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puddingyun · 2 months

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Hi sweetie 🥰

After reading the prompts i would like to ask for hongjoong

"there are some things that no one teaches you, love."

Thank you so much

Have a wonderful day/night

❤️

joong x reader

: 1.3k words, fluff, domestic :

a/n: thank you for the request! ah i really loved writing this (╥ᆺ╥；)♡ i hope you have a lovely day/night as well! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Hongjoong had been learning all his life. First the alphabet and all the different sounds that animals made, lessons that carried the smell of apple juice-boxes and the sound of building blocks tumbling down. Then literature and algebra, formulas for essays and equations that he'd long since forgotten in lieu of the memories of studying them, powered by energy drinks and instant ramen. Most recently came the ins and outs of music, composition and writing, subjects that were infinite and that he would no doubt go on learning about for the rest of his life.

All the different things he'd learned over the years had come in stages and all carried with them their own special shine, holding special spaces in his brain like boxes full of beloved bric-a-brac stacked in the sunlit corner of an attic. The other kind of lessons came and went with his experiences – how to show his friends he loved them, how to move past disappointments without lingering for too long, how to keep himself from burning out. These were things that came without a learning system, things that advice and his own sore heart had taught him. Regardless of how the lessons came about, he was sure for a time that he had learned all he needed to get by. That was, until he met you.

No classroom and chalkboard had taught him how his heart would skip a painful beat when he saw you smiling or laughing. No late night talk with his brother or mother had warned him to watch out for how he'd ache when he caught you trying to learn the recipes for his favourite foods. No lecture or book held the knowledge of how to deal with the urge to call you at random times of the day to tell you about an oddly-shaped stain on the pavement or the way the sun shone through an overcast sky.

There seemed to be so much to you. You were vaster than the space beyond the Earth's atmosphere and deeper than the Mariana Trench, holding in every blink of your eyes more knowledge than every encyclopedia and research paper combined. If he could, he'd watch you for the rest of his life, casting aside everything else he'd learned so that he could learn the secrets of the universe just from being in your presence.

Waking up beside you on a Sunday morning, Hongjoong felt the first breath of the day get caught in his throat when he turned over and saw you laying beside him. The skin beneath your eyes was speckled with mascara from the night before and you were still wearing the jewellery you'd worn out to the bar (a ring your best friend had given you as a graduation gift and a necklace he'd given you last Valentine's, a pairing of the two people you loved most you'd told him when you were putting them on). Slowly, so as not to disturb you, he pushed himself upright and reached out to touch your forehead with a shy knuckle. The action reminded him of a priest baptising a child, but he was surprised as always by how he felt as though he was the one being blessed by you rather than the other way around.

He padded through your apartment, taking note of his possessions scattered around on every surface. Some of his bracelets left next to your house keys in the bowl by the door, a few notebooks nestled among your collection of novels. In the kitchen his favourite mug was upside down next to yours, drying by the sink in a pool of water, and when he glanced at the coffee table he saw his hoodie left on the loveseat, worn by him and used as a blanket by you when you fell asleep watching TV. All of these items seemed to him like displays in a museum, so amazing that he hardly viewed them as real objects. He smiled and let out a soft, awed breath.

After the cocktails and beers you'd shared last night he wasn't sure you'd want breakfast this morning, but still he went about making coffee and slicing bread for toast. He'd make you breakfast every morning if he could and would never complain if you didn't take a single sip or bite. He was satisfied just at the thought of putting food on your table for you to eat, satisfied that he knew how many sugars you liked in your hot drinks and satisfied that you liked to brag to your friends that he knew just how much butter to put on your toast. Nobody had taught him these things, nobody had quizzed him on them, and yet they carried the weight of the world in a way that nothing else did.

He hummed softly as he put out two plates on the counter, the morning chill inviting goosebumps to rise on the skin of his forearms. Steam rose from the coffee as he filled your mug and then his (always yours and then his) and he bathed in its warmth like it was steam in a sauna. He had been through this routine many times, making coffee for his group members the morning after a harrowing schedule and soaking in the silence of an apartment before the day began, but standing in your kitchen it all felt brand new. The view from your window, as mundane and familiar as it was, still seemed awe-inspiring as he watched passerbys going about their lives. He wondered where they were heading, and if any of them knew all of the things he'd learned from being with you.

Buttering toast and tipping teaspoons of sugar into mugs of coffee, Hongjoong found himself sinking further and further into the quicksand of his life with you and never once felt the need to struggle against its pull.

Your figure filled the doorway to the living room just as Hongjoong set down your two mugs of coffee on the table. A smile played on your lips, eyes still sleepy as they watched him walk towards you. Without a word he wrapped his arms around you, both of you swaying languidly from side to side, dancing to music that nobody else could hear. You smelled of toothpaste, lingering perfume, and salty lime wedges. He breathed you in like he was coming up for air.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked, smoothing a hand over the top of your head. You hummed softly, leaning into his touch.

"Like a rock," you answered, kissing his chin. He smiled at the feeling of your lips on his skin, knowing he'd carry it with him for the rest of the day, his wandering fingers always coming back to touch the first spot you'd kissed that day. "What about you?"

"Just fine," he mumbled.

The two of you parted, though your fingertips lingered on the small of Hongjoong's back the way he'd learned they loved to do. You saw the coffee and toast on the coffee table and smiled once again, this time laughing softly. Leaning into him, you kissed his cheek with a smile still on your lips.

"Smells amazing," you hummed. Hongjoong followed you as you threw yourself onto the couch, landing with a happy sigh. He sat beside you and watched as you took your first bite of toast and then your first sip of coffee. He sat and watched you while his own coffee cooled, eyes taking in everything from the way you licked crumbs from your lips to the way you breathed in the smell of the coffee before you drank from it. Everything was endearing in its own way, and he noted each and every action down to keep with him. He pressed a kiss to your temple and thought to himself how appropriately named the warm spot on your head was – temple.

He looked at your empty ring finger curled against your mug and wondered when it would be right to put his impression there. Just like everything else, he supposed he'd figure it out in time. Maybe love just wasn't something meant to be taught.

#pirateeznet #kim hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong fluff #ateez x reader #ateez fluff

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labuenosairesfrancaise · 2 months

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Villa Valguarnera (Italian collection VIII)

Hi folks!

I'm sharing Villa Valguarnera, one of the most interesting eighteenth-century villas in Bagheria, both for the architectural quality of the complex and for its position in the Bagheria landscape.

Construction began in 1712 on a project by Tommaso Maria Napoli , architect, Dominican , designer in the same years of the nearby Villa Palagonia , in contact with the Roman environment, which introduced an architectural language of Bernini origin and a clarity of composition close to the most advanced examples of the Italian and European eighteenth century, in particular Austrian.

When the architect died in 1725 , the villa was not yet finished and was then significantly modified. In particular, around 1780 , Giovan Battista Cascione Vaccarini was the author of the new elevations and the oval room on the main floor.

Of great interest are the series of internal halls frescoed by Elia Interguglielmi and the marble statues crowning the attic by Ignazio Marabitti . The building was once surrounded by a vast park, enriched with coffee houses , statues and neoclassical architecture. (source: Wikipedia)

I only built the main building, as the project is placed in a 30x30 lot.

You will find a great room, 2 main bedrooms, 6 sitting rooms, a formal dinning salon, a billiard room and a ground floor to develop.

As allways, you will need the usual CC I use: all of Felixandre, Tha Jim, SYB, Regal Sims, etc.

Please enjoy, comment if you like it and share pictures with me if you use my creations!

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rhapsodynew · 15 days

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"Over there we will build a big elou submarine "

Have a nice day🌍🫶🌞🎧🎼

Immediately after the release, the single "Yellow Submarine"/"Eleanor Rigby" took the first place in the English charts, where it remained for four weeks, having stayed in the charts for 13 weeks in total. In the same year, the Beatles received the Ivor Novello Award for the single as the best-selling single of 1966. However, in the USA, the cd did not reach the first place of the chart due to the scandal caused by John Lennon's words

"We are more popular than Christ".

In addition to the Beatles, they took part in the recording of the merry din (the sounds of the shipyard): George Martin, Jeff Emerick, Patti Harrison, Brian Jones, Marianne Faithfull, Beatles chauffeur Alf Bicknell.

In 1980, John Lennon said of the song: "'Yellow Submarine' is Paul's child. Donovan and I helped with the words. We actually recorded it live in the studio, but the idea and inspiration belonged to Paul. Its name is... written for Ringo." Donovan owns the line "Sky of blue and sea of green". Paul McCartney: "Yellow Submarine" is such a happy place. Well, we were just trying to write a nursery rhyme. That was the main idea. The text should not make more sense than the text of any other children's song."

"One morning I was still lying in bed, and then I lived in the attic of the Usher house… I thought of it as a song for Ringo, which in the end it turned out that way, so there are not many notes in the vocal line, and then I started to come up with this story, like some old sailor telling the children a story about his adventures. To a large extent, this is my song, as far as I remember, and I think John helped me. As I wrote, the plot became clearer and clearer, but the chorus, the melody of the verses and the verses are mine."

The rhythm track "Yellow Submarine" was recorded on May 29, 1966, and overlays so atypical for a Beatles song were made on June 1: the sounds of sea waves, shouts of commands, a military march performed by a brass band. According to sound engineer Jeff Emerick, he used an excerpt from the recording of the military march 'Le Reve Passe', a 1906 composition by Georg Krier and Charles Helmer, to overlay the copper.

youtube

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random-brushstrokes · 1 year

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Mina Arndt - The Red Hat (ca. 1914)

After graduating from Wellington Technical School, Mina Arndt studied in London with Frank Brangwyn and at the artists’ colony in Newlyn, Cornwall, with Harold and Laura Knight. She also lived in Berlin, where she studied with progressive artists Lovis Corinth, her second cousin Julie Wolfthorn and printmaker Hermann Struck. Of these, it was the Germans’ sombre palette and techniques that most influenced Arndt.

Following the outbreak of war in 1914, and brief internment in Germany as a prohibited British alien, Arndt returned to Wellington, where she found an attic studio in Willis Street above Bartlett & Andrew’s photography shop. Early in 1915, in this ‘delightful room with many and quaint accessories’, she held a private exhibition of her overseas and recent paintings, etchings and drawings, probably including The red hat, now her best-known work.

The painting is typical of Arndt’s single-figure compositions that fill the frame. The model, Wellingtonian Daisy Hay, wears a shapely buttoned tunic and is silhouetted by the soft light behind her, which also highlights the thickly painted green wall. Her face is cursorily built up with rapidly hatched brushstrokes, leaving her expression inscrutable, as though she has drifted off while posing. Once it becomes clear that this is not a portrait intended to reveal Daisy’s personality, the eye moves upwards to contemplate her crowning glory — the hat. Its oval form is swathed in a scarf, expressively rendered in crosshatched slashes of deep red paint. Its gorgeous painterliness and hue are enhanced and thrown into focus by the simple flat background of harmonious brown and green. An Auckland Star critic, perhaps failing to appreciate Arndt’s subtlety in using shape and colour, and accustomed to bright post-impressionist palettes of artists such as Edward Friström, found her art ‘a little wantingin colour and lightness’.

In 1917 Arndt married Leo Manoy and settled in Motueka, where she worked and taught from a home studio. She produced memorable domestic images of mothers and children, and also of Māori women washing clothes, which she exhibited throughout New Zealand and Australia until her early death aged forty-one. (source)

#women painters #Mina Arndt #new zealander art #portrait #1910s

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writingsbychlo · 1 year

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Hii, here comes the ask for a part 2 to the AMAZING Gwynriel friendship fic🤍 I think Az would go crazy living under the same roof as his mate and best friend😂😂 these two would grew so close really fast and annoy him just for fun (deep down Az would love it!)

here we goooo, I hope you guys love this as much as the other bit, a follow-up to this post

azriel stared up at the ridiculous mating gift from rhysand, unsure whether he wanted to roll his eyes or smile. he settled for both. your hand squeezed tightly around his own, and he squeezed back, the excited chatter between you in his best friend providing a soundtrack to the sight before him. this was his first time, gwyn's too, seeing the house, the large three-story mansion designed to look like a cosy cottage despite its size, and he wanted to scoff at how eccentric his friend had been. not your first time seeing it, though.

almost two years ago, azriel had come home to yet another ambush on you, to find you sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mug clutched between your hands as rhysand sat before you, lounging in the creaky kitchen chairs. your eyes had been wide, breath practically held, and he frowned at the look on your face. you'd known who he was, who his friends were, the same way they'd known of him, but other than cassian, you'd never met them. never mind rhysand, who was looking unnecessarily high lord-like as he sat before you.

whatever you'd been talking about, he hadn't been told, his brother had simply offered his congratulations with a wink, invited you both to a family dinner the following week, and left with a friendly kiss to your cheek and a conspiratorially loud whisper to 'consider his offer' before he'd vanished into darkness and stars.

now, you were standing before him, the offer rhysand had laid out standing tall before him in a composition of pretty old bricks and stones and acres of lush land, and one of his brows rose. you'd told him, less than a week ago, curled up against his chest and panting in the afterglow, kissing along his tattoos in ways that made his head spin. his hands had been slipping down your body, cupping your ass and pulling you over him to start again when you giggled. 'we don't have time, gwyn will be home soon.'

he hated it, and he hated that he hated it. a wave of guilt rippled down the bond. he knew what his best friend had been through, and that the moment he asked, she'd have left the two of you alone, found her own place. in fact, she had offered, and you'd shut her down the second she'd brought it up awkwardly over breakfast, insisting that she stay with the two of you in the now rather cramped apartment. it had made him feel like his whole chest was clenching in as he watched you take his best friend's hands, and promise she always had a place with you both.

but now, he was spending so much time sneaking around, grabbing any little bit of intimate time with you he could, but you were now mated, mating ceremony passe,d his wrong sitting on your finger and a tattoo bound around both of your wrists, never to disappear, promises made to one another. but, the apartment was already too small, and he felt nothing but guilt as he thought about a future somewhere else with you, rooms for your own children, enough space for their childhood and their memories, not the attic full of boxes they had now, overflow things that had to be put away instead of appreciated and seen.

'we need a new place.' he eventually spoke the words, feeling even worse for saying them out loud, and you only raised your head, kissing under his jaw until he smiled.

'what if we already have one?' you didn't give him a chance to ask, rolling away and taking the sheet with you, wrapping yourself in it and leaving him bare as you padded away to the bathroom. 'just give me a few more weeks, and I'll tell you it all'. he trusted you, so he let himself forget about it, until now.

"this is insane!" gwyn muttered, waving her hands enthusiastically at the house before your small group. "rhysand built this for you?"

"well, not with his own hands, but we had some ideas, we got some help, and this was the result." you shrugged, and azriel looked down at you, shooting a shock down the bond at your coy deception, but you only grinned at the feeling. rhysand had offered him much to celebrate his mating bond, and azriel had shut it all down. he didn't want anything more, at the time, he hadn't needed anything more, and somehow, just like always, you'd known what he needed long before he did. you and gwyn were far too similar that way. "so, do you guys want the tour, or shall we stand out here all day? I mean, it's getting kind of cold.."

despite knowing you were being sarcastic, the instinctive urge to protect you flared up, and azriel slipped his wing around you, tugging you closer to his side. you only grinned, tipping your head away with a laugh when he dipped down to bite at the shell of your ear playfully. he followed you as you guided them up the pathway, a large and heavy oak double door, wide enough for him to pass through without ducking or tucking his wings in, and the first jolt of warmth at your consideration of him ran through his veins.

open-plan, arched doorways, empty and ready to be decorated but utterly beautiful. he could feel traces of you in every room, from the carvings on the porch posts to the bay window seats for reading, and a dining room big enough to fit his whole family comfortably, or host the bookclubs you and gwyn had taken to hosting every week.

there was your room, large, space for a bed so big his wings wouldn't touch the edges even fully extended, so much storage he could display every trinket and memory he'd ever collected that were currently boxed up, a guest room, and another. cassian would doubtless claim one to be dedicated to himself in no time.

there were rooms for future children, an office for him to work from without his papers spreading all over the kitchen table, and a bathtub big enough for you both. a living room with a large fireplace hidden from sight, enough to carry heat throughout the whole house without him ever having to see the flames, and he'd excused himself to inspect the glass-walled conservatory to hide the choked-up tears.

he'd left you and gwyn in the living room, talking about a bookcase dedicated to the smutty bookclub you banned him from attending, knowing now he could simply retreat to your bedroom to give you privacy, more than two floors between you all now. he could picture a coffee table, one he would build himself, and two large armchairs, a space to sit and drink your coffee together every morning, staring out at the large garden that was sprawling behind it.

pretty structures sat even out there. a pergola sat on a stone patio, surrounded by flowers, a firepit sat in the middle for cold nights. a shed, a flower garden, benches along the bushes and under the trees, and finally, tucked away into the back, a small build. bigger than a shed, built with its own bricks and stones, a small covered porch out the front of it, a pathway leading all the way to it, lit with small glowing faelights that would come alive in the dark.

warm arms wrapped around his waist, like he'd drawn you to him with his curiosity, and his wings flared slightly to make space for you as you pressed a kiss to the clothed spot between them.

"what's that?"

he pointed out, gwyn following his gaze, and the feeling of your excitement washed over him in waves, radiating in his chest. "that's one of the best parts. do you want to see it?"

you didn't wait for an answer, unwrapping yourself from him and unlocking the wide doors of the conservatory, sliding them aside and stepping out onto the path. gravel crunched underneath your feet, his own and gwyn's too as they followed you, until you were standing under the porch. unlocking a matching door to the front, but a single, smaller, he had to duck a little to step inside, light glowing softly as it sensed your presence. almost the whole of the small bungalow was open plan, kitchen melting into a large room, a fireplace on one wall, an arched doorway leading to another empty room, a bedroom, a door sealed against the wall. presumably a bathroom.

"a.. guest house?"

"no." you took azriel's hand, watching gwyn step forward to explore, running her fingers over the crafted wood of the mantle. you leaned in, cheek pressed against his bicep as you held them both hanging in anticipation, absorbing the beautiful but empty interior. "you like it, gwyn?"

"I love it, it's beautiful. what's it for?"

"you." she paused, twisting to face you, and azriel stiffened a little at your words, shock taking him over.

"me?"

"well, of course. you didn't think I was going to build a house with no place for you, did you?" her eyes watered, rippling like the oceans they resembled so ethereally. she took a few steps forward, back towards you, reaching out to clasp your hands in her own. azriel felt like he couldn't breathe, like he didn't know exactly how he'd been so lucky, to land a mate who understood and accepted every part of him this way.

"you want me to stay with you?"

"only if you want to." he knew you knew, azriel had come home to find you crying in the bathtub over a year ago, and when he'd asked what was wrong, you'd wept for gwyn, who'd finally told you the whole truth of why she lived with azriel, that he'd made her feel safe, and she was still so filled with doubt about going back into the world that last tie she'd tried, a panic attack had brought her right back. "if you don't, I'm sure cassian will call dibs before I even finish tell him about it."

"well, sucks to be cassian, because this is mine." she sniffled a little, looking around the space in awe, wiping not so discreetly at her tears when he back was to you both. azriel twisted, lifting a wing to shield you both from sight as he cupped your face with both hands.

"you made a space for gwyn."

"of course, I did." he swiped a thumb over your cheekbone, other hand slipping down to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "you think we're leaving her behind? she belongs with us."

he shook his head, swallowing down thickly on the lump of emotion wedged there. "kiss me, right now."

"well, if you insist, shadowsinger." you grinned, arms wrapping around his neck, tugging yourself up to his level until you were pressing your lips to his. he let himself sink into his, holding you close to him, drowning in the way it felt to have a mate, someone so perfectly matched to him, someone who he never had to hide from. it surprised him every time, this feeling shocked him to his core, made him feel electrified every time he thought about it too much. you were his, all of this was his, he wasn't sure he'd ever done anything to deserve it but he would fight 'til his last breath to keep it.

"nope! none of that in my new place." pulling away with a groan, azriel lowered his wing, peeking over the top to see his best friend grinning at him cheekily, hands on her hips as he tutted. you sank down, face pressing into his chest to hide your laughter, moment shattered.

"you're such a cockblock, gwyn."

"hey, you have your own place now, go back to it. I don't want my new place to reek of your arousal within five minutes of me getting it." she shooed the pair of you away, as though she'd owned it forever, and you reached into your pocket, handing over the key to her before he was being pushed out onto the porch with you in his arms. "I have paint colours to plan."

"oh, mother help us, this room is going. to look like a rainbow threw up in it." azriel felt his face scrunch up, and gwyn offered a crude gesture to him, before slamming the door in his face. your presence was all that grounded him, ready to start a bickering match with her, but you were pulling him back up the path to your own house.

"I think, we should go bed shopping. we have space for a much bigger bed now," he smirked at you, following your lead toward the garden gate.

"I like the way you think, my love."

#azriel x reader

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chaoticdesertdweller · 5 months

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Castelnuovo Bormida, Alessandria, Piedmont, Italy c.1700

750 square meters/6 bedrooms/4 baths $182,885 approx USD

"Castelnuovo Bormida - Located within the charming setting that houses the medieval castle symbol of Castelnuovo (an imposing and ancient architectural structure at the foot of the Bormida river), this historic Renaissance residence that is spread horizontally with an L-shaped plan and vertical on four levels. The same retains the original architectural elements intact, a value that distinguishes it and makes it a unique opportunity in the high quality real estate market.

The prestigious house has a total area of 750 square meters spread over 4 floors:

Ground Floor -__________sqm 270

Here were the spaces dedicated to the activities for the management of the house.

This level can be accessed above all by two entrances: one under the main staircase and another very easy to loading and unloading is located in Via del Castello.

In the room used as a kitchen there is still the oven and the old stoves

A comfortable and large secondary staircase leads to the other floors.

Some openings lead into the fenced garden by a high brick wall.

This floor is therefore composed as follows: Entrance, basement, kitchen, living room, two woodshed rooms, two garages, cellar room as well as exclusive garden.

First floor ___________sqm 280

The main floor of representation.

Access to this floor is via a climbing up the beautiful staircase where you can not help but admire the ceiling embellished by the authentic coffered painting and preserved to perfection, you enter the living room where the nobles welcomed the guests. A disengaged sitting room the floor, from here there is access to the loggia, the bedrooms and the utility staircase. Now this floor is used as a main house.

The current composition is as follows: entrance hall, large living room, kitchen, 2 open spaces, three bedrooms, two bathrooms and veranda.

Second floor _______sqm 150

Plan that was made available for service or for a private residence, identical to the one under the summer in the layout of the spaces, more Spartan and as a whole more authentic.

7 rooms, two bathrooms and veranda.

Third Floor - Attic

From the loggia climbing a 1700s authentic wood staircase. You can explore the attic of 200 square meters. With truss, beams and original strips and 10 external views."- from the listing

https://www.gate-away.com/properties/piedmont/alessandria/castelnuovo-bormida/id/566315

📸 Source/Photos: Bracco Immobiliare

#italian architecture #italian villa #italian #italy #historic #1700s #historic architecture #dream house #dreamy #cozy #affordable house #real estate #part three #long post

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pwlanier · 4 months

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Boris Nikolaevich Koshelokhov (1942-2021).

Robots. 2000s.

Canvas, oil. 94 x 109 cm.

CANVAS WITHOUT A SUBFRAME.

Painter, sculptor. Born in Zlatoust. In 1962 he came to Leningrad, studied at the medical institute, worked as a nurse, driver, electrician, participated in geological expeditions. He was a regular at the "Saigon" cafe, where he first met the artists. Begins to visit exhibitions of nonconformist art at the Palace of Culture. I. Gaza and DK "Nevsky" begins to engage in assembly. He paints his first oil painting in the autumn of 1976. For a long time he did not have a workshop, wrote in the room, in the attic, on the staircases.

He became the organizer of a group of young artists - informals "Chronicle", from which E. Figurina and T. Novikov came out. In 1978 he married and went to Italy. Participant of the Venice Biennale in 1979. He was engaged in painting, wooden sculpture, creation of spatial compositions made of plastic. In the 1990s, his exhibitions are held in Leningrad, Gdansk, Warsaw, Stockholm, Amsterdam, Lyon, Paris, Gothenburg. He lives in St. Petersburg.

Artistic Auctions

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cartoonscientist · 26 days

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antiques roadshow host assessing a haunted painting: so what’s interesting here is that this wasn’t actually made by a child; it’s painted in what you might call “a naive style”, you can see that the artist understands the laws of perspective and composition as established by the old masters and is choosing to eschew realism, which isn’t developmentally appropriate for a child who would be drawing at this level. now, if we look at the central figure, you see those two sort of snowman arm twigs coming out of the front? haha, yes. this little character is called the “shrike horse”, and it fairly reliably marks the piece as being a product of the midcentury new occult movement.

antiques roadshow host: this was most likely drawn in a trance state or other altered mindset in an effort to reach some kind of primitive, animalistic inner drive, or perhaps a destroying child ego that would be used to channel chaotic energy. I would bet money that it was hung in the basement of a church, or maybe in someone’s attic that had been converted into a ritual space. now, you used to be able to use these to contact and channel various dark entities, power wells, what have you, but you can tell that this particular piece wasn’t painted with archival materials, and the connection most likely isn’t very strong now. you might be able to record a decent EVP with one of those little spy microphones.

antiques roadshow host: in today’s market, I would value it at around seven hundred, a thousand, but you could get up to three thousand if you found the right collector. well, thank you so much for coming on the show today, it’s always just such a joy for me to see these lovingly preserved remnants of underground magickal practice from america’s past.

#horror #mundane horror #shitpost #antiques roadshow #unreality

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gemsofgreece · 7 months

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I know this may be too far back, but could you mention the source where the hymn “ai geneia pasai” is said to be based on a lament by Demeter?

It's been more than two years since I made that post and I unfortunately couldn't find the exact source I had used then. My impression is that I had used a wikipedia page because this is my go-to but the ones I checked now (i.e Byzantine music) have changed in structure and some content since the last time I visited.

So, I found some webpages which mention the same thing but they are in Greek:

In this third site (link), it mentions the same thing and cites wikipedia as the source, so either it indeed was in Wikipedia up to a point or I am not finding the correct page.

Anyway, what must be taken into account is that this is not an established truth but a hypothesis based on the structure and the morphology of the hymn, which is why I was repeating the "it is believed" in the original post. Based on the Greek sites I cited above, I summarized what could work as evidence that supports this hypothesis in English:

parts of the hymn - the less obviously Christian parts - are written in High Attic Greek, with words like "έαρ", "παντάναξ", which were far more common in Ancient Greek than Koine or Medieval Greek

the content of the hymn contains elements not typical to Byzantine themes, such as a focus on "κάλλος", the beauty (of Jesus), which instead was a very popular theme in Ancient Greece

there is an orphic hymn chanted in Eleusinian mysteries as Demeter's lament for Persephone that bears similarities in its context, although there are no identical similarities

this is something you will actually find mentioned in the current wikipedia page about Byzantine music; the first centuries a lot of the Christian compositions were not original but rather copied or inspired by earlier ancient melodies. O Glyky Mou Ear (Ae Geneae Pasae) is according to a church site (also in Greek) composed before the time of St. Romanos the Melodist, so before the 6th century, making it a likely contender to be one of the chants inspired by pagan ones.

this hymn has some characteristic archaic tonal elements in its music but I don't know enough about music theory to perceive this and explain it myself

also, some of the Byzantine hymns were not composed by a certain poet or composer but they were created by the folk and passed from one generation to the next and then they were "polished" by Byzantine μαΐστροι (meisters, maestros). Because this hymn has an unknown date and unknown composer, it is generally hypothesized to belong to this category of hymns, as well. This one, I remember reading it in wikipedia for sure, I don't know why I can't find it now -_-

These were the most relevant parts mentioned in these sites but it has some other interesting info about other Greek cultural continuities as well, I guess, if you google translate...

#greece #byzantine music #greek music #greek orthodox music #byzantine culture #greek culture #greek orthodox easter #demeter #persephone #ancient greek religion #elby-and-a-blog #ask

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hometoursandotherstuff · 2 years

Photo

This is so awesome. When the sun fades behind the rooftops, photographer Alan Cornu packs up his gear, puts on his boots and heads to the nearest ladder that will lead him to the most secret views of Paris. Up there is where he does his magic, photographing the rooftop view of the city.

It’s difficult to get the shot you’re trying to achieve at night.

The beauty of Paris is overwhelming whether you’re walking its streets or looking down at it from above, but not a lot of us get to see it from above.

One must wonder how he skips across these rooftops.

He lived in an attic room as a student in the 80s.

From time to time, we’re even treated to surreptitious views through an open window.

He addresses not only famous monuments, but also the iconic images of the Parisian skyline.

Charming interior courtyards, chimney pipes, tiny skylights and gently sloping zinc rooftops — iconic images of Paris.

“I wanted to set my story at night, when the city, like a big animal that ran all day long, gets her breath back and finds its intimacy. The artificial lights structure the space and help me compose my images,” explained Alan.

Gargoyles.

“When I take pictures, I put myself in a contemplative state which makes me look at things differently. And, besides composition, I’m focused in details, matters, and light,” said Alan.

https://www.instagram.com/alaincornuphoto/?hl=en

#rooftops of paris #paris at night #photography #alan cornu #long post

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bloodsbane · 3 days

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im glad the OC bug you got bit by was for moira bc ive always been intrigued by her!!! whats ur fave part of working on the comic annnd where did moira spawn from (open to interpretation on whether thats in-story, conceptually, or whatever else)

MOIRA'S ORIGIN STORY: yeeeears ago, me and some friends (you actually know one of them marc, annie of course~) were throwing around the idea of making a dating sim. obviously THAT never happened, lol, but anyway, the concept we came up with was a haunted house full of monster girls

so, originally, moira was an idea i had of a girl you find in the attic. HOWEVER. while i imagined her as a vampire (who lived/slept in the attic as a bat), the design i dreamed up for her screamed "werewolf" to me. and i couldn't decide on which i wanted, so i opted for both! and i liked the idea of her design enough that i actually drew it, and things went on from there, mostly due to the fact that i wanted to come up with a REASON for her being a hybrid, which gave birth to her backstory (and is what the comic was originally about, back when i didn't know what the fuck i was going to do with it in the end)

as for what i like working on in the comic... it's been a while since ive actually WORKED on it, but i do love finishing a page and feeling satisfied with how things came out. i like improvising decisions as i work, like compositions or poses, and sometimes dialogue, though ive tried writing more of a script since chapter 3. also, what ive enjoyed the most are the tense/actions scenes (of which there has been like... one and a half, lol); there WILL be more in future >:)

#baneanswers #i always get amused when i remember moira was originally a dating sim girlie... that's so funny to me now

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jade-of-mourning · 5 days

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just rewatched the first three episodes of lok and i'm obsessed again. korra is SO CUTE she's buff she's passionate she's self assured she's sassy as fuck she's the whole world to me omg.

welcome to republic city & the revelation do SUCH a good job of establishing the character of the city and really, introducing the new world!!! the revelation has been one of my favorite episodes of lok for a long minute because of its noir aesthetic, the art in the cityscaping, the insane cinematography and composition of the korra/mako & chi-blocker fight! the way that mako's revelation of his and bolin's backstory is a direct parallel to the fradulent backstory of amon!!!! (and the potential behind the firebenders-killed-my-parents stereotype as inflicted on a firebending kid,,,)

AND THE WAY KORRA IS IMMEDIATELY SMITTEN WITH MAKO IS SO FUNNY. the way that it just does not occur to mako at all to romantically like korra at all — he sees that bolin is not in their attic and automatically assumes that he's flirting with korra and is just entire amused at the concept like okay,,, then korra offers to help him find bolin and he goes "nah i got it" and i'm like dude,, if i were in your position i would literally be hanging off of her bc she's so cute wdym Nah I Got It you do not got it you are a hot trauma mess let the pretty girl help you. actually he's aro what.

also i'm yelling about how bolin was written as, y'know, an actual human being with feelings and nuance in characterization in these first few episodes. the show could never make me hate you bolin. and the way mako looks so tired all the time especially in his initial introduction just looking at his side profile, and how he word for word goes "i think i'm gonna turn in; you kids have fun" at korra and bolin STOP. mako physically picking up an equalist and hauling them off the stage like a ragdoll bc they were going to harm bolin is the truest shit of all time. sorry i still think mako should've been a girl but in that moment where he asks if bolin is alright and bolin goes "YES MAKO I LOVE YOU" i agreed bc i love him for who he is in canon too

THE SETUP FROM A LEAF IN THE WIND guys the way the airbending philosophy translates over into an entire theme of the season,, how tenzin and korra's relationship already evolves so much over the course of one episode and how they recognize their own faults and acknowledge each other's perspectives; they were always meant to help build one another into better more empathetic people. i just love watching their dynamic so much um kind of the most important part of the show. also the way that korra sees what mako does in the ring and connects it to what tenzin told her about airbending and how it finally clicked for her,,, sorry i'm once again thinking about the sheer potential that makorra could've been until it got absolutely trashed in about one episode from now LOL. (i'm joking it took about another season before that happened but still.)

talk to me please i need to yell about season 1 again and esp the first three episodes because they had so much potential for so many good things and just never got the time to explore it in its entirety,,,, AAAAAAA never getting over the visuals the personality in the animation the background paintings the music just hgnajdsgbhkbsjdgajs SEASON ONE KORRA I LOVE YOU. also my chest hurts sm what

#lychee's brain trash #sorry about this absolute batshittery this is why i shouldn't post on tumblr #THIS IS ABSOLUTELY INCOMPREHENSIBLE i just need to put it out in the world #THINKING ABOUT LOK AGAIN.#i think that it deserves its own tag on my blog bc i make so much shitposting #something among the lines of #lok the unbelievably messy & sincere shitfest you are

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m3rricat · 2 months

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You Do Not Have To Be Good - Ch. 2

Story summary: Four months after the defeat of the Netherbrain, Astarion finds himself stuck in the mire of his past and all the anger and despair that comes with it. While wrestling with her traveling-companion-turned-lover’s misery, Cat makes an impulsive decision that sets off their first falling-out. This post-game short story is told alongside the full in-game story of the evolving relationship between Cat (the not-a-bard) and Astarion (needs no introduction) which varies from canon. Told from both POVs.

Chapter Masterlist

Chapter 2: Cat finds herself at the dark heart of it; then, bite night re-imagined, in which Astarion accidentally gives almost as much as he gets.

Pairing: Astarion x female Tav

Chapter Content Warnings: gore, brief description of flaying

Word Count: 4572

Read on AO3

No matter where Cat stands in this heap of a city, she always knows where it is. It presses just barely on the base of her skull when she picks through greens at the grocer stall. When she winds through the market-day throngs on her way back home. When she lays her head down and tries to sleep—it tugs at her from where it squats to the east.

Cazador’s former palace is a certified ruin now. A strike from a nautiloid during the last battle had sheared through the roof of the main structure, disintegrating much of the dilapidated attic space and exposing the floors below to the elements. No distant relative of the Szarrs, if they still lived, had sought to claim it, and no one else seemed keen to try. Standing as it does practically within the wall between the upper and lower city, it is far too close to the unwashed masses to be at all attractive to anyone who could afford it. And so it sits, empty. Patiently moldering.

The structure haunts her subconscious because the horrors that were inflicted within it consume Cat’s waking mind. What an idiot she had been to think that Astarion had left it behind. At all. To think that he could just slough it off like dead skin and be reborn perfectly content. This past month it feels like she has been living with two of him, and neither the one stuck fast in 200 years of torment nor the one who sometimes manages to dig his way out is happy. More than wearing on her patience, it is wearing out her heart. Which makes her feel more guilty.

Because Cat knows. She knows that the place that makes you gets its claws in you, and they’re forever. She’s had a couple decades to learn to live with them. Most of the time she can ignore where they’re hooked into her, but now and then something will jerk them under her skin, and it all comes flooding in, like high tide on the marsh. And in all her senses she is thrown back there: the ubiquitous perfume of decay in her nose, and in her ear, the seabirds’ cries mingled with her father’s drunken sobs.

The past that dogs Astarion is not hers to claim. And yet, Cat feels it dogging her all the same. Dragging his mind away from the present, from her, more and more. She hates it with a sharpness that sticks in her throat. She wants it to manifest before her, for that sneering terror Cazador to re-form so she can beat him to death again with all the rage and despair that has built up like grit in her body since they had killed him. When she thought they had killed him for good.

Cat wakes directly from her fantasy of snapping the vampire lord’s skinny neck to find herself staring up at the pockmarked doors of his palace, grocery basket still hanging on her arm. The massive doors sit at crooked angles, half off their hinges, forming a slim gap only just large enough to slip through.

She doesn’t remember how her feet carried her here. How she must have veered from her weekly shopping run a good half-mile away to this ruin, which stands behind an abandoned guard post and wrought iron gate. Really, she should get back—she has some fresh crab in her basket that would not keep, and a composition waiting for her that she must make some progress (any progress) on, so she can finally bring some income.

Cat’s eyes continue to range over the blunt edifice of the palace. What gestures towards greenery the groundskeepers had maintained around the entrance were long dead. Four months ago, the only other time she had been here herself, the plants here were already withering. Because the master within had better things for his servants to prepare.

But she had seen this place, too, when it had been meticulously maintained with flowers for every season. She had seen it through his eyes that time Violet and Aurelia had dragged him back screaming his throat raw the morning he had been caught trying to save that one man from Cazador’s clutches. They had shoved him out of the shadow of the doorway to let the rising sun start the torture he would endure for as long as his master willed. He remembered seeing the colors of the flowers by the stairs, emerging in the dawning light as his extremities began to crack and crumble. There was one, a morning glory, which twisted open just as his eye alighted on it. The deep, almost electric indigo of it seared itself into his mind, and he clung to the memory of it when he was sealed in the smothering dark for that next year.

Cat wipes her eyes and plunges through the gap.

It is the wee hours of the morning a few days after Cat thought she and Astarion had come to an understanding, and the words ‘I knew it’ are feebly winding through the dull roar drowning out her mind.

In her dreams that night, the marshes were filled with blood, which was not unusual. But this time the metallic stench of it in her nose almost made her wretch. She was about to wade out into the red-tinged blackness when she felt a prick on her neck. Her first thought was that a bird had alighted on her shoulder, that it was pecking at her—

Cat jerks awake. Something next to her jerks.

Before her mind can fully register anything, her body manages to teleport several feet away on all fours, like a spooked horse. The thing does not follow. It stays wallowing in the dirt by her bedroll—outside tonight, as it was her turn to forego the privacy a tent since they did not have enough for all.

Cat’s heart is beating clear out of her chest as she scrambles to her feet while her eyes adjust with her smidgen of darkvision. She peers at it. It looks like a mangled corpse huddled on the ground. Without warning, it groans. And then it speaks.

“Ca—at…please,” Astarion’s voice wheezes out of its throat as if through a punctured bellows.

The second thing Cat recognizes is the shirt. Those insipid frills that he so very casually leaves untied (revealing what? A pale, skinny chest?). Only half the shirt still clings to him—the right half is gone completely, torn off, and a good chunk of his right arm with it. Or—eugh. It isn’t a clean chunk of it gone. It has been gnawed on, bones crunched, splinters poking through the gore that remains. The whole thing hangs at a sickening angle from the few tendons that still connect it to his shoulder. Her eyes drag to his torso, which is black with blood, slashed to ribbons through his shirt—and then his face. She does not want to look. His one remaining eye glints in the darkness. The other side of his face is a red ruin, cheek torn clear through. Her stomach roils.

His mouth lolls open, revealing what she has been strongly suspecting since the beginning—fangs gleaming like a beacon amidst the wreck of his form.

Cat had of course noticed his pallor when they met. His eyes. That what little of his canines she saw seemed unusually long. But after he threatened and cajoled her on the beach by the smoldering wreckage, she had still decided to keep him on. Maybe wandering through clouds of smoke from burning, rotting ship-flesh simply did not allow one to think straight, but she vaguely remembers wanting to stick with other tadpoled folks for safety. And to observe them for early warning signs.

Astarion had been standing on that beach under a cloudless sky in the afternoon sun. That had to rule vampirism out. Didn’t it? Cat had put her questions aside, but evidence to the contrary continued to pile up day after day. They lived cheek to jowl, and yet she never saw food pass his lips. And on a couple early mornings, she had watched him saunter into camp and, on closer inspection, noticed a few rust-colored specks on his otherwise spotless self.

Cat has pondered what to do—clearly, if Astarion was a vampire of all things, he had decided to keep his feedings away from the group, which seemed to indicate he meant no harm. But before Cat could resolve on anything, her plan to get a quick cure from the Gith crèche was dashed by a squadron of Gith and a red dragon (mostly the dragon), so she scrambled to begin plotting a Plan B.

The animated corpse that is Astarion lurches toward Cat, startling her back to the present. A nauseating gurgle sounds from his throat. It seems whatever air was in his lungs has leaked out, and they are too perforated to hold more.

Cat shivers in her loosely-tied stays and shift against the chill of the night as her mind tries to wrap around what is happening, tries to decide what the hells she should do. Astarion flings his good arm out, levers on top of it, and tries to crawl. His face is canted up toward her, his mouth working wordlessly.

That is when she feels the tadpole tickle at her brain. After a moment it starts to thrash, sending a painful jolt through her skull down into her spine. She hears words in her mind, but they sound too far off to make them out. They echo, and then stop. Astarion continues to stare up at her, body trembling with the effort. Now his teeth clench in something like frustration. He bows his head. Then, with no build-up, the worm in Cat’s brain lashes ferociously, flinging her into the abyss.

Eyes. Red, glowing balefully. They are your universe. The impulse in your limbs, your dead brain. There is nothing that came before them. Nothing else that will come after. And as they commanded, you bite down with an unfamiliar mouth into a writhing handful of fur and bone and muscle. Your tongue laps greedily at the rivulets of blood you manage to squeeze—

—squeeze the scream from your mouth as your master unhurriedly peels the skin from your fingers, then fillets them to the bone as the flesh tries to grow back against the relentless violence, all the while murmuring praises for the sweetness of your sobs—

—sobs that tear from your parchment-dry throat as your mind tries to recall color, any color; it has been years, surely, that you have been in the close press of the dark, and you shiver as your splintered mind conjures up flickering images of the most vibrant blue-purple, so beautiful it must have been a dream—

—dream, no more than that, your mind so used to the leering stares raking across your perfect skin that will soon turn to pawing and groping and pulling and penetrating; the violations that cannot reach you, you tell yourself, not matter how deep they get—

Cat falls down and down, her mind catching on the random spikes of horror that stab through him like lightning. A handful are scenes so clear she shudders from the sharp immediacy of their feeling, but nearly all are mere scraps of images or sensations she cannot make sense of. The tide of deep, aching misery is ever-present.

Just as Cat feels she is about to hit the bottom, she braces herself. But the impact doesn’t come. She opens her eyes, finding herself on her own two feet. She stands in the morning mists of the group’s campsite from several days ago, on the cliffs overlooking the beach. Where Astarion had called her dour. He is in front of her, standing, looking east at the sky just starting to lighten. She does not stand in his place now, but she feels the tightness in his chest as if it is her own. The refusal in his mind to let himself hope for anything, but the inability to deny the joy he feels at seeing this for the first time his body can remember.

Cat steps towards him. He whips around—his expression quickly turns from wide-eyed wonder to narrow annoyance as he sees her.

“I need your blood,” he snaps.

Cat’s mind races. Blood? Why would he—and then she remembers exactly where she is. It feels like she has been buffeted through his mind for ages. But no, the real her was standing in front of chewed-up him somewhere outside of here.

Cat tries to form words. “But—healing. I’ll get Shadowheart—”

“No,” he retorts like a whip. “I need to regenerate—but this damn tadpole is slowing it down. I haven’t gotten enough blood, between the fighting and everything else. Please,” he says through gritted teeth. The crest of the rising sun throws him into relief, blinding Cat—

—the chill of the night and the bloody smell of Astarion’s body come rushing back as Cat opens her eyes. She has fallen to her hands and knees. Astarion is where he was, and he is looking back at her, but he can barely keep his head up.

Cat swallows. She tries to make her mind work. Despite his protests, Shadowheart should be able to heal him, surely? But then a thought occurs to her—but can healing spells heal him, being as he is… undead? She can’t recall if she ever saw anyone use one on him before now. And Shadowheart herself also said that her own powers have been severely weakened by the worm. And Astarion needs something powerful—

… Fine.

She sighs. This is about to top the list of gravely stupid things she has done in her life.

Cat half-rises, takes the couple steps to her bedroll, and sits down in front of Astarion. She looks at her wrist. It is the first spot she thinks of to... donate. But her head suddenly fills with visions of an over-eager Astarion chomping down on the delicate tendons and mutilating them, rendering her more useless than usual without the ability to perform.

Where else? Elbow? Same problem. Where were other major veins, close to the surface? She can only think of her neck. Gods damn it all to hell.

She hardens her voice as she speaks at last. “Fine. I’ll give you some. But take more than you need, or try to bite without asking again—and you’re done.”

Astarion can’t say anything, but Cat decides to take his blink—one eye, like a morbid wink—as confirmation. Now comes the messy part.

She is not going to lay down for this. No way, no how. So she goes about gathering him upright as she kneels on her bedroll. Despite how excruciating it must be, he doesn’t so much as whimper. Not even when, trying not to hurl, she picks up his ruined arm to keep it with him out of fear that the bit of his shoulder still clinging to it will give way. She moves it slowly onto his lap. Then she puts her arm around him, pulls him toward her, then decides to shift toward him instead after she finds that easier. In the end she holds him against herself in a sticky embrace.

Then she sets about maneuvering his head. First he lolls it to her left side. “N—nuh-uh. Not there. That side—that side’s for violins only,” she half-whispers. Her inane words almost makes her laugh. Except they don’t, because what she doesn’t say is also he can’t feed from that side because it would leak out of the side of his face where he has no face.

So she lays his intact left cheek down on her right shoulder. She half-expects to feel his breath, but of course there is none. She’s holding a dead body, after all.

He just sits there in corpse-wrong stillness. She half wonders if he has, well, died-died. So she ventures, “Go on, then. Get this over with.”

The sudden tickle of his nose sends a shiver through her. It’s searching, sounding for the vein. And then the touch of his lips, almost shockingly soft.

Well, this is it, you stupid girl. This is when you have to fish or cut bait.

Her arms clutch at his back at the same moment his fangs slide so easily into her neck.

It’s like plunging into a cold ocean, but after the initial shock it turns to deliciously warm bathwater. She hears herself let out a moan that if she was in her right mind would have made her die of embarrassment on the spot.

But she doesn’t. Because all the tension Cat has been carrying for eight damn years is leaking out her neck with the blood. She feels fuzzy, like the edges of her are melting into Astarion whose attentions are getting more and more forceful as her blood wakes him up. There is a twinge of panic deep in her mind, but the signal from it is taking its sweet time hitting her consciousness. So instead she wraps her arms around him tighter, greedy for the irresistible comfort suffusing her body. She feels as if Astarion is melting into her at the same time, the sense of him as something separate beginning to tangle with herself. She sighs contentedly.

Cat doesn’t know how long it’s been when she finally feels the spark of fear surface, the flood of adrenaline as she realizes what is happening. Her first instinct is to wrench her body away, but Astarion feels very latched on, and she fears that if she tears him off he will come away with a chunk of her neck.

So she winds one hand in his hair and says as loud as she dares, voice cracking right in his ear, “Astarion, enough—”

His sucking falters. She tugs as sharply as she can with her weakening arm. “Off. N-now.”

He groans, and for a moment Cat fears he is about to bite deeper. But his jaw hinges open. He goes to raise his head, then sets his forehead on her shoulder instead, breathing slow and shuddering, blood dripping from his mouth.

Cat is hit with a sudden wooziness and sways, clutching at him for balance, setting her own head against his shoulder out of necessity. In the haze of her blood loss, everything seems barely real.

“Are you all better now?” she mumbles into his collarbone, suddenly giddy.

With effort, he raises his head. Cat tries to do the same, but her skull is still too damn heavy. She turns it against his shoulder instead, looking up at him. Her blood coats his mouth and his chin, black and glossy. Looking at it gives her a strange feeling she can’t place. From her vantage point, she starts to see muscle crawl back over his cheekbone and jaw, followed by a layer of pearly skin. Her hand raises unconsciously to touch the new cheek, but thankfully her sane mind intervenes in time to stop it.

“Y—you seem. Unruffled,” he manages to cough up. His face is blank as his newly-mended eye rolls down to look at her. Cat feels him stiffen under where her cheek lies, but he does not attempt to push her away.

“Oh, well. You’re not my first dead person—I mean,” she shakes her head against his shoulder. “You’re not the first dead person I’ve seen. May be the nicest-looking, though. Not so bloated.” She shrieks inwardly at her daft babbling.

He finally makes an expression, blanching. “Bloated!? I’m bloated—?”

“Nnno, you’re not,” she practically wails, jerking upright. She sways where she sits, her head pounding. “It’s—my mind is. A bit blurry. I mean not bloated. Not waterlogged at all.”

He glares at her as he shifts back and sits on the ground. Cat notices his arm. “Oh! Thank gods, I was worried about that.”

Astarion clutches it to him and hisses, “and it almost was as good as gone thanks to you needing so much hand-holding! In my state I could barely control that damn tadpole to send you a simple message, and instead you—” He cuts himself off. His eyes rake her face. “What did you see?”

“Where?”

“Don’t play dumb. In my—head. I could feel you snooping all around before I finally found you. What did you see?”

The giddiness has fully worn off now. Cat regards Astarion tensed before her, looking less dead but still a mess. She tries to choose her words carefully, fighting the clearing fog in her head. “I—I saw a lot of. Of pieces. A few longer, but most were just snatches, things I couldn’t—” she stops. Starts again. “I can’t put it all together. I know he—Szarr was your master. Guess those old rumors were true, huh?” she mutters as the thought occurs to her. “You’re his… spawn, right? And he tortured you. Made you… eat rats.”

Astarion’s glare is still wary. “That is the short version. Yes. But you saw more than that. I know you did.”

“Yes,” Cat begins slowly. Astarion feels like a cornered animal in front of her, angry and terrified by turns. She doesn’t want to voice them, but… “Do you want me to tell you? What I saw?”’

He grits his teeth, looking away. “I—no,” he says bitterly, in the end. “The only thing worse than you seeing my memories would be to have you recount them to me.”

Cat is at a loss. Astarion appears to be as well; he still won’t meet her eyes. At last, she says, for want of anything better to offer: “Astarion. I won’t tell anyone. It’s your business, and I didn’t mean to pry.”

He looks up at her. The edge of his anger has abated slightly. But he is still irritated. “Well—fine. I suppose there’s little else I can do short of. Well.” He stops abruptly. Then something seems to occur to him. “And. I suppose I should thank you, anyway. For this.”

Cat quirks a brow. “You mean me letting a man I just found out was a hungry vampire bite my neck with no idea if I’d make it out alive? Yeah. Probably.”

“Exactly. There you go then,” he says breezily, waving his hand in dismissal.

Cat feels a prickle of anger, but it is somehow trumped by amusement. She snorts. “Gods but you are stingy. What the hells happened to fuck you up so bad, anyway?”

“Oh, it was—a bear. Set my sights too high.” He shakes his head, annoyed. “Like I said in my—my head, I’ve been starving. It’s one thing to live on rats when you’re… more sedentary. But all these battles day after day—what I could scrounge in the woods hasn’t been enough.”

“So you went after a damn bear?” Cat gapes. “Why didn’t you just say something to me?”

“Oh, you think we had something special, did you, bonding over Cazador?” Astarion retorts, spitting out his master’s name. “When you didn’t even know what he really was. Please. I had no reason to believe you wouldn’t kick me out right there. Or stake me.”

Fair enough. Maybe. Cat drops it and moves on to her next burning question. “So how did you manage to get away from it, then?”

“It,” he pauses, and something like embarrassment flits over his face. “it chewed on me a bit, but it seemed to decide I wasn’t worth the trouble. Ultimately.”

Cat grins. “Ah. I guess a vampire wouldn’t taste that good.”

“I’ll have you know I taste delightful,” Astarion snaps back, with a slight sultry lilt. Something in it triggers Cat’s brain to recall that memory—when he was… presented, and hungry eyes appraised him.

“What’s that look for?”

Cat blinks. “What?”

“That stupid sad look. I don’t want your damn pity,” Astarion practically snarls, his hackles back up again.

Cat tries to settle her face. “I… can’t help it. Anyone with a heart would.” His eyes burn with hate. It’s hard for Cat to keep his gaze, but she does, and says as evenly as she can, “but I don’t think you’re pitiable.”

“There’s no difference!”

“Yes there is! The fact that you still have your—your sanity after that? How long has it been?”

He looks at her sullenly. “…200 years. Give or take.”

“Hells,” she breathes. “Not pathetic at all.”

Astarion shifts his seat irritatedly and looks away. He is quiet for a moment. Then he swings back toward Cat. “I still don’t like this. You know too much about me and I barely know a thing about you. Where in the hells are you from? This place where harpies abound and apparently bloated corpses as well?”

Cat’s jaw sets. After a few moments, she says, “on the Winding Water.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “The river that’s five hundred miles long? More specific, if you please.”

Cat sighs. “The end of it.”

“The—oh, you mean the Delta?” he cackles with a jarring shift of emotion. “Oh, that explains the drawl as well. My dearest Cat, approximately how many blood feuds are you involved in right now? Ten? Twenty?”

He likes having something on her, Cat can see. She feels irritation at his sudden smugness. She might snap back at him with any one of a hundred things. But that would be conceding he had gotten under her skin at all—and Cat hates admitting defeat at the best of times. So instead she sits back on her hands and retorts with a pointed drawl, “Oh, darlin’. I know you can do better than that.”

“What?”

“Come on. Hit me. I’ll let you know if I haven’t heard it before.”

Astarion smiles with all his teeth and leans forward. “Well, that delicious moan you let out when I bit you made me think you might be attracted to me, but I now know that cannot be the case, sadly. Since I’m not your cousin.”

Cat smiles crookedly despite herself. “Better. Unoriginal, but better.”

“Tough crowd, I see.”

“Discerning.”

Astarion concedes with a nod. “Discerning. I shall endeavor to improve my material for you in the future, Cat of the Delta. Now, if you’ll excuse me—I look a horror, and I should probably wash off before we tell our fellows the good news in the morning.” He stands up carefully. Turns. His words were light, but his body is all tension.

As he moves, Cat’s eyes absently notice his half-exposed back. A partial wheel of a pattern drawn on it. Scars. A sensation flickers through her, one that had been a brief screaming flash—a careful, dragging slice near his spine, while the rest of his back felt as if it were aflame.

Her eyes water with the echo of the pain. She looks up at him, a few steps away now. The impulse grabs her. “if anyone has a problem with you, they can leave,” she blurts out.

Astarion turns around. Looks at her silently for a moment. “Thank you,” he says at last, curtly, and then walks away in the direction of the river on the other side of camp.

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion x female tav

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