#COP-27

[catgrandpa]

Gotham has always been weird, so when the groundskeeper at the cemetery noticed the Wayne kid’s plot was disturbed, he just chalked it up to more of the same ol’. Alright, so ‘disturbed’ may be a tad too light of a word, but what’s an empty grave in the grand scheme of Gotham? God knows in a city like this one, they could use all the burial room they could get. He figured he’d just jot it down on the website and hope nobody noticed for a while.

Too bad he didn’t account for the 13 year old boy in Bristol who periodically checks the cemetery’s website when he’s feeling particularly lonely.

Plot Removed.

Tim Drake stared at the two words under the heading for Jason Todd’s plot number. Removed? What do they mean ‘removed’? They can’t just remove a plot? That’s a person down there! That’s Robin down there! You can’t Remove Robin!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Assess the situation.

Robin has been dead for 5 months and 14 days. There is no reason for a grave to be removed that early, especially one of a member of such an affluential family. Chances are likely it’s a simple clerical issue. He can call first thing in the morning and make them aware of the mistake. He can have it all fixed in 5 hours.

Just a phone call.

In 5 hours.

…

Tim hates talking on the phone almost as much as he hates waiting.

Well it won’t be the first time he’s snuck out to head to Gotham proper at 1am. It can’t even really be considered sneaking out if there’s no one home to catch you.

Buses stop running at 2, so he layers a couple sweaters under his coat and grabs his best running sneakers so he can comfortably make the trek back.

Just a quick trip to settle his nerves. Maybe get a few shots in if he spots Batman, but really he just wants to see with his own two eyes that things are okay and Jason can rest.

It’s 1:37 by the time he gets to the headstone reading ‘Here Lies Jason Todd’ and the gaping, muddy pit in front of it.

This- This doesn’t make any sense. This is not removal. This is destruction. Desecration. Somebody did this. Somebody-

Assess the situation.

A hole in the ground, approximately 1.5 feet in diameter.

Mud and grass flung outward but with little force.

Large chunks of earth turned over and shoved away.

No signs of tool marks or clean lines of entry into the dirt.

Dragging claw marks.

Staggering, shuffled pairs of foot prints in the mud.

A trail of dirt.

Something… Something large clawed its way out of the ground here. Something large and bipedal and- and humanoid.

Tim refuses to jump to any conclusions he can see all the facts laid in front of him. He’s going to cautiously follow the trail and simply hope to any god listening that he isn’t the world’s first line of defense against the zombie apocalypse.

He’s been walking for 23 minutes and there’s good news and undecided news. Good news: he’s closing in on the target and the trail isn’t taking him out of the way so his trip home won’t be prolonged. Undecided news: The potential Zombie Robin is heading directly for Wayne Manor.

As zombie apocalypse news, this is very bad. From Tim’s collected observational evidence, his not-so-professional opinion is that Batman, faced with a horror movie level zombie of his dead son, would not respond well, and would likely not fight back.

In Batman and Robin news? Tim’s unsure. If Jason is simply back? What could that mean for them? Batman can have his Robin. He wouldn’t have to continue nearly killing others and himself every night in his grief. Jason could-

No. Stop. Do not jump to conclusions.

Hope only brings heartbreak.

What would Batman do? Get close and see if the target is a threat.

Target is male. Mid-teens. Dark hair. Pale skin. Leaning against surfaces as he walks. Appears injured and disoriented.

Minimal risk assessed. Approaching and attempting contact.

Target identity confirmed: Jason Todd.

“J-Jason?” It comes out as a croaked whisper. Jason shows no sign of acknowledgment.

Tim clears his throat, steps right in front of his path, and tries again.

“Jason. Jason, stop I want to help you.” Still nothing.

“Please, Jason. I can help, I promise I can help!”

Why isn’t this working?! Why can’t he just do something right for once?! He wants this to work, he wants to help Bruce, he wants to fix Batman, he wants to not be alone, he wants-

“Robin!”

Robin jerks to a stop.

Tim reached out his hand.

“Robin. Robin please, I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really scary, I’m really scared. But I just want to help you. Help you find Batman. Help you get home.”

Jason just stares at him. Of course he does. Of course it’s not going to work. Why did he even bother hoping he could help?

Hope only brings heartbreak.

His sight blurs as his eyes fill with tears and he starts to lower his outstretched hand.

His arm is slowed as a cold hand weakly grasps his own.

“Don’t… scared… Bat… help… Dad… help.”

A relieved sob tears out from Tim’s chest and he gathers himself together. He yanks his extra sweater off and gently pulls it over Jason’s cold shoulders. Jason lets Tim drag his arm over his shoulders to try and carry some of his weight.

“Okay, Robin. Yeah. Your dad will help us.”

Batman will solve everything once Tim gets Robin home.

[idkwhyyouaskingm3-blog]

Is the MP definitely Trevor Herbert or is he the MP in the same way Elias Bouchard was the CEO of the Magnus Institute. I mean a homeless man would be an easy target or body snatching.

[nando161mando]

Monday in Dublin. Be there!

With Workers.

Against Racism.

#DublinRiots #Dublin #Ireland #PeopleBeforeProfit #PBP #AntiRacism #Antifascism

@antifainternational @anarchistmemecollective @kropotkindersurprise @radicalgraff

[giantkillerjack]

Posting this here for receipts in case someone decides to steal this killer line of poetry I wrote for a spotify playlist description of all things (and which, together with the title, sounds like the heading of an essay that I would immediately want to read very badly):

[pencildragons]

ok but. glenn spent twenty years in the supermax. that's a long fucking time. do you think he forgot morgan's face. do you think he forgot nick's.

[chesacakeripper]

Still thinking about the interaction I had over the weekend (where there was genuine right wing unrest in my city waheyy) where I popped a message onto my colleagues-but-we're-friends-we-go-for-drinks-and-dinner-sonetimes chat to make sure ppl were staying safe (many of us are of various minority groups) and I get a bit salty about how the police were mostly being shit and harassing the counter-protestors and one person pipes up with 'I don't subscribe to the acab thing sorry 😂' after talking about how many police were injured in other unrest and like.

I had to fully disengage myself because I work with and am friendly with these folks but sometimes you get smacked in the head with an opinion and suddenly lose the trust and respect you'd been building for someone over the last year huh

[hourcat]

🎁🎈✨

The Alpine shoot goes later than he’d anticipated.

Which—Pierre knows it’s part of the job, and part of the best job in the world, at that, so there’s no real grounds for complaining. But it’s his birthday. He’d been hoping to ring in 27 in a quieter manner, or at least one that had him home before the sun has set entirely. When he pulls into the parking garage of his apartment complex, it’s pitch black out.

There have been worse birthdays, he figures, fishing for his keys in his pocket. It’s not Red Bull. With a quiet chuckle to himself, he successfully unlocks his front door and slips inside, clicking it shut with a flood of relief at finally, finally being able to call it a night.

Well. He was going to call it a night, anyway, before the backpack tossed haphazardly on his couch catches his eye. It looks familiar.

It’s not his.

A little smile curves up his mouth at the realization. “Charlo,” he calls, voice carrying through his dark apartment. There’s no point of lights, now—he can strip in the dark. It’ll save him a little money on the forthcoming bill, anyway. No one answers his call. “Charles.” The spare key is sitting on the coffee table, which means his best friend must have let himself in, but the lack of response has him confused. Charles is terrible at surprises, but he’s good at committing to the bit when it comes to trying to scare Pierre by jumping out from behind various large household decorative objects. He’s walked by at least three pieces of furniture big enough to hide a Charles behind.

But when he shuffles through his hallway to the bedroom, the reason makes itself apparent. There’s his Charles—asleep, drooling and all, in his bed, tucked under the comforter like it’s his place. Something warm and fond pulses with life in Pierre’s chest.

Yeah, he’s definitely had worse birthdays.

“Charlot,” Pierre murmurs as he crosses his room, kneeing up onto the bed and wiggling his shoes off. At this distance, he finally gets a response—Charles startles awake, eyes wide, face frozen in shock as he looks around. When he locks onto Pierre, though, he settles back into his usual self: sleepy, pleased, fond.

“Joyeux anniversaire, mon amour,” he murmurs, reaching over to cradle Pierre’s face in his hand. He’s warm—he must’ve been asleep here for a while, Pierre figures. “You are so old now.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it, like being cute will excuse him for being an ass.

Like always, it does. “So mean on my special day,” he responds, dramatizing a pout as he rests his own hand on top of Charles’. He gets an eye roll in response. “I come home to you asleep in my bed, Goldilocks. Is this meant to be my gift?” At the words, Charles’ face heats up all at once. It’s so sudden that Pierre thinks, for a second, he’s having a hot flash. The heat on his cheeks is so strong that Pierre can feel it here, not even touching him there. He raises an eyebrow. “Charles.”

Charles withdraws his hand from Pierre’s cheek to smash it back into his own face, hiding behind both hands as he muffles some kind of noise. “Pierre,” he whines, and the sound is both endearing and intriguing. “I did not think you would take so long with Alpine this evening—” he cuts himself off and instead, with a hand he peels from his blush-burned face, reaches to the edge of the comforter and throws it off.

Pierre is…transfixed. There’s a red ribbon, Ferrari print across the back, tied delicately around Charles’ hips, low so that it should cover his cock. Or, it should, anyway—sleep must’ve rustled the job he’d done, because the bow is off center, now, and Pierre has perfect view of his Charles, bare naked and flush with embarrassment. Like he can salvage it, Charles lifts his knees up to try and hide himself.

“This…” Pierre manages, still gathering eyeful after eyeful of Charles before him, “was my gift?” An affirmative whine comes from behind the hand-shield his best friend has put back up over his face. He doesn’t seem to bother to try and fix the ribbon. (Pierre doesn’t want him to.) “Cha, you should have texted me you were coming over.”

“Wanted to surprise you,” comes Charles’ muffled reply. “But your bed is so warm, Pierrot, and I had a long day too, and—” he shakes his head. “S’posed to unwrap your gift.”

Pierre chuckles. “Charles, I am definitely surprised. You succeeded.”

But Charles just whines again, although at least now his hands fall away so Pierre can drink in the embarrassed, blushing expression all over his face. “I wanted it to be a sexy surprise,” he laments, and then flops his arms back onto the bed. “Not like this.”

“I don’t know,” the Frenchman murmurs, “this is pretty sexy.” He slips a hand over Charles’ thigh and tugs at the ribbon, pointedly allowing his fingers to trail against his lover’s now-soft cock. He gets another, meeker noise at the contact. “Mmm, may be the best wrapped gift I have ever gotten.”

“Stop,” Charles grumbles, but there’s a little smile on his face, now. “I thought I did a pretty good job on your present last year.” But he squirms a little more against Pierre’s unmoving hand, another breathy sound slipping from him. “Pear.”

He chuckles. “What,” he says. The hand at Charles’ ribboned crotch hasn’t shifted.

“Wanna sleep,” the Monegasque whispers, although there’s a crack in his voice that leaves the door just open enough to continue forward. They could do this tonight—Pierre could unwrap him like the present he’d meant to be, Charles at his most pliant here in this not-quite-awake state of being, offered up to Pierre the way he does every morning they get to spend together. Mine, Pierre gets to say as he fucks his lover awake, you are mine, like they’re meant to do this forever.

But if Pierre is being honest, he’s more tired than he is horny right now. “Yeah,” he echoes at that same soft volume, finally withdrawing his hand only for Charles to make a little disappointed noise. “I’m old now, remember.”

At that, Charles barks a laugh. “Come on,” he giggles, but scoots over in bed just enough for Pierre to slide in beside him once he’s peeled away his shirt. He’s still in his linen pants, but—they function well enough as sleep pants, anyway. The bed is too warm, and more importantly, Charles is too warm. There’s no resisting this.

“We can make my birthday tomorrow,” he murmurs, pressing a delicate kiss to the apple of Charles’ cheek that’s not smashed into the pillows. “I would like to unwrap my present, after all.”

Charles grumbles goodnaturedly. “Everyone else in the world gets one day of birthday,” he hums, “but Pierre Gasly gets two.”

“I do,” Pierre answers simply.

“How is that fair?”

“Because.” Pierre doesn’t elaborate, just kisses him again, effectively silencing whatever half-awake protest he’d been about to toss. Charles goes with it easily, kisses him sweetly and slowly and sleepily. His day really must have been long. Normally, this is where he ramps things up.

“Mmmm, in the morning then,” Charles murmurs. “First thing, Pierrot.”

“First thing, calamar,” he echoes, voice as serious as it can be for a sleepy whisper conversation after 11pm. “I will not wait a moment.”

Charles shakes his head. Their noses bump clumsily. A laugh, soft and quiet, echoes between them. “Wake me with it,” Charles whispers after a moment, and fuck. Why does he always have to do that. Pierre hisses a low sound, tugs his lover closer under the clumsily-pulled-up sheets.

“There you go again, Cha, being so mean to me on my birthday.” Charles cracks an eye open to look at him, confused. “You say you want me to fuck you awake while we are trying to go to sleep.” He shrugs. “Like I—you—” he huffs. “You are going to be the death of me, Charles Leclerc.”

Pierre gets a pleased little sound in return before Charles speaks once more, voice muffled from how his face is now pressed right into Pierre’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, mon petit. Now go to sleep.”

[shadowkira]

Me, channeling my inner Karlach: Everything is fine, I have a high pain tolerance. I don't need a doctor.

My wife: CALL YOUR FUCKING DOCTOR YOU BRAT.

Me: No. 💜

[lottieurl]

2x07 is gonna be so gay mark my words

[vanosslirious]

Jerich0: Can you carry my body back to the van?

SMii7y: Yeah, absolutely!

[waitingforminjae]

the extra beat of silence.........forgot how good he is at unsettling fuck

[greenfue]

تحليل جديد في cop29.. أرباح شركات النفط والغاز تغطي فاتورة الخسائر والأضرار السنوية عن تغير المناخ

بحسب تحليل جديد ، فإن أرباح منتجي النفط والغاز قد تغطي الفاتورة السنوية كاملة للخسائر والأضرار الناجمة عن تغير المناخ . هل ستدفع البلدان ذات الدخل المرتفع نصيبها لمساعدة بقية العالم على النجاة من أزمة المناخ؟ هذا هو السؤال الذي يلوح في أذهان زعماء العالم وهم يجتمعون في محادثات المناخ التي ترعاها الأمم المتحدة في باكو بأذربيجان cop29. وتقول منظمة جلوبال ويتنس، وهي منظمة غير حكومية معنية بالمناخ،…

[gothamphantomgoat]

[nando161mando]

From Wednesday 27th to Friday 29th November, the Global Escalation will bring together people and movements around the world to step up the collective resistance by going on strike, refusing to shop and by taking direct action. It will be the first of a series of blows that will force change.

By halting revenue over one of the most profitable times of the year, the people stand in solidarity with all communities harmed by the same colonial forces worldwide, rejecting the celebration of colonial legacies like “Thanksgiving Day” on the 28th.

The efforts will culminate on the 29th, coinciding with the Friday Day of Rage and the opening of the infamous “Black Friday” season. Most importantly, November 29th marks the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People.

More info on https://globalescalation.com/

[alifelearned]

Londoner's Call For Police Funding to be Reallocated | ALifeLearned

This video summarizes some of the blatant corruption seen from the London Police department throughout the year 2024. What do you think? Should the police in London, Ontario be defunded? This isn't to suggest entirely eradicating their services. It is to suggest that much of the public funding they receive could be better spent elsewhere. Where do you think the $670 million given to the London Police should/could have gone? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

[arkansucks]

Just noticed I had a hidden folder on my phone that’s locked with faceID….what’s in there I wondered…….

What the hell is that????