Latest Posts by ace-connorhawke - Page 4

Kind of thinking about how Wally resented Kyle taking over Hal's place and seeing it from the pov that Hal and other heroes doubted Wally's ability to fill Barry's shoes as did Wally himself. But here comes this brand new kid who didn't even grow up a superhero like Wally did and everyone suddenly trusts him to fill his Uncle Hal's shoes. And that was so evidently Wally and Ollie's problem someone else was wearing the ring and Hal wasn't there. But for Wally that level of reassurance he needed was given to Kyle in the form of acceptance everyone nodded and said okay cool new GL when they didn't do that for Wally as the Flash. And to dig the knife deeper Wally begged Hal said it's me your nephew listen to me and Hal tossed him aside. But Kyle who didn't know Hal at all managed to get through to him and talk him down. So I think Kyle was just a list of bad reminders for Wally and Ollie and they couldn't handle seeing him around. To add even more insult to injury Hal adored Kyle and clearly was never going to share a sentiment of bitterness about his replacement

also. have you ever watched/read Scott Pligrim? because the idea of Hal having to fight Bruce’s seven evil exes has been consuming me

Ahem. Yeah. I might like Scott Pilgrim. And while the seven evil exes are fun (and we all know Bruce has enough of them to make it happen) please consider:

I drew a boy

The problem with Talia is that there’s basically two different, conflicting versions of her. 

The original characterisation has her very much as someone who would do anything to protect Damian, who did yes, raise him in the league of assassins and have him taught how to kill, but when she realised she couldn’t protect him from Ra’s, sent him to live with Bruce, both to keep him safe and teach him how to be better.

The other, newer characterisation has her as someone who doesn’t care about Damian as anything other than a tool, who put a bounty on his head at one point, had Slade control his movements through spinal implants and did have him killed, (and also that weird plot line where there were a whole bunch of failed-damians). 

Neither of them are necessarily good mothers, but one is definitely worse than the other. So people who consider Talia a good parent probably go from the original charaterisation. 

And as op says, Bruce (for all his flaws) is definitely the better parent, no matter which version. 

When somebody implies Talia is the better parent

Hope you don't mind me putting my two cents in but I don't think that torture is really something that cass would do. Because of her ability to physically read people she's pretty in tune with what kind of pain they are in (and why killing Faizul hit her so hard) I don't think that emotionally or morally she would be able to torture someone.

What do you think are Cass' views on torture?

Hmmm honestly I think she doesn’t like it. She more subscribed to the terrify the shit out of the criminal to get an answer but she’s endlessly compassionate I really don’t think she approves of torture in any circumstance. Also given her abusive childhood, she stays away from that kind of unnecessary violence.

Midpollo week 2018 Day 6: Soulmate au

Apollo

The first thing he saw was white. The white of the walls, white of the coats around him, white of the bed he laid on and the sheets that covered him. Chatter filled the air around him, slowly coming into focus like breaking through water. He wondered where that thought came from, he can't remember ever being in the water.

They told him that his code name was Apollo, that he had chosen to leave his life behind to fight for a better future. He had abilities now, he could fly, punch through walls, shoot lasers from his eyes. He didn't feel any stronger, but he supposed that he didn't really have anything else to compare it to.

Flying was amazing, feeling the wind through his hair, the sun on his skin. It was indescribable. The longer he stayed out there the stronger he felt and the more he could do. He knew that his past self had made the right choice, though he longed for the knowledge of who that man had been.

Midnighter

There was a voice inside his head. A voice that analysed the sounds the people surrounding him made as he regained consciousness, perhaps for the first time. He couldn't remember any other time.

The voice urged him to move, to strike while they thought he was still helpless, even whilst his sight was not fully restored. The man he grabbed screamed, high-pitched and annoying. His head is so full of overlapping knowledge. The room in front of him played out in different scenes, then reset and repeated. Over and over again in the fraction of a second. His head throbbed, and the scream reverberated through the room. The voice told him to snap his neck, to stop the sound, and he nearly did, but another, outside voice interrupts him.

The man called himself Bendix and told him his name was Midnighter. Then he touched his shoulder and where his hand lay, an ugly bruised green print unfurled across Midnighter's skin. He tells him that it was a soulmark. That anytime someone who has an impact on their lives touches them for the first time it leaves a mark, and that the vibrancy of that mark indicates how powerful their effect will be.

The mark Bendix left was unmistakably vivid.

Midnighter wonders if this is a good thing.

Apollo

He met the rest of his team nearly a month after he woke up. It seemed that none of the others had ever met each other before either. All of them had the same story though, no memories but they were assured that they had known what they were signing up for. It was also the first time he put on his uniform, white and gold with a red triangle and eye in the centre. The Stormwatch symbol.

Later on, he remembers feeling proud and shudders.

He watched as they took turns sparring, just to get to know each other's abilities and how they interacted with their own. He watched as a man all in black except for the matching red triangle and eye blazoned on his chest fought against a woman possibly stronger than he was. And won.

Apollo fought his own matches, waiting patiently for the time to come that he could verse the seemingly unbeatable man. Midnighter.

Midnighter

The first time he saw him, he could think of little else. The rest of their team faded away into the background as he regarded the man in front of him, the man who was to lead him. The voice in his head, the computer that had been put there, didn't know what to do with the man, with Apollo. The Sun God. Throughout his other fights the man was a distraction, one that the computer yearned to destroy.

He grinned as he took his position across from Apollo, who returned it with a matching one of his own. Still undecided on his strategy, they circled each other. Neither of them wanting to make the first move.

Then Midnighter struck.

Apollo

He could feel the blood surging through his veins. He was so light on his feet, he was surprised that he wasn't floating. He dodged the first punch thrown his way, feeling the force of it rush past his cheek. He attempted to counter it with his own, but Midnighter had already danced out of reach.

Apollo settled into defence, willing to watch the graceful movement of Midnighter as he whirls around him. And in a moment of distraction, too focused on the bunching of muscles visible even under the black coat, Midnighter lands the first fit.

Apollo swore that the area he touched, his upper arm, tingled. He knew by now of the soulmarks, his body littered with pale, multicoloured fingerprints left by the scientists that worked with him. No doubt they had more effect on his life than others, but not enough to make a hard mark.

In the showers afterwards, he searches the whole area and is bitterly disappointed when no mark has appeared on his skin.

Midnighter

It didn't take them long to realise that the mission had gone to hell. The first sign they had of it was the poor bastard Amaze killed, with his deformed face. Crow Jane had raged that something was wrong but Apollo, in his calm way of his that drove Midnighter insane, determined that they needed to go on. After all Bendix had said that this was a 'proving' mission that was supposed to test them in the worst-case scenario.

The computer wasn't happy.

Still he stuck to Apollo's side, the unofficial second in command that he had appointed himself.

Amaze died first, a bullet to her brain.

Apollo shouted commands, but Stalker quickly followed her in hail fire. Midnighter pulled Apollo out of the way just in time to avoid the blast that killed Lamplight and Impetus. The thing they had seen in that room was monstrous and it was then that Midnighter realised that Bendix hadn't intended for any of them to make it back from that mission alive.

He and Apollo made it out, just barely, with him clinging onto Apollo's back as they flew. But Crow Jane didn't.

Apollo

He scrubbed at the mark on his arm, the skin around it turned pink from the force. Earlier he had tried branding it away, with the last of his reserves of sunlight for the day, but when the skin cleared, the hand-print remained. A yellowish-green reminiscent of a bruise, ironic really that Bendix would be such a colour. Admitting defeat, he leaves the river he was washing in.

For the past few days, he and Midnighter had been on the run, dodging Bendix's attempts to hunt them down and kill them. They decided it would be best for the time being to stay away from civilization, from the technology it brought and the civilians they would be putting in danger. They hadn't eaten or barely slept in that time either, but it barely bothered him, neither of them needed to really.

But he had missed being clean and so convinced Midnighter that near the stream was where they should camp for the night.

Midnighter

He didn't dare make a fire. It would be like a beacon daring Bendix to find them and while Midnighter couldn't wait to but a fist through the fucker's face, he knew that it wouldn't be Bendix that he and Apollo would be facing.

Apollo joins him in the small clearing, uniform stripped to the waist with the arms tied around his torso to keep it from dangling. Midnighter had eschewed his coat and gloves to give them time to air a little.

He didn't need the computer to tell him that something was wrong. He approached Apollo, a question in his eyes.

"They're going to find us." Apollo said hollowly. He looks at the mark on Midnighter's shoulder, "We can't escape him."

"We can."

Apollo shook his head.

"We're going to hide and we're going to plan and then we're going to kill that bastard."  Midnighter cupped Apollo's cheek with his hand. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Came the reply, barely louder than a whisper but they both heard it perfectly.

He gave into the urge, pulling Apollo into a kiss.

Apollo

It was anything but gentle and all Apollo had wanted it to be. He poured his desperation and longing through it and into Midnighter, feeling the same pushed back at him. He reached up to grab Midnighter's neck, drawing him closer still.

Midnighter responded in kind, pushing himself up to cover the small distance between their heights.

Midnighter

Finally, Midnighter pulled back. His hand slipped from Apollo's cheek. A deep blue imprint left in its place. Apollo laughed, breathy and delighted.

Apollo

There was a hand print wrapped around the side of Midnighter's neck, a bright, brazen yellow.

Midpollo Week Day 5 - Just couples stuff 

I saw the picture from this article and I couldn’t resist 

I still hate writing fighting sequences but I think I'm getting better at them

Hey OP? Meet me at the ball pit, I just wanna talk I promise,,,,

SHARE YOUR HEADCANON! BURN US TO ASHES!!

I want you to remember that you asked for this.

I was thinking about Jason’s resurrection and how it was never really explained. I still don’t have an explanation, but I started wondering if he was the only one this had happened to. So the symptoms that I know are that he was like a zombie—confused, disoriented, easily frightened, pale, disheveled. Right? And supposedly the Lazarus Pit is what brought out his unhinged rage.

I don’t think that’s the case because Damian didn’t have those symptoms, at least not that I’ve seen. (And apparently Cass used the Pit as well? And I’ve never seen her shown as displaying a Jason-level rage.) You have to remember that my comics background is very light, but also the comics are a mess, I stick to the narrow band of consistent characteristics, fight me.

So, returning to Jason’s so-called Pit madness, what if the Pit wasn’t the cause of the rage? 

What if the ABSOLUTELY UNMANAGEABLE LEVELS OF STRESS caused by being violently murdered, stitched back together, and then having to DIG YOURSELF OUT OF YOUR OWN COFFIN ONLY TO DISCOVER THAT YOUR FAMILY REPLACED YOU were the true origin of his issues? 

And all the Pit was responsible for was making him lucid enough to express that fairly quickly and also erasing his physical injuries?

If you accept this premise, then you get something very interesting. What if ~someone~ died in a similarly awful fashion and was raised by this unknown power, but did NOT have the baptism by Pit? What would you have then?

You would have a confused, disoriented person still bearing the scars of their death and whatever psychological trauma that was a part of them when they died compounded by likely also digging themselves out of their own grave. Their trauma would likely be amplified by the time it would take to piece back together what little was left of their mind after being resurrected. 

Now assume this person had no Talia to direct their rage. Oh and the pale-as-death skin. Don’t forget that. You could even, feasibly, add in a small backstory about this person being taught as a child to laugh at their fears. 

So you have a psychologically unhinged, physically damaged person with death-madness, no fixed point for their rage, unerased scars from whatever killed them, unnaturally pale skin, and terror out the wazoo because haiiiii murdered and resurrected six feet underground, and then they remember to laugh at their fears. 

What do you get?

Escape Velocity

An exploration of a possible backstory for Tiger

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937247

His earliest memory is of his mother's cooking, and one of the few things he can remember of her. Her long dark hair, soft voice and the shimmering smell of Bosnian Shorba that permeated the air around her. That had been her favourite dish, his father would tell him years later on one of the few times he would speak of her. There had been a bombing that day, whilst he was at school, the shells hitting so close the ground rumbled underneath the force. Their teacher kept them in the classroom until the last of the tremors stopped, his eyes glued to the dust and smoke rising from the window on the east side. From where he lived.

Then he ran, school work abandoned, he ran to the beat of the blood in his ears, until he couldn't feel the breath in his chest. Strong hands caught him as he neared the site. "No! Let me go." He demanded, struggling against the grip. All he could think of was his house, only a few streets over.

"There is nothing you can do Namir. Your father is already there, we will wait for news from him."

Namir turns to face his uncle, fists clenched but sighs at the look on his face. His uncle is right, there is nothing he can do. Perhaps his mother had been visiting a friend or buying ingredients for the night’s meal. She may not have been at home at all, or the bomb could have missed their house, it could have hit the street over and she would be shaken but unharmed.

People stream past them, men going to join the efforts to free those who may be trapped under the rubble, family's joyful shouts as they reunite, the wails of those who have received terrible news.  He stands there throughout it all, with only the heavy weight of his uncle's hand on his shoulder to anchor him to reality, lost within his own mind, heartbeat sharp against his rib cage. The noises seem to reach him through water, everyone moving in slow motion.

Then the water bursts.

A figure emerges from the mass, broad shouldered and bearded, cradling a bundle to his chest. His father knees when he reaches them and Namir reaches out to the cloth, exposing the face of his younger brother. Sangar's small nose wrinkles as he coughs weakly, green eyes fluttering. The cloth is speckled with blood. Namir searches desperately for his mother, looking past his father.

"I'm sorry Namir. I'm sorry son."

-

Namir's temper surges. He doesn't give his opponent time to think, launching himself at the other boy in a whirlwind of fury. There is no skill behind his punches, but there is a strength born of the harsh reality of the life he has lived. His mind his blank save for the roaring in his ears, his whole world narrowed to the taller boy he fought and the exchanging of their fists.

He lands the first blow, glancing off Batoor's cheek.

It has been five years since the war against the Soviet's had ended. There hadn't been much fanfare around the whole affair. One day the fighting just ceased. "The Soviets are leaving." His father had told him, "Najibullanh's government is collapsing. The war is over, Namir." He hadn't known what that had meant, the concept of peace far from anything he had ever known. The fighting had existed before he was born, and he had been so sure it would never end. And yet, the tanks had retreated, the bombs no longer fell.

But that tentative peace hadn't lasted long.

Only two years later the Taliban invaded, a surprise attack that hadn't lasted long. Long enough for those foolish enough to believe in freedom to fight, for those brave enough like his father and uncle to lose their lives.

A hit to his chest has Namir staggering backwards. His foot catches on a rock and he falls, wind rushing from his lungs as he hits his back against the unforgiving ground. Through his gasping, he can just see the figure of the other boy approaching to press his advantage. Namir sweeps his legs out desperately, catching Batoor just below the knee and knocking him off his feet.

By now the two of them have amassed a small crowd. They form a ring around the two fighting boys calling encouragements and insults. Namir's eyes land on an older man, watching them with laser like intensity. Over the din of the crowd he hears the words accompanying the movement of his mouth. "Five hundred that the taller boy wins."

A fresh wave of anger rushes through Namir. He forces himself to his knees. He would not let Batoor win, no matter what any other thought. He stumbles over to him, straddling his chest to deliver, one, two blows to his head. Batoor catches his fist on the third and twists violently.

The two of them roll, tussling in the dirt each throwing punches and kicks at the other as they can. Namir feels Batoor's nails scrape down his arm, the burn of breaking skin.

A cry rings out through the on lookers. Taliban soldiers are approaching. Namir pulls back from the other boy immediately, his anger not enough to make him stupid. He scatters with the rest of the crowd, ignoring the soldier's shouts for them. He knows these streets well, ducking through back alleyways and the smallest of gaps between houses, not slowing until the yells have long since faded into nothingness.

At last he leans against the wall of a house, chest rising and falling as he attempts to catch his breath. He touches his split lip, assessing what damage Batoor might have done.

"You fought well."

Namir whirls around to face the voice. It's the man from before. "You bet against me." He says.

"I did. I wanted to see how you would fight to prove me wrong." The man replies easily.

Namir's eyes narrow in his distaste at being manipulated. "And?"

The man chuckles amused by his boldness. "You fought with a sharp mind as well as strong fists. I have need of boys who can fight like you."

Fear clutches at Namir's heart as he comes to a sudden realisation. "If you are with the Taliban; I am not interested in your wars." He subtly shifts himself away from the man, preparing himself to run.

"No nothing like that." The man reassures, "I am Nangial. I am the manager of many fighters at the Nadi Alqital.” Namir has heard of it before, an underground fight ring, a good place to earn money. “What is your name boy?"

He raises his chin. "Namir."

“Namir.” Nangial hums in consideration, “You were named aptly, little tiger.”

-

The roar of the crowd still echoes through his ears. An arm wrapped around his shoulders steers him into another room, a voice congratulating him. Namir feels numb as he unwraps the blood streaked bandages from around his hands, the adrenaline of the battle draining away to weary tiredness. Nangial hands him a bottle of water. "You did well my fierce Tiger."

Namir doesn't respond, methodically stripping away the last vestiges of the fight. His muscles shake with exhaustion and wounds that will need to be tended to later. For now, he ignores them in favour of wiping the blood from his skin. He needs to return to Sangar soon, he does not like to leave him alone for the entirety of the night, not with his rising renowned making the two of them a target.

Namir wraps his hands with fresh bandages, covering his split and bleeding knuckles. "Will that be all for tonight?" He asks Nangial.

"You don't want to celebrate your victory?" Nangial asks, as he does every time. Namir shakes his head. This night Nangial persists. "If you wish to continue your career you need to make yourself known. There is no way for you to rise above what you have now otherwise, fighting is only part of this."

"I am tried Nangial, perhaps another night."

Namir sees a flicker of greed cross Nangial's face. "Of course, there are other ways to ensure that you are recognised. A way of distinguishing yourself from the rest." Namir nods for him to continue. "I was thinking markings. A tiger, or just stripes."

"Markings?" Namir has thought about tattoos before, intrigued by the idea of them but never anything serious. It was against the teachings of the Prophet. "The Taliban would never allow it, tattoos are haram."

Nangial raises his hands. "No, no, not a tattoo, I would never suggest you imitate the kuffar. But maybe something less... permanent. Paint that can be applied before fights and taken off after." He produces a small pot of black paint. Namir wonders how long that he has been planning this, to be so prepared. He takes the pot, turning it this way and that as he considers it. Namir dips three fingers inside, letting the excess paint drip away, then runs them down the centre of his forehead.

Nangial makes a sound of satisfaction.

Sangar isn't so approving.

"What is that?" He demands as Namir walks through the door.

"Tiger stripes. Nangial believes they will allow me to make more money."

"Of course." Sangar mutters, voice rich with disapproval.

Namir runs a hand through his hair angrily. Sangar has been argumentative recently, and he has heard similar complaints and mutterings all too often lately. "The earnings I make are what allow us to eat, to live in a house and have the clothing we have."

Sangar picks at the edge of the rug, roughly twisting the loose edges between his fingers. "Ah yes, how could I forget. Sometimes I think you are more Tiger than Namir."

"I am tired Sangar, save the arguing for tomorrow." Namir can feel his brother's angry eyes on his back even as he turns away.

-

Namir's hands still, needle halfway through the fabric. Sangar looks down at him, green eyes swim with a mixture of determination and apprehension.

"You are a child." Namir scarcely hears himself talk.  

Sangar crosses his arms, mouth set in a hard line, all hesitation gone. "I am no younger than you were when you started fighting. At least I am doing so for a cause rather my own greed for glory."

Namir stands, his reparation of his shirt forgotten. "I took the job for you, to protect you, to feed you and give you a roof over your head."

Sangar shakes his head. "Maybe at first, but you earn enough to have quit long ago, to have gotten a proper, honourable job." He slumps slightly. "Now you only care for yourself."

A sharp pain lances through him. How could Sangar say such a thing, does he not know the sacrifices that Namir has made for him. "And now you decide to join the Taliban. The people who killed our father and uncle." He spits back, betrayal and disgust warring through him. "You are the one without honour."

His brother flinches. Then his expression hardens. "I have made my decision, I am not asking for your permission nor your approval. I do not need it."  He marches back out the door he just entered, into the street.

Namir watches him disappear from sight. Perhaps if he had known then, he would have chased after Sangar, to apologize and beseech him to return home, to talk him out of the idea. Perhaps he could have changed what happened. But at the time he had not known, instead he stayed frozen where he stood, limbs shaking with the aftereffects of the conversation.

Three months later Kandahar falls. The Americans return in larger numbers and with more weapons than they have before, teaming up with Sherzai and Karzi's men. They bomb Taliban strongholds, promising that not civilians would be harmed. Namir waits with baited breath, as does everyone else who had lived through the war, for the promise to be broken and for houses to be destroyed.

He paces through his home, along the walls until he wears a dent into the rug, for news. Sangar has left to fight, and Namir is conflicted. He does not want his younger brother to be harmed, but still he does not wish for the Taliban to win. And even then, he is not sure if an American rule will be any better, or if they will retreat completely once victorious.

Then, on the sixth of December, the Taliban surrender to Sherzai's men, and on the seventh he appoints himself governor of Kandahar. Sangar did not return to their home, though Namir does hear that many Taliban have fled to Pakistan. He prays that evening that Sangar was one of them.

That night, Namir breaks a punching bag and his right index finger.

-

The attack came with little warning. There had been rumours of the Taliban amassing to reclaim the city of Kandahar as their place of operations, but none expected them to come as they had. Gun fire and shouts fill the streets, rousing Namir from his doze. It is only a little after dawn prayers, and his is tired from the match from the night before.

His bruises scream in protest as he rolls out of bed and dresses, but he ignores them, used to the pain by now.

The last time the Taliban attempted to take Kandahar they succeeded, and Namir lost his father and uncle in the conflict. Then, he was too young to partake, hiding in his home with his brother. This time he intends to fight.

The streets are awash with people; civilians and Afghan and outside military. Namir follows the soldiers as they run towards the conflict, weaving between the fleeing men, women and children. He sees others like him joining in, not military but still willing to fight for what little freedom they have gained since the removal of Taliban forces. The gunfire grows louder as he approaches, cries and the metallic smell of blood thick in the air.

Then he reaches the main square. The Taliban distinguish themselves through the use of black turbans and face coverings. A familiar rage surges through Namir, the adrenaline of the upcoming combat coursing through his veins. He picks up a gun from the cooling body of a fallen man, not giving him a second glance to see who he had been fighting for. There would be time for respect and grief for the dead after the battle is won.

He catches sight of a familiar face. Though it is hardened, baby fat all but lost through the passage of time, the light green eyes cannot be mistaken. "Sangar!" Namir calls, attempting to push through the fray. "Sangar!" His brother makes no indication that he heard, calling to his companions around him, and charging forwards and away.

Namir follows his little brother desperately, not caring whether the people he is knocking out of the way are Taliban or an ally. He loses Sangar in the packed streets, swallowed by the confusion.

A man appears in front of him, shouted commands almost incomprehensible over the noise, gun pointed at Namir. He raises his own gun, the metal cool and unfamiliar in his hands. He is unprepared for the force of the recoil, the shot going wide and hitting a wall. He dodges the return fire, squeezing into a nearby alley for cover. Peeking out, he sees the Taliban soldier struggling to reload. The second shot hits the man in the shoulder and he staggers back with an inarticulate shout.

Namir advances, knocking the man out with a kick to the head from where he writhes on the ground. Another Taliban engages him, a bullet grazing Namir's arm. He hisses at the sting, returning the favour with a bullet of his own. He man swears, dropping his gun in favour of clutching at his leg. Something collides with Namir's back, a strong hand circling his wrist and twisting.

The gun clatters from his grip. Namir slams his elbow back, and the hold loosens. The butt of his opponent's gun catches him on the side of his head as Namir turns, the world swimming before his eyes. He stabilizes himself against a nearby wall, hand held out in front of him to block any attacks. On muscle memory he dodges the first aimed at his torso, sidestepping and using his enemy’s momentum against him. He rips the gun away from the Taliban solider, throwing it to the side.

His opponent swears at Namir, circling him cautiously. Namir snarls like his namesake, lunging forward to knock the other off his rhythm. They exchange blows, Namir clearly the better fighter of the two. He trips the other, throwing him to the floor. A quick blow to the head renders the Taliban soldier unconscious.

Namir winces as his head wound makes itself known, fingers coming away wet when he probes it experimentally

Someone behind shouts at him to halt, and his raises his hands in the face of their threat. His heart leaps as he turns, coming face to face with his little brother. Sangar's grip on his gun wavers, and he lowers it slightly in shock. The rest of the battle fades into the background, as Sangar becomes the centre of Namir's focus. "Hello, brother," he says, voice steadier than he feels.

"...Namir." Sangar takes a step forward, gun lowering even further.

His eyes flicker to Namir's forehead and his mouth tightens. It's been a while since Namir has thought much about the stripes permanently marked on his forehead. He has gotten used to them with time, as have the people around him. Occasionally he still gets disgusted looks, those who believe that tattoos are a mutilation of Allah's creation, but none of them had bothered him. Not like the look his younger brother is giving him now.

"I see you are still playing that ridiculous alter ego of yours. And now to have marked yourself like that." Sangar spits. "You have not changed at all."

Namir does not know if this is true, he is no longer sure who he is, Namir or Tiger. In the ring is the only time he truly feels alive.

"You have grown." He says in answer. "I am glad you are well. I was not sure if you had managed to flee to Pakistan."

Sangar snorts. "Like you ever cared."

Namir catches the glint of metal in the sun. He opens his mouth to call a warning.

Sangar stumbles forwards. A red spot blooms across his chest.

Namir catches his body as he falls. "No." He says helplessly, ripping away his patu, pressing it against the wound. Sangar coughs, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. "Sangar, hold on."

Namir looks around desperately, finding no help in the men who continue to fight around them. He cradles Sangar's head on his lap, applying even more pressure to the wound. Within moments the patu is soaked red, doing little to stem the flow. Sangar's breath rattles as he expels it, each gasp shallower than the last.

"Don't leave me little brother, not again."

The light fades from his eyes.

-

The first thing he notices about the woman is that she has no face. Or more specifically he finds himself unable to remember her face once he looks away.

"I've heard of you. The Tiger King of Kandahar." She says.

He inclines his head slightly in response. She stands in the middle of the Nadi Alqital, surrounded by unconscious bodies. A stream of light from a nearby window catches on her blonde hair.

"You can call me Agent 8." She grins at him, with vicious kind of joy. "What do you go by?"

He hesitates, torn between two lives. But there is nothing left for Namir.

"Tiger."

DC can pry gayace Connor Hawke from my cold, dead fingers

(A Connor and Cass friendship is still amazingly adorable tho, gotta have that wlw and mlm solidarity)

ACTUALLY NVM THERES ONE OTHER CONNER I SHIP CASS WITH

DONT TELL ME YALL WERENT THINKING THE SAME WHEN READING THIS DAMMIT

^this was with Tim driving and Steph taking shot gun. It was a double date and I refuse to hear anything contradictory to that

I will never forgive dc for what they did to Roy. RHATO Roy isn't Roy Harper he just happens to share the same name, that's how different he is. Roy has always been an incredibly important character who grew immensely from when he first appeared to joining the justice league. Even before the end of post-crisis dc was already doing him dirty by killing Lian and having him relapse. RHATO would have been so much better if it had a more accurate Roy (and kory for that matter) who teamed up with Jason cause he could see the similarities between them and wanted to help him just as Dinah helped him. Also Roy should have been the leader of the team as he you know actually led the titans for a while there and has proven himself to be a good leader whilst Jason (at least I think personally) isn't really the leader type.

Not to be Controversial™️ BUT

Roy Harper is an incredibly rich character with a history that spans nearly 80 YEARS and it is a DAMN SHAME that RHATO forced him into a position in which he will either be forever known as a Jason Todd supporting character or be forgotten entirely. The fact of the matter is that RHATO was a badly written book that wrote Roy unacceptably and unremorsefully out of character. The only saving grace was that were good moments within the interpersonal relationships of the characters, and evidently that was enough for people to latch onto the book. It is not a coincidence that most of the book’s avid fans consisted of new readers or Jason stans who either didn’t know anything about Roy to begin with, or just flat out didn’t care about anything other than his relationship in regards to Jason. However, despite being one of seemingly millions of examples of how anything can be popular if it has a shipable ship regardless of quality, the impact that it’s made on a character that hasn’t been an A lister in a long time has been catastrophic. Very few people know or care about Roy outside the context of RHATO and because of the internet, it will never quite be forgotten. And if Roy does in fact die during Heroes in Crisis, I think that not only is this a slap in the face to people who are actually fans of Roy, but is an immense loss to comic book history as a whole. Roy is one of the few characters who has been there since basically the beginning and has endured the test of time. He’s been part of things that literally paved the way for every aspect of the modern comic book industry. I doubt he’ll stay dead forever, but the supporting cast doesn’t usually come back right away, and part of me is afraid that Roy has strayed too far the public eye for editorial to ever really consider him useful again.

Suggestion:

Noah Centineo should play a live action Jason Todd

Look at him, he’d be perfect

THANK YOU FOR NOT MAKING JASON SLYTHERIN LIKE ALMOST EVERYONE DOES.

I KNOW ITS SO STUPID JUST BECAUSE HE'S THE "BAD" ONE LIKE NO STOP MY BOY LOVES TO LEARN OKAY

Yeah, I feel that. It's so hard to chose which houses to put in them when they can fit well in so many. And anyone who doesn't put Tim in Slytherin obviously hasn't read his Red Robin run

The Batkid’s Hogwarts houses

Barbara Gordon: Slytherin 

Dick Grayson: Gryffidnor 

Cassandra Cain: Gryffindor 

Jason Todd: Ravenclaw

Stephanie Brown: Hufflepuff

Tim Drake: Slytherin

Damian Wayne: Hufflepuff

The Batkid’s Hogwarts houses

Barbara Gordon: Slytherin 

Dick Grayson: Gryffidnor 

Cassandra Cain: Gryffindor 

Jason Todd: Ravenclaw

Stephanie Brown: Hufflepuff

Tim Drake: Slytherin

Damian Wayne: Hufflepuff

There’s been a lot of discussion about the “fuck Batman” line in the Titans trailer so I thought I’d put in my two cents. 

There was a lot of anger between Dick and Bruce when they split up, so it is valid that he would say “fuck Batman” if it were in that time period, however he is still in a robin costume which complicates things in whether he is still working with Bruce or not. 

This Dick seems to be in his early twenties and part of the police force, all of which he did while Tim was robin, so it wouldn’t make sense for him to be in the robin costume, he should be Nightwing. If this is the time period they are based in the “fuck Batman” line isn’t valid as they’ve figured most of their issues out at this point (or at least what passes for it with those two). 

TL;DR: For the line to be valid Dick shouldn’t be wearing the robin costume, he should be wearing discowing 

The Birds of Prey movie is going to have Dinah, Helena, Cass and Renee. There is going to be a movie about amazing women of colour, a gay woman and a girl with a disability.

Connor: In your opinion what's the height of stupidity?

Roy [yelling]: Hey Ollie, how tall are you?

Things I need more of:

The lanterns being a family

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Midnighter and Apollo (Comics), Midnighter (Comics), Grayson (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Apollo/Midnighter Characters: Apollo (DCU), Midnighter, Tony (DCU), Dick Grayson, Tiger (DCU), Helena Bertinelli Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Brainwashing, Child Abuse Summary:

Midnighter leans back, crossing his arms. "Apollo and I specialise in punching people. Hard. And we've been told you have someone who needs punching."

This chapter’s mostly just domestic fluff with a smidge of angst. I thought it was time after all the stuff I’ve been putting the bois through.

Jason Todd is the meme lord of all the batkids and u can't convince me otherwise

Clark: and then Krypton exploded killing everyone on it

Bruce: That's so sad batcomputer play despacito

Kon: Do you ever feel like talking about your feelings Tim?

Tim: No

Bart: I do

Kon: I know Bart

Bart: I’m sad

Kon: I know Bart

It’s the truth

Connor and Tim’s friendship is so pure and I need more of it

Look at these nerds talking about their fighting styles in the middle of a fight

All in all the masking tape strategy worked pretty well. For the real thing I definitely need to make sure the fabric's stretched out properly and I'll probably use a couple more layers just to make it really opaque.

I’m painting a practice bat symbol for my Black Bat cosplay

Still got 2 or so layers to go and I didn’t stretch out the fabric enough but it looks good so far 🦇

I'm painting a practice bat symbol for my Black Bat cosplay

Still got 2 or so layers to go and I didn't stretch out the fabric enough but it looks good so far 🦇

The book this is from is justice league: 5 minute stories.

The reason Clark is chasing Hal on a motorbike is because he's been whammied by Poison Ivy and whammied Clark isn't that smart (Hal just likes motorbikes I guess)

The book includes other highlights such as:

Lex's cheesy lines

Aquaman with a shark plushie

Clark and Bruce undercover

And a smiling, waving Hal

I was at the bookstore the other day and I found a book featuring Hal being chased by Clark on a motorcycle