From sunset to sunrise is a long time. These patrol shenanigans are bound to happen:
•Chicken fights begin on the roof tops of Gotham. Steph on Tim’s back, Cass on Jason’s, Damian on Dick’s, and Duke on Bab’s. When they’re feeling particularly daring(or bored) they have piggy back races from roof top to roof top. The fun evidently ends with someone nearly falls off a roof.
•Someone buys a cake(most likely Steph or Jason) and all eight bat kids find a spot on a secluded roof to wolf down the mammoth of a chocolate cake. Back at the manor, they nearly pass Alfred’s attentive eye till he catches an icing smear across Stephs gloves. Steph is now on a temporary suspension from the cake eating club.
•Girls vs boys dance competitions. The score gets real tough to judge when Dick and Barbara get real into it. We’re talking epic sprinkler and moon walks. Jason nearly fell off the roof he laughed so hard.
•With what each of the bat kids has been through, it’s rare any of them can scare one another, but that doesn’t persuade them from trying. A jump scare or a deranged mask usually gets a laugh. Each kid has tried new and clever ways to get a scream out of one another. No trick has worked till one night someone(no one has stepped up) scared Damian so bad, you could have heard his scream from across the block. It’s safe to say non of the kids have and will ever let him live that one down.
•It’s not a secret that Bruce keeps a close eye on all the kids durning the night, so it has became a well kept secret amongst the bat kids of how to sneak junk food into patrol. The heist mostly consists of two groups, one to distract Bruce and the other to run into a local convenient store and buy a full bag of sugary sweets. Gummies or anything high in sugar was banned from the Wayne house after Tim and Duke went on a sugar high and sang A Whole New World as they swung through the streets.
•Hand stand contests begin on the edge of rooftops during snack brake. Dick always wins. Tim is the first to go down, usually because Jason or Damian knocks his balance off.
•Speaking of snack brake… The kids regularly drop by Micky D’s by taking a walk through the drive threw, where they always get free food.
•And still speaking of snack brake… Slushies on the clock tower is a regular tradition. The bat kids come together as a collective and walk into the nearest gas station to load up on two slushies each(cause, you know, where does one get the energy to run over roof tops and fight bad guys?). But they were caught and banned by Bruce from all gas stations when the security footage was aired on national news tv.
•Jason found two abandoned water guns on the river bank. He than proceeded to spray every member of the bat family(except Selina) with the putrid river water. It didn’t end well for him when he got Babs in the eye. Let’s just say he’ll be feeling it in his nads for a couple of weeks.
•It’s kinda a known secret that the police HQ roof is a hot spot for “bat family sightings.” An Instagram fan page was made by an
anonymous Gothamite, which started an “unofficial competition” amongst the bat kids of who could be featured the most on the page.
•Steph created a snapchat account called the Night Birds. With her smart phone she followed each member of the bat family around, capturing spotlight moments. Some of these moments were of Jason making sarcastic kissing gestures that were directed at Dick; Damian slipping on a rain slick roof and loudly cussing in Arabic as he lands on his butt; Dick doing a perfect pirouette with Cassie(both in their uniforms on top of the clock tower); Dick, Duke, and Tim singing and jigging out to Beyonce’s Single Ladies that Dick had turned up on full volume on his phone on top the police station(an amused Gordon and an unimpressed Batman stand in the background); and Tim and Jason having an overly dramatic sword fight with two katanas they stole from Damian(the next video is of a Red Hood and a Red Robin laughing hysterically as they run from a raging Robin).
My favorite thing about the Yakuza games are how no matter what crazy shit you do in a fight, there’s always a group of street toughs standing just slightly off screen who are absolutely convinced they can still take Kiryu.
“Yeah, dude, I know he just picked a motorcycle off the street and smashed three dudes with it at once, and yeah, he’s literally glowing with fighting spirit, and now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure that IS the same guy who just took out an entire Yakuza clan with his bare fists just this morning, but don’t sweat it, guys! I got a knife!”
It is no longer sufficient to brand Donald Trump as abnormal, a designation that is surely applicable but that falls significantly short in registering the magnitude of the menace.
The standard nomenclature of normal politics must be abandoned. What we are witnessing is nothing less than an assault on the fundamentals of the country itself: on our legacy institutions and our sense of protocol, decency and honesty.
In any other circumstance, we might likely write this off as the trite protestations of a man trapped in a toddler’s temperament, full of meltdowns, magical thinking and make believe. But this man’s vindictiveness and mendacity are undergirded by the unequaled power of the American president, and as such he has graduated on the scale of power from toddler to budding tyrant.
This threat Trump poses — to our morals, ethics, norms and collective sense of propriety — may be without equal from a domestic source.
Everything he is doing is an assault and matters on some level.
There is an enduring expectation, particularly among American liberals, that progress in this society should move inexorably toward more openness, honesty and equality. But even the historical record doesn’t support that expectation.
In reality, America regularly experiences bouts of regression, but fortunately, it is in those regressive periods that some of our greatest movements and greatest voices had found their footing.
President Andrew Jackson’s atrocious American Indian removal program gave us the powerful Cherokee memorial letters. The standoff at Standing Rock gave us what the BBC called “the largest gathering of Native Americans in more than 100 years.”
Crackdowns on gay bars gave us the Stonewall uprising. America’s inept response to the AIDS epidemic gave us Act Up and Larry Kramer. California’s Proposition 8 breathed new life into the fight for marriage equality and led to a victory in the Supreme Court.
The racial terror that followed the Emancipation Proclamation gave us the anti-lynching movement, the N.A.A.C.P., W.E.B. Du Bois, Ida B. Wells and James Weldon Johnson.
Jim Crow gave us the civil rights movement, and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Congressman John Lewis, Fannie Lou Hamer and James Baldwin.
The latest rash of extrajudicial killing of black people gave us Black Lives Matter.
The financial crisis and the government’s completely inadequate response to it gave us Occupy Wall Street and the 99 percent.
A renewed assault on women’s rights, particularly a woman’s right to choose, gave us, at least in part, the Women’s March, likely the largest march in American history.
Multiple populations are being assaulted at once, across race, ethnicity, religion, gender and sexual identity.
So, in this moment of regression, all the targets of Trump’s ire must push back with a united front, before it is too late.
but what fucks me up the most about moonlight is the scene at kev’s restaurant, near the end of the film, where they reunite — specifically, the part where kevin makes chiron a plate of food and they sit at the table, talking and catching up. the camera angles, the lighting, etc. the way this scene is filmed, you really can’t help but think “what if” as you realize just how much love and just how many experiences were stolen from chiron. you can’t help but think, fuck. if it weren’t for the pervasiveness of toxic masculinity inciting other guys his age to turn on him whenever they felt their manliness was put to question, if it weren’t for the violent insistence of homophobia and misogyny forcing chiron to stifle any urge to simply dance or to be touched softly or to love, if it weren’t for systematic anti blackness and poverty and mass incarceration and the biased judicial system and the school to prison pipeline, shutting every door of opportunity in his face until chiron didn’t even look for ways out anymore, if it weren’t for all these invisible shackles, and unwritten chokeholds, and intangible gates, and insurmountable hurdles … then maybe — no not maybe, but almost certainly … things would have worked out differently for chiron.
because maybe, instead of meeting up with kev, after spending time in prison and then all the years following on the streets (for simply standing up for himself once in high school) and after not seeing the first guy he’s ever loved for over a decade, he and kevin would have never separated to begin with. or maybe, chiron would have had other relationships before they reunited. maybe he wouldn’t have felt so deprived for so long. and maybe he wouldn’t have to talk to kevin over dinner at a public restaurant, under the guise of just two friends catching up and swapping stories. maybe instead they could have been together already. and they could be talking over their own dinner, at their own house. and kev wouldn’t have to play love songs for chiron on the juke, he could play them on their home radio. and they could hold hands, and stand close. and maybe they could dance. and maybe kevin jr. would have been their son. maybe they could have been dads, and better parents than either one of them has ever known. and maybe chiron would have never had to change and get “hard” and toughen up so damn much that people barely recognized him anymore, just to get by, just to be respected. maybe instead. chiron could have been happy. maybe he could have been happy with kev. and maybe they could have been at the center of the world together, a lot sooner, instead of struggling in its shadows, miles and miles apart.
Warning: pure smut, breathplay, anal, oral, dirty talking. IT’S DEADPOOL GUYS. Also this is complete unbeta so be warned.
Thanks to all the anon support, you filthy bastards.
If you had asked yourself a month ago if you’d ever let someone take you from behind, it would be a very hard no (pun not intended). If you had told yourself a month ago, Deadpool himself would be the one shoving his big cock inside your ass, you would have choked on your morning muffin. But it appeared pigs had finally learned to fly, because you were on all fours on Wade’s bed, a hand on your back and the other gripping at your hip.
“You like that huh?” He grunted, moving forward and leaning into your back. Wade pressed a firm kiss on your spine, “Say it.”
You moaned out, feeling him glide in and out of you. Fingers clutched the sheets underneath you, pushing your ass down on Wade’s cock.
“Come on, kitten,” Wade groaned, giving your ass a smack, “Say it.”
A dude, according to contemporary sources, was a man of many affectations. Even a small town dude would speak with drawl which was something of a mix of English and Bostonian. Most sentences began with “I say”, ended with “don’t chew know” and questions were answered with “raaather”. Though he looked and spoke as if he’d just stepped from Pall Mall, he’d probably never been to London at all.
You’d find him wearing extremely tight (with the cuffs rolled up) or extremely loose pants (tucked into his boots), red (or any other loudly coloured) lacquered shoes or excessively polished black boots, spotless gloves, and a tall silk hat on a jaunty angle. A monocle was optional but he’d go nowhere without his fancy cane. When said cane was not in his mouth, a cigarette was dangling there. He always had a flower with a long stem in his buttonhole, lilies being most popular. His mustache was curled to perfection. His hair was either curled, or cut short but with bangs. His collar would be tall. If it were scarf weather, his pearl scarf pin would secure it in just the right spot.
They were most populous in New York, Boston and Chicago, although they’d follow the 400 to Newport or where ever else fashion decreed when summer came.
All of this would be fine, said the editors, but a dude rarely worked - certainly not in any trade, but usually not at all. Most had money, but if not, they’d trade on real or fabricated family connections. He’d spend his day lounging from one lady’s house to another, or standing on street corners, or looking out the window of his club or Delmonico’s, sucking on the knob of his cane, and staring at passing girls. He was extremely vain and socially ambitious, his conversation vapid, and he acted as if he was a member of some imaginary aristocracy. He thought he was God’s gift to women and could be a masher, if he bothered.
Dandies, on the other hand, though they were also always well dressed and at the peak of fashion, were respectable: they had brains (and a job), and knew when to leave the ladies alone. Dandy’s like Bryon and Brummell, had they been American, would not have been considered dudes.
Later iterations in the 1910s and 1920s were called lounge lizards, jellybeans, bun dusters, drugstore cowboys and cake eaters. Around the 1920s the term dude came to define a city man who visited more rustic locals and stuck out like a sore thumb.
Idea: the bats give the villains a way to contact them after they realize that since many of the villains compete for resources, it would be in their best interests to report their competitors.
This is a very important idea because it comes with the image of Two-Face and Penguin yelling at each other in a back alley, deciding to report each other at the same time, and diving for their phones. Cobblepot frantically scrolls through his contacts while Harvey screams HEY SIRI CALL BATMAN into his speaker. If only they had put Batman on speed dial