As much as I want to be a wholly joyous about the fact that Henry Kissinger is finally fucking dead, as he deserves... There's a lot of me that can't help being upset with. With the fact that he lived to 100 years old. He got better medical care, better housing, and a better, more stable life for those 100 years than billions on this planet ever going to see and he did it specifically through exploitation, state sanctioned murder, and lies. He lived to 100 years comfortably on a legacy of violence that rarely threatened his personal comfort. I want to be joyous that he's finally dead, because the world IS better with him dead, but the reality is he won a long time ago.
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"I think it’s an absolutely beautiful shot and it is very sexy, but it also speaks to their physicality, the way that they are positioned in the frame and the way that Harry is so open and comfortable–so relaxed in his position. And Adam is not. He’s less open. But it really helps the scene because what’s interesting is Harry is not necessarily as emotionally open as we think he is, and as the scene develops and we’re closer to them and he opens up about his life, there’s a contradiction there that I think is really fascinating. There’s also a certain vulnerability about the shot too. The position of Andrew’s hand is so important in making this shot what it is. The way that it’s so delicately there at the base of your stomach, which is such a vulnerable area. His hand is so gently on there, and Paul is so open to wanting that touch–that connection in this moment makes it a beautiful image." - Andrew Haigh
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While we're on the topic of De-aging AU's I wanna talk about Jason and Damian if Jason was 14 again real quick.
Do you guys think that Damian looks at this version of Jason, so different from the version he knows, nothing like the person he was told Jason was, and feels uncomfortably seen?
Damian was always told that Jason died because he was reckless, because he disobeyed orders, he was fired as Robin and he got himself killed. A cautionary tale, not a threat to his position. He dismisses Jason because Bruce does, because Dick does, because sometimes even Babs and Alfred do.
That's not the kid that he's looking at now. This Jason is happy, and smart, and full of love that has not yet soured into grief. He hangs on Bruce's every word, trains until his hands bleed and his body gives out to perfect the moves Bruce teaches him. He looks at Bruce with stars in his eyes and he calls him dad.
And Damian can't help but think, that this is the perfect Robin. The perfect son. And if Jason - sweet, loving, strong, Jason - can be fired, can die and have his room locked away and his pictures torn down, can have his last memory as Robin be as A Good Soldier, how could the rest of them ever compete? What could Damian do to stand a chance?
Jason will never grow out of the shadow of Robin, like the rest of them did. As long as Bruce, and Dick, and Babs, and Alfred look at him and see a dead kid who came back wrong, he will never get to be anything else. He will not get to be looked at through who he is now without the shadow of a dead boy looming over him.
And the worst part? Jason is exactly the same person he was back then. Bitter, sure, angry, justifiably, but he is still the boy with too much love in his heart and righteous fury festering in his gut. He is exactly the same boy who threw himself in front of an explosion to save his mother.
(The lines between the mother that betrayed him and the father that disgraced him are so very blurred. Fire or blade or crowbars or fists it does not matter. It ends the same way it always does because Jason Todd always dies, in every universe, in every timeline, Jason dies and crawls out only to be killed again and again and again.)
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Prompt 283
Now Jason would like it known that there was no mpreg situation going on. He isn’t even sure where people got that idea in the first place. Sure, he had taken a few Cores from the goons-in-white who had dared to set up in his turf.
And sure maybe the excess energy from the pit (no wonder he’d been so irritable) was what said baby halfas (Okay, so they’re half human? Alright) had used to reform. And maybe the oldest is visibly less than a year old.
But there Was No Mpreg Situation! He is this close to shooting someone! It was annoying (and slightly amusing) when it was just his goons, but now the Bats have seemingly got it in their heads! Dear Gotham it’s a good thing he’s not planning on like, ever revealing who he is because he would never be able to live this rumor down.
[Winged Ghosts Au too, that seems to be getting lost in reblogs when it's just in the tags lol]
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i love all the flavors of howdydarling art you make sm!! i've really been stuck on the drawings you did of wally with insomnia, i love the idea of howdy carrying his ass to bed when he shows up at the bugdega totally exhausted. i thought it'd be cute if wally stepped in to take care of howdy too when he's feeling overworked, or the two of them just collapsing into a nap pile at the end of a long day
It’s been raining all day and the vibes for cuddles n sweet shid is I m m a c u l a t e
Sometimes when I think about howdy and Wally, I think about them doing that specific lil wiggle/dance you can do with your followers in cult of the lamb smhhh (and frank really wanting to join but is very shy about it)
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One in the Same
Hmmmm
Hmmmmm
So we know during the time Tim lost in spleen (his Red Robin run) and wakes ups next to the pit he almost believed he had been tossed in the Lazarus Pits.
What if
Now hear me out.
What if he actually was.
But what if instead of gaining Pit Madness, he unlocked his past life memories.
His memories of being Daniel 'Danny' Fenton and Danny Phantom.
And once the memories returned so did his ghost form and powers.
And as Tim sits at the bottom of the pits, crossing his legs and letting all his memories slide back into place he questioned what to do now. He pondered for a moment and hummed tapping a finger to his chin.
Maybe he'll play the Pit Madness card? After all Ra's chucked him in here to either turn him into a mindless rage machine he could manipulate or see what the Pits would do to a mind like Tim's. Or Tim could pretend to be a silent rage, a calm before the storm.
Well, Tim grinned his eyes glowing green as he stared at the surface of the Lazarus waters above him, he was very good at lying this life time around. After all he was Tim 'I can even lie to Batman and get away with it' Drake-Wayne and he did used to be Danny 'Commit to the bit' Fenton/Phantom.
He was going to have fun playing that fruitloop named Ra's like the cheap kazoo he was.
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i'm always thinking of the syrians i met at university. one lived in aleppo for a while and is deeply traumatized by her time there, can't hear a plane flying by without freezing in place. another was telling me about how difficult it is to get basic necessities there. "these sanctions kill people. we have to travel to syria a couple times every year to make sure my grandma gets her medication, otherwise she'll die. these are basic, life-saving medications that are readily available elsewhere but we have to bring them back home in our luggage."
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I used to dream of finding Home.
Somewhere between my tweens and my teens, the house my family lived in stopped feeling like a comfortable pocket where I belonged and started feeling more like a roomshare with strangers.
I'd read a lot of books. A lot of stories about outsiders and misfits who fell into grand adventures that led them into perfect little keyhole they were destined to slide into. I thought that someday, in a much less exciting or eventful way, the same would happen to me. If I worked very hard to be good and kind and forgiving then I'd stumble into Home.
It never happened.
I moved from town to city to country, and didn't find it. Every building felt the same, no matter how long I stayed. None of them felt natural, or easy, or safe.
I was living in a dilapidated loft above a busted-out mortuary when I figured it out.
No running water. No heat. No AC. No furniture or mattress or internet, and a dusty bathroom with a broken toilet and a sink inexplicably pre-filled with cigarette butts, and it finally clicked.
I ripped out the old carpet. Swept the floors. Taped the sun out of the windows with foil and foam and big black garbage bags. Cleaned off an old shelf, stole a cot, piled all my blankets on top of it, painted pictures and taped them to the walls and spray-painted a mural and leaned a tarnished old mirror up against the wall.
I found a room divider in an old office room and took a lamp left out with the trash and set up an empty coffee pot with cheap silk flowers. Hung a shower curtain in the morgue and turned a storage bin into a bath and hooked my towel on a loose nail stuck into the wall.
And when I left, and left everything behind, I found another little empty hole in the world and did it all over again.
That's something I don't think I could have learned from all my stories. It's not something very interesting to read about, some lonely stranger puttering about by themselves in a hot, dark room. But it's important to share it, I think, so I've done my best.
I think that a Place is a beast, and to make it a Home, you have to dig in your claws and fight for it, tooth and nail.
Then, once you've tired it out, string up lights below it's ribcage and pet it nice between the ears until it purrs.
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