yo if anyone links you to the english version could you link me too?
Hell fucking yeah I can
I saw that beanie in a store the other day and immediately thought of Diana.
“THEY ARE ALL MINE NOW I WILL GIVE THEM A GOOD HOME”
(via slyrider)
All right, @notsumma it won’t let me reply directly to your reply on the SPN Tirade because this website is CONSTANTLY in need of a white knight (I love X-Kit guys) and is currently acting up with that function, so here we go:
so assuming that by s7 the show you liked was 4 years dead, that lines up with Eric Kripke’s opinion. you know, the creator of the show. he wanted to stop at the end of s3, but the network was like ‘nah, we’re making money.’ then at the end of s5 he didn’t reup his contract, so everything from s6 on is just high-production-value fanfiction.
THIS EXPLAINS SO MUCH, the first three seasons are good fun–it ain’t Shakespeare, but I knew what I was getting into–and even up to five…sort of hung together, at the very least, and then it goes OFF THE GODDAMN RAILS, wow, this answers so many questions. And also, like, basically I was right? It’s basically two totally different Frankenshows with the same characters and premise loosely divided by the whole Lucifer situation.
skymurdock asked: look I am sleepy and tired and I've got some school shit to attend to pre-enrollment tomorrow so HEY MORAN how would you write an AU where Steve Trevor ends up as the Winter Soldier figure. bc we need more of that trope always.
Okay so I’m real into Winter Soldier AUs where their identity is discovered in the WORST AVAILABLE WAY (well, all WS AUs tbh but like come on I like to see people break down), and also this morning @littlestartopaz suggested that the Waynes are basically the Starks but more humanitarian and less weapon designer (also please note that I generally adhere to Unpretty’s Batman personality because I like it).
So basically what I’m saying here is that Bruce, after the League has formed up and suffered a nasty battle that dredged up a lot of people’s old issues, returns to the unsolved case of his parents’ murder and mulls over the information . He has done this for most of his life when things go awry, not so much because he expects to solve the crime anymore or even because he’s still as emotionally locked in that moment as he once was, but just…it’s his parents and he doesn’t know and if there’s one thing the Batman hates, it’s not knowing.
This time he has actual people, though, and while Clark mostly goes home to Metropolis and his day job, Diana is formally speaking on leave from her day job and she knows who he is and he lets her stay in his mansion because she really loves his gardens. (This is what clinches it for Diana–the Batman is a marshmallow under that layer of body armor.) So she comes across this research and the two of them start poking around and they find a loose end that Bruce hasn’t seen before. They start pulling on it and at first they think that it goes nowhere, that it dead ends in a conglomerate of the wealthy and ethically deficient that dissolved decades ago and took all their records with it.
Two days later, Dick Grayson (probably around seventeen now) hears a quiet beep when he opens his car door and it’s only the years of practice that let him throw himself back fast enough to escape most of the shrapnel. Bruce shows up to the hospital where Dick is getting bandaged up (burns to his left forearm and lower leg, two cracked ribs, and a nasty bit of road rash on his right cheek and shoulder) like the wrath of God, and Diana is already on site, sifting through the debris for a clue. This is a warning, plain and simple, targeting the eldest son–death of the firstborn, Dick says like it’s at all funny, aren’t there supposed to be some other plagues before that?–but a critical mistake has been made. Bruce Wayne is rich and powerful and people know it, and feel threatened even by ‘eccentric playboy Brucie’ because, well, one time he found out someone was paying off a surveyor to build one of his buildings on a burial site, and he came down like the fist of an angry god.
Batman, defending his partner and adopted son, is going to rip these people to shreds.
“Huh,” Diana says with interest, tapping her comm so that Bruce can hear her. She’s picking over what’s left of the bomb itself, armored and disinterested in the police nervously milling about. “I haven’t seen a weight trigger like this since I was in the trenches.”
The manhunt that gets underway is subtle, at first, Diana and Bruce operating from the shadows or with the mild interest of superheros who happen to be in the area, while Clark calls in a few favors to look into the names that Bruce and Diana were pulling at. The rest of the League isn’t told, not yet, because Bruce is protective of his identity and even more so of his secrets and he’s still adjusting even just to Diana and Clark.
Diana does a lot of the legwork. Clark has a secret identity to keep up and Bruce has an injured kid to duct tape to a bed (the entire Wayne household redefines ‘bad patient’ to levels that frankly amaze Diana even now) so Diana is mostly the one quietly talking to people, pushing for information, searching, seeking, hunting.
It draws attention to her, because it looks like Bruce took the warning seriously while she did not.
It takes less than a month for someone to be sent to…deal with her.
Diana is just leaving the house of a woman whose dead husband’s brother’s boss might have had something to do with the whole mess–all of her leads have been like this, but Diana doesn’t mind because Bruce should see that people don’t always have darkness in their souls. She’s willing to work with his kids and Clark on proving the point. Also, she finds the concept of attacking children as horrific as she did a century ago at Veld, and Hades have mercy on anyone who did, because Diana certainly wouldn’t. (Dick had protested that he’s almost an adult and besides he’s been fighting crime since he was nine, and Tim sat on him. Carefully. With affection.) So yeah, she’s fine with digging through people who are at two or three removes from the situation on the off chance that they might have information. Also this particular woman makes lovely home-mixed tea with rosehips and lemon and honey, so there’s also that.
She’s not certain that she’s being followed until she turns into an alley and the figure drifts after her, and…he’s good, she almost missed him. Diana admits it at once–never underestimate your opponent, Antiope’s voice whispers through the years–and twists on her heel to face him. She believes he’s male, but he’s masked, hard plastic too pearly to be skin that covers his face from just below his eyes all the way down, hiding mouth and keeping his jaw closed like a muzzle. His hair was buzzed short at some point, but it’s growing out, as if no one tends to it, and his eyes are as cold and empty as the clear sky at midwinter.
Diana feels a little sick. She was ready to take him down, hard and fast, but the man following her looks more like a tormented hunting hound than anything else. Like he’s forgotten what it’s like to be treated as human.
“Why are you following me?” she asks, holding a hand out, palm down, as if gentling a nervous horse. “Can you tell me who sent you?”
He raises a gun and shoots twice without so much as batting an eye. Diana barely gets her bracers up in time, and then the alley is a melee battle, gun and blind determination against lasso and lifelong training.
Obviously, Diana wins, and the gun clatters away, followed by not one but three knives and a second small gun. Her opponent carries more weapons on him than Bruce does, which is no small feat, and finally she tackles him outright, bracing one knee on his left wrist and catching his right in her hand as she uses all her strength to deny his attempts to throw her off, already demanding answers.
“I said,” she snarls, hooking her nails under the mask and ripping it away, “who sent–” Her words strangle on her tongue as the mask drops from nerveless fingers. “Oh Hades,” she breathes, and reaches out, hand trembling. “Steve?”
He takes the moment of weakness to slam his head into her nose, and she rocks back as he rolls away. She lashes out on instinct with her lasso, catches his ankle and yanks him back down onto the asphalt.
“Steve,” she says again, getting a better look at his face this time.
He bares his teeth at her, as if threatening to tear her throat out if that’s what it takes. “Who the hell is Steve?”
Okay but also DC Bombshells! It is The Best Thing! More WOC! More queer ladies! More 1940’s costume interpretations!
I ALWAYS FUCKING FORGET ABOUT BOMBSHELLS dude I gotta read this also
me when i was 12: ‘power of friendship’ stories are so lame and cliche like who cares its just a dumb plot device it’d never work :/
me now: My Love For My Friends Could Topple Cities. It Could Fell Empires. It Could Kill the Gods Themselves But It Won’t Because Then We’d Have Nowhere To Hang Out
(via windbladess)
Anonymous asked: So your rant on Supernatural? Also I fell in love with the story you're talking about and basically want to know more. Sorry.
My buddy, you have made An Error, but let’s do this shit. To any SPN fans who have wound up here through Ye Olde Search Function, I encourage you to stop reading now.
I watched up to about halfway through Season Five before I decided that I could Do It Better (I think this is the novel you’re talking about, anon, unless it’s Earth is where the trouble comes from), and dragged myself up to about halfway through Season Seven before I packed it in and gave up, resigned that the parts of the show I loved were about four to five seasons dead. So like that’s the information I’m working on here.
So, obviously, lots of people have lots of legitimate complaints about Supernatural, including treatment of queer characters, characters of color, and women, as well as their fairly rampant history of queerbaiting. And lots of people have covered this in more competent detail than I could ever manage, so like google “sexism in Supernatural” or something and you can do your own reading there. Hell, if you want to do it the lazy way, you can knock out two of the above with this one article in friendly, easy-to-read Buzzfeed format. To the nominal credit of the people involved, I will add that the cast seems acutely aware of these problems and finds it distasteful, HOWEVER the problems persist and therefore that credit is minimal. Anyway. These things are covered much more thoroughly by many other people who are far more cogent than I could hope to be, so I’m going to leave those alone.
Instead, my rant is mostly summed up as “YOU CALL THIS SHIT STORYTELLING.”
So there are four basic parts to this rant, or rather four basic flaws that form the fundamentally weak foundation of Supernatural as a narrative.
- Failure to commit to a single cohesive narrative
arc, also known as “SOME OF THAT AND SOME OF THAT AND SOME OF THAT AND SOME OF
THOSE” syndrome
- The persistent and erroneous belief that
character death = character development and narrative progression
- Inability to commit to a major change of
paradigm, also known as out and out narrative cowardice, which I personally
call “flinching during Plot Roulette”
- Total incapacity to put their characterization
where their script is regarding the Winchester brothers and the other major players
*cracks knuckles*
