#ravaged

[thelaughingmagician]

The Joker: The Man Who Stopped Laughing #9

[tiredofsatansbullshit]

this trio is superior

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day: decadent and charismatic German-Italian actress, model, scene-maker, style icon, “Lady Rolling Stone” and ultimate rock chick Anita Pallenberg (6 April 1942 – 13 June 2017). Pallenberg was an alluring occasional presence in art-y bohemian nightlife in early 1990s London. I recall her DJ’ing at the Horse Hospital once, and coming face to face with her when I opened the bathroom door (“I always need to pee!” she cackled). But before that, buried in the listings of Time Out magazine (in the pre-internet days when it was a dense essential bible that we all relied on), I read about a screening of Pallenberg’s old home movies in East London. It announced she would be present, possibly hosting or emceeing. The venue was a palatial industrial loft in Shoreditch (possibly someone’s apartment), just before gentrification went full tilt boogie there. I sat alone in the back and overheard people conferring that a vintage Cadillac had been dispatched to collect Anita. She arrived late and alone - and sat next to me! Pallenberg – looking just like she did in that 1995 Calvin Klein ad by Steven Meisel with that other ravaged countercultural survivor Joe Dallesandro – radiated elegantly ruined glamour. I never got to meet Nico, but this was a very respectable equivalent. We made small talk. As Pallenberg’s friend Marianne Faithfull describes in her autobiography, “She spoke in a baffling dada hipsterese. An outlandish Italo-German-Cockney slang that mangled her syntax into surreal fragments.” Pallenberg glugged red wine and chain-smoked throughout (there’s a theory she was one of the inspirations for Patsy Stone in Absolutely Fabulous). She also kept up a running commentary on what was happening onscreen (mostly images of herself – clad in Ossie Clark and vintage finery – and Keith Richards in the late sixties cavorting on their jet-set travels). At one point, things turned intimate – a seemingly post-coital Anita and Keef canoodling in bed together. The camera zoomed in on her naked breast. “That’s my neeeple,” she declared in her gravelly Marlene Dietrich voice. I can’t wait to see the upcoming documentary Catching Fire: The Story of Anita Pallenberg. Portrait of Pallenberg by Michael Cooper, 1967.

[skidzzart]

Complete ❤️❤️

[foxytoxx]

Ravaged

Words: 962 Pairing: Astarion/f!Durge (DurgeResisted) Read on AO3 Summary: He wanted to finally do some good and change lives. So Astarion became the hero he himself would pray to be saved by oh so long ago. TW: Canon typical violence. Tags: Fluff, Setting the scene. A/N: This idea has been a little brain worm that has been wriggling in my head for a while now, based on one of Astarion's spawn endings. Thank you for checking this one out. This one was rather short, but longer chapter ahead.

Next Chapter

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

It had been six months since the day they had stopped the Absolute and saved Baldur’s Gate from its tentacled grip. Since then Morella and Astarion had taken to the road, exploring all that Faerûn had to offer. They had used their travels to search for a safe way for Astarion to walk in the sun again, or even cure him altogether. 

A cure had proved itself to be a difficult endeavour, but they had been incredibly lucky to come across a ring of Sun-Walker. 

At first they had thought nothing of the ring, there wasn’t anything exceptional about it. It just looked like an old ring with a small set ruby, but Morella had felt the Weave radiating within. They discovered its magical property by accident. While travelling they had seeked shelter in some old church ruins for the day. As the sun had climbed the morning sky they had been ambushed by a group of bandits. This in itself hadn’t been too difficult of a fight, but in an adrenaline driven last attempt the final bandit had pushed Astarion out from the shadows making him tumble into the rays coming through a cracked wall. In terror Morella had sliced the man’s throat and quickly pulled him back into the shadows. They both looked shocked as he remained unharmed. In disbelief he rose to his feet and reached his hand into the light again. Then ripped his armour off in a hurry and stood once again, arms outstretched bathing in sunlight. Morella could have sworn a tear rolled off his cheek, and she couldn’t help bursting into tears herself. He had worn the ring as a pretty accessory, but since that day hadn’t removed it from his hand.

It had surprised them when Withers’ party invitation had shown up during their travels. Morella had been ecstatic, she had missed the team dearly.

At the party she had stumbled over a chest of letters, all from people they had encountered during their adventure. One stood out to her. It was a letter from the Gur tribe to Astarion. She pocketed the letter until later that night when the festivities had calmed down.

Astarion sat by the river watching the sun rise from its slumber, colouring the morning sky a peachy pink. It was serene. The only noises were either of their drunken friend snoring away the booze or those of the forest waking up. Soft, approaching footsteps broke him away from his daydreaming.

“You are up early, dear.” 

Morella smiled and sat down next to her lover leaning her head on his shoulder. 

“I found something for you. And I figured you might not want everyone around when reading it.” She pulled the letter out from the blanket she had thrown over her shoulders in a vain attempt to keep the morning chill at bay.

He took the letter with a puzzled look.

“Have you read it?”

Morella shook her head, her long silver braid swinging across her back.

Astarion steeled himself with a deep breath before reading. She couldn’t help but read over his shoulder, mentally preparing for all manner of outcomes. She studied his face as his eyes darted over each word. A shivering sigh escaped him. She took his hand in hers.

“Astarion…” 

He glanced over to her, kissed her forehead. Wiggling his hand loose from hers he wrapped his arm around her, quietly gazed back at the sunrise. 

“You know… During our tadpole escapade… I never thought of myself as a hero. I despised it even when others insinuated it.” A smile caressed his lips as he looked back at her. 

“But I’m starting to think the title suits me.”

Morella let out a small giggle.

“That’s what I've been saying for some time now.” She nudged him playfully. 

She let out a small yelp of surprise when he suddenly pushed her to the ground. He was on her in a blink, showering her in heartfelt kisses. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” His voice was nothing more than a tender whisper.

“Yes you could. You only needed a little push in the right direction.” She cupped his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“I will take credit where it’s due though, because you are one stubborn bastard.” He chortled at her remark.

“But you are one hell of a beautiful bastard. In every sense of the word.” She pulled him into another kiss, digging her fingers into his curls.

“Oh by the Hells! Honestly, you two are a menace!”

Morella jumped trying to stifle a shriek. Astarion laughed, and sat up, meeting Shadowheart’s green eyes with a small spark of danger. Morella’s face flushed bright red and tried to hide in her hands, cursing under her breath.

“Shit, didn’t expect you up, Shadowheart.”

“My, I didn’t take you for a voyeur, cleric. If you want a show, all you need to do is ask.” Astarion plastered a wolfish grin on his lips.

“Please, Astarion. I’ve heard and seen enough of the two of you for a lifetime. But I came to wash off the stench of booze.”

Morella sat up, beaming. Shadowheart’s frown melted into a smile unable to stay annoyed at her friend. The women stripped down and bathed in the river, splashing and laughing. Astarion watched them. Glancing back up at the sun, he couldn’t stop the warm smile forming across his lips. He felt happy, grateful, satisfied, and safe.

Slipping the letter into his pocket, he made a silent vow to himself. He would honour his now peaceful life by being better. Helping those in need, and Hells, if that meant he could kill all the corrupt evil-doers and monsters in his path… Well, who could be mad at him for that.

[miakwat]

Screwed over by Slade Wilson gang 🤩

And their honorary ‘screwed over by Slade Wilson by association’ member

I think they deserve to interact as a group at least once

[nike-apteros]

My reproductive parts have just spontaneously exploded....

😳😳😳🥵🥵🥵🥵

[birdybat]

It would actually be really good for Talia’s characterisation if Damian’s trauma would be contributed by Master Dusk because in Robin Damian said that he left him outside for the wolves then Talia and Ra’s banished him. This could clean away all the theses of bad and racist writing and bring a new element to damians childhood. It’s not too late to erase the “abusive mother” because it’s basically done to smear Talia and villanise her even if she would never do it.

Master Dusk could be the solution to all our problems I’m begging you DC.