#tracery ceiling
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ilkikocer · 2 years ago
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Living Room in Boston Living room - transitional open concept and formal light wood floor living room idea with white walls and a ribbon fireplace
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revelboo · 1 month ago
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I wanna play bongos on waspinators big wasp butt he just activates that ‘big cat pet big cat go pet cat big cat go’ part of my brain
🤣 I mean, he’d let you, because he’s so touch starved, but he’d be so puzzled about it
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Touch
Waspinator x Reader
• Antenna flicking back, his head comes up from where he’s sprawled across your lap on the padded berth, staring owlishly at you as you fight a grin. “Why hit Waspinator?” He asks sleepily, sounding more confused than hurt about it as you surf your fingers over where you’d been drumming your palms against the curve of his wasp abdomen, watching his stinger tap the berth.
• Shuddering when you catch one of his buzzing wings and your fingertips slide over the tracery of veins reinforcing the delicate blade of his wing. Are you exploring him? Hips bucking against the berth under him when you touch between where his wings join his frame. “Is this okay?” You ask and he nods, mystified and aroused. Loving those soft hands on him even if he’s not sure why you’re touching him, but he doesn’t want you to stop. Purring softly, he curls an arm around you, a clawed ped sliding on the berth.
• “Why touch?” He asks after you toy with the jutting, backswept spurs that become his extra limbs in his giant wasp form. Thinking that they look almost like ribs spearing out from his arm joints. Don’t these get in the way? There’s another one at each of his knees, or what passes for them. His legs don’t bend the way yours do, every bit of your mate alien and strange. But no longer as intimidating as he’d been when you’d first met him.
• ‘Because I wanted to,’ you answer, fingers tracing the stripes on his thigh plating. And you gasp when he shifts over you, pressing his face against your throat, mandibles brushing skin as he pins you flat. “Touch,” he growls, the word a demand and plea. And you’re softly complaining that he’s heavy as your hands slide over his back, his helm, antenna, and wings. Has anyone besides you ever touched him like this? Not shied away from the strangeness of his chosen altmode? Arms wrapping around you, he hugs you to him, venting to pull your scent deep. Begging you to keep touching him with those kind hands. To never stop.
• Letting your head fall back to stare at the ceiling as he lays on you, making it hard to breathe, you keep sliding your palms over him. He’s keeping most of his weight off of you, bracing over you on his forearms and the tips of his peds. Because he knows he’s too heavy to lay on you. Making you wonder again how much of the way he acts is a learned defense. Some sort of assumption that if he acts dumb, he won’t be hurt. That people will ignore him. Leave him alone. That maybe he’s done it so long, he can’t stop at this point. Or maybe his self esteem is so trashed he believes the act. Really believes he’s stupid because he’s heard it so much. “You guys have a written language, right?” You ask and he hums in agreement, mandibles brushing your neck, feeling his inner mouth and his wet glossa on your skin. That aphrodisiac in his saliva sinking into you until it’s hard to focus. “I want you to teach me the alphabet,” you manage as heat kindles in you, need flaring and he’s shifting over you, straddling your waist, wings out to catch the light and throw prisms and rainbows on your skin.
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vintagehomecollection · 4 months ago
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Creating a three-dimensional effect, the floral tracery of handblocked paper covers the walls and ceiling of the dining room.
Southern Interiors, 1988
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dewdropdinosaur · 1 month ago
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A Truth Universally Denied - CH. 5
Lucifer x F. Reader Masterlist Dedicated to my wonderful friend @reinthechaosdeer
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When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)
It was a particularly humid Tuesday in Hell when Y/N awoke, the sun beating down in harsh red rays upon the damned souls of the Underworld. The clouds of a week past were long gone, having moved on or simply disappeared; no one was quite sure. Many sinners who had never shot up a prayer in life now did so furiously in death in hopes for rain or a small tad of shade. 
Though this excruciating heat did not bother Y/N in the slightest. Seated at her oak vanity, comb in hand, she was grateful for whatever spell Alastor had cast to make the manor exist in a crisp state of coolness. A kindness, perhaps. Or control disguised as comfort. With Alastor, it was always difficult to tell the difference. But whatever the reason for his generosity, Y/N decided to take it in stride for the good it was doing her. 
After dressing in a pale blue linen gown and securing her hair with pins carved like tiny black feathers, Y/N made her way through the winding corridors to the ballroom. She had chosen a linen frock today, the fabric being more than breathable with the warmer weather. The hem had small feathers embroidered and fanned upwards in a unique display, and Y/N had become quite fond of the gown. It was certainly the nicest she owned. 
The ballroom had quickly become her favorite place to hold afternoon lessons. The floors were gleaming white marble, veined with golden cracks. High vaulted ceilings towered above, supported by columns inlaid with vineyard imagery.. The windows, tall, round, and rimmed with iron tracery, looked out onto a stone balcony that overlooked the outer reaches of Pride. From here, one could see down into the mist of the hills and valleys.
“Left, then right. Yes, good! Now spin and face the back wall,” Y/N instructed, clapping her hands gently in encouragement.
Charlie gave a determined grunt, her Pompadour leather boots* skimming the polished floor as she turned with stiffly posed arms. The hem of her light red dress fanned out as she tried to remember each position, her brow furrowed in earnest concentration.
“How does anyone remember all these steps to so many dances?” she huffed, halting her spin and plopping her hands on her hips. “It is exhausting!”
Y/N bit back a laugh, stepping forward with grace learned through years of teaching stubborn orphans and now spoiled nobility. “Well, I guess… practice makes perfect. I promise, one more try, then we can take a break, my dear.”
Charlie sighed dramatically but took her position once more, cheeks flushed with both effort and pride. The girl’s posture had improved immensely, Y/N noted with satisfaction. Shoulders set, head held high, feet gliding more than stumbling. In a place that rarely offered peace, this small moment felt like a victory.
Y/N crossed to the phonograph nestled beside a column, winding it gently to play a soft minuet**. The room, for all its cold elegance, had begun to feel lived in. With the social season starting so soon, Y/N hoped Lucifer might host a coming-of-age ball for his daughter. Though the odds remained grimly slim. 
The minuet lilting from the phonograph echoed within the marble walls, nearly singing off the thick stone like a choir. Y/N kept time with a gentle sway of her hand, guiding Charlie’s steps as they moved in slow tandem. The girl’s face was a study in concentration, her dark eyes tracking each motion with the intensity of a soldier preparing for battle
“One, two, three! Good, that’s it! Now pivot,” Y/N encouraged, her voice low and melodic as a violin’s hum.
Charlie twirled, sensing a rhythm. However, a tad too enthusiastically, and as her foot came down, just slightly off rhythm, it landed squarely on the hem of Y/N’s skirt. The fabric gave a sharp rip, followed by a stuttering halt in both music and movement. Y/N stumbled back half a pace, blinking as the lower portion of her linen gown tore from the waist seam and trailed loosely across the floor like a wounded banner.
“Oh! Miss Y/N, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean…I wasn’t watching where…oh no, I ruined it!” Charlie gasped, mortified. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. “That was your nice skirt!”
Y/N looked down at the damage, then up at the panicked child. A moment passed, silent, and then, she smiled.
“My dear,” she said warmly, reaching to kneel beside Charlie, “it is only a skirt. I’ve torn worse in far less noble causes.”
Charlie blinked. “You’re… not mad?”
“Of course not,” Y/N said, brushing a strand of hair from Charlie’s flushed face. “Learning is messy. Life is messy. What matters is that you were trying your best. Besides, I’ll simply mend it later. Every good woman ought to know how to mend, which reminds me to teach you. And I ask Husk for a needle and thread and bribe him with a bottle.”
That earned a small giggle, shaky but sincere. Charlie leaned into her, arms wrapping around Y/N’s shoulders in a quick, impulsive hug. “You’re really the nicest person I know,” she whispered. “Even when I ruin things.”
Y/N hugged her back, the torn fabric forgotten as she felt the truth of that small, unguarded sentence settle warmly in her chest. “You don’t ruin things, Charlie,” she whispered back. “You’re still learning. That’s all.”
And if a figure occasionally seen in the upper balconies lingered longer than necessary, if golden eyes watched the dancing girl and her governess with unreadable intensity, well, that was not spoken of.
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Y/N stood in the center of her chamber, a torn skirt held in one hand, her wardrobe chest gaping open like a mouth mid-scream. Piles of muted linen and fraying muslin were strewn across the bed and floor, each dress more disheveled or faded than the last.
“This one’s missing half its hem… and this one looks like it’s been eaten ,” she muttered, holding up a tea-stained bodice with clear bite marks, likely the doing of some moth or mischievous demon child during her time at the orphanage. She flung it aside with a groan. 
“Lovely.”
She paced back to her armoire***, rifling through with increasing frustration. Her wardrobe had never been extensive, but the wear of travel and daily use was beginning to show. And with today’s torn skirt now lying helplessly beside her boots, she was running out of passable options. With a sigh that came from the soles of her tired feet, she dropped onto the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.
“Maybe no one will notice,” she mumbled into her palms. “Or maybe I’ll just blend into the curtains and vanish from sheer embarrassment.”
A sudden knock at the door startled her upright. She quickly pulled a shawl across her lap, trying to mask the chaos of her appearance. “Come in?”
The door creaked open, and there stood Lucifer Morningstar, framed in warm hallway light, his golden eyes less haughty tonight, and his posture, though still regal, was unmistakably hesitant.
“Your Highness,” Y/N said, quickly rising to her feet with a deep, instinctive curtsy.
He held up a hand. “No need for that.” His voice was smooth, though he cleared his throat immediately after, as if surprised by his own nervousness. “I, ah… spoke with Charlie.”
Y/N blinked. “Is everything alright?”
Lucifer stepped further into the room, hands folded behind his back in a gesture far too stiff to be casual. “Yes, yes. Quite. She mentioned, however, your… wardrobe. Or rather, the lack of one.” His eyes swept briefly over the discarded garments and torn fabric. “And I must admit, I had taken note of myself. You’ve been resourceful, but…”
Her cheeks burned. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. These are simply all I have. I…” she began quickly, heart dropping in her chest.
He raised a finger, not scolding, but soft. “Don’t. You’ve nothing to apologize for. You’ve done more for Charlie in a matter of weeks than others have in months. That alone warrants more than words.” 
He took a breath. “I’d like to finance any clothing you require. And I’ve arranged for you to visit one of the best seamstresses in all of Pride. His shop is in the center of town. Consider it… overdue.”
Y/N stared at him, momentarily robbed of language. Her lips parted once, twice, but nothing came out but air. Eventually, she managed a breathless, “Thank you. Truly—I don’t know what to say. That’s… beyond generous.”
Lucifer shrugged slightly, though he refused to meet her gaze. “It’s nothing. You’ve earned it. And I’d hate to see my daughter’s governess looking so… threadbare. ”
Her chest ached with an emotion she wasn’t quite prepared to name. Impulsively, she moved toward him, hands half-lifted as if to embrace him with the utmost gratitude, only to remember herself. Alastor’s warnings echoed through the corridors of her mind. She stepped back, folding her hands in front with a timid smile.
Lucifer offered a faint nod, then turned on his heel and exited. “The carriage will be ready in the morning,” he said over his shoulder, his voice just shy of flustered.
When the door shut gently behind him, Y/N stood frozen for a moment, barely breathing. Then, with the sort of giddy restraint only a proper lady could possess, she let out a small squeal, flopped onto her bed, and kicked her feet in a fluttering frenzy of delighted disbelief. A dress. A seamstress. A gift. From him . And not even a single word from Alastor could spoil this.
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The next morning dawned warm and sticky, as most mornings in Pride tended to be, though the oppressive heat of the previous day was somewhat dulled. A light mist still clung to the cobbled streets as the Morningstar carriage rolled smoothly through the capital, pulled by two six-eyed, bone-plated horses. Guided by Husk, who wore a battered coat and his usual expression of deep-seated resentment for all things cheerful, Y/N soon learned he had an affinity for the equestrian. 
Y/N sat quietly inside, the cushions far too plush for someone in a cotton blouse and borrowed gloves. She clutched a small velvet coin purse containing an absurd amount of money, far more than she had ever held, and stared out at the spiraling towers of Pride’s merchant district. She had never shopped like this before. Certainly not under the orders of the King of Hell himself. While cost was no longer going to be an issue, Y/N still hesitated to spend a single coin from the pouch. It would be taking advantage of a wealthy widower, a man she respected. Her employer, nonetheless. No, she would spend diligently. Only the necessities. 
When they arrived, the storefront was tucked neatly between a perfumery and a café, marked only by a hanging sign shaped like a golden stiletto. The letters spelled out ANGEL’S THREADS in swooping cursive. Husk helped her down from the carriage, muttering something about not tripping in front of the ‘entire damned city’.
The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, and the scent of incense and rose petals flooded Y/N’s senses. The boutique was rich with velvet swatches, crystal chandeliers, and shelves of silk gloves in every shade imaginable. And then, from behind a beaded curtain, emerged the seamster himself.
“Hello, chuckaboo****!” purred the voice, smooth and confident.
Y/N’s eyes widened slightly at the sight. A tall, lithe spider demon with snowy white fur touched by blush-pink streaks emerged from the back curtain. His four arms were adorned with bracelets, and his ensemble, a white corset vest, black lace pants, and golden pumps, clung to his shapely form with dramatic perfection. 
“Welcome to the shop! My name is Angel Dust.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dust. My name is Y/N…”
“Oh my stars, who is this brooding beast?” Angel cooed.
Angel’s eyes lowered, spotting Husk, his lashes fluttering shamelessly. To Y/N’s astonishment, Husk, usually so gruff and disinterested, blushed through his fur and dipped into a quick, almost formal bow, pressing a kiss to Angel’s gloved hand. “Husk,” he muttered, then quickly turned to Y/N. “I’ll be… waiting in the carriage.”
Y/N let out a short laugh, shaking her head, extending her hand for Angel to shake. “That’s Husk. He’s the estate’s head gardener.”
Angel watched him retreat with an amused smirk, his eyes lingering a bit too long on Husk’s tail as it swayed out the door. “If that is the help, I may just start burying roses in hopes he’ll come dig me out.”
“I honestly believe he might just leave you in the ground.”
“Oh, honey, I’ll behave. Mostly .” Angel winked. “Now! You must be the little governess everyone’s been whispering about. Come, come. Let’s make you divine.”
The next hour passed in a flurry of fabrics and half-teasing banter. Y/N was helped in and out of fitting gowns, each more luxurious than the last. Crimson velvets, ivory lace, gilded tulle that shimmered like candlelight. She tried to protest when Angel laid a particularly decadent red gown across her frame, complete with golden embroidery and off-shoulder sleeves.
“I couldn’t wear something like this,” she murmured, half-drowned in the fabric. “It’s too much. I’m just…”
“A woman with a rich, smitten patron who’s footing the bill,” Angel interrupted, deadpan. “You might as well look like someone worth sinning over.”
Y/N flushed. “That’s not…I mean, he’s not…”
Angel only raised a well-manicured brow. “Mmhmm.”
Eventually, they found alignment: five elegant gowns suitable for dinners or formal occasions, and five more practical frocks made of breathable muslin and durable but fine-woven wool. Several pairs of shoes, gloves, and undergarments were added discreetly, though Angel made it known, with a dramatic sigh, that he would have selected far spicier pieces were it not for the client’s “governess aesthetic.”
By the time Y/N returned to the carriage, her arms were full of parcels wrapped in rose-pink tissue paper. She turned to Angel, heart still fluttering from the entire ordeal. 
“Thank you. You were… incredibly kind.”
Angel fluttered his lashes. “Oh, sweetheart, I was just getting started. Come see me if that stiff noble of yours ever gives you trouble. I’ll stitch you a scandal.”
He winked once at Y/N, and again as Husk opened the door for her. Y/N didn’t miss the low growl in Husk’s throat, nor the way he grumbled, scratching the back of his neck with a shy wave as he glanced away, ears twitching.
The ride back to the manor was quiet, save for the occasional bump in the road and the sound of tissue crinkling. Y/N held the packages in her lap like rare artifacts, cheeks still warm. She had never had things like this. Certainly never been seen like this. Not until now. She had spent more than she had previously agreed to herself, yet close to half of the purse’s contents still remained. She supposed spending a tad more than planned was good; better garments would last her longer than cheaper fabrics. Angel was correct, perhaps. Maybe some finery would do her some good. Y/N was already beyond grateful for everyone’s generosity, but having nicer clothes may allow her to better Charlie’s image. Make it seem as though she was under real tutelage. 
Not that Y/N doubted her skills, she was still highly regarded in the teaching world. Sought after by tens of families before the Moringstars. Yet her poor state often left something to be desired by those families whose image was so important. It did make Y/N wonder what Angel meant by ‘The little governess everyone’s been whispering about.’. Hopefully, she had brought no slander to the family. She had tried her hardest to be the utmost careful about appearance and teachings. If there was any gossip, the new attire should put it to rest. Shouldn’t it?
The carriage pulled to a slow halt in front of the manor, horses bellowing a slight cry at Husk tugging the reins. Without a second thought, enraptured inside her own mind, Y/N stepped out of the carriage only to be met with the grating voice of the Head of Staff. 
“My, my. What have we here?”
FOOTNOTES———————————————————————————
*Pompadour leather boots = A late Edwardian-inspired lace-up boot made of very soft leather. **Minuet = A slow, stately ballroom dance for two in triple time, popular especially in the 18th century. ***Armoire = An armoire and a wardrobe are both types of large, freestanding storage cabinets used for clothing, but they differ in size, design, and sometimes function. Armoires tend to be larger and more ornate, sometimes with intricate carvings, and are often used for more than just clothing (e.g., linens, electronics, or books) ****Chuckaboo = An affectionate term for a good friend, similar to "toots" or "buddy". I knew I couldn't let Angel use Toots because it wouldn't fit the period, so I found the closest slang I could.
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eridanidreams · 28 days ago
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WIP Wednesday
I haven't gone to sleep yet, therefore it is still Wednesday.
And I managed to get some words in on Odysseus Gambit, go me!
tagging: @bearlytolerant, @silurisanguine, @aro-pancake, @fangbangerghoul, @atonalginger, @aislingdmdt, @fshenkoescape, @ninjaofnaps, @lisa-and-shadow, @a-cosmic-elf, @thatsgoodsquishy0, @hockeydemon42, @fomagranfalloon, @violenceandviolets, @therealgchu, @staticpallour, @artemis-crimson, @genesisarclite and @constellation2330
from the wip chapter...
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«Situation?»
«Targets on the move. Heading for the south entrance.» Multiple additional contacts, each tagged with α, bloomed on the CRT. They spread out in a well-rehearsed pattern, ready to ambush the unsuspecting intruders.
«Acknowledged. Patrol is in position on the upper floor.»
«Confirmed. Estimate contact in sixty seconds.»
«Acknowledged. Patrol out.»
---
Adam couldn’t suppress the shiver rolling down his spine. The cracked and battered ceiling, trash-covered floors, fallen cabinets and shelves, debris-clogged doorways—even the damp chill of the air—reminded him uncomfortably of Panchaea. Panic shivered at the edge of his thoughts—a tidal wave poised to crash down on him, to drown him in its anti-light. He forced himself to match each deliberate step with an equally deliberate breath. As long as he was moving, he was breathing and not drowning, and that meant that he was alive and not being crushed beneath concrete and sea-water. Step. The NVGs displayed his surroundings in pale blue monochrome. Step. The dust mask blocked some scent, but what got through was heavy with rot and rust without a trace of salt. Step. Something crumpled beneath his boot with a faint, glassy pop. Step. Across the room, slow, deliberate footfalls echoed his. He was not alone here; for a moment, his misgivings were entirely forgotten in simple gratitude for her presence anchoring him to the here and now. Step. With each step, each controlled breath, the fear receded. Now get your goddamn head in the game. He took a deep breath, shoving the last of his disquiet where it wouldn’t interfere. He gave his companion a quick glance, but she was focused on her own progress and gave no sign of having noticed his… moment. Lucky for him.
They made their way deeper into the building, picking their way through the broken scattered equipment. Peeling paint draped over a half-torn, yet disturbingly cheerful poster of a man on a forklift backing into another man. It surprised him that something as fragile as paper had survived at all, and yet there it was. The inner rooms still had some protection from the elements, and the ambient light grew steadily dimmer as they ventured deeper. By the time they reached one of the inner factory floors, the light intensification could no longer keep up. “Switching to thermals,” he subvocalized.
“Copy.” Her footsteps fell silent.
The touch of his finger shifted the display from pale blue to grayscale, and his surroundings took on a new clarity. A quick sweep showed nothing out of the ordinary—for an abandoned, decaying electronics factory. He glanced up at the ceiling; cracks zigzagged darkly in jagged patterns. Adam frowned. Were the faint traceries of heat that crawled along some of those cracks anomalies? His instincts said ‘no’; the faint scrape of metal against metal, as loud as a shout to his enhanced hearing, confirmed it. “Ambush!” he shouted, throwing himself behind a rusted-out desk a split-second before gunfire shattered the quiet and stitched through the air where he’d just been. Sloane dove beneath a half-fallen shelf; it was scant cover, and she let out a pained grunt as a bullet found a gap.
Sloane swore. “They’re shooting through the ceiling,” she said tightly, as another hail of fire spanged off their hasty protection.
Fresh bullet holes studded the ceiling like bright stars, and the cracks were growing before Adam’s eyes. “How much more you think that ceiling can take?” It was a crazy idea, but they were low on options.
“Bring the fucker down,” she snarled. Metal creaked as she shifted, unslinging her assault rifle.
He used his HUD to paint a rough oval on the ceiling, then threw it over to hers. “On three…”
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ivysb · 6 months ago
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Gothic Libraries (6 of 10):
John Rylands Library
Manchester, England
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Photo by Michael D Beckwith on Unsplash
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The John Rylands Library in Manchester, an architectural masterpiece designed by Basil Champneys, boasts a Victorian Neo-Gothic style with its towering battlements, traceried windows, and octagonal turrets. The red sandstone facade gives it a fortress-like appearance, while the grand interiors, featuring high ceilings, stained-glass windows, and intricate details, evoke a sense of stepping into a different era, often described as reminiscent of Hogwarts.
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geniusboyy · 4 months ago
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Covenants and other Provisions
Chapter 37
Dogs
        Ford opened his eyes.
     He was sitting at a desk, arms crossed over his chest as though he’d nodded off there. He sat above an open notebook. The words on the page swam, rearranging themselves, curling in on each other like living things. He blinked. They slithered back into place, but not quite. He looked up. The desk was in front of a window, the afternoon light cutting through the glass in thick, golden ribbons. Outside, the landscape was familiar, startlingly so—he knew that line of trees, the curve of the path that led down toward the library, the pale stucco buildings beyond.
     He turned his head, slowly. The movement made the air ripple, as if the whole room were underwater. It was his old dorm—unmistakable. The same twin beds, the same sagging bookshelves, the same cheap desk lamp that cast its weak yellow light over the same clutter. It even smelled the same—dust, old paper, the faint bitterness of long-dried coffee stains. But the walls shuddered imperceptibly, their edges indistinct, as though they were breathing. The hum of the fluorescent light in the ceiling wavered unpredictably, rising and falling in pitch like a distant siren. The wallpaper—had there been wallpaper?—twitched in his periphery, its faded pattern writhing as if trying to peel itself free.
     He lifted his hand. The motion left a tracery of afterimages, like he had more fingers than he should—and he already had plenty to begin with. He turned his palm over, watching the skin ripple, the veins beneath it flex and contract as if something was moving under the surface. He exhaled, blinking harder, colors behind his lids exploded into fractals each time he did so.
        “Man,” he muttered. “I’m bombed.”
     From the corner of the room, a voice, lazy and amused: “You’re tellin’ me.”
        Ford turned.
     Bill was sprawled across his bed—or, his old bed—lounging casually over the rumpled sheets, looking as if he had always belonged there. He was dressed loosely—an old band tee, haphazardly cropped, along with a green pair of shorts that were far too big for him—Ford recognized them, they were his. At least they were about ten years ago. 
     Bill had an almost feline contentment in the way he stretched out over the twin sized mattress. He grinned at Ford, bright and sharp, like he knew something Ford didn’t. Like he was waiting for Ford to figure it out.
        “Hiya, Fordsy,” he said.
     Ford rubbed his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms into his sockets with a quiet, almost desperate force. His vision bloomed in waves of color—violets bled into reds, electric greens spiraling through the darkness, swirling and merging together. But when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The room still wavered at the edges, its walls trembling, jittering with some hidden life beneath the surface. And Bill—
        Bill was still there, laying on that bed. wearing those old clothes.
     “Oh, man,” Ford muttered, his voice distant. He dropped his hands, letting them hang limply at his sides, fingers twitching with a strange, uncoordinated energy. He let out a shaky, breathless laugh, tipping his head back, staring up at the ceiling. It pulsed above him, a slow, rhythmic throb.
        “I’m really, really bombed—”
     Bill snorted, leaning back, propped on his elbows, his gaze flicking around the room. His eye darted from object to object, lips parting slightly as he took it all in.
     “This is wild,” he said, almost to himself. His head tilted, transfixed by the way the bookshelf seemed to bend, the way the lamp cast shadows that didn’t quite align with its light. He reached a hand out toward the air between them, as if testing the density of it. “Everything is so…wiggly.”
     For a moment, Ford allowed the ceiling’s ebb and flow to hold his attention, transfixed on a surreal dance of color and shadow swelling along the patterns of texture stamped into the paint. Yet amid that ephemeral trance, a familiar presence beckoned—an anchor to reality. The worn edges of the notebook on his desk, a silent reminder of the work he’d left unfinished, tugged him back.
     Ford’s hands closed around the edges of the notebook like he just remembered it sitting there. The pages curled slightly under his grip, the ink shimmering, shifting, the words moving as if caught mid-thought. He watched them rearrange themselves, letters and numbers bleeding into new configurations—he recognized them now, the equations, the same he’d been working on just before knocking out. His pulse kicked up. The excitement hit him like a surge of static, buzzing through his fingertips.
     He stood from his desk, turning toward Bill and thrusting the notebook between them.
     “This—wow, this—what a revelation,” Ford said, his voice thin with excitement. “Majorana particles—you are a genius, Bill. And here—” He jabbed a finger at a line of scribbled lines of text. “Recursive logic loops that rebuild themselves—God, it’s—it’s brilliant. Brilliant!”
        Bill hummed. “Glad to be of service.”
     Ford was already flipping through the pages, his thoughts unraveling in a rush of connections, each one more thrilling than the last. Words tumbled out shortly behind, gushing and theorizing. He could see it all—the whole shape of the problem, the elegant symmetry of its solution, the way the universe folded in on itself like a perfect, seamless equation—
        And then—
     Something tugged at him, sharp and insistent. A presence, a weight in the air, an absence where more should have been.
        He faltered.
     His gaze lifted, his trembling hands stilling on the notebook’s pages.
        Bill wasn’t looking at the notebook.
     He wasn’t looking at the shifting, writhing walls or the equations on the page.
        He was looking at Ford.
     Staring at him, his expression balanced between amusement and something quieter, something heavier, something that made Ford’s skin prickle a bit. His golden eye was fixed on Ford’s face, unblinking, unwavering—like Bill was trying to capture something, commit it to memory before it was gone.
        Ford swallowed. His mouth was dry. “What?”
     Bill reached out, took the notebook from Ford’s hands, and—without so much as a glance at its contents—tossed it onto the floor.
     Ford barely had time to process the loss of it before Bill’s fingers curled into the waistband of his pants, hooking in, tugging forward.
     The pull was effortless. Ford barely had time to steady himself before Bill reeled him in, bringing him down onto the mattress beside him.
    Bill shifted, rolling onto his side with the sort of ease that made it seem like he had all the time in the world. His hand drifted up again, fingers threading through Ford’s hair, combing through the tangled strands in long, deliberate strokes. There was something grounding about the motion, something steady in the way his fingers moved—methodical, warm. It smoothed over the static hum in Ford’s skull, dulled the sharp edges of the world around them, settled the air between them just enough to make Ford stay still.
     Bill’s gaze never wavered. That same quiet intensity, something unreadable lurking beneath it, something patient and considerate. His hand traced lower, curling at the nape of Ford’s neck, winding a loose strand of hair around his finger.
     Ford’s breath caught, his pulse skipping, his body betraying him before he could think too much about why.
     “What are you looking at?” The words tumbled out, a half-attempt at humor.
     Bill’s lips twitched at the corners. His thumb brushed absently against the back of Ford’s neck.
        “Your eyes.”
           Ford blinked.
     Bill sat up a little, reaching toward him, fingers grazing the frames of his glasses before carefully sliding them off. He held them for a moment, as if weighing something, as if seeing Ford properly for the first time. “Such a warm shade of blue…”
     Ford felt the heat rise before he could stop it, creeping up his neck, pooling at the tips of his ears. It was ridiculous—he was ridiculous. This whole thing was ridiculous. He let out a short, breathless snicker, somewhere between flustered and exasperated, caught between the sheer absurdity of the moment and the unmistakable weight of it. The way he looked at Ford, the way the light fractured and bent around them like a prism, the way the room seemed to shudder with each breath, that it was this room at all—it was too much.
        And yet, neither of them looked away.
     They just sat there, staring at each other, grinning like idiots, then began laughing—light, breathless, genuine. Neither of them knew why. There was no joke, no real reason—none of it was funny—but everything felt like it was.
     “Are we gonna die?” Bill finally asked, giggling between the words.
     Ford’s snort broke into something close to a wheeze. He glanced around the room. Every time he focused on one spot too long, it twisted, curling at the edges like burnt paper.
     “I have no idea…” Ford admitted. “I don’t think so.” He swallowed, rubbing his hands over his face. “But, whatever this stuff is, it’s fucking strong.”
     Bill hummed in agreement, still grinning. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, and tilted his head closer to Ford’s, like he was about to share some great revelation.
     “I think I’d be okay with it if we did,” he said, light, easy. His smile widened as he looked straight at Ford. “This would be one hell of a last view.”
     Ford felt the flush creep back up his neck. He scoffed, shaking his head. “What’s gotten into you?”
     Bill laughed, bright and careless. “Very potent neurotoxin.”
     Ford let out another chuckle, finally glancing down at his hands, watching the way his fingers seemed to stretch and bend at odd angles. “Right—”
     Ford’s gaze drifted, catching on the hem of Bill’s shirt—the unmistakable frayed edge of an at-home cut job. He pinched it between two fingers, tugging lightly, feeling the roughness of the fabric between his fingertips.
        “You cut it?”
     Bill glanced down, then shrugged, as if the thought barely warranted acknowledgment. “I thought it looked better this way.”
     Ford hummed, letting go, but something else was already pulling at his focus—a sound, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch in the record playing softly in the background. A distortion, a defect, buried beneath the steady hum of the music.
     The moment he tuned in, he recognized it—Pink Floyd’s Animals. Of course. The quintessential band to trip to.
     But this wasn’t just any copy. The warble at the end of each rotation, the slight, familiar stutter in the track—it was distinct, specific.
     It was his record, the one Fiddleford had accidentally dropped years ago. The one that had never played quite right since. They’d listened to it thousands of times, the flaw etched into his memory as clearly as the music itself. It wasn’t something you could fake.
     His eyes flicked back up to Bill, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Have you been listening to my records?”
     Bill stretched out further, all lazy indifference, then lifted his hands. “What can I say? I’m curious.”
     Ford twirled a finger in the air, gesturing loosely at the room around them. “And this? Why my college dorm?”
     Bill just leaned back further, sinking deeper into the pillow propped against the wall. “It seemed appropriate for the occasion.”
      Ford scoffed, “What are you playing at, Cipher?”
     Bill’s expression didn’t shift, but there was something distinctly smug about the way he regarded him, head tilted just slightly, “What?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “Maybe I’m just…interested in better acquainting myself with human experiences,”
     His gaze flickered over Ford, sharp and assessing, like he was peeling back layers. “You seem nervous. Surely I’m not the first special friend you’ve had here.”
     Ford let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he glanced down at the sheets, fingers idly worrying at the fabric. “I never brought anyone over.”
     Bill sucked in a dramatic gasp, pressing a hand to his chest like he’d just heard something truly scandalous before bubbling into laughter. “Didn’t have much luck takin’r home back then, aye, professor?”
     Ford rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I had plenty of opportunities—I just…never really wanted to, I guess.”
     Bill’s expression shifted, the teasing glint in his eye sharpening into something quieter, more curious. He lifted an eyebrow, waiting.
     Ford exhaled, shaking his head like he was trying to untangle the right words. “Not a lot of people struck me as worth the trouble, that’s all.” A pause. “Plus, I was taking 8 classes per semester—I didn’t have time for it anyway.”
     Bill hummed, tilting his head like he wasn’t quite sure whether to be impressed or disappointed. “Tragic,” he mused, reaching out to toy with the cuff of Ford’s sleeve. “All that big, juicy potential—and you wasted it on studying.”
     Ford’s eyes followed the gentle choreography of Bill’s fingers before replying, “All that studying helped me get your attention,” the words laden with pride, yet undeniably vulnerable.
        Bill’s fingers stilled.
     Ford let the words settle, allowing himself a slight, wry smile. “Well worth it, I’d say.”
     Bill met Ford’s gaze as the world came apart around them. The sheets beneath him stretched and melted, shifting like liquid, rippling in ways that defied logic. The walls swayed with a slow, unnatural rhythm, folding in on themselves only to unfurl again, like something alive. And yet—
     Bill remained still, unwavering, a steady anchor amidst it all. A glow clung to his skin—something soft, diffuse, like the last spill of sun before dusk, blurring the edges of him—he looked like a fucking angel.
     Ford couldn’t hold Bill’s stare any longer. He broke first, tipping his head back, pressing a hand over his face as if that could hide him, as if that could shield him from the weight of it all. A laugh slipped out.
        “What?” Bill asked.
     Ford peeked out from between his fingers, the motion slow, uncertain. His lips quirked up at the corner, lopsided and sheepish.
     “Nothing,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re just…I don’t know.”
     Before Ford could retreat further into himself, Bill’s hand reached out and gently seized his wrist, reclaiming that stray fragment that Ford had been trying to hide. Another breathy laugh escaped Ford—a sound that danced between amusement and wistful resignation. “You got that look on your face,” he said.
     Bill’s lips twitched in a teasing, uncertain reply. “What look?”
     Ford tilted his head, his own smile deepening, half-lidded eyes heavy with something knowing, something devoted. “Like you’ve got this joke,” he said, “and you’re keeping it all to yourself.”
     And before he could think, before he could talk himself out of it, he was reaching forward, fingers brushing against the warmth of Bill’s skin. His thumb traced the dip of his cheek, slow and thoughtful, following the curve.
     Ford hummed, his touch feather-light. “It’s these dimples,” he mused, voice just above a whisper. His thumb pressed a little firmer, coaxing the shape from beneath Bill’s skin, waiting for the exact moment his grin threatened to deepen. “They always give you away.”
     For a long moment, Bill simply looked at him—no words, no gestures, just a silent, searching gaze. The room swayed, caught in a slow undulation. The floor stretched further away before reeling back in, the walls inhaling and exhaling with every breath. The entire world had been set adrift, melting at the seams—yet Bill remained the one constant—a fixed point in Ford’s uncertain universe. The only thing he could touch without feeling it slip through his fingers.
     Ford felt the grin before he saw it—the way it shifted under his fingertip, the way the shape of Bill’s face changed as it took over, spreading, curling, sharpening.
        “I like the way you look at me,” Bill said.
     He leaned into the touch, pressing gently against Ford’s palm, the motion intimate in its simplicity. His gaze flicked over Ford’s face, watching the minute changes in his expression, like he was reading every fleeting thought, every tremor of emotion. 
        “I like to look at you,” Ford replied simply.
     Bill shifted, his body moving closer to Ford’s, just slightly. His voice came lower, almost daring. “What else do you like?”
     Ford laughed, shaking his head, something incredulous but amused in the sound. “Oh, come on, Bill, you already—”
     “I want to hear it,” Bill interrupted, his voice softer now, but insistent.
     For a moment, Ford hesitated, his smile flickering at the edges, something bashful creeping in again despite the haze of warmth. But then, after a beat, he gave in, his voice softer this time.
        “The way you smell.”
     Bill raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “The way I smell?”
        “Yeah…”
     A deep sound, a mix of delight and intrigue, rumbled in Bill’s throat. “And how do I smell?” he pressed, his tone invitingly earnest.
     Ford paused, lost in the quiet intensity of the moment. Then, he slowly leaned forward, shifting until his nose lightly brushed the side of Bill’s face, near the curve of his ear. It wasn’t a fragrance that could be named—nothing sharp or confined to a label. It was just him—the scent that had embedded itself in Ford’s mind, coloring the spaces between encounters like this one. 
     Ford breathed him in again, slower this time, absorbing every nuance. The scent was quiet yet electric. Soft and calming, but there was still this sharpness to it, something spicy and unexpected.
     “Like heat lightning,” Ford said, thoughtful, lingering. He let his nose follow the curve of Bill’s jaw—feeling the subtle hitch in Bill’s breath and the way the world seemed to pause with it.
     “Province, toward the end of summer,” Ford continued, his voice low. “And pepper.”
     Ford lingered there, his breath skimming over the curve where Bill’s neck met his shoulder, his eyes tracing the plane of skin—the secret that belonged only to them.
     He couldn’t help himself. The scent, the warmth, the way Bill fit so easily beneath his touch—it all pulled him in, irresistible. His lips ghosted over Bill’s skin, pressing soft, aimless kisses along the curve of his throat, savoring the taste, the quiet give of flesh beneath his mouth.
     Bill hummed, tilting his head back just enough to bare his throat—an offering, an invitation. Then, his voice softened, taking on a more meditative lilt. “You think I would’ve been an exception?” he asked.
     Ford stilled, his breath still warm against Bill’s skin.
     “If we’d met back then,” Bill continued, unhurried, letting the words settle, “would you have found me worth the trouble?”
     Ford chuckled, the sound warm, indulgent, his lips skimming over the pulse thrumming beneath Bill’s skin. “This hypothetical is contingent on so many variables—”
     “Answer the question,” Bill drawled, playful, insistent.
     Ford grinned against him, unable to help it. He let the bridge of his nose trail along the hollow beneath Bill’s jaw, breathing him in again—like he was afraid of ever forgetting it.
     “I think,” he murmured, “you would have made yourself the exception.” 
     At that, Ford’s lips connected to Bill’s skin again in a gentle kiss—a soft press that elicited a quiet, breathy response from Bill. “You do something to me that…I don’t understand.” Ford continued. “Something I didn’t know was even possible, so—yes, if the stars had aligned that way, and I’d known you there—then…I don’t think I would’ve been able to help myself.”
     Bill let out a low, pleased hum, his fingers winding lazily through Ford’s hair as if drawing comfort from their closeness. Ford could feel it—this moment, adrift in the dream’s strange, weightless haze, as though it might stretch on forever if they let it.
        And yet—
           A new question lingered.
     A few beats passed. Then, Ford shifted, just enough to lift his head, his gaze dropping to his own hand as it traced absentmindedly over the bare skin of Bill’s abdomen in slow, idle patterns.
        “Bill?” 
           “Hm?”
     Ford hesitated. His lips parted, then pressed together again. He chewed the inside of his cheek, as if working through the shape of the words before finally letting them spill out.
     “If we achieve what we’ve set out to do…” He ventured, his touch stilling against Bill’s skin. “If we bridge the gap—bring you into my world…”
        Something caught in his throat. He swallowed.
           “Will it still… be like this?”
     Bill looked up at him, a million things flickering behind his eyes—thoughts Ford would never be able to fully grasp, not even if he spent a lifetime trying. There was something knowing in his expression, something amused, something unbearably fond, something—
     But Ford never got the chance to parse it.
        Because Bill didn’t answer—just closed the space between them.
     The kiss landed firmly—intensely, irrevocably. But it wasn’t hurried—it wasn’t the kind of thing that burned fast and left nothing behind. No, it was something else entirely. Intentional. Certain. Like Bill had decided something, forged it in silence—sealing it between them.
     Ford exhaled sharply, the breath stolen from him as Bill’s grip tightened, pulling him down into the mattress.
     The record on the turntable crackled, the warbled rotation looping over itself, but Ford barely heard it now. Everything had narrowed to this—way Bills fingers pulled through his hair, the way their bodies fit together without hesitation, how uncertainty dissolved between shared breath. 
     He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, suspended in the dream’s strange, weightless haze—lips moving, tongues dragging, hands searching—parting only to find each other again,
and again,
again.   
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[Read Entire Work Here]
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lastconcourse · 2 years ago
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1: Combine Sunlight with Soil. Weld the yellow light from a sunrise, in a Rock's moss chlorophyll, into the cold soil and a root's tracery thatched beneath a Cardinal's branch to: Unfold aisles with posts colored and of gold-glow rhizome, and soffits to ceiling the panels papered with brown gloam.
2: Wrap newsprint paper around pink transmissions from a sunset sky, so that you unfold catwalks that, full with shelves of pink folders, hold autonomous dust.
Two kinematic poem recipes
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moethh · 3 months ago
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Hi, I first found you through your Les Mis posts but the gothic architecture side of your blog really delighted me as well. I would love to hear your thoughts on Saint Barbara's Church in Kutná Hora. I think it's one of the most unique gothic buildings in my country.
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WOAH!!!!! well first: thank you!!!! glad my gothicposting delights you XD
second! OH MY GOSHH!! THIS IS A BEAUTIFUL CHURCH!!! the roof is especially interesting as well!
additionally!!:
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i LOVE these ceiling vaults!! these aren't quite fan vaults and i can't find what specific type of vaulting this is, but i LOVE IT! i do enjoy a nice ceiling
i also love the interior oh wow.. the windows are so so so beautiful (the tracery.. the colors..... explodes)
EDIT: I DON'T KNOW WHY IT DIDN'T LET ME UPLOAD THE PICTURE OF THE INTERIOR ☹ just. uh. imagine it, i suppose
anyway!!! thank you!!!!!
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focusonarchitecture · 4 months ago
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Day 65 — Cathedral Room
The stunning Cathedral Room of the former Stock Exchange Building exudes Gothic Revival grandeur with its vaulted limestone ceiling, granite corinthian columns, limestone walls with tracery and blind niches, marble dado and prismatic glass tiled floor.
Designed in 1891 by architect William Pitt it reflects the prosperity of Melbourne during the late 19th century before the 1890s financial crash.
RBA Architects and Conservation Consultants were engaged by Nomad Group to provide heritage and conservation advice and prepare a Heritage Impact Statement to accompany the permit application for the adaptation of the former Stock Exchange Hall into the contemporary restaurant and bar, Reine and La Rue.
Photo: 2025
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etruatcaelum · 2 years ago
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[ @firestormmaidenanddragon | venus ]
Salem is not angry.
The blistering seed of anger that had germinated in her chest when the serrated edges of the intrusion carved a fresh incision around Summer Rose has hollowed out into a deathless, lightless hatred. She does not react in the slightest to the glistering air, the traceries of gold limning all the furniture, even as the intense glow stings; charred-black smoke pours from her skin, and she stands rooted to the spot, burning gaze pinned to the ceiling.
Her fingers curl ever so slowly into fists. Every shallow breath comes as a splinter of glass piercing the lungs. A frisson of tension runs down her spine. "What," she says, the word falling like a stone slab, "do you want."
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emblematicemblazer · 2 years ago
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World building and theories of Engage
Elusia's architecture
Elusia’s architecture is a mixture of Gothic, Romanesque and Perpendicular Gothic and has the following features:
Large, grandiose stained glass windows
Pointed arches
Intricate decoration
Pinnacles and spires
Rib vaults
Flying buttresses
Destinea Cathedral is inspired by York Minster, England. The grandeur of the building makes it a magnificent setting for the first time Alear meets Sombron. It also demonstrates the ingenuity and skill of Elusia's artisans. Masons would have been responsible for the ornate stone carving and creating the blocks for the walks.The roof is wooden and supported by wooden frames which the carpenters would be responsible for. Both the lancet arch windows and The rose window would have been the work of glaziers, finally painters would apply the finishing touches.
All the features such as the stained glass windows, the screens, the organ and the altars are all designed to add to the splendour of the building. 
The shape of the building has great significance, it is in the cruciform or cross shaped design to symbolise religion. Statues of dragons seem to reference the Divine Dragon design. It makes me wonder if Elusia used to worship Divine Dragons or if earlier Fell Dragons were more skin to their Divine counterparts.
Elusia Palace is inspired by Westminster, in particular the central lobby. This is important because it serves as the political centre of Westminster in the same way, it serves as a centre for political intrigue, lobbying and backstabbing in Elusia. It has a vaulted ceiling, the panels between the vaults runs are decorated in glass mosaic floral emblems and heraldic symbols. The style is Perpendicular Gothic as can be seen by the large windows, arched top panelling, straight lines in tracery and four central arches. 
Givre Port is inspired by Dover. Just like Dover Port, Gives serves as the major port and the ‘lock and key of Elusia'. It is where most military ships sail from and most trade takes place. It is where Ivy suggests gathering intelligence on the enemy's activities. There are several forts for defence. The houses are known as Wealden houses. They feature timber frames and a married upper floor. Inside each would have a central hall and a variety of other rooms. 
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piyush0065 · 3 months ago
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The World of Gothic Architecture
The World of Gothic Architecture
When you step into a medieval cathedral or gaze upon a castle’s intricate stonework, you’re likely witnessing the timeless beauty of gothic architecture. This remarkable style, which dominated European design from the 12th to the 16th centuries, continues to captivate architects, historians, and travelers around the world. Characterized by soaring spires, pointed arches, and intricate stained glass windows, gothic architecture is more than just a style — it’s a testament to human creativity and spiritual devotion.
Gothic architecture first emerged in France during the mid-1100s, marking a distinct shift from the heavy, fortress-like Romanesque buildings that preceded it. The architects of the time sought to create structures that reached toward the heavens, symbolizing a closer connection to the divine. This aspiration led to innovations such as ribbed vaults, flying buttresses, and slender columns — all hallmarks of gothic architecture. These features allowed buildings to soar to new heights while flooding interiors with colorful, ethereal light from massive stained glass windows.
Some of Europe’s most iconic landmarks are shining examples of gothic architecture. Notre-Dame de Paris, for instance, is famous for its imposing façade, sculptural details, and the haunting beauty of its gargoyles. Similarly, Chartres Cathedral boasts some of the finest stained glass in the world, a defining characteristic of gothic architecture that transformed sacred spaces into places of light and storytelling. These masterpieces reflect the architectural ambition and artistic devotion that defined the medieval era.
One of the most striking aspects of gothic architecture is its focus on verticality. Builders designed structures that seemed to defy gravity, with tall spires and narrow columns drawing the eye upward. This vertical emphasis was not merely aesthetic; it carried profound spiritual meaning. In an age when religion shaped every aspect of daily life, gothic architecture offered a physical and symbolic path from the earthly to the divine.
Beyond cathedrals and churches, gothic architecture found its way into civic buildings, castles, and universities. Structures like the Palace of Westminster in London and the University of Cambridge incorporated gothic elements, showcasing the versatility of the style. The pointed arches, elaborate tracery, and decorative stonework that define gothic architecture made it ideal for both sacred and secular settings, enhancing the grandeur and prestige of cities and institutions.
In the 19th century, gothic architecture experienced a remarkable revival. Architects across Europe and North America looked to the medieval past for inspiration, leading to the construction of new gothic-inspired buildings. The Gothic Revival movement preserved many historic structures while infusing modern cities with the romance and mystery of medieval design. Even today, this influence can be seen in churches, universities, and government buildings around the world.
One cannot discuss gothic architecture without acknowledging its intricate detailing. From carved stone saints to terrifying gargoyles perched on rooftops, these decorative elements served both symbolic and practical purposes. Gargoyles, for example, functioned as water spouts while warding off evil spirits. Such embellishments made gothic architecture a visual language, conveying religious messages and folklore to a largely illiterate population.
The enduring appeal of gothic architecture lies in its blend of technical innovation and artistic expression. These buildings stand as marvels of engineering, crafted without modern machinery yet achieving astonishing heights and structural feats. More than that, they evoke an emotional response, their soaring ceilings and luminous stained glass windows stirring awe in those who behold them.
Today, gothic architecture remains one of the most beloved and studied styles in the history of design. It continues to influence contemporary architects and designers who seek to capture its drama, elegance, and sense of wonder. Whether preserved in ancient cathedrals or reimagined in modern structures, gothic architecture endures as a powerful symbol of human ambition, faith, and artistry.
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readjthompson · 4 months ago
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I thought that I'd start the day by writing and editing an entire story. Here's what I came up with (© me, now):
The Air’s Not Supposed to Grow Skin, Right?
by Jeremy Thompson
It all began with a tingling, like static electricity was spilling into my room from everywhere. Spectral tides teased my little hairs to standing.
Then something spitter-sparked in the corner of my vision. Then it seemed as if the floor had belched up great clouds of glitter, or my ceiling had dissolved and that substance was raining down.
But the glitter wasn’t moving at all, only sprouting twinkling filagree, tracery that stretched and interacted until strange corridors were born, even as my walls dissolved to accommodate ’em. Upon those outlines grew bones, then muscles and veins, all interwoven together.
I had just enough time to see patchwork skin—knitted from all human ages and ethnicities, plus all sorts of organisms I’m not quite sure of—slither into existence and constrict around me before all went dark.
There’s now some kind of resonance in the air, nearly mechanical, that makes my ears want to seal over. I’m posting this as fast as I can, then I’ll call 911.
* * *
Update: Okay, I called the cops, and they said they’d send someone to my house, but that was hours ago. I’ll try ’em again soon, I guess.
Shining my phone’s flashlight on that which entombs me, I’ve seen apple sized-segments of flesh opening up into amoeba-shaped orifices, beyond which sounds something sub-audible.
* * *
Update: I can hear ’em now, whispering in English, Japanese, Spanish, and other languages that at least sound human. Prisoners, all. Hundreds of ’em, maybe. But the English slang that some speak is either archaic or unknown to me.
More disturbing are the bellows and grunts that could indicate evolutionary throwbacks and the various shades of buzzing of what could be extraterrestrials. Such suffering in the air; I can hardly hear my own.
Should I shine my flashlight into the holes between my prison and others? Can I risk drawing attention to myself? I called the cops again and they claimed I was pranking ’em. Let me think on this for a while.
* * *
Update: I’ve done it. Somehow, my eyes haven’t dissolved and streamed down my face yet—there are fates far worse in store for ’em, maybe.
I’ve seen It building itself, you see, picking Its victims apart with yards-long, rotating fingers. Choice tidbits—ears, eyes, inner organs, hair, whatever—It incorporates into Its vast Self. The rest, It feeds to ravening shadows—some kind of fucked-up commensalism, I guess.
* * *
Update: The entity, with Its constellation network of eyes framed by peacock feathers, with Its long, spiraling limbs built of impossible jointage—The Continent That Slithers—lets the tension build. The orifices between It and me are widening. By the light of my phone’s screen, I see the lines in my palms and the prints on my fingers begin to eddy.
What did we ever think we were doing? We learned to love each other and assumed that, ultimately, that would be enough? But what will we be when we’re no longer ourselves? Will enough of our minds survive to recognize what’s been done to us? Will our spirits be reknitted, too?
My phone’s dying, anyway. Two percent charge and fading. This’ll be my last update. Honestly, I no longer see the point of ’em.
But, hey, parts of me might visit you soon.
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ultraheydudemestuff · 1 year ago
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Taylor Mansion-Lakehurst
193 Bratenahl Rd.
Bratenahl , OH
James and Elizabeth Fitch purchased 55-acres from George and Hanna Freeman on February 13, 1852. The estate was named “Brookwood” and consisted of their home plus five outbuildings.   Henry and Eliza Clark acquired 20 acres on the Fitch property's western portion on June 24, 1862. They built a country place at the foot of Doan Street (East 105th Street then Bratenahl Road) in 1862.  It included an ornate Federal Italianate style mansion, a carriage house, stables, and even a water tower. The landscape featured a winding driveway through a wooded area, vast green spaces, and lush gardens. The house included gaily striped awnings and vaguely Italianate ornamentation.  Frederick and Mary Louise Kinsman acquired the estate from Eliza Clark on May 10, 1896. Joseph Marvin acquired the property on June 18, 1888.
     Frank and Sarah Robison acquired the twenty-acre property on November 8, 1893. They demolished the Clark home to make room to build their new home. The grand view of the lake from three sides of the house likely closed the deal.  The estate, including a thirty-four room home, a water tower, a carriage house, and a stable, was among the largest in the area. California privet hedges planted in front of the carriage house and stable and along the lake's bank gave the name Villa Hedges. The gracious home, with its beautiful gardens, provided an ideal setting for entertaining friends and associates.
     Sophia Strong Taylor acquired Villa Hedges on October 19, 1915. The estate had been reduced to 19 acres but was still the largest parcel of property in the area. Mrs. Taylor razed the Robison home and commissioned Charles Sumner Schneider to design her 26-room home completed in 1918. Lakehurst was an elegant example of Georgian Revival architecture accented with Neo-Adamesque ornamentation. The façade contained seven bays with double-hung six-over-six windows and departed from symmetry with the substitution of a sizeable round-head window in one bay to illuminate a staircase and the addition of a cameo window in another bay. The doorway on the south elevation contained a six-panel door with tracery fanlight and half-length sidelights. Sophia Taylor constructed an enormous lily pond, a peacock house, and excellent docking facilities. White peacocks roamed her eighteen-acre lawn.
     Edward Francis Hoban, sixth Catholic bishop of Cleveland, acquired Lakehurst on July 7, 1943, through the efforts of Eleanor Strong, Sophia Taylor’s sister-in-law, after the property had languished for seven years. The Bishop added a chapel connected to the west elevation of the main house. The chapel had stained-glass windows from 18th century France, a multi-colored marble floor laid in a geometric pattern, paneled walls painted with floral motifs, and a ceiling mural above the altar. Hoban also constructed a one-hole golf course to indulge his love for playing golf.  Bishop Clarence G. Issenmann was transferred to Cleveland and lived on the estate after Bishop Hoban became ill.
     Sea Gull Inc., represented by attorney Donald D. Smith, acquired the property from James Hickey, Cleveland's bishop, on February 9, 1978. Smith, one of eight bidders, planned to put together a group to finance the remainder to develop the area possibly into a townhouse complex. Lakehurst was listed in the National Register of Historic Places on July 10, 1986.   John J. Carney and Betty Jane Kazen acquired the estate from Sea Gull Inc. on December 28, 1987.
     Carney and architect Robert Corna made a presentation to preserve the Lakehurst mansion by making it a party center and adding a swimming pool and tennis courts for the use of all residents. The plan had duplex townhouses placed in a staggered arrangement, many with a lake view. The plan also included a seven-story mid-rise building situated next to the mansion for 161 living units. The Planning Commission rejected the plan.  John Ferchill and Mike Fratello submitted approved plans for a Lakehurst Planned Residential Development in 1998. The mansion renovation cost proved to be prohibitive, and they demolished the historic mansion in 1999, transforming Lakehurst into a gated community (Lakehurst Drive) of 18 single-family homes off Bratenahl Road in Bratenahl, Ohio.  The Taylor Mansion is still listed on the National Register of Historic Places and has not yet been removed, despite its destruction.
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fabiankiss · 1 year ago
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As part of my Red vs. Blue project, I conceptualised a gothic church, delving into the intricacies of Gothic architecture. This endeavor provided a valuable opportunity to explore diverse shapes and deepen my understanding of architectural style.
During my critical analysis, I immersed myself in Erwin Panofsky's book on Gothic architecture, further enriching my knowledge and influencing my creative direction.
Inspired by this exploration, I decided to continue the gothic theme but approached it from a distinct design and conceptual perspective. My goal was to infuse elements of technology while retaining the essence of traditional architecture, resulting in a creation that seamlessly blends both worlds.
The concept of ‘visual logic’ in gothic design resonates with my understanding of architecture as a form of non-verbal communication, where buildings convey messages through their design. This perspective has profoundly influenced my view of architectural elements as symbols that transcend their practical function as highlighted by Panofksy.
“the shape of canopies, decoration of scoles and archevaults, and, above all, the form of piers and capitals tended to be suppressed in favour of standard types admitting only of such variations as would occur in nature among individuals of one species.”
700-08145902 (no date). https://www.masterfile.com/image/en/700-08145902/interior-with-vaulted-ceiling-ely-cathedral.
Brooks, M. (2023) 'IBM wants to build a 100,000-qubit quantum computer,' MIT Technology Review, 25 May. https://www.technologyreview.com/2023/05/25/1073606/ibm-wants-to-build-a-100000-qubit-quantum-computer/.
Contributeurs aux projets Wikimedia (2014a) Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture française du XIe au XVIe siècle/Construction -- Voûtes. https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Dictionnaire_raisonn%C3%A9_de_l%E2%80%99architecture_fran%C3%A7aise_du_XIe_au_XVIe_si%C3%A8cle/Construction_--_Vo%C3%BBtes.
Contributeurs aux projets Wikimedia (2014b) Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture française du XIe au XVIe siècle/Construction -- Voûtes. https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Dictionnaire_raisonn%C3%A9_de_l%E2%80%99architecture_fran%C3%A7aise_du_XIe_au_XVIe_si%C3%A8cle/Construction_--_Vo%C3%BBtes.
Gothic cathedral main tower in black and white by Visual Motiv (no date). https://pixels.com/featured/gothic-cathedral-main-tower-in-black-and-white-visual-motiv.html.
Katwala, A. (2021) 'Quantum computers are already detangling nature’s mysteries,' WIRED UK, 17 June. https://www.wired.co.uk/article/quantum-computing.
Limited, A. (no date a) An introduction to the study of Gothic architecture, Alamy Images. https://www.alamy.com/an-introduction-to-the-study-of-gothic-architecture-l-winchester-ad-12221235-the-window-has-plate-tracery-consisting-of-a-quatrefoil-in-the-head-and-thetwo-lights-have-trefoil-heads-and-transoms-four-lancet-lights-with-dripstone-mouldings-connectingthem-into-one-window-of-two-divisions-each-of-twolights-with-an-open-quatrefoil-in-the-head-and-a-largerfoliated-opening-in-the-general-head-above-it-is-onlynecessary-to-reduce-the-quantity-of-solid-masonry-tomake-this-a-good-geometrical-window-windows-oftwo-lights-with-a-pierced-quatrefoil-in-the-head-are-progress-of-tracery-i-image340032161.html.
Limited, A. (no date b) vaulted centre painted ceiling roof Ely Cathedral Church Holy  Undivided Trinity principal Diocese County Cambridgeshire Country, Alamy Images. https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-vaulted-centre-painted-ceiling-roof-ely-cathedral-church-holy-undivided-32096321.html.
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