1864 The Sea Captain’s House

Nestled below the main path that crosses the village of Oia, 1864 The Sea Captain’s House is a one-of-a-kind Santorini hideaway where modern comforts blend seamlessly with the charm of the Cycladic architecture.

Three luxuriously appointed suites and a striking cave house make up this delightful boutique hotel, partly carved into the island’s cliffs.

Perched on the upper level, the Venetian and the Sailing suites are elegantly decorated with dark-wood antique furnishings, white marble bathrooms, and glorious terraces overlooking the sea and the epic caldera.

With room for up to 4 guests, the sprawling Captain’s Suite opens onto a charming courtyard, while the dazzling white cave house is a Cycladic classic, with contemporary minimalist interiors, a spectacular deep soaking tub, and a private traditional patio.


anonymous asked:

I would really like another smut of zen.. the way you write is outrageously good. Maybe when he rescues us from sae and we go over to his house~

Hi dear Anon! Thank you for the kind words. <3
I wrote it a little fluffy and a little angsty in the start, but I really love it if I’m allowed to say so myself. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Smut. You’ve been warned!

My heart in your hands – Zen

You nestled your head deeper into the crook of Zen’s neck, hands around his waist and gripping the fabric of his shirt, afraid that something could come and pull you out of the safety of his arms around you. Or someone.

You were sitting on the floor of his living room. He just wanted to get you a hot chocolate and some bandages for the cuts on your arms and your fingers that you received as you wanted to clean the apartment off the the mess that Saeran had left behind.

You were in haze back then, a kind of traumatic shock. Your hands were shaking and you kept reminding yourself that you are okay, that Zen was there and nothing would happen and that you just needed to stay calm, so you wanted to get rid of the traces that the man had left behind, as if you could clean yourself in this process as well. You still felt those cold arms around you, the way his mouth was close to your ear as he talked with that icy and emotionless voice. The thought had made you shudder, and as a result you had cut yourself in the finger with one of the shards by accident.

Zen had stopped you then, not knowing how to cope with you before, and gently took the broken glass out of your hand before pulling you to your feet and got some of your clothes and your personal stuff before he brought you to his home.

That’s how you got there. You were wearing a t-shirt of his, baggy and way too long for you, as well as the sweatpants he gave you, but you didn’t mind, because the feeling of something he had worn, the smell of him all around you and the comfy and warm clothes made you feel safe right now, it made you feel like home, like this was were you’re supposed to be.

Under different circumstances you would have been awkward, clinging to him and hugging him with all might, wearing his clothes and being alone with him at his home. You would’ve been embarrassed and worked up, thinking carefully about every word and every step, cautios of not making any mistakes that would lead to him thinking different of you.

But all of that didn’t matter right now. He found you at your worst, scared and practically kidnapped or worse, and he saved your life on the spot, without thinking of his own safety first or anything. He held onto you as tightly as you held onto him. He hugged you as tight as he could. He didn’t care for any mistakes or faults, of consequences or anything. When he saw you in his clothes, small and broken, all he wanted to do was to take you away, somewhere, anywhere, where life would be better, where you wouldn’t be in danger, where you would be happy and smiling, blushing at him when he flirted. He didn’t care about his fame or his dreams, he would go and scrub toilets if it meant that you two could go somewhere where things were okay. Where you were okay.

But how would he know, how could he know, that right now, you felt like you were in the safest and happiest place in the world. That his presence would erase it all, the pain, the fear, the troubles and the past. That his presence was all that was needed to heal you from all of it, to give you hope that things will be okay and that you were alright.

You felt someone touch your hand softly and raised your head, looking into Zen’s beautiful eyes, and a sad smile crossed his face before he pulled your arm and lifted you off the ground to take you to his sofa. He placed a blanket around your shoulders, not caring that the white and fluffy fabric would be ruined as his hands held a little of your blood, only wanting you to feel warm and nice.

“We need to disinfect those a little, and after that a bandage should be fine” he spoke, eyes examining the small cuts on your fingers, before he reached out for the small bottle and dipped it onto a tissue. He put it to your fingers, and as you hissed a little from the sting, he murmured some apoligies and stroked your hand lightly, as if to relax the skin around the wounds.

Slowly he wrapped your fingers up, bandage for bandage, careful not to hurt you in the proces, before he lifted your hand up to his mouth and gave it a kiss, looking into your eyes all the time. The gesture was so lovingly, as if he was holding something precious, the most important treasure in the world to him, that it made you want to cry. To cry out of happiness that he was here and would  stay, that he would make sure that you were safe, to cry out because of everything that had happened and because it was still there, lingering. To cry because you still felt those hands that held you prior, those hands that wanted to make you a prisoner. He didn’t touch your body in that way, but you still felt kind of… dirty.

Zen watched the emotions in your eyes carefully, studying every flicker and every change, and as he saw the tears gathering in them, he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around you and pull you into him, to give you safety and love and to let you know that you were in his heart.

“I’m so glad you’re here” he whispered, one hand on your back, the other in your hair as he pressed his cheek onto your head. Your arms held him tightly, only nodding into his chest. Words weren’t needed right now.

No words.

Only feelings.

He felt so good, so right, as if he was the light in the darkest night, as if he could absorb all of your fears and transform them into happiness, into love and into something better.

Keep reading

ImmortalBrats;; Thorns and Spiders

She had been running for days, but had made some distance from the ship, which was her goal in the long run. She lay now in the soil of a garden, as tired as she’d been at least her collapse was tactful, she blended in here, she’d be reasonably safe.

Even so, Kevin stood atop her, defensive, ready to attack anyone that dared hurt her, nestled on her back admidst the thorns, coloured a dark green to blend in.

The estate sits in the foothills of the Shroud, nestled beneath an overgrown canopy of vibrant trees that rustle and sway in the humid breeze, sending a relative cascade of dried-through leaves fluttering over elegant marble, choked by ivy so vibrant, it speaks only as a testament for how long the hulking building has been present.

Form the outside, it’s grandiose, and breathtaking— something undeniably belonging to nobility complete with spotless Ishgardian flags hanging proudly from the marble pillars, fluttering gently, harmlessly in the breeze.

The gardens have been preened and manicured with neat hedges, winding pathways, and a fountain complete with two marble-embalmed Elezen engaged in a stately dance together. Water spills in a never-ending stream from the heels of their shoes, and from where their hands join, cascading over their physiques, and giving the illusion of movement even when there is none.

Guards make their way in steady patrols through the gardens, always two at a time, and always precluded by another pair, the moment they vanish back into the estate itself; security is tight, and the guards are each armed in linked chainmail with visible swords slipped into their matching scabbards at their hips. They wear no protection upon their heads, though emblazoned proudly upon their chests is the Jademont sigil— a blue Griffon with its wings spread, and two twines of thorned, green  ivy coiled about its neck.

Inside, the estate is a relative labyrinth of rooms, curling, twining, and laden with wall hangings, embroidery, and lavish paintings of the Ishgardian skyline. Some feature members of the family, sitting stoic, and pale— amidst a black background. Their eyes are always averted, heads always turned to show off the sharp points of their ears, laden with far too many earrings. Their sallow, gaunt cheekbones look fit to cut glass and regality oozes from every brush stroke.

Deep, royal purple rugs cover polished hardwood floors. Opulent vases stuffed with vibrant blue-and-white flowers sit upon every elegant table set along every curved hall. Tall windows fitted with woven, gold-embroidered curtains line the walls, letting in the Shroud’s generous sunlight. Tall doors with golden handles remain closed, and often locked.

Guards stroll down each one, never entering any of the locked rooms, but lingering outside a given few— as if to make sure whomever might be inside isn’t in need of their aid.

There’s a library stocked with one too many thousand books, with curved bookshelves reaching high enough that ladders are a necessity just to see what me upon the topmost shelves. An old Wildwood woman manages it herself, endlessly cataloguing every book- a task that might just run her to the end of her days, quietly sneaking what picture books she can off to a small, white-haired Keeper who flees from the room every evening with the muted peals of the little bells about her ankles puncturing her every step.

The event hall is wide. There’s stage set within the heart of the room, framed by low planters overflowing with lush undergrowth. Rounded tables with plush chairs surrounding them and golden cake stands ready for pastries to be served onto them take up much of the space. A small bar sits at the very back of the room, stocked too generously, and managed by a young Raen girl with her red hair piled upon the top of her head in a messy bun; dressed just like the dancers.

They filter through the rooms, the hallways, and the backstage area like a running tide. All of them are young, and all of them are beautiful. All of them are Keepers, and all of them are wasting away, with bells cinched about their ankles in a ring with no fastening. The women are clad in soft silks embroidered with silver to compliment their skin, varying in shades from deep red, to light blue, and right down to deep, inky black. They’re outfitted like Thavnarian princesses, showing off too much skin, and not quite enough at the same time.

The males lack any torso covering, but the same low-strung skirts without sides settle over the curves of their hips, leaving little, if anything, to the imagination.

Some scratch, rub, and pick at their spotless skin— others hand off small potions filled with glittering blue liquid to them that always seem to stop their fidgeting— at least for a few moments.

But, admits it all, sitting at the very heart of the room in a chair lager than the ones all his patrons are allowed to occupy, sits Devreaux Jademont.

Everything about him is severe. Everything about him is gnarled, wrong, pale, and sallow.

Long, ink-black hair reaches the small of his back, dead straight, and dull— free from any sort of shine. His cheekbones are aristocratic, and arched, framed by a pair of deep, merlot eyes, closer to blood than crimson. They’re peaked by dark brows, and a slanted forehead gilded by a golden crown that sinks into his hairline with matching, hoop earrings in the lobes of his long ears.

He’s outfitted in long, black robes that reach the floor, and cover every conceivable inch of skin right up to the hinge of his jaw. His hands are free, revealing gnarled, black-pointed fingernails that look more like talons than hands. each finger is home to an equally opulent ring, until it’s clear his hands are almost too heavy for him to lift.

Every movement he makes is slow, and languid— as if he’s never in any rush, as if he’s enjoying every moment of his gathering. He’s tall, and he’s thin, but his shoulders are broad. He exudes power. The mere air around him is commanding, and soaked in aether.

A blonde-haired keeper stands uncertainly by his seat, hands clasped together over her middle, and she closes her eyes, as if in stricken fear as he reaches out for her, and settles a greedy, encroaching hand upon the small of her back, fingernails skirting over her bronze skin, drifting beneath the band of her skirts, greedy, and domineering.

He owns her, and she knows it.

The company he keeps is equally as regal. His children sit to his left, all as beautiful, and all as powerful as he— while those he wishes to impress most sit to his right. His body is turned towards them, and away from the Keeper by his elbow.

Guards still mill about the hall, herding those who have finished their performances away from he stage, and escorting those who have yet to dance towards it.

Occasionally, a patron will stand, and murmur something to an armour-clad guard. That guard will find one of the dancers, and lead them to the asking patron, only for the pair to vanish into one of the locked rooms, but only the patrons ever emerge. The dancers seem to stay there, until another comes in search of them.

It runs effortlessly on the surface. Everyone has their purpose. every room has its use, but on the ground floor, a winding stairwell leads down into a blackened underground stripped of any windows, and any doors. Bars section off minuscule rooms like a faux cellblock, and the stench of death, and decay clings to every crevice, and every corner. Chains hang like forgotten decoration from the walls. Knives sit on a small table in the heart of the block, and a row of deep-black potions take up the lone shelf.

The walls are blackened, and a pair of guards devoid of their characteristic armour subdue a burly Keeper with two broken front teeth. He struggles, he fights their hold, but they overpower him, and with every moment that passes— his limbs seem to grow heavier, and heavier, as if they’re made from lead.

A broken potion bottle sits in shards in the heart of his cell.

“Is he ready?” Comes a quiet voice by the stairs.

One of the guards looks up from the dark-skinned Keeper lying at his feet, still trying to reach out for him with a twisted hand. Three of his five fingers are broken. Dirt and grit cakes underneath his nails, and his features are contorted in pain. He’s trying to scream, but the only sound coming from his parted, bloodied lips— is a hissing, soaked wheeze.

“Nearly.” Says the guard. “Our lord is hungry?”

The Midlander by the stairs only nods.

“Don’t break too much, please.” He tells them. “I’m tired of picking bones from meat.”

anonymous asked:

werewolf amethyst & newly vampired peribat raising havoc in Beach city, weremethyst riling up the local dogs by howling every five minutes, peribat photobombing selfies n shrieking in rage when she doesn't show up in the pictures, weremethyst going out on sunny days with peribat nestled safe in her hair, teaming up to steal pizza (peri gets the garlicless crust ame eats everything else) peribat sleeping curled up in a trashcan, weremethyst hopping in to join her, super cute supernatura gfs

Write a fanfic


(Listen while viewing: Dreams-The Cranberries)  When the four of us piled into a car to find the secret field where we’d be taking photos–we had no idea where Kate was taking us. We laughed, panicked, and asked a million “Are you sure we didn’t miss it”s to Kate, who guided us by memory, giggling at our disbelief when we saw the trees part. We stood, speechless, facing a golden field sprawling out before us, every inch of it kissed by a late-afternoon sun. Overcome with feeling, I shook my head (knowing me, I probably swore a little too), hugged them both, and we began.

The venue for the intimate ceremony was a gorgeous little school nestled on a green-speckled hilltop. We took family photos beneath a great twisting tree where Kate played King Arthur’s Court with her friends as a child, before spiriting Kate and Ahmed away for the ceremony. When the sun had inched just above their ceremony space, I signaled the DJ (Kate’s brother) to begin. They walked down the aisle together to The Cranberries, holding one another’s hands and happier than I could ever describe. We laughed and cried at the emotional service given by Kate’s father, who married them. They kissed just as the sun peaked behind them, and all the rest was a blur of love.

As I’m writing this post and listening to that Cranberries song, I’m definitely welling up. I feel so lucky whenever a couple trusts me to document their wedding, but to do so for two friends I adore was really something special. Thank you to the Petersons and Asis for welcoming me with such warmth. Thank you Chloe for being an amazing assistant and friend.  And thank you, Kate and Ahmed, for having me (and Andrew!) laugh, eat, and dance alongside you with my cameras in tow. This day, in a word, was perfect.

Photographer: Tajreen Hedayet Photography | Venue: Oak Grove School, Ojai, CA | Dress: BHLDN | Chef: Michael Shevchuk (Oak Grove) | Jewelry: family heirlooms

I. ᙅᗩᔕᙅᗩ'ᔕ ᗪᖇᙓᗩᙏ: Tᕼᙓ IᑎᑎᙓᖇᙏOᔕT ᗪᙓᑭTᕼᔕ

      Set against the blue sky, a yonder sun shone brightly, and it’s warm rays pierced even through the milky haze of the mist rising from the waters which crashed several hundred feet down a tower of cliffs and into a river. As the light broke in the mighty waterfall, it created a rainbow of radiant colours which made for a spectacular sight from where Casca sat. Comfortably, her back melded against the bark and moss of the largest tree growing by the ridge, whilst in her arms she cradled a tiny and sleeping bundle. Nestled in soft cloth, his black hair, pointed ears and an adorable button nose were all that greeted her eyes. Almost unbelievable to see how he could find the most restful sleep nearby a cascade – after all, it was noisy here and he hated noise as much as his mother did. Casca herself, too, found comfort in it. When she shunned her eyes from the world, it was the buzzing hum which drowned out everything Casca did not want to think about – until the baby in her arms began to wiggle and cry out as he always did when hunger rose him from his slumber.

      Actions she once performed in primal instinct of a young mother became routine over the seasons; nevermind that her son had not grown out of his newborn state in three entire years, and that he was never going to. It didn’t matter, because Casca didn’t look for change. She was responsible for everything that happened here, this etheral place which held the greatest importance to her, for as long as she pulled the strings of her dream. And while the innermost walls of her repressed soul remained unbreached, this dream would repeat itself over and over again. One might deem such an endless loop of events a nightmare; one might grow bored of it all eventually, sick and tired of being stuck in the very same place, not changing, not growing, not moving on. Had she doomed herself a prisoner to her deepest core? Maybe, but Casca knew that the real nightmare awaited in the layers beyond. Diving to the surface of her consciousness and facing all the terror that she ought to resolve on her way to the light was not in Casca’s interest. Not when she felt so safe here, where she could be free of all that emotional and physical despair.

      And so she held the baby closer, kissed his head, fed him as she had done it so many times before. The woman relaxed, dipped her head backwards until it nestled against a cushion of moss and ivy. Plenty times before she saw the sky above crashing; a rift that tore apart the crisp and picture-perfect blue which comforted her so. Peeking behind lingered that frightening, dying sun with it’s corona of fire, and towering against a sky of blood the grimaces of demons that starved for her flesh and body. She didn’t know why the layers of her subconsciousness mingled every so often, or why it stirred awake undesireable memories her soul suppressed with all of it’s might. With every incident Casca retreated further, built even thicker wards until that watchful black sun was shunned once more. Except for that one time, when her dream was invaded by a monster which fletched it’s rows of canines at the woman, maw ready to consume and claws thirsting to tear her to pieces. Left behind from this encounter remained a scar, deeply cut as was the sacrificial rune engraved into her chest, and the fear towards a man she now excluded from the sacred place that was this waterfall.

      Guts may be her child’s father, but his assault ultimately severed the already fragile thread of trust that connected Casca to him. Even if it broke her heart, from this day, she spent her time locked away farthest she’s ever been, and nothing that happened on the outside of her physical vessel ever reached her again.

      The baby stirred again without attempting to feed, raising tiny fists discontently and breaking out in a restless cry that she deciphered as anything but hunger. His behaviour struck Casca as odd and unusual, and even her soothing humming would not break her child from his unhappy place today.  As she carefully placed the little one against her shoulder, the commander pushed her weight upwards until she was standing, stretching her legs for a moment after having been sitting for so long. In hopes to calm down her crying son, she rocked him gently and proceeded to saunter along the cliff until her senses caught track of something extraordinary; a warm breeze carried the scent of flowers, a sweet and comforting smell she wanted to inhale for a while; but Casca saw no flowers growing nearby. Nor did the trees carry cherry petals that whirled with the wind, kissing her cheeks and lips until they rained upon the ground and leaving Casca standing in the midst of a pink circle.

      Only then did she pick up the reason behind her son’s initial discomfort: someone or rather something has breached her dream, and with such indescribable power came the flowers. 

      Anxiously, her eyes scanned the sky of the rift she dreaded to find – it hardly surprised Casca to see her surroundings intact and bare of the horror that came with every breach, but she needed to make sure of it either way. What happened here and who was powerful enough to find her recessed soul, perched away so deeply? As though the circle of petals trapped the woman like a snare, she dared not to move much further. In her arms, the child’s wailing had ceased, leaving him softly hiccuping instead. This invasion of her dream did not cause Casca physical harm, nor did it bring about any discomfort or  pain like the other times it happened – she did, however, pick up the presence of two visiting bodies who must have been lead here by the force she associated with the flowerstorm. Teeth gritted and she furrowed her brows deeply, bracing herself against whoever dared to penetrate her mind so shamelessly. A sword sat against the tree behind her, left untouched for now. For now. 

      She wasn’t stupid, nor was she blind to the yet unrevealed motive for anyone to go through the trouble of reaching this far into her soul. They’d reason with Casca until she gave up the safe haven she had built so excessively and come back with them. Anger kindled in her core, an emotion she didn’t feel in forever. If that happened, she was ready to turn them down, violently if needed. For now and in spite of her lividness, curiousity still got the better of Casca and she disgruntingly welcomed the pair of souls into her wards. It was time to meet them face to face, wanted here or not.

      „Show yourself! Who dares to barge in like this? I’ve not asked to be found and will send you straight back to where you came from if you don’t bring a good reason for this violation!” 

@schulerderflora & @farnese-de-vandimion

House on the cliff by Fran Silvestre Arquitectos stands like a…

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House on the cliff by Fran Silvestre Arquitectos stands like a monolithic stone-anchored structure, in contrast with the abrupt landscape in which it’s nestled.

Discover this week’s most loved project on Archilovers:

via Archilovers The Social Network for Architects

California will run out of water very soon.

According to NASA’s new report, California only has enough water to get it through the next year. People are under strict water-saving measures; farmers are struggling to keep their crops alive.
Yet, Nestlé is bottling water from at least ten natural springs throughout California, including from some of the most drought-stricken areas of the state, and selling it for profit. In places like Sacramento, it’s paying less than $0.14 per gallon. This is bananas.

Sign the petition to Nestlé: stop taking water from drought-stricken areas.


California is in its fourth year of one of the worst droughts in modern history, with recent reports showing only enough water to last the state one more year. Keep in mind that this is a state whose water fuels a major portion of our entire nation’s food supply. But while residents are urged to conserve water and are facing mandatory water usage restrictions, Nestlé is bottling this scarce resource straight from the heart of California’s drought, exporting it out of state, and selling it for profit. And this is all happening right under the state water regulator’s nose!

JOIN US to call on the California Water Resources Control Board to immediately shut down Nestlé’s bottling operations during this devastating drought!

Surprise -- Turns Out Nestle Actually WAS Stealing Water In Calif.

Surprise — Turns Out Nestle Actually WAS Stealing Water In Calif.

Nestle is already in hot water over the continuing pumping of water out of drought-ravaged California to feed its bottled water business. Now, it turns out, they did not actually have the permits needed to do so from at least one of their sources, according to an investigation by The Desert Sun. As reported by the San Jose Mercury News on Sunday, it turns out that their permit for water…

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Nestlé, a multi-national company valued at $247 billion dollars, gets it’s bottled water from Lake Michigan FOR FREE. That’s 400 gallons of water per minute, for the low low price of completely free. Even worse, Nestlé receives a $13 million dollar tax break from the state of Michigan. Worse still, Nestlé recently took legal action against Flint residents for making “disparaging comments” about the company.

Meanwhile, the disproportionately Black residents of Flint are still being charged for POISONED drinking water…that they cannot drink, cook or bathe with. Not only that, but the residents of Flint are paying among the highest water bills in the country. (source)

So again, exactly when will Rick Snyder and his Emergency City Manager be arrested for crimes against humanity?

(please see related post »here)

Owls keep little snakes as their pets. Eastern screech owls bring blind snakes to their nests to rid them of larvae and parasites so their babies will grow faster and stronger. The snakes don’t seem to mind, because they hang around and eat like crazy until the nestlings hatch and then slither back down to find a new home underground. Source Source 2

Kellogg’s spent $32 million last year in advertising Pop Tarts alone. Coca-Cola spent $269 million advertising its flagship product (Coca-Cola). Pepsi spent $150 million just to advertise the brightly colored sugar-water that is Gatorade. It’s the sugar water for people who do sports. These are numbers that Marion Nestle, professor of nutrition, food studies, and public health, highlighted in a lecture at New York University on Thursday night. ‘Think about what that money could do for education, for social welfare,’ Nestle implored. 'But that money is spent getting people to buy sugar.’