#Hull museum

[damnea]

It helps him sleep 💤

[marksandrec]

Love it when Shane's hair gives him demon horns. XD

[rabbitcruiser]

Doors, Gates and Windows (No. 89)

5 North Square, Boston

36 Hull Street, Boston

Old State House, Boston

Winthrop Building, Boston (two pics)

129 Essex Street, Salem

Peabody Building, Salem

Salem Museum

The Gardner-Pingree House, Salem

Central House, Salem

[the-ghost-of-mr-dolphin]

I’m way too sensitive for cute museum dates like what do you mean all these people are dead??? They lived and then they made beautiful art and did great things and then they just died??? Call me an ambulance.

[preblesboys]

Winds of Victory

Panel 1: Stephen Decatur: Fine looking hat you have there Hull.

Panel 2: Isaac Hull: An accessory that matches victory. Victory over a worthy opponent might I add.

Panel 3: Charles Stewart: A sword is a nice accessory too. But suppose you have nowhere to hang it.

Decatur: Not in front of him!

Hull: Enjoying the sea breeze like you gentlemen. Or perhaps even more.

August 19th 1812 USS Constitution won victory over HMS Guerriere. The musket was among the earliest donations made to the Naval Academy museum in Annapolis. Commodore Isaac Hull gave the musket from the HMS Guerriere to Commodore Joshua Barney.

[twentyfourstar]

[hepdenerose]

York Stopover 2. Plane Sailing

Sleep proved difficult in the stiflingly claustrophobic tiny bedroom.  Kitchen machinery humming and glass bottles smashing into bins at 6.30 a.m. didn’t help but ensured we rose in time for a typically over-filling and early English breakfast.  The main reason for staying in York being to visit the Yorkshire Air Museum, we discovered another advantage to the enforced start – a scarce bus was due…

[mannekenpressprints]

Wanted! Collaborative Monotypes by John Yau and Richard Hull

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[ohigotanewobsession]

I am late to the party but I love the idea of timmy and devil baby being adopted by the ghoul bois

because i see the dynamic like shane would 100% love both while ryan would be biased towards timmy and only tolerate the devil baby because he never wanted to adopt him cause the baby literally has devil in his name and also cause devil baby is a handful and bad influence

the devil baby and ryan have constant arguments(the devil baby is a baby who can speak fluent English and has powers ofc) they have frenemies dynamic but in a parent figure and child way while shane doesn't care and just vibes with the chaos and timmy doesn't have any option

timmy would call both of them "dad" while devil baby calls shane "father" and calls ryan "ryan" or "the one i don't like" while ryan calls him "a little shit"

anyway thanks for coming to my 'dumbass friends adopt child ghosts and become parents' ted talk <3

[lucentparanormal]

The newest episode of Ghost Files is now live on YouTube. In this episode the ghoul boys investigate The Hull-House Museum.

[hopeidontgetaddictedtothis]

GHOST FILES | The Devil Baby of The Hull-House Museum PUPPET HISTORY | The Dreadful Demise of the Dinosaurs

[notbecauseofvictories]

as much as I love history and Chicago history especially, I do sometimes forget how recent everything here is. I was at the Hull House Museum with a friend of mine the other day, and we had a wonderful time listening to the curator talk about the birth of social work, the women who drove it forward, and the ghost stories that haunt their stomping grounds despite no one really dying there.

As we were walking around after the tour, my friend pointed out that Jane Addams' dress (the one on display in that room, black and small and otherwise unremarkable) had an uneven hem. "Oh, good eye!" the curator, who was walking alongside us, exclaimed. "Addams' tuberculosis left her with some spinal curvature, even after corrective surgery. She had most of her dresses altered to ensure the hem would be straight when she wore them---but on a standard dress form, the hem looks uneven."

"I always forget that having a tailor or dressmaker was considered typical back then," I said.

"No, by that point it was much more common to buy a dress from Sears and have it altered," the curator replied cheerfully. "That's what Addams did."

The whole exchange was maybe a few seconds, but it sticks with me even now. The idea that Jane Addams bought a dress from Sears---where I have also bought dresses, where my mother bought dresses---makes me feel insane. And yet, we're only talking about a hundred years ago or so. Is it so unreasonable that I, as a disaffected teen, was drifting through racks of mass-produced garments, just as Jane Addams did a century before? The exact location of the hands making those garments has changed of course; the workers' protections that Addams' contemporaries fought for have resulted in offshoring that work to less-guarded parts of the world. But it gives me a strange sort of fellow feeling to think about it, all these many decades later.

[aquaticmercy]

Waste a Moment / Part 9

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.

Requested by :  @remoony

Word count : 2.5k

Note : I've been writing a lot lately because I have a week's worth of break lol. Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

"Ticking Time Bomb"

Monday.

The next morning, you joined the team in the training gym. 

Bucky woke up early. When you got there, he was already there, casually leaning against a stack of weights, his ever watchful eyes tracking you across the room. He gave you a subtle smile that only you would notice, and the sweetness on his lips brought back his gentle touches and lingering kisses he gave you last night. It made your stomach flip.

You tried to focus on the training exercises.

You really did. 

You kept your stance right, threw your punches with precision, and were careful with your footwork, but Bucky’s presence remained a wonderful distraction. Every time your eyes met, you felt that same giddy rush, the kind that made it nearly impossible to keep your head straight.

It didn’t help that he was teasing you a little, too. During sparring practice, he’d tap your elbow to correct your form, his fingers lingering a bit longer than necessary. His hand would trail over your shoulder as he passed, a little reassuring, a little flirtatious.

Finally, after wrapping up another session with Clint and Scott, he pulled you aside to a quieter corner of the training room under the pretense of adjusting your technique. His voice was soft and he was close enough that you felt his breath against your cheek. “Need to keep that elbow higher,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to rest gently on your arm, guiding it into place.

But it was obvious neither of you was paying attention to technique.

“Right here?” you whispered, your voice playful as you met his gaze. You leaned into him a little, taking in his vanilla aftershave.

“Mmhm,” he replied, his tone softening. He leaned out of the corner quickly, seeing Clint and Scott excuse themselves from the gym to go to dinner together.

In one quick, brave moment, you leaned in and kissed him, a sweet, simple kiss that had grown frequent in the days leading up to this. Bucky’s hand came up to cradle your face as he deepened the embrace.

It was intoxicating. His lips, warm and steady against yours, had become another anchor in your life, a new memory blooming from nothingness. Every time he kissed you. everything around you started fading away.

a and you didn’t mind.

As you pulled back, still lost in his gaze, you caught a movement out of the corner of your eye. 

Yelena stood in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the dim light behind her. Arms crossed tight over her chest, looking like a storm was brewing over her head.

You studied darkened the cut above her eyebrow, a stale bruise turning her cheekbone purple beneath the skin.

You caught yourself wondering if the marks were from her last sparring session with Bucky. They were of a similar intensity, but unlike him, Yelena didn’t have the luxury of a healing factor. Every pain of hers was so devastatingly human. 

As her gaze locked onto the two of you, her spine straightened. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, struck like daggers, dissecting the scene before her. 

And it made her stomach knot.

She didn’t say a word, not yet; she simply watched. Her expression was unreadable, but you could feel the tension radiating from her like waves crashing on the hull of a ship. 

There was a hint of fierceness in her eyes— something between anger and disappointment. Then, without a single word, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the door swinging shut behind her.

She had slammed it shut so hard that some of the weightlifting bars rattled.

You stood there in stunned silence. Your heart pounded as you glanced up at Bucky, who seemed just as tense. 

He tried forcing a calm look on his face, But you could feel the shift between you, a subtle tension lingering in the air, a crack in the heat of the moment you’d found together.

You stared again, at the door where Yelena had disappeared, a knot forming in your stomach. Her reaction lingered, simmering like a quiet echo of something you couldn’t quite place. You turned to Bucky, your tired eyes narrowing in confusion. 

You had told her how you felt about Bucky in the museum.

I’m happy for you, she had said then, you sound at peace with him.

She had not been disapproving then, why was she so disapproving now?

“Why is she so upset?” you asked. Your voice was soft, a note of worry beneath it. 

Bucky’s expression shifted so slowly, almost imperceptibly. His mouth pressed into a thin line. He was usually good at being unreadable, but in that moment, his face gave away more than he probably intended.

“It’s… complicated,” he finally said, his tone careful. It's as if he was choosing each word with precision. He reached out, his hand landing gently on your arm again. “But it’s not something you need to worry about. I’ll talk to her.”

“Bucky,” You searched his eyes, waiting for him to explain further, to give you a hint of whatever knowledge was lingering just out of reach, “if there’s something I should know…”

He shook his head, his thumb absently brushing along your forearm. “This is my responsibility,” he murmured. “You and Yelena… she’d always been protective of you. I’ll talk to her.”

His voice was steady, comforting, but the knot in your stomach didn’t ease. You trusted him, but something in your gut told you this wasn’t a simple misunderstanding. 

Still, you nodded, letting out a small sigh. “Ok.”

“She just cares about you.” His lips hesitantly curved into a small, reassuring smile. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You gave him a hopeful smile. But as he pulled away and walked down the hallway toward where Yelena had gone, the question still echoed in your mind, unanswered.

—

Bucky found Yelena down the dim hallway, her back against the wall, arms crossed. Her jaw was set, eyes colder than a December blizzard in Moscow. As soon as he stopped, she fixed him with a stare that sliced through him.

She didn’t waste a second once he approached, her voice low and sharp. “Have you told her?” she demanded, voice low and sharp.

He hesitated, a beat too long, and the silence was telling enough. 

Her laugh was quick, bitter. She shattered the illusion like breaking glass. “Of course you didn’t.”

“I—”

“You can’t just act like everything’s fine, Barnes.” Her voice, barely controlled. It sent a chill down his spine. The edges were raw, each word dipped in into her own pain.

“Yelena, listen—” he started, a warning lacing his voice. He was desperate, but she didn’t flinch.

“She deserves the truth, Barnes.” The words hissed from her, venomous and guttural. “Every time you look at her, every time you lie to her face with that perfect little smile of yours, you’re keeping her in this prison of her own head.” Her voice cracked, but her resolve did not.

A mask of defiance slipping over his darkening eyes. “It’s better this way.” He forced the words out, gaze fixed somewhere over the former Widow’s shoulder. “I’m here for her now. I don’t want to hurt her anymore.”

“Better? Better?” Yelena’s lips curled, disdain twisting her face. “You think letting her believe that you’ve always been this perfect guy is better?” Her voice had risen, words lashing out. It felt like she was striking him with another punch, the memory of her drawing blood from his lips echoing in his mind.

The accusation sliced through him, and his defenses faltered. His eyes dropped for just a moment, a flicker of shame surfacing.

“This doesn't erase how you were before,” she pressed, her voice lowering to something almost tender, almost pitying. “It doesn’t erase what you said.”

He tensed, grief flickering behind his eyes, but Yelena pushed on, relentless. 

“She told me, Barnes.” She took a step closer, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “The night before everything went to shit. She told me you said you didn’t want her around. That you felt like you couldn’t breathe when she was near you.” She let the words hang, sharp, brutal, watching each one sink in and striking the target with lethal precision.

Bucky went still, his expression cracking open as if her words had ripped the scab from an old wound he thought had healed. His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, he was utterly, devastatingly silent.

“I…”  he managed, “She told you that?” his voice barely a whisper. His face was haunted, raw, like she’d peeled back every layer he’d built up.

“Of course she did,” Yelena’s voice softened, saying it as if she was obvious.

“She came to me that night, shattered.” Yelena continued, but there was not a single hint of mercy in it. “She told me how she kept breaking herself apart for you, piece by piece, waiting for you to see— and then you broke her heart because you wouldn’t admit you loved her then.”

His hands clenched at his sides. His face was a mix of guilt, regret, and self-loathing. “I thought I was protecting her.” His voice was barely audible, frayed at the edges. “Keeping her safe from… from me. I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for her then.”

“You might’ve convinced yourself that you did it for her, but we both know it was for you.” Yelena let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. Her Russian accent was thicker now, her voice colder, harsher, as if she was trying to bury whatever part of herself might have sympathised with him. “You pushed her away because you were afraid, and now you’re lying to her because you’re still afraid.”

She was right, and he couldn’t deny it. Every instinct in him told him to protect you, to keep you from the truth. But each lie he told, each omission, was building a fragile illusion that he knew couldn’t last forever.

But he wasn’t ready to let go. 

Not now.

Not ever.

“One week, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice was like steel, her gaze piercing. “You have one week to tell her everything.” She took a breath, but it was laced with fury, eyes blazing with a dangerous certainty. “Or I will.”

“Yelena… don’t do this.” Bucky looked up, his eyes pleading, voice cracking. “Please—”

“One week.” She spat the words, leaving no room for negotiation. No room for debate.

There was a cold finality that seemed unbreakable. 

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the empty hallway. 

Bucky now stood alone, desperate to keep what he had.

—

You cornered Bucky in the kitchen that evening, his back to you as he pretended to focus on cleaning up.

You could see the tension in his shoulders. He hadn’t been himself since the conversation with Yelena; something was up.

“Bucky,” you started, gently but firmly. “What’s going on with Yelena?”

He paused for a fraction of a second, then kept scrubbing a plate that was already clean. “What do you mean?” His voice was too casual, his face too carefully neutral.

You tilted your head, studying his movements. “Did something happen when you talked to her?”

“No. Nothing happened.” He forced a shrug, his tone dismissive. “She’s just being protective. You know how she is.”

“Bucky.” You took a step closer, lowering your voice. “I know when you’re hiding something. I can tell.”

He let out a deep breath, setting the plate down. “Yelena’s just… she worries too much,” He finally turned to face you, forehead creased with tension. “She’s your friend, and she wants to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes she goes a little overboard.”

“That’s not what this is.” You crossed your arms, frustration building. “There must be something specific she’s upset about. She barely looked at me when she left. Did I do something to hurt her–”

“No, doll, of course not,” He shook his head, a hint of guilt in his eyes, but he pushed it down. “She’s just… overthinking things.”

You took a steadying breath, unwilling to let it go. “Can you please tell me if it has something to do with me?”

He looked at you, a spark across his ruggedly handsome features. For a moment, you thought he might open up. But then he quickly shut it down, his voice firm with fake conviction. 

“Yelena’s got her own stuff going on,” he said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“Darling,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm, searching for his eyes that wouldn’t yours. “Whatever it is… just tell me.”

Your eyes— loving, unwavering, filled with a warmth that wrapped around him like a promise. Your touch, it felt like a hand reaching out to pull him from the darkness he used to live in.

He couldn’t tell you. He wouldn’t. Not now, not with everything still fucked up and tangled inside him, not when the truth might shatter that beautiful, fragile trust of yours.

He held your gaze for a moment, but then he shook his head, his expression hardening. Instead, he lied, “It’s nothing you don’t know.”

He knew the lies were going to pile up, each one stacking higher, heavier, until they would threaten to crush everything he was trying so hard to protect. He’d known for a while now that things were slipping, spiraling out of control like a freight train without any breaks. What started as harmless omissions, things he told himself you didn’t need to know, had twisted into a web he’d tangled himself in.

He hadn’t meant to lie to you. 

But here he was, watching himself dig a hole so deep he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to claw his way out. With every false reassurance, every carefully hidden truth, he could feel the ground shifting beneath his feet, pulling him further into his living grave.

And you? You could feel the distance building between you, a wall he was desperately trying to keep up, and it left a hollow feeling in your chest. “I just… I feel like something’s wrong, and I can’t help but feel like you’re not telling me the whole story.”

Bucky’s whole posture tensed. He forced a smile, a half-hearted attempt to reassure you. “I told you everything, okay?” He lied again, the words stumbling over each other as he tried to reassure you. “Yelena’s just being Yelena. She’s overprotective. Don’t let it get to you.” 

He sighed, noticing how… aggressive he had been. 

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there. It was almost as if he hoped the gesture alone would somehow close the crater between you. 

“Let’s just… focus on us, alright?” he whispered, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek. His words sounded sweet, but they were thin, unconvincing. Even as he tried to comfort you, there was a wall you could feel but not quite see.

You could sense it— something he kept just out of reach, a small fortress of secrets he wasn’t ready to share. 

And yet, even with all the tension, all the unspoken fears, you trusted him anyway.

You loved him anyway. 

Maybe it was the way he looked at you, as if he was terrified of losing you, or the way he always reached for your hand, a silent plea to believe in him just a little bit longer. 

-To be continued

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@dogtorjae

[ltwilliammowett]

The Burghley Nef, salt cellar, Paris, 1527-1528

This nautilus shell is a 'nef,' a boat-shaped container displayed at a banquet that would typically hold spices or salt. The most famous nef today is the Burghley Nef, made in Paris in 1527, with the nautilus shell becoming the hull of the ship to hold salt.

Lavishly adorned with a deck and sails made of gold, the opalescent nautilus shell balances atop a mermaid-shaped base. Called the Burghley Nef because it was found at Burghley House in England, it is now part of the Victoria & Albert Museum collection.

[illumins]

𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝑙. 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘 (#⁰³)

✦trope: fluff, spidey-mark, spiderman

✧first pov

▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭

It’s the kind of morning where the sunlight seems to perform, glittering through the leaves of the trees lining our school’s front walk like something alive. The bus, dented and smelling faintly of rubber and stale lunches, sits idling at the curb, and I am hyper-aware of my own heartbeat, the tap-tap-tapping against my ribcage as I shuffle in line to board.

I find a seat by the window, sticking my backpack onto the empty space beside me. I tell myself it’s to save the spot for Jenna, but she’s decided to sit up front, leaving me an island in a sea of noise. The other students buzz with the sort of aimless energy only a field trip can inspire. I watch them, trying to imagine how it would feel to be as light-hearted, their thoughts not tangled in a net of impossible hopes.

Mark climbs onto the bus last, his hair a tousled mess from the wind, a grin playing on his lips as he jokes with his friends. They’re talking about the new exhibit at the science museum, something about rare minerals, but all I can see is the way his shoulders ease back in laughter, the effortless orbit of his friends around him. He’s got this gravity, and I feel caught in it, helpless.

He doesn’t notice me, not yet. He’s recounting some anecdote that has them all leaning in, their expressions lit with shared amusement. I watch his hands as he speaks, animated and sure, the way I imagine Spider-Man’s might be when he’s scaling a skyscraper or swinging between the canyons of New York’s avenues. I try to picture telling him, confessing everything right there in the vibrating hull of the school bus. But the words knot in my throat, unspoken.

We arrive under a sky scrubbed clean by the wind, the museum rising before us like a monument to all things curious and unknown. Our teachers herd us toward the entrance, their voices raised over the clamor. I stay a few steps behind Mark, watching as he squints up at the banners flapping above the entrance, his profile sharp against the pale morning light.

Inside, the museum is a cavern of shadows and echoes, the air cool and tinged with the scent of metal and glass. We wander through the exhibits, the teachers giving us time to explore while they discuss logistics at the front desk. My friends cluster around a display of meteorites, their surfaces pocked and scarred like moons. I drift away, my sneakers silent on the polished floor.

I find him by the Foucault pendulum, standing so close to the barrier that his breath must be fogging the brass plaque explaining the physics of it all. His concentration is a tangible thing, and I watch the way his eyes track the slow, hypnotic swing of the pendulum.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” I say, my voice softer than I intend, barely threading through the hum of distant conversations and the distant echo of footsteps.

He turns, his smile quick and surprised, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to break his private communion with the exhibit. “Hey,” he says. “Yeah, it really is. Did you know—”

But I’m barely listening, too caught up in the way his hair curls just behind his ears, the earnestness of his gaze. I shuffle my feet, feeling suddenly clumsy, the words I’ve rehearsed slipping away like water through fingers.

“So, I was thinking,” I start, but my voice trembles and I have to start again. “I was wondering if—”

An explosion shatters the moment, the sound so loud it seems to consume the air. Screams slice through the museum as people start running, a stampede of fear. Mark’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, pulling me close. His body shields mine as the sound reverberates, the ground beneath us shivering with the violence of the blast.

“Are you okay?” he shouts over the noise, his eyes scanning the chaos, always looking for how he can help. I nod, words lost in the tumult.

We move together, his hand firm on my elbow, guiding me towards what I assume is safety. My heart is a wild thing inside my chest, not just from the blast, but from him, from the heat of his hand through the fabric of my shirt.

As we reach a quieter corner, his friends gathering around us, his face is inches from mine, his brow furrowed with concern. The chaos around us blurs into a backdrop as I’m suddenly, acutely aware of his closeness, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of fear.

“Seriously, are you all right?” His voice is steady, a contrast to the trembling of my own limbs.

I manage a nod, my throat tight. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks to you.” The words tumble out awkwardly, carried more by relief than by courage. The truth is, I want to say so much more, to rewind to the moment before the explosion, to the question I had been about to ask.

He smiles, a quick, reflexive thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he scans the area, still in protector mode. His gaze is everywhere, taking in exits, assessing threats, so unlike the carefree high school student he plays in the daylight of ordinary afternoons.

Mark turns back to me, his hand still gripping my arm lightly. “We should keep moving. It’s not safe here.”

As we walk, I can hear the sirens in the distance, the sound growing steadily louder. The museum staff are directing visitors toward emergency exits, their voices calm but urgent over handheld radios.

We reach a side exit, the cool air outside a slap after the stifling fear inside. Police cars and fire trucks are converging on the scene, their lights painting the world in harsh strokes of red and blue. Mark's friends cluster together, everyone speaking at once, trying to make sense of the chaos.

I stand slightly apart, the weight of my unasked question heavier than ever. Just as I gather the remnants of my scattered courage, ready to reach out and touch his arm, to pull him aside and finally speak my truth, he looks over, his expression shifting as he sees something beyond my shoulder.

“Stay here,” he says abruptly, and then he’s gone, melting into the crowd with a swiftness that speaks of more than just urgency—it speaks of necessity, of duty.

The others don’t notice his departure, not at first, caught up in their own relief and recounting of the event. I watch where he disappeared, the cold knot of disappointment settling in my stomach. Not because of the missed chance to confess, but because I know, with a sinking certainty, where he’s gone.

To change, to swing into action as someone else entirely. As Spider-Man.

I wrap my arms around myself, watching as the first responders begin to corral us further away from the building. The sound of distant thuds and muffled shouts suggests that the danger isn’t over, that whatever caused the explosion might still be unfolding inside.

And there, under the relentless sweep of emergency lights, I realize the truth isn’t just in the words I’d failed to say. It’s in this moment, in the pulse of fear and the clarity it brings. It’s in the understanding that my confession wouldn’t just be about a crush; it would be an acknowledgment of his double life, a step into his world of constant peril and masked identities.

As I watch, poised on the edge of something vast and terrifying, a new resolve forms. When this is over, when he comes back, I’ll be waiting. Not just to confess, but to stand by him. Maybe then, he’ll see me not just as a classmate, but as someone who knows the weight of his secrets and chooses to stay.

But for now, I wait, the sirens wailing a lament, the flashing lights casting shadows where I stand—alone but undeterred, ready for whatever comes next.

[coolkenack]

The Grimston sword replica from the hull museum in England from sword forum.com