#and she talks to herself a lot…. just a side effect from a century living in isolation. and again if someone asks her wtf she’s doing

[swordmaid]

shri’iia not being used to the vastness of the sky always looking up and glaring at it from time to time, starts wondering what it would be like if the sky collapses or she gets sucked into it somehow, immediately spooks herself, runs off to a shade while muttering to herself in drowic.

[galedekarios]

Idk if you’ve been asked before but what are your thoughts on EARLY early access Gale? The Gale that has bandages on his arm in some early promotional art? There’s an old Auntie Ethel vicious mockery line for him: “I can smell what’s under those bandages wizard! You’re all rot and ruin.” I always wondered if the orb was originally going to have nastier side effects. Like it was making Gale fall apart slowly OR maybe Gale was trying to become a Lich to better handle the orb before being abducted by the mind flayers so he’s in this half alive and undead state when Tav meets him. I feel like that last one would explain the necrotic damage he emits when he dies better. Anyways those are just two tiny details that I roll around in my mind from time to time. I might be thinking too deeply about it. Maybe the writers just wanted to figure out a way to show how much the orb was hurting Gale and the bandages were a start but for some reason they decided against it.

i loved early access gale. there were a lot of uncharitable reads / bad faith takes about him back then, ranging from him being the secret bbeg, the ultimate and guaranteed betrayer, the absolute, to being myrkul because he had a triangles on the robe he was wearing (no, i'm not joking), etc etc etc.

personally, i always loved his character, though, and found him the most interesting and intriguing out of the companions.

overall, i think that he's not that much changed - however, as with all companions and a lot of the npcs, some things have been whittled down or away entirely by larian due things like fandom feedback, but that's a discussion for another time.

i don't subscribe to the lich idea myself, because i think that's not something that gale would want for himself for a multitude of reasons. having said that, however, i always enjoyed this theory:

so, early access gale had this key art, which is still one of my favourites:

left hand wrapped in bandages, the almost stone-like texture of what little you can see of his skin.

adding to that, as you also mentioned, ethel had these vicious mockery lines for gale:

Auntie Ethel: I can smell what's under those bandages, wizard. You're all rot and ruin.

and

Auntie Ethel: Come to greet death early? You'll be a lovely spectacle.

to add to this, this was the way gale talked about the orb and what he thought it was, as well as karsus:

Player: I was wondering about that “mighty lord” you told me about in your story. Gale: Ah, yes. Karsus Karsus was perhaps the most powerful wizard that ever lived. The child-who-would-be-a-god, the elves called him. And he tried. With a spell of his own devising he endeavoured to usurp in one fell swoop the power of the goddess of magic.  Mystryl, she was called then. Imagine what it must have felt like. To be a god. To know yourself to be untouchable. To be mistaken. As Karsus aimed his spell at her she began to unravel, and with her, the entire Weave. Too late did he realize what he had unleashed. It would have been the end of everything had not Mystryl sacrificed herself.  Gale: The goddess of magic is all magic. By dying, the entire weave was lost, and the spell that challenged a god failed. It was the end of Mystryl, the end of Karsus, and the end of an entire civilization. As the child-who-would-be-a-god was turned to stone, his empire came crashing down around him. The floating cities of Netheril were no more. An event that came to be known as Karsus' folly. Player: So at that moment in time, all magic was gone?  Gale: For a spell. Mystyl was reborn as Mystra. Upon her return, the Weave returned with her.  Gale: Now, so many centuries later, I tried to follow in the footsteps of Karsus, not to destroy Mystra, but to prove my love for her. I tried to control only a fraction of the magic that was unleashed that fateful day. I merely sought to return one tiny diamond to an imperfect crown. Gale's Folly one might call it. History. Repetition. It's the way things go.

some of this is still in the game.

more lore about karsus's folly:

Unfortunately, his choice was a terrible mistake, for one of the responsibilities of the deity of magic was to regulate the flow of magic to and from all beings, spells, and magic items in the world. Lacking the ability to do so properly, magic surged and fluctuated. With her last remaining bit of power, Mystryl sacrificed herself to block Karsus's access to the Weave, causing all magic to fail. The flying cities of Netheril plummeted to the earth. The severing of the link also killed Karsus and transformed him into stone, and the last thing he saw was his entire civilization being destroyed because of his actions. This was to be known as Karsus's Folly. The stone form of Karsus eventually landed in a part of the High Forest, now called the Dire Wood.[8] The city of Karse was built around its base. Karsus was never accepted as a petitioner by any god, nor did he go to the Fugue Plane when he died. Instead, his soul was bound to the Material Plane. Those with experience in pact magic could call up his vestige, where he appeared as a giant blood-red boulder,[5] like the one found in the High Forest where his petrified form landed.[8] Blood burbles up from the top of the stone, trickling down the side facing the summoner, pooling at the base. [x]

there are also lines of gale referring to this corruption he carries within as a "taint" and a "shadow", corrupting him "within", affecting his blood as well (another thing that carried over to release).

i think what might have been originally planned (and again, some of this did carry over) is that the orb not only affected gale's magic, but also his body even more severely (it still does to an extent in the release version even though this part is very, very sadly almost entirely glossed over).

putting all of this together, i think that by absorbing a part of that magic unleashed on the day of karsus's folly - the failed magic, the severing of it, karsus turning into stone, petrifying him - might have affected gale in a similar, albeit weaker fashion.

"history. repetition. it's the way things go."

karsus's folly.

gale's folly.

perhaps as the game continued this petrification might have spread, from his hand, up his arm, to his shoulder, and on, either by leaning onto the darker aspects, or by the treatment failing (the consumption of powerful pieces of weave).

maybe that concept was then turned from petrification, to a sort of corruption/rotting that ethel referred to in her lines.

either way, it would have been interesting to see, for sure.

[vikkirosko]

Some time ago, I found a comic in which Charlie sang a song about setting fire to a studio using just one hand, and I wanted to write something inspired by this comic. That's how this oneshot appeared.The format is also a bit unusual for me and differs from how I usually write oneshots, so this can be considered, in a sense, an experiment

🕷 Angel Dust x male!Reader Oneshot I'm sorry, I burned down the studio 💖

Over the centuries, you've watched the Pride Ring change. Sinners were replaced, and the city itself was replaced, becoming more and more a city saturated with vice. Perhaps you would have stopped visiting this place long ago, but for the sake of your precious friend, you were ready to stay there.

You and Charlie have known each other, perhaps, since you were born. Your families were friends and thanks to this, you two were able to become friends. Your parents were only happy about this, seeing how the princess has a beneficial effect on your short-tempered character, and she herself became bolder next to you. So you have remained loyal allies of each other for many years. And it was to you that she turned when the idea of creating a hotel in which sinners could atone for their sins appeared in her head.

Did you believe in her idea? Not very much. But you would never have told her that. You knew perfectly well how much she was worried that sinners died in Hell every year at the hands of angels, and since she decided to create a hotel, then you were ready to help her no matter how. You and Vaggie were by her side and supported her, so you were able to get along, but most of all you seemed to be interested in the first guest of the hotel, Angel Dust.

You didn't care who he worked for. You've lived in Hell too long to worry about such little things, but the more you talked, the more you realized that he was an interesting conversationalist, he had his own special sense of humor, which you liked and his courage seemed charming to you. Charlie was the first one who decided to ask you if you were in love, and it was her words that helped you realize exactly what you felt for a sinner. You really fell in love without expecting this from yourself, but you didn't want to lose this feeling. It was too warm and pleasant for you to try to get rid of it.

You knew perfectly well that Angel had problems that he didn't tell anyone about, and your assumption was only confirmed when your best friend returned from the studio in tears. You were too busy trying to calm her down that time, and she wouldn't let you leave, knowing that you could get angry. Even when you and Angel talked about it later, he didn't tell you what really happened, just saying that he didn't want you to get into trouble because of him. But he didn't even realize that his words were an additional incentive for you to find out about everything that really happened. That's why you followed him to the studio the next time he went there, after receiving another message from Valentino.

No one dared to stop you when you went to the set. You perfectly saw the fear in the eyes of the sinner who was telling you exactly where to go. In another situation, it would have amused you, but right now you were too busy with your little mission to pay attention to it.

You opened the door with a bang, not even intending to hide your presence, and immediately felt a lot of eyes fixed on you. The shocked stares of the employees, the frightened look that belonged to Angel, and the Valentino's angry look. You obviously prevented the start of filming, which was just to your advantage. The last thing you wanted to do was get there in the middle of the action.

"What the fuck?! Who let this bastard in here?!"

You saw perfectly well how angry overlord was, but you didn't care about it. Something else caught your attention. A bruise on Angel's face. You walked up to him, ignoring the others, and spoke with concern on your face.

"Did he do this?"

"You need to leave... Please..."

You gently stroked his cheek and smiled affectionately.

"Don't worry about me, I'm a big boy and I can stand up for myself, you better answer my question."

Instead of words, he just nodded, after which you straightened up and turned to Valentino. Overlord has been watching you, shocked by your audacity. No one dared to treat him so disdainfully, but you acted like you didn't even know who he was. You were either very brave or very stupid.

He wanted to pull out a gun and shoot you, but before he could even reach for the weapon, he collided with your gaze. You were smiling like something very good had happened. The next moment, fire broke out in different parts of the room, engulfing the equipment and part of the scenery.

Angel looked at your back in shock. He remembered how the princess once said that you were a demon, you were born in Hell and had, as she put it, a short temper, but he could not have imagined that she was talking about it so literally. He saw sparks flying from your fingers and the fire only flared up more, while there was no fire around the bed on which he was sitting.

Attempts to put out the fire did nothing, but you felt more and more the evil fun that had not been in your life for a long time. Charlie didn't like it when you hurt someone and for a long time your fire couldn't be released, but now you had a completely objective reason why you stopped holding back. You were angry and you weren't going to put up with it.

Valentino understood that you were the cause of the fire, so he rushed towards you, intending to hit you, but you grabbed his arm. A second later, Val let out a cry of pain, pulling his hand away. There was a severe burn on his skin, and there was a wide, joyful smile on your face.

"Don't you know that you shouldn't touch fire with your hands?"

You laughed like you'd said the funniest joke in history, and Valentino was furious. He retreated only because of another flash of fire, which was your fault. The fire was only getting stronger and he needed to focus on preventing the spread of the fire. Everyone was running around trying to do something, and you kept smiling, starting to hum some melody that turned into a little song that only angered Valentino more.

"I'm so sorry~

So sorry~

That I burned down your damn studio, bitch!"

You laughed again, turning easily to Angel. You took off your coat, threw it over his shoulders, then picked him up in your arms and walked away.

"It's time to go home, your work is obviously canceled for today."

The fire parted in front of you like the Red Sea in front of Moses, and finally you took a look at Valentino, who was furious at how helpless he felt at that moment.

"I'll be back, I hope I don't have to burn you alive to get the Angel's contract."

You left without regretting anything you did. You knew that as soon as you got in the car, Angel would scream, because what you did was reckless, you knew that when you returned to the hotel you would have a very long conversation with Charlie and Vaggie, but you were ready to burn out both Hell and Heaven if it was necessary to protect those who is dear to you. And Angel, although he didn't know about your feelings for him yet, he was already one of the most dear people to you.

[letshavedeernnertogether]

We'll meet again

the plot is: (Y/n) started a new life, but every day she feels more and more lonely.

tw: a short episode with being attacked by a thief, Alastor is little bit out of character and he also lives through some trouble times, possibly grammar mistakes (english is not my mother-tongue.) I guess that's all. Well, maybe a little bit angst but there will be a happy ending (if I may call it like this)

I'm sorry it took so long, I had another busy week at university. I guess fics will appear once every in seven to ten days

The part three, by your side

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

(Y/n) had been living in New Orleans for three years already. She liked this city very much. It captivated her with its charm and picturesque streets.

She had a job that didn't bring her much earnings, but brought her a lot of joy. She made the podcasts about literature. (Y/n) usually told about classics but she loved the most to tell about the older books, that were not popular in modern world. She liked to popularize the unknown, yet interesting books, because their influence was as strong as the influence of more popular stories.

From the money that was her dowry she bought a house. It located outskirts and stood alone near a forest, so (Y/n) felt herself like she was at home, but nobody demanded anything of her now. She also liked this house being near the forest, because it was very important to her to be close to nature. She did her strolls under the majestic branchy trees almost everyday and couldn't hide a smile when she understood how many deer lived in this area.

People said that this house once belonged to a famous radio host who was also a serial killer, whose crimes were discovered only after his death. He buried a body in the forest and a hunter mistook him for a deer and shot him.

(Y/n) softly smiled when she first heard this story. It was just a hearsay, a very old story, but (Y/n) liked the thought that she lived in the house of her devil.

When (Y/n) moved in her new house, the neighbours knew about it only after a week. Her nearest neighbours, a married couple with already grown-up children, who lived in fifteen minutes walk, came to her to congratulate with the new home. (Y/n) gave them a welcome, not too warm, and never let anyone in again.

She got a reputation of an unsociable and reserved lady very quickly. Nobody knew where she was from. Her speech was strange. She had a strange accent and knew many languages, but she didn't speak any of them as it was her native. She seemed out of this world. She usually appeared on the streets early in the morning or in the late evening. She wore long dresses, a long pearl beads like in 20's and a black veil, covering the upper part of her face.

She didn't have much aquaintences, didn't have friends. Sometimes she went to the city to the meetings to discuss some business, connected with her podcast. Rarely (Y/n) invited somebody in her place. It was only women. But she never let them to cross the threshold. (Y/n) and her guests sat in the garden in the backyard and chated about something.

(Y/n) liked her life in New Orleans. She didn't feel alone, didn't feel any pressure of her family. She felt absolutely free and safe.

The one thing that didn't leave her mind was he.

She missed him every day.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

Once in the late evening she was on her way home from the studio. She recorded an excellent podcast! She was sure, it wouldn't be popular, but it wasn't the main thing. She did her job because she liked it. All she had to do is to read, to write scenarios, to talk about her favorite topics and then she just had to apply the necessary effects and cut out what didn’t sound very good. That day she talked about a German novel from neinteenth century.

"Salutations, my dear hearers! Today I will tell you about the miraculous story of Peter Schlemihl. The man without his shadow... Hahaha! Oh, my! whenever I read this story I can't stop laughing! I'm very sorry for Peter and for his solitude, of course, but don't you think that he could benefit from his position? I mean, he had no shadow, so what?! People should be afraid of him, but instead of it, he was afraid of them! I find it quiet pathetic..."

"Moreover he had the devil's help by his side. But he failed to benefit from the deal. He chose money, another stupid decision of him. I would choose something more potent, what I could you use both on earth and in hell."

"Well, I shouldn't to tell you everything at once, when you probably haven't even read this book. So, let me to discuss the author's life with you, it was no less entertaining."

She enjoyed that day. She was walking along the road on the grass and thought about devils, shadows, contracts...

(Y/n) thought about Alastor. About his voice, which she hadn't heard for three years already; she thought about his smile, words, touches, protection.

His protection.

"What on earth does "choose wisely" means?" (Y/n) muttered, "Won't I stop trusting anyone the moment they attack me? Well, let's imagine. I did trust somebody, and allow them to be too close to me, but the moment they, for example, raise a knife over me, they wouldn't be the ones I trust anymore, would they? But why then does this point exist at all?"

(Y/n) didn't know that the answer was on her way.

She heard steps behind her and turned back. She saw a silhouette. It was in several meters behind her, quickly steping forward. (Y/n) saw that this person had a gored skirt and a leather coat.

"Only a woman," (Y/n) thought and breathed a sight of relief.

She turned around and continued her way, trying to remember what she was thinking about.

She walked without thoughts for some time. The night air was chill, and she breathed it with pleasure.

Suddenly the steps behind her became louder, and, before (Y/n) could thought anything, she felt that something squeezed her neck. Something thin cut into her skin. She began to suffocate. (Y/n) tried to remove that thing from her neck, but it was too tight. She heard the woman's voice behind her, "Hush, everything will be alright, I won't hurt you." (Y/n) felt that she was losing consciousness. Her eyes rolled up and legs gave way.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

As she opened her eyes, she felt a strong headache. With a weak moan she sat. She felt dizzy, but cool and wet morning air made her feel better. It was dawning. The sky was grey. A light fog surrounded her. The crows croaked in the woods. It was still dark but just in several minutes the sun would rise. How long had she been lying on the road? She touched her neck and saw little blood stains on her fingertips.

That woman... What did she do?

(Y/n) checked her bag and understood that that woman robbed her.

So what did that mean? It meant that (Y/n) relaxed when she saw, that she was stalked by a woman. (Y/n) never thought that any woman could rob the other one. She sighed deeply, stood up and slowly headed for her home. Her knees were shaking.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

She looked in the mirror. Pale face, dirty hair, a red line on her neck. It looked like (Y/n) was beheaded and then put her head on the place again.

She took a bath, treated the wound, changed her clothes. She was depressed and didn't want to think about anything.

In silence she moved to the desk where she worked. The best way no to think about anything is working. So now she was going to edit her last podcast.

When she heard her own voice, deriding the shadowless man, she couldn't help watch at her shadow. It was deeply black as usual, so black that it could be seen even in the darkness of the night. Just like on the road last night. Did that woman noticed the anomaly? (Y/n) didn't know, but even if so, the woman didn't run away in fear, she made her to lose consciousness and robbed her. The woman didn't care about who or what was (Y/n), the woman only wanted to get what she desired.

So maybe she wasn't the only one like that? Other people, desired something and saw no obstacles, they also did not care about essence of her and her shadow.

That meant that if (Y/n) wanted to be never harmed, she couldn't trust anyone.

She looked at her shadow again. At his shadow. She craved for seeing him again. It was so long.

She stood up, brought a candlestick from the living-room and matches from the kitchen and headed for a corridor at the far end of the house.

This corridor was the longest in the house and it was dead-ended. If the killer from the past had kept his victims in this house, and if they had tried to escape, they would probably have been caught in this hallway.

When (Y/n) moved to the house, she did some minor renovations: changed the wallpaper, updated the furniture that was too old and falling apart. She left the paintings, photos even and hunting trophies. A lot of antlers were hanging on the walls in this long and broad corridor.

She stopped in front of the dead-ended wall. It was also the darkest place in the house, as it had no windows. The only source of light were the candles in the sconce. She placed the candlestick on the floor and sat between it and the wall back to the candles, so a big black shadow fell on the yellow wallpaper.

She was waiting. Just give him time and he'll come.

Slowly the shadow grew bigger. Antlers grew on its head big as the branches of a tree. Its shoulders became sharper and its neck lengthened. An old radio, which she thought was no longer working, suddenly turned on. A soft white noise filled the hallway. She didn't move when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"I apologize, my dear, but I cannot be by your side right now," He said very quietly, she barely heard him because of the crackling. She didn't say anything.

"I have some business... that I must complete." He said it, drowning in the white noise more. She knew it meant that he was exasperated.

"Are you in hell now?" (Y/n) asked without taking eyes from the macabre shadow.

"I am, dear." His voice became softer. "We met in wrong time, mon cher..." Quiet calmy crackle. "I wish we could meet more often."

"I was attacked." (Y/n) said as soon as he finished his sentence. Not because she didn't want to listen to him. The point was her eyes we're filling with tears as she heard his tender whispering. She didn't want to cry if he couldn't wipe of her tears away.

The corridor filled with a nervous crackling. It took long enough for him to answer.

"And how could it happened? Don't you trust anyone?"

"It was a woman," She answered, as it could explain anything.

"Ah, now I see."

Somnolent noise filled the air again. She noticed how strange he was this time. He usually knew what to say and never kept silence for too long.

"Tell me, how are you, dear?"

"I'm fine."

She couldn't take this suffocating atmosphere anymore. Suddenly she wanted to scream his name, to cry, to crash the radio, where he was hiding. She felt hate and despair, love and hope.

The shadow moved, as if the candles' flame was disturbed by somebody's inaccurate movement. The white noise almost disappeared, and she felt somebody's presence behind.

She was still sitting on the floor and saw two shadows on the yellow wall. Her usual, yet too black, shadow and his one, with deer ears, little cute antlers and a cane in the hand. His shadow leaned over her and she felt his breath on her cheek and then her neck.

"It won't work that way," he whispered, looking at the red line, crossing her neck. "Are you sure, you don't want to rewrite the contract?" She heard a smile in his words.

"I assure you that it will not happen again. No one can even come close to me."

"I see," (Y/n) could feel like his words touching her skin. She was glad, she was sitting on the floor, otherwise she could fall because her knees were too weak.

Their shadows blended in one.

His wet lips gently touched her wound. She felt his sharp fangs on her skin. (Y/n) didn't want to move away, she wanted to press herself to his mouth. Alastor raised his head higher, leaving a trace of hot breath on her cold skin, and left a kiss on the crown of her head.

She saw Alator's shadow bent in the waist and his head touching hers, when he left the gentle quick kiss.

He straightened up.

"Remember your words, dear. I don't want to see any wounds on you, unless I gave them," He chuckled. "Until we meet again, dear."

The sound of his footsteps faded away until another radio crackle was heard. It spilled over into an old song, repeating his last words.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

Since that day (Y/n) became more isolated. She stopped to invite anybody even in her garden. Her reputation of an uncommunicative woman became stronger. She only read books, recorded podcasts and made her forest strolls, which became more frequent.

(Y/n) didn't feel lonely.

Since last meeting of her and Alastor, the shadow became more independent. When (Y/n) was alone, the shadow could change its form, it smiled and grimaced. Sometimes it could even take a physical form. Then (Y/n) could even touch it.

Slowly the shadow turned into something more than a dark figure underfoot. It became her friend.

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

Several years had passed. (Y/n) had fame and yet she still was the biggest mystery for her listeners and residents. But she had tired of her loneliness. She didn't want to accept that she could feel lack of intimacy. All this years she ignored that feeling, but every day it became stronger. It was eating her alive. The shadow was friend, indeed, it protected her and saved in time of need, from both men and women. People dissapered and nobody could find any trace of them. It brought (Y/n) joy at first, but with time she tired of suspicious glances and the strangers under her windows. They were so annoying...

His shadow could even touch her, it could embrace her, they even danced sometimes, but she still felt like something was missing.

It was like you watch at a home landscape and understands that something has changed, but you can't understand what. Until you notice that an old tall tree didn't touched the sky with its green leaves anymore.

She couldn't deny that she missed Alastor. Not just felt longing for him, she felt like she had missed him, as if she had lost him. This feeling grew stronger with everyday.

"I need him more then ever," (Y/n) thought. Being without him felt like a torture. The feeling of losing him scared her. Couldn't he die in the hell? She didn't want to even think about it. The pain grew stronger, when she realised that it was his home town, it was his house, it was his shadow. He was everywhere, and yet never beside her. Just a torture.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

"I WANT YOU TO FUCKING COME!" She screamed at the top oh her voice; so load that her throat hurt. She suffocated with sobbing. She felt so furious. (Y/n) had cast the spell for three times already, but he hadn't come.

She needed him, she wanted him; why was he ignoring her call?

She hated him that moment and hated herself. He promised to come whenever she wanted him, but he had been ignoring her for all these years.

"ALASTOR!"

Suddenly a flash of bright green light filled the room. Shadow tentacles were moving in the the fog. In this explosion (Y/n) saw his figure. Alastor was down on all fours, as if he was suffocating from pain. When the green fog disappeared (Y/n) noticed that his eyes were coloured in black. He glanced at her from under his forehead, and his eyes changed into their usual crimson colour. His red hair stood on end, his teeth were sharper than usual, the tails of his frock coat were tore. All his appearance told (Y/n) that something had happened with him. She had never seen him... so weak.

He looked away and stood up. The macabre lights and shadows disappeared. He looked normally now. Alastor stood opposite (Y/n) with his shoulders wide and with a self-satisfied smile.

"Verily, my dear, your command is much stronger then powers of overlords of hell."

She stood silently. He had come. Tears of rage ran down her face.

"Why, my dear!" Alastor exclaimed in surprise, "What has happened?" He made a step forward her and leaned over, "Why are you crying?"

She looked at him with her eyes burning with anger, "Why? Why?! You're asking me why?!"

Alastor didn't expect such fit of anger. He drew himself up and let her to continue. As she screamed, she gesticulated wildly, pulled her hair and looked at him like mad.

She didn't care who she was yelling at. She was devilishly angry and wanted to let all her anger out. He didn't stop her, letting her to vent all the emotions, even if he found it extremely senseless.

"I've been crying for you for..! for four years! I tried to summon you for numerous times! And you never showed up! Tell me, is the hell so far, that you can't even hear my screams, my cries, my prayers to you?!"

Her fury almost frightened him, and he thought what a powerful overlord could she be. Even a human she was frightful. She knew black magic, she didn't care for people's lives, she loved only herself and her power. But her words made him to feel pain I'm his chest. She was so deeply hurt. He was the cause of the pain, and for the first time in his life, he didn't like it.

She stopped screaming. She breathed more heavily and looked at him with teaful eyes. Pain in his chest became stronger.

Alastor said, pressing his hand to the chest, "I am ever so sorry, my dear. I apologize. There are some forces... That I can't resist."

(Y/n) was silence for several minutes. He couldn't understand what was on her mind. And then she said the thing Alastor didn't expect to hear, "I forgive you."

These words hit him. She said it so seriously, with clear eyes. He always tried to act like a gentleman, as his mother though him, but when he apologized, he always felt superior to others. He looked up on others with a wide smile. He found it funny, how he could to say "magic words" and then people or demons actually could take their armour off. But was he like that towards her? She was hurt by him indeed and yet she forgave him. Alastor understood that he needed her to forgive him, and that he apologized with all his heart. He felt sorry that they hadn't seen for so long. He missed (Y/n). And he was also glad that she summoned him in the moment, when he was in a quiet unpleasant situation. So, he was assuredly sincere.

But still he was amazed.

She looked at him, already calmed down. Alastor stared at her in wonder.

"We all have some... Difficult things to do sometimes, don't we?"

"Yes, indeed, dear."

(Y/n) looked at grandfather clock and asked Alastor, "And I suppose we don't have so much time, do we?"

He looked at the time too. If he weren't in the state he was now, they would have a lot more time.

"I'm afraid you're right, dear."

"How long?" She still looked at the clock.

"Until the dawn, I believe," He said quietly, coming closer to her.

"Only six hours," Murmured (Y/n) and turned to Alastor so quickly, he stopped in wonder, "Then you will do everything I ask."

"And I ask you now," She continued, because Alastor was silent, "to stay with me for this night, and you won't disappear or go away."

"If you wish, my dear."

(Y/n) took a candlestick from a commode.

"Follow me," She said.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

Alastor followed her through the dark corridors lightend only by the candles in her hand. The walls were lined with woods, the furniture was old-fashioned, some floorboards creaked underfoot. He couldn't take his eyes off every object that arose in the dim candlelight, when they passed by. Alastor knew, if (Y/n) weren't here with her light he still would have found the way to the bedroom where they headed for. Everything was very familiar. His heart was aching.

"My dear, tell me, is this house- "

"Your house?" She interrupted him, not turning back, "Yes, it is."

Alastor heard smile in her words.

"Honestly, I didn't know it was yours when I bought it. Well, I was told that a serial killer lived here, but I thought it was just a commercial. But I understood that it was true, when I realised how hard it was to get it. After all, I had enough money to buy anything I wanted to."

"So they remember me?"

"Of course they do!"

Alastor was pleasantly surprised. He was an unknown serial killer and a famous radio host when he was alive. He liked his double life, but he liked more when people were afraid of him. And he was a little sorry, that no one knew about his crimes, when he was alive. And when (Y/n) told him the legends about him, how children frightened each other with stories of his deeds, Alastor was glad.

They came up to the bedroom door. (Y/n) stopped and asked Alastor to wait outside the door until she changed her clothes. As she disappeared behind the door, her shadow slipped under the door, mergering with his one. He tipped his head, looking at it.

In the bedroom (Y/n) changed her dress to a cotton nightgown in nineteenth century style. She turned on the lamps on the night tables and saw her shadow. It was her own shadow. Pale, dim, so abnormal. (Y/n) thought how defective looked her shadow without deep black colour of him.

She hastened to the door and let Alastor in. As he entered, the shadow backed to her. She breathed a sight of relief, but she thought about her addiction to the power and him.

She slowly came up to a big bed and lay under the blanket. The demon stood still in front of the bed. It wasn't his mother's bed, that once stood hear in this room. Some thoughts from his past filled his mind.

"Com here," He heard (Y/n)'s voice. She sat in the bed, surrounded by dark-red and white pillows. Her hair was plaited, naking her neck; she looked innocent in the nightdress, fit loosely on her body.

"Pardon?"

"I said," She said with a smile, beating each word with her palm on the mattress, "Come. Here."

He slowly came up, and sat down next to her. She glanced at him with a blink of fun in her eyes.

"Tell me," She said with a sly smile, "Do you have hooves?"

Alastor looked at her frowning but still with a smile.

"Just wondering," She smiled softly, "I just can't let you in my bed unless you take off your shoes."

She looked extremely cunning but he still saw traces of sadness in her eyes. He definitely didn't like what she invented to do, yet he took his shoes off and even his coat and lay beside her.

(Y/n) looked down on him and lay.

They looked at each other in silence in dim lightened room. She didn't realise how much she missed his crimson eyes, his wide sly smile, his funny sharpe ended nose and his deer ears. Several minutes ago she was so mad, she could kill him. Now she thought that to spend time together was much worth than any fights. (Y/n) moved closer to him and lay her head on his chest. Alastor turned on the side, so she clung closer to him. One of his hand laid under her head, other one embraced her waist. Alastor knew, her height was above average, but in his arms she still was very small.

"Do you demons ever sleep?" She wispered.

"Yes, dear, we do," He answered with a quite chuckle, "But not me, I'm afraid. Insomnia."

(Y/n) felt heat of his body. She clung even closer to get warm. Alastor's touches and breath were very hot; his breath tickled her skin; his right hand patted her head, and his left one squeezed her waist. She felt his claws gently touching her scalp and it gave shiver down her spine. The atmosphere of dark bedroom, his soft touches and quite radio crackling, his warm made her eyes close.

"I'm afraid to fall asleep." She mumbled and opened her eyes. Alastor saw her eyelashes were trembling.

"Why, my dear?"

"I want to feel you presence," She spoke very quietly, "but if I fell asleep, I wouldn't feel you anymore. And I want to spend every twinkle we have together."

(Y/n) felt his breath above her head and how he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. Then he pulled slightly back to look at her, and he saw tears in her eyes. He didn't like tears, especially when it was so much of them. With his long forefinger Alastor gently wiped her tears away.

"My dear," His voice was very low, "What is use of crying? I'm here. Wasn't that you wish?"

"It was, right, I just... Uh. Well, I missed you much and now..." She hid her head in Alastor's chest. She remembered last four years. And three years before it. The memory of her pale shadow flashed in her mind and (Y/n) shrank. It seemed like she wanted to bury herself in his rib cage. "To be honest I don't like my life. It feels like a threshold of life. Your power and protection freshed me, but I still feel like I don't belong to this world."

Alastor silently listened to her. Her breath became more intermittent, and he understood that she was crying again.

"I hate myself for being addicted to you, and yet I'm still like this. I'm so weak, so pathetic. I'm not even sure if you want my soul... It's the darkest and the coldest place in the whole Universe. It is more greedy and merciless than the Black Hole. But there is the only star in it. Just one warm star. And it burns for you. For you only, whatever you like it or not."

Alastor was impressed with her such poetic speech, but for the woman who had spent her entire life communicating only with books, this was normal, he thought.

"The only star in her soul that burns only for him," He thought. Such a lost girl. Such a lost soul. But he felt a strange longing for her. He didn't understand it and didn't like it. But he couldn't help it. Just as she couldn't stop her tears, he couldn't stop himself to touch her, to press his lips against her head, to call her "dear" putting a special meaning into the word.

She looked into his eyes and then looked down at his lips. They were the same colour as his skin — grey. She was looking there for too long, and Alastor raised an eyebrow, smiling expectantly. She leaned to him, but Alastor shown his teeth in a smile and moved a little bit back. (Y/n) smiled to him and left a kiss on his forehead. Alastor felt his cheeks pinked up.

"I'm sorry," She wispered and buried herself in his chest again. She didn't cry anymore, just lay in his arms movelsee as if she was already dead.

He was thinking. It could really be the last night they spend together. He didn't know when he would be free again. He tried to do everything that was possible, but it was still not enough to get back his freedom, to find the backdoor of that deal. But while he was here, in this house and in this room, with (Y/n) by his side, he could not to think about it.

Alastor made a decision. He made (Y/n) lie on her back and leaned over her. She opened her eyes in wonder, as he put one on his hand on her shoulder so she couldn't move. (Y/n) tried to bend her knees but touched his foot, no, his hoof. It gave her a very strange feeling, making her blushed. Alastor made the lamps to light even dimmer, and (Y/n) could see now, that his eyes radiated the red light. She opened her month to say something, but he leaned lower and kissed her. It was a long, deep kiss. His mouth was hot and wet, and she slowly closed her eyes. The metallic taste filled her mouth and she felt the touch of his tongue. She quietly moaned, and he pressed closer. His hands were searching her body; the lamps lighted up brightly and then go out again; she embraced him tight; sometimes she gently touched his ears and softly laughed, when they twitched, and he looked at her with assumed displeasure.

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

After several days the newspapers told about a woman died in the forest near her house, in the house where a famous serial killer had once lived, and in the forest where the killer had died. It was after two weeks since (Y/n) and Alastor had met for the fourth time. After that night she woke up alone. She was the happiest and the saddest person in the same time. She went to the woods and didn't appear again. Some of her colleagues became worried and decided to visit her, dispite the fact tha she didn't receive anyone. The house was silent, and they checked the garden that was also empty. And then they went to the forest. They were looking for her for several hours and found her under a tree, a big and wide pine. A young deer bent over her body. It disappeared into the depths of the forest, seeing people. Her body had already begun the process of rotting. It was hard to name the cause of her death. There were only theories. People called the house where she had lived cursed. They told eerie stories about the deer in the woods. What a strange animal, they told, one man was mistook for a one and got shot, and other woman was guarded by the same animal. Residents noticed that with the death of the woman, people stopped disappearing without a trace. But none of the bodies were ever found. So New Orleans residents decided, that the famous podcast host was the murderer, and that she had a unique way of disposal of the bodies. People made up legends about a foreign woman who killed her enemies, guarded by the spirit of a last-century killer and who was friends with his shadow...

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

A new overlord appeared in the hell. A woman in a long black dress, with green wide eyes and big antlers. Nobody knew her name, and she was called The Wood Witch. The Radio Demon was especially close to her. Soon they took control over the hell. They were the most dangerous and enigmatic overlords. They never seperated from each other. Those demons who still believed in love considered them the most lovely couple. They captured the hell and nobody dared to stand in their way.

the end

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

invitation for a deernner: @noraunor

[oathofpromises]

continued from here with: @crystalmarred

Below are huge spoilers related to Shadowbringers expansion, please avoid reading further to prevent spoiling yourself with main story content.

That day still lingered in Stella memory, her reaching desperately towards G’raha. The hood over his head gone, as she met those beautiful red eyes. Hearing the echo of the gun firing and the next thing she knew, the Miqo’te falling face first into the ground. Even after they had rescued G’raha, the other hasn’t allowed anyone to treat his wounds. Maybe it was due to not wishing to show anyone especially the one he had risked so much for, how much the crystal had consumed his body.

Stella felt a familiar ache in her heart, G’raha was willing sacrifice everything for her and Norvrandt. The woman honestly felt underserving of such a thing. His life was precious, more than hers. The Au Ra reached up and touched her chest, eyes closing recalling the words he had uttered as the Exarch.

‘There are things we can ill afford to lose.’

“G’raha…you did a lot for the people of Norvrandt even for someone like me. That takes so much strength and I can’t even begin to imagine what it must’ve felt like waking up to a world without…” her voice trailed off, trying to find the right words to say. Subconsciously her hand reached up and touched the side of his face. She could feel the cold jagged edges of the crystal embedded on his face. Despite how cold it felt to the though there was also still warmth there. Further proof that no matter how much he tried to hide who he was for the sake of his mission, she knew in her heart it was the Miqo'te scholar she had meet. Maybe he thought his existence didn’t matter to her, or that maybe the warrior had forgotten about that time.

Truth was she never had…

Taking slow breathes, the pink haired warrior smiled softly at him, letting her hand remain against the side of his face. He had been strong for so long. The centuries forced to live in a world where he knew no one, not to mention the pain suffered. It was clear to her the crystal on his body were agonizing to have. If anyone was a hero, it was him. Even if the other didn't see himself as such.

"I mean it G'raha...you have done so much for everyone..especially me. I don't know everything you had to go through but, what I do know is that your life is precious."

Stella wasn't sure, if the other would believe such words but they were echoes from the deepest part of her heart. Even if he blamed himself for everything she had suffered, the Au Ra never put him at fault. Pink eyes, that held such gentleness shined slightly looking up at Graha.

"Becoming the warrior of darkness was my choice. Absorbing each light warden was also my decision. Please don't blame yourself for any pain I went through because I wouldn't have changed my decision. You needed my help..this world did and I accepted whatever that might bring me."

Even if that meant her death..there was a time she felt like the light might very well take over her being. It was clear that each one was pushing her closer to becoming a light warden herself. It made the woman think what she would've done if there was no way to reverse the effects. She couldn't have stayed here with the others, which lead to surrendering herself over to Emet. Even if the Ascian was gone, his words did still linger inside her mind.

Slowly her hand started to fall from Graha face, maybe she didn't have the right to put her hand on his face. He had gotten hurt so much because of choices she had made. Deep down, the warrior wanted him to bare his thoughts to her without the need of concealment. Like he had said to her shortly before the fight with Vauthry. He had shown so much care in his voice talking about someone he wanted to protect.

"G'raha..just know that I care and you can be open with me. There is no reason to hide how you feel. I promise no matter what I will always be right there by your side. Your feelings, opinions..I want to hear them all.”

[bonkleton]

Punk Phlex by AtomicBundle

The Malleable Munitions Merchant, Phoebe "Phlex" Lexton and her bullet-drum banjo! In the ruins of the Great Classwar, among the rough-living folk living in the wastes between the Habitat Pods used by the Elites, if you need a gun, bullets, bombs, or other implements of mayhem, there's one lady east of the Hudson Seaway you need to talk to - Phlex! She also goes by Phoebe, Lexton, "Lex," or even just "Stretch" but in a world where the majority of survivors are Bendies, that last one doesn't mean a lot. She's one of the oldest of those outside the Pods, apparently a hero from the Propaganda War days a couple centuries back, and she's got the stories to prove it. Get her talking and give her time to get her banjo, which she made herself out of parts from an old minigun, and she can certainly spin a tale! She's not much of a fighter herself these days, since she's one of the softer type of Bendies, and she says thanks to the radiation of the nukes used in the Classwar, she's not as tough as she used to be. But her fighting spirit lives on in her work as an armorer! One might say that she fights with other people's fists, protecting and providing for the on-Elites just trying to make a living in this harsh world. The four-armed Robbin, Nadia, also calls her "auntie" but most aren't sure why. Phoebe says she once had sisters, but she's never talked about Nadia's mother, so the relationship between them is unclear. Her stretchable suit seems to be a leftover from the pre-Classwar days, and from the rips and oil-stains, it's clearly been well-used! Phoebe has leaned into the aesthetic, however, to great effect, her contemporaries agree! I commissioned AtomicBundle to make a full-body version of the previous Punk Phlex design from a couple years ago, and he really knocked it out of the park! The colors are super good, the line work is clean as can be, and while Phoebe is a bit on the cute side here style-wise, it still captures her essence well. :) Hope you enjoy! ~ Bonkie

Posted using PostyBirb

[blam-marie]

SwordBright - 3

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Katarina entered her bedroom and gently closed the door behind her, still somewhat bewildered. SwordBright was acting oddly, she thought, which in all honesty might have been the understatement of the century.

They’d never showed up to her apartment before, for one. In the year or so they’d known each other, as superhero and super villain, they’d never even had what you could call a pleasant chat. Oh, they’d bantered a lot, and trash talked each other with the affection and respect that came with knowing that this other person was going to become your great Nemesis. But it had always been work-related. They’d never interacted witch each other in their civilian clothes before, and Karry hadn’t expected the hero to even so much as recognize her without the makeup and the fangs. No one ever had.

Granted, she would recognize SwordBright anywhere, but that came with the territory, being what she was. Karry was a vampire in the same way as hot fudge was a gravy; only in a very technical sense, and the comparison was mildly upsetting. But she did have an excellent sense of smell, and SwordBright smelled like no one else that she had ever encountered.

They smelled good, that bastard.

And now they were puttering in her apartment, no doubt spreading their smell all around, touching all of her magical items without even being affected by them, and Karry snarled at the thought. She wrenched open her closet and quickly grabbed the darkest, most intimidating dress that she could find. She slithered into it, then grabbed a blood red chocker off her desk and tied it around her throat. She considered taking a minute to put on some makeup, perhaps some crimson lipstick or light foundation to conceal her deathly pallor, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to look like she was putting in effort to appear presentable, not when it was them who was trespassing on her territory.

Although she did admit their very presence here made her curious. The very fact that they not only knew where she lived but had also known how to get the elevator to take them there lent credence to their unlikely time travel story.

She’d been so stunned when she’d opened the door, truth be told, that she’d completely forgotten to just kill them on the spot, which should have been her first reaction. By the time she’d gathered herself, curiosity had also reared its ugly head, and now she was somewhat invested in this strange tale they were bringing to her.

She was having the weirdest day, to be quite honest. She’d been snapped awake less than an hour earlier by a strong wave of magic invading her body, leaving her tingling and breathless. She hadn’t felt magic like that in centuries, and had revelled in it. It had drowned her in waves of bliss and contentment, and she had luxuriated in it without question, too overwhelmed to care as to its source.

By the time she’d managed to catch her breath, there SwordBright was, knocking at her door as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her toes were still curling a little on the cold floor, the after-effect of the magic not quite done dissipating, but she didn’t have the time to deal with it. She swooped down the corridor and stormed into her living room, where the hero quickly snatched their hand away from a priceless (and very cursed) vase on a side table.

Karry glared at them and crossed her arms. It was midly off-putting to see her Nemesis without their helmet, looking so young and fresh without the bravado that having their sword in hand seemed to inspire in them. Out of their leather jacket, in nothing but a soft red t-shirt, they looked more like some confused teenager had wandered off the street. They were wearing combat boots, their hands were heavily covered with rings, and their soft brown hair was curling over their ears. They looked like some baby punk that should be at home, listening to that godawful korean pop music that was so popular right now and saving for a tattoo, not out in the street saving the world. Or worse, standing in the middle of a vampire’s apartment without even having the decency to look ashamed about it.

“Out with it, then.”

SwordBright looked at her, hesitated, then bit their lips. “I don’t know where to begin,” they finally admitted softly.

She rolled her eyes. “You had a lot to say in the corridor. How about you start at the beginning? Why are you here?”

They shifted a bit on their feet, and then seemed to take a decision, and sank down into her leather couch, arms and legs akimbo like a doll whose strings had been cut. They rubbed both hands down their face, and then let out a strangled, slightly hysterical laugh.

“It’s a long story,” they said. “But basically a Tyrant is going to rise to power and then end the world and I need your help to stop him.”

She blinked. “I’m going to need more than that. Help you how? And why me?”

They removed their hands from their face, and stared at her for what seemed like several long minutes. Their expression was… odd. Karry didn’t know how to read it, and she shifted uneasily on her feet. Even their aura was opaque in a way that she had seldom seen an human be able to achieve. Finally, SwordBright looked away.

“Do you have any coffee? Or something stronger?” they mumbled.

She might have felt offended at being ordered around her own house, but the mood here had taken such a sudden drop toward something heavy and uncomfortable that she crossed through the room without a word.

She busied herself in the kitchen, starting her fancy coffee machine and looking for mugs.

“You’re the most powerful person I know,” came the hero’s voice from the living room, quiet as if they hadn’t really meant for her to hear it. “Too powerful.”

She put both mugs on the counter, then reached for the small metal tin that was hiding at the very back of the cupboard. Gingerly, Karry added some cyanide powder to SwordBright’s mug then swirled the liquid with a disposable straw that she then tossed into the trash. They’d be immune to it, probably, as they were to everything else, but it was the principle of the thing. You just didn’t have coffee with your Nemesis without at least paying lip service to the idea of trying to kill them. It was in the Super Villain’s handbook or something.

She brought the coffee back to the living room, and SwordBright took their cup gratefully. Their hands did not brush, and yet Katarina felt a shiver go through her anyway at the small smile they gave her. She sat on the furthest chair away from them.

“So, a Tyrant,” she said, trying to regain control of the situation. She felt like everything was slipping out of her fingers. This should not happen. She was the Vampire Queen. She should have killed them already. “And how does that concern me?”

They shifted on the couch, blowing on their coffee but not yet taking a sip. “He’ll end the world. I mean, maybe not. But he’ll be responsible for the death of pretty much everyone in North America. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but. I know you don’t want that. I mean, you need people to worship you, don’t you? That can’t happen if everyone’s dead.”

Karry froze in the act of taking a sip, then forced herself to continue the movement lest the hero notice something amiss. Need people to worship her, they’d said, not want. That was a distinction that most people didn’t bother to make when trying to assert her motivation. That was too close to the truth of her for comfort. And yet, she could see in their eyes that they knew perfectly well what they’d just said. Worse, that there was more they weren’t saying.

“What’s your plan, then?” she asked, watching them carefully over the rim of her cup. “You want to stop the Tyrant how?”

They licked their lips, then took a sip of their coffee. Their eyes lit up, and they looked down a it in surprise.

“Oh, that’s good! Did you add anything to this? A flavoured syrup?”

She frowned. “I asked you a question.”

“Speaking of questions, and coffee, you wouldn’t happen to know if I’m working at Timmies right now, would you? Only, I don’t remember very well, this was thirty years ago but I still don’t want to be fired…”

“Stop changing the subject, SwordBright.”

“Oh,” they said, with a fake laugh and a wave, “you can call me Oasis, you know…”

“Oasis. Stop stalling.”

Their grin froze, and then they deflated, sinking down into the couch cushions. They put their coffee mug on the table, and then rubbed a hand down their face. When they looked at her again, they looked weary. Something in their eyes was old and tired, and it was a look that did not sit well on their young face.

“The Tyrant would be about eleven years old now,” they said, inflecting theirs words as if it was the beginning of a sentence, but then not adding anything to it.

“… and?”

Their eyes flickered, as if they wanted to look away but then forced themselves to hold her gaze. They set their jaw.

“And I always felt that if you have the chance to kill baby Hitler, then you should take it. Morals be damned.”

She blinked and reared back. They weren’t joking. She took a peek at their aura, just to make sure, and it was blacker than she’d ever seen from them. She almost fell off of her chair. They weren’t supposed to be dark, and in pain. They were SwordBright.

 They’d said they were from the future, a dark and terrible one, but this was the first time in this conversation that she truly believed it.

“That’s not something I thought I’d ever hear you say,” she remarked flippantly, trying to regain control of the conversation. “New policy?”

“No,” they said, and then apparently ran out of whatever determination they had had to hold her gaze. Their eyes slid away and landed on their abandoned coffee cup. “I always felt like that. Like sometimes violence is required to save the world. It’s just that… When the time came to act, I used to always chicken out. I was…”

They trailed off, and rubbed a hand on their face again. “I was so young. The ‘me’ you know now was a coward. When there was the need for it, I couldn’t start a riot, I couldn’t punch a cop in the face, I couldn’t bring myself to deviate from the expected ‘good superhero’ behaviour. But then the world got really bad, and there was basically a war in the streets. I had to step up. Eventually peaceful solutions just stop working, you know? But even then, I failed.”

There was a short pause. Oasis reached out and touched their mug, running their hand over the rim like the gesture comforted them somewhat. They still looked like they had more to say, like they were considering their words with the utmost seriousness, and Karry resolved to wait them out.

“And even now I’m not sure I can kill baby Hitler, even though the Tyrant will destroy millions of lives,” they continued after a while. “But the world’s running out of time. There’s something that’s going to happen this year. I don’t know what, or when, but in every interview he always said that what set him on his path happened when he was eleven. The media used to think that he meant his interest in politics, but I think he meant his will to take over the world. Whatever it is that will make him the Tyrant, it’s going to happen soon. I have to stop him before that happens. I don’t know yet what form it’ll take, if I’ll have to… I don’t know. But I’ll do whatever it takes.”

They cradled their hands to their chest and slid down the couch with a world-weary sigh, like the will to sit up straight had deserted them. “I still kinda don’t want to murder him, though. I just. I don’t want to do it. Some hero I am.”

Karry set down her own empty cup, starting to get a better grasp on the situation. “And so you came to me. You want me to kill this child?”

She’d be offended, but then again, it was perfectly logical. If you needed a murder to be done, then you hired a murderer. She’d thought this entire affair had been one of friendship, of standing together against the end of the world, but she’d been wrong. This was business. She pulled her dress down her knees briskly, wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t have worn something that showed a tad bit less leg.

Oasis let out a long, bone shuddering sigh. “No. No, I’ve taken this upon myself, it’s my responsibility and I’ll see it through. I came to you because he’ll use your necklace.”

She froze.

Quite without conscious input, her claws unsheathed, and she straightened up in her chair, ready to fight. She fixed her gaze on the hero, aware that her pupils were dilating, and of the roaring of stolen blood in her ears.

No one was supposed to know about her necklace. No one knew about it, actually. She was certain; she’d spent centuries looking for it.

When she’d been shoved into this mortal body, all of her dark essence entrapped and bound by magic, a necklace had been made. A singular, blood-red stone in a bed of silver runes, meant to control her. And it had, for several decades; but one day she’d returned from war to find her captors dead, decimated by nameless enemies. And her necklace nowhere to be found. She’d waited, and fretted, expecting it to be used any minute to bring her under new, even more cruel control. But it had never happened, and she’d been forced to admit that it had perhaps only been taken as a spoil of war, its new owners none the wiser as to what it truly was. What she truly was, and the power she could bring them should they call upon her.

She’d looked for it for centuries now, eventually ending up in Toronto, where the trail had gone cold.

“My necklace?” she asked, layers upon layers of cold threat in her voice.

But Oasis wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t even paying attention. They were still staring at their cup of coffee, now doubtlessly gone cold, and nodded miserably.

“I didn’t understand,” they said, “Not at first. When you stole it from that museum and started wearing it all the time, I thought you were taunting me for not having been able to stop your robbery.”

Museum. The word echoed in her ears, pounded in time with her human blood.

“What museum?”

“But then the Tyrant took it from you, and he started using it, and…” They looked up at her, anguish in their gaze strong enough to rival her own. “and it controls you, doesn’t it? Whatever you are.”

“What museum”, she repeated, slowly. Dangerously. Pulling all of her thrall up like a veil around her even though it would slide off SwordBright like water and ducks. “Tell me.”

They held her gaze, something of their dread seeming to evaporate, replaced by determination. “The Royal Ontario Museum. It’s a new exhibit, and it’ll open next week.”

Something pounded in her chest. Her heart? She wasn’t aware that it even still worked. She felt light-headed all of a sudden, and sank back in her seat, fingers tightening over the chair’s arms and claws ripping through the expensive red leather. Next week. Her necklace.

She’d looked for it for over three hundreds years in screaming, agonizing solitude and there they were, that bright idiot, just giving her the answer as if they didn’t know what it was worth to her. What’s she’d have done to retrieve it. How she’d have tortured the answer out of them if that’s what it would have taken.

On the other side of her glass table, in her stupidly posh living room, Oasis leaned forward, steel eyed and serious, as if they were about to share a secret.

“I thought we could steal it first, and then deal with the Tyrant. What do you say?”

[eyeballjazz]

gosh I LOVE whenever you talk about the crews (midnight or problem sleuth) because your ideas are always so unique and detailed but in a realistic way? like they're all very specific but also mundane so it all feels so natural and REAL, it's always so fun! Plus your writing is very pleasant so seeing that "read more" under your replies always makes me go FUCK YES

You said you had fun with the last ask so here's me asking you to share more headcanons you have! Could be domestic, silly, sad, whatever, I'm just giving you an excuse to talk about them whever you feel like it!

#1 and first of all THANK YOU SO MUCH! I’ve delayed replying to this not only because I wanted to cook up a good answer but because your words are so sweet and I wanted to spend longer just reading and rereading them. Thank you thank you thank you!

I got a few little ones and then some big ones for ya:

Problem Sleuth and Hysterical Dame both are from Brooklyn and have harsh Brooklyn accents, though Dame’s is much more pronounced. She sounds like a slightly less congested Fran Drescher. Sleuth, additionally, loves the Beastie Boys and thinks he could’ve been one if he’d had half a chance at it.

Droog loves Sting. That’s it, that’s the headcanon.

Droog is native Italian, from part of Tuscany that is just 1 kilometer from the official bounds for the Chianti region. The fact that he’s not actually, truly, from Chianti haunts him and makes me laugh a great deal.

Now for a big one:

What war did they all serve in?

This one I’ve gone back and forth on. While I love studying war I’m not any kind of expert nor do I have any relation to military culture. But, because I write Intermission stuff as period pieces (the adults all live in a pseudo 40s and 70s mash up, all the kids live in the early oughts and that’s why none of the StabDads knows how to work a computer despite all their kids being online constantly) the setting of mid-20th century America requires there to be some war that people are living during/living through the aftermath of. I have a whole thing about the 20th century being one long war but anyway.

There was a large scale global conflict that Team Sleuth and the Crew all experienced. The Crew saw more intense, violent conflict while much of Team Sleuth saw less direct action and often sunnier outcomes.

Hearts, Slick and Droog were all infantry men whose issues with authority prevented any of them from moving up the ranks. Clubs was a technician and occasional mechanic, he learned everything he knows about bombs between his years as a soldier and a few jobs working in plastic factories back home.

Hearts was a cook as well as a renowned fighter in his unit. Slick came in and went out buck private despite some award winning violence in the field. Droog was considered for a promotion to officer because of his neat habits and efficient performance but later denied when his more anti-social and unstable qualities showed through.

For both Slick and Droog The War is much more like WW1. They met and became friends/fell in love in the trenches and saw the intensity of suffering and combat on an almost daily basis. For Hearts and Clubs The War is a little more like Korean, they were stationed far from home and were effectively playing cat and mouse with the enemy. Clubs experienced and learned from chemical warfare, while Hearts saw much more guerrilla warfare.

On the Sleuth side, Ace Dick is the only person to have served in as intense a fashion as the Crew. He enlisted young and made the rank of sergeant before retiring to become a detective. Of all of them his time was the most like WW2, in the European theater. Though he maintains his rank in retirement, Ace has relaxed out of the rigidness that made him a good officer. His hard disposition however has not degraded even one iota.

Problem Sleuth had a gay li’l stint in the Navy where he mostly ferried trade vessels along the coast. The action he did see was at the distance of sea battles, so while it was intense it was not as close and personal as the Crew or Ace.

Hysterical Dame did not serve but instead worked as a riveter and community organizer back home to get more women into the workforce as well as to provide for the families of soldiers who had been lost. That picture of Rosy the Riveter eating a sandwich with her piston driver in her lap? That was Dame, just with much more buoyant and gorgeous hair.

Nervous Broad was a nurse and was stationed abroad for most of The War. She saw a lot of very bad and only very occasionally some good. While she was in the medical corps she met Pickle Inspector, who was a contentious objector and refused to serve when drafted. Because of this, he was dumped into the medical corps at the front lines and like Broad saw some very awful things. They both don’t like to talk about what they saw more intensely than the others.

Post war they all assume the roles we’re already familiar with, most of them using the combat training they already received to do their work as detectives and/or mobsters. Broad, Dame and Pickle Inspector all learned to handle firearms (and in a Pickle Inspector’s case a whole sniper rifle) post-war. As a treat.

And, while I really don’t come to fandom spaces for sad things (the world itself is hexing enough) I do have a sad headcanon for Hearts:

His parents had an awful marriage and his father was often abusive to both him and his mother. She, in turn, eventually did away with him but not before long years of hard times for herself and her son. Once Hearts was big enough to help with the manual labor of running their small farm she took his father out during a particularly bad fight. It was a brutal night that would have seen one or the other of his parents gone from the world, but his mother won out in the end and she and Hearts lived better and better once his father was out of the picture. Hearts, to this day, sends money to his mother and believes she is the strongest woman on the face of the Earth. And he’s probably right. She still lives up in the hills of Georgia with her gun.

Momma Boxcars loves Tavros and insists that he and the other kids come spend part of their summer with her out on the farm.

Like Hearts’s mom, Droog’s parents also love their grandbabies. They immigrated to America after Droog put together enough money to bring them over from Italy and keep them living in style in the city. They were not good parents to him, in fact they have a very fraught and often vicious relationship, but they are wonderful to their grandkids and often tell Droog how much more they love Karkat and Arabia than they ever loved him. Again, I find Droog’s pain and inconvenience hilarious, and he’s fine despite all this. He actually thinks of them as ideal parents, being as he is an ideal sort of person by his own metrics.

Again, thank you for your lovely words and for the excuse to gab away about all these clowns, this was so fun!!!

[yourmcu]

Bloodlust

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x vampire!reader

Summary:

There’s a vampire in the city. Natasha (and Steve) went to investigate the aftermath of your killing spree.

Word count: 2,402

A/n: disclaimer! all info about vampires, description of vamps are based on tvd

Warnings: blood, violence, swearing, angst but fluff at the end? kinda confusing if I’m being honest but that’s ok! lmao

gif not mine! credits to the owner^^

Natasha found herself walking around the woods again. Not because she wanted to - well, half of her did, but she needed to find and talk to you for more important reasons.

The day (or night) before yesterday, she crossed paths with you. She went out with Steve in the woods to investigate more than a dozen deaths that occurred in less than two weeks, it was nothing compared to Loki’s attack in New York but they were... gruesome.

Steve pressed a button on the remote, showing three different pictures of the victims as holograms. They weren’t normal - murder - pictures, no bullet wounds or knife slices/stabs. One had bite marks all over their body, one’s head was entirely snapped off. But they had one thing in common: they looked drained, and thin. “There are fifteen more like that. Each gory than the other.”

They all let out noises of disgust.

“Definitely a psychopath,” Tony muttered.

“A deranged serial killer?” Bruce suggested.

“There’s bite marks. It’s probably an animal.” Sam emphasized on ‘bite marks’.

As she continued to walk, Natasha’s fingers brushed on the mark on her neck. For something that was two days old it still stung really bad sometimes. She’s not proud of it. You made her feel incredibly vulnerable that night, weak.

It all started when you jumped from a tree and landed on your feet just behind the redhead-

Natasha had her gun pointed at you in an instant. She was trained and could identify a murderer when she sees one but surprisingly, you looked... normal. Her eyes lowered, checking you out if you had something sketchy on you, but you just looked like a civilian in their mid-twenties or thirties.

You put your hands behind your back, smirking. You licked your lips and mimicked the way she looked at you up and down, not showing any signs that you were threatened by her lethal weapon. “Hey there.”

She was beautiful. Red hair with blonde tips, green eyes, plump lips, she gave off a fierce aura. She looked tough. You liked it.

Natasha kept her usual cold expression and her tone wasn’t any different. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you...” you reached out to rest your palm on the barrel of her gun and-

Bang!

She let out a shaky breath when you barely flinched as she shot a bullet through your hand, eyes widening. It was a metal bullet, it had little to no effect on you. You made an amused noise before ripping the weapon out of her grip and used all your strength to pin the fighting ex-assassin against a tree.

Her speed and strength surprised you. She kicked you hard in the abdomen before her back hit trunk and punched you across the face several times. For you they only stung for a moment; she had no match against you. She had no idea what she was dealing with.

Natasha looked up when she doesn’t hear pained grunts or signs of weakness from you. You smiled, gripping both of her wrists again. “I’ll have a go now, yeah?” She was grunting, struggling, trying to push you away. “You’re stronger than I thought you’d be.”

You forced her to look straight into your eyes. The only light source was coming from the moon but you could still see her green eyes perfectly. So beautiful.

“Think you can relax for me, hun?”

Natasha stared up at you curiously, breathing steadily. To her you looked so irresistible all of a sudden that she had no choice to listen. Her hands that gripped tightly on your arms relaxed, she was now the one holding on to you.

You moved a side of her hair back to get a clear view of her neck, smiling, “good girl.” Your fangs protrude and poked the sides of your lips, the whites of your eyes turned crimson red as black veins popped out just outside both of them. The smell of her blood filled your senses more intensely-

Well you all know what happened next.

Steve decided to show up while you were feeding on Natasha, successfully saving her from you, much to your dismay. They evacuated right away so you wouldn’t do more harm to the pair. They’d be fighting for a long time against you if they stayed, now knowing what you were capable of.

Natasha hated that she felt intrigued and curious by you, or eager if that’s one word to describe it, she doesn’t know exactly what she was eager for but, she can’t help but think about you.

A small cottage came into view, finally, and Natasha stopped walking. Under different circumstance she’d say it looked pretty cozy. She went on to knock on the door, not sure if you were the one occupying it, but she was right.

You answered the door, raising an eyebrow when you saw who it was.

She doesn’t say anything but her heartbeat quickens. You wordlessly stepped aside to let her in.

“Miss Romanoff,” you said softly, not wanting the air to be filled with awkward silence. Your eyes trailed her as she looked around your - the supposedly abandoned cottage that you may or may not have forcefully stole from a now deceased man. “After what I did to you I was sure the last thing you wanted was to see me again.”

She opened her mouth to speak but was astonished by how fast you’ve gotten in front of her to look at her neck. The bite mark you caused was still there and still looked bad. She tried to read your expression but couldn’t, and was taken by surprise when you bit your thumb without hesitation, a generous amount of blood oozing out.

“I... I don’t-”

“It’ll help but, suit yourself,” you shrugged, wiping away the blood and the wound immediately healed right after. You disappeared for a moment in the kitchen. “I apologize, I’m not used to having visitors. Are you here to kill me, Miss Romanoff, or did you want something else?”

Your stare lingered on her when you came back with a bottle of wine. You did a lot of digging on this woman ever since your encounter and if it wasn’t for your sudden attraction to her you would’ve finished her off already. You thought she was merely a sidekick to Captain America but as you dug further, she might as well be as dangerous as you.

But she was quiet, soft and maybe nervous around you, giving you the feeling that she felt the same way. Your little crush grew more at the thought. As a vampire, everything about you was magnified. Your senses, strength, and if you ever felt it for a certain person, feelings.

“I’m here on behalf of the Avengers,” Natasha spoke, slowly as if she’s choosing the right words to say. “Look, we mean no harm to you, or your kind. We just want to know your intentions...”

“It’s Y/N,” you said absentmindedly, and added, “you’ll never convince me, unfortunately. I won’t come with you.

“I’ve been around for, what, two centuries now and... that sort of play’s getting old. I lost friends the last time I heard that same line.”

You rubbed your temple while taking a swig of the red wine straight out of the bottle. 

“I’m sorry to here that.” Natasha shifted from where she was standing, still not budging whenever you urged her to take seat. 

She didn’t know where to go from here if she was being honest. The plan - well, the original plan, was to kill you. Stake to the heart. Just like that. But after hearing that little story, Natasha’s regrets about suggesting an interrogation on you faded. It’s not like you wanted to be a bloodsucking, immortal monster in the first place, right? You were human once. And it didn’t seem like you dedicated yourself to be completely against humans, because if you did, Natasha would be dead right now without a doubt.

She may or may not have suggested that because you also did leave quite the impression on her.

“Is that genuine, or is this all part of your plan to kill me?” You said coolly, getting up once more to put away the bottle. “Because you’re doing great - oh I forgot, you’re a spy, after all-”

In a swift movement you found yourself on the floor, bottle shattering, drilling pain on your shoulder and Natasha above you, pulling out a pistol. You winced as you struggled to pull out the thick wooden stake buried in your shoulder. You definitely did not expect that.

Natasha gave you an almost apologetic look, but it returned to its usual stoicism. “I’m giving you a chance to do this the easy way,” she breathed out. The sudden attack made you turn to your original form, she looked at the way your eyes faded from red to white again, black veins still pulsing around them.

With your incredible speed and strength you applied pressure to her stomach with your knee and pinned her against the wall again. “What the hell do you want from me, Romanoff?”

What was she waiting for? She could’ve stabbed me already and her job’s done. She’s easily done this before, why was she hesitating now?

Your foreheads were touching and both of your breaths were ragged. Her eyes were so beautiful up close. “You never wanted to be like this,” her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s never too late to change.”

You weren’t all that bad, Natasha was right. You still had a bit of goodness left in you. The vampire that turned you so many years ago didn’t give you a choice, everything just sort of happened. You had no choice but to live like this.

“Is that what this is about?” You mumbled back, loosening your hold on her.

Both of your guards were completely down now.

“I’m a monster,” you said bitterly. “I’ve done horrible things. I’ve killed so many innocent people.”

Natasha gave you a sad smile. She almost had the same background as you. Being an ex-assassin, yet now she was saving lives almost every day.

“You know,” she said, feeling a tingle when your lips brushed against hers. “I don’t judge people on their worst mistakes.”

You gulped, suddenly struggling with your words. But you didn’t have to say anything anymore since her lips connected with yours. Natasha ran her hands on the back of your head while you cupped her face. 

The warm sensation didn’t last for long. You heard something whiz by, and the next thing you knew you had a burning sensation all over, it made you weak. You pushed Natasha off you to look for the source but you were too weak-

The last thing you heard was the door opening and Natasha saying “Clint!”.

-----

Your cell reminded Natasha of the one on S.H.I.E.L.D’s helicarrier, specifically the one they used on Loki. But yours was more small and instead of it being inside an aircraft it was inside the compound.

It’s been a few hours since you went unconscious. Clint used four vervain shots just to knock you out.  Natasha had to remind Steve endlessly that you were not to be killed unless things don’t go well.

“Are you sure this one’s a vampire? ‘Cause it looks like you just closed your eyes and picked a random person outside.” Tony leaned over the glass to get a good look at you.

But once you gained consciousness you lost it. You sped up to the glass, slamming your whole body against it which startled Tony. Not to mention you were in your vampire form.

Some of them cursed when you managed to get a crack on the glass on your third pound. “I don’t want to be here.” Your fists visibly shook as you spat at Natasha. “How do you expect me to change when you trick me, Romanoff?”

“Stark, do something about that glass.” Steve ordered as he pulled Natasha away from your cell.

“Right. You better have those shots at the ready too, Robin Hood.”

“Steve, I’m going in there,” Natasha removed his hand from her arm. She already knew what the look he was giving her meant. “I’ll be fine. Even I didn’t expect Clint to engage last night.”

So she made her way inside, the steel door shut behind her. You were silently pacing back and forth, still shaking. You had given up on the glass when it was replaced by a more durable one.

“Y/N...”

“Get the fuck away from me.”

“I’m sorry.”

You scoffed, glaring at her and glaring at Steve outside the cell who was watching you intently. “Just get your pals in here and finish the job.”

“I really do believe you can change-” she insisted.

When she went to touch your shoulder you immediately grabbed her wrist. Natasha was speechless when she saw your twisted face, eyes scarlet and unrecognizable, your fangs just waiting to sink into flesh.

“I can’t change.” you whispered. “I was meant to be like this.”

-----

Ending 1: Natasha fights and convinces you that you still have a bit of humanity, despite being what you are. You end up having to fight Steve and the others too but they manage to knock you out a second time. When you wake up, Natasha’s the only one in the room with you. That’s when you both get to talk properly, and then you get to be one of the Avengers. It’s unusual, but it works, using your powers and abilities for good, not having to kill people but you feed on blood bags instead (occasionally). And maybe you even end up dating Natasha.

Ending 2: You completely snap at Natasha in the cell. Steve and Clint burst in to help her. This causes you to get even more aggressive. The fighting took a while, Tony and Rhodey even got into their suits to fight you, but you threatened them with the lives of their friends so they couldn’t do much. You knocked out Steve, Natasha and Clint, so it was now Bruce’s turn. They were a bit conflicted of letting Hulk out since they were sure he’ll destroy the whole building. But Wanda came out, using her witch powers to weaken you, it finally ended with a stake to your chest.

[rawliverandcigarettes]

Hi ! How do you envision Aria in Halfway Home ? I do believe you have mentioned she would be involved.

Hello, and thank you for the kind ask, it is absolutely helpful ;_;

So Aria. Aria's a complicated beast. I have a lot of thoughts about her. I kind of always enjoyed her potential more than her execution, as I've been known to have a soft spot for, what I call, Girlbosses Fucking Up. As in: women driven by scary, unhinged ambition that ends up destroying everything including themselves, and Aria could have fitted that description pretty well, or at least its first part (if there had been a proper attempt at character examination and development past her getting suddenly horny for Shepard and fawning over how much cooler and Dangerous than her they actually are or something idk).

So first, about my thoughts on Aria T'loak in canon:

I think Aria embodies a lot of Mass Effect's guilty-pleasure relationship to edge, and I completely believe she's been written first and foremost to be 1) cool, and 2) a sexual fantasy. The problem with that posture is that... basically any serious attempt at unpacking her politics risk ruining her pseudo-dominatrix vibes. So as a result, we get the most unquestioned, unashamed libertarian figure of the games, blaring that she's justified in her power position because she's the strongest, that because she's the strongest she's justified in commiting any kind of violence to hoard what she considers to be hers, and the fact she's basically an absolute despot is seen as something to be admired and even envied (no red tapes, no Council, nobody to answer to but herself and her whims).

To be noted: she's criticized in the vaguest way possible in the Omega DLC, but it has way more to do with the interpersonal, Nyreen and then a dominance struggle with Shepard, than with any of her concrete politics (and the dominance struggle is very... it's very much about "conquering" her and shoving yet another power fantasy down Shepard's throat --either by taming her fire or sharing it, and being called The Most Special Of All And I Never Met Anyone Like You Wooow You're Making Me So Hot And Bothered, and I'd argue it's still more about stroking the player's, hm, ego than about Aria herself). The "nooo don't kill civilians because surely there are any trace of civilians that aren't slavers, gang members or mercenaries left after like, two coups and a half" has nothing to say about the value of the life of said "civilians" despite their darkness, nothing to say about Aria's right to wage life and death over them. Even Nyreen's criticisms of Aria are... very un-Omegan. They still wager on Omega civilians being poor, unprepared babies, and to me it just doesn't ring true or meaningful in the slightest. But I made no effort ever hiding how much I don't vibe with this DLC, and its refusal to engage with Omega's themes to preserve Aria's sex appeal is one of the biggest culprits to me.

I also whinge about Aria in my critic of Mass Effect: Retribution, where I discover that she is actually quite dumb, and solves her problems with temper tantrums and half-assed decisions the narrative desesperatly tries to justify instead of being the savvy figure Mass Effect 2 tries to sell us (also her daughter is treated like a sexpot who immediately dies an awful, voyeuristic death and I doooon't love that choice, even if it's, once again, very telling on the kind of character Aria's supposed to be).

So now, I will stop whingeing about canon and talk about how I tried to reinterpret Aria T'loak in Halfway Home.

So Aria in HH is... kind of an awful, complicated person. I completely leaned in that Girlboss Fucking Up direction because nobody can stop me to explore some of the absurd tragedy behind her struggle for power. She is libertarian to a fault, at once believing in the importance of daring to bite what you can off a seemingly unchangeable and incredibly cruel social system, while failing to acknowledge that she's a central actor of said system, maintaining its alchemy with an iron fist with little concern for those who have to pay the price. While not nearly as conservative as them (socially, economically she's almost worse), I took inspiration from figures like Ayn Rand and Margaret Thatcher to flesh her out, especially in the way she turns against her own kind to keep her head out of the water (I mean at once asaris and sex workers, as I kept her backstory infiltrating Omega's ecosystem as an Afterlife dancer first). But by having this background, to garner respect, she has to be ruthless and consistently brilliant so she doesn't slip, because if she does... Well the fall will be rather brutal. She's acutely aware of the necessity of maintaining her prestige and her innaccessibility, while keeping herself desirable (as a potential ally and as an asari), because everyone wants to either kill her, be her or have her, and this is at once the basis of her power and an incredibly lonely and vulnerable position to have to voluntarily maintain yourself in.

Aria in Halfway Home does fucked up shit, or willingly allows or facilitates fucked up shit to maintain herself afloat (especially in her power plays with the Council, batarians and Cerberus). But she's been doing this dangerous dance for centuries, and she's starting to feel alienated from herself, from anticipating and catering to all sides at once. She also tends to keep opportunities open and let people live if they can be useful (à la Patriarch) rather than kill them, even if she cultivates her vicious reputation to prevent coups against her --basically keeping escape routes open as much as she can. As far as attitude goes, she follows more of her sarcastic/jaded side that is sometimes apparent in canon, and it's becoming clear how tired she is, how every single one of her desires have melted into what she needs to do to stay in power. She's the Pirate Queen, and in more ways than one the world is at her feet, yet everything she does is calculated to keep herself alive, at all time. And she can't stop now, because she's addicted to Omega and what it did to her, and if she stops she will be torn apart by everyone pretending to be on her side. In a way she's a prisonner of her own power, while also maintaining everyone else in the cell with her by force and pretending that... there is no alternative, if you can forgive my wording.

So yeah. Sarcastic, tired, brilliant, cynical. That's my Aria. She's the absolute worst, and yet she's a little tragic too. But by the end of the story, Shlee doesn't care about that part at all and will not shut the fuck up about how she should be deposed and is, in fact, the absolute worst, which, yeah, great thing to scream around Shlee, very smart.

[animeyanderelover]

Is it alright if I request prompt 47 again, since I've already requested it once?! This time with Grell?

That’s fine with me dear.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, clinginess, violence, blood

Prompt 47: “Telling me I’m crazy sounds wrong. Let’s...just say I’m madly in love with you.”

“Grell! What the heck?! Stop beating this guy up! You know exactly that you’ll get in troubles again with William!”, you yelled at her whilst trying to pull her from the man covered in black. He looked shitty and you dearly hoped he was still alive. “No! Let me go! He flirted with you today and I’ll kill him for this! I clearly heard how he called you disrespectful names! Just wait until I’m finished with this piece of trash!”, Grell protested loudly whilst struggling to free herself out of your grip. She was a grim reaper and was so much stronger than you. She could have ripped you off of her with ease, but she held back because she didn’t want to hurt you. You knew that you should probably be scared of seeing her beating someone up all bloody with the intention to kill him, but as sad as it may sounded, you were so used to it by now. Your main priority now was to save this man from dying a brutal death, you could later on feel scared. You tried with all of your strength to pull her back, but she just dragged you forwards like you were nothing at all.

“Grell! Try to think rationally! If William finds out what you’ve been doing this past few weeks he’ll take your death scythe from you and you’ll have to work overtime! That would mean you’ll have less time to spend with me!” When she suddenly stopped struggling you knew that you had gotten to her with these words. You knew exactly that Grell would do almost anything to spend time with you and you dearly hoped it would be enough to save this man. “You do have a point.”, she mumbled and you let a quiet sigh of relief out. It seemed like it would work. She slowly turned around to you. “However...” Oh no! “That doesn’t change the fact that he has seen me right now. And it is forbidden that humans know of our existence. And this guy here has a big mouth so I doubt he would keep it shut.” That was true though, but still. “We have nearly the twentieth century! No one would believe him!”, you tried to reason with her. “Can you guarantee that?”, she asked you. You wanted to answer, but couldn’t. You couldn’t because you couldn’t guarantee it. That he would keep his mouth shut was just wishful thinking from your side. Your silence confirmed her thoughts. She sighed. “I know that you don’t like me killing people. But first of all, it’s my job to kill people and second of all, I did tell you at the beginning of our relationship what would happen to anyone who dares to touch you.”

Relationship?! Which relationship?! This whole thing had been literally forced from the very beginning! Kidnapping you, dragging you to the cottage in the forest and locking you up in there didn’t count as a relationship! But you were wise enough to not tell her this. She pulled her death scythe out and started it. “If you don’t want to see this I would advice you to go away.” She slowly stepped towards the man who had slowly sat up and stared with terrified eyes at the grinning grim reaper. “No! Show mercy! I won’t tell anyone! I promise!” He looked desperately in your way. “You! Help me!” You watched his facial expression twisting into an ugly mask made out of fear. Pure fear. You had seen that face so often that it didn’t have much of an effect on you. You slumped your shoulders and turned around, leaving the both of them alone. You glanced one last time back and mouthed silently to the man:”I’m sorry.” Then you just walked away from the scene, ignoring the scared cries and pleads of the man and not once turning back. You walked behind the corner of the alley and leaned against it. You still Heard- the screams of the man echoing through the walls. Grell should just kill him. Why torturing the poor man so much? But then again, she liked to take her time with people who did you wrong. You felt a bit bad for him. No! Stop that! Stop feeling guilty! You took a deep breath to calm down. Feeling guilty wouldn’t do you anything good. It would just make you suffer more.

And just like that it suddenly became quiet. The screaming of the man had stopped. So she was done. You heard footsteps approaching you fastly before she stood right next to you, blood all splashed over her. You knew what she wanted to do and before she could do it you lifted your hand in a stopping manner. “Don’t hug me. You’re covered in blood and I’m not in the mood to get dirtied. It’s also so hard to wash blood out of clothes. Take a bath and then we can talk about cuddling. Grell gave you a confused look before she started pouting. You gave her a suspicious look before slowly turning around and walking towards the forest. “Let’s just go home and hope that William won’t find out about this or else you won’t be able to use that Death Scythe of yours again.” It wasn’t like she didn’t have other weapons. Truth to be told in your house she had a whole room filled with weapons, weapons and more weapons. It was hidden in the basement. And Grell had created this room for the simple reason so she would still have weapons if William should ever take her Death Scythe away. You guessed you should be glad that William didn’t decide to get rid of you after he found out about you, but Grell could be really annoying if she wanted too and had convinced William more or less to let her keep you. You could sympathize with William since the both of you seemed to suffer from a similar fate. Both of you were forced to spend a lot of time with the red clothed grim reaper. William when he was working with her and you when Grell was at home. You suspected that this was the reason why he had decided to let you live. Because you both were victims of Grell.

Suddenly you felt a force hitting you from behind. You needed a moment until you realized what this force was. Two strong arms squeezing nearly all the air out of you. “...Grell!!”, you yelled angrily and started thrashing around you. Damn it! You could feel how she smeared all the blood from her clothes and body on yours. “You idiot! Didn’t I tell you to wait until you’ve cleaned yourself up?!” You broke free from her grip and looked pissed off down you. As you had feared. You had blood on your whole body and it smelled terribly! “Just look what you’ve done! I’m completely dirty! And now I have to scrub my ass off to get rid of the blood from my clothes! Thank you very much Grell!” You panted heavily after your short outburst and glared angrily at her. She on the other hand had an adoring look on her face. “Uhh! I love it when you show your fire! But try to look at it from the positive side! Now we can take a bath to clean ourselves up!” Was that supposed to be a good thing?! You didn’t think so! “What the hell?! Do you think that’s a good thing?! For me it’s not! Are you crazy or something like this?!” Grell didn’t seem offended in the least bit. Instead her smile widened upon hearing your angry yelling voice. “Telling me I’m crazy sounds wrong. Let’s...just say I’m madly in love with you.”

You stopped glaring at her. What was the use in wasting all of your energy? You didn’t even know what kind of reaction you had hoped to get from her with your yelling. Did you want her to feel angry? Did you want her to feel remorse? You didn’t know, but you knew that whatever reaction you had hoped to get from her, it would be useless. You looked down on your filthy clothes. “You clean that up. You were the one who ruined them.”, you told her more calmer. “If that’s what you want!”, she answered thrilled and grabbed your hand in hers, dragging you fastly back to the forest, back to the house so the both of you could take a bath together.

[frizz22]

Book Review pt 2

Prompt from @somethingwicked19: Book review ch. 91 part two where the sisters talk and reconcile. Read on ao3 here

Wow, sorry for the complete lack of anything written for ages. I hope some of you who sent me prompts a while ago are still round to enjoy them when I get to them. Enjoy!

Hilda watched Zelda flee, not that her sister would ever call it such, and guilt roiled through her.

She didn’t handle that properly.

Well, to be honest, she shouldn’t have written the book this way in the first place. It was one thing to pull inspiration from real life, it was quite another to cruelly denigrate her sister in the process.

Especially... especially when Zelda was right. Her sister had encouraged her relationship with Cee, dried her tears over a misunderstood rejection, and helped with the Damascus steel.

It’d just been so easy, though. Hilda could hardly write ill of the dead, and it wasn’t as though Edward would disapprove in any case, not with his enthrallment with mortals. And then there was Zelda’s reaction to Diana.

Write what she knew.

That was the advice Cee gave when she expressed an interest in writing a book. And, well, Hilda knew all too well how her sister acted in the past to relationships with mortals; making her the villain fit with the story line and, really, once her characters came clean about their respective abilities—demon and witch—another obstacle needed to be thrown at them or the book would’ve been woefully short.

Still, insisting the villain be a ‘loveless, spinster hag’, especially when Hilda certainly didn’t see Zelda that way, was a misstep to say the least. Then sharing it with the students when the other comparisons were obvious was another.... Hilda had just been so excited about it and wanted to share her accomplishment with everyone that she hadn’t stopped to think.

Perhaps she should have shared it with Zelda first... but Hilda now knew why she hadn’t done that, because on some unconscious level, she knew she was in the wrong.

Collecting herself, Hilda quickly checked on the students once more before going to find her sister and apologize; the bare minimum she could do. Thankfully, Zelda only went as far as her office; they were still in the midst of a crisis, after all and her sister was never one to shirk her duties.

Tentatively knocking on the door, Hilda stepped inside. “Zelds?”

“Not now, Hilda, this ‘hag’ has work to do.” Zelda snapped, not looking up from the documents in front of her.

Heart clenching at how Zelda immediately shrouded herself in the insult, wearing it like a badge so it couldn’t be used against her, Hilda shut the door behind her. “And this awful sister needs to apologize.” She murmured, tugging at the ends of her sleeves.

Jaw jutting to the side, Zelda scoffed. “Perhaps, but it’s for your benefit, not mine. You only feel guilty now that I’ve confronted you. If you truly felt bad about the contents of that book, you’d never have published it. Let alone spread it like poison through the entire coven.”

Hilda grimaced and moved closer. “I lacked a lot of foresight regarding the book, and you’re right, I never should have shared it with the coven. I let my excitement over actually publishing something blind me to the consequences. I’m sorry, I know it changes nothing, but I am sorry. You did support me and Cee, it was wrong to suggest otherwise, even if it was in fiction.” She admitted, still trying to catch her sister’s eye and failing. “But I think my bigger blunder was never realizing what pain you went through during and after the Caligari spell.”

That caught Zelda’s attention, she stiffened and then swallowed hard. “Nonsense.”

Undeterred, Hilda pressed on. “Zelds, you used the word torturous—"

Her sister’s hands slammed onto the desk suddenly, startling Hilda. “Torturous because of boredom.” Zelda retorted harshly, though her eyes shone brightly with unshed tears as she continued to focus on the papers in front of her. “I was trapped inside my head and forced to listen to Faustus blather on and on, Hell knew how I longed to roll my eyes and slap him quiet. You misunderstood me.”

Tears welling, Hilda edged a bit closer. “I don’t think I did.” She whispered.

Muscles in her cheek twitching, Zelda shook her head. “You did. You misunderstood. That spell, it was just mind numbing, literally. Nothing—" her voice cracked, “nothing else happened. Besides, Faustus and I never loved one another, I said as much when he proposed, and he proved as much with the Caligari.” Struggling to contain herself, Zelda added. “So, your description might be more on point than I originally thought. Loveless...” she scoffed a little wetly, “how apt. Now leave, I’ve work to do.” She waved a hand to dismiss Hilda further.

“No.” Hilda stated firmly, arms crossing. “I was cruel. I made our petty fights public, at least the times you were cruel you kept it at home, so no one bore witness to it. I—"

Her sister finally looked at her, face hard. “I couldn’t care less about this trash you’ve written.” She snarled, eyes flashing. But Hilda could see straight through the lie, straight through the mask and see the pain lurking in Zelda’s eyes.

She sighed, knowing when to pick her battles after centuries of fights, perhaps they’d revisit this book topic when Zelda wasn’t quite so raw. “Then we’ll forget about the book, I just wanted to make sure I apologized for it.” She paused, giving Zelda one last chance to contradict her, to carry on so they could fully clear the air, but her sister merely cocked an unimpressed brow. Exhaling softly, Hilda pressed in. “I won’t let the effects of the Caligari spell go, though.” On that, Hilda was adamant. She should have realized, shouldn’t have let Zelda go back once free. This, this was a battle she’d chose until the end of time. Hilda couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let her sister continue to suffer in silence.

A mocking laugh emanated from Zelda. “You won’t let it go?” She scoffed and wiped her eyes in what she likely thought a discreet manner. “Hilda, this matter doesn’t concern you. It clearly didn’t concern you while it was ongoing, seeing as I remained under the spell for a good time after I returned home. It clearly didn’t concern you once it was lifted and I went back under its pretense. So, the aftereffects certainly don’t concern you either.” Eyes blazing, Zelda was breathing heavily by the end of her speech.

Wounded by the not entirely unwarranted diatribe, Hilda pressed her lips together to keep her chin from trembling, because despite herself, Zelda just admitted to there being aftereffects. And this slip told Hilda more than anything else, because if her normally tight lipped and controlled sister was letting things slip, it was far worse than Hilda imagined. Composing herself with a little difficulty, Hilda swallowed. “Zelds, please, you’re right. Of course you are, but please, help me understand. I want to help, however you’ll let me.”

“And if I won’t let you?” Zelda scoffed, and Hilda could practically see her sister’s walls climbing even higher.

She closed the remaining distance between them and reached to touch Zelda’s hand where it lay clenched on the desk. “Then I’ll be here until you do.” Hilda murmured softly, forcing herself not to cry when Zelda jerked her hand away.

Huffing, Zelda ran her tongue over her teeth. “I suppose I’ve no say in the matter? That you’ll make yourself a nuisance until I allow you to help?” And though her tone was laced with derision, the way Zelda looked at her told Hilda that her persistence was what her sister needed.

That after everything—after Blackwood’s abuse, the coven labeling her a bitch, Sabrina loosing Lucifer, Hilda betraying her trust—what her sister needed most was a demonstration that someone truly did care and would stand by her side.

Not that Zelda would ever admit to as much.

But Hilda knew her sister. Could read between the lines and behind the stoic masks, and she refused to be pushed away by venomous words or actions when she knew this was an unhealthy coping mechanism she triggered with her book.

Persistence.

It was something Hilda would only be too happy to provide if it meant repairing what she broke with the book, and perhaps the same persistence would help Hilda patch up some other pieces of Zelda that she refused to acknowledge were hurting.

Squaring her shoulders, Hilda nodded curtly. “Correct, you’ve no say in the matter. I’m here for you, Zelds, always, whether you like it or not.”

Lips twisting for a moment in unveiled emotion, Zelda quickly regained herself and rolled her eyes. “Fine. It seems you’re adamant and arguing with you is a waste of time. I’ve much to do, Hilda, if you insist on helping me, I suggest you go back to the infirmary and check on the students.”

Another clear dismissal, though this time Hilda took her leave, but not before quickly catching Zelda’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. When her sister didn’t flinch, pull away, or hurl some insult at her, Hilda smiled softly and hurried back to the infirmary.

Everything wasn’t fixed, far from it, their relationship too complex for easy solutions… but Hilda knew they’d taken a step in the right direction. Knew she loved her sister and that Zelda loved her just as fiercely back, and if on occasion it seemed otherwise, well, thank goodness witches lived so long, so that they might show those they loved how much they truly meant and deserved.

[backtothestart02]

Fallen Star - 14/? | westallen fanfiction

A/N: Not really that proud of this chap, but I hope you guys will still enjoy it!

Tagging the lovely @itzvickilou b/c I know she’s been waiting centuries for this. ;)

And also @westallen94 b/c I technically wrote it for her for an ep she didn’t spoil me on ages ago. Thank you, love.

...

Chapter 14 - 

Iris froze.

Slowly, she turned around, though she knew exactly who that voice belonged to. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. His voice was breaking too, which should’ve made her feel bad for him but only pissed her off. Not at him, but at herself. She should’ve known he’d come running if alarms went off. He was faster than the police. Not that the police would care about a break-in for a practically abandoned building.

Practically.

It was supposed to have been abandoned.

“Hi, Barry,” she made herself say.

He scoffed and walked towards her.

“Hi, Barry? That’s all you have to say?”

She held her ground and pursed her lips.

“What would you like me to say?”

“An explanation would be nice. Why are you…” He gestured to the building behind her. “Breaking into buildings? Don’t tell me this is for a story.”

He said it with such disgust that she couldn’t help but bristle at him and refocus her anger on the subject before her. She folded her arms.

“Oh, and what if it is?”

He scoffed. “I thought you were done with this.”

“Ha! You wish I was. Just because I haven’t been out since our break-up doesn’t mean I wasn’t planning to eventually. I was just waiting until-”

“I was okay with it?”

“Please. You’re never going to be okay with it.”

Tension simmered between them.

“Are you?” she spat.

“No,” he ground out.

She nodded knowingly.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I really thought you were past this, Iris.”

He latched his hand around her arm before she could retort. She struggled to get free, but his grip was like a vice around her.

“What- What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you in for breaking and entering.”

Her jaw dropped.

“You can’t be serious. I could do jail time for that.”

“I’m sure your dad will bail you out.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Doesn’t matter. I got what I needed.”

“Photographic evidence,” he guessed.

She smiled serenely.

“Nothing the police won’t confiscate once they have you in a cell.”

She shook her head at him, sadness overtaking the fury building inside of her.

“I can’t believe you would do that to me. After everything we’ve been through.”

“I can’t believe you would put me in a position where I have to choose.”

“Between what? Me and the law?”

His grip tightened.

“Between what you think you want and your life.”

“What good is my life if I’m not using it to make a difference? This story could-”

“Save lives, yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes, bringing her to tears he didn’t see. “Come on, let’s go.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She pulled back, yanking something out from inside her jacket.

“What are y-”

But he was too late reacting to her taser until he released her and fell on the ground, seizing.

“Sorry, Barry. It looks like we’re not on the same side anymore.”

“Barry? Barry?” Caitlin and Cisco’s voices could be heard emanating from the com. They got no response.

Iris didn’t wait around for Barry to trap her again. She took off running till she got to her car. She glanced in her rearview mirror before taking off, making sure he was still on the ground. The taser still affected him, but it wouldn’t last as long since he was a meta. She had to get out of there before he came to.

Turning the key, she gunned the gas pedal and took off like a bat out of hell, away from the scene of the crime with her heart screaming and tears running down her cheeks.

…

Back at STAR Labs, Cisco and Caitlin had come to the conclusion that Barry was unconscious and it would do no good to keep calling out for him.

“He’s not responding,” Caitlin said worriedly.

“What do we do?” Cisco asked.

“Well, we have to go get him obviously! Come on, I’ll drive.”

“What-” He watched as she gathered her purse and headed for the hall. “Caitlin, wait for me!”

He hurried after her.

“Why do you get to drive?” he asked, frowning.

“Because I’m taller,” she said, easily, stepping into the elevator just after the doors opened.

“Only because you’re wearing heels!”

But he followed her anyway, and at no point insisted on taking the keys from her grasp.

…

They found Barry still in his Flash suit on the ground unconscious about twenty minutes later.

“Oh, my God, Barry!”

They both ran to him.

“Drive the van over, so we don’t have to carry him as far,” Cisco suggested.

“Good idea.”

“Barry, Barry, can you hear me?”

Barry moaned. “Iriss…” he slurred, but his eyes never opened. He was still out of it.

A couple minutes later, Caitlin pulled the van up and they managed to lift Barry off the ground and put him in the back.

“What do you think she did to him?” Caitlin asked, worriedly.

“A taser if I had to guess.”

They both got back into the front seat.

“He just needs some rest. When he wakes up, he’ll be fine.”

Caitlin turned the key in the ignition and drove out of the dusty parking lot.

“I sure hope you’re right.”

…

The effects of the taser didn’t fully wear off for much longer than the team had expected, but Cisco and Caitlin were right there by his bedside in the Med Bay when Barry woke up. He groaned and looked around.

“Where-”

“You’re in STAR Labs, buddy.” Cisco squeezed his shoulder.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Caitlin said, smiling gently.

“Iris, she…”

“She tased you, man,” Cisco said. “Can’t say she didn’t come prepared, I guess.”

Barry groaned again and rolled over to the side so he could get up.

“Careful,” Caitlin warned.

“I’m a speedster, Cait. I’ll be fine.”

She relented.

He turned around, piecing the event back together.

“I have to find Iris.”

“How do you know she’s not going to try to tase you again?”

He sighed and quickly sped into normal clothes.

“I don’t.”

Cisco and Caitlin exchanged a look.

“Barry,” Caitlin tried. “I know…technically Iris broke the law, but…are you sure this isn’t about the fact that she bailed on you this morning?”

“She put herself in danger, Caitlin!” His eyes went wide as his voice rose. “Again. While I was weak, thinking that maybe she might…” He shook his head and laughed. “Well, joke’s on me. Let’s see how much her boss likes to have an employee that’s been arrested and thrown into a cell.”

Caitlin’s eyes widened.

“You’re gonna try to get her fired? Barry, that’s-”

“One way to slow her down? My thinking exactly.”

“That’s not what I-”

“I’ll see you two later. Thanks for bringing me back.”

Her mouth hanging open, she turned to look at Cisco.

“Cisco, this is not-”

“Good, yeah, I know.”

They both stared after Barry, wondering how they could get his head screwed on straight when the only person who could knock sense into him was the person whose career he was trying to destroy.

“Maybe we should call Joe. Tell him what’s up before Barry does. Barry might exaggerate things.”

“Exaggerate breaking and entering?” Caitlin raised an eyebrow.

Cisco didn’t respond to that. Instead he reached for his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he found Joe’s name.

“This would be so much less complicated if they hadn’t broken up…”

…

A knock came on Iris’ office door after lunch. She was still shaking from her experience with the Flash at the warehouse and almost didn’t hear it. It wasn’t until her best friend’s voice accompanied it that she looked up.

“Hey, Iris, I didn’t see you come i…” Her brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

Iris didn’t move, then subtly she shook her head.

Linda walked through the door, closed and locked it behind her. Hurriedly, she walked over to her friend’s side and got down on her knees, taking Iris’ hands in her own.

“What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Iris licked her lips.

“I think…Barry’s going to arrest me.”

Linda’s eyes widened in horror.

“What?! Why would he do that? Don’t tell me he- you…”

Iris sighed.

“There were cameras, Lin. And an alarm system. The Flash came to check it out and found me there.”

“Oh no.”

“We got into an argument, he tried to take me in on the account of breaking and entering…”

Linda scoffed in disgust.

“And I tased him.”

Linda’s eyes went wide again.

“You what?” But she couldn’t help smiling. She was proud of her girl.

“It was the only way I could get away!”

“Hey, hey, I don’t blame you.” She rubbed her hand over the top of Iris’ to calm her.

“Yeah, well, if he follows through…or tells my dad-”

“Hey, Joe would never let his baby girl sit in a jail cell. You don’t have to worry about that. If Barry hasn’t come already – as the Flash or as himself – he’s not going to.”

“Scott will not take kindly to one of his reporters being arrested, Lin!” She shot to her feet and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She started to pace, then stopped suddenly. “And even if my dad does intervene, he’s going to give me a serious talking to. The only one that put a stop to those annoying lectures was Barry, and now they’re on the same side. Except Barry’s worse. He tried to arrest me, Lin. Me! The supposed love of his life.”

She scoffed and sat back down.

“What a joke.” She shook her head. “There’s no getting through to him now.”

Linda nibbled on her bottom lip.

“What if I talked to him?”

Iris’ eyes flashed to hers.

“Why would that make a difference?”

“Well…I could take responsibility for the story…and you bailing on him this morning.”

Her lips parted.

“It would redirect his anger.”

“At you? No.”

“He doesn’t care if I risk my life.”

“Lin.”

“Not like he cares about you, and you know it.”

She leaned forward and captured her hands and her gaze.

“I won’t let you take on that kind of wrath. I can’t.”

“I can handle Barry Allen, trust me.” She patted her hand. Iris looked at a loss. “Let me do this for you. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t, but at least I tried.”

Iris hesitated. “Okay.”

“Good.”

“But don’t push him, okay? I don’t want you losing your job. I need you here with me.”

Linda stood up and straightened out her skirt.

“Me? Girl, please. I’m untouchable.”

She winked and headed out of Iris’ office. When she was gone, Iris leaned back in her seat staring at the closed door where her best friend had gone through.

“I wish I was.”

[bigmeatymudcrabchitins]

A not-so-brief overview of my Skyrim Dova OCs bc i need to scream to the digital void about my ideas

Freyora Lind, more commonly known by her strange alias “Bjorne Icepick”

A Nord-eventually-turned-werewolf who orphaned during the Great War and taken in by a Dunmeri mercenary whose residence was in Windhelm’s Gray Quarter. Grew up in a cramped boarding house setting among desperate mercenaries of varying backgrounds. Many of them would all come and go, but there was always some sort of a familial bond between them all.

From a young age she got in a lot of fights against people who insulted her for living in the Gray Quarter among the dark elves. Eventually she took a fight too far and was jailed for murder around 14, but was broken out shortly after by a band of masked vampires. Turns out some of her mercenary comrades unwittingly caught vampirism during a contract to clear out a vampire den and had to skip town, but not before ensuring one of their own wasn’t left to rot.

Lived in Cyrodil for about 15 years, but returned to Skyrim pursuing rumors surrounding a cure to vampirism, as her adoptive father would be nearing the end of his elven lifespan and had wished to die a normal death.

Seeing as she was literally a fugitive, and her long-belated parents were somewhat renowned for their battlefield prowess, she took on a false identity. AND an act to match it.

She’ll eat raw meat, chase prey with swords instead of using a bow like a normal person, harp about irrational conspiracy theories, and more. Everyone’s foul reactions to her outlandish act are plainly hilarious to her and only encourage her to act even stranger.

The alias “Bjorne Icepick” was simply the most ridiculous name she could think of.

Not the most morally outstanding. Besides drunken brawling, she’ll steal from anyone who angers her, even if it’s things she literally won’t ever need such as all the goblets in a household. It’s the pettiness that counts. “Try drinking your damn high-end wine now, jackass.”

Calls Dwarven Automatons “Gundams.” Including she herself, no one knows what that means.

Joins the Companions out of homesickness and a desire to fill in a gap that leaving home left.

Hasn’t bothered curing herself of lycanthropy because her whole schtick is being incredibly resourceful, and that includes using any means of power necessary. Still doesn’t fancy Hircine’s Hunting Grounds as her desired afterlife, though.

As her journey goes on, however, her lightheartedly eccentric face starts to fall off as a number of events push her to begin to question the legitimacy of her actions up until that point.

Some of which include the eventual death of her adoptive father (and how she was indirectly responsible for it even if it was what he wanted), Delphine’s ultimatum, the civil war as a collective, learning the tragic history behind the Falmer and the original Companions’ role in it, and killing of Vyrthur (no matter how much he genuinely deserved it).

She grows disgusted by herself down to the core. She takes to skooma to cope, and starts to be plagued by serious skooma-induced side effects. She ends up shutting herself away from all her responsibilities and distancing herself from her friends.

Does she get better? Maybe. I haven’t thought up anything past this point lol

Moureneris Alta

A very, VERY ancient vampiric snow elf, (though it’s notable she was born a considerable amount of time after the razing of Sarthaal)

Survived many atrocities. Stayed in isolation with a band of vampires for countless years out of sheer disgust for the nature of the sapient races. (I’ll explain her full story some other time. It’s pretty complicated)

She was abducted from her isolated lifestyle by a certain person i’ll talk about later. She managed to free herself south of Skyrim, and uh, walks right into that Imperial ambush. The rest is history.

Super ignorant to modern society as a result of centuries of isolation. Exploited for comedic relief. (“What in the name of Oblivion is a Cyrodilic Empire? Are you messing with me? And please, how does levitation magic simply get outlawed by this hypothetical Empire? What are you to do when you fall down a crevice? Just... let yourself perish? How degrading.)

She reintegrated herself into society with vengeance in mind under the belief that all humans are savage bloodlusting murderers who had to answer for their treachery. (And she was royally angry there was no Dwemer left to spite, but partially satisfied at the same time). But she grows conflicted after being shown genuine kindness, even as early as being freed from her binds in Helgen.

Subsequently has a very muddled redemption arc. Queue Dragonborn hero stuff

She has impaired vision, but she cultivated detect life magic to aid her in daily life and combat (think Hyakkimaru from Dororo ‘19 and his soul detection or Toph Beifong from ATLA and her seismic sense). At her peak, she can detect life from about a kilometer away.

She can just barely read, but only if she holds the text incredibly close to her face, not to mention her Cyrodilic lessons were left unfinished after her abduction, making reading a very taxing process. Weary travelers are often spooked at the sight of a floating, ghastly looking elven woman with her nose pressed up against crossroad signs, and it has become somewhat of an urban legend.

Isn’t as nearly as skilled with detecting the dead and tenses up in burial crypts or around other vampires for that reason. Unfortunately, being the Dragonborn and all, she finds herself in a lot of crypts...

When questioned about her background due to her unique appearance: “Oh, yeah. My mother was one of those mer from the east. You know the ones. Dark elves, I think? And my father was one of those er, tall elv- no, sorry, HIGH elves. Yeah. They both died in a big fire or something though. It was horrible. I can’t get the noxious smell or the deafening screams out of my head. Good talk, but never ask me about that again.”

Queue sheltered old immortal antics: “Wow, you’re THAT old? Enlighten me on how it felt witnessing the fall of the Dwemer. Or perhaps the rise of Tiber Septim’s Empire. The Gates of Ob-“ “Oblivion if I know. I lived in someone’s basement for thousands of years. And I still don’t know what everyone means by Empire. You all are messing with me, aren’t you? That really annoys me.”

She ultimately returns to faith in Auri-El and makes it her life’s purpose to help the Betrayed find peace, as well as to seek out any remaining snow elf groups. Probably good friends with Gelebor or something.

Had a crush on Serana. We all know how THAT went. Damned temples.

Was originally gonna spiral into a much darker corruption arc (another ATLA comparison being Jet or Hama) but I just felt bad for her. Moureneris can have a little found peace. As a treat.

That’s her preliminary design made. I’ll need a mod to properly play her, because that right there was made by choosing Dunmer as her race. But I can’t do that. I’m on console, and while I got the Steam port a month ago, my PC’s stone age specs can’t handle Skyrim yet and I’ll need to wait until I can afford a better graphics card (thanks economic inflation)

Alexandre Armasi, jokingly nicknamed Alexandre the Curious

A complete and unapologetic export of my character from a dead and unfinished DND campaign. Except there are no Aasimar in Skyrim, so he’s half Altmer half Bosmer. And his initial last name was Armas but I thought Armasi suited his Skyrim counterpart more, as subtle a change it is.

He’s mainly Bosmer in appearance and constitution, save for his hair and eyes, which are more similar to that of his Altmeri father’s.

I can’t really export his original backstory though because the campaign wouldn’t translate well into TES lore at all.

He’s a writer who came wandering into Skyrim in search of inspiration. While he mainly writes dramatic fables, he wanted to divert his focus to crafting his own bestiary and herbal compendium surrounding Skyrim’s fauna and flora. The ones at home are simply too vague to him!

He’s very altruistic, wishing to spread cheer wherever he goes, through the art of song (even though he was a cleric in DND and not a bard. My bad.) However, many of his verses are just blatant self promotions of his published fables.

But he’s too naive for his own good. Dangerously so. In fact, he says what’s on his mind with little forethought, with little grasp on the consequences of his actions, which lands him in lots of trouble. “I don’t favor him myself, but you guys kill people over Talos worship? That’s not very cool. A bit scary, if you ask me.” or “A Stormcloak rebel? Didn’t your leader kill a bunch of Reachmen rebels years back, or so I’ve heard. By the divines that’s not a man I’d make a symbol of nonconformity.”

He’s also insatiably curious. The type to ACTUALLY shove alchemic ingredients in his mouth with no knowledge of their properties, experiment with dangerous rune spells, throw rocks at pressure plates, and more. Needless to say he’s very accident prone.

Doesn’t know common curse words. People exploit this for laughs. Think that episode of Spongebob.

Everyone is a little baffled that HE of all people is the prophesied Dragonborn of legend. This agonizingly imbecilic writer who has absentmindedly wandered into burial crypts, troll dens, bandit forts, and more, too busy juggling his manuscripts to pay attention to his surroundings.

His past doesn’t exactly reflect his outlook on life. His mother and father fought in the Great War aligned with the Imperials despite their elven background. Both managed to live to see the war’s conclusion, but his father vanished without a trace shortly after, and it seems his mother knows something she won’t tell him.

With plenty of exposure to bad influences, his innocence is slowly lost throughout the course of his journey, and his altruism begins to grow twisted. But nevertheless, he maintains his jovial, social persona, except this time with much darker undertones. Kinda like a creepy dentist or something.

Whoops. He winds up becoming a feared Dark Brotherhood assassin. (Haha get it “Innocence Lost”???) He somehow deluded himself into thinking that the life of an assassin was the right thing to do. But he’s a funky little guy so he gets a pass for his heinous crimes against society

[elliemarchetti]

Clear As Silver Drops

It’s my birthday and I post what I want to! *sing this as Necessary Evil by Motionless in White*

To be totally honest, this is inspired by @my-darling-haldir who was asking for Haldir fic recs for her bday and I said myself why not? Why not indulge in your love for elves and mixed ocs? So here we are, with something in which Legolas isn’t with the Fellowship and in his place we have Elva, the only woman in a group otherwise made up of men only.  Enjoy!

Words: 3132

"I'm afraid we can't stay here any longer," Aragorn said, turning his gaze to the mountains, raising his sword as if he wanted to curse Gandalf for his recklessness.

“What hope do we have without him, now?” asked Frodo under his breath, talking mainly to himself.

“We’ll have to do without hope,” replied Elva, talking to the whole Fellowship. “It may be that one day at least he’ll be avenged, but for now, let’s have courage and stop mourning: we have a long way to go and a lot of things to do.”

At her words they all stood up to look around, making her weigh for the umpteenth time what her role really was in their mission. She should’ve asked Gandalf when she still had time, but now he had taken that secret to the grave and she could do nothing but find it herself. A skilled archer and an excellent diplomat, Elva felt more like she was there to act as a glue between cultures, and thus prevent those men, all with different histories and upbringing, to go one to the North, dominated by three sparkling white peaks, Celebdil, Fanuidhol and Caradhras, one to the East, where the forward-projected arms of the mountains steepened abruptly, with distant lands extending beyond, and one to the South, where the Misty Mountains stretched endlessly. 

Less than a mile away, slightly lower, as they were located at a high point on the eastern flank of the valley, they saw a lake: it was long and oval, looking like the tip of a spear stuck deep in the basin to the north, with the southern waters out of the shadows, bathed in sunlight but still dark, the deep blue of a clear night sky seen from a lighted room. The surface was calm, and all around the bare banks were covered in soft grass. The Fellowship walked the uneven and bumpy road that descended from the Gates of Moria, just a winding path among heather and twigs, sprouted between the broken stones; it still could be seen that it once meandered from the Dwarf Kingdom’s lowlands, but the broad paved street was now reduced to a ghost of itself, just like Durin’s stone.

“I can’t go on without deviating for a moment to see the wonder of the valley!” exclaimed Gimli.

“Be quick, then!” said Aragorn, checking the gates behind them. “The sun sets early, and even if the Orcs won’t come out, perhaps, sooner than dusk, we must already be very far away at sunset; it’s almost new moon, so the night will be dark.”

Elva almost cursed under her breath: if the lightless night was approaching, even her monthly blood was coming. Of all the advantages of being a half-elf, unfortunately she hadn't inherited the one of not suffering like mortal women.

“Come with me, Elva!” cried the dwarf, distracting her from her thoughts. “I don’t want you to go away without first seeing Kheled-zaram.”

For some strange reason, despite her elven half, the dwarf liked her company, and quite a lot too. Together they descended the long green slope swiftly, followed slowly by the hobbits. A brief glance into the dark waters, and back again to the road, now turning south, going down quite steep from two offshoots that embraced the basin. A little lower than the lake, they encountered a deep well of crystal clear water, from which a steam rose, flowing right after down a rocky groove.

“Thirsty as you may be, don’t drink this water,” Gimli warned. “It’s cold as ice.”

“Over there, are the woods of Lothlorien,” said Elva, pointing at a golden haze in the flat lands. “It’s the most beautiful among all the homes of my people. There are no trees like those of that land: in autumn, their leaves don’t fall but turn to gold, replaced only in spring by the new buds covering the branches with yellow flowers. Then, the soil is gold as the ceiling and the smooth and grey bark of the trees make them look like silver columns, as our songs in Mirkwood still tell. My heart would be so happy if I were among the branches of that wood and the spring smiled!”

“My heart will be happy even if it’s winter,” Aragorn said. “But many miles separate us, let’s hurry!”

For a time, Frodo and Sam managed to keep up, but the warriors advanced swiftly and soon they were left behind. When Elva noticed, she immediately told Aragorn, who, seeing them so far away, ran back on his own steps, calling Boromir to follow him. He apologized, full of disquiet.

“So many things happened today, and we’re such in a hurry that I forgot you were injured. You should’ve said something, because in silence nothing has been done to alleviate your pain. A little further on there’s a place where we can rest for a moment. Come, Boromir, let’s carry them!”

They soon encountered another stream flowing down the western slopes, confusing its gurgling waters with the swirling ones of the Silverlode, diving together from an overhand of green coloured stone and foaming down in a hollow surrounded by fir trees, low and curved, with steeps sides covered with rapeseed and blueberry bushes. They stopped at the bottom, where was a flat area crossed by the bed of shiny pebbles in which the creek flowed noisy. It was nearly three in the afternoon, and they had travelled just a few miles from the Gates. The sun was already turning to west, painting a grave expression on Aragorn’s face as he cared for Frodo and Sam’s injuries.

“Lucky you” he exclaimed, to lighten up the gardener’s mood. “Many have received a worse reward for killing their first Orc. The cut isn’t poisoned, as is unfortunately the case for most wounds inflicted by their blades, so it’ll heal well.”

He then opened his saddlebag and took out some withered athelas. While fresh were more effective, the leaves would still do their work in cleaning the wound. When Frodo’s turn came, he was quite reluctant, saying he was fine and just needed some food and rest, but Aragorn persisted, and took off his old tunic and worn shirt, giving an exclamation of astonishment, which soon turned into laughter: the hobbit wore a silver coat that sparkled before their eyes like light on a choppy sea, the gems bright like stars and the tinkling of the rings producing the same sound as the first raindrops falling into a pond. If word got out that a hobbit had such a wonder, all the hunters of Middle Earth would’ve galloped towards the Shire, but all their arrows would’ve been vain before a mithril armour. Still, there was a dark blackened bruise on Frodo’s right side and one of the rings had passed through his soft leather jacket, penetrating into the flesh. While the others prepared the meal, Aragorn made more athelas water, filling the basin with its acrid fragrance. After the late lunch, the Fellowship put out the fire, erasing all traces of it, and climbed out the hollow, resuming the road. They hadn’t come far when the sun disappeared behind the western heights and great shadows crept along the sides of the mountains. Twilight veiled their feet, and a light mist glided in the depression, while far to the east, the evening lit up with its pale glow lands, plains and distant forests. Sam and Frodo managed to walk briskly and Aragorn led the Fellowship for another three hours with a single, shot break, after which the late nigh imposed her dark reign. There were several stars, but the moon waning would appear much later.

“Lothlorien!” Elva cried. “We have reached the edge of the Golden Wood!”

The trees stood imposing, arching over the road and the river that swept suddenly under their leafy branches, trunks gray in the pale starlight and leaves quivered with a touch of fallow yellow.

“We’re still too little far from the Gates, but we can’t go further. Let’s hope that the Elves virtue will protect us from the danger pursuing,” said Aragorn.

“Assuming the Elves still live here, in this darkening world,” Gimli said, joining them.

“It’s been a long time since some of my folks came back to see the land we abandoned centuries ago,” replied Elva, “but we know that Lorien is still not deserted and a secret force repels evil far from this district. Nevertheless, its inhabitants rarely show up, and perhaps now they live deep in the woods and far from the northern borders.”

Aragorn confirmed with a sigh, as if some memory in him had been awakened. “We must suffice to ourselves, for tonight. We’ll still walk a short distance, until the trees are thick around us, then we’ll leave the path to look for a place to rest.”

“There’s no other way?” asked Boromir, irresolute.

“What better way would you want?” asked Aragorn.

“A simple path, albeit flanked by a hedge of swords,” Boromir replied. “Our Fellowship has been conducted in strange ways, and all of them so far with an inauspicious outcome. Against my will we passed under the shadows of Moria, towards our perdition, and now we have to go into the Golden Woods, even if we have heard of that perilous district in Gondor, where it’s said that few of those who set foot there come out, and of these, non has been released unharmed.”

“Don’t say unharmed, but unchanged, and then your words will be truthful,” Aragon retorted. “Wisdom has certainly diminished in the city of those who were once wise if now they speak ill of Lothlorien. You may not believe me, but there’s no other way for us, unless you want to go back to the Gates or climb the mountains or swim alone along the Great River.”

“Then guide us!” agreed Boromir. “But it’s dangerous.” “Very,” Aragorn confirmed. “Beautiful and dangerous, but only the evil has to fear here.”

They walked a little over a mile into the forest when they encountered a third stream flowing rapidly from the tree-lined slopes, climbing west towards the mountains. They could hear it roar in a cascade hidden by the shadows, before the dark water crossed the path ahead of them, joining the Silverlode in a whirlwind of ponds hidden by tree roots. It was the Nimrodel, the river on which a long time ago the Silvan elves composed many song. She grew up singing them in the North, mindful of the rainbow over the waterfalls and the golden flowers floating on its foam. Everything was dark, now, and the Bridge over it collapsed, but its waters were still able to wash away any sign of fatigue, so she proposed to wade it to find on the other side a place to rest.

“The sound of falling water will perhaps bring us sleep and forgetfulness from sorrows.”

One after another, the men followed her and when they were all on the other bank, they sat down, rested and refreshed. Elva told the stores of Lothlorien, the ones the Mirkwood elves still treasured in their hearts, stories of the sun and stars on meadows along the Great River, from a time before the world turned gray. When finally silence fell, they heard the music of the waterfall that flowed smoothly in the shadows.

“Do you hear Nimrodel’s voice?” she asked. “I’ll sing you the story of a girl who was called like the river next to which she lived a long time ago. It’s a lovely song in Sylvan, but I’ll sing it in Westron for you.”

Then, with a sweet voice so faint it almost disappeared in the rustle of the leaves, she intoned the ballad of the elf with a white mantle edged with gold; she had long hair and white skin, the free girl with a voice clear like silver drops. It was evident that some of her companions thought this creature lost in the dewy mountains could’ve been her, so she sang about her lover, an elven king of trees and clearings, went away on a ship swept by the north wind.

From helm to sea they saw him leap, As arrow from the string, And dive into the water deep, As mew upon the wing. The wind was in his flowing hair, The foam about him shone; Afar they saw him strong and fair Go riding like a swan. But from the West has come no word, And on the Hither Shore No tidings Elven-folk have heard Of Amroth evermore.

When Elva's voice trembled, the song ended. She said she couldn't continue because she didn't remember how it went on, but it was a lie: long and sad was the story about the doom befallen on Lothlorien when the dwarves roused evil in the mountains. She glances sideways at Gimli, who looked somewhat grateful, and quickly changed subject, proposing to camp on the trees for the night. The Fellowship left the path, entering the shadows of the forest further dense, headed west along the mountains steam and far away from the river, until they found a small group of trees with big trunks.

“I’m at home in roots and branches, but this species is unknown to me; I need to climb to see what their shape and way of growing is,” said Elva.

“Whatever they are,” replied Pippin, “they would really be wonderful if they offer a possible night’s rest to others than birds: I don’t know how to sleep perched on a hanger!”

“Then dig a ditch in the ground, if that’s more to the habits of you race,” Elva retorted, impatiently. “But you have to dig fast and in depth, if you wish to hide from the Orcs.”

Before she could do anything else, however, an authoritative voice spoke from the shadows. In amazement, she crouched frightened against the trunk.

“Stay still,” she whispered to the others. “Don’t move and don’t speak!”

A soft laugh was heard in the foliage, and another clear voice spoke in an elven language. Elva looked up and answered in the same idiom, different from the ones the western elves used.

"Who are they, and what do they say?" asked Merry.

"They're Elves," Sam replied. "Don't you hear their voices?"

"And they say you breathe so hard they could pierce your heart despite the darkness,” Elva hissed, silencing the hobbits. To be honest, there was no reason to be afraid: the elves said they’ve been long aware of their presence but they didn’t hinder the Fellowship in crossing the river since they heard her voice beyond the Nimrodel and recognized she belonged to their Nordic lineage.

“They’re begging me to go up with Frodo. It seems they’ve received news about our journey but they ask the others to be patient for a moment and guard the feet of the tree, waiting for them to decide what to do.”

At those words, a ladder was lowered from the shadows: it was made of a silver-gray sparkling cord and despite its frail appearance, it proved itself strong enough to withstand the weight of several people. Elva went up fast, while Frodo tried to persuade Sam to stay with the others. It would’ve been a wise choice, it was easy to offend her people, but the gardener was immovable and in the end they entered the flet, talan in elvish, through the circular hole open in the centre. The elf holding the ladder, the eldest, invited her to sit with his companions, two younger guards, both fully dressed in silver gray fabric, a valid help to hide among the stumps and then greeted the hobbits in a slow Common Tongue.

“It’s rare for us not to use our mother tongue, since now we live in the heart of the forest and don’t like to deal with other people. Even our own relatives in the North are divided from us, but some still go in foreign lands to gather news and watch over enemies, and therefore they speak different languages like me. My brothers Rumil and Orophin understand little of what you say, but we heard of your coming from Lord Elrond’s messengers when they passed by Lorien on their way home. From many years we no longer knew anything about your race and we didn’t think there were still any hobbit in Middle Earth. You don’t seem bad natured and since you come with an elf of our lineage, it’s with pleasure that we’ll help you, as Elrond asked us to, although is not out habit to lead strangers across our land, but you’ll have to spend the night here. How many are you?”

"Eight: me, four of them,” said Elva, alluding to the hobbits, “and two men, one being Aragorn, an elf-friend of the Westernesse folk.”

“The name of Aragorn son of Arathorn is known in Lorien, and he has the benevolence of the Lady. So, everything is fine,” said Haldir. “But you have so far only named seven.”

“The eight is a dwarf,” admitted the girl, never lowering her eyes, no trace of shame in her voice. She knew that Haldir must’ve understood by now that not only elven blood ran in her veins, but he didn’t seem to care.

“This is not good: we haven’t dealt with them since the Dark Days and they’re not allowed into our country. I cannot let him pass.”

“He’s of the Lonely Mountain, one of Dain’s trusted people and friend of Lord Elrond, who has personally chosen him to be part of our Fellowship,” she explained. At her words, the three elves exchanged a long, knowing look.

“Is he perhaps your companion, milady?” Haldir asked.

“Would it make any difference on his courage and loyalty?” she asked, heedless of what some strangers might think. If she had cared about the opinion of all the souls she had met in her long life, her heart would’ve already burst with pain.

"Very well," said Rumil at last, displeased. Ignoring the fact that the hobbits didn’t understand him, he told her in Sindarin that if she and Aragorn had watched and answered for Gimli, he could’ve passed, but only blindfolded.

“Now, we mustn’t waste any more time,” Haldir resumed. “Your companions have been on the ground too long and soon in the morning you’ll have to continue your march. The hobbits will stay here with us, while you’ll remain in the other talan with the rest of the Fellowship.”

“Call if something is wrong!” he added in the end, as a farewell. Elva was halfway down the ladder when she heard one of his brothers mutter something about such a beautiful voice wasted in a terribly vulgar way, but she couldn’t understand his reply.

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

Garbage’s Shirley Manson: “Being human is to be messy. If you think you’re above all that you’re in deep, deep trouble”

As Garbage unveil their first new album in five years, No Gods No Masters, Shirley Manson talks getting political, cancel culture, and why speaking up is more important than ever…

A metaphorical low for Shirley Manson involved a poster, a car journey and getting dumped. A lawyer for Garbage​’s label Interscope records called and told her she was dropped.

“I was about 40 years old at the time. My mother was dying, I was abjectly miserable, my career was on the skids,” she remembers, convincing herself at the time, ​“You will never again recover, you’re a woman over 40, you’re screwed.”

On the journey home alone after this call, she drove down Los Feliz Boulevard, five minutes from her house, and looked to her right. There in front of her was a shop-sized display poster of Garbage being sold at a yard sale for a few dollars. ​“I looked at myself being sold on the street, literally. And I burst into tears and I slumped down in my car because I felt like everyone could see me. I felt deep, deep shame, which is not an emotion I experience often, for my sins.”

Shirley explains today from her LA home that shortly after that experience she had a revelation: ​“It doesn’t matter if you never get signed to a record label again. It doesn’t matter if you never perform again in public, you can still be a singer, you can still be a creator, you can still be an artist.” Since that moment, her career – and her relationship to it – has been a healthy one. Still, the lyrics she wrote based off this pivotal experience were words she was eager to use in a song for 12 years. Nothing quite felt right… until now. They appear on a heavier highlight of Garbage’s new record, The Creeps (‘I was so upset, I saw them selling me out / Right there on Los Feliz Boulevard’). ​“That song is about not listening to my feelings – that narrative I feed myself is often just as negative and inaccurate as a stranger telling me what to think.”

The capitalistic misogyny of the music industry and the world at large is just one of the weighty topics Garbage sink their teeth into on No Gods No Masters. Tinged with a gothic darkness, it’s a dystopian, slow-paced and angular album, and one that feels timely for all its ​’80s sonic influences. It stands out from their other releases for covering racism and police brutality and wealth disparity. A reoccurring image of white men as undeserving and cruel gods looms large. These themes that have been relevant for decades – if not centuries, millennia – but listen to it and you can’t ignore the fact it speaks to the last couple of years.

Speaking of the pandemic, Shirley is feeling grateful and thoughtful for her own circumstances. As a musician she’s been focused on the injustice in the lack of support for artists on both sides of the Atlantic (“You’re literally considered a nothing as a musician”). In the UK, those involved in the live music industry were encouraged by the Conservative government to retrain. But they’re fortunate, thinks Shirley, if only compared to America, where government furlough money didn’t help those whose jobs were in jeopardy or defunct.

“I’m concerned about all the young musicians who have not received any support from their government, and have been left to rot,” she says. ​“I know a lot of struggling musicians who literally can barely feed themselves. We’ve got a terrible homeless situation here in LA, and I have people living in tents two steps away from my house. And that is a very healthy reminder of my good fortune and my privilege.”

Opening up about adversity faced by musicians – especially female musicians – within the industry is something Shirley has done for years. The commentary around Garbage’s treatment by labels or ageism inadvertently leveraged against her has followed the band through almost every step of their career. It’s a significant part of the Garbage story.

“I think a lot of artists are fearful of speaking the truth,” she says when this is put to her. ​“I just think that the most powerful version of oneself is the most authentic version. That to me is when you have no secrets, you’re not cowed, you’re not scared, because the truth is out. I think people are very frightened that people discover things about them. And that truly does make you vulnerable. When you’re lying and deceiving, you’re constantly spending energy trying to hide your life. And I just don’t have time for that.”

No Gods No Masters is the first major label release from Garbage for years, and unusually – ironically, almost – it’s their most political. Their last two albums – 2012’s Not Your Kind Of People and 2016’s Strange Little Birds – were released independently through Garbage’s own label Stunvolume, which they set up to be free, of ​“greedy corporate interest”, as the band put it in a Facebook post at the time. The decision to return to a label was because they struggled to maintain their footing in the industry without it: ​“We couldn’t really get our records distributed. We couldn’t get on radio; nobody would take our calls. We simply could not compete. We realised that if we didn’t make this leap at this particular moment in time, we would drown entirely.” But returning to the corporate fold explicitly meant not giving up creative freedom. One of the key understandings was Garbage having total control over whatever they did.

But Shirley wasn’t overly concerned about the threat of control anyway.

“If you’re lucky enough to stick around long enough, the economics of [our] sort of discography allow you a certain kind of autonomy,” she says.

So there was no pressure from people telling you not to make a political record, for example?

“I think as you get older, you’re able to parse pressures more effectively. You’re able to set boundaries. You can hold that [boundary] and not fret that somehow you’re going to be punished for that. Because that’s the deal: if you have integrity and you don’t compromise, you will be punished for it. That’s how it works. As you get older, you stop caring so much about that threat and about that reality.”

Back in 2018, Shirley experienced another turning point. She was asked to speak alongside trans black activist Ashlee Marie Preston and sex educator Ericka Hart at an intersectional feminism event and was, essentially, educated herself.

“Both these women are phenomenal powerhouses and they have great minds, agile minds, and they really took me to school. And they were very gentle with me, I have to say, but I was mortified at my ignorance, regarding systemic racism and a whole gamut of things. I determined then I had to educate myself about the black experience that I knew nothing about.”

In these situations, it is often the case that white people get defensive and shut down. ​“I too had a flare up of defensiveness, but I knew deep down, you don’t feel your ears burning for no reason.” Her education involved reading Patrisse Cullors and Asha Bandele’s When They Call You A Terrorist: A Black Lives Matter Memoir and James Baldwin, Maya Angelou and Alice Walker. It was watching The 13th, the documentary by Ava DuVernay. It was learning about the murder of Trayvon Martin and the murders of other black people at white hands, the hands of police.

This drive to self-educate didn’t fizzle out after a brief spell. ​“I’ve spent 54 years, or 50 years, being an ignorant, white privileged woman in the world. And I’ve got a lot to learn, and I look forward to learning more,” Shirley says. Feelings of sadness and shame were mixed with an understanding that she was being compliant in ignoring black suffering, as she was trained and expected to. ​“We’re conditioned to not look, because once you start looking, you can’t turn away, unless you’re a monster or a devil.”

The year 2018 was also when the band started writing for the album, though Shirley says there was no intention for this to be a political record. ​“Nothing’s premeditated, and nothing is planned,” she reveals of when the band get together to write an album. It’s a process of them coming together and simply writing in the moment, with Shirley responding to the music the rest of the band provide. It just happened that it coincided with this reckoning in her personal life: ​“I just allowed who I was in my private life to come out into the record, all the preoccupations at that time, dripped out onto this record, simply because I didn’t put up a barrier.”

Most of the writing happened in Palm Springs at Garbage guitarist Steve Marker’s in-laws’ house. Even for a band as legendary as Garbage, there are financial considerations (“It was free accommodation,” Shirley laughs). ​“Bands now have to be really careful about their economics. That’s why there’s a plethora of solo artists and fewer and fewer bands, because they are hard to sustain. They’re these weird little microcosms that nobody wants to spend money on. We had a limited budget and we were like, ​‘Okay, how are we going to pull this off?’”

They honed in on their long-time influences of Roxy Music, Gary Numan, Siouxsie And The Banshees, The Cure and Talking Heads to create an ​’80s feel. The fact that Butch Vig received a delivery of a brand new drum machine the day they started writing set the pace of the record, quite literally. ​“He didn’t know how to work it,” she remembers. ​“The fact the drum tracks sound rudimentary are just because he was feeling out how to work this machine.”

From its opening track, The Men Who Rule The World, it’s evident this is a record about men who set up and maintain the capitalistic structures that are destroying the planet and lives for the vast majority in work. Mention the fact that nearly 500 people became billionaires during the pandemic and Shirley replies: ​“These billionaires are more powerful than any government in the world. How is that even legal? I said earlier about people living outside my house in tents: it’s heartbreaking, too painful, too obscene.”

To write songs like Waiting For God, a self-explanatory track about racism if you listen to the lyrics, opens Garbage up to getting it wrong. This is a small price to pay for speaking on these topics, Shirley says. ​“If that requires that I be a little discomforted, so be it. If that requires somebody pointing a finger at me and laughing at me or criticising me, so be it. I’m middle-aged, and I’m starting to see the end of my lifespan. And I don’t want to leave this world thinking that I didn’t lift a finger to try and make things better for generations to follow. I want to know that I at least tried to speak up in defence of someone else. As white people, we all have to just get over ourselves a little and be willing to be uncomfortable.”

And why is a fear of being cancelled by people for getting it wrong more important than having a go at making the right statement?

“Cancel culture is such a tool of bullying and again, a tool of shutting you down and shutting you up,” replies Shirley. ​“Every human being, every artist, every icon has made mistakes. You’re not going to find a perfect person in the world ever. And I think it’s so immature and silly to think that you will. And my God, how hard are you being on yourself, if that’s how hard you’re being on other people?

“Being human is to be messy,” she continues. ​“And if you think you’re above all that you’re in deep, deep trouble.”

It’s inevitable that some listeners will think this album has been written in response to the last couple of years, rather than envisioned three or more years ago. While the members of Garbage are pleased they’ve made a record that feels prescient, it’s both an ancient and timeless album: these are the oldest issues known to humankind. But in true Shirley Manson style, her feelings and opinions are disclosed to us listeners as evidence of where she was and where she is.

“I’m sort of grateful for the record,” says Shirley. ​“We have a public testimony of where we stand in this world as people currently. What we’re in disagreement with, what appalls us, and the hope that we have for the future.”