mother. She knew. She just wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Nora and her mother didn’t always have the best relationship and it only seemed to get worse when her father died. They could barely make ends meet with just the two of them. Her mother cleaned the houses of the rich folks in the next town over, while Nora had taken the year between high school and college off working odd jobs in town to save money of her own. She knew her mother wouldn’t want a baby in the house.

“I said, there somethin’ ya wanna tell me?” Her mother asked again. Nora realized there was no point in trying to work around the question. Her heart was already broken, so she had nothing else to lose.

“Mama I…Mama, I’m pppregnant.” She finally mustered out.

“Mmhmm.” Mother responded, as she tapped the ashes of her cigarette into the tray. “And what? Ya thought you could just hide that little tidbit of information for nine months round here?” Nora tried to explain that she went to Rodger, thought that they would work it out, but that he wanted nothing to with it.

“Boys gotta point though.” Her mother mumbled through her sip of whiskey. “I mean, he’s going to school. Thinkin bout his future. Don’t think his parents would be too pleased to find out he knocked ya up.” Once again, Nora felt the threat of tears trying to escape from her eyes. Frustrated, tired, and heartbroken, Nora didn’t feel like working up the fight in her to argue back with her mother. Instead, she chocked down a sob, and turned around to head towards the hallway stairs and up to her room.

“And don’t think I’m gonna be willin to help ya when you need it. Lord knows how many shifts I’d have to work for that.” Her mother called out.

“Don’t worry Mama. I won’t.” Nora whispered as she started walking up the stairs to her room.

****

With the dreams of her future dashed, Nora finally took a hold of her emotions and planned out a new future for herself. She spent the next couple of months working and saving as much money as she could, but with the small bump that appeared overnight, the tasks she used to be able to do with no thought were now starting to take a toll on her body. Though she was able to find work in the shops around town, she was not immune to the whispered conversations customers had when they thought she was out of earshot.

“I heard she cozied up to one of the carnies from that Fall Festival last year.” Said a brown haired teenager sitting next to her friend at the local bookstore. Nora, in the next row over stacking a shelf, paused. “Oh no, you nimwit!” Her friend responded. “Didnt ya hear? She was going steady with that Pearson guy. He dropped her like a hot skillet when he found out. His family wont even acknowledge it.”

“Wow, poor thing.” The brown haired one uttered. Nora felt the heat radiating off her skin. Poor thing! Poor thing? If there was one phrase that seemed to be repeated whenever she found herself in one of these situations it was “poor thing.” Nora had had enough of the town’s gossip. Everywhere she turned she felt eyes on her, the low murmurs of whispers as she passed by, but most of all, she hated the pity. The pity of these so called self-righteous people. Who really only pitied her, not because they honestly felt sorry for her, but because it made them feel better about themselves. That day was the final straw, Nora knew it was time to move on from Redwater. Her mother all but basically said that once the baby arrived they would no longer be welcomed at the house, and Nora figured she had saved enough money by now to get her out of town and to some new city far away. She thought the best thing would be to leave while her mother was in the town over cleaning that way she could go in peace. She didn’t pack much, just enough to get her by, and by the same time the following week she was on the bus out of Redwater.

__________________________

“Mamaaaaa, we there yet?” Anna repeated, after Nora didn’t respond. She took a deep breath as her daughter’s questioning knocked her out the trance she was in.

“Yeah baby,” Nora paused. Trying to get the next words out as cheerfully and she could. “We’re home.”

#ahh i did it #michael rooker #merle dixon #merle dixon fanfiction #merle x oc #walking dead au #second chances #au #first time fic writer #rooker #dixons #i love how i usually watch and read weird shit yet here i am writing basically a romance novel #rooker what have you done to me?

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raygoodwinbaphotographyjournal3 · 4 years

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PHOT303 - Mileage Mary Vary - 4/3/2020

I decided to swap out the Mamiya 7ii that didn’t work, for one that finally did! But this shoot didn’t go without an issue. Now that I had a working 7ii to use, I was excited to see what I was going to create. I decided to take it upon myself, to head back to using expired film to see that I could create. I have had very good success with expired Fujifilm stocks, and loaded up the 7ii with a roll of Fujifilm Superia 400, which expired in 2012. With this in mind, I over exposed the film by a stop by metering the film at 200 iso.

A Citroen C3 is parked at Morley Court. This is one of my favourite locations in Plymouth, as it feels so removed from Plymouth as a whole. It is a housing estate that is plonked in the centre of town, towards the end which is lower on the social/economic scale. I find it interesting that the location reflects on the conditions of the vehicles, as the lower the perceived class of the area, the condition of the vehicles worsen and the age of the vehicles also increase. This would mean that the individuals on lower incomes, can’t necessarily afford to have a newer vehicle and keep it in a better condition. I find it interesting to shoot in a variety of locations that seem to justify this by documenting what lies within the specific areas.

A Volkswagen Golf Estate MK4 is parked in the car park behind Lucky Star, which is on Raleigh Street. The whole area is an expansive network of grubby post-war buildings, which here are the backs of business and extractor fans. The particular Golf isn’t in the best of conditions, with missing wheel trims and an array of dents and scratches. I fell that this car manages to reflect on the nature of the surroundings. The 7ii also manages to pick up the small details, like the exhaust tube on a building to the left, forcing out a plume of blue smoke.

The eight generation Honda Civic was a far cry from previous iterations in terms of it’s design. Just like the MK3 Golf, it was a more more rotund compared to it’s earlier flavours. This immediately caught my eye, as the Civic managed to match the facade of Costless. I also did like the ‘Cost Less’ managed match the theory of the Vehicle Scrappage Scheme being used to boost the economy after the 2008 Financial Crisis. Again, the Mamiya manages to pick up so much detail within the scene, when the items within the shop itself. I also enjoy how I compose my work with this camera, as it does put me back into the mindset of capturing the scene, rather than just the vehicle being the main focus. Speaking of which, I didn’t even stop down past F4, which is wide open for the 80mm. F4 is a fairly wide aperture for 6x7, and can create some shallow depth of field once you get closer to the subject. yet as these distances, there is some subtle fall off between the foreground and the cars that are now in focus.

Something which used to be a familiar sight, a Toyota Carina. I remember seeing rather a lot of these when I was little, and they have disappeared from out road since, and most likely due to the Vehicle Scappage Scheme. It is hard to believe that this particular model was registered back in 1989, so it had been on our roads for over 30 years now. Yet, it manages to look rather well for it’s age, only really with some discolouration and some dodgy panel angles. This particular vehicle was parked outside a carpet shop in a side road that runs parallel to Ebrington Street. It was only later that it was pointed out the ‘Sustainability Award’ on the billboard above the Carina, which also coincides with the Scrappage Scheme. Just after I took this photograph and took the image of the Fiesta and the Mini, the potential owner came out of the building and was wandering his car and looking at me, almost inspecting. I assume he wasn’t all too pleased I was photographing his ancient Toyota.

A bloody Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow! I have seen this whilst walking near White Friars Lane, which runs adjacent to Beaumont Road. The old Roller juxtaposes the newly built housing, yet almost manages to mix well into the scene. The Silver Shadow exudes high class motoring, with leather, walnut and chrome spilling from all areas. Whilst they were pricey purchases when they were new, they have depreciated so much that they’re almost affordable now...until it goes wrong or needs a service and then the bills start to add up, and the purchase of the vehicle becomes the cheapest part. There is also a noticeable, yet small amount of light leak on the lower right portion of the frame. During the shoot, I noticed that winding on the film didn’t feel entirely right. It felt as if it wasn’t winding as it should, and as I wound the roll to finish it, and opened up the back, I noticed that the roll wasn’t as tight as it should be, and was noticeably fatter. I suspect that this was due to the age of the film, and a potential comparability issue between the film and the spool that was left in the 7ii when I collected it. This can happen with 120 film and sometimes there is an issue, despite this being the first time I had encountered the issue.

Here you can see the extent of the damage from the loose roll, with some light leak and fogging onto the last frame. This is the most affected image, but it is recoverable just by cropping. This photograph of a Nissan 300ZX advertising a window tinting company immediately looks like something Tom Westbury would have taken, with similar tones and composition. I am not sure how the 7ii does it, but the vertical distortion is always well corrected and always seems to by straight. It makes me wonder that all those times I wrote about Westbury’s work and the post production, it could have very well just been done in camera. I suspect that as 6x7 is such a large negative, it is easier to get the vertical lines straight as they should. The 300ZX is also an interesting vehicle, as it is a part of Nissan’s Z line of sports cars which also seemed to take a design change compared to the previous models. They are also a rare vehicle in this day and age, with many being molested by tuners or for the very few, kept nicely. I have never personally seen this car move, and this would be because it is currently SORN. With a quick check with the Government database, this is a 1990 model and was first registered in 2004, making this a grey import from Japan. This particular ZX is in a state of disrepair, with faded paint and a variety of dents and scratches. It also features some exhausts that the Channel Tunnel would be jealous of and some hideously dated alloys.

At last! A successful roll of film that resulted in some shots that I am proud of. It has been a long time since I had shot something and felt good about it. For a long time, I had become estranged from what I had shooting, and in all honesty, didn’t entirely enjoy what I was shooting for PHOT301. It wasn’t what I had envisaged and I am only just starting to get on my feet in regards to how I am making my work. And this is mainly down to using the Mamiya 7ii, as it puts me in the mindset of creating work and in it’s outcome, something that I really enjoy. The experience of using the Mamiya is great, and I cannon wait to see what else I can create this medium format beast. Yet I would like to be able to use different lenses, like the 65mm F4.

#PHOT303

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fastmusclecar123 · 5 years

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New Post has been published on http://fastmusclecar.com/best-muscle-cars/hollywoods-hot-rods-celebrities-who-love-muscle-cars/

Hollywood's Hot Rods: Celebrities Who Love Muscle Cars

Hollywood’s rich and famous has long been synonymous with a collection of muscle cars enough to make you jealous. Explore some celebrity favorites.

Carmakers had no idea the legacy they were starting when the first muscle car rolled off the production line in 1949.

Though the true muscle car race didn’t hit its full stride until the 60s and 70s. Today, these impressive machines are experiencing a whole new resurgence in popularity. This can be seen from the number of celebrities that have chosen to drive their own American muscle car.

Keep reading to learn who the famous faces are that you can see behind the wheel of these impressive machines.

Celebrities and Muscles Cars

Celebrities are just like us, and some have a passion for muscle cars. Ben Affleck has admitted to trolling eBay and drooling over the car listings.

What’s better is that these famous people with a passion for cars also love driving them. So before you sell your motorhome, why not take one more trip out west to the land of Hollywood and get a glimpse of one of these cars on the road.

Amber Heard: 1968 Ford Mustang

You may know her from the blockbuster Aquaman or the 2009 zombie comedy Zombieland. But what you may not know is that she has a passion for muscle cars.

Back in 2015, she and Johnny Depp appeared on the Velocity show OverHaulin’ when he had her beloved 1968 Mustang redone. The classic muscle car went from old and tired to a complete stunner.

She bought the car when she was a teen and can be seen regularly driving it through the streets of Hollywood. The finished car is a stunner with a rich red flake paint and all new trim.

John Cena: Plymouth Superbird

When John Cena isn’t out on the road traveling for his wrestling career, he’s at home enjoying his collection of cars. Many in his collection are the classics that we all drool over.

He has so many cars that he’s outgrown the space in his garage. Here are some of the standouts in his collection.

1969 Red Pontiac GTO

1970 Cardinal Red Pontiac GTO Judge

1971 Black Pontiac GTO Judge

2006 Ford GT

2007 Dodge Super Bee

2007 Parnelli Jones Saleen Mustang

2009 Corvette ZR1

It’s safe to say that while Cena may be known for wrestling, he’s secretly a total gearhead.

Ben Affleck: 1966 Chevy Chevelle SS

An admitted car enthusiast, Ben Affleck has a particular soft spot for 1970s muscle cars. But in his garage is a 1966 Chevelle SS. When he’s not starring in movies such as Gone Girl and Batman vs. Superman, he’s cruising the streets in his classic muscle car.

The 66 Chevelle marked a new era as Chevy began creating showroom to start line Super Sports. Under the hood was a beautiful and powerful 396 cubic inch engine. It pumped out an impressive 360+ horsepower.

Kellan Lutz: Ford Shelby GT 500

Known for his role in the Twilight saga and one of the younger celebrities on this list, Kellan Lutz drives a 1967 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500.

This muscle car was a beast back in the day. It boasts a 428 cubic inch big block engine that pumps out an impressive 355 horsepower.

Lebron James: Chevy Camaro SS

Unlike many of the other cars on this list, Lebron James opted for a more modern muscle car, a 2010 Camaro SS. This isn’t just any off the showroom floor Camaro, though.

It’s entirely custom and all white, except for the gloss black emblems and super fine black pinstriping detail. The windows are tinted super dark, which not only gives privacy but also adds to the overall look of the car.

To replace the stock rims are a set of super-sized multi-spoke ones in white. The outset lip gives them a nice touch of detail.

Travis Barker: 1963 Chevy Impala

If you aren’t a fan of rock, you may not be familiar with Barker. In the early 2000s, he made his name known as one of the best drummers of modern music with the band Blink 182.

These days he focuses on his solo music, family, and working on his cars. One of which is a 1963 Impala.

This classic car is in perfect condition as Barker stayed true to the original car’s beauty. He did drop it to give it a bit of modern attitude.

Rob Dyrdek: 1969 Chevy Camaro

This famous skateboarder and entrepreneur has an impressive collection of big boy toys. It once included a 1969 Camaro that was completely custom. We have All Speed Customs of Michigan to thank for the work done to this impressive beauty.

What’s impressive is that Dyrdek kept his signature style out of this overhaul. There are no crazy patterns, or colors, and no insane graffiti art across the side. The car is decidedly serious with a high gloss black paint job, and powder coated red rims.

Under the hood is a fuel-injected LS and 4L60E automatic overdrive transmission. It’s claimed that the car can produce 400 horsepower.

Kenny Wayne: An Entire Collection

While other celebrities on this list may have car collections, they aren’t a complete collection of muscle cars. Then we have Kenny Wayne Shepherd. This famous blues-infused rock and roll artist has a serious passion for muscle cars.

His daily driver is a 2010 Dodge Challenger SRT 8. He’s done several modifications to the car that include a Magnuson supercharger, Hotchkins TVS suspension, custom wheels, Magnaflow exhaust, and custom aluminum valve covers and shifter.

Other cars in his collection include:

1972 Dodge Charger

1970 Plymouth Duster

1969 Extreme Lee

1950 Ford Business Coupe Hot Rod

This list goes to prove that muscle cars have a universal appeal. Even celebrities skip over the standard car and opt for a heart-racing muscle car.

Some are true to their roots and stay classic, while others have given their ride a completely custom feel. Either way, these muscle cars continue the tradition of American made power and performance.

#Celebrities Who Love Muscle Cars

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adriansmithcarslove · 7 years

Text

Top 9 Cop Cars, Fire Trucks, and Ambulances at Woodward 2017

You can see just about anything rolling down Woodward during the Dream Cruise, but we parked it for a bit in Ferndale to check out the classics at the Emergency Vehicle Show. Here are our top three favorite cop cars, fire trucks, and ambulances.

Cop Cars

1977 Ford LTD

This detective special is outfitted with the 351 Police Package and a 460-cubic-inch V-8 making all of 226 hp and 371 lb-ft of torque and driving a three-speed auto. This one has factory air conditioning and tinted windows, but we’re much more interested in the red velour interior and magnetic Federal Fireball FB111 teardrop emergency light. It did service in Montgomery Township, Ohio, before undergoing a serious restoration.

1961 Plymouth Fury

With the “Golden Commando Power” 361-cubic-inch V-8 under the hood, this Plymouth must’ve been menacing in the rear view mirror. With 310 hp and 435 lb-ft on tap, it had plenty of power, blown through a Torqueflite three-speed auto. This one, formerly of the Village of Farnham Police Department in Pennsylvania, is rather rare, as this unloved, fin-less body style was only produced in ’60 and ’61.

1941 Ford Coupe

Can you imagine asking the suspect to climb into the back of your coupe? Lake Orion, Michigan, did back in the ‘40s. This 90-hp flathead V-8 with automatic transmission was restored six years ago and is believed to be the oldest police car registered and owned by a police department in the state of Michigan.

Fire Trucks

1957 Howe/Willys Jeep HJ-P

Willys licensed the original Jeep CJ design to a number of companies after the war, including the Howe Fire Apparatus Company of Anderson, Indiana. This 1957 model HJ-P was purchased by the Western Electric Company for use at its Allentown, Pennsylvania, plant, after which it was donated to the local volunteer fire department. It carries no water on board, just some equipment and hoses on the back and a water pump driven off a power take-off (PTO) on the front bumper. It’s operated by a throttle pull on the driver’s side of the grille and monitored by a tachometer on the passenger’s side of the grille. Under the hood sits the standard four-cylinder engine mated to a column-shifted three-speed manual.

1960 American LaFrance Type 900

“Old Frankie” here is a 1960 Type 900 running a proprietary Continental gasoline inline-six and a four-speed manual transmission rather than the optional V-12. These roofless models were popular at the time, but you could get them with a roof as well. Frankie worked the Stonefort, Michigan, fire department back in the day.

1972 Ford 900

The Ford 900 Chassis Cab commercial truck was popular with fire truck manufacturers in the 1970s, and this one outfitted by Pierce in Appleton, Wisconsin, had a long service life. The pump was upgraded to a newer Waterous Company unit in 1986 and the original gasoline V-8 was swapped for a Caterpillar diesel in 1988. The Tele Squire combination ladder/sprayer is original.

Ambulances

1969 Oldsmobile 98 Combination

Before the mid-1970s, it was common for funeral homes to also operate ambulance services and this particular Olds 98 was owned and operated by the Voran Funeral Home. It only saw two years of service before Voran shut down its ambulance division and was parked for 38 years. Most ambulances of the day used Cadillac commercial chassis, so this Oldsmobile is rather rare.

1972 Cadillac Combination Hearse/Ambulance

Back in the ‘70s, Cadillac provided a “Commercial Chassis” to limousine, ambulance, hearse, and other outfitters. Every bit of the body from the dashboard back was left off so a custom body could be fitted. This particular hearse/ambulance combo was built by the Miller-Meteor Company of Piqua, Ohio, and sold to the Fry and Lange Funeral Home in Indiana. By removing the emergency light beacon and installing window covers, it could be quickly converted to a hearse when needed.

1954 Chevrolet/National Ambulette

No, that’s not a typo. Ambulettes were common in the early days of the ambulance and referred to smaller vehicles unable to accommodate a full-size stretcher. This 1954 Chevrolet Sedan Delivery van was outfitted by National and served in Ohio. These days, it’s been outfitted with a modern Chevrolet crate 350 V-8 and more comfortable seats.

The post Top 9 Cop Cars, Fire Trucks, and Ambulances at Woodward 2017 appeared first on Motor Trend.

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murderingpieceofshit · 3 years

Text

The Wrath of God, Ch. 3: Losing it

by @finney13s

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: General, M/M Fandoms: Preacher (TV) Relationships: Proinsias Cassidy/EccariusProinsias Cassidy/Jesse CusterJesse Custer/Tulip O'HareTulip O'Hare/Eccarius Characters: Proinsias Cassidy, Eccarius, Jesse Custer, Tulip O'Hare Additional Tags: Angst, Gun Violence, Blood and Gore Author’s notes: This story is still evolving. Rating, warnings, characters, relationships and tags are due to change as the story continues so check them before reading.

“The Wrath of God” is the 2nd part of “The Chronicles of Cassidy and Eccarius”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

Chapter summary: The group manages to get to a motel for the night. And then things spiral horribly out of hand.

Read the chapter on AO3 >>

A short clip below the cut as the whole chapter won’t fit into one post here.

They stopped at a used cars dealer in the next town. They got out of the car and Cassidy popped open a large umbrella for him and Eccarius. Eccarius' eyes widened when he saw that the suitcase from the roof was gone. “This… this can't be real” he stuttered and tried to grasp that he had just lost the only clothes he had managed to get with him. “So it was the suitcase making the screeching sound” Jesse stated the obvious when he turned to close the car door behind him. “I should've listened to my premonitions and remained at home" Eccarius huffed and looked at Cassidy desperately. “Ay, hold on to your knickers” Cassidy tried to sooth Eccarius. “There's nothing we can do to fix it now is there?” “Obviously there is not, I know that! It doesn't mean I have to like it.” Eccarius snapped peeved. Then he pointed a finger at Jesse over the roof of the car. “And YOU! What were you thinking? That was a whole new level of incautious if I've ever witnessed one and I've witnessed quite a few during my time.” Tulip and Cassidy agreed and Jesse raised his hands in a surrendering motion. “Well I am sorry that I seized the day” he said displeased. “Jesse, you made us fugitives running from the law just like that." Tulip said furiously and snapped her fingers. "God knows we didn't need any of that. If it was just me and you I could've lived with it but you dragged Cassidy and Eccarius to this as well! Some friend you are!" Jesse looked at his feet and remained silent. “Did you even look at what's in the bag?” she continued. “Well, I think it's money” Jesse replied hesitantly. “Well go and check the bag then!” Tulip huffed.

Jesse grabbed the bag from the front seat and set it on the hood of the car. He zipped it open and stared at the contents baffled. “So what is it?” Tulip asked and walked around the car to see what's in the bag. Then she froze and looked at Jesse, saying: "Clothes. The bag is full of clothes." “Why would someone steal a bag of clothes?” Cassidy asked. “They're designer clothes” Tulip said taking a shirt from the bag and examining them closely. “This says it's Gucci. And this jacket is Armani. The rest seem to be same labels too. They fucking stole designer clothes. It must have been some kind of warehouse for a high fashion store.” She stuffed the shirts back to the bag frustrated and looked at Jesse angrily. “Well that sucks. What are we going to do now?” Cassidy asked.

Tulip shook her head and raised her hands on it, then shaking her fists at Jesse. “We need to ditch the car. Dammit! For clothes! Argh!" She turned and stomped to the car yard. “Well, we ain't got all day, y'all!” she yelled behind her.

Tulip turned down every and each suggestion of the sleazy salesman until he took them to the backyard. There was an old green Plymouth Roadrunner standing in mint condition with tinted windows. “Ain't this a beauty” she admired the car walking around it and checking the insides, forgetting the dire situation for a moment. “I'm taking this one.” No one argued. After all, she was the one driving. The salesman was luckily more than happy to make the deal without any papers and in a minuscule price as he got Tulip's Chavelle in exchange. Soon they were speeding away towards west.

They drove in silence as everyone was sulking. Eccarius was staring blankly at the scenery running by. "I really didn't need any of this, not now of all times" he thought to himself. Yes, he had done very bad things in his life but never had he gotten caught for any of it. Well, not before Cassidy. And now he was in this situation thanks to someone else. He was scared. Something he hadn't felt in a very, very long time. What if all his crimes came out into the light if they got caught? He had just gotten on top of his addiction and now he was pushed into this mess, stuck in it without a way out. How would he cope with it? Could he? He felt the rage and the urge to pay back what had now been done to him burning inside and he had to fight to keep himself from acting on it. Finally Cassidy poked him on the shoulder. “Ay, penny for you thoughts.” Eccarius kept staring out of the window. "What do you want me to say, Cassidy? I just managed to get my problems in order somehow and everything looked better already.” he replied and continued mockingly: “But then this... this righteous man of God got a wonderful idea to stick his hands into a trap, I lost all the clothes I had and, which is even worse, I'm going to be hunted for stealing a bag of clothes yet I had nothing to do with it and I can't go back to my home now or maybe ever. I am walking on a thin line here" he said angrily. "Oy, don't blame it on me 'ere, it was all 'im. I'm as miffed about this as you" Cassidy replied. “Can we just stop pointing fingers” Jesse fumed from the front seat. “No we can't!” Cassidy said angrily. “Christ! God knows I'm someone who has no right to point any of 'em at anyone but you really screwed up this time! Big time. Me best mate!” Jesse stared at the road ahead saying nothing. “But ey” Cass said to Eccarius, “we now have clothes for you. The ones in the bag.” Eccarius looked at Cass opening his mouth to speak, then wrinkled his nose and sighed deeply. “How would you know if they even fit?” he asked displeased. “Well I don't but that's not the point. Isn't it at least something?” Cassidy replied, trying desperately to come up with anything even slightly positive from the situation. “Come 'ere you mope" he said and grabbed Eccarius pulling him in his arms. Eccarius laid his head on Cassidy's shoulder closing his eyes.

They drove the rest of the day just stopping for some gas. When it got dark they stopped at a motel. “Is it safe for us to stop like this?” Eccarius asked worriedly when they got out of the car. The motel was old and ramshackle. "I mean, either one of us could drive if needed” he pointed at himself and Cassidy trying desperately keep them not being forced to stay in this dilapidated building. “I'm tired, pissed off and I wanna sleep in a real bed” Tulip replied and shut the car door. “I've had enough excitement for one day.” Then she continued looking at Jesse: “And you and I ain't sharing a room.”

Read the full chapter on AO3 >>

#preacher #preacher fan fiction #preacher fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #proinsias cassidy #cassidy #cassidy x eccarius #joe gilgun #adam croasdell #eccarius #jesse custer #tulip o'hare #preacher amc #the chronicles of cassidy and eccarius

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