#antique pedestal fan

[thefanstudioindia123]

The Ageless Charm of Antique Pedestal Fans: Artisanal Works of India!

These beautifully designed objects, which tell stories of their artistic and wealthy past, double as functional home décor items and appliances. Dedicated to maintaining traditional workmanship while creating stylish designs, Fan Studio is an Indian company that is among the most appealing producers of these handcrafted beauties.

In this article, we'll delve into the fascinating world of antique pedestal fans, their importance, and the artistry that goes into creating their products.

A Recap of Past Fandom

Fans have a long history dating back thousands of years; the oldest examples are thought to have been found in ancient Egypt and China.Fans were originally hand-held devices made of feathers or palm fronds that were used to generate a cool wind. They evolved into many structures over time, such as pedestal and wall-mounted fans, each of which performed a certain function and enhanced the ambiance.

The pedestal fan certainly became more and more popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. These fans were not only useful for maintaining composure, but they also created striking architectural accents for homes and public spaces. Often, their ornate features accentuated the course's visual attractiveness and showcased the creative abilities of skilled designers.

The Artistry of Vintage Pedestal Fans

Exceptional materials and a dedication to artistry distinguish antique pedestal fans from the stereotypes. These amazing pieces are skillfully made by the Fan Studio in India, who mix traditional methods with cutting-edge design. Each fan is painstakingly made by hand, meaning that no two are the same.

A variety of tools are used by the Fan Studio, such as:

Wood: A lot of fans have sturdy wooden bases with elaborate engravings. Treating the wood will keep its inherent beauty and increase its longevity.

Metal: High-quality metals like brass and iron are used to make the fan blades and body. It is promised that these materials will last while retaining their retro appeal.

Fabric: Fans are adorned with exquisite cotton or silk textiles, frequently featuring traditional Indian themes and techniques.

The following methods are employed by The Fan Studio's artisans:

Hand-carving: Featuring elaborate designs and themes that honor Indian ancestry, each sturdy foundation is etched by hand.

Finishing: The final touches produce a work of art that is both aesthetically pleasing and useful by bringing out the natural beauty of the materials.

Design Inspirations: A wide range of artistic creations have an impact on the design of antique pedestal fans.

Among them are:

Indian textiles and art supplies provide as inspiration for many admirers' elaborate designs, which include paisley and mandala compositions.

Influences from Classic Indian Architecture: The fan structure typically incorporates details such as jali work, or lattice screens, which add depth and texture.

Nature: Floral and forest-themed patterns are popular, highlighting the importance of character splendor in numerous Indian art records.

Antique Pedestal Fans: Their Usefulness

Antique pedestal fans are equipment that are available, yet their visual appeal is also vital. The gentle wind they produce makes them perfect for usage in well-ventilated spaces or in temperate climes.

Style Flexibility

Antique pedestal fans may blend in wonderfully with both modern and rustic décor styles. Their classic look helps them to fit well as conversation starters in contemporary environments.

Living Rooms: A antique pedestal fan adds a sense of refinement to a living room while also serving a functional purpose on sweltering summer days.

Bedrooms: Adding an antique fan to a bedroom helps to create a cozy and welcoming atmosphere while allowing air to circulate.

Offices: An antique fan can serve as a modern piece of decor while also reducing space requirements and promoting productivity in a home office.

Reusable Cooling Technique

In an era where being environmentally conscious is becoming more and more important, antique pedestal fans provide a green choice for air movement. They are a more bearable option for cooling because they require less energy, particularly in places where summertime temperatures are usual.

Concluding Remark: Embracing Timeless Magnificence

The gorgeous antique pedestal fans from The Fan Studio in India honor skill, tradition, and history in addition to being functional tools. Selecting one of these artisan-made fans will enhance the aesthetic appeal of your house and bring a piece of story art inside.

in a society where mass display consistently takes precedence over creativity. Investing in a handmade vintage fan allows you to honor creativity and inventiveness. These supporters attest to the skill and commitment of artisans who uphold traditional methods while embracing contemporary tastes.

For anyone searching for a distinctive method to add flair to their home or a useful way to cool off, Indian designer fans are a terrific alternative because they seamlessly blend elegance and usefulness. Discover how these exquisite products could improve your living area and add a touch of classic elegance to your life by venturing into The Fan Studio's realm.

[thefanstudioindia]

Antique Pedestal Fan from The Fan Studio

This fan is an ideal example of a simple everyday utility, raised to a designer level by way of great aesthetics and finish. A gleaming metal pedestal, a very elegant grill and a 4 uniquely shaped fan blade brings that cool retro look.

Its great performance and easy portability make it the ideal thing to place in spaces like reception areas, consulting rooms, auditoriums and more.

For more information. Visit our website

[thehouseofceilingfans]

5 Benefits of Choosing Pedestal Fans

As a result of technological advancement, we now live in a world where we are continuously spoiled for choice. Even the most basic appliances, such as fans, are available in a variety of configurations, guaranteeing that you can get the best one for your needs. Take the pedestal fan, for example. Despite being on the market for quite some time, this portable and practical fan has recently gained popularity due to a few smart features.

Portability 

Simple to Install and Maintain 

Multi-Purpose 

Available in a Variety of Attractive Designs 

Cost-Effectiveness 

The Fan Studio offers a choice of luxurious yet effective pedestal fans for use in both homes and offices. To discover more about our products, please visit our website.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Cute & affordable little house in the well respected neighborhood of Indian Village within Gentilly, New Orleans, Louisiana. It's a 1940s brick home with sleeping loft, a modified 320 sq. ft. refrigeration container workshop, an abundance of salvaged, high-quality building materials, antiques and tools…. and everything is included in the sale! 1bd, 1ba, $127K.

It's cute in a hippie kind of way, right?

Are those old books on the back wall? If so, I like the look.

Remember that you get everything with it, and some of it looks nice- you don't have to keep it all.

Check out the big fan in the kitchen ceiling. Someone did a cute painting on the fridge. You can decorate this so sweet.

A washer/dryer unit is worth not having to go to a laundromat.

Like the pedestal sink and the wall, but the toilet platform needs work. I would imagine that there's a shower behind the curtain on the right.

I would definitely have to put a full floor up in the loft.

Looks like a little bamboo hut up here, but the holes in the floor are too big.

This is the interior of the workshop. Nice for an old semi truck container.

Outdoor work area with all this material included. If you don't want it, you could probably sell it and use the money to fix up the house. This is building material, so maybe it can also be used in the house.

I like this funky little property and the cute garden.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2920-Powhatan-St-New-Orleans-LA-70126/149030137_zpid/

[meguyummy]

pls see the vision lets have a reddit love story guys! reader owns a book store, izuku's a nerd, pt 1.

--

Internet anonymity is something that you abuse often. Who could really blame you, though?

It's late evening, almost closing time. Sat behind the counter in your small antique bookstore, the only noises you hear are the occasional rustling and crunching of autumn leaves. Today was a slow day, and you're insanely bored. Pulling out your phone, you wonder which app to kill time on before closing up shop. Twitter has been uninteresting, and YouTube has irritatingly long unskippable ads. So recently, you've turned to Reddit. More specifically, r/HeroSnark.

Initially, all your critiques on heroes were posted on Twitter, long and profane rants that got you suspended multiple times. You gained a following for being an outspoken "hero hater", but the sheer amount of die-hard All Might fans who almost found your location deterred further posting. Hating in peace was way more fun than getting swatted.

Has anybody else noticed how sloppy Pinky is getting with her acid recently? Public damage is out the fucking wazoo. Istg if I see another hole in the sidewalk I'll riot.

After posting to the subreddit, you turn off your phone and stand up, ready to flip the sign on the door to "closed" and head home. That's when the work phone rings. Of fucking course that's when the phone rings.

Plopping back down with a groan, you yank the phone out of the receiver and greet the caller, wondering if they've ever checked your closing time (or have, and were just shameless enough to not care).

"Hi! I noticed you have a copy of Captain Cosmos' special edition autobiography and I was wondering if you could hold it for me. I'll pay extra!"

You cringe, scrunching up your face at the phone. The voice on the was certainly.. enthusiastic. The caller was a guy, with a deep, but still somewhat boyish voice. He must be a fanboy on a different level if he liked Captain Cosmos, an ancient and mostly irrelevant hero. Your store offered all kinds of obscure old books, and despite your personal dislike, you knew better than to hurt business by not selling hero media.

"Yeah... I could do that if you're planning on coming to pick it up within the next two days. Are you?" You hope your exhaustion isn't too obvious from your voice.

"Yes! Yeah, I am. Thank you so so much I've been looking all over for it. I'll be there tomorrow!"

You say both say parting words, and you put the phone down, closing up quickly so no other last-minute calls can stall you. Walking up the stairs you retire to your apartment.

Living above the shop was a dream come true, allowing you to thrive without the possibility of an annoying downstairs neighbor. The space was cozy, designed perfectly to your liking after years of living there. After a relaxing shower, you slump into the couch. Checking the post, you read replies from others who have noticed the exact same issue and are equally frustrated by it, some even bringing up more problems you hadn't even noticed yet. You upvote a couple responses, reply to others, and turn on a sitcom.

The amount of bitching done online doesn't mean you're an asshole to people in real life too. Not to normal people, at least. The fact that heroes act like celebrities instead of the crucial emergency workers they really are grinds your gears. Who needs to see Can't Stop Twinkling's annoying ass on TV for something that isn't a rescue? There's a pedestal that they always put themselves on, like they're all-mighty and amazing and need to be praised, but their actions never speak enough for your liking.

A new reply catches your attention, and your brows furrow reading it. This is probably because she's been suffering injuries from her last mission and has still been pushing herself to work and save civilians! We should all be a little bit nicer :)

You frown, blinking hard down at your phone at the reply. Why the hell is.. u/minimight on here to spread positivity? Wrong place for that, bud. You pause the sitcom and sit up from your slouching position on the couch, readying your thumbs.

First, the downvote button gets smashed. Hard.

Dude, I honestly couldn't give less of a fuck that she's injured. If she can be a guest judge on The Masked Singer while injured, she can try a little harder to not make the sidewalk in my area look like Swiss cheese.

Why would anybody who likes heroes spend any time in that subreddit? The whole point is being able to dunk on them freely. You're not going to let some random guilt-trip you.

A reply comes in a minute later. The sidewalk is going to be fixed soon, it was just a minor inconvenience that came during her battle to save a life!

Way to make it deeper than it was supposed to be, u/minimight. You send another quick downvote.

Don't care lol save it for a hero-dickeating subreddit, not this one. You type.

While I understand your frustration, we should give more grace! I know how inconvenient and annoying things like this are, but not everything turns out as planned.

Holy shit they're not done. You don't really feel like arguing with a hero stan tonight, so you reply with a photoshopped picture of All Might in a clown suit.

They quickly reply. I just wish more people would have an open mind on these issues.

Yeah, u/minimight is gonna feel the banhammer soon. After swiftly downvoting their reply, you click on their account. They're a member of a couple All Might subreddits, which are expected, but also some more snark ones as well. They've written a couple of long posts written about random obscure heroes and their 'impact on hero culture'. Seeing that, you decide to write them off another annoying hero superfan and turn your phone off, changing the TV to a movie you've wanted to watch for a while.

Disappointed, (the movie was way worse than you expected) you switch off the TV and head to bed. As you lie there in the darkness, the image of All Might in a clown suit comes to mind, bringing a slight smile to your lips. Maybe tomorrow will be a less annoying day, free from hero fanatics.

[gamer-goo]

SOME THINGD ABOUT ME

I got tagged by @detroit-become-yuri

My name: Vesta (minor-planet designation: 4 Vesta) is one of the largest objects in the asteroid belt, with a mean diameter of 525 kilometres (326 mi).[10] It was discovered by the German astronomer Heinrich Wilhelm Matthias Olbers on 29 March 1807[6] and is named after Vesta, the virgin goddess of home and hearth from Roman mythology.[19]

My star sign: 🚺 AH Scorpii rising ✝️ NML Cygni moom 🆔 HD 143183 (V558 Normae) sun

My fandoms: borderlands the pre-sequel, kingdom hearts, martyrs(2008)

My dreams: I’d like to meet a traveler from an antique land who will say:

Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desart.Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Vesta Gamergoo, Blogher of Bloggers:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

No thing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Dni(s): men who shave, men who trim, voltron fans, men who wax, borderlands the pre-sequel fans, men who epilate, people who refer to France as the metropole because it has colonies outside Europe, men who flay themselves alive and use their blood to fertilize the land, @gamergoo, men who are so entangled in the growth of their hair as to be indistinguishable as men

Tagging 3 of my friends: @obamawhitehouse @grown-ups-2-blog @finalfantasyxvanewempiregui-blog

[hauntedjpegcollection]

poor broke ugly

wc: 2946 au: band au ch: lark, matilda, benji

Lark doesn’t usually drink.

He’s not opposed to one or two beers, especially when they’re free (Lark Tanaka has never, in his life passed up something free), but he also doesn’t drink really. Not with the intention to get drunk and never because it tastes good—because it doesn’t, and people are lying when they say it does. Alcohol makes his throat burn, sours his stomach, turns his face unpleasantly warm. It darkens his cheeks pink, which he’s always found unflattering a look and neither bar or club lighting does much for his complexion to begin with.

That’s why they’re outside.

That’s the excuse anyway. Outside, for the cool night air and not outside, because then it’s just them. Lark had suggested it (“Do you want to come outside with me?”), when they’d both gotten that free second or third or maybe fourth drink from the bartender. She was a fan, liked their underground grass roots style, had a tattoo of a lyric that Benji had written when he was only eighteen years old—and Lark for what’s it’s worth, had tried so hard to pay attention. He was good with fans, he cared about fans, not the way some lead singers did because it bolstered their ego or put them on a pedestal.

The band didn’t exist without the fans. But…even when she was talking, when she was mixing Matilda’s cocktail and she was asking Lark about something (what was the bartenders name? She had said it to him when he’d leaned over to shake her hand), all he could do was stare at Matilda. She didn’t look bad under the wavering neon lights. He didn’t think she could look bad.

They’d dipped out the exit door behind the bar seconds later into cool night air that instantly made Lark feel just a smidge more sober. It was a sweet hole in the wall sort of place, the kind of venue that Benji really loved. There’s a twinge of guilt that Lark isn’t inside with Benji—they don’t have to stick hip to hip and usually don’t. That was always the best part of Benji and Lark; that they could be Benji and Lark, not something squished together. They could have their own moments of peace completely unconnected to the other, no matter how much starting a band together had solidified they were together forever now.

Maybe he just feels guilty, because it was so obvious how badly he wanted to be alone with Matilda. Maybe he feels guilty because he’s still unsure of their new guitar player or he feels guilty because he’d not done his best this show, because he was tired and hungry and his phone had twelve missed phone calls.

Matilda and Lark fall into an easy, if not safe, conversation. Did you like the opener, your mic was too loud, I almost tripped, Benji broke another stick tonight, someone asked me to sign their hand—it isn’t the sort of stuff he wants to be talking about. It’s just the sort of conversation that happens between…coworkers, he supposes. The thought makes the entire night feel duller.

She’s sipping her cocktail, the straw between her fingers, when they pause in front of a dark antique store on the strip. It’s well past midnight. The sign is flipped to close.

“That says poor broke ugly,” Lark says, pointing to a shoddy made zen garden with a wooden stick sign, something obviously not vintage at all. Matilda laughs so suddenly and so hard that she spits a bit of the cocktail (Goddess of the Underground had been the name, and its an ugly sort of purple color that smells too much like vodka). She’s wiping at the little spill on her chin with her thumb when she leans closer to look at it. Lark has to struggle not to pay attention to the spill of her hair over her shoulder. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other holding the glass of beer he shouldn’t have been allowed to leave with.

“My sister was always better with Japanese,” he comments.

“How come?”

“No idea,” Lark laughs. “I dunno—maybe she just gets languages better. Japanese is hard enough even people living in Japan can fucking suck at it.”

“American’s aren’t that great at English, either, if you haven’t noticed.” She takes another sip of her drink. Something hangs in the air between them. A moment that is either going to pass, or going to be taken. Matilda fiddles with the straw in her drink, casts him a sideways glance as they stand in front of the fake antique shop.

Then,

“My brother too. Like the language thing, but not by being bilingual. He was just always better in every dinner conversation—or networking thing we had to go to. Always knew what to say, or when to laugh.”

“Not at a funeral.”

“What?” Matilda laughs then, steps closer, lets her shoulder hit the glass window. He knows he’s drunk because the outline of her is fuzzy and soft, ethereal and distant. If he lifted a hand and touched her shoulder, they’d just disappear right into each other. Lark tilts his head back, smiling up at the night sky. There’s too much light pollution in this shitty city to see the stars, but that’s okay. He closes his eyes briefly, sighing.

“I laughed during my grandfathers funeral and almost got kicked out.”

Matilda lifts a hand. Her fingers take the zipper of his jacket. She toys with it.

“What was so funny?” She asks, head tilted. The sound of the zipper is agonizingly loud. The wind touches the hollow of his throat as it’s exposed. The hint of her tongue behind her teeth every time she speaks is purple, just like the drink.

“Nothing,” Lark replies truthfully.

—

“Oh my God, fourteen?” Her laugh has gotten louder the longer they walk. She’d drained the rest of her cocktail and placed the glass on a low brick wall to forget about—and then they’d shared his beer together. Taking sips, passing it back and forth. Now, they’re drunk. No longer in the middle of sobriety and tipsy. They are both drunk, walking back toward the bar, as the night ends somewhere between pleasant and surreal. Lark is smiling at her, hands deep in his pockets so he isn’t too tempted to take one of hers.

“I don’t have a good excuse.” Lark shakes a palm through his messy hair, trying not to continue smiling. He shouldn’t be grinning ear to ear, talking about his juvenile record like this. Only, that was the game they were playing. Trading little vulnerable secrets, because the night felt immortal like that. Deeply intimate and only for them. “It wasn’t even a nice car. It was a Honda.”

“You have shit taste.”

“It was unlocked.”

“That’s like—that is so much less impressive, then? I’m not impressed anymore.”

“You were impressed to begin with?”

He watches her roll her eyes. Some of her eyeshadow has started to rub away. Mascara sticks in little dots underneath her eyes as well. He wishes the bar was further away.

“It’s your turn,” he reminds her. He dares to nudge Matilda with his elbow, glancing up at her once more. Every time he does, he’s distracted once more by a strand of hair that continues getting caught in her lip gloss by the occasional gust of wind. She’d once applied it, standing beside him in a shitty bar bathroom. He was trying to not poke his eye out with an eyeliner pen and she was laughing—and then taking it from him and making him lean against the sink counter and doing it for him. She’d imitated the popped mouth look that girls always wore when applying make up to their eyes.

Fuck, he’s drunk. He wants to kiss her.

Then remembers the notorious disaster of his ex boyfriend being their guitarist for their first EP.

Matilda swings around to stand in front of him, pausing them on the sidewalk. She drapes her wrists over his shoulders—not really touching him but, not not touching him either.

“I was a cheerleader in high school,” she confesses. It makes Lark laugh immediately, head tilting back. One of his hands leaves his pocket, without thinking. It closes in around her hip. She’s wearing a satin textured top that drapes all over her upper body. Her skirt is tight though, the material stretching around her more square shape. He likes the look of her, the silhouette she creates when the lights are on her in the dark, on the stage.

“That’s adorable.”

“Wow, adorable?” She sneers, her lip curling. “That’s not how most men react to cheerleaders.”

“Ew.” Lark says it without meaning to. Then he blinks, feeling stupid and caught off guard. “Sorry—I just mean, if any guy hears that and is immediately thinking anything other than ‘wow that’s so cute’, he’s probably a fucking weirdo.” Matilda is silent in her observation of him. Her wrists are still sitting on his shoulders, their chests closer than they’ve ever been. Lark hasn’t moved his hand from her hip.

“How come Benji never calls you Elias?”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” She presses a bit closer. One of her hands has suddenly moved to the back of his head. Her long keyboardist fingers capture a few strands of his hair. The idle movement, the soft playful tug makes something dark and hungry unfurl in his lower stomach. He blinks more than a few times again, looking down at her exposed collarbone.

“I hadn’t started my transition when I met Benji. I mean, I had, but—I hadn’t figured out a name yet. I went by Lark on the website we posted our samples to. It was a nickname Xavier had given me.” Not for the first time, he wishes Xavier was more than just a part of stories he’d occasionally tell to everyone. He wishes Xavier was there—had even a shred of musical talent so he could be part of a band, instead of part of the U.S. military industrial complex he’d accidentally sold his soul to at seventeen. Matilda would like Xavier. He feels sure of that.

“Anyway—Daisuke is hard to pronounce. No one gets it right on their first try.”

“Daisuke,” Matilda says confidently.

“I just said it.”

“Doesn’t seem that hard to pronounce.”

“Okay, but I just said it—I meant every teacher I’ve ever had has pronounced it wrong reading it off an attendance sheet.” She’s grinning, a little mischievous, a little mean. Her eyes are two bright sparks in the dark. He realizes she’s teasing him. And he realizes how much he likes it. It only makes that hungry arousal in his stomach worse. Lark snorts and squeezes her hip, a bit harder than maybe he would have if he was entirely sober. She shifts a bit closer.

“When I finally picked another name, I had just been going by Lark for so long. I dunno, it doesn’t bother me. Half the time Benji is calling me dickhead and I’m telling him to shut up.” They both laugh then, which makes the heat in Lark feel less like a devouring need to press her against a wall and more like—more comforting. Fireplace warmth. He can feel himself sobering up. Something about Matilda liking Benji so much made Lark like her even more than his obvious attraction.

“Can I call you Elias?” she finally asks, chin tilted down so their eye contact is direct and severe. Maybe he isn’t that sober. Her words feel like a wax drip over his sensitive skin. He licks his lips—something in her expression suddenly looks a lot less practiced. She’s staring at his mouth now. He almost wishes it was cold enough to see their breaths mingle in the air. He wants to know how close he is to her, in a measurable distance like that.

“Yeah,” he finally concludes and then promises to hate himself for it later. Because then Matilda is grinning again, pushing their chests together in one quick shove. And then she’s gone. Dancing forward on the sidewalk toward the parking lot of the bar. The crowd has mostly thinned to nothing.

“I was lying, by the way!” She calls, head tilted over her shoulder. The streetlights make her look like something painted in watercolor. “Like, I’d ever be a cheerleader.”

“You lied?” Lark huffs. “Now I have to guess what else you lied about! I told you I stole a car!” Her laughing begins to mix with the sounds of cars starting in the bar parking lot, people still lingering and talking, not the kind that would want their attention, and he’s thankful for it.

He rushes after her, but still doesn’t take her hand.

—

Lark opens the back of the beat up white van that carries most of their shit and crawls inside. It smells like cigarette smoke, sweat and burnt plastic. Somehow it’s one of the most comforting things in the world, considering Lark doesn’t smoke and hates being close enough to people he can smell them and the burnt plastic means something probably got unplugged wrong when they broke down their set. Someone will get yelled at for it later, but in that moment he doesn’t care about anything.

Instead, he finds a curled up body on a blanket covering amps. Benji sleeps with his knees tucked up, one hand pressed underneath a cheek and the other arm somehow holding his legs closer. He looks angelic like that, in the dark, shoulders rising and falling calmly. Lark shouldn’t wake him up—Benji doesn’t ever sleep enough.

But Lark is already crawling over top of him without thinking. He thought he was sober before, but the second Matilda parted (at the entrance to the bar, still smiling that slightly mean-sweet grin, telling him she’s not sleeping in a car, thanks for the offer) he felt drunk all over again. The alcohol he doesn’t usually drink swims in his blood stream and clouds all thoughts—her lips had been stained dark by whatever had been in her drink.

“Ge’off me,” Benji snaps, suddenly awake. His rough hands curl around Lark’s shoulders, fingers dug in. Suddenly not angelic looking, but snarling mad and ready to fight for his personal space back. It only takes a second for Lark to blink, both bleary and innocently, for Benji to melt back. “Fuckin’ hell, don’t just do that. Alright?”

Instead of answering right away, Lark continues his path up Benji. He slides his way between the wall of the van and the drummers solid back. Benji has the lingering faint scent of a cigarette after all—means he’s not as good about quitting as he keeps claiming he is. It’s such a wildly familiar scent that Lark doesn’t mind it at all. He wraps arms around Benji’s stomach, pulls them in close.

They used to have to sleep like this a lot on the road. After a gig, they’d take the night in the van because hotels were expensive. And sometimes when they weren’t expensive, they’d just walk out to their van having been broken into anyway. A guitar stolen, or something vandalized. It was almost safer to keep themselves tucked into the back like this, but Lark also thought a part of it was indulgent. It felt realer this way. Like they were a real pair of musicians, trying their best.

Benji is still grumbling under his breath, but he adjusts to get himself comfortable again.

“Are you tired?” Lark asks.

“I was just fuckin’ sleepin’, yeah?”

“No, I mean—are you tired of trying to do this? Make this a thing?”

It was better, now. They were going places, now. Matilda had connections that were taking them farther—they were getting in touch with agents, with potential record deals, with bigger venues, better vans, maybe a tour bus. Maybe hotels that could be comped here and there. Lark resists the urge to squeeze Benji, just to remember he’s real and has been there since it was—

Since it was skipping food afterward because they needed to afford gas. Or eating ramen five nights in a row until they were both sick, but at least it was food. Since his ex boyfriend almost ruined it, since Reno almost ruined it, since Lark almost ruined it once before because his parents wouldn’t stop trying to get him to come home (and that was all he’d wanted since he was sixteen, but he knew that come home meant, help us with Akari).

I just want t’play drums, mate.

I just want to sing, man. Lie, because when he looks at Matilda, he wants more and…

“You’re ticklin’ my hair every time you talk,” Benji replies instead.

Lark leans around a shoulder and blows air against Benji’s ear, which makes him bark out a sound. He rolls onto his side, taking Lark and shaking him until they fall onto the floor of the van, in a terrible wrestling match that has them both laughing like rabid hyenas.

The shaking van and their loudly rough and playful sounds do not dispel the rumor that Lark and Benji are sleeping together, which is a rumor that has thrived since the conception of the band. And yet, the next day comes and Lark takes the first leg of the drive and Benji tells him;

“Just ask her on a date, already. Like, after this stint. Just go to a fuckin’ movie or somethin’.”

“She likes horror movies,” Lark replies, because she’d told him, just the night before.

[ask-captain-keating]

ozymandias is my absolute all time favourite poem, i love it so much 🫶

Autumn,

Percy Bysshe Shelley! Ozymandias isn't one that I've read yet, I've been a waiting list for Rosalind and Helen at my local library for a while. I'm quite a big fan of poets/ artists in general who gain recognition after they pass, Shelley is no exception! Here is the poem:

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

(Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818)

You have quite the eye for romantic poets!

Best,

John Keating

[hannagoldworthy]

Arrogant Kenobists like you drove Karen Travis out of Lucasfilm because you couldn’t stand hearing the truth about your precious Mary Suetopia, the Jedi Order. You don’t deserve to call yourself people, much less Star Wars fans!

….

I should block her. I really should block her.

….fuck it.

One: It’s Karen Traviss, with two S’s at the end. If you’re going to put a writer up on a (imho completely undeserved) pedestal, you might as well spell her damn name right.

Two: Karen Traviss was not driven out of Lucasfilm. She quit, because George Lucas decided to take Mandalorian culture and clone culture in a different direction that what she’d written in her novels and she was throwing a tantrum to try and change his mind.

Three: Mary Suetopia is such an antiquated term that TvTropes merged its page under plain Utopia years ago.

Four: AllTheTropes still has a Mary Suetopia page, and notably, the Jedi Order is not on it, but Traviss’s Mandalorian society is. This is because the Jedi Order does have a few flaws that make it feel like a natural, interesting society in Lucas’s films, while Traviss makes her Mandalorian culture so perfect, upstanding, and idealistic that it becomes uninteresting. And aren’t you the one who’s always blathering about perfect, heroic characters being uninteresting, Domina?

Five: And on that note, aren’t you the one calling yourself a Lucas purist on your Ao3 account? That would be as utterly nonsensical as if I were to say, “oh, I’m a Tolkien purist and I think Rings of Power is the most faithful adaptation I’ve ever seen of the Silmarillion, which I have totally read and understood.” Karen Traviss is not George Lucas; saying that her stories supersede George’s canonical vision necessarily makes you not a Star Wars purist.

And lastly: I meant it when I said to find something else to do with your time, Domina. If you can’t find work or a boyfriend, try a physical hobby! I like knitting and cross stitch, myself; maybe you could try crochet? Or macrame?

[braveclementine]

Prologue

Warnings: None, Readers under 18 can read this book. It is solely fluff- nothing sexual

Copyright: I do not own any Wizarding World characters that J.K. Rowling wrote. I do however own Elizabeth Kane (main character) and Trang Nyguen (best friend). There should be no use of these two names without my permission. I also do not condone any copying of this.

.💚💚.

𝕴𝖓 𝖆 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 of England called Wiltshire, there is a large manor that sits in a maze of forest green hedges. The mansion is massive, made of white brick with long columns of granite and marble, along with many other grand looking materials. Each tower is topped with black roofing. There are over 100 windows in the front of the house, making the house look more like a castle. But why not? They were practically royalty.

The hedges were always trimmed perfectly, though no one tended to them, and there was a long gravel driveway that wound through the maze and out of it, though cars were never driven on it. Cars were for Muggles.

White peacocks strutted over the lawns and in the maze, their feathers fanned out proudly. Always a shock, when one first saw them. White peacocks are a rare thing. Just another sign of their wealth.

The inside of the Manor was just as grand looking as the outside, perhaps more. All of their furniture was made of the most expensive woods in the world, and everything was matched perfectly in color and style. Narcissa, the lady of the house, had a good eye for such things.

And the wood wasn't just expensive, it was made by wizards, which made the furniture all that more superior than Muggle furniture.

Along the walls were old portraits of past descendants of the family, watching critically at every person that walked through the halls.

Only three people lived within the large walls of the Manor. A father, a mother, and their one and only son. There was also a house-elf in the house, along with a number of hidden dark objects.

At the moment, the master of the house was sitting at the large oak desk in the library which was also the equivalent of his office. Not because he didn't have enough rooms to make the library and the office separate, but because he felt a sense of peace and accomplishment in the library. A long piece of parchment sat in front of him, words covering half the paper, his quill hesitating underneath the last line.

Had he gotten everything? These Ministry searches were a pain in the arse. Of course, the objects in the secret chamber under the drawing room floor would be safe. The Ministry wouldn't even think of looking under the floorboards.

He'd have to transfigure the door that led to the dungeons though. Having dungeons in these times was not something that would be looked upon with any sort of favor by the Ministry. It would be a simple charm probably, changing the door into wall. Or at least a façade that looked like the wall. Put some sort of antique artifact on a pedestal in front of the door.

He set his quill back down in the inkwell, leaning back in his chair for a moment. His long blond hair fell in neat sheets around his face and he ran his finger over the fancy metal handle of his wand.

There was something he could do with one of the other objects. It wasn't as though there was any reason to keep it anymore, and the destruction it could do would make getting rid of the object a win-win situation.

He pushed back from the desk, standing to his feet, and rolled up the parchment, placing it deep into one of his pockets. He walked briskly from the library, leaving the library door slightly ajar. Casual.

He walked down to one of the secret chambers where many of his dark objects he'd never give up were held.

He walked over to a safe that was half hidden in the wall and put his hand against it, murmuring words under his breath.

The safe clicked and he jerked the handle open, pulling out the small black book, flipping through it.

There was nothing written in it, nothing had ever been written in it. The Dark Lord had said that the diary was more permanent than that- the right person would know how to access it. He pocketed it in the opposite pocket as the list of dark objects. He closed the safe door again, hearing it whir, though nothing was hidden in it anymore.

He walked back up the stairs, moving the floorboards back so that nothing looked out of place before moving off to a small room by the side, wondering how exactly he would get this book to Hogwarts.

He had been thinking of giving it to his son, of course. Draco could certainly open the Chamber of Secrets with the book that the Dark Lord had given him, so many years ago.

But say things went wrong? Say that Draco got caught? Not that Draco would get caught. . . but the boy could make mistakes, he was only twelve. And Dumbledore. . . that Mud-blood lover. . . he would jump on Draco the moment he got a chance. He couldn't rely on Severus' protection for his boy, even if the Professor favored Draco over all the other students.

But there were other children going to Hogwarts. Harry Potter. . . Hermione Granger. . . Ronald Weasley. . . Elizabeth Kane. . . Draco had told him all about the four kids that stuck together, seemingly some of the best kids in the school. Or at least, the two girls were the smartest and the two boys got into trouble and Dumbledore got them out of it. Typical Dumbledore.

Oh, how Draco had complained that Hermione Granger and Elizabeth Kane only had higher grades because the teachers' liked them. And this Granger girl was a Mud-blood. . . but she could not be framed. . . she didn't have the power. . .the ability.

And the Potter boy would never open the Chamber of Secrets. The other kids. . . the Weasley boy and the Kane girl were probably to close to Harry. . . he'd notice. . .

But ah! Of course! The Weasleys had another kid, the littlest one- their girl. He didn't know her name, he didn't care about the names of blood traitors.

But say he could get the diary to her. Well then, Arthur Weasley's own daughter, killing Mud-Bloods? It would disgrace Arthur, disgrace the Weasley family forever. It was the best plan. If the Dark Lord was correct, the diary could potentially possess the holder.

And besides, if the girl just gave the diary to Arthur or Dumbledore, it would get rid of the Diary as they would destroy it. He didn't want it. And Part of him wondered if he wouldn't prefer that it get destroyed before it got used.

He smiled in the room and then turned annoyed as the house-elf walked into the room. "What is it Dobby?" He snapped.

Dobby's eyes were on the diary, fear in the large green tennis ball eyes. "You- you are not- not using that- surely, master?"

Lucius Malfoy threw back his head and laughed. "No, Dobby. No, I won't be using it, indeed." He could tell the house-elf whatever he wanted and the elf couldn't tell a soul. "No, no, this will be going to Hogwarts this year and the Chamber of Secrets will be opened once more."

"But- but- Master Draco will- will be at- at Hogwarts this year! Surely- surely you will not want there to be trouble while- while he is there! Master?" Dobby asked nervously, his hands clasped in front of him.

Lucius Malfoy smirked, standing up, and pocketing the the diary in his pocket. Draco would not be in danger as he was a pure-blood. "Long live the Boy who Lived." He muttered under his breath as he walked from the room, leaving the elf to mutter and, unknowingly, take matters into his own hands.

⬅️➡️

[beauxhemia]

I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: a shitty queerbait ship Stands in the desert. Near it, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered fandom lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tells that its fans well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on those lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal, these words appear: "My name is DESTIEL, King of Ships: Look on MY website, ye mighty, and despair!" No thing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Tumblr Top Ships Bracket - FINALS

This poll is a celebration of fandom and fandom history; we're aware that there are certain issues with many of the listed pairings and sources, but they are a part of that history. Please do not take this as an endorsement, and refrain from harassment.

[atplblog]

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[signedandsealed]

We stopped in front of the historical townhouse, scanning the buzzer directory. Upon finding our caller we buzzed, and w/ a click the wrought-iron gate unlatched, leading us up a beautifully rendered spiral stairwell w/ apartment doors at each landing. A few stories up, our destination manifested and after a countersign knock, a valet opened up and received us, holding aside a beaded portiere. In the antechamber, two flanking jardineres on pedestals were on either side of an antique french table behind which was a trumeau mirror, w/ an upper fanning division and gilt scrolling leaves interspersed throughout. The jardineres contained towering fasciata bromeliads, spindly, jungle and topped by an exotic, sharp, layered flower, akin to those Javanese stupas spread amongst jungle palms en masse. The valet was not liviered, but costumed, as we. The exception being that all valets of the house were costumed the same so as to distinguish them. He wore a black velvet domino-cloak, w/ a large cowl covering most of his mien aside from a half-mask held to his face on a stick. I wore the diamond lozenges and mask of arlecchino and my compatriot was a jester in caps n' bells holding a marotte. With the polished formalism of a tending valet, we were taking sidelong through a door to a sumptuous Grand Salon, where the carnival ball was in full swing. Most visitors held thin glasses of champagne being parceled out by valets on silver trays. I walked across the room to the enfilade, each door opening onto the next room, jam-packed as the one prior, and all down the suite was the mass of body heat exchanging electricity in conversation and merriment. More inebriated or eccentric folks indulged in wilder antics, and I'de be hard-pressed not to assume this night eventually to become a nude bacchanalia, marched straight to the pine forests w/ the maenads and thyrsus. Although masks mostly hindered visages, all we're here. Grand Horizontals; the most pedigreed of courtesans; socialites, actors and actresses, courtiers and nobility, millionaires, financiers, et. cetera. The low mood of strictly candlelight contributed to the half-shadow darkness, and crystal chandeliers sent the flamules glints bouncing off every shining surface.