#The changes are irrevocable

[krscblw-2]

some moments last forever, but some flare out with love, love, love

[elizabro]

please consider how you engage with aaron bushnell's death. you may react to it as you will, but it's crucial to remember that his death was specifically a call to action. it was not meant solely to shock but to draw attention to a vast moral hypocrisy: that to many, a soldier dying in a campaign backed by the U.S. government is noble, even if the soldier kills innocents to do so, even if the cause is morally bankrupt--but this? this is insanity. a man taking his own life, on his own terms, in an attempt to help others while hurting nobody else, is somehow less rational and more horrifying than the mass killing of civilians.

of course aaron's death was horrific. but as he said beforehand, it is realistically no more horrific than what's happening in gaza. if we can't stomach this, then why can we stomach children being bombed? thousands being starved? for all that self immolation is, it brings death in a matter of minutes. it is a fraction of the amount of pain, fear, and grief that people in gaza are experiencing. it's just that we are able to quantify it. and this tiny, quantifiable sliver of horror is still so unbelievably awful. how can anyone bear to think about anything else when this horror is happening a millionfold in palestine? this is the question aaron bushnell was asking. and he wanted you to face it, head-on, watching him burn to death.

I've been seeing people make fanart. minimalist graphics to sell on t-shirts. to commodify his death, to mythologize it not a day afterwards, is not only in poor taste but a hindrance to his message. the answer is not commodification, nor is it defeatism, nor is it rejoicing in his death. if you want to honor aaron's legacy, take action. channel your horror and your outrage into making a material change. this wasn't about him. this was about palestine. remember that it was always about palestine.

[draykray]

I am very normal about them:)

[roartowrecks]

just dumping my late night arcane sketches here. whatever. is this a safe space can i say that if he'd asked her a couple more times jinx would absolutely have joined viktor's cult

[losingmylegos]

like what did they mean by this

[medi-bee]

Ancient Urban

(high quality stills below the cut)

[wistfulwatcher]

[vechter]

i love talking about the fistfight in outsiders #16 but the aftermath of it in #17 is equally delicious:

something about how dick and roy are standing noticeably further apart from the rest of the team (and yes, it's mostly because they just finished beating the shit out of each other) but it's the focus on dick's eyes glittering... how we know roy was bloodied and hurt too but winick focuses so extensively on dick and the blood on his face.

like... here's his wound, here's how he's bleeding, here's how he's managed to force roy to cut himself on all of dick's edges... and still... the injury is all dick's. he's managed to push away the one person who has irrevocably supported him, built him a life raft so he doesn't drown in his grief and he did it intentionally. he knew exactly what to say to get roy to throw the first punch.

and then we get this interaction with kory & roy on the rooftop... starting off with roy looking up at the sky with a very conscious decision to not show us the stars or the sky. i can't help but think this is a reference to roy & lian's conversation in secret files '03:

because throughout the fight in #16, dick and roy throw punches and words carelessly, while also cognizant of exactly what to say to make it hurt... but neither of them say donna's name. neither of them give voice to the spectre that haunts the entirety of this arc in outsiders. they can't... it's all just so unbearable.

so for winick to bring kory into this role— another person who loved donna just as much but who's also been called in solely to get a handle on dick & roy— and for her to say that the team is concerned about roy as he's brooding on a rooftop all feels so intentional. once upon a time, donna would've been the one to check up on roy but she's the reason why roy is so hurt... she's gone and nothing will make it okay... not even cutting himself on dick's edges. so here he stands, so obviously defensive, unable to look at kory, unable to handle her concern, all while the foreground is gritty and dark. no stars, no sky

and then you have this heartbreaking panel... roy literally and metaphorically avoiding kory's concern, the team's concern... both physically and emotionally grappling away from the dick of it all. sure, he tells her that dick will give his all— because having faith in dick grayson is such an innate part of being roy harper that there's really no other way to answer kory.

but that added jibe of "particularly to prove you all wrong" is such a wonderful insight into how fucked up he is right now. he has faith in dick's abilities but he doesn't have that same faith in dick's intentions with him. at this point, roy has tried everything— giving space, not giving space, setting up a whole team & HQ, providing dick with an outlet for his grief, trying to talk to dick, trying not to... and yet. dick brought up the worst moments of his life casually... like a weapon that was always in his arsenal:

and so roy walks away from it. but then we have the punchline— dick hidden in the shadows, eavesdropping on it all:

which is such a direct parallel to the panels in secret files that there's really no doubt in my mind that winick is asking us to think about all of this in conjunction:

the two instances are markedly different too. in secret files, dick's hidden in the shadows, yes, but we see him visibly crying whereas in #17, we see him shadowed entirely... only the white of his domino visible. because while dick blames himself for donna's death, what he did and said to roy in #17 is different in terms of his self-blame because he did the latter intentionally. he knew exactly what to say to get roy to hit him, and he hit back... almost like he wanted to hit first. he didn't walk away from any of it till kory and jade pulled them apart.

can you imagine how deep his self-loathing must be at this point? first, he gets ousted as leader by his own team... remember, this is a guy notoriously hyperaware of criticism from others because for dick, it's fulfilment of his own self-criticism and failures. and then he flung poison at roy with both his face and fists... a guy who has only been trying to help him, a guy who's grieving for donna just like him... his teammate, his childhood friend. and he was ready to burn it all down. nothing will be bearable again so what does it matter if he burns another bridge?

and the most heartbreaking part is... there's no resolution. dick doesn't apologize, roy doesn't ask him to.

the panels directly after pick up three weeks later where they're noticeably separated... working on separate tasks and sub-teams:

it's so deeply important to me for people to realize how high dick's self-loathing and self-hatred are at this point in canon... how much that level of vitriol directed towards himself (and others) hurts roy... a guy who has been through that kind of hatred directed inwards where it just cuts and cuts and cuts... and how dick chose to weaponize roy's lowest moment yet again (like new titans #101). and still, roy won't stop reaching out... he doesn't know how not to. donna would kill them both if she could see them now.

dickroy in this era are just "tell me what to do so you'll stop hurting me" over and over and over except it's moot because they both know the answer... and she's been dead for months.

[sentient-stove]

He could already see how that conversation would go over. Danny would go ‘hey, sorry me and my parents killed one of your adopted wards, twas an accident really, some twat of an investor turned on the ecto-collider while he was standing in it and Timothy got fried with enough radiation to mutate a steak back into the cow. Oopsies.’

And then Bruce mcFucking Wayne would throw him in Blackgate for murder before Danny got the chance to explain that hey, no, the guy isn’t dead, the Fentons just accidentally turned another teenager into a half dead abomination yippee. Pack it up cause the government absolutely loved the concept of debating if it was vivisection or dissection when cutting open a halfa. Mr. Wayne was pretty wealthy though so maybe Tim wasn’t gonna have to worry about the finer definitions on vivi vs dissect? Rich people paid off the government all the time, there was a reason why people like Vlad and Lex Luthor got away with so much bullshit.

He prodded the body with a foot. Tim did not so much as twitch.

There was the slow pulse of a core though, slower than the mock heartbeat that Danny’s core liked to hover at, and Tim did appear to be breathing- as much as a half dead person could- so Danny wasn’t too concerned about the unconsciousness quite yet. Once Mom was back with the Ecto-Dejecto then they could stick Tim and he’d be about as right as acid rain. Minus the whole,, traumatizing death and all that.

[endollvors]

I wrote this one on accident, and also over the course of about 8 months. A significant increase over the original’s breakneck 5 day turnaround.

Fans of Skittish will be pleased to learn that this addition includes a ~Name~ for Jon’s Daemon, and more Comfort in the Hurt/Comfort ratio.

Skittish B-Side is three scenes from Skittish, rewritten from Jon Antilles’ POV. I don’t usually read alternate POV fics like this, let alone write them, because they tend to feel repetitive for me. I mostly got around it by excluding scenes 2 and 5, (Rex briefing his General, and Rex and Cody talking) and setting the B-Sides of scenes 1 and 4 (Rex Meeting his General, and Rex in the Medbay) slightly after the ending of their antecedents. The last scene to get a B-Side, the healing one, is concurrent with the scene in Skittish, but Jon has got so much going on there that it’s hard to call repetitive.

Anyway, my two favorite “if you consider these together” moments are: Scene 1 Rex being “a little uncertain” when repeating his address and Jon hearing Rex subtly deemphasize his own personhood. And in the healing scene, Jon “breathing” and Rex amending that to “box breathing”

Behind the scenes details on this, Jon’s Daemon is naming itself Commander. This is, manifestly, adorable. It’s also interesting to note that the 501st, as a battalion without a padawan and one where its ranking officer is a Captain, is the Only battalion where it could have named itself Commander, instead of merely being called one. Also, Jon’s daemon naming itself Commander has been the plan since I wrote Rex meeting it. It ties into the Jon Antilles of it all, and makes it apparent that it Didn’t previously have a name, in the same way as Jon not checking for an audience in B-Side Healing. That no one referred to his daemon because he had never spent enough time around others for them to need to. For them to get used to his idiosyncrasies. To the teleportation. To perhaps even Meet his daemon.

Another thing I pushed harder in the latter two scenes of B-Side is Jon and Rex taking cues not from each other, but from each other’s Daemons. Jon realizes that the troops aren’t mad at him bc of Sidearm and Rex notices that Jon is awake because of Commander.

Finally, someone on Ao3 asked:

[W]hat was going through Dark Woman’s mind (or whoever invented this style of healing) to heal by way of Daemon-touching?”

And I do have an answer for this! It never came up in the fic. Because Daemons are, you know, kinda sorta not real animals, they’re more similar to each other in makeup than the beings they match. So, healing them is a single standardized technique, or at least as standardized as the worst thing you can do to a person can be. As opposed to having to learn more about the biological differences between say, a Rodian and a Twi’lek, to heal them effectively. It’s the evil kind of efficiency.

One of the things with Dark Woman is uncovering lost Force techniques and I like to imagine there’s a reason they were both created and abandoned, like, for example, because they were too energy intensive, or because they required a deeper connection with the Force than the majority of students could achieve. Or, as is the case here, because it’s a desperate measure. It’s a battlefield technique being used nearly 1000 years after the Jedi stopped fighting in armies. The Jedi have dedicated healers now, they don’t need to use the most broad and brutally efficient method available to patch anyone back together regardless of species.

Rex's new general is supposed to be a Jedi. He receives a nervous cloak with an absent daemon. The fact that he's doing a great job can only work for so long to distract from how Jon Antilles appears to be, under the robe, composed entirely out of red flags. “Welcome to the 501st, Sir. I’m CT-7567, Captain Rex?” The confusion crept into his voice against his will as the dark shapeless robe that was supposed to be his CO continued to stand completely still on his transport’s ramp. Under his bucket, his smile cracked around the edges. He felt the pinpricks of Sidearm’s claws digging into his blacks at the base of his neck. The silent standoff continued for another several seconds before whatever had apparently distracted their new Jedi passed.

[tomatinart]

Older Bayonetta fanart that I still like...i miss my mothers

[aforgottenthing]

Tragedy enjoyers when there’s not one, not two, but three combinations of tragic relationships at the center of the narrative AND they’re bisexual

[casscainmainly]

My Top 5 Cassandra Cain Outfits

For Day 4 of CassCainWeek (Panels), I'm picking my top 5 Cass civilian outfits (as in non-superhero ones, some of these aren't actually civvies). Starting with number 5!

5. Batgirl (2000) #7

Using this as a stand-in for any of the all-black outfits she wears in Batgirl (2000), but she looks SOOOO good. So simple and so classy!!! idk who was picking her closet (probably Babs) but thank you very much <3.

4. Batgirls (2022) #1

LOOK AT HER!!! I love her wearing this super comfy robe around the place, it makes a lot of sense to me and demonstrates how safe she feels around Steph + Babs. Also it's just adorable.

3. Birds of Prey (2023) #14

A.K.A the outfit that broke Cass tumblr when previews came out. The sunglasses, earrings, top, like everything about this is so gorgeous. People will be doing redraws of this until the world ends, and I will eat it up every single time.

2. Batgirl (2000) #33

Batgirl #33 is my favourite Cass issue of all time, partially because this outfit SLAPS. Cass with glasses and that bun??? The jacket and skirt??? I love this so much EVERYONE GO READ BATGIRL #33 NOW!!!

1. Batgirl (2000) #63

But the number 1 Cass outfit will always be this one. While most other outfits are either disguises or something she threw on, we get to see her thought process for this one, and how this outfit represents who she is. And she looks COOL!!! There's so much personality in the ripped jacket, the things on her arm, the pink socks, the askew belt - this outfit is Cassandra Cain!

That's just a small selection of my favourites. If anyone else wants to add their own outfits, feel free!!! Special shoutout to that all-leather look she wore when she left Bludhaven <333.

[guttersblessing]

ever crush on your boyfriends dragon partner who possessed you when you were a teenager, changing you irrevocably as a person? no? right yeah me either. right. of course

[pricetagged]

raft of the leucothea

A little Kyle piece for the Gaz lovers 💖 to tide you over while I work on the Nikolai and the Price stuff.

Shipwrecked. Washed ashore, injured and sick, and thankfully not alone. A man called Kyle Garrick has washed ashore with you.

No big warnings, just some ever-so-slight dubcon naked cuddling (for survival!).

----------

The harsh, salty spray stung your cracked cheeks. Like clay left to bake in the sun, you felt the cracking and peeling of stinging flesh. But you felt it, that was the important thing.

Sunshine seared through your eyelids, a high noon wake-up call. Glowing ember-red, turning the sands to hot coal beneath you. You only had a second to process it before you rolled over, cramping muscles seizing in a paroxysm of a crawl as you hacked and coughed briny, burning seawater.

Alive then.

You were scared to open your eyes. You could pretend that they were crusted shut, sand and grit and god only knows what flaking over. Irritating, painful. A conjunctivitis of caustic circumstance. If you opened your eyes, it was real.

No, it was better as you were. A temporary balm to a blistering scald. Eyes-wide-shut, blind to the horrible damp marl and putrid air burning through your smarting nostrils. Sea life and smoke; pungent enough to turn your stomach once more.

You moaned as you collapsed on the shore, skin-fever hot and itching. Grit and shell-shards dug in, piercing your sensitive flesh. Clinging, burrowing. Discomfiting. Like the discordant memories swimming to the surface, all driftwood and screams and kicking, aching feet.  

There was no more screaming.

The waves lapped at the shore, a gentle balmy breeze carrying the soft sloshing of surf. Hazy popping and crackling accompanied it, a paradisiac white noise that scrambled your sluggish thoughts. Your eyes fluttered open. Temporarily blind from solar glare, you blinked moisture back. Tried to, at least. You were parched, eyes-dry and throat drier.

Perhaps you expected to see devastation. Destruction. Flotsam and jetsam and bodies strewn along the beach. There was a fire, yes, but it was not from the casket of the ship. Debris visible, but neat. Collected and organized into tidy little piles by a great smoking fire. Through the heat-haze of the flames, you spotted a flash of green: fresh leaves. Gaseous white billowed up; perfect for maximum visibility.

"Ah, you're awake." A shadow fell over you, gentle hands supporting your back until you were somewhat upright. "Here, you'll need this."

You grimaced as your cracked lips crinkled around the fruit, harsh little fibres stabbing in. But the relief–

Light, nutty, refreshing. You guzzled it down, big greedy slurps as your hands raised to cup it closer, throat constricting as you lost your breath–

"Hey, hey, slow down," the stranger spoke, easily plucking the coconut from your shaky fingers. "You'll make yourself sick. Again."

"Thanks." You could at least croak out your gratitude, squinting to get a better look at him. "The others–?"

He was gorgeous, dark eyes and eyebrows slanted into the perfect expression of concern. He looked surprisingly normal, given the circumstances. Only a slight split on his full lips, a smear of sand crusted into his curls, marred his handsome face. You watched as his mouth twisted, as he rolled his neck glanced away. A grimace, more telling than words.

"Just you, me, the sand and the coconuts. Paradise cruise, eh?" He finally spoke, nose scrunching as the joke came out a little flat.

It wasn't a shock, but it was jarring all the same. Though you swallowed, your voice came out thick. "At least you're here. Wouldn't have gotten this open by myself."

It was feeble, words half swallowed as survivor's guilt and gallows humour met and warred. A dysfunctional marriage of relief and self-reproach curdled the coconut water in your stomach. A third player entered; unease. Anxiety, sending your heart rate spiralling high as your breaths grew shallow. Something stung your eyes, and you couldn't entirely blame the smoking fire–

"Hey, hey, look at me," You couldn't look away, not from his steady, unwavering gaze. Beautiful. Like sunlight filtered through whiskey, warm and soothing. "Breathe as I breathe– in, out, in– hold it– okay, out. That's right, that's perfect–"

He talked you through it, brought your trembling, clumsy fingers to his chest as he breathed in counts of eight. Kept his palm over your hand, cupped it against the rise and fall of his ribs. You could feel the firmness of his muscles beneath, feel the way his heart beat a steady rhythm just below your fingertips, and slowly, you relaxed into it.

Your cheeks were wet. You realised that around the same time you realised his other hand was rubbing ataractic circles on your back. A shameful emollient, setting you at ease but lowering your gaze. Here, in the arms of this stranger, who were you? Troublesome castaway, retching on the beach as he built a signal fire. Slurping down the fruit that he offered, then crying in his arms–

"Stop that," His hand paused between your should blades, chin tucked as he leaned down to catch your gaze. "You're doing so well, love. Bit of a fucked up situation we're in here."

"How are you so calm? How are you so organised? I feel like I'm going to drift away like–like–"

The hand at your back pushed you forward, pressing until you were draped across his lap. He rocked you, stubble against your temples as he shushed and soothed. Analgesic whispers that slackened your tight limbs, sent eyelids fluttering until you slipped into slumber. Mind numb, docked in restful harbours.

-----------------

When you woke up, you were hot. Shivering, teeth-chattering, but hot. You could no longer smell the fire, but you could feel it against your bare skin. Toasty, crackling embers smouldering and making you sweat.

The fever slowed your mind, too. Thoughts turned to sluggish, sticky mulch as you nuzzled into the strong bicep supporting your neck. His skin was smooth, slightly tacky where it met yours, and you whined a little as you tried to pull away.

But moving sent your head spinning, aching muscles seizing until all you could do was cry.

"You're alright, just sleep. Don't move–"

"My clothes," you slurred the words, heavy and sticky on your tongue. Crystallising like spoiled honey, you tried to spit them out faster, but they just dripped. Molasses-slow, and murky. Confused. "I'm not– my clothes are– what–?"

"I took them off you–shh, shh– They were tattered anyway, we'll need to dig through the piles and see what we can repair." You felt his arm flex below you, rolling your head until it was resting on the pillow of his chest. You tried to open your eyes, but the image was hazy. Like looking through seaglass. "It's cold here at night, freezing. The fire's good, but body heat's best."

"'m too hot– feel too–"

"Yeah, noticed you weren't just cold when you wouldn't stop shivering," his forearm banded around your squirming body, pinning you to his. "I know, baby, I know. It's not nice. Gonna try to sweat it out of you. Don't exactly have the luxury of good food and medicine."

His voice was pitched low, sweet. It made you want to cry, mind adrift and body at his mercy. Holiday turned tragedy, swallowed up by the sea and spat up on the beach like refuse. Control slipped through your fingers, finer and more fickle than the sands below and all you could do was cry.

You felt his fingers, whisper-soft, stroking through the ends of your salty, parched hair. Your tears dripped down, soaking into your flushed cheeks and the sparse, scratchy hairs on his chest. He paused for a beat, fingers swiping over your damp forehead. Whisps pushed away until you felt a butterfly kiss against your clammy forehead. Quick and gentle and fleeting.

Small waves kissed the beach, too. Susurrus, splashing caresses that almost sent you drifting off again. The rumble of his voice tickled your cheek, made you blink slowly until you could make out his face through bleary eyes.  

"It's just you and me and this island," He spoke it softly, sting mollified by surety. Bittersweet ointment for a distressing prognosis. "I've got you; I'll take care of you. I promise."

Your answer was faint. "What if no-one comes for us?"

His arms curled tighter around you, twisted until you were splayed atop him. In another time, another place, you'd be flustered by the open splay of your legs, bare against his lean waist. Here, shame withered away, fizzled out. Ephemeral as seafoam.

"I told you, I'll take care of you. Rescue or not, it's you and me now."

Later, you'd blame delirium, fever dream-fugue, for how the words echoed in your mind. 'Just you and me.'

You and him, and the island.

-----------

[nflballgirl]