#Buy Specimen Cabinet

[labotronicsscientific]

Vented stainless steel specimen cabinet

Labotronics Vented Stainless Steel Specimen Cabinet is equipped with a with a low-noise centrifugal exhaust fan and a UV light sterilizing device to ensure safety by utilizing ozone disinfection and sterilization technology to vent out harmful gases within the cabinet. It has adjustable and replaceable shelves and dimensions of 900 × 450 × 1900 mm.

[averageanonymous]

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have agreed that they won't buy each other gifts for frivolous human holidays. That certainly isn't going to stop them, though.

i.e. Brief Valentine's Day Fluff 🖤🤍

☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

Aziraphale could feel it. This was the one. Settled in a corner, surrounded by arrangements that were full of pink hearts and red balloons, it alone was unadorned. It didn't need any embellishment. The plant was gorgeous. A large, well-established Monstera deliciosa, also known by the name “Thai Constellation” Monstera. They were popular, but this particular variation was quite rare. Its enormous fenestrated leaves, spackled with white and yellow variegation, were full of life, lush, and verdant. Aziraphale had only the most basic experience in caring for houseplants, but he could recognize a beautiful specimen when he saw one. And this one was nothing less than perfect. 

He eagerly made his purchase, and then, upon exiting the nursery with it on a cart (to "take to his car," naturally) he surreptitiously miracled it straight to the bookshop, returned the cart, and began the walk back home. 

His mind wandered as he walked. He thought he had some black and silver ribbon in the back of the shop. He might tie a nice bow around the Monstera’s pot. Or perhaps that would be too much. Maybe somewhat too obvious a gesture. Best to keep it simple. A nice surprise (Oh, my dear, I just happened to wander by a nursery, I spied it through the window, it was nothing, really, didn't even have to go out of my way…) to complement a lovely glass of wine at the bookshop (one of his finer vintages, the ones he kept in the cabinet up in his room) after they went out for a splendid dinner (at the Ritz, of course) and had a quiet stroll through the park (nothing like a casual moonlit stroll to settle a full stomach). 

Aziraphale smiled to himself. He felt almost giddy. There was a fluttering in his middle, what he thought humans referred to cleverly as butterflies in the stomach. He wouldn't think that after literally thousands of years that going out for an evening with Crowley could affect him in such a way. Yet here he was. 

He reached the bookshop. A quick change into his evening attire, a check on the certainly-not-a-Valentine’s-gift Monstera, and he'd be off to the Ritz to meet up with Crowley. He took the steps with a skip, opening the door with a joyful flourish. And froze.

The Monstera had made it to the bookshop just fine. It sat, lovely green shining in the late afternoon sunbeams that filtered through the windows. And standing there, staring at it wide-eyed, was Crowley. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried in alarm, “You were- I thought- Well, you- Ahm,” he trailed off, wringing his hands slightly, and finished weakly, “Weren't we supposed to meet at the restaurant?” 

Crowley gaped at him. Gaped at the plant. Looked between them several times. Then crossed the room in three determined strides and pulled Aziraphale into a crushing embrace. 

“No gifts, angel,” Crowley growled into Aziraphale’s shoulder, arms squeezing him until his lungs began to protest. “That's what we agreed. No. Bloody. Gifts.” 

“Oh, this isn't a gift,” Aziraphale wheezed, “I just…happened…by…” 

Crowley released Aziraphale just enough to let him breathe properly. Aziraphale looked up at him, feeling his face warm under Crowley's bright gaze. “Do you…like it?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly. 

“She's gorgeous,” Crowley said with a shake of his head. He set a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, and Aziraphale leaned into it, turning just enough to press a kiss to the Demon's palm.

“Incorrigible angel,” Crowley muttered softly, “you just can't help yourself, can you?” 

Aziraphale chuckled, “Old habits, I suppose.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, pulled Aziraphale back into his arms, and pressed a kiss to his lips that promised more later. 

“Come on, then,” Crowley finally said when they drew apart, both a little flushed and out of breath, “The Ritz won't wait forever.” Then he took the angel's hand in his and dragged him out of the bookshop to the Bentley. 

He opened the door for Aziraphale and Aziraphale was about to thank him when he noticed a black box on the seat. It was a few inches deep and around six inches long. He leaned in and took it, raising an eyebrow at Crowley as he straightened. 

“No gifts, hm?” Aziraphale said coyly. He lifted the lid. The smell of chocolate wafted out.

“It barely counts,” Crowley huffed as Aziraphale lifted the small stack of artisan chocolate bars from the box. Each was wrapped in thick, beautifully designed paper with detailed descriptions of the origin of the ingredients, the flavors that could be detected in each bar, the journey those ingredients took to become the precious ounces of chocolate in his hands. Crowley would have had to search for these chocolate bars. They were practically art themselves. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, “You're far too good to me.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley huffed, a smile tugging at his lips. “Will you please get in so we can go, angel.” 

So Aziraphale did, gently placing the chocolate back in its box, and laying it in the back seat so he was free to reach across and take Crowley's hand in his, lacing their fingers together. The butterflies fluttered pleasantly in his stomach. His heart beat a joyful rhythm in his chest. Aziraphale sighed contentedly. It was going to be a wonderful night. 

-----

Thanks for reading! Happy Valentine's Day!

[norabrice1701]

Coincidence - Ch. 5, Pt. II

Dr. Alan Grant x Predoctoral Student Fem!Reader

Series Main List

Ch. 5 Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including protected sexual intercourse); older man/younger woman relationship (no underage); explicit language; dinosaur PTSD; pining and inappropriate crush; Alan Grant’s canon upper-body strength

It doesn’t take long to exit the car and duck under the small awning on the backside of the house. The door opens and warm light floods the space to reveal a functional, tidy kitchen. At quick glance, you can’t tell if its neat state is because he seldom uses it or he’s just clean with his habits - but having seen his office, you suspect the former. He toes out of his shoes and drops his briefcase beside them before padding down the small hallway, turning on more lights as he goes. You follow suit with your wet shoes and set your purse down before following him. 

The house glows with golden light that bounces off warm wood paneling and shelves, leather couches and plaid armchairs. Piles of books rest here and there, intermixed with other curios of exploration - a globe on a spindle, binoculars and a leather case, magnifying glasses and various fossil specimens. It’s obviously a bachelor’s home, but it’s far from slovenly - more just… comfortably lived in. The thought brings a warm smile to your face as you silently follow him past the main living room and into a large, adjacent room. 

A tall and wide bookshelf dominates this room, lined with more books, spotted with artwork, and… are those vinyl records? You can’t help but step closer, squinting to better examine the narrow spines, and your smile widens. You’re not sure if you would have considered him to be a music fan, but there’s quite a surprising collection here. Glass clinks across the room, and you glance over your shoulder to see him standing at a bar cabinet opposite the worn, plaid couch and leather armchair. 

Brown liquid sloshes against a glass as he pours and meets your gaze. “What’s your poison?” 

“How about… whiskey?” It’s not your favorite, but it’s popular at the dig sites and you’ve acquired a taste for it. 

A smirk of approval flashes across his face before he tips the already open bottle over a second highball, and more liquid pours out. With both glasses in hand, he skirts around the couch to hand you one. 

With another heavy sigh, he holds his glass out. “Well, I guess… here’s to your next adventure.” 

“Thanks.” You sound sadder than you would like as your glass meets his with a gentle clink. The whiskey is surprisingly smooth as it slides down your throat, warming you from within. He motions towards the armchair before he drops to sit on the couch, taking another long pull of his drink. 

The chair’s springs feel a little worn, and you think it matches the style of the leather sofa in the living room - and the sudden thought that he bought two living room furniture sets and mixed them together makes you smirk against the rim of your glass. Swallowing another mouthful of whiskey, you glance back at the bookshelf. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you were a big music fan.” 

His gaze follows yours to the bookshelf, huffing an amused sigh. “I don’t think I am, really. I inherited most of that collection from the couple that used to live here.” He taps a finger against his glass. “They were an elderly couple, downsizing… and they asked if I had any interest in it. Truthfully, I’ve barely listened to any of it, but it was less furniture to have to buy.” 

You nod in consideration. “I suppose that does make sense.” Your gaze continues to sweep the room, and it looks like his office away from campus - or more like a study, perhaps. A desk rests behind the couch, flanking the bar cabinet, and the plaid couch looks comfortably broken-in as if it’s hosted him for many long nights of intellectual pursuits. Another silence falls, and maybe it should be awkward, but somehow… it’s not. Somehow, it’s enough just to sit with him now. 

“Thank you.” He says at length, drawing your attention to his small, appreciative smile. “For what you did back there and not… not making a big deal about it. Or… asking any questions.” 

“Of course.” You easily reply. “You… you didn’t make a big deal about it, either. Or ask any questions that day… of the storm.” 

If possible, he looks even more world-weary as he takes another sip of whiskey. “I just didn’t want to see you get hurt. With the amount of damage done to the main tent canvas during that storm, you would have been hurt had you stayed, and that would have been on me.” 

“No, it wouldn’t,” you counter genty. “I signed all the legal waivers to be there. If I hurt myself because of a fucking panic attack, then that would have been no one’s fault but mine for not… well, for not admitting that I was a safety hazard to the excavation.” 

“You’re not a safety hazard.” He shakes his head dismissively. “Not anymore than I am because I…” His words trail off with a sigh before bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I don’t know what I am…”

You wet your top lip before taking another sip of the heady liquor. “Well, who says that you have to be anything more than just yourself?” 

He goes still against the couch for a long moment before raising his head. His gaze finds yours as his brow furrows in deep contemplation. You can’t tell what he’s thinking behind those mesmerizing, slate-blue eyes of his, but you don't dare shy away from his gaze. In fact, you want to commit everything about it to memory as your heart starts racing. 

His eyes narrow with a familiar sharp, shrewd edge. “You know… out of all your peers, you’re the only one who hasn’t once asked me about it.” He tilts his head in further interest. “I know it’s not for your lack of curiosity - you’re far too bright for that - so, that must mean it was a deliberate choice on your part….” The corner of his mouth lifts with a knowing edge. “You’ve chosen not to ask me about the articles, the rumors, or about the island, about… any of it.”

Your mouth goes dry and you resist the sudden urge to fidget against the chair. “Because it’s none of my business. It never has been.” Your fingers tighten against the highball. “Ever since the dig was canceled - ever since you told us not to give any statements to the media - you’ve known more than what you’ve been saying, but if you’re not saying it, then there must be a good reason why. And asking you just seemed… disrespectful.” 

His shoulders sag under some invisible weight and he exhales another deep sigh before lifting his glass and draining it. His tongue darts out to catch a stray drop on his bottom lip as his eyes turn distant. “It’s worse at night,” he whispers solemnly. “The moving shadows, the flashing lights… yes, the T-Rex shook the ground when she walked, but she was adept at hiding it during the hunt. But the raptors…” his words trail off with a trembling sigh. “Both stunning - fascinating in their intelligence - and utterly… terrifying.” 

You forget how to breathe, shocked by the gravity of his words. 

He purses his lips, fingers clenching around the empty glass as if regretting its empty state. “There was one moment… the two raptors had us flanked, had the advantage… and there was nothing….” He shakes his head with a trembling breath and horrific memory. “Absolute death stared me in the face and all I could do was stare helplessly back…”

You wait on baited breath, speechless and dumbfounded. 

He gives another helpless shake of his head. “And, then when it didn’t come… and you find yourself back in the normal world - buying groceries, doing laundry, making small talk with the neighbors - but you’re still shell shocked by it, by all of it, by suddenly… coming face-to-face with creatures that have been extinct for 65 million years, that I’ve devoted my life to study-” His voice chokes up, suddenly pushing to his feet and avoiding your gaze as he returns to the bar cabinet. 

His sudden motion stirs you to action, and you swallow the rest of your whiskey before rising and joining him at the cabinet. He pours another measure for himself, and you hold your glass out for a second round. Your eyes linger on his profile all the while, wanting so desperately to reach out and touch him - to soothe his troubled brow, to wrap him in the tightest hug. 

Your heart beats so loud that you wonder if he can hear it. “And you’ve carried all of that with you since… since you returned? There’s been no one that you could tell?” 

“Ellie, of course.” He says before taking another hearty gulp. “But she was there, too - and we both… at first, we thought we could ignore it. But life never returned to normal, and neither did we.” 

Your heart breaks anew as the silence stretches. Too many thoughts run through your head and you take a big drink of whiskey to help clear your head. But the growing fog at the corners of your mind tells a different story. Emboldened with another drink, your gaze returns to linger on the handsome definition of his profile - the strong line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the sweep of hair across his brow. What would it be to kiss his cheek? To trail your lips down to his, hearing his breath catch in the moment before his mouth meets yours? 

With a trembling breath, you shake your head to steady your thoughts. “T-thank you for telling me.” You say softly, your voice thready in the silence. “I have been concerned for you these last months, you know. Watching you just lose yourself in your work, like… if you stopped, something horrible would catch you. And now… now, it makes perfect sense.” Heat rises in your cheeks and you take another fortifying drink of whiskey. “You bore all the questions and media scrutiny with dignity, though - you’ve never once lost your temper or told anyone to fuck off. Sounds like you’d be well within your right if you did, though. Hell, I think I would have done it at least once by now.” 

Another wave of exhaustion overtakes him as he looks lost for words. Clearly everything he’s been through has taken quite the toll and continues to haunt him - and goodness, how can you leave him now? Err, not that you should stay the night - certainly not uninvited - but how can you go to New Mexico and leave him alone? If you’re the only person who knows what he’s been through, then that does mean he really has no one else…? 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers quietly, shaking his head with an air of shame. “That’s… a lot more than you bargained for tonight, I’m sure.” 

“No - please don’t apologize.” You reassure as your gaze roams freely over his face. “I think you needed the outlet, quite frankly. I’m just sorry that it manifested in a panic attack…” 

He glances over at you with a tired, lopsided smirk. “At least, I’m in good company - the best I could ask for, really.” 

Your heart warms at the sentiment and you’re helpless to hold back an answering smile as you all but melt under his gaze. “Same goes for you, you know.” 

Again, he holds out his glass to meet yours with another gentle clink before you each take another long drink. Endless questions swirl in the back of your brain because, seriously… what the fuck? Actual, living dinosaurs?! The how's and why's of such an impossible concept gnaw at your academic curiosity, urging you to keep asking him for details. But he looks so strung out and so tired, how could you possibly push him any further? In fact, maybe it's best if you just leave. Especially before you have the chance to do anything stupid  Swallowing the last mouthful of heady liquor, you take a deep breath. “Well, I should… I don’t want to be a bad houseguest and overstay my welcome.” 

“You haven’t overstayed anything,” he reassures gently. “It’s been nice to share a drink with you.” 

An appreciative smile curves your lips. “You, too.” You turn from the bar cabinet and thread back around the couch. The movement upends the lightheaded fog in your brain and your balance falters, tipping you towards the couch. You catch yourself with a steadying hand, and okay… maybe your meager dinner wasn’t enough for drinking whiskey. 

“Are you alright?” The gentle concern on his voice raises embarrassed heat in your cheeks as you try to offer a dismissive smile. 

“Yeah. I’m fine, thanks.” You try to ignore the dubious look on his face but your vibrato falters nonetheless. “Maybe just… my dinner wasn’t hearty enough for two glasses of whiskey.” 

An understanding look dawns on his face as he nods. “Well, if the dean would never forgive you for a car hitting me, then the dean would surely murder me if a former student gets a DUI on alcohol that can be traced back to my place.” His mouth curves with a suddenly shy, almost awkward smirk. “So, you can just… take my bed, and I’ll stay here on the couch.” 

Your mouth nearly falls agape as your cheeks flame. “Oh no, that’s… not necessary. You don’t need to be all chivalrous like that. I can just - the couch will be fine.” 

His eyes narrow with mild reproach as his grin sharpens. “Didn’t you just say that you don’t want to be a bad houseguest?” He taps a finger against his empty glass, waiting until you nod before continuing. “Then, stop refusing my hospitality.” 

Words choke in your throat as he starts to walk around the couch. Should you thank him again? Should you try to offer more protests? Your head spins as you suddenly feel deep in over your head and your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. 

“Just, uh…” He turns back around towards you, offering a small smile. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

You nod quickly. “Okay, thank you…” Your brain goes into overdrive, and, holy shit… you’re going to spend the night at Dr. Grant’s house. 

In his bed. 

By yourself. 

Nothing about any of that should be real, and truly, such thoughts are best left to your secret midnight fantasies… yet, here you are. You long for another steadying drink of whiskey - or, perhaps water, better yet - and you exhale nervously. There’s no reason for you to freak out about this - and despite your initial protests, he’s being the perfect gentleman about the whole thing - and really, why should you complain about that? Especially if it’s going to let you sleep in his bed. 

Looking for a distraction from your raging thoughts, you step back up to the wide bookcase and examine the spines of the vinyl record albums. Vaughn Monroe, Patsy Cline, Waylon Jennings, Dolly Parton - so many artists that you have passing knowledge about but can’t put your finger on any one specific song. It appears that the couple who used to live here had a heavy love of twangy country music. Was this their music room? Did they spend hours two-stepping or just listening and singing together? 

Somehow, you can’t picture Dr. Grant… Alan doing that. In fact, you can almost picture a grumpy scowl if the idea of dancing around a living room was even suggested. The image shouldn’t tug at your heartstrings, but it does all the same. 

The padding of bare feet on the hallway’s wood floor catches your attention, and you look up just in time to see him return. Gone are his clothes from the day, replaced with a soft looking white t-shirt, striped blue pajama pants and a bathrobe with a turquoise and brown Southwest-inspired pattern. It’s not the most coordinated look, but he seems perfectly at ease as he drops a pillow and blanket down to the couch. 

“The bed sheets are relatively clean - washed within the last two weeks,” he says softly. “And if you want to change, I laid out a clean shirt and shorts for you. Also, you’ll find a toothbrush still in the package and a new toothpaste on the bathroom counter.” 

Your heart warms with fond surprise. “Wow, uh - thanks. That’s all surprisingly thoughtful of you.” 

He tips his head, meeting your gaze from under his lowered brow with an almost teasing, admonishing edge. “Just because I’m not married doesn’t mean that I’ve always lived alone.” 

Your mouth curves to a soft smile. “I didn’t mean it like that… truly, I do appreciate it. I guess it’s just not what I expected…” Affection colors your voice as you hold his gaze for a long moment before blinking back to yourself. “Good night.” 

He nods in agreement. “Good night. If you need anything, please just ask.” 

You return his nod before stepping out into the hallway. Walking back to the kitchen, you retrieve your purse before disappearing into the bathroom. It doesn’t take you long to brush your teeth and get ready for bed - at least, to the best of your limited ability. His house is old enough to only have one bathroom in the main hallway, and you turn the light off, noticing that a faint yellow glow still shines out from his study. For a split-second, you debate going back to wish him good night again… but for what purpose? You don’t have anything else to say that hasn’t already been said. 

Closing the bedroom door behind you, you glance around at the tidy, cozy interior of his room. If he ran around in a mad dash to clean up the room or make the bed for you, it doesn’t show. In fact, the chair next to his closet still hosts an assortment of random clothing, and your heart warms at the knowledge that he didn’t make an attempt to be anything other than himself around you. A smile tugs at your face as you approach the bed, setting your purse down next to the nightstand. 

Your smile widens as you take in the quilted bedcover in shades of navy and maroon set against white sheets, along the clothes he laid out for you. Admittedly, sleeping in jeans and your shirt from the day doesn't sound comfortable, and you quickly shed your clothes. The cotton shorts’ elastic waistband rides low on your hips and his shirt hangs oversized on your bra-less shoulders, but they carry a clean, fuss-free scent that makes you even more eager to nestle under the bedcovers. 

Pulling back the quilt, you slide against the soft sheets before reaching to turn off the nightstand light. Settling against the pillow, your heart pounds in the darkness and you still can’t believe where you are… and who’s just sleeping down the hall. Though, that just makes his bed feel all the more empty. Especially as you drown in his scent, rolling onto your side and snuggling against the pillow. Your eyes drift closed as your fingers reach out against the mattress. 

What would it be to have him lying here beside you? To feel his body heat radiating under the covers and the promise of his skin within reach? Would his breathing grow steady as he falls asleep, or would it be heightened with anticipation, on the last verge of restraint like yours? And when your fingers find his arm in the stillness, would he roll towards you? Would his mouth find yours in a rush of unbridled desire as you finally learn the taste of his kiss? Your fingers would drift towards his waist, enticing him to settle atop you and let the weight of his body push you into the mattress while devouring each other. 

Your body comes alive with the runaway fantasy, gasping softly as your hips twitch with aching need against the mattress. Fuck, you want him in here with you - want to say whatever it takes for him to just fuck you with abandon. Not that you consider yourself well-versed in ways to drive men wild, but any of the scenarios that you can conjure sound so cheap and contrived - and you’re not just going to walk through his house naked. You want him to want you, too, and that’s a far harder thing to get. 

With a frustrated sigh, you roll over to your other side, gripping the sheet close. Before closing your eyes, you notice that no light shines under the door from the hallway. Perhaps it’s easier for him to just close his eyes on his couch and blissfully sleep, completely ignorant of the way you yearn for him. 

That thought doesn’t help you get to sleep any faster, tossing and turning to try and dispel the heat on your skin. When next you open your eyes, the room appears darker in the late unknown hour, and you roll over, drowsily snuggling back into the pillow. His scent wraps around you like a comforting blanket, and it’s easy to imagine that he’s spooned up behind you with the sleep-warmed weight of his arm draped across your midsection. But a faint glow of light from the crack under the door catches your attention. 

What is he possibly doing awake at - a quick glance to his bedside clock shows - 1:48 AM? 

Pulling back the covers, your feet connect with the carpet as you walk over to open the door. The light spills out from his study and with a quiet yawn, you do your best to ignore the hallway’s chilly wood floor as you approach. Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, you pivot around the corner and your brow furrows in confusion. The plaid couch is empty, but the pillow and blanket reveal that someone has at least tried to sleep there. You tilt your head to rest against the door frame and cross your arms as you suddenly hear the sound of running water in the dark kitchen. 

A smirk teases your lips as you glance over, watching him move in the shadows and emerge back into the soft glow from the study’s floor lamp. If possible, he looks more exhausted than you’ve ever seen him, not helped as his brow furrows with questioning concern. “Hope I didn’t wake you.” His voice carries the rasp of recent disuse and nothing about it should ripple goosebumps along your skin. 

“You didn’t.” You say softly, as if anything louder would be inappropriate at such a late hour. “I was already awake and I saw the light…” Your words trail off as you take in his appearance, noting the disappearance of his rather unflattering robe before lingering on the careworn lines of his face. “Trouble sleeping?” 

“Yeah…” His mouth curves with a tired smile. “You could say that.” He raises his right hand to scrub across his face, and your gaze zeroes in on the dark mark high on his forearm, just beneath his elbow. 

A strikingly elegant, black-ink tattoo in the shape of a double spiral rests on his skin, and everything about it sends your mind racing. You haven’t given it much thought since glimpsing it that one afternoon in his office, but it just seems so out of character for him. Yet here’s undeniable proof staring you in the face. 

And speaking of staring… your cheeks flush as you finally look away, only to see the knowing expression on his face as he catches your obvious interest. 

Your mouth goes dry as you search for something not too horribly awkward to say. “It’s beautiful,” you finally settle on. “A symbol of a rebellious youth?” 

“Not quite.” Distant fondness tinges his voice as he glances down at the swirling lines of ink. “It’s Kirituhi - an art form based on Māori-style tattoos. A reminder of my second home.” 

The excerpt of his bio from the newspaper flashes in your mind. “New Zealand, right?” 

He nods slowly. “We had several people of Māori descent on Joan’s digs over the years - and their culture is just fascinating. Their connection to the past, to the present - to honoring what came before as a way to look to the future… well, that stuck with me considering that I spend my career digging in the past to build my own future.” He pauses to draw a breath as you listen with rapt attention. “And the spiral symbolizes the continuity of life - and, just as the dinosaurs had their time on this earth, so will the human race.” His mouth quirks with a sardonic grin. “I guess all we can hope is that our skeletons fossilize just as well as the dinosaurs’ to preserve our own legacy.” 

Your heart melts as it goes out to him. It’s far more insightful than you would have expected, and that makes it all the more beautiful. Unable to stop yourself, you push off the wall and close the short distance between you. Your fingers reach out to his forearm, turning it for a better look in the low light. The piece reveals far more delicate, intricate lines up close, and you sweep an appreciative thumb over the inked art. “That makes it just…" Your voice drops to a whisper thin tone as the air thickens. "All the more beautiful." 

You raise your gaze to his, wanting to drown in the azure pools of his eyes, and electricity crackles between you. The heat from his forearm curls through you to settle low in your belly. He’s so close now, and your long simmering arousal rises to a boil. Can he see it on your face? Can he see how much you want to kiss him? To have him wrap you in his arms and hold you close? To make the outside world disappear under the weight of him above you and the touch of him deep inside you? 

Maybe it’s the late hour, maybe it’s the vulnerability of the moment, maybe it’s the fire singing in your blood - but you let your hand trail up from his tattoo, up over his exposed bicep and the sleeve of his t-shirt. A shuddering breath runs through him as he breaks your gaze, squeezing his eyes closed. 

Your breathing quickens as you rise to your tiptoes and lean in, letting your breath skim the shell of his ear. “Tell me to stop and I will.” You whisper, emboldened by the maddening scent of his skin as another shuddering breath leaves him. “Tell me that you want to go back to your couch, and I’ll go back to your bed.” Your voice trembles as you sigh. “And I’ll keep pretending that I haven’t been wet for you all night.”             

“Fucking hell…” His voice strains with the last thread of control as your fingers dance along the line of his shoulder. “You… we shouldn’t…” 

Your fingers find the fine hairs along the nape of his neck as the tip of your nose brushes the shell of his ear. “Stop looking for a way to make this wrong if this is what you want, too.” Your other hand searches out his left hand that’s clenched at his side. “It’s okay, Alan,” you breathe as you draw his hand towards you. “Touch me… please.”  

The sudden force of his kiss makes you dizzy as his arms envelop you with the strength that you've fantasized about. Your heart soars as it races, meeting his embrace head on, devouring him as you want to be devoured. You cling to the broad plane of his shoulders as he crushes you close, the heat of him burning through your - his - borrowed clothes. The heady thought sends more liquid heat pooling in your core and, God… why are you still in the hallway? 

You urge him forward, keeping the inferno of his body so close as you back towards the bedroom. His broad hands clench against the small of your back, groaning as he crowds you against the wall and the full press of your hips connect. The solid ridge of his erection makes your mouth water as you grind your hips forward. There's nothing about this man that you don't want, and you have no reason to hide. 

"You have no idea…" he groans with an intoxicating, wild edge. "What hearing you does to me…" 

Sparks shoot down your spine as your body burns. "Please, Alan," you whimper. "I need you."

The growl that rumbles in his chest bypasses all rational thought, and you nearly lose your feet as he pulls you away from the wall. Wrapped in his arms, tangled with his legs, trading kisses and nibbles and moans, your head spins until the solid weight of his bed appears behind you. 

You paw at the hem of his shirt until he lifts his arms and the fabric slides free. Your eyes widen with hungry appreciation, wanting to map each facet of his chest with your tongue but you burn too hot for that patience right now. He snakes a calloused hand under your oversized shirt, cupping your breast with a maddening squeeze and delicious pressure. Pleasure shoots straight to your dripping core, a needy moan echoing in your throat as you arch against him. 

"Please…" you breathe against his lips, gripping his waist to grind against his cock. "Fuck me… Alan." 

He groans and his arms clamp around your midsection, all but dragging you fully onto his bed. The force of his strength takes your breath away as you push at the waistband of his pajama pants and underwear. There's no grace in the kisses that dissolve to gasping breaths or the scramble of hands to reveal bare skin. And when the tip of his cock slides through your wetness, your tandem guttural groans echo in the stillness of the bedroom. 

"Wait, wait…" You manage to gasp, barely recognizing your own voice. "I'm not… we need -” your cheeks burn despite the intimate press of your bodies. "My bag has something, if you don't…"

He exhales a shuddering moan as if still struggling for control. Or perhaps he's embarrassed - a rational man of his intelligence so undone by his body. But then he skims his lips along your ear and his breath sears your skin. "And here I thought you were my innocent girl." The luscious, teasing rasp to his voice rushes more liquid heat through you. "Are you always so prepared, hmm?"

You struggle to breathe through the blinding surge of arousal. "A girl never knows when she'll meet the right guy…" Your nails dig into his back for emphasis, rewarded with his delicious gasp as you cradle his hips closer to yours. "And you've been the right guy for longer than I should admit." 

"Fuck, don't say that…" His head drops to the junction of your neck and shoulder as his hips surge forwards. The thick slide of him through your soaked folds nearly undoes you, but you paw at his shoulder with urgent need. 

"My bag… unless you have -" Your voice cuts off in a gasp as he shifts suddenly, reaching over you for the bedside table. The scrape of the wooden drawer and tear of foil heightens your anticipation before his strong, nimble fingers find purchase against your thigh. Following his coaxing movements, you spread your legs wide and wrap around his backside as he positions above you. His eyes blaze with wildfire as you lean up to kiss him, gasping as he eases forward in a slow, steady glide. 

Your eyes roll back at the thick, full stretch of him as your body adjusts to the delicious invasion. The kiss turns to a heavy, moaning breath as the connection threatens your sanity. You can't remember the last time - if ever - you've been so full of man, and your toes curl as you sink blissfully back against the mattress. 

"Having you in my clothes, in my bed… like this," his voice pitches deep as he drinks you in with dark, blown-wide eyes. "So goddamn gorgeous."

Words escape you as his hips roll back and surge forward, striking the deepest part of you. Electricity jolts through you as he thrusts again, and you surrender the last facet of your rational mind. Your body moves with his on primal instinct, driven to chase the euphoria promised each time he strikes your deep-rooted pleasure point. 

You cling to him as he moves over you, against you, inside you - and you’re so fucking close. The coil at the base of your spine winds tighter with each stroke that builds a rhythm to ruin you for life. His pleasured groans and grunts of exertion mingle with your staccato cries as your body goes taut, arching against him. Your orgasim hits hard, stars exploding behind your closed eyelids as waves of euphoria rock through you. His hips stutter to a stop as he buries himself in you with a strangled groan of relief.

The moment stretches to an eternity as you hold him close, wanting to burn the memory of him like this into your brain. Your lips trail along the defined line of his jaw as he nuzzles your cheek, and your breathing starts to settle out. His mouth finds yours for a long, lazy kiss as the afterglow deliciously numbs your senses. You hum contentedly against his lips. “That was so… beyond fucking good.” Every muscle relaxes against the mattress as your eyelids drop heavily with exhaustion. “I hope you’re able to sleep a little better now.” 

He half-sighs, half-laughs as the tip of his nose brushes yours. “Yeah… you, too.” 

You meet for another, slow kiss before you reluctantly let him go. It’s not nearly as awkward as you tell yourself it should be as he retreats to the bathroom, returns with a warm washcloth for you, and he steps into your - his - shorts before rejoining you in bed. You debate reaching for your discarded underwear but the hem of his shirt falls long enough, and a lingering thrill whispers through you as your bare lower half reconnects with his skin. 

In the room’s silence, he lays on his back as you snuggle up to his side. His arm comes around your shoulders, and you listen to the sound of his breathing, just existing with him as the waking world starts to yield to dreamland. 

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but you refuse to let him go until you have to. 

Series Main List

[thebashfulbotanist]

Connecting with nature

Since the pandemic began, we’ve seen an unprecedented number of people wanting to connect with nature. This is a bit of a double-edged sword! It’s got a lot of biologists very worried, to be honest, because we’ve seen an explosion in people feeding wildlife, buying exotic pets, collecting specimens and decorative knick-knacks made of wild animals and plants (sellers always say these are ethical - but people lie on the internet!),  getting too close to wild animals for pictures, trampling the ground around ancient trees, walking off-trail and over-harvesting plants while foraging, and buying illegally-harvested houseplants. 

If you know people doing things like that, we’d suggest encouraging them to connect with nature in some more positive ways. We’re going to focus on botany-related topics, both because that’s our area of expertise, and honestly, also because animal-related topics can get a bit distressing, since people’s attempts to connect with nature via animals can often cost the animals their lives. 

 A lot of the connection with nature we see happening right now involves taking. Here are some ideas that we’ve discussed that involve giving back, or simply leaving the environment untouched. 

-Plant native plants! This is one of the best, most helpful ways to restore the environment. It’s extra important if you live on land that belongs to First Nations and Native American peoples. Practicing the 50-mile rule, where you focus on planting species that grow within 50 miles of where you live, is one of the most powerful ways to support native pollinators and birds, too.

-Learn about how plants were managed and used historically in your area. We LOVE ethnobotany! Sometimes, historic management practices aren’t the most effective anymore, and older medicinal uses might be dangerous. But that doesn’t mean learning about them isn’t valuable! This is a wonderful way to learn about where you live, the land you’re inhabiting, and cultural connections that surround you.

-Consider taking photos, not plant parts. We’ve written about how to properly collect and mount plant specimens before, but often in the field, we don’t collect at all - we take photos. In fact, in rare plant surveys, collecting is forbidden and often illegal! Collecting may be required for certain studies, but for recreation, photos are all you need, and they do a much better job of showing what the plant looked like in life. Mounted plant specimens lose their color, they need to be properly sterilized, and they need to be kept in dry, temperature-controlled cabinet. 

-If you mount plant specimens or forage, when possible, try to take from a garden, not a park or public space. Whether you grow native plants or nonnative ornamentals, this is a good way to control your impact. 

-Follow plant collection laws. It’s often illegal to collect from parks and wildlands unless you have specific permits. Even common plants may be over-collected, as we’ve seen with salal, bear grass, and moss. Permits help control the amount of plants removed, so land managers are aware of when to restrict access.

-Volunteer in land restoration efforts. A lot goes into keeping parks and wild lands in good condition. Depending on where you live there might be invasive plants to remove, drainage areas to maintain, native plants to restore, controlled burns to monitor, and much more! These programs lost a lot of volunteers in 2020-2022, and they could really use your help. 

-Look for volunteer programs with local university herbaria and botany programs. Do you like to travel? Do you like to work with rare plants? Do you just like archiving and working with records from past centuries? There is undoubtedly a volunteer program out there for you! Botany isn’t as glamorous as large carnivore research, for instance, so it can be tough to find volunteers willing to travel and work hard for free in the name of plant research. But it’s also really rewarding, and you might get to see a large carnivore (we’ve seen bears and wolves!) in the process!

-Try botanical drawing. This is a hard skill to master. Botanical drawing involves representing plant parts with incredible clarity and accuracy. But it’s also rewarding!

-Learn to identify plants, pollinators, and plant pathogens. Hone your observation skills! This is trio of skills that is incredibly valuable in researchers and lay people alike. A lot of rare plant research hinges on the interaction of plants with pollinators and the effects of pathogens on those plants, so learning what you’re looking at can make you an very powerful resource in the botany world.

[miffy-junot]

Felix Yusupov on the murder of Rasputin

As I was alone in St. Petersburg, I was staying with my brothers-in-law at the Grand Duke Alexander's palace. On December 29, I spent most of the day preparing for my examinations which were to be held next day.* As soon as I had a free moment I went home to make the final arrangements. I intended to receive Rasputin in the flat which I was fitting up in the Moika** basement: arches divided it in two; the larger half was to be used as a dining room. From the other half, the staircase which I have already mentioned led to my rooms on the floor above. Halfway up was a door opening onto the courtyard. The larger room had a low, vaulted ceiling and was lighted by two small windows which were on a level with the ground and looked out on the Moika. The walls were of grey stone, the flooring of granite. To avoid arousing Rasputin's suspicions - for he might have been surprised at being received in a bare cellar - it was indispensable that the room should be furnished and appear to be lived in. When I arrived, I found workmen busy laying down carpets and putting up curtains. Three large red Chinese porcelain vases had already been placed in niches hollowed out of the walls. Various objects which I had selected were being carried in: carved wooden chairs of oak, small tables covered with ancient embroideries, ivory bowls, and a quantity of other curios. I can picture the room to this day in all its details, and I have good reason to remember a certain cabinet of inlaid ebony which was a mass of little mirrors, tiny bronze columns and secret drawers. On it stood a crucifix of rock crystal and silver, a beautiful specimen of sixteenth-century Italian workmanship. On the great red granite mantelpiece were placed golden bowls, antique majolica plates and a sculptured ivory group. A large Persian carpet covered the floor and, in a corner, in front of the ebony cabinet, lay a white bearskin rug. In the middle of the room stood the table at which Rasputin was to drink his last cup of tea.

My two servants, Grigori and Ivan, helped me to arrange the furniture. I asked them to prepare tea for six, to buy biscuits and cakes and to bring wine from the cellar. I told them that I was expecting some friends at eleven that evening, and that they could wait in the servants' hall until I rang for them. When everything was settled I went up to my room where Colonel Vogel, my crammer, was waiting to coach me for the last time before my exams. The lesson was over by six o'clock; before going back to dine with my brothers-in-law, I went into the church of Our Lady of Kazan. Deep in prayer, I lost all sense of time. When I left the cathedral after what seemed to me but a few moments, I was astonished to find I had been there almost two hours. I had a strange feeling of lightness, of well-being, almost of happiness... I hurried to my father-in-law's palace where I had a light dinner before returning to the Moika. By eleven o'clock everything was ready in the basement. Comfortably furnished and well-lighted, this underground room had lost its grim look. On the table the samovar smoked, surrounded by plates filled with the cakes and dainties that Rasputin liked so much. An array of bottles and glasses stood on a sideboard. Ancient lanterns of coloured glass lighted the room from the ceiling; the heavy red damask portieres were lowered. On the granite hearth, a log fire crackled and scattered sparks on the flagstones. One felt isolated from the rest of the world and it seemed as though, no matter what happened, the events of that night would remain forever buried in the silence of those thick walls.

The bell rang, announcing the arrival of Dmitri and my other friends. I showed them into the dining room and they stood for a little while, silently examining the spot where Rasputin was to meet his end. I took from the ebony cabinet a box containing the poison and laid it on the table. Dr. Lazovert put on rubber gloves and ground the cyanide of potassium crystals to powder. Then, lifting the top of each cake, be sprinkled the inside with a dose of poison which, according to him, was sufficient to kill several men instantly. There was an impressive silence. We all followed the doctor's movements with emotion. There remained the glasses into which cyanide was to be poured. It was decided to do this at the last moment so that the poison should not evaporate and lose its potency. We had to give the impression of having just finished supper - for I had warned Rasputin that when we had guests we took our meals in the basement and that I sometimes stayed there alone to read or work while my friends went upstairs to smoke in my study. So we disarranged the table, pushed the chairs back, and poured tea into the cups. It was agreed that when I went to fetch the starets, Dmitri, Purishkevich and Sukhotin would go upstairs and play the gramophone, choosing lively tunes. I wanted to keep Rasputin in a good humor and remove any distrust that might be lurking in his mind.

When everything was ready, I put on an overcoat and drew a fur cap over my ears, completely concealing my face. Doctor Lazovert, in a chauffeur's uniform, started up the engine and we got into the car which was waiting in the courtyard by the side entrance. On reaching Rasputin's house, I had to parley with the janitor before he agreed to let me in. In accordance with Rasputin's instructions, I went up the back staircase; I had to grope my way up in the dark, and only with the greatest difficulty found the starets' door. I rang the bell. "Who's that?" called a voice from inside. I began to tremble. "It's I, Grigori Yefimovitch. I've come for you. I could hear Rasputin moving about the hall. The chain was unfastened, the heavy lock grated. I felt very ill at ease. He opened the door and I went into the kitchen. It was dark. I imagined that someone was spying on me from the next room. Instinctively, I turned up my collar and pulled my cap down over my eyes. "Why are you trying to hide?" asked Rasputin. "Didn't we agree that no one was to know you were going out with me tonight?" "True, true; I haven't said a word about it to anyone in the house, I've even sent away all the tainiks.(* Members of the secret police.) I'll go and dress." I accompanied him to his bedroom; it was lighted only by the little lamp burning before the icons. Rasputin lit a candle; I noticed that his bed was crumpled. He had probably been resting. Near the bed were his overcoat and beaver cap, and his high feltlined galoshes. Rasputin wore a silk blouse embroidered in cornflowers, with a thick raspberry-colored cord as a belt. His velvet breeches and highly polished boots seemed brand-new; he had brushed his hair and carefully combed his beard. As be came close to me, I smelled a strong odor of cheap soap which indicated that he had taken pains with his appearance. I had never seen him look so clean and tidy. "Well, Grigori Yefimovich, it's time to go; it's past midnight." "What about the gypsies? Shall we pay them a visit?" "I don't know; perhaps," I answered. "There will be no one at your house but us tonight?" be asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice. I reassured him by saying that he would meet no one that he might not care to see, and that my mother was in the Crimea. "I don't like your mother. I know she hates me; she's a friend of [Grand Duchess] Elisabeth's. Both of them plot against me and spread slander about me too. The Tsarina herself has often told me that they were my worst enemies. Why, no earlier than this evening, Protopopov came to see me and made me swear not to go out for a few days. 'They'll kill you,' he declared. 'Your enemies are bent on mischief!' But they'd just be wasting time and trouble; they won't succeed, they are not powerful enough ... But that's enough, come on, let's go..." I picked up the overcoat and helped him on with it. Suddenly, a feeling of great pity for the man swept over me. I was ashamed of the despicable deceit, the horrible trickery to which I was obliged to resort. At that moment I was filled with self-contempt, and wondered how I could even have thought of such a cowardly crime. I could not understand how I had brought myself to decide on it. I looked at my victim with dread, as he stood before me, quiet and trusting. What had become of his second sight? What good did his gift of foretelling the future do him? Of what use was his faculty for reading the thoughts of others, if he was blind to the dreadful trap that was laid for him? It seemed as though fate had clouded his mind... to allow justice to deal with him according to his desserts... But suddenly, in a lightning flash of memory, I seemed to recall every stage of Rasputin's infamous life. My qualms of conscience disappeared, making room for a firm determination to complete my task. We walked to the dark landing, and Rasputin closed the door behind him.

Once more I heard the grating of the lock echoing down the staircase; we were in pitch-black darkness. I felt fingers roughly clutching at my hand. "I will show you the way," said the starets dragging me down the stairs. His grip hurt me, I felt like crying out and breaking away, but a sort of numbness came over me. I don't remember what he said to me, or whether I answered him; my one thought was to be out of the dark house as quickly as possible, to get back to the light, and to free myself from that hateful clutch. As soon as we were outside, my fears vanished and I recovered my self-control. We entered the car and drove off. I looked behind us to see whether the police were following; but there was no one, the streets were deserted. We drove a roundabout way to the Moika, entered the courtyard and, once more, the car drew up at the side entrance.

As we entered the house, I could hear my friends talking while the gramophone played "Yankee Doodle went to town." "What's all this?" asked Rasputin. "Is someone giving a party here?" "No, just my wife entertaining a few friends; they'll be going soon. Meanwhile, let's have a cup of tea in the dining room." We went down to the basement. As soon as Rasputin entered the room, he took off his overcoat and began inspecting the furniture with great interest. He was particularly fascinated by the little ebony cabinet, and took a childlike pleasure in opening and shutting the drawers, exploring it inside and out. Then, at the fateful moment, I made a last attempt to persuade him to leave St. Petersburg. His refusal sealed his fate. I offered him wine and tea; to my great disappointment, he refused both. Had something made him suspicious? I was determined, come what may, that he should not leave the house alive. We sat down at the table and began to talk. We reviewed our mutual acquaintances, not forgetting Anna Vyrubova and, naturally, touched on Tsarskoe-Selo. "Grigori Yefimovitch," I asked, "why did Protopopov come to see you? Is he still afraid of a conspiracy?" "Why yes, my dear boy, he is; it seems that my plain speaking annoys a lot of people. The aristocrats can't get used to the idea that a humble peasant should be welcome at the Imperial Palace. ...They are consumed with envy and fury... but I'm not afraid of them. They can't do anything to me. I'm protected against ill fortune. There have been several attempts on my life but the Lord has always frustrated these plots. Disaster will come to anyone who lifts a finger against me." Rasputin's words echoed ominously through the very room in which he was to die, but nothing could deter me now. While he talked, my one idea was to make him drink some wine and eat the cakes.

After exhausting his customary topics of conversion, Rasputin asked for some tea. I immediately poured out a cup and handed him a plate of biscuits. Why was it that I offered him the only biscuits that were not poisoned? I even hesitated before handing him the cakes sprinkled with cyanide. He refused them at first: "I don't want any, they're too sweet." At last, however, he took one, then another... I watched him, horror-stricken. The poison should have acted immediately but, to my amazement, Rasputin went on talking quite calmly. I then suggested that he should sample our Crimean wines. He once more refused. Time was passing, I was becoming nervous; in spite of his refusal, I filled two glasses. But, as in the case of the biscuits - and just as inexplicably - I again avoided using a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin changed his mind and accepted the wine I handed him. He drank it with enjoyment, found it to his taste and asked whether we made a great deal of wine in the Crimea. He seemed surprised to hear that we had cellars full of it. "Pour me out some Madeira," he said. This time I wanted to give it to him in a glass containing cyanide, but he protested: "I'll have it in the same glass." "You can't, Grigori Yefimovich," I replied. "You can't mix two kinds of wines." "It doesn't matter, I'll use the same glass, I tell you." I had to give in without pressing the point, but I managed, as if by mistake, to drop the glass from which he had drunk, and immediately poured the Madeira into a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin did not say anything. I stood watching him drink, expecting any moment to see him collapse. But he continued slowly to sip his wine like a connoisseur. His face did not change, only from time to time be put his hand to his throat as though he had some difficulty in swallowing. He rose and took a few steps. When I asked him what was the matter, he answered: "Why, nothing, just a tickling in my throat. " "The Madeira's good," he remarked; "give me some more." Meanwhile, the poison continued to have no effect, and the starets went on walking calmly about the room. I picked up another glass containing cyanide, filled it with wine and handed it to Rasputin. He drank it as he had the others, and still with no result.

There remained only one poisoned glass on the tray. Then, as I was feeling desperate, and must try to make him do as I did, I began drinking myself. A silence fell upon us as we sat facing each other, He looked at me; there was a malicious expression in his eyes, as if to say: "Now, see, you're wasting your time, you can't do anything to me." Suddenly his expression changed to one of fierce anger; I had never seen him look so terrifying. He fixed his fiendish eyes on me, and at that moment I was filled with such hatred that I wanted to leap at him and strangle him with my bare hands. The silence became ominous. I had the feeling that he knew why I had brought him to my house, and what I had set out to do. We seemed to be engaged in a strange and terrible struggle. Another moment and I would have been beaten, annihilated. Under Rasputin's heavy gaze, I felt all my self-possession leaving me; an indescribable numbness came over me, my head swam...

When I came to myself, he was still seated in the same place, his head in his hands. I could not see his eyes. I had got back my self-control, and offered him another cup of tea. "Pour me a cup," he said in a muffled voice, "I'm very thirsty." He raised his head, his eyes were dull and I thought he avoided looking at me. While I poured the tea, he rose and began walking up and down. Catching sight of my guitar which I had left on a chair, be said: "Play something cheerful, I like listening to your singing." I found it difficult to sing anything at such a moment, especially anything cheerful. "I really don't feel up to it," I said. However, I took the guitar and sang a sad Russian ditty. He sat down and at first listened attentively; then his head drooped and his eyes closed. I thought he was dozing. When I finished the song, he opened his eyes and looked gloomily at me: "Sing another. I'm very fond of this kind of music and you put so much soul into it." I sang once more but I did not recognize my own voice. Time went by; the clock said two-thirty... the nightmare had lasted two interminable hours. What would happen, I thought, if I had lost my nerve? Upstairs my friends were evidently growing impatient, to judge by the racket they made. I was afraid that they might be unable to bear the suspense any longer and just come bursting in. Rasputin raised his head: "What's all that noise?" "Probably the guests leaving," I answered. "I'll go and see what's up." In my study, Dmitri, Purishkevich and Sukhotin rushed at me, and plied me with questions. "Well, have you done it? Is it over?" "The poison hasn't acted," I replied. They stared at me in amazement. "It's impossible!" cried the Grand Duke.

"But the dose was enormous! Did he take the whole lot?" asked the others. "Every bit," I answered. After a short discussion, we agreed to go down in a body, throw ourselves on Rasputin and strangle him. We were already on the way down, when I was brought to a halt by the fear that we would ruin the whole scheme by our precipitation: the sudden appearance of a lot of strangers would certainly arouse Rasputin's suspicions. And who could tell what such a diabolical person was capable of doing? I convinced my friends with great difficulty that it would be best for me to act alone. I took Dmitri's revolver and went back to the basement. Rasputin sat where I had left him; his head drooping and his breathing labored. I went up quietly and sat down by him, but he paid no attention to me. After a few minutes of horrible silence, he slowly lifted his head and turned vacant eyes in my direction. "Are you feeling ill?" I asked. "Yes, my head is heavy and I've a burning sensation in my stomach. Give me another little glass of wine. It'll do me good." I handed him some Madeira; he drank it at a gulp; it revived him and he recovered his spirits. I saw that he was himself again and that his brain was functioning quite normally. Suddenly he suggested that we should go to the gypsies together. I refused, giving the lateness of the hour as an excuse. "That doesn't matter," he said. "They're quite used to that; sometimes they wait up for me all night. I'm often detained at Tsarskoe Selo by important business, or simply to talk about God.... When this happens I drive straight to the gypsies in a car. The body, too, needs a rest... isn't it so? All our thoughts belong to God, they are His, but our bodies belong to ourselves: That's the way it is!" added Rasputin with a wink. I certainly did not expect to hear such talk from a man who had just swallowed an enormous dose of poison. I was particularly struck by the fact that Rasputin, who had a quite remarkable gift of intuition, should be so far from realizing that he was near death. How was it that his piercing eyes had not noticed that I was holding a revolver behind my back, ready to point it at him? I turned my head and saw the crystal crucifix. I rose to look at it more closely. "What are you staring at that crucifix for?" asked Rasputin. "I like it," I replied, "it's so beautiful." "It is indeed beautiful," he said. "It must have cost a lot. How much did you pay for it?" As he spoke, he took a few steps toward me and, without waiting for an answer, added: "For my part, I like the cabinet better." He went up to it, opened it and started to examine it again. "Grigori Yefimovich," I said, "you'd far better look at the crucifix and say a prayer."

Rasputin cast a surprised, almost frightened glance at me. I read in it an expression which I had never known him to have: it was at once gentle and submissive. He came quite close to me and looked me full in the face. It was as though he had at last read something in my eyes, something he had not expected to find. I realized that the hour had come. "O Lord," I prayed, "give me the strength to finish it." Rasputin stood before me motionless, his head bent and his eyes on the crucifix. I slowly raised the revolver. Where should I aim, at the temple or at the heart? A shudder swept over me; my arm grew rigid, I aimed at his heart and pulled the trigger. Rasputin gave a wild scream and crumpled up on the bearskin. For a moment I was appalled to discover how easy it was to kill a man. A flick of the finger and what had been a living, breathing man only a second before, now lay on the floor like a broken doll. On hearing the shot my friends rushed in, but in their frantic haste they brushed against the switch and turned out the light. Someone bumped into me and cried out; I stood motionless for fear of treading on the body. At last, someone turned the light on. Rasputin lay on his back. His features twitched in nervous spasms; his hands were clenched, his eyes closed. A bloodstain was spreading on his silk blouse. A few moments later all movement ceased. We bent over his body to examine it. The doctor declared that the bullet had struck him in the region of the heart. There was no possibility of doubt: Rasputin was dead. Dmitri and Purishkevich lifted him from the bearskin and laid him on the flagstones. We turned off the light and went up to my room, after locking the basement door.

Our hearts were full of hope, for we were convinced that what had just taken place would save Russia and the dynasty from ruin and dishonor. In accordance with our plan, Dmitri, Sukhotin and the Doctor were to pretend to take Rasputin back to his house, in case the secret police had followed us without our knowing it. Sukhotin was to pass himself off as the starets and, wearing Rasputin's overcoat and cap, would drive off in Purishkevich's open car along with Dmitri and the Doctor. They were to return to the Moika in the Grand Duke's closed car, after which they would take the body to Petrovsky Island. Purishkevich and I remained at the Moika. While we waited for our friends, we talked of the future of our country, now that it was freed once and for all from its evil genius. How could we foresee that those who ought to have seized this unique opportunity would not have the will, or the skill, to do so?

As we talked I was suddenly filled with a vague misgiving; an irresistible impulse forced me to go down to the basement. Rasputin lay exactly where we had left him. I felt his pulse: not a beat, he was dead. Scarcely knowing what I was doing I seized the corpse by the arms and shook it violently. It leaned to one side and fell back. I was just about to go, when I suddenly noticed an almost imperceptible quivering of his left eyelid. I bent over and watched him closely; slight tremors contracted his face. All of a sudden, I saw the left eye open... A few seconds later his right eyelid began to quiver, then opened. I then saw both eyes - the green eyes of a viper - staring at me with an expression of diabolical hatred. The blood ran cold in my veins. My muscles turned to stone. I wanted to run away, to call for help, but my legs refused to obey me and not a sound came from my throat. I stood rooted to the flagstones as if caught in the toils of a nightmare. Then a terrible thing happened: with a sudden violent effort Rasputin leapt to his feet, foaming at the mouth. A wild roar echoed through the vaulted rooms, and his hands convulsively thrashed the air. He rushed at me, trying to get at my throat, and sank his fingers into my shoulder like steel claws. His eyes were bursting from their sockets, blood oozed from his lips. And all the time he called me by name, in a low raucous voice. No words can express the horror I felt. I tried to free myself but was powerless in his vicelike grip. A ferocious struggle began.... This devil who was dying of poison, who had a bullet in his heart, must have been raised from the dead by the powers of evil. There was something appalling and monstrous in his diabolical refusal to die. I realized now who Rasputin really was. It was the reincarnation of Satan himself who held me in his clutches and would never let me go till my dying day. By a superhuman effort I succeeded in freeing myself from his grasp. He fell on his back, gasping horribly and still holding in his hand the epaulette he had torn from my tunic during our struggle. For a while he lay motionless on the floor. Then after a few seconds, he moved. I rushed upstairs and called Purishkevich, who was in my study. "Quick, quick, come down!" I cried. "He's still alive!"

At that moment, I heard a noise behind me; I seized the rubber club Maklakov had given me (he had said: "one never knows") and rushed downstairs, followed by Purishkevich, revolver in hand. We found Rasputin climbing the stairs. He was crawling on hands and knees, gasping and roaring like a wounded animal. He gave a desperate leap and managed to reach the secret door which led into the courtyard. Knowing that the door was locked, I waited on the landing above, grasping my rubber club. To my horror and amazement, I saw the door open and Rasputin disappear. Purishkevich sprang after him. Two shots echoed through the night. The idea that he might escape was intolerable! Rushing out of the house by the main entrance, I ran along the Moika to cut him off in case Purishkevich had missed him. The courtyard had three entrances, but only the middle one was unlocked. Through the iron railings, I could see Rasputin making straight for it. I heard a third shot, then a fourth... I saw Rasputin totter and fall beside a heap of snow, Purishkevich ran up to him, stood for a few seconds looking at the body, then, having made sure that this time all was over, went swiftly into the house. I called, but he did not hear me. The quay and the adjacent streets were deserted; apparently the shots had not been heard. When I had reassured myself on this point, I entered the courtyard and went up to the snow-heap behind which lay Rasputin. He gave no sign of life.

But, at that moment, I saw two of my servants running up from one side and a policeman from the other. I went up to the policeman and spoke to him; I stood so as to make him turn his back to the spot where Rasputin lay. "Your Highness," he said on recognizing me, "I heard revolver shots. What has happened?" "Nothing of any consequence," I replied, "just a little horseplay. I gave a small party this evening and one of my friends who had drunk a little too much amused himself by firing his revolver into the air. If anyone questions you, just say that everything's all right, and that there is no harm done!" As I spoke, I led him to the gate. I then returned to the corpse by which the two servants were standing. Rasputin's body still lay in a crumpled heap on the same spot, but his position had changed. My God, I thought, can he still be alive? I was terror-stricken at the bare thought that he might suddenly get up again. I ran toward the house, calling Purishkevich, who had disappeared indoors. I felt sick, and Rasputin's hollow voice calling my name still rang in my ears. Staggering to my dressing room, I drank a glass of water. At that moment Purishkevich entered the room: "Ah! there you are! I've been looking for you everywhere!" he cried. My sight was blurred, I thought I was going to faint. Purishkevich helped me to my study. We had scarcely reached it when my manservant came to say that the policeman I had talked to a few moments before wished to see me again. The shots, it seems, had been heard from the police station, and my constable, whose beat it was, had been sent for to make a report on what had happened. As his version of the affair was considered unsatisfactory, the police insisted on fuller details. When the constable entered the room, Purishkevich addressed him in a loud voice: "Have you ever heard of Rasputin? The man who plotted to ruin our country, the Tsar and your brother-soldiers? The man who betrayed us to Germany, do you hear?" Not understanding what was expected of him, the policeman remained silent. "Do you know who I am?" continued Purishkevich. "I am Vladimir Mitrophanovich Purishkevich, member of the Duma. The shots you heard killed Rasputin. If you love your country and your Tsar, you'll keep your mouth shut." I listened with horror to this amazing statement, which came so unexpectedly that I had no chance to interrupt. Purishkevich was in such a state of excitement that he did not realize what he was saying. Finally, the policeman spoke: "You did right and I won't say a word unless I'm put on oath. I would then have to tell the truth as it would be a sin to lie." Purishkevich followed him out.

My manservant then informed me that Rasputin's body had been placed on the lower landing of the staircase. I felt very ill, my head swam and I could scarcely walk. I rose with difficulty, automatically picked up my rubber club, and left the study. As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Rasputin stretched out on the landing, blood flowing from his many wounds. It was a loathsome sight. Suddenly, everything went black, I felt the ground slipping from under my feet and I fell headlong down the stairs. Purishkevich and Ivan found me, a few minutes later, lying side by side with Rasputin; the murderer and his victim. I was unconscious and he and Ivan had to carry me to my bedroom. Meanwhile Dmitri, Sukhotin and Doctor Lazovert came back in a closed car to fetch Rasputin's body. When Purishkevich told them what had happened, they decided to let me rest and go off without me. They wrapped the corpse in a piece of heavy linen, shoved it into the car, and drove to Petrovsky Island. There, from the top of the bridge, they hurled it into the river. On regaining consciousness I felt as though I had just recovered from a serious illness. The air I breathed in so deeply seemed fresh, clean and pure, as after a storm. I seemed to come to life again.

With the help of my servant I washed up all traces of blood which might give us away. When everything was in order I walked out into the courtyard... I had to think of some story to explain the revolver shots. This is what I decided to say: one of my guests while considerably the worse for liquor had tried to shoot one of our watchdogs in the courtyard when he was leaving. I then sent for the two servants who had seen the end of the tragedy and explained what had really happened. They listened in silence and promised to keep my secret. It was almost five in the morning when I left the Moika to return to the Grand Duke Alexander's palace. I felt full of courage and confidence at the thought that the first steps to save Russia had been taken. I found my brother-in-law Fyodor in my room. He had spent a sleepless night, anxiously waiting for me to come back. "Thank God you are here at last," he said. "Well?" "Rasputin is dead," I replied, "but I'm not in a fit state to talk about it; I am dropping with fatigue." Realising that I would need all my strength on the morrow to face the cross-examinations, the investigations, and perhaps even worse, I went to bed and at once fell into a deep sleep.

*Felix Yusupov was undergoing military training at the Corps des Pages at the time of the murder.

**the Yusupov palace on the Moika canal.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 23

[stpauligirl]

Weird asks:

44. do you collect anything?

46. A christmas song you secretly like?

(I will put this under a cut because long and probably uninteresting to most.)

44. Do you collect anything?

I don't collect anything in the Complete-Set-Gotta-Get-Them-All sense, but there are certainly things I like to gather.

For travel souvenirs I like to get something for the kitchen. Usually a coffee mug, so that when I'm having my morning coffee I can be reminded of the place I visited. Or one time I got a really nice wooden rolling pin. Last fall I came home from a trip with a bowl in my suitcase.

When I was a little kid I had a rock collection. I liked to take them out and examine them, admire them, and arrange them all this way or that. Then put them all back into the special box to be stored under my bed.

As an adult I am indulging in things that bring me joy so I have allowed myself to start building up a rock collection again. Except now I go to Gems & Minerals expos and purchase "specimens" instead of traipsing around fields and digging my precious little stones out of the dirt. I recently bought myself a glass-topped display case to hold my collection. I call it my "Cabinet of Curiosities" and it sits out in my office where I can look at it every day.

Books. I used to have quite an impressive collection of fiction and literature, but eventually we moved to an apartment where I simply didn't have the space to keep them all anymore. I whittled it down to just my favorites, and then next time we moved my entire book collection fit into a single box.

Now that we finally bought a home I feel like it's time for me to rebuild my collection. Plus, we've got built-in bookshelves that are just begging to be filled.

So now I have started buying books again (mostly secondhand) as opposed to reading ebooks on my tablet. Makes me feel good.

[This is a photo of my book collection at its height, about 10 years ago.]

46. A christmas song you secretly like?

Girl, all of them! I especially love the really old ones. When I was growing up Christmas meant we would take out mom's vinyl Christmas records. Mostly old crooners like Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole, Elvis Presley, and Pat Boone singing Christmas classics.

But I have to admit a particular soft spot for "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

[void-of-unparalled-chaos]

So glad to see someone acknowledge repatriation efforts! I feel like a ton of people think that it's the scientists and academics who are the problem, but in my experience, the overwhelming majority of them are all for repatriation and are actively working towards it. Major setbacks are typically at a governmental level, and even if we manage to fix that mess, it's still going to take time because well...

You would think that academic and museum collections would be organized. As someone who has actively worked in curation, I am telling you they are not and that also causes issues for repatriation.

In the case of the paleontology curation I used to work with, it was a bit more straight forward than it would have been with Archaeological artifacts (paleo has less governmental protections than arch, which is fucking awful in many ways but slightly beneficial in terms of repatriation efforts). The collection had lost funding about 30 years prior and just regained it when they hired myself and my PI.

During those thirty years, most of our specimens sat stagnant in the cabinets, but a ton of it also went missing. There were also a lot of fossils that didn't have all of their proper information recorded such as when/where it was recovered or what it was. This causes issues, because typically (at least by USA law), the ownership of a fossil is whoever's land it was found on, and ownership of land changes hands over time. If we want to repatriate something, we need to know who we are repatriating it too, hence the need for a recovery time and location. Then there was all the missing stuff. We could look at our papers and see that we are supposed to have 45 specimens from Morrocco, but sometimes they just aren't where they are supposed to be. It will say on paper that they are in cabinet C7 but sometimes they aren't, and now you have to figure out where they went.

Despite this we were still successful in begining the repatriation process for some fossils, and to my knowledge, at least a few of them have already been sent on their way!

Archaeology has these same issues with that extra level of governmental restrictions. An example: my university.

My university has an active archaeology program and is also home to the state repository of archaeological artifacts. This unfortunately includes human remains, specifically Native American remains which were sourced unethically back in the 30s 40s and 50s. Even with the law now in favor of their repatriation, it's super difficult to figure out where exactly they belong because many of these skeletons were shoved in cabinets in the back of one of the classrooms without proper identification information and were forgotten about until they were rediscovered just recently.

The department wants to repatriate them, but they have NO IDEA who these people were, nevermind what tribe they were from. I don't know what specifically is being done right now, but I know the remains were relocated to a safer, more proper storage location. I believe the possibility of genetic testing has been discussed, but in order for that to work the tribes in the area would have to agree to be tested too, and people don't always want to provide their genetic information. Basically the department is at an impasse last I checked.

All this is to say that the majority of scientists and academics are trying, but repatriation is not as straightforward as you might be led to believe. Keep putting preassure on the right people to get those governmental restrictions redacted, and don't buy artifacts from shady people, especially Native American ones if you live in the USA. If for whatever reason one comes into your possession, I strongly urge you to give it to the correct people so that steps to repatriate it can begin.

“The entire British museum is an active crime scene” - John Oliver

[grex-statera]

Chapter 11: Curse Continued - Summer, Year 1

Ellie woke up in cold sweat, gasping for air. It was around early afternoon when she came to.

She examined herself for any injuries, whatsoever. She seemed perfectly okay, except for the lingering feeling of dread in her chest.

She went down to her porch, removing her front door barricade. She made sure to peek first before going out.

It looked like a perfectly ordinary day outside. A sense of relief washed over her.

She made her way to her porch table and unlocked her phone:

1 missed call and 1 message from Dad

2 missed calls and 1 message from Abby

Dad: Hey champ! How're things? Don't over-work yourself or else! Call me back soon, love you!

Abby: Hang out at the saloon tonite?? Junimokart tourny leah vs. sam? Loser buys pizzaza lol

Ellie sat on her porch chair, feeling dumbfounded. What the hell happend last night?

She was sure it wasn't just a hallucination of some sort - the barricades were real.

She took her sword from a cabinet in her living room and then steeled herself to check out the coop.

Her chickens looked unharmed and were happy to see her. She inspected them closely, one-by-one.

After cleaning the coop and feeding the chickens, she took one last look around. In a far corner, there was a jet-black egg with red markings on it. It was warm to the touch.

Ellie stared at the specimen in her hands - she's never seen anything like it.

Ellie: ...I should probably bring this to Rasmodius.

She went back to the farmhouse, showered and ate brunch.

Ellie: Hi dad, sorry. Passed out last night. Not over-working, promise!

...

Ellie: Can't hang out tonight, sorry :( have to do something

Abby: Whoa she lives! Aw ok then..

She put the black egg in a Tupperware with a dishcloth in it, then took her sword and started the trek.

+++++

Rasmodius: A witch, you say?

Ellie: Yes! And she looked... Weird. Bad.

Rasmodius: Fledgeling, I must correct you. Wizards, witches and others in pursuit of knowledge of the elementals and the divine are not different from each other. Yes, I do suppose that the person you encountered is a witch, however, not all witches are akin to her. The person you have seen must be someone corrupted with too much void essence.

Ellie: Void essence?

Rasmodius: Yes. Tell me, what is the deepest floor you have reached in the mines?

Ellie thought for a bit.

Ellie: Around, uh, floor 70 something? The monsters become more tough the deeper I go down.

Rasmodius: Yes, I understand. Remember that glowing specimen you have brought me before?

Ellie: The solar essence?

Rasmodius: Yes. Solar essence is the concrete materialization of light. As with other elements, this also has it's opposite - the void essence. Once you reach the deepest parts of the mine, you will most likely encounter the Shadow People.

Ellie: Shadow People?

Rasmodius nodded.

Rasmodius: They are an ancient race of beings born from excess concentration of void essence. They used to be docile creatures, curious of humans. However, nowadays, they will often attack humans on sight. This drastic change in behavior was caused by the bitterness from the elemental wars and maybe some other influence. Be very careful, Elliot.

Ellie put her hand over her heart, the creeping dread making her feel uncomfortable. Rasmodius looked at her, concern showing on his face.

Rasmodius: Tell me what you are feeling.

Ellie: I don't know, Rasmodius... I feel kind of helpless and... Sad? I don't know how to describe it.

Rasmodius thought for a while.

Rasmodius: I will try to concoct a potion to make you feel better. I shall deliver it to you once ready. Take this egg with you, and if you want to, you may incubate it. It will bring you no harm.

Ellie: Alright. Thank you, Rasmodius.

Ellie returned home, feeling a bit scared and quite disappointed. She lied down her bed and stared at her ceiling. Her phone vibrates with a message:

Seb: Hi. U alright? Gonna play solarion tmrw w/ sam. U can come if u want.

Ellie: Hi, cant maybe. Not feeling good. Have fun tho :)

Seb: Okay. Gws..

For some reason Ellie lost her appetite. She felt weirdly cold, but didn't have a fever.

She watered her crops, took a shower, then went to bed.

+++++

For the next few days, Ellie would just wake up to check up on her crops and chickens then hole herself up in her house. The feeling of dread felt like a weird band around her chest. She couldn't breathe much.

Her friends have resorted to texting her:

Leah: Hi, are you alright? Haven't seen you in a while! Miss you, hang out soon.

...

Abby: Wmovie Wednesday feat. atomic blonde dont miss it!!!

...

Abby: Heyyy u okay???? Do u want us to come over??

...

Seb: Hi, u alright? Haven't seen u in a while.. Mom's asking if u wanna come over for Maru's bday today

Ellie couldn't bring herself to respond to her friends. She felt faint whenever she thought about interacting with another person. She grew restless with paranoia.

While Ellie wallowed in her despair, someone knocked on her door.

She mustered all of her strength available to open it.

Lewis: Hello, dear. How are you doing?

Ellie: Hi. I'm pretty sick. Did you need anything?

Lewis: I see. I was going to invite you to the Luau tomorrow, but nevermind. My dear, you look so pale. Do you want me to ask Dr. Harvey to come here?

Ellie: Sorry, I don't want to see anyone right now.

Lewis looked at her, concerned. Ellie looked as if all of the life had been sucked out of her.

Lewis: Alright, well if you start to feel better, don't forget to check in with Dr. Harvey. I'll be going now.

Ellie silently closed the door. That very short conversation with Mayor Lewis made her feel heavier. She dragged herself upstairs to her bedroom and fell asleep.

+++++

Abby: Ellie!!! We brought you soup from the Luau! It's pretty good this year! Wanna open up??

Sam: Do you think she's at home?

Seb: You know what, let's just give her the soup when she's alright.

Abby: We're already here, though. Let's just leave it in her fridge.

Seb: Abigail, we are NOT breaking in someone's house.

Abby: Seb, stop being so dramatic! We're FRIENDS, we're not breaking in. It's not like we're gonna steal anything either.

Sebastian's thoughts went back to a few days prior.

Ellie: I do have some days when I don't really wanna... See people...

...

Seb: Maybe she just doesn't want to see people right now.

Sam: No way, man. Ellie ain't as reclusive as you.

Sam chuckled while elbowing Sebastian's arm. Sebastian rolled his eyes.

Sam: Come on, let's go inside.

The inside of the farmhouse was clean and tidy. Abigail made her way into the kitchen and left the soup container in Ellie's fridge. She found a sticky note pad and a pen and left a note about it.

Sebastian and Sam went to the living room. Sam sat on the sofa.

Sam: Hey, it's quite nice in here. Maybe we should ask Ellie sometime if we could hang out at her house.

Seb: Ugh.

Sebastian went over to a small cabinet with picture frames displayed on it. They were pictures of Ellie and her dad. Sebastian can't help but smile.

Nearby, Ellie had a small bookshelf. Sebastian scanned her collection of books - mostly fiction. Sebastian has read at least about half of the stuff in it. She had good taste, he decided.

Seb: Are we done yet?

Sebastian turned to see that Abby and Sam were sitting on the sofa, pretending to be asleep.

Seb: Ugh, you guys are insufferable.

Abby giggled.

Abby: So where's her bedroom?

Sam: Probably upstairs?

Seb: Alright, NOW that's definitely breaking in.

Sam: Dude, could you chill? I told you: we're VISITING our FRIEND. Jeez.

Seb, sighing: That's probably invasion of privacy, man.

Abby: Nah. Stop being a baby. Come on!

Abby made her way upstairs, followed by the two boys.

Abby: Ellie! Sorry we barged in like this. We're worried about you!

Abby knocked on Ellie's bedroom door, slowly opening it.

Elliot was sleeping like a rock, bundled under a thick blanket and hugging a pillow. She looked very peaceful.

Sebastian had the urge to run his hand through her hair.

Wait, what?

Sebastian felt himself blush.

Seb, clearing his throat: Guys, we should probably not wake her up.

Sam: Yeah. How long do you think she's been asleep? So that's why she wasn't responding to our texts.

Abby made her way to Ellie's bed. She placed a hand on Ellie's forehead, checking for fever.

Abby: Hm, well she's not hot so that's good. I just-

Abigail turned to face the boys when she saw a huge figure looming behind them.

Rasmodius: I demand to know what you are doing in this abode!

The three friends ran out of the house as fast as they can in fear and panic. When they were near the bus stop outside of the farm, they paused to catch their breath.

Sam: HOLY SHIT WHO WAS THAT??

Abby: Oh my god, I don't know. Wait, wait. Lemme just-

Abby tried to lean on a fence, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

Seb: I told you that was a bad idea. Breaking in.

Sam: Dude, have you SEEN the other guy? You think there's just some random-ass guy wearing a cape that's living in Elliot's house?????

Oh no, Sebastian thought, is Elliot in trouble?

Seb: Ughhhh. Should we... Man. We should report this to Lewis.

Abby: Wait! Wait... I know that guy.

Seb and Sam: What????

Abby: Yeah. He's the weirdo who lives in that tower in Cindersap. I've seen him before.

Sam: So he's not a random creep?

Abby thought for a bit.

Abby: No, I don't think so. Ellie's probably gonna be fine.

Seb: Abby. Not that I don't trust you, but we should still definitely report this shit to Lewis. I'm worried.

Sam: Yeah, alright. Let's go then.

The three friends started to walk back into town.

Sebastian took one last look toward the farm then caught up with Sam and Abby.

[plantcompany]

Boost Your Office Aesthetics: 4 Striking Indoor Plants for Decoration

As a business professional, you understand the importance of creating a pleasant and inviting office environment. One effective way to enhance your office aesthetics is by incorporating striking indoor plants into your decor. 

Not only do these plants add a touch of natural beauty, but they also offer numerous benefits, such as improved air quality and increased productivity. 

In this article, we will explore six stunning indoor plants you can buy just by typing Buy indoor plants online NZ and get the one perfect for decorating your office space. 

So, let's dive in and discover how these botanical wonders can transform your office.

Callisia 

Callisia, also known as the Turtle Vine, is a beautiful trailing plant that adds a touch of whimsy to any office setting. Its delicate leaves feature shades of green, purple, and silver, creating a beautiful contrast. 

Callisia is low-maintenance and thrives in bright, indirect light. Its cascading foliage looks stunning when placed in hanging planters or on shelves, adding a unique visual element to your office space. To buy indoor plants online NZ, consider browsing reputable websites that offer a wide selection of plants.

Begonia

Begonias are known for their vibrant and colourful blooms, making them an excellent choice for adding a pop of colour to your office. With various begonia species available, you can choose from different flower shapes, sizes, and colours to suit your preference. Begonias prefer bright, indirect light and moderate humidity. 

Their compact size makes them ideal for desk spaces or decorative accents on tables and shelves. When buying indoor plants online, look for reliable sellers who offer a range of begonia varieties.

https://proce.vn/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/5-loi-ich-cua-cay-xanh-trong-van-phong-1.jpg

Cactus

Cacti are trendy, incredibly resilient, and low-maintenance, making them perfect for busy professionals. These unique plants come in various shapes and sizes, ranging from small, spherical varieties to tall, columnar specimens. Cacti thrive in bright, indirect light and require minimal watering. 

They can be placed on desks, shelves, or windowsills, adding a desert charm to your office space. When purchasing cacti online, choose a reputable seller offering healthy and well-cared-for plants.

Pothos 

Pothos, also known as Devil's Ivy, is a versatile and easy-to-grow plant that adds a touch of lushness to any office space. Its heart-shaped leaves come in various shades of green, making it a visually appealing option. Pothos can thrive in multiple lighting conditions, including low-light environments, making it a suitable choice for offices with limited natural light. 

This plant is also known for its air-purifying qualities. Consider buying a hanging pothos plant and placing it near a bookshelf or on top of cabinets to create a cascading effect.

Final Thoughts

You can transform your workspace into a visually appealing and refreshing environment by incorporating these six striking indoor plants into your office decor. To buy indoor plants online NZ, explore reputable websites that offer a wide selection of healthy and well-cared-for plants. Embrace the beauty and benefits of indoor plants, and watch as your office comes to life with nature's touch.

Source:Boost Your Office Aesthetics: 4 Striking Indoor Plants for Decoration

[newsbites]

News from NL, Canada, 14 June

Fluorspar Holdings Pte Ltd has received court approval to buy the inactive fluorspar mine in St. Lawrence, once owned by Canada Fluorspar.

Previously, the mine could not compete with cheaper fluorspar from other countries and faced environmental regulations that limited impurities. However, the high-grade ore available locally and the world-class geology of the deposit that lends itself to acid-grade fluorspar now favor mine operations. Fluorspar Holdings Pte Ltd has already seen success with a similar operation in South Africa and expects good returns from the St. Lawrence.

2. Newfoundland and Labrador's economic investment is expected to increase by 11% this year due to a rise in population.

Nova Scotia has found ways to speed up housing construction to accommodate the growing population in the Atlantic provinces.

Investment in the mining sector, particularly in the search for gold, has increased while investment in oil and gas has decreased.

3. Bernard Doyle was acquitted of manslaughter in the death of his 17-month-old stepson in 1996 after being imprisoned for three years.

Doyle's case was one of more than 200 that were examined again as part of a government review into earlier convictions mentioning shaken-baby syndrome.

The decision to acquit Doyle restored dignity and respect to him, but he still feels responsible for his stepson's death.

4. A family in Newfoundland discovered a sheet of bedrock with a fern-shaped fossil on top of it while tending to their vegetable garden.

The discovery is believed to be one of the most important fossil sites in the world, with some specimens belonging to a group of lifeforms known as charnids from the Ediacaran period, roughly 560 million years ago.

The paleobiology team from Memorial University expects to uncover hundreds of fossils and is urging anyone who finds a similar fossil site to contact them so they can come take a look.

5. The Capital Subaru Arena is opening in St. John's, Newfoundland, with the aim of making ice-based activities more accessible to younger athletes and persons with disabilities.

The new arena will not only be used for hockey, but also for ice skating and learn-to-skate programs.

The building is fully accessible and can be converted for sports such as sledge hockey.

6. Derrick Bragg, a cabinet minister, has publicly revealed his cancer diagnosis.

[the-ghost-king]

you can easily buy human remains... there's a lot of variation about the ethics of doing so but it's quite simple really. mueseums may occasionally sell pieces, for example a urologist was able to buy napoleon's penis from a traveling collection. there's also "antique stores" that sell old medical belongings and study pieces, so in addition to old apothecary cabinets you might be able to buy a jar of teeth or something. universities or hospitals which are shutting down also do "clearance" sales of sorts in which they'll sell old equipment and sometimes that includes preserved specimens. most of these remains are either going to be so old data never existed on them or was otherwise lost or destroyed, or they'll be from people who willingly donated themselves to be studied, archeological remains are also pretty commonly in circulation.

it's a little more complicated than that as sometimes you'll need to have a special license or a government clearance to own something or another but it's honestly not as difficult as one might think. grave robbing is really something else... but from my (loose) understanding if you have some licensing or credibility and you know the right people/businesses owning human remains isn't extremely difficult to do.

or in his case he might just ask the skeleton for their arm or something...

could you imagine if maria did get to raise her kids their whole lives tho? "nico stop bringing human remains in the house" and "bianca stop calling your dad for money"

[supersonicart]

William Basso.

Distinct, haunting visions from artist William Basso who says of his work:

"My work is a combination of various artistic disciplines including drawing, sculpture, photography, collage and painting. Used together, these allow me to create images of mystery, wonder, delight, sorrow and fear, which often take place in intimate stage-like settings.

The characters in my work exist in a distant, half-remembered, autumnal place where even Halloween can last forever. Images emerge through a cross-referencing of many artistic influences, memories and ideas. Ancient and flickering, monochrome films of the fantastic and macabre play continuously, running through rusted projectors. Long, silent corridors are hung with varnished, cracked paintings and brittle prints from another age, while rows of tall, wooden cabinets display bones and other arcane specimens behind panes of misted glass. In a lonely field of dry grasses under an overcast sky, sits an abandoned theater where puppets, props and painted backdrops are quietly waiting with peeling paint and thick dust. Up in a darkened attic, an antique trunk contains time worn books and comics, richly illustrated. It is here in this world of my subconscious that a childlike sense of fantasy and imagination can mingle with adult anxieties or dreams."

BUY PRINTS | FOLLOW ON INSTAGRAM

[userkhael]

rainbow

Summary: Henry and you always wanted to have kids right away but it's been two years into the marriage and no babies. Until...

Pairing: Henry x Reader

Warning: RPF, FLUFFIEST FLUFF IN FLUFF LAND

Word Count: 1400+

A/N: It's been so long since I wrote a one shot so here it goes. Also this is not beta'd, there will be errors. Thank you in advance to your comments, likes and reblogs ❤️

Two years after getting married, you didn't know how doting your husband can be until he noticed the symptoms first. After some false positives and multiple visits to the fertility clinic, your obstetrician said you're just too stressed and shouldn't pressure yourself getting pregnant. Both Henry and you had busy months, a year even. Sexy times are not as spontaneous but your passion for each other still burned hot. He always talked about having your baby in his arms and how his eyes light up at the thought. 

Oddly enough, he's been tracking your period like clockwork, knowing your fertile days and whatnot. Henry wanted a baby right away but you've always known you wanted to wait. So when your period is late for a week, he can't contain himself. He'd gone out of his way to buy an enormous amount of pregnancy tests.

"What are you gonna do with that many? I only need at least three."

He's frantic, pulling out God-knows-what from the grocery paper bag. I wanted to laugh at him but he seemed so into it, so serious. Grabbing three pregnancy kits, you stuff it under the cabinet under the sink, willing to wait for another week. It's not new you're late. You've been late for more than half of your period and that doesn't always mean pregnant. Working on a new project at work must be taking its toll on you. Hormones, stress and a lot of stuff can contribute to periods being late but no, you wouldn't tell your husband that. He stopped in the middle of his dungeon searching just for these kits.

He looks up at you and nods, urges you to the bathroom to take the test.

"It's too early to tell, Henry. We can do it next week."

He shakes his head and one thing you discovered about your husband is that aside from being a fine specimen of nerd, he's also a bit pushy when he set his mind to it. And now he's demonstrating it but you are not in the mood to say yes to him.

"I told you, I've been  more than a week late before. I wasn't pregnant."

"Well, were you fucked by me before? No, right? So, please, do a test babe." The way his eyes snapped when he realized he said something nasty is just so funny at this point.

You snorted and walked to the bathroom as your big bear of man trails behind.

"Are you really going to be in here watching me pee on a stick?"

He shrugged his shoulders and didn't move from where he's standing. You roll your eyes at him, knowing how pathetic he can be sometimes. Sitting on the bowl while looking up at your husband is not something you always see and his eyes went wide when you actually did not pee on a stick.

"Now, we wait for two minutes." 

He fidgets from where he stands and he looks so adorable, with his muscles bulging and his stubble growing by the hour. He peeks at the stick every two seconds and it took everything in me not to push him outside the door.

"Can you calm down? I know it's nothing." I don't want to get my high hopes and we're like this a few weeks ago, waiting results on a stick and got a false positive. The trauma is not something I would want on anybody else wanting to have babies. You bite your nails and Henry must have noticed how tense you are.

Henry walks to you and he caged my face in his hands, kissing the tip of your nose.

"Are you scared, baby?" You look up to his blues and nod just a little.

"I'm scared it's going to be just like before. I just want to give you what you've been wanting for so long." He pulls you in, your face buried on his stomach while you're sitting on the toilet bowl, your nerves not making you stand up. He rubs your back, up and down, knowing he's the only comfort you have.

"I'll still love you no matter what. Even if there were no babies. Even if it's just us and Kal. I will still be here for you. Okay?"

He looks down at you and tears formed in your eyes. Feeling needed and loved is a wonderful feeling even after at these times where hope is somehow lost.

Your timer beeps and you held to him for a few minutes longer before standing up and checking three kits you used. You gasp, not knowing if you should laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation.

"Three positives, babe." Henry whispers in your ear.

"We never had three positives before. Can you go get some more?" I can't look away at three pink sticks in front of me saying "Pregnant". We had one positive the last time we did this but never three. Henry scrambles with more tests in his hands and I used all of them. Waiting for the result while we hug and kiss each other is so therapeutic while waiting for another three results.

When all of them came back positive, Henry stepped out and I can hear him grabbing the car keys.

"C'mon, let's go to the doctor."

You stand there, frozen, at the possibility of life growing inside you and by the man you love the most. It took you a few seconds to realize Henry is honking so you dash to get your jacket and joined him in the car.

"Are you ready?" He asks, his breath catches and a smile on his lips. I don't know if he's asking me about now or about the future ahead of us because I wasn't fucking ready. Not one bit.

- 9 months later -

Henry tried so hard to be at ultrasound appointments and baby clothes shopping but he's working on a project that he can't leave for at least a few weeks after you give birth. It's been hard, not having his warmth around. He's so excited to meet our little one. But I kept a secret from him all during the course of this.

You're scheduled to have a C-section today and your mother-in-law was kind enough to drive you to the hospital. Henry called multiple times after you told him you'd finally deliver the baby and was confused at the timeline. He did everything he can to fly home and he said he'd be here in a few hours. Few hours seem to be forever when you're finally wheeled inside the operating room. Henry's brothers and their wives calmed you down and you couldn't thank them enough for the support. Also they kept the secret from Henry and didn't say a word.

When the epidural kicks in, you were groggy and the operating room lights seems a bit distorted. Your doctor speaks to you often, telling you you're doing great. And then finally, you heard little cries boom inside the room. You wished Henry was right here with you, kissing and hugging you. But he'll be here any minute now.

A few hours pass by and you felt like you've slept for eternity. You open your eyes just as two nurses bring in your babies. One wrapped in pink and other one in blue. You and Henry had twins but he had no idea. He had already been away when the babies are big enough to know through ultrasound.

Henry's mother gushes and cries when she sees her grandchildren. His father just held my hand and smiled. I'm in pain, too much pain but I held my baby girl while they cooed over my baby boy. And that's when the door opened once more, disheveled looking Henry rushing to the hospital bed.

"She's here." Teary eyed, he buried his nose on baby girl's head and kissed you on the lips.

"I have to tell you something..." You said in a weak voice but Henry just whipped his back just in time to see his family holding another baby.

His jaw drops and steps back, his mouth still open. He stood there, now his hand over his open mouth, still in shock.

He clears his throat and points at the baby being carried by his Mom. "Baby, is that ours too?"

You nod, trying not to laugh at his reaction but genuinely falling even more in love at how he looks at your children.

"We had twins and I have no clue?" He said once again and now baby boy is in his arms while tears are streaming down his face.

"Come here..." You say and both of you cried, foreheads bumping into each other, waiting for this precious moment for so long.

You kissed with tears in your eyes and heart full of love. They say forever takes a lifetime but you know, forever meant this moment.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Benjamin and Hayley’s antiques-filled home is a playful celebration of the gothic and the curious. Plus, this has to be one of the best I’ve ever seen. The 1 bdrm. apt. is on the ground floor of an impressive five-story 1840s house  

The couple were immediately struck by its grandeur. From the minute they walked in and clocked the height of the ceilings. Benjamin says he was ready to buy.

A huge display cabinet contains pharmacy jars, specimens and optical lenses. On the bottom shelf are two death masks.

Quirky touches abound in the living room where a sphinx reclines in front of a fairground mirror and witches’ balls and a cobbler’s shop sign hang from the ceiling.

The entrance hall with its enormous double front door had already been converted into a kitchen when the couple moved in. The kitchen walls are a fresh and airy light blue to complement the woodwork.

The sign for ‘Cheap Funerals,’ that hangs in the window, appeals to Benjamin’s sense of humor and is one of his favorite objects

The huge apothecary chest takes up most of the wall opposite the kitchen cabinets and is used to store shoes. Sitting on top are some of Benjamin’s many pharmacy dispensing jars.

‘I’m just attracted to things that are odd,’ Benjamin explains. Hayley’s used to it, but she says they agreed that the next time they move, he will tone it down and live in a normal house. (Noooooo!)

Benjamin gilded patches of the plasterwork on the ceiling. The bed is a reproduction, based on an Anglo-Indian design, and was bought at auction. The opaline glass and bronze lantern is 20th-century English.

Even the bathroom is filled with Benjamin’s collections. The mirror frames are carved bone and were probably made by prisoners of war. The chair is a French commode.

https://www.homesandantiques.com/interiors/homes/a-gothic-antiques-filled-victorian-apartment-in-lowesoft

[cnestus]

oh yeah, you'll want to use proper entomological pins. they come in a variety of sizes from #000 to #6 going from thinnest to thickest but generally #2s are a good all-purpose pin size to buy:

once the insects are pinned, you'll want to put them in an insect box or insect drawer. official insect drawers are the nicest option since they have glass tops and can be put into specially made cabinets, but they are also extremely expensive unless you want to make them yourself. i used to have a couple dozen drawers and a very large cabinet for them but i donated most of that stuff when i moved states so here's my downsized personal collection and example drawer:

those yellow squares are insecticide strips to keep out dermestids. this reminds me i should replace them, it's been a while.

the cheaper option is an insect box, usually called a Schmitt Box, like you can see on top of the cabinet in the above photo. they're smaller and usually don't have the glass top usually. they can be made out of wood or cardboard though the cardboard ones while cheap are very prone to letting in specimen-eating pests. they usually come with foam bottoms that you can stick the pins into.

as for where to buy entomology supplies, unfortunately Bioquip, the company that supplies most of the united states with pins and boxes and everything else, went out of business recently. there are other companies out there still making and selling these things but i don't have any specific recommendations, and it would also depend on where in the world you live.

for insect boxes though, if you want to go cheap but classy, you can always go the super classic route of finding some old cigar boxes at a thrift store and then buy some 1/4-1/2 inch thick foam and glue that to the bottom.

(tagged on this post)

@notahorseindisguise sure, just like a general guide on insect pinning? i can do that.

the nice thing about insects is that once they dry they'll stay exactly as they were positioned indefinitely, so the trick is to pin them when they're still pliable. if you're trying to pin an old, dried insect, you can rehydrate them by putting them in an airtight container with some wet paper towels or sponges for 12-24 hours but probably not much longer than that or you'll risk them molding. i spray some ethanol in there too to be safe. as an example, here's my rehydration box with some bee samples:

once your insect is ready to curate, put the pin through the thorax to the right of the midline like in my previous post. now, i'm of the philosophy that if you're pinning an insect, you ought to curate it as best as you can so that its death wasn't in vain, so while the specimen is still pliable, secure it to a thick piece of foam and use more pins to position all the legs and antennae into as pleasing an arrangement as possible. here's a botfly i arranged:

besides the aesthetic reasons, this will also help with future identification if that's a possibility since often insects die curled up with important diagnostic features covered up or otherwise hard to see, so at least unfurling the legs a bit and making sure the wing venation is visible on insects where that's important is a good idea.

sometimes you get a longhorned beetle with very long antennae. this is why you want to have a lot of pins on hand:

for insects that are too small to pin without risking obliterating their thorax, you'll want to point-mount them, which means gluing them to a small paper triangle and pinning that:

i rarely see people do it but you can sometimes curate point-mounted specimens too if they're the right size, though you'll want to do it under a microscope:

then let your specimens set in a nice dry area for at least a day or two:

after that you just need to label them (probably for another post. this one is long enough) and they're good to go. once they dry out they're pretty much good to last forever as long as you keep them protected from mold and pests, so the preservation part is handled just by keeping them in an airtight container if possible or at least one with desiccants/pesticides as needed. at the very least try to toss the specimen box in a feezer for a few days at least a couple times a year. otherwise your nicely curated specimens will end up as dermestid shit:

i think that about covers it! it is worth noting that some soft-bodied insects will shrivel horrible when they dry out. small soft insects like silverfish, termites, springtails, most kinds of larvae, etc should go into a vial of alcohol rather than be pinned. same goes for most non-insect arthropods like spiders and centipedes and millipedes which will also fall apart when they dry. also some larger semi-soft insects will need to be stuffed to keep their abdomen from shriveling up, primarily larger grasshoppers, crickets, stenopelmatids, mantids, and stick insects. i made a post about how to do that here.

[lale-txt]

OPKisstober Day 4 // Stolen

w/ Luffy word count: 617 warnings: none but some non-descriptive bugs i guess??

_________________________

You certainly had enough of looking at beetles in various shapes and sizes, but you for sure couldn't get enough of the shimmering eyes of your captain, his face pressed against the glass of the cabinet that held probably a specimen of every single beetle up and down the Grand Line.

"Hey y/n, have you seen that one? With the big horns? Who do you think would win in a fight, me or them?"

Taking a long dramatic pause you looked back and forth between Luffy and the one particular bug he was pointing at, eagerly waiting for your response. Who allowed him to be this cute, was all you could think about in this moment; also toughts and prayers to every insect in the world that was brave enough to start a fight with your captain.

"I have a rough time deciding, but I think you could probably win this one, Luffy", you think out loud, pinching him in his soft cheeks while his sweet smiles widens. He truly had the ability to lighten up the room, to make you feel like everything is really gonna be okay. Spending a day off with him was like a dream. Though you loved your crew and sailing the seas with everyone, you also cherished the rare moments were it was just the two of you.

"Luffy, I'm gonna check out the museum shop. I assume you want to stay here a little longer?", you suggested which made him nod vigorously, eyes fixed again at the bugs as if they were a big chunk of meat prepared by Sanji. You smirk a little. "I'll meet you outside in a bit then."

You spend so much money in the museum shop that you surely will get in trouble with Nami later tonight, but you just couldn't leave without buying some souvenirs for the crew (and yourself of course). Also, hopefully Luffy will be excited when you hand him the plushie of the one particular beetle he was having wrestling fantasies about.

"Sorry for the wait!", you apologize when you see your captain already waiting for you outside at the stairs. It looks like he was daydreaming, when he suddenly looks up and greets you again with this big, warm smile of his and two waving hands.

"Let's go eat, y/n! I could eat a whole village!", Luffy exclaims, his stomach growling as if by command which made you both laugh out loud.

"Just one second, I got you something, Luffy!" Just as you were reaching for the bag, he suddenly comes a step closer to you, facing each other. Surprised about the sudden intimacy, you try to keep your cool, looking at him with wondering eyes.

"I also got you something, y/n. Close your eyes and hold out your hands for me."

Oh my, please don't let it be a bug, please don't let it be a bug, please don't let it be a bug.... sending a little prayer, you hesistantly close your eyes and stick out your hands, preparing yourself for the worst.

Turns out heaven got another plan for you, because otherwise your hands wouldn't suddenly be in Luffy's, squeezing them tight. And his lips, oh his lips... the second they touch yours, your whole body feels like it's on fire, as if it was struck by lightning. Was this a dream?

Everything was happening so fast and the moment you open your eyes again, still stunned, all you can see is your captain running, looking over his shoulder with a big grin and his cheeks blushing a little, gesturing you to follow him already.

"Food, now!! Come, y/n! I know what's for desert!"