#carved wood armoire

[twistydelrio]

Bedroom Master in Chicago Inspiration for a medium-sized Victorian master bedroom renovation with a brown carpet and no fireplace.

[indiatrendzs]

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[mogulinterior]

Organic Modern Decor & Furniture

Organic modern interiors are indeed a fascinating blend of various design elements. This style seeks to harmonize the warmth and comfort of organic and natural elements with the clean lines and sleekness of modern design.

Organic modern interiors typically feature a color palette inspired by nature. Earthy tones like browns, beiges, grays, and muted greens dominate the space. These colors create a sense of tranquility and comfort.

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Natural Materials: The use of natural materials is a defining feature of this style. Wood is often the primary material, and you'll find it in furniture, flooring, and even architectural elements like exposed beams. Stone, concrete, and leather are also commonly used to add texture and authenticity to the space. Mid-Century Furniture: Incorporating mid-century modern furniture is a hallmark of organic modern design.

These pieces often have clean lines, organic shapes, and a timeless quality. They complement the style's minimalist and sophisticated aesthetic. Texture and Layering: The juxtaposition of sleek, smooth surfaces with raw, textured materials is a fundamental aspect of organic modern design. This contrast adds depth and visual interest to the space.

Textured textiles like wool, jute, and linen are often used to enhance the tactile experience. Harmony with Nature: Organic modern interiors seek to connect the indoors with the outdoors. Large windows and open spaces are common, allowing natural light to flood the rooms. Plants and greenery are also often integrated into the design, bringing a sense of the outdoors inside.

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Functional Design: While the style is visually striking, it also emphasizes functionality. The furniture and layout are designed to be practical and user-friendly, making the space not just beautiful but also highly livable. Sophistication: The combination of these elements results in a sophisticated and refined interior. The mix of natural and modern elements creates a balanced and harmonious space that exudes elegance and comfort.

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[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [02]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood

Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Notes: [01] | [03]

Words: 7.3k

A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!

02: for whom the bell tolls

each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee

      — John Donne

The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.

The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.

You wave.

She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.

Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.

Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.

As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.

You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.

You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.

You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?

Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.

Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.

The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.

You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.

Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.

Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.

And stop.

Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.

Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.

In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.

The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.

The world jerks back into motion.

You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.

Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.

Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.

He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.

You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.

The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.

“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.

Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.

At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.

“Dickey … need … dickey …”

Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”

“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”

“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”

The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.

You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”

“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.

“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.

Everything makes sense now.

You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.

It could be worse.

Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.

You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—

A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.

Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.

The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.

He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.

On second thought, maybe you should just run.

You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.

You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.

Two thinks happen at once.

You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.

You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.

Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.

When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.

Great.

You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.

There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.

You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …

Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.

Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.

You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.

With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.

Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.

The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.

Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.

Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.

“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”

Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.

“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”

You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.

When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.

You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.

The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.

The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.

A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.

He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.

“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.

The effect is pretty much the same.

It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.

You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.

Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.

You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.

Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.

Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.

Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.

The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.

A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.

“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.

When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.

“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.

“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.

“Stop moving,” he warns.

“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.

You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.

The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”

You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.

“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.

Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.

“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.

“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”

Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”

“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”

“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”

Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”

Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”

“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”

Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.

You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”

Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”

“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.

“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”

“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.

“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”

Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”

Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.

With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.

When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.

Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.

It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.

Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.

Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.

Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”

Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”

The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”

“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”

The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.

“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”

All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.

He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.

“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.

“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”

It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.

Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.

You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.

You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.

“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.

Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.

You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”

Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”

Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”

He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.

You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.

Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.

You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Something has taken a hold of your legs.

Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—

You jerk free—

—and fall.

The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.

There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.

From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.

A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.

For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”

You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.

Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.

Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.

The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.

When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.

You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.

George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.

Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”

Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.

George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.

“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”

Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.

Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.

“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.

So this is how he wants to play it.

You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”

With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.

A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse

(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)

[waltwhitmansbeard]

chapter eight

Three days after her Westruun trip, Keyleth returns home in the evening at the end of a marathon of meetings to find her father waiting outside. This is hardly unusual; Korrin is almost always hovering somewhere near the door, trying not to seem like he’s worrying. Tonight, though, he’s got a funny look on his face, the kind that suggests a conversation needs to be had before going inside. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says unconvincingly. “It’s not bad. I mean, I don’t think it’s bad.”

“Oh gods.” Keyleth pushes inside, where she’s greeted by the distant, unmistakable sounds of arcane magic from somewhere up above. 

“We probably should have asked first!” Korrin calls after her as she scurries as fast as her wobbling legs will take her upstairs. It’s not hard to follow the low bangs and shuffling all the way toward her bedroom, or rather, the room next to it, which she opens hesitantly. 

“No, not yet!”

But it’s too late. Keyleth stands in the doorway, staring at Gilmore with a slack jaw. He’s frozen in the middle of the room, the setting sun illuminating him from behind like a halo, his usual purple robes rolled up to the elbow and his beringed fingers waggling in the air as he levitates an ornate rocking chair near the window. He grins sheepishly. “Surprise?”

The room is…transformed. Keyleth’s known for some time now that this is the room she’ll be using for a nursery, given that it’s right next door to her own, but she’s been putting off actually doing anything with it, given the general state of her life. Now, instead of bare walls and a plain wood floor, the room has come alive, with vines climbing up toward the ceiling in swirling patterns and thick, mossy rugs of every shade of green and furniture, which, she admits, is probably important. A crib of white oak and a matching armoire in the corner, each hand-carved with intricate botanical patterns and the symbol of the Ashari—the aforementioned rocking chair, plushly padded and now magically rocking on its own—a pair of raw wood shelves laden with children’s books in several languages, including Celestial, which she has to imagine comes from Percy—a changing table exactly the right height for Keyleth, with a mysterious door in the side—hanging from the ceiling, just above the crib, a delicate mobile of black birds that circle round and round by either mechanical or arcane means, she can’t be sure. 

Her throat is instantly thick. The room is beautiful, absolutely stunning, full of life and light and joy. The more her eyes roam around, the more details she spies that nearly take her out at the knees. The stuffed bear in the crib, covered in tiny pink bows. The toy lute tucked among the books. The blanket draped over the back of the rocking chair, embroidered with the sprawling branches of the Sun Tree. A bouquet of snowdrops on a side table in a water jug that looks remarkably like the one Grog liked to eat mayonnaise from. A miniature golden robot, quill in hand, on a shelf. The small wooden raven perched at the head of the crib, its long beak curving down in stoic watch over the bed inside. 

Gilmore crosses over and gently hooks his arm in hers to pull her inside. “I didn’t get the chance to catch up while you were in Westruun, but that’s fine, because it gave me the opportunity to do this.”

“Gil…” she chokes out, nose snotty and eyes wet. “It’s…it’s just…”

He pats her arm. “Let me give you a tour.”

continue reading on ao3 please consider donating to my ko-fi

[deestorytime]

AU Levi Ackerman: Regency Era

Summary:

In Regency-era England, Viscount Levi Ackerman finds himself in need of a wife, he is known for his military prowess but lacking in social graces, relies on Eliza, a witty but impoverished noblewoman, seeks to restore her family's dwindling fortunes and social standing uses Levi's title and connections to elevate her status, charm and etiquette to establish their place in high society. Despite their initial indifference, the couple presents a united front to the outside world. As they settle into their new roles, Levi notices discrepancies in the estate's finances. They begin to uncover a web of deceit involving embezzlement within their household. Their investigation brings them closer, forcing them to rely on each other's strengths. While still attending all the balls and tea parties.

The carriage jolted to a stop, and Eliza steeled herself. This was not the life she had envisioned, but it was the one duty her family had trusted upon her. As the footman opened the door, she caught sight of a dark figure standing at the top of the stairs. She stared at the imposing façade of Ackerman Manor, her new home, and felt her heart sink. The grand estate, with its weathered stone and towering spires, seemed as cold and unwelcoming as its master, Viscount Levi Ackerman—her husband of precisely six hours.

“My lady,” he said, his voice as crisp as his appearance. “Welcome to the Ackerman Manor.”

Eliza curtsied. “My lord. I thank you for your welcome.”

“I trust your journey was comfortable?”

“Quite,” Eliza lied. In truth, every mile had felt like a step towards her imprisonment.

Levi nodded curtly. “Harrison will show you to your chambers. I expect you’ll wish to rest before dinner.” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode back into the house.

A throat cleared beside her. “This way, if you please, my lady,” said an older man—Harrison, she presumed. As Eliza followed the butler into the manor, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced over her shoulder to find a cluster of servants quickly averting their gazes. Turning back, she stepped inside a room and her breath caught at the sight before her. The room was spacious, easily twice the size of her bedroom at home. A large four-poster bed dominated one wall, its hangings a deep blue. Ornate furniture crafted from dark wood gleamed in the fading daylight, streaming through tall windows. As Harrison excused himself, Eliza slowly moved further into the room. Her footsteps echoed slightly, and she realized why—the room was largely empty. She approached a beautifully carved armoire and hesitantly opened its doors.

Empty.

Not a single garment hung inside. Frowning, she moved to the dressing table. Its surface was bare, devoid of any personal items. The drawers, when she checked, were equally vacant. Then it dawned on her, no one had ever lived in this room. It bore no trace of a previous occupant, no hint of use or wear. This was to be her room—and hers alone. She had expected to share chambers with her new husband, as was customary. The fact that Levi had given her a separate room spoke volumes about his expectations for their marriage. She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or insulted. As she continued to wonder around the room, a writing desk stood in one corner, its surface bare, save for a single sheet of cream-colored paper and an inkwell. Curious, she approached it. Up close, she noticed the paper bore the Ackerman family crest. A message was written beneath it:

“Lady Ackerman, I trust you will find your chambers satisfactory.

Should you require anything, inform Harrison or your maid. Dinner is served promptly at eight .

Viscount Ackerman”

[labellenouvelle]

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[lunasohma]

timepiece

[ ao3 / ff.net ]

Natori has an appointment.

to go with my headcanon

—

Natori is in a bit of a hurry, but what's new?

He takes the few steps down to the shop, then he's through the door, leaving the street’s noise behind. Whatever comes with him is soundly dampened, sinking into upholstery and wood.

The maze of furniture has shifted, even from last week. A sign of good business, right? Today, it's a hard right toward the familiar sound of the radio skipping in and out of frequency. Being just below ground level has more of an effect than he would expect.

The sights are new as Natori makes his way through. A set of high-backed dining chairs. Ornately carved end tables. A slightly imposing, towering armoire. Miraculously dust-free as usual, the low light catches on the polished wood.

In contrast, the wide plank of the floor has long since lost its varnished shine, its creaks and groans. The past couple of times Natori was here, Mori-san mentioned that it would soon need to be redone or replaced. Natori thinks it a shame but can understand the danger of old wood in a place like this, with glass cabinetry and ancient furniture.

Still, not yet, as these kinds of projects go. Time will tell, he’d said, and the irony is hardly lost here.

Natori ducks through the chandeliers. Brushing by the hanging crystals sets off a soft, tinkling song. Near the back of the shop, things start to shrink. After all, they must fit neatly into glass cases and displays, along narrow velvet-lined shelves.

“Natori-san. Just in time.”

The small, charming thought takes root in his mind. “A pun?”

The watchmaker’s smile is always easily given, and his response is playfully rueful. “I don’t think I, of all people, have any right to deny it.”

Natori laughs.

—

Antique furniture evaluation and restoration, watch and jewelry repair too. Natori suspects that Mori-san wears many hats as he has yet to meet his business partner.

He’s honored that Natori thinks so but says he’s happier dealing with the fine and finicky. With hooks, eyes, and chains. With miniature mechanism and tiny ticking gears. Better him than Natori, who would sooner lose patience with such little things.

An offer of tea is made though he has come to expect Natori’s answer.

“Unfortunately, I’ve got to run.”

“Keeping busy as usual.” Mori-san nods approvingly, then brightens. “That reminds me, I’ve just seen your latest drama!”

In short order, Natori’s modesty and a slight embarrassment flare up and Mori-san heeds none of it, going on to highlight all his favorite parts. Natori can only let his enthusiasm wash over him and finds that he is comfortable.

—

There are some vague stresses in the leather band that Mori-san diligently points out. Nothing major yet, no worries. Simply something to keep in mind for the future. Everything else is running just fine.

“So, there we are.” Natori’s left wrist regains the familiar weight. He’s missed it.

“Thank you, it’s always good to see you.”

“And to have your watch back, of course.”

“Only since you do such a good job.” And so, Mori-san is summarily humbled and they are even.

—

He doesn’t have much more time to linger so he retraces his path back to the front. The chandeliers sing their goodbye and the doorbell chimes its farewell.

Until next time, they say.

Natori looks forward to it.

[news-123]

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[indiatrendzs]

The Truth About Distressed or Rustic Furniture

Distressed or rustic furniture is a popular design choice for many people because of its unique and timeless aesthetic. These types of furniture are intentionally made to look weathered and aged, and they often improve in appearance with time and use. Here’s the truth about distressed or rustic furniture and how it evolves over time: Visit Our Online Store:-ETSY MOGULGALLERY Aged Appearance:…

[mogulinterior]

Nature Inspired Vintage Thanksgiving

Embrace the warm tones of fall by incorporating a color scheme inspired by the changing leaves. Deep oranges, rich reds, and earthy browns can be introduced through old carved woods, rustic armoires in honey golds, and decorative items like candles or vases.

Swap out lightweight summer fabrics for cozier options. Consider adding throw blankets or table runners in materials like wool, plaid, or burlap. These textures not only evoke a sense of warmth but also add a touch of rustic charm.

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Antique HandCarved Bookshelf, Open Bookcase, Rustic Farmhouse Blue Reclaimed Wood Door frame Bookshelf, Tall Cabinet, Display Shelf

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Walnut finish Antique coffee table, Distressed Vintage Teak Rustic Farmhouse Table, Takht Plantation Style Table,

Create a stunning centerpiece for your dining table using elements from nature. Arrange a mix of pumpkins, gourds, pinecones, and autumn leaves in a decorative bowl or tray. This simple yet beautiful arrangement can be the focal point of your dining space.

Candles instantly create a warm and inviting atmosphere. Choose scented candles with fragrances like cinnamon, apple, or pumpkin spice to enhance the autumn ambiance. Place them strategically around the kitchen and dining area.

Emphasize the farmhouse feel with vintage and rustic elements. Consider open shelving to display charming crockery, mason jars filled with seasonal treats, and vintage kitchen tools. These touches add character and nostalgia to the space.

Adorn your kitchen walls with autumn-inspired art or vintage carved door panels. Create a gallery of framed prints featuring fall foliage, quotes about gratitude, or vintage harvest illustrations.

[blissspace]

Home Furnishing Goa: Transforming Your Space with Style and Comfort

Goa, renowned for its stunning beaches, vibrant culture, and rich history, also offers a unique perspective on home decor. Furnishing a home in Goa involves blending traditional elements with modern trends to create a warm, inviting, and stylish living environment. Here’s a comprehensive guide to home furnishing in Goa, complete with tips and ideas to help you create your dream home.

Embracing Goan Heritage

Traditional Goan Furniture

Goan furniture is characterized by its intricate craftsmanship and robust construction. Incorporating heritage pieces such as antique wooden armoires, intricately carved coffee tables, and vintage chairs can add a touch of elegance and history to your home. These pieces not only serve as functional items but also as beautiful focal points that reflect Goan culture.

Hand-Painted Tiles

Hand-painted tiles are a quintessential element of Goan decor. These vibrant tiles can be used as backsplashes in kitchens, decorative elements in bathrooms, or even as accent pieces on walls and floors. Their colorful patterns and artistic designs add a unique and charming touch to any space.

Integrating Modern Design Trends

Minimalistic Furniture

Minimalism is a prominent trend in modern home furnishing in Goa. Choose furniture with clean lines and simple designs that offer both functionality and aesthetic appeal. Modular sofas, sleek dining tables, and minimalist bed frames help create an open and uncluttered environment, perfect for contemporary living.

Neutral Color Schemes

Neutral color palettes are popular in modern Goan homes. Shades of white, beige, and gray provide a versatile backdrop that can be easily complemented with colorful accents. This color scheme creates a serene and spacious ambiance, allowing you to highlight specific areas or pieces with bolder hues.

Sustainable and Eco-Friendly Choices

Natural Materials

Sustainability is a growing trend in home furnishing in Goa. Opt for furniture made from natural materials like bamboo, rattan, and reclaimed wood. These materials are not only eco-friendly but also add a rustic, organic charm to your home. Incorporating natural elements helps create a warm and inviting atmosphere.

Eco-Friendly Textiles

Choose textiles made from organic materials such as cotton, linen, and jute. These eco-friendly fabrics are perfect for curtains, upholstery, and bedding. They not only look great but also feel soft and comfortable, enhancing the coziness of your home.

Coastal-Inspired Décor

Nautical Themes

Given Goa's coastal location, nautical-themed decor is a natural choice. Incorporate colors like blue, white, and sandy beige to create a beach-inspired ambiance. Decorate with seashells, driftwood, and marine-themed artwork to bring the seaside vibe into your home.

Light and Airy Spaces

Maximize natural light to create bright and airy spaces. Use sheer curtains to allow sunlight to filter through and choose light-colored furniture to enhance the sense of openness. Open-plan layouts that connect indoor and outdoor spaces can create a seamless flow, making your home feel more spacious and welcoming.

Multifunctional Furniture

Space-Saving Solutions

In homes where space is at a premium, multifunctional furniture is a smart choice. Look for pieces like sofa beds, extendable dining tables, and storage ottomans that serve dual purposes. These items help you make the most of your space without compromising on style or comfort.

Smart Storage

Effective storage solutions are essential for maintaining a tidy and organized home. Consider built-in shelves, under-bed storage, and wall-mounted cabinets to keep your belongings neatly tucked away. Smart storage solutions ensure that your home remains tidy and spacious.

Adding Personal Touches

Customizable Décor

Personalize your living space with customizable decor items. From bespoke furniture to handmade accessories, adding personal touches makes your home uniquely yours. Choose items that reflect your personality and style, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

Local Art and Crafts

Incorporate local art and crafts into your home to celebrate Goa's vibrant culture. Display handcrafted pottery, paintings, and textiles created by local artisans. These pieces add character and charm to your home while supporting local craftsmanship.

Conclusion

Home furnishing in Goa is about blending the region's rich cultural heritage with contemporary design trends. By incorporating traditional elements, sustainable materials, coastal-inspired decor, and multifunctional furniture, you can create a stylish and comfortable living space. Embrace the unique charm of Goan culture while adding personal touches to make your home a true reflection of your taste and lifestyle.

[finnavenuestore]

Transform Your Space: Leading Furniture Store in Singapore

A treasure trove of home elegance, Finn Avenue, lies in the bustling heart of Singapore where modernity meets tradition. It has become a beacon for those who want to give their living areas some stylish touches. Today, it is the preferred destination for discerning homeowners and interior designers thanks to its unmatched collection of furniture that combines beauty with practicality.

Finn Avenue a leading furniture store in Singapore, had the idea of creating high-quality furniture that was sophisticated and comfortable to be part of any design scheme. This store is now recognized as one of the most loved brands in Singapore especially because it offers a vast array of different pieces that would cater to all kinds of tastes and preferences. It doesn’t matter whether you are searching for a contemporary sofa that will bring your living room together or just a stylish dining set where you can hold memorable dinners or even an opulent bed where you will always have restful nights; Finn Avenue has everything you need.

Furniture

One major factor that makes Finn Avenue stand out from other furniture stores in Singapore is its curated collections specifically meant to blend with various interior design themes. From modern minimalist to classic opulence, every single piece is chosen not only to complement but also to improve how your home looks like. The use of quality materials such as solid woods, premium leathers, and sumptuous fabrics indicates the company’s commitment to providing durable products that are beautiful at the same time. Due to this reason, Finn Avenue has a strong customer loyalty base that values both style and substance.

Finn Avenue sets itself apart from other outlets offering house appliances by giving exclusive items as well as personalized services. Recognizing the individuality of each household, this shop offers customization options for customers who wish to fit furnishings into special locations depending on their requirements. Whether it involves choosing the best fabric for couches or selecting finishes for dining tables, every item must suit perfectly within customers' homes at Finn Avenue's storefronts. Thus, this bespoke approach reveals a commitment to customer satisfaction and a readiness on the part of the shop assistants to help people create spaces that are truly their own.

So shopping at Finn Avenue itself is an experience. It has beautifully styled rooms with each piece promising much. Knowledgeable staff are always within reach giving advice and assisting in decision making for customers. Also, those who prefer not to leave their homes can shop online via Finn Avenue’s e-commerce platform. This is because they have detailed product descriptions, high-quality images, and easy navigation which is similar to the actual store hence offering the same level of excellence in online shopping as while shopping offline.

Transforming Homes, One Piece at a Time

Furniture-filling space is not what Finn Avenue believes in; rather, it is seen as a tool for transformation. Each item selected can produce unity and beauty that would change ordinary rooms into extraordinary living spaces. This passion for design shown by the store can be observed in every part, from a mid-century modern chair’s sleek lines to an old-fashioned armoire with complicated carvings. For this reason, Finn Avenue offers different styles and designs to enable each customer to select items that match their perception of an ideal home.

Customer Testimonials and Success Stories

Countless testimonials demonstrate how satisfied Finn Avenue’s customers are. These compliments revolve around the exceptional services offered by the outlet, quality products sold, and furniture that changes lives. To this extent, homeowners together with interior designers have nothing but high praise for Finn Avenue since it brings their design ideas into reality. These stories of success indicate that the company will always strive to remain consistent with its exemplary standards thereby maintaining its position as one of Singapore’s leading players in the furniture industry.

Conclusion

The power of amazing furniture made Finn Avenue what it is today. As the topmost Singaporean market for furniture, it boasts a collection highlighted by style, quality, and functionality. The company name itself speaks volumes about its dedication to solving problems at the workplace to satisfy customers’ needs. By so doing, Finn Avenue has earned its recognition as one of the reputable companies dealing in homewares whose products are appreciated due to their uniqueness across all areas they serve within Singapore. If you want a complete makeover or some touch of class then there is no other better place than going through our catalog where you can find all types of furnishings that will suit your personality and define your abode accurately.

[mogulinteriororlando]

At the heart of this vintage retreat lies the allure of old-world craftsmanship, embodied in the intricate carvings and subtle hues of reclaimed wood armoires. These pieces serve as statement decor, infusing the space with a sense of history and character. Adorned with floral motifs or paisley patterns inspired by old Indian architectural elements, each armoire narates a story, inviting thoughtful reflection.

[northerninteriors]

What's trending in interior design?

Luxe Living: Exploring the Latest Trends in Interior Design

In the dynamic world of interior design, trends come and go, but the allure of luxury home furniture remains timeless. In Ontario, where discerning homeowners seek elegance and comfort, staying updated with the latest trends is paramount. Let's delve into what's trending in interior design, specifically focusing on luxury home furniture in Ontario.

Embracing Timeless Elegance

Luxury home furniture in Ontario is witnessing a surge in demand, driven by a growing appreciation for timeless elegance and sophistication. Discerning homeowners are gravitating towards pieces that exude opulence and refinement, elevating the ambiance of their living spaces.

Classic Revival

In recent years, there has been a resurgence of interest in classic design elements, characterized by ornate detailing and intricate craftsmanship. From intricately carved armoires to plush velvet sofas, classic revival pieces add a touch of grandeur to any interior setting.

Modern Simplicity

Conversely, modern simplicity remains a perennial favorite among design enthusiasts. Clean lines, neutral color palettes, and understated luxury define the essence of modern interior design. Sleek modular furniture and minimalist accents create an atmosphere of serenity and sophistication.

Sustainable Living

With an increasing emphasis on environmental consciousness, sustainable design practices are gaining prominence in the world of interior design. Homeowners are seeking eco-friendly alternatives that prioritize sustainability without compromising on style.

Eco-Friendly Materials

From reclaimed wood furniture to recycled metal fixtures, eco-friendly materials are becoming integral to contemporary interior design. Sustainable furnishings not only reduce environmental impact but also imbue spaces with a sense of authenticity and character.

Biophilic Design

Biophilic design principles emphasize the integration of natural elements into interior spaces, fostering a deeper connection with the outdoors. Living walls, indoor gardens, and natural light sources enhance the ambiance of residential interiors, promoting a sense of well-being and harmony.

The Fusion of Art and Functionality

Innovative designers are blurring the boundaries between art and functionality, creating bespoke pieces that double as statement artworks. From avant-garde lighting fixtures to sculptural furniture, these artistic elements serve as focal points within interior compositions.

Statement Lighting

Lighting plays a pivotal role in interior design, illuminating spaces and accentuating architectural features. Statement lighting fixtures, characterized by bold shapes and artistic designs, add a touch of drama and sophistication to residential interiors.

Functional Sculptures

Functional sculptures seamlessly integrate form and function, challenging conventional notions of furniture design. Sculptural chairs, coffee tables, and shelving units transcend utility, serving as captivating conversation starters in any home environment.

Why Choose Us 

Unparalleled Expertise: With 15 years of experience in the industry, Northern Interiors is committed to delivering exceptional design solutions tailored to your unique preferences and lifestyle.

Bespoke Design Services: Our team of skilled designers collaborates closely with clients to translate their vision into reality, creating bespoke interiors that reflect their individuality and taste.

Exquisite Craftsmanship: At Northern Interiors, we pride ourselves on our commitment to quality craftsmanship and attention to detail, ensuring that every piece of furniture is impeccably crafted to stand the test of time.

Customer-Centric Approach: We prioritize customer satisfaction above all else, striving to exceed expectations at every stage of the design process. Your journey with us is marked by professionalism, transparency, and personalized care.

Conclusion

The world of interior design is a vibrant tapestry of innovation, creativity, and personal expression. From the resurgence of classic elegance to the embrace of sustainable living, there are myriad trends shaping the way we envision and inhabit our living spaces. As the demand for luxury home furniture in Ontario continues to grow, Northern Interiors stands as a beacon of excellence, offering unparalleled design expertise and impeccable craftsmanship. Choose us for your next interior design project, and experience the epitome of luxury living.

Reference URL :- What's trending in interior design?

[plywebb]

Discover Your Interior Style Bedroom Furniture Choices

Your bedroom is more than just a place to sleep; it's your personal sanctuary, reflecting your tastes, personality, and style. Choosing the right furniture for your bedroom goes beyond mere functionality; it's about creating a space that resonates with you on a deeper level. From modern minimalism to cozy farmhouse charm, your bedroom furniture choices can transform your space into a haven of comfort and style. Let's explore how you can discover your interior style through thoughtful selection of bedroom furniture.

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Define Your Aesthetic:

Before diving into furniture choices, take some time to define your interior style. Are you drawn to sleek, contemporary designs, or do you prefer the warmth of traditional furniture? Explore different interior design styles such as modern, rustic, vintage, industrial, or bohemian to identify elements that resonate with you. Consider your preferences in colors, textures, and overall ambiance to guide your selection process.

Assess Your Space:

Understanding the dimensions and layout of your bedroom is crucial for choosing furniture that fits seamlessly into your space. Measure the room carefully and consider factors such as doorways, windows, and any architectural features that may influence furniture placement. Assess the available floor space to determine the scale and proportion of furniture pieces that will complement the room without overwhelming it.

Focus on Key Pieces:

When furnishing your bedroom, focus on key pieces that anchor the space and reflect your style preferences. The bed is the focal point of any bedroom, so choose a frame that aligns with your aesthetic – whether it's a platform bed with clean lines or an ornately carved four-poster bed. Invest in a quality mattress and bedding that prioritize comfort and support for a restful night's sleep.

Consider Storage Solutions:

Efficient storage is essential for maintaining a clutter-free and organized bedroom environment. Look for furniture pieces that offer built-in storage solutions, such as dressers, nightstands, and armoires. Opt for pieces with ample drawers, shelves, or compartments to store clothing, bedding, and personal belongings discreetly. Consider multifunctional furniture items like storage ottomans or bed frames with under-bed drawers to maximize space utilization.

Embrace Cohesive Design:

Create visual harmony and cohesion in your bedroom by selecting furniture pieces that complement each other in style, finish, and material. Choose a cohesive color palette that reflects your aesthetic preferences and creates a sense of unity throughout the room. Mixing and matching furniture styles can add visual interest, but aim for a balanced composition that feels intentional and harmonious.

Infuse Personal Touches:

Make your bedroom truly yours by incorporating personal touches and decorative accents that reflect your individuality. Display meaningful artwork, photographs, or keepsakes that evoke happy memories and contribute to the overall ambiance of the room. Experiment with texture through soft furnishings like rugs, throw pillows, and curtains to add depth and visual interest to your space.

Prioritize Comfort:

Above all, prioritize comfort and functionality when selecting bedroom furniture. Choose furniture pieces that not only look stylish but also enhance your comfort and well-being. Invest in a comfortable seating area or reading nook where you can unwind and relax after a long day. Pay attention to ergonomic considerations when selecting chairs, desks, or vanity tables to ensure optimal comfort and posture support.

Conclusion:

Your bedroom should be a reflection of your personal style and a haven of comfort and relaxation. By carefully selecting furniture pieces that align with your aesthetic preferences, optimize space, and prioritize comfort, you can create a bedroom sanctuary that speaks to your individuality and enhances your quality of life. Whether you lean towards modern sophistication, rustic charm, or eclectic bohemian vibes, let your interior style shine through in every furniture choice you make. Discover the possibilities and transform your bedroom into a retreat that's uniquely yours.