#and to all y’all who don’t

[voidartisan]

[linkbetweenlinksau]

End of chapter 1- The Mark

Part 1|| part 2||

[tiredyke]

every time queer discourse surges on this site everyone is so quick to jump to “it was actually the evil lesbians who divided us” because y’all heard the term “political lesbian” and never bothered to figure out what that meant

[dismas-n-dismay]

“They came back wrong” maybe they came back the way they needed to be.

[hot-boy-autumn]

Get you a man who will go ghost hunting with you in the middle of autumn

[ohbo-ohno]

ghoap x reader hunger games au where ghost is the grizzled older victor who won like 10 years ago, soap just won the previous year and he’s walking a thin line between severe trauma and indulging himself with his new riches, and you’re the unlucky victim of this year’s reaping

[edenfenixblogs]

I don’t think most non-Jews understand how disappointed we are in the left right now. How completely abandoned we’ve become. How our contributions to progress for other groups have been erased or disavowed or hidden. How the actual tangible things that Jews have contributed to black rights and civil rights are being ignored. How we’re being told we contribute and have contributed nothing.

How we are being told that the world has been kind to us when it never has. As if my mom didn’t grow up getting called a Kike and getting beat up for being Jewish. How I thought I had friends until I caught them saying “xyz was beautiful until Jews showed up.” How people told me I was pretty “for a Jew.” How I grew up hearing stories about bombs being set off in Israel in buses and markets. How I couldn’t even go two weeks without hearing that and how nobody cared and somehow, every time that happened, the whole world became more hostile to me for some reason.

I just don’t understand. I don’t understand what leftists are doing. Or why. I hate that I have to say—of course, I support a free and self determined Palestine (which I truly do)—in order for you to decide I’m worthy of care and support.

We showed up for you. All of you. And the entire movement is abandoning us at best or targeting us at worst. Celebrating our deaths. Saying we deserved it. How are we supposed to trust you ever again? How are we supposed to feel safe ever again?

A very few select people who are in my life have taken the chance to actually learn about and dismantle their own unconscious antisemitism during this time. And I’m eternally grateful for them. But most people haven’t reached out at all. Most people are still sharing hateful things that could get me hurt and they don’t care. Most people Reblogging my posts are still Jews. Because we are alone. And it sucks. You need to be as loud about antisemitism as you are about Palestine or you’re an antisemite (unless you’re Arab/Muslim/Palestinian—I totally get that these groups are also doing damage control in their own communities just like Jews are).

But we are all in tremendous pain right now.

This moment will pass. And when it does, I will remember how many people let me down. I will remember that when I needed support more than I’ve ever needed it in my life, people fucking vanished. They pretended violence against my people wasn’t happening. They ignored and rewrote the history of Israel to suit their own narratives.

You don’t know what it feels like to be hated this much for opposite things. PoC hate us for being too white. White supremacists hate us for not being white enough. Europeans hate us for being middle eastern. Middle easterners hate us for being western/European. Everyone hates us for being settlers but continually kicks us out of their countries so that we have to settle somewhere else.

I saw a post going around from a Black person who said that the reason he and his fellow black activists go protest for Palestinians instead of fighting antisemitism (as if it’s a binary, which it’s not) is that Jews don’t show up. Muslims and Palestinians do. And honestly? Fuck that guy. Heather Heyer died standing shoulder to shoulder against racism in 2017. [CORRECTION: When I first wrote this post I was under the impression that Heather Heyer was Jewish. I want to correct to avoid spreading misinfo. She was just the first (and incorrect) Jewish civil rights activist I thought of. However there are plenty of other actual Jewish civil rights activists to choose from. If you have reblogged this post from me, please feel free to add a link to the permalink version of this post with my correction to your reblog.]I have devoted substantial time and effort and money that I don’t even get paid a lot of because I don’t get paid a living wage. I have continually reached out to PoC people in my life of all religions to ask how they are doing and what I could be doing to help more—both for them personally and how they would best like me to help their community. I have elevated their voices at every opportunity. And not one person I checked in with has done the same for me or for my community.

And it’s bone chilling. It’s awful. And it’s even worse knowing that when it’s over, people will want to go back to normal. They won’t apologize. They won’t self reflect. They’ll just live their lives, maybe a little more aware of how much they hate us and completely indifferent to the harm they’ve caused us. How disposable they made us feel. And the thing is…it’s not hard for you to know. You just have to ask.

Too many people are cowards. Too many people care about looking good than actually learning something or making the world better. And to those people: you should be ashamed of yourself.

I don’t have any hate in my heart. Truly. Not a drop for any group of people. But I have a tremendous lack of trust that anyone would actually lift a finger to keep me safe.

[theswampghost]

i can’t with people saying “that was a happy ending for izzy” do you hear yourselves? him dying in the same way he always believed he would, a hard death, a painful death, when he was just learning to want more? when he was just starting to live for himself and not for ed, a death for the very same person he lived his whole life for? that’s a happy ending, to you? are you hearing yourself?

[sarcasticbeanie]

it’s time for a life-changing roadtrip i guess

[ID: A full body drawing of Jason Todd and Roy Harper from DC Comics. They are sitting on the top of a red van, talking to each other. Jason has dark hair with white stripes at the front, and is wearing a grey T-shirt saying “I’m a Jersey Girl. 1. Dirty mind, 2. Caring friend, 3. Potty mouth, 4. Good heart, 5. Smart ass, 6. Kind soul, 7. Sinner, 8. Thick thighs. I never said I was perfect”. He’s also wearing black pants, and brown combat boots. He has scars on his face, neck and arms. He’s wearing black nail polish and simple black bracelets. He has a hearing aid in his right ear. He is gesturing at Roy with one hand, and holding a Sprite can in the other. There’s an open book on his lap. He looks like he’s complaining. Roy has ginger hair, and is wearing a green trucker hat backwards on his head. He’s wearing a white tank top with a yellow arrow pointing up on it, blue jeans, and black and white sneakers. He has brown archer gloves on both hands, and has a grey prosthetic right arm. He's holding a coke can in one hand, and pointing a finger gun at Jason with his left. He's sitting on a green pillow. He’s smiling. The van they’re on has blue curtains at it’s windows, and has its door open. In the van there’s a table with a map, an arrow, some tools and a few screws on it. Under the table, there’s a box with soft drinks and snacks. There’s a sofa on each side of the table. The red hood helmet is on the left sofa, and there’s a purple blanket with the spoiler symbol and a yellow pillow with the signal symbol on the right sofa. On the wall of the van, a brown jacket and a black trucker hat is hanging on the left side. There are pictures hanging on the right side, depicting Roy’s daughter Lian, and members of the batfamily in a simplistic style. A sunset over the sea can be seen through the side window of the van. End ID.]

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 2)

—

Tw: canon-typical violence (Batman), emetophobia at one point

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

Danny sat in the back of one of the transport trucks currently on the way to Arkham, his hands in his lap.

So far, everything was going to plan.

About a quarter of the team had gotten themselves admitted into Arkham in the days leading up to the raid, carefully sneaking in supplies and weapons for both themselves and the rogues they were going to free.

Half of the team was on trucks, ready to storm the building with their fancy new tech. A couple others were keeping an eye out for the Bats, and the last one was holed up in a recently condemned building, ecto-modified sniper rifle in hand, ready to fire.

Danny’s hands were cold.

He hadn’t always run cold, from what he remembered. Even after he died—hell, even after he started developing his ice powers—he had always been warm.

Now, though, his body was freezing.

Maybe it was because of the ecto siphoning he and Derringer had done the day before.

He couldn’t make the ecto guns work without fueling them, after all, and the only ectoplasm he had access to was the stuff inside his body. So, he had Derringer hook him up to a GiW machine and filter the ecto out of his blood.

The process was excruciating.

Not only did he get light-headed from the loss of fluids, the machine also chilled his blood considerably during the filtering process, and when it was pumped back into his body, it was freezing. Derringer had to cover him with heating pads and thick blankets to get him to stop shaking.

Still, that had been a little over eighteen hours ago, so that probably wasn’t it.

Maybe it was just another side affect of his time with the GiW.

Overuse of his ghostly wail, he had realized earlier, was the reason that he had lost his voice permanently. Maybe he had accidentally used his ice too many times the same way, and now his body was irrevocably changed. Maybe warmth was just another tiny privilege he had taken for granted, that had now been lost forever.

Danny stared down at his hands.

Maybe his body had just given up entirely on keeping him warm, on pretending to be human.

“Kid, you alright? We’re almost there.”

Derringer’s voice snapped Danny out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Danny signed, “just tired. And cold.”

“We’ve got to get you a jacket, kid,” Derringer said, “it’s not even winter and I already have to worry about you freezing to death.”

“I died a long time ago, it’s fine.”

“No,” one of the other men in the truck drawled, “it means you’ve got to be extra careful. You’ve got a second chance at living, so you better not screw it up.”

“What did he say?”

“Danny thinks that because he’s died before, he doesn’t need to worry about freezing to death.”

The truck went quiet for a few moments. Most of the guys in there didn’t know he had died before. He didn’t exactly like to advertise the fact.

“I have a cousin who had a heart attack, and it only made his heart worse,” one of the guys near the front of the truck offered.

“See, kid?” Derringer said, “I’m right. As soon as this is over, you’re getting a jacket.”

Danny crossed his arms, slumping over in his seat with a huff.

A few moments later, a loud clang echoed through the truck. Danny jolted, almost falling out of his seat.

The door opened, the driver looking at them with boredom written all over his face.

“Alright, up and at em. It’s go time,” he mumbled, smacking the door loudly for emphasis. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can leave.”

They all stood, hopping out of the truck and making their way to the fence line.

Danny moved his hand to the bandolier on his chest, fingers brushing against the small ecto-bombs he had attached to it.

There were five of them, their bodies made of tempered glass and black steel, and they glowed a sickly green in the night. They were designed mainly for combat; he had a few larger ones meant to blow a hole in a wall in his backpack, which was securely zipped shut.

His hand then drifted to the holster on his left side, and the ecto-gun nestled securely within it.

Most of his parents’ inventions were far too big and bulky to be practical in any real combat setting, so he had downsized them considerably. The weapon he had was modeled after a standard glock pistol, matte black paint covering the GiW white of the gun’s body.

The gun should be able to fire around fifty shots a minute without overheating, which was more than enough for Danny. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to fire a single round tonight. However, for whatever reason, the words should and hopefully didn’t inspire much confidence in him.

Danny followed the group as they snuck up to the facility, Derringer by his side.

Originally, neither of them were going to go on the raid, but someone on the patient list had caught Danny’s eye, so he decided he would investigate in person. Derringer was just along for the ride because Mr. Cobblepot wasn’t willing to lose an asset as valuable as Danny.

Danny would make it up to the bodyguard later, he decided.

Entering Arkham was, all things considered, pretty easy. Mr. Cobblepot had connections to a few of the orderlies, and it was all too easy to convince them to “forget” a few steps in setting up the security system for the night.

However, since nothing can ever just be simple, they ran into an unexpected patrol of nightshift guards just a few minutes after all splitting up to find the rogues.

Danny and Derringer were able to take them down pretty quickly, but not before they sounded the alarms. And, according to a few guys on the comms, they weren’t the only ones to run into guards where they shouldn’t be.

“They must have changed their patrols,” Derringer huffed, spinning the pistol in his hands, “c’mon, let’s go see about freeing our good friend Victor Fries.”

Danny nodded, scampering after the man as he sprinted through the halls.

The inmates, who had woken up from the loud alarm’s continuous blaring, shouted at them from their cells. Danny’s pulse was loud in his ears, drowning everything out.

Distantly, he wondered if those guards were going to die. Maybe they were dead already.

He supposed that it didn’t really change much if they were.

Soon, they were at the cell. It was custom-built to hold Mr. Freeze, constantly kept at subzero temperatures to avoid killing him.

Derringer hefted his bag off of his back, pulling out the suit and freeze gun that Mr. Cobblepot had procured. As he did so, Danny took a few of the larger ecto-bombs and placed them on the joints of the door.

They carefully moved away, putting some distance between themselves and the door, and Danny detonated it.

The explosion was loud. It shook the entire building, the shockwave knocking Danny to the floor.

Danny brought his hand up to his safety goggles, yanking a small piece of metal shrapnel out of them and dropping it on the floor. He was dimly aware of more pieces sticking out of his kevlar suit. Derringer was similarly peppered with metal, luckily uninjured as well.

They had come from the body and mechanism of the bomb, he realized. He’d have to fix that later.

Mr. Freeze emerged from the cell a few moments later, a scowl on his face. Derringer quickly shoved the suit and freeze gun into his hands and he retreated back into the cell for a few moments, getting dressed.

“I could have died from that, you know,” he hissed. “Killed by some amateurs with shoddy explosives.”

“The Penguin sent us,” Derringer said, ignoring the man’s clear annoyance, “our getaway car is outside. If you’d come with us…”

Mr. Freeze nodded sternly.

“Hurry up, then.”

Derringer and Danny hurried out, Mr. Freeze right behind them. Then, at a certain hallway, Danny paused.

He had to check.

“Kid,” Derringer barked, “we have to go.”

Danny shook his head.

“You go,” he signed, hands trembling, “I have to check.”

“Oh, what’s the problem now?” Mr. Freeze asked, his frown more pronounced by the minute.

“Danny…” Derringer sighed, “Danny thinks his sister might be in here. He hasn’t seen her in years. It’s the whole reason he was a part of the Arkham raid, actually.”

Mr. Freeze paused for a moment.

“Well, lead the way, then,” he said, clearly regretting his words as soon as he said them. Danny just nodded, scurrying forward, the other two men close behind him.

They came to the right cell quickly. Danny looked in through the glass, and he felt a piece of himself shatter.

That was Jazz, his sister, sitting in a padded wall wearing a straightjacket and a muzzle.

She didn’t bother looking up at them as they arrived, not stirring even when Danny slammed his hands on the door to get her attention.

Shakily, he attached an ecto-bomb to the door, hoping with all his might that she wouldn’t get hurt.

The door blew open, and Danny rushed in.

Jazz’s head swiveled to look up at him, her eyes narrowed.

He slipped the goggles up and his bandanna down, exposing his face as he came to kneel beside her.

Slowly, her expression shifted to shock.

“Jazz,” he creaked, his broken vocal chords cracking painfully as he spoke, “it’s me.”

She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Danny?”

He nodded, pulling her into a hug, careful not to let the shrapnel dig into her skin.

“I thought you were…”

“Very heartwarming,” Mr. Freeze snapped, “but now isn’t the time. We’ve got to go, now.”

Jazz nodded, leaping to her feet. Danny stood as well, slipping his mask and bandanna back on, and grabbing onto one of her arms for support.

They left the cell, Danny doing a double-take as he saw the frozen-over pathway that they had just come from. He looked to Mr. Freeze, tilting his head questioningly.

“There were guards,” he said flatly. “Now hurry up, we need to get out of here.”

Derringer grabbed the two of them, dragging them along as he sprinted through the hallways. They had to take a bit of a detour, coming out of the main entrance instead of the side one they had entered.

Unfortunately, there was an active gunfight going down.

Danny was roughly pulled behind a desk, just barely dodging a few rounds.

His hands shook as he pulled a small ecto-bomb from his bandolier, priming it and throwing it at a small grouping of night guards. They cried out as the pure ectoplasm collided with them, covering their bodies in burns.

The smell, while familiar to Danny, was still horrific.

They took a few shots off at the night guards, trying to take them down. Their group was efficient, but with the rate they were going at, it wasn’t going to be enough. Only adding to that, the gun Mr. Cobblepot had prepared for Mr. Freeze had broken after just a few uses, leaving them unable to create an ice wall.

Then, Danny heard the sound of a gun’s safety being turned off behind them, and his vision went white.

He grabbed onto Jazz and Derringer, making them intangible right as the night guard opened fire.

Waves of nausea hit him all at once and he doubled over, his vision swimming. Danny was only dimly aware of Jazz taking the guard down with a high kick right to the head, and Derringer pulling him into a protective hold.

Ignoring everything, he pulled the last of the large bombs from his bag, throwing it into the air, pulling everyone behind the desk.

The entire room went white.

Danny’s ears rung as he scrambled out from behind the reception desk, dragging Jazz with him.

Luckily, none of the hired hands on his team had gotten injured, but the guards…

Danny looked away, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything would be okay.

The next few minutes were a blur. He knew that he had puked only a few seconds after they had left the building, and that Derringer had picked him up afterwards, carrying him to the truck with Mr. Freeze and Jazz in tow.

Danny’s entire body was wracked with tremors, an unbearable phantom pain passing through the still-healing surgical wounds in his head and torso like lightning. He dry-heaved, shivering uncontrollably.

They drove off soon after. Luckily, no one had been left behind. Someone, probably Derringer, helped Danny rinse out his mouth and got him a bottle of water to drink, wrapping him in his jacket.

As soon as the truck doors were opened within one of Mr. Cobblepot’s safehouses, Danny became aware of the sound of wailing.

Hopping out of the truck, most of his mind still far away, he saw a man being rolled out of the room on a stretcher. He was one of the people who had been on the other truck, Danny realized.

Beside him was a teenager, probably only a few years younger than Danny, who was screaming and crying uncontrollably. They wailed at Mr. Cobblepot, who only stood there with an uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Oh shit,” Derringer breathed. Danny pulled on his sleeve, tilting his head at him questioningly.

“The guy on the stretcher, that’s his sibling.”

Danny just stared, a hollow feeling deep in his chest.

Jazz, her arms now freed from the straightjacket, pulled him away from the scene. Danny let her.

—

[yuripira4e]

trying to explain to other otasune fans that snake is NOT the one with internalized homophobia in their coupling

[hyunjining]

maybe i’m stupid but like 80% of the time when i see those plastic surgery comparison posts about kpop idols i don’t see much difference 😭

[turtleblogatlast]

imo Leo has every right to be prideful about his appearance because if I had red stripes over my eyes, I’d make my face a personality trait too

[confirmeddead]

Hey has ANYONE come up with a theory as to why Fareed is in season 3?

I haven’t seen anyone talk about it.

[bleue-flora]

i need ur opinion on angel cdream

I’ve literally had this for weeks and this is still all I got…

[mycological-mariner]

First day of Pride and I just want to shine a light on all the trans people who are unable to transition, especially those who aren’t fresh faced university grads. Those who don’t live in a supportive or even just accepting home or community. Those who aren’t well off, those who aren’t good at or popular enough to crowd fund. Those who can’t afford transitioning. Those who can’t even transition socially or need to stay in the closet for your safety. Those who rely on benefits or unforgiving jobs to just pay the bills. Having to hear day in and day out you’re just GNC, that your pre-transition body is “ugly” and the ways you can express your gender are “cringe.” Every trans person who’s been told they aren’t “trying hard enough”. Those trans people who won’t even get to imagine transitioning for years.

I see you. I love you. You’re so undervalued and under appreciated in a world where being a white, well off 20 year old on HRT and getting surgery is more common to see than people who work full time and just don’t have that privilege. It sucks, so much. But you are loved and you are seen.

Happy Pride Month to trans people who aren’t where they want to be. The world is better with you in it. We all need each other.