Deadpool 4 Pitch:

deadpool 4 pitch:

two hour drag show of just wade in his suit with the normal drag over it

each outfit has a different name

peters the only one there in his spider suit bc he was under the impression it was a team red meeting

the bar and restaurant is fully staffed (they don’t know why)

wade is tipping peter while he (wade) preforms

Whenever Hob gets into trouble (debts, brawls, getting caught smooching the duke’s daughter and the sort) he turns to his old and tried method: faking his own death.

He finds it an ingenious solution to all problems with the additional boon that he gets to watch his own ‘funeral’ and all his enemies having to say shit like ‘he was the best man I’ve ever known, a real good fellow’ while actually all they want to do is spit on his grave and scream with rage.

So imagine post-1889 Hob watching one of these funerals high up from the church balcony, getting an absolute kick out of it until his Stranger shows up in full Victorian widower wife’s gear, black veil included.

Dream’s heartbroken. After the argument they had he asked Jessamy to keep an eye on Hob and he was absolutely devastated when he learned about his death. He kneels down by the empty casket, not minding the crowd gathered to mourn the early, tragic passing of Rupert J. Gadlen 1855-1891.

“So it has come to this day, Hob,” he says, his voice so pained that had Hob not been still pissed about their last meeting, his heart would ache in sympathy. “I knew it was inevitable, but I hoped—” Dream’s voice breaks, haltered by a single choked down sob and bloody hell, Hob’s never been good at holding grudges, he’s forgiven him already there and then, but Dream continues, “I hoped I should get a chance to an apology. To call you my friend. If you hear me beyond the invisible veils of this realm, you must know: I loved nothing in the world as well as you. Nothing, Hob.”

He starts weeping then, a quiet but visibly anguished ordeal and Hob’s this close to just march down and claim he’s miraculously returned from the dead when a familiar woman approaches Dream and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Hello little brother, it’s been too long,” she says cheerfully. “How have you been faring? Didn’t expect to see you here, but a happy coincidence, isn’t it? It’s a small world, after all.”

When Dream turns towards her the woman’s smile diminishes.

“Oh dear,” she gasps. “What happened?”

“You dare,” Dream growls. “You dare asking me that when you took him from me! The one I’ve held the most dear, you robbed me from him. Sister mine I shall call you no longer. Accursed be the day—”

“Whoah slow down, slow down! I didn’t know you were so attached to Vicar Leyburn, but I’m sure we can figure something out,” the woman says and Dream stares at her.

“The Vicar?”

“He’s supposed to have a heart attack right after the ceremony, any minute now,” she says, her eyebrows knitted with confusion. “Isn’t that why you’re so upset?”

“You better not jest me now,” Dream hisses. “Hob Gadling might have been just another mortal soul for you to reap, but to me—”

“Hob?” the woman interrupts Dream. “What’s wrong with him? He’s up there!” She gestures upwards with her hand in the direction of Hob’s hiding spot on the balcony.

Dream’s eyes narrow at her.

“If you try to placate me saying he’s in the Silver City by the Almighty’s side—”

“No, you absolute walnut, look, he’s literally up there!”

Dream and about two hundred people gathered in the church to mourn Hob turn towards the balcony.

Hob waves back at them with an awkward smile.

tim, brand new to robin and having a father that cares: you can’t do that i… have a soccer game!

bruce, acutely aware of very after school activity tim is in: how many people are on a soccer team?

tim, who has genuinely never touched a ball of any kind: ò~ó

bruce, putting on his cowl: for future reference the answer is 11

dick, enjoying a gogurt: ya gotta give him credit for trying

bruce starting the batmobile: alfred said he was making a roast, bed by midnight

Bruce entering the Justice League but already after he’s adopted a few of his kids. Just thinking about the dynamics where instead of thinking it’s cool, they get worried about their non-super-powered dad going to fight super meta powerful beings from who-knows-what-dimension. Beings that can go toe-to-toe with Superman and Wonder Woman, and then there’s just…Bruce. Their dad. Their very human and very breakable father. Just thinking about them trying to convince Bruce that he can’t go save the world this time, that he’s crazy for even thinking he could, that he has to sit on the sidelines, that they are afraid they’ll lose him just like they lost everyone else.

some idiot goon: WHATCHA GONNA DO BAT, YOUVE GOT NO ROBIN TO THROW

bruce instantly smiling: :)

goon: what

bruce: nightwing

dick also smiling: yes? :D

bruce: cmere

goon: oh no

*bruce picks up dick*

goon: oh no

*dick is thrown*

goon: OH NO

batkids will be full grown and Batman will still be able to pick them up with one hand

more domestic vacation 'verse because it's apparently all i can think about now

-

It has been... good, being here. Quieter. Easier. The clamor of billions of visitors to the Dreaming is muffled, in Hob's flat. The things that dream here are calm things. Thriving things. Old and cherished things.

Loved things.

Here, Morpheus too has felt like something that could perhaps be loved.

In the mornings, after Hob has left for work, Morpheus draws himself soundlessly up from the bed and pads on bare feet to the record rack that stands overfull with vinyls in the corner of Hob's living room. He touches each record there carefully, the faint visions of musicians and composers flitting ephemeral beneath his fingertips. He selects his musical accompaniment for the day by intuition alone.

This morning, he finds a little yellow note stuck to Hob's copy of The Cure's Disintegration:

"You'll like this one. Promise. —H"

Morpheus listens to it five times through in its entirety with a cathartic sort of anguish. Afterwards he perches on the couch wrapped up in the blanket Hob has slept beneath each night these two weeks. The cedar and vanilla notes in Hob's soap still linger in the fabric, like traces of an embrace Hob Gadling has never given him.

He has especially enjoyed sitting on the floor by the window in the warmest patch of sun, holding court with Hob's houseplants. A marble queen pothos hangs there, suspended near the ceiling, its cascading vines of happy heart-shaped leaves long enough to trail down around Morpheus' shoulders. A row of succulents and a purplish-red bromeliad in a brightly enameled pot live lined up on the sill.

Morpheus gathers them all in his awareness, greets their leaves gently with the backs of his knuckles, speaks to them the way he speaks to all growing things. They whisper their daydreams to him in return, telling him tales of jungle and desert, and of the loving voice that sings songs to them each time they are watered.

Morpheus wonders what Hob Gadling sings, what he hums under his breath.

I would be sung to thus, he thinks. But would you sing to me, my friend?

He sits for long hours in the companionable silence. Lulled by the rhythm of verdant stories, he relishes the sun-warmth banking in the soft black cotton of his shirt, and feels some unnamed tension deep within himself begin to unravel.

Morpheus had not expected this from his stay with Hob. This comfort. This easiness between them.

How it has sunk into him and become something he could, in some version of the universe, come to require.

So, when on the eve of his fourteenth day Hob says, "I don't want you to go," Morpheus is surprised to find that the wistful note Hob cannot quite keep out of his voice finds a sympathetic echo in his own thoughts.

"I—" Morpheus begins.

It is rare that he does not find the ending of a sentence already laid out for him. Yet what is its proper conclusion? I also do not wish to go away from you is futile. An impossibility. He has a kingdom. A realm. A responsibility.

"You feel it too," Hob says. "Don't you?"

Morpheus does not need to breathe in the waking world. He does not need a heartbeat. These are paltry mortal necessities; mortal vulnerabilities. And yet he knows, suddenly, the kick of the heart against the ribs and the catch of a gasp in the lungs of his recalcitrant body. It pinions him to the moment.

"Hob," he manages to say. For a brief second, he is unmade and remade again by the hope in Hob Gadling's face.

"Dream. My dearest friend. I've been wrong before." Hob's eyes are wide and earnest. His voice is honey-soft and strong. He is wiser than Morpheus can aspire to be. "If I'm wrong about this, tell me, please."

"You were not wrong before," Morpheus says. "And you are not wrong now."

this is canon btw, if you even care.