Tag: absolutely fantastic

how tall is bruce and thomas wayne?

unpretty:

saynotodyedflowers:

unpretty:

unpretty:

unpretty:

in saih bruce is 6′2″ and thomas was 6′5″

it’s an ideal height distribution tbh because then whenever bruce, as an adult, is talking about how larger-than-life his father was everyone just feels bittersweet about it because the last time he saw his father he was a tiny boy and it just seems like, “oh, bruce’s memory of his father is always trapped in this time when his dad seemed like a giant”

but no, that has nothing to do with it, bruce is being completely factually correct and thomas wayne was enormous

(presumably this takes place not long after whatever the hell this is)

“I assume your dad’s going to be the one that looks like you,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses as he scanned the crowd beneath the mezzanine.

“Just look for the biggest guy here,” Bruce said flatly.

Clark fought a smile.

“What.”

“Nothing! Nothing.”

Bruce waited.

“It’s just—you know.”

Bruce said nothing.

“You haven’t seen him since you were twelve.”

“Correct.”

“You maybe weren’t the tallest kid.”

Bruce said nothing.

“I’m just going to look for the guy who looks like you, rather than going by relative size.”

“And you must be the fellows who were chit-chatting with my wife!” came a voice, booming and boisterous as arms were thrown around each of their shoulders. Clark jumped; Bruce flinched.

Thomas Wayne was a good two inches taller than Clark, who was himself an inch taller than Bruce. Thomas had a glass of champagne in his right hand, which he had not spilled on Clark. There was a ping-pong ball floating in it. He had a half-empty bottle of wine in his left hand, which he had not spilled on Bruce. Between the fingers of his left hand dangled a bag of red plastic cups, unopened.

No one in the ballroom was using a red plastic cup.

Thomas’ coat and the top buttons of his shirt were undone; his bowtie had not been a bow in quite some time.

“Martha wouldn’t tell me what exactly it is you were up to,” he said cheerfully, “which I can only assume means I’d hate it!” He paused, squinting at Clark. “Oh, she must have loved you.” He gave Clark a proper once-over, down to his shoes and back up again. “Were you raised on a farm or what?”

“Why does everyone keep asking—”

“Anyway,” Thomas continued, somehow managing to pound them both on the back as he disengaged despite still having his hands full. “You two go on ahead and keep not telling me what you’re doing, if you need me I’m heading downstairs to set up a game of wine pong. It’s like beer pong, but if you’re doing it right it costs several thousand dollars! And it’s good for your heart! I’d know. I’m a doctor.”

He downed his glass of champagne and caught the ball in his teeth. He then somehow managed to arrange the items in his hands such that he could shoot them both fingerguns, clicking around the ball and waggling his eyebrows.

They watched as he slid sideways down the banister.

“I apologize for doubting your memory,” Clark said finally.

“Hm.”

“I feel like this explains a lot about your sense of humor.”

“I’m not convinced that it does.”

“… does he look how you remember?” Clark ventured.

“Usually I remember the way he looked one specific summer when I was a kid,” Bruce said thoughtfully.

Clark softened, almost reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Then he narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Hm?”

“I know what you’re doing, and we’re not doing it.”

“You asked.”

“I recognize that look.”

“This is just what my face looks like.”

“You’re going to make me think we’re having a moment so I let my guard down for the punchline,” Clark said, “and you’re not going to say it like it’s a punchline, so when I laugh, I look like an asshole.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not allowed to laugh about this. You know I’m not.”

They were silent, the sounds of the party surrounding them from below.

“He had a horrible moustache,” Bruce said.

Clark pressed his knuckles to his mouth.

“I think my subconscious is trying to make death seem like a mercy.”

Clark made a muffled and hideous noise.

“Clark,” Diana scolded, and they turned to see her frowning as she approached. “This is a very difficult mission for Bruce, you mustn’t laugh.”

Clark threw up his hands in disgust.

“Or—wait.” Diana looked between them. “Was he doing it again?”

Clark nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I think I remember this party,” Bruce said suddenly, looking out at the ballroom.

“What?” Clark and Diana asked simultaneously.

“It’s the one where that senator got thrown out of a window.” He pointed toward a commotion downstairs.

“What is your father doing?” Diana asked, leaning over a railing.

There was a crash of shattering glass, a series of screams, and scattered applause.

“Throwing a senator out of a window.”

  • #before this night is over thomas wayne will have swallowed a ping pong ball to prove a point

    • And he’ll insist he’ll be fine, “cause he’s a doctor” ?

    Thomas raised an eyebrow with a level of disdain achievable only by those born to great wealth, and not at all befitting a man in the middle of using a meat cleaver to cut the nozzle off a garden hose. “Oh, I think I can handle it,” he scoffed. “I went to Yale.”

    totallycorrectpjo:

    “Now I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, no. Percy’s in a cage. How did this happen?” Well, sometimes you have to get captured just to get a straight answer out of something. It’s a long story. Basically, I’m a bit of a hero. See, I’ve fought some monsters, saved the planet a couple of times. That’s when I came across a path of death, and destruction. Which led me all the way here into this cage…where I met you. How much longer do you think we’ll be in here?”

    — Percy Jackson, before the camera reveals he was talking to a skull all along. Its jaw falls off.

    winterwombat:

    prokopetz:

    prokopetz:

    lostindarkplaces:

    prokopetz:

    I’ve seen all these lovely headcanons about the people who produce costumes for superheroes and supervillains, but I’m always thinking: what about minions?

    I mean, most villains have a theme, and custom tailoring is well and good for the boss, but what about the flunkies? When Captain Killblood needs a dozen pirate outfits for her “crew” on short notice, it’s probably not in the budget for all of them to be bespoke – and since nobody’s catching supervillains by tracing their credit card receipts, clearly she’s not sourcing them via regular channels.

    I can’t help but picture our hypothetical supervillain walking out of the magic tailor shop and promptly heading down the block to Uncle Zargon’s Costume Emporium – all sizes and major body plans in stock, discretion guaranteed.

    I always kinda figured that the minions were down with the theme and cobble together their own costumes…and now I’m picturing a minion-for-hire who has a couple dozen minion costumes stuffed into the back of their closet. Sometimes they get the accessories mixed up, so embarrassing.

    And now I’m picturing this really dedicated minion and her closet full of DIY costumes henching for a whole series of one-shot theme villains – you know, the kind who get made out to be some kind of Big Deal for an issue or three, then never appear again – and eventually becoming much better known to the superhero community than any of the baddies she’s thrown in with.

    (The more civic-minded heroes keep trying to give her mid-combat life counseling, like “you know, you don’t have to risk your neck just to dress up – you could get into cosplay”, and she’s all “oh, but I love the excitement!” as she unleashes the robot killer bees.)

    Well, when you think about it, how many people can there be in any given city who are willing to sign on as minions to a super-criminal? 

    You could look at crime statistics to see how many potential criminals you’ve got to draw from. You’d have to count out all the crimes of passion and opportunity, because joining up with a supervillain, procuring a costume (and training if you’re lucky) and participating in fiendish schemes requires a fair amount of pre-meditation. Likewise, you’d remove family-related crimes from the pool, save for a statistically insignificant number of people with superheroes for relatives.

    Considering that the vast majority of crimes tend to fall within those categories, you’re left with a fairly small pool to recruit minions from, easily less than a hundred depending on the city. If you’ve got more than one or two supervillains looking to put together a team, pickings are going to be pretty slim. 

    What I’m getting at here is this: What if minions working for more than one villain is the norm rather than the exception? Minions with closets full of different costumes for different gigs, taking freelance jobs for one-shot villains when they need some extra cash, sometimes becoming more recognizable to the heroes than the villains themselves. I mean, in this economy, who can get by with just one part time job? 

    I mean, imagine someone trying to put on a bee-themed costume made from roughly dyed clothes and spray painted football pads, while juggling their smartphone:

    “Hey, Alex, you think you could cover for me tonight with The Conductor? She moved next week’s bank robbery up to tonight, but I’ve already got a gig scheduled with Insecticide, and – yeah, he’s calling himself Insecticide now – and I could be up for a promotion if I do well. Yeah, yeah, I know, shoulda blocked off the hours in my availability, but The Conductor and her Electric Death Orchestra normally only do one hit a month, so I thought it was safe. Listen, you’ve already got that suit from working with The Un-Gentlemen last Spring, so just throw on a cummerbund and you’re set. Thanks, yeah, I owe you one, and if anyone asks, you play Oboe.”