#carmine painter

[rory-multifandom-mess]

Some more Murder Drones ocs!

Lydia is the art teacher in the school, while Carmine is a student and the pianist of the school’s band!

Lydia is kinda like a mom to Sam since his actual mom is dead, and I also ship her with Ron because uuh. Why not. Wife :D

Carmine … I to do more w/ her all I have is the pianist bit

[icarusignite]

These Violent Delights (1)

Chapter 1: Marigolds and Mayhem

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x OC

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Academic rivals, Coriolanus Snow and Artemis Highbottom must compete for the Plinth prize. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: Check out the masterlist for a better synopsis lol. As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Masterlist

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It was the third nosebleed of the night and Artemis was just about tired of it. She didn't even bother stemming the flow, allowing the carmine rivulets to trace an unhurried path from her nostrils to the marble below.

The hush of running water met the heavy rhythm of a beating heart, and there she stood—a lone figure, framed by the harsh edges of the sink, her grip upon it almost desperate. She could feel the sharpness imprinting into her skin, and yet still she clung, her skin stretched across her knuckles almost comically grotesque.

She watched the blood, in an almost detached sort of way. It could be art, she mused, the juxtaposition of sanguine against sterile white. A whispered revelation danced at the edge of her consciousness—anything could be art if you framed it the right way. Even the bloodiest of carnages. A spectacle, a thing to be enjoyed.

Artemis looked up, and her reflection stared back, menacingly. The mirror, an unforgiving oracle, revealed a distorted visage, one she both did and did not recognize. Her dark hair, cascaded in disarray, entangled in the aftermath of sleep's elusivity and her eyes harbored shadows akin to a painter's bruised palette. The reflection mocked, a cruel mimicry of the composed persona she so ardently sought to maintain.

Out of control.

Unbidden judgment pierced through her thoughts, a verdict she loathed to acknowledge.

No that could not be right.

Artemis Highbottom was always in control.

She despised this discordance, this disruption to her meticulously curated world. To her, it was anathema, but nature could not be controlled, and what was more natural than blood? Perhaps it was fitting, that this fundamental of humanity could not be dominated.

Blood could never be dishonest, and it had the power to reveal one's innermost truths.

With unyielding determination, Artemis scrubbed at the remnants of the crimson tide that painted her face, an act of restitution against the chaos that dared to invade her pristine sanctuary. Each abrasive stroke was an attempt to erase not just the physical residue but a deeper discord. She worked quietly, although there was no one else to hear. There was never anyone to hear her, her gilded halls always vacant, but Artemis spoke silence like a second language and old habits die hard. She spared her father a brief thought, wondering where he could possibly be at such a late hour but it didn't really matter. He just wasn't here. He never was.

Raw skin met her touch, and the blood, now vanquished, left in its wake a battlefield—a canvas of sacrifice for the sake of semblance.

The mess was an unwelcome intrusion there were far worse ways to be awoken. If she was busy cleaning up after her nosebleeds, then she wasn't sleeping, and if she wasn't sleeping, then she wasn't dreaming.

The walk to the Academy's Heavensbee Hall was a brisk one, although, in the sweltering heat, Artemis found herself increasingly short-tempered. She was going to be late, but she kept her pace measured. She would not arrive a panting sweaty mess like some savage. It had been a foolish idea, she knew that, but she had given her own driver the day off anyway, waiting instead for her father. His presence was expected, and she imagined it would have been a pleasant change of routine to accompany him. He was probably running late, she told herself. After all, she hadn't seen him return, and she would know, she was awake half the night.

The grand staircase up to the Academy could hold the entire student body, so it easily accommodated the stream of officials, professors, and students headed for the reaping day festivities. Artemis sped up, taking three steps at a time, while still attempting a casual dignity. Every other person she passed stopped to wave her down and exchange pleasantries, and although her impatience was rising, she kept a placid smile stretched across her lips as she greeted them all in turn. She nodded when they asked after her, and then nodded some more, albeit less enthusiastically when they asked about her father.

She made her way through an entry draped in black banners, then sprinted down a vaulted passage, and into cavernous Heavensbee Hall, where they would watch the broadcast of the reaping ceremony. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that she wasn't quite as late as she believed, and the official ceremony hadn't yet started. The hall was humming with faculty and students and a number of Games officials. 

Avoxes wove through the crowd with trays of posca, a concoction of watery wine laced with honey and herbs. One passed by Artemis, and despite her parched throat, she waved him away. On principle, she avoided any and all intoxicants. It was stronger than most people thought, and in previous years she had seen many make complete fools of themselves by imbibing too deeply. Artemis would be damned if she allowed herself to lose control like that. That and given her father's dependence on morphling, she imagined she must be genetically predisposed to addiction. 

In the great hall, she was once again forced to make her rounds, as faculty and students alike beckoned to introduce her to their circles. She eventually travelled past the hundreds of cushioned chairs set up for the occasion and onto the dais, where the communications professor, Satyria Click was regaling a mix of Academy professors and Games officials with some wild story. Amongst the gathered crowd was the biology instructor, Alfred Stanton, who stood off to the side, eyes deliberately wandering the area as if to make a show of his boredom. When his eyes caught sight of Artemis, he brightened, his face lifting in a smile as he waved her over. 

Oh great, more greetings. If Artemis had to utter another false pleasantry, she'd lose her breakfast. 

No, she wouldn't. She knew better than that. Besides, she was Professor Stanton's teaching aide, and it was quite literally in her job description to be at his beck and call. 

When she arrived, she scowled internally. It was inevitable, she knew that, but she was hoping that at least today of all days, she'd be delayed in setting eyes upon the one person who held the power of ruining her mornings. 

"Oh, Coriolanus!" Satyria drawled, as the blonde boy gave her the customary kiss on the cheek. "Here’s my star pupil.”

Artemis held no qualms against Satyria, not really. She was amusing and not overly uptight, one of the few professors who allowed students to call them by their first names. It was her teaching aide against whom she held a grudge. 

Professor Stanton, not to be outdone, clapped his meaty hand on Artemis's shoulder, making her stagger. Maybe the man needed to lay off the weightlifting for a bit. He announced her presence to the circle enthusiastically, earning a scowl from Satyria. 

"And Artemis, my star pupil. We were afraid we'd miss you this morning."

Artemis ducked her head bashfully, mumbling something about running late, but Professor Stanton only laughed boisterously, as he continued to speak. 

Coriolanus Snow was seething. Well, no that was perhaps a little extreme. Artemis Highbottom did not deserve such a reaction from him. She didn't deserve the energy. When he hadn't seen her earlier today, he had deluded himself into thinking that she simply wouldn't come. She was never late after all, so the fact of the matter must be that she simply wasn't coming. With her gone, he could be the sole beneficiary of the crowd's attention, networking his way into their hearts. 

Then he had seen her arrive, panting and slightly out of breath and he had to admit he marveled at the sight. Her coffee skin flushed and her hair thrown over her shoulder haphazardly as if she'd been running. Coriolanus had been amused, to say the least. He had hoped that she wouldn't wander over to his little corner, that he would be able to have Satyria's circle all to himself, but it was wishful thinking. People knew of him of course, being the son of Crassus Snow and all, but he realized that they tended to forget about him in her presence. After all, it was far easier to garner the good graces of one's father if he was still alive. Even if said father was Casca High-as-a-Kite-Bottom. Snow sniggered at the nickname, a creation of his own genius. 

Almost as if she could read his mind, Artemis shot him a withering glare, and Coriolanus stiffened, standing straighter to shoot her one back. The circle had shifted, placing him right next to her and if he stretched his fingers, they'd brush against hers. Not that he'd want to of course. How utterly repulsive. 

“Beautiful shirt. Where did you get such a thing?” Satyria was addressing Snow now, surveying him carefully. 

He looked at the shirt as if surprised by its existence and gave the shrug of a young man of limitless options. They didn't have to know that all that was left to him was his name. The world still needed to think of Coriolanus as rich. 

“The Snows have deep closets,” he said airily. “I was trying for respectful yet celebratory.”

Artemis held back a snort. 

Celebratory, my ass. 

The Snows' closets were as deep as their pockets, which was to say, containing all the depth of a bottlecap. Standing this close to him, she could almost smell the faint scent of dead marigolds and potato starch his shirt was emitting. 

"Is something funny, Miss Highbottom?" Coriolanus turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 

Just your pathetic fibbing skills, she wanted to say. Perhaps she had not been as discreet with her expressions as she thought she'd been because he was still waiting for an answer. 

"Not at all, Mr. Snow," Artemis gave him one of her very best saccharine smiles. "I just agree with Satyria. That is indeed a lovely shirt."

Their professor beamed, happy to be validated.

“And so it is. What are these cunning buttons?” Satyria asked, fingering one of the cubes on his cuff. “Tesserae?” 

“Are they? Well, that explains why they remind me of the maid’s bathroom,” Coriolanus responded, drawing a chuckle from her friends. 

This was the impression he fought to sustain. A reminder that he was the rare person who had a maid’s bathroom — let alone one tiled with tesserae — tempered with a self-deprecating joke about his shirt. 

He nodded at Satyria. “Lovely gown. It’s new, isn’t it?” He could tell at a glance that it was the same dress she always wore to the reaping ceremony, refurbished with tufts of black feathers. But she had validated his shirt, and he needed to return the favour.

As he did so, his eyes couldn't help but return to the figure at his side. While Satyria's renovated dress made him feel better about his own attire, brought to life only through his cousin Tigris's efforts, Artemis's had the exact opposite effect. It was new, almost obscenely so. Wasteful extravagance, he thought to himself bitterly. What a vain and shallow creature, but such was the case with all the Capitol women he supposed. 

"What a wonderful ensemble, Artemis!" Satyria crowed once again. "You absolutely must give me the details of your dressmaker. Doesn't she look lovely, Coriolanus?"

Snow blinked. The question was directed at him, clearly, but he couldn't force the words out, even as his professor looked at him expectantly. 

“Elegant,” he finally stated blandly.

Liar. 

Artemis's eyes flashed at him triumphantly, almost as if calling him out. 

The adults wandered off, and their company was replaced by that of their classmates. Arachne Crane slipped her arm into Artemis's as soon she was within range, and Artemis sent her a smile that was only slightly less false than the one she had been wearing all morning. 

"Finally, and here I thought our star pupils would be too busy to give us humble folk time of day," she complained. 

"Don't ever use the word humble, Arachne," the boy to her right, Festus Creed, scoffed. "It does not suit you."

Arachne rolled her eyes and sipped her drink petulantly. 

"Have you tried this lamb, it's scandalous!"

The only thing scandalous is the president's son eating with his hands, Artemis thought to herself, but she knew better than to say it out loud. 

Lucky for her, Festus didn't. 

"Only the vulgar eat with their fingers, Felix," he chastised. "What, daddy not teach you table manners?"

"Maybe he would have if he wasn't so busy running the country!" Felix retorted. 

The conversation veered off in the direction of the Plinth Prize, and their eyes were drawn to the family standing off to a corner, speaking amongst themselves. 

"Who would have thought that you could buy yourself into the capitol?" Felix muttered derisively. 

"You can buy god himself, provided you have the resources," Artemis finally commented. 

"You can't buy class though. Did you see Sejanus's mother's outfit," Festus paused for dramatic effect before sniggering. "Sorry, his ma's."

At least he had a mother who cared for him, which is more than Artemis could say for the imbeciles around her exhibiting motherless behaviour. 

"Dress a turnip in a ballgown and it'll still beg to be mashed," Snow jeered. 

Artemis scoffed. And here was the biggest motherless moron of them all. 

"Interesting that you of all people should say that, Coriolanus," she eyed him carefully. Gone were the honorifics she had addressed him by earlier in front of the professors. This was a battlefield and there were no pleasantries in war. 

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

The two stared at each other, neither wanting to be the one to look away first and their classmates glanced between them uneasily. 

Eventually, Coriolanus blinked, his ears burning, and Artemis flashed him a grin. If he wasn't thinking about carving the smile from her face, he might have thought it suited her. 

If it was a battle of wills, Artemis was a born victor. 

Their conversation about Sejanus came to a halt when he approached them. He didn't bother greeting any of them but he smiled at Artemis, which she heartily returned. Arachne shot her a questioning glance, but if the Capitol was a hierarchy, Artemis outranked her, and therefore did not have to answer to her. 

Coriolanus eyed their interaction sullenly. He was a charmer, it was the only currency he had access to after all, and over the years he had made his best efforts to charm the Dean's enigmatic daughter. Perhaps he thought it'd make Dean Highbottom detest him a little less, if he had Artemis's favour, but although it appeared that she shared nothing else with her father, she shared in his disdain for Coriolanus. There was nothing he could do to endear himself to her, and he had long since stopped trying. 

It especially irritated him, that it was Sejanus of all people who had managed to make friends with her. He did not even need the networking opportunity it provided. Snow observed the brunette boy now, his soft charcoal gray suit that reeked of money. 

Sejanus’s father was a District 2 manufacturer who had sided with the president. He had made such a fortune off munitions that he’d been able to buy his family’s way into a life in the Capitol. The Plinths now enjoyed privileges that the oldest, most powerful families had earned over generations. It was unprecedented that Sejanus, a district-born boy, was a student at the Academy, but his father’s lavish donation had allowed for much of the school’s postwar reconstruction. A Capitol-born citizen would have expected a building to be renamed for them. Sejanus’s father had only requested an education for his son. 

For Coriolanus, the Plinths and their kind were a threat to all he held dear. The newly rich climbers in the Capitol were chipping away at the old order simply by virtue of their presence. It was particularly vexing because the bulk of the Snow family fortune had also been invested in munitions — but in District 13. Their sprawling complex, blocks and blocks of factories and research facilities, had been bombed to dust. District 13 had been nuked, and the entire area still emitted unlivable levels of radiation. The center of the Capitol’s military manufacturing had shifted to District 2 and fallen right into the Plinths’ laps. When news of District 13’s demise had reached the Capitol, Coriolanus’s grandmother had publicly brushed it off, saying it was fortunate that they had plenty of other assets. But they didn’t. 

Sejanus had arrived on the school playground ten years ago, a shy, sensitive boy cautiously surveying the other children with a pair of soulful brown eyes much too large for his strained face. When word had gotten out that he’d come from the districts, Coriolanus’s first impulse had been to join his classmates’ campaign to make the new kid’s life a living hell. He was glad he didn't because when Casca Highbottom's daughter befriended him, it put an end to all public acts of cruelty. They still mocked him in private, but that couldn't be helped. His district blood simply invited the scorn. Coriolanus's decision to simply ignore the boy had only reinforced his image. The other Capitol children took it to mean that baiting the district brat was beneath him, and Sejanus took it as decency. Neither take was quite accurate, but both worked in his favour. 

"Sejanus," Festus grimaced. "You made it to the reaping for once."

"And you made it to graduation Festus, we're both shocked," the brunette boy responded. 

"Spill it, who won the prize?" Arachne inquired. 

Sejanus scoffed. Like any of these rich Capitol children even needed it. 

"Oh no, I'm not going to ruin my father's big day. No one here actually likes him, but they all love his money. You know what that's like, don't you Arachne?"

Arachne scowled, leaning up to whisper in Artemis's ear about what a stuck-up thing he was. Artemis did not grace her with a response, but when the bell rang, and the students began to assemble in front of the dais, she took the opportunity to slip her arm out of Arachne's. Sejanus fell into step beside her then, taking the opportunity to slip a bottle of water into her hands. 

"And this is for?" she raised an eyebrow. 

"I know you can't stand the posca. Thought you might need something to drink, given all the talking they have you doing around here."

"And you thought I couldn't get myself some water?"

"I thought you shouldn't have to," he rubbed his neck ruefully. "Although I realize I might be a little late."

"I appreciate the gesture anyway. Thank you, Sejanus."

Artemis granted him her only real smile of the day. His sheepish smile reminded her of the day they first met, when this district boy with the cloddish accent first wandered up to her, offering her his bag of gumdrops.

She followed him to where a special section of chairs, six rows by four, had been set up for the mentors. To her chagrin, he took a seat to the right, leaving the only vacant seat next to one Coriolanus Snow. She felt the childish desire to kick his chair out from under him as he went to sit down, but shook away the traitorous thought. It was beneath her. 

When her father began to speak, Artemis suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Dean Casca Highbottom, the man credited with the creation of the Hunger Games, presented himself to the students with all the verve of a sleepwalker, dreamy-eyed and, as usual, doped up on morphling. Artemis zoned out as he went on his usual spiel of how the Hunger Games, his displeasure at the whole event evident in his tone, although perhaps that was just the drugs talking. 

"There has been a change this year. One final assignment to prove your worth, because the esteemed citizens of the Capitol have grown bored of the Games and simply aren't watching anymore. And if the Games are to continue at all, there must be an audience," he continued rambling. "Head Gamemaker Dr. Gaul has stepped in to incentivize patriotic values with her own unique flair. Starting with you. The Plinth Prize will no longer be determined by who has the best grades...but by who is the best mentor in the Hunger Games."

Nervous whispers fluttered among the students, as they exchanged uneasy glances. A subtle unease threaded its way through the crowd as they leaned in, both captivated and unsettled by the Dean's cryptic words. 

Artemis had been aware of this turn of events, and so did Sejanus, as it was his family's money involved, but she took great satisfaction at the dumbfounded expression on Coriolanus's face when he heard the news. It made the dourness of the entire situation as a whole much more bearable. 

"Your goal is to turn these children into spectacles, not survivors," Dean Highbottom announced. 

Artemis was right. Anything could be art. Anything could be turned into a spectacle, even the most depraved of carnages, and what greater carnage was there than the Hunger Games? 

Artemis did not need the Plinth Prize. She imagined her father would finance her higher education as he did all her other luxuries, but perhaps he might look at her differently if she won it. Perhaps it might gain his admiration. Perhaps he might respect her if she earned something of her own for once. Perhaps he might finally return home sometimes. 

She did not care much for the Games, in the sense that they held no significance for her, so far removed were they from her daily life. Her classmates were a varied spectrum on where they stood, ones like Sejanus speaking out firmly against the ritual, and others enjoyed the butchery, the slaughtering of district lives. Artemis simply did not care. They were irrelevant, but if it meant gaining her father's approval, Artemis would make herself care. 

As the large screens in front of them came to life with life footage from the reapings, Dean Highbottom began to recite the mentor assignments. 

"District One, boy, goes to . . .” he squinted at the paper, trying hard to focus. “Glasses,” he mumbled. “Forgot them.” Everyone stared at his glasses, already perched on his nose, and waited while his fingers found them. “Ah, here we go. Livia Cardew.” 

Livia’s pointed little face broke into a grin and she punched the air in victory, shouting “Yes!” in her shrill voice. She had always been prone to gloating. As if the plum assignment was solely a reflection on her, and not on her mother running the largest bank in the Capitol. Purely by chance, Artemis exchanged a cursory glance with Coriolanus just then, secretive like a private joke, which left her feeling quite unsettled. 

Coriolanus felt increasing desperation as Dean Highbottom stumbled through the list, assigning each district’s boy and girl a mentor. After ten years, a pattern had emerged. The better-fed, more Capitol-friendly districts of 1 and 2 produced more victors, with the fishing and farming tributes from 4 and 11 also being contenders. Coriolanus had hoped for either a 1 or a 2, but neither was assigned to him, which was made more insulting when Sejanus scored the District 2 boy, and Artemis the girl. 

Unlike Livia, Artemis received news of her good fortune with tact, pushing her sheet of raven hair over her shoulder as she studiously made note of her tribute in her binder. Their brief moment of camaraderie during Livia's outburst was forgotten as she shot him a smug smirk and he seethed. 

District 4 passed without mention of his name, and his last real chance for a victor — the District 11 boy — was assigned to Clemensia Dovecote, daughter of the energies secretary. Something was amiss when a Snow, who also happened to be one of the Academy’s high-honour students, had gone unrecognized. Coriolanus was beginning to think they had forgotten him — perhaps they were giving him some special position? — when, to his horror, he heard Dean Highbottom mumble, “And last but not least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

[blueink01]

Yn’s Info

Name: Yn Ln/Elapid (Adopted Family Name) also known as "The Crimson Queen" to all demons.

Appearance: a Hybrid Humanoid female with Deer Antlers, yellow-goldish Snake eyes, & Kitsune tails.

Age: 100,000+ (17)

Home: The Household of the Elapid, the Happy Hotel & etc.

Family: The Elapid snakes.

Good-Relationships: Alastor, Cherri, Angel Dust, Charlie, Vaggie, Husker, Niffy, Egg Bois, & Monty, Arackniss & Pentniss.

Bad-Relationships: Valentino, Vox, Mammon, & Velvet.

Likes: Drinks, friends, family, job, papering, music, fat nugget, reading, her pet gator demon (Maya), & color blue, red, black & etc.

Dislikes: Henroin (Angel Dust's Dad), Abusers, anyone that disrespects or touch her lovers, hungry power sinners, harassment, Backstabbers & etc.

Backstory: When she was alive, she was a kind, polite, determined, and hard workin student who went to college & got her master degree. she become an painter, makeup artist, fashion designer, & a musician. She owned 2 large businesses, a burlesque, a fashion studio & more. She wad described as an diligent angel to everyone. She always like spending her time outside looking at the sky to relax and sleep in the nice windy afternoon. But at that exact day, a bunch of jealous people kidnapped her and sacrificed her to hell in exchange for popularity and money.

Yn’s Children:

Yn + Stella + Stolas = Silver Moon Goetia

Yn + Fizzarolli + Asmodious = Félix

Yn + Carmilla Carmine = Odette & Clara

Adopted child = Isabel Owlette

Yn's Abilities:

             - Shapeshifting: Yn can change her appearance in order to fool/torment others.

             - Size Manipulation: Likely as another form of her shapeshifting, Yn can change the size of her body to that of a giant, although she has only been shown using this ability once.

             - Mind Control: Yn can use hypnotism to control other demons. Hypnotism is done primarily via eye contact.

             - Vast Dark Magic: Yn is shown to use dark magic, such as conjuring an ice cream, turning it into a monster, or restoring a broken precious egg.

             - Shadow/Darkness Manipulation: Yn can create, shape and manipulate darkness and shadows. Darkness is mostly used to cloud everything into total darkness, but can also be channeled to a variety of effects, both as an absence of light and a solid substance. Yn can also control and manipulate the beings that exist there, create and dispel shields and areas of total darkness, create constructs and weapons, teleport one's self through massive distances via shadows, etc.

             - Portal Creation: Yn is able to open portals to other places and dimensions.

             - Telekinetic Choke: Yn can use an ability like the force from Star Wars to choke people.

             - Shadow Teleportation: Yn is able to teleport by dissolving himself into a shadowy mist.

             - Superhuman Strength: Yn's physical strength is enough to kick throw people miles away.

             - Essokinesis: As a supernatural being, Yn can warp reality itself, like moving into a picture, or distorting her own mirror reflection.

             - Pyrokinesis: Yn can ignite and start fire when he gets angry.

             - Acid Vomit: Yn can vomit acid that is strong enough to melt anything it touches.

             - Dimensional Travel: Yn can travel between different dimensions and cross over different planes of existence or travel across various forms of reality.

             - Seductive Aura: Yn generates powerful, aphrodisiac, seductive bodily emissions which induce titillating pleasure and carnal desire while subtly lifting inhibitions. Those affected become fastly obsessed with Yn and feel extreme amounts of sexual attraction and sexual desire towards her on an instinctual and subconscious level.

             - Immortality: Yn was "Blessed" by a powerful being right when she entered hell, making her completely immortal. Not even holy or demonic weapons are able to kill her.

             - Flight: Using Yn's six angel like wings, Yn can fly at great speeds.

             - Divinity: Yn possesses an incredibly amount of divine magic that allows her to truly destroy and erase the souls of sinners and demons, killing them spiritually and physically.

             - Chaos Manipulation: Yn can create, shape and manipulate the chaotic forces in the universe, allowing her to manipulate probability or manipulate and even shatter reality. She's able to change, mutate, destroy or otherwise manipulate any matter, space/time, living beings, organizations or minds and spirits as well as containing it, so it doesn't spread and spreads only in a desired way.

             - Parafrosynikinesis: Yn can absorb, create, control, and manipulate madness/insanity of himself, others or the madness energy around, whether increasing, decreasing, causing or otherwise enhancing insanity, even manifesting the emotional energy to physical level and gain power from it.

             - Spatiokinesis: One of Yn's most powerful powers. At the peak of her power, Yn is capable of tearing down and destroying the entire Universe at large, as well as rebuild it.

             - Deal-Making: Yn is capable of gaining more power through deals, granting her clients power that most sinners could never hope to achieve while at the same time taking control of her client's souls to keep them from using their new power against her and order them as she pleases.

             - Pseudo-Black Hole Generation: Yn can conjure powerful and devastating singularities capable of compressing and absorbing anything in their path.

             - Power Granting: Yn can bestow immense power into any entity of her choosing.

            - Self-Sustenance: Yn possesses eternal stamina and does not require food, water, sleep, or oxygen to maintain herself.

            - Atmokinesis: Yn can alter the weather across all seven rings of Hell to a seemingly limitless degree, but often in a way that depends on her mood, such as making it cloudy, sunny, or creating thunderstorms of many different kinds.

            - Angelic Power: God granted Yn with an astonishing amount of angelic power that rendered him naturally stronger than all demons and most angels without having to train a day in her life.

            - Wealth: Yn is one the wealthiest entites in Hell due to her business and status, which grants her the ability to have practically everything she wants.

            - Multilingualism: Yn is well-versed in human languages such as English, French, and Italian. He can also speak in both angelic and demonic tongues.

            - Nigh-Omnificence: Yn's creation magic is especially potent; She is capable of instantly spawning objects such as instruments, knives, swords, flowers, and books out of thin air, and can easily creating living organisms of her design with a casual snap of her fingers.

            - Forcefield: Yn can create forcefields around herself or anything she wants to.

            - Mentokinesis: Mentokinesis is the ability to control the mind, creating illusions, as well as covering Precognition: the ability to see the future.

            - Abstract Existence: Yn has the ability to embody an abstraction, such as a concept, thought, or information, and being immortal thanks to it. This power has a variety of uses, ranging from a high degree of control over the abstraction and its manifestations, the aforementioned immortality, or even being unaffected by abilities that can't target the abstraction.

            - Necromancy: Yn has magical abilities that revolve around manipulating the dead, death, the death-force and/or souls for good (i.e., resurrecting the dead), evil (in various ways), or neither. She can also communicate with the deceased, either by summoning their spirit as an apparition or raising them bodily for the purpose of divination, imparting the means to foretell future events or discover hidden knowledge.

            - Essokinesis: Yn can create, change, destroy, or even alter reality just by thinking about it.

            - Control Over The Deadlights: Yn can control the Dead Lights which are writhing, radiant orange lights that are a mysterious but very deadly and terrifying eldritch form of energy that originate from the "void" of creation, the void being a space of complete emptyness, darkness and chaos.

            - Holy Swords: Yn has magical angelic like swords that are so sharp can cut through anything like butter.

            - Blood of Life: Because she's a sacrificed soul, she still haves her human blood mix in with her angelic blood that can make a dead rose turn back into a life rose when in contact or present.

THE HAREM

RULERS OF HELL:

LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR

CHARLIE MORNINGSTAR

LILITH MORNINGSTAR

OVERLORDS:

ALASTOR

SIR PENTIOUS

MONTY PYTHON

The V’s (VELVETTE, VOX & VALENTINO)

ZESTIAL

CARMILLA CARMINE

ROSIE

SINNERS:

ANGEL DUST

HUSKER

ARACKNISS

BLITZO

MOXXIE & MILLIE

FIZZAROLLI

VORTEX

VAGGIE

CHERRI BOMB

NIFFTY

SALLIE MAY

LOONA

VEROSIKA MAYDAY

GLITZ & GLAM

BARBIE

7 DEADLY SINS:

SATAN

BEELZEBUB

ASMODEUS

LEVIATHAN

BELPEGOR

GOETIA FAMILY:

STOLAS

STELLA

OCTAVIA

And ETC.

STARKERS:

ANDREALPHUS

MRS. MAYBERRY

MARTHA

CHAZWICK

CRIMSON

PAIMON

STRIKER

SEVIATHAN VON ELDRITCH & HELSA VON ELDRITCH

MICHAEL (Lucy's TWIN BRO)

WANNABES:

GOD

LUCIFER'S BROTHERS

MAMMON

EMILY

ADAM & LUTE

ETC.

Previous Page: Front Cover

Next Page: Ch. 1: Welcome to Hell

[melsie-sims]

With the rules out of the way, it's time to introduce our first group of sims! They will be living at the Founders' Bed & Breakfast.

From L to R, we've got Alana, Bridget, David, Carmine and Emery.

Alana Carrington

Age: 24 years old Gender: Cis Female Sexuality: Straight Personality Type: Family/Popularity Traits: Outgoing, Family-Oriented, Cheerful Current Aspiration: Neighborhood Confidante

Biography: Don’t let her cute face and friendly personality fool you; Alana can very much get stuff done when she puts her mind to it, and she will not tolerate any of your llamapoop. At only 24 years old, she’s been picked to be the first mayor of SimNation and she’s super excited to lead her group toward a bright future.

Bridget Baker

Age: 27 years old Gender: Cis Female Sexuality: Straight Personality Type: Knowledge/Fortune Traits: Foodie, Perfectionist, High Maintenance Current Aspiration: Master Chef

Biography: Bridget’s ex-best friend stole her bakery in SimCity. It’s a whole thing, no need to bore you with the legal drama… Bridget is homeless, jobless, and friendless… so it’s the perfect time to leave everything behind and try something new. She plans to open up the first coffee shop in the new nation, and this time she’ll do it all on her own! 

David Matheson

Age: 21 years old Gender: Cis Male Sexuality: Straight Personality Type: Knowledge/Fortune Traits: Bookworm, Socially Awkward, Ambitious Current Aspiration: Successful Lineage

Biography: A middle child from a middle-class home, David doesn’t have a fun backstory to explain why he decided to apply for the Build-a-City Program. Honestly? He didn’t expect the government would choose him. He’s far too average, far too awkward, far too… well, he’s far too David. He’s good at math and he’s been known to read a lot, but that’s about it… 

Carmine De Angelis

Age: 23 years old Gender: Cis Male Sexuality: Bisexual Personality Type: Popularity/Pleasure Traits: Goofball, Music Lover, Non-Committal Current Aspiration: Party Animal

Biography: Professional couch surfer Carmine isn’t too sure why the SimCity government picked him to accompany the other fourteen Sims to start up a new nation. He’s never been good at anything — or rather he’s never cared enough to try. He just wants to have a good time and see where this crazy adventure will take him…

Emery Ververs

Age: 19 years old Gender: Cis Female Sexuality: Bisexual Personality Type: Pleasure/Romance Traits: Creative, Clumsy, Freegan Current Aspiration: Painter Extraordinaire

Biography: Emery isn’t a stranger to living off the grid. She’s been on the streets since the age of sixteen, making a few simoleons as a street artist and finding everything else she needs in dumpsters. It’s definitely not glamorous, but the government seems to think she’s on to something. After all, they did pick her to be one of the BACC founders. 

[mrdirtybear]

'Tribute Money, Head of Peter' a detail of the fresco in the Brancacci Chapel in Santa Maria del Carmine, in Florence, as painted by Florentine painter Masaccio (1401-1428). Please left click here to see the whole fresco.... The title refers to Mathew Chapter 17 verses 24 - 27, where Peter raised with Jesus the idea of obeying the law of the day and paying the temple tax, money raised by the Roman state in both Roman and Jewish coinage, Jesus did not say 'Sling your hook' to Peter in reply, but instead said 'Peter, go and fish and look in the mouth of the first fish you find.'. Peter did this and in that first fish was the coin to pay the tax.

[whimp-whamp-whump]

a character stumbling through a hallway, knife in one hand, the other pressed against their blood-stained abdomen

(this trope gets me every time and i can never read enough of it— can’t wait to read your interpretation of it!— if you want to ofc no pressure)

(i'm going to write this w my ocs ... give ygs a taste and maybe write more if you like them enough? also sorry for taking so long with this ask TT i've been thinking abt it since i got it.)

CW for blood mentions.

Footsteps clamber down wooden floors, their rhythm staggering as each step grows more and more arduous, wringing out what little strength remains within him. Slickened fingertips searching for purchase on the chipped frames that line the halls only smear the red liquid onto Eric's paintings, marring the glass encasing in swatches of blood.

A wail from the upstairs runs goosebumps down his neck and arms - the noise arises from directly behind him, inhuman and reverberating throughout his skull until he collapses at an end table.

He presses his forehead against the dark wood of the leg; cool against his skin, easing the throbbing as the pressure worsens. The screaming doesn't stop, and even as he screws his eyes shut, the cries only work to deafen him.

A trembling hand curls over his stomach and latches onto his waist. The movements of his subconscious startle him, but when he checks to ensure it's his own arm around himself, he allows his shoulders to slouch. The tension drops to the floor with a thud, and Adam is able to withdraw his hand from his abdomen.

Blood. There's so much blood. The knife he clutches in his other hand rattles on the floor as his shivers worsen. A frenzied feeling winds up in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with adrenaline as the weight of the situation bears down on him, pins him to the floor on his knees - the potency of Eric forces him to repent.

"But I won't," he seethes to the moon out the window, eyes glimmering with an elation he's only ever seen on the painter's worst days. A laugh falls from quivering lips, raspy and strained. It makes him cough and heave; his body rejects the acceptance of his actions.

Clouds pass over the satellite, and it's then his audience is gone. Roars of defiance rip from his throat, raw and angry, as he searches in hysterics for proof: proof he did it. He can't move from his spot, but when his fingertips come back to his stained shirt, he realizes he doesn't need to. Slowly, they work the hem of the cloth from where it's tucked in his pants. It rises, skin of his belly exposed to the open window.

Blood covers his skin as watercolors splash over cardstock, vibrant and red, darkening around the edges where it dries. It clings to the fabric as it coagulates over the surface, sticking to his fingers as they trace over the stains. He laughs again - their path is uninterrupted.

"Nothing." The hem falls from whence it came. His hands drop to his sides, knuckles against the rug and palms turned upward. His eyelids weigh heavily on him now, and he cannot tilt his chin upward to face the moonlight - yet it shines on him, waiting, listening.

"His blood is on my hands . . ."

The knife glints from where it lies on the flooring, wooden handle soaked with carmine hues.

"I killed him."

His eyes flutter shut as he comes to rest his head against the table one more time.

He can't hurt me no more.

(A/N: so idk if u read this but UHHH this features two characters from a work i plan to expand and maybe one day publish? for now they stay in the drafts and i do drabbles for them here and there... but there are references ygs may not understand bc i've legitimately never spoken of them before, and everything i say is intentional. this is not the canon ending to my work lol it's really the opposite, if that word even applies here - let's just say it's drastically different! :D these characters / this story have / has been in the works for going on three years </3 they r my brainchild and they make me so happy (they try to kill each other, but everyone loves tom and jerry couples <3). u can ask me abt them, idm! i might publish more drabbles in the future, too.)

p.s., sorry again for taking so long to get to your ask :( !

[elite-amarys]

Are there some things you dislike about how the show/series/etc. portray the character you have picked up? If so, what?

//Omg the stupid fuckin. Crush that she's implied to have on Kieran.

I *hate* that, it is NOT canon over here. It's weird and the epitome of heteronormative writing. Like, tbh she has 0 chemistry with Kieran. But she has SO MUCH chemistry with Carmine. They really pulled that out of left field. In this canon, she is describing lingering anxiety about potentially messing up around Kieran, and that's THAT.

I also hate that they made her a still life painter in the epilogue because I can't paint for SHIT and she's a perfectionist /silly completely silly this is actually a really cute detail and I love that they specified 'still life' paintings. It just makes sense that she would struggle with drawing people to me.

[cakesdown]

i genuinely love kids playing with my old creepypasta oc carmine like she’s a doll in their toybox. please keep putting her in your delightful gacha life soap opera dramas. i saw one today where she decided men arent shit and started dating a female bloody painter instead. i’m delighted

[larvasmoon]

Portrait of the pale elf (3) - Be my muse

Chapter summary : After being forbidden to go and see Astarion by her master painter, Selene disobeys. Desperate to draw him again, she ventures into Carmine Red and ends up striking a deal with the pale elf.

Word Count : 6,5k

Trigger warnings : Physical and psychological abuse. Manipulation.

Author's Note : welcome to the third installment of this story, thank you so much if you've read everything so far ! This is a bit of a longer chapter, but it contains a lot of important scenes that I've thought about for quite some time. I hope you will like it nonetheless :)

As always, here's my Ao3 darling

The tight vice of Damian’s fingers around her wrist was painful. Her hand was already growing numb when she got a glimpse of his manor’s dark gates over his shoulder. 

How long had they been walking in silence like this ? 

Selene couldn’t tell. 

During all this time, she’d been lost in thoughts. She’d forced her mind to take her far away from him, from his bruising grip, and from this sense of impending doom.

Eyes trained on the sky picking through the roofs, like a wild animal with it’s leg caught in a trap. 

She made a list in her head of every little beautiful thing she could think of. 

The moon, still high in the sky. The air, damp, misty, thick of midnight’s dew. The scent of Astarion’s skin, herbal and citrusy, when he’d bent over the table to touch her. 

Her eyes followed the familiar and strange pattern embedded in the dark metal, while he hastily unlocked it with his old and heavy master’s keychain. 

In some corner of her mind, she knew that he kept holding her like this, because he feared that she might take the first chance to escape and flee. She had in the last few weeks. Unable to bear the look of utter disappointment he gave her when she confessed that she hadn’t painted anything new.

A small and alarmed voice screamed in her head. Run. Now. Before it’s too late.

She looked back at the streets behind her, and fought the urge to retrace her steps.

If she’d truly trusted him in the first place, she wouldn’t have been pondering the inevitable question : He won’t try and keep me locked inside, will he ?

But she did, and it was all the answer she needed. 

Inside the manor, nothing had changed from the time she used to live there. It was still as ostentatious and luxurious as before, full of high moulded ceilings, precious tapestries on the walls, and marble floors. 

Selene had carefully avoided to come here in the last years, as she didn’t like to revisit the memory of her childhood and adolescence, by walking through the cold rooms and vast corridors. 

Finn, the old butler, was waiting by the stairs when they entered, "I have lit a fire in your study, sir."

Damian didn’t so much as cast a glance towards him, he simply handed him his coat and waved a dismissive hand. 

"It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Selene", he added in a hushed tone, and she smiled back at him.

He hadn’t changed at all either. It was as if he was part of the decor, a permanent addition to the manor, like the Fallheel’s family heirlooms. 

Everything from his salt and paper slicked hait, his three piece suit, to his warm green eyes, was exactly as she remembered it to be. 

"Good evening, Finn" 

Her master coughed at the top of the stairs he had begun to climb, a silent invitation to follow. And so she did, walking fast by the paintings on the walls of the corridor. 

She had painted a few of them, back when she was still able to. 

In what felt like another lifetime of hers. 

In Damian’s study, the warm glow of the fire was deceitfully inviting and comforting. 

But when he closed the door behind her and locked it, her blood ran cold. 

He slowly sat on this edge of his desk, and folded his arms on his chest. "Can you explain to me what it is exactly that you thought you were doing back there ?" 

"I was practicing" she wrung her hands, standing in front of him like a child reciting a lesson in front of their teacher, "I’ve finally managed to draw a few sketches that I’m quite satisfied with."

Furrowing his brows and sighing, he extended his hand, silently asking to see them. 

Selene dug her sketchbook out of her leather pouch, and presented it to him. 

She resented herself for letting him have so much power over her, after all those years. What he thought of her art should not have mattered, not anymore. Who cares about what an imposter thinks anyways ? 

And yet, when his scowl deepened and he turned the pages of her sketch block so violently that she thought they would tear, she recoiled. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, "What are those, Selene ?", and when she did not answer he kept on angrily leafing through it, punctuating every turn of page with an insult, "Garbage", "Disgusting", "Repulsive"’

Her face fell. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting but … something different. Shouldn’t he feel happy about this ?

"Throw all of this away" he growled, slamming the sketchbook on his desk.

"Wha- Why ?"

Damian stood up and crossed the room to sit down on one of the armchairs by the windows, from which he could admire the city lights. "Because it’s him. Astarion Ancunín."

She matched his frown, thinking back to their encounter, earlier in the Black Cat’s Delight, when Damian had ignored him.

"What about him ? He looks like he’s just walked out of one of Arnith’s painting ! He is a perfect subject for painting if I ever saw any."

The painter was famous in all of the Forgotten Realms for the sublime fresco that she’d painted in a secret room of Rivington’s Ilmater temple. A work larger than life, that one could stare at for hours without registering all of the details of its composition. Selene had seen it back when she was still a studying painting. Damian had taken her to see it, so that she would always remember ‘"what she should aspire to" as an artist. To this day, she could still vividly picture the martyr at the center. A being of pale and delicate beauty, tied at the wrist and ankles by red ropes. Disarticulated and marred with gruesome wounds, yet lying so peacefully in a pool of his own blood.

"It does not matter, he has … a bad reputation", he breathed out, getting up once again to pace back and forth in the room, "And rumors are everything to us. They make or unmake a painter in this god’s forsaken city !" 

Ah there it is, his precious reputation, she seethed, clenching her fists, it’s always about his reputation.

"They make or unmake you, perhaps. Not me. I’d have to be someone for that."

Damian stopped in his track, looking back at her, wide-eyed and awestruck. He’d never seen Selene resist him before that night, but what he’d said about Astarion seemed to have awoken something in her. 

She did not know the vampire personally, but the way she’d gotten to know him through her art, made her strangely protective of him. As if he was now part of this place in her heart, where she secretly kept the collection of things she longed to paint one day. 

In her own name.

"Your name is associated to mine, wether you like it or not!", he lost his temper, walking closer to her once again and, for the second time in the evening, he grabbed her by the arms to brutally shake her, "I do not wish for us to be linked to that vampire man-whore. You will not see him ever again, do you understand ?"

This time she did not cower, she simply stared back at him with a face full of defiance.

A groan of pain almost slipped past her lips when his fingers held her so tight she was sure it’d bruise. "Do you even know him ?"

"Oh I do ! Much more than you’ll ever know, and trust me, you do not want to mingle with the elf", he  chuckled, letting her go and almost sending flying into the chest of drawers that sat in a corner of the room.

 "At best, he would…" his gaze lingered uncomfortably on her body, "defile you" he visibly struggled to say, "and at worst, he would drain you dry."

All her, once contained anger, came spilling out. To hells with the sensible and perfect student act. 

"I’m a grown woman, I can look after myself ! He inspired me to draw again, god’s dammit ! If this is the only chance I have of getting better, I will gladly see him again."

Damian had his back to her know, braced over the desk, and hunched over her sketches once again.

"No you won’t ! End of discussion. If you insist on it, you will stay here with me for a few weeks", he cruelly declared, "Where I can watch over you." 

When she stayed silent, he turned to face her once again. She stood sill, staring at him with wide, horrified, eyes. ‘Will you go as far as caging me now ? Keep me like a pet or a slave ?’ 

Selene saw something in his gaze then, a dark gleam that she had no desire to explore whatsoever. 

"You will show me respect, do not speak to me in such manner !" he yelled throwing her sketchbook back at her, scattering all of her drawings on the floor, "After everything I have done for you ?! Is this all I get ? If I had known back then, that you would be so ungrateful, so …"

A crazed sort of laugh shook her whole body, wheezing as if he’d said the funniest of jokes, "So what ? Useless ?", and it slowly morphed into heart-wrenching sobs as she struggled to continue to speak, "I apologize if, as of lately, I haven’t been able to make myself worthy of all the efforts you’ve put into making me this… perfect and obedient little tool."

"What nonsense is this ? What are you talking about ?"

"Let me go" she said, her face completely wet with tears, "Stop threatening me to throw me away, make up your mind and stick to it !’'

She was the one to walk closer to him now, digging her hand in his chest to force him to retreat. ‘I can’t do it, I can’t paint anymore. And even if I still could, I wouldn’t. So please free from this sordid affair !’ 

Something shifted in Damian’s eyes, a wild sort of panic twisting his face. As if he’d suddenly realized that she could also throw him away, or refuse to paint anything for him, if she so wished. 

What a disaster that would be. His great name would fall into oblivion, he would not be able to gain enough money to repay his debts, and … He would be doomed.

"No no no, hush now, Sel. All is well", he uttered softly, taking her face in his hands. 

The pet name made her nauseous, he hadn’t called her that in years. 

He clumsily embraced her, taking her in his arms, like he used to when she was still little, and couldn’t sleep at night. 

"You will paint again. You’re just scared, because you think something happened that day, but it hasn’t. You were just exhausted, and you imagined it… that’s all."

She shuddered at the memory of a canvas soaked in unfathomable darkness. The stretched fabric dripping with black goo, soiled and destroyed.

Selene shook her head in his grasp, willing the scary recollection away. 

A single new tear fell from her eyes, and he carefully wiped it away with his thumb. 

"As for the rest, I promise I’ll make it better. I’ll introduce you to people, you’ll paint for them … for yourself. I’ll help you", he went on and on, and it sounded like white noise to her. 

Lies. 

"Just focus on getting better, alright?", he finally added, gently caressing her hair.

Liar. 

"No you’re doing it again. All of these empty promises", she whined, struggling to get out of his grasp and put some distance between them.

"They’re not", he pleaded, "you believed in me once, why don’t you anymore ?"

Because you’ve stolen my everything. Because you’ve ruined me. Because you keep toying with me to get what you want.

His hand reached out again, attempting to pull her back in for a hug.

"Don’t touch me !"

Damian suddenly drooped the act, and frowned once again. 

"Fine, if you insist on being pig-headed. I’m afraid I’ll have to resort to the old methods."

Bending down, he collected all of the sketches she’d drawn of Astarion in his graceful hands. He then, headed towards the fireplace, and threw them into the flames with a flick of his wrist. 

"Please please please don’t !!!" she screamed, pushing him aside to attempt and retrieve what wasn’t consumed by the fire yet. 

But it was too late. 

She kneeled there for what seemed like an eternity, watching the sheets of paper turn black, set ablaze and condemned to destruction.Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. 

Selene had grown silent and defeated. Damian crouched beside her, pressing her shoulder in his hand, and to anyone that would’ve walked in on them, it would’ve seemed like he was comforting her. 

Except he wasn’t. 

This hand on her shoulder was meant to make her feel even more miserable. 

One final intimidation. 

"Let me remind you of something you seem to have forgotten, Selene. You owe me everything, from the clothes on your back, to the charcoal sticks you use, and the sheets of papers you draw on", he muttered, and the sweet tone he used contrasted with his evil words. 

He gripped her tear-streaked cheeks to force her too look at him, at the molten gold of his furious eyes. "I made you who you are."

To her absolute horror, he crept closer and laid a firm, almost painful, kiss on her forehead.

"I wouldn’t let go of you, or throw you away, without unmaking you first", he softly breathed on her skin. 

Everything was a blur, and she did not really struggle when someone, probably a servant, helped her up and guided her towards her old room. 

"Maybe we will be able to have a proper conversation about this tomorrow, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep", Damian finally added before closing the door and, effectively, locking her inside the room. 

Everything smelt dusty and fusty, in this place filled with her old dolls and childish drawings. 

Selene could’ve sat there all night, crying herself to sleep, hating on this miserable man. 

Except she did not. 

She’d discovered herself the soul of a mutineer.

The only way out of this hell wasn’t through a door. And so, she removed all the sheets from the bed she had once slept on every night.

Tied them together. Tight knot after tight knot, until it formed a long rope. 

A bit cliché, she’d only ever seen someone do this in the soppy novels she liked to read sometimes, but desperate times called for desperate measures. 

When the house was finally silent, into what she hoped to be a deep slumber, she opened one of the windows and secured it to the small balcony’s railing. 

She sighed in relief when she looked down, realizing that it wasn’t as high as she’d thought it’d be. Her room was only on the first floor after all.

Without thinking about all the things that could possibly go wrong, if she was caught fleeing like this, she carefully slid down. After working a good sweat, and praying to all the gods she knew to keep everyone asleep, her feet not so gracefully landed on the ground. 

Right next to the little room in which she remembered Finn would usually sleep in.

Shit.

The window was slightly ajar, white curtains dancing in the night breeze. With a pounding heart, she anxiously crept closer to peek inside, trying to make sure that the butler was still very much asleep. 

"Don’t forget your pouch and your cloak, miss Selene", whispered a voice behind her and she nearly died of a heart attack. 

"God’s below!", she cussed.

Finn merely smiled at her, his tousled grey hair shimmering in the moonlight. He looked younger like this, in a rumpled sleep shirt, eyes puffy with sleep, his usual graceful composure giving way to a more relaxed stance. 

"I have already opened the gates, so please hurry along. The master doesn’t trance for long."

It made her heart sore, a relief tainted by the fear of the punishment he’d face if anyone heard of this. "Why are you doing this ? Won’t you get in trouble ?"

The old man didn’t answer, he simply walked closer to wrap her coat around her, and sling her bag over her shoulder. 

She was following him on the garden’s path, meandering through the flower beds, when he talked again. "Do not be impressed by his threats. You are the mistress of this game, miss. It’s only time you started to play."

She blushed at the thought that he might have been on the other side of the door, when Damian was humiliating and belittling her. 

"Set the rules. Turn the tables" he softly uttered as he opened the unlocked rusty gates, and her heart raced at the sight of the streets below. 

Freedom. Both metaphorical and true, lied ahead. 

Maybe it would appear to her in the shape of a beautiful vampire.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

Either way she would embrace it, with opened arms.

"He needs me more than I need him, doesn’t he ?", she laughed, spinning on herself like a madwoman, watching the stars above twirl and dance with her.

The butler nodded, a mischievous spark in his eyes that she had already seen before. Back when she was still a child. Back when he secretly gave her sweets, or when he let her stay awake longer than Damian had told him to. 

"I wish you a safe walk back home, miss Selene."

Days went by, without a word from Damian. 

All the things he’d said were, as expected, useless menaces scattered to the winds. 

Each night, she sat at her usual spot at the Black Cat’s Delight, waiting for Astarion, for another chance to draw him. And each night, she spent hours cuddling Lara’s cat, Nyx, with her eyes locked on the table he would’ve usually sat at. 

Each morning, she obstinately sat herself in front of her canvas, trying to ignore the way her hands shook around her paint brush.

She thought of him instead, conjuring images of his hands, lithe body and sultry glances. 

Were is eyes a claret red or more of a berry red ? What kind of patterns were embroided on the doublets he usually worn ? 

Each detail of his appearance was both blurry and branded in her mind. She remembered every little thing, from the shape of his eyes to the freckles on his face, but not with enough clarity. The intricacies of his refined appearance had the hazy quality of a dreamer’s remembrance. 

And yet, Selene kept trying to draw him by memory, closing her eyes from time to time to revisit the moment he’d towered over her. The shadows of his collarbones, the ghastly bite mark on the hollow of his neck, the pointy yet soft line of his cupid’s bow. 

But it was never quite right, despite all of her efforts. It lacked something, a subtle variance, that she’d lost that night in Damian’s study. 

One morning, as she was lying on her window ledge, drawing his curls around a particularly dull portrayal of his features, a letter came. It was hastily pushed under the door of her apartment. 

She recognized the seal right away : the Fallheel’s emblem, intertwined ivy leaves with a kneeling knight in armor at the center.. 

Cutting it open with her paper knife, she had to breath deeply a few times before unfolding it. 

Dear Selene, 

I must first apologize for what I did that night. I do not know what got into me, but this shall never happen again. You have my word. Despite appearances, I was in fact delighted to see that you have managed to draw again. Please let me know if you have made any new progress since then (in spite of my most horrific demeanor).

I still stand by most of what I’ve said that night, but to seek your forgiveness, I’d like for you to accompany me to Duke Ravengard’s masquerade in five days. There are people I’d like you to meet, people that are very interested in your art. 

Please find a suitable dress to wear at the Facemaker’s boutique, he owes me a favor and will gladly let you choose anything in the shop that is to your liking. 

Sincerly, 

Damian Fallheel 

Selene furiously threw the letter in one of the drawer of her desk. She was used to Damian’s petty tactics, to this excruciating cycle of caresses and cuffs.

She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t be manipulated anymore, and she wouldn’t. Ever.

All those pretty words were meant to lure her back in, nothing more. 

What Finn had said echoed in her mind, ‘Set the rules, turn the tables’, and she lazily walked back to the windows to look at her mediocre rendition of the pale elf. 

She would indeed go the masquerade with him, for the sole reason that it was the place she’d chosen to force him to ‘drop the mask’, so to speak. 

The invitation also happened to give her a convenient excuse to seek the company of the man she was forbidden to see. She was in need of a dress after all, wasn’t she ? It seemed like a rightful pretext to go to Carmine Red, and take Astarion up on his offer. 

It was decided, she would go there later that evening. 

The night was clear and cold, and Selene was standing at the corner of the large avenue, holding in her shaky handy the small map that Lara had drawn for her. Beautiful lord and ladies in cloaks of fine satin looked at her with suspicion each time they rounded the street. 

Probably wondering what a poorly dressed woman was doing in the part of the higher city where the most expensive shops were all located. 

In Carmine Red’s window display she could see rivers of diamonds, red silk corsets and gloves, three pieces suit made of a precious moiré fabrics. The few coins she had in her pouch jingled with each of her hesitant steps. Was this truly a good idea ? 

After a few minutes of anxious pondering, she finally pushed the door of his shop. 

Her eyes, used to the bright lights of the higher city’s boulevards, had trouble adjusting to the dim halo of the  candles and lit candelabras. The air was fragrant, thick with incenses and perfumes, some of which she could distinctly attribute to Astarion’s own scent.

Inside, everything was red, from the plush rugs under her boots, to the long panels of crimson fabric covering the walls and the ceilings. It made her feel like she was inside of a precious ring box, shrouded in stretched scarlet silk. What gem did it contain ? Countless rubies and sapphires, no doubt.

But to her strange mind, Astarion outshined each and every luxurious thing that she could find in it. He was the true jewel and the ring this box was made for. 

His enchanting voice came out of nowhere, a hushed and suave sound : "I did not think you would visit me this soon, darling."

She jumped slightly, tightening her grip on the strap of her small pouch.

"I did not think so either, but I’ve been invited to a party and I’m in need of a dress."

Unless she’d been in a trance, too fascinated by the eerie decor, she was sure she had not pronounced a word or announced herself. 

A vampire’s privilege surely, to know who’s approaching you without having to look. 

"What a pleasant surprise, indeed", he muttered once again, and this time, as she ventured into the room, his words were accompanied by the sounds of a needle and a thread, gliding through cloth. 

He was actually sitting in a corner of the room, with his back to her, working on something by the candlelight. His workshop table was simply hidden away from the main room, concealed by a voluptuous curtain of burgundy velvet.

"I hope I’m not disturbing you, I could come back another time", she offered, hesitantly peeking behind the drape. 

What looked like a black tulle petticoat was cascading down from the table and onto his lap, a needle rapidly moving between his dexterous fingers. 

"Oh no it’s quite alright, dear. I’ll be with you in a minute, I just need to stitch and secure this into place."

The patterns intrigued her, and so she instinctively stepped into the small space that was his workshop, to take a closer look at what he was embroidering. 

"Are those spider webs ?", she bent over his shoulder to taker a closer look, "it looks so dark and poetic on a see-through fabric like this."

His eyes lifted up from his work to gaze at her, wide and shimmering in the glow of the candlelight. They looked warmer than she remembered, a hint of chocolate in the shade of his irises. As if their redness was dulled, and extinguished by the vibrant crimson background.

"Ah I’m sorry, I should’ve-"

"Did you know that you have the bad habit of apologizing all the time, darling ? Even when you have nothing to be sorry for", he observed, smiling at her in a way she’d never seen him do before.

It was no smirk or a seducing grin, there was something more unguarded and boyish about it, that had Selene blushing up to her pointy ear. 

"I’ve called this dress ‘The Black Widow", he added, as he came to a stand and delicately started to let the dress slide on a mannequin’s shoulders, "Nobody generally buys me this kind of design. It’s too risqué for the usual noble client, I’m afraid."

"I’m sure it’ll catch someone’s eyes, it’s too beautiful for it to not happen."

He dramatically sighed, and strode off into the main room."Oh but it already has, dear. It’s a wedding dress for an old friend of mine, a gift from me to her."

What a strange name for a wedding dress. A rather dark choice of words.

Grabbing a tape measure and a small notebook, he then dragged a small stool at the center of the shop, "But what about your own artistic talents, darling ? Do you happen to have those sketches I was so curious about ?"

Something in her face must’ve betrayed her inner turmoil then, because he quickly worked to change the topic of conversation. 

"We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to ! You’re here to enjoy yourself after all !", he giggled, as he rolled up the sleeves of his black satin shirt, ’So we can think of a garment that’d enhance your beauty.’ 

She looked for ways to explain to him what had happened to those drawings, but when she came around, he’d already extended a pale and long hand in front of her. "Not that you need it, darling, but please come closer."

Her fingers shakily reached for his, and were met with cold soft skin. 

His hand firmly engulfed her own and brought her to stand in front of a mirror. "What kind of occasion is the dress for, and when do you need it to be ready ?"

"It’s for a masquerade, in five days."

Unwinding the tape in his graceful hands, he started to circle her. She could hear each of his nearly silent steps on the floor around her. Like a predator cornering it’s prey. 

"Duke Ravengard’s ?", he inquired from behind her. 

Selene nodded, nervously playing with the seams of her clothes. 

"Very well", she saw him reappear from the corner of her eyes, "Could you take that off, please ?"

He motioned at the old and worn out wool jacket that she was wearing. 

She stared back at him, at the serious and expectant look on his face, and every bone in her body dissolved. 

"My jacket ?", she bashfully asked. 

He chuckled and sat on the low stool at her feet, leaving her to stand between his open thighs. "Oh don’t be so coy, love. It’s only to take your measurements. As precisely as possible."

When she did not answer, Astarion looked up at her from where he was sitting, a single white curl falling in front of his dark eyes. Would he look exactly like this if he were kneeling at her feet, slowly unlacing her pants ? Would he trace wet kisses on the skin bellow, before reaching between her legs, to please her with his ruby ringed fingers ? 

She blinked, looking away to stare at a particularly uninteresting pair of scissors lying on the small table behind him. It’s not appropriate, she thought, I shouldn’t think like this.

That dangerous smirk had made it’s way back on his face, and it reminded her of Damian’s words. 

At best, he will defile you. And at worst, he will drain you dry.

And Selene wondered if some part of herself wasn’t secretly wishing for it. To bleed for him. To see her blood on his lips. To paint a pretty picture with the red of it. 

Do you truly only wish to paint him ? Or are you obsessed with the idea of capturing his beauty because you think it’s the only way you’ll ever have him ?

Her bag fell with a thud on the floor, and his molten gaze followed the clumsy motions of her fingers as she unbuttoned it, one button after the other. Underneath, she was wearing nothing but a thin undergarment shirt, with a very bland corset on top. 

Her breast painfully pressed against the tapering border of the bodice, with each of her quick breath.

When was the last time she’d been so exposed in front of a man ? She couldn’t remember. 

All this time, his piercing gaze hadn’t left her, lingering on the skin of her neck and cleavage. Caressing it with his eyes. 

Astaron swallowed once, looking down to open his small notebook on one of his thigh, and dip his black quill in ink. Miss Selene’s measurements, he wrote at the top, and she marveled at the beauty of his hand writing, at the effortless hoops and curls.

"Try and stay still for me, darling."

This time he did bend to press the end of the tape measure on the side of her ankle, unrolling it until it reached her hip. 

32, he slowly wrote in front of leg length.

"So what is Damian Fallheel to you ? A fling ? A lover ?"

"God’s no !"

He shortled, draping the tape line around her hips, carefully holding it in place on against the lacing of her bodice. Just a barely there press of his fingertip that had butterflies flying away in her lower belly, and finding refuge in the flutter of her heartbeat. "Oh dear, what an honest reaction !"

"He’s … my master painter,  someone that took me in and taught me how to paint."

"I see, a teacher of sorts then."

The vampire swiftly got up when he decided that he was done with the lower half of her body, and stood in front of her once again. 

Her eyes fell on the mirror in front of them, and she had trouble registering exactly what was going on. She stood alone in it’s reflection, amongst the dancing lights of the candles, underdressed and visibly nervous. The tape moved in the air, held by no visible hands. 

"It is true then, what they about vampires and mirrors." 

"Alas it is, I haven’t seen my own face in centuries", he took a deep breath while measuring the width of her shoulders, "It’s rather annoying when I want to see how my clothes fit me."

Maybe even the gods were envious of your beauty, so they robbed you of the pleasure of looking at yourself, she imagined while staring into the old golden framed mirror. Or, perhaps, they feared that with such a magnificent face, your fate would be one akin to Narcissus’, unknowingly falling in love with his own reflection in a pool of water, and ultimately dying while contemplating it.

"Is that why you wanted to see them ? The sketches ? I could paint you sometimes, if you’d like."

"Are you asking if a vain creature like me would like to have its portrait drawn ? Of course, I would, darling."

This time, his hands firmly grasped her hips and she audibly gasped. 

"It’d be … wonferful, actually."

The ribbon tightened around the hollow of her waist, his breath fresh and sweet in her hair.

"Here’s the deal darling, this dress will be free for you, and in exchange you'll paint my portrait. How does this sound ?"

She was about to answer when his fingers moved to hold her wrist, and she hissed, a bolt of pain coursing through her arm. Astarion intensely stared at it, caressing with his thumb the purple bruise that Damian’s fingers had left on her skin.

When he looked up once again, rage was twisting his lovely features into a snarl. "Did he do this to you ?’ Fallheel."

She felt ashamed, tears prickled at the corner of her eyes, but never fell on her cheeks. "Well, he can be prone to … sudden outbursts of anger."

Astarion looked at it for a little while, with an unreadable expression, and she would've given anything to know what he was thinking. 

"I’m sorry but do you know him ?"

The pale elf sniggered, wrapping the tape line around her neck, like a chocker of pearls. "I do, but we are not very fond of each other. Let’s say I once unknowingly attracted the favors of someone he was courting. Since then the man has hated me with a passion."

The cool of his knuckles rested against her quick pulse, and for a split second, she was sure she saw his pupils widen. Two bottomless wells of darkness. The dark windows of his soul, in which she could make out the less alluring parts of a vampire’s condition. Hunger. Lust for blood. His mouth half-opened, the sharp of his fangs catching the light of the lit candelabras next to them.

His voice sounded deeper, when he talked once again, inches away from her face. "Does he know you’re here ? Alone with me in the middle of the night ?"

Selene tried to ignore the dark undertone of his question, but a shiver of fear and excitement ran down her spine. 

"No he doesn’t", she admitted as he wrote her neck’s measurement at the bottom of the page, "Actually, he forbid me to see you, but I can’t find it in myself to care. Not anymore."

"And why is that, darling ? Because forbidden things have some irresistible charm to them ?"

"No because I-"she began, as he handed her jacket back to her, a silent invitation to get dressed again," Something happened to me a little while ago and I cannot paint as I used to. It’s so strange I don’t know how to explain it myself, but when I see you or talk to you, I have this urge to grab my charcoals and brushes."

He disappeared for a few seconds, only to come back with a handful of fabric swatches to present to her. 

Sitting on the meridian, he carefully leafed through the different materials and colors. "Now that makes me even more curious to see what I look like. For me to be worthy of the interest of a painter, to be able to revive their lost love for art … I must be quite the spectacle."

Selene took a few careful steps and joined him on the sofa. 

"Be my muse, then, Astarion.", she pleaded, "I’ll draw you a thousand times, in all the garments you desire, at every angle, with every background, in the guise of whoever you please…"

The offer seemed to catch his attention, and he turned to face her, lazily playing with a lock of her hair as he’d done the first time they had talked to each other.

"How tempting. To be the sole subject of painting of Fallheel’s protegée. To see him boil with anger."

He raised an eye-brow and brought a small piece of burgundy satin near her face. 

"You were born to wear red, darling" he smiled, all razor sharp teeth and undisturbed focus. "If I agree, I’ll sew you something worthy of a queen for each day you’ve spent hunched over a painting of me."

"It’ not nece-"

"Ah ah ah darling, none of that. We could be each other’s mutual source of inspiration. A corset for a painting. A work of art for a work of art. Hm ?"

"But it’s not the same, you don’t need that deal to create wonderful pieces. Look at all those wonderful dresses. I’m not -"

She stopped in her track, too embarrassed to say out it loud. 

Beautiful. Worthy of your time and attention. 

Selene stood up, suddenly needing to put space between them. But the pale elf followed suit, gracefully taking her by the shoulders to bring her in front of the mirror, once again. 

He stood still behind her, his stony chest pressed against her shoulder blades, his slow breaths in her ear.

"If you are giving my reflection back to me through your art, maybe I could help you see just how exquisite your own reflection is."

Both of his hands glided down her arms, to rest on top of her own. The way a lover’s hands would’ve.

"Everything, from the way you move to the way you talk, speaks volume about the fact that you just don’t know how charming you truly are."

She blushed from head to toes, ridiculously staring at her flushed reflection, and none of his words made any sense. Selene hated everything about her appearance : her long and dull black hair, her equally dark eyes, her pulpy lips, her too wide hips. Nothing about her was graceful or charming. 

What do you see in me ? 

His fingers closed on her waist, before continuing their tortuous descent on her legs. Her breath caught and she leaned further into him. ’So do let me help you, by draping each and every of your wonderful curve in precious silk and pearls. It’s the very least I can do.’

"Does it mean you agree ?" she managed to articulate, distracted by the feeling of his fingers kneading the flesh of her thighs. 

Astarion abruptly turned her around, and she fell into his chest. He titled her head up with his finger to make her look at him, at his wide grin and carmine eyes.

"It means that I’ll see you tomorrow evening with your paint and canvas, darling."

His shirt smelt like the sun, and she had to fight the urge to burry her nose in it. 

"Let’s be discreet though, I wouldn’t want for that master of yours to throw a tantrum."

And with that, Astarion was her muse. The sole being her mind conjured whenever she had a paintbrush or palette full of paint in her hands. 

Selene did not know it then, but she was about to turn him into a legend. The pale elf who’s portrait gathered thousand of people in the wide reception room of a palace, the beautiful vampire the bards sang about in their long ballads. 

But not just yet. For now, he was still hers. Hers to admire. Hers to contemplate. 

[artmialma]

Gustave Florot (1885-1965)  French

Buisson ardent

Florot was a very successful painter who worked in a true Art Deco style. 

His lyrical subjects were often jazz, nudes, dance, theater, and allegorical themes. Using cubist elements combined with rich colors, Florot celebrated the life of Paris.

 Many of his paintings incorporate surreal and bizarre images, which facilitate his storytelling.

Florot transformed a small boutique on the Rue d’Orechamps in Montmartre into his atelier. He hosted many parties that lasted into the early morning hours. Many of his friends dressed in theatrical costumes; which found their way into his paintings. 

 Florot had a one-man show in Paris at Galerie Carmine in 1926, the forward to the catalog was written by Gustave Kahn.

[shitty-mobile-game-reviews]

super slime slimeinator

sorry, super slime simulator. (literally my attitude for the whole game lmao)

yeah, it's a slime game.

it has "slime touching" graphics.

it makes disgusting "slime" noises.

i've terrorized my friends with it.

i love this game, no matter how janky-2004-DS game it is.

the game opens with the worst sound to ever exist,

followed by teaching u how to make a slime, which is pretty simple. u just kinda... make a slime.

...like u choose what type u want to make (u start out with a couple of types, ex. "classic" slime which i personally believe is a government fallacy but u do u) and then u circle ur finger around a dish to make it. then, u choose a colour and mix it in. then u choose 1 or 2 types of decorations and their colours (if they have that option. some don't- lookin at you, "jelly cubes")

some exciting exhilarating gameplay (ignore the ads at the bottom idk why they're there they aint even personalized smh):

then u finish, name it an play with it if you're a psychopath. i prefer the elite route of making slimes and never fuckin touching them bc they're nasty as hell.

there's also a chest thing which is ridiculously easy to unlock and will give you new slime... things:

and for some reason, this game seemingly with no story to it, has SIDE QUESTS. Where we meet, for the second time since the tutorial, the "mascot" for this game: Lulu.

She is just a fuckin person. She's a human mascot who somehow got her little godfearing name on things like "lulu's slime quest" and other equally icky things like that. She also somehow has her own collection of slimes, with ones worse than anything my pathetic little hands could even fathom making.

Note: I have no idea who Noggi is.

and she forces you to make her slimes for her. exactly the way she wants it. or you lose.

there's also some weird games like Slime My Image where u glunk up one of ur photos (I glunked up miku teehee):

And also Slime Painter, where you can colour on a "slime" at will:

And additionally, the real man's gambling, the aptly named Guessing Game:

(i guessed correctly btw)

However, if u have had enough of those games, check out the tons of premade slimes that u can play with.

That is, if ur the kind of person who downloaded this game to...

erm...

to play with slimes.

o_O cringe if thats u

anyway, if u enjoy that, they made a fuckton of disgusting slimes that are strangely reminiscent of something i once knew and desperately want to forget all there for u to......... play with.

Either way, if ur the type of gamer who needs regular validation, there's a series of incredibly rigorous daily quests to complete, which will truly test ur grit and determination as a Super Slime Simulator Pro Gamer™

The quests will demand various things, but most prominently, the grindworthy adventures of:

opening the game (im shakin in my boots)

making a slime (consider my timbers positively shivered upon)

playing with said slime (ew)

playing a single level of Lulu's Slime Quest (crying shaking screaming)

and other such harrowing tasks.

Now that I've briefed u on the game, let's get into some fun little details!

u can't turn the sfx off.

there is no option to turn the sfx off

the sfx make me want to McPerish™

i wanted to listen to music while playing this game but you can't turn the sfx off

there are some "fun and interesting" slime types that nobody's ever made before and nobody ever wants to make! I won't spoil them for u, but u definitely will spoil!

the colour names are fun, flirty and sometimes Pukeworthy! (there's a colour called carmine! how wonderfully fucking disgusting!)

there's one colour that i'm not so sure about!

Also, if you want to SHARE a slime with someone, you can "gift" it to them (gee, thanks) and they recive a fun little gift box all customized by you. mery cihsmast.

SO NOW THAT YOU'RE REALLY HAVING FUN, WANNA HEAR ABOUT OUR OTHER GAMES?

REALLY?

NO?

YOU SURE?

HOW 'BOUT I GIVE YOU ADS EVERY 20 SECONDS, BUT ALL OF THE ADS ARE FOR DIFFERENT BUT NOT UNSIMILAR GAMES MADE BY OUR COMPANHY?

NOT INTERESTED?

GET SQUISHY MAGICked FUCK YOU

anyway, it's a fun game. 7/10 would squelch again.

That's all for Super Slime Simulator! It's not that bad but certainly quite jank. Loves ya :P

[moeyoken]

‘  life imitates art,  they say.  i didn’t believe it until i started to notice the way your eyelashes look so much like tiny ink stroke.  ’ uh oh koto's coming for u dandy man

" i met an old woman back when i sold medicine. a painter from edo. " like koto, she said he was a beautiful thing. everything about him was beautiful, but the most beautiful were his eyes. they resemble wolf eyes, she said, black like the ink on my brush.

she showed it to him. told him to take a look. she painted his eyes. he sometimes got to watch her bony fingers attempt at capturing the shape, the thickness, the perfect brush strokes. hijikata leaned over to koto. he was so close, as if personal space was no longer a thing. his carmine wolf eyes bore deeply into hers. a blink and his lashes flutter, ink on a snow white canvas flickering up and down.

no, it still ain't right.

" what more do you see? tell me. " the old painter tended to get frustrated a lot. toshizō at the time thought she was marvelous. he could not get why she seemed so angry crumpling up her papers and throwing them off to the lonesome corners of her decrepit hut. " she said she was missing something in them. "

@dayrisen

[thepantyreckless]

Currently Fixated on the History of Pigments (for painting)

Here are some of my favorite blurbs from This Webpage:

Cobalts - HAUNTED

A family of pigments originally derived from mineral mines in Bohemia. They were named Cobalt after the word "kobolds" - the Bohemian word for spirits or ghosts, which the miners believed inhabited the pigment and caused them difficulties.

Lead-Tin Yellow - MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARED

Also known as "The Old Master's Yellow" for its use by Italian Renaissance masters like Raphael. A highly stable bright opaque yellow was used from around 1250 until the mid-17th century, when its use ceased abruptly for no obvious reason. Experts believe that its formula might have been lost due to the death of its producer. Very popular with Renaissance painters, who used it in foliage along with earth pigments, Lead-Tin Yellow seems to have many of the attributes of modern Cadmium Yellow, but little was known about it until the 1940s. Since then it has enjoyed a modest recovery.

Bone White - BONES

Obsolete; it was made by burning bones to a white ash. Cennino Cennini in his Il Libro dell'Arte says 'the best bones are from the second joints and wings of fowls and capons; the older they are, the better; put them into the fire just as you find them under the table.' It was used as a ground for panels.

Carmine - BUG PAINT

Used since Antiquity, Carmine is a natural organic crimson pigment/dye made from the dried bodies of the female insect Coccus cacti (Cochineal), which inhabits the prickly-pear cactus, and also from a wingless insect living on certain species of European live oaks (Kermes). The cactus insects were first heated in ovens, then dried in the sun, to produce "silver cochineal" from which the finest pigment was made. Cochineal is still made in Mexico and India.

Lapis Lazuli - BLUE

The source of the fabulous, absolutely permanent and non-toxic natural blue pigment Ultramarine, the precious stone Lapis Lazuli is found in Central Asia, notably Afghanistan. It was employed in Ancient times as a simple ground up mineral (Lapis Lazuli or Lazuline Blue) with weak colour power. Then Persian craftsmen discovered a means of extracting the colouring agent, creating at a stroke a hugely important art material. Ultramarine arrived in Venice on Arab boats, during the Renaissance, and was named the pigment from overseas ("ultra marine"). Such was its brilliance that it rapidly attained a price that only princes and large wealthy religious organizations could afford it.

Maya Blue - LOST RECIPE

A highly resilient bright blue to greenish-blue pigment, developed by the Maya and Aztec cultures of pre-Columbian art in Mesoamerica. It is a composite of organic and inorganic compounds, notably indigo dye from the Indigofera suffruticosa plants. Originating at the beginning of the 9th century CE, it was in use as late as the 16th century in Mexico, in the paintings of the Indian Juan Gerson. It survived in Cuba until the 19th century.

[theamazingpoppingeyes]

Once in a lifetime! Up on the scaffolding at the Cappella Brancacci to see Masaccio’s masterpiece up close for the first time...     Here Masaccio’s • Baptism of the Neophytes • from 1425-27.     What an incredible treat to be face to face with these unbelievable masterpieces of renaissance art!     These frescoes inspired so many artists throughout history.     One of them was the young Michelangelo, who made a beautiful study of the iconic shivering man (standing on the right in this scene) around 1494-96, when he was 19-21.   See image 10.       Some background.   The Cappella Brancacci is a small chapel within the otherwise pretty plain Santa Maria del Carmine Church.     In 1424 Felice Brancacci, a wealthy Florentine merchant and statesman, commissioned Masolino to paint his chapel with a cycle of frescoes illustrating the life of St. Peter (who can be identified by his orange gown).     Masolino's associate, the talented 21-year-old Masaccio, 18 years younger than Masolino, assisted, but during painting Masolino abandoned the work and left to Hungary.     The commission was given to Masaccio, he took over.   However, still working in the chapel, Masaccio was called later that year to Rome, probably to discuss a new commission.   Here in Rome, he died mysteriously, aged only 27!     The remaining parts of the fresco cycle were completed by Filippino Lippi only much later in the 1480’s.       #masaccio #masolino #filippinolippi #michelangelo #art #artist #painter #painting #fresco #fashion #muse #allegory #storytelling #mythological #religious #religiousart #renaissance #renaissanceart #arthistory #portrait #portraiture #figurative #figuration #figurativeart #theamazingpoppingeyes #cappellabrancacci #brancaccichapel #florence https://www.instagram.com/p/CmpS-zaL2OI/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[ariesgamesandminis]

Yet another round of restocks are up from The Army Painter!

Speedpaint: 2.0 - Carmine Dragon Speedpaint: 2.0 - Fire Drake Speedpaint: 2.0 - Forest Sprite Speedpaint: 2.0 - Hardened Leather Speedpaint: 2.0 - Maggot Skin Speedpaint: 2.0 - Magic Blue Speedpaint: 2.0 - Nuclear Sunrise Speedpaint: 2.0 - Periwinkle Purple Speedpaint: 2.0 - Shamrock Green Speedpaint: 2.0 - Tidal Wave Warpaints Fanatic: Metallic - Glittering Green

[sciencestyled]

The Alchemy of Snark: Why Chemistry Should Get Credit for Every Art Masterpiece Ever Painted (You’re Welcome, Da Vinci)

Ladies and gentlemen, or as I like to call you, the hapless human equivalent of paint-by-numbers kits, gather around for today’s lesson. Now, don’t all rush at once; I’d hate to have to explain this more than the five times you’ll already make me. We’re diving into the marvelous world of color—a topic more complex than your collective understanding of how to use a washing machine, yet somehow still accessible to anyone who’s ever Googled "what color is chartreuse?" Ah yes, the alchemy of color, where the only thing more vibrant than the pigments themselves is your willful ignorance of how they came to be.

You see, back in the day—by which I mean the days when people thought bathing was optional and alchemy was an actual career path—color was a lot more than just an item on a Pantone chart. Before the world was graced with the lazy luxury of digital color palettes, alchemists were out there, literally grinding rocks, plants, and God knows what else to create pigments that would make even your neon highlighters look duller than the average TikTok dance trend. Imagine, if you will, a world where the only way to get that perfect shade of red was to squish a mountain of bugs. That’s right, carmine pigment? You can thank a bunch of squished cochineal insects for that. You’re welcome.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, which I realize is asking a lot. Let’s start with the basics. No, I don’t mean the basics of color theory—though I’m sure half of you still think purple is a primary color. I mean the basics of how alchemy, that delightful precursor to modern chemistry, became the ultimate wingman to artists throughout history. When they weren’t busy trying to turn lead into gold—a pursuit I’m sure resonates with your attempts to turn laziness into academic success��alchemists were concocting the very pigments that would go on to color our world, quite literally. Yes, alchemists, the OG chemists, were the unsung heroes behind every famous painting you’ve ever pretended to appreciate.

Take, for example, the making of ultramarine, a color so intense and rare that even today, it would cost more than what you probably make in a year working as an unpaid intern at your cousin’s startup. Ultramarine was the love child of lapis lazuli and endless hours of grinding, a process that was about as tedious as explaining the plot of "Inception" to someone who still doesn’t get the ending of "Titanic." But the payoff? Oh, the payoff was glorious. Artists used ultramarine to color everything from the robes of the Virgin Mary to the sky in countless Renaissance masterpieces. And guess what? It wasn’t even just about the art. The creation of ultramarine actually pushed forward scientific understanding. That’s right, your boy da Vinci wasn’t just a painter—he was an early adopter of experimental chemistry. I’d tell you more, but I wouldn’t want to strain your attention span. You’ll have to trust me when I say it’s the art world’s version of a Marvel post-credits scene.

Fast forward to the modern era, where science and art have decided to swipe right on each other in a big way. You might think synthetic pigments and materials are just for boring things like safety gear and iPhone cases, but no, my dear students, they’ve infiltrated the art world too. Contemporary artists have more colors at their disposal than there are excuses in your average email to a professor about why an assignment is late. From neon acrylics to glow-in-the-dark paints, chemistry is making art pop like never before. And let’s not forget those daring souls who use actual chemicals as art. Ever heard of Anish Kapoor and Vantablack? Of course, you haven’t. Kapoor’s exclusive use of this blacker-than-black pigment caused more drama in the art world than the final season of "Game of Thrones" did in pop culture. Chemistry, my friends, is the puppet master pulling the strings behind every modern art scandal worth talking about.

But let’s not just limit this to artists who actually know what they’re doing. Science education with art is where things get interesting—by which I mean it’s where you get to learn something without me having to dumb it down to the level of an Instagram infographic. The chemistry of color is more than just a subject for niche documentaries on PBS. It’s a gateway drug to actual science education, which, let’s face it, you desperately need. Teaching students about the pigments that bring art to life is a surefire way to make them accidentally learn something useful, like the fact that chemistry isn’t just about blowing things up in a lab. It’s also about understanding why Vincent van Gogh’s paintings still look fabulous today, even though he was as chemically imbalanced as the cocktails at your last frat party.

In conclusion—which is a word I’m using here because I know you’ve been trained to expect it at the end of an essay—chemistry and art are like peanut butter and jelly, but for people with taste. The next time you walk past a piece of art and think, "Wow, those colors really pop!" remember that somewhere, some poor alchemist was probably inhaling toxic fumes to make that possible. And you thought your part-time job was bad. Chemistry has been the secret sauce behind art for centuries, and its influence shows no signs of slowing down. So next time you’re tasked with learning about the "boring" parts of science, just remember: without chemistry, your favorite meme wouldn’t even exist in color. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go remind myself why I ever thought teaching you lot was a good idea in the first place.