#** added in museum ** (gallery)

[razowor-backup]

Excuse me but

Razor. In a suit. And Bennett too.

(Source)

[multiverseofmisfits]

Meanwhile, I randomly made this for Samantha

Picrew link

[thepastisalreadywritten]

(CNN) — It’s late summer 2,850 years ago. A fire engulfs a stilt village perched above a boggy, slow-moving river that weaves though the wetlands of eastern England.

The tightly packed roundhouses, built from wood, straw, turf, and clay just nine months earlier, go up in flames.

The inhabitants flee, leaving behind all their belongings, including a wooden spoon in a bowl of half-eaten porridge.

There is no time to rescue the fattened lambs, which are trapped and burnt alive.

The scene is a vivid and poignant snapshot, captured by archaeologists, of a once thriving community in late Bronze Age Britain known as Must Farm, near what’s now the town of Peterborough.

The research team published a two-volume monograph on Wednesday that describes their painstaking $1.4 million (£1.1 million) excavation and analysis of the site in the county of Cambridgeshire.

Described by the experts involved as an “archaeological nirvana,” the site is the only one in Britain that lives up to the “Pompeii premise,” they say, referencing the city forever frozen in time by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79 that has yielded unparalleled information about ancient Rome.

“In a typical Bronze Age site, if you’ve got a house, you’ve probably got maybe a dozen post holes in the ground and they’re just dark shadows of where it once stood.

If you’re really lucky, you’ll get a couple of shards of pottery, maybe a pit with a bunch of animal bones.

This was the complete opposite of that process. It was just incredible,” said Chris Wakefield of the Cambridge Archaeological Unit at the University of Cambridge, an archaeologist and member of the 55-person team that excavated the site in 2016.

"All the axe marks had been used to shape and sculpt the wood. All of those looked fresh, like they could have been done last week by someone,” Wakefield added.

The remarkably preserved condition of the site and its contents enabled the archaeological team to draw comprehensive new insights into Bronze Age society — findings that could overturn the current understanding of what everyday life was like in Britain during the ninth century BC.

Must Farm domesticity — and a mystery

The site, which dates to eight centuries before Romans arrived in Britain, revealed four roundhouses and a square entranceway structure, which stood approximately 6.5 feet (2 meters) above the riverbed and were surrounded by a 6.5-foot (2-meter) fence of sharpened posts.

The archaeologists believe the settlement was likely twice as big. However, quarrying in the 20th century destroyed any other remains.

Though charred from the fire, the remaining buildings and their contents were extremely well preserved by the oxygen-starved conditions of the fens, or wetlands, and included many wooden and textile items that rarely survive in the archaeological record.

Together, traces of the settlement paint a picture of cozy domesticity and relative plenty.

The researchers unearthed 128 ceramic artifacts — jars, bowls, cups and cookware — and were able to deduce that 64 pots were in use at the time of fire.

The team found some stored pots neatly nested.

Textiles found at the site made from flax linen had a soft, velvety feel with neat seams and hems, although it wasn’t possible to identify individual pieces of clothing.

Wooden artifacts included boxes and bowls carved from willow, alder and maple, 40 bobbins, many with threads still attached, various tools, and 15 wooden buckets.

“One of those buckets … on the bottom of it were loads and loads of cut marks, so we know that people living in that Bronze Age kitchen when they needed an impromptu chopping board, were just flipping that bucket upside down and using that as a chopping surface,” Wakefield said.

“It’s those little moments that build together to give a richer, fuller picture of what was going on.”

The circumstances of the event that brought it all to a halt are still a bit of a mystery.

The researchers believe the fire took place in late summer or early autumn because skeletal remains of the lambs kept by one household showed the animals, typically born in spring, were three months to six months old.

However, what exactly caused the devastating fire remains unclear. The blaze could have been accidental or deliberately started.

The researchers uncovered a stack of spears with shafts over 10 feet (3 meters) long at the site, and many experts think that warfare was common in the time period.

The team worked with a forensic fire investigator but ultimately couldn’t identify a specific “smoking gun” clue pointing to the cause.

“An archaeological site is a lot like a jigsaw puzzle. At a typical site you have 10 or 20 pieces out of 500,” Wakefield said.

“Here, we had 250 or 300 pieces and we still couldn’t get the complete picture on how this big fire broke out.”

Mike Parker Pearson, a professor of British later prehistory at the Institute of Archaeology at University College London, described both the report and the site “as exceptional.” He wasn’t involved in the research.

“The fire may have been disastrous for the inhabitants but it is a blessing for archaeologists, a unique snapshot of life in the Bronze Age,” he said via email.

Upending ideas about Bronze Age society

The contents across the four preserved houses were “remarkably consistent."

Each one had a tool kit that included sickles, axes, gouges, and handheld razors used to cut hair or cloth.

With almost 538 square feet (50 square meters) of floor space in the largest, each of the dwellings appeared to have distinct activity zones comparable to rooms in a modern home.

“By plotting the positions of all these finds — pots, loomweights, tools, and even sheep droppings, the archaeological team have reconstructed the houses’ internal use of space,” Parker Pearson noted.

“The kitchen area was in the east, the storage and weaving area in the south and southeast with the penning area for lambs, and the sleeping area in the northwest, though we don’t know where the doorway was for each house.”

Not all the items were of practical use, such as 49 glass beads plus others made of amber.

Archaeologists also unearthed a woman’s skull, smooth from touch, possibly a keepsake of a lost loved one.

Some of the items the researchers found will go on display starting April 27 in an exhibition titled “Introducing Must Farm: A Bronze Age Settlement” at the Peterborough Museum and Art Gallery.

Lab analysis of biological remains revealed the types of food the community once consumed.

A pottery bowl imprinted with the finger marks of its maker held a final meal — a wheat grain porridge mixed with animal fat.

Chemical analyses of the bowls and jars showed traces of honey along with deer, suggesting the people who used the dishes might have enjoyed honey-glazed venison.

Ancient excrement found in waste piles below where the houses would have stood showed that the community kept dogs that fed on scraps from their owners’ meals.

And human fossilized poop, or coprolites, showed that at least some inhabitants suffered from intestinal worms.

The waste piles, or middens, were one line of evidence that showed how long the site was occupied, with a thin layer of refuse suggesting the settlement was built nine months to a year before it went up in flames.

"Two other factors supported that line of reasoning," Wakefield said.

“The second was that a lot of the wood that was used in the construction was unseasoned, it was still effectively green, it hadn’t been long in position,” he said.

“The third one is that we have a lack of the kind of insects and animals that are associated with human habitation."

"It wouldn’t be long before beetles would worm (in) … but there’s no evidence of any of that in any of the 18,000 plus timbers.”

The fact that the site, with its rich and varied contents, was in use for only a year upended the team’s preconceived “visions of everyday life” in the ninth century BC.

It may suggest that Bronze Age societies were perhaps less hierarchical than traditionally thought, according to the 1,608-page report.

“We are seeing here not the accumulation of a lifetime, but just a year’s worth of materials,” the authors noted in the report.

“It suggests that artefacts such as bronze tools and glass beads were more common than we often imagine and that their availability may not in fact have been restricted.”

[bibxrbie]

Guess who's going to Japan?

That's right! ME!

Because my application was awesome and my interview was great. I am great and awesome and deserve this opportunity because I worked hard for this.

[gghostwriter]

Lips of a Gentleman

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Part 1 || Future take Summary: A spontaneous museum date alters your relationship with Spencer for the better Trope: Fluff! Just fluff! w.c: 1.2k a/n: This is actually an anon request about going on a museum date with Spencer and interrupting his ramblings with a kiss and I couldn’t help myself so I connected this to ‘Wanted: A Gentleman.’ I also used my favorite painter here as a prop to yap so I hope you like it! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! masterlist

It was a Saturday afternoon when the BAU team closed a serial killer case in the state of New York. They were called in four nights ago and the stress mixed with a high dose of adrenaline that had run through their veins were on it’s way out of their system, leaving all the members dead to their feet and wishing for much needed rest over the remaining weekend.

“Hotch,” Reid captured his unit chief’s attention as they waited for the remaining members, Morgan and Rossi, to come down from their respective hotel rooms. “I’d like to stay behind, if that’s alright.”

There was a minuscule eyebrow raise from Hotch in question.

“Huh,” Emily mused, a teasing smile appearing on her face. “Funny, there’s also a certain someone that we know—” she gestured to herself and JJ. “—who’s in New York today. Isn’t that right, JJ?”

The blonde profiler let out a laugh. “Yeah, I wonder if that has something to do with Spence staying behind.”

“Well, does it?” Emily lightly elbowed him in jest.

Spencer clears his throat, trying his best to come off casual but utterly failing with his voice going up an octave. “Maybe.”

“It’s the weekend, take your day off,” Hotch conceded. “And Reid, congratulations.”

“For what?”

A tenor voice answered behind him. Morgan, it was Morgan. “For finally getting a girlfriend.”

“Good on you, kid,” Rossi added on, patting his back as he made his way through.

———

Locks of hair were escaping your loosely tied bun as you brisk walked to get to the steps of the MET museum. The emergency meeting with suppliers ran a little later than you anticipated making you already fifteen minutes late from your agreed meet up with Spencer.

A smile graced your face as your thoughts settled on the perfect gentleman. It had been a perfect match made by your three friends, Emily, Penelope, and JJ.

A blind date that had gone so great that it blossomed another date and another. This spontaneous one marked as the fifth and it brought to mind the first meeting at the steps of the Smithsonian and Spencer’s chivalrous move of tying your loose shoe lace.

“I’m so sorry for being late,” your voice reaching Spencer’s ears before he spots you adjusting the straps of your falling shoulder bag approaching his form. “The supplier didn’t come on time so I—I’m sorry.”

He rocked on his heels, hands wrapped around his satchel strap. “That’s alright, I just arrived myself.”

You knew it was a lie but appreciated his effort in trying to make you feel better. That was just one of the many things you could see yourself falling for in Spencer. As if you weren’t already halfway there.

“Shall we?” His lips forming a smile, no doubt remembering those were the exact words he said during the first date.

You giggled, echoing the same response. “We shall.”

“So is there a specific section you want to visit first?” Spencer asked as he flashed two admission tickets at the entrance.

“Hm,” you scooted closer to his svelte protective form, avoiding the onslaught of tourists groups excitedly entering. “The gallery of European paintings?”

He smiled and nodded. His left hand hovering near the small of your back, never touching—its’ warmth penetrating the thick layers of your coat and sweater while the gesture made your heart flutter fast like the hummingbird’s wings.

There was comfortable silence in between you. Inconspicuous side glances and shy smiles that say a thousand more words that seemingly can’t or won’t be spoken out loud. The tranquility was a sharp contrast to the bustling and echoing noise all around the museum as guests discuss with their partners the surrounding art and take photos as personal mementos.

Your feet came to a stop in front of your favorite artist’s work. “I always did prefer his work more than Van Gogh.”

Spencer smiled, gaze warm on your side profile as his eyes traced the escaped locks of hair that framed the modern art standing beside him which was you and your expressive face. His fingers, as if hypnotized, reached out to tuck one side that casted a shadow on your feature behind your pinking ear. “Actually, when you look at Klimt’s early landscape paintings, you could see he took inspiration from the Dutch painter.”

“Really?” Your body twisting to face him.

He studied your body language. Arms limp at the sides, open and trusting. Torso slightly leaning forward, attention fully captivated. And eyes wide, twinkling with curiosity. “Yeah, yeah—” he nodded, his own body mimicking yours and its unsaid language. “—and although Klimt’s colors are stronger in contrast, the impact from having viewed Van Gogh’s paintings in his earlier life can be spotted in his brush strokes and painting subjects.”

“Spence, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but you don’t strike me as an art critic. Is it a side of you that I’m only finding about now?” You teased.

“No,” he laughed, tucking his hands at the front of his jeans to fight the urge to touch you once more. “I read about it.”

“Can you tell me more then?” you further leaned in and whispered. “I bet you’d do a slightly better job than their pre-recorded audio tours.”

Spencer threw his head back and let a few chuckles echo on the walls. Your mind and its clever wit had impressed him since the first date. It was one of the many things he could see falling for in you. That was a half lie. In full truth, it was one of the many things that made him fall for you.

“Well, Klimt’s most expensive painting was previously stolen by the Nazis during WWII when they occupied Austria. Austrian Museum housed it after the war but there was a court battle for it and they had to return it the the family owner. And in 2006, Oprah actually bought it—” your smooth hands cupped his face, bringing his ramblings into a stuttering halt. His heartbeat, nestled within his ribcage, threatening to break from its confines as you stood on your tip toes, leaving a series of small kisses at ends of his mouth before landing on his awaiting lips.

“I—I’m so sorry,” eyes wide as you leaned back from his reach. A move that didn’t widen the gap as his body hunched itself forward, following you in its wake. “I couldn’t resist.”

He answered with a longer kiss, fingers twining with your silky locks of hair that had fascinated him since a while ago. “Don’t be. I’ve been wanting to do that too, I just didn’t know if you’d welcome it.”

You exhaled a giggle, cheeks pink with happiness. “You definitely can, anytime.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” his smile mirrored the euphoria written on your face. If he were to try to describe this very emotion, he’d compare it to walking on cloud nine. To winning a lottery. Or perhaps to finding an invaluable art piece meant just for him.

And while the surroundings were still dull and mundane, there were a burst of colors that splashed Spencer’s world anew as his warm comforting hand now finally found its way to yours and his thumb invisibly painting abstract at the back of your palm.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[hwajin]

☆°. — ғɪғᴛᴇᴇɴ ᴍɪɴᴜᴛᴇs ᴘᴀsᴛ ғᴏᴜʀ | hhj

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, fluff

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: hyunjin x afab!reader

𝐰𝐜: 3.4k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, cumming inside

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is barely proof read AND inspired by the bathrobe look in paris but also hyunjin in milan 🫶 hope you like it <333

You could feel his gaze on you. On your figure, your body. On your whole. The clear sound of his 2B pencil dancing along the cheap, store-bought paper echoed quietly in contrast to the music playing somewhere in the back, from the radio, or one of your phones, or from outside your hotel room altogether — it didn’t much matter to you, for his gaze on your body, on your figure, on your whole was all that did.

You weren’t sure if he was aware that you were aware — his eyes on you, the pencil scratching against the paper; you knew you were the object for his current spurt of creativity. The object of his inspiration. The object of his works — his very own and personal muse. You knew, and the knowledge, the very thought alone, made you dizzy, made you lose track of the sentence you were reading in the tour guide provided by the hotel.

Milan was beautiful. You were working your way through page after page, taking in museums and cathedrals, art galleries you knew Hyunjin would die to see. One page, his gaze on you, long, intimate, longing. Another page, eyeing the ‘Pinacoteca di Brera’, putting in a bookmark to later show him, and you felt his eyes on you again. Unbudging. Persistent. He either was unsure of your anatomy, or simply enjoyed to stare.

“I can feel you staring, you know.”

You looked up, and your eyes momentarily locked with his own, dark ones. Sparking. Speaking, without words. His hair had dried a good bit ever since he’d stepped out the shower, the white bathrobe snug loosely around his naked body leaving only so much to imagination. You looked at him, smiling, teasing, and he stared back — aware, and smug. His eyes wandered down to his art again — faint strokes of your face adorning the page and you wondered what had moved Hyunjin to capture you in this very moment — it was mundane, the moment, and you didn’t look any bit different – or, better, for that matter – than you did any other day. You were reading a tour guide, lazy, tired, solemn — you wondered where he saw the beauty in that.

“I know. I don’t mind that you can feel it.”

A pang to your heart, and he looked up from his page again, after adding lines here and there which as though magically transformed into plasticity, into your eyes and nose and mouth. You were fascinated by his art. You grew bashful at his words. And you were enamored by his eyes, his face. His whole; the way he looked. Milan was beautiful — but suddenly you forgot all about the tour guide, about the trip here you had bought for his birthday. You forgot all about the sights and museums and art galleries, for he sat across from you, sight enough, creating the only art you ever wished to look at.

You were sure you blushed, your skin acquainting the same colour of the roses blooming on the table in a vase. You could smell them, their scent spreading all around and luring you into depths so captivating you wanted to exist in them for eternity.

Only now you noticed the red paint by your lover’s side, only after thorough inspection of him. He parted his eyes from your own with a grin and continued on his drawing — on your drawing, ultimately, because you knew he’d gift it to you after finishing touches —; his hands reached after the brush laying beside his paper, and with a dip into beforehand-prepared water he activated the red colour, and let it swim across white paper. You couldn't take your eyes off him. You couldn’t take your eyes off the way his hands controlled the paint on his canvas, how the pigment drowned and spread and melted against the grey lines of pencil. Taking everything in, swallowing details, yet enhancing the object of the art, enhancing features of your face. Your cheeks suddenly shone red now on the white paper — and maybe it had been his aim after all, to make you shy, to make you bashful. Reality materialised onto paper, into art. Love did, for every brushstroke, every further pigment of red paint on white canvas meant love, for every further gaze of his, for reference or his own enjoyment you weren’t sure, meant adoration.

It took Hyunjin far longer to finish the painting than he had intended it to. Not because he was struggling with it — drawing you in all shapes and forms was a second nature to him by now —, and not because of exterior reasons altogether. Yet he sat and painted, away and away, adding a line here, colour there, watching you go back to the tour guide; he was sure that it could not possibly take you so long to finish it. That you were spending far too much time on each page, that you were eyeing Hyunjin far too often after every other sentence you read. That it wouldn’t possibly take you so long to inspect sights and places — but that you and him were set on the same mission, seemingly, on the same, interior goal. Finishing the tour guide, completing the painting — meant ending the moment. Ending the tranquility, discarding, ultimately, from admiring the other in the golden light of the slowly setting sun, shadows of trees and buildings casting paintings on your faces. The moment would end, the sun would set, would stop drowning the ebony furniture in your hotel room in golden showers, snow-white bed sheets in warm rays.

You looked up; Hyunjin looked at you, inspecting, one second, another, before he went back to his painting, as concentrated as he had stared at you. You let your eyes wander to somewhere behind him — you looked out the western window, which blind’s didn't do well in saving you from the blinding sun, though you wouldn't have wanted them to, admired the sunset, the city that laid in it, the foreign neighbourhood, the white sky. Maybe Hyunjin caught beauty there — the rich sun on your face. Your sparking eyes, your gleaming expression. Almost sacred, solemn. Meant for only the two of you.

You caught glimpse of the broken clock on the wall behind him, showing fifteen minutes past four — it had been showing fifteen minutes past four for the past two hours now. Or for the past three? How much later was it now, ever since you had settled into the hotel room? The sun had long started to set behind the horizon, though it had stood at its highest spot when you had first entered the single bedroom for two; yet maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe in his presence love was eternal, unending.

You stood up. You had been looking at Hyunjin for far too long; had been only looking at him, inspected his every move, reciprocated his every long, fixed stare, shuddering beneath it simply. You had studied his ever-drying dark hair, his ever-parting bathrobe, his naked collarbones, his paint-laced fingers. The way he stared you down, the way he left you vulnerable and naked with as much as a gaze – and you felt touch starved. His eyes burned on your skin, though it wasn’t sensation enough to satisfy you – you needed more of him. You would always need more of him.

Hyunjin’s eyes followed your figure as you made your way over to him. Without a rush, walking slowly; you bore all the time the world had to offer in your palms, it felt. You walked slowly, yet the scent of the red roses you passed filled Hyunjin’s senses in the breeze your movements created. The floral sensation all around him, your nearing body, your leisure attire, your hazy eyes – he was convinced this moment alone, the sight of you, the golden sun as though casting a halo above your figure, drowning you in warmth and beauty and love, this moment alone was entirely enough to eradicate each and every of his needs, any wish he’s ever wished and any promise he’s ever made; for this moment alone, and your heaven-sent presence was enough to fulfill all. Needs, wishes, promises. If it was you he could look at for eternities, if it was your body he’d have the privilege of holding close for the end of times he would never dare to ask of anything else.

The red paint on Hyunjin’s paper slowly dried out as you finally stood before him. It wasn’t, Hyunjin thought, the roses on the table in a vase which sent their scent across the room, after all – it was you. You smelt of roses. You smelt of vanilla, of red paint, of smoke, of Milan, now that you stood before him, now that he looked up at you, from beneath glasern eyes. You smelt like you, and you smelt like him; traces of his scent and his touch and his promise on your skin, and Hyunjin basked in it.

You didn’t waste much time before you made moves to take a seat on his lap; and not only did Hyunjin realize your attempts momentarily, he also embraced you without as much as hesitation. He found himself drowning in the feeling of your weight on him, allowing you to swallow him whole, allowing you to let your eyes explore. You let them wander from his face to his neck, from his protruding collarbones to his pointy shoulders – the white bathrobe was almost mocking now, doing so little in covering the man that it was nothing but ironic.

And you felt his hands on you, your body. Secure, sure of their position on your hips. Tall fingers, spacey palms; you felt their entirety on your body, and your red heart picked up its’ speed at that.

And you touched him, too. Your hands, cool and soft, found home on his face, each palming a cheek, closing him in. Your thumbs caressed his flush skin, tickled near his eyes, reached towards his parted lips, his hungry lips. Hyunjin looked at you, let you touch him, his face. Let you look at him. Let you make him wait on the kiss he so badly needed, let you bask in him, for he enjoyed nothing more than that.

Your eyes met, and you weren’t sure who granted the first smile, but both your mouths turned upwards, curling into softening features. Roses, red paint, Milan outside the window; though this moment contained of only you and him, and the broken clock, fifteen minutes past four, timelessness. You showed your teeth, your eyes squinting with your smile, and Hyunjin’s were the same.

“Hi.”

A whisper against quiet music and honking cars, angry passengers outside, and Hyunjin reciprocated with a chuckle. Then, a whisper as soft as the prior one, “Hi.”; and he pulled you in. Or maybe he reached for you, longed for you. Or maybe you both moved only enough for your lips to connect, finally, in soft passion. Vigorously, though not in haste, not in roughness. Forcefully, rather, impatiently forceful as you let your tongue dart out of your mouth so it could explore his, and it didn’t take the man as much as a minute to welcome you in, to invite you into himself. And you let your tongue dance with his own, in a waltz, or something faster than that, something less rhythmic – something freer. Your hands stood ground on his body, fingers digging into his shoulder as his dug into your flesh, in covered flesh by your aching hips. Your mouths moved against one another sloppily, and teeth dragging across lips, tongues easing off the sting right after, wet, loud, swallowing any sound which slipped past your throats. Quiet, still timid, breathy sighs which tasted of chocolate and shaky moans which were barely audible against exterior noise. You saw stars behind your eyelids – if because you squeezed them shut so tight it hurt, or because Hyunjin’s touch on your body, the bite he had just placed on your lower lip, and the way he pulled away right after, only for a second, less than that, to admire you with a smile before diving back into you, you weren’t sure, but there were stars all the same. Stars, and Hyunjin, darkening Milan behind the hotel room windows. Fifteen minutes past four. Timelessness.

Hyunjin pulled you closer. Impatience, or simply the need to have you nearer, more flushed against his body than you already were. His hands lay strong on your body, and he pulled you in, your cores coming in contact, hot, ignited, searching for more than this. Than clothed touches, more than the faint feeling of his erection against your sex. More than his hands in your hair, entangling long, warm fingers there, more than his teeth bruising your lips. You’d always want more – and you were glad that Hyunjin was no different. For his hands wandered, and his lips with them, kissing and nibbling where his fingers danced upon – your neck, your shoulders, then, your chest, unbuttoning your shirt one by one, not without a kiss to your skin with every further act of undressing. One button, a kiss, a gaze up to you beneath his lashes, a faint smile, a smug grin at your scrunched brows and staggered breath. Another button, another kiss, and his gaze fell back to your chest, watching your ever-exposing body, so impatient in his seat yet so unrushed. Taking his time. Feeling your bosom rise and fall against his lips, hearing your breath, your sighs, your heartbeat. Feeling hot – your skin was burning, your body was, and Hyunjin with it.

Your shirt was discarded onto the floor. Long forgotten, along with your shorts; Hyunjin’s bathrobe lay leisurely around him, half-opened, only carelessly shoved off his body yet not having borne enough patience to fully free him from it. Though neither of you cared. You let the fabric hang off the chair you were sitting on, the softness of it the only thing touching your skins besides each other's skin. You were closer now, much closer than before, though you barely deemed it possible. You sat right atop Hyunjin’s erection, his right hand resting against your inner thigh – he wasn’t touching yet, only teasing to, and your body grew hotter yet, needier. Your hips searched for friction, your fingers dug into Hyunjin’s scalp with a force which made the man groan out in deep satisfaction, and you kissed him with a fervor enough to move oceans – and he drowned in it, gave into you, kissed you back as feverishly, as messily.

He touched you, too. Finally, eventually, and you muffled a loud moan at the unexpectedness of it. Two fingers against your clit as Hyunjin’s tongue entered your mouth, as he forced your tongue to push against his own – to which you obliged, gladly. You moaned into him as you reciprocated his kiss, grinded your hips into his touch, into his hand. He answered with a sigh, with fingers which increased their speed, with a bite against your lower lip. It ought to hurt by now, your lower lip, with the way he was nibbling at it, though you believed that your body was immune to feel pain in relation to your lover. So, he bit away, nibbled on the sweet spot of your neck, on the lobe of your ear only to moan right into it, to send shivers down the entirety of your body, and you let him. And there was no better feeling, you believed.   

You disconnected your lips from his. There was a second where his mouth searched for yours, where his body hadn’t yet registered the emptiness your parting left, but then he looked at you, leaned back in his chair, eyes glassy, fingers circling around your clit slowly, mindlessly. As though it was a bodily reaction, an instinct. As though he wasn’t actively aware of his movements at all. His breath hitched in his throat, and he looked a mess – pupils blown out, eyes dark as night, hair disheveled, mouth red and puffed and bruising. There were faint love bites blooming on his neck already, ones that would turn a deep red, or a deep purple by the next morning. The sun had almost set behind the horizon, was casting its’ last, weak rays upon the planet – and those last, weak rays of golden light seemed all to land on the man beneath you. He shone, almost golden himself, chest and cheeks flushed red, and he was glowing. Glowing in the way he looked at you, glowing the smile he granted you, genuine, true. He waited on you, waited on a kiss, or on something else, something more, maybe. Yet he let you stare at him, let you admire him in the last, weak rays of sunshine that seemed to have been saved up for him, solely – and then you kissed him, unable to resist wide eyes and longing mouth, and he kissed you back. Touched you, and you let your hands wander down his body, not missing a single line on it, not missing an inch before your hand palmed his crotch. You could sit and kiss him forever, could bask in him and his body for eternity – but you were impatient, too, especially when it came to him, to your lover. When it was him, you lost control of yourself, of your body, of your soul. It belonged to him entirely, all of it.

He let you sink onto him. Hyunjin let you bury your face in the sweatiness of his neck, in its’ sensitivity, let you groan out into his ear as you felt him bottom out entirely. He let you adjust to him, and you let him hold you, against him, against his body, your heart against his own, chest to chest. You let him whisper sweet nothings, promises, and confessions, and entire worlds. You loved his never tiring tongue in moments of intimacy – he talked and talked and talked, words sweeter than honey could ever be, and sounds more sinful than anything you’d ever known.

You screamed out when he moved. Thrusting his hips into your own, up and deeper inside of you, and you struggled to keep your composure. Your arms snug tightly around his body, around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer – you melted into one as he kept moving into you, both hands keeping a steady position on your hips, to hold you in place, or to grant you stability, or to grant himself some. And the room erupted into a symphony of your voices, of your moans and grunts and sighs, whispers and whines of each other’s names. Your senses filled with everything that was him – his voice, deep and longing and loud in your ear, his hand bruising your flesh, groping at you so harshly you saw stars, his scent, his golden body, his mouth on your skin. Everything was him, his erection so very deep within you that it almost hurt, though not quite, his right hand which suddenly found its’ way to your clit again. Drawing figures eight there impatiently as his hips grew frantic, slowly losing rhythm.

Your body ignited. It was hot, it was wet and a mess, and it was fifteen minutes past four. The broken clock on the wall behind Hyunjin capturing you two in its’ timelessness, in its infinity. It had stopped solely for you, for your love, for your souls. Your eyes closed shut when Hyunjin bit against your neck, when his teeth grazed your skin just deep enough to not break it, to not draw blood, and you came against his body in shaking waves, with a broken moan which was swallowed by the man in an instant. You felt him fill you up as he groaned into the kiss, as he let his tongue enter your mouth in lazy manner, careless now of sloppiness, of the lack of coordination. He held you close, he thrusted into you tiredly, he let you hold him. He let you kiss him, just as tired, just as lazy, basking in him, in his taste, in his scent.

Milan was beautiful. Night began to drown the city in darkness, buildings and trees, cars and people and the world losing color, quieting down. But it was still fifteen minutes past four – and you sat in Hyunjin’s hold for an eternity longer, in hushed giggles and shy confessions, and loved each other throughout the entirety of the night.

@es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @yvniek4ng @ppiri-bahng @bintificreads @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @minniesvenus @junebug032 @noellllslut @wolfennracha @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife

[vestaignis]

Парящие в небесах: монастыри Метеоры.

Метеорами (Μετέωρα) называют скалы на севере Греции, которые образовались более 60 миллионов лет назад и в то далекое время являлись каменистым дном доисторического моря. Они состоят из песчаника и обломочной горной породы и достигают высоты 600 метров.

Свое название эти скалы получили не зря. В переводе с греческого «Метеора» перевод��тся как «парящий в воздухе». И действительно, эти скалы выглядят именно так – висящие, замершие в воздухе глыбы представляют собой что-то таинственное и божественное. Но самым диковинным является то, что на этих скалах разместились православные греческие монастыри, что добавило еще большее величие и очарование этому месту.

Первые кельи отшельников тут начали появляться больше 1000 лет назад. Считается, что некий Варнава обосновался тут в 950 году, а затем к нему стали подтягиваться и другие монахи. Два-три века образованная ими монашеская община жила без особых проблем. Но потом в 13-14 веке в Фессалию потянулись любители лёгкой наживы, вроде крестоносцев и турок. Несколько монахов бежали со Святой горы Афона в Метеоры. Один из них, Афанас��й, и положил начало строительству монастырей. Всего их было 24, но дожило до наших дней только 6 — четыре мужских и два женских. Сегодня монахи в Метеорах живут по строгому Афонскому уставу, не имеют частной собственности, работают в монастырском хозяйстве, наставляют прихожан, занимаются просветительской деятельностью и культурными проектами типа возрождения византийской музыки, обучения иконописи и создания музейных экспозиций.

Опытные туристы считают, что в Метеоры нужно обязательно приезжать с ночёвкой, чтобы спокойно погулять днём по монастырям и сделать их фото при дневном свете и вечером, когда монастыри освещает закатное солнце, или когда в монастырях зажигают огни…

Floating in the sky: the Meteora monasteries.

Meteora (Μετέωρα) is the name given to the rocks in northern Greece, which were formed more than 60 million years ago and at that distant time were the rocky bottom of a prehistoric sea. They consist of sandstone and fragmentary rock and reach a height of 600 meters.

These rocks got their name for a reason. Translated from Greek, “Meteora” means “floating in the air.” And indeed, these rocks look exactly like this – hanging, frozen in the air boulders represent something mysterious and divine. But the most outlandish thing is that Orthodox Greek monasteries were located on these rocks, which added even more grandeur and charm to this place.

The first hermit cells began to appear here more than 1000 years ago. It is believed that a certain Barnabas settled here in 950, and then other monks began to join him. For two or three centuries, the monastic community they formed lived without any particular problems. But then, in the 13th-14th centuries, lovers of easy money, such as the Crusaders and the Turks, began to flock to Thessaly. Several monks fled from Mount Athos to Meteora. One of them, Athanasius, began the construction of monasteries. There were 24 of them, but only 6 have survived to this day - four male and two female. Today, the monks in Meteora live according to the strict Athonite charter, do not have private property, work in the monastery economy, instruct parishioners, engage in educational activities and cultural projects such as the revival of Byzantine music, teaching icon painting and creating museum exhibits.

Experienced tourists believe that it is necessary to come to Meteora with an overnight stay in order to calmly walk around the monasteries during the day and take photos of them in the daylight and in the evening, when the monasteries are illuminated by the setting sun, or when the lights are lit in the monasteries…

Источник: //tourpedia.ru/meteora-monastery/ ,//alexio-marziano. livejournal.com/193649.html,/www.airpano.ru/gallery.php?gallery=77, /www.vash-otdyh.by/images/Blog/Greece/Meteora/Греческие_ Метеоры.jpg,/pikabu.ru/story/meteoryi_gretsii_7932658,/dzen.ru/a/ZDlcHwAyoF1ar_Nf,/tourpedia.ru/meteora-monastery/,// t.me/roundtravel.

[slasherscream]

Hello Bee! First I want to say that I really love your writing and your characterization of the characters. I've read so much of your stuff over and over again, it's so good! Thank you so much for writing it all!

Secondly, I wanted to make a request. Sorry if this sounds dumb, but could you please make a crazy ass husbands with an artisitic s/o? Like someone who may not necessarily create art, but is really passionate about like painting, and music, and just all the types of art? I saw you added Vincent Sinclair and thought of this 😄.

If not its fine, I still want you to know that I adore and enjoy your writing! Well wishes! 🩷🩷

Qimir (the acolyte) - Qimir likes the way you get carried away by music. The way you close your eyes when you walk into a cantina and musicians are playing. The little songs you hum to yourself when you’re piloting the ship, or fixing something. Music awakens something in your soul. You feel it deeply. Love songs and tragic laments alike light a fire in you. Every now and again he’ll have the two of you go to planets known for their music, their unique sounds, and singing styles. It’s always under a false pretense. The training or mission he sends you on are usually extra grueling before you’re given your “reward”. Otherwise, he feels like a slave to the whims of your joy. What wouldn’t he do to see you smile? To relish your little gasp the first time you hear a new instrument or song? He likes to reach out, using the connection you two share, and feel what you feel. He’s so glad he freed you from your shackles of repression. The way you indulge your passion is beautiful. 

Norman Bates - You’ve always loved flowers. The first thought you had about the motel was that it needed some nice flowers outside. You’ve traveled the country, visiting all sorts of gardens. It’s an odd hobby, but one you chased relentlessly. Until you met Norman, and settled into the hotel with him. But eventually you start to crave those gardens again, so you decide for the first time not to just admire gardens, but to cultivate one. There are a few false starts. Miserable failures. Mixed successes. But Norman is encouraging every step of the way, and eventually your little motel begins to shine. Ivy creeping up trellises you place against the house. Roses, peonies, lavender, poppies. All in ranges of colors and sizes. You repaint the motel when it begins to look shabby in comparison to the garden blooming around it. For the first time the motel starts to look… welcoming. Like a true home. People in town begin to stop by and spend the night just so they can have breakfast in the garden the next morning. People propose to each other at the Bates Motel. Get married there. Honeymoon. Have the celebrations for their baby’s christening among all your flowers and saplings. Norman doesn’t have a green thumb, but he brings you lemonade and kisses your cheek and thanks you earnestly for bringing color and life into his world. 

Hannibal Lecter - This is one of the ways you and Hannibal bond. You could talk about art for hours together. He’s a wonderful conversationalist, and your raw passion for the topic makes it so that you always have something new to say to one another. Date nights consist of going to art galleries for big and small artists. Something about being in one another’s presence sweetens the art itself. Hannibal often surprises you with trips to other countries just so you can go to their art museums and partake in new art scenes. Money is a small thing to Hannibal. The conversations you have about art? Those are priceless. 

Shane Walsh - He’s never been too interested in the arts. Not before the end of the world and certainly not after it. The only art that matters now is the art of survival. He tells you this often. Tells you to look to the future. Focus on surviving the day. On perfecting the skills he tries to teach you, day in and day out, so even if he’s gone, you’ll be okay. But you make him soft. For all that he bitches, he’s always giving in. Always looking to keep you alive, yes. But he wants you to be happy too. So he takes detours, and looks for libraries and bookstores that are beginning to cave in on themselves and smell of rotten pages and wood. He’s risked entire hoards of walkers to retrieve a book he knew was your favorite. He doesn’t mind when precious bag space is taken up by whatever paperbacks you can get your hands on. One day he might find a town that he likes enough and decide to go through the trouble of turning a library into a home for you. It will be well fortified, and he won’t like how many entry and exit points it might have. But he’d love to see you in your element, surrounded by what you love. 

V (from V for Vendetta) - So much art has been ruthlessly crushed beneath the boot of the fascist government you live under. Admiring the arts, any form of it, is like trying to hold sand in your hands. Your grip grows ever more desperate to hold onto anything. But there is no rhyme or reason to what is outlawed or taken away. Little bits of your soul are chipped away, with each new restriction, with each new burning or banning. Until V whisks you away to his hideout, and suddenly the world is made anew again. You are surrounded by art, art you didn’t even know existed. Things you couldn’t imagine in your wildest dreams. You inhale everything the gallery has to offer. You feel nearly gluttonous. In each room there is something new to see, hear, read. A feast for your senses anywhere you turn. You feel alive for the first time in years, maybe ever. V, in turn, feels his own form of gluttony. He cherishes every bit of delight he brings to your world. He feels like the worst kind of miser. The lowest of villains. What could be more precious than your smile? Or your laughter? Nothing. And by keeping you here, with him, he deprives the world of you and all you have to offer. But the world isn’t kind to precious things. So he keeps you like all the other treasures of this world. Hidden. Safe. Loved. 

Candyman - You collect book nook shelf inserts. Your home is covered in shelves, just to fit them. You have more book nooks than you do books separating them. Daniel is charmed to death by the collection. By the tender, diligent way you take care of them all. You spend hours of your week dusting. Fiddling. Making tiny adjustments. There must be something meditative about it, because you never complain. The joy he felt whenever he held a paintbrush is the same joy that flashes across your face when you open a new kit. He watches you assemble your precious, miniature worlds and ask you quiet questions, every now and again. He doesn’t want to break you from the beautiful trance you fall into, but he loves to peek into your mind. “What drew you to this scene, my love?” / “This one has an enchanting gloom to it. You have such an eye for art.” / “This one looks especially fragile, you might have to be more gentle, love.” He enjoys watching you lose yourself in your hobby. He loves the way you are unashamed in your joy. How you take pride in this work. You curl up into his side, after you’ve spent hours assembling one of your nooks, and the two of you will stare at it in all its completed glory. 

Robert Neville (I Am Legend) - At first he thought you were a hallucination. He’d been hearing things more often. Seeing things too. The human mind wasn’t built for isolation, as a scientist he was well aware of that. He tries to compensate as best he can. With his mannequins. With entertainment. By focusing on his research. He only has to stay sane long enough to fix the world he couldn’t save. That’s all. But then he sees you, while he’s hunting. The sun is still high in the sky, and you don’t move like a dark seeker. You’re cautious, slow. You also don’t move like a hallucination. You don’t really look like one either. He almost doesn’t approach you, afraid he’ll discover you were a mirage. He follows you all day long, until the sun is getting too low for comfort. Then Robert approaches you, fumbling through the obvious (it isn’t safe out here), barely remembering to introduce himself because people have names. Hoping desperately that you’ll trust a strange man instead of taking your chances with the dark. But the entire time he talks to you his eyes keep drifting to all the jewelry you’re wearing. Earrings. Bracelets. Necklaces. Rings. They glint in the light. Hypnotizing in their imperfections and intricacies. You move into his home, but you two drift around each other like ghosts. You’ve been alone so long, the both of you. You dreamed of meeting another living person. But faced with the reality of it, you’re overwhelmed. Until one night after dinner he finds you in the living room, making more of your jewelry. Slow and careful. He asks you about it, and you tell him it kept you sane while you were alone. Made you feel human. Then you look up at him, and he freezes under your gaze. (It’s been so long since he’s looked into someone’s eyes. It almost hurts. He can’t imagine ever looking away.) You ask him what kept him human. He’s not sure he still is. But he moves to sit beside you on the floor, hands you beads, and tells you he's been pretty fond of movies lately. 

Lestat De Lioncourt - You were a tailor in life, before he turned you. In death, in this eternity he’s given you, fabric is nearly your religion. With your vampiric eyes, you see even the tiniest flaw in stitching. All colors look more vibrant. The world looks more alive. Even though you can never see the way certain fabrics and colors catch the light of the sun, moonlight and starlight can be just as beautiful. You drag him to fashion shows in order to soak in the new styles, and cuts of clothing. You are as endeared by couture as you are the various counter cultures that arise throughout the decades you spend together. You spend exorbitant amounts of money on the finest bolts of cloth and thread. Sewing and tailoring and designing can be done entirely on your own. In fact, you’d probably be done quicker if you were just left to your work. But Lestat gets lonely when you lock yourself up in your work room for days on end. He likes to drape himself against your back, push himself into your side. Trail teasing fingers up your arm, to see if he can get your ever steady hands to falter (he cannot.) Looking over your shoulders and seeing what latest fashion has caught your eye is his hobby. You don’t mind the company of your muse. Sometimes you even sit him in front of you as you sew, and let the sound of him talking guide your needle and thread. He hardly wears anything you don’t make. Not only is your work superior, but every piece is made of love. 

Abe Sapien - You love everything about movies. How they’re made. Sound design. Light design. Set design. The difference between digital and film cameras. Abe was caught in your orbit the minute you were recruited. Talking to you, trying to form a connection, however, did not come as easy. Awkward nods as you passed one another in the hall. Stilted, dry conversation as you ate lunch at the same tables. It was enough to drive him mad. He didn’t know why he alone was unable to form any sort of acquaintanceship with you (especially when he wanted far more than that). This all changed during movie night. You were watching the voted on film play out on screen, entranced by every individual frame, it seemed. He’d never seen anyone smile so fetchingly, or blink so little. He bravely, and quietly, asked if you were enjoying the film. You began to eagerly whisper to him all sorts of details about how the film was made, the difference between the final product and script. Apparently, it was one of your favorites. With one conversation, the bridge between you two was crossed. Abe had been so caught up in enjoying literature, he hadn't explored much of the diverse realm of cinema. Happily, you appointed yourself the esteemed position as his guide. Somewhere between sharing your tastes, late night discussions, and dry eyes from sleepless nights, you leaned over to kiss him. He kissed you back, and you both forgot all about movies for a little while. 

Vincent Sinclair - You were an avid admirer of sculptures. You went to museums, and had to curl your hands into fists to resist the urge to reach out and touch the statues. There was something so beautiful about someone taking the time to carve human shapes out of stone and earth. To make marble resemble fabric as delicate as silk. It was breathtaking to you, really. Until you came across the House of Wax, you hadn’t really thought of wax as a means to make sculptures. Instantly, you are captivated. You forget that your car is being “repaired”, so closely do you look at every sculpture. You admire each one from several angles, for long periods of time, face giving away nothing. Vincent watches you, wanting to know what you’re thinking about his art so desperately he feels as if he’ll die. He interrupts Bo from the preparations to kill you and makes him ask you questions. Bo asks each one through gritted teeth, irritated to be playing a game of telephone, but even he is a little charmed by your thoughtful answers. When Vincent insists on not killing you Bo just shakes his head and washes his hands of the situation. You fall asleep in the town’s only motel, but when you wake up you’re in Vincent’s workshop. You’ll be able to admire his art for as long as you like now. 

Joel Miller - You tell him stories. You’re an avid collector of them. Wherever you go, you collect a story from someone. Sometimes they’re fantastical. Some myth or aesop fables that will be lost to the sands of time and the chaos of the apocalypse within just one more generation (if humanity makes it that long.) Other times they’re heartbreakingly real. The taste of an apple pie someone’s grandmother used to make for them. The memory of someone trying on their wedding dress for the first time. You have a way about you. It’s your eyes. The warmth in them. The understanding. Even after so many years of survival and fighting, you possess an empathy that should have gotten you killed by now. Instead you’re the keeper of people’s stories. You’ll be riding side by side on your horses, and Joel won’t sense any danger nearby, so he’ll say the magic words: You got a story for me today, L/N? And you always do. The sound of your voice keeps his head quiet. 

A/N: i blushed bugs bunny curled ears style. thank you for the compliments, made my day! i think yours is the first crazy ass husbands gang request i’ve written! if you enjoyed these headcanons consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer's fuel is engagement. Xoxoxo

[doreminimi]

an exposed love story | I.Y.

A/N: It's been a while since l've been in the writing scene but l've been wanting to go back into it for a while but didn't really have anyone in mind to write about. But recently, l've been quite hooked onto the olympics scene and a few of the athletes ended up catching my interest and so this short imagine is based off the person who caught my attention.

The story is a mix between my love for the k-pop (as I have done some writings from the past) and the volleyball scene - particularly the Japanese men's volleyball team

Hope you enjoy my first piece of writing in a while!

Genre: Hidden Love, Highschool Friends to Lovers, Fluff

Characters: Ishikawa Yuki x Reader (Reader has a last name)

POV: Third Person to Your POV

- ft. Dokyeom, Mingyu, Seungkwan from SVT, Sana from Twice, and JPN Men's Volleyball Team

Word Count: 2.3k (A short imagine / one-shot)

———————

In the bustling city of Tokyo, where the neon lights danced and the energy never seemed to wane, Jeon Y/N and Ishikawa Yuki first met. Y/N, a bright and ambitious high school student with dreams of becoming a renowned idol, was instantly captivated by Yuki's quiet determination and athletic prowess. Yuki, a promising young volleyball player with a serious yet kind demeanor, found Y/N's charisma and passion irresistible.

Their connection was immediate and profound. As high school friends, they spent time together whenever they could, sharing dreams and supporting each other through their busy schedules. Y/N's path soon took her to Korea, where she pursued a successful career in the music industry. Yuki joined Japan's national volleyball team and played for various Italian clubs during the offseason, leading to a long-distance relationship that was both challenging and rewarding.

Despite the distance, their bond remained unshakeable. Y/N's songs began to feature subtly in Yuki's team practice vlogs and official matches, leading to murmurs among fans. Although neither Y/N nor Yuki publicly confirmed their relationship, their connection was evident in these small but meaningful gestures.

—

One evening, during a casual brunch get-together with, Seungkwan, Dokyeom, and Mingyu at a cozy café, the topic of your "relationship" with Yuki came up.

"Have you noticed that song from the Japan volleyball team's vlogs?" Seungkwan asked, leaning forward with curiosity. "It sounds a lot like something Y/N/N would sing~" ending his sentence in a teasing manner.

Quickly turning towards Seungkwan surprised like a deer in headlights, you curse in your mind forgetting that he always keeps himself updated in the volleyball scene as an avid-fan of the sport. You should have known sooner or later that one of your friends would found out, so you reply with a nervous chuckle, "Really? I hadn't heard that.”

Mingyu, always ready to stir the pot, added with a grin, "There's been chatter about you and someone in Italy. Care to share?"

Your face turned a light shade of pink as you tried to compose yourself. "There might be some truth to it, but let's just keep it between us for now."

Dokyeom placed a supportive hand on your shoulder. "Whatever's happening, we've got your back. You don't have to go through this alone."

—

After years of navigating the complexities of a long-distance relationship, you and Yuki finally found a moment in your busy schedules for a short getaway. Quickly deciding on Florence, a city that seemed to perfectly embody your dreams of romance and history. As you and Yuki walk through its cobblestone streets, exploring its art-filled museums and enjoying its quaint cafes, you find yourselves enveloped in the very essence of a long-awaited reunion. The city’s timeless charm mirrored the depth of your connection, making the time together both magical and unforgettable.

The days were filled with joy as you two explored the city's narrow streets, visited the Uffizi Gallery, and enjoyed meals at quaint trattorias. Wandering hand-in-hand, savoring the rare opportunity to be together without the constant scrutiny of your public lives.

One sunny afternoon, you find a charming café deeply hidden in the alleyways, you look at Yuki with a bright smile. "How about we sit here? I've heard their espresso and tiramisu is fantastic! Plus, since it is a bit secluded we won't have to worry too much about someone spotting us."

Yuki’s eyes twinkled with affection. "That sounds perfect. I trust your taste completely."

As you settled at your table, enjoying your coffee and each other's company, a sudden burst of camera flashes disrupted your peaceful afternoon. Paparazzi, ever on the lookout for a story, had caught you in your private moment. You exchanged startled glances with Yuki, realizing your carefully planned escape had been compromised.

Looking around frantically, you tried to find a waiter who could help you find a more private spot. Yuki, his face hardened with determination, grasped your hands and said, "Hey, look at me. Don’t panic. It’s okay, what happened has already happened. Let’s try to enjoy the rest of our day. We will deal with the consequences later."

You squeezed his hand, offering a reassuring smile as you settled your anxiety and nerves. "Okay. We’ve faced challenges before, so we can handle this together."

Despite your efforts to stay calm, the media frenzy that followed made your vacation far from relaxing.

—

The morning after the photos were leaked, you and Yuki awoke to a media storm. Dispatch had published an exclusive article titled "An Italian Getaway: The Secret Romance Between Korean Idol and Japanese Volleyball Captain!" The article featured several intimate photos of you and Yuki from your Italian vacation, and it didn’t take long for the story to spread across various media platforms.

Your phone buzzed incessantly with notifications. You felt a mix of anxiety and resolve as you read messages from friends. Seungkwan, Dokyeom, and Mingyu all reached out in your group chat.

Seungkwan's message appeared first: "Y/N, are you really dating my volleyball idol? Is it true about you and Ishikawa? You know we’re here for you, no matter what."

You took a deep breath and typed a response. "Yes, it’s true. Yuki and I have been together for a long time. We kept it private because of our careers, but now that it’s out, we’re ready to face it."

Dokyeom's message followed quickly: "I’m glad you’re open about it. We’re all here for you. How are you holding up?"

You sighed, feeling a mix of relief and worry. "It’s overwhelming, but I’m managing. Thanks for your support."

On Yuki’s side, his teammates in Japan were also reacting. His phone buzzed with messages from their group chat, which was now exploding with notifications.

[Group Chat: Japan Volleyball Team]

Ran: "Congratulations on your relationship, Captain! Can I ask for a favor, can you ask Y/N for an autograph? I need it for my collection!"

Otsuka: "Seriously, congrats, Captain! You’ve always been such a mystery with your personal life. It’s great to see you so happy."

Yamauchi: "Yuki, about time you got into a relationship. We were worried you’d stay single forever!"

Nishida: "Wow, I can’t believe it’s Y/N. That’s huge! I’m sure you both make a great couple."

Yuki read the messages with amusement. He scoffed at the playful jabs but appreciated the genuine congratulations from his teammates. Smiling, he typed a response: "Thank you for the messages, guys. I’ll definitely ask Y/N for an autograph for you, Ran."

He hit send, shaking his head with a chuckle. The reactions from his teammates were a comforting reminder of the support he had, even amidst the chaos of the media frenzy. Their messages provided relief and laughter, helping him navigate the challenging situation with camaraderie and humor.

—

As the Paris 2024 Olympics approached, Yuki dedicated himself fully to his training, and you prepared for your own activities. You had planned to make a meaningful public statement after the Olympics, marking both your relationship and Yuki’s achievements.

When Yuki’s team won the gold medal after weeks of challenges and hardships, the moment was both triumphant and emotionally charged. You felt an overwhelming sense of pride and joy. Your shared victory was a testament to your resilience and love.

Later that night, you and Yuki sat in your hotel room, the weight of the day’s events sinking in. You were preparing a special Instagram post. "Are you ready for this?" you asked Yuki, your voice filled with a mix of excitement and nerves.

Yuki, his gaze soft and full of affection, nodded. "Yes. It’s time for the fans to know the truth. I want to celebrate our journey."

You uploaded a series of images to your Instagram story. The first few photos were nostalgic, showing your high school days, candid vacation moments, and various milestones in your relationship. The final image was the most powerful: you and Yuki in the now-empty Olympic volleyball arena, sharing a sweet kiss on his cheek with your arms propped around his neck, with Yuki holding onto the gold medal in one hand and your waist in the other.

The caption read: "Happy 10 years, my captain ♡ to many more years with you"

The post quickly went viral, with fans from both Korea and Japan, as well as across the globe, flooding your feeds with messages of congratulations and support. A hashtag for your relationship trended on Twitter, symbolizing your love story and the strength of your bond.

You were inundated with heartfelt messages from friends and fans. Sana from Twice reached out with a warm message: "I’m so happy for you both! Your love story is truly inspiring. Congratulations!"

You responded with gratitude: "Thank you, Unnie. Your support means so much to us!"

—

The final show of your Japan tour was set to take place at the iconic Nissan Stadium in Yokohama, a grand venue that held a special place in your heart. The stage was set, the lights were dazzling, and the anticipation in the air was palpable. This concert marked the culmination of a successful tour, and you wanted it to be unforgettable.

As you prepared to go on stage, your heart raced with excitement. You had planned something special—not just for your fans, but for Yuki. The Japanese volleyball team had been given special VIP seats for the concert from your management company, and Yuki was among them. You wanted to honor Yuki and your relationship in front of thousands of devoted fans, and you had a surprise planned.

The concert began with an electrifying opening number, your powerful voice filling the stadium as you sang your heart out. The crowd’s energy was contagious, and you fed off their enthusiasm, performing with an intensity that matched your excitement.

Midway through the concert, during a particularly emotional ballad, you signaled to your camera crew. You had a special request that you hoped would add a personal touch to the evening. The crew quickly understood and prepared for the transition.

As the song reached its crescendo, you gestured towards the camera with a bright smile. "We have a very special guest here tonight, and I’d like to share that with you all," you announced through your mic, your voice full of emotion.

The camera panned away from the stage and began to move towards the special VIP balcony, where Yuki and the volleyball team were seated. The crowd’s murmur grew into excited whispers as the camera drew closer. Your fans recognized Yuki and the volleyball team, and the energy in the stadium surged with excitement.

You took a deep breath, your voice steady but filled with warmth. "I want to take a moment to thank someone very special to me. Yuki, you’ve been my rock and my greatest support throughout this journey. This night is dedicated to you and our love."

As you sang the final notes of the ballad, your eyes locked with Yuki’s. The connection between you was palpable, and the sincerity in your gaze spoke volumes. The audience, moved by the gesture, responded with cheers and applause that echoed throughout the stadium.

The camera then returned to you on stage, capturing your radiant smile and the way you seemed to glow with happiness. You continued to perform with renewed energy, your heart lightened by the visible support from Yuki and the volleyball team.

After the concert, you and your bandmates were backstage, basking in the afterglow of a successful show. The atmosphere was jubilant, filled with laughter and congratulations. Yuki and his teammates made their way backstage to meet you, and the reunion was filled with warmth and affection.

Yuki pulled you into a tight embrace, his eyes shining with pride. "Amore mio, you were amazing tonight. I’m so proud of you."

You looked up at him with a beaming smile. "Thank you, Yuki. Having you here means everything to me. I wanted to share this moment with you."

As you stood together, surrounded by friends and colleagues, Sana and Momo from Twice approached with a smile. "The concert was incredible, Y/N. And you two looked so happy together. I’m really glad to see you both celebrating."

You hugged both of them warmly. "Thank you, Sana. Your support has been so meaningful to us."

As the evening wound down, you and Yuki took a quiet moment together, stepping outside to enjoy the cool night air. You stood on a balcony overlooking the city, the lights of Yokohama twinkling below.

"This tour has been incredible," you said, leaning against the railing. "But tonight was really special."

Yuki nodded, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and placing a sweet kiss on your forehead. "It was perfect. Thank you for making me a part of it."

You rested your head on Yuki’s shoulder, feeling a deep sense of contentment. "Here’s to many more moments like this."

As you stood together, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you and the promise of a bright future. Your love had endured through the highs and lows, and now, with your relationship celebrated publicly, you looked forward to what lay ahead, knowing that you could face any challenge together.

Your journey, marked by love, dedication, and resilience, continued to inspire many. And as you embraced the future, you and Yuki knew that your love was stronger than ever, ready to shine in the spotlight and beyond.

[drewlyyours]

Things that would make me completely forgive Her Interactive for every mistake they’ve ever made:

- bringing back Maya Nguyen

- Ned as an in-person character

- Poppy Dada in person and it’s like a modern art museum or gallery game

- adding a mother character who is actually fully fleshed out as a person (I am grateful for Clara and Takae, but we’ve had plenty of deep, complex dads in the drewniverse, it’s time for MOMS, they need to stop killing the moms)

- Romania mystery where we investigate supposed VAMPIRE ATTACKS!! (Please please please, I need Buffy Drew on the case ASAP)

- a game where you have to be a camp counselor and watch children but also protect them from the axe murderer in the woods (I mean, they already referenced Friday the 13th, why not just GO FOR IT) (puzzles included CORRALLING THE CHILDREN)

- more stained glass, we used it get it ALL THE TIME, now I have to beg for it

- bring in Ned’s friends, Burt and Dave!! (His college shenanigans with the chickens were hilarious! Now more plz) (just more Ned, but like, the fun not just a pretty voice Ned)

Feel free to add more if anyone has anything

[razowor-backup]

Doing some picrew stuff. Source

[ellstronaut]

[ ◉¯] tlougram [ ◉¯]

#just a silly AU

ellie is typing. . . ╰──╮

ೃ༄

[ ◉¯] ellie’s account reads like a tech-illiterate-social-degenerate

[ ◉¯] girl literally has 3k followers (boggles her mind how it’s even possible) all of varying degrees of sketchiness

[ ◉¯] her bio’s literally just her initials—ew (yep thinks she’s hilarious ) paired with “space is cool ig” [insert shitty space emoji]

[ ◉¯] tbh—she doesn’t really get the whole “influencer” thing (like what is she influencing???)

[ ◉¯] like the only reason she finally caved and made an account to begin with is because dina and jesse practically bullied her into it

[ ◉¯] which shows—her feed is a hot mess of random pics; memes, a random cat video she saved on her gallery

[ ◉¯] and don’t expect to be fed either—her account is D.E.A.D (you’d be setting yourself up for disappointment)

[ ◉¯] definitely the type to forget she even has an account

[ ◉¯] but best believe—when she does post, its spaced out between 2-3 months

[ ◉¯] maybe a handful of artsy-fartsy pics somewhere in between

[ ◉¯] but most of her pics are literally just sketches (she drew at the back of her physics book) random crap she thinks is funny, memes that only make sense to her, n the occasional trip to the museum/nature pics

[ ◉¯] and like a grand total of one—just one selfie (and yes she did delete the rest)

[ ◉¯] fun fact: she may or may not have accidentally liked one of Dina’s/Cat’s old selfies on a burner account

[ ◉¯] tried to do damage control by unliking almost immediately

[ ◉¯] since we’re being messy—(swears she’d kill anyone on site who dares bring that up but whatever) she once got a chat request from a bot thinking it was a real person 💀

[ ◉¯] spent weeks on end flirting and ofc had to gush about it (like the true degenerate she is)

ೃ༄

spacenerd: dude shes hot

제시: whos hot

[spacenerd has sent an attachment]

dinasure: uh ellie

spacenerd: ??

dinasure: gonna hold ur hand when I say this 😃

spacenerd: she replies quick tho plus shes really nice ;)

제시: bet

spacenerd: huh

제시: bro so is siri

spacenerd: siri cant say stuff like rate my tits??

dinasure: issa bot u moron 💀

[spacenerd has sent a voicenote]

▷ 0:00 ───|────── 0:30

dinasure: fuck no

dinasure: bro just block

제시: ^yea pretty sure @bot_bae ain’t real 😭

spacenerd: SHE SO IS

dinasure: chile…anyways so

spacenerd: u know wat

[spacenerd has left the chat]

dinasure: LMAOO cryingsh

dinasure: think u hurt her feelings

제시:no cap that is sad

dinasure: real like how tf u gonna get catfished by a bot and fall in LOVE 🙃

제시: YEAH bro really down bad for ( . )( . )

dinasure: PLSSSJH

[spacenerd has joined the chat]

spacenerd: IT WAS A GOOD BOT OK

dinasure: i have more chemistry with chatgpt

spacenerd: stfu

spacenerd: n D u dont get to come for me when u deadass fucked a twilight bot

dinasure: bitch its called rp

dinasure: n that was like ONE time

spacenerd: me when i lie

dinasure: i like my men less sparkly now!!!

jesse is typing . . . ╰──╮

ೃ༄

[ ◉¯] unlike ellie—jesse takes his social media presence very seriously

[ ◉¯] got like +8k followers (most of which are girls) cause that man is a snack (duh)

[ ◉¯] his whole vibe is mellow but cool

[ ◉¯] like his IG feed reads like an episode of Crazy Rich Asians (with the extra added thirst traps of course)

[ ◉¯] aka a perfectly curated mix of aesthetic photos, artsy shots, friends/family and ofc his dog Yeontan

[ ◉¯] definitely the type of boyfriend to post unflattering pics of his gf but not out of malice

[ ◉¯] but you know in a—i’m obnoxiously in love sorta way

[ ◉¯] he may be bilingual but he’s very much in touch with his culture—like dude got a bunch of pics of him back in the Motherland

[ ◉¯] ellie low-key tries to get him to teach her a few curse words in Korean but like 99% of the time ends up teaching her the wrong words instead

[ ◉¯] ofc his username is in hangul— (if anything it’s to make his mom happy—because yes he follows her back on Insta)

[ ◉¯ ] and yes he’s such a boy mom—dina and ellie give him a ton of shit for it

ೃ༄

spacenerd: totally know what that means frfr

dinasure: oppa?

제시: 죽을래?

google translation: you want to die?

[ ◉¯] it’s an inside joke, lord knows how many kpop stans flood his dms—in which he makes the point to block them on site (as he should lol) because korean he may BE—your oppa he is NOT

[ ◉¯] yeah—he makes it pretty damn clear in his bio “yall gotta stop with the BTS shit”

dina is typing . . . ╰──╮

ೃ༄

[ ◉¯] Dina’s THAT bitch

[ ◉¯] got like +30k followers—is the whole package; hot—effortlessly cool, funny, charismatic (it’s literally unfair)

[ ◉¯] ofc she’s been scouted by at least three modelling agencies

[ ◉¯] and her pictures? flawless—we’re talking gorgeous—goddess-esque—baddie

[ ◉¯] literally the worst part about being friends with Dina: is how ridiculously photogenic she is

[ ◉¯] can roll up out of bed, unshowered, bare-faced and still look hot af (god has favourites I suppose)

[ ◉¯] definitely the type to have the most engagement (via replies, comments, shares, tagged—you name it)

[ ◉¯] absolutely loves sharing her hot girl adventures/outings—fr the embodiment of hot girl summer

[ ◉¯] expect an assortment of her hiking, visiting galleries, cafés, festivals + parties, and of course her many different fits (not that anyone’s complaining)

[ ◉¯] bio reads: my mom thinks I’m cool

[ ◉¯] don’t get me started on her simps—if delulu were a person, it would be Dina’s cult of fanboys

[ ◉¯] one time a dude wrote her poetry—straight up typed a whole ass sonnet ( Shakespeare reincarnate but in simptongue)

[ ◉¯] in which of course her friends had to add their two cents

ೃ༄

spacenerd: its always ily but never

spacenerd: my queen i kneel, my heart it weeps 😞

제시: lmaooooo 💀

[ ◉¯]not just down bad— we’re talking the most absurd, thirsty/depraved comments—

whitedevil commented: Id let you ruin my life

christian.not.jay commented: feet? 🤤

chrislovesyou commented: looked at my girl and sighed

ೃ༄

[ ◉¯] imagine the heartbreak if they ever found out she has a whole ass man (cue what does she SEE in him)

[ ◉¯] so much salt it could fill a whole an entire ocean

cat is typing . . . ╰──╮

ೃ༄

[ ◉¯] Cat’s account oozes creativity—doodles, sketches, watercolour—digital art the whole nine yards

[ ◉¯] her feed is basically one giant art gallery—like an extension of her art portfolio

[ ◉¯] so if you’re looking for an artsy feed, look no further

[ ◉¯] def an alt girlie (lowkey goth/punk lite) aka dark and edgy but with a soft side to her

[ ◉¯] and by lowkey I mean a beautiful—soft, kind of morbid artistry

[ ◉¯] the vibes she exudes with the outfits, piercings, the makeup and tattoos? (Chefs kiss) high key hot but intimidating

[ ◉¯] not too keen with the whole parasocial thing— “eh it’s nice having people look at my work, but not for me” kinda vibe

[ ◉¯] the type to solely use it for promotional purposes that and activism (btw NOT just for the brownie points like would deadass go outside, touch grass and do something about it)

[ ◉¯] definitely advocates for the environment—supports charities and organizations who fight against systematic oppression (racism, misogyny, etc.)

[ ◉¯] which is one of many reasons why Ellie’s got a huge fat ass crush on her (if it wasn’t already so obvious)

[ ◉¯] proudly Asian—wears it like a badge of honour and is the first to call out racists (and homophobes) any KIND of bigotry tbh

[ ◉¯] her bio reads—“life’s too short for shitty music” and “gay btw” :)” y’know for the losers that might need a little disclaimer

[ ◉¯] not a fan of stupid Asian stereotypes

[ ◉¯] you just know she gets a ton of gross fetishizing DMs (like why do they ALWAYS have an anime pfp)

[ ◉¯] because ruthless she can be with her clap backs

ೃ༄

tagging my besties @bonnibelblanca @adhdprincess ily

[anyarose011]

The Most "Wonderful" Time of the Year {Angus Tully x Reader}

Summary: Despite a nice trip to the art gallery and ice skating rink, sometimes, Andy Williams just gets it wrong.

Part 8 of ?? (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Swearing, description of nudity (on art), suggestive conversations, minor sexual harassment, a father has issues, fighting, Reader has a knife, and ANGST.

Heyyy guys (senior year, once again, has been kicking my ass and I also started a new mini-series that should be done soon). Again, I'm so sorry for how long it took me to upload and write this, and I know this chapter is short, but I swear it's got good shit in it. It's also fitting to have more chapters around Christmas time since, you know, this be a Christmas movie (yes, Alexander Payne, this can be a standalone movie, but you set it during Christmas so....) Anywho, I hope you like it (and that it breaks your heart :)

Word Count: 5.5k

You hated to admit it, but you actually like history museums. Even though your father always dragged you to them from childhood to adulthood, you didn’t really mind them. Your father’s additional commentary only added to the experience as you walked through the Greek section. It didn’t really for Angus.

“Are we almost done?” He asked.

“Quit whining.” You reprimanded him.

“I’m not.”

Your father chuckled. “What’s your hurry? I thought you liked Antiquity?”

He sighed. “In class, maybe. But I never think about it unless I need to.”

Humming, your father pointed to a casing of ceramics behind you. “Here, what do you see?”

You and Angus turned. Of course, he said. “A bunch of pottery.”

“Look at that one.” He pointed.

You certainly weren’t expecting to see a man diving his dick into a woman as she bent over to pick something up on an ancient Grecian artifact, but there you were in the Boston Fine Arts Museum, jaw on the floor.

“Amy look, a Candy Cane!” Angus teased.

“I hate you.” Was all that managed to leave your lips.

Your father chuckled, shaking his head. “Children, there’s nothing new in human experience. Each generation thinks it invented debauchery or suffering or rebellion, but man’s every appetite and impulse, from the disgusting to the sublime, is on display right here, all around you.” He gestured around the room filled with art. “So, before you dismiss something as boring or irrelevant, remember that if you truly want to understand the present, or yourself, you must begin in the past. History is not merely the past; it’s an explanation of the present.”

Angus nodded. “See, when you say it that way, and throw in some pornography, it’s a lot easier to understand.”

Mr. Hunham glanced over at you, surprised at your lack of outburst. “You’re not going to comment on that?”

“No,” you shrugged. “porn helping men understanding things checks out.”

Angus snorted, turning back to the teacher. “You should try talking more and yelling less in class. You know, most of the kids pretty much hate you. Teachers, too. You know that, right?”

“Hey.” You glared at him as if to say, ‘Lay off’.

Your father nodded, obviously trying not to show the hurt that was apparent on his face. “Well, I appreciate your frequent candidness, Mr. Tully.”

“Sure…” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down.

It was then you realized another thing about Angus Tully that reminded you about yourself: You only noticed how horrible your words were as soon as you were done saying them.

The rest of your time at the art museum wasn’t as awkward as that entire scene, thankfully. The sun had completely set by the time you had exited, and the three of you made your way to the park. It almost made you laugh how quick Angus was to the booth to rent ice skates.

“Have you been ice skating before?” He asked as you both sat on the bench, tying up your skates.

“Once when I was eight, I think. You?”

“I played hockey until high school.” He finished tying his and stood. “And I go every chance I get when I’m in the city.”

“So, you should only fall if I push you, right?”

“Right.”

You smiled after double knotting your ice skates and approached the entrance to the rink. “My feet feel weird.”

“Yeah, you haven’t been skating for almost ten years.” He teased, walking past you and standing on the ice with ease.

Sighing, you took a step out and immediately started flailing. Still, the two of you laughed when you retreated back to solid ground. “Nope.”

Angus begged. “Come on.”

“Nuh uh, not going to do it.”

“Your dad paid a good two dollars for us to skate, and you’re going to waste it?” He joked.

“Two dollars doesn’t mean anything to my father if I’m dead!”

“You’re not going to die.”

“But-.”

He said your name with the right amount of sincerity and playfulness. “You can hold onto me. I’ll cushion you if you do fall.”

Grinning from ear to ear, you still held onto the side railing, but stepped out onto the ice. Taking a deep breath, you began walking.

“You don’t want to do that.” Angus skated by your side at your pace.

“I’m alright.” You struggled to say.

He scoffed, holding out his hand. “Yeah, I can tell. Come on.”

You stared down at it as if he had never touched you before. Still, you took it. You expected him to pull you out into the center and leave you there for dead (or try to figure out how to skate on your own), but instead, you stayed by the wall.

“Okay, you’re gonna want to lean forward, and just glide; don’t walk.” He explained, showing you.

“I’ll fall.”

“No, you won’t. Just trust me.”

Against what your nervous system was saying, you decided to. Leaning forward, you tried to copy him; and it worked for like a few seconds before you started tripping over your own feet. He caught you, of course.

“Hey, not bad!” He held you up so you could stand.

“I almost died.”

“You’re standing on your own though!” He backed away, and you still were. “That’s a good start.”

You wanted to fire a nasty retort at him, but you could only girlishly giggle. You don’t know how long you spent on that ice skating rink with him. Yes, there would be times when your feet would ache, or you’d be a mix of sweaty from the physical labor of skating and freezing from the cold, Massachusetts air. Yet, as you finally gathered your footing, you felt as if you could compete in the next Olympics.

You couldn’t, of course, but you sure had the confidence to do so.

And it was fun to laugh and talk with Angus. It always was, but it felt as if you were both on an actual date as you skated together. To everyone else on that ice rink, you were. When Angus had completely fallen onto the ice (you didn’t actually push him down, he fell on his own), pulling you down with him, you’d nearly forgotten that your father was chaperoning you two as you laughed.

After leaving the rink and taking your skates back, you walked up a set of stairs with your father and Angus, discussing where to go for dinner when-.

“Paul Hunham, is that you?!” A man and a woman approached the three of you with a gleeful look. “It’s Hugh. Hugh Cavanaugh.”

Your father’s face fell for just a moment before laughing. “Yes! Yes, of course. Wow, Hugh Cavanaugh. Oh, how are you, Hugh?”

“Oh God, what’s it been? Thirty years?” He turned to the woman beside him. “Oh, uh this is my wife, Karen. Honey, this is Paul Hunham; we went to Harvard together.”

She smiled, shaking his hand, then yours, then Angus’. “Hello.”

“Yes,” your dad nodded at Hugh’s comment. “yes we did. Uh, wow; what have you been up to, Hugh? Still in the area?”

“Oh, uh, yes-yes I’m still in Boston. Cambridge.”

“Harvard.” Karen said proudly. “He just got tenure, statistics. He won’t blow his own horn, I have to blow it for him.”

“Okay,” Hugh said to change the subject. “what about you, Paul?”

“Oh, still teaching, we have that in common.” He nodded. “History, ancient history.”

“That’s great, that’s great. Where?”

“Abroad mostly.” Your father lied through his teeth on each word. “On fellowships. Privately funded fellowships. Universities and private academies. Mostly fellowships, you know. I’m currently posted in Antwerp. Just back here for the holidays.”

“So, are these your kids?” He pointed to you and Angus.

“Well-.”

“-I’m his nephew, Laurie.” Angus cut in, then looked at you. “This is my cousin, Amy.”

Karen smiled. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Hugh squinted his eyes as if to see you more clearly. Then, he chuckled. “Paul, do you know who she looks like?”

Your father hummed. “I would hope me.”

It was weird to hear your mother’s full name come out of a stranger’s mouth. He went on. “Do you see it? Same nose, same hair; you are the spitting image of beauty, young lady.”

Snickering, you didn’t even think of thanking him. “I’ve been told I have more of her temper than her looks. Although, our mouths are the same.”

“I have no doubt.” He laughed. “Paul, do you remember that one time freshman year?”

“Oh yes!” Your father pretended to. “When she-it was that one time during Roman history when Nolan-.”

“-Wouldn’t call on her when she was the only one to raise her hand,” Hugh looked back at you as if you didn’t know the story from the set up. “so she fed all the boys in the room the wrong answers for the rest of the class!”

“Yep,” Mr. Hunham nodded. “even I fell victim to it.”

Hugh was the only one who had relatively been amused by the fable. “Never put you and her together.”

“A lot of people didn’t.”

The group fell into a strange silence after that. Thank God for Angus Tully.

“He’s writing a book now.” He titled his head toward your father. “Tell them about your book, Uncle Paul.”

“My book.” Your father snickered, then immediately played it off. “It’s not a book, really. Just a monograph. Nothing special.”

You decided to jump in. “Don’t be so modest, dad. It’s about, uh, cameras, right? Ancient cameras?”

Hugh hummed, a quizzical look on his face.

“What she means, of course, is the camera obscura.” Your father explained. “You know, the optical and astronomical tool that dates back to, um, the time of Anaxagoras.

“Tell him the title, Uncle Paul.” Angus went back, and you masked your smile for one of curiosity and not at the misfortune of your father.

“He’s not interested, Laurie.”

Hugh smiled. “Sure, I am.”

Sighing, Paul Hunham said with the perfect amount of enthusiasm and disinterest. “Lights and Magic in the Ancient World.”

Hugh nodded before turning back to his wife, and then to your father, clasping his hand on his shoulder. “Well, Paul, I’m so glad you landed on your feet. You look swell.”

“You too. So, swell.”

“I’m sorry about your mother, Amy.” He said to you.

Thinning your lips in a tight smile, you said. “Thanks.”

Him and Karen walked away hand in hand, but he turned over his shoulder. “And we’ll keep an eye out for your book, Paul. Won’t we, honey?”

 She nodded. Of course. Merry Christmas, Paul. Bye, Laurie and Amy.”

You all wished them ‘Merry Christmas’ as you three also left. Angus wasted no time turning to you.

“What the fuck just happened?!”

“You’re asking me?!” You matched him. “You sprung into ‘Tell them about your book, Uncle Paul!’, ‘What’s the title, Uncle Paul?’.”

“I had to think of something!”

Your father sighed. “I appreciated your efforts, but I would’ve been fine on my own.”

Rolling your eyes, you asked. “Can we get dinner now?”

“I need to pick something up from the liquor store first.”

Sighing overdramatically, you and Angus stumbled behind your father. That was when you looked at the boy beside you. “Also, Laurie and Amy? Really?”

“What? They’re like brother and sister. If I said you were Jo, then that would’ve been weird.”

Oh my god, he wasn’t even halfway through the book.

You wish you had a camera solely to capture the look on your father’s face as he turned over and stared at both of you. You wonder if that was when he found out about you and Angus.

Shaking your head, you didn’t know whether to laugh or scoff as you said. “Unbelievable.”

“What do you mean ‘unbelievable’?” Angus questioned. “Jo and Laurie get married in the end, right?”

“Unbelievable.” You repeated but smiled this time.

“Right?!”

Your father sighed as you finally made it to the store. “Look, the fact of the matter is, what happened, happened, and we should just pretend it didn’t.”

Angus furrowed his brow as you all walked in. “I thought Barton men don’t lie. Don’t get me wrong, that was fun, but you just lied through your teeth.”

He held up his hand, not having it. “What I say during a private conversation is none of your goddamn business. You’re not to judge me.”

“It wasn’t a private conversation; your daughter and I were there. Besides, he brought her into it.”

“I’m right here.” You announced yourself.

“Why’d he ask if you landed on your feet?”

Your father glanced up from searching through the shelves. “What is this, Nuremberg?”

“You’re the hardass constantly telling everybody not to lie and going on about the honor code!”

Looking up at both of you, Paul Hunham sighed. “There was an incident at Harvard with my roommate.”

You gave him a look. “I’ve never heard this story before.”

“He accused me of copying from his senior thesis. Plagiarizing.”

“Well, did you?” Angus asked.

“No! He stole from me.” Your father relented. “But that blue-blooded prick’s family had allies on the faculty. I mean, their last name is on a library, so he accused me in order to sanitize his treachery. And they threw me out.”

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “you got kicked out for cheating?”

“No, I got kicked out of Harvard for hitting him.”

Angus asked. “You hit him? Like punched him out?”

“No, I hit him with a car.”

“You got kicked out of Harvard for hitting a guy with a car?!”

“By accident,” he approached the counter, talking to the cashier. “Pint of Jim Beam, please.”

You piped up, still in astonishment. “Mom said you left because your grandma was dying.”

“She was, it was just perfect timing to go and help take care of her.” He shrugged. “But my roommate broke three ribs. Which was technically his fault, because he shouldn’t have been in the road.

“Two dollars, please.” The cashier said.

Your father took his wallet out, continuing his story. “Also, he shat himself; which was the greatest indignity.”

The cashier handed him the wrapped-up bottle. “Here you go, killer.”

You couldn’t help your laughter at the sudden statement. As the three of you left and walked down the darkened, cold roads, Angus said.

“So, Mr. Hunham never even graduated college? Holy shit, you didn’t even finish up somewhere else? Who else knows?”

“Did mom even know about you hitting the guy?” You asked.

Your father nodded. “Of course she knew! She gave me an earful on the phone the first time she called me after I left. It was only Dr. Greene who knew it after that. He’d always believed in me, so he gave me a job. Adjunct faculty: zero respect and even less pay, so nobody batted an eye, and I’ve been at the school ever since.”

“Are you ashamed at how things turned out?” Angus questioned.

“Not at all. I’m proud of my work, I love history, I married the smartest and kindest woman on the planet, I helped raise a spitfire of a girl, I love Barton. Barton is my life now. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

“Then why did you lie to that guy?”

“Because I knew he’d relish the fact that I’m a washout and never left my own high school. And he’d probably repeat that story to everybody we used to know. So, I figured he’s not entitled to my story. I am. “

Angus nodded. “Yeah. Fuck that guy.”

“Exactly. Fuck that guy!”

“Fuck him, I hope his car slides on black ice and crashes into a lamp post.” You chimed in.

“Woah,” Angus gasped.

Your father said your name scoldingly.

“What?” You scoffed. “It was weird as hell when he talked to me about my mom like he knew me.”

“I’ll admit it was strange and unnecessary.” Your father tossed his arm around your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He looked at both you and Angus. “But you’ll keep this quiet, right? No one is to know.”

“Entre nous, sir.” Angus nodded. “Entre nous.”

Your father nodded then chuckled, poking you. “‘Ancient cameras’. Where’d the hell you come up with that?”

“I tried my best!” You whined. After the men ceased in their laughter, you then said. “Can we please get dinner now?”

“Alright, alright.” Your father snorted. “Where would you like to go for your absolutely atrocious food concoction?”

“South Street.”

“I figured.”

And that is where the three of you went. It shouldn’t have surprised you it was packed the day after Christmas, which was also a Saturday. It had to have been a miracle you managed to get in line only when it was starting to go out the door; a few minutes after you arrived, the line had started to curve around to the nearest streetlight.

The diner was filled with life once you got in; families pushing tables together, friends absolutely drunk off their asses laughing, even half of the staff seemed to be enjoying the sheer joy from others. Of course, a few were understandably stressed and annoyed from the number of customers and their behavior.

The three of you were soon sitting at a booth. When Angus sat close to the window, instead of sliding into the seat across from him, you took the one beside him. Leaving your father alone on the other side. To ordinary people, it perhaps didn’t mean anything; but you still felt as if it was a signal.

“I can’t believe they’re still playing Christmas music.” Your father grumbled as The Ronettes sang about a sleigh ride and he slipped off his jacket.

You giggled, copying him. “It was just yesterday.”

“I know, but still.”

“I like this song, thank you very much.”

He held up his menu as if to hide his disgust. You and the boy beside you chucked as Angus said. “I feel like I’ve been here before.”

“You don’t know if you have?” You asked.

“It feels familiar. Maybe when I was a kid?”

“We’d always come here when we’d visit Boston.” You looked at your father. “The owner gave me a free banana split when I turned twelve, he knew us so well, right?”

That managed to pull a laugh out of him. “That he did. If he’s here tonight maybe you could get a free dinner for us.”

You and Angus looked down at the menu before you, and soon enough, an exhausted waitress came by to take your drink orders and lay down silverware. Immediately, you asked for French fries and your favorite milkshake.

“There’s no way that’s going to be good.” Angus pointed out.

“Oh, ye of little faith.” You scoffed.

“That’s not faith, that’s fact.”

“What you’re speaking of is an opinion, not even a theory. If you ever want to make it in this world, I suggest you learn the different between those two before you can even begin to comprehend what an actual fact is.”

“And what is an actual fact?”

“You’re an idiot.”

He smirked despite the fact you insulted him. You also couldn’t hide your own smile. It was apparent from anyone in that room, it was not a smile of victory; it was one synonymous with the feeling inside of your chest as it felt like your own heart would burst forth like light.

Your father had felt this feeling before, so it was not lost on him.

“You seem awfully happy to have your entire statement dismantled, Mr. Tully.” He said to Angus.

The boy looked up, still with a smile but one not as euphoric. “I mean, I wasn’t that serious about it.”

“Oh, and I didn’t think you were. It just astounds me how close you two became in a matter of a few days.” He said. “Wasn’t it only yesterday you both were at each other’s throats?”

You stepped in. “No, that was the first few days, actually. I mean, we were the only kids at Barton after that, so it’s probably best we figured how to deal with each other. I guess we both liked some of the same things too, so that made it easier.”

“Yeah.” Angus nodded.

Your father straightened his gaze between the two of you, but then smiled, getting up from the booth. “I have to use the facilities; don’t go anywhere.”

“No papa,” you teased. “we’re going to go do a line of cocaine with the homeless man a few blocks away.”

“You know, I’m beginning to believe that you’re the bad influence on Mr. Tully and not the other way around.”

With that, he left the two of you by yourselves as he walked to the back of the diner. Once he was gone, you and Angus cackled to yourselves.

“Do you think he knows?” You asked, a hint of concern mixed in with delight.

“I don’t know, probably.” He shrugged, still chuckling. “Is that so bad?”

“I mean…I’ve never had a boyfriend before.” You admitted, smiling shyly.

Even though the rest of the diner was booming with Christmas music and leftover excitement from the holidays, it all fell silent between you two. The boy who was once radiated in the happiness you shared with him, now covered in a shroud of terror.

Well…in reality, he was alarmed, not terrified; yet, that is all you saw.

“Shit I-!” You realized what you had just said. “I didn’t mean-I mean, we don’t have to be together, I just meant that I’ve never had someone like me back when I’ve liked them, and even then, it didn’t happen very often-.”

“-Hey, hey.” He stopped you. “No, I’ve never had that happen either. I mean, I’ve been to all boys’ schools since I was fourteen. I think…yeah, I think I’d like to give it a try.”

“Really?” You felt the weight from your shoulders loosen as your face brightened.

He nodded, glowing with you. “Really.”

You glanced up at the bathroom door, and when there was no sight of your father, you took his face into your hands, pulling him into a kiss. It wasn’t as intense as your previous ones, but not as quick as the one you gave him outside the bookstore.

He pulled away first, and before you could say anything about it, you saw the waitress leave from the corner of your eye. She had brought the drinks, including your milkshake and fries. Turning back towards the table, you immediately picked up a fry and dipped it into the milkshake.

“Oh my god, you weren’t joking.” Angus said with no emotion behind it.

“I know I’m funny, but this I would not joke about.” You talked as you ate. “Try it.”

“No.”

“I’ll kiss you if you do.” You took another fry.

“You’ll kiss me anyway.”

“I’ll kiss you like how the French do.”

“You already do that.”

 “I’ll do something different.”

His eyes grew, and he huffed out a surprised laugh. “‘Something different’?”

“Yeah.” You dipped a third fry. “I don’t know what, but I’ll do it.”

 “Not that you have to, but fine I’ll try it.” Angus reached for a fry, then dipped it into your milkshake and ate it.

Angus’ face went through more arrays of emotions in a short time since you met him. You grinned from ear to ear. “Well?”

“Fuck off.” He tried to hide his smile as he took another fry.

“I’m sorry, what?” You taunted.

“It’s not the best-.”

“-I’m sorry, what?!” You repeated louder, and you both were talking over each other. “It sounds like-!”

“You don’t have to be so-!”

“It sounds like you actually like it!”

“You’re so loud.”

You finished with laughter, and then kissed his cheek. You returned to your milkshake and fries as Angus talked about something funny that happened back in the fall. You can’t remember what he said to this day, because a familiar voice entered your ears as it entered the diner.

Angus kept talking to you, but it was in one ear and out the other as you tried your best not to show your discomfort at the man who laughed a little louder than the rest of the people in the diner. When you thought Angus wasn’t paying attention, you glanced over your shoulder at the entrance.

There he stood; a man around the same age as your father with a woman perhaps ten or fifteen years younger than him, holding a baby on her hip, and clutching her seven-year-old daughter’s hand.

Despite what Andy Williams was singing from the jukebox, this was not the most wonderful time of the year.

Angus tapped your shoulder, and you drew your eyes away to look at him.

“Hey, I hate this song, I’m gonna go change it.” He said. You got out of the booth for him to stand, and once he did you sat back down. Only for him to then say. “Okay, scoot over.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Scoot over.”

“You didn’t even change the song.”

“I changed my mind, it’s not that bad.”

He was bullshitting you, but you scooted over anyway, and he sat beside you. “What’s going on?”

You scoffed. “You’re the one that got up and sat down again.”

“Is that guy Daniel?”

“Angus-.”

“-Tell me.”

“Is he bothering you?”

Both you and Angus looked and saw the man from the entrance stand before you with his hands in his pockets. You dropped your gaze.

“No, he’s not.”

You had no idea what you hated more that night: hearing a man you never met say your mother’s name, or hearing a man you knew too well say yours.

“If he is, just say the word and-.”

“-He’s not bothering me.” You hissed.

Angus slipped his hand into yours as you kept your eyes down, but he kept his trained on the man standing in front of him.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Look, I just didn’t expect you to actually show up.”

You didn’t say anything, so Angus did.

“Could you go? She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He ignored him, still angling on you. “Look, sweetie, you don’t have to, and I get it if you don’t want to, but I’d really like it if you came and meet them. They’re all right here now; Carol, Maria, and Frankie. He just turned one last week-.”

“-Can you just fuck off?” You finally looked at him.

He tilted his head and raised his brows before looking at Angus. “Young man, could you give her and I some privacy-?”

“-No.”

The man looked at you, scoffing. “Jesus Christ, what’d you do to make him so fucking head over heels for you? Was that the issue just now between you two? Under the counter action?”

Angus stood. “Fuck you, what’s your problem?”

You pulled on his sleeve, hissing his name and kneeling on top of your seat to try and get him to sit back down. The man continued to taunt him.

“My problem is that you don’t know what’s going on boy, and you’re being a little prick about all of this.”

“Get the fuck out of here or I’ll…”

“‘You’ll-you’ll what?’” He looked over at you. “I can’t tell if you picked the bravest or the stupidest kid to fool around with, Eurydice.”

You were always a strange child growing up. Perhaps it was that there are times in your life you picture music whenever a certain emotion arose within you.

As you heard him say that name, a name that you heard last when your mother was dying in her bed, a name that was only for her to use and her alone…You heard Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns.

You don’t even remember grabbing the stupid butter knife from your silverware, just raising it up above you and believing it would cause any harm. As Angus held you back, the man reached over you to grab your hair.

Chaos ensued for a moment in the diner as you cried out when he pulled the ribbon out of your hair, and both him and Angus engaged in a battle of expletives. Most of the diners held back and watched in shock, while only two of them came up. A man stood between him and Angus, and the wife of the yelling man pulled him away.

“Daniel, what the hell is going on?!” She hissed.

“Yes, Daniel,” all eyes fell onto Paul Hunham, who was behind Daniel. “what is the meaning of this?”

You shrunk back in the booth, Angus hugging you tightly against him as if to hide you from Daniel. Both of you stared at the scene before you.

“Paul…” Daniel nodded, standing taller and holding his wife’s hand.

Mr. Hunham nodded back. “Your Christmas went well I take it?”

“It was fine; yours?”

“Just peachy.” He gave a tight smile, looking around at everyone else. “Family matters everyone, I sincerely apologize.”

Hesitantly, the crowd went back to their own business; or they were at least good at pretending to as they eavesdropped. Mr. Hunham continued.

“Why’re you here exactly?”

“The same as you.” Daniel explained. “Dinner with my family.”

He hummed. “And you thought it wise to inform the child in the scenario but not me?”

“Now wait a minute-.”

“-I assume your wife also didn’t know about this or the letters and money you sent?”

At the mention of her, Daniel’s wife scowled. “Danny, what’s he talking about?”

He shook his head. “Hunham, you should just mind your own-.”

“-Well now you see, I can’t do that, because her mother trusted me to provide and care for her.”

It was only then did Angus Tully understand what exactly had been going on. As the adults fought, he looked down at you in his arms. It was as if it were the first time he had seen you, and it was the first time he noticed that he could not find a trace of Mr. Hunham.

The eyes he thought you had gotten from your mother stared up at him with dread, and when Angus looked back at the man seething with unspoken rage, he saw them there too.

“Look,” Paul sighed. “I don’t want to cause another scene, so let us handle this like men. You will not make contact with her again, and we can walk away.”

He took a heaving breath before responding. “Fine by me. Come on, Carrie.”

Daniel began to lead her away from your booth, but Paul stopped them. “I believe you have something of my daughter’s.”

His eyes trailed down to the ribbon in his hand. He let go of his wife to walk back to Paul who held his hand out. Instead of giving it to him, he turned to Angus, smiling. He handed it to him.

“Keep her on a short leash, boy. She’s got her mother’s mouth.”

With that, he and his wife and children left the South Street Diner. You only pulled away from Angus when he did from you. No tears had fallen onto your cheeks, but that didn’t mean they weren’t stinging your eyes as you tried to keep them at bay.

You took the ribbon from Angus only for it to hang loosely at your side. Paul softened his gaze as he began to put on his jacket.

“I think we should just settle on room service tonight.” He said gently. “I can get them to bag up the fries and let you take the milkshake glass?”

You could only nod, not wanting to look at either of the men with you. You all put on your coats in silence, and Angus, though not hugging you, hovered as Mr. Hunham spoke with the staff; both about not wanting to report the incident, and also on paying extra for you to take the glass.

It was so cold out, and everyone was so tired from not just the events of the night, but the entire day, that Paul splurged on a cab for the three of you back to the hotel.

Angus also didn’t feel shame in trying to hold you hand in front of your father; or…stepfather. You limply held his hand back, but you leaned against him as you sat in the cab, staring at the Boston Christmas lights as the city passed by you.

When the cab made it to the hotel, you led the way in a tired haze to the elevators. It wasn’t just the three of you in the elevator; there was a somewhat large family that piled in, all merry and jolly and reeking of chlorine from the pool they had just swum in.

It was as if God himself was rubbing salt into the wounds, tempting you to lick them.

When you made it onto your floor, you also led the way back to your connecting rooms. There was no ‘Goodnight’ or ‘Can we stay up just a little longer?’ to your companions; you simply opened your door and shut it in their faces.

Setting the milkshake down, you tossed off your jacket and pulled your shoes off. Collapsing on the bed, you looked down at the ribbon still in your hand…and you cried.

[kentosbabes]

More bf-gojo? I loved the perfect combination of fluff and smut bits. ★

your wish is my command!!! hope you enjoy :33

Bf-Gojo who loves when you surprise him at work bringing him some lunch and just keeping him company till the end of his shift. Sometimes if you had baked batches of cupcakes or cookies you would bring all of them sharing them with people all around his building, Gojo just admires how kind and considerate you are as you offer your freshly baked goods to his employees. He would sometimes leave things at home and calling you acting all stressed just so you come and join him helping to relive his stresses in more ways then one.

Bf-Gojo who now joins you when you have an 'everything day'. He's sitting on the counter as you carefully paint on the face mask onto him, your brows furrowing with concentration. It gives him another excuse to stare and admire you for longer. He is also surprisingly good at painting your nails so you let him paint yours as you gossip to him about the drama in your office and friend group and as much as he hates to admit he gets so involved and even begins to share his own gossip.

Bf-Gojo who enjoys exploring the city with you going in and out of art galleries and museums. His hand in yours as you talk him through the art on the walls explaining in detail the backstory behind each one. If it was anyone else he would simply tune them out but with you he listens intently taking in every detail. He adores how smart you are and praising you the whole time your in the gallery. 'Your such a good girl you know that right' he would whisper in your ear the grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly as you exit the building.

Bf-Gojo who gets more cocky knowing your the most perfect girl and knowing your all his just boosts his ego so much. 'Oh your so smart, the way you talked about those paintings got me so riled up' he'd say kissing down your neck as you bounce up and down on his dick, 'Your so perfect and you all mine. isnt that right darling?'. only able to whimper in response Gojo smirks at your fucked out state. His hand grabbing onto yours and placing it on your lower stomach so you can both feel how deep he is inside of you.

Bf-Gojo who babies you when your sick. He's pulling out all of the stops running you hot baths, cooking you soup and watching shit tv with you never leaving your side until you feel better. Gojo defiantly calls Nanami for help asking him for the best remedies and how to get you feeling better asap.

Bf-Gojo who secretly loves when you praise him, even just when you say how proud you are of him once he's completed an important presentation or saying how good he is when he helps out with making dinner. Your words going straight down to his dick till he cant take it anymore and having his way with you. 'f-fuck toru your s-so so good to me' your praises only making him harder and he knows its going to be a longg night.

Bf-Gojo who does anything and everything to make sure your okay. Your heels are hurting to much? he will carry you home so you dont have to walk any further. Your having a hard day at work? he will be there picking you up and helping you unwind in a steamy shower.

Bf-Gojo who cant wait to meet your parents, although he's nervous he knows how much they mean to you so being able to meet them only furthers his desire to wife you up a soon as he can.

Bf-Gojo who teases you about the way you like your coffee, 'I love you but thats coffee not tea doll why you adding so much sugar and cream' he would say as he sits sipping his black coffee. He laughs at how defensive you get calling him the weird one as your cheeks begin to redden at his teasing.

Bf-Gojo who wants to just spend everyday with you cuddled into him as he draws patterns up and down your back, and when you get up to grab a drink your ass pocks out from underneath his top and he can just sit against the headboard hands behind his head admiring his perfect girl.

part 1 here

masterlist

[scotianostra]

St Madoe's Stone , Perth Museum.

The most complete of all the pictish/Celtic stoones I saw on display on Monday, this was found lying down in St Madoes Churchyard, Perthshire during 1830's. . In the 1920s it was moved, in its base, to stand against the wall beside the church door. In the 1990s it was taken to Perth Museum & Art Gallery.

One side, as seen in my gif, is dominated by the ring-headed cross that fills what we can accept as the front of the slab. It is surrounded by biting dogs and with two lion-like creatures facing each other across the top of the stone.

The other side of the slab shows three cloaked and hooded riders, probably churchmen (possibly a reference to the road and its users between St Andrews and Scone) and below them three Pictish symbols: a crescent and v-rod, a double-disc and z-rod and a Pictish beast. The symbols are much worn due to exposure to the elements when it stood in thechurchyard.

In the first thousand years AD, the country we now call Scotland was dominated by changing groups of Celtic peoples, most notably the Picts. From AD 250-900, they controlled most of Scotland north of the River Forth. We do not know what they called themselves. The Picts – meaning “the painted ones” – is the name the Romans gave them. Their language has disappeared and no Pictish manuscripts are known to have survived. But their art does survive on over 300 pieces of carved stonework and a much smaller number of portable objects such as jewellery.

There at least 17 sites around the Perth area, they include Stone Circles, a Pictish Free-Standing Cross, Pictish Symbol Stones and stones with cup marks, cup and ring marks are by far the most common motif, if you remember, or have ever inspected the Caiy Stone, at Oxgangs, which I visited and posted pics of last year, there are 6 of thes type of marks on this stone.

Perth Museum has several fragments of smaller stones which I shall post at a later time.

[whencyclopedia]

In this gallery, we present 20 of the most striking frescoes found in the ancient Roman city of Pompeii in Italy. These frescoes were once buried under a thick carpet of volcanic ash from the Vesuvius eruption of 79 CE. Year after year, archaeologists continue to find such artistic treasures that never cease to fill us with wonder. You can admire most of these superb frescoes at the National Archaeological Museum in Naples. Roman wall paintings were created using a painstaking build up of various layers of material... First, a rough coat of mortar is applied to the surface, sometimes three layers thick and composed of lime and sand (or volcanic pozzolana). Next, a further three coats were added, this time using a mixture of lime and fine crushed marble to give a smoother finish and then glass, marble and cloth were used to polish the surface and prepare it for painting. Colours were added when the surface was still wet (fresco) but details might also be added to a dried surface (tempera).