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coffeeandbatboys · 1 year

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The Art Of Stupidity (Peter Quill x Fem!reader)

In which Peter nearly gets killed because he's a dumba** so you do a lot of screaming at him.

Warnings: swearing (whaa ikr?) Injury, insult to injury, Rocket being himself, Peter being an idiot (aka himself) mebbe some slight foreshadowing for vol. 3 but it ain't a spoiler if you don't think too much about it.

"Rocket, where's Peter?" You gasped.

In your glorious retreat back to the Bowie, you'd lost him in the chaos that he caused. How does the idea of stealing a heavily secured antique piece of junk sound now?

"He had to go and get the damn Zune he dropped in the hallway of that security station."

"He told me he was down to one blaster!?" You shrieked, realizing that this was not, in fact, going well.

"And he's the lazy asshole who didn't charge them up!"

"You didn't think to, I dunno, COVER HIM?" You flapped your arms in disbelief.

"Hell no, you're the girlfriend!." The insufferable Raccoon snarled. "If you wanna go get Star munch, he's all yours missy."

You muttered under your breath as you turned to go get your boyfriend. "That stupid Zune is gonna be the death of him someday I swear. Thanks a lot, Yondu."

You readied your blaster and dodged bullets in the space between the ship and aforementioned security station, before kicking the door open to find an incredibly absurd sight.

The Doobie Brother's 'What a Fool Believes' blasted from the ridiculous object he went back for, as he was trying in vain to fight off the security droids. Sighing, you stepped in and blasted to your heart's delight, until the two of you (or, mostly you) successfully eradicated the rest of them.

"Thanks, babe." Peter offered a sheepish smile and you just rolled your eyes in frustration.

"Let's go before these guys blow a freaking hole in our ship!" You growled.

His eyes widened and the smile dropped. "Ohh ok yeah you're like really mad."

Once again you we're crossing the distance back to the ship, only this time, you didn't dodge one of the bullets as it lodged itself in your calf. You were already frustrated beyond rational capacity, and physical pain just added insult to injury. But you were too hyped up on adrenaline to care. Tumbling into the ship, Peter in tow, you sat down and glared.

He wasn't sure whether to apologize or leave you be, when he noticed your leg trembling. That's when your world went fuzzy and you sorta just, checked out of reality while somehow staying conscious.

"Shit! I need a med pack and a pair of tweezers." He hollered for anyone in earshot as the ship lifted off and set out for Knowhere. Soon, the bullet was pulled out of your leg and the med pack placed over the hole.

And this...this, is where you snapped back to reality.

"You asshole!" You screamed, "You could've gotten yourself killed!"

Kraglin, who had brought the medical supplies, just cringed and stepped away, leaving you two alone.

"I'm sorry, y/n..."

"Sometimes I feel like that stupid thing is more important than any of us!"

You regretted the statement as soon as it left your mouth. The Walkman was one of the only things he had left of his younger years, and when his father had destroyed that, the Zune was all he had left of Yondu.

His eyes fell and your heart broke. He moved to stand up, but you stopped him.

"No—wait. I'm sorry. I shouldn'tve said that. I'm sorry." You repeated.

He relaxed and sat back down, giving you a lopsided apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry I freaked you out. I wasn't trying to get killed back there. I feel like it was my fault that you got shot, too."

"Its fine, baby." You smiled sadly. "If I hadn't been seeing red, I probably would've payed more attention."

The med pack needed a bit more time, and Rocket was calling for him, so he kissed your forehead, then your nose, before finally catching your lips in a sweet, tender kiss.

One that would take priority over anything else.

Star Lord fics are back in business baby!!

#Star lord #Peter quill #Marvel #Guardians of the galaxy #Kraglin #Rocket #Zune #guardians vol 3 #peter quill x reader #star lord x reader #Star lord x y/n #peter quill x y/n #marvel one shot #Peter quill one shot #Peter quill fluff/humor #Guardians of the galaxy vol 3 #Gotg volume 3

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blueiskewl · 11 days

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A 2,000-Year-Old Gold Greek Coin Sells for $6 Million at Auction

The coin once belonged to the State Hermitage Museum until it was sold off by Joseph Stalin.

A private collector has spent a pretty penny to get their hands on a 2,000-year-old gold Greek coin.

Known as a Panticapaeum stater, after the ancient Greek city in modern-day Crimea, the coin went for $6 million at Numismatica Ars Classica in Switzerland making it the most expensive ancient coin ever sold at auction.

The soaring price has been attributed to the coin’s quality, rarity, and the fact the supply of similar specimens is extremely limited with most already housed inside museums.

“I am extremely pleased with the phenomenal result the sale of the Panticapaeum stater achieved at our latest auction in Zurich,” Arturo Russo, co-director at Numismatica Ars Classica, said in a statement. “This is a sign the whole market for numismatics is flourishing, and is especially strong for ancients at the moment.”

The coin was minted circa 340–25 B.C.E. and features a wide-eyed satyr on the obverse and that of a griffin gripping a spear in its beak on the reverse. The presence of the satyr, a mischief-maker in Greek mythology that resembles a man with horse ears and a tail, is thought to reference king Satyros I, who ruled a Greco-Scythian empire in eastern Crimea from 432 to 389 B.C.E.

The sharp details make numismatists confident the coin is the work of a master engraver. Unlike similar coins, this Panticapaeum stater features the satyr facing three-quarters to the left, as opposed to facing fully left, a detail experts believe was altered in an attempt to follow contemporary fashions.

The coin was long part of the State Hermitage Museum’s collection, but was sold off in 1934 as part of Stalin’s push to sell works of art to raise foreign currency to fund domestic industrial growth. The coin was acquired by Charles Gillet, a French industrialist who focused on collecting rare books, furniture, and antiquities, including coins.

The previous record for most expensive ancient coin sold at auction was one of only three known “Ides of March” coins, which was minted in 42 B.C.E. and commemorated the assassination of Julius Caesar. It sold at Roma Numismatics auction house for $4.2 million in 2020, though, as it turned out, with falsified provenance.

By Richard Whiddington.

#A 2000-Year-Old Gold Greek Coin Sells for $6 Million at Auction #Panticapaeum stater #king Satyros I #gold #gold coin #ancient coins #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #ancient greece #greek history #greek art

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batshaped · 1 year

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ABOUT THE ANIMAL

This is Batty, a type of line-and-color-secreting organism (likely mammal). She is legally categorized as an unwholesome cartoon character (this may be a subtype of cryptid but as of this writing the organization has not obtained a warrant to catch and vivisect her, so the science is unconfirmed). We still let her work as a writer and storyboard artist for TV animation though. Diplomatic reasons.

This Tumblr is an archive of the secretions she produces (known by laymen as “personal art she makes in her free time”). These substances may include nudity, blood/injury, dark/mature themes and, as quoted from a statement by the subject, “whatever the fuck else I feel like.” Do not let her “cute” art style fool you. This is merely a biological lure tactic. She is in fact what we in the scientific community recognize as a “Bitch” and engages in what the layman might understand as “Bitch Activities.”

The archive is currently under construction. As antiquated works are unearthed and uploaded by our system, they will be posted out of chronological order. Where applicable, a link to the original source of the work will be posted in its description and the original post date added to the tags by an automated process. Researchers interested in a particular era may conduct their search by browsing these tags—for example, “2020 art” or “October 2022 art.”

Other documented sightings of the subject:

Twitter — High-activity zone. Amasses curiously high-intelligence social groups that pay her tribute of some kind in the form of excellent analysis of the “comics” she secretes.

Instagram — Moderate-activity zone. Recent activity may be observed via “stories” (a type of functional trailcam).

HELLO FROM HALO HEAD — High-volume, high-chroma current secretion intended to attract specialized prey (enjoyers of webcomics).

Angel’s Advocate — Monochromatic secretion paused in 2020. It is nonetheless being monitored as the subject may begin secreting again at any time per her unpredictable will.

WEBTOON — Both secretions have been archived here.

Tapas — Both secretions have been archived here.

TikTok — Rare footage of the subject’s movements in realtime.

Ko-Fi - HIGHLY DANGEROUS AREA. DO NOT APPROACH. Any tribute paid here will only enable further, enhanced activity by the subject. Reports of extremities lost in the act of attempting tribute are not uncommon. ENGAGE AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Linktree — Documentation hub to be updated as events—

Dictation paused to address matter of high priority. Dictation will resume upon resolution of the matter.

hi please disregard above im not reading all that but its definitely not real please put your fingers in my enclosure i promise you will have fun :)

#pinned #about #info #faq #bio

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dantesdickferno · 2 months

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amaretto

Miguel/Reader | Explicit | Chapter 1/?

a/n: I brought this blog back from the dead to post this so I hope y’all enjoy. Gonna be a few chapters but not sure how many yet. Femdom reader, Bartender Miguel basically. Horny and angsty modern NYC AU, no powers. Bit of a slow burn (ish). Enjoy lol

***

The Basilica is, for all intents and purposes, a mediocre bar.

There’s a pothole steps away from the bar’s entrance that customers have to maneuver past in kitten heels and designer sneakers, and the embossed metal sign at the front of the door is almost completely covered in rust. It’s clearly an establishment that’s too pretentious to be a dive bar, but not exactly up to code enough to be an upscale cocktail bar either.

Recent attempts to rebrand the place as a hole-in-the-wall speakeasy have been successful, meaning that it’s now the common haunt for every art history graduate student, Bauhaus enthusiast, and unattainably gorgeous bisexual poet in lower Manhattan who’s willing to spend 17 dollars on a drink.

You stumble across the small chipped navy blue door after a brutal day at work. The patrons at the luxury handbag store you have the distinct displeasure of interacting with were particularly snippy today, and your pair of not-yet-broken-in oxfords feel more like a prison than a fashion statement at the moment. You need a drink to help forget the past ten hours ever happened just so you can do it all over again tomorrow. You’ve never heard of this place, but you don’t feel like getting on the subway just yet and looking for a bar that’s closer to home. This vaguely sketchy place will have to do.

The cozy interior of The Basicilia smells of cigar smoke and melting wax. Lit partially by candlelight, the brick walls and small antique cherrywood tables feel distant, yet homey. There are large gothic-style lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, and servers expertly move through the crowd carrying stainless steel trays full of thick-cut fries and bowls of green olives.

Despite the bar being relatively full, only one other person is sitting at the actual bar when you approach it—everyone else appears to be relegated to the various tables and benches strewn about the space, or hugging the walls holding glasses of craft beer.

With all of the fuss that sitting down on a stool, pulling off your winter coat, and hanging your things on a hook underneath the bar causes, it takes you a moment for you to see him.

But you do.

There’s a blur of movement in the corner of your vision as a tall man in a black button-down with rolled-up sleeves vaults over the bar wall and stalks over to the other end of the restaurant before knocking on a solid black door with the sole of his boot.

“Hey! You awake in there? They need help running food!” The man shouts, not waiting for a response before rushing back across the room and climbing back into the bar.

The sound draws a few eyes, but no one appears to be shocked—it seems to be a common occurrence here, judging by the way the person who appears to be the manager steps out of the previously kicked door looking bleary-eyed and sheepish, a pair of noise-canceling headphones around his neck and a set of keys jangling at his belt.

But your attention has been drawn elsewhere.

The man is tall enough to reach for a bottle of Belvedere vodka on the top shelf to hand to a nearby barback without straining. You notice his hands first—broad, veiny, with nails cut down to the bone. There’s a bandage wrapped around the middle finger on his left hand. A smattering of hair on his triceps, which are all muscle and sinew. And two tattoos—-a fang on his right bicep, and a bundle of marigolds on his left forearm. He leans onto the bar table to address you, his button-down snug around his chest.

Jesus fucking christ. If you had a drink you would certainly spill it.

“What are you getting,” he says—his voice raw from shouting, you assume—and his voice trends downward at the end of the sentence, as if he doesn’t want to ask you, as if it isn’t a question. You can’t even pretend to be offended—working in the service industry is a thankless task, and you know that well enough. But even you can admit that the level of tension in his jaw and the shuttered look in his eyes is disconcerting in a way that has to do with more than the fact that he presumably hates his job.

“A mojito, please,” you say, with less confidence than you’d normally have. You’re used to sitting at bars alone and making conversation with the bartenders, but tonight doesn’t seem to be going in that direction.

“A mojito?” The man repeats, and you know it’s the wrong choice somehow. Other than an almost imperceptible eye roll, he nods, turning his back to you to grab the right ingredients.

Still. It makes you curious.

“What’s wrong with a mojito?” you ask, watching the way his shoulders stiffen. It’s like his entire being is on constant guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop–you can see it in the way he turns back to look at you, his jaw set as he sets down a collins glass and starts picking damp mint sprigs out of a chilled metal container.

“First time here?” he says, and again, it isn’t a question. He places the mint leaves on a paper towel to dry before rubbing them on the rim of the collins glass and putting them in a separate pint glass.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with a mojito?” Normally you’d take your cue from the bartender and quit trying to make conversation, but something about him makes you want to poke and meddle, like touching a live wire with the tip of your finger.

“Nothing.”

“I won’t get offended. Is this one of those ‘what your drink of choice says about you’ things?” you probe, leaning onto the bar top. The other conversations seem to fade to a lull in the background of your mind, your sights set on tormented brown eyes and tense, broad shoulders.

“No.”

“Because that kind of seems like what this is—”

“No.”

“Then what is it? If you don’t mind me asking. I hope I’m not committing a major bar crime, or something.” He clearly minds, and the sigh he lets out is nothing short of torturous sounding, but he seems to indulge you anyway. You briefly register his hands reaching for various cups and bottles at an even tempo, his movements intentional as he makes your cocktail. He crushes mint and lime and sugar together with a blunt tool before opening a carafe of ice. A shiver runs through you, completely against your will, as you watch him work. You’ve always had a soft spot for competence.

“It’s more of a practical thing,” he explains, and you settle onto your stool, sensing a tangent incoming. “Mojitos aren’t complicated to make, but they take time. They have a lot of moving parts. And then once one person orders it, I get ten more people who saw me making it asking for it too, and I have to start the process over again. And then more people order it, and next thing you know I’m making mojitos for the rest of the night.”

“So when I ask for mojitos at other bars and they say they’re out of mint, are they lying?” you tease. He places your drink in front of you then, topping it off with a mint spring and a lime wedge at the rim of the glass.

“...Every bartender hates you,” he says in response, leaning in, and you give him a soft smile, sipping from the glass. It’s one of the best drinks you’ve ever had.

There isn’t an ounce of enjoyment to be seen in his eyes, or in the shadows of his face. But you swear you see a flicker of something there, like something that has long since lain dormant coming back to life—if only for a second–before it dissipates.

“What’s your name?” you ask, pushing your luck. Any spark that had once been lit is extinguished. He backs away, the lanterns from overhead casting shadows across his features that make him look like a stranger again. You silently curse yourself.

“I don’t do that,” he shakes his head, before venturing to the other end of the bar to help a seemingly new bartender whip up a martini. You wait patiently, watching the way his mouth moves and his hands gesture as he corrects the bartender on their…technique, or something. You have no idea. From afar, he looks equally as intimidating, if not more so. The lines of his body don’t indicate any kind of softness, and his shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s ashamed of himself. You wonder if he does bicep curls in a concrete room for hours until he sweats out all of the vulnerability. Or maybe he runs from it, in the early morning, breath labored and lungs aching until his sneakers are worn out.

“You don’t do names?” you ask him as soon as he returns, and his time he doesn’t even pretend to hide his exasperation, rolling his eyes again before resting his elbows on the bar so that his face is inches away from yours. Your heart lurches. A quick glance around rewards you with a few of the patrons regarding you with a vague amount of interest—and concern.

“Listen. I’m not a therapy session bartender,” he says with enough disdain to cause your eyebrows to raise in surprise. “I like the theory of it. The drink making. That’s it. Talk to that guy,” he continues, gesturing to a fellow bartender with a man bun and gauges who’s currently chatting up the only other person sitting on the other end of the bar. “He’s chatty.”

This close-up, you can see the dark circles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips. You get a brief urge to trace the wrinkles across his forehead with the pads of your fingertips, but you hold off, of course. The man seems like he’s too old for anyone. He’s lived a million lifetimes.

“I don’t want to talk to that guy,” you say, feeling emboldened. I want to talk to you. “No offense.”

Something in his expression flickers back to life once more, like a butterfly trying to fly without one of its wings.

“Miguel,” he says after a while, sounding pained. You tell him your name, and he gives no indication that he’s registered it.

“Do you wanna open a tab, or close it?” Miguel asks then, and his voice sounds weightier.

“...Keep it open.”

***

The bar is sweltering, but the cold, sour tang of the mojito keeps you cool as you watch Miguel make his way across the bar to help mix drinks for other patrons. You feel pinned to your stool somehow, like a bug under a microscope, even though Miguel doesn’t spare another glance in your direction. The music in here is alright, but not noteworthy. You wish you had someone to dance with.

The bartender with the man bun makes you another mojito before you can say otherwise, but it tastes different somehow. Too much mint maybe. Not enough bitterness. Miguel’s theory seems to be wrong; you scan the bar for other tall glasses with sprigs of bright green mint and find none. After brief consideration, you decide not to bother him any further by informing him of this fact.

The bar gets increasingly more crowded as the night goes on, and it becomes abundantly clear that Miguel isn’t going to check on you again. You want to believe it’s because he’s too busy, but you wonder if you made the wrong impression somehow. You wonder why you care. You hate that you do.

You settle your tab and gather your things before buttoning your coat and setting off into the night. Your two drinks have muddled your senses just so, but not enough to be completely disorienting. On the precipice of happy, maybe.

As you zip your coat up to your chin and walk down the sidewalk, you think about going home to your studio apartment and cuddling with your cat Cinnamon. You think about hopefully getting a few hours of sleep before the workday comes back around in the morning to swallow you whole once again. You think about the harsh line of Miguel’s jaw, about the fact that he’ll likely forget about you come morning.

“Every bartender hates me,” you repeat to yourself—a truly harrowing fact—before shaking your head and walking down the steps into the subway.

a/n: lmk if you enjoyed/if you wanna see more—mwah x

#dom reader #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #miguel smut #miguel 2099 #atsv miguel #atsv x reader #atsv fanfiction #atsv fic #atsv fandom #across the spid #sub miguel o'hara

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justforbooks · 2 months

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Iris Apfel was finally recognised as a great, original fashion stylist in her 80s, when the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum in New York had a sudden gap in its 2005 exhibition schedule. Many curators knew Apfel, who has died aged 102, as a collector stashing away clothes, especially costume jewellery, both couture-high and street-market-low, so the institute asked to borrow some of her thousands of pieces.

When Apfel wore them herself, dozens at a time in ensembles collaged fresh daily, they had zingy pzazz, so she was invited to set up the displays. There was no publicity budget, and her name was modestly known only in the interior decor trade, yet the show, Rara Avis: Selections from the Iris Apfel Collection, became a huge success after visitors promoted it online. It toured other American museums, changing exhibits en route because Apfel wanted her stuff back so she could wear it.

Apfel’s grandfather had been a master tailor in Russia; her father, Samuel Barrel, supplied mirrors to smart decorators; her chic mother, Sadye (nee Asofsky), had a fashion shop. They lived out in rural Astoria, in the Queens borough of New York, where Iris was born.

As a child, her treat was a weekly subway trip to Manhattan to explore its shops, her favourites the junk emporia of Greenwich Village. She was short, plain and, until her teen years, plump, but she had style; and the owner of a Brooklyn department store picked her out of a crowd to tell her so. During the Depression all her family could sew, drape, glue, paint and otherwise create the look of a room, or a person, on a budget of cents – the best of educations.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women’s Wear Daily. Furniture and fabrics were in short supply during and after the second world war, and Iris began to earn by sourcing antiques and textiles; if she could not find it, she could make or fake it cheaply.

In 1948 she married Carl Apfel, and they became a decorating team: he had the head for business and she the eye. Unable to find cloth appropriate to a period decor, Iris adapted a design from an old piece and had it woven in a friend’s family mill; she and Carl then set up Old World Weavers in 1952, commissioning traditional makers around the globe.

Photographs and home-movie footage from the next four decades showed Apfel, adorned with elan, haggling for one-off items in souks, flea markets and bric-a-brac shops. She is the most decorative sight in each shot, her ensembles put together with complex cadenzas atop an underlying, tailored, structure– they are like jazz – not a statement, but a conversation.

Apfel was the last of those 20th-century fashion exotics who presented themselves as installations. Although she wore a priest’s warm tunic to the White House (President Richard Nixon underheated the place), plus armfuls of cheap African bracelets and thigh-high boots, she was not an exhibitionist like the Marchesa Casati, and, with her vaudevillian comic timing, was far funnier than the imperious Vogue editor Diana Vreeland.

Also, she never ever bought full-price: her many rails and under-the-bed suitcases of couture were sale-price samples, chosen for their cut, fabric, skilled craftwork and colour dazzle (“Colour can raise the dead”). She might wear them over thrift shop pyjamas, or under a Peking Opera costume, with hawsers of necklaces atop. Money could not buy personal style, she said, prettiness withered, beauty could corrode the soul. All that really mattered was “attitude, attitude, attitude”.

Old World Weavers discreetly refurbished the White House under nine presidents, as well as grand hotels and private houses, before the Apfels sold the company in 1992. They retired to a quiet life in their apartment on Park Avenue, New York, its decor an extension of Apfel’s outfits (bad garment choices were cut up for cushions), and in a Palm Beach holiday home where the Christmas decoration collection stayed up all year round, along with cuddly toys and museum-class folk art. Clothes shopping, and the improvisation of an outfit, became Apfel’s daily ritual, as cooking might be to a gourmet.

But after the Met show, and a book, Rare Bird of Fashion (2007), Apfel was back in as much full-time employment as she could manage in her 80s and 90s (she had a hip replacement because she fell after stepping on an Oscar de la Renta gown). She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant – superb on eye-glasses; she wore large, owl-like, frames to stylise her aged face into a witty, unchanging, cartoon.

She took seriously her responsibilities to fashion students on her course at the University of Texas, teaching them about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

Her career lasted – nothing was ever too late: in 2018, Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon, a book of memoir and sound style advice; in 2019, a contract with the model agency IMG; and last year, a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London. The documentarian Albert Maysles trailed her for Iris (2014), filming this “geriatric starlet” – her term – as she dealt drolly with new high-fashion friends, or laughed at an “Iris” Halloween costume (glasses, a ton of bangles).

She watched as a storage loft of her antique treasures was listed in lots for sale, and as white-gloved assistants from museums that had begged a bequest boxed up her garments; she still had, and wore, the shoes from her wedding. All things, she said, were only on loan in this world, even to collectors. The point was to enjoy them to the full before bidding them good-bye.

Carl died in 2015.

🔔 Iris Barrel Apfel, decorator and fashion stylist, born 29 August 1921; died 1 March 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #iris apfel #in memoriam

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forthegothicheroine · 7 months

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Fall '23 Style Concept: Tragic Witch (or, Bronte Heroine who owns an Occult Bookstore)

A style analysis concept based on this!

Inspiration Elements: Sleepy Hollow, mix of heavy and light fabrics, lace-up clothing, Price & Prejudice & Zombies, dark lip looks, tasteful cleavage, black maxi dresses, black lace dusters, Miskatonic University, "darkest academia", India Stoker, gothic romance novel cover art, coordinated layers, chokers, vests and waistcoats, tight sweaters, low heels, thick boots, antique necklaces and brooches, capes of varying warmth.

Color Pallette

Five Key Pieces

Uniform: Maxi dress or long skirt with plunge-neck blouse, choker or delicate necklace, statement belt, long socks, thick-sole shoes, velvet cape or blazer

Proportions: Hourglass with tight top and flowing skirt

Wardrobe categories:

Maxi dresses

Long-sleeve blouses

Fitted sweaters

Tights and socks

Low-heel shoes

Capes and jackets

Pretty necklaces

Various purses

Warm hats

To buy:

Heavy black skirt

Wool coat

Oxford shoes

Ribbon choker

Fitted vest

Crochet socks

Leather messenger bag

#fashion #style analysis

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terrence-silver · 6 months

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why does 'baby it's cold outside' give terry silver and beloved vibes

It gives you Terry Silver vibes because he's adamant.

Man doesn't like losing.

He knows how to be sweet, but in a way a slow, quiet water current is, seemingly mellow, initially unassuming, yet capable of eroding a rock with his perfidiousness; his tenacious politeness and consistent insistence on (performative?) courtesy being so tactically aggressive on the downlow when he wants it to be, he'd downright talk beloved into staying the night even when they initially weren't certain if they should or if it's appropriate, perhaps, not wanting to give off the wrong message. But, by the end of the evening, they will stay, because in Terry's own words, to quote him, he's been making you do things you didn't wanna do right from the very start. Ever since you met him. And of course he thinks of everything. Things most people wouldn't even think of thinking. He covers all grounds gleefully and has the greatest fun doing so Slowly squashes all boundaries and defenses over a candlelit, classical arrangement and several wonderful, Michelin star courses. Inviting beloved over, having them driven to him, or picking them up himself (depending of what statement he is out to make) even when he knows the disposition outdoors will be foul later on, at the right moment, almost as if though the sky itself is suiting his strategic needs --- hey, if people can utilize weather conditions in warfare, then why not in love? What's the difference between a Monsoon Season in Vietnam and a rain downpour accompanied by thunder over LA? Or maybe, an unexpected bit of snowing along the West Coast he uses to his advantage by setting this rendezvous, deliberately, during the most miserable days in the year, on purpose, to have a justifiable excuse to keep you?

Control you?

What's the difference between a Monsoon deep in enemy territory and this?

None, if you ask Terry.

All's fair in love and war.

Distracting beloved and winning time until the date extends to the point it's pitch black outside and staying --- well, staying only seems reasonable, practical and courteous under these circumstances. He is no monster; sending someone home at the dead of night? With all this rain? Lightning? Inconceivable! He won't bear that on his conscience. He cannot allow it! He's a very precise and dedicated host and oh, look, his staff is already dancing circles around you before you can even really protest, offering to escort you to your, erhm, quarters. Don't you feel guilty at how hard everyone's trying to make you comfortable? At home? Has he been bad? He's wined, dined and romanced beloved and he's been the most splendid company, like a real gentleman should be. Why wouldn't they stay? With him? Beloved has no reason, it is just their mind playing tricks on them, boggled down by social conventions. They want to stay, deep down, they really do? Don't they? Terry knows they don't, not really, but by the time he's done with them, they'll believe whatever he wants them to believe. Where could they possibly go anyway? Head down the highway? In a storm? On foot? Down a lane of neighboring manors? They've been trapped the minute they entered his premises and they never even realized it. In current times, an older Terry might just have a smart house and fingerprint activated state of the art security systems in place. Nobody can leave even if they wanted to. Even if they tried. There you are, stuck as he passionately shows off his collection of rare antique swords as a subtle threat.

Albeit, his Mayan brutalist concrete behemoth of a palace is no different back in the 80's. The sheer size of that place alone is a logistical hindrance to anyone who tried to leave and escape. And oh, his mansion has so many spare rooms. Doesn't beloved want a grand tour after dessert?

Do they think he's given them hours and hours of his best self for free?

It isn't for free. No. Nothing ever is.

He'll want something in return, and that something is in his bed.

After all...it's so cold outside.

#terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #baby it's cold outside #tw; dubious consent #tw; non consensual #tw; dub con #tw; non con #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #tw; coercion #tw; mindgames

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slocumjoe · 1 year

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How the Companions would decorate their homes

...and how I would lose my goddamn mind wrestling with Tumblr's formatting nightmare hellworld.

sorry to anon who requested this, I deleted your ask while fighting for my life :[

Cait; The punkest of punk design; whatever the hell makes her happy. Would take interest in things she previously never cared much for, like music, or tinkering, or model making. So, you'll have posters and vinyls of her favorite bands and artists everywhere, tools and materials strewn about flat surfaces. Lots of reds and plaid/flannel. Likes big couches you can sprawl out on and thickly-knit, chunky blankets. Think of pop art with darker colors, chaotic patterns. Loves warm, bright lighting, dim areas remind her of the Combat Zone. Her spaces are messy, but freeing and charismatic. Her style is best described as rocker college dorm room. Reminiscent of Chloe Price's room, but more mature and with less teen melodrama. Would have lots of candles. Has a statement shelf with feature lighting for unique alcohol bottles.

Codsworth; Post-modern. Modern is medium-toned, neutral colored, and somewhat minimalist. Post-modern likes colors, soft shapes, having art as part of the house itself. Bright wood paneling, one-line artwork wallpaper, multiple colors in one room. It's very birds of paradise in color pallet. Brown suede couches are a classic. Lots of plants. It's inspired by 1950s, but with bouncier aesthetics, where 1950s can feel stiff. Codsworth wouldn't want anything too out there, though. Dani Dazey is kinda close to what he'd enjoy, but tone down the amount of color, go less crazy with the decals. But otherwise, bright colors, patterns, textures—that's the vibe. Just a less plastic 1950s, and it doesn't have the Great Depression's fingerprints all over it. I would have said something Colonial, or classic British, but I didn't want to think exclusively about his accent. Codsworth is chipper, he's friendly, he invites people over. Something fun, welcoming, and optimistic is up his alley.

Danse; However he got the house/apartment, it would stay that way. Danse does not provide for himself like that. It wouldn't be until he made friends that his residence would have personality. Nick gets him an orange-patterned bedspread that's a lot more neon than it looked in the store. Cait gets him a retro CD player and wall-mounted CD case displays. Preston and Deacon team up to repaint everything minty green and install walnut wood paneling. The furniture is gone the next day, replaced with lodge-style log-and-leather. Everyone pitches in something different, something from their own tastes. As a result, Danse's space would be a constant visual reminder that he's loved, and gaudy as fuck. Nothing matches. The colors are everywhere. Textures? A nightmare. You could kill Ty Pennington with this house. There's a giant mural of cats having mimosas and he isn't sure how or when it got there. Loves it, but...who...why...

Curie; I really struggled with Curie. I first went with French Provincial, then French Farmhouse, French Country, Rustic Glam, Scandinavian, Flemish, bauhaus, pastel bauhaus...I felt like I was trying to convince myself of everything. Nothing fit her. Eventually I settled on girly vintage. The thing with vintage is that technically, 'vintage' has like 70 years of vastly different styles. So...you get a little bit of Victorian-esque, a little bit of art deco, Hollywood Regency...imagine a really nice Barbie dollhouse. That's the vibe, just make everything blues, greens, and purples instead of pink. Curie has a bit of an older grandma vibe. Floral quilts, Wedgwood china dishware and cabinets, antique paintings. I imagine she'd repaint or reupholster her furniture, if not get it new. Definitely has white or blue painted furniture, rather than open wood. Ornate vanity, seashell wallscone lighting, embroidered curtains, kidney desks, corner cupboards...Curie's style is elegant, a little outdated, cherubic, and somewhat saccharine. Would have naturalistic wallpaper with flora and fauna.

Deacon; Like Danse's, but intentional. He's extremely fond of furniture made to look like other things. Mushroom ottomans. Fried egg light switches. Wall-mounted shelving/hangers that are open, grabbing hands. Toucan table lamps. Surrealist thrifter in style. Goes to yard sales, estate sales, those sales put by storage unit owners when a tenant doesn't pay. Grabs the weirdest shit he finds. A McDonalds sign from Thailand. A taxidermied rabbit. A Bigfoot track mold. His walls are never the same color or wallpaper. The kitchen is mint green, the living room is pink and orange, his bedroom is black and blue. Maximalist. There's a story behind every item in his space and good luck figuring out which are true. The least chaotic room is the bedroom, decorated simply with space/star aesthetics. Most chaotic? The empty hallway filled with wall-phones. Only one of them is real. The others go off only when the real one does. He won't tell you this before housesitting.

Gage; You'd think it'd be a Male Living Space. No. Gage is a mean, old, materialistic [sexuality redacted] man. He has tastes. He has standards. Will act like it's a Male Living Space keep up appearances, but his place is probably one of the more expensive. It's fine, money isn't an issue for him. Favors greens, yellows, browns, lots of swampy colors. Steals streetsigns and hangs them up. Weaved and leather furniture, linens, animal pelts, mounts. Worn teak wood, cream walls, travertine floors. If this sounds luxurious, consider that Gage lives here. Unclean. Has no bed frame, only a mass of sheets and pillows. The most pristine places in his house are the coffee maker's counter, and the spaces for his pet lizard, who roams freely like a small dog. The lizard is the only thing keeping him from smoking indoors. So many fucking books everywhere, all dog-eared to death. Has stolen something from every party he's ever been to. Keeps them on display. Has a worrying amount of wedding cake toppers.

Hancock; Psychedelic culture-nerd hippie meets a grizzled ex-starlet who moonlights as a show girl. Think Whimsigoth, without the victorian influence and a lot more drippy shapes. All light sources are lava lamps. Conversation pit that you could meet God in. Many colors, most of them moody and 'sleepy'. Stereo system through the entire space. Paints on his walls whenever he's feeling creative/high, they're constantly changing. Has to scrape off the paint every so often. Collects movie memorabilia, particularly horror movies. Has masks, outfits, props. His kitchen/dining room is unintentionally Japanese-eqsue in style, in that the table is low, and you sit on beanbags. Really not into dealing with chairs in the morning. Hancock's ideal furniture is made of moldable jelly, him being a cat in spirit. His office is a complete divorce from the other rooms. It's entirely 1700s luxury Colonial in style. Dark mahogany woodwork, deep reds and blues, a (electric) chandelier. Big library.

MacCready; Eclectic. This style is defined by maximilism, mismatched everything, lots of tchotchkes. The core tenent of it is that it takes whatever looks good from other styles. It's magpie core. It's how the gremlin thief in your DnD campaign would style a home. So, lots of different kinds of fabrics, many shelves for trinkets, posters of all kinds on the wall. You ever make a wall with just the posters, signs, etc in your settlements? That's what he does. In canon, MacCready likes midnight blue and leopard print, but I can see olive greens as well. Very messy and busy. Raw wood furniture seems like it would be a good fit for him. Would have a big entertainment center, very nerdy space. I think Rodrick Heffley's and Eddie Munson's bedrooms are a good way of getting an idea. Kind of basementy, kind of glamrock. He's 22, what do you want from him? Very much "baby's first place." Duncan's room would be more child-friendly, lighter colors and softer furniture. His drawings always get hung up wherever there's space.

Nick; Also struggled with this one...I didn't want to just make him Victorian/Gothic, that felt too obvious. But...it's obvious because it's correct. It just is. His name is Valentine. He has a neon pink sign with hearts on it. This man is modern Victorian meets dingy alleyway in a Hollywood noir film. So, we're looking at victorian settees and woodwork (which is when the walls are carved all fancy, by the by), lots of dark colors, leathers, a fireplace to stare into broodily with a glass of whiskey. We'll also need a bit of industrial to blend the Modern Victorian and Urban Night vibes, so some dark brick/stone, perhaps? Or industrial light fixtures. In terms of materials, the aforementioned leather, but also velvet and dasask fabrics, marble, and rosewood, possibly treated to bring out the red, or be made darker. This space is mostly dark and black, with pops of pink, purple, and blues. Would definitely need an LED indirect lighting for mood setting. It's not as dark like X6-88's home, though, it's more intimate and warm. Heavier emphasis on coziness and inviting auras. Nick's home is an older queer man's home, so obviously it's a little extra, a little theatrical. Has a sweet cocktail bar setup, will make you a martini while you unveil your tragic backstory.

Piper; Also eclectic, but brighter and with some intellectualism. So, more vintage, but bolder and more assertive than Curie's vintage. The best thing I can do it point you towards Arianna Danielson's blog, and ask that you imagine most of those pinks to be darker, or just red. Similarly, Dani Klaric and Tay Beep Boop's viral design. That vibe of confidence, a little bit of feminine rebelliousness, and generally just spunky. A crucial item would be book paper lighting shades. It clashes but Piper would be into it. I imagine she'd want the place to be fun for Nat, satisfy that little girl urge for Maximum Colors. Piper would have a messy as hell writing room, papers everywhere, red-string corkboards, coffee cups. Collection of vintage newspapers, lots of plushy rugs and pillows, probably has weird little knickknacks hidden about. The type to have rubber ducks in her fridge and refuse to elaborate. Don't question the writing process.

Preston; Walnut, shiplap, rattan, navy blue. Reeves Connally put me on this combination and now I'm spreading the propaganda. People have feelings on rattan but it deserves more respect, just like Preston. His style is best described as hygge with a beachy edge. Hygge is all about neutrals, extremely soft and squishy fabrics and furniture, warm ambient lighting, and worn wood. Fairy lights everywhere. Cozycore, really. Blue and shiplap walls, walnut flooring, rattan furniture. Blues + white + sandy + rich brown. Best combo. Fucking fight me. Chunky wool blankets, velvet for more decorative cloths, like drapery or the fabric of the seat cushions. For decor, you're looking at handdrawn maps, paper light fixtures/shades, plants kept in colored glass vases, nature photography, a reading nook filled with historical fiction and textbooks. I can also see hanging greenery. Preston's space is refreshing, energizing, but not bombastic. I imagine he has a kitchen island with stools, but no dining table.

X6-88; Dark modernist, hands down. Crucial item is the Zaha Hadid moon sofa, in black. Steel, concrete, and sparingly, brass/brassy wood. Blacks, greys, and with the brass, an inoffensive pop of color. It's a minimalist style that, when darkened, takes inspiration from Gothic and industrial styles, but doesn't lean into them. Also has some futurism elements. X6-88's home is clean, elegant, sharp. It's designed to not be overstimulating, like the Institute's stark white plastic and fluorescent lighting is. LED indirect lighting + metal-caged hanging lights, velvet and taffeta fabrics, glass tables. There is no better kitchen for him then the Modern Kitchen 2020 from Burak LACFI on Behance. For the bathroom, Anna Kolos' work, also on Behance. His bedspread, the Ithaca Sateen set from Sleep by Sānti. I spent three years designing this man's home for a 40k word fanfic and I will hear no opposition.

#fo4 #fallout 4 #paladin danse #preston garvey #piper wright #nick valentine #companions react #x6-88 #robert joseph maccready #porter gage #codsworth

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reasonsforhope · 1 year

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"A trove of precious jewelry from Cambodia’s past has been repatriated after surfacing in London.

Totaling 77 artifacts from the medieval kingdom of Angkor, they are believed to have been trafficked from the country during the tyranny of the Khmer Rouge and the civil wars that plagued the country during the 20th century.

Angkor was one of the greatest powers in the East between the 9th and 14th centuries. Their theocratic capital of Angkor Wat is considered one of the 7 Wonders of the Medieval World, and today is still the largest religious complex on Earth.

The treasures date squarely to this period of flourishing and some of the crowns are believed to have sat on royal brows. They include items “such as gold and other precious metal pieces from the Pre-Angkorian and Angkorian period including crowns, necklaces, bracelets, belts, earrings, and amulets,” the Cambodian Ministry of Culture and Fine Arts said in a statement.

The items came from the estate of recently-late serial art trafficker Douglas Latchford, who for many years was considered an expert antiquities appraiser, but was later discovered to have worked alongside the Communist Khmer Rouge to traffic hundreds of artifacts from the country.

Now, many of the nation’s historical treasures are returning, and this trove is just the most recent tranche.

Last year, US citizens or institutions returned either voluntarily or by court order, 30 items sold by Latchford, including a 10th-century sculpture of the Hindu god Skanda atop a peacock considered a “masterpiece.”

The year before that, the estate of Latchford, who died in 2020 before he could be convicted of antiquities trafficking, sent back five bronze and sandstone sculptures to Cambodia."

-via Good News Network, 2/22/23

Bonus Info:

"The return of the items followed a September 2020 agreement with Latchford's family under which all Cambodian artifacts in their possession would be returned to Cambodia. Other stone and bronze artifacts were returned in September 2021."

-via NPR, 2/21/23

#angkor #cambodia #southeast asia #khmer rouge #antiquities #ancient art #ancient jewelry #ancient history #repatriation #museums #art history #good news #hope #anti colonialism #museum ethics

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manorjewels · 2 months

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Statement rings have always been our thing

#cocktail ring #statement ring #statement jewelry #jewelry #jewellery #gold #gold jewelry #ring #gold ring #goldring #gold rings #vintage #vintage jewelry #vintage jewellery #vintage ring #vintage rings

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mademoiselle-red · 7 months

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Reading the Renault fandom dissertation, part 4: the online TC fandom analysis begins…

An academic decided to write about us, online fans of Mary Renault’s works, for her phd dissertation in 2018, and as the subject of her research, I will be covering & commenting on what she wrote over a series of posts ✍️📑 (Here is part 1, part 2, part 3, part 5, and part 6)

For part 4, we begin to delve into Chou’s analysis of the online TC fandom, which she calls the “millennial fandom” because it sprung up in the new millennium (the mid-2000s).

“While Renault’s works have mostly lost their relevance for readers of historical fiction and gay literature, Renault has found a new fandom in internet communities. On LiveJournal.com, the social networking website that has been a platform for many fandom communities since 1999, there are two major communities devoted to Renault and her works: maryrenaultfics (since 2004) and maryrenault (2005). While these communities have become less active due to decreasing popularity of LiveJournal itself, Renault fandom is still active on more recent fandom platforms such as Tumblr and Archive of Our Own”

So far this checks out. These are all the places we have congregated in.

“Renault’s new fans are not the “older gay men” who have gone digital, nor are they the “serious-minded teenagers” interested in classical times, or the academics who are finally paying the author her long-overdue attention. The cult popularity that Renault’s works achieved in the community of online fan “prosumers,” especially for those who are interested in “slash”—fantasy about male homoeroticism largely produced for and by women—demands a renewed examination of how Renault’s works could be reread and re-evaluated.”

I’m pretty sure there are middle aged men, academics, and serious minded history-obsessed teens among us. But cis women (and bisexual folks) do comprise half of the fandom (according to an informal poll I ran a while back).

“According to Fanlore Wiki, one of the largest Wikipedia websites about English- speaking fan activities, one of Renault’s LiveJournal community has been in existence since 2004, aptly named “Mary’s Handmaidens.” On the Fanlore page about “Mary’s Handmaidens,” a passage describes the gender and sexual constituent of the online community: “The community includes members of both sexes, with (by comparison with many other fandoms) a notable contingent of men, though the majority of writers of fan fiction are women. Various sexual orientations are represented among the membership.” The statement about a “notable contingent of men” is a curious one compared to the “handmaidens” in the title of the community. Despite its consciously inclusive taglines (“the community includes members of both sexes”, “various sexual orientations are represented”), the community adopts a female persona as its identity.”

This is a fair point! The handmaidens group name really wasn’t inclusive. And cis women did and still do comprise the largest group in Renault fandoms (and slash fandoms in general).

“Another example of Renault’s Internet fandom is The Theban Band’s fan arts based on Renault’s novels (see fig. 4). Among fan artworks on Renault’s works by The Theban Band, one piece based on The Charioteer illustrates serial lines of flights from the fans to Renault, from Renault to her characters, and then from her characters to antiquity (see fig. 5). The artwork demonstrates the fantastical disposition of the simultaneous disidentification and cross- identification with otherness, which in the scene depicted is embodied in a leap to another time and place. This artwork captures the moment in which Ralph and Laurie’s flirtatious book-exchange takes place in The Charioteer.”

What about this above image demonstrates disidentification and cross-identification with its subject matter? It appears to be a just a faithful visual rendition of the scene from the novel.

“If Ralph is attempting to initiate Laurie to homosexuality, it is interesting that the knowledge of homosexuality that he passes on (instead of homosexuality itself) is explained as a fantasy. In this scene of erotic initiation of a young boy, the only physical contact between the two characters is through a book that is “just a nice idea.” In the same scene, the two are depicted as dangerously close to a kiss In the passage, Ralph merely makes an “outward movement” and then steps back. What takes place in between, the “[h]alf-remembered images” of “the tents of Troy, the columns of Athens, David waiting in an olive grove for the sound of Jonathan’s bow” preoccupy Laurie’s mind strangely more so than the immediate presence of Ralph.”

I guess she is on the no-kiss team for chapter 2. 😚

“Together with the Phaedrus that Laurie physically receives, the fantasy of a homoerotic past mediates the modern, homosexual relationship between Laurie and Ralph throughout the entire story. In this sense, Phaedrus functions for the two characters much like how Renault’s books function for her readers. The Charioteer is an adoring look to the past clothed as a story about the inner struggles of a modern homosexual, or, more precisely, about how the struggles must be negotiated through a fantasy of the past. Renault’s books were for her mid-century gay readers “a badge of homosexuality” in much the same way Plato’s Phaedrus is for Ralph and Laurie: a communication about desire in the present through a collective fantasy of a past that contains the ideal form of that desire. […] Laurie looks back into a mythical past in order to contextualize his homosexuality, and Renault herself turns to the idea of Greek Love to write about male homoeroticism. In a similar way, the 21st-century fans locate in Renault’s works a kind of male homoeroticism that seems unavailable in the here and now of post-gay sexual politics.”

What are post-gay sexual politics? In what way precisely is the kind of male homoeroticism in Renault’s works, and in TC in particular (since this passage focuses on TC) no longer available in the here and now? While things have improved a lot for queer people, especially here in the west, homophobia has not gone away! Do all LGBTQ people in the Americas and Europe (where Renault’s books are published) no longer face familial and social ostracism after coming out? Readers both in the old livejournal and here on tumblr have mentioned how they could relate to TC because they come from homophobic families and communities. Through TC and the Greek novels, people can read about characters experiencing similar emotions and situations, across time, space and sometimes gender, and feel comforted, knowing that they are not alone, that this love exists, it is real, and it will find a way.

“The three-fold leap in time for Renault’s millennial fans constitutes a fantasy that is thrice removed from the “reality” of sexual desire. If Ralph and Laurie could be said to negotiate their own identity through an ancient Greek philosopher, and if as critics have argued, Renault masks her own lesbian identity by male homoeroticism located both temporally and cultural distant from her own, it is much more difficult to argue that there is a sexual truth being filtered through Plato, Renault’s characters, and finally Renault herself for the millennial fans.”

While Laurie & Ralph and the mid-century gay readers use The Phaedrus / The Charioteer to communicate their sexuality through “a collective fantasy of a past that contains the ideal form of that desire”, the “millennial fans”, according to Chou, are too far removed from the “reality” of sexual desire to receive “a sexual truth.” This assumes that the millennial fans do not use The Charioteer to explore and understand their own sexuality and cannot relate their own sexual realities to the same-sex desires depicted in the novel. This, as I said in the paragraph above, is not true, since many readers in these online communities do identify as LGBTQ+ and can relate to LGBTQ+ experiences. It is true that many of the millennial fans are not specifically gay men using these gay books to reveal their sexualities to each other. And there are indeed straight women among us, but in my experience, we are definitely NOT a majority straight-women group. Most of us are queer people who, like Ralph/Laurie and the mid-century gay readers, have found each other through this book (as friends and as lovers ❤️)

My commentary on Chou’s online TC fandom analysis continues in part 5, and a tumblr username familiar to many of us here makes a surprising appearance in the dissertation 👀👀👀

#the charioteer #fandom writes back #mary renault

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blueiskewl · 10 months

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Ancient Marble Head Unearthed in Rome

Construction workers have unearthed a white marble head in the historic center of Rome, the city’s mayor has revealed on social media.

Posting a picture of the mud-covered relic on Twitter on Thursday, Mayor Roberto Gualtieri wrote: “#Roma continues to return precious evidence of its past: a splendid intact marble head was found during the works in Piazza Augusto Imperatore attended by the @Sovrintendenza.”

Gualtieri went on to add that archaeologists and restorers are now “busy cleaning and studying the find.”

The Sovrintendenza Capitolina (Capitoline Superintendence) manages, maintains and enhances the capital’s historic and archaeological heritage.

The impressive piece, which is thought to be part of a statue of a female divinity, was discovered in a foundation uncovered during the works for the “redevelopment of the Mausoleum of Augustus and Piazza Augusto Imperatore,” according to a statement published online by Rome city council. It said that the head was found on the eastern side of the area currently being worked on.

It was thanks to the “attentive work of the archaeologists of the Superintendence” that the relic was uncovered, the statement said, adding that it is hoped that the discovery will help experts “deepen the knowledge” of the city’s ancient history.

“The newly found head, of elegant craftsmanship, sculpted in Greek marble, probably belongs to a statue of a female divinity, perhaps Aphrodite, of natural dimensions. [It] shows a refined hairstyle of hair gathered at the back thanks to a ‘tenia,’ a ribbon knotted on the top of the head,” said Capitoline Superintendent Claudio Parisi Presicce.

He explained that the head was unearthed, intact, in the foundation of a late antique wall.

According to Parisi Presicce, the head had been “reused as building material.” The workers found it lying face down and protected by a clay bank on which the foundation of the wall rests.

Though it may seem surprising that an antiquity was found in this state, it would not be uncommon, the superintendent said.

“The reuse of works sculptures, even of significant value, was a very common practice in the late Middle Ages, which allowed, as in this case, the successful preservation of important works of art,” he added.

It appears to be from the Augustan era, according to Parisi Presicce. He said conservators and archaeologists now hope to restore it, while also aiming to identify the subject and determine how old it is.

By Gianluca Mezzofiore and Lianne Kolirin.

#Ancient Marble Head Unearthed in Rome #statue #greek marble statue #ancient artifact #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #ancient rome #roman history #roman empire #roman art

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