#black wrought iron chandelier

[jawnwutson]

Kitchen Dining - Dining Room An illustration of a small eclectic kitchen/dining room combination with beige walls.

[grille-thrill]

Art Academy of Latvia

[chronologynut]

Mudroom - Traditional Entry Example of a large classic marble floor foyer design with brown walls

[made-to-order]

Hotels and restaurants are spaces that demand a balance of functionality and aesthetics. The choice of lighting in these environments is crucial to creating an inviting atmosphere. Decorative iron chandeliers, with their forged iron craftsmanship, are not only durable but also exude a sense of luxury. The intricate designs and warm glow cast by these fixtures make them an ideal choice for hotel lobbies and restaurants aiming to create a memorable and welcoming ambiance. Forged iron pendant lighting is a testament to the marriage of strength and elegance. The meticulous forging process results in fixtures that not only withstand the test of time but also become a focal point of admiration. The craftsmanship involved in creating these chandeliers ensures that each piece is a work of art, with its unique character and charm. In the world of interior design, the right lighting can transform a space from ordinary to extraordinary. The black iron pendant lamps, with their timeless appeal, versatility, and craftsmanship, prove to be an excellent choice for those seeking to elevate their surroundings. Whether you're decorating a grand hotel lobby, a chic restaurant, or your own home, the allure of iron decorative pendant lighting is sure to captivate and inspire. Embrace the charm of forged iron and let the radiance of a Coolnial-style chandelier illuminate your space with enduring elegance.

[rusticahouse]

Old World Forged Iron Lighting

Welcome, dear readers, to a journey back in time where style meets luminosity! Today, we’re diving into the lavish world of old world iron forged lighting that transforms your space into a Colonial or Middle Ages masterpiece. Looking vintage, however, does not mean old. All products we will be discussing are new and custom-made from our artisanal workshops in Mexico. Get ready for a delightful…

[leestraussbooks]

Mudroom (San Francisco)

[thevoidstaredback]

How To Balance Your Daytime and Nighttime Activities So That You Don't Burn Yourself Out More Than You Already Have

Tim was waiting for them at the door, sitting one the steps of the Manor's entrance, when they arrived. He grinned an jumped up when he saw the car, not quite running down to meet them. Danny nearly jumped out of the moving car to catch Tim.

"Hey, Danny!"

"Hey, Tim!"

Dick got out of the car after turning it off. He rolled his eyes at the two kids. "Hey, Dick." Tim and Danny snickered at him, ditching a handshake in favor of a high five. "You two have met in person once, why are you so close?"

"Occupational hazard," Danny answered.

"Why? Are you jealous?" Tim teased.

"I am not!" Dick protested, "I'm just curious."

The two didn't believe him for a second. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm not!"

The large oak doors to the Manor opened slowly, not creaking once, pulling the three's attention to the top of the stairs. Just inside of the open left door was an older gentleman in a pressed, three piece suit. "Master Dick," he smiled, "Welcome home."

Dick smiled up at him. "Hey, Alfred. It's good to see you."

"You as well," he stepped to the side, inviting the three inside. Dick walk in first, followed by Tim. Danny took up the rear.

Holding out his hand, Danny said, "You must be Alfred. I'm Danny. It's nice to meet you!"

Alfred closed the door before taking Danny's hand. "Likewise, Master Danny."

"Oh, please, none of that 'master' stuff."

"'Mister' it is, then."

Danny didn't like Bristol, Gotham, New Jersey. It was plastic and fake and reeked of money. The trees and lawns and bushes were all exactly alike, and each property was marked off by wrought iron fences nearly ten feet tall that stretched on forever in every direction.

Wayne Manor, though, had a different feel to it. It still smelled of old money, and the greenery was all perfectly plastic looking, but it felt warm. No. It was almost as cold as the other properties in the area, but there was an underlying warmth to it that was slowly being choked out. Like red dye in a glass of water.

Alfred, Danny decided, was not human. He was perfectly human in every way, but there was something about him that nudged at Danny. His posture was perfect, his clothing pressed and not touched by even a speck of dust. His shoes were shiny, his gloves whiter than snow, and his hair lay perfectly. Danny knew for a fact that Wayne Manor was this man's haunt, even if the man is still of the living. The building was perfectly cared for, and he was sure that Alfred knows where everyone and everything are as long as they're within the Manor property lines.

"Thank you for having me," Danny bowed his head slightly. Alfred's smile grew ever so slightly.

"Please," Alfred nodded, "I must thank you for taking care of Master Dick while I have been unable to.."

"It's not problem, really," he said, "I like helping people."

"Should we be worried about whatever..that is?" Tim whispered to Dick.

"I don't think so?" Dick whispered back.

"You don't sound so sure."

Alfred was the first to move, stepping naturally in front of the group to take the lead. "If you'll follow me to the drawing room, I will bring in refreshments while you all talk."

Dick laughed politely, "Don't be so stiff, Alfie! I'll come help you in the kitchen; leave those two to chat." He winked like he knew something neither Danny or Tim did. They ignored him.

"Very well," Alfred accepted, "I expect Master Tim to show Mister Danny the way."

"Yeah, sure," Tim nodded, "C'mon, Danny, it's this way."

The Manor was large on the outside and inside. The foyer was easily thirty feet tall, a crystal chandelier and white frosted wall scones brightening up the black marble floors and beige walls. A pristine, dark green rug ran up the stairs. On either side of the stairs, imbedded into the walls under the landing, were birch double doors. Dick and Alfred went through the ones on the left, presumably to the kitchen. Tim led Danny through the ones on the right.

The hallway Tim and Danny were no in was only ten feet tall. The floor had become dark oak planks covered by a long, dark red carpet. The walls were the same beige as the foyer, but these were decorated with pictures and paintings of landscapes and cityscapes. Potted plants on small tables and short benches were spaced along the walls. About fifteen feet from the birch doors was a dark wood archway leading into another room.

"This is the drawing room." Tim introduced.

The room followed a similar theme as the hallway. Dark wood floors and beige walls. There was an unlit, red brick fireplace directly opposite the archway, a TV a few inches over the mantel. Bookshelves that were obviously only decoration lined the right wall. A white, circle area rug covered most of the space, accompanied by dark blue and oak furniture, and scratchy white throw pillows. The decorations all matched the hallway, too.

It was all very impersonal.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked after a moment of Danny looking around.

"Nothing," he said, "it all just seems a bit.. manufactured?" He looked at Tim. "Don't take that the wrong way! It's a beautiful building! I'm just- I'm not used to this is all." A lie, but Tim didn't need to know that.

Tim laughed. "It's not my house, so don't worry about it."

Danny's head tilted to the side. "Oh? Then where do you live?"

"Why?" he smirked, "Gonna follow me home if I don't tell you?"

"Maybe." he shrugged back.

The single birch door on the left wall opened, letting Dick and Alfred into the room. They put two trays on the coffee table, one with different snack foods and the other with a few drinks. Alfred was quick to leave the room again.

"Welp," Dick clapped, "I'll leave you two in here to talk. I'm going to-" Danny leveled a glare at him. "-sit here and join your conversation."

Tim stared between the two for a second before laughing again. "Dude! You have to teach me how to do that!"

"Why? Think it'll work on Bruce-man?" That got both Tim and Dick laughing.

"Only one way to find out."

Danny laughed along with them for a few moments before sighing. "I hate to ruin the moment, but I did drag Dick here for a reason." He stepped back a few feet, motioning to Dick.

"Er- Right." Dick cleared his throat. "Tim, I'm sorry for yelling at you when you stopped by Bludhaven."

Tim blinked, giving Danny the impression that he was not used to apologies and the like. Hm. That'll have to change. "It's, um, okay?"

"Great-!"

"No it's not." Danny interrupted, "He yelled at you. You don't have to say it's okay."

"But it is?" Tim reasoned. "I'm used to it."

That's going to change, too.

Part 11 Part 13

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

No Sugar Tonight 5

Character: Brock Rumlow

Summary: A regular customer becomes more than just a familiar face.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The townhouse is big compared to your apartment, though most places are. Brock keeps his hand tight on yours as he brings you up the front steps. He punches a code into the lock, the numbers blocked out by his large figure. You teeter on your feet as he pushes down the lever and shoves the door inward.  

He points you in ahead of him and adjusts the straps of the duffel bag hooked over his shoulder. Those are your things, parsed down to a single bag. He follows you in as your eyes skimp the walls. Despite your muddled fear, you can’t help but stand in awe of the antique panel and brick. 

“You seem like the old-style type,” he plops the bag down on the wooden bench against the wall, “shoes.” 

You look down and nod. You kneel to unlace your work sneakers and put them on the rack. He sits beside the duffel as he works at loosening his boots. 

You tear your attention from the tear drop bulbs of the chandelier light above and look at him. Like really look at him. He’s in all black like always. His hair is a similarly dark hue and a shadow of stubble never leaves his square jaw. His shoulders are broad and straight and even sitting, he looks huge. He looks up and narrows his eyes as he catches your gaze. 

“Sir, er, Brock,” you twist your palms together. 

“Yes, baby,” he sits up, his shoulders squaring. The pet name tweaks in your stomach. 

“Erm...” you peer around. “I... I don’t know.” 

“You don’t like it?” He stands and you take a step back. “We can update it.” 

“Um, no, it’s... pretty but... what... what am I doing here?” 

He snorts. It’s as close to laughter as he’s come. 

“Whatever you want, baby.” He nears and reaches for you. You wince as he cradles the back of your head and draws you close. “It’s our home, we make the rules.” 

He bends and kisses your forehead. You gulp as the heavy scent of his cologne strangles you. His fingers curl into your scalp and he hums. He hesitates for just a moment before he pulls back. 

You suck your lip in under your teeth and turn away. You’re buzzing from his proximity. The way he crowds you is unnerving. Everything about him is. 

You sense him watching you as you tiptoe around the bottom of the staircase and stop to stare at the framed painting of a woman in 19th century garb. She seems familiar as she sits on a stool in flowing ivory and pets a lamb, her stomach swollen with child. 

“Like I said, you can change it,” he grits as he comes closer. “Have a look around. Explore. It’s all yours.” 

You flinch and bat your eyes at the picture. This is real. You peek over at the duffle bag as the horror rolls up your spine. You don’t think you’re ever going back to your old life. This man won’t let you. 

You continue down the hallway next to the stairs if only to get space from him and your looming fear. You turn to look into the den. A long sofa and cushy armchairs, bookcases on either side of the vintage fire stove and a rustic rug across the aged wooden floor. You can’t deny that it’s cozy. 

He lurks like a shadow but allows you enough space to make your own way through the place. The kitchen is wrought in walnut and iron. A gas stove, a black fridge, and a dishwasher to boot. The walk-in pantry is stocked to the ceiling. You back out as he leans in the crook of the counter. 

“There’s more upstairs, baby.” 

You take his subtle directive and retrace your path. The dining room on the other side of the stairs gets only a quick glance before you climb to the next floor. Another hallway with several doors. A bathroom with a clawfoot tub and separate shower booth, a linen closet, and office, and the main bedroom. You stop in the last and stare at the four-postered bed. 

You retreat and pass Brock as he stands against the wall, halfway up the stairs. There’s another door but it doesn’t open. You don’t try to get past the lock. You go back to look down at him. 

“It’s nice, er... Brock.” 

“All for you,” he turns and climbs up patiently. 

“I--” your wring your hands, “really?” You look one way then the other, “thanks, but...” 

“You shouldn't chew your lip. It’s already chapped.” He grabs your hands and pulls them apart, “stop picking at your nails.” 

“Sorry, I--” 

“Don’t be. I’ll take care of ya until you take care of yourself,” he brings your hands up between his, grazing his calloused skin over yours. He turns your palms to his and pushes his fingers between yours. His cheek dimples and he guides your hands to his chest. “You’ll be safe here.” 

You nod and stay silent. His warmth seep through his shirt into your hands. It adds to the sheen of sweat speckling over your body. That fiery heat of fear, the nip of the inevitable. You still can’t wrap your head around it all but you know deep down, you’re not going back to your boxy apartment. 

[fairy-writes]

Vampire!Viktor x Female!Reader 01

i’ve been having brain rot about vampire!viktor and a female!reader, and just—

this is now a series i’ve dubbed cryptid!viktor! here’s a little blurb about merman!viktor :) linked HERE

you first meet him when you go to explore a decrepit old mansion on the hill of your little village in the middle of the night. the year is 18th century something, and you hike your skirts up as you scale the tall wrought iron fence surrounding the estate. except as you climb the wall, you realize it’s basically rusted steel.

why was that? wasn’t steel more expensive than iron?

this was a bad idea, but you were always curious and liked old things. they made you sad. but in a good way.

the estate is just as drab and creepy up close as it was far away. but you are astounded by the detail. gargoyles and griffons positioned at the tops of the corners keep watch over the massive house, and their stone eyes seem to follow you as you approach the large front door. 

the door is made of wood, and there is a large cast iron (again, you realize it’s steel) knocker in the shape of what looks like a demon with horns. is it a bad omen? you clutch your necklace tight in your fist as you reach for the door knocker and knock twice. 

nothing. 

the door is unlocked, and you have to put your entire body weight against it in order to open the beast of a door. inside is almost pitch black, and you hoist your bag that’s been strapped against your torso until now, and pull out a packet of matches. then feeling along the wall, you find a candelabra and use the match to light the dusty candles. 

the room is illuminated by the warm glow, and you swear you see glowing golden eyes in the corner. but as you look closer, they simply disappear. 

talk about spooky.

cobwebs hang from the chandelier, and the air is thick with dust, making you sneeze and almost blow your candles out. a breeze comes through the open door, and the flames flicker and go out. 

suddenly you get a very, very bad feeling. 

“who are you?” comes an accented voice, and you jump, whirling and feeling your skirts swish against your heeled boots as you look up to the top of the massive staircase. 

the man is dressed immaculately in a cravat, a pristine white long-sleeved shirt with puffy sleeves, a wine-red vest, and slim trousers that hug his legs all the way down to his shined shoes. his hair is a dark chocolate brown, and his eyes are that glowing golden color. 

the eyes from before. 

“i did knock,” you say hastily, and he scoffs,

“i heard you. now who are you?” is all he says in return, and you spin on a heel, dropping the candelabra and sprinting for the door. 

only for it to slam shut, leaving you beating against the wood. 

“let me out!” you shriek and turn back to face the man. he’s descended the stairs now and is but a few paces away. somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize he’s beautiful. with porcelain skin and two beauty marks dotting his cheeks. his eyes aren’t exactly gold, but a pretty amber that seemingly glows gold with unnatural power. 

“no, i don’t think i will. what is your name?” he says, and you swallow as he gets closer, stuttering out your name. 

but there’s something on his face that you can’t quite define.

“what are you going to do to me?” you whisper, and he tilts his head,

“that i am not sure of yet. but seeing as you trespassed on my property, i think i’ll figure out something,” he says and reaches for your throat. 

only to recoil with a cry of pain and clutching his steaming hand. 

you look down to see your silver necklace in the shape of a cross steaming as well. you weren’t particularly religious, but it was given to you by your father on his deathbed, and you had promised never to take it off. 

it looks like even now; he’s watching over you.

but then the dots connect, and everything makes sense.

“are you a vampire?” you ask, and he glares with bared teeth. the sharpened incisors are proof of your claim. 

but instead of fear, you feel curious. 

but you don’t get the chance to ask any more questions as he turns and disappears without another word. literally, one second, he’s there, and the next, he’s simply gone in a wisp of the wind. mysteriously, the door opens, and you are let out without any more trouble. you all but run to the steel gates but turn back at the last second. 

and see the man in the window, watching you as you scurry away like a mouse running from a cat. 

as soon as you get home, the sun begins to rise, and your mother descends on you like the worried parent she is. 

“where were you?! i was worried sick!” she all but shouts, and you flinch at the noise. you had scarcely opened the door when she had been up from her chair and across the dirt floor to grasp your elbows, scanning you up and down for any injuries. 

which save for a minor burn mark against your skin from the necklace; you are just covered in dirt and minor scratches from running through the brush surrounding the mansion.

“i’m fine mother, i just went on a walk to the mansion up on the hill,” you say and realize quickly it was a mistake. 

her face morphs into one of terror and anger. her grip on your arms loosens, and she frantically holds your face in her calloused hands. they’re worn with years of washing laundry in lye. she was a servant in baron silco’s estate as a laundry maid. you were a seamstress and tailoress who made clothing for noblemen and women who traveled through baron silco’s land. 

but your job was beside the point. your mother looked like she was about to pass out from fear. 

“you know that a monster haunts the mansion! you mustn't go up there ever again! promise me!” she chastises, and you nod in a daze. 

for some reason, you can’t get that man out of your head. 

and realize why as you sew the clothing of a noblewoman named caitlyn kiramman.

he looked old and lonely and oh so sad. 

you resolve to yourself that you are going to visit again and try not to get killed. 

you manage to sneak out a week later when your mother is fast asleep. it’s always been just the two of you ever since your father died, so at least you don’t have to worry about siblings or grandparents like many of the other peasants in your village. the trek up to the mansion is shorter than you remember, the worn dirt leading the way as your eyes adjust in the bright moonlight. 

again, the door is unlocked, and the windows are empty. you ease it open, wincing at the squealing hinges echoing into the night. if he didn’t know you were coming, he certainly did now.

he’s waiting for you at the top of the stairs. his eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he recognizes it’s you.

“what are you doing here? here to kill me?” he asks, and you stop in your tracks.

“what? no! i’m here… well… i’m here because you looked sad.” you say, trailing off at the end, realizing how ridiculous you sounded. your skirts are clenched in your fists, and your apron is rough against your fingertips.

“you’re here… because i looked… sad?” his tone is colored with shades of confusion and curiosity. but he didn’t seem angry, and that was good. so you nod, 

“it sounds stupid i know—”

“it is stupid. leave now,” the man commands, and you freeze at the commanding tone in his voice. it booms through the large room, making you feel as small as a dust mite in his presence. he turns to ascend the rest of the stairs toward one of the mansion’s many corridors, and you panic. you didn’t want to come all this way for nothing. 

“wait!” you cry and hurry up the steps after him, hiking your skirts up and scurrying up the stairs after the retreating man. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, if anything, he speeds up slightly. the halls are dark and filled with more cobwebs, but you find as you get closer to the heart of the mansion, they grow less prominent, and the torches are actually lit. the man shuts a door behind him, and you open it before he can lock it.

“i just want to talk!” you say, and he turns to look at you. before he can say anything, you get a good look around the room. 

it’s lit by oil lamps and candelabras. papers are strewn about between two desks, and they’re also covered in various gears and gadgets. you spy a few handkerchiefs covered in grease in under a few papers. a bed is in the corner and neatly made blood-red bedsheets are spread over the mattress. it looks comfier than anything you have ever seen. 

abruptly, you realize he’s started talking.

“—want you to leave,” he says curtly, and you bite your cheek.

“aren’t you lonely?” you ask quietly, and he freezes, his back to you. 

you seize your chance and ask another question,

“what’s your name?” you ask, and he turns his head slightly, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

“it’s viktor.”

[violettduchess]

A/N: This fic fulfills one anon request from my 1k First Kiss Event as well as the request for a fic with one of the new princes! 💜

This was written in July 2023 before ANYTHING was known about the princes other than the name of their country and the climate.

Achroite Prince x f! reader

This is also for my Snow, Sand and Sakura event with the talented @dear-mrs-otome ❄

WC: ~2100

Barbaric, you think as you march through the gray stone halls of the castle, pulling your fur cloak tighter around your body. It's as white as the snow that caps the Achroite mountain peaks and so soft it pains you just a little whenever you remove it. 

You burst out from the wooden door that leads to the battlements, the sunshine near blinding and the cold air stinging your flushed face. Blinking against the shock, you welcome it, hoping it will temper some of the hot anger that churns through your veins. Before you, a sight that still takes your breath away: the jagged beauty of the Achroite mountains stretching out in either direction, endless as the sea. You flatten your palms against the icy stone ramparts, cooling the wind-blown embers of anger that are tunneling their way through you.

The sound of heavy boots approaching breaks the quiet.

You don’t even wait for him to speak. Instead you spin around, meeting his silvery gaze head-on.

“That is horrific.”

He comes to a stop in front of you, as tall and broad as the mountains in the background. His hair, pale as bone, is braided away from his face, the rest spilling over his powerful shoulders and broad back, both of which are emphasized by the fall of his dark sable fur cloak. His handsome face, with its hard lines and chiseled cheekbones, is dusted with dark stubble which does nothing to hide the tense set of his jaw.

“It is our way. The woman stole. She loses a finger. The punishment fits the crime.” His voice is as hard and unyielding as the stone of his impressive mountain castle. And just as cold.

You shake your head angrily at his words.

“Her child was going hungry. Surely there is room for empathy.”

His sword-hardened, calloused fingers curl inward for a moment, the only sign your words upset him.

“Would you prefer we separate her from her child by throwing her in a jail cell as is custom in your country, Rosebud?”

That nickname sends a river of aggravated sparks rushing down your spin. You stand your ground.

“It is cruel and it is barbaric.”

He holds your gaze, silent as the cold daylight that falls upon you both. The moment stretches out slowly as your heart beats a rapid tempo in your chest, but neither of you look away. You are holding him as captive as he is you, gazes locked like antlered beasts in combat.

He finally speaks, breaking the thick silence.

“You are very opinionated and speak your mind whenever you like. These are not good qualities for an ambassador.” 

The truth of his words feels like an anchor sinking through the churning sea of your stomach and you have to swallow at the sudden lump in your throat. Chevalier claimed he had sent you of all people here because of your honesty and intelligence. But maybe….he has finally made a mistake.

The snow prince continues, his words measured. “But they are the qualities of a strong heart.” He assesses you with those cool storm-colored eyes and you are reminded of the ancient myth of the God who judges the weight of a person’s soul against a feather.

He nods once, a decision made.

“You will tell your king we are open to negotiations.” 

And then he is gone, turning on the heel of his black boot and heading back inside, leaving you alone and speechless. 

Never would you have imagined the great hall, a place that had first struck you as cold and impersonal, could seem so warm. The glow of the massive wrought-iron chandelier changes the stern stone of the walls and floor into something welcoming, something almost comforting. The candles bathe the room in a softness you have never seen before. 

Enjoy this, you tell yourself. Because morning is coming. Morning always comes, no matter what story the night has written. And tomorrow's morning will bring you home, back to the soft, lush gardens and elegant spires of Rhodolite.

Drawing a breath, you run your hands over the soft white velvet of your gown. The tailor in Rhodolite had truly created a wonder. A dress as pure as freshly-fallen snow, embroidered with deep red roses along the bodice and trimmed with fine gray fur. A perfect blend of both countries. You’ve even styled your hair in the Achroite custom: loose and falling freely behind you. It almost feels scandalous. Back home, in public, hair is controlled by pins and plaits, buns and braids. But here? It brushes the back of your neck and grazes your cheeks with the intimacy of a caress.

“Does this meet your standards?”

You turn at the sound of his voice, a low bass below the music of the partygoers’ chattering, the metallic clinking of bronze mugs holding sweet mead, the incidental laughter that shoots up above the din like a cymbal crash.

“It’s…..amazing.” 

You mean it. He sees the sincerity in your expression as you take in the hall, the open smile you wear without even a thought of concealing it. The warmth of the candlelight is reflected back to him in the gloss of your hair, the brightness of your eyes. He finds he must look away, unnerved by the odd tightening sensation in his neck, like a hand grabbing him by the throat and forcing him to admit that the sight of you, draped in his country’s colors, enchanted by his castle’s celebration, moves him.

He is saved from his own distracting thoughts by the sounds of the stringed instruments warming up. As if on cue, the crowd begins arranging themselves into two lines, facing each other. The Prince nods once, offering you his arm. You accept, placing a hand on his raised forearm and you’re struck by the thought that this is the first time you have ever touched him. Upon arrival his greeting had been a stiff bow and a scowl. Now, the feel of his supple leather tunic, embossed with striking silver filigree, embeds itself into your mind. Something that is usually so rough imbued with such surprising softness....

You take your place at the end of one line and he stands across from you. The first few notes ring out across an excited crowd. The two lines bow to each other and the dance begins. It starts as slow as the Rhodolite rondels you are familiar with. You weave your way from partner to partner, palms touching briefly before you spin and move on to the next. Joy bubbles up inside you, sunshine spilling across your face as if you were standing on a hill on the brightest of summer days. Your gown twirls along with you and for a moment, you are nothing but pure light, flickering from here to there, shining on each dance partner for a moment and then blinking to the next.

Then you are suddenly facing him, his cool gaze meeting yours. Your breath catches in your lungs, your heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings as you slowly raise your hand and press your palm to his. His skin is warmer than you would have ever expected. Your gazes lock once again, a similar version of your earlier combative stand-off. Except now instead of feeling the hard edges of anger and injustice, there is a different heat that burns through you. This is softer. Warmer. And perhaps, even more alarming.

The dance shifts and the dance partners draw closer to one another. One large hand settles on your waist, brushing against the crimson roses embroidered there. Will they catch fire at his touch? He pulls you in, the moon whispering to the tide. His arms feel like an unspoken promise, his eyes flicker like light in a gray fog. There is something there, something just beyond the haze. You step closer involuntarily as the room slowly spins, wanting to see what lies just beyond the unknown.

But the music ends, the final notes drifting to the rafters like smoke, and the dancers break into applause and laughter, scattering the moment. He steps away from you, shaking his head as if forcing himself awake from a dream. You feel the need for air yourself.

Words tumble from your lips, a jumbled apology and you don’t wait for his response. You turn, gathering your velvet skirts and you head for the sanctuary of the battlements once again, your slippered feet whispering over the stone steps as you make your way to the familiar wooden door. 

Tonight there is a guard outside who nods to you when you burst through. You manage a nod in return before you begin walking briskly to the left. The walls are lined with sconces that throw warm, wavering firelight along the walkway so you are able to see, despite the deep obsidian of the night sky. You stop after you feel there is enough distance between you and the hall, breathing in the cold air, once again bracing yourself on the icy stone of the wall. The mountains are dark, jagged outlines that cut their way across the diamond-studded heavens.

Achroite makes you feel so very small in the face of such enormity. Who are you to these mountains, these giants of time? A speck, a brief fizzle of light that burns and fades like the embers of a dying fire. 

This time when you hear his footfall, you don’t turn to look at him. Your gaze remains fixed on the enormity of the starry sky, the snow-capped peaks of the mountains.

“It’s so beautiful.” Your voice is hushed in the still of the night. The castle’s thick walls keep the sounds of the celebration entirely to itself.

“It is.”

Something in his voice draws your attention away from the dark peaks and argent starlight. He isn’t taking in the view. He’s staring straight at you. You feel like you are teetering on the edge of the very battlement you are leaning on, like the stone under your hands may simply vanish and send you free-falling into the darkness below.

Safety. You need to return to safety. Pushing away from the wall, you begin to walk. He falls into step beside you where you continue in silence for several seconds until he clears his throat.

“Will you miss this place when you return home?”

You grasp the question like a lifeline. It is secure. It will give you respite from the dizzying feelings of your clamorous heart.

“I won’t miss the yak milk.”

And then, unexpectedly, he laughs. A short sound but a laugh all the same. It's warm as midday, as rich as dark chocolate, and it pierces you as surely as a fire-tipped arrow. Your heart staggers in your chest, your lungs falter in their ability to breathe.

“Come on, Rosebud, it’s not that bad.” This time the nickname sends sparks of a different kind bubbling through you.

Somehow you find words to reply, despite the echo of his alluring laughter in your ears.

“Oh it is that bad. But….” You stop walking and he stops too, standing before you. “But….there are…..some things…that I’ll miss.” 

Your voice is quiet but in the calm of the late hour it reaches him loudly as an echo from the mountain themselves. 

He reaches out, placing one finger under your chin and tilts your face upwards so he can see you, your face illuminated by the wan firelight of a nearby sconce. It is enough for him to see the glint of hope in the brightness of your eyes, the slight tremble of your lower lip as he brushes his thumb over it, unable to resist the petal-like softness they promise. 

This is dangerous business. He should turn, right now. Temper his desire, wrap his heart in cold steel and leave you, you with your bewitching eyes and sharp mind and skin warm as summer’s kiss. He should be the Snow Prince, the man with ice in his veins that all know him to be.

He should.

And yet…….the blood that flows through his veins is not ice. It is roiling with heat, an avalanche of want tumbling through him in a way he has never felt before. Never has anyone had this effect on him. Ice and steel are no match for the blazing light of your gaze. His name escapes those lips, the place his thumb still lingers, your breath heated against his skin.

Control shatters like ice against stone and for the second time that night he pulls you to him. The moment he kisses you, your heart loses its balance and spirals into a wild freefall, plunging down into the gray unknown. All you can do is wrap your arms around him, clinging to his strong frame to keep yourself from buckling under the weight of the longing that floods you. You now know what you saw flickering in the soft fog of his gaze: a wildfire of desire that you and only you sparked.

And you welcome it. With the mountains and night sky as witnesses, you welcome all of it with the press of your fingers, the parting of your lips, the gasp of your breath. 

You may only be a speck, a brief fizzle of light. But tonight, you are going to burn as brightly, as furiously, as fiercely as you can. 

Morning be damned.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

[hughjidiot]

Total Drama Level Up Chapter Ten Sneak Peak

Chapter ten is coming along nicely, and I hope to have it published by mid June. Here's a little taste of what's to come.

--

In the middle of the warehouse stood a modest two-story Victorian-style manor home, surrounded by a sparse forest of fake trees. The contestants took in the steep gable roofs and bay windows framed by decorative trim as Chris led them down a stone walkway, past a wrought-iron fence and up a spacious porch. An intern in a suit stood at the front door; he nodded as Chris approached and opened the door.

One by one the teens filed into a spacious foyer. An ornate rug stretched across the floor, oil paintings of landscapes lined the walls, and a crystalline chandelier hung from the ceiling. A grand staircase led to a second story, and archways opened to different rooms on the ground level.

“Welcome, one and all, to McLean Manor,” Chris said to the assembled teens. He motioned to a framed map on the wall next to the stairs, showing an overhead view of each floor. “We have a wide variety of amenities for your enjoyment. You can relax in the lounge, grab a bite to eat in the dining room, take a stroll through the garden, enjoy the peace and quiet of the library, shoot some pool in the billiards room, and of course dance in the ballroom. Oh, and on that note…”

Chris walked to a plain door next to the stairs that seemed to blend into the wall. It opened to a long room with racks full of fancy clothing, a row of mirrored vanities against one wall and changing booths in the back corner. Various masks hung from wall hooks: simple black domino masks, white masks with gold trim, masks styled in the shape of animals, and more.

“Since this is a masquerade ball, we’ve provided you with formal wear,” Chris said. “Suit up and we’ll get the party started.”

--

“I’m still positive Chris has something horrible planned for us later on, and this is just to lull us into a false sense of security,” MK said in the confessional closet. She shrugged. “But for now I might as well try to relax and enjoy myself. After what I’ve been through this season so far, I think I’ve earned it.”

--

After several minutes passed, the contestants and their guests gradually filed out of the dressing room. The men (as well as Axel and MK) wore three-piece suits ranging from solid black to shades of gray and blue, vests and ties providing splashes of color. The rest of the women wore either full dresses or blouse-skirt combos, in a wide spectrum of colors and styles. Rounding out their ensembles, each wore a mask over the upper half of their faces.

Chris, who’d been looking down at his phone, smiled and nodded at the assembled teens.

“All right, everyone’s looking good,” he said. “And you got done right on time, because the last of our guests have just arrived.”

“Wait, more guests?” Zee asked, the others looking equally confused. “Who else is left?”

As if in response, footsteps were heard coming up the porch.

The front door opened, and a heavyset blonde man in a mustard yellow suit entered. The black domino mask he wore over his eyes did nothing to hide his identity from those among the contestants who recognized him.

“Hey, it’s Owen!” Raj said, waving.

“Hey, what’s up everyone?!” Owen asked exuberantly.

“Uh, and he is…?” Emma asked, raising an eyebrow.

“From Total Drama’s first generation of campers and winner of the original season one,” Priya said instantly.

“He also was a guest judge during the cooking challenge last season,” Axel said.

“That’s right,” Chris said, “and he didn’t come alone!”

One by one, by more people – two men, three women, all of them around Owen’s age – stepped into the foyer.

A short woman whose ghostly pale skin contrasted sharply with her black dress, matching domino mask, and shoulder-length raven hair streaked with teal, blue and green.

A tall Asian woman in a deep red dress, a long slit running up one leg. Her black hair was done up in a bun, and piercing gray eyes stared from behind a stylized fox max.

A smiling woman with her blonde hair in a braid, her white mask lined with glistening with faux sapphires. The skirt portion of her deep blue dress seemed to flow like ocean waves.

A shorter man who practically swaggered in, smirking beneath his sparrow’s mask, wearing a garishly-stylish purple vest under his suit.

And finally, a bored-looking Indian man with plane white semi-circle mask over his eyes and nose, hands shoved in the pockets of his greenish-gray suit.

“Gonna go out on a limb and say these are more past contestants,” Bowie said.

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” the Indian man said flatly.

“Ooh, I like him already,” MK said.

“Correct-o-mundo, Bowie,” Chris said. “Introducing Gwen! Heather! Bridgette, Cody and Noah!”

“That’s right folks, the Code-Meister is back!” Cody said, a cocky grin on his face as he bowed.

“I’m sure your tens of fans are thrilled,” Gwen snarked.

“So these are the new guys, huh?” Heather asked, regarding the assembled teenagers with a critical eye. “Hmph. Not nearly as iconic as us, but leagues above the freakshows from seasons four and six.”

“Be nice now, Heather,” Bridgette said. “They’ve got enough to deal with being on Total Drama.”

Noah also looked over the cast, and a single eyebrow rose above his mask. “What’s her deal?”

The contestants turned to look. Priya’s eyes were practically bulging out of her head, her mouth opening and closing.

“I-i-it’s them! It’s really-!” Priya stammered. “Gwen and –! And Noah –! And H-Heather!”

“Whoa, she’s gonna faint!” Damien said when Priya started swaying on her feet. “Somebody catch her!”

“I gotcha!” Wayne said, rushing behind Priya with his arms outstretched. “Fall into my arms!”

Priya’s eyes slipped shut as she tilted back-

-and abruptly pitched face-first onto the floor.

“Season one champion, ladies and gentlemen,” Julia snarked.

As Wayne helped a woozy Priya to her feet, Chris clapped to get everyone’s attention.

“Well, now that introductions have been taken care of,” he said, “Let the McLean Manor Masquerade officially begin!”

[martianbugsbunny]

Precursor To A Love Song (A Frankenwolf Fic)

heeeey!!! I know it's been a while since I wrote a fic, I've been both busy and having a severe case of writer's block, but I've finally got something new!!! It's a Hyperion Heights AU one shot (which I could use as a springboard for a proper chapter fic if I ever feel up to it) and I think it's pretty cute. Props to @stardreamer28 for putting up with me talking about it for a couple weeks and procrastinating on the end lol. Read on and enjoy!

Liza Whale was finally taking a night off.

It was well-deserved, she knew that, but she had been slow in taking it. Her little boutique on the corner in the heart of Hyperion Heights kept her busy, and she didn’t have anyone to help with it. Business had gotten a little lighter after the Christmas rush, though, so Liza had decided to just close early that Thursday and go out for a couple of hours.

She ended up in a bar a couple of blocks away. It was classy place—no blaring neon or loud jukeboxes, no peanut shells on the floor, no casual clothes. It wasn’t the kind of place she thought she might come back to often (a little neon and a jukebox never hurt anybody, after all) but it was nice for an evening of self-pampering.

Liza sat down at a table for one, laying her black wool jacket across the back of her chair and smoothing out a small crease in the skirt of her deep red dress. It was one of her own designs; the things she sold in her boutique were produced by proper brands, but she created most of her own wardrobe in her spare time. Her favorite thing in the closet she didn’t even remember making, even though it matched a lot of her other clothes: a long red cloak with a warm hood and floral embroidery. She had ripped it last time she wore it, and was planning on fixing it when she got home later that night.

As she waited for someone to come by and take her order, she glanced around the bar. Her eyes fixed on a man halfway across the room, seated at an elegant piano. He was blond, with striking blue eyes that sparkled in the light of the wrought-iron chandelier. When he caught Liza’s gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

Liza couldn’t help blushing. He was cute, and if she was reading her signals right, he thought she was cute, too. It had been a while since she had had any romance in her life—actually, she couldn’t remember the last time, it had been that long—and she liked the idea of drawing the eye of a handsome piano player.

After about half an hour of them sneaking looks at each other while he played and she sipped at a drink, the piano player got up for a break. Liza’s heart sunk when he walked right past her table, then skipped a couple of beats when she realized he was just getting a second chair from nearby.

“Julian Wolf,” he said, setting his chair down and holding out his hand for Liza to shake. He had smudges of what looked like paint on the side of his thumb. “I play piano here a couple nights a week.”

“You’re brilliant,” Liza said, grinning. She liked that it took him a couple of seconds to release her hand. “What do you do the rest of the week?”

“Freelance artist.”

It was paint! Liza smiled a bit wider. “That’s cool,” she said. “I do some drawing, too. Nothing big, just for the clothes I make.”

Julian smiled too. “Well, now I know we’re both artists, but I don’t think you’ve told me your name yet.”

“Elizabeth Whale. If you call me Lizzy I’ll kick your shins—I like Liza, though.”

“Well, Liza, I have to go finish my set, but I’ll be off in about an hour. Do you want to go for a walk with me then?”

She nodded. “I’d love to.”

Julian returned to his piano, where he started playing again, soft and sweet. The music sounded…familiar, Liza thought, but she couldn’t bring to mind a specific instance of hearing it before. Maybe I heard it in a past life, she thought, chuckling to herself. The music made her giddy, like any moment something wonderful might happen.

Well, maybe it was the music. Or maybe it was the charming young man playing it. Either way, Liza was really looking forward to that walk.

[made-to-order]

Now, let’s focus on the forged iron lighting fixtures that turn your space into a time-traveling extravaganza. These products aren’t just functional; they’re a conversation starter. Friends and family will be mystified by the vintage-looking lamps that transport them to a bygone era. Your home will become a living museum of style, with each iron detail telling a story of craftsmanship and wit. You can also add metallic pendant lamps, lanterns, and other lighting items to your patio or garden. Brighter spots can create a magical atmosphere in your exteriors as well as bring more security into your estate. But wait, there’s more! Enter the iron chandelier that combines with a handmade iron mirror to create a reflection of pure sophistication and amusement. It’s like a perfect vintage-looking couple, where the chandelier plays the lead, and the mirror provides the perfect comedic timing. Old world forged iron lighting isn’t just about brightening your space; it’s about infusing it with charm, and a touch of historical hilarity. So, as you embark on this journey of timeless elegance, remember to savor the moments, relish the light, and, most importantly, let the black iron chandeliers and forged iron features be the stars of the show!

[rusticahouse]

Black Iron Chandeliers from Mexico

When it comes to creating a captivating and sophisticated atmosphere in your home, few lighting fixtures can compare to the allure of black iron chandeliers from Mexico. These handcrafted masterpieces seamlessly blend Old World charm with modern design sensibilities, making them statement piece that adds drama and style to any space. In this blog post, we will explore the enchanting world of…

[warriors-wyrms-writing]

The House

a story where something is not quite right.

    At a traveler’s first glance it may have seemed an ordinary house, albeit a bit large. However, it was anything but. Such a thing could be seen by the more keen of observers as far away as the wrought-iron gate, noticing the fantastical creatures and strange runes hidden within the intricate whorls and spirals. Most dismissed it as curious and went on their ways, and even those who didn’t initially were forced to, for the only time the heavy gates screeched open was when a new family took up occupancy, which happened rarely, and none of the residents deigned to leave except in boxes, even to retrieve food, all of the inhabitants as far back as memory served always having their few goods delivered through a hatch in the gate. That was the closest “common” folk ever got to the house, unable to see over or even really through the closely-woven iron.

  If any of them had on a regular day, they would have seen a stone path forgotten by time and people, overgrown with moss and wildflowers that children would gather up by the bunches when they lived there, and for a few weeks, the worn white stones would be visible once again among the waving grasses. If—and this is growing exceedingly unlikely—by any chance someone was to journey along the forgotten stone path through the clover and dandelions and actually approach the front door, they’d notice an elaborate white arched doorway, carved with waves and dolphins and with fishes and seashells.

     Ensconced within this intricate frame was a wooden door, sometimes red, sometimes black, it’s only extraordinary quality that it was always faded. And, of course, the silver door knocker. This intricate knocker was almost never used, but it was beautiful despite, or perhaps because of, it, carved into the shape of a dragon with a coiled tail. Though the detailed knocker was seen by so few, those who did gaze upon it did so for the rest of their lives, along with every other detail of the great red-brick house. It wasn’t just a house you lived in; it was a house that lived in you.

     If one got past that marvelous knocker, which on the date of this writing very few have, they would find themselves standing on a rug so red that one could almost fancy that it had been stained such with the blood of former occupants, staring out at softly tinted lilac walls and honey-gold wooden floors, and a crystal chandelier larger than the world’s tallest and fattest men combined and shining like a thousand captured stars in the light streaming through the great bay windows of the house’s welcome-room.

     If a resident (all who have ever beheld theses scenes have been residents) were to advance up the white-carpeted spiral staircase in the room’s middle as they all did eventually, they’d find a long hallway, seemingly windowless but lined with white doors along the corridor of which the walls had been painted with mint in an age time has forgot, but which still looked like it had been done last week.

     The rooms beyond the doors were all exactly the same, although with the house’s layout and outward appearance that seemingly would have made no sense to an outsider, although whenever you were actively beholding it it seemed perfectly reasonable. All these bedrooms were splendid, and would have been the envy of the state had they known of them. With a beautiful and cheerful abstract pattern, though still identical to those in the other rooms, letting in flecks of colored light that danced upon the yellow walls and flitted over the dresser and nightstand’s painted vines and flowers, pausing only to linger on the sunny blue blankets that lay upon the bed.

     If one elected not to venture up that spiral and instead went around it’s back, they’d find themselves in a kitchen tiled with geometric patterns in small black diamonds and with copper pots hanging over the black counters shot through with white from the underside of the dark cabinets fixed to the walls, the silver handles appearing to drip off them like teardrop earrings.

     At the far end of the kitchen was a swinging door such as everyday folks see in a restaurant, and if one were to go through it they’d enter the dining room, home to a chandelier even more impressive than the one in the welcome-room, structured too instead of merely a cascade of prisms. The candles held by its branching golden arms would illuminate a dining table and chairs carved with the same whorls as the fence outside, complete with the hidden pegasi and griffins, dragons and twisted runes, climbing up legs and backs, hissing malevolently at the residents of the cabinets of golden wood that lined the deep forest green walls, intricately painted dishes and vases accompanying sculptures of people and animals and a few strange mixtures of the two behind the glass fronts.

     The chandelier would also, more likely than not, illuminate a small passageway five feet high and three wide, lined in mirrors. If one would so choose to enter this strange passage, they would find it full of sharp corners and unexpected turns before it suddenly spit them out at the back of the house, near the dark grey rear door, the passage they had just emerged from looking like a mere unassuming crack in the red brick.

     They could re-enter the house through the grey door, but unless they knew about the key, hidden within the beak of the bird carved into the doorknob, it was unlikely. This was when the front-door’s dragon knocker was most often used, for few could find the mirrored hallway from outside. If, after re-entry of the welcome-room, they would turn right, they’d find themselves in a room with walls and cushioned couches of maroon and gold, and a fireplace large enough for a midnight tryst. The walls round the room were hung with portraits in ornate gold frames, or at least gilded thus. 

     If one did all that they would have explored all the house easily accessible, though not even half of the whole. After all, they hadn’t even discovered the secret greenhouse yet, but ah, maybe another time we’ll explore the innumerable mysteries of that strange house.

[kaashni-co-in]

Gothic interior design: dark and dramatic

Gothic interior design is not for the faint of heart. It is a style that embraces the dark and dramatic, creating spaces that are moody and atmospheric. This style is inspired by Gothic architecture, which features pointed arches, vaulted ceilings, and intricate ornamentation. Gothic interior design incorporates these elements in a variety of ways to create a space that is both beautiful and haunting.

One of the key features of Gothic interior design is the use of dark colors. Black, deep purples, and rich reds are often used to create a sense of drama and mystery. These colors are typically paired with metallic accents, such as brass or copper, to add a touch of glamour and luxury to the space.

Another key features of Gothic interior design is the use of ornate and elaborate details. This can include things like intricate carvings on furniture, intricate patterns on wallpaper, and stained glass windows. The overall effect is one of luxury and elegance.

Another important element of Gothic interior design is the use of ornate furnishings and decor. This can include intricately carved wooden furniture, tapestries with rich patterns and textures, and chandeliers with dripping crystals. These elements add to the overall sense of opulence and grandeur that is often associated with Gothic style.

Dramatic lighting is another key element of Gothic interior design. Candles, chandeliers, and wall sconces are often used to create pools of light and shadow, adding to the sense of mystery and intrigue. These fixtures are often ornate and dramatic in themselves, featuring intricate metalwork or crystal accents.

Gothic interior design is not for the faint of heart. It's a style that requires a certain level of commitment and a willingness to embrace the darker side of things. But for those who are drawn to its dramatic and atmospheric qualities, it can be an incredibly rewarding and inspiring style to work with.

While some may associate Gothic interior design with horror films or spooky haunted houses, it can also be a luxurious and sophisticated style when done right. For example, ornate detailing on furniture and architectural elements, such as arched doorways and vaulted ceilings, can add a sense of grandeur to a Gothic-inspired space.

Gothic interior design also incorporates a variety of textures and materials to create a rich and layered look. Velvet, leather, and silk are often used to create a sense of luxury, while stone and wrought iron can be used to add a sense of weight and durability to the space.

Overall, Gothic interior design is a style that is perfect for those who want to create a dark and dramatic space that exudes a sense of luxury and opulence. Whether you're looking to transform your entire home or simply add a touch of Gothic style to your living room or bedroom, this style is sure to make a statement.