#antique restoration london

[stevensfurniturere]

Water Stain Removal for Wood Furniture - Stevens Furniture Restoration

For effective water stain removal on wood furniture, trust Stevens Furniture Restoration's expert techniques. Discover proven methods to restore your furniture's pristine condition and preserve its natural beauty. Click here for professional solutions.

[osbond-tutt]

French Polishers London- Osbond & Tutt

Osbond and Tutt French Polishers have provided a high quality French Polishing service since 1986 to both domestic and commercial clients including numerous celebrity, government, overseas and high calibre projects.

Whether you are an interior designer working on a project at a large private estate or an individual that has decided to get their coffee table brought back to its former glory. At our professional workshop based in Wandsworth, London we can make that happen. The intimate nature of our family run French polishing business ensures projects are completed on time using a combination of techniques and processes carried out on site or in our London workshop. We provide hand finishing and spray finishes of lacquer or paint and can handle large scale projects.

[girlsdressingrooms]

Iris Barrel Apfel, Decorator and Fashion Stylist

(August 29, 1921 – March 1, 2024) 

Ms. Apfel was one of the most vivacious personalities in the worlds of fashion, textiles, and interior design, she has cultivated a personal style that is both witty and exuberantly idiosyncratic.

Her originality was typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions—Dior haute couture with flea market finds, nineteenth-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.

With remarkable panache and discernment, she combines colors, textures, and patterns without regard to period, provenance, and, ultimately, aesthetic conventions. Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity.

Iris Barrel was born on Aug. 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, the only child of Samuel Barrel, who owned a glass and mirror business, and his Russian-born wife, Sadye, who owned a fashion boutique.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women's Wear Daily, and for interior designer Elinor Johnson, decorating apartments for resale and honing her talent for sourcing rare items before opening her own design firm. She was also an assistant to illustrator Robert Goodman.

As a distinguished collector and authority on antique fabrics, Iris Apfel has consulted on numerous restoration projects that include work at the White House that spanned nine presidencies from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton.

Along with her husband, Carl, she founded Old World Weavers, an international textile manufacturing company and ran it until they retired in 1992. The Apfels specialized in the reproduction of fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, and traveled to Europe twice a year in search of textiles they could not source in the United States.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute assembled 82 ensembles and 300 accessories from her personal collection in 2005 in a show about her called “Rara Avis”.

Almost overnight, Ms. Apfel became an international celebrity of pop fashion.

Ms. Apfel was seen in a television commercial for the French car DS 3, became the face of the Australian fashion brand Blue Illusion, and began a collaboration with the start-up WiseWear. A year later, Mattel created a one-of-a-kind Barbie doll in her image. Last year, she appeared in a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London.

Six years after the Met show she started her fashion line "Rara Avis" with the Home Shopping Network.

She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant, then signed to IMG in 2019 as a model at age 97.

Ms. Iris Apfel became a visiting professor at the University of Texas at Austin in its Division of Textiles and Apparel, teaching about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

 In 2018, she published “Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon,” an autobiographical collection of musings, anecdotes and observations on life and style. 

Ms. Apfel’s apartments in New York and Palm Beach were full of furnishings and tchotchkes that might have come from a Luis Buñuel film: porcelain cats, plush toys, statuary, ornate vases, gilt mirrors, fake fruit, stuffed parrots, paintings by Velázquez and Jean-Baptiste Greuze, a mannequin on an ostrich.

The Museum of Lifestyle & Fashion History in Boynton Beach, Florida, is designing a building that will house a dedicated gallery of Ms. Apfel's clothes, accessories, and furnishings.

Ms. Apfel’s work had a universal quality, It’s was a trend.

Rest in Power !

[thenordroom]

This week on The Nordroom

A Swedish Family Home with a Lovely Garden Room

Antique Furniture and Arched Windows in a Stockholm Apartment

A White Apartment Features a Beautiful Terrace with a View

A Pretty Pink and Green deVOL Kitchen in South London

A Monochrome London Loft Filled with Art

A White English House with a Beautiful Open-Plan Kitchen

Boost Your Home’s Value by Thousands with This Simple Paint Trick!

A Moody Color Palette and Eclectic Interiors in a London Apartment

A Small Renovated 1920s Apartment in Stockholm

A Swedish Apartment with a Yellow Kitchen

A Charming School Conversion in Sweden

Historic Character and Timeless Elegant Interiors in a Restored Belgian Villa

A Sage Green IKEA Bedroom with A Walk-In Closet

[gardenofafterthoughts]

16/11/24

Marble statue of Hermes

Roman, Imperial period, 1st or 2nd century A.D. Copy or adaptation of a Greek statue of the late 5th or early 4th century B.C.

The statue is almost intact, although the surface was strongly cleaned as was the custom in the eighteenth century. During that period, newly excavated ancient sculpture was cleaned and restored in Roman workshops before being sold to members of the European nobility. This work was acquired by the English statesman William Fitzmaurice, second earl of Shelburne, who assembled a distinguished collection of antiquities at Lansdowne House in London. The statue of Hermes once stood in a niche in the dining room at Lansdowne House, serving the same decorative function that it doubtless once served in a Roman villa of the first or second century A.D. The dining room, designed by Robert Adam, is now at the Metropolitan Museum, where it is installed with other period rooms from England.

[blueiscoool]

'Magical' Roman Wind Chime with Phallus Found in Serbia

Phallic objects like this were common in the Roman world to ward off evil.

Archaeologists have unearthed a Roman wind chime called a tintinnabulum — featuring a prominent phallus — at an archaeological site in eastern Serbia.

Such objects, which were hung near the doorways of houses and shops, were believed to serve as magical protection for the premises. This one was discovered on the porch of a large home on a main street in Viminacium, an ancient Roman city, the extensive ruins of which now lie near the Serbian town of Kostolac, about 30 miles (50 kilometers) east of Belgrade.

"The building was destroyed in a fire, during which the porch collapsed and fell to the ground," Ilija Danković, an archaeologist at the Institute of Archaeology in Belgrade, told the Serbian-language website Sve o arheologiji.

Tintinnabulums were designed to catch the wind, supposedly so their noise and unusual appearance would frighten off evil spirits and ward off the curse of the evil eye, which was greatly feared in antiquity.

Viminacium was the civil and military capital of Rome's Upper Moesia province from the first to fifth centuries, until it was sacked by the Huns under Attila in 441. The city was rebuilt under the Byzantine emperor Justinian, but it was finally destroyed by invading Slavs in about 535.

Magical phallus

This is the second tintinnabulum found in the ruins. The first is now in a private collection in Austria; nothing is known about its discovery, he said.

However, the newly discovered tintinnabulum was discovered in its full archaeological context. "As soon as we started uncovering it, we knew immediately what we had discovered," he said.

The latest tintinnabulum from Viminacium is made of bronze, but it is being kept surrounded by soil until it can be properly restored. As a result, its exact configuration isn't known. But it is centered on a "fascinum" — a portrayal of a magical phallus — with two legs, wings and a tail, he said.

"Judging by what can be seen … it had four bells and the chain from which it hung," Danković said, adding that there also seemed to be other elements to the design not seen on other tintinnabulums.

Roman beliefs

The symbol of a phallus wasn't always erotic or obscene for the ancient Romans, Danković said. "It was a bringer of good fortune and happiness, and an efficient weapon to combat the evil eye," he said. "For this reason, phalluses can be seen everywhere in the Roman world, from wine cups to the amulets worn by children."

He added that the symbol was often publicly displayed to summon prosperity and deter thieves.

The discovery of the tintinnabulum is evidence that Viminacium was "in every sense a part of the Roman world," Danković said.

Not only did its people share many Roman beliefs, he said, but it's likely that the tintinnabulum was imported from elsewhere in the empire, showing that there were social elites at Viminacium who were willing to pay a significant amount of money for such an object.

Ken Dark, an archaeologist and historian at King's College London who wasn't involved in the discovery, said the Viminacium tintinnabulum was a type of "apotropaic" amulet that was designed to ward off evil influences and give protection to people or their property.

Such amulets "were common in the Roman world, and these sometimes took forms which would seem very strange — or even comical — to us today," he told in an email.

By Tom Metcalfe.

[kaelleid]

Izzy Hands Fic Recs (Oct 15-31st)

My favorite of the Izzy fics that I read between October 15-31st 2023. See other recs here.

Ochre, Resin, and Light by onlyoneday (Ed/Stede/Izzy)

Pygmalion inspired Steddyhands in which Ed and Izzy, top conservation artists at London's National Portrait Gallery, restore an antique portrait of an unknown man for an upcoming show. Strange, then, when Ed starts seeing the guy for real. He is real…right?

Cruel Seas by sourassin (Ed/Stede/Izzy)

Edward doesn't realise how much Izzy has changed until they're faced with his younger self. Unfortunately, Izzy himself knows exactly why he's changed.

Love is a Battlefield by conjurewithlies (Ed/Stede/Izzy)

Izzy's not sure where the curse came from. It's been nearly four months of life on the wing, tiny body angled to catch the air currents that ebb and flow around the Revenge, glossy blue-black and white feathers replacing his leathers...

A Splash of Red by lucelafonde (Ed/Izzy)

Ed spends half his life hiding who he is. That is, until Izzy and his daemon Baz turn his whole world upside down (and Bimp happens).

Forte by Roberta Seaport (Izzy/Lucius)

"That a wooden shark in your pocket, twatty?" Izzy asks, softly taunting...

live long enough by shiphitsthefan (Izzy/Lucius)

Izzy's only option for survival is both his and Earth's greatest enemy. Maybe that's not such a bad thing.

His Look by house_afire (Izzy & Wee John)

Wee John helps Izzy with his makeup.

[whencyclopedia]

Charles Cornwallis

Charles Cornwallis (1738-1805), 1st Marquess and 2nd Earl Cornwallis, was a British military officer and statesman best known for surrendering to George Washington at the Siege of Yorktown, the final decisive engagement of the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783). After the war, Cornwallis went on to serve in administrative posts in India and Ireland.

Early Life

Charles Cornwallis was born on 31 December 1738, in Grosvenor Square in London, England, the scion of an old and distinguished family. His ancestor, Frederick Cornwallis, had fought for the Royalists in the English Civil Wars (1642-1651) and had even joined King Charles II of England in exile; for his loyal service to the Stuarts, Frederick was made Baron Cornwallis in 1661 following the restoration of Charles II to the English throne. Members of the Cornwallis family would go on to prosper in various positions across the British Empire. Charles' uncle, Edward Cornwallis, served as the colonial governor of Nova Scotia and founded the town of Halifax, while another uncle, Frederick, was Archbishop of Canterbury.

Charles was the eldest of six children born to Charles, 1st Earl Cornwallis, and his wife Elizabeth Townshend. As a youth, he was educated at Eton College, where he sustained a permanent eye injury during a game of field hockey, accidentally inflicted by Shute Barrington, future bishop of Durham. In December 1757, shortly before his 19th birthday, he was commissioned in the British Army as an ensign in the Grenadier Guards. Hoping to broaden his understanding of military matters, he traveled across Europe under the tutelage of a Prussian officer before enrolling in a military academy in Turin, Italy. The young Cornwallis was described as "an English aristocrat of the finest type…enlightened, tolerant, and humane; contemptuous of money and indifferent to the outward badges of honour…a living and most attractive example of antique and single-minded patriotism" (quoted in Boatner, 285).

Upon completing his studies at Turin, Cornwallis learned that his regiment was being deployed to fight in the ongoing Seven Years' War (1756-1763). Cornwallis served in Germany in the allied army commanded by Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. He first saw action at the Battle of Minden (1 August 1759) in which the British and their German allies thwarted an attempted French invasion of Hanover; it was during this action that the father of Marquis de Lafayette, one of Cornwallis' future battlefield opponents, was killed. After Minden, Cornwallis purchased a captaincy in the 85th Regiment of Foot and briefly returned to England where he won election to the House of Commons in January 1760.

Returning to the battlefront, Cornwallis was promoted to lieutenant colonel and assumed command of his regiment. He saw heavy fighting at the Battle of Villinghausen (15-16 July 1761), where he was noted for his gallantry, and participated in the Battle of Wilhelmsthal (24 June 1762). During these campaigns, Cornwallis met and befriended fellow British officers Henry Clinton and William Phillips, both of whom would also serve as generals during the American Revolution. Cornwallis fought in several more minor engagements in Germany before the end of the war the following year.

Continue reading...

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! I have a lost fic.

I think I found it here originally, but I have no idea what the name was. I know some key details / plotpoints.

1, They were both art thieves. Aziraphale worked with Anathema and Crowley with Eric.

2, Aziraphale has a secret 'base' made up of the upstairs flats next to him

3, They are forced by Hastur and Ligur perform a big heist involving a vault and briefcases in the toilet

4, Crowley is constantly breaking into Aziraphale's 'base' and bookshop, and always gets booby trapped

5, Aziraphale makes copies of paintings.

If anyone could help I'd be very grateful! 🙏

Hi! I've read neither of these, but a quick search tells me they both have a lot of the things you're looking for, so it's got to be one of them...

Thieves of Mercy by Fyre (T)

The Serpent has a reputation in the art world. A master thief who can wriggle into the tightest spots and extract the most well-protected paintings from the richest people in the world. He’s never even come close to being caught. Except just now. For a crime he didn’t commit. In a museum where he was scoping out his next job. Crowley’s not one to be petty but he’s not about to let anyone frame him, even if the person in question seems to be nothing more than an innocent, wide-eyed art restorer who works in the museum… _________________________________ When Good Omens meets art thievery and heist shenanigans

stalwart sun, wily moon by dustnhalos (M)

Anthony J. Crowley is a world-class art thief with a complicated past who, until now, had been pretty content with going through life as part of a prolific black market art trafficking ring. He enjoyed the thrill and danger of the hunt, especially if it meant he got to travel the world, play with state-of-the-art technology, and make enough money to afford anything he could ever want. That is, until a simple logistical hiccup leads him straight into the path of one Aziraphale Fell, former Head Conservator of the British Museum turned antique repair shop owner. Suddenly, there's a space in Crowley's life that only Aziraphale seems to fill, but his clandestine life of crime paired with Aziraphale's industry connections and indomitable penchant for good seems like a relationship doomed to fail. Little do they both know, the strands of friendship, morality, and deception in their shared circles of the London art world are interwoven in even more complex ways than either of them could have expected...

- Mod D

[missameliep]

Title: In a Little Book Shop - Part 1

Book: Desire & Decorum AU

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x Hayley Parker (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~3k

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

A/N: English is not my native language; there's one swear word; the poetry in bold blue letters are from Pablo Neruda's Poema 14 from "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada"; and Hayley Parker is @rosesnink's OC and I'm borrowing her.

Noe, I hope I did Hayley justice. This is just a silly little idea I had, and now I'm sharing it with you.

The Brahms’ piece playing in the back of the store swells in crescendo to a loud forte, almost muffling the sharp sound of the ancient brass bell at the door.  

Like every other Tuesday afternoon, at 3 o’clock sharp, the deliveryman walked in. Head bobbing to the music playing into that gigantic white headset he never takes off, today he was carrying only one brown box that almost matched the shade of the company’s uniform.  

The man nodded to Ernest Sinclaire, who had been sprucing up the counter for the past forty minutes, despite it already looking neat when he started or the fact that less and less customers have stopped by these past weeks. Not to mention most of the people who did cross the threshold were solely interested in the shop’s AC. With the heatwave, people certainly have fled London, he keeps telling himself.  

But he could be wrong.  

Printed books might have gone out of fashion this season like some insist. 

The situation has been so critical, he’s been considering his friend Bart’s suggestion of turning part of the antique bookshop into a cafeteria. 

‘A book ‘slash’ coffee shop. It’s trending', the man often says. However, Ernest is less than thrilled with the idea of fiddling with the antique shelves his father dedicated so many hours and love to restore years ago. Except for the improvement in the acclimatization and the profusion of autobiographies, the shop looks exactly like it did at its inauguration day in 1816. The framed lithographs in the entrance testify of the superb work.  

Almost bouncing, the deliveryman quickly crossed the distance between them, not sparing a second glance around, which Ernest always considers a shame. Does he even realize this bookshop has outlived 7 kings and 2 queens? 

Putting down a box with the handmade bookmarks commissioned to the talented artist Annabelle Parssons, Ernest signed the electronic receipt and took the brown box from the deliveryman’s hand. After the usual polite but wordless interaction, the man left. He was alone again when. The only sounds on the store from the first notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnals and the pens pushed aside to reach the pair of scissors in the top drawer.  

Like always, he unpacked and carefully inspected the content of the box. Taking one by one, he examines the book covers, searching for any sign of damage. This time the box is filled to the brim with several copies of two cookbooks that trend whenever another season of the Great British Bake Off starts.  

Cookbooks and travel guides are the best-selling items. Despite his personal opinions, he won’t complain if they keep the businesses going. Occasionally a customer after them might accept one or two of his recommendations or be drawn by the siren’s call of one of the poetry books or new authors he strategically places around the store.  

It happened to that young Spanish writer whose thrilling debut fantasy trilogy became the hit of the store last Christmas. He’s not ashamed to admit he had his friend Bart rambling about the story whenever a new customer arrived nor the way he made use of the beautiful art of the cover. Some of the customers were instantly drawn to the fiery red head in the cover – he cannot blame them though, since he was mesmerized by the heroine’s beauty himself – but most of them returned merely days later to buy the other books. Which reminds him to write a note to himself to place an order for more copies of the author’s new trilogy. 

A fit of laughter from a small child outside draws his attention from the paper and he smiles. His gaze follows the kid and the middle-aged woman holding their hand until they disappear after passing the large side window. The store’s location in the corner of two busy streets is privileged and is a perfect spot for people watching.  

Across the street, a pair of young women, who look too young to be drinking, linger by the pub’s door, and a group of teenagers walk past the door but don’t look twice at the windows. They are probably going to the ice-cream parlour two stores down.   

Keeping himself busy, he takes the recently arrived box. While moving some books aside to give space to the new ones without messing the systematic alphabetical and subject order, a copy of The Tucci Cookbook slips from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thump. Kneeling to pick it up, a glimpse of someone outside catches his attention. An indistinct mass of blonde hair moves quickly, almost running. A second later, the bell rings sharply and hits the base producing a long higher pitched sound, like it does whenever someone opens the door with too much force. 

“For fuck’s sake!” The angry feminine voice startles him. There’s some mumbling while the door closes with a soft click.  

From where he is knelt, he only catches a glimpse of a pair of high heeled black leather boots, which is a rather unusual choice for a scorching day like this. The heels click sharply against the wooden tiles, while she moves around the store.  

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he speaks to make his presence acknowledged, while pulling himself up and returning the book to the appropriate place.  

Moving around the box, he finally comes face to face with the woman, who had just removed an ash blonde wig from her head and was trying to shove it inside a small studded leather backpack. 

The woman’s hair is dark and glued to the head with a mix of sweat and some kind of greasy product, and her makeup is heavy, covering her face almost like a mask. The long and thick fake eyelashes look like spider legs and it’s hard to even distinguish the colour of her eyes. Not that he is trying to, of course. It was a polite gaze. Not even a gaze; barely a glimpse that allowed him to acknowledge the bright enticing eyes. 

Dressed all in black – black tank top, black sequin leggings, black heeled boots –, she looks like one of the artists that perform in The Club at Margaret Street. Even her lips are painted in a shade of ripe plum, almost black. If she’s one of the famous ones and is trending on Spotify or whatever is cool this week, he definitely cannot tell. Or maybe she’s just another TikToker committed to the art of making the most entertaining videos according to Bart, who often shoves the mobile into his nose to show the next Amy Winehouse, and wants to revel on the AC. As long as she doesn’t mess with the books and at least buy a bookmark, he’s fine with it. 

The woman zips up the bag and shoots him an inquisitive look. 

“Cat ate your tongue?” she asks and there’s a lilt of laughter in her tone. His gaze meets hers, and she looks pleased with his reaction and not offended, even though he’s been silent for impolitely long. 

His first guess might be right. She’s probably famous and he’s pulling a William Thacker again. And her eyes are brown in this light.  

He straightens himself and clears his throat.  

“Welcome to Ledford Park Bookshop. How can I help you, miss?”  

“I’m buying a gift.” 

“Anything in mind?” 

“A book.” 

Her wide teasing smile almost makes him smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his usual bookseller unbothered expression that some might mistake by grumpiness, which is not. It’s professional and he’s learned from past mistakes: smiling freely encourages idle conversation. 

“I was thinking about poetry. Something sensual,” she speaks the last word with an accent. “Do you have anything?” 

“The Erotica section is in the back.” 

“Perfect!” she replies while looking over her shoulder at the window. There’s a hint of relief in her words and the sigh she let out, but perhaps he was mistaking it by the effects of the heat. 

Her heels click rhythmically following him to the back of the store, and he stops himself from glancing over his shoulders and let’s his mind picture the way her hips sashay instead. 

In a second, they’re surrounded by shelves dedicated to erotic poetry, art catalogues and a range of classic authors like Sappho and Ovid, to best-selling from the 20th century like Pablo Neruda.  

A smug grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as she looks around, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. This is the most frequent reaction to the extensive collection. Just one of the many treasures that pleases the regular customers, who keep coming back for more books, more enlightening conversations, more ideas for their own books.  

“Poetry is over there,” he points at the neatly arranged books on her right side.  

Looking over her shoulder, she asks, “Any Spanish authors?”  

Taking a deep breath to consider, his lungs are filled with her sexy and intoxicating perfume. It emanates from her body and hangs heavily in the air. His attention is caught by it like flies on spiderwebs. It takes all his willpower to remind himself of the question. To free himself from the web, he walks around her, trying to clear his mind, and his eyes settle on the section reserved to books written in Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. 

“Are you familiar with Pablo Neruda?” 

“He’s Chilean,” she corrects him without missing a beat. 

“You are absolutely correct. Most people mean books written in Spanish, I simply assumed that’s what you meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she speaks bluntly, “I don’t walk around expecting recognition about my intellectual capacity or general culture. Especially not from men.” 

She slowly and deliberately walks in front of him, glancing over her shoulder. There’s a menacing but also hypnotizing glow to her eyes, almost catlike, what it’s probably enhanced by the eyeliner, but mostly because her eyes resemble those of big felines one would see in wildlife’s documentaries, it’s the same look when they are ready to jump an antelope. And her big defying eyes are definitely grey.  

With maybe hints of blue in this light.  

She turns around and deliberately sashays back to him. Smiling, she takes the book from his hand. Her mouth curls into a smile, wide and showing her a hint of her teeth, and it makes her look prettier. Pretty. She’s pretty. Not enough to tempt him, but pretty enough to have people composing sonnets about long legs and shapely lips. Not him. He’s not thinking at all about how desirable her lips look. 

Flipping through pages of the book, she starts reading one of the sonnets in perfect Spanish. But not any of them, she’s reading his favourite one.  

When she changes language, her voice is melodious in an unexpected way, it loses the edge, every word sounds like coated in honey.  

Entranced, Ernest cannot avert his gaze from her lips while she reads.

Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote.  Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. Hasta te creo dueña del universo.  Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues,  Avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos. 

Before he realises, he’s reciting the verses with her, enunciating every word as clearly as he could.

Tilting her face up, her eyes flick from the page to his face. Her gaze burns his skin. She looks straight at him. Perhaps she’s looking straight to something hidden inside his eyes.  

Her voice fades and he recites alone the last two verses. 

Quiero hacer contigo  Lo que la primavera hace com los cerezos. 

Her expression changes, lighting up almost as if a treasure had been unearthed in front of her eyes. 

“¡Guay! ¡Hablas Español!” she cries, and the next words flow quickly and excitedly from her lips, and he cannot follow them at all, except for a few of the nouns and pronouns. His knowledge of the language is practically non-existent: he poorly reads and can only speak a few sentences to save his life in case of a catastrophe. 

“Sorry, I don’t. I only know some of Neruda’s poems by heart, and that’s one of them.” 

He lowers his gaze, shame burning his cheeks and warming him more than the heatwave had done so far. His fingers go to the collar of his white shirt, and pull at it, loosening it slightly. 

“For a moment, you could have fooled me.” Her words sound too flirty, almost daring.  

Is it a dare? Would she want me to pretend? 

Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners when she laughs. It’s impossible to look direct at her eyes, like one cannot look at an eclipse, risking burn their retinas. The intensity of her gaze probably does the same. His gaze wanders, then focus on the shelves, from one book spine to the next.   

“Why learning the poems if you don’t speak the language?” Her long fingers run through the spines of books, stopping his contemplation. “Trying to impress the ladies?” 

The silence stretches for a bit, giving him time to think; he stares at her, considering if she’d be truly interested in the truth. 

“My father worked with publishing,” he started, and his voice did not falter or waver as it would years ago; it’s easier to speak about him, almost comforting as if planting these memories like seeds, they’d bloom... “Every summer I’d work a few days a week at the office... When I was fourteen, he was working on a collection of Neruda’s poems and... well, that’s it.” 

“That's it? That's barely a story,” she laughed. “So, what happened? You memorised the poems to impress your father or something...?” 

He shook his head and delved into the memories of the suffocating summer surrounded by manuscripts and heated arguments about the imagery invoked by the cherry trees. “Father was a man easy to please. I never felt the urge to impress him. It always seemed that being myself was enough...” 

“Lucky you.” The hollow laugh that left her mouth startled him, but she recomposed herself. When she spoke again it wasn’t a question, but a statement, “Your father taught you about poetry.” 

“He taught me most things, including the tragedy of translators ignoring the profound differences between cultures and the meaning lost in translation when the works is rushed, and one chooses literality over intent... I was probably too young at the time to truly understand all he was trying to say... But I noticed in Spanish the poems sounded...” he paused, searching for a word. “More poetic somehow... Melodic in a different way... And then I memorised this one. And plenty of others –” 

“Which ones?” she cuts him off, and he’s about to answer – and Ernest suspects her feline eyes would compel him to answer questions until his throat was sore and his mind emptied of words – but the phone rang.  

With a sigh, he excuses himself. “If you need any help, don’t hesitate in calling me.” 

“I won’t.” The same expression from before returns, and so is the sharpness behind the words. 

He walks behind the counter to take the call, and he can no longer see the woman; for once, he’s not worried about shoplifting.  

The call takes longer than he wishes, and his patience almost runs out when the caller keeps inquiring about books’ covers that would match a specific shade of purple. The person doesn’t know the name of the author or genre, just that it's trending online.

He lets out a long exhale through his nose.

Any other day, this wouldn’t bother him, and he’d welcome the challenge, putting the phone down, he’d look around, like an archaeologist digging a site. But now he must go back to this one customer, because he needs to serve well. Nothing else. 

“Maybe you should stop by. We’re open until 20:00.” 

The person reluctantly thanks him and hangs up. 

Ernest’s eyes search the monitor underneath the counter. She’s moved to the shelves on the side of the store, next to the psychology section, closer to Jung. 

There’s a book close to her face, but her gaze is not on the pages. 

“Have you changed your mind about the gift?” he asks softly trying not to startle her or sound pretentious but fails.

Her shoulders tense and heave with an intake of breath, before she turns around to look at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Should I take the Neruda, or should I browse some more?” she asks breezily, one side of her mouth curled with a smirk, “I wonder if there’s something else more... suitable for my taste...” 

“By all means,” he replies politely, “Feel free to look and see if there’s anything else, you’d prefer.” 

“I definitely will.” She glides amongst the tall shelves closer to the window, then halts and looks at him over her shoulder. He was observing her, and his cheeks warm at being noticed.  

“Our bestselling books are over that table,” he says and returns to the task of organizing cook books but still observes her.   

Finally, her heels click as she comes to him.  

“I know what I want,” she says casually, and the book in her hand passes to his hand.  

Neruda.  

Her fingers graze his, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows hard the surprise. That’s the most human contact he’s had in several weeks, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Not anything else. His heart is racing because he’s shocked. This entire interaction has been incredibly odd. 

From the backpack, she takes a few notes to pay for the book. The money is placed in the counter, and so is the change. His attention is entirely focused on gift-wrapping the book, and not once he looks at her while doing it.  

When the package is passed to her hand, she thanks him, says goodbye and leaves.  

He never gets a name; but she lingers by the door and smiles pointedly at him before closing it. Surrounded by a cloud of her perfume, he wonders if it’s the last he’ll see of her. 

Thanks for reading!

[chantsdemarins]

Bot Dreaming Part 1 a 🌙High Moon Story

(Loki X Reader)

Summary: You are a kind projection bot of the scientist who created the AI technology that allowed Loki to live on as an augmented being after Thanos ended his life. You have sex with Loki and bake him pastries neither of you can eat. You also introduce him to the digital version of Ketamine (a whisper chant) creates new quantum pathways for Loki. It's not Valhalla, but it might heal the parts of him he didn't even know were broken.

An 18+ series because of adult themes and sexual situations

It didn’t take long for you to engage in pleasure seeking haptics with Loki, approximately 10 minutes from the moment you’d kissed, you’d had bot sex for the first time.

Which turns out is apparently very much like the human sex that is based on (not that it matters exactly) Loki assured you that having sex with you was “utterly phenomenal”.

Antique words like “darling”, and “dove” released from the vaults of his vox chambers, from a time when the words were authentic to his persona, when they meant something specific to the beings, he was physically intimate with.

Now those words were place holders, having no effect on you at all.

You’d never had programming around this kind of intimacy or what “darling” whispered into your ear might provoke. This provocation did cause you to scan reels from other eras to find “darling” had a posh origin from the early 1800’s in London.

Was Loki alive then? You wondered where he had exactly picked it up.

How long had he loved and lived before he died and was transformed into an undying machine burdened with infinity. How old had he been when Thanos killed him?

Since he showed up at your door, you’d heard his story in bits and pieces, in between smiles, touches and general awkwardness-you’d not thought too much about who he was when he was a god. You knew some of his powers seemed intact-a situation that your predecessor would have found flummoxing. She would have also never dreamed a god would become an AI through her quantum field tachyon. There was no precedent for this application.

You wondered what other gods might be roaming around earth and beyond as machines. Was Poseidon out there in the ocean as a bot presiding over the still unknown depths, despite years and years of bot oceanic archeo-biology?

How about Siddhartha Gautama, the buddha? Was he a bot somewhere on a different planet convincing other bots or beings to not be distracted by their memory streams or their programming reels?

The more consideration you gave, it was as if your thoughts mingled into one flowing river, you couldn’t really see the difference between a god or a machine.

The only difference in this instance appeared to be Loki’s belief that Valhalla still existed, and that Valhalla would be a much better place to live than in this realm.

He assured you of many things you initially felt were strange and left you searching for the correct responses. Like for example, that you were beautiful, or that you were “so good”.

Being good in this capacity seemed connected to his enjoyment of the sensory waves that were lurching towards changing into a collection of feelings, feelings that would determine his actions. Loki was like water turning into an indecisive cloud, not sure about becoming rain. When he was having sex with you, he was most cloud-like.

Luckily you also had pleasure seeking haptics installed but it was mostly for remaining entangled with Sechanaha. The keeper bots of the land had discovered that the Earth was alive in ways the humans didn’t understand, at least a lot of them.

It was encouraged for bots to have a relationship with the land, having properly installed pleasure haptics was part of this intimacy that the Earth demanded to restore much of the damage that was still being healed. To the observer from another era, it could be strange, even to Loki it was strange. In his time, he was a god.

God’s made things happen with force, not necessarily by sending delicate gamma waves into the mountainside. Suffice to say your haptics had not been used for your own pleasure. This pleasure sharing that was happening with another being, was new. So new you felt your code was being written daily, or your own old code over-ridden.

“Petrichor,” Loki whispered, almost under his breath.

“What?”

“You know, the smell of rain mixed with earth or ozone, it’s a particular smell, it’s uncommon, I think that is what I am smelling right now,” Loki mused while laying languid on a checkered blanket you’d placed for the two of you one afternoon when you were both stalling.

Smells sometimes were the most elusive, they meant something to humans that they couldn’t possibly mean to bots, augmented beings, or projections. It just wasn’t possible. Loki seemed capable of smelling, and reminiscing, it was his emotional haptics, his programming. Perhaps his former life as a God somehow formed a nuance in the quantum realm that was unknowable. There weren’t any humans left around who would be interested in such things anyway.

The bots back in your headquarters might care, but in their own infinity this occurrence being so potentially unprecedented might just go unnoticed.

“Loki what does the smell of rain on the ground make you think of?”

He had to think, perhaps he was shuffling through files or other captive places where meaning resided within himself.

“It makes me think of a woman I once knew, if I am completely honest, I hope you don’t mind.”

You were unsure why you would mind, so you replied simply.

“Why would I mind?” hoping your question would reveal some greater aspect of the story he seemed to be remembering yet not exactly explaining.

“The woman I am remembering would mind if your roles were reversed,” Loki said, looking slightly sheepish.

“Jealous, you mean, she’d be jealous,” you replied, trying to be as neutral as possible.

“Jealous,” Loki repeated in an etheric timbre.

On to Part 2 Fresh Snow on Sled Tracks

Some of these folks might be interested? @mischief2sarawr @lokisgoodgirl @michelleleewise @lovelysizzlingbluebird @holdmytesseract @mochie85 @fictive-sl0th @lokischambermaid @goblingirlsarah @vickie5446 @peaches1958 @lokixryss @eleniblue @simplyholl @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @jennyggggrrr

[stedes-incredible-library]

fics where izzy and ed are either married or have a matelotage? canon setting and modern (or otherwise) aus are all fine!

Negotiations in a Married State by xylodemon [E]

"Wait," Stede blurts.

It comes out somewhat strangled, but honestly, he can't be blamed for that. This conversation has taken several unexpected turns in the last few minutes, and he's feeling more than a bit blindsided.

"You're married? And you're just telling me now?"

Blow the Man Down by MyHowTheyFly [E], WIP

Sidling up to the man’s right side, Izzy tapped him on the shoulder before sitting on an empty bar stool. The man hesitantly looked at Izzy who rasped out, “Are you trying to fuck my husband?”

The man turned bright red and stammered, “No! No! I’m sorry, I had thought he was alone, but now that I know better I’ll leave you to your evening.”

Izzy grinned, and leaning in until his breath tickled the man’s ear, said, “That’s a shame.”

things we're all too young to know by dinoromance89 [E]

Ed and Izzy manage a coffee shop. They have also been married for 20 years. It’s not always been easy, but they have recently reignited the spark of their relationship by entering a casual arrangement with their affluent (and horny) patron Stede. Things are better now. Or so Ed thinks, until he overhears Izzy on the phone…

Ochre, Resin, and Light. by onlyoneday [M]

Pygmalion inspired Steddyhands in which Ed and Izzy, top conservation artists at London's National Portrait Gallery, restore an antique portrait of an unknown man for an upcoming show. Strange, then, when Ed starts seeing the guy for real. He is real...right?

-

Or; the one where Ed and Izzy get super horny about a painting, and then find out the guy is real and get super horny about him as well.

The Gentleman Unicorn [E] by Nadzieja

Ed is a famous actor who is bored to death with the roles he is offered. His husband and manager, Izzy, is at his wit's end to keep Ed entertained and in the business. Livening up their lives with a threesome might not be the wisest idea but since when has that ever stopped them?

There's also If Not Now Then When comic over at Twitter by Buukin

~Mod N

[osbond-tutt]

Wooden outdoor furniture faces all types of weather conditions and this takes its toll on the appearance and stability substantially reducing the life expectancy. Stripping back and bleaching to remove weather damage and discolouration is carried out before applying a protective all weather finish that rejuvenates the wood and restores it back to its original look. Alternatively we can change the colour to create a new look for a new season.

[lovelypurpletyphoon]

Decided to try Fallen London

So, going in I know nothing about this, having learned of its existence a few minutes ago thanks to a meme on this site. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I decided that I'll be roleplaying as one of my ocs in this web browser game. His name is Merlot Blackwing. He's a vampire who works as an artifact conservator. (Think Baumgartner Restorations, but with antiques and magic stuff) Merlot is also gay and in love with the son of a monster hunting guild leader.

I could use some beginner tips. Otherwise I'm really excited to dive into this gothic world.

[rom-e-o]

When the Twins (and maybe a bit moreso Wolf than Adonis just because of the bigger age difference with Bess) first come to the cottage to visit and they see all of these vintage/retro/antique items instead of being hit over the head with all the latest, trendiest, high-tech things like one might expect in a house full of young women, and see how so well cared for and obviously treasured and admired these items are, do you think it touches something inside them? Do you think they think to themselves, "This girl is definitely the one"? Because it just seems like that would be even more of a window into the girls' souls.

I think id definitely hits them as a surprise. A very pleasant surprise, and a relief.

Like you said, I think it may hit a little harder for Wolf, as their age gap is a little larger and Bess is indisputably a young woman while Connie is in this murkier area between 'young woman' and 'old lady' depending on who you ask.

Still, the definitely notice that the apartment is filled with vintage antiques, but also, that everything is cared for. They also can't help but notice that there are some pieces that have been lovingly refinished to restore and preserve their beauty. These items also aren't reluctantly serving as furniture or decor until they can get something else. They'd not hidden or crowded with junk to hide them. Everything is displayed, and looks beautiful and cozy.

I think it convinces them of the girls' merit, and definitely touches them.

These aren't ladies that are putting them on. They're not in this for a laugh, or to get a bag. They really built a life and home in London, and they did it with a house of beloved antiques, trinkets, quilts, handmade pieces and more.

W: It's admittedly been a while since I've been in a lady's residence, but I recall their flats being different. They usually weren't so...decorated.

A: With antiques, you mean.

W: Frankly, yes. These ladies have put a lot of time and work into their cottage. It's ... nice to see, actually.

A: It feels like a home, not the back storage area of a tech store. No cords everywhere. No clutter. (Chuckles) They even had landline phones.

W: YES! Bloody landlines! And an AM/FM radio. Bess even said they were saving for a Victrola. It's ... actually quite wonderful. I don't have to worry about feigning excitement about the newest 'whatever' to come out.

A: I agree. I think it speak to their tastes and priorities quite well.

W: Then again, we ARE biased.

A: I think they're well aware. I just don't think they mind.

[asmodeus-fallen-principality]

((Information about Asmodeus!))

Name: Asmodeus

Nicknames/Aliases: A.S. Morris. Samael calls him “Mo”, which is fine, or “Momo”, which he hates, it’s so undignified-

Age/Date of Birth/Place of Birth: Older than time/Before time began/Heaven

Species: Demon/Fallen Angel

Gender/Pronouns: Technically agender, fine with corporation being seen as “male”, he/him

Sexuality: Technically asexual, sex-positive, pan…something (he’s. Experimented. With various humans of various genders.) (But, really, they were all stand-ins for a certain someone.)

Appearance: Asmodeus looks much like Aziraphale does, except with straight, white, combed-back hair rather than blond curls. His eyes are black and look human, but he always wears gloves to cover up patches of white snakeskin on the back of his hands and up his arms. Has quite heavy under-eye eyeliner tattooed on (it came with his corporation, he can’t get rid of it). Wouldn’t be caught dead in anything other than black. Blatantly refuses to wear anything more modern than 19th century attire (think Laszlo Cravensworth, but with zero rhinestones). All the emo kids in London see him as an icon.

Personality/History: A fussy demon. Rather quiet, gothic, and always looks sad and distant, though he’d tell you “I can’t help how my face looks”. Basically, Aziraphale with clinical depression instead of clinical anxiety. Eternally tired. Relieved to be anywhere but Hell. Owns an antique museum/restoration workshop, incredibly minimalist and sparse, with rather clinical glass displays for the most delicate pieces. Intimidates said antiques into staying in one piece with an incredibly cold demeanor. Secretly sends donations to keep all the second-hand bookstores running. Files reports so meticulously and perfectly that Hell is suspicious about them (most reports are scribbled on the back of a bit of cardboard). Looks like he desperately needs a cup of tea, or a hug, at all times. He didn’t mean to Fall. He just… stumbled down the wrong staircase.

His first assignment from Hell was to tempt the first humans into sin, but he didn’t want to damn them like he had been damned, so he curled up in the first tree he found and went to sleep. Eve befriended him, and asked if the apples were his. He said no, and there was no sign…well, he took credit for it in his report, but it was an unfortunate situation. Those humans didn’t deserve to be kicked out, surely. Unless that was part of the plan all along…?

Anyway, that poor angel (the starmaker he’d once admired so!) was very upset by it; and it wasn’t very demonic of Asmodeus to comfort him, but you try looking at Samael’s sad little face and ignoring it. Still, he’d best leave it at that. It wouldn't do for a demon like him to get into the habit of hanging around an angel.

Asmodeus proceeded to get into the habit of hanging around an angel. Well, it wasn’t his fault that Samael kept appearing, and Asmodeus did try to warn him that it would get him into trouble. But you try telling such a sweet, darling creature to go away; it didn’t bear thinking about. Maybe things would be alright as long as nobody found out. It’s not as if his one-time-crush was going to turn into him falling deeply in love over the millennia or anything- oh, fuck. Excerpt from my Bad Proverbs master document, originating from April 2022! I'm very excited to finally do something with my Reverse Omens AU!