#blue silk upholstery

[videodromess]

Dining Room - Enclosed Ideas for a sizable, traditional dining room renovation with yellow walls and no fireplace that is enclosed and has a dark wood floor and a brown floor.

[morelikeravenbore]

Lessons in Upholstery

Sebastian Sallow x f!oc (Aurélie Collins).

Content warnings: NSFW/mature rating. Sebastian Sallow is needy. Puppy!Sebastian?? No explicit language but very sexually suggestive, mentions of nudity and sexual acts. Reader discretion is advised. Post-Hogwarts 18+ grown up Sebaura.

Word count: 1.6k

Preview: There was a unique ache that existed when she was out of reach — one that started as a small hole in his chest before spreading rapidly until his entire being felt hollow, an ache that demanded they share a too-small bed so they had to sleep tangled together, or eat at a too-small kitchen table so she had to take most of her meals sitting in his lap.

🦋 Read on wattpad | ao3

Upholstered in pale blue velvet, with matching embroidered silk pillows and ornately carved legs of polished mahogany, the tiny two-seater loveseat was clearly not designed for everyday use — yet every night, Sebastian found himself crammed between the armrests with a very satisfied redhead slotted awkwardly between his long legs.

When Aurélie had found the sofa in a Muggle brocante in Toulouse, Sebastian had known immediately that there was no point in trying to talk her out of buying it. They didn't own a home to keep it in, and unless they bought a bloody chateau (which was highly improbable given that Sebastian was only a trainee Healer), it wasn't likely to suit any future home they ever lived in. But none of that mattered, because as soon as that little squeal of delight had left her lips, he knew they'd be leaving the antique market as proud owners of the most ridiculously ostentatious piece of furniture he'd ever laid eyes on.

Happily, he hadn't regretted that decision since. Even when his legs went numb with pins and needles and his back got a permanent crick in it, so long as she was tucked into him, her back pressed to his chest and her soft hair ticking the underside of his chin, Sebastian would never buy another sofa for as long as they lived. — Because there was no other way he ever wanted to sit unless it was with the small, warm weight of her in his lap.

A weight that was presently — and unbearably — absent as Aurélie busied herself in the tiny kitchen across the single-roomed cottage, humming under her breath as she chopped vegetables for their dinner. Sebastian watched her over the top of his book, his attention drawn, as it always was whenever she was near (or not near enough), away from the dry medical journal he was studying to the silky fall of her hair down her back, the soft shuffle of her bare feet over the kitchen rug, and the sheer summer dress that clung to her thighs, her waist: she'd regained some of the weight she'd lost after the horrors of their seventh year, and her hair had grown several inches over the summer, lightened to the colour of golden strawberries by the French sun.

Leaving the Highlands had done wonders for her health, but Sebastian liked to think that love had done that to her. His love.

Tossing his book aside, he dropped his head back on the arm rest and let out a long, almighty groan.

There was a unique ache that existed when she was out of reach — one that started as a small hole in his chest before spreading rapidly until his entire being felt hollow, an ache that demanded they share a too-small bed so they had to sleep tangled together, or eat at a too-small kitchen table so she had to take most of her meals sitting in his lap.

Of course, he was self aware enough to know that his acute need for physical affection bordered on being a little… obsessive, and that owning too-small furniture was just a blatant way of enabling his insatiable desire to touch her — but he also knew how quickly love could be snatched away, and so he endeavoured to keep it close at all times: to see it in her eyes and hear it in her laugh, to taste it in her mouth and feel it shiver across her skin, to pour it into her until even her breath was saturated with it —

His love.

His.

Aurélie cast him an amused glance over her shoulder. ‘Hungry?’ she called, a teasing lilt in her delicious voice.

‘Staaarving,’ he whined, reaching his arms out for her.

Expecting her to argue about the virtues of patience, he was surprised when she immediately skipped across the room and climbed onto his lap, wrapping her arms and legs around him so tightly he struggled to breathe — just the way he liked it. Likely she'd heard the thinly veiled desperation in his voice, but in the short time they'd lived together, he'd come to learn that the empty awful ache of separation was a shared feeling.

‘Mm, that's better,’ he hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist. The little sofa groaned under their combined weight, threatening to fall to pieces if they kept this up, but Sebastian felt the hollow pit in his chest recede back to a manageable speck, placated for the time being until she inevitably up and left again.

He wasted no time. Dipping his head, he kissed slowly along her jawline and down her throat, breathing her summer scent deep into his lungs: sugar and cream and strawberries.

‘You were gone for ages,’ he murmured into the crook of her neck. Her pulse quickened beneath his lips, and he smiled.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ she snorted, threading her fingers through his hair. ‘It took fifteen minutes before you started whining.’

‘I don't whine.’

‘Yes you do. — And whimper. You're like a puppy,’ she added, shifting in his lap in a way that made his breath catch and his fingers dig into her hips.

Instinctively, he slid his hands beneath her dress to palm the curve of her spine, dragging the pads of his fingers across her skin so that his touch might stay imbued there long after his hands were gone. She shivered in return, pressing herself flush against him until all the aching space between them was suffocated between their bodies.

It never took long for them to unravel together; no matter how innocent their intentions were upon settling onto the sofa every night, how tired they proclaimed to be or how much study Sebastian had to get through, it was only a matter of time before he was tugging the silky slip of her dress over her hips, too busy moaning into her mouth to bother pulling it all the way over her head.

Tonight was no exception.

‘Puppies are cute,’ he said stupidly, letting his lips trail a wanton path of desire along her collarbone. ‘S'you think m'cute…’

‘I think you're out of control…’

Sebastian snickered against her skin, but she was right: his hips were already canting against her, each thrust punctuated by an undignified squeak from the sofa until the tiny cottage was filled with a creaky symphony of little thrusts and heavy breaths.

Blind to anything but the taste of her skin, he hadn't noticed the ridiculous little noises he was making until, with some difficulty, she pried his lips away from her neck. Suffering terribly, he made another stupid noise, squeaking like some kind of injured bird, but she soothed the pout off his face with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, and he fell silent.

‘You know,’ she said, tilting his flushed face to look at her, ‘I think you could benefit from a little obedience training, no?’

Sebastian swallowed — loudly.

‘Training?’ he echoed, eagerly wetting his lips. ‘What kind of training?’

Never one to back down from a challenge, Sebastian's propensity for learning, combined with his impulsivity and mildly-obsessive tendencies, meant he was usually the one who took the lead in matters of the mind — after all, he'd taught himself all number of forbidden spells when he was only fifteen, defied every “Do not enter” and locked door he'd ever encountered, and read so many books he was practically a walking encyclopaedia. But when it came to this, he found himself all-too happy to be led.

Smiling like she didn't hold his very life in her hands, Aurélie tilted his head back by his chin as she pondered his question, exposing his throat to her thoughtful gaze. Goosebumps erupted across his skin, and he shivered like he was cold.

‘Depends,’ she whispered, leaning down to plant a warm, lingering kiss to the underside of his chin — a whimper slipped out; he didn't try to stifle it.

‘On?’ he croaked.

‘On what sort of reinforcement you need. — Positive,’ she mouthed, pressing down with her hips again, ‘or negative,’ she nipped his skin with her teeth.

‘Ah — fuck.’ Sebastian's body reacted well before his mind caught up. Holding her firmly by the waist, he bucked his hips up once, twice, three times, using the momentum to create friction where they both needed it most; because despite how in control she wanted to appear, she whimpered just as loudly as he did when he rutted against her. Beneath them, the sofa gave a loud, precarious-sounding screech, but Sebastian was beyond caring about the state of his furniture — he'd level the fucking house if it meant having her closer.

‘Sebas—,’ she yelped, but he cut her off with a kiss that left no room for speech, or breath, or thought beyond how fucking badly he needed her.

They moved against each other then, lost in a mess of limbs and lips and hands and tongues, and the volume of his moaning was rivalled only by that of the sofa's antique joints begging for mercy, which they dutifully ignored until —

Crack —

A splintering crunch and a hard lurch backwards cut their frantic canoodling short, and suddenly Sebastian found himself on the floor with a broken sofa back beneath him and a very unimpressed — albeit delightfully naked — redhead on top.

Not content to let a bit of back pain interrupt them, he grinned up at her hopefully, unabashedly flashing the best, most pathetically pleading puppy eyes he could muster — but she only frowned at him through her curtains of auburn hair, pinned his arms above his head and whispered, ‘Negative reinforcement it is, then.’

With the sofa officially out of action, the only thing begging for mercy for the rest of the night was him.

[ohwhataniight]

more than the world can contain - Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia

Part 2

J

If I had a therapist, she would note down yet another trigger in my list of traumas: swimming pools. The smell of chlorine. Semtex. Although I am fairly certain that having a phobia of deadly explosives should be considered the picture of good mental health. Anyway, I don't currently have a therapist. But, on second thought, maybe I should reconsider.

Because my flatmate is complete bonkers, and I have to deal with his antics every day.

I’ve only managed to get what feels like two hours of blissfully dreamless, uninterrupted, Xanax-induced sleep, after we return to Baker Street, before I wake up with a scream.

The reason I'm screaming is that Sherlock is awake and hovering over me, watching me sleep, his pale blue eyes glinting in the dark as the lights from the street catch them in their stride through the windows. He’s staring intensely at my face, brow furrowed, as if he's trying to decipher some code. He’s wearing a look I became acquainted to for the first time tonight: uncertainty, with an unusual tinge of vulnerability. Once again in this night that feels like a century, he looks much younger than he is.

“What on our-planet-that-orbits-the-sun are you doing?” I hear myself mumbling as I rub my eye with the heel of one hand, and even I’m surprised with my own eloquence at this ungodly time of the night, after a near-death experience. It’s then when I register the slight pressure of cold fingers on my other wrist. “Your hands are cold, you look like a vampire, you act like a vampire. Is there anything you need to tell me, Sherlock?”

“Nope, nothing,” he pops his p quite dramatically, drops my hand on the frame my bed rather gracelessly (this is going to bruise later) and throws himself up, walks away, silk blue robe swishing around him.

I sit up and my eyes slowly get accustomed to the darkness of the room. “Sherlock,” I demand, cutting him dead as his tracks by the door. “You were taking my pulse,” it sounds like an accusation. “In the middle of the night.”

“Nothing to worry about, all seems normal.”

“Yes, but why were you taking my pulse?”

“It’s for an experiment.”

I’m still faced with his back. “Listen,” I say. “There’s no need to be worried. I’m alive, and I'm home, thanks to an uncharacteristic stroke of luck. And, well, you.”

A breath hovers in the empty space between us for a second. “You've got your answer, John,” he eventually exhales, still refusing to turn around and face me. "Not the one you want, maybe, but definitely the one you need."

“What answer? Sherlock, why do you have to be all enigmatic? It’s bloody 3 in the morning, you’re allowed to take a break, y'know?” I stand up from my bed, barefoot on the carpetted floor, infuriated.

Finally, he turns around. Be careful what you wish for, Johnny, I think, because his gaze is burning through me. It's pretty intense, disarming. Especially considering everything that’s taken residence in my mind during the past couple of days.

“You have been wondering whether I am capable of human emotion for a while now. Whether I care,” he almost spits the word. “Well, John, tonight you have observed it’s in your best interests if I don’t. I hope that explains my usual... disposition. Now, go back to sleep. You are still in shock.”

“And you aren’t?”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at me. Then, “why would I be?”

I take a few steps, closing the distance between us. My heart is thrumming like a caged bird and I want to extend my hand, touch him, comfort him. But this isn’t how Sherlock Holmes works. “We are all bound to lose people we care about in our lifetimes, Sherlock,” I eventually resort to say, realizing I’m feeling slightly dizzy - the shock, the benzo, his stare. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Care. I mean.”

More seconds pass. They eavesdrop, they dance in the room, its air thick with our scents (sleep, leather, upholstery, sweat, whiskey?) My flatmate remains unmoving, the bloody vampire. “Right,” he says eventually, before turning around again. “Goodnight, John.”

During the following days, we become... closer. It’s strange to observe, even stranger to feel. I find Sherlock doing our laundry one morning. It’s almost endearing, even though my white jumper is now bright pink after being washed with his aubergine shirt. He even makes me toast a couple of times, makes sure I’m always properly nourished. I don’t catch him checking my vitals again, to my slight disappointment, as I realize with a feeling of dread one day. But I remain feeling quite touched. If not a bit flattered.

Also, my blog is booming. He develops a habit of mocking my titles, but even though he’s the king of banter, I am the writer in this equation. I make him internet famous, he makes me tea. Deep down, I know we both like it.

One night about a week later, I’m at a medical conference in Dublin, I’ve had a couple of beers, and I’m flirting with a beautiful brunette. An oncologist. She’s brilliant and sexy. I think her name’s Sue? And then the facetime app on my phone starts ringing. I’ve been ignoring Sherlock’s increasingly urgent texts all night. They ranged from “John, are you up?” and “I need your insight on the comic book case” to “Pick up John it is a matter of life and death”.

“I’m sorry, I need to get this,” I sigh, and Sophia (?) looks frustrated. My knees wobbles as I try to stand up from the bar stool and it takes a while for my feet to get accustomed to the floor again. “What do you want?” I hiss at the camera after picking up.

“The printer, John, it’s all in the printer. I need you to find out the model of the printer, quickly.” He looks... naked, wrapped in a white sheet, in what seems like his bed. My flatmate texts me “u up” when I’m away, and then facetimes me from his bed in nothing but a sheet. No wonder people talk.

“I’ve met someone, Sherlock,” I whisper-shout, walking out of the pub and the cold Dublin air slaps me in the face. “It was going very well until you rudely interrupted us...”

“Don’t tell me you’re not in the least bit excited to hear my brilliant deductions, then write all about it in your little blog...”

“I’ve met someone, as I just told you. The world doesn’t revolve around you...”

“I don’t think that the world revolves around me,” he says, looking terribly offended. “Although admittedly it would make much more sense if it did...”

“Come on, Sherlock,” I chuckle at the camera. “I see how you dress, flamboyance is your middle name, and you love an audience. Need I remind you that my first role in your turbulent life was that of a skull on the mantelpiece?”

“You’ve evolved since then.”

I’m left gaping incredulously at the level of his audacity. “Well, ta.”

“Anyway, John, contrary to your assumptions about my person, and despite the fact that I still do think you would profit profoundly from an introduction to the joys of custom-tailored trousers, I don’t care what people think.”

I hear myself giggling in the middle of the pavement as people less drunk than I am pass by, chatting merrily. The buzz of the city makes me somewhat giddy too. “Prove it.”

“How?”

“Wear what you’re wearing now during our next case.”

“What do I get if I do that?”

“You see, you don't have the balls to do that...”

“What do I get?”

“My acknowledgment and utmost respect.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Dull.”

“Okay, okay,” I chuckle again. “I’ll buy us dinner. Wherever you want.”

“Cafe Royal?”

“Cafe Royal.”

“Fine,” a wide smile spreads on his face. It’s endearing, really.

When I return inside, Susannah is unfortunately nowhere to be seen.

*

Sherlock, please tell me you’re not currently headed where I’ve just been informed I’m headed wearing that sheet. I was drunk last night when I dared you.

Reservation for two at the Cafe Royal at eight. See you soon. SH

And God save Her, of course. SH

To be continued...

[starsandink13]

The White Crow Game Chapter 6

Even though you were far away from the theater, the agonized screams still pierced through your mind. You had no idea for how long you've been walking; it seemed like the flow of time was frozen in place in this mansion. Forever stuck in a single moment no matter how much time really passed outside.

Which makes sense, since he did say that this is on the border between the fairy realm and the human realm... You thought and cracked your stiff neck. Carefully, you put a finger to where the bruise had once been and grimaced. From now on, I have to be even more careful when going through this place. Although I still don't know why he would go out of his way to heal me. Something about that isn't right.

When you were about to turn another corner, you noticed a painting of Corvin dressed in a dark red silk cloak. The hood was pulled up and he held a white rose out towards the viewer with an eerily placid smile and a sinister look in his eyes. But what interested you was that the rose looked as if it was jutting out of the canvas, almost as if you could reach towards it and pluck it out. Without thinking, you put your hand gently towards the rose and yelped as you felt petals under your fingers.

"W-what?" You gasped and touched the flower again.

The silky petals bent ever so slightly underneath your touch. Hesitantly, you pulled out the flower. To your shock, the rose was in your hands with the exact weight and texture of one. You looked back to the painting to see that where the rose once was is now a black silhouette of it.

You turned the rose once more over in your hand before putting it back into the painting. The rose sank back into the canvas and transformed into a facade of what it was.

Could this mean that he hid the key inside of a painting?

Your hand wrapped around the strap of your satchel as you looked at the portrait. Admittedly, that is pretty smart of him if it is. No one would expect you to put it in such obviously plain sight.

You cracked your neck and walked away from the artwork. Excitement raced through your veins and you walked a little bit faster. You came to the end of the hallway to see that there weren't any paintings featuring a key of any kind.

Of course, it wouldn't be that easy...

You shook your head and let out a deep sigh, running a hand through your messy (H/C) hair. You closed your eyes and leaned against a door. The door gave way to your weight and you let out a sharp squeak. Before you could fall on your face, you regained your balance. You shook your head, dusting off your pants and looked at the room you stumbled into.

It was a magnificent music room with most of its light goldish walls taken up by tall, arched windows that let in streams of moonlight. The floors were white marble with thin veins of gold that were so polished that you could see your reflection in it. At even intervals, dark blue chaises and ottomans were placed up against the walls. Next to one of the windows was an ivory harp and a cello. You walked up to a window and looked up at the moon that hung in the ink-black sky like a silver eye.

Your heart clenched and put a hand over it. Don't give up, you're close to freedom.

In the middle of the room was a well-polished grand piano. It was black and glossy like a raven's feather with ivory keys shining like pearls in the low light. The piano bench seated in front of it was made of ebony with midnight blue velvet upholstery.

Do I have to play Moonlight Sonata? You scoffed and turned away from the piano. As you were about to leave the room, a melody played behind you.

You whipped around to see Corvin seated at the piano. You were about to demand to know what he was doing but stopped when you saw his expression. His face was placid and focused; a far cry from his usually mischievous demeanor. His long and slender fingers gracefully plucked at the keys. The music was low and haunting, like the soft cries of a ghostly bride. You wanted to sit down next to him and listen for eternity. Your limbs felt heavy and you slowly walked towards him. As you were about to sit next to him, you froze up and remembered that this was a trap fairies used to lure humans.

You took a step back and put your hands over your ears and clenched your eyes shut. Your heart felt like a vice was crushing it as every bone in your body locked in place. Fear raced through you like a spider's venom as the melody continued to play, beckoning you to your doom.

Think of something else, come on! Do not listen to it!

The music seemed to become louder, tempting you to put your hands down and close your eyes for eternity. You bit your lip, a sharp pain bursted and your mouth was tinged with the metallic taste of blood.

The melody was becoming stronger; almost as if it was begging-- no, demanding-- you to put your hands down from your ears and listen. Your (S/C) hands were violently shaking.

Think of the key! Focus on the finding the key!

As the last of your fraying willpower was nearly gone, the music finally stopped. You heard a quiet laugh from Corvin and you opened your eyes slightly.

"My, am I really that bad?" He said and got up from the bench.

"No-- the opposite. I would never expect you to be good at it," you begrudgingly admitted, a sharp heat flashed on your face.

"There are quite a lot of things you don't know about me," he leaned into your ear with his hand on your shoulder, his voice husky. "Besides, when you have lived as long as I have you tend to pick up various hobbies to stave away the boredom. Maybe I'll dedicate a song to us and perform it at the wedding. What do you think of that?"

Please don't.

"Speechless, aren't you?" His voice became lower. His soft, cool breath hit your cheek, making your skin crawl. Thankfully, he slowly stepped away from you before you could shove him off of you.

"You have quite a lot of artwork, don't you?" You said. "Especially of yourself."

"It's to serve as a reminder of who's home it is," he answered as he straightened out the lapels of his jacket.

"Can I ask something?"

"Of course."

"You mentioned that you have a lot of hobbies, right?"

"Yes."

"Is one of them painting?"

"I occasionally do some, mostly of landscapes and interior environments." He admitted. "Although I'm not too bad at portraiture, would you like one of you for our first anniversary?"

"No," you bluntly stated.

"My dear has anyone told you're as beautiful as you are scathing?"

"Yes."

"And yet you are still so cruel!" He playfully gasped.

"Anyways, do fairy artists have the ability to put an item into the canvas?" You said impatiently.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean can they put an object into the frame and make it appear as if it is part of the painting. Hide it in plain view so to speak?"

His eyes widened for a moment and he fell silent before quietly answering, "Yes."

"What other things can fairies do regarding artworks?" You continued, "Not just paintings and sculptures, but also music, literature, and so on?"

"Just like in the stories you have about us, we can create music that can put people into a trance and spirit them away," he responded.

"Like what you tried to do earlier?" You folded your arms over your chest.

"I was only doing that to showcase my talent." He huffed slightly.

"And what about literature?" You asked.

"That highly depends on each individual fairy's preference. Truth be told, I'm surprised none of you have spread stories about that-- pun not intended." He said. "But anyways, some like to place nasty traps in which if some unfortunate person opened a book, they're trapped in there forever or until the fairy decides to set them free. Others like to make it so that the book comes to life and attacks the reader, and a few prefer to make it that if you read the words aloud, the story would happen in real life."

"Interesting," you commented.

"I suppose it is," he agreed. "But I have something that I want to ask of you?"

"What is it?"

"What is your favorite color? I think it may be (F/C), but I want to be absolutely certain."

"Let me guess: it's going to be the color of my wedding dress?"

"If you want it to be," he said. "But what I had in mind was the accent colors of the decorations: like the color of the aisleway, the tablecloths, or even the color of the bridesmaids dresses."

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes. I want to make sure every last single detail of our big day is perfect. Even for the smallest things."

"It is (F/C)," you sighed, a cold pang of embarrassment shot through your heart.

"Oh good, for a moment I wasn't so sure." He let out a breath of relief.

You said nothing as Corvin hummed a light lullaby and came up to one of the windows, looking up towards the moon with a slight smile dancing on his lips. His white hair and skin looked even more ghostly in the silver light, making the crimson and gold of his eyes stand out even more.

"What a pleasant night," he mused. "The sky's clear so you can see the stars and it's a full moon too! I only hope our wedding night is as beautiful as this one."

A flash of anger ran up your arms and you clenched your fists tightly. Calm down, he's only doing this to get me riled up and to lose focus.

"I see," you said, trying to keep the venom leaking out.

"Something the matter? Your jaw looks a little tense," the right corner of his lips twitched further upwards.

Yeah-- you.

Corvin sighed at your lack of response and came back behind you. He put his face a little bit closer to yours, his breath tickling your (S/C) cheek. With a closer look, you saw a ruby earring in his ear that glittered against his pale skin.

Like a droplet of crystalized blood against white marble. You thought and flicked his hand away from you.

"Well, I can't say this was necessarily pleasant, but I now have to take my leave," you grumbled and stormed out of the music room.

"You sure you don't want to talk about what's upsetting you?" Corvin called out.

---

While you jogged down the hallways, the feeling of hope was swelling inside of you. Your body was clenched with excitement and relief with only one thing ringing through your mind: just find that painting and get out of here!

 Your eyes darted from side to side, looking for any paintings with a key in it. You slowed down and looked behind you. A realization hit you: why would he give you the answer so easily?

You froze up, shock shot through your back before you shook your head, snorting out of your nose as you cursed yourself for overlooking that one detail. An overwhelming wave of frustration and dread overcame you. It's going to be like that stupid wine cellar or that theater...

A low, rumbling groan came from the back of your throat and you sighed. You sat down on a nearby chair with one leg crossed over the other. If only I had a piece of iron with me, I could just go home without playing this game.

You heard the flapping of wings and you looked up to see a white raven flying over you.

"Corvin?" You called out.

The raven didn't respond as it continued down the corridor, eventually becoming swallowed up by the shadows and leaving behind only a single white plume.

That's weird. Normally, he would have made some sort of condescending comment by now. You furrowed your brows. Wonder where he's heading off too.

You began to go into the direction that the corvid was heading towards. While you walked, you reached for the pocket where your knife was, readying yourself for whatever lurks within the corridor. The only sounds was the echoing of your footsteps and your breathing. The silence was deafening, making each sound worse. As you slowly crept further down the hallway, something bronze glinted in the chandelier light.

Whipping your head, you saw a plaque that read: GALLERY hanging from the wall next to a pair of double doors with doorhandles in the shape of a paintbrush.

"Gallery?" You put your hands on your hips. "As in an art gallery?"

Does that mean it's in there? It might be a trap though.

Your limbs tensed up and your hand reached for the knife. You put your ear to the door and listened for anything on the other side of it. You couldn't make out any sound that would suggest any attackers. However, you wanted to make sure; you didn't want to repeat what happened back at the theater.

You cringed and put a hand to where you had been slashed on the leg. With a trembling hand, you anxiously slid the knife under the door, using the reflection to see any potential dangers. Painfully slowly, you knelt down besides the door and looked down at the reflection.

The angle was disorientating at first, but after a few seconds you got used to it. You carefully slid the knife around to get as clear a view as you could of the room. There was nothing that seemed out of place or dangerous. All you could see was hunter's green wall paper with an intricate floral pattern and five ivory pedestals placed at even intervals on one side of the room. On the other side of the room was a small, round rosewood table with a vase of flowers and a brass candelabra with five lit candles in it.

You waited for a few more moments to ensure that it was safe before reaching for the handle. The metal was icy-cold to the touch and almost painful. You winced slightly before pulling it open. A warm air greeted you as the door groaned and you stepped inside. Immediately, you pulled out your knife and held it in front of you.

Biting the inside of your lip, you took another step inside of the room. Your body tensed, ready for an attack. You made your way to the table, between the vase and candelabra was a pair of gold thin-rimmed glasses with round, owlish lenses.

You turned around and saw that on the right side of the room was a golden plaque that read: OFFERINGS FOR ALL OF THEM.

You froze. Your mouth was partially opened in puzzlement and you looked on your left to the pedestals. Behind them, were five paintings. The paintings were that of a pair of cracked and gray lips, a severed and rotting ear, a bloodshot eye, a veiny and discolored hand, and a cracked nose covered in small scars. All of them were overly-detailed with each grotesque feature carefully rendered, making you feel sick looking at them.

You looked back at the plaque and at the paintings. 'Offerings for all of them?' What does that even mean?

Carefully approaching the paintings, you took in every minute detail of them despite wanting to avert your eyes from them, trying to look for any hints. You put a hand to your temple and closed your eyes in concentration.

Five paintings...

Five offerings...

Wait-- these paintings represented each of the five senses! So I just need to put something on the pedestal that corresponds to that sense!

Without wasting another second, you put the candelabra in front of the painting of the hand and a vase of flower in front of the nose painting. You grabbed the glasses and carefully put it on the eye's pedestal. You winced, realizing that you had to make your way to the music room and put an instrument in front of the ear.

With an exasperated groan, you made your way back to the music room. You prayed that Corvin still wasn't there just to rub your imprisonment in your face. As you walked, you noticed that the Corvin in the painting you saw earlier was grinning even wider.

Shivering, you averted your eyes away from it and began to jog. You could feel its eyes burning on the back of your head like a snake readying to strike.

After what felt like hours, you finally were back at the music room. Immediately, you looked around for an instrument small enough to be placed on the pedestal. You caught the glint of something on your left. Sitting on a table was a long, silvery-white flute that shined in the moonlight like a sword. Your fingers wrapped around the cold metal and you carefully put the instrument into your satchel.

"Why are you back here?"

You turned around to see Corvin a few feet behind you with his hands behind his back and a devious smirk. As he approached closer, you could smell the intoxicating aroma of absinthe, wolfsbane, poppies, and smoke coming from him. It was almost strong enough to make you close your eyes and drop your guard.

"What do you want?" You spat out.

"I asked first," he chuckled, the smirk on his face becoming bigger. His eyes twinkled with a dangerous look in them and he saw the flute peeking from your satchel.

In an instant, he was within arm's length of you and he pulled the flute out of your bag. "My, what were you planning on doing with this?"

"Hey--!" You exclaimed and reached for the flute.

"Were you trying to teach yourself the flute?" He held the instrument higher over his head, his smirk was now a full-on grin.

"Just give it back!" You yelled.

"This is my flute," he corrected. "So I can do with it as I please, not you."

You turned on your heel and looked around for another small instrument. As you were about to reach out for violin, the instrument flew towards Corvin. The fairy's mischief-filled eyes were trained on you like a fox waiting to strike. Turning back around, you reached for a lyre only for that to go towards him a well. Annoyance welled in your chest and you marched over to a clarinet, and the instrument flew towards the fairy.

Every part of your body was boiling with frustration and you scowled at Corvin. He returned your look with a sly smile. After standing in silence for a few moments, he took a step towards you with a gleam in his eyes.

"You know, I'll give an instrument of your choosing to you: under one condition."

"Which is...?" You said, smothering back a groan of dismay.

"You'll have to listen to me play a song with the instrument of your choice and without covering your ears."

"How am I so sure that you aren't going to try and put me under some kind of spell?"

"I could have done that with the piano earlier, but I didn't. And besides, I've been honest with you this entire time, haven't I?"

"Yes but--"

"But what?"

"Who's to say that you wouldn't start being dishonest with me now?"

"You would have a good point, had it not been for the fact that I hold myself to my standards very strictly, and I don't plan on deviating from that any time soon," he countered.

You clenched your eyes and held your hands tightly in your lap, praying that you didn't fall into a trap.

"Fine," you hissed. "I'll listen."

"Excellent," he clasped his hands in front of him. "Now which instrument do you want to listen to?"

"Don't care. So long as I can carry it." You grumbled.

"You sure?" He said and delicately put a hand on the violin. "Don't you have at least an inclination to one of them?"

"None," you answered. "Can we just hurry this up?!"

Corvin shook his head. "My, talk about impatience."

He hummed and looked at the instruments floating in the air. Taking his time inspecting them, running his hand on their surface. You knew that he was enjoying taking his time and that you could do nothing about it.

"I haven't played the flute in a while," he mused and reached out for it. Noticing you relaxing, he quickly retracted his hand.

"Actually, maybe I want to play the violin," he said. "Although I have been playing it quite a lot recently and I want to change it up a bit. So maybe the lyre instead. However, I don't think I'm at an adequate enough level to play it for such a special audience member. Or I can go with the clarinet, although I'm not particularly a big fan of it. Decisions, decisions. decisions..."

Gritting your teeth, you folded your arms underneath your chest. Corvin noticed the glare and softly laughed, he walked behind you.

"Maybe I can play an--"

"Stop stalling and pick something already!" You yelled.

"You know what? I'll go with the flute," he said and plucked the small instrument from the air. "Now please take a seat."

You obeyed, and ironed yourself for what would come next. You squeezed your hands between your thighs and chewed on the inside of your mouth.

"Now what song to play?" Corvin mused.

You were about to say 'I don't care', but stopped yourself, not wanting to give him another excuse to waste your time.

"Mary Had a Little Lamb," you said quickly.

"Seriously?" The fairy raised an eyebrow. "Why not something that's a bit more sophisticated than some silly nursery rhyme?"

"What? You aren't going to play a simple song for me!?" You exclaimed.

"My dear, I will do anything you want me to do, except for that." He answered.

"Oh for the love of-- play Moonlight Sonata!" You shouted.

"Moonlight Sonata it is," Corvin said and with a dramatic pose, he put the flute's embouchure hole to his lips.

The aria was soft and delicate as his slight fingers pressed down on the keys, a tear was starting to form in your eye from how beautiful the performance was. You felt all of the annoyance and impatience slowly sap out of you, replaced by a surreal calmness. You focused solely on the fairy, the world around you was hazy except for him. You were about to fall asleep when he finished.

"Thank you," he bowed at the waist and extended the flute towards you.

You snatched the flute from his hand and exited the music room for the last time.

---

Looking around the room, you saw that there wasn't any food items to present to the mouth. Your heart dropped, realizing that you needed to go back to either the dining room or find the kitchen. You looked at a cookie tin that sat on a dusty shelf. Hope fluttered in your heart and you opened it only to see that it was empty, except for a few small crumbs at the bottom of it.

"Damn it," you grumbled and opened the tea can next to it, only for that to also be empty. Shaking your head, you put the container back on the shelf and moved onto a taffy box.

Please, let this be the rules of three. You prayed and slowly opened it: only to find a couple of wrappers in it.

You threw back your head and growled. You threw the box at the wall and let out a string of curses. Your shoulders tensed in disappointment and dread as your stomach was twisting and boiling. Letting out a groan through your teeth, you left the room hopefully for what would be the final time.

---

After taking a few wrong turns, you finally reached the dining room once more. You reached the doorknob and braced yourself for Corvin and his taunting remarks. Sucking up a deep breath, you opened the door slowly.

To your shock and relief, he wasn't there. You closed your eyes and exhaled through your nose.

Oh thank you God. You grabbed a porcelain plate and ripped off the baked goose's leg and put a bread roll on it.

"I knew you'd eventually eat," Corvin said behind you. "Come, sit down."

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, not wanting to put up with him for any longer. You grabbed the door handle and pulled on it, it was locked. Gritting your teeth, you pulled on it harder but it remained firmly locked.

"What? Hey, open the doors!" You demanded.

"Only after you eat," he answered and poured himself some wine.

"No," you seethed.

"Then they'll remain locked," he answered coolly.

Unless you give up.

You stood in place and glared at him, not wanting to look at the cornucopia. Putting your hands in your pockets, you leaned against the wall next to the door. The minutes started to feel like days, the delectable smells of the dinner became stronger, making your mouth water. You could almost taste the buttery skin and the soft flesh of the goose, feeling the juices bursting into your mouth as you took a bite. You clenched your jaw set and crossed your arms over your chest. Corvin turned his head towards you, a smile was dancing on his face.

"If your plan is to wait until I finally open the doors, then it's not going to work. You're just wasting time. Time that could have been used for you to look for the front door key." He laughed and took a drink from his goblet.

Clamping your jaw, you sat down in the nearest chair. Your hands reached for the fork and knife, trembling as you cut a piece of goose. You glanced at the side to see Corvin watching you as he took another sip.

"Go on then," he said.

You looked down at the plate, the glistening skin of the goose looked as if it was pulsating in the light. The smell was becoming stronger. Your heart slowly thumped as you raised the morsel closer to your mouth. Your hands were shaking more as it was now barely brushing against your lips. Clenching your eyes shut, you put it in your mouth.

Your tastebuds tingled at the savory juices and the tenderness of the meat before you greedily swallowed. Without thinking, you took another bite out of the goose without bothering to chewing it. Your hunger had over came you, and you piled your plate with every food within an arm's reach. Immediately, you scarfed down your food. You were almost done with eating when you remembered why you were here to begin with. Panic stabbed through your heart and you snapped your head at Corvin; his mischievous grin was curled up even further than before.

"Didn't I tell you that nothing will happen if you eat it?" He sipped from his goblet. "Unlike some of the more loutish of my kind, I don't like spiking or cursing my guests' food. Unless they're a political enemy, in which case, it's fair game."

"Now that I've ate, are you going to finally open those doors?" You grunted.

"Of course," he said and snapped his fingers.

Quickly, you stuffed a bread roll and the plate into your satchel.

"Are you saving that for later?" Corvin tilted his head, his eyes twinkling.

You rolled your eyes and left the dining room.

---

"Here it goes," you sighed and put the plate of food on the mouth painting's pedestal. A soft click came from the door and you walked towards it.

As you were about to reach for the doorknob, you heard the sounds of mouth smacking and heavy sniffing with flute music playing behind you. Whipping your head around, you saw that the plate of food had been eaten down the very last morsel and that the flowers in the vase were limp. The paintings were now completely black, the surface rippling ever so slightly like water.

Your breath hitched and you cautiously looked back at the door. With a shaky hand, you slowly pushed the doors open

[oceancentury]

An English blue silk half-tester bed by Albert E Chapman, modern, the upholstery supplied by Humphries Weaving. Price Realised: GBP 7,500. Christie’s, Sept 2021.

[wowbright]

I buy clothes at Goodwill because they are the only thrift store close to where I live and I prefer to buy secondhand first. But I never get the rush of a good deal because their clothes are so overpriced. (I mean seriously I have found Costco-exclusive items there that are priced higher than at Costco.)

But today I went into their crafting section and found four yards of 60-in wide organic cotton upholstery fabric in a beautiful silk screened blue-on-blue print and they only charged me $7.99 plus tax for it.

Now *that's* a steal.

[boxwinebaddie]

Who initiated the kissing in the greenhouse?

ahhhh, the greenhouse kiss.

my magnum opus. ;)

shouldiactuallyfuckingwriteitgotohellunclenina!

smh, Any!Ways! i've been itching to talk about this, but it requires a lot of context, so i'll have to rewind time a lil and provide screenshots.

but before i begin:

again, it's probably my extreme levels of anxiety around being really annoying and irrelevant, however, this was sent to me a while ago and i am not sure how much we still care about lore around my dumb unfinished fanfiction, but i will say that, at the time i received this, i also had TWO Other Separate Anons who asked me questions about the greenhouse sequence and subsequent kiss and because i had only really mentioned it in a Couple...neither here nor there answers?

i was extremely surprised and flattered that it stood out enough to you to be asked about multiple times??? AAA?? again, i have the best readers in the world, thank you so much for caring. my face is red. ;-;

OKAY! FAIR WARNING!!!! THIS IS VERY, VERY, VEEERY LONG! and Lore Intensive. but you asked! so welcome to the shit show, baby!

so, to jog your re(memories), though, i highly doubt you'll need the refresher, you are all sharp as tacks and extremely brilliant, therefore, really just to set the scene for myself, we are in ravenstan's room,

which, because the crimson dawn sicktorian manwhorsion was ofc, once a very grand, luxurious upscale, upstate new york 1800s manor, a lot of the old furnishings stayed, so stan's room is basically this huge gothic vampire boy bedroom with a massive four column upholstery bed and beautiful black lace canopy that drapes down,

there's a huge dark-finish, wooden boudoir and matching vanity that is all hand-carved, very elegant, ancient and intricate...and also sticker-bombed with a million shitty, half-peeled skater-boy stickers...there's a chandelier and one of stan's combat boots is hanging from it and probably underwear, smh. metal posters all over the wall, dirty laundry all over the fancy ornate rug, half empty cheesy poof and taki bags, eye makeup smeared on Everything, especially the nice cool mirror, nasty crumbs in the bed ( stan did wipe those off before kyle sat...true luv ), lots of cringey stanime figurines on the old antique shelves. jers did comment on this like '...sailor moon?' and stan scoffed, a little defensive, and was like 'what's more badass and punk rock then a bunch of girls kicking ass and saving the galaxy?'

Hot Boy Shit.

so yes, we are in ravenstan's gothic victorian, chaotic boy fail disaster room, where stan is stripped ( literally ) of all his sexy lead-singer boy laviciousness, no dramatic eye makeup or perfectly blown out bleach blonde hair, no tiny vegan leather pants...rather, he is fresh from the shower in his big, ratty, holey terrance and phillip shirt, his uber lame skull and cross-bones pajama pants from the junior boys section of target, socks that don't match, his hair is back in the black standana, still damp, face bare, cheeks lightly flushed, where a blue star pimple patch sits on a very angry pimple, the lil stan beauty mark under his right eye is winking, lip ring shining in the romantic sicktorian lowlight of a crimson dawn, where he is nervously fiddling with his chipped black fingernails, sitting cross cross applesauce across from

...jerseykyle, secret love of his life, who looks perfect, even with his nightly skincare routine delayed from tonight's many dramas ( which, is really saying something, because kyle never delays his s.c., ever ) his hair is falling in effortless ginger waves about his sharp shoulders, the sun and moon glasses chain is gold and glorious, his green eyes, usually narrowed, are wide with wonder gazing over at raven of crimson dawn reduced to whoever he really is underneath it all, the fabric of his matching perfectly pressed silk flannel pajama set from marshalls extremely soft, however, his skin is slick with sweat and prickly after raven read his palms and said his love line was...long.

( help, lmao. )

what started out as a very awkward conversation and confrontation about raven of crimson dawn being trans has melted away into silly banter and shit-shooting between our two favorite boys who, though, by kyle's knowledge, have not known each other for more than a month, have extremely good conversational chemistry and are playful and vulnerable with each other in a way that suggests that they have been best friends and known each other all their lives...

...Interesting.

as their conversation moves from light-hearted subject matter and descends further into the darkness that surrounds very heavy shit, kyle, who has gotten pretty comfortable surprisingly, starts to speak in the heavy jersey accent before trying to smooth and iron it out.

this little exchange insues:

kyle says that, it's risky, but worth the reward, because ravenstan after a steep and shaky breath, dives into an abridged, sparknotes version of the pre-crimson dawn days, how it used to be a pipe dream, a little garage band thing the boys did for fun, hungry for fame but eating top ramen and drinking sunny d everyday, unaware that they would ever get recognized...

( my favorite pre-cd headstannon is actually is that on the fateful, fearful, tearful night of the concert they got scouted at, they're trying on their lil emo boy outfits in the bathroom to hype themselves up, stan is nervous to come out bc he thinks he looks stupid...he's wearing some dumb hot topic-y, party city vampire costume thing kenny got him as a joke w/ his eyeliner on...the boys get him to come out and they are all immediately GAGGED because why is our awkward, boy fail king...SEXY??? like stan why are you hOT??? and they start all barking and throwing money at him and trying to have him do a spin which was so nice bc he was so nervous. my boys. </3 )

then they do get recognized, shot into stardom and everything seems golden! but...it's pyrite. because cartman or the evil 'e' basically assigns them these little 'parts' to play in his perfectly placed show, stan says he just wanted to do what kenny did, sing his songs and not talk too much, just share his music...but e has kenny and stan swap personalities essentially and stan becomes raven. which, at first, was worth it because he got to preform, but it just became this thing he dreads, acting all high and mighty when he just feels fucking tiny and horrible, that he isn't allowed to write songs anymore and they all, essentially...Belong To E.

they have no freedom. no autonomy.

Whatsoever. </3

( sa tw :( it's a whole chapter and convo, obviously, stan also talks about working at ruffians, which is a massive gentleman's club but gentle those men were NOT, that his boss thought his name was too boring so they had him go by something ~exotic~ hence cuervo, which the man mistook for being reminiscent of the tequila brand jose cuervo, so those awful men just called him tequila day in and out while he was serving drinks...gazes and hands lingering, stan's boss telling him he could sing on stage on friday if let those rich men have their way...and that, unfortunately, thru those men, cd got signed. )

after that BOMBSHELL of a conversation, it's very sad and heartbreaking, but very eye-opening to kyle, who wrote raven off as this imbecilic, arrogant rockstar celebrity sheep who he's learned via the hate and this exchange, is extremely lovely, was treated horribly at every impasse of his life and remained kind and humble...he is like legitimately stunned by how perfectly imperfect raven of cd is.

speeeeaking of...okay, sorry, all of that was leading to

This.

so, ravenstan's eyes are rimmed red...the way one's would if they had been crying, he's also been periodically sniffling. feeling rarely kind and gentle, jerseykyle very tentatively asks if he's been crying and hope that it's not because kyle saw him in the mirror.

...i've talked about this before, but, bear with me:

stan shakes his head and tells him that it's because he's been reading a lot of insidious internet comments about him. marjorine told him not to, but it's hard not to listen when everyone is talking about you. he goes onto say that for every person that 'loves' him, five other people hate him. that there's always something wrong with him. his eyes are too far apart or close together, his lips are a weird shape, one hip is bigger than the other. there are accounts dedicated just to zooming in on his pants, weird horrible deep fake porn of him, the paps catching him buying tampons, trying to figure out who they're for and if he's secretly seeing someone ( he laughs and smiles, but it doesn't meet his eyes ) and that...he feels hideous. :(

this exchange happens, my favorite exchange in the fic:

( yes, we've all read it...here it is again. )

after that, overcome with emotion, ravenstan pulls jerseykyle in a very tender, loving embrace, holds him, thanks him, kyle is blushing, stan says he really needed to hear that...the deeper meaning of which crimson dawns on kyle when, suicide tw, during that hug, over his shoulder, he notices a VERY LARGE bottle of sleeping pills :( on his nightstand and a handle of vodka. ravenstan also mentioned being very tired of everything and just wanting to...sleep for a long time.

this does...deeply concern kyle. he tries not to dwell on it.

because, he's looking at raven of crimson dawn, in all his awkward, sweet boy, perfect-imperfect glory, who, in that vein, has a little bit of cinnamon flavored toothpaste left on his bottom lip.

yes...jersey was staring at it. intently. that gay ass bitch.

he goes to swipe it off raven's lip, which his thumb gently caresses, running over ravenstan's lovely lip ring, his heart is RACING.

stan puts his hand over kyle's before he can pull it away and feeling particularly brave, is about to ask jersey Something Important!

but gets interrupted.

this part which i didn't get to write is Integral and devastating to me because we watch all of stan's vulnerability IMMEDIATELY VANISH, hes undoing his hair, trying to shake it out, shakily pouring himself a very healthy-unhealthy shot, doing like two of them, is rushing around trying to find his hot boy clothes and starts...

doing the raven voice again.

fUUUUUUUUUUUCk.

raven, basically pretending like none of that happened is like, 'well, that's my cue, new jersey. i've got to get changed, but you're welcome to stick around...i'll give you a free show.' ;) <3 xxx

jerseykyle is...Haunted by this. bc he just watched the boy that he'd been getting to know very intimately and preciously in his bedroom immediately transform into this...Monster they made him into.

kyle declines, makes his leave, confused and dismayed, but while raven's back is turned, he steals the big pill bottle bc he's worried.

and that chapter, my favorite, ends with this.

AAAAAAAAAAAA I KNOW RIGHT!!!

Moving On! to the greenhouse chapter.

here's some more context you don't need:

flash forward. it's the big dramatic punk rock party ( rager, more like ) the label threw at the crimson dawn manwhorsion to celebrate marjorine's sindotrination into the band.

like i mentioned once or twice in another lore ask, j.k. has been drinking aaaaa lot, so he is very white boy SCHWASTED and seeking out a missing raven of crimson dawn who, in his stupefying stupor, is finding he is very attracted to and wants to kiss...very bad, lmao.

but yeah! finds him in his special stan greenhouse for gay boys who are nerdy about plants. jersey kyle is looking fierce as fuck, his hair is curly whirly, his sharp canines are pearly, i think he's wearing a black turtleneck and slacks, he looks chic and sleek, he is, however, slurring and shit-faced, swirling his wine around his crystal skull wine glass whilist RELENTLESSLY flirting with raven of crimson dawn.

who, again, is rarely sober, he's wearing a little gardening apron over his party outfit ( aw ), his hair is back in the standana, there's a lil dirt on his cheek, he is stuttering and stammering so much omg.

BUT, OKAY, AS FOR THE KISS! the lead in is this:

sober ravenstan is trying to hydrate very drunk jerseykyle all like "kyle broflovski, when was the last time you drank water?" and kyle being a nasty disgusting floozy is like "can't rememba...buuuut my name sounds good in ya mouth." ;) JAIL! GO TO HELL! but ravenstan, trying to be logical because he knows kyle can't is like "kyle, i need you to be serious. you have your civil procedures class at seven and that advanced legal research at nine and after that you've got--"

and kyle's entire world stops. because raven of crimson dawn, who has the world's worst case of adhd and cannot remember anything...

memorized his school schedule. :')

THIS HAPPENS...

AND BAM!!!! GREENHOUSE KISS. <333

which...Whew. very quickly escalates into a very messy makeout session, the greenhouse windows are fogging up from the HEAT. at one point which i tried to reference in the vampire mv para i'm writing, jersey kyle knocks a bunch of plants in pots sitting up on this shelf to put stan on it. there is a part in six where while jersey is stiring his lasagna sauce in the kitchen, stan sits up on the counter like a nasty slutty skanky indecent boy with no manners, kyle smakcs his tiny ass with the kochlefl and was like "it's rude to sit on counters."

soooo naturally, stan, breathlessly, being a little shit is like "i thought it was rude to sit on counters." and kyle is like "oh, so now you want to be polite?" AND NO HE DOES NOT! ;) because it's getting freak nasty in there, my woooord, ravenstan is trying to get kyle's shirt off my goodness and, jk, you know, not wanting to rush into anything is like "raven, i think--i think we should slow down" and stan, smirking, not listening ( stan special ) and is v liberally kissing down kyle's neck ( which, fun fact, jersey's neck is very sensitive and if you ever want kyle to shut up, that will immediately make him dead quiet ) says...

"you talk too much, mi sabelotodo." ;)

WHIIIIIIIIIICH...was the wrong thing to say, girls, gays and theys...

because jerseykyle immediately pulls back...

IN HORROR.

but that's an ask for another day. :* <3 xxx

-uncle nina, curator of CHAOS

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 9, 3 mars 1900, Paris. No. 1. — Chapeau de printemps pour jeune femme. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Explications des Gravures:

Charmante toque bouillonnée en Cluny noir sur transparent blanc. Garniture très riche de deux amazones artistement posées et dont le pied est dissimulé sous deux choux de velours glacé, l'un rose pâle, l'autre "géranium," tous deux chiffonnés en façon de dahlia simple ayant au cœur une boucle de strass.

Une exquise fantaisie de cou accompagne ce joli chapeau: une ruche de mousseline de soie liserée de comète bleue, nouée sous un nuage de tulle ocré.

—

Charming toque in black Cluny on transparent white. Very rich upholstery of two amazones artistically posed and whose foot is concealed under two sprouts of glazed velvet, one pale pink, the other "geranium," both crumpled in the manner of a simple dahlia with a rhinestone buckle in the heart.

An exquisite neckline accompanies this pretty hat: a ruffle of silk muslin trimmed with a blue comet, tied under a cloud of ocher tulle.

[jortschronicles]

Eclipse Coronation Ottoman

At the start of the reign of Gabriel III and Sonja III, I made them a promise. During their reign, in honor and imitation of all the fancy and beautiful clothing they produce, I would cut into a fabric that scared me and attempt to make something wearable.

Prior to Pennsic, my lovely wife picked up some garb for us at a SCA yard sale. this included the following rust/gold ghawazee that a local of mine (recently laurel) informed me is about 200-300 years post period, but would be an OK time saver for garbing myself up for Pennsic. With that knowledge safe in hand, I planned and started to sew a gomlek, with the intention of creating a single-layer supportive undergarment to reduce the number of layers worn on hot afternoons at pennsic. This would be my first ever supportive garment! As you can see in the following photos, the supportive garment was a success.

I began my research with Ottoman Turkish Garb, An Overview of Women's Clothing by Baroness Katja Davidova Orlova Khazarina. This document was recommended to me by Baroness Dominique Michelle le Vasseur. With a bit more of an idea of what I was doing (but only a bit, I was roaring full speed ahead) I used the gomlek pattern found on Turkish Costume by Vanessa Giddings. I made the gomlek from a light-medium weight white linen from stash. I serged each edge of the pieces before pinning together to prevent fraying and to buy me some time to properly finish the seams when I got home from pennsic.

Notably, this is where I made my first mistake. After making the gomlek, I decided to attempt to make it supportive just in case I didn't finish a zibin before pennsic (reader-- she didn't finish the zibin). After making the gomlek according to the Giddings pattern, I then pinched and pinned along the seam between the front body and the front gore to force a little more lift and create a "shelf" on which the breasts could rest. Because I made t his supportive, I'm glad I used a just shy of medium weight linen rather than a more appropriate looser weave, because it gave the garment the body to support the breasts.

As I was in the last leg of time crunch before Pennsic, I wanted this linen to relax as much as it was going to as fast as possible. So i threw on the gomlek, some leggings, and a lazy turban, then did some intense yard work for ~2 hours. My breasts never moved from their assigned seats, the garment relaxed comfortably, and I could move just fine in it. I then finished the gomlek off with a quick button loop and faux-pearl headed button at the neckline, though it has no structural purpose due to how I altered the garment.

With a heart full of ambition and a head empty of reason, I attacked a plan to finish a brand new entari, zibin, and an extra gomlek prior to pennsic. I accomplished none of that.

The following picture shows how I wore this for Pennsic: Gomlek, the post-period ghawazee, lazy turban, some shalwar off amazon recommended by Viscountess Caterina Giovanni, my apprentice belt, and some Rus boots as I was advised to wear ankle support in the Bog.

Upon my return home, I started planning the Entari, with the goal of having a gomlek and entari to wear to Namron Protectorate for Domi's laurel elevation (reader-- she didn't finish any of it in time). I selected from stash a black cotton for the lining and a red and rust upholstery fabric for the outer layer. This was chosen for the similarity, to my eye, between the repeating pattern in the stripes on the upholstery fabric and the patterns present on some extant entaris and in court portraiture. ORIGINALLY I had selected a bright blue silk i was certain I had in stash but my box o' saris was nowhere to be found.

The above portraits, miniatures, and extants were accessed through the Ottoman Turkish Garment Database. The prevalence of red / blue color combos in the portraits and extants, as well as vibrant colors across the board, inspired my choices. As you can see in each of the extants as well as the art, the inside edge of the garment is faced in a color different from the lining and the outer layer. In many of the portraits, the bottom edge of the garment is turned out as if caught in motion, displaying this vibrant facing. The entaris come in different lengths but tend to be in the knee to floor range, while a hip to knee length undergarment appears to be worn as a middle layer.

The center bottom quilted kaftan in red and gold (belonging to Selim I, garment c. 1512-1520) inspired my choice of fabric, as seen below.

Fabric selected, then began the cutting. I used the pattern, cutting diagram, and notes from Kelebek's Persian and Turkish Clothes and drafted out onto my lining layer. Because the gomlek worked up so easily, I just used the black cotton liner as my muslin for this garment. As seen below, it fit pretty well from the outset and the notes and diagrams proved helpful in making sure everything lined up right. Gores are my nightmare. Seen below, the garment as it stood had REALLY prominent hip bumps.

We know that prominent hip bumps were part of the fashion just judging from the art and extant garments (including one amusing extant of Hanzade Sultan's zibins with an attached note deriding the poor quality of the hip bumps) but after repeating the pattern onto my outer fabric, they started bothering me. I was pretty sure I had them sitting too low, or some part of the slope wasn't quite right.

Protectorate was fast approaching, and I had little time to make major adjustments and fiddle with a lot of trial and error. I made some quick adjustments, smoothing the slope of the hip bums into more of a 15 degree angle than the 45ish degree angle they were sitting at prior. Around the same time i started fretting about the hip bumps, I realized my box o' saris was AWOL and began to panic. After fruitless hours scouring the house and workshop, no luck. For my own mental health, I put the project aside to handle AFTER Protectorate, but before Coronation. I had a promise to keep, after all.

I returned home from Namron Protectorate and got to work. With my silks still missing, I selected a soft but bright blue polycotton with a nice sheen from stash and made my bias facing.

It wasn't perfect, but time was short and the fabric was bright. You can also see from this photo the adjustments I made to the hip bump. I left the original shape intact, just folded and gently tacked down inside the body so I have the chance to fix it in the future, when I feel more able and comfortable. And so, the handsewing of the Entari began with Coronation just days away. I finished tacking in the lining, which is only attached to the outer shell by the facing, fun fact, and did a quick try on to make sure it all sat the way I wanted. I was very satisfied with the result. In the future, though, I would probably face the sleeves BEFORE I seam down the underside, because that was the only part of the facing truly miserable to line up and attach.

Then came the last minute fastenings. I'd wanted to weave some trim to make proper button / loop pairs down the front, but didn't have the time. Suggestions from my locals mostly relied on me having not yet put the body, facing, and lining together. I made do, dug through my ribbon supply, and grabbed some shiny polysatin 3/8" ribbon I usually use for making ribbon roses. I cut them into 9" lengths, folded in half, lined up with the yellow vertical stripe down the front, tucked the ends under, and tacked them down securely. For the buttons, I used some Vindheim buttons from Bad Baroness. For a last minute closure I literally finished 2 hours before driving down to coronation, not bad if I do say so myself.

On the day of, I added a long, sleeveless undercoat that for sanity's sake, we'll call a zibin. I need to make one of those rather soon, don't I? I received the coat second hand at Mooneschadowe Trade Days in exchange for a monmouth cap, with the encouragement of Viscountess Mama Cat. I wore a small embroidered hot pink hat over a pink-and-rust silk and pashmina scarf that my lovely wife got for me at Pennsic as a gift, with a veil pinned over the top. The veil is actually one of my spare white scarves, my big "floofy" one that gives my siblings in the order scarf envy. I ordered it from the same place I got my green apprentice belt sash, my wife gets cadet scarves, and both of us get a variety of veils. Mama cat helped me make sure everything sat right on the outfit and helped me get the veil just right. The peacock feather pin is from Sonja III's Queen's Champion tournament, the favor she gave to all the competing fighters. I am wearing the handwoven silk scarf I was made in, a twin to my Doña's and her Queen's white scarves, and it has a subtle Ansteorran Star woven into one end. The pin (hidden because the wind was fighting me while we watched the eclipse) is purple and gold (my heraldic colors), a twin to the silver and deep blue pin the Ansteorran Cadets got for HRH's Nicolette's gift, which she used to pin her Queen's White Scarf in place upon her ascension to the throne.

What feels most important to me, though, is this picture. The Order of the White Scarf is charged with protecting the Queen's White Scarf in the interregnum, with the newest white scarf present protecting it personally and the oldest white scarf present taking it from the arm of the Queen stepping down and putting it upon the arm of our new Queen. We pass it through the circle, some of us pressing it to our forehead or hearts, some of us giving it a good squeeze, some of us kissing it. To myself and much of the rapier community of Ansteorra, this is more than a scrap of fabric on a brass hat's arm. This is the memory of what Don Tivar and Countess Tessa of the Gardens did for us so long ago, legitimizing our community and uplifting us. This is the memory of brothers, sisters, and friends come and gone, of Queens who, for a moment or a lifetime, became one of us, became the head of our order. This is the hope of every cadet who dreams of bleaching their scarf, of every fencer who imagines themselves in the shoes of Errol Flynn or Cyrano. A good Queen inspires us to do better, do more, and reach further, and a great Queen makes our Order stronger with just her presence.

None can compare with bright honor rare We go as the swift arrow flies To stand in the strife, to hazard our lives For a glance from Your Majesty’s eyes

There are certainly adjustments I would make if I were to do this again, notbly find my box o' saris and use a silk facing, among others. I would like to make some non-supportive gomleks in a much lighter fabric and some supportive zibins as well. I would prefer in the future to attach the facing BEFORE i sew down the underside of the sleeve so i feel SLIGHTLY less murderous while sewing. And because of how I roll, in the future I would definitely add a pocket or twelve. I intend to replace the ribbon button loops with some woven trim loops, or at the very least add some matching ribbon bars to the button side for a little more visual balance.

This project would not have been possible without the support of Baroness Dominique Michelle le Vasseur and Viscountess Caterina Giovanni, and the inspiration of the lovely and kind Countess Jacquette d'Anjou, whose conversations and costuming at Gulf XXXI finally kicked me into high gear on this.

[pepsi-maxwell]

more premier league cmjf au, because i watched that ted lasso segment where roy drags jamie out for 4am training and obviously my first thought was these two idiots

first part here

word count: ~1200, rating: t

-

Punk steps out of his car onto a quiet, tree-lined street south of the city centre. He looks up at the house in front of him. Semi-detached in Hale; a typical footballer’s house after graduating from the typical city centre penthouse apartment. Closer to Old Trafford than the Etihad, too, something he makes a mental note of. Punk thinks even he’s closer to the City training grounds than Max is.

There’s a Lamborghini Huracan in City blue on the driveway, as well as a slightly more practical Bentley GT in matte black. He glances inside the Bentley as he walks up towards the doorway, rolling his eyes at the custom plaid check upholstery.

Ugly, tacky, and so incredibly, predictably Maxwell.

He’s aware of the cameras tracking him. Fairly standard fare, but he’s got every right to be here, even when it’s half five in the morning, and the sun is just about considering coming up on what’s no doubt going to be an unseasonably warm September morning.

He makes his way up the three steps to the porch and rings the doorbell, pushing the button again immediately after it’s stopped.

It doesn’t take long for Max to answer.

“What do you want,” he yawns, too over the top to not be put-on.

Punk’s eyes flit down the length of his body critically. Bare chest, silk boxers, ridiculously fluffy slippers matching the ridiculously fluffy Calico rubbing herself between his ankles. Max crouches down, scooping Piper up into his arms with a smirk.

Punk’s gaze travels back up to Max’s face as he taps his wrist.

“Training started half an hour ago, Max. Why aren’t you at the grounds? Do we need to get you a new alarm?”

The grin drops from his face and he looks at Punk like he’s grown an extra head for a moment. “I don’t train before the sun comes up, Punker,” he says, making a one-handed shoo-ing gesture. “So jog on. Go look after the rest of those massive cash-wastes, and on Wednesday night, when you need your star player to come on and score five goals for you, you’re welcome by the way, I’ll be there.”

He moves to shut the door, but Punk moves forward, shoving his foot out to keep it open. “What the fuck are you playing at,” he hisses, kicking at Punk’s shoe as Punk gets his shoulder in the gap, forcing him back until he’s in Max’s foyer, the door slamming shut behind him.

Piper jumps out of his arms and Max stands there, looking on-edge, and nowhere near as confident as he had about thirty seconds ago.

Punk, similarly, feels the frustration drain out of him now that he’s inside Max’s home. Doesn’t know what to do with himself when he’s in the perfectly normal home of the world’s worst-behaved premier league superstar.

“Get out before I call the police for trespassing,” Max says after a moment, his voice strangely thick. There’s a kind of wide-eyed nervousness to him that Punk has never seen before, and it makes him want to push at it, dig his fingers in until Max gives.

“I’ll get out once you agree to get in the car and come to training,” Punk offers, folding his arms across his chest, unimpressed.

“You’re going to make me go to training today, of all days? You know it’s a holy day for my people, don’t you? And you’re gonna make me work? That’s antisemetic of you,” Max tries instead, pouting disapprovingly, but Punk holds his ground.

“And which holy day is that,” he retorts, eyeing Max down while he fishes his phone out of his pocket, ready to search. “Tell me. I’m all ears.”

Max looks away with a frustrated sigh, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, hunching his shoulders to make himself look small. Privately, Punk thinks if the football thing hadn’t worked out, he would have made a great actor. “Look, I didn’t wanna say it in case everyone made a big deal, but… it’s actually my birthday today—”

Punk cuts him off with a shocked burst of laughter.

“Max, you got into a fight in Santorini on your birthday. You made the front page of the Sun, and that was six months ago. It’s closer to my birthday than yours.”

Max rolls his eyes and yawns again, loud and obnoxious, making no attempt to cover it. “Mazel tov. Why don’t you take the day off as well, go do something about those ugly bags under your eyes.”

Punk runs his tongue across his lips. It’s a subconscious motion because he’s only had one coffee this morning and he’s parched, dying for a second, but more interesting is the way Max’s half-lidded, half-awake gaze zeroes in on his mouth with a sudden alertness.

It’s not the first time Max has reacted to him in an... interesting way. Punk’s composing quite the list of occurrences in his head, even if he has no idea of what he’s actually going to use it for yet.

Bribery isn’t entirely off the menu right now.

There’s a split second where he debates offering Max a handjob as incentive, but whatever reason Max has for looking at him the way he does sometimes, he thinks that they’re probably not at that stage yet.

“Actually, I had another thing in mind. My birthday present from my biggest fan,” Punk says, with a nasty smile of his own as he takes a step towards him. Max gives him a baleful glare, backing up into the kitchen. “You get in my car and come to training, right now.”

“I don’t need to,” Max hisses. “Already told you, most goals scored in a single season, won the treble—what the fuck are you pulling that face for,” he adds when Punk tuts sympathetically.

“Domestic treble,” Punk corrects, relishing in the ugly twist of Max’s expression in response. “I know you don’t give a shit about the Carabao cup, Max. There’s only one treble you care about, and that’s… god, who was it who won that? Back in 99? It’s on the tip of my tongue—”

There are hands crumpling the lapels of his club jacket, shoving him against the wall, knocking the wind out of him.

It takes him by surprise, if only because he didn’t think Max would have plucked up the courage to lay hands on him already.

It sends a frisson of excitement down his spine. Max is a global name now, bigger than Punk, perhaps, and yet Punk still has this kind of effect on him. He can mould him, he thinks. He can train him into something perfect, somebody completely unstoppable.

Punk holds his hands up, palms facing out. “Come to training, Max,” he murmurs as persuasively as he can. “You want that European cup win? You want to be part of the first English team to win the domestic and the continental treble?”

He can feel Max’s breath fanning across his face, uneven and frustrated. Sees his pupils dilate even as his eyes narrow.

Max shoves him harder against the wall, pushing himself away. He storms off up the stairs, slamming doors, stomping around loud enough to wake the neighbours. Piper, oblivious, rubs her face against his shin and he scratches behind her ears until she purrs.

Two minutes later, he shoulders past Punk in full kit, football boots in hand, swiping his keys off the hook by the door.

Punk follows him out in silence, unable to hide his smile.

[sam-glade]

Get to know my OC tag

Tagged by @another-white-hole here and @awritingcaitlin here. Thank you both💜

And passing the tag to: @sarahlizziewrites @eccaiia @acertainmoshke @ragnarokproofing and leaving an open tag.

Rules: answer the questions (list at the bottom of the post) as your OC(s).

Let's imagine that Anthea and Erya can spare an evening for an interview.

You find yourself in a drawing room decorated in shades of blue and silver. Cabinets with mother-of-pearl inlays stand by the walls, and mirrors in fanciful frames hang above them. You're given a cut crystal glass of diluted black cherry syrup. With your other hand, you finger the embossed upholstery of the armrest of your settee, biding your time. You hear a throat cleared. You gather your courage and look up at the First Prince.

Her presence is tangible; it forces you to avert your eyes. You look to General Erya and for a moment you stare at her unusually light eyes, grey with a reddish tint. She lets you be for a second, then frowns with disapproval.

They make a curious pair - the Prince tall and slender, in an immaculately fitted gown of dark red silk satin, and the spymaster, shorter and more heavily built, in the ashen uniform of the Army.

Are you named after anyone?

Anthea speaks first, as the etiquette demands.

"As is customary, my name begins with the same letter as that of the head of my house."

You nod and look to Erya. She shrugs.

"Nah, I just liked the sound of it."

2. When was the last time you cried?

They both look offended by the question. Erya's eyes flash angrily, while the smallest and yet so expressive frown mars Anthea's forehead. You scramble for the next question.

3. Do you have kids?

They glance at each other briefly.

"While feasible, it is not something we wish to pursue." The Prince's tone leaves no room for argument.

4. Do you use sarcasm?

The Prince smirks. It's Erya who speaks up though:

"Her? Never. Me? I'm a ray of sunshine."

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

"Their status." You suppose the answer isn't entirely unexpected, coming from a Prince.

"How many weapons they have on them and how well-hidden they are."

6. What's your eye colour?

Without looking at each other, they open their mouth to answer. Erya speaks first.

"Anthea's are grey like the blade of her Sword."

Anthea huffs and her eyes twinkle. If you were forced to guess, you'd say she's pleased.

"Erya's eyes are silver."

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

They look uncertain. Erya is the one to provide an answer:

"We're busy women, we don't have time or inclination to consume stories." Her tone is disdainful.

8. Any special talents?

Anthea raises her gloved hand, and you feel the glass in your hand chilling to a pleasantly refreshing temperature. Erya snorts.

"I can remember anything I read word for word. Comes in handy."

9. Where were you born?

Anthea glances around the luxurious room.

"In this house." You admit that it is an astonishing place, befitting the First Prince.

"In the City of Light," Erya supplies with a shrug.

10. What are your hobbies?

"We both play chess." You aren't sure which one of them said it.

11. Have you any pets?

"No." They say it in unison.

Erya gives Anthea a sideways look.

"What about Rime?"

Anthea huffs.

"Rime is a black-winged kite, and not a pet. As an officer of the Winged Division, I work with a bird of prey in the field. Rime acts as a scout and is trained to bring back my broken Sword in the event of my death."

12. What sports do you play/have you played?

Erya shrugs.

"Don't have time for sports. I can throw darts if need be."

Anthea offers a less dismissive answer:

"At Light-of-my-Sun my Grandfather's insistence, I was taught to fence and ride horses for sport, but my skills aren't exceptional. Not like my Brother's."

13. How tall are you?

"6'1," says the Prince.

"5'4," Erya supplies.

14. Favourite subject in school?

"Mathematics," Anthea says with a small quirk of her lips.

"Law." Anthea turns to her. Erya flashes her a grin. "It was fun learning just how many laws I broke before I swore the military oath."

Anthea doesn't appear surprised at all.

15. Dream job?

Anthea smirks. Erya smiles a bit wider. It's the Prince who responds:

"I speak for both of us here; we enjoy our jobs and have no intention to seek alternatives."

You thank them, somewhat glad that it is over.

Days of Dusk taglist: @acertainmoshke @another-white-hole

List of questions below:

Are you named after anyone?

2. When was the last time you cried?

3. Do you have kids?

4. Do you use sarcasm?

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

6. What's your eye colour?

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

8. Any special talents?

9. Where were you born?

10. What are your hobbies?

11. Have you any pets?

12. What sports do you play/have you played?

13. How tall are you?

14. Favourite subject in school?

15. Dream job?

[hostilecityshowdown]

[ previous ] ♡ [ ao3 ]

Heartbreak Hotel: Put your loving hand out chapter four

18+ Exclusively.

spinoff of mango’s heartbreak hotel au

as always, co-written and edited by @1-2-3kid. special thanks to @razor-ramons-thighs for being my emotional support punk and @bigzaddycool for rekindling my need to write diesel and finish this fic up

content warnings on AO3! i highly advise checking them out

Pages flew as the registry book struck the gaudy floral carpet, the rings of the binder springing open. A novelty mug full of pens followed and bounced, rolled, came to a stop against the wood paneling of the front desk, pens embossed in hearts scattered amongst red and pink matchbooks. There was a display case mounted in the desk, full of souvenirs littered in broken glass and the shattered remains of a flowerpot. Crushed rose petals and baby’s breath obscured postcards of the hotel’s sweeping, Mid-Century exterior. Even from a distance, Diesel could tell the postcards depicted a respectable resort, nestled comfortably amongst looming aspens and far-away mountains. This confused him for reasons he didn’t understand. For this brief moment, Diesel was alone with the hotel.

His boots were sinking into the carpet, so deep he imagined it continuing to the planet’s core. Above him hung a massive chandelier of brassy gold, candelabras draped in glittering crystals and pearls. Velvet, lace-trimmed plush hearts hung from the chandelier, only inches above his head yet miles above; despite the hotel's vaulted ceiling, Diesel was lucky he could stand up straight. He sunk into the carpet beneath him a little more, feeling the space above his head widen. The only light filtered in through the massive, floor to ceiling windows, despite the apparent pitch darkness outside. He was freezing. It was snowing and it was summer, and the air was still but everything was moving.

Diesel blinked, the red haze easing.

Everything was moving. Shawn had slid across the front desk, chased from behind it by a figure much broader than him and nearly as fast. That was when things fell- but when was that? Just now, minutes ago, years? A fine layer of dust settled on everything, including Diesel, but none kicked up as Shawn sprinted across the lobby, footfalls muffled by the impossibly hungry carpet. All sound was devoured by the wall upholstery of pink, painted silk. Diesel somehow knew there was a mirror wall behind him but, with just as much certainty, knew it would be a mistake to look at it. Do not look at the mirror wall. Do not look at the mirror. Don’t look at the-

Still pursued, Shawn vaulted over the back of a booth in the shape of a horseshoe so tight it was nearly a full circle. Flowering plants fell without making a sound or visible impact, as if they had been lying on the carpet, dead, long before Shawn knocked them over. He landed on a table draped in pastel blue lace and slid, touched down on the other side of the booth, and resumed sprinting. A few of these wrap-around seating arrangements were in that area of the lobby. The conversation pit was behind Diesel, under the mirror. He didn’t look at it, he looked at Shawn. Slowly, Diesel turned his head to follow the hotel proprietor’s escape attempt, watching him climb more furniture and breathe heavily. Shawn used a stiff ottoman as a first step and hopped to the arm of a leopard print loveseat, precariously standing on the sweeping back of the small sofa with all too many pillows. His arms wheeled as he tried to keep his balance, knees bent, hair a mess. The brunette after him lunged from behind, over the loveseat’s cushions, and Shawn sprung off the back like a cat. The loveseat toppled, bringing the other man with it. Shawn was gone. Diesel was there, though, no longer covered in dust, sunglasses darkening the room even more than previously, one arm wrapped around Shawn’s assailant's neck, the other under his arm. The man struggled, grunted, brought Diesel to the ground. Diesel caught a flash of livid, brown eyes and a glimpse of a faded band t-shirt before he was alone again.

All was still. He stood, knees aching, dust floating through his lungs freely. He didn’t cough, but gently pat his leather down before trekking to the front desk, careful not to look at the mirror wall. Instead, he looked at the full key cubby on the far wall. All of the placards were faded red, the gold paint flaking off, matching the telephone on the desk with its receiver off the hook. He couldn’t read any of the placards, even when he inched closer, nor could he hear a dial tone from the phone. Bending to carefully fish one of the matchbooks out of the display case, he nudged crystalline pieces of glass away with his glove and raised the collectable up to his face. He squinted in the low light. It was red, each chain link connecting the silver hearts adorning the borders looking almost hand painted. At the bottom, in black text, read ‘PROTECT YOUR LOVER - CLOSE COVER BEFORE STRIKING.’ At the top, ‘you’re never lonely at the…’ In the centre was a gold heart surrounding two words in blue and yellow cursive:

‘HeartBreak Hotel.’

Diesel dropped the matchbook. It struck the carpet and smoldered at his feet weakly. He cautiously turned his head and looked at the mirror wall.

-

Barreling through the gauzy drapery, Shawn launched himself through the art nouveau room divider as if it were a portal to his escape. It was a structure of twisted aluminum and peeling cream paint, the opening arched like a tunnel entrance, leading to the bedroom of a honeymoon suite. It was one of the smaller ones, but it had a window behind the backboard of the bed - granted, it was covered by the redwood paneling, but he shouldn’t have trouble ripping that clean off the wall, right? He leapt onto the heart-shaped bed, stepped across the mattress like he was trying not to slip on ice, and began attempting to rip the wall apart. His fingers were bloody before he even started somehow, nails broken painfully, nail polish now wet and oozing onto his throbbing, exposed nail bed. Wincing, Shawn turned and kicked behind him, hearing a sickening crack. Did it again. Another crack, and he collapsed to the bed, face shoved into the silk bedspread as if someone had cranked up the gravity. He choked, spat, struggled to move; it felt like someone kicked him in the spleen. The bedspread was lapping up the blood. The curtains he’d run through were fluttering to a halt, the entertainment centre with analogue television and lamps with shades askew visible through the dense lace.

Something was moving. Panic tore through him and elicited a groan from somewhere deep in Shawn’s chest, heart racing, ears ringing. He went still and hoped they wouldn’t see him, hoped it wasn’t Marty still coming for him.

The shape paused as he did. It heaved and shuddered when he did, and it tilted its head in curious confusion when Shawn did, dangling earrings sparkling far too brilliantly for the dark, dingy room. Drawing his eyebrows together, he slowly began to sit up, wheezing as the force pinning him down eased. His reflection did the same.

“When did I put… A mirror…” Shawn shook his head and dragged himself off the bed, tumbling to the floor and resisting the urge to sprawl across the shag rug. This room had rugs over marble flooring. He never liked this room. It was tacky and ugly and it used too much white and not enough shiny things. He stared into the vague reflection of his own eyes through the curtains, one lens of his flip up sunglasses snapped off, and began to crawl. Shawn used the bars of the room divider to haul himself up and blew his hair from his face as he pushed the curtain aside, locking eyes with himself. He looked horrible. Why didn’t Diesel protect him from this? The bloodied curtain fluttered shut behind him as he lurched forward with a snarl, anger rising within him like an eruption. Before he could take hold of the mirror, it lowered, and Shawn stumbled to his knees in surprise.

He hadn’t put a mirror on the entertainment centre. There was no room to fit a mirror that big, with all its lace trim and pearl bordering. Someone with long, claw-like, black nails was holding it. Someone wearing black lace gloves, with rhinestones in her hair and shimmering eye shadow smoked out from her eyelashes to her eyebrows.

The mirror lowered to Shawn’s kneeling height and, unable to look away from it still, he realised he wasn’t being reflected at all. The Heartbreak Kid stared at him, wide-eyed, kneeling on the marble flooring, draped in jewellery shining blindingly bright. He was smaller than Shawn was, leaner, face softer, clean shaven, his sunglasses unbroken and dark. Lipstick kisses trailed down his jaw and neck, staining the white hem of his vest. The chains didn’t look ornamental anymore, lashed so tightly over his pecs they rubbed the skin raw. His hair was blonder, softer, styled, but he looked horrified. Shawn reached a bloody hand out to him, his false reflection mimicking him, their white gloves both soaked through with red.

The mirror dropped and shattered, and Sherri smiled down at Shawn.

-

A guttural scream jerked Diesel from sleep, pillows and blanket flying. The motor lodge’s phone was ringing, so excruciatingly loud it felt like machine gun fire. The trucker fumbled with it, dragging it into bed and tangling his wrist in the cord as he scrambled to answer. 

“‘Lo?” Fuck. He cleared his throat, which sent him into a coughing fit so harsh it made him drop the phone. He picked it back up quickly. “-uck. Fuck, hello?”

“This is a test of th-”

“-esel? Diese, are you alright?” Kimberly’s voice crackled to life, cutting through a blaring tone so loud Diesel wasn’t even sure he heard it. She coughed, too, wheezing before speaking again. “Diese, are you there?”

“Y-yeah,” he replied, running a hand through his tussled hair. It was practically matted. He must've tossed and turned all night. “I’m here, Kim. Are you…?”

“I’m okay. The hospital’s discharging me today. I need you to convince Dallas to not come get me.” Diesel couldn’t help but grin, eyes tired, sore. Everything was sore. He untangled himself from the phone cord and shook his head.

“I’ll handle it, Kimmy. We’ll make a straight shot to Miami if you can handle seventeen hours on I-95.”

“Oh, god,” she groaned, audibly collapsing against her pillows. Her voice grew quieter, more somber. Almost threatening; a big cat stalking through the underbrush in Diesel’s peripheral. Kim could be scary when she wanted to. “I don’t understand.”

“Miami’s a long-”

“I know,” she interrupted. “A long way from the Poconos, I know. I don’t understand how I’m a long way from Florida. I wasn’t even going north, Diesel, I was going southwest, I-... This doesn’t make any sense. Dallas says I’ve only been gone overnight, but I left home at six PM. How did I get my bike up here and crash it before sunrise? How did I-”

She coughed again and groaned. Diesel could envision her holding her bruised ribs. He’d already put together a care package for her when he made his quick haul to New York, there and back before the hospital had even performed the CT scan on her head. The concussion must be killing her. He could only hope it wasn’t bad, only hope they could get her into occupational therapy fast, convince her to rest long enough to recuperate. That last one might have been the hardest to pull off. Inhaling deeply, Diesel dragged himself out of bed and carried the phone with him as far as it allowed. His morning stretching was half-hearted.

“I get it,” he said, wincing at how stiff his knee was, a sharp pain shooting down his tibia. Nothing unusual. “I don’t get how it happened, but I get it. Things have been weird since I left, Kim, really weird. I’m thinking about coming back.”

“To the Exchange?”

“You think Raze would bite?”

“Not a chance in hell,” she murmured, sipping whatever carton of sugary juice they gave her through a straw with an air leak in it. Diesel could hear her struggling with it. He hated those flimsy little plastic straws, always chewed through them unintentionally. “He’s having too much fun with Kid. His business might be shady, but he’s a flawless sell.”

“But,” she paused. Diesel waited. It sounded like she was holding the phone with her shoulder and messing with the straw. “Studd would follow you to the ends of the Earth and back, Vin.”

They wrapped the phone call up around the same time Diesel gave up on stretching and decided to hit the shower, sticking his little boombox on the counter and dropping in VOWWOW’s Beat of Metal Motion. The CD started spinning even before he poked the drive shut, satisfied with the little click followed by Kyoji Yamamoto’s opening riff for Break Down. It was easy for Diesel to get lost in the music enough to forget to feel relief that he’d booked an end room with a vacancy next door. No one interrupted his shower with noise complaints, but something felt off as he stepped out, dropping a towel over his own head and wrapping it around his long hair. He couldn’t have spent more than fifteen minutes in the shower, especially since he still had an abundance of the warm (never hot) water the motor lodge offered available to him by the time he twisted the faucet off.

He hadn’t heard the CD skip, so how was it playing Sleeping in a Dream House, a track twenty six minutes in? The boombox was quieter than it had been during his shower, too, Genki Hitomi’s poignant crone of ‘I know, I’ll just have to dream alone…’ barely audible. Diesel wrapped the bigger towel around his waist and secured it, waving away more steam than the shower should have been able to produce. The bathroom seemed bigger than it had been when Diesel entered it, the sickly orange light above the mirror no longer able to illuminate the far walls.

“Dreams- and in dreams, in the dreamhouse…” The boombox sounded like it was underwater and Diesel shivered, breaking out in a cold sweat as he inched towards the counter. He could just barely see the little machine’s black and chrome outline on the countertop, which had elongated during his shower. The mirror was no longer a simple oval, either, now spanning the full length of the counter and etched with frosty, floral patterns around the edges. It was rimmed in gold. “Gotta get away, let me out of here… In the dreamhouse I’m alone-”

A burst of deafening static made Diesel jump, one hand instinctively going to his chest. His mouth was dry, the mirror so fogged his reflection was nothing more than a blurry blob of colour. The CD’s audio came back, even more distorted. Deeper, gruffer. Hoarser, with a frightening desperation creeping into the melancholy. “-with my fingers on the walls… Searching for the door that leads to you.”

It didn’t sound like Genki anymore. It sounded like Shawn.

Diesel bolted, finding the door on instinct alone and rattling the knob until the screws came loose. It wasn’t locked but it wouldn’t open, the stereo repeating ‘gotta get away- get me out of here’ on an endless, broken loop. The music abruptly cut off when Diesel took a step back and kicked the door open. Everything was normal when he opened his eyes. The door hung correctly on its hinges, the knob firmly screwed into place, and Diesel clutched his towel around his waist as he slowly turned to face the mirror. It was a small oval, peeling at the bottom left, streaks of condensation running down it. The steam that had filled the bathroom was gone, the counter almost too small to fit everything Diesel laid out on it, the light a warm yellow glow. The CD sat in the tray, unmoving.

He’d never plugged the boombox in.

-

“Diesel Cool, here to see Kimberly Page,” Diesel tiredly informed hospital security, ID already in his hand. They kept it behind the desk and gave him a visitor’s pass to stick on his shirt, sending him on his way to the second floor. Thankfully, Kimberly’s room wasn’t a long walk away from the elevators. He didn’t wear his knee braces during hauls unless he planned to make a lot of stops and do a good amount of lifting, but his legs were killing him after his freakout. He’d have to talk to his psychiatrist about his anxiety meds and find out if he was supposed to be experiencing psychosis or what. His appointment was still a few weeks off, but he felt like he needed to talk about the Heartbreak Hotel and Shawn as soon as possible. He wasn’t even sure why his psych didn’t comment on his long absence when he was working the hotel, but he wasn’t putting anything past Shawn. Maybe he’d been talking to his psych the whole time behind Diesel’s back. He couldn’t remember if he had any of his medications aside from his testosterone at the hotel, the memories growing fuzzy and blending together already. He knocked on Kimberly’s open door before entering, relieved to see her already packed and waiting for him.

“Don’t even come in, we gotta go,” Kim said, limping to Diesel and grabbing his arm, steering him backwards out the door. He chuckled and turned, taking her bag and carefully draping his left arm around her shoulders as they walked to the elevator. Kim didn’t laugh back, speaking no louder than a whisper when the elevator doors closed behind them. “Something’s wrong with me, Diesel.”

“The CT scan? It doesn’t look that bad-”

“No, not-” she held her breath when the elevator shook, “not that. I saw something.”

“On the road? The asshole that hit you?”

“Here, in the bathroom-” Kim cut herself off when the elevator stopped, smiling brilliantly at the janitor and nurse waiting to enter. Diesel’s stomach soured. She said hello politely in passing, thanked the security guard after he handed Diesel’s ID back with a suspicious glare, and hustled her big man to his truck as quickly as they could collectively manage. Diesel helped her climb into the passenger seat of his truck before rounding it to the driver’s side, Kimberly starting to speak before he even closed his door. “Something was wrong with the window. It wasn’t the hospital window, Diese, it was-”

Frustrated, she motioned with her hands vaguely before throwing them up and letting them fall into her lap. She buckled her seatbelt when Diesel gently reminded her, and was quiet until they merged onto the interstate. Diesel let the radio play quietly, music low enough to be indiscernible. “It was somewhere else’s window. I’m not crazy.”

“Never said you were,” Diesel replied, trying not to clench his jaw too tightly. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “If I did, that’d make me crazy, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw something like that in the bathroom. I had a fucked up dream, Kim. The hotel was trying to get you, Shawn was trying to prey upon you, that’s why I had to get you out-”

“What? Slow down, what? Who is Shawn? What hotel, what bathroom?”

“The- fuck,” breathing out deeply through his nose, Diesel eased off the gas. Last thing they needed to do was jackknife in perfect weather on I-95. That’d just be embarrassing. “I went somewhere, Kimmy. It was like a-a living thing.”

The hours flew by, both travelers content to keep their stops to a minimum. Diesel told Kimberly everything, and she recounted what she remembered of the accident. One minute she was driving down the strip, getting ready to start heading west, and the next she was wiping out three miles from the Sweetheart Corner in Syracuse, New York. She didn’t know the area, but Diesel was familiar with Syracuse, and her description of the ornate, white and red payphone booth struck him as eerily wrong. There was no payphone at the intersection of Route 11 and Taft Road. The Sweetheart Corner hosted a small plaza, boasting a farmer’s market, ice cream, barber shop, liquor store - but no telephone booths. She would have had to go inside to use a phone from what Diesel remembered, but Kimberly didn’t recall anyone setting up shop at the Corner except the Sweetheart Market. That hadn’t been true since the 1960s.

After Diesel rescued her, her motorcycle had disappeared, the police unable to find any remains of the bike near Malden Road, where she reported the accident. She was adamant about that being the location of her crash, but the cops swept the area up and down and couldn’t find anything. The air force base off Malden even assisted in the search and, when they didn’t have any luck, the police agreed to report the bike stolen.

“Not that there was anything left of her to steal,” Kimberly grumbled into her onion rings. They pulled into a diner in Durham, North Carolina, seven hours into their drive. It was afternoon and busy, bustling with more tourists and travelers than locals by Diesel’s guess. He was actually enjoying being around so many people. He didn’t even mind the kids sitting two tables behind Kim, constantly turning around in their seats to make faces at him. Whenever Kim looked down at her food or out the window overlooking the full parking lot, Diesel would raise an eyebrow at them and make them burst into fits of giggles. He couldn’t even remember the last time he saw a kid-

“Ground control to Major Tom.” “Huh?” “Stay with me, space cadet.” Kim was grinning up at him. She cast a glance at the kids behind them and waved, both excitedly waving back until their grandparents made them sit down and eat their brunch or grilled cheese or whatever kids got at diners. Shaking her head, Kim traded an onion ring for one of Diesel’s fries. She had managed to choke down more of her chicken than he’d got through his panini, his stomach still churning with anxiety. Rubbing his right hand and sitting back in his booth seat, Diesel looked Kim over. Plenty of scrapes and bruises, scabbing. She needed two little sutures up in her hairline, she didn’t have any of her makeup or hair products, and she was wearing clothes Diesel bought for her. In the truck, she layered with one of Diesel’s shirts, so much smaller than him she looked like she was wearing a circus tent. They had both forgotten to remove her hospital bracelet. Diesel reached for her left wrist and Kim held it out, letting him peel up the adhesive on the plastic band until he could tear through the last bit.

It was a long drive. It was another seven hours before they hit the Florida state line, and they were exhausted. Diesel was used to it, but not under duress, and the Interstate Commerce Commission had been changing up the industry’s rules like it was going out of style recently. He was just relieved he hadn’t had to drive a cab outfitted with a Qualcomm yet, or he’d have to actually explain what he was up to. For now, he could tell his employer he was using time off to run errands and would be local again in a few days, no questions asked. He’d purchased the cab he drove years ago, anyway, but he anticipated the new regulations were going to phase his cabover out soon. At least the newer trucks had better breaks, if he was forced to trade. 

“I’ll ring Dallas, let him know we’re close,” Kimberly said, pulling Diesel from his thoughts. She was grabbing a leather bag from the centre console, her bag phone fully charged after the long ride. She manually dialed his number, being outside the regular service area, and waited. Her face lit up when her husband answered. “We’re in Jacksonville now, heading to Patti’s. Please get me their chicken parmesan, I’m starving. You’ll know what Diesel wants.”

Diesel could hear Dallas laugh on the other side of the line. He followed the signage along Beach Boulevard for the Roosevelt Mall, relieved when the ornate, white siding of the restaurant came into view. Kim was nearly jumping out of the cab before Diesel could park. He related to the sentiment, neither caring to collect themselves before walking across the small parking lot. Dallas was waiting outside for them and lifted Kimberly off her feet in a bear hug so tight, Diesel remembered when he used to expect her to snap in half. He remembered when he used to think he’d snap in half from Dallas’s hugs, too.

“Alright,” Dallas began, setting Kimberly down but still holding her waist. “You’re only off the hook for as long as it takes my wife to inhale a chicken breast.”

Seated in Patti’s, a handful of people wandered over to inquire after Kim, and she regaled them with the harrowing tale of her motorcycle accident. One woman, a former Diamond Doll at Dallas’s club and previously trained by Kimberly herself, hummed the chorus to Leader of the Pack by The Shangri-Las, earning laughs all around the table. It was so normal it was wrong, the trio communicating how surreal it all felt through locked eyes, grazes of a hand against an elbow, an arm draped across the back of a chair. Diesel couldn’t fathom why they had to sit in a restaurant during the late dinner rush and pretend everything was fine, but he followed the Pages’ lead. They’d taken care of him so long, he couldn’t do anything but trust them.

“About that down payment,” Kimberly began, voice taking on that frightening tone again. Diesel had only just started splitting the panna cotta in half to share with Dallas, “on a new bike.”

“Down payment?” Dallas asked, head dipping as if to scrutinise Diesel over his shades. They were tucked away in his breast pocket. “New bike?”

“A desperate man will say anything,” Diesel muttered, stabbing into the coffee flavoured dessert with more force than necessary. “No one should be held accountable for what they say in an emergency.”

“Sounds like you made my wife a promise, Diesel.” Dallas’s tone became as serious as Kimberly’s. Diesel could feel the migraine coming on, alongside a wave of nostalgia. Any second now, Scotty would come tumbling through the door, dancing his way out of women’s arms and hiding behind the biggest guy he could find… “You better keep it. You’re an honourable man.”

“Since when, Dally?” Diesel groaned, elbowing his friend in the ribs. Kimberly laughed, stole a bite of her husband’s panna cotta half. Despite all his complaints, he still slipped Kimberly a check for a couple thousand before the end of the night, knowing Dallas would beat him half to death if he found out before Diesel was halfway up the Eastern seaboard. On their way out, he glanced at the outdoor smoking seats, stopping in his tracks when he laid eyes on one of the ashtrays. It was frosted glass, filled with a gooey substance similar to a lava lamp, and cracked, the liquid and oil inside slowly bubbling out. It held no ash, but the bottom of the tray read ‘HeartBreak Hotel’.

[more-than-a-princess]

Hello! Random anon here with a random question! What is a color that Sonia would associate with themself? Do they have a reason? Similarly, what is a color you would associate them with?

Hello anon, thank you for the ask! I've spent some time considering this question, and I think there's an important aspect missing from it: what colors are associated with Sonia, by design, due to color analysis. Because this shapes which colors I would associate her with, for one important reason: because of Sonia being the princess she is, she has paid staff to ensure she is not wearing, or living, in the 'wrong colors.'

Sonia doesn't have much say in her own wardrobe, cosmetics, or living spaces, and they are all designed to flatter her and her family. And the vast majority of her family, stemming from her father's side though also including her mother?

They're a family of Light Summers, of course. Cool undertones, with little contrast between hair, eyes, and skin color: everything is light. And looking at the color chart, from Sonia's default deep blue-green pinafore dress, to her SDR2 game wetsuit, to her champagne princess gown splash art, to her DR: S pink bikini, to her 10th anniversary white and blue gown...they're all on the light summer color palette.

So, with that in mind as well as Sonia being a firm believer in her femininity being 'hella boss!,' I associate her with cool-toned pastels and rich jewel tones. Despite being the biggest fan of autumn and horror movies, those colors aren't ones I associate with her: they wash her out and make her look sickly, which is a fun contrast to how much love she has for her hobbies. They quite literally don't fit with her entire aesthetic! And yet, her passion persists. Gotta love a woman who won't be deterred by a silly thing like 'flattering.'

In threads, I tend to put her in blues and greens, some purples as well, to show her calm and compassionate sides, with the rare appearances of pink. In her older verses, she avoids the sweeter, more delicate pastel pink shades when she can: they tend to make her look younger, which isn't always what she needs when she's trying to convince a room of aristocrats that she's well-equipped to lead the country one day.

Either in threads I've already written or threads that are coming and I've plotted, deep emerald greens and icy silver blues tend to show up in Important Moments. Much of the Royal Family's design and upholstery places a focus on sage green decor, with cool-toned gold and silver accents.

But as for Sonia herself?

She'd probably say Novoselic green, which is the blue-based teal green shade that appears on both the Novosonian flag and is the color of her In Utero pinafore dress. Forest greens and emerald is also favored by her, and she tends to prefer blues and greens anyway, with a cool-toned red here and there. She wants to be surrounded in pretty, feminine pastels and rich, deep jewel tones, and despite it often clashing with her life, some black as well (something she usually has to keep hidden, thus her preference for black underwear, lingerie, and silk nightgowns).

tl;dr - Sonia and I pretty much agree on her color palette, mostly due to her circumstances in life. That will, however, not stop her from embracing the burgundies, oranges, and browns each autumn when her dark academia side starts flaring up and all she wants are pumpkin spice everything, chocolate, cozy drinks, and horror movies. She looks a little ridiculous trying to embrace all the warm, Earthy tones, but she does her best.

[scurvyoaks]

Fine Boston Federal Inlaid Mahogany Sofa, Massachusetts, 1800-1810, with molded and downswept arms with reeded back panels and turned and reeded supports, turned and reeded legs set with inlaid figured lightwood panels, striped blue silk upholstery with two bolsters, 35-1/4 x 71 x 26 in.

Literature: illustrated in Israel Sack Inc.'s brochure Opportunities in American Antiques, no 49., pg. 12

Condition

good condition overall, typical minor bumps and wear, some filled tacking scars, minor crack at one rear leg, break and repair at one front leg attachment, wear and abrasions at front wear and feet, especially center legs, light wear and scattered stains to upholstery.

Brunk Auctions. Collection of Jean and Jim Barrow.

With its Sack provenance, this restrained and refined sofa was one of the real bargains of the sale.

[thetextilealchemist]

I'm still testing positive for Covid, so I waited until the streets were empty to go for a Halloween walk in my test tea gown. This doesn't do it justice, but for something made with plastic upholstery velvet, an old bedsheet, and absolutely zero fucks, I really love it. I definitely want to repeat the concept with the blue silk I bought a couple years ago, to eventually wear to the butterfly conservatory.

My lungs may not have appreciated the exercise and damp air, but it was a lovely night to be out.

[suvamgodecor]

Indian Office Interior Design: A Blend of Tradition and Modernity

India, with its rich cultural heritage, is a country where tradition meets modernity in many aspects, including interior design. When it comes to office interiors, this unique blend is more than just aesthetic—it's a reflection of the evolving work culture in India. The concept of Indian office interior design has gained significant traction as businesses strive to create spaces that are not only functional but also inspiring and culturally resonant.

The Essence of Indian Office Interior Design

Indian office interior design is characterized by its versatility. It effortlessly combines traditional elements with contemporary styles to create a space that is both functional and visually appealing. This design philosophy embraces the use of natural materials, vibrant colors, intricate patterns, and traditional art forms, all of which are hallmarks of Indian culture.

Traditional Elements in Modern Spaces

One of the most distinctive features of Indian office interior design is the incorporation of traditional elements into modern workspaces. This could be as simple as using wooden furniture with intricate carvings or incorporating traditional Indian motifs into wall designs. The use of handicrafts, artworks, and textiles native to various regions of India can add a unique cultural touch to an office space.

For instance, a company may choose to adorn its walls with Madhubani paintings or use Khadi fabric for upholstery. These elements not only enhance the aesthetic appeal but also infuse the workspace with a sense of identity and pride in Indian heritage.

The Role of Colors and Textures

Colors play a significant role in Indian office interior design. The use of vibrant colors such as saffron, red, blue, and green is common, often balanced with neutral tones like beige, cream, and white. These colors are not just visually stimulating but also evoke various emotions and energies that can influence productivity and creativity in the workplace.

Textures, too, are an essential aspect of Indian office interiors. From the roughness of terracotta tiles to the smooth finish of marble, and the soft feel of silk curtains, textures add depth and dimension to the design. These tactile elements can be strategically used to create focal points within the office, such as a textured accent wall behind the reception desk or a plush seating area in the lounge.

Emphasizing Sustainability

Sustainability is becoming increasingly important in office interior design, and Indian design practices naturally align with this trend. The use of eco-friendly materials like bamboo, jute, and reclaimed wood is prevalent. Moreover, incorporating indoor plants not only enhances the aesthetic appeal but also improves air quality, making the workspace healthier for employees.

The concept of 'Vastu Shastra,' an ancient Indian architectural science, is also gaining popularity in office design. Vastu principles emphasize the importance of natural light, air flow, and the strategic placement of furniture to create a harmonious and productive environment.

Modern Touches in Indian Office Design

While tradition forms the backbone of Indian office interior design, modern elements are seamlessly integrated to meet the demands of contemporary workspaces. Open floor plans, ergonomic furniture, and advanced technology are common features in modern Indian offices. The challenge lies in maintaining a balance between these modern necessities and the traditional aesthetic.

Creating a Unique Workspace

Indian office interior design is not just about aesthetics; it's about creating a workspace that reflects the values and ethos of the organization. Whether it’s a startup in a bustling city or a well-established company, the office interior should resonate with its brand identity.

Incorporating elements like an open floor plan with collaborative spaces, private cabins adorned with traditional art, or a cafeteria that reflects Indian culture can create a unique and inspiring workspace.

Conclusion: Transform Your Office with GoDecor

Indian office interior design is a perfect blend of tradition and modernity, offering endless possibilities to create a space that is both functional and culturally resonant. Whether you're looking to redesign your office or set up a new one, GoDecor can help you bring your vision to life. With our expertise in Indian interior design, we create workspaces that not only look great but also inspire and motivate your team. Contact GoDecor today to start your journey towards a beautifully designed office space that reflects the true essence of India.