#Barber Museum

[anika-ann]

A Night at the Museum (A.B.)

Type: one-shot, fluffiest fluff; canon-divergence from Defending Jacob

Pairing: Andy Barber x reader  WC: 5000

Summary: You always loved wandering through your museum after closing time – there was something so peaceful about it, a new layer of beauty to space and all the art that adorned the walls.

Tonight however, the peace is interrupted by a charming handsome man who has no business to be there… will you throw him out?

Warnings: 18+ for allusions to smut, TOOTH. ROTTING. FLUFF., uncomplete list to keep some mystique - so read at your own risk (but no supernatural elements)

A/N: a story dedicated to lovely @chase-your-dreams-away ✨, to everyone who enjoys a tooth-rotting fluff and to all you lovelies who support my writing shenanigans - you know who you are, giving me love and life 💕 Happy Holidays, if you celebrate! // divider by @firefly-graphics

Every single step you took felt so light it was almost as if you were floating.

The endless beauty adorning the walls, the soft intimate lights reserved for occasional night visiting hours only accentuating the already romantic atmosphere of the art museum, walking through the halls and galleries equalled a magnificent experience that made your soul shiver and yet feel at peace. You let the serenity wash over you as you roamed the art museum, already having helped usher the lingering visitors outside. The sound of your heels echoed in the vast galleries, your eyes drawn from one beautiful piece of art to another, even as you had seen them all a hundred times.

There were simply sights in this world that would never get old, you mused, a small smile playing on your lips, a slow steady pace bringing you to another section – and having you freeze in your step.

Just standing there without a care for the outside world, apparently immersed in admiring a painting – one of favourite, you realized distantly – stood a man. A man who most definitely did not worked here.  Your heart skipped a beat.

“Excuse me, sir,” you called out lowly, anything louder than a that feeling wrong in the otherwise quiet gallery. “It’s after hours. You can’t be here.”

He startled too at the first sound of your voice – his head snapped to you, piercing but kind blue eyes wide with surprise, as if you brought him down from a haze, from a deep thought; from thorough appreciation of art. You would have smiled at that, since you knew the feeling too well, but you were too distracted by the man’s handsome face.

Awfully, unbearably handsome, with a ruffle of dark hair and a clearly well-kept beard, a dark blue suit that only highlighting his beautiful eyes, hands slipping from his pockets as he straightened upon facing you; his biceps bulged a bit with that movement, visible even under the suit jacket. There was a good-natured expression on his face, a pleasant note in his voice as he responded on the same volume, if not slightly quieter.

“Oh. Sorry.”

His voice was as lovely to hear as his face was to look at; almost like he had belonged here, the central piece among the sea of art, a sculpture capturing the peak of a man crafted by talented hands of the old masters.

As you walked closer to him, your chest ached a little; he wasn’t just handsome. He was drop-dead gorgeous. And while that didn’t authorise him to be here, it sure made your approach more amicable. You were only human, after all.

“I was actually heading out,” he continued, “but I just… got a little caught up in admiring the art.”

The corners of your lips rose involuntarily. You could see that easily happening to anyone – it was after all a painting close to your own heart and soul. Some might call it too simple – an image of hands, one larger, rougher than the other, held out palm up to the other, softer, smaller one, fingertips barely brushing, the mahogany brown background with a few lighter strokes of brush adding an aura of warmth. But its simplicity and what some would call imperfections were deceiving.

Many would argue that hundreds of art students all over the world drew a hand study every day. Masterfully executed or not, this particular piece of art could indeed be called plain; but it wasn’t. As things stood, the painting was no Creation of Adam, your all-time favourite, but it had earned a rightful place in the art gallery and n your heart, and it wasn’t only because of how old the painting was or who had created it.

If you were being honest, you were never able to quite put your finger on why, but it always tended to touch something deep inside you. So truly, you understood the man perfectly.

He had no business being here so late – and yet. Perhaps for his pretty face and his breathtaking physique indeed, perhaps for his warm gaze having returned to the painting with curious, soft eyes – you couldn’t just have him dragged away, keen on hearing his insight instead.

“How so?” you inquired.

His gaze snapped back to you, surprised. He examined you for a bit, as if he couldn’t figure out whether you were asking or just bidding your time before security found you, but in the end, he just smiled, slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, I couldn’t say. I don’t know the first thing about art, so I can’t even appreciate it properly-“

“Of course you can,” you interrupted him, regretting your hastiness when his eyes widened, watching you intently. You smiled apologetically, gaze dropping before it returned to the painting, the sight of the beautiful man too much – and you were used to looking at art every day. “What I mean is… sure, the knowledge of history of art and art technique can help you recognize a painting’s value to the world, but not its value to yourself.”

You cringed internally; you sounded like a fool, a pretentious one at that, contradicting your own words. And yet, his voice was soft when he spoke again without a hint of offense.

“I’ll take your word for it… but still. Might help to have a guide… what do you like about this painting?” he asked, gaze returning to the art in question. “That is, if you like it at all.”

“I like it a lot, actually. It’s one of my favourites.”

“How so?” he echoed your earlier words, something about the way his gaze flickered to you making you feel warm all over. He sounded genuinely curious. About what you thought. He seemed interested in your very personal insight; and in the intimate lightening of the gallery, you reluctantly gave in, all too aware of how close you seemed to stand now, side by side, barely two feet apart.

“I like how it makes me feel. I like wondering what made the artist capture this particular moment in time – not sooner, not later. Not when the hands touch further or part completely. And what the moment even is. All that wondering just leaves a lasting impression.”

“Yeah… I suppose that’s what I could say as well,” he mused, tilting his head slightly to side as he considered your words. “Tell me more.”

It wasn’t an order – despite the wording, it sounded more like a plea. Something pleasing hummed in your chest, a gentle stroke to your ego.

“It’s the position of the hands. Hands can be so expressive, we can say so much with them, with a touch. And I don’t mean it in the sense of sign language, where people literally use them to form words agreed upon earlier, but… they can convey feelings, capture so much more than words themselves often can,” you tried to explain, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You sounded like a crazy person who read Jane Austen too much – and you were all too aware. You often couldn’t help it, when you talked about art – but the poor man didn’t sign up for this. You chuckled bashfully. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

“Not at all,” he opposed, causing you to risk a side-way glance. His gaze lost nothing of its warmth, quite the opposite; his lips melted in a gentle smile and he was certainly paying more attention to you than the painting. You’d lie if you said it wasn’t flattering. And the electricity you seemed to feel in the air sure wasn’t unpleasant either. “I never thought of it this way, but I certainly cannot argue with that. And I argue for living.”

“Ah. A lawyer then?” you said, his hands rising in surrender in response.

He had really nice and big hands. Someone should paint them. And he should put them on me.

“Guilty as charged.”

“And with a sense of humour, I see.”

There was something a little shy and definitely intimate about his laugh, his gaze firmly on yours. “I have been told I only have old man jokes these days.”

“Well, that’s just rude. You should have that person arrested for such insult.”

“That’s not how this works.” He was laughing again, crinkles around his eyes. He had such a gentle laugh, quiet, fitting for the space. “Now… what do you think is happening here then?” he beckoned to the painting.

You pursed your lips, accepting his prompt.

“Well, that’s one of the things I love about it so much – it can be whatever you want it to be. A man and a woman… there’s this atmosphere of longing. Tenderness to the touch. Uncertainty, as if they aren’t sure if they are allowed. The man especially. Maybe they are future lovers…” You felt your cheeks heat, blush spreading as the man’s eyes flickered to yours. “Maybe not. Maybe it’s a goodbye.”

“How do you figure?”

“The blurry lines,” you whispered, your smile turning dreamy. You truly did love this piece – it conveyed so much emotion, offered so many interpretations. Made you feel so much. “They’re not accidental – the moment is hazy. Maybe it’s a memory, a painful one, a memory of a goodbye smeared by unshed tears. Maybe it’s a dream – dreaming about what can’t be, no matter what the heart desires.”

“Wishful thinking,” he murmured under his breath.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he’s an artist asking his muse to be let into her favour.”

Your head snapped to him in surprise; but for once, he kept looking at the painting. Still, your breath caught; that definitely was a lovely interpretation.

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

Your gaze returned to the painting, even as your gaze was drawn to him instead, distracted, your thoughts consumed by the image of his handsome profile and the well-fitting suit – and those damn hands. He stood even closer now, slightly behind you; you could almost feel his warm breath on your cheek, the woodsy tones of his cologne wrapping around you like a blanket. You could get in trouble, lingering here, with him – but deep down, you felt you’d happily do so. And probably thank him for it.

He spoke again before he gathered your wits, a warm smile in his voice. “Could be a lonely artist who set his eyes on the most beautiful of women…”

You felt the back of his hand brush yours. No accident; a lover’s caress. You felt tingles spread thought your whole body from the point of contact, your heart thundering in your chest even as it shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have such an effect on you. Not after two years of much more intimate touches, teasing brushes of his fingertips, his palms roaming your body firmly, his lips appreciating every inch of your skin. A simple touch of a hand shouldn’t have made you shiver, but it did. With Andy, it always did. Especially when he talked like that, your face growing warmer by the second at his praise. Because it was clear he was no longer talking about the painting on the wall. Not when he ran his fingers over the back of your hand before turning it so your own hand slipped into his easily, and squeezed.

“…and was somehow insanely lucky that she accepted when he asked her out two years ago. And ever since then, his life’s been full of happiness he thought was no longer in cards for him. How’s that for knowledge of history?” he asked cheekily now, full grin spreading on his lips as he pulled lightly on your hand to spin you around to face him, his free hand already cupping your cheek as you giggled, letting the façade fall.

“You’re a charmer and a flatterer,” you muttered as he leaned in for a kiss, palm cradling your face and guiding you closer to his lips, soft whiskers tickling your face as your lips finally met.

His hand released yours, sneaking around your waist instead, deepening the kiss, making your toes curl in your pumps even after having received thousands kisses like this from him.

You had met pretty much like this – with you working late and him charming your wits out of you and having you lose yourself in his beautiful blues, mesmerized by his almost startlingly handsome face, even if he had been the one who had got a bit lost in the museum complex. Sparks flew, hearts fluttered, hands wandered – much sooner than they ever had in your previous relationship. But the whirlwind of passion was wrapped in an intimacy on an emotional level too – you had never fallen so fast, body, mind and soul, but Andy Barber was simply special. Bless his heart, he hadn’t really known much about art back then – but he had a quick mind and willingness to learn, eager to listen to you as you talked about your long-life love, watching you with a curious adoring gaze, a patient smile on his lips.

He told you he’d pick you up after work so you could celebrate the two-year anniversary of your first date. So as soon as you shoed away the last visitors, you hurried to the staff room to freshen up at least a bit. Andy hadn’t told you where he would take you up until two hours ago – where he called you on your short break to inform you that he was, in fact, a sneak who had an exceptional way with words.

Bribing your colleagues with god-knows-what, he had arranged for you to have the museum for yourselves up until midnight – a private tour with the softened lights saved for the evening, likely wandering hand in hand, beauty surrounding you as well as love. You had no doubt he had brought refreshments too, having left work right after lunch, probably preparing one of his excellent recipes; the premise of spending your special night like this with him had you giddy and soft for the rest of your shift. So when you saw him standing there like that, you couldn’t help but re-act your first encounter for a bit – but you didn’t expect him to lean into it so fully, letting you relive the awe of a handsome stranger being so impressed by whatever you had to say.

The nip of teeth on your lower lip brought you back to reality, heat swirling in your belly, having you press into Andy’s firm body further, not an inch left between you just as it should be, especially since your head was already beginning to spin with the lack of oxygen.

He was the one to retreat, smiling against your lips, nose caressing yours, your palms smoothening over his shoulders lovingly.

“You started it,” he opposed, pecking your lips again and then once more for a good measure, a little breathless himself. When you met his gaze, you saw nothing but adoration in his eyes. “I simply played along. …hi, by the way.”

You chuckled and returned his greeting, meeting his lips once more.

“Hi stranger. Happy anniversary.”

His smile was almost blinding as he tucked the lose strand of your hair behind your ear, fingertips stroking your cheek.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyes roaming your face so attentively – as if he was admiring what had been no doubt etched into his memory by now – that your felt your skin heat up again, gaze lowering timidly. “You’re beautiful. I love you.”

I love you. It was a simple admission – but that didn’t mean it still didn’t send your heart flutter, especially when he looked at you as if you were the single most precious piece of art in the whole complex.

“I love you too—what?” you questioned, when his eyes suddenly flickered behind you, back to the painting, and a frown twisted his features.

“There’s something missing,” he mused, causing your chest to spasm with panic. You spun on your heels and escaped his embrace so fast you nearly toppled over. Your eyes frantically searched for any sign of what was wrong – a missing plate with description? Had piece of the golden frame broken away? A- “I do like the painting, but it’s just… it’s missing something.”

You huffed out a breath of relief, turning back to Andy swiftly, hitting his chest with the back of your hand, earning a burst of silent laughter.

“Sorry-“

“You are not! Don’t do that, Andrew!” you whisper-yelled, your ribcage actually aching a bit from the sudden scare. “I’d be in real trouble if there was something missing, you know that! But do enlighten me, Mr. I Don’t Know The First Thing About Art. What is missing here?”

He had the decency to look a tiniest bit guilty as he gently touched your shoulders, spinning you back to the painting, wrapping his arm over your middle to pull you flush to his front.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s beautiful. I know you love this one. But I… I think finally figured out what the scene is about,” he explained slowly, voice dropping back to a whisper, only a trace of gentle laughter in his pleasant timbre.

“Oh?” you inquired nonchalantly, still pouting a bit even as your exasperation evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. You could get fired if something got lost on your watch, so that was a mean joke – but you should have known better. You had known him for two years now after all.

“Uh-huh,” he hummed, guiding your hands to lay on your stomach, placing one of his warm palms over them, chin resting on your shoulder. “Well, obviously, they are a man and a woman.”

“Is that how you win all the cases at court? With your excellent observation skills and dead-on-point arguments, Mr. Obvious?”

Andy continued, unbothered by your snarky teasing.

“And he’s an old, maybe a little dorky man, who is crazy in love with this gorgeous woman with passion for art…”

The corners of your lips twitched as you turned your head to him, nose nudging his cheek as you understood where this was going. “You’re not that old… but you’re plenty sappy for sure.”

“Who said I was talking about us?” he teased, squeezing your hands again as he nudged you to look forward again despite your prolonged ‘riiiight’. “But he’s a little bit like the artist, asking a muse for her favour… he’d feel like the luckiest man on Earth if she’d allow him.”

You leaned your weight back onto Andy’s warm body, tilting your head, as a full smile spread on your lips along with the sweetest warmth curling in your heart.

“Well… I know you said it’s not us, but… if it were, he wouldn’t have to ask. He’s already plenty in her favour.”

You let your eyes slip shut, revelling in the feeling of being in the arms of the man you loved, almost tasting his own affection for you on your tongue, feeling it float in the air. You felt at peace; safe, warm and loved. Nothing could measure up to the serenity of the moment. Whatever Andy had planned for you two, as nice as it no doubt was, it didn’t matter much – you could just stay like this for hours, with his lips occasionally reaching to kiss your cheek, your temple.

“I adore you, Andrew Stephen Barber,” you sighed. “Sappy and all.”

His chest rumbled behind you as he hummed, his finger softly stroking your hand, pulling you somehow even closer to him. “Well perhaps he’s asking something else then.”

You felt your eyebrows rise, eyes fluttering open, smile still plastered on your face – you were probably grinning like a loon at this point.

“What’s he asking then? And what was that thing you said was missing?”

He caressed your fingers again. You felt him gulp behind you before he straightened and took your left hand, bringing it to your shoulder, to his lips, his hold on you never faltering.

“Maybe he’s asking if he could gain her favour forever.”

You chuckled breathlessly. Sap. For someone who had already been married once, even if mostly for convenience of an unplanned child, and then got divorced, he sure stayed a romantic.

“Forever is a long time,” you hummed noncommittally, not at all opposed to the idea though.

Andy was without doubt your Prince Charming in a three-piece suit, the wishful image of a happily ever after having crossed your mind more than once. With him, forever sounded sweet – and entirely plausible.

“Yeah, I know. But I want to try my luck asking anyway.”

That was the only warning you got before Andy suddenly released you from his embrace and used the gentle hold he still had on your left hand to turn you to face him, the strangest expression on his face.

Adoration. Affection. Worry. A nervous smile.

Nervous? What reason-

The realization slammed into you the very second Andy began to drop to one knee, a voiceless ‘oh my god’ knocked out of you along with your breath. A little blue box held up in his free palm, he gazed up at you as you watched him with wide eyes already filling with tears.

God, had you had any capacity to do so, you’d feel like a dumbass for not figuring out sooner what all his talk had meant. Why the missing thing. Why this was the painting he decided to stand in front of, this one among hundred others that adorned the walls of this place. Why the hand that had been right under his had been your left one, the whole time, and he hadn’t been caressing all your fingers. He had been – perhaps subconsciously – tracing a line of a ring which he hoped to put on your ring finger.

“Andy-”

“Sweetheart… I’m supposed to be great with words, but now when you’re actually facing me when I kneel here, they all… disappeared. But know that I love you. I love you with everything I am, with my whole heart. I will never understand art as well as you do, but I promise I’ll never stop trying and never stop listening, because I want to understand everything you love. I promise I will always do all I can to stay in your favour, in the favour of a woman who might as well be a muse herself,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes turning glassy as a huge lump grew in your throat, several tears escaping you and rolling down your cheeks even as you were biting your lip – as not to cry, a not to laugh giddily.

He wanted to marry you. He wanted to spend the rest of your lives with you and he wanted to make it as tangible as possible. He made this damn moment all about you, a true promise, a true testimony that he meant what he was saying. You bit your tongue hard as not to blurt out your answer before he could even ask the question.

He choked a little as he said your full name, thumb pressing to the edge of the box for it to open and reveal a no doubt beautiful ring – but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at it, not when his lips twitched in a smile, his hand a little clammy as he still held yours. Or perhaps it only felt that way because your own were trembling, your heart threatening to beat its way out of your chest?

“Will you marry me?” he asked at last, finishing the question with a wide grin as you started to nod halfway through, the yes escaping a little too loud in the enormous room, the echo drowned in Andy’s relieved laugh, his hands – indeed shaking – slipping the ring on your ring finger meticulously before rising to his feet and framing your face with his palms and smashing his lips to yours, a grin to a grin, salty tears to salty tears.

Your fingers found purchase into his locks, holding onto him for dear life as he kissed you with vigour, nearly bending you backwards in half, one hand gripping your nape, the other moving to your lower back instead for better balance as he continued to steal your breath all for himself, an insistent press of his lips tasting like heaven and a promise of happiness.

“I love you.” A kiss to your lips. “I love you.” A kiss to your nose. “I love you so fucking much-“

You giggled against his lips, returning the affection as much as you could, your heart pounding in your chest, pressed against Andy’s ribcage – his heart was racing too, as if he had run a marathon or argued the case of his life in front of a full courtroom.

“I love you too-“

“Thank you-“

You laughed breathlessly, yelping when his hands slipped under your thighs and he lifted you to up to spin you around, a brilliant smile on his face.

“You’re a sneak, Andrew Barber,” you teased him, the world still spinning even as he set you down, taking both of your hands to place a tender kiss to your fingers.

It was the first time you actually took a proper look at the shiny ring – and your breath caught in your throat, eyes burning, nose tingling with fresh tears.

“Andy…”

It was gorgeous – and most definitely not a mindlessly picked piece of jewellery with the biggest diamond in a ten-mile radius to show off. No. Much like he had shown dedication to the proposal itself – you were getting married, holy damn, Andy just PROPOSED – he must have put plenty of thought into choosing what was to adorn your finger for hopefully a very long time; forever even. Delicate but intricate in design, a bigger centre stone with what seemed to be a thousand of tiny gemstones surrounding it as a halo in an unpredictable but beautiful pattern. He must have spent a fortune on it – it was a piece of art itself. Probably one of a kind.

Just like the gem of a man who now stood in front of you with a mix of pride and bashfulness in his expression as you admired your new accessory – a new promise.

You met his gaze, eyes probably shining brighter than the ring.

“It’s gorgeous,” you sighed, unable to resist and leaning in for another kiss, hoping to pour all your gratitude and delight into his lips. “I see what you did here, Andy. Thank you… and I really really adore you, you have no idea. I’m the lucky one.”

He shook his head with a grin, nudging your nose with his, hugging you close. “Let’s agree to disagree, sweetheart…”

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips. “Mr. Barber… are you already disagreeing with your future wife?”

Judging by certain sensation against your belly, you weren’t the only one who felt a shot of euphoria through your veins when you said it; Andy’s pupils dilated, gaze flickering to your lips, this time with less than sweet intent, hand wandering from your lower back to the globes of your ass instead.

You giggled and let him pull you to him until you realized the direction you were facing – not. Because like this, Andy’s hand appreciating your ass was perfectly visible to the camera.

“Andy, wait-“

“I wouldn’t dare to disagree… guess we can both thank to our lucky stars then…” he muttered, completely ignoring your protest, lips nearing yours, suddenly painfully slow, butterflies fluttering in your stomach despite the rational voice in he back of your head that your really shouldn’t give in. But how when his palm sprawled further, long fingers reaching to your quickly heating centre.

“An-“

He swallowed your noise of protest and plea at once, your knees buckling an inch when he stroked over your covered slit.

 “Celebrate with me?” he whispered against your lips, his hips rutting against yours making you whimper.

“Andy, the cameras-“

“-are off, I bribed the guard, I swear-“ he cut you off as his other hand slipped under your pencil skirt,  already tracing the line of your panties on your thigh.

“Andy-“ you whined as his lips retreated only to pepper soft slow kisses down the column of your throat, your head tilting back on its own volition as your body craved his touch, your core now throbbing. He’d better not be joking about the cameras, otherwise you really would-

“Come on, love, you gonna let me pin you to the wall like the masterpiece you are deserves?” he whispered and it was a terrible, terrible line, but he nipped at your pulse point and your feet obliged as he back you into the wall, fingers pushing the soaked fabric of your underwear to side, finding your hot and wet and waiting for him. A groan escaped his lips, his hard cock rutting into you as his fingertips teased your slit. “Gonna let me paint you all pretty with my cum, like a good little wife?”

“Jesus, Andy-“

“Gonna say yes to me one more time today, won’t you?” he demanded huskily, a knowing teasing lull to his voice as he kissed you again, letting you taste his sinful smile. He knew you would. You could never tell him no, not when you knew what awaited you was pure bliss, a loving but no less filthy ecstasy.

It was wrong. It was beautiful. It was insane and you’d happily take the leap. You were getting married. What other answer was there, especially with such a reward in your reach?

“Yes,” you sighed, head hitting the wall lightly, the hard warm planes of Andy’s body indeed pinning you in place, right between two damn exquisite painting. “Yes, I will.”

And then, because that beautiful bastard seducing you in the least appropriate place deserved a retaliation, you breathed out the last coherent words you could form before Andy made you forget how to do so:

“I will always say yes to my husband.”

Misc characters masterlist

Full masterlist

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed 🥰

Once again, Happy Holidays to all who celebrate 💕

Headboard info: framed picture from this artist (edited) - https://displate.com/displate/5918780, gif from Tenor

[chillingonaleaf]

Charles Burton Barber (British, 1845-1894), Gelert, 1884. Oil on canvas, 104×143.5 cm. Reading (UK), Reading Museum

[garadinervi]

Photograph of Shirley Woodson, Detroit Free Press, 1979; in Ellen Lupton, Broadside Press and Black Graphic Design, Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, New York, NY, February 24, 2021

Paintings are my diaries. Drawings are my prose. Collage is my poetry. Assemblages are my dialogues. All the threads of my life have been about art and its ability to connect and create ways of showing the beauty, the history and the necessity of all art but particularly Black art. This journey has been my life, and it continues to move me. I’m still creating and discovering. – from A Palette for the People. The Vibrant World of Shirley Woodson, [2021 Kresge Eminent Artist], Edited by Nichole Christian and Patrick Barber, The Kresge Foundation, Detroit, MI, 2021, p. 9 (pdf here)

[spyskrapbook]

“Soane Medal Satellite Programme: A Tour of Peter Barber Architects” _ Peter Barber Architects, 173 King's Cross Road, London, WC1X 9BZ, UK _ Wednesday 29 March 2023 _ Photos by: Spyros Kaprinis [29.03.2023].

“As one of Britain’s most acclaimed architects and founder of Peter Barber Architects, 2022 Soane Medallist Peter Barber’s practice focuses on social housing and urban planning.

He has been widely celebrated for his inventive approach to design, delivering innovative housing which is both high-quality and affordable. Barber has also developed a number of speculative projects which respond to issues including the housing crisis and the revitalisation of de-industrialised areas.

In recent years Peter and his firm have received several awards, including a lifetime achievement award from the Architects’ Journal and IBA Neave Brown Award for Housing 2021. He was awarded an OBE for services to architecture last year and elected as a Royal Academician in January. Alongside his practice, Peter lectures on architecture at the University of Westminster and was recently invited by the government to lead a discussion on ‘Designing for Better Public Spaces’ with a team of top built environment professionals.”

https://shop.soane.org/products/soane-medal-satellite-programme-a-tour-of-peter-barber-architects-wednesday-15-march-12pm-1pm?variant=44251054145768

[romegreeceart]

Luxury goods - Barber Cup and Crawford Cup

* Roman

* About 50-100 CE

* Findspot: Cilicia, Turkey

* Fluorspar

* British Museum

London, July 2022

[brooklynmuseum]

Celebrate aspects of Romanticiscm with a dynamic program from Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra.

On February 26 at 2 pm, the orchestra will take to the auditorium to play for us a powerful program, including:

🎺 Richard Wagner, Prelude to Act I of “Lohengrin” 🎻 Samuel Barber, Souvenirs, op. 28 🎷 Robert Schumann, Symphony no. 4 in D Minor, op. 120

This event is free for ages 16 and younger.

🎟 http://bit.ly/3jRi1Ua

📷 Kolin Mendez

[prompt-heaven]

a list of 100+ buildings to put in your fantasy town

academy

adventurer's guild

alchemist

apiary

apothecary

aquarium

armory

art gallery

bakery

bank

barber

barracks

bathhouse

blacksmith

boathouse

book store

bookbinder

botanical garden

brothel

butcher

carpenter

cartographer

casino

castle

cobbler

coffee shop

council chamber

court house

crypt for the noble family

dentist

distillery

docks

dovecot

dyer

embassy

farmer's market

fighting pit

fishmonger

fortune teller

gallows

gatehouse

general store

graveyard

greenhouses

guard post

guildhall

gymnasium

haberdashery

haunted house

hedge maze

herbalist

hospice

hospital

house for sale

inn

jail

jeweller

kindergarten

leatherworker

library

locksmith

mail courier

manor house

market

mayor's house

monastery

morgue

museum

music shop

observatory

orchard

orphanage

outhouse

paper maker

pawnshop

pet shop

potion shop

potter

printmaker

quest board

residence

restricted zone

sawmill

school

scribe

sewer entrance

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[nowoolallowed]

A Barber at Work and Men Waiting Their Turn - Met Museum Collection

Note: This is a modern copy of an original Inventory Number: 30.4.40 Original Dating: New Kingdom, Dynasty 18, ca. 1427–1400 B.C. Location Information: From Egypt, Upper Egypt, Thebes

Description:

This facsimile painting copies part of a scene in the tomb of Userhat (TT 56) at Thebes. This vignette depicts men waiting their turn to have their hair cut by the barber who is at work in the lower left. The facsimile was painted at the tomb in 1925-1926 by Nina deGaris Davis who was a member of the Graphic Section of the Museum's Egyptian Expedition.

[f1]

[scotianostra]

On 24th February 1923, the world famous steam train, the Flying Scotsman, went into service.

From the 1920s the train was considered the height of luxury. Onboard there were first-class restaurant facilities, a cocktail bar and radio equipment, so passengers could hear the horse-racing results.

There was even a hairdressing salon where men could have their facial hair shaved with an open razor, made possible because the barber's chair was set in such a position that there would be "no jolting". I'm not sure I would have a shave in a moving train!

The train's hairdresser was reportedly known as "Sweeney Todd of the Rails", given his precarious trade.

In 1928 the train broke the record for the longest regular non-stop train journey in the world, when the LNER ran an express service for the entire 393-mile route.

This record would last until 1948, when, unintentionally, the train broke its own record. The Flying Scotsman ran for 408 and a half miles in May of that year when flood damage to the main line caused diversions via St Boswells and Kelso.

Throughout World War II The Flying Scotsman was one of the few titled trains that continued to operate along the East Coast - it carried troops between London and Scotland, although the headboards and roofboards were removed for security.

And, on 21st June 1958, in a historic move which would signal the decline of steam, The Flying Scotsman was hauled for the first time by a diesel locomotive.

The service is currently run by government-owned East Coast.

In May 2011 they relaunched the service, painting one of their locomotives, the Class 91 No. 91101 with Flying Scotsman branding.

At the launch East Coast said the move was "part of our policy of bringing back train names and restoring pride, passion and even a touch of glamour and romance back to the East Coast railway".

It's not all a romantic journey though, just last September there was, what the called a "slow speed” crash with another heritage train hours before visitors were due to board it.

It happened lwhen the ocomotive was being shunted into place to be coupled with the Royal Scotsman train carriages, which were stationary.

A spokesman for Royal Scotsman train owner Belmond described the collision as “minor” and said there had been no major injuries.

"We are grateful for the prompt attendance by paramedics who were on site to assist the few passengers and team members who sustained minor injuries,” the spokesman said.

"One passenger and one team member are attending hospital for a precautionary check-up.

"All passengers have been transferred to a hotel where our team is on standby to offer support and to assist with our guests’ onward travel arrangements."

Last year ater travelling 10,000 miles across the UK as part of its centenary celebrations, world famous locomotive Flying Scotsman will spend the first part of 2024 on static display at the National Railway Museum in York before resuming rail tours later in the year.

The custodianship of The Flying Scotsman is up for tender later this year, so by this time next year I may be telling you about new "owners"

[nobrashfestivity]

Chiura Obata, Lake Basin in the High Sierra (detail), ca. 1930. Ink and color on silk mounted on paper, 69 1/2 x 102 1/2 in. (176.5 x 260.4 cm). Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, Museum purchase, Dr. Leland A. and Gladys K. Barber Fund, 2000.71.1

[gothhabiba]

ways to cope with being made to shave one’s legs &c. as a gender contrarian:

pretend that you’re part of a performance art piece and many art appreciators are watching you shave in a room in a museum or something and nodding thoughtfully

pretend that you’re a man and this is actually very f*ggy behaviour 😳

pretend that someone needs all your body hair to put a curse on you and you’re obliging them to prove a point that curses aren’t real. later you will fall deeply in love with each other. maybe that was the curse and maybe it wasn’t. you still argue about it.

pretend that you’re a barber using a straight razor. closest shave in the city, you’ve boasted. this man has come in to challenge your claim. you guide the razor across his cheek, eyeing your work critically, stropping your blade between each stroke. um. what was I talking about

[boxofbonesfic]

𝔅𝔬𝔵𝔬𝔣𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰: 𝕱𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖆𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 13𝖙𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖊 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 

A list of all of the wonderful entries for my first annual Friday the 13th Challenge! I will be updating this list annually to catalogue all of the wonderful work my friends and peers have submitted. 

2023 Fics:

Talking to the Moon (Werewolf!Lloyd Hansen x Reader) by @boxofbonesfic. Summary: “Run,” Lloyd gritted the word out to you through teeth like knives as his hands became claws, scoring into the expensive leather steering wheel. “Run so I can catch you.”

Wax and Wane (Werewolf!Andy Barber x Reader) by @boxofbonesfic. Summary: “You were drawn to Andrew Barber like a moth to flame, and now that everything you were is burned away, you cling to him in the ashes.”

Undying Change (Vampire!Bucky x Hunter!Reader) by @geminixevans-stan. Summary: “Reader was on a mission, a mission that caused her to lose to a being that she hated.”

Wherever you will go (Andy Barber x Reader) by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor: Summary: “Your vacation isn’t the escape you thought it was.”

The Night Shift (Thor x Reader) by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor. Summary: “You work the night shift at the local museum and not all history is dead.”

Sleepy Hollow by (Stalker!Ari Levinson x Reader) @onsunnyside. Summary: “Beware the quiet ones.”

Fox Fire (Dark!Thor x Reader) by @syntheticavenger. Summary: “Despite repeated attempts to access a forbidden forest, approval comes with a cost. One that has been centuries in the making.”

No Motive (Serial killer!Stucky x Reader) by @moosereblogsfics. Summary: “Surprise, Sidney!”

Witchview (Steve x Reader) by @buckets-and-trees. Summary: “You wanted out before, but now you were compromised as the bait in your own trap and were becoming desperate for freedom. As he had said famously, the price of freedom was high. Desperation was dangerous. Desperation was fed by hope. Desperation erased the limits of reasonability. You had crossed lines, and you wouldn’t stop now.”

It will come back (Old God!Lee Bodecker x Reader) by @slyyywriting. Summary: “Don't let it in with no intention to keep it. Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it. Honey, don't feed it. It will come back.” -Hozier, It Will Come Back 

The Stalker (Bucky x Reader) by @winter-soldier-101 

Safety Measures (Dark!Vision x Reader) by @springdandelixn. Summary: “The security system you had installed in your apartment was done to keep your stalker away. Little did you know, he's already made his way in.” 

Something’s not right with Mrs. Barber (Andy Barber x Siren!Reader) by @scandinavianfairytale. Summary: “Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Especially with a wife like you.”

K I L L B I L L (Andy Barber x Dark!College Student Reader) by @geniedetails. Summary: “hate to see you happy if I’m not the one drivin’.”

And all was lost (Dark!Steve Rogers x Reader) by @witchywithwhiskey. Summary: “you must make it through the forest without being caught, lest you be forced to give in to whatever dark desires reside in your captor's heart.”

Pretty Thing (Dark!Charles Blackwood x Curvy!Reader) by @bellasburdens. 

Impatient (Lloyd Hansen x Reader) by @flordeamatista. Summary: “There is no breath or glare in the world, but only a faint demonic memory.”

[airlocksandaviaries]

can you share some random Dreamling headcanons plz?

You want to hear my headcanons?? 🥺💖 I'm honored!

Alrighty, Dreamling Headcanons, here we go:

Dream loves Hob's hair when it's long. Not too long, just above shoulder length, but it's enough for Dream to tousle and play with and run his fingers through. He protests whenever Hob gets a haircut, and insists he doesn't get any more than an inch cut off. Hob promises he won't but the barber usually makes it too short. Dream pouts about this.

Hob has an effect on the Dreaming. Not a big one, but enough to where Dream starts to notice. The flowers are always brighter in Fiddler's Green whenever Hob's dissertations have gone well. The library has Hob's favorite books automatically stacked on the tables whenever he comes to visit. And whenever Hob has a bad night, his memories rear up like tidal waves in the waters of the dreamers. Dream grumbles about the Dreaming betraying him, but secretly he is glad about it because he knows that it means that his subjects and lands have accepted Hob.

Hob is a face kisser. Whenever he and Dream have been kissing, he can't help but follow it up with a little peck on Dream's cheek, or his eyebrow, or his nose. It leaves Dream slightly shocked every time, with that thousand yard stare of his, but Hob knows that he enjoys it.

I have a strange headcanon that if Dream were to be trapped as a human by a curse for a short time for whatever reason, and couldn't access the Dreaming, he would of course start writing his stories down, but I also believe he would enjoy painting. Hob brings him a set of oils as he's moping in Hob's flat, and suddenly Hob is in awe as Dream is able to produce the most stunning paintings of the trees in Fiddler's Green, the light seeping through the stained glass above his throne, and the feathers on Matthew's wings as he flies. Hob hangs them all up and they stay on his walls, even after Dream's curse is lifted.

Sometimes Dream gets emotional or scared or angry or tired, and forgets to maintain his human form. He gets sort of fuzzy around the edges, his coat fading into the ground, hair seeping through the fabric of reality, his pale skin melting like a pool of wax in between sleeping and waking. This is usually when Hob finds whatever semblance of a hand (or claw) that Dream still has, and holds onto it, until Dream slowly comes back to himself and is able to rebuild his human form. Dream worries that Hob is scared of him when this happens. He is not.

Hob loses items throughout history, items that mean a lot to him, such as a jacket or a piece of jewelry or notebook that belonged to him long ago. He scours the local museums to find them, but to no avail. He always grumbles that he thinks they've ended up in some pawn shop and then sold to a hoarder. Once in a while though, after he's complained about losing something, it will show up on his desk the next morning. No explanation, but sometimes it's covered in sand. Hob doesn't need two guesses as to how it got there.

[pwlanier]

This rare example of Southern vernacular furniture was once used to hold haircutting and shaving implements in a Black-owned West Virginia barbershop. The stand and its freestanding shelf are constructed from reused pieces of old furniture. The artist added many bands of v-notched wood and finished the set with shades of red, blue, yellow, and black paint. Historically, barbershops have played an important function as a place of social networking and cultural production within African American communities, and they can also be sites of spiritual exchange. The High’s collection includes work by other artists, such as Elijah Pierce and Ulysses S. Davis, who were barbers, ministers, and accomplished wood carvers. Although the artist behind this work remains unidentified, they appeared to have a spiritual dimension, as well, given the altar-like quality of this object.

High Museum

[desimonewayland]

Barber's bowl painted with implements of the trade

Lambeth, London, c. 1690

Gardiner Museum, Toronto, Canada