ball busters

prideofgypsies: My squad. The queen the mother @gal_gadot the dark knight the badasss @benaffleck the greatest the savior the gentleman @henrycavill the intelligent the unstoppable @rehsifyar the love my little brother. The gifted one. Ezra. And the reluctant king the ball buster aka drunk unko. 😜#justiceleagueohana #Wearejustice. #allin #cometogether aloha AC

Imagine:

It’s summer time and the mercs have found a good swiming pond that has a natural cliff that they can jump off of all at once. One by one they rush back up to do it again while the others rate the jumps from below. Giving their one-of-a-kind jumps “awesome” names like “the ball buster” “half bikini wax nelson” “ass-assimilation” and “spaghetti” as they jump below hearing the hoops and hollers of their team mates.

Ladykiller (M)

Anon requested: Can I please request a scenario where Taehyung is the resident fuckboi at ur university(it’s a College AU) and you’re the only girl he hasn’t banged yet so when he sees you at a party he makes it his mission to get you out of your pants and into his room annddddddd he accomplishes his mission of you know what I mean😉

I changed it a bit but I hope it’s still okay!

Word Count: 6.7k words


You believed in destiny when your acceptance letter into your top choice came to your house. You believed in destiny when you managed to get a perfect mark with one of the hardest professors in your program. You believed in destiny when you met your best friend in that same lecture hall. Despite your unwavering belief in destiny, you knew it was anything but destiny when the biggest playboy in your university moved across the hall from you.

You vaguely remember seeing a little old lady taking groceries there once but a week later, there he was knocking on your door.

“Hello, I just moved here and I thought I should introduce myself and–” he looked up, smirking when your eyes met.

“Today must be my lucky day.” You answered the door in shorts and a long sweater that covered the emerald green pair. His eyes scanned your body like a bar code and you almost shut the door when he stopped it with his foot.

“Piss off, Kim.”

“If you’re into watersports, give me a few minutes. I can quench that thirst with a golden shower.”

“I really hope you drop dead.”

“That’s so hurtful, petal. I thought you liked me?”

“Like to kill you in your sleep.”

“What I’m hearing is that you’ll get into my bed, right?”

“Wow, deaf too. Goodbye.”

“Selective hearing, petal.”

“Go away, you stalker.”

“For your information, gorgeous, I live across from you now. Might need some sugar later if you catch my drift.”

“Drift away from my door, asshole.” You spit out, the third time you told him to leave and shut the door successfully. He was probably stupidly smiling, now within arm’s reach within you.

The infamous Kim Taehyung, his playboy reputation consists of a swarm of girls that attack him, angry girls that want to get revenge and girls who are proud to sleep with him just once. You, on the other hand, didn’t fit into those three categories at all. You had no interest into Taehyung, finding that he thrives on attention and popularity to make a mark. He was an empty shell that filled itself with alcohol and painting a girl’s walls white with cum.

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I just listened to the audio commentary track on the Industrial Strength Keaton DVD for Buster Keaton’s movie Parlor, Bedroom and Bath (1931).  Commentators Andy Coryell, Bruce Lawton, Steve Massa, and Paul Gierucki state on the audio track that there are color home movies of Lucille Ball (now owned by her daughter Lucie Arnaz) that contain Buster Keaton and Eddie Sedgwick doing antics in the snow sledding down a mountain!

Oh to see that footage!

Harvey Weinstein Is My Monster Too

By Salma Hayek

Dec. 12, 2017

Harvey Weinstein was a passionate cinephile, a risk taker, a patron of talent in film, a loving father and a monster. For years, he was my monster.

This fall, I was approached by reporters, through different sources, including my dear friend Ashley Judd, to speak about an episode in my life that, although painful, I thought I had made peace with.

I had brainwashed myself into thinking that it was over and that I had survived; I hid from the responsibility to speak out with the excuse that enough people were already involved in shining a light on my monster. I didn’t consider my voice important, nor did I think it would make a difference.

In reality, I was trying to save myself the challenge of explaining several things to my loved ones: Why, when I had casually mentioned that I had been bullied like many others by Harvey, I had excluded a couple of details. And why, for so many years, we have been cordial to a man who hurt me so deeply. I had been proud of my capacity for forgiveness, but the mere fact that I was ashamed to describe the details of what I had forgiven made me wonder if that chapter of my life had really been resolved.

When so many women came forward to describe what Harvey had done to them, I had to confront my cowardice and humbly accept that my story, as important as it was to me, was nothing but a drop in an ocean of sorrow and confusion. I felt that by now nobody would care about my pain — maybe this was an effect of the many times I was told, especially by Harvey, that I was nobody.

We are finally becoming conscious of a vice that has been socially accepted and has insulted and humiliated millions of girls like me, for in every woman there is a girl. I am inspired by those who had the courage to speak out, especially in a society that elected a president who has been accused of sexual harassment and assault by more than a dozen women and whom we have all heard make a statement about how a man in power can do anything he wants to women.

Well, not anymore.

In the 14 years that I stumbled from schoolgirl to Mexican soap star to an extra in a few American films to catching a couple of lucky breaks in “Desperado” and “Fools Rush In,” Harvey Weinstein had become the wizard of a new wave of cinema that took original content into the mainstream. At the same time, it was unimaginable for a Mexican actress to aspire to a place in Hollywood. And even though I had proven them wrong, I was still a nobody.

One of the forces that gave me the determination to pursue my career was the story of Frida Kahlo, who in the golden age of the Mexican muralists would do small intimate paintings that everybody looked down on. She had the courage to express herself while disregarding skepticism. My greatest ambition was to tell her story. It became my mission to portray the life of this extraordinary artist and to show my native Mexico in a way that combated stereotypes.

The Weinstein empire, which was then Miramax, had become synonymous with quality, sophistication and risk taking — a haven for artists who were complex and defiant. It was everything that Frida was to me and everything I aspired to be.

I had started a journey to produce the film with a different company, but I fought to get it back to take it to Harvey.

I knew him a little bit through my relationship with the director Robert Rodriguez and the producer Elizabeth Avellan, who was then his wife, with whom I had done several films and who had taken me under their wing. All I knew of Harvey at the time was that he had a remarkable intellect, he was a loyal friend and a family man.

Knowing what I know now, I wonder if it wasn’t my friendship with them — and Quentin Tarantino and George Clooney — that saved me from being raped.

The deal we made initially was that Harvey would pay for the rights of work I had already developed. As an actress, I would be paid the minimum Screen Actors Guild scale plus 10 percent. As a producer, I would receive a credit that would not yet be defined, but no payment, which was not that rare for a female producer in the ’90s. He also demanded a signed deal for me to do several other films with Miramax, which I thought would cement my status as a leading lady.

I did not care about the money; I was so excited to work with him and that company. In my naïveté, I thought my dream had come true. He had validated the last 14 years of my life. He had taken a chance on me — a nobody. He had said yes.

Little did I know it would become my turn to say no.

No to opening the door to him at all hours of the night, hotel after hotel, location after location, where he would show up unexpectedly, including one location where I was doing a movie he wasn’t even involved with.

No to me taking a shower with him.

No to letting him watch me take a shower.

No to letting him give me a massage.

No to letting a naked friend of his give me a massage.

No to letting him give me oral sex.

No to my getting naked with another woman.

No, no, no, no, no …

And with every refusal came Harvey’s Machiavellian rage.

I don’t think he hated anything more than the word “no.” The absurdity of his demands went from getting a furious call in the middle of the night asking me to fire my agent for a fight he was having with him about a different movie with a different client to physically dragging me out of the opening gala of the Venice Film Festival, which was in honor of “Frida,” so I could hang out at his private party with him and some women I thought were models but I was told later were high-priced prostitutes.

The range of his persuasion tactics went from sweet-talking me to that one time when, in an attack of fury, he said the terrifying words, “I will kill you, don’t think I can’t.”

When he was finally convinced that I was not going to earn the movie the way he had expected, he told me he had offered my role and my script with my years of research to another actress.

In his eyes, I was not an artist. I wasn’t even a person. I was a thing: not a nobody, but a body.

At that point, I had to resort to using lawyers, not by pursuing a sexual harassment case, but by claiming “bad faith,” as I had worked so hard on a movie that he was not intending to make or sell back to me. I tried to get it out of his company.

He claimed that my name as an actress was not big enough and that I was incompetent as a producer, but to clear himself legally, as I understood it, he gave me a list of impossible tasks with a tight deadline:

1. Get a rewrite of the script, with no additional payment.

2. Raise $10 million to finance the film.

3. Attach an A-list director.

4. Cast four of the smaller roles with prominent actors.

Much to everyone’s amazement, not least my own, I delivered, thanks to a phalanx of angels who came to my rescue, including Edward Norton, who beautifully rewrote the script several times and appallingly never got credit, and my friend Margaret Perenchio, a first-time producer, who put up the money. The brilliant Julie Taymor agreed to direct, and from then on she became my rock. For the other roles, I recruited my friends Antonio Banderas, Edward Norton and my dear Ashley Judd. To this day, I don’t know how I convinced Geoffrey Rush, whom I barely knew at the time.

Now Harvey Weinstein was not only rejected but also about to do a movie he did not want to do.

Ironically, once we started filming, the sexual harassment stopped but the rage escalated. We paid the price for standing up to him nearly every day of shooting. Once, in an interview he said Julie and I were the biggest ball busters he had ever encountered, which we took as a compliment.

Halfway through shooting, Harvey turned up on set and complained about Frida’s “unibrow.” He insisted that I eliminate the limp and berated my performance. Then he asked everyone in the room to step out except for me. He told me that the only thing I had going for me was my sex appeal and that there was none of that in this movie. So he told me he was going to shut down the film because no one would want to see me in that role.

It was soul crushing because, I confess, lost in the fog of a sort of Stockholm syndrome, I wanted him to see me as an artist: not only as a capable actress but also as somebody who could identify a compelling story and had the vision to tell it in an original way.

I was hoping he would acknowledge me as a producer, who on top of delivering his list of demands shepherded the script and obtained the permits to use the paintings. I had negotiated with the Mexican government, and with whomever I had to, to get locations that had never been given to anyone in the past — including Frida Kahlo’s houses and the murals of Kahlo’s husband, Diego Rivera, among others.

But all of this seemed to have no value. The only thing he noticed was that I was not sexy in the movie. He made me doubt if I was any good as an actress, but he never succeeded in making me think that the film was not worth making.

He offered me one option to continue. He would let me finish the film if I agreed to do a sex scene with another woman. And he demanded full-frontal nudity.

He had been constantly asking for more skin, for more sex. Once before, Julie Taymor got him to settle for a tango ending in a kiss instead of the lovemaking scene he wanted us to shoot between the character Tina Modotti, played by Ashley Judd, and Frida.

But this time, it was clear to me he would never let me finish this movie without him having his fantasy one way or another. There was no room for negotiation.

I had to say yes. By now so many years of my life had gone into this film. We were about five weeks into shooting, and I had convinced so many talented people to participate. How could I let their magnificent work go to waste?

I had asked for so many favors, I felt an immense pressure to deliver and a deep sense of gratitude for all those who did believe in me and followed me into this madness. So I agreed to do the senseless scene.

I arrived on the set the day we were to shoot the scene that I believed would save the movie. And for the first and last time in my career, I had a nervous breakdown: My body began to shake uncontrollably, my breath was short and I began to cry and cry, unable to stop, as if I were throwing up tears.

Since those around me had no knowledge of my history of Harvey, they were very surprised by my struggle that morning. It was not because I would be naked with another woman. It was because I would be naked with her for Harvey Weinstein. But I could not tell them then.

My mind understood that I had to do it, but my body wouldn’t stop crying and convulsing. At that point, I started throwing up while a set frozen still waited to shoot. I had to take a tranquilizer, which eventually stopped the crying but made the vomiting worse. As you can imagine, this was not sexy, but it was the only way I could get through the scene.

By the time the filming of the movie was over, I was so emotionally distraught that I had to distance myself during the postproduction.

When Harvey saw the cut film, he said it was not good enough for a theatrical release and that he would send it straight to video.

This time Julie had to fight him without me and got him to agree to release the film in one movie theater in New York if we tested it to an audience and we scored at least an 80.

Less than 10 percent of films achieve that score on a first screening.

I didn’t go to the test. I anxiously awaited to receive the news. The film scored 85.

… Read the rest at https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2017/12/13/opinion/contributors/salma-hayek-harvey-weinstein.html

Bowling {Batfamily + Reader}

warnings~ extreme puns

summary~  the reader takes the batfam bowling to get them all to spend time with eachother

a/n~ sorry i’ve been gone for so long! school has been super duper busy lately, and i haven’t had much time to write. thanks for being patient though, i hope you enjoy this! :)


“A size 9 please,” you said to the employee over the counter. Hearing a loud huff behind you, you turned and crossed your arms. 

“Stop being a dickhead, Jason. You’ll have fun!”

“Define ‘fun.’“ Jason mimcied your crossed arms. 

“Don’t bring down the rest of the family, okay? We all really need a family fun night, and what’s better than bowling? We’re all not spending enough time together, this is good for us,” You said in a low voice, careful not to let the boys hear you. A few feet away, Dick had Tim in a noogie while Damian was reading a book called, “How to Kick Ass at Bowling.” Bruce was talking on the phone, probably to some lame businessman. You sighed at the sight of him too distracted to help Tim out of the noogie. “Now instead of complaining, why don’t you go help your brother?” You pointed to the predicament.

Jason turned and saw the tussling and rubbed his forehead, “Fine. But if Dick tries to give me a noogie then I’m gonna give him the worst purple nurple he’ll ever have,” he said as he walked towards them. You laughed then turned back to the counter.

“Your shoes, ma’am,” The worker said, “Your group will be in lane 12, have fun!” 

“Thank you,” you turned and saw Jason arguing with Dick over who’s a better bowler. You rolled your eyes as you walked towards them.

“Will you two stop arguing for two damn seconds?” You said over their voices, “We’re in lane 12, let’s go.”

The group followed, but Bruce was still on his phone. 

“I’m going to go first,” Damian put his book down next to the score-tracker and entered his name as the ‘Ball Master.’ A dirty snicker came from Jason, “You shoulda named yourself the ‘Majestical Ball Buster.’” You elbowed him and then did the same to Dick when he laughed. 

“Hey guys, which bowler floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee?” Tim grinned, “Muhammad Alley.”

You snorted and Jason scoffed. Damian selected a bowling ball and started to walk towards the lane. “Did you ever learn to bowl in the League of Asses?” Jason asked loudly.

“Shut up, Todd. I happen to be naturally good at things like this, especially something so easy.” Damian yelled back. He awkwardly shuffled his feet then whipped the ball forward. The ball went about 3 feet before it rolled into the gutter. Jason started laughing hysterically and Dick tried to hold in his snickers. “I-I wasn’t prepared!” Damian excused.

“My turn!” You said as you stood up from the seat. You grabbed a bright green and pink bowling ball and walked across the crazily patterned carpet. You stepped onto the lane and gently rolled the ball across the wooden isle. 9 pins fell over and you turned and bowed towards the family, “Thank you, thank you,” you jokingly said as Tim, Jason, and Dick golf clapped. You sat back down and Dick went up next. 

Bruce was still talking on the phone, “Bruce,” you interrupted, “Can’t you do this later? We’re all supposed to be spending time together.”

“Yes. Wait. Hang on a moment. No. Give me a minute,” Bruce said over the phone, halting the call. “This is important, Y/N.”

“More important than being with your family?”

Bruce sighed and put the phone back to his ear, “I have to go. We will deal with this later. I don’t- No I- I’m going now. Goodbye,” he annoyedly hung up.

“Thank you,” you smiled and patted him in the shoulder, “It’s your turn to go.”

“I don’t think so. I just want to watch you guys play,” Bruce rubbed his neck.

“Please?” You pleaded.

“Not right now.”

Please?

“No.”

“If you don’t, I’ll cry,” you said sadly.

Bruce thought for a moment, “Fine.” He got up and picked up a bowling ball. 

“Nice form, Brucie!” Jason yelled.

Bruce vehemently groaned and rolled the ball, knocking down all of the pins. The television screen above him flashed STRIKE. “Aw…come on, that’s not fair. He’s good at everything,” Dick whined while sinking into his seat.

“Please, you’re about to see a real pro,” Jason stood up and cracked his knuckles. 

“This’ll be good,” you said quietly to Dick.

Jason grabbed a ball and turned to the group, “Hey guys! I officially have a blue ball!” He joked. Then, he turned and tossed the ball into the lane, hitting a single pin. “Oh, shit.”

Tim laughed so hard he turned red and Damian chuckled while hiding behind his book. Jason walked back to his seat with false confidence, “That’s just how I roll, I’ll be here all night, folks.”

After a couple hours of bowling and arguing, Bruce won with a score of 296. Damian wouldn’t stop complaining about his score.

“That was extremely rigged. The balls were off balance!” Damian complained as everyone walked towards the food bar. 

“If they were rigged, how did I do so well?” Jason asked smugly.

“You just suck, Mr. 62 out of 300,” Dick laughed.

“Where did you learn to bowl?” You asked Bruce.

“Nowhere, really. I just..know how to do it,” Bruce shrugged.

“I guess you could say that bowling is….right up your alley,” Tim said. 

Everyone groaned and rolled their eyes.


masterlist

Blanket Stealing

A/N: A Spencer x Reader where they are friends (just friends) and are forced to share a hotel room on a case. They have the same kind of relationship as Garcia and Morgan. Fluffy, flirty friendship stuff. Enjoy! @coveofmemories

                                                            ——

“I call Spence!” you said, reaching backward from the couch to grab Spencer’s arm. The case had you staying in town overnight and there were limited rooms available in the motel in town, so people had to double up. Whenever that happened, you called Spencer; he was pretty much your best friend in the world and he also a heavy sleeper, so you didn’t have to deal with Emily’s constant kicking, JJ’s tossing and turning or Morgan’s snoring, which he insisted he didn’t do. You’d never shared a room with Rossi or Hotch, but as your bosses that felt a little weird.

“Why do you always call me? It’s probably because you desperately want to get into bed with me,” he stuttered with a laugh. 

Spinning around, you kneeled on the couch facing him.  “Of course it is, Spence. There is nothing I want more in this world than your lanky, geek bod.” You actually thought Spence was cute, but you never passed up an opportunity to rag on him.

“You don’t have to beg so much,” he laughed, as everyone made their way to their rooms. After racing each other toward the room, during which time you both tried to force your way in before the other, you fought over who got to use the bathroom first. 

“I call it!” you screamed, trying to push past him. “Come on!” He’d pushed you out of the way and locked the door, keeping you from getting changed and passing out for another few minutes. “Spence, I’m tired. I wanna go to bed. Hurry up.”

Instead, he busted your metaphorical balls by taking his sweet time changing and brushing his teeth. “I don’t know,” he started, nearly unlocking the door and then locking it again, “I may be another few minutes.”

“Spencer Walter Reid, I will fucking kill you,” you said, banging against the bathroom door. You were starting to get a second wind, which you didn’t want. You needed to start the case fresh in the morning and getting a second wind would keep you up for at least another couple of hours. “Get your skinny ass out of the bathroom.”

He laughed like a maniac as he finally opened the bathroom door, allowing you to get in and start your nightly routine. After removing your makeup, washing your face, brushing your teeth and getting changed, you left the bathroom and immediately pulled a pillow from your side of the bed to smack Spencer with it. “Now I’m awake, you bastard!” you said, bringing the fluffy pillow down on his head repeatedly. 

“I’m sorry,” he laughed, shielding his head from your soft assault. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“You are not,” you said, flopping down onto the bed as he laughed. “You’re such a ball-buster.”

Spencer snorted, pulling the blankets off of the lower half of your body. “You don’t have balls,” he laughed, “But you make it so easy! You get so cranky at night, it’s hard not to mess with you.”

After you smacked him yet again, ripping the blanket back toward you and covering yourself with it, he attempted to let you sleep, but since he’d woken you up, you were tossing and turning. “Stop moving,” he mumbled, now tired himself.

“I wouldn’t be moving if you hand’t fucked with me,” you retorted. You had your eyes closed and shoved into the pillow in an attempt to get to sleep - shutting off any outside stimulation. “I should murder you.”

“But you can’t because the team would definitely catch you. They’ll avenge me.”

“We are the best,” you laughed, kicking his shin. That would have to substitute for murder. 

He jerked back violently, causing you to open your eyes. “Holy hell, Y/N, your feet are freezing!”

“Then give me more blanket, fool!” Again, you ripped the blanket toward yourself in an attempt to thaw out your feet. Instead of tugging it toward him, Spencer threw the blanket off himself and walked over to his duffel bag.

A ball of blue flew toward you and you caught it. It was a pair of his socks; they had anchors on them. “Wear some of my socks. They’re really warm and that way if I happen to steal the blanket from you, your feet won’t be cold.” Reaching down, you slipped on Spencer’s long socks and settled into the bed again. 

“Goodnight, ball-buster,” you said, closing your eyes with a yawn. Finally. 

In one final attempt, you tugged the blanket toward you again. “Goodnight, blanket-stealer.”

2

Excuse the image quality but this deserves your attention. 

These images are from a Korean commercial for a console called the “Super Comboy ” produced by Hyundai Electronics. Basically an official Super Famicom/SNES clone that played the same library of games.

Never thought i’d see the likes of Buster Bunny chilling with Krillin and Yoshi.

Watch the full commercial here

Women are taught that their anger is ugly, that their anger shouldn’t be expressed, that their anger makes the unappealing, irrational, ridiculous.

Women are taught that expressing any anger threatens their romantic relationships, that they’ve got to smooth it over and shove it down and bottle it up or they’ll be unloveable and alone. Women and taught that they’ve got hide their hurt and hide their rage and justify their mistreatment and make it work, that they have to settle for ignoring their own feelings, hide their irritation, in order to earn safety and stability in their relationships. Not to stir the pot, not to overreact, not to start ‘drama’.

It’s toxic and unhealthy and unfair that women are forced to live in dread of being labelled a ‘nag’ or a ‘controlling bitch’ or a ‘ball buster’ or whatever other misogynistic term and have to exhaust themselves putting their partner first trying to be the cool and perfect and chill and undemanding and never, ever needy girlfriend for fear of being a burden and dead weight just for having feelings.

Chris Evans Imagine: Ball Buster

I felt drained after so much angst writing over the last couple of days so I fancied something a little sweet!

Imagine Chris gets asked about you, his latest co-star, in a television interview. But you don’t know he’s developed a lil’ crush on you!

“She’s amazing, seriously. She’s fuckin’ hilarious, I just laughed all day long during filming. And she busts my balls a bit, which I kinda secretly like, y'know, she doesn’t let me get away with any ego shit.”

Which you need?

“Probably more than I like to admit! My mom came to visit while we were shooting, near the beginning, because it was her birthday y'know, and so a group of us take her out for dinner and my mom just loved her. Then she starts getting really embarrassing, as moms do - ‘Chris, you need to bring this girl back to Boston and marry her!’ - and, bearing in mind this is a girl I’ve known for a crazily short amount of time at this point, but she just turns, gives her best deadpan and says, ‘I’m sorry to say this about your son but I’m way too good for him.’ My mom falls about laughing at me, this girl can do no wrong, I swear! I think she might actually be perfect.”

Originally posted by ohevansmycaptain