#battish

[himbear]

Post your dog rn

FHUCKING ouppy

[ultimateanthropoll]

Massacre Round 23: Comic Furries!!

Kirk Langstrom/Man Bat (bat; DC comics) vs. Blacksad (cat; Blacksad) vs. Bec Noir (dog; Homestuck)

Submitters say:

"Proudly holding the title of 16th best Batman villain, the incredible and brilliant MAN-BAT is really just a very curious boy who likes bats... a bit much, maybe. Anyways, he's really more of an antihero than a proper villain, and he tries to help batman almost as often as he makes a new serum to turn himself into a better kind giant bat. His most memorable appearance is probably from the bat in the belfry episode of Batman The Animated Series, where he's mostly a scary monster. My favorite appearance of him, though, is in the Justice League Dark (2018) comic run, where he serves alongside Wonder Woman on the magical Justice League team. In this run he is fully a hero who is kind of permanently stuck in partial bat form, with a battish head and human body. He uses his serums to turn himself into more violent versions to help fight the baddies. Ok one time he accidentally gets mind controlled and turns himself into a multiheaded Cronenburg monster but that was JUST THE ONE TIME." (Man Bat)

"I just think he's neat :3" (Blacksad)

"Bec noir is a specific form of that character after he (jack noir) gets prototyped with the dog Becquerel and becomes the insanely powerful bec noir.  there is art of this form of the character on fur affinity, so i feel like that is evidence enough that he should be included.  Bad Dog!  Worst Enemy!" (Bec Noir)

[kitwithfangs]

TIMING: early May  LOCATION: A crypt in Eluria Cemetary PARTIES: Matty (@likeamattoutofhell) and Kit ( @kitwithfangs) SUMMARY: After forty years, Matty finally finds what he needs to get Kit out of their spawn form. CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of death; may rot teeth

Finally. That dusty freak stepped back, battish mouth still dark and dripping with Kit’s blood - while Matty clenched them even closer, a hand scrabbling, stupidly, perhaps, to put pressure on the wound the elder vampire had left behind. “Hey, hey - hey, baby,” he rasped, swaying as they jerked, rooting them down to the cold, uneven flagstones. “I’ve got you, man. It’s just us. And that’s…” That wasn’t it. Just the beginning. If this even worked, like it’d worked for that poor bastard Richard had reeled in, with that easy kind of order that made Matty’s skin try to crawl right off. But the old bat had done it. He had. Matty had got the proof he’d asked for, and the promises he’d needed, and… 

It could work. 

It was. 

He’d let them go, all those years back. When they first unraveled into what they’d been ever since. It was so much the same, now: the lurch of their bones, the ropy twist of rearranging muscle, the rattle and roar and raw agony of it. But this time, this time, Matty clung tight. And felt it all. Felt rather than saw, felt even more than he heard. Until what he was feeling was Kit. Was their timbre rising through those howls, crumpling into ever-smaller sounds, then - then just breath, shuddering against his chest. Like either of them even needed to breathe. The two of them had fit back together as they writhed and rolled; fit just right, their dark curls tucked under his chin, his arms slung all around them, wrapping his best friend in this life or the life before in a still-bright silk robe, the one they’d stolen for years. Tight. As if he could gather up every shred of Kit Clarke he’d been keeping and work it all into place, again. Nothing forgotten. Nothing lost. Nothing they couldn’t fix.

“Got you,” Matty managed, just barely, with a smile that burned like the goddamn sun. Finally. 

-

The first thing Kit became aware of was, well, awareness. Something that had been absent for so long. It was a riot at first, just the simple existence of their thoughts, of their mind. The instinct that had taken hold in its place dropped and shattered like a mirror on impact. Held back behind a muzzle the hunger and the rage and the hunger and the violence and the thirst, it melted back into the shadow of the back corner of their mind. They gasped, long and ragged, lungs working in a way they didn’t need. Their throat was raw and burning and their nose was raw and burning and goddamn, man, all of them was raw and burning. But it was only for a few seconds, a four-beat. 

And then, clouds clearing, Matty.

They rasped, rattled out, a drawn thin, “Fuck.” The awareness shuddered down in layers – they were in the body they had been born in. They were naked, or almost. They were cold, but in a way they had never been cold before, like it was coming from the inside out. They were with Matty. 

That last one sort of washed all the rest of it away. They were with Matty. Matty was there with them so all the rest was fine. All the rest they could figure out and it couldn’t be so bad because, like. Matty was there. 

“Hey,” Kit tried, voice torn to shreds. They shuddered, turned further into him, deeper into the bevel of his chest. “Shit, dude, let’s, uh, not do that again, okay?” And it came back to them, in layers, too. Their request and the way it all went to shit and what they had been and done for… For how long? Fuck, how long? 

–

God, they sounded like - like Kit. Past the raggedness, there, that was Kit, resonating against his breastbone, like the heartbeat neither of them had. (Neither of them. Matty bit down, a hand gathering in their hair. Refusing to miss that, the thud and flutter of Kit’s heart, where his had gone quiet. He couldn’t go missing shit, when he’d just got them back.) 

It was almost a laugh, the noise they dragged out of him, there. Almost. A little too wet, maybe, as he curled them in tighter. Somehow. “Never, man. It’s all - it’s gonna be cool.” They’d make it cool. Like it should’ve been, years, and years, and fucking years ago, and - “And you’re never, ever gonna - never. You’ll never be there, again.” There. In the pit of their undead souls, or whatever the hell. Lost in the dark and the need to drink. Never. 

Matty rocked back, hands coming to frame their face. Kit’s face, Jesus. Talk about drinking, man. He drank them in, there, got blasted on every detail: those just-the-same freckles, the dip of their dimpled cheeks, the - the rich, oxblood-leather red of those eyes. Holding that unsteady stare, he leaned back in, his forehead to theirs, chest rising in time. Like they shared that totally needless breath. Like before. Like this was just another rhythm they could fall into, easy, like all the others, like every goddamn song they’d ever heard or made since they were kids. So fucking easy. 

He’d - he would make all of this as easy as he could.

If they let him. After everything. 

–

They could feel again, the nuance of it all. It wasn’t all cratered out between just hunger and rage. And Matty’s fingers in their hair was something else. Had he done that for them? When they were like that? Kit couldn’t remember – it was all flashes, like an image reflected on shards of mirror, tessellated. Blood and gore and not much else. Maybe the low sound of something rattling up from Matty’s chest, maybe not. 

“Cool,” they echo back, dazed in some sense. It was still all pulsing through them, this grotesque awareness of everything. Of what they had been and what they had done, yes, but also of the present. So much of the present screaming through their head. It went a little quiet, though, when Matty met their eyes. Because there he was. Not just physically, in front of them, but somewhere woven into the fabric of their being. They had always been preternaturally aware of Matty and where he took up space in their universe but this was different. This was that sense, made tangible. 

Kit bucked their forehead into his at the press, letting out a low keen that was almost involuntary. That was so familiar it ached. “Matty,” they sighed out. The volume on everything else turned down even lower and they knew then that whatever it was in their chest, deeper, was not just the stuff of their songs. “Hey. Can you like–” A swallow, mouth dry. “Can you feel that? It’s like…” It was like he was inside them somehow, but that sounded fucking crazy. Instead they just wrapped one of his hands in theirs and pressed it to the center of their chest, just inside the fall of the robe, where a heart had beat once. Where, now, they felt Matty like he was an organ inside of them. 

–

He’d started running hot, dropping beats, losing bars. Just - spun up, on the fact of them. Kit. Back. With a fullness that, God, like… Matty twitched out of the drift of the tide of whatever the fuck he was feeling as they said his name, took his hand. As they asked, or nearly did. But he got it. Immediately. The way they’d got things, together, for so long. Across stages, and interviews, and parties. In music and total silence, reading each other like… like he’d never been able to read anything else, besides the few fucking precious people he loved. “Yeah,” he was already nodding, kneejerk. “It’s - it was like you were here, all the time, like you… you weren’t gone. I told them…” And he knew, he knew it hadn’t been cruelty that made Drew say different. Fuck. Drew. Matty managed something like a grin, even if it crumpled at the corners as he took their other hand, made them echoes of each other. Heart to heart. “I could feel you. I can feel you, Kit. Like crazy.” He’d felt so fucking crazy. “Is it - how is it, for you?” Matty wavered, fingers tangled in theirs twice over. How did you ask that? If whatever freaky shit you’d bled together in your souls was alright, somehow? As if he could fix it, if it wasn’t. Could he? He’d try.

—

Kit weaved their head, bobbed it back and forth so their foreheads chafed together, so they could feel the reality of him up against them. “I think it was the same.” Hard to tell. Their most recent memories, memories of being that, were some kind of helter skelter. Some kinda Pollock painting of pain and hunger and cold and rage and fear. But Kit thought there might be bits and pieces of something like Matty woven through it. Something calm and familiar. Something soothing. Maybe they had been there, the whole time. 

Either way, who the fuck cared because they were back now. 

Their fingers sprawled open on his chest, spreading, netting together with Matty’s. How long ago had they lain with him, hand just like this, reassuring themself that he hadn’t died, he wasn’t dead, was still here, there was his heartbeat right there. “Fuck,” they intoned. Because, yeah, there was no heartbeat anymore but there was something better, maybe. Something in them that let them know Matty was right there. And if Kit focused on it, stroked the connection like the barest brush of fingers on bass strings, they could feel his relief flush through them. His pain and his sorrow and his guilt but over all of it his relief and love. And shit, man, did it get better than that?

“It’s like that,” they agreed, feeling safe for the first time in god knows how long. “Yeah, Matty, it’s like that. It’s like you’re right here, next to me, in here.” They tapped their tangled hands against their chest, mimic of a heartbeat. 

Then doubt swept through Kit, sudden and sharp, because what if he didn’t want them there? What if that was too close for comfort, after what they had been, what they had done, how long had it been since he had seen them like this? “Is that, like, copacetic?”

– 

The same. Matty nodded again, fuck, still temple to temple, still - head swimming, the dizzy churn of all those fears, every worry, just washing out to some sorta sea. For now. He’d take it, man. 

Like he’d take that, this… fucking electric arc rippling up and down his backbone, a solo playing across every goddamn nerve. Good thing he didn’t need that breath. Matty lost it, tilting into all that tension they’d always found, together. And Kit wanted to know if this was copacetic? His smile - the release, tension and release, right - sprawled into a low laugh, thick-throated, the sound of it crushed down by all the heart in his mouth. “Totally,” he insisted, with another nod, catching that time they were keeping against their ribs and counting it out against his own. Without missing a beat. They’d missed too fucking many, the two of them, as it was. Forty years. Forty fucking years of winding himself up in this, this… tie, between them, hoping it really was Kit, on the other end of it. Not just his miserable goddamn imagination, spinning some kinda comfort out of memories that’d got to be older than they did. In living years, anyway. “Yeah, man,” Matty whispered, smiling into the sliver of space between them. “Promise.”

–

When was the last time Kit had hesitated to kiss Matty? At least ten living years – his wedding, maybe? But they were careful in it, this time. A gentle incline of their chin, tentative tilt so their lips could match. Even that brush of a touch was enough to send something sparking down Kit’s spine, vibrating through whatever matter or more-than-matter linked them together now. Just like before, but more still. God, could they have ever imagined it could be more?

And he promised. Matty had meant and kept every promise he ever made to them. This one would be no different, they knew. “Okay,” they sighed out, barely enough space between them for the air to move. “Okay, good.” Their hand went tighter around his, pressed into the valley of their sternum. “God, dude, fuck,” a babble of sentiment and then, “I love you.” And then, “Thank you.”

It wasn’t the first time Matty had brought them back to some kind of life. And they didn’t expect it would be the last. Gratitude flushed through them and they hoped he could feel it, sent it along to him.

– 

Fuck, they’d fallen into all kinds of things together. This kiss, though, raveling up some kinda circuit that’d been frayed for forty years; that, and the “Love you, too,” he fucking croaked back, like he hadn’t said it damn daily, since - what a soft landing, after decades of flailing through this. Such a long, long fall. Towards a rock-bottom, a failure, that he’d just refused to see. And, hey - here they were. Tumbled out to the other damn side of hell, after all. At last. “Love you so much, baby.” Matty smoothed that silk around their shoulders, rubbing those. As if he could put the warmth back in them. “I -” he swallowed, hard, and scuffed the side of his hand along his tear-tracked jaw. With a nod back to a bag barely clasped together nearby, on a patch of stone he’d brushed as clean as he could get it. In a fucking crypt. “Brought your things.” Packed quick, like all the blood he’d brought them before this. “Some. There’s more, there’s everything...” Everything. Kit could still have just about everything that’d made their life what it was, worth being turned for. Couldn’t they? Just about. Everything them and him had ever, ever been, at least. If they wanted. Because they were back. 

(And they didn’t even know how long it’d been, or what they’d missed. Who they’d missed. Shit. A shiver of an exhale skittered against the back of his collarbone, and Matty sniffed it away. And tossed his wild curls back. And tried to smile. Like Kit’d always made him smile, forever. As if the terror that’d been eating through his guts for all that fucking time hadn’t got its teeth in his heart, wasn’t shaking it, beating all that hope to a new goddamn death. No. Not yet.)

Matty dragged that breath back, and smiled. “C’mon, man. Let’s get outta here.” 

– 

Kit drew a hand along his jaw after he did - could smell the salt in the air. Could smell him too but it was…wrong. The smell of him was…wrong. Different, but not. Different but not and so strong like the smell of everything else too. They got distracted by the fall of their sleeve, grinning at this well-loved robe. “This mean you’re finally gonna let me keep this?” they asked, tugging the sides closer. 

He had their stuff but they weren’t even really sure what stuff that was. How long ago it had been theirs? Journals bound together and leather with fringe and shirts stolen from all three of the boys and some silly barrette in the shape of a duck Lene had given to them– “Hey, cool, okay,” they rambled, a little lost. And then, fingers flexing. Something of theirs. “Wait. Do you—” It was stupid to ask maybe, now, here, only minutes back into their body but— “Do you have my ring?”

—

“And put a stop to the whole, like, communal wardrobe? Hell, no. Steal it whenever you want, though.” As ever. Matty left a kiss between their eyes, cradling the corner of Kit’s jaw, half-registering that they’d done the same - damn. Back two minutes, maybe, and already book-ending each other. Even more closely than they once had, which… was saying something, alright. He’d been distracted by their distraction, watching those cordoba-red eyes tick around, the slight, darting wrinkle of their nose. God, he was sorry it’d had to be a pit like this they came back to. Hell of a first impression of the freaky world they’d just woken up for. Even in that bloodsoaked hotel room, at least the only death he’d been able to smell was his own. Nosferatu over there could keep the fucking graveyard real estate. 

(Not that Hopefully Untricky Dick was even around; Matty became aware of that, abruptly, the elder’s absence trickling down his spine like a cold goddamn sweat, hair-raising. He’d deal with - with that deal, of theirs. Later.) 

Now, they had better places to be. But, first - just when he’d wondered if he could’ve smiled more, Kit went and tested the theory right out. “Uh, yeah. Totally. Wasn’t gonna let that get lost.” He’d done his best to not lose a damn thing, of theirs. All this while. “Here…” hooking a couple fingers into the open neck of his shirt, Matty looped out that long chain. The one he’d first worn it on - Kit’s ring. And there it was: dark fretboard, steel and nickel glinting away. Shined up, kept nice. Like his, still where they’d seen it last. “All yours,” he snaked that chain out, and their ring clinked softly against his, nestled in his palm as he offered it back. A perfect match. Almost like they’d been made that way. Crazy. 

– 

Kit watched him tug the chain out from his shirt, just like the night he’d given it to them. Watched it flicker in the dark. “Hey,” they intoned quietly, almost as if they were greeting the ring itself, like an old friend. “Thanks, dude.” Scooping it from his palm, they slid it home. Still fit, right where it belonged. They laid their hand over his, right over right, rings a perfect pair. “There we go.”

A deep inhale, the recognition that they didn’t need to breathe. And then Kit wound their arms over his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s get outta here.” If Matty wanted to get out of there, they would. If Matty wanted to live on that cold stone floor, they would. “Think I might be a little shaky on the uptake, though,” they warned. They weren’t quite sure of their body yet, in this form. More human than whatever they had been, but less human than human. Or, maybe more accurately, more than human. That would be okay, though. Matty was there, like always, to help hold them up.

– 

Matty let Kit get ahold, bracing them all the way up, easily. “Shake as much as you need, dude, it’s - it’s okay. It’s good.” He’d carry them. They knew. Still smiling, brighter than the city-dulled stars scattered across that sea-blown sky they’d be under, soon, one step at a time, Matty kissed Kit’s hands where they tangled up with his. “I’ve got you,” he swore, all over, steadier than he’d felt in longer than his living years. Then, another promise, their oldest: “From Manhattan, to -” uh, Maine, ”- everywhere.” Through the fucking Valley of Death, or whatever. Yeah. 

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

The Aphverse Hungergames: The Chariot Rides

District two:

The crowd’s excitement has died down ever so slightly, over the sudden rush of seeing District One as District two slowly move forward.

The male tribute, 16, standing still, expressionless. His skin is painted in patterns with a concrete paste, the patterns going so much as to accentuate an ugly scar that runs across his neck - no one knows it’s origin, the crowd all whisper and gossip. The headpiece he wears, whilst perhaps not actually made of concrete, was certainly constructed to give off that appearance, and it curves around his face with horns and fangs that are pulled into exaggerated expressions, similar to that of a gargoyle, contrasting his near-lifeless appearance. His clothes are loose-fitted robes, reminiscent of the sort seen in greek statues, painted with some kind of rock paste similar to the one on his skin, to make it stiff and stay in place.

The female tribute by his side wears a matching ensemble, the features of her headpiece more battish than devilish, and the patterns swirled into her skin drawing focus to her muscles instead of any scars. Unlike her male companion, she does look across the crowd, with a subtle glare that would go unnoticed if you weren’t looking for it.

It’s clear they both are strong, maybe even at the detriment of speed or agility, but the male Tribute’s main attribute, the one his stylists wanted to show off, was his mystique, the mystery of his should’ve been fatal scarring, and the pure will of survival that it implies.

Gene and Ava from District Two

I may not post the drawing for them today simply because I don’t know how to draw gargoyle masks well, and thus they’ll take a while, but I’ll get to it

[cldhrbour]

[WONDER]: unable to comprehend how incredible the receiver is, the sender decides to simply cup their face in their hands and marvel at them instead. – from Farkas! - @decidentia

the air around them is rife with tension. the small battle was won. a winged beast is kneeled on the ground , catching it's breath in heavy huffs that ooze thick clouds of steam in the cold skyrim air. covered in troll's blood , the ground around her stains red. she's taking inventory. feeling the wind pass around her body to understand if there's any wounds to be healed , does it brush upon a gash in her thigh ?? is it passing through a new hole in her wings ?? the concentration keeps her from noticing the SHADOW that farkas had cast over her , at least up until he kneels as well right in front of her.

he's peering into deeply molten eyes surrounded by graying skin , leathery with patches of fur , before sweeping his gaze over her face. a battish nose takes in his scent with another loud huff the moment he reaches out to cup the beasts cheek. it's mouth hanging open , he can see sharp teeth coated in blood where , just minutes prior , it was ripping at the throat of their foe , coming away with chunks of flesh. they hold for a moment , staring at each other. it notes admiration in his eyes. as if something clicked. a flash of recognition between TWO MONSTERS. it's head is gently moved around in farkas's hands , and serana wonders if they'd been this close to each other before. feels almost under inspection but in such a comforting way. no this wasn't horror. this was reverence.

fatigue washes over her and where once her beastly form sat , over a few seconds it melts away and he instead held the woman's head in his hands. adjusted to take her tired weight as she leans into him. " maybe some day i'll take you flying. . . " with great effort , her hands find his , a cooling touch. " if you aren't afraid of heights. "

[444names]

tolkienesque forenames + scottish surnames + the entire article on evan (name) on wikipedia

(but excluding "mac")

Acaoire Acast Acceal Accròin Acter Acthough Action Adailip Adalonch Adarague Adelanon Adminyë Adraidh Aeglindur Aerond Aikanáriel Ailler Aiwenducer Alaidh Alcar Aldarahir Aldaros Aldorl Almigh Ambaig Amraphin Anborner Ancal Ancalaig Ancalmain Ancer Ancien Andil Andily Andor Anfauglúk Arach Aradaness Araglor Araharna Arahirg Araidh Araidhelic Aranda Aration Argha Arghais Arion Artair Artialas Arved Arwaen Assadoc Assiosach Assiosain Atach Ausingol Austred Azaghnach Balia Barnaich Barsan Bassign Battish Battârik Baylist Belechruim Belegorl Belic Berneth Berson Bhodh Bhodha Blach Bochairl's Boldwinn Bornett Bothanach Breach Brity Broch Brucag Brusach Bràildor Bràilliams Buidearach Buidh Busing Butter Cadwalle Caidh Calimë Calios Camharraid Canardil Canndróg Canograch Caolagain Casgainnis Cathain Ceach Ceally Ceamhatar Celector Celeghlais Celego Celegor Celemhoire Celendil Celenwë Cemelenwë Chaich Chaidh Chain Chainn Chaldor Chearghain Clerg Coinnich Comhan Commong Conomist Contal Creasbain Cuille Cuineseam Cuinnein Càidhe Càididh Còmhnalian Davia Deach Declian Decliutha Derion Deòideach Deòire Deórwinen Dived Drauglist Druis Dubhain Dubhthak Dunaich Dunain Dunhamûl Déagorn Dùbhain Dùghaidh Dùghlain Eabaig Eduiladoc Eldad Elebhe Elemmaking Elenaoid Elendir Elfhaolìos Elfwinel Elmon Elveginn Elwine Emeld Eneur Engel Enger Engly Entar Ereth Erkenbraig Erkenbras Esteinnein Evagorm Evagostyn Evanslath Eversion Eärench Eóghain Farach Featha Fenge Filmë Finatië Finded Finrodda Foirice Folchaldad Footbally Formen Forsàidein Fortial Forts Fourchain Franndrais Frendur Frisnidh Frombul Fromist Fuirig Fëanonain Galach Galadel Galainner Galasdan Galladior Galleòin Gamir Gamli Gamlinn Gattist Geadaidh Gearnach Geron Gilgalbras Gillear Gillechaig Gilliantar Gimloth Giobasaig Girideac Giridh Girigh Giveduil Glasdaight Glodhsa Glóring Goliosa Gorner Govelendis Grach Graidhelm Griosd Guair Guing Guinn Guinur Gunded Gunna Gutralla Gwine Gwined Hadair Hadha Hallghuirg Haluimil Hanan Hanthough Haragorman Hared Hartaiwen Hasailip Hasdan Herios Heruce Herunír Hostan Húringwë Ianain Ilmaravi Ilúvatan Iminient Intenna Irice Ivanien Ivrin Ivrindë Jamer Journa Kaufmanwë Kingelos Knowman Kúvionaidh Lagor Lalandoher Lates Lawrencer Lobelist Logalagain Lothain Loudainn Lysach Lìosd Lìost Mablungol Maeglir Maglas Mainn Malaig Maleth Manized Manndaidh Maolaidhg Maolìosd Matar Matha Mathain Meanadha Melendur Minal Minarmer Miniel Minien Mithe Moirecear Moirein Moirnet Moles Morgothos Mostow Munnach Míril Nahadhg Namer Nerdaich Nevernhel Nimein Nimroth Niocaimh Nover Novernet Nínielsh Ohtan Oldberts Olóred Orondil Orondis Ostainn Ostor Padar Palaigh Palain Pallach Pengel Pengolais Pengorm Permais Permaith Phand Pharcroid Pharond Physicanar Physician Populach Primbert Professist Puids Racthe Raphich Rascalmir Ratar Rathaich Relaróf Riseid Rodreth Romiel Rosaing Ruair Ruimen Saeron Saigh Salader Salanain Salmhaoimh Saurunúmen Seamhair Sginn Sginnear Sginning Sgoth Sheòrsan Sligh Slight Slighty Sméagor Sméagorman Snapchaidh Snapchared Snowman Snown Soron Sourchatan Stamir Stock Stoher Strallas Surnier Suthain Suthair Suthanaigh Sùdrais Súrin Súrindil Tanaidh Taname Tantain Tarondil Tatant Tation Teleth Tennigh Tents Thein Thelby Thomais Thori Thost Thraichain Tinaliond Tinduil Trebor Ufthart Ugliter Ugluim Uinur Ulfastain Ulfastein Ulfastridh Umbar Umphranach Undel Uniteac Uniteadain Urchair Valach Valain Valar Vardaigh Vincer Voromist Voron Wallador Wined Worde Wormain Wormeriën Wrigh Writh Yaher Yearadh Yeart Younter Zimroth Éomerin Éothaich

same thing but lesser order

Acgualacil Adaidh Adasdais Agaider Ainyan Alach Alanais Alasseed Alemireed Alisheleas Alitlenbre Alled Almoncron Amein Amest Amhar Amhlach Amier Ampor Anach Anachorair Anacnionna Ancalgraig Andorig Anellian Anovelrosa Anámonn Aracil Aractor Arahers Arahin Arando Ardaiden Ardil Argavi Armein Aroysty Artath Arvin Asdail Athalach Athirm Aughthair Auren Bagort Baigh Balain Balauran Ballingel Baras Baridh Barratar Beagar Begillaich Beillfhiel Beillfhil Belemhlach Berakin Berië Bersainn Beurch Bhead Bhirc Bluine Bluire Blàrnaran Blàthar Bombor Bompar Bormaist Borna Borobh Bragals Brant Breacilmor Brealuimig Bream Briest Brobadainn Bruin Brumhlàrt Brylle Bràin Bucath Buccil Bucelein Busacild Busaldair Buthos Cainn Calainn Calais Calir Caluibhail Canach Candick Caola Caolë Cardilli Cealcild Ceannain Ceavrig Ceidinn Ceinyarais Celsh Cerran Chaichrath Cillon Ciock Coothe Corbhléibh Creborc Cridhsad Cuill Cuimbain Curanaign Daindor Danaidh Danch Danuran Deantis Dedel Deidha Deinndar Dohirch Draig Drendir Drethaegor Drigh Druidh Dubheatir Ducadainn Duinnag Durastras Dwatitar Dwind Déaliath Díriomus Dòmhairi Dòmhor Dùghabhra Ecalebhis Eldire Elemen Eleòil Ellecein Elraolan Eluin Elvela Entrainew Eonalan Eorop Ereado Essing Evagathar Evanada Evatine Eärenwë Eärnedh Eärway Fasais Fasan Faurtan Faxterit Fealan Femha Femhasd Ferieriter Fignor Finedh Fivegoldë Folór Foodraig Fornach Fousion Freth Frimron Frion Fréagel Fréall Frìghth Gaich Gavendube Geingolion Gessin Gillarvin Gillassa Gillean Gilled Gillegolf Gillettorn Gillfharry Gilliard Gimeldë Gimesh Gionover Gired Glanaróf Glialraidh Glong Gluimustis Goidhuinn Golandor Golcath Goldan Goldillair Gontion Goron Gothost Graeleme Grain Graleddel Granach Granaraned Grangeis Greargall Grimiritha Gringe Gritë Griën Guain Guidh Gwair Gwaláf Gwardarn Gwinnla Gòrain Haich Haiderig Haigh Hakethaig Halmost Hangh Harainnidh Heagothôr Helfhilleg Herke Huime Hysich Hámay Hámon Iadier Iartscain Ibhan Illimra Imehtagaig Innachar Iseis Isequez Istin Istiën Itaig Itein Itesed Ithich Ithrahain Jaccus Jacphann Jendrimron Kúvis Lacity Lanáin Learceant Leprion Lerke Lodruster Lonailler Lotbaig Lunúvi Léibhràil Lìmhlaich Mabher Mabhrop Maerion Maicha Mailmorch Makiel Malagor Malaoir Malber Manealas Manndandel Maogara Marain Maran Marryargan Maseat Massionon Matar Matin Matiusic Mawyn Mchar Mcklen Mcphàid Mielan Migharg Moidh Moiry Monacbham Montrionnd Morgandir Morman Mulmo Musicke Musir Mírimir Nagrighaig Nasdeòir Nielaus Nieldorna Nieledh Nithin Nogalairch Novelug Náinn Nákhôr Níniendor Nírin Oldorothar Orisra Orlion Orodhor Orweart Ouldan Paoil Paolach Peamir Peumen Phardainer Pheidhein Popuis Porfly Postreek Pothain Preaton Prebaign Prene Primus Priogaigh Pulfhich Railin Rampin Randruir Ratelas Relyë Renewingon Robhrus Rocealar Rodel Rodran Roirbht Romboca Rothar Rothrig Rúmeas Saidhùgh Saiseanain Sanniel Scains Scortarts Scrìghair Seacin Seameg Seandrador Seque Sgaer Sgainn Sgallair Sganedh Sgiliarn Sgridh Shelropuin Shrag Shraid Siogall Siondilia Skatt Somck Somnimhaig Songerand Sonwë Spaoin Spargill Spinn Staler Stity Suail Sumbuin Sùdric Súridhon Taighaig Tarnonan's Tarvid Tataich Tathein Tenessa Teraine Teregimus Thaer Thain Thaoldori Thnaig Thocaikaus Thrapher Thrazôn Thàide Tillais Tindeigh Tiùbhrin Tolfwin Toroc Tranaccum Tuaind Turch Turnuin Twillebhan Twindock Twine Tàidhin Uimbragove Ulaghder Ulain Ullobaick Ultulwin Undilechta Undohing Uolin Uornor Urnst Valsadail Vielech Waraid Water Wehtan's Wengon Winacarost Woottaidh Worgain Wrierke Yahattis Yavidh Zimichad Éombarda

[timeguardians]

"Bri... Brianna... BRIANNA ALLIE WAYNE!"

"Uhhhh-oh. Master Wayne..." the voice down below her utters. "Sounds like you have company. Shall I gift her an excuse?"

Shocked eyes lift, despite her upside-down battish positioning. She had been testing new gear out. "No. That won't be necessary, Alfred. Thank you." She cordially responds. She flips herself over the railing, landing gracefully on her feet, just beyond the series of computers, where Alfred was working.

She saunters a few steps forwards. "Must be quite serious, if you are employing my middle name. What did I do THIS time?"

[wiralfeed]

32 Names of Goddess Durga | Dwatrinsha Namavali of Goddess Durga

The 32 Names of Goddess Durga also known as Durga Battisi, have been provided as Durga Dvatrinsh Naammala in the spiritual book Durga Saptasati. It is also popularly known as Durga Battish Naam in Hindi. These names of Ma Durga are recited to bring an end to all difficulties in one’s life and are the reliever of all kinds of difficulties. Following are the 32 names of Goddess Durga, which are…

[fledermoved]

Her.........

[botdraws]

stan mad battish

[i-draws-dinosaurs]

Was Gekk the goblin from pocketss' comic?

She was not intended to be but pocketss' goblin comics are absolutely wonderful and I love them. I wasn't consciously thinking about it at the time but it could've unconsciously inspired the idea of a white battish goblin, though most of my design choices for Gekk were my own work

[theforesteyemuseum]

wayne industries helicopter. a tad battish, especially with the way it eats insects for extra fuel. -- JAZSET

Huh, wonder why a Wayne industries helicopter would be connected to bats... In return an expreso machine that will brew drinks out of anything but coffee.

[badacts]

hello, can u give some tiny summary of batfam? i dont know anything abt them n im just lost quite honestly ;

batfam is basically the batfandom creators doing what dc writers try to do (portray the bats as a family) and doing it better than a bunch of poorly adjusted white men who just really suck at consistent characterisation could ever hope to by picking the best canon content and expanding on it

batfam usually consists of:

bruce wayne (batman, batdad, batfam batdad doesn’t hit his kids like CANON batman)

alfred (granddad)

dick grayson (eldest son, first robin, nightwing, i think he’s currently on the worst character arc in history as ‘ric’ but i’m not paying money to read it)

jason todd (second robin, died for a bit, came back as red hood aka. red dildo helmet with daddy issues who murders people)

tim drake (third robin, actually the neighbour’s kid who inserted himself into the batfam to save bruce’s battish soul after jason died, now red robin)

cass cain (was tim’s batgirl, now usually black bat, the daughter of david cain and lady shiva, all around badass and champ of my heart)

damian wayne (current robin, son of bruce and talia al ghul, tiny ninja with a bad attitude who likes animals. he has a giant dog)

duke thomas (the signal, son meta allowed in gotham, he’s the most recent addition who patrols gotham during the day and had a GREAT arc in robin war)

there’s also barbara and steph who aren’t necessarily bruce’s kids but are certainly auxiliary batfam members, and are excellect. there are probably others too, but i can’t remember right now

anyway, a tiny summary of batfam as a whole is just ‘the people above are poorly adjusted but love each other very much and fight crime in interesting outfits’

[ephyraofbruhalla]

Okay lets start with some offbrand tarot cards.

1: Sayyel-strength.

Sayyel is an attish legends main character, when the attish were attacked by phoenixes because the mighty burbs were hungry, she, a good hearted warrior, didn't fight the beasts, but instead gave them food and tamed them. Since then, the attish spent centuries to domesticate the animals.

2: Isshul-forgot which card it is supposed to represent.

Isshul means dragon in attish. They are ruthless apex predators, on land and sky, they were created to rule over themselves and the wild. Each year, their tribes choose the best warriors to guard the attish temples. They are like wolves, because they hunt in packs, follow their lords and like bellyrubs.

3: Sayeliaa-the magician.

Sayeliaa is the force of life and death. The attish priests use it to heal, and the dragons use it to fuck shit up.

The hand simbol means, as above so below. Because life has to end in death, and death allows more life. The attish represents new life and the battish represents the death between two lives when your energy is not yet reused.

4: totally forgot the name-four of swords

Represents the exact same thing as the original. A battish woman is represented in the artwork.

5: Lanna-the moon

Represent the same thing as the original card. This is the smaller moon of the taikeini (means: the lovers, also known as Attretia and Battadeya, two planets that revolve around each other, two stars and have two moons)

Hope you like them, i spent a lot of time on them.

[vagrantblvrd]

The Long Way Around (1/1)

Summary: Ryan goes out of town and all his rules about who’s allowed to play in his little sandbox go right out the window.

Notes: Takes place in the Not A Good Man (But You Got Conviction). (AKA Batman AU)

(Read on AO3)

It starts with a familiar face.

Pretty blue eyes and luscious blonde locks to die for.

Flirty little smile and a sultry, “Hello, Trevor,” and “Haven’t seen you in ages,” and “You son of a bitch,” followed by a right hook that snaps his head back, ring-a-ding-ding.

And:

“You deserved that for what you put everyone through, you asshole.”

Trevor blinks up at her from his spot on the ground, ears ringing and Barbara scowling down at him, hand outstretched to help him back up. (Partners in crime once upon a time as the saying goes, and one hell of a headache for everyone else.)

She’s not wrong. (A little bit yes, though, but she’s never been part of the family squabble.)

Always was a strange girl, Barbara.

Played the part of rich socialite to a tee. Got the press fawning over her and smoothing over any ruffled feathers Sorola might leave behind.

Vicious right hook (her left wasn’t too shabby either) and one hell of a shot with that bow of hers. (Always threw the bad guys for a loop when she pulled the damn thing out, Speedy to Sorola’s Green Arrow and the trickiest of trick arrows to complement the boring regular ones.)

“You always know how to treat a guy,” Trevor says, accepts her offer of help and climbs to his feet, jaw aching.

Barbara smiles at him, disdain to it as she takes in his current abode.

Quaint, some might call it. Rustic is another good word. (Shitty, though, that’s the one Trevor’s looking for.)

Leaky ceilings and creaky floors. Windows that rattle when the wind picks up and this cough-wheeze from the refrigerator that came with the place. Shabby furniture and the thinnest walls and nosy neighbors.

“Nice place,” Barbara says, politely doesn’t make a face when something in the walls gnaws away at rotting wood. “Very...you.”

Well if that isn’t a back-handed compliment.

Trevor mimics her smile and moseys on over to the refrigerator and pulls out an ice pack. Ignores the raised eyebrow from Barbara – she knows she hits hard – and leans against the counter to watch her.

Looks prim and proper until you take a closer look, and even then she’s a damn fine actor. Pretty face that too many people underestimate, in costume and out. (As devastating fighting crime as she in in the board room.)

“To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

Ryan’s got this policy, you see. Rules he’s set up that most – most – of the caped crowd abides by. No metas in Gotham, except for the ones who live here, but shh about them. (Surprise, surprise, Ryan’s a hypocrite.)

The Arrows aren’t metas, though, and boy do they love using those little loopholes to rile Ryan up something fierce. (Not that it matters this time around. Ryan’s off with the Justice League tackling some major threat or another, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.)

Barbara makes a face, reaches over to flick on the lights.

“I need your help,” she says, like just saying the words causes her pain.

(Trevor and Barbara and all the trouble they used to get into way back when and the trouble he causes now. Bit of a disconnect between the two, and Trevor’s not doing much to help.)

Trevor lowers the ice pack, feels a smile coming on.

“Do you now,” Trevor muses. “How interesting.”

(Things were getting boring without Ryan around to harass, heckle, and Barbara always found the best kind of trouble.)

========

There’s an asshole.

Started out in Star City peddling weapons and other fun things. Stirring up trouble and giving the Arrows a run for their money – which, a lot because Arrows - and now he’s in Gotham somewhere doing much the same.

The Bats and the Birds don’t know about him yet, which is fine because Barbara wants to be the one to nail his balls to the wall -

“Colorfully put as always.”

- and she’s been meaning to give Trevor a piece of her mind (fist to the face) for the shit he pulled since he’s been back.

Also, she’s calling in one of those favors he owes her.

Just needs some info, a lead to follow. Anything to help her track the asshole down, let him know she’s not about to let him slip out of her grasp.

The others would help, but they’re also a little too...Battish for what Barbara’s doing right now. Not quite toeing the line between goody-good and Trevor’s kind of problematic, but this asshole is pushing her far to close to it for anyone’s peace of mind.

So.

There’s a place Trevor knows where someone’s always good for news about the asshole Barbara’s looking for.

He flashes her a little grin – not quite right anymore, but it gets the job done most days.

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” he says, and gives her directions to the wrong side of the tracks. (Pretty much everywhere, here in Gotham.)

She gives him a skeptical look as he tells her to park just the other side of the proverbial tracks – nice car like the one she’s driving? Yeah. Not going to want to sully it taking it anywhere near there. He tips an imaginary hat to her as he hops out of their car and strolls on into (one of) the bad parts of town with a promise to be back soon. (She’s got a memorable face, Barbara, and the people Trevor needs to talk to  will know she’s not one of theirs.)

Takes a nice big breath as he walks along, lets it sink in as he slips into character. Leans against a wall for a moment and tucks a pebble down into his shoe because it’s been a long day and his feet are killing him, brings out a limp, don’t you know. Stands up and a few feet later he slaps on a beanie because he’s been working down at the docks and his ears get cold -

” - toque! It’s a toque! How many times do I have to tell you, Collins?”, the laugh that always came with that blinding smile, hands reaching out to tug it down over his eyes before she was dancing out of reach again.

Trevor stumbles over nothing, swearing under his breath as he shakes it off and steps back into the present.

Leaves his old ghosts behind because he doesn’t have time for them now, and Barbara coming back into his life like this is a problem. Brings up memories of Before when Trevor had a better grasp on sanity and anger wasn’t so lose to the surface for him. (Oh, he’s a goddamned mess, isn’t he.)

Tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he glances around.

Rundown, all the renovations and beautification projects HI is funding to make Gotham a better place, a city they can take pride in again, haven’t quite reached this far yet. No one to smooth out the cracked asphalt and patch up crumbling sidewalks. Throw a little paint on the buildings around here and replace a few lightbulbs. Plant some trees, toss in some flowers, maybe a shrub.

Window dressings for a deeper problem, and Trevor has to consciously uncurl his hands, shake out the anger and leave that behind for the moment as well because they don’t have a place for the dockworker he’s playing at being.

He stops off at an old pool hall turned seedy dive bar (not much of a switch, when it comes down to it) and good old Paulie at the bar is just the sort to run his mouth if you ply him with enough alcohol.

“Oh, that guy,” Paulie says, family roots from all the way up north going back generations.

Fishermen living on a cramped little boat for months on end to make a living and television crews begging to have them on for some show or another the public can’t get enough of.

Manufactured drama and good old drunken brawls. Old feuds and a tiff or two. Touch of family bullshit dragged into the light of day to boost ratings. Saucy innuendo tossed in here and there when viewership dips too low. And people loved Paulie when he was on, they did, but he got a little wild didn’t he, and the producers got tired of making excuses for him when his bail got set higher and higher and now he’s running around Gotham and stirring up all kinds of new trouble.

Trevor grins at Paulie and buys him a round, and then another and another. Drops a name or two, a couple of stories about the assholes in Paulie’s hometown (they’ve done this dance before, and Trevor always does his homework) and then it’s just like they’ve known each other since they were kids. No problem for Paulie to let a few things slip he shouldn’t when they’ve got that kind of history.

“Yeah?” Trevor says, waves Sharon (God love name-tags) over for another round of drinks and toasts to Paulie’s favorite team making a bid for the playoffs, poor bastards. Up against a real team and does Paulie really think they stand a chance after the season they’ve had?

“Fuck you!” Paulie crows, grin his voice and too fucking drunk for his own good and Trevor laughs, throws an arm around Paulie’s shoulders and raises his drink.

“Fuck me!” he echoes, and the two of them laugh like it’s an old joke between them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paulie says, tugs Trevor closer because this is shit no one else needs to hear. Just a couple of friends and some good old fashioned bitching.

Gives Trevor the information he came looking for and something of a bonus besides.

Tells him the asshole is planning to set up shop over in Bludhaven soon. As bad as Gotham is, Bludhaven is worse, and an asshole like him stands to make a killing there. (Assuming he doesn’t make a misstep with the criminal element there first.)

Has some gofer working for him there running around smoothing things over before he steps foot in the city.

“I mean, come the fuck on, who the fuck wears purple and orange like that?”

Paulie looks disgusted, horrified, at the state of criminals these days. Plenty of flair to them, sure, but no kind of fashion sense at all like there used to be back in his day.

Trevor laughs so hard he spills his beer all over Paulie and stumbles over himself to apologize. Buys him another drink to make up for it and Paulie’s too far gone to notice when Trevor slips away not too long after that.

Ruminates on the Bats and the Birds and a few of their choice undercover identities they take an odd sort of liking to, go back to again and again.

Ryan’s favorite police detective with an accent Ryan always has a hard time of shaking after he slips into character. Jeremy’s own police detective when one just won’t do and the two of them certifiable menaces when working together.

Trevor’s got a costume trunk of his own. All these people whose identities he inhabits through training and long practice tucked in the back of his head ready to be called upon on a moment’s notice. (Flocks and feathers and dank little caves under a sprawling manor.)

He’s pulled back to the here and now when someone yells, leans out their window to shout at their neighbor about the racket they’re making. Music on too loud and goddammit, some of them work the early shift.

Trevor hunches down into his coat as he passes by. Keeps the slouch and slight limp going strong until he ducks down an alley and sheds it all like water in a matter of strides. Roots around in his shoe as he crouches down to retie the laces and flicks the rock into a convenient pothole, good riddance and then he’s walking again.

Tugs the beanie (toque) off and into his pocket, another step and he slips his jacket off because the brisk walk is warming him up. Lock of hair in his eyes which might mean it’s time for a haircut, so he reaches up to straighten it.

By the time he hits the end of the alley and swings a right to where a sweet little sports car parked is parked across the way he doesn’t look a thing like Paulie’s old friend from back home. (Maybe around the face, but don’t you know? They say everyone’s got a doppelganger out there, hahaha.)

Not a lot of foot traffic this part of town at this hour, and all the good little Birds (and a Bat or two) should be winging their way home to roost for the night soon.

“Well?” Barbara asks when Trevor hops in, manicured nails tap, tap, tapping out a beat on the fine leather of the steering wheel. Not very discreet, this car she’s driving, but that’s an Arrow for you. “What did you find out?”

Trevor glances at her, feels his lips twitch up into a smile because boy does he have news for her.

========

Barbara heads off to Bludhaven - “Thanks, but I can handle it from here, bird-boy,” - and Trevor sees her off with this little half-smile.

Doesn’t bother to correct her, knows she did it on purpose. (Clever one, that Barbara. Knows him a little too well even now.)

It’s tempting to follow along behind her given the asshole she’s chasing after, but, well.

She’d kick his ass if she knew, and Bludhaven is Jeremy’s city. Trevor’s not ready to go traipsing about there with the baggage he’s still unpacking. Lot of anger left to him, still.

No, better he keeps out of it. Her fight to finish, and besides, there are plenty of faces for him to pound here in Gotham, work out his aggression the old-fashioned way.

A little bird he can heckle the hell out of and know he’ll get the same back because Alfredo is still a feisty one. Gives Trevor grief the way the others can’t just yet, too worried about pushing the wrong buttons.

Eggshells and the way they tiptoe around them, and God does Trevor hate how careful, considerate they are with him. (Worried looks and hushed conversation like he doesn’t know. Kicks up the anger, frustration all over again and it’s a vicious, vicious cycle with them. Exhausting, too.)

It’s late though, or early, given how you look at it and he’s had a busy night and feels it, exhaustion dragging at his bones.

Sheds the pieces of armor – literal and figurative – the Red Hood wears to fight the good (and not so good) fight on the streets of Gotham again and again and again. Washes his face, brushes his teeth, all the things one does, neat little routine. This and this and this, hoping it will lead to a restful night and sweet dreams, and ends up staring at the ceiling of his bedroom like someone waiting for the punchline to a bad joke like every other night before.

Sleep doesn’t come as easily to him as it once did. All those nightmares of his. Nasty things full of the toxic green of the pit and sensation of drowning and pain. Rewind a little further back and a madman’s laughter echoing in his ears and the fact that Trevor can never tell if it’s his own or the Joker’s, and try not to remember, but it never works.

Trevor laughs, dark and bitter tasting because this is his life now. Broken, jagged pieces he’s trying to fit back together best he can and all these little obstacles, setbacks littering his path. (Fun, fun times.)

A sigh, exhale of breath and he finds himself looking at the moon outside his window.

Cold and distant, uncaring about puny human problems.

Oddly reassuring, that, helps to put things in perspective. (Or maybe it’s just the fact it’ll still be there long after said puny human problems stop mattering. One or the other.)

“Goodnight moon,” he says, “see you again tomorrow.”

And the night after than and so on and so on, because that’s the way these things go, no way out but through, as it goes,  and he’s always been the stubborn sort.

[manchestereyes]

hi you’re my fave d+p blog so i wanted to share this with you i hope you don’t mind hfhfh. but i had a dream last night that dan got a tattoo and he was showing us in a liveshow and it was like black ink demon/battish looking wings below his collar bones on his chest but in white ink around them were the silhouette of angel wings and let me just say i was So Sad when i woke up and realized it wasn’t real

oh my god that would be BEAUTIFUL hhhhhhhh i’m melting at that image already!! can one of our lovely artists maybe do us all a solid and create this PLEASE i’m begging you!!!

(also asldkfjlsdjkhghsd thank you i’m so honored to be your favorite!! i hope you’re having a wonderful day!