#ornamental iron works

[ironmengatesdoorsdesign]

What Materials Are Frequently Utilized In Iron Work Services, And Also Just How Do They Contribute To The Total Toughness?

In the wide realm of building and also construction, iron job solutions command a substantial location as a result of their necessity in developing resilient structures. The integral stamina, convenience, and also longevity of iron make it an optimal product for numerous applications varying from constructing frameworks to crafting complex decorative aspects.

However, the total long life as well as efficiency of iron-based frameworks are not exclusively contingent on the natural buildings of this metal; they are equally affected by the type of materials utilized combined with iron as well as the particular treatments applied during the construction procedure.

The extensive use alloys-- compounds made by incorporating two or even more metallic elements-- is a testimony to this reality. Alloys boost the physical buildings of pure metals, making them preferable for particular applications.

For instance, adding carbon to pure iron results in steel-- an alloy known for its increased strength and resistance versus wear and tear. Similarly, surface treatments like galvanizing can considerably improve corrosion resistance, consequently expanding the lifespan of iron frameworks.

This article aims to clarify these typically made use of materials in iron job services while elucidating exactly how they add towards boosting general sturdiness.

Checking out the Function of Alloys and Treatments in Enhancing Long Life of Structures

The unification of alloys and treatments in iron work services becomes a perfect symbol of strength as well as long life, dramatically boosting the sturdiness as well as life expectancy of frameworks.

Alloys are a fusion of 2 or more metallic elements, which when combined, existing superior homes contrasted to individual parts. Significantly, steel - an alloy predominantly made up of iron and also carbon - is renowned for its high tensile strength as well as malleability. It has become a staple in building due to these top qualities combined with its resistance to environmental results such as rusting. Other prominent selections consist of cast iron, identified by its terrific solidity as well as put on resistance, making it excellent for applications where toughness is paramount.

Moreover, various treatments have been created to additionally improve these intrinsic characteristics of alloys made use of in the field. Hot-dip galvanizing involves finish iron or steel with zinc, giving cathodic defense that prevents deterioration successfully. Similarly, powder layer uses added protection versus weathering whilst at the same time supplying a visually pleasing finish. The procedure entails using powdered paint electrostatically onto steel surface areas after that treated under warm to develop a difficult shell-like layer over the product's surface area.

These treatment approaches not only add in the direction of enhancing general architectural integrity but additionally supply considerable financial benefits by minimizing maintenance expenses and also expanding service life cycles.

[katsuricata]

Stucco - Mediterranean Exterior Inspiration for a mid-sized mediterranean beige one-story stucco exterior home remodel

[franticvampirereads]

This was so soft and angsty and sweet. I loved getting to see Raf being loved on by the whole crew at Irons and Works. And getting to see more of Tony and Kat was so nice! I also really enjoyed getting to see a character with Tourette’s Syndrome being treated with respect and kindness and not being hyper stereotyped. I also loved Luke! He was such a little ball of anxiety and I just wanted to give him a hug whenever something went wrong. Ornamental is getting a solid four stars!

[artstfuff]

Designs for iron and brass work in the style of the XV and XVI centuries

[simenmetal]

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[newworldironworks]

New World Iron Works | Iron works in Bethel CT

We are your dependable and trustworthy go-to Metal fabricators in Bethel CT. From designing custom railings to fabricating and installing gates with impressive durability and strength, we have you covered. Our professionals have the latest tools and extensive knowledge to bring all your metal designs to life. It is our years-long experience that makes us a renowned name for quality Iron works in Bethel CT. With us on hire, you can have attractive and sturdy iron-based structures installed at your place. Superior customer satisfaction is what we prioritize the most, with quality ever-present in our work. For your ease, we have kept our charges to the lowest scale. So, if you need our expert assistance, give us a call today. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

100 "Beautiful" Words

for your next poem/story

Accouchement - the time or act of giving birth

Allemande - a dance step with arms interlaced

Anent - about, concerning

Anthophilous - feeding upon or living among flowers

Aphyllous - destitute of foliage leaves

Apophenia - the tendency to perceive a connection between unrelated things

Apoplectic - extremely enraged

Badinage - playful repartee; banter

Belaud - to praise usually to excess

Chromophil - staining readily with dyes

Coeval - of the same or equal age, antiquity, or duration

Cognoscente - a person who has expert knowledge in a subject

Cruciferous - any of a family of plants including the cabbage, turnip, and mustard

Deliquescent - tending to melt or dissolve

Diallelus - a reasoning in a circle

Elide - to leave out of consideration

Emulous - inspired by or deriving from a desire to emulate

Epergne - an often ornate tiered centerpiece consisting typically of a frame of wrought metal (e.g., gold) bearing dishes, vases, or candle holders or a combination of these

Epexegesis - additional explanation or explanatory matter

Fructify - to bear fruit

Funambulism - a show especially of mental agility

Galbulus - a spherical closed fleshy cone of thickened or fleshy peltate scales

Grenadine - an open-weave fabric of various fibers

Haematite - a reddish-brown to black mineral consisting of ferric oxide, constituting an important iron ore, and occurring in crystals

Hyaline - something that is transparent

Ianthine - having a violet color

Impresa - a device with a motto used in the 16th and 17th centuries; emblem

Ineluctable - not to be avoided, changed, or resisted

Indite - to put down in writing

Jacinthe - a moderate orange

Jiqui - a Cuban timber tree with hard wood very resistant to moisture

Kincob - an Indian brocade usually of gold or silver or both

Kvell - to be extraordinarily proud

Labret - an ornament worn in a perforation of the lip

Lachrymator - a tear-producing substance (such as tear gas)

Latericeous - of the color of red brick

Legerity - alert facile quickness of mind or body

Limnology - the scientific study of bodies of fresh water

Logorrhea - excessive and often incoherent talkativeness or wordiness

Maieutic - relating to the Socratic method of eliciting new ideas from another

Maquillage - makeup

Marmoreal - of marble

Matronymic - a name derived from that of the mother or a maternal ancestor

Mazarine - mazarine blue; a deep purplish blue

Mirifical - working wonders

Nacarat - geranium lake (i.e., a vivid red)

Nephology - a branch of meteorology dealing with clouds

Notabilia - things worthy of note

Obnubilate - becloud, obscure

Obstreperous - marked by unruly or aggressive noisiness

Oenology - a science that deals with wine and wine making

Ombrophilous - capable of withstanding or thriving in the presence of much rain

Organdy - a very fine transparent muslin with a stiff finish

Palafitte - an ancient dwelling built on piles over a lake

Pareidolia - the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern

Peregrinate - to travel especially on foot

Peristyle - an open space enclosed by a colonnade

Perse - of a dark grayish blue resembling indigo

Personalia - biographical or personal anecdotes or notes

Phylactery - amulet

Piacular - sacrificial, expiatory

Pleonasm - the use of more words than those necessary to denote mere sense; redundancy

Poetomachia - a contest of poets; specifically: a literary quarrel of Elizabethan dramatists

Prasine - having the green color of a leek

Prestidigitation - sleight of hand

Psilanthropy - a doctrine of the merely human existence of Christ

Psychomachy - a conflict of the soul

Quaesitum - something sought for; end

Quatenus - in the quality or capacity of

Rebarbative - repellent, irritating

Rhapsodize - to speak or write in a rhapsodic (i.e., extravagantly emotional) manner

Rheophilous - preferring or living in flowing water

Rupestrian - composed of rock

Salmagundi - a heterogeneous mixture; potpourri

Sanative - having the power to cure or heal

Sciaphilous - thriving in shade

Subitaneous - formed or taking place suddenly or unexpectedly

Tellurian - a dweller on the earth

Tergiversation - evasion of straightforward action or clear-cut statement

Terpsichorean - of or relating to dancing

Threnody - a song of lamentation for the dead

Tilleul - a pale greenish yellow that is very slightly paler than primrose green

Tmesis - separation of parts of a compound word by the intervention of one or more words

Toadstone - a stone or similar object held to have formed in the head or body of a toad and formerly often worn as a charm or antidote to poison

Toxophilite - a person fond of or expert at archery

Transmogrify - to change or alter greatly and often with grotesque or humorous effect

Ubiquitarian - belief that as Christ is omnipresent his body is everywhere (as in the Eucharist)

Urtication - to induce hives

Vicissitudinous - marked by or filled with vicissitudes (i.e., the quality of being changeable)

Videlicet - that is to say; namely

Visitant - visitor; especially: one thought to come from a spirit world

Wallydraigle - a feeble, imperfectly developed, or slovenly creature

Waltherite - a mineral consisting of an ill-defined carbonate of bismuth having green to brownish green doubly terminated prismatic crystals

Xyloid - resembling wood

Xylomancy - divination by means of pieces of wood

Xystus - a long and open portico

Yfere - obsolete: together

Zoism - phenomena of life are due to a peculiar vital principle

Zymology - a science that deals with fermentation

Zymurgy - a branch of applied chemistry that deals with fermentation processes (as in wine making or brewing)

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or send me a link. I would love to read them!

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists

[ranticore]

some more horse guy fashions, specifically historical

erased the mandolin for this one goodbye mandolin i couldn't be bothered drawing you

so my thought process for this is like what would a society of, lbr, british ppl who are horses value and how would that translate into what they wear if they specifically don't have a taboo against nudity. these fashions are pre-florian conversion (florian was the guy who gave them all government-mandated shame) and considered traditional (the full coverage dresses are also traditional but to a post-florian period so those would be called like. idk. classical). they were still in use in the enclaves north of ironwall for quite a while. anyway returning to the point, the answer to 'what they value' is movement. in actual horses, herd hierarchy and social function is based off movement - free movement for animals for whom the flight response is so strong is an incredibly important thing. dominance in horses is expressed and reinforced by controlling and curtailing the movement of subordinates. for these people, free movement was enhanced by kinetic fashion - free-flowing garments like capes, loosely-pinned headgear with feathers and floaty cloth, and noise-generating devices like bells and chimes were all used to elaborate and enhance the appearance of somebody's gait. the overall look was mostly based off of morris dancers (pheasant feathers, bells on the legs, handkerchiefs) because i like the tie-in to suppression of folk dance by puritans. i think these guys would have some great folk dances

in much the same way trainers are just normal everyday footwear now, game kerchiefs/flags were worn in non-sports contexts because it suffused into the mainstream and became Cool. the flags were used in a game similar to tag rugby if you've ever seen that played (where snatching people's flags is used instead of full contact tackling, forcing someone who's been 'tagged' to stand still until the flags are returned). as i said before somewhere, centaur team sports go incredibly hard.

the tail ornaments were status symbols and in appearance a bit like the traditional show turnout of shire horses. woven grass and straw could be used for a temporary ornament like these, but metal or carved wood were really impressive, and very common gifts of favour between romantic partners. more flags could be hung there if you wanted to be really cool

variations of this style of mane décor were also employed (they loved their ribbons)

in the same time period, Ironwall fashion was a little bit different. These expensive caparisons were usually purchased secondhand after a real horse was done wearing them, with distinct front and back halves of different length. The garments would usually have the original liveries removed and replaced by generic religious iconography as few centaurs would ever have their own heraldry. Later, in the Georgian and Victorian eras, full coverage to the pasterns with a single undergarment was the only acceptable option (that's the classical style now) The rest of the picture is self-evident, but centaurs at the time wore additional... equipment on the withers which were called a variety of very colourful names but mostly referred to as gelding bars (as in, they will geld you if you sit on them). they were metal and spiked. these were introduced by the florian government to discourage the grossly inappropriate contact of one person's legs around another. previously there was no great taboo against riding on a centaur's back, it wasn't super common but nobody was like "this is basically public sex" until our pal centaur cromwell i mean florian came along and decided this was the work of the devil. young people were also made to wear these to discourage the homosocial behaviour very common to the mid-20s age groups of both sexes, and they also had a place in preventing stallions from wrestling (ironically increasing the danger of their fights because well now all we can do is stand back and kick). the wearing of these devices was mandatory. headcoverings were not strictly necessary, and neither were fully-wrapped tails, but some especially devout citizens took to it quite well.

[girlrotterr]

☆ 𓈒 ݁ I wanna hold the hand inside you. ๋ ♩ ⋆ ݁

ellie williams x ballerina! reader Summary: Ellie, an art school dropout working at a bookstore, has a habit of sketching strangers she encounters. One day, she becomes captivated by a rising ballet star practicing at a nearby theater. a/n: Happy holidays, my angels! I'm endlessly grateful for your support and kindness. To show my appreciation, here's a festive little fic to celebrate the season! 🎄

The first flakes of snow swirled against the inky sky, catching the amber glow of streetlights as if they were performing a pirouette in the winter night. Ellie slouched on her stool behind the counter, her gaze drifting to the frost-rimmed window. Outside, the world carried on with its holiday bustle—carolers huddled under lampposts, the tinny strains of their song barely audible over the rush of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from passersby. She dragged the edge of her sleeve across her face, smudging lead further down her wrist, and stared at the half-finished sketch in her notebook.

The shop was quiet, except for the soft hiss of the radiator and the muffled strains of an old jazz record spinning in the corner. The Christmas tree, barely taller than her arm, stood crooked in its stand, its few ornaments glittering under strings of mismatched lights. Ellie wasn’t much for festive cheer, but it had been her boss’s idea—a “charming touch” to draw in customers. So far, it hadn’t worked.

The bell above the door jingled, sharp and sudden against the quiet. Ellie glanced up, expecting the usual—a hurried shopper looking for last-minute gifts, maybe another student trying to trade old textbooks for cash. But the figure standing in the doorway was neither.

You hesitated there, framed by the frosted glass, the soft glow from the streetlights catching on the gold buttons of your coat. Snow clung to your hair, melting into shimmering droplets that slid down your scarf. Something about the way you stood—poised yet uncertain—caught Ellie’s attention. You stepped inside, the sound of your boots muffled by the threadbare rug, and the door swung shut with a gust of icy air.

Ellie straightened, wiping her smudged fingers on her jeans. Your eyes flicked around the store, tracing the shelves with a kind of deliberation that made Ellie’s skin prickle. You moved with a grace, like you carried some secret rhythm only you could hear. A dancer, Ellie thought, though she couldn’t explain how she knew.

“Can I help you?” Ellie’s voice came out rougher than intended, the words blunt in the stillness.

You blinked, startled, your gaze snapping to hers. For a moment, you didn’t speak, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your coat. Ellie noticed the way your hands moved, smoothing invisible creases, your knuckles brushing against the buttons as if trying to iron it out. 

“Yes,” you said at last, your voice soft but steady. “I’m looking for an old choreography journal. I heard this store might have it.”

Ellie arched an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. “Choreography journal? That’s pretty specific.”

You nodded, your expression earnest, and Ellie sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “Right. Follow me.”

You trailed behind her as she wove through the maze of shelves. The air smelled of aged paper and pine, and the faint hum of the jazz record followed you into the back corner of the shop. Ellie scanned the spines, her fingers grazing over faded titles until she spotted it—a leather-bound journal, its edges worn with age. She pulled it free and turned, holding it out.

“This the one?”

Your face lit up, a smile breaking across your features so suddenly and so vividly that it hit Ellie like a sucker punch. “Yes! Thank you,” you said, your voice breathless as you took the journal from her hands, cradling it like something fragile and precious.

She watched as you moved toward the counter, her fingers itching to grab her sketchpad. She didn’t know what it was—maybe the light catching the curve of your cheek, or the quiet determination in your eyes—but she felt the urge to capture it before it slipped away.

The bell jingled again as you left, the journal tucked under your arm. Ellie sat back down, her fingers already moving, charcoal sweeping across the page in quick, confident strokes. She sketched the tilt of your head, the fall of your coat, the way you had looked when you first stepped into the shop, snow still clinging to your scarf.

When the drawing was done, Ellie stared at it, her chest tightening.

“Should’ve said something,” she muttered, closing the notebook with a sigh.

Ellie’s hands drummed absentmindedly against the steering wheel, the engine’s hum matching the rhythm of her thoughts as she drove down the dimly lit streets. The Christmas lights that adorned the lampposts casted a muted glow over the pavement, reflecting off the windshield in streaks of red and green. She flicked her gaze over to Jesse, her best friend, who sat in the passenger seat with his head tipped back, looking up at the sparse stars through the cracked window.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were starting to like this cold," Ellie teased, her lips curling into a grin.

Jesse smirked but didn’t reply right away, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. After a beat, he looked over at her, his expression softening. “It’s not the cold that’s got me in a good mood. It’s this whole, ‘helping out with your job’ thing. Plus, I get to spend some time with you before I clock in at mine.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. "You mean the part-time gig as the world’s most underpaid stagehand?"

Jesse chuckled. “Hey, I’m getting better at lifting things.”

The two of them shared a laugh before the silence settled comfortably between them. Ellie had never been one for big plans, but Jesse’s spontaneity had a way of keeping things interesting, even on cold winter nights like this one.

Pulling into the theater's lot, Ellie parked in the space closest to the backstage entrance, and Jesse threw open the door with a flourish. “Wanna come inside for a bit? They’re rehearsing for The Nutcracker, and I don’t feel like sitting around alone.” He raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve got nothing better to do.”

Ellie shrugged, her hand on the door handle. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got a couple hours to kill anyway.”

The two of them walked inside, greeted by the familiar hum of stage lights and the distant chatter of performers. The backstage area was a chaos of costumes, props, and stagehands rushing about in preparation for the evening’s rehearsal. Ellie had seen it all before—Jesse working his second job, moving props, fixing lights, and usually getting caught in the drama of the theater. But tonight, she didn’t feel like hanging around the cluttered backroom, so instead, she followed Jesse down a narrow hallway, where the low murmur of music seeped out from beneath the door to the rehearsal space.

The room was filled with dancers—some stretching, others running through pirouettes, all wrapped in the familiar warmth of motion and music. Ellie leaned against the wall just inside the door, watching them with a quiet sense of awe. The elegance in their movements, the sharp precision of each turn and leap—it was a world so different from her own, so alien in its grace.

But then, her eyes caught you.

You were at the front of the group, gliding effortlessly across the polished floor, your body flowing in perfect synchrony with the music. There was something magnetic about the way you moved, something Ellie hadn’t been able to shake since that first moment she saw you in the bookstore. She hadn’t known it then, but seeing you now, so focused, so composed—her heart gave an unexpected thump.

You paused mid-step, adjusting the position of your arm as the instructor called for the group to repeat the sequence. Ellie’s breath hitched in her chest as she watched you. She didn’t know much about ballet—hell, she didn’t know much about anything that required that level of discipline—but she knew that you were a star in the making. And something about you standing there in that moment made her feel like an outsider, unsure of whether to approach you or simply watch from a distance.

Her fingers twitched, the urge to capture you on paper bubbling to the surface before she could stop herself. The sketchbook she always carried with her was nestled in the crook of her arm, the familiar weight comforting in its presence. Without thinking, she pulled it free, the pages flipping open with a soft rustle, and she found the nearest bench, settling down with a practiced ease. The dancers continued to move in their own world, their rhythm uninterrupted by her quiet intrusion.

Jesse, oblivious to the change in the air, slapped her shoulder as he walked by, his voice laced with his usual lighthearted teasing. "I’m gonna go clock in."

Ellie gave him a sharp nod, her focus already elsewhere. “Go do your thing.”

He gave her a crooked grin before disappearing into the back, leaving Ellie alone with her sketchbook and the image of you in her mind. Her pencil hovered over the paper for a moment, and then she was moving, sketching you in a flurry of strokes.

The movements were swift but careful, each line drawing out the fluidity in your form—the arc of your arm, the curve of your body as you turned, the elegance in the tilt of your chin. Ellie’s hand moved instinctively, following the rhythm of your dance in a way she never had before, as if the beat of the music pulsed through her own veins. The sketch began to take shape quickly, a blurry but vivid impression of you.

She glanced up briefly, just to catch the way your foot landed on the floor with a light thud before you floated effortlessly into another spin, and Ellie was back to the page, her pencil pressing harder now, as if she could make it feel more real. The slow burn of the sketch was intoxicating—each movement of your body translated into a new line, a curve, a shadow on the paper. There was something about watching you from here, at a distance, that felt so… personal, like she was drawing you in a way that words never could.

Her pencil moved faster as you paused in a stretch, your back arching in a way that made Ellie’s breath catch in her chest. A small frown creased her brow as she captured it, the lines growing more confident, more precise with every passing second. 

You were beautiful.

Ellie bit her lip, feeling a warmth creeping up her neck at the thought. It was like you were a part of the drawing now, and she didn’t know whether that made it feel more real or less. She wanted to show it to you, somehow, but the thought of speaking to you—really speaking to you—sent a quick pulse of anxiety through her chest. 

The dancers were in full flow now, the music swelling with urgency. They executed one complex sequence after another, their bodies bending and stretching with fluidity. But at the front of the room, where you were, the music seemed to swell around you, highlighting every intricate move, every flick of your wrist, every lift of your leg. You were the center of it all—focused, your concentration as sharp and precise as the form of your body, each movement a well-practiced line of choreography.

But then, in the middle of a delicate turn, it happened.

Your foot slipped.

It was almost imperceptible at first, a slight misstep—a mere second of imbalance—but it was enough to unravel the perfection of your movement. Your ankle buckled, the graceful arc of your body faltering. Ellie’s breath caught in her throat as she watched you lose control, your arms flailing for balance, but your foot twisted in a way that left you no choice.

You crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, the sound of your body hitting the hardwood echoing in Ellie’s chest. A sharp intake of breath escaped your lips as you caught yourself on your hands, but it was clear you weren’t going to recover quickly. For that split second, time seemed to freeze—there was only the sound of your pain hanging in the air, as still as the tension that gripped the room. Ellie felt her stomach drop, her hands instinctively tightening around the edges of her sketchbook as she kept her gaze locked on you, her heart pounding wildly.

The other dancers rushed to your side, their faces a blur of concern and urgency, but Ellie couldn’t tear her eyes away. She felt as if her whole body had gone rigid, her muscles taut with the sudden, overwhelming need to do something, anything—but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, her mind frozen with the image of you crumpled on the floor.

"Shit," Ellie muttered under her breath, her voice barely above a whisper as she clenched her jaw, frustration building in her chest. Her fingers, stiff with worry, drummed against the pages of her sketchbook, but she barely noticed the paper crinkling beneath her touch.

It felt like hours before Jesse reappeared, though it was only a minute or so later. He stepped lightly into the space beside Ellie, his shoes tapping against the floor. He scanned the scene in front of them, his eyes flicking over to where you were being helped up by one of the instructors.

Jesse plopped down next to Ellie, stretching his legs out in front of him and settling in with the ease of someone who had been here a thousand times before. His tone was casual, but Ellie could hear the concern that lingered beneath it, the weight of the situation finally beginning to register in his voice. "You good?"

Ellie’s focus was still completely fixed on you. Her mind was a swirl of confusion, worry, and something deeper she couldn’t quite place. She didn’t know how to process it, how to feel about seeing you like this. She’d watched you dance so effortlessly before. But now, this—this moment—felt different. “I don’t know… I think she’s okay, but—” She trailed off, her voice trailing behind the question, as she watched the instructor gently guide you off to the side. Your movements were slow now, the instructor’s arm around your shoulders, offering what little support you might need.

Jesse leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. He folded his arms across his chest, the casual way he settled back into his seat making it clear that this wasn’t his first time seeing something like this happen. 

“Ohh, her. She’s a rising star, man. You wouldn’t know it from how quiet she is, but she’s a big deal around here. Preparing for The Nutcracker… it’s like, a huge role for her.” His voice softened as he spoke, but Ellie could still hear the admiration in his words, the way he seemed to know something more about you than she did.

Her brow furrowed, her thoughts racing in a dozen directions. 

Jesse’s  gaze shifted back to you as you sat on the bench now, resting your injured ankle. There was a brief pause before he continued, his voice quieter now. 

 “Last year, though… she had a huge setback. Bad performance, all the pressure got to her. She messed up, and it cost her. Big time.” He glanced at Ellie, gauging her reaction, before he continued, his voice more subdued. “She twisted her ankle during the performance. It’s been hard for her to bounce back.”

Ellie’s stomach tightened at the revelation, her heart sinking. “Are you sure she’s gonna be okay?” Ellie asked, her words tumbling out before she could stop them. There was a tightness in her chest now, a knot she couldn’t unravel as she watched you—still holding yourself, but now with a limp, a hesitation in your steps.

Jesse let out a long sigh, his expression softening with something like sympathy. “She’s tough. But… yeah. It’s gonna take a lot to get back to where she was before. The injury’s made it harder to balance sometimes. I think it messes with her head more than anything.” He paused for a beat, his eyes lingering on you, still sitting off to the side, the pain evident in your movements even though you tried so hard to mask it.

Ellie couldn’t look away. The sight of you made something inside her ache, something she couldn’t name. 

Ellie walked into her apartment, the door creaking as she pushed it open, the familiar scent of stale air and dust greeting her like an old friend. The heater was a noisy beast that struggled to keep the cold at bay, but she couldn’t afford anything better, not when every paycheck was stretched thin between groceries, rent, and whatever scraps of art supplies she could scrape together. She sighed, a breath that carried the weight of the long day, as she kicked off her boots. 

The floor was cold under her feet, but it didn’t matter much—everything in this place was a little broken, a little worse for wear. She shrugged out of her coat, letting it drop onto the couch, and peeled off her layers one by one. The thick sweater, the scarf she had wrapped too tightly around her neck, the faded jeans—she tossed them all aside like they didn’t matter anymore. She had long given up on caring about how she looked or how this place looked. No amount of rearranging could fix the fact that it was barely livable.

Ellie crossed the small living room to the heater, cranking it up to the highest setting, watching the way it sputtered to life with a half-hearted groan. The warmth was slow to come, but she didn’t mind the wait. She needed to lie down. She needed to close her eyes for just a moment before the thoughts crowded in.

She dropped onto the couch, sinking into the familiar, sagging cushions. The spot had molded to her body over the years, each depression a reminder of how many sleepless nights she had spent in this place—thinking, drawing, wasting time. Her sketchbook was always within reach, a constant companion even when she hated it, when the pages felt too full of the messy, unrefined parts of herself.

Ellie was a scrappy art school dropout with no grand dreams of gallery shows or fame. After her dad—Joel—had passed, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He’d been the one who held things together, who made sure she had everything she needed, even when things were hard. His sudden death shattered her world, leaving her with no safety net. Without him, there was no way she could afford the tuition. So she quit.

Her shifts at the bookstore paid for the crappy apartment, but it didn’t cover the bills, let alone the art supplies she burned through. Still, she kept coming back. It wasn’t the job she wanted, but it kept her from starving, kept her from getting evicted. Her fingers were always covered in ink and graphite from sketching during breaks, filling pages with fragmented portraits and half-formed ideas. 

Ellie had been lying on the couch, the irritation of the thumping bass from next door creeping under her skin like an itch that couldn't be scratched. She'd pulled her pillow over her head, hoping it would drown out the noise, but it only seemed to make the thudding louder. The muffled music bled through the walls, a constant, annoying reminder of how small and stifling her apartment had become. She felt trapped—trapped by the noise, by the walls, by the life she couldn't quite get out of.

And then the moment came. Another wave of pounding bass rattled the floor, sharp and insistent, until Ellie couldn’t take it anymore. Her frustration built up until it was a tight knot in her chest, and before she even realized it, she was on her feet, storming out of her apartment without a second thought.

Her feet barely made a sound as she walked down the hall, her breath shallow, fists clenched. The door to the apartment was slightly ajar, as if inviting her in, and Ellie, in her agitated state, didn’t pause to knock. She pushed the door open, ready to confront the source of the noise, but then everything stopped.

You were there.

In the soft glow of the moonlight, you moved with a grace that stole Ellie’s breath away. The warm, golden light wrapped around your figure like a blanket, casting your silhouette in a soft, delicate glow. Your body spun through the air, each movement flowing effortlessly into the next, as if you were part of the rhythm of the world itself. Your form was fluid, every line of your body a quiet expression of something beautiful.

She stood frozen in the doorway, her chest tight as she watched. The world seemed to slow down around her. There was no harsh music blaring, no noise at all—just the sound of your movements and the occasional soft swish of fabric. The way you danced was mesmerizing, like you were lost in a world of your own.

Your focus was total, your expression one of quiet concentration, but it wasn’t just your skill that held Ellie’s gaze. It was the way you seemed to move so effortlessly, as if you were floating. You were lost in your dance, your body becoming an extension of the space around you. For a brief, fleeting moment, Ellie forgot everything—the irritation, the frustration, even the reason she’d come here. All that mattered was the way you filled the space with your presence.

God, you're everywhere.

Ellie’s heart thudded in her chest, each beat louder than the last. The thought hit her, unbidden and sharp: fuck, I can’t escape you. You were a constant presence, even if Ellie hadn’t fully realized it until now. In the bookstore, in the theater, in the quiet of her own apartment, and now here, in the soft glow of your world. It was as if fate had tied her to you, whether she liked it or not. And in that moment, Ellie couldn’t decide if she was terrified or intrigued by that pull.

You finished your spin, landing with the kind of grace that left Ellie almost breathless. The room around you felt smaller, quieter, as if your very presence had claimed it..

But then, in that instant, your movements faltered. Your eyes flickered toward her, and suddenly the connection snapped. Your gaze locked with hers, and Ellie felt a jolt run through her body, as if her entire world had shifted. The stillness of the moment was broken by the uncomfortable tension that now hung between them.

You froze mid-spin, your wide eyes betraying a mixture of surprise and fear. The tension in your body was palpable as you instinctively took a step back, your shoulders tightening, your lips pressed together in discomfort. Ellie saw the way you hesitated, a quick breath caught in your chest, as if you weren’t sure whether to move or stay.

You were scared. Unnerved by her presence.

Ellie raised her hands slowly, palms out in a gesture of apology, her voice coming out softer than she intended. “I—I didn’t mean to—your door was open, and the music… I just…” She trailed off, words tangling on her tongue as her gaze flickered over you, taking in the guarded way you stood, every muscle taut as if ready to defend yourself.

The silence between you stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in your apartment. Ellie swallowed hard, the warmth of the space and the sheer presence of you making her feel like an intruder in a world she didn’t belong to.

You folded your arms, your expression shifting from wary to something unreadable. The moonlight poured through the wide windows, catching on the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin. Your hair framed your face, slightly disheveled but effortlessly stunning, and the tension in your jaw made Ellie’s chest ache in a way she didn’t fully understand.

“Look,” Ellie started again, shifting awkwardly, her fingers curling into the strap of her bag. “I wasn’t trying to spy or anything. I live next door, and the music was… loud.” She winced inwardly at the weak excuse, the words sounding hollow even as they left her lips. Her frustration from earlier had long since dissipated, leaving only a raw mix of nerves and something else—something she couldn’t quite name.

“Loud?” you repeated, your voice soft but edged with incredulity.

Ellie nodded quickly, her cheeks burning. “Yeah. But, uh, you dance… really well. Like, beautifully well.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, your arms still crossed, but the sharpness of your gaze seemed to dull just a fraction. Ellie could’ve kicked herself. Compliments probably weren’t what you wanted to hear from the stranger who’d just barged into your apartment uninvited.

“Thanks,” you said finally, your tone clipped. But there was something in the way you said it—something quieter, almost hesitant—that made Ellie’s stomach twist. The tension in your frame didn’t ease, and you kept your distance, clearly not ready to let your guard down.

Ellie shifted on her feet, the urge to say something—anything—gnawing at her. “Right. I’ll, uh, get out of your hair.” She took a step back toward the door, but her movements were sluggish, reluctant. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, louder than the muffled music still playing faintly in the background.

She hesitated, glancing back at you over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” she said, her voice quiet, almost shy, “you’re… incredible. I can tell how hard you work. ”

The tension in your face softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something Ellie couldn’t quite place crossing your features. But you didn’t say anything, just leaned lightly against the edge of a small table near the window. The moonlight caught on the curve of your shoulder, illuminating the quiet strength in your posture, the determination etched into the lines of your body even in stillness.

“Next time,” you said finally, your tone even but laced with a sharp edge, “knock.”

Ellie nodded quickly, a sheepish, almost apologetic smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Totally. Got it.”

Without another word, she slipped back into the hallway, the door clicking shut softly behind her. Ellie leaned heavily against the wall, running a hand through her unruly hair as she exhaled a shaky breath. Her heart was still racing, the image of you under the moonlight burned into her mind.

The faint glow of the Christmas lights bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, soft blues and reds dancing across the walls of Ellie’s small apartment. The space felt warmer than usual, though the heater sputtering in the corner certainly wasn’t responsible for that. It had everything to do with you being here—sitting cross-legged on the floor with a box of ornaments balanced in front of you, a soft smile playing at your lips as you unwrapped another bauble.

Ellie glanced at you from the corner of her eye as she worked to untangle the mess of lights in her lap. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught herself watching you, though she’d gotten better at not staring outright. You’d been coming around more often lately, showing up with little excuses to see her: a borrowed book you’d “forgotten” to return, a leftover pastry from the café near your place that you thought she’d like, even a random bottle of wine to “celebrate surviving another week.”

At first, Ellie had been cautious, unsure of what to make of your easy smiles and playful teasing. But slowly—so slowly she hadn’t even realized it at first—her defenses had begun to drop. You’d found a way to fit into the cracks of her life, easing past her guarded edges with a kindness that felt effortless.

And Ellie, despite herself, had started to let you in.

The moments you shared now felt natural, unforced. Like when you’d taken it upon yourself to help her pick out a Christmas tree after learning she’d never had one. You’d teased her mercilessly about her bare-bones apartment, joking that she needed “at least one thing in here that screamed holiday cheer.” And she’d let you, because even when you were poking fun at her, there was something so warm and genuine in the way you spoke to her, like you’d known her forever.

“Ellie,” you said now, breaking her from her thoughts. She blinked, looking up to find you holding out a small ornament shaped like a snowflake. “This one’s cute. Front and center?”

She shrugged, the corners of her mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “Sure. You’re the boss.”

You laughed softly, reaching up to hang the ornament near the middle of the tree. Ellie couldn’t help but notice how easily you seemed to fill the quiet spaces in her apartment, your presence bringing a lightness to the air that hadn’t been there before.

Tonight felt like another step forward, a bridge you’d both unknowingly been building.

Ellie stood beside you now, her hands tucked into her pockets as she stared at the tree. She was close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from her, close enough that her quiet presence felt like an anchor in the room.

“It’s… not bad,” Ellie said, her voice soft.

You turned to her, arching a brow. “Not bad?”

She smirked, her gaze flicking toward you. “Yeah. Not bad.”

You nudged her lightly with your elbow, grinning as you shook your head. The ease between you was palpable, the kind of comfort that only came after spending hours together—sharing stories, laughter, and the occasional comfortable silence.

Ellie’s apartment, once cold and cluttered, now felt warmer somehow. The pile of sketchbooks on the coffee table no longer seemed like a chaotic mess but a testament to the creativity Ellie carried in her bones. The tree, crooked and adorned with mismatched ornaments, added a glow that felt almost magical.

“Thanks, by the way,” Ellie said, breaking the silence. Her voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “For, you know… doing this.”

You looked at her, surprised by the vulnerability in her tone. Ellie was many things—sarcastic, quick-witted, and guarded—but moments like these reminded you of how deeply she felt things, even if she didn’t always show it.

“Of course,” you said softly, your smile gentle. “Everyone deserves a Christmas tree, Ellie. Even you.”

Ellie let out a soft laugh, glancing down at the floor. “Never really had one growing up,” she’d admitted, “Joel tried once, but it just… didn’t stick. Felt weird, I guess."

“Guess it’s time to start” you teased, your voice playful but warm.

Ellie glanced up at you, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you. The Christmas lights twinkled softly in the background, their glow reflecting in your eyes, and Ellie felt the faintest tug of something deeper, something she didn’t yet have the words for.

But as the silence stretched on, you glanced at your phone, noticing the time.

"I should probably head out," you said, your voice breaking the calm. Ellie looked over at you, blinking as if snapping out of her own thoughts.

"Oh, yeah. I didn’t mean to keep you," Ellie replied, a trace of reluctance in her voice.

You stood, brushing a few stray strands of hair behind your ear. "It’s fine. I’m just—" you paused, then smiled. "I’ve got to get back to the theater. You know, practice."

Ellie nodded, walking over to the door with you. She hadn't realized how quickly the time had passed, how easily it had slipped away in the comfort of your presence. It felt almost too good to be true, this—whatever it was between you.

Before you opened the door, you paused, turning back to Ellie. Your eyes met hers, and for a moment, everything seemed to quiet around you both.

"Hey," you said softly, catching her off guard. "I, uh, I know it’s short notice, but the performance is next week." You hesitated for a beat, your words coming out a little more uncertain than you’d intended.  “I’d really love for you to come. If you’re free, of course."

Ellie blinked, taken aback for a moment. She hadn’t expected the invitation—hadn’t expected you to even consider asking her.

"Of course I’ll come," she said, a little more quickly than she’d planned, but the sincerity in her voice made the words ring true. "I wouldn’t miss it."

You smiled, the warmth in your expression spreading like sunlight. "Thanks. It means a lot."

With one last look, you opened the door, stepping into the cool air of the hallway. Ellie stood there for a moment, watching as you disappeared down the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the stillness.

She stood there, frozen, for a beat longer than she should have, a quiet smile tugging at her lips.

Ellie sat on her worn couch, the edges of her sweater tugged absently as she focused on the task at hand. Her sketchbook lay open before her, its pages worn and filled with sketches that had been born out of moments stolen in the corners of her day. Some of them were hurried, some more thought-out, but all of them were tied to the presence of the girl who had so unexpectedly woven herself into Ellie’s life.

She looked at the sketchbook for a moment longer, her eyes tracing the lines of the last drawing—the one of you, mid-spin, your hair a blur, your focus sharp. The way your body seemed to stretch toward something greater, something just out of reach, resonated with her more than she'd care to admit. The way you'd looked at her that night, vulnerable but powerful, it felt like something she couldn't just forget.

Ellie’s fingers grazed the edges of the book, her mind racing for the right words, the right moment. She didn’t have much, but she had this. She didn’t know how to express what she felt with words, but a drawing? That she could do.

She pulled a strip of brown wrapping paper from a roll on the floor beside her, laying it across the table. Her fingers worked quickly, folding the paper neatly around the book, securing the corners with tape, the sound of the tape cutting through the quiet air like a small, deliberate movement. Ellie’s tongue peeked out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she carefully placed the final piece of tape in place.

The book, now wrapped, felt heavier than it had before. Maybe it was the weight of her unspoken words. Or maybe it was the anticipation of tomorrow—the performance, the moment where she'd see you again.

Ellie sat back, her hand resting on the wrapped gift for a moment. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional rattle of the windows from the breeze outside. She glanced over at the corner of the room, where the small Christmas tree flickered faintly.

She didn’t know if it was enough. She wasn’t even sure if you’d like it, but the thought of not giving it to you felt unbearable.

With a final glance at the tree and the city lights dancing through the window, Ellie slid the wrapped book into a small gift bag, adjusting the top with practiced care. It wasn’t perfect—her hands a little too quick, her movements too hurried—but it was hers. She picked it up, feeling its weight, her heart thumping a little faster than it should have.

Tomorrow. Your big performance. 

Tomorrow, she’d give it to you.

The room was heavy with the weight of unspoken pressure as you stood in the center of the rehearsal floor. The mirrors reflected back not just your movements, but your fears, your frustrations, your self-doubt. The music swelled, a familiar, haunting melody that once had felt like second nature. But today, it sounded distant. Out of reach. Your foot faltered again. Just a small stumble, but enough to make your heart skip a beat, enough to draw the instructor's sharp, disapproving gaze.

"Again, you're off balance," the instructor said, voice cold, piercing the silence like a dagger. You clenched your jaw, trying to steady your breath. The words sliced through you, but you refused to let them break you.

You fought for this role. You had fought for months after the injury, after last year’s disastrous performance that still haunted you like a nightmare. You had pushed your body beyond its limits, rebuilt what had been broken, and now, you were here—fighting to keep this role, to prove you were strong enough. You were enough.

The music began again, faster this time, more demanding. You forced your body to move with it, the rhythm pulling at your every step. Each pirouette felt like it could crumble beneath you, each jump a risk you couldn’t afford to take. Your ankle, still fragile, sent a twinge of pain with each landing, but you fought it back, pushing through the discomfort. Your focus was sharp, despite the sweat beading down your forehead, despite the exhaustion gnawing at your muscles.

You would make it. You had to make it.

"Again!" the instructor snapped, crossing their arms. "You're losing control."

You swallowed hard, grinding your teeth, the bitterness of those words tasting sour in your mouth. Your legs burned, but you couldn’t stop. You couldn't stop.

You spun into the next movement, a leap that felt too high, too far—but you made it, landing with a soft thud that sent a jolt of pain through your ankle. But you didn't falter. You didn't let it show. You pushed through the sting, lifting your chin as you reset yourself. You had to prove them wrong.

But then, as the music paused for a breath, your instructor spoke again. Their voice, though calm, was final.

"You’re getting replaced."

The words hit you like a cold wave, crashing over you and pulling the air from your lungs. Your world seemed to tilt, and for a brief moment, everything blurred. Your heart hammered in your chest, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You forced yourself to meet the instructor’s gaze, but the sting of their eyes was unrelenting. The disappointment was clear, written in the subtle shift of their posture, in the way they avoided your eyes.

"What?" you whispered, your voice cracking, but the question hung in the air like a dead weight, swallowed by the silence.

The instructor didn't respond, just stared at you, impassive. You tried to steady your breath, trying to hold onto something, anything. Your pulse thudded in your ears, but you couldn’t let it break you. Not now.

But they didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Their gaze was colder than you’d ever felt it before.

"You're not ready," the instructor continued, the finality in their tone wrapping around you like a chain. "We can’t afford to keep you in this role. Your balance is off. We need someone more stable."

A dull ache spread through your chest, hollowing you out from the inside. Stable. They might as well have said you weren’t good enough. You weren’t enough, not after everything.

"Just... give me one more chance,. you found yourself saying before you could stop it. You stepped forward, but they didn’t flinch. Your hands clenched at your sides, your legs trembling beneath you, but you didn’t let yourself collapse.

But the instructor's response was curt. "The decision is final."

The air in the room thickened, the weight of it suffocating. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only felt your legs shaking as if the floor had disappeared beneath you. You had fought so hard, put everything into this role, this comeback. And now… you were being replaced.

The music that had once felt like a lifeline was now silent, and in its place was only the sound of your own heartbeat crashing in your chest.

"You're done here," the instructor added, turning away, leaving you standing alone in the center of the room, your body trembling and your breath shallow.

The silence stretched on, but it felt like hours. You stood there, fighting against the overwhelming rush of emotions—defeat, frustration, disbelief—and yet, a part of you felt something else, something deep and burning. You were not done.

The city’s stillness hung in the air, thick with the weight of dawn, as Ellie leaned against the railing of her balcony, her breath fogging up in front of her. The faint hum of the early morning felt too quiet, too empty for the chaos that had built up in her chest the past few days. But it was all muffled now, drowned out by the image of you standing there, on your balcony in the freezing cold. It was 5 a.m., and there you were, just... staring into the distance, your body wrapped in a sweater too thin for the chill that had already crept into the world around you.

Ellie’s mind raced, worry creeping in. She had seen you around for months now, your quiet, focused presence tugging at something inside her, something she didn’t want to admit. She could never ignore you, even from afar. And now here you were, vulnerable and alone in the cold, your shoulders hunched against the wind, and all Ellie could think about was how wrong it was. How you should be inside, getting rest before tonight—before everything hinged on tonight—and yet here you were, standing in the dark. Alone.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Ellie called, her voice cracking through the silence.

You jumped slightly at the sound, and when your eyes landed on her, it felt like a punch to the gut. There was something about you in that moment—lost in thought, distant, wrapped in the cold, but so incredibly... beautiful. It was in the way you carried yourself, how you seemed to light up even in the darkness. It was so raw, so vulnerable, it made Ellie’s heart tighten in her chest.

You looked confused at first, blinking at her, then a little embarrassed, as if you hadn’t realized how cold it was out there. “Just... thinking,” you said softly, your voice carrying a layer of fatigue that Ellie could almost feel.

“Thinking?” Ellie’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t stop the concern from bleeding into her tone, the need to pull you inside, to wrap you in something warm. “It’s freezing out here. And it’s... it’s 5 a.m., what are you doing?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your gaze dropping to the ground, the quiet tension hanging thick between you both. Ellie could feel it, a thick pulse in her chest, like she was waiting for something—anything—to break the silence.

Then, she noticed the gift bag in your hand, something carefully wrapped, something she had almost forgotten about in the chaos of everything else.

“Shit,” Ellie muttered under her breath, stepping closer to the railing. She wasn’t sure what made her do it, but the words just slipped out. “I brought you something.”

You looked up at her then, surprised, as Ellie held out the gift bag. It was awkward—too much, maybe—but it was all she had in that moment.

“It’s—uh, it’s for the show tonight. You don’t have to open it now, though,” she said quickly, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to hide the sudden, nervous flush creeping up her neck. The words were tumbling out too fast, her chest tight.

You took the bag from her, your fingers brushing hers for a moment, and Ellie felt a spark of warmth flood her skin. She watched you, her breath coming a little quicker now, unsure of how to feel about this. You glanced down at the bag, your expression unreadable, before you pulled the tissue paper aside and peered inside.

Ellie’s stomach flipped as you pulled out the sketchbook. She hadn’t thought about how it might feel to have someone open it, not like this. Her sketching had always been so personal, something she kept to herself, but this felt... different. Watching you flip through the pages, her sketches of you—sketches she’d never planned to show anyone—made her feel exposed, too visible. She could hear the soft, surprised intake of your breath as you saw the drawings, but Ellie didn’t dare speak, afraid of breaking the moment.

“Ellie,” you said her name like a whisper, your voice catching in her chest. She met your eyes, her heart skipping a beat at the softness in your gaze. "This is... " There was a pause, and then your eyes darted up to meet hers. 

Ellie swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The way you said her name, the way you looked at her—there was something in it that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t as awkward as it felt. That maybe, despite her nerves, it was okay.

“I…,” she muttered, her fingers twisting nervously. “I just... I wanted you to have it. You know, for the show.” She let out a small laugh, but it sounded more like a sigh. “I’ve been sketching you for a while now. I—uh, I wanted to give you something.”

You smiled, your lips curving up in the smallest, softest way, and Ellie felt her heart race at the sight. “Thank you, seriously.,” you said, your voice full of sincerity, and Ellie couldn’t help the flush that spread across her cheeks. It was too much, too real, and yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to say that,” Ellie muttered, shifting on her feet, her gaze avoiding yours for a moment. “I just wanted to do something for you.  I don’t know, I just... figured you might like it.”

“Ellie," you said, and your voice was steady now, the uncertainty that had clouded your face earlier gone. “Let me perform for you.”

[the1920sinpictures]

1929 Muse with Violin ornamental screen designed by Paul Feher. Made of aluminum, brass and iron with silver and gold plating. It was made at the Rose Iron Works, Cleveland, Ohio. Josephine Baker is supposed to be the inspiration for the figure. From Art Deco, FB.

[ironmengatesdoorsdesign]

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[zepskies]

'Twas the Night...

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean listens, sometimes when you least expect it. This year, Christmas begins to become something new for both of you.    

AN: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone! This is my @spnfanficpond Secret Santa gift for @eldritchlibertine! The idea is based on this request from @whichwitchwanda (a story prompted from the header image).

Word Count: 2.4K

Tags/Warnings: Fluff and more fluff! Christmas feels. ❤️

A door burst open, and your eyes raised from the page. You nearly dropped your book into your lap when you saw it—the wide, bristled top of an evergreen tree trying to shove its way through the door of the bunker.

Or rather, it only seemed that way.

All the way up at the top of the rod iron staircase, grumbled cursing and muttering and arguing filtered down to you in the common room, where you were leaning back in your seat with an old copy of Wuthering Heights. You sat up, an incredulous smirk beginning to curve your lips.

“Dean, it’s not gonna fit.” That was Sam, obviously. You’d recognize his testy bitching anywhere.

“You kiddin’ me? All that work I spent sawing this thing outta the ground, I’m gonna damn well make it fit. Come on, put your big boy pants on.”

The equally familiar gruff, grousing tone of your man’s voice almost made you snort. You set down the book on the table and debated whether you were going to get up and try to help, or let them hash it out. You were surprised they hadn’t called out for you yet.

After a few more seconds of listening to their frustrated huffing and puffing, you shook your head and got up. You reached the top of the stairs, and their sounds of irritated, breathless struggle became even clearer.

“Dean,” Sam protested.

“Shut up. I’ve almost got it…”

“You’re gonna break the damn frame—”

“Something tells me you didn’t get this thing at Home Depot,” you remarked.

There was a pause, and Dean called your name questioningly. He also sounded a bit embarrassed.

“Yep, I’m here, Chevy Chase,” you said, laughing as you grabbed the branches that were stuck in the doorway. You bent them at the angle the guys needed to get the whole thing inside, and all too quickly you had to step out of the way as Sam and Dean broke through the doorway with the rest of the tree.

Sam caught himself on the wall, while Dean threw a hand out to grasp at the railing of the stairs. You grabbed Dean’s arm to help steady him. Once he had his feet planted, he slung an arm around your waist and looked down on you with a satisfied smile—one that he then aimed at Sam.

“See? Told you it would fit.”

“Where did you even get this thing?” you asked. You eyed Dean in curiosity, even as you were helping him stream the lights around this seven-foot monstrosity. You’d also taken great delight in putting on some holiday music. Now, Frank Sinatra’s “White Christmas” was playing from a Bluetooth speaker on the War Room table.

Dean shot you a distracted smile as he worked in concentration, bringing a string of lights around the part of the tree that was closest to the wall. He handed off the other end to you, and you wrapped the line of multicolored lights around.

“Eh, there’s a nice bit of forest a few miles out of town,” he said. Your brows raised high. You’d suspected, of course, but you still shook your head with a smile.  

“You know you need a permit for that, right?” you said.

“I tried to tell him,” said Sam. He was on his way up the stairs, heading out back to the car to get the box of ornaments he and Dean bought at Walmart this morning along with the pretty multicolored lights, all while you were still sleeping.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, but just kept focused on his task. Once he started something, he had to finish it, you noticed. And when he got into something, he was Mr. DIY, putting in his all. You liked watching the crunch between his brows, the set of his lips, the sureness of his hands while he mentally calculated what they were going to accomplish next.

Most of all, you liked the look of self-satisfaction when he was done, and happy with his finished product. It didn’t matter if he was tuning up the Impala, making a home-cooked meal for the three of you, or decorating a wild tree. That face was the same. 

“Illegally obtained tree aside,” you said, not bothering to temper your smile, “I thought you guys didn’t really celebrate Christmas. Or any holidays, for that matter.”

Dean gave you a small grin, though again, he seemed a little embarrassed. He freed one of his hands to scratch at the back of his head.

“Yeah, well…weren’t you the one who was talking about the Christmases you had growing up?” he said.

You blinked, your mouth gently falling open in surprise. That had been a couple weeks ago, when the first snow of December began to fall over Lebanon. Late that night, after settling into bed together, you’d turned towards him in his arms. Maybe it was the turn of the season making you nostalgic, but somehow the conversation drifted into you making a confession, about what you missed the most about your family.

Your parents had passed on, and your sister was distant. She had her own family and her own life, and she wanted to keep it far away from the things you hunted. You couldn’t blame her, even if the thought of her always pierced your heart.

Beyond than that, what you missed was the house where you grew up, small but cozy and lived in. You missed the smell of pine and cinnamon that filled the living room every day of December. You missed the nights you and your sister curled up by the fire late at night playing imaginary games, long after your parents’ had put you guys to bed. You missed your mother’s cooking, and helping her bake molasses cookies on Christmas Eve.

You missed togetherness, the feeling of warmth and safety.

You tilted your head at Dean.

“Yeah, but…” you trailed, not willing to finish the thought as another suspicion grew in your mind.

“Just thought we could do some of that this year for you, that’s all,” he said. And he shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. His hands were busy untangling some lights. “Matter of fact, we could all use the time off.”

You couldn’t help but pause. Your breathing shallowed, and no matter how much you fought it, tears stung in your eyes. You bit your lip to try and hold it all at bay. When Dean glanced up at you, he had to do a double take. It made you smile, despite your slightly blurring vision.

“Hey, what—”

You dropped your end of the lights and went to him. You raised up on your toes so you could wrap your arms around his neck in a warm hug. Dean uttered a surprised huff, but his arms came around your waist and gathered you closer. He soon realized he was still holding onto the tangle of lights, and he hung them on a nearby tree branch for now. His smile overtook his surprise and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“I love you. You know that right?” Your voice was muffled in his neck, but he heard you well enough. He chuckled and slipped a soothing hand up and down your back.

“I do know, actually,” he said, his voice warm and teasing.

A giggle escaped you. You tugged on his short hair in retaliation, making him chuckle.

“Hey,” he warned, but it had heat of a different kind. His hand began venturing down to your ass, but before he could do some retaliating of his own, a door swung open and Sam came down the stairs hefting a couple different boxes of ornaments.

He raised a brow, though he smiled at the way you and his brother were entwined. You half pulled away to nod at Sam, sniffling at quickly wiping at your face. Dean dried some of the wetness from the corner of your eye with a curled finger. You glanced up at him and couldn’t help blushing, smiling, despite your embarrassment.

Dean still had an arm wrapped around your waist as you peered over at the boxes Sam set down near the tree. One of them caught your attention and made your eyes widen.

“Oh my God. They’re Scooby Doo themed!”

The rest of the afternoon was spent decorating the tree with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby echoing throughout the common room. After you made a trip to the grocery store, soon the smell of cinnamon, brown sugar and rich molasses joined the scent of pine throughout the entire bunker.

It was a Christmas Eve well spent. The night was filled with a rewatch marathon of Home Alone and Christmas Vacation. You agreed to Dean throwing in Elf into the mix, as long as you got to watch Love Actually, and The Holiday with Jude Law. Dean complained more than Sam about your girly chick-flicks, but he became just as invested in Colin Firth pouring his heart out in mangled Portuguese to Aurelia as you were, if less teary-eyed.

When The Holiday came around though, he was half asleep as he laid sprawled across your lap and the couch. Your nails gently massaging his scalp nearly did him in, along with Sam’s heavy-ass pour of eggnog. It was tradition, at this point.

By the end of the movie marathon, you were the one snoozing from your corner of the couch, your hand still in Dean’s hair.

He carried you to bed that night, your eyelids heavy as you teetered back and forth between slumber and the waking world. At least you were already in your pajamas. All he had to do was tuck you under the sheets on your side of the bed, then slip in behind you afterwards.

His arm draped around your waist, and you curled towards him, half on instinct as you let out a deep breath. Dean smiled as you settled against his chest. Your soft snores soon greeted his ears. Only then did he let himself rest…

Just not for long.

You woke earlier than you planned to in the morning, mainly because your man pillow was no longer beside you. You reached out a hand and found Dean’s side of the bed empty and cold, the covers pulled back. With a frown, you opened bleary eyes and checked your phone. It was around the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m.

What the hell was Dean doing up at the crack of dawn?

Unless… You paused as your memory served you a grim reminder. Unless he’d had a rough night, kept up by memories and dreams he didn’t always want to talk to you about. It wouldn’t be the first time he came back to bed after a few hours with the heady smell of bourbon on him.

You got up with a sigh, rolling your neck as you did so. You just wanted to check on him. Maybe you could even persuade him to come back to bed.

You threw on a sweater over your pajamas and some fluffy slippers Sam bought you for your birthday—all to shield you from the bunker’s chilly air and ice-cold floors. You’d have to remind Dean to check on the heater.

You padded out of the bedroom and down the long hall…and became distracted by the Christmas tree in the common room. It really was beautiful all lit up. The lights softly flashed in green, red, purple, and gold. Traditional red and gold ornaments hung beside the Scooby Doo themed ones, with Fred and Daphne front and center, along with the rest of the gang scattered throughout.

And then you found Dean.

“Damn it…friggin’ piece of shit ribbon…” 

Dean’s muttering drew your attention to his hunched figure kneeling at the base of the tree. Your head tilted in wonder as your face broke out into a smile. What the hell is he doing? You tried to be light on your feet as you approached him from behind. Peering over his shoulder, you could almost see what he was trying do with some shiny red wrapping paper and a big golden bow.

Your heart swelled. Had he really gotten you and Sam something for Christmas too? He didn’t need to get you anything…

Dean’s hunter reflexes must’ve been tingling though, because suddenly he sat up straighter and looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw you standing there in your pajamas, arms crossed over your robe.

He actually jolted, muttering a curse as he tried to cover up what he was doing.

“What’cha doin’, babe?” you asked. Your eyes gleamed with amusement.

Dean tried to get up, but his foot slipped on a stray ribbon. He careened back onto his ass and knocked into the tree. Not only did its branches poke into his face and arm, making him wince, but he managed to displace a couple of ornaments, sending them tumbling to the floor by his hand. He grunted and raised up onto his forearms. For the pièce de résistance, that lovely golden bow landed right in his lap.

With raised brows, you took in the sight of your man—all bedraggled and looking sheepish (and adorable) as hell. Your hand went up to cover your mouth, but you were unable to quiet the giggle that bubbled up and escaped your lips.

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey.”

You glanced down at the bow, almost perfectly placed in his lap.

“Hey,” you replied, your lips curving into a smile.

You lowered down to kneel in front of him, and you took his face in your gentle hands before you leaned in for a sweet, sensuous kiss. Dean breathed into it. Your eyes shut along with his as you savored the moment, and him.

When you parted, your smile remained as you fingered the shiny edge of the bow. Dean began to smirk as well, despite how warm his face had gotten. His big hands found their way to your hips, welcoming you when you took a comfortable seat over his thighs.

You whispered against his lips, “I already know which present I’m gonna unwrap first.” 

AN: Lol there we go, a cheeky ending for you! Let me know if you liked this! ❤️💚

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[blondieeu]

comfort inn. aizawa s.

a/n; early christmas content?!

being in a long term relationship with aizawa shouta and eventually making him a holiday person even though he denies it.

"shouta, you're still the most talented gift wrapper I know," you teased as you peaked under the absurdly large and fully decorated christmas tree that had actually no business in your small apartment.

more specifically, you were peaking at the nicely wrapped and carefully lined up boxes placed under it. on the other side of the christmas tree, were your clearly not so neatly wrapped presents.

as you both laid on the couch, him on the L side of the couch with his arms lazily behind his head, your small tuxedo cat- terra took over the other half of the couch (literally just the arm of the couch) and you, not too far away from him but not touching as you both laid there in one another presence.

he wore a long sleeve black shirt and some pajama pants. his hair was in a nice low sleek bun you did for him while he brushed his teeth. he doesn't ask you to put his hair in a bun for him anymore, you just do it because you know he appreciates it.

shouta narrowed his eyes at you. "someone has to maintain elegance in this chaotic apartment." he mumbled, almost under his breath but he knew you could hear him. the lower half of his face was covered by a fluffy white throw blanket.

"maintaining elegance is crazy work, you know that right?" you chuckled out loud peeling your eyes from the impeccably wrapped presents to your boyfriend, laughing loudly when you made eye contact and he cracked a smirk that quickly went away. "besides, your elegance looks a lot like perfectionism to me shouta."

"same difference." he didn't even move from his position on the couch, arms still behind his head. aizawa had been wrapping gifts like that since your very first christmas together, he wrapped you one on your first date.

your large christmas tree shined brightly from the corner of your living room. many colorful decorations, lights, ornaments and a bunch of other shit could be seen on it. it was so big and extra and unnecessary, especially for your apartment - you loved it so much.

"..are you social distancing now?" you smiled at his subtle request for you to come closer, obliging him as you settled back into the warmth of your couch. you weren't really cuddling, just laying beside one another. you relished in the feeling of the heat radiating off your boyfriend.

eventually, your gaze swept across the small apartment you and shouta made into a home throughout the years of your relationship. currently, it turned into what looked like someones grandma's house over the holidays - specifically yours... and it may or may not have been because you stole a bunch of her stuff years ago and wont give it back.

sparkly christmas lights, and sneaky mistletoes placed above the more frequently used door frames. the smell of baking cookies filled all the unoccupied spaces in your home. 'ridiculous' color changing lights danced around on your ceiling too, something you personally insisted you have in the house this christmas.

"up to eight christmas' man. " you began, affection filling your voice. "i can't believe I ended up turning the king of emo into a christmas pro." you fell into a fit of laughter as you continued to poke fun at him, he kept his eyes glued to the television mounted on the wall. terra yawned and leaped off the couch before disappearing behind the kitchen island.

the pro-hero raised a bushy brow, ignoring the fact that she left. "emo..?" he seemed a little taken aback that someone would tell him that. "im a little quiet, I'll admit." "a little?-" you sat up on your elbow, turning towards him with raised eyebrows.

"I speak when necessary. there's nothing 'emo' about me."

"what about that drawing koda made of you?" you both thought back to a week prior; visiting the wild wild pussycats and finding a crumbled picture of shouta poorly drawn as the grinch, which was ironic because you were only visiting to ask what koda would want this christmas. a snicker was heard from your side of the couch, a side eye was also received directly after.

shouta turned his head at the mention of the piece of paper, trying to hide his faint smile. "koda's artistic skills are.. a little questionable." you laughed again. "and I'm not a 'christmas pro.' I just enjoy.. some aspects of the holiday." "yeah, like what?" you threw a leg over his as you cuddled into him to steal his blanket.

"don't let me find out you really do like our sparkling rainbow ceiling lights shouta!" your long-term boyfriend instinctively put an arm around your shoulder as you laid your head on his chest, then fixing the blanket on top of the both of you. "I tolerate them."

"you're my closet christmas king" he looked down at you with an unexpected chuckle, his breath tickled the bridge of your nose. "don't tell anyone that." you happily held up your pinky, he obliged and curled his with yours as you sealed it with a kiss. "secrets safe with me baby"

blondieeu xx

[artstfuff]

ornamental iron picket tops from Stewart Iron Works catalogue

[fangdokja]

"I burned their world for daring to look at you— imagine what I’d do if you tried to leave."

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Emperor x Reader

♡ Headcanons. #1

♡ Word Count. 859

Your silence will teach you loyalty.

His voice resonates through the throne room like a hammer against steel—unyielding, inescapable. You flinch at the sharpness of his tone, though no one dares to meet your eyes. The air shifts with his unspoken command. Chains, deceptively delicate yet unrelentingly cruel, wind around your wrists as you’re dragged toward him. They clink like a funeral bell, heralding your fate.

A single nod from him seals your fate—chains of silver, intricate but cruel, bite into your wrists as you’re dragged to his side.

“You are mine,” he murmurs, his breath a phantom tracing your ear. The words latch onto you, branding your skin and soul with their weight.

Defiance, he knows, is only temporary.

He savors every crack in your resistance. A predator by instinct and a conqueror by blood, he strips you bare of your defenses with a glance. His golden eyes, aflame with possession, hold you captive. His scarred hands grip your jaw, tilting your face until his gaze becomes all you know.

“Say it,” he demands, voice low but edged with menace. “Say who you belong to.”

When you hesitate, his grip tightens, sending a jolt through your core. The whisper that follows chills you. “Don’t worry, dove. You’ll scream it eventually.”

He builds his empire with the blood of dissent.

The scent of war never leaves him. Iron and death cling to his crimson-stained cape as it sweeps across the marble floors. You are displayed before the court like a trophy—a living testament to his dominance. His voice drips with mockery as he addresses the nobles, who laugh with hollow obedience. “This one thought she could defy me,” he announces, amusement laced with cruelty.

When the audience disperses, leaving the hall echoing and empty, his hand circles your throat—not to crush, no. He revels in your pulse quickening beneath his fingers, in the fragile truth of your mortality.

“I could break you so easily,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your skin with unnerving tenderness. “But then, where’s the fun in that?”

Fear is the wine he drinks by the chalice.

Within his chambers, the air is heavy, suffused with him—his presence, his control. The moonlight seeps through stained glass, painting him in fractured colors as he corners you against the ornate bedpost. Each deliberate step crushes any hope of escape.

“Do you fear me because you despise me,” his voice dripping with saccharine malice, lips barely inches from yours, “or because you’ve realized you’ll never escape me?”

Your trembling hands shove weakly against his chest, but he only laughs—a low, wicked sound that curls around your spine. “Struggle harder, little dove. I love it when you make me work for it.”

Your will is his favorite plaything.

He gives you everything but freedom. He smothers you with opulence. Gowns that pool like liquid gold at your feet, jewels heavy enough to weigh you down—his eyes going dark with arousal as he watches you wear them.

They shimmer under his gaze, but it’s you, not the ornaments, that hold his attention. You are his masterpiece, his conquest perfected. A doll under luxurious chains, a living, breathing masterpiece of his tyranny.

One night, his voice slices through the stillness like a blade. “Kneel.”

You hesitate, if only for a heartbeat. It’s long enough.

The slap that follows doesn’t break you—it’s never meant to break you. Instead, it reinforces a lesson, sharp and stinging. He pulls you into his lap after, hand cradling your face as though he hadn’t just hurt you. “Good girls obey without question,” he chides, stroking your hair deceptively gentle. “Shall we try again?”

He would raze worlds to keep you.

The rebellion whispers your name, and the news reaches him like a spark meeting dry tinder. Entire villages are erased in retaliation, his soldiers torching homes and slaughtering innocents. He sits atop his warhorse, impassive as flames devour homes and screams ring out like a hymn to his fury.

“She must learn,” he muses to his general, tone soft but final. “There’s nowhere she can run where I won’t find her.”

Your cries are a symphony, and your screams are his prayers.

Even punishment carries an unsettling intimacy. When you lash out, his arms cage you close, his voice a shiver against your ear. ���Hush, my little dove,” he croons, brushing tears from your cheeks. “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” But the glint in his eyes betrays the pleasure he takes in your brokenness.

"Even death wouldn’t save you."

He keeps you in a gilded cage, both figuratively and literally, beautiful as it is impenetrable. The locks are ornate, crafted by the empire’s finest smiths, close to unbreakable. Exhausted, you collapse against the silk cushions of his bed.

He watches you sleep, an unsettling softness overtaking his features as his fingers trail across your cheek.

“If you were to die,” he whispers to the shadows, “I would burn this world to the ground and carve your image into its ashes.”

[simenmetal]

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