Okay hear me out, BH shapeshifting himself a really big set of feathery black wings, perfect for dat #aesthetic and intimidation

(And also for holding a scared n crying Flug before ripping the person responsible for hurting the soft boi into mince meat :3c )

anonymous asked:

“Cucumber should be well sliced, dressed with pepper and vinegar and then thrown out!” bc cucumber is gross 98% of the time. Cherik probably.

“What the hell is that?“

Charles looks up from his sandwich and smiles, face brightening, “Hello, Erik. Having a good afternoon?”

Erik ignores both the question and Charles’ breathtaking smile in order to keep his disgust evident on his face, “What is that?”

“A sandwich,“ Charles answers simply, “Why is it offending you so deeply?“

The sandwich in question is cream cheese on toast with cucumber gently layered on top. It’s an abomination, an offence to mutant kind. If it was made of metal Erik would have gotten rid of it by now.

“There’s cucumbers on it.“ Erik motions to the sandwich with his right hand, “It’s ruining perfectly good toast and cream cheese.“

Keep reading

so. “conceptions of race are different in Europe than in the US” is a thing that goes around a lot and “no you’re talking about xenophobia not racism” is a thing that goes around a lot in response and… I think that both of these sides actually have half of the truth?

like, Polish people are often used as an example - they are frequently targets of European xenophobia, but it would be incorrect to say that they are not conceptualised as “white,” and the fact that they’re discriminated against doesn’t mean that nonwhite people are discriminated against any less. just that xenophobia may be a more prevalent axis of discrimination in most of Europe than racism is. where I come from in Norway, lots of kids are adopted from Asia, Africa, and South America, and from what I’ve seen those kids tend not to face discrimination or othering once it becomes clear that they’re “culturally Norwegian” and not from a “scary foreign culture.” The problem back home is usually having a foreign-sounding name, coupled with looking different - if you have a Norwegian name and dark skin, you’re usually fine.

BUT, the division of “white” v “PoC” also doesn’t work the same way in Europe as I think it does in the US. to give a personal example, I’m mixed Scandinavian and Latina. The Latina part, ¼, is negligible enough that I’m pretty sure that if I lived in the US, I would pass as white at least most of the time and no-one would look at me and think I looked “different” in any way. Having stayed in both Africa and Asia, I’ve also experienced that when I’m in these regions I get seen as unequivocally “a white person.”

However, back in Norway, I constantly get comments like this: “but you’re not completely Norwegian, are you?” And they’re reacting to the fact that my colouring is darker than what you’d see in a “normal” Norwegian, but what they’re really asking me is “but are you culturally Norwegian?” They see my name, and that tells them I’m Norwegian, but my appearance - again, probably 100% white by non-European (or even non-Norwegian) standards - makes them wonder whether I might not be fully “one of them.” My dad has experienced this too (being half Latino, he’s darker than me) and has even had people imagine that they can hear “an accent” in the way he speaks, even though that would be literally impossible. Then, once I can reassure the asker that I grew up in Norway and the only Argentinean person I know is my grandmother, the questioning stops and they’re happy to accept me as “a real Norwegian.”

As another example, there was one other mixed girl in my primary school, who was half Norwegian and half Indian. Because she looked “more foreign” than I did, she was also subject to more questioning and tried harder to reaffirm her Norwegianness in response. Over time, she distanced herself more and more from her Indian side, and by high school she had stopped using her first name, Sangita, and started calling herself Marie. From what I can see on Facebook, she still calls herself Marie. Also, she uses (and, as far as I know, has always used) only her mother’s Norwegian surname, probably out of a decision by her parents that taking her Indian father’s name would affect her employability much more than looking the way she does with a Norwegian name would. For all I know, he may also have taken his wife’s name to lessen the discrimination he experiences (applications with a foreign-sounding name tend to be thrown straight out by employers, whether that name is Greek or Indian or whatever else).

So basically, what people are saying when they say that racism works differently in Europe than it does in the US, is that racism is more tangled up in xenophobia in Europe than it is in the US. A nonwhite European who has been raised entirely in a European culture, through adoption or otherwise, is less likely to be othered than a nonwhite person who has arrived in Europe as an immigrant, or as the child of immigrants, though that nonwhite immigrant may well face more discrimination than, say, a Polish immigrant, who is still discriminated against due to xenophobia despite being “white.” And then there are people from the Mediterranean, who are often thought of as “not white” and face similar xenophobic/racist discrimination even though an American would think of them as “white.”

TL;DR: In the US, racism seems to be a more prevalent axis of discrimination than xenophobia, though that doesn’t mean xenophobia doesn’t exist in the US. In Europe, xenophobia seems to be a more prevalent axis of discrimination than racism, though that doesn’t mean racism doesn’t exist in Europe. Talking about one region’s axes of oppression through the lens of another’s is still not going to get you very far.

(long post, sorry)

In spite of everything I love Harley Quinn but, damn, writers treat her so badly. I swear, the temptation to make her actually stupid must be terrible because it’s so often implied, or explicitly stated, that she slept her way through school. First of all, it does not work like that.  Second, she’s not a therapist or a psychologist, she’s a psychiatrist, she’s a fricking MD and a damn young one too. Managing pre-med and collegiate gymnastics that she relied on to keep her scholarship? Harley is fucked up, but she’s not the dumb blonde she plays. (also stop making her stacked, she’s a gymnast. she is 4’11” of pure muscle and is not top heavy)

If you want a good Harley backstory it’s simple. She’s ADHD but medicated and slightly robotic because of it. I want to take special care not to demonize meds but, rather, people’s disapproval of neurodivergence and a lack of focus on what is best for a patient rather than what is most convenient for others. So, maybe, around ten years old Harley is a hyperactive space cadet who’s brilliant at tests but sloppy at coursework, who would be a gymnastics prodigy if she could actually focus on technique and put in practice time instead of fooling around. Then the meds come and it’s actually really cool because she can do the things she needs to do instead of just wanting to do them, doing something else entirely, and getting in trouble. People are proud of her, she’s proud of herself. But now there are expectations. Family and teachers and coaches overschedule her, find worth only in her success and don’t care about her mental health at all as long as she’s performing and castigate her when she does fail. Fuck if you don’t internalize that. But she doesn’t look unhealthy and she’s doing amazing. She actually has to choose between the Olympic trials and continuing her grad studies. She probably has some issues with self-harm but it either doesn’t look like self-harm or is well covered up. 

When Arkham accepts her, fresh from her residency, it’s not a mistake. The woman is amazing. All they can see is a mountain of achievements rather than the seething ball of nerves, self-loathing, and imposter syndrome boiling just under the surface. That’s when Joker comes in. He’s got the Hannibal Lecter shtick down. Where everyone else sees an intelligent driven young woman he sees a frightened overwhelmed girl who is working her hardest to convince the world she’s anyone other than herself. Sending her into a nervous breakdown would be too easy so he doesn’t even bother. Instead he’s open with her, almost friendly. The other doctors are amazed, Harley is amazed, she’s not done anything particularly revolutionary but, for the first time in forever, it looks like the clown prince of crime is showing progress. He unravels her and it’s a challenge, she flinches back and gets very serious when he comes too close to the real Harley under the professional. Still, soon she’s questioning everything. She doesn’t even really like her co-workers. She hasn’t had a real friend in years. She’s forgotten how to have fun. Did she ever want this to be her life or did she just do it for other people? It starts so slowly that it looks, at first, like she’s getting better at self-care. Maybe something totally silly one weekend, a trampoline park where she can enjoy the way her toned body moves without stressing out over landings, a face painting booth at a street fair, some garishly colored downright tacky decoration that clashes with her sensible apartment. Suddenly she realizes how much she hates knowing the difference between cream and ecru. The beigeness of her life is repulsive. She hates the person she’s pretending to be even more that she hates herself which is really saying something.

After her weekend of freedom she would have called in sick if it wasn’t so suddenly important to see him. The relief she feels at talking to one of Gotham’s most infamous supercriminals is disturbing but it is relief and she’s been swallowing a slow-motion panic attack for hours. She admits, though she shouldn’t, that she took his advice about doing something fun and he teases her, what would straight-laced Doctor Quinzel do for fun? Did she realphabetize her sock drawer or buy a new clipboard? It’s not important to impress him, it’s really not. He’s dangerous, cruel, and he looks so proud when she admits that she bought a lamp shaped like a lawn flamingo. The only mistake, he says, is that she should have stolen it. She hopes the wicked thrill it gives her doesn’t show on her face. It does. She almost even laughs. He likes it when he can make her laugh and she likes it when he likes things.

It’s wrong and unprofessional, the relationship she develops, and she knows it but her whole life she’s been so high strung. Nothing she’s done has been for her, she’s not sure she knows how to really do selfish things anymore, but he knows the selfish things she needs to do. It feels good when she follows his advice even when it’s small things like the rainbow striped socks she wears concealed under her very bland slacks and sensible shoes. She’s so happy, almost giddy, and he loves her happiness, he loves her, he loves the real her that she’s had to beat down and hide for so long, the her that even she isn’t able to love. She is able to love him, though, and since he loves her she’s able to love herself for him, to protect and nurture something so important to him.

When the choice comes between her old self, the tedious endless labor of making the world proud, and Him, the spectacular man that brought color into her life, it’s not even a question. She kills Doctor Harleen Quinzel, she throws away the version of her that let herself burn just for medals and hollow accolades. She embraces Harley Quinn and it’s so much a part of her nature she can’t even see that she’s still living her life for someone else’s approval, except this time that person is a murderous clown. She hasn’t let her hair down, she’s just put it in pigtails instead of a bun.