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delicatebarness · 2 months

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bridges to burn | prologue

Summary: You arrive at the Avengers Compound to manage your uncontrollable Extremis powers. As you navigated the new environment, you clash with your assigned babysitter/bodyguard, Bucky Barnes.

Warning: MCU Spoilers. Iron Man 3. Intense Emotional Conflict. Superpowers and Uncontrollable Abilities. Parental Concern and Pressure. Family Tension. Emotional and Physical Heat.

Word Count: 1103

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A/N: Oh look, another.

BTB Tags: - Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this serious.

Touching down at the Avengers Compound, the Quinjet’s engines hummed softly as they powered down. You stepped off the lowering ramp and took in the sprawling complex. The building was an impressive blend of sleek modern design and cutting-edge technology, lush greenery surrounded the wide-open spaces. The peaceful landscape contrasted against the bustling chaos of the city, where you spent most of your life.

Your dad, Tony Stark, stood waiting for you near the entrance, concern, and determination etched across his aging features. The familiar scent of motor oil and cologne filled your senses as he enveloped you in a quick hug. His grip around you was firm, silently reassuring you that he was there for you.

“Welcome home, kid,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. However, his eyes revealed the worry he had tried to mask. “Come on, let me show you around.”

Following him through the compound, you passed training rooms that were filled with state-of-the-art equipment, common areas where you caught glimpses of some familiar faces, and the impressive hangar with various vehicles and aircraft. The building buzzed with activity, yet there was still a sense of order and purpose.

Finally, you reached Tony’s sanctuary, his lab. The place you knew he felt most at home. You marveled at the array of gadgets and projects scattered around, as you followed his gesture for you to step in. Screens displayed holographic schematics, while robotic arms moved with precision, a new creation being assembled. The faint hum of machinery was a comforting backdrop.

“And, this is where the magic happens,” Tony said, pride touching his voice. Watching you take it all in, his lips played a small smile. “But, before you get too comfortable, there’s something we need to talk about.”

Raising your eyebrow suspiciously, you waited for him to continue. Looking uncharacteristically nervous, he ran a hand through his hair.

“I know things have been… rough since the incident,” he began, trying carefully to choose his words. He leaned against a workbench, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere behind you, crossing his arms over his chest. “And, I know you’re struggling to control the Extremis,” he trailed off, pausing before he continued, “but, we can’t have another accident like that. Not again.”

The memory of the uncontrollable heat coursing through your veins caused you to flinch. The sight of the flames, the smell of burning wood, the panic in the firefighter’s voice as they tried to contain the damage. Since it saved your life as a child, you lived with the Extremis virus. Your mother, Maya Hansen’s legacy, turned you into a ticking time bomb.

“I know, Dad,” you sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll do better.”

Shaking his head, Tony pushed off the workbench and stepped closer to you. “It’s not about doing better. It’s about getting help. Which is why I’ve arranged for someone to keep an eye on you.”

The door to the lab opened, snapping your attention away from your dad before you could protest. And in walked, Bucky Barnes– The Winter Soldier. You had seen him in action and heard the ghost stories, but meeting him in person… that was different. He was imposing, a steely gaze seemingly assessing every detail of the room, and you. As he approached, his movements were fluid, almost predatory.

“Tin-Man, this is my daughter,” Tony spoke as he gestured toward you. “She’s going to be staying here for a while. And… you’re going to be looking out for her.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly toward you, and you could see in his piercing gaze that he was as thrilled about this arrangement as you were. “I was expecting a kid,” he said bluntly, a hint of annoyance carrying in his voice. Crossing his arms over his chest, the metal of his arm caught against the light.

“No, I’m not a kid,” you snap back, matching his posture. “And, I don’t need a glorified babysitter. Unless,” you paused, shoot Bucky a playful smirk. “You’re here to tuck me in and read me a bedtime story?”

Tony stepped between you, holding up a hand to forestall any pending argument. “Easy, both of you. This isn’t up for debate. Barnes’ here to help, whether you like it or not.”

You glare at Bucky, who returns the look with an equal intensity. “Fantastic,” you said, your voice dripped with sarcasm. “My very own bodyguard, don’t expect me to make this easy for you.”

Smirking, Bucky’s eyes filled with amusement almost as if he was accepting a challenge. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, your iris’ blazed with anger, a burning orange glow.

His smirk never faltered. “Whatever you say… Princess.”

Watching the exchange, Tony’s expression changed to one of concern and exasperation. His face, usually composed, now showed signs of strained patience. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to stifle a sigh. “Alright, both of you,” he injects, his voice filled with frustration. “This isn’t a battlefield. Can we at least try to keep it professional?”

You took a glance at Tony, then back at Bucky, who still had a smirk plastered across his face, enjoying the friction. Tony continued, his tone firm but weary. “I get that you two won’t see eye to eye, but let’s keep the drama to a minimum. We’re here to make sure things don’t go up in flames, literally.”

Squaring off with Bucky, you took another step closer. The heat between you both was almost tangible. “I mean it, Winter Soldier. I’m not some dame in distress that you get to boss around.”

Leaning in, his voice was a low, taunting whisper. “And I’m not some nanny here to hold your hand.”

The tension crackled between you, and you noticed how his eyes were cold and calculating, with a flicker of something else– something that mirrored the heat in your own. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something more, but whatever it was, made your heart race.

“Good,” you retorted, sarcasm stayed laced within your words. “I wouldn’t want you thinking you could handle me.”

His eyes locked with yours, his smirking only growing. “Trust me, Princess, I can handle anything you throw at me.”

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes, yet you couldn’t help but feel the thrill of his challenge rush through you. “We’ll see about that.”

As you turned to leave, you felt his gaze burning into your back. This wasn’t over– far from it. And somehow, the thought of that excited you as much as it infuriated you.

---

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hollowsart · 10 months

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Penguin 🐧💕

-slaps my own headcanons on him and puts him into my own little spidersona crossover universe-

Oswald Cobblepot, 4'9" king 💖

No one is a bigger bird fanatic than The Penguin. After all, he is named after one! Well, at least no one within Gotham is.

[X] [X]

^^ info and more under the cut:

He has a bit of an ego and self pride. He definitely values his appearance and takes offense to people speaking negatively about him. He knows his worth and value and he will see to it that you see it, too, and that you respect him.

The proud owner of the Iceberg Lounge, a fancy club and bar that a lot of local gang leaders, mob bosses, and the top dogs of Gotham's underbelly like to visit on the regular, as well as the wealthy elite of Gotham overall.

The umbrellas he uses are all made by him. Every last one he uses has a different custom set of tricks and weapons implemented into their unique framework. from the outside they look entirely unassuming.. but they hide a variety of weapons and tools. Gas, bullets, knives, chains, motors, a method of taking flight, etc. You never know what to expect from one of his umbrellas.

He might not look capable, but he is extremely skilled in hand to hand combat among other things. Can hold his own against Batman and other villains within the city.

He doesn't really see the appeal or what the big deal is with Bruce Wayne. Especially when he, himself, is right here for the taking if anyone was interested.. Give him a chance? He'll treat you soooo good and right~

#my art #phone art #the penguin #2004 penguin #the batman 2004 #oswald cobblepot #batman #hiiii hiiii I love him #//long post

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atarathegreat · 8 months

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Angry-Chiro Shinichiro Sano

Nestled down a dark, wide alleyway between two much larger buildings was SS Motors. A squat little mechanics shop where you could buy spark plugs, gas caps, and tools on the shelves, and in the back was the garage. The garage was a little smaller than the whole building, big enough to fit a car while still having enough room for the mechanic to shift how he needed.

Shinichiro Sano took tremendous pride in his little shop, even had dreams that it would be bigger and placed in a more accessible space in the city. Fixing things was his passion, ripping out the bad parts or, in his current case, gutting a whole bike frame, was also part of the fun. Normally.

"Mother-" The sounds of ricocheting tools echoed up to the shop where you were helping customers. Steel on concrete or bouncing off the other metal work tables made you cringe as you hurled excuses again and again at Shinichiro's expense.

"Our mechanic is currently indisposed." You were all kind smiles and soft words when people were asking for him. They would sigh and nod and leave names and numbers, all while hearing the temper tantrum from the back of the shop. It wasn't new and many of the patrons were ignoring it for the most part, but you still worried about Shinichiro and the temper you knew he was capable of having.

While the rest of the shoppers were busy, not that there were many in such a secluded shop, you snuck back to the garage and peeked in. Shinichiro was fixing the bike frame back on a stand, leaving you to assume that maybe he'd gotten pissed enough to kick it over. "Shini?" The sound of your voice was enough to make him take a deep breath and look over his shoulder. He looked tired, his dark eyes not even really looking at you, "It...the bike...bolts..." Shinichiro was so mad he could hardly form a coherent sentence as he waved both arms at the frame, and that was fine, you were used to piecing together the issues. "It's alright. Steady hands, remember? Take it slow." Another soft smile and a little wave as you returned back to the front counter.

Closing early was surely going to set Shinichiro off even more, if he ever came out of the garage, but you closed early despite that. It wasn't good for business if the manager slash mechanic slash owner was seen as an angry man who couldn't keep tools from becoming an airborne item. Wrenches weren't meant to be birds and bolts definitely weren't rain drops.

"Son of a bitch!"

You sat up in bed, rubbing quickly at your eyes as more clanging woke you from a short nap. It was dark and your eyes hadn't yet cleared enough for you to see the bright red lines on the alarm clock. Moonlight almost kept you from tripping over the pile of shoes, your stumble becoming a valuable reminder that you would, eventually, have to buy a shoe rack. Cold air hit you quickly as you stepped from the mini living quarter and you reached back in to grab a coat before heading back out to trudge through the shop and to the garage. It got colder the closer you got.

"Shinichiro?"

The man turned quickly, a glare set in his features, as if a sculptor had snuck in and using clay and water to fix his beautiful smile into a scowl. "It's freezing, darling, come inside." You crossed the coat over itself to pull it tighter in hopes to keep some semblance of warmth for your skin.

"Can't. This stupid fucking thing isn't working with me and now this bolt won't even line up correctly." He slammed a wrench to the ground, glaring at the gas tank he was trying to connect to the newly cleaned bike frame. "To top it off, the rust took me nearly all day to get off and I can't even track down the right kind of seat for it!" Shinichiro huffed, leaning back against the toolbox, "How am I supposed to fix this by my deadline?"

Tools and dirty rags covered the garage floor as you stepped around and over them and bigger parts, crouching next to him, "How about I hold the tank steady and you secure it, and then we go in so you can get a drink, eat dinner, then we'll go to bed?"

Shinichiro shook his head, wiping a rag at the frame as if he was doing something, though he knew he just wanted to look busy, "I set a deadline for myself, Y/n, I want, need, this damn thing to be on the streets come spring." He always reached the goals he set for himself, so you knew it would kill him for yet another deadline with this particular bike to be pushed back.

It already wasn't a promise that he would've found the frame in Puerto Rico, and then the airlines tried to run you both around in circles over the metal until you went in and dragged it out by yourself. And then all the parts up to this point had to be ordered and the deliveries were delayed due to the winter weather, further ruining Shinichiro's plans. He stayed up night after night just to get a little bit further along in the process, all while neglecting his bodies needs for food, water and sleep. Being cooped up in the cold, horribly lit garage wasn't good for him. He looked gaunt and exhausted.

A heavy sigh fell from his lips, getting trapped somewhere between the rusty trashed parts and pile of boxes filled with new parts that had yet to be used. "I can't let it sit for a long time, I'll never get back to it." His bones spoke loudly as he stood and stretched, each pop was another cry for rest.

"You'll return to it, Shini." A weight was lifted from his shoulders when you smiled like that, like you believed in every move he made and every decision he was set on. "You never leave anything unfinished, y'know." The warmth from your hands was stolen from you as you held the tank steady for him, "And you can always call on me if you need help. I can work more than a register."

He was sure you could absolutely do more than a register, but your hands weren't supposed to be covered in grease like his, or calloused like his. You were supposed to have clean hands, manicured hands, dainty hands. Yet you didn't seem to care about any of that. Not as you leaned over the de-rusted handlebars to hold the gas tank so Shinichiro could fix the washer and bolt where they belonged and tighten them.

#anime #manga #x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #tokyo rev x reader #shinichiro sano #sano shinichiro #shinichiro sano x reader

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bubblesam06 · 4 months

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Racing Hearts - Charles Leclerc

Charles Leclerc x driver!reader!OC

Should I make this a series?

The sun was just beginning to rise over the glittering city of Monaco, casting a golden hue over the pristine streets and azure waters. The excitement in the air was palpable; the Monaco Grand Prix was just days away. For Charles Leclerc, Scuderia Ferrari's golden boy, this race meant more than just another chance at victory. It was his home race, a place filled with childhood memories and dreams.

This year, however, there was something different. Or rather, someone different.

Scuderia Ferrari had recently announced their latest addition to the team, a talented young driver named Elena Rossi. She had made waves in the racing world with her fearless driving style and quick wit. Hailing from Italy, her journey to Formula 1 had been nothing short of extraordinary.

Charles stood in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by the familiar scent of burning rubber and motor oil. He was adjusting his racing suit when he heard a voice behind him.

"Ready to show Monaco what Ferrari can do?"

He turned around to see Elena standing there, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her Ferrari cap slightly askew. Her hazel eyes sparkled with a mix of determination and mischief.

"Always," he replied with a grin. "You?"

"Born ready," she said with a confident smirk.

As they prepped for the practice session, Charles couldn't help but feel a strange connection to Elena. There was something about her that drew him in—her passion for racing, her unwavering confidence, and the way she seemed to understand him without words.

The roar of the engines was deafening as the cars lined up on the grid. The tension was thick, and Charles could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced over at Elena, who was in the car next to him. She gave him a nod, her face set with determination.

As the lights went out, the cars surged forward, tires screeching against the tarmac. Charles and Elena maneuvered their Ferraris with precision, weaving through the pack. The streets of Monaco were unforgiving, but they both handled the pressure with grace.

Halfway through the race, disaster struck. A collision in front of Charles forced him to swerve, losing precious seconds. Elena, seeing the opportunity, took the lead. Charles fought to regain his position, but the narrow streets made it nearly impossible.

In the final lap, Elena crossed the finish line first, securing her first victory with Ferrari. Charles followed closely behind, his disappointment quickly overshadowed by a sense of pride for his teammate.

As they climbed out of their cars, Elena ran over to Charles, her face flushed with excitement. "We did it!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

He hugged her back, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through him. "You were amazing out there," he said, pulling back to look into her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, her voice softer now. "But I couldn't have done it without you pushing me."

Charles felt his heart skip a beat. There was something in her gaze, something that made him wonder if this connection was more than just professional.

—

Over the next few weeks, Charles and Elena grew closer. They spent hours discussing race strategies, training together, and sharing stories from their lives. Elena's laughter was infectious, and Charles found himself looking forward to every moment they spent together.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, they decided to unwind at a quiet café overlooking the harbor. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the water.

"Do you ever think about what life would be like if we weren't racing?" Elena asked, sipping her espresso.

Charles looked out at the horizon, considering her question. "I can't imagine my life without it. Racing is in my blood. But sometimes… I wonder what it would be like to have something more. Someone to share it with."

Elena's eyes softened. "I know what you mean. It's hard to find someone who understands the sacrifices we make for this sport."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the unspoken connection between them growing stronger. Charles reached across the table, his hand covering hers.

"Maybe we don't have to look too far," he said quietly.

Elena's breath caught in her throat as she met his gaze. There was something in his eyes that made her heart race, something that made her believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find that "something more" together.

—

As the season progressed, so did Charles and Elena's relationship. They became inseparable, their bond both on and off the track growing stronger with each passing day. Their chemistry was undeniable, and it translated into their racing. They pushed each other to be better, to reach new heights.

One evening, after a particularly intense race, Charles found himself unable to sleep. He wandered out onto the balcony of his hotel room, the cool night air doing little to calm his restless mind. He was deep in thought when he heard the sound of a door opening and closing softly.

Elena stepped out onto the balcony, her eyes finding his in the dim light. Without a word, she walked over to him, slipping her hand into his.

"Can't sleep?" she asked softly.

Charles shook his head. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About us," he admitted. "About how much things have changed since you joined the team. How much you've changed me."

Elena looked up at him, her eyes full of emotion. "You've changed me too, Charles. You've made me believe in something more than just racing."

He turned to face her fully, his heart pounding in his chest. "I don't want to imagine my life without you, Elena. Not anymore."

She smiled, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You don't have to. I'm not going anywhere."

In that moment, under the stars, they shared their first kiss. It was a kiss filled with promise, with the hope of a future together.

Epilogue: A New Beginning

The Monaco Grand Prix was once again upon them, but this time, Charles and Elena faced it as more than just teammates. They were partners, both on and off the track.

As they lined up on the grid, Charles glanced over at Elena, who gave him a confident smile. He knew that no matter what happened in the race, they had already won something far more important.

The lights went out, and the roar of the engines filled the air. They surged forward, racing not just for victory, but for each other.

And as they crossed the finish line, side by side, they knew that this was just the beginning of their story. A story of love, of passion, and of racing hearts.

Authors Note:

Holy smokes, I was not expecting this post to blow up like it did! Thank you so much for all the love!! 💗

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x driver!reader #charles leclerc x driver reader #charles leclerc x driver!reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x oc

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oftenwantedafton · 5 months

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stay - dave miller x female reader

words | 3k

rating | explicit

cw | sex, breathplay, implied/referenced abortion

ao3 link

They call it La Verkin Motel, but the residents living there call it Last Chance Motel, because that’s exactly what it is.

The last place the unwanted dregs of society end up, the last stop on the road to hell. You don’t think it’s entirely fair you’ve ended up here because of one mistake, one error in judgment made in your youth, but that’s the way the world works and you’re mature enough to accept that now.

Your next door neighbor in the cheap housing is a man named Dave Miller; at least, that was what he calls himself. You think it’s an alias, like most of the names the folks around here use. Still, that’s the one he’s chosen and that’s what you address him as, when you have the occassion to, but that doesn’t come right away.

The man keeps odd hours, sometimes working during the day and sometimes in the middle of the night. Nothing too unusual about that either. It’s an expensive life, even for one as cheaply priced as this. Many of you work two jobs, minimum. You divide your time between waitressing and cashiering at the local mom and pop grocery store. Dave is employed at an auto body shop and pulling security duty at the restaurant one town over, that children’s place with the creepy robot animals that could talk and sing and move. It’s closed now, after so many kids had gone missing on the premises. A lot of people in that Southern Utah community seemed to think the owner was behind it, even though no evidence of foul play had ever been found. Not a single trace, just like all those children who had vanished into thin air. It doesn’t entirely make sense, paying someone to look after a shuttered building, but apparently the guy who owned it just wasn’t willing to part with it. You don’t have much of an opinion on it either way. You’d never been there. Now you never would.

You first speak to Miller not at the motel, but at the mechanic’s. Not everyone living at Last Chance is fortunate enough to even own a car, so although yours is no prize, at least it’s transportation. Unfortunately someone had hit it while it was in the parking lot outside the grocery store you work at. You’re not fussed about cosmetic damage, but there are other things that need mending, namely the shattered headlight and the bumper that has been partially knocked loose.

You watch the man run his hands over the damaged vehicle and it strikes you how large they are, yet how elegant his fingers look, even caked in motor oil. The estimate sounds reasonable and you agree to the price. At least your insurance was footing the bill.

Dave pulls out the more minor dents and fills the larger ones, repainting the touched up spots. The bumper is repaired and the light replaced. More than you’ve asked for, but you’re not charged any extra. The job is so neatly done you can barely tell anything untoward had ever occurred. There’s a flicker of pride in the man’s eyes when you return to pick it up, taking the city transit to get there. That’s when you first have the sense that this man, this tall, slender creature with his dark messy hair and piercing gray eyes, had been something more once; much more.

“I heard you work at Freddy’s, too,” you say by way of making small talk as you pay at the register, the envelope of cash from the bank just picked up on the way over after you’d cashed the check from the insurance company. Miller’s eyes lift and he studies your face. You feel yourself scrutinized so intently it actually makes your skin itch and burn.

“Yes,” he replies. He punches some keys on the cash register and the drawer slides open.

“They say it’s haunted. Is it true?”

“People say a lot of things.” He drops your change into your waiting palm and shoves the drawer shut. “Only by me,” he adds, answering your second question.

***

It’s hot in La Verkin; hot and dry, like everywhere else in Utah.

You sit outside at night after work, hoping for a breeze, for something to cool you down after a soak in the tub. Your neighbor is home this evening, wearing long sleeves despite the weather. This has become a routine of sorts for the two of you. Sometimes you’ll sit and have a drink or smoke a cigarette. Dave doesn’t talk much, so it’s on you to keep the conversation going. More often than not you just sit in amicable silence.

You can’t tell it when he’s wearing his work clothes, but his regular ones do not fit him well. They are overly large, baggy. You think he must have lost a considerable amount of weight. He was certainly thin now, with that sharp nose and chin, those gaunt cheeks and lean frame. Was it poor finances that had unintentionally aided him in shedding extra pounds? He looks like he could do with a good meal. Many good meals. Perhaps you’ll offer to cook for him, one of these nights.

You’d brushed his hand by accident once, passing over a cigarette, and he’d actually flinched like a whipped dog expecting to be beaten by a cruel owner. Unused to human contact. Or shunning it. You understand. You’d changed, too, after you’d given up…you don’t want to think about that tonight. No maybes to consider. You’d made your choices; made your bed and now you’re lying in it.

But old habits die hard. That curse of your species, the need to seek companionship, still taints you. Someone had left behind a case of beer in one of the rooms before they’d moved out (or gotten evicted, more likely) and that’s not the kind of free gift you squander. Dave clearly isn’t accustomed to drinking this much, or perhaps it’s because of his new physique that he’s more of a lightweight. In either case, the man becomes a lot more talkative. He loses the southern drawl and you hear a different accent layered beneath. He mentions being married once, having children. He says their names and digs the heel of his hand against his eyes. A bit weepy. You scoot closer. There is no patio furniture here. It’s the cement slab you both occupy, cracked and dusty like every other miserable thing here. Broken, like this man sitting beside you.

Your hand settles on the middle of his back, finding it damp with perspiration. You can feel the actual outline of his vertebrae through the thin material of the shirt. He’s wearing long sleeves as usual. He doesn’t push your hand away, just looks at you with those intense, pale eyes, and you find yourself lost in them, drowning, welcoming that descent into the abyss.

Then he lurches to his feet and returns to his room. You tip your head back and sigh. You’d crossed a boundary you shouldn’t have.

Back inside your own room, you’re reminded of just how stuffy and sweltering it is. There is a soft knocking at the door. You’re in your pajamas now. Camisole and shorts. Faded and threadbare. The cheap fabric pilling. Not something you’d normally choose to have someone else see you in. You crack open the door, the chain restricting it from opening all the way.

It’s Dave. One arm is braced against the outside door frame. “I wanted to tell you,” he begins. His voice is very soft. You have to strain to hear it. “What this is, and what this isn’t.”

You shut the door and slide the chain across, then reopen it and step back, gesturing for him to come inside. He shuts the door and locks it. No one living here would dare leave their doors otherwise. Too many thieves. Shady, unsavory people. You fold your arms across your chest, waiting for him to continue.

“I haven’t…been with anyone in a long time,” he begins hesitantly.

“Neither have I.”

“I don’t want to feel…don’t want to hurt you…” The words come out in fragments, his thoughts splintered. It’s difficult for him to express his feelings, you think. Not just stumbling because of the alcohol. He’s not used to confiding in anyone. Trusting anyone. What happened in his past, to make him this way?

“I don’t have any expectations. You’re not obligated to say or do anything you don’t want to.” You respect his privacy. You won’t push him to reveal his secrets. You don’t want to divulge yours, either.

You hear him sigh, a heavy, relieved sort of sound. He’s made no movement once he’s locked the door. It’s up to you to close the distance between you.

His hair is greasy and he smells like sweat and that unmistakable masculine tang of musk that stirs a memory you don’t want, pushing you closer than you might otherwise have moved. You touch his pale cheek, tracing along the arch, following it down to the corner of his jaw. There’s a kind of stark beauty in his features, as harsh and sharp as they are. Something almost otherworldly and ethereal in his aura. His generous lips compel you to stroke them, your thumb dragging across the plump bottom of that pairing.

His head bends and you stretch to meet him, suddenly on tip toes, a little off balance until his arm curls around your waist to steady you, dragging you against him. Your mouths greet each other politely, at first, tentative kisses that grow more confident, more heated. He tastes of ash, the sour tang of fermented hops. There is a needy sound in the back of Dave’s throat that plucks at your core.

He pushes and you pull and he ends up on top of you on the bed. Lying horizontally, but you don’t think it matters much. There is still weight to him, a heaviness from being male, naturally comprised of more muscle, pressing along your soft curves. You like the crush of his body, of his mouth on yours. His hands fumble beneath the waistband of your shorts. He does not linger on your sensitive bud, instead seeking your entrance. Searching to see how prepared you are for him, how wet. Perhaps not quite slick enough. You’re nervous.

He slips his fingers—the same pair that has just been teasing the opening of your pussy—between your lips, urging you to suck, to coat them with saliva. They taste like metal, like the oil he seems to be permanently stained with. They reach far back across the carpet of your tongue, nearly gagging you. His eyes never leave yours, watching you work your mouth over his offering. In a joint effort you manage to shove your shorts and panties down, leaving them dangling from one ankle in your haste while he unfastens the fly of his pants. You try to divest him of more of his clothing, reaching for the buttons of his shirt but he halts you, pinning your wrist near your face. At last he withdraws his saliva coated fingers, smearing the clear fluid over his cock—you’ve only caught a bare glimpse from this angle, and it looks large, intimidating—and then he wedges that same hand between your legs, indicating he wants them parted, opening yourself up to him.

He thrusts inside of you in one go, slamming right to the hilt in a single breath stealing push. You have not been filled in a very long time, and never this full. Dave stretches your canal, reshaping it, forcing it to accommodate his prick. You pant, little punches of air expelled from your lungs each time he thrusts, mercilessly driving back inside over and over. His eyes are still locked with yours. It hurts, yet it feels good. Mingling somewhere on that pleasure-pain border. You feel raw. Aching. You’ve never orgasmed from intercourse before but you know you’re going to now. His hands shove your thighs back further and he somehow manages to penetrate you even deeper. He grinds you into the mattress and you roll your hips along his. Your nails dig into his shoulder. There is a vein standing out at his temple, pale blue and kinked, pulsing beneath the skin. “Where do I…”

You somehow understand what he’s asking. “Anywhere. I can’t get pregnant.” His lips dip to capture yours in what almost feels like an apology, an exhibition of sympathy, a tenderness at odds with other parts of his body. He keeps kissing you, each one wetter and wetter until it’s like a dam bursts inside of you. You shake violently, a shallow cascade of fluids leaking out of you. The briefest look of surprise, Miller’s lashes lifting before his fingers clamp like a manacle around your wrist at his shoulder, shoving it towards the midline, to the throat exposed above his fastened shirt collar. He grits his teeth, growling until you comply with his request, the fingers pressing into yours guiding you, demonstrating what he desires. You squeeze around his neck with no further prompting and his hand falls away. You feel the struggle of the cartilage beneath, the wad of spit he’s attempting to swallow unable to travel down his esophagus, hear the harsh whine of air that whistles through his compressed trachea. The hand still clenched around your wrist pinned to the bed mirrors your movements, growing tighter and tighter. You think it might snap, your bones shattering into splinters. There is a thin trail of saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth. You want to stop choking him, and yet you can’t. You can’t until he finishes; until he fills you up with that same fluid that ruined your life all those years ago.

Miller’s eyes roll back and he bites his bottom lip and he cums, hard. You feel the blast of it, molten, a great quantity of it, shot deep inside. Your fingers instantly loosen their grip, aching and cramped, and he inhales deeply, like a drowning man seeking air after being submerged underwater. You’d thought him damp before but it’s nothing compared to the sweat that soaks him now, saturating his skin and clothing.

There is that awkward moment that comes immediately afterward, when the merged intensity experienced moments before suddenly shifts into hasty withdrawals, into regretful partings. At least, that had been your previous experience. Dave does not look remorseful. He looks sated, satisfied. He drops down beside you, his long legs dangling over the edge of the bed, and rakes a hand through his damp hair, wiping the sweat he collects on the front of his shirt.

You stare at the ceiling, at the brown stains that speak of water damaged tiles, and recover your breathing. You tentatively flex the wrist he’d pinned down so harshly and find it’s not broken after all. Very red, though. You’re willing to bet there will be bruises there come morning.

Residual tremors still course along your thighs. You can feel the older man’s seed leaking out of you. You want another bath, and you’re willing to take it alone, but you want to invite Dave to join you. Still curious about what’s hiding beneath those clothes.

When your eyes shift to his face, you find him watching you. He’s quiet again. It will take effort to pull more words from him. You touch his cheek. “Want to take a bath with me?”

He nods, surprising you. “Okay,” you say, shifting to kiss his mouth gently.

***

You see the reason Dave has shielded his body the instant his shirt is removed.

He’s covered in faded pink scars, strange markings that seem too stylized and symmetrical to be entirely random. They cover him from the base of his neck all the way down to his ankles, sparing only his sex organs.

You try not to stare, but it’s obvious in the air between you. “Accident at work, a long time ago.” The only explanation he offers, and you accept it. It’s none of your business. Not really.

You sit at the rear of the tub and he sits in front of you, between your legs. There isn’t a lot of room but you make it work. The cool water feels soothing. You use a plastic tumbler to wet his hair, lathering shampoo into it and then bidding him to close his eyes before you repeat the process to rinse the suds away. There’s something comforting about washing the man, gentle strokes of soap and douses of water, your lips pressing kisses along his shoulders, at his neck. Your breasts press into his spine as you reach around to wash the front, stroking over the sparse patch of dark hair on his chest, following the trail that leads to his groin. You wash that, too, a brisk scrub over softened member and scrotum and he makes a little huff of sound. Still sensitive. You wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him back as you recline, the soapy water sloshing around in the tub, some of it spilling onto the floor. Your fingers comb through his hair and you enjoy the silence between you. You’re comfortable, content. Maybe you would have been a good caregiver after all. A decent mother. But it’s too late to decide that now. Much, much too late.

You remain in the water until your skin is macerated, your hands pruning up, shriveling. Dave towels you both off, ending on his knees in front of you, making sure your feet are dry, sopping up the water you’d spilled earlier. He looks up and you look down and you wonder if this is how it was, all those years ago, when he’d proposed to his wife. If there had been tears of joy and radiant smiles and a breathless yes of acceptance. What had life done to him, to make him this thin apparition of a man, scarred inside and out, yet still starkly beautiful, with his shadow smudged eyes and his pouting lips and those clever, deft fingers?

He’s dressed again, the symbols marring his skin obscured from view once more. At your door, now unlocked and open, and even though you’d said you’d had no expectations, that there were no obligations, you cannot help but want more. You clutch his sleeve and he looks at you. Looks into you with those glacier orbs and you find yourself falling deeper and deeper.

“Stay,” you implore. You do not want to sink down into that mattress again, alone, with only the memories of him to comfort you.

You see the hesitation. The want. Conflicting emotions. Was it kinder to leave? Crueler to indulge you? Or were

those reversed?

“Please stay.” Your hand slides from his arm, dropping down, defeated.

Dave shuts the door and locks it, the chain sliding into place with a sharp snap before he turns back to you, gathering you into his arms.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #dave miller x you #dave miller x reader #william afton smut

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sseniita · 1 year

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hero; never learned how to drive

“Ever thought about retirement?”

“We don’t get that luxury.”

Hero glanced at the expensive car she was sitting in. Spotless and shiny. She noticed Villain’s silver watch, also seemingly expensive.

“What luxuries can I have? I’ve never even driven a car.”

Villain noticed the undertone.

“I inherited this car from my father. It’s sentimental.”

“You hated your dad.” she sneered. Villain chuckled.

Hero continued staring out the window. She felt annoyed at the frost growing on the window for a second until she realised she wouldn’t be able to see anything in the pitch black darkness anyway. She imagined the mountains that must’ve been there and flying past them, then she imagined how it must feel to want to fly and not be able to. She smiled.

“You think…” she hesitated. “if I lost my powers they’d fire me?”

“Mm. They’d probably keep you. Like a mascot of sorts. Maybe build a statue.” He said, nonchalantly. “Maybe in front of city hall,” he added. Enticingly.

“I’d like a statue. Maybe in solid gold.”

“You’d be lucky to get bronze if you lose a leg or something.”

“What if I died?”

Villain stood quiet. Hero waited for an answer. The motor was making a funny noise.

“What do you mean what if?”

“Well. I’d like to retire.” Hero decided. Rather quickly.

Villain’s mood was something tricky to read. Over the years Hero had become fluent in deciphering it, but she always imagined it wasn’t her becoming fluent- rather it was him speaking her language. Regardless, both options suggested some sort of intimacy Hero and Villain quietly shared and one that Hero held pride in.

“Retire?”

Hero decided she was feeling particularly lucky tonight. “Ya! You could come too! I was thinking we could start with a European museum trip for me. Maybe visit Japan for you. We’ll end up on the beach somewhere in Cuba-”

“Cut that out.” he interrupted. Hero noticed the slight stressful swerve of the car, but kept the lightness to her tone.

“Don’t like my plan?”

“I don’t like this game.”

“What game?”

“This one. You. Playing with the idea that you and I won't forever be what we are.”

“And what am I?”

“A hero.”

“I hope not at 50.”

“You won’t make it to 50. Maybe at around 38 you’ll have a battle and die bravely and honourably in an impressive way as you save the planet-”

“-then will I get my statue?”

They continued quietly down the road. The sound of the car getting increasingly more present, Villain’ knuckles, getting progressively more white on the steering wheel. Finally, once they turned on the main road and the streetlights reappeared, they stopped. Villain got out of the car. He opened the passenger seat and signalled Hero to get out. She did.

“You know I can fly, right? Deserting me here won’t do any-” Villain offered her the car keys.

“You drive.”

Before Hero could argue her body betrayed her and she already had a huge smile plastered on her face and the car keys in her hand. She should have caught onto the driving manual really quick, she was always a quick learner. But she couldn’t help but love the feeling of Villain’s hand on hers as he guided her through the gears five times over. Villain was uncharacteristically patient tonight.

These were the pair’s favourite type of night. Of course, they’d both enjoyed drunken escapades, scheming all-nighters, and undercover missions, but rare occasions of dreadfully boring mundane activities were the best. It gave Hero a chance to play a normal woman- in this case: a normal woman learning to drive. And it gave the Villain a chance to catch a glimpse of how it could have been if they had met under different circumstances.

The night ended, as per instructions of the Villain, by crashing the car into a ditch and the long walk back to town, side by side.

#writing #hero x villain #original fiction #i really wanted to try hero x villain content since that's the majority of what i consume on this God forgotten website #i added symbolism!!#i hope it detectable #criticism welcome #i think the word 'powers' is cringe but what was i gonna call it??? quirk???#if it ain't broke dont fix it ig #if you see grammer mistakes no u dont

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princehatterene · 4 months

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OH I FORGOT TO MENTION i’m going to motor city pride on sunday!!!! i’m looking forward to it except for the parking lol

#but it’s detroit they have parking everywhere #i’ll post pictures!!!#i gotta figure out what i’m wearing #tea time!

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fordarkisthesuede · 8 months

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Fangs of Ouroboros - Chapter 3 - The Carrot and the Stick

I meant to say this in the beginning of the year, but as usual stuff kept getting in the way, so I'll say it now:

THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT IN 2023!!! ｡･+ﾟﾟ(うд´｡)ﾟﾟ+･｡ 💖💖💖💖💖

Last time on The Snake Goes Round 'n' Round:

Tiffany and John worked together to investigate the explosive that destroyed the office of a PI with a connection to Lady Arkham, discovering the bomber is connected to a very publicized 5-year-old murder. Deciding to see if they can get a firm ID out of a short list of candidates, they head to Blackgate Prison disguised as lawyers...

And now, we rejoin Bruce as he heads off to see what The Agency wants with Wayne Enterprises...

[ start ] | [ prev ] | [ Read on Ao3 ] | [ next]

Bruce drummed the steering wheel as the motor idled in the early morning traffic. It would get worse in twenty minutes, when everyone left for their 8 o’clock shifts at the same time.

His mind kept drifting back to the explosion. How Oz didn’t seem to know one of his men was dead. How strangely well-timed it seemed with the weird murder-game Joker had made upstairs. Those stupid notes. How in his own words John had said he would do that kind of thing just to mess with him…

Not that he actually suspected John of being behind it. If he had used real bodies in that room, then… But of course he hadn’t. And he couldn’t picture John, who took pride in putting his own ‘Joker’ signature on everything he made, not making the bomb himself. Let alone not taking credit for it. Or putting glitter in it.

And it made Bruce wonder: if it wasn’t the world’s greatest coincidence that a detective linked to a nefarious terrorist would have an attempt on his life botched horribly - or else just his work destroyed - then could someone have been following John to make it seem like the two things were related?

He could feel the locker key he’d gotten from Joker’s “crime scene” burning a hole in his breast pocket. It felt like a longshot, but if that was true, then whoever had followed John to the old building could have followed him elsewhere. They might know the next step. They might know the whole game. Which meant either of them could be waltzing into a trap.

Bruce clenched his teeth and turned sharp enough to barely avoid the curb as he sorted through his mental map of Gotham. St. Dymphna’s was close to a Skyrail station, which was the best bet for John’s choice…

But technically, it was the victim’s locker he was looking for. The crime scene was closer to the red line, but it was possible. Bruce recalled seeing a gym around the same area, but it would be harder to get to.

That said, he didn’t really see the joke in choosing a gym locker. It was rare, but it was logical for a normal person who took the Skyrail often to rent out one of the lockers for longer than a day. Or else they had gotten a copy for a locker they’d rigged to no longer open. And there was something funny about keeping valuables locked up in a public space.

After years of studying the city’s maps and acting as Batman, Bruce knew every back-route in Gotham big enough for his car. Weaving into alleys and side-streets came second-nature.

The Skyrail station was surprisingly quiet for the early morning, with only a few bleary-eyed people hauling up and down the stairs and only one using the old elevator. Bruce suspected that much like regular traffic, it would get a lot busier in about ten or fifteen minutes. He slipped on the pair of aviator sunglasses that John had once again left in the car, hoping no one would recognize him. At least the lockers were at the bottom level.

The little key didn’t have a number stamped on it. There were only so many lockers available, and the station had elected to get rid of the availability lights to prevent theft. Not that it always helped, as evidenced by the obvious dents. He’d have to guess.

John’s choice would probably be 8, as the lockers didn’t go past 30. The crime scene took place in room 12 on the third floor. And the invitation had been stamped on the 19th, the day before yesterday. (Or was it that today was supposed to be significant?)

He decided to try 8 - the key didn’t budge. It would look suspicious to try them all… Since it was truly the victim’s key, it would have to be something they could remember easily. And since Bruce didn’t have so much as a name to go by…

Locker 12 opened with a ka-dink. It was small and square, holding a plain plastic shopping bag with a folder advertising funeral services peeking out on top.

Bruce saw no harm in going through the bag’s contents. He pulled out a thin stack of paper from a manila folder - it looked like the owner (likely the male victim from the crime scene) had sold up most of their stock portfolio over the past few months. The names’ acronyms stood out to him as if he’d dealt with them before, but he couldn’t remember the context.

The name on the trades was different from the bank statement showing some hefty withdrawals from a joint account named for a group. Why ‘Arnold Palmer’ needed another two-hundred thousand dollars from ‘Three Lime Twists’ was an easy thing to guess - he was going to run away.

The paper trail John had laid out was just that; if the ‘Three Lime Twists’ group were set to get revenge and their money back, then they must’ve discovered where it all went. The natural thing would’ve been to put it in the wife’s account, but that normally wouldn’t be accessible to anyone else - and it would be quite difficult to check, despite the number and bank looking legitimate…

The folder from The Balm of Our Hearts held flyers for different services and plot availability in Gotham’s cemeteries, including maps. Nothing was circled, but the significance of including them at all made Bruce’s synapses spark.

Of course… The extracted funds could all be physical. It would be so much like John, who loved finding hiding places, to create such an elaborate one in a place where few people walked and where any shovel work would seem natural.

As for what exactly was buried and in which cemetery… I’m going to have to do some digging, he thought, feeling a smile tug on his lips. Heh… John would’ve loved that.

The only other item in the bag was a small black jewelry box with Noir Velours stamped on it - a top of the line jeweler that Bruce had used himself.

He was half-surprised to see an actual ring in it. A sapphire almost as large as his fingernail shone in-between what may have been black spinel on a platinum band that seemed too thick and large for a woman's hand. In fact, it looked like it would fit him.

Could the male victim from the apartment have been planning on running away with a man? Maybe that was why the killer didn’t stop by the locker - the wife didn’t know about it. Outside of the fact that they couldn’t have been able to anyway, as they only existed as an idea in this game… The idea of the male vic’ planning to kill his wife wasn’t off the table yet.

Or maybe the killer was some kind of third member of the relationship who decided he’d had enough…? But then again, the dinner table would’ve been set for three…

Maybe he was overthinking the ring’s purpose. It could be a clue just by itself: an expensive piece of jewelry kept out of the way from the apartment. Which meant it would have had to go elsewhere, and the most convenient place for it was the stop along the way.

And considering the few leads he had, it was likely the same cemetery Bruce would have to go dig in.

Bruce shut the locker and began the short trek back to the car, bag in hand, feeling a buzz of excitement still prickle in his brain despite knowing he’d soon have to face the reality waiting for him in his office.

🜃

The Agency were being subtle this time, at least. He would’ve hardly recognized Iman’s old partner in the casual business suit if it weren’t for his shoes; hard caps for the toes were difficult to slim down in any design.

“Mr. Wayne, glad you could join us,” Agent Vernon Blake greeted as Bruce shut the conference room door behind him. Iman Avesta was seated at the large conference table in a navy blue pantsuit. The room was otherwise empty.

“Looks like this is a private party,” Bruce commented dryly, “Where’s our security personnel? The other department heads?”

“We’ve already discussed the necessary precautions to be taken with your security teams,” Agent Blake said, “This debriefing is just for you and Miss Avesta. She insisted on briefing everyone else separately.”

Thank Iman for small favors, Bruce thought, mouthing ‘thank you’ as he walked around Agent Blake’s back. He’d hate to have the rest of the company side-eying him for what he presumed was another by-product of a criminal association. He could practically hear the clucking about low stocks and bad publicity from the board, who already were tempted to axe him for his engagement announcement alone.

“To get straight to the point,” Agent Blake said, swiping his tablet (from one of the Wayne’s own tech divisions, Bruce noticed) to cast the projection of his screen to the television on the wall, “we’re here because of your association with Victor Fries.”

The meeting room’s extra-wide screen showed a screen-capture of security footage taken from the basement of the SANCTUS facility, where Bruce could be seen talking to a newly-infected Victor behind the glass of the temperature-controlled chamber.

“Since you effectively saved him from the LOTUS virus, Mr. Fries had been in our custody.”

Had. The word stuck out like a clean window in the Narrows. Bruce knew exactly where this was going. “And now he’s escaped.”

Agent Blake glanced at him. “Yes.” The image changed to footage of what looked like a laboratory. Victor Fries, still clad in his red goggles and metallic low-temperature suit, bore a familiar collar around his neck that was undoubtedly fitted with explosives. “We allowed him to continue working on the cure for his wife’s illness in exchange for us studying his body’s incubation of LOTUS. At approximately 1:05 this morning -”

In the video, everything happened at once: the chemical vials on the table in the background exploded, causing another scientist and the armed guard in the corner to scramble to put it out while Victor made a dash for the door.

“- Mr. Fries caused a lab accident.”

The bubbling beaker Victor had been working with exploded with something white-hot, and the camera footage switched to a hallway, showing Victor throwing his collar aside and slipping into a large door.

“He somehow managed to fix the features of his suit we’d disabled and froze off his restraining collar. He broke into the testing room, froze two of our technicians, and escaped with a prototype freeze-ray and Nora Fries’ cryo-tube.”

Bruce watched as a group of security personnel dashed down the hall, only to get frozen in place by what looked like a ray gun straight off a 50’s pulp novel. Victor wheeled his wife’s frozen holding tank behind him.

“How did he leave the facility?” Iman asked as the image was replaced with an aerial map of Gotham.

Agent Blake tapped his thumb on the edge of the tablet and pursed his lips. “He stole one of our transport trucks and froze the controls for the doors on his way out. He ditched the truck and stole a rental van from a gas station while the driver was getting a lottery ticket.”

Bruce studied the map. All of the city’s warehouses, factories, and laboratory buildings with cold room storage were marked with red dots. Naturally, Wayne Enterprises’ had their pharmaceutical manufacturing facility in the mix, but Wayne Tower was also marked. “Why do you think he’d come here?” Bruce asked, already knowing the answer.

“Victor Fries is not in his right mind anymore, Mr. Wayne. The LOTUS virus has affected him the same way it affected Edward Nygma.” Agent Blake met Iman’s gaze with a look Bruce could only attribute to regret and comradery through the memory of their last case together. “You may have betrayed him in the Pact, but you practically saved his life. He might try to get your help.”

Bruce wasn’t so sure of that. The man was a natural-born loner, only working with the Pact out of necessity. Much like Bruce himself. And he knew Victor was too intelligent to try to seek him out. He’d be far more likely to leave him alone out of gratitude.

“And I’m assuming The Agency would like my help.”

Agent Blake avoided looking at him or Iman, but stared down at the tablet as he typed something. “We’d like your cooperation, Mr. Wayne. If Victor Fries makes any attempt at contact with you, we’d like to know about it. And naturally,” he added, his focus returning to Bruce’s hard stare, “we’ve already negotiated all necessary access with your security team for the suspected locations under your name.”

“What about the other Pact members?” Iman asked, keeping her hands folded on the table. “Do you think he’ll try to engage them at all?”

“They’re not a concern,” the agent waved away, “We’ve already checked with Blackgate Prison. Dr. Harleen Quinzel and ‘Bane’ are in secure wings and haven’t received any correspondence from anyone besides their legal representation - which we’ve naturally crosschecked. Even if he could contact them, we can’t see any reason to. We don’t feel any sufficient motive for him contacting John Doe, either.”

“Napier,” Bruce corrected. “And he betrayed the Pact, too; by helping me.”

“We’re well aware of your relationship, Mr. Wayne.” The meeting room monitor reverted back to its default image of the Wayne Enterprises logo. “As I’m sure you’re aware of how precious time is in these cases. If you or any of your associates find Mr. Fries before we do,” he emphasized with a hard stare back at Bruce as he slipped a contact card on the table, “it’s in everyone’s best interest to alert us first. The battery powering his suit only lasts so long; and when it runs out, he’ll become highly infectious.”

Bruce knew what would happen if he rejected any of this: he would not only get tailed anyway, but Amanda Waller would have another reason to spill his secret at the nearest opportunity. He ignored the childish urge to tear up the card, sliding it into his breast pocket instead. He’d have to check it and his car later for any tracking devices.

“Vernon,” Iman added with an unexpected softness, “I know you can’t tell me any details, but… Just how useful is Victor Fries to the Agency?”

The agent lost the firm look he had with Bruce. He didn’t answer straight away. “It depends on who you ask,” he said slowly. “If you went to Waller, she’d say he was top priority. Anderson and Duchovny would say differently.” Agent Blake closed the tablet case with a sense of finality. “You know where you can reach me,” he said, directed far more at Iman than at Bruce.

The door clicked shut. “Those names mean anything to you?”

“Two associate directors in the Agency,” Iman explained, propping her chin on her folded hands. “They were never Waller’s biggest fans, but they keep quiet when she gets results. The fact that she’s desperate to have Fries back says whatever research they have into the incubating LOTUS isn’t conclusive.”

“That freeze-gun he had was different from the one he had before,” Bruce added, “They must be reverse-engineering his weapons, too.”

“That wouldn’t be worth hunting him down over.”

“No, but it might be part of it. Waller’s not one for letting things go.”

Iman leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in thought. “I’d be surprised if she wasn’t in the city, at least. I doubt she’d give someone the opportunity to slip up on re-capturing one of her projects if it was this important to her.”

That was if they could really take Agent Blake at his word. Iman seemed to trust him, but how much of that was an old sense of comradery versus actual reason?

“Oh, speaking of,” Iman added, turning to him, “you got here later than I thought you’d be. Did something happen?”

Bruce didn’t see any reason in telling her the truth. He wasn’t sure how much she or Tiffany knew about the game John had created, but he couldn’t picture either of them encouraging it in any way. “Sorry. I just had to make a quick stop,” he answered, unable to banish the image of Joker grinning at him from the old television screen.

“Oh. I thought you might have been dropping off John. I doubted he’d want to be alone at the manor with the Agency in town…”

Bruce brought up his own map of the city on his phone, marking the same locations the Agency had marked as potential hideouts for Fries. “He’s hitching a ride to work with Tiffany. Can you give me a patch into the camera system for WE RX?”

“You want it direct? I could just get you a web login.”

“Direct is easier if I’m going to be watching several locations at once,” Bruce explained, standing to retreat to his office for a few moments before he would get stuck at the next meeting on his calendar. “We need to find him before they can.”

“Not that I don’t agree, but for which reason in particular?”

The Agency had already been treating Fries like a captured animal; and while it was true Bruce didn’t want to know what they would do to him upon his recapture, true that he didn’t want the virus he’d worked to eliminate have a chance to return, and that there may have been a crumb of truth in not wanting to be beaten to the punch by the likes of them…

It was the sticking point about Fries that Harley Quinn had summed up rather succinctly, once. “Because as someone once put it, the only thing he gives two hoots about is his wife,” Bruce quoted, mimicking Harley’s voice without her clear tone of disdain. ��Either Victor found a cure for Nora Fries, or he’s missing something to finish it. And Waller won’t care what happens to her if they take him back.”

“I’m glad we’re thinking alike,” Iman said with a slight smile, “It reminds me of why I volunteered for the Pact case to begin with, Batman.” Iman tugged her suit straight. “I should be able to patch you into the camera feed in about fifteen minutes. Robin’s cracking program should make quick work of the other feeds; I’ll take half of them if you want.”

“That’d be a huge help,” Bruce said honestly, “I’m going to check for any abandoned cold rooms that weren’t marked on that map. I doubt Fries will want to make too much of a scene.”

Iman gave a single, sardonic little hah. “Between our team and this city’s penchant for themed criminals, that would certainly make a nice change.”

----------------------------------------------

Notes:

I really wanted to finish this piece before the end of 2023. That did not go as planned. (Then again, that last third of the year took a weird-ass turn, and I’m still trying to navigate myself back to the road.) I have a little over half of the next chapter done because it was originally going to be here, but then I realized I hated having to backtrack scenes and then skip around, so it was easier to just make things in the proper order, even if the sudden character switching would be a little weird to “play”. Season 4 sure was easier!

Onto funner stuff: Bruce has no real choice in following Joker’s game. He just pretends he does. At least his reasoning in the villainous path makes a tad more sense... And speaking of, “your” choices at the end could lead to telling Iman about Joker’s murder-game, regardless of his status with the Bat-fam. The villain!Joker path would naturally cause Iman to be concerned about both you and the city, but in our vigilante!Joker path, you’d get a special relationship notification: “Iman Avesta is judging you pretty hard right now.”

And lastly, a super-special-awesome thank you to @spring-roe on tumblr for this sweet fanart! ( ͒ ́ඉ .̫ ඉ ̀ ͒)

#the perseverance project #fangs of ouroboros #telltale batjokes #telltale batman #juce #batman the telltale series #the enemy within #batjokes #bruce wayne #GUESS WHO'S BACK #(back again)#the agency #iman avesta #Achievement: Iman Is Judging You So Hard #I have so many little jokes in this one :3c #circulate the links

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handeaux · 7 months

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Overwhelmed By Advertising? The Battle For Cincinnati Consumers Has Raged For More Than A Century

Depending on the source, it is estimated that each American is confronted by 6,000 to 10,000 advertising messages every single day. That immersive media onslaught swelled as we started carrying little video screens around wherever we go, but invasive and obnoxious marketing has bothered Cincinnatians for much more than a century.

For example, on 20 July 1871, a correspondent for the Cincinnati Times related an enjoyable voyage he had undertaken down the Ohio River. After praising the service of his riverboat’s staff, the remarkable scenery along the river, the picturesque little town he floated by, the writer registered one complaint, about a cliff near the town of Hanging Rock:

“High up on the face of this wall of white sandstone, hundreds of feet beyond the reach of a scaling ladder, I noticed a patent medicine advertisement. It was penciled there by a man let down with ropes from above, and the letters are large enough to be read from the deck of a steamer two miles distant. I was sorry to see this defacement. It is bad enough that all the fences throughout the land should be made to lie for patent medicines without debasing the hill-sides with such marking. I suppose that when the ‘chemical affinity necessary to be the motor of some immense flying machine’ shall be discovered, some enterprising patent medicine man will be plastering the face of the moon with some of his ‘wonderful remedies.’”

If only the poor man knew what lay ahead! Even in the 1870s, almost every vertical surface in Cincinnati was slathered with posters, placards and bills advertising shows at the local theaters, patent medicines and political candidates. Cincinnati was the center of the bill-posting world. For one thing, Cincinnati was among the top printing cities of the United States, with the mighty Strobridge Lithographing Company dominating the poster industry.

Also, Billboard magazine was headquartered here in Cincinnati. What we now think of as a music magazine, Billboard was founded in Cincinnati as a trade publication for men who posted “bills” on walls. From its first issue in 1894, Billboard covered the entertainment industry, such as circuses, fairs and burlesque shows, and also created a mail service for travelling entertainers. Initially it covered the advertising and bill-posting trade and was known as Billboard Advertising.

Far from inspiring civic pride, advertising rankled Cincinnati residents as they witnessed visual pollution encrusting the region’s hillsides. Leading the opposition was the Municipal Art Society – a sort of ad-hoc predecessor to today’s Urban Design Review Board. The opening shot was fired 24 August 1896 when the Enquirer reported:

“A matter that will undoubtedly be of interest to the business men is the fact that war has been declared by the Cincinnati Municipal Art Society against advertising signs on fences along the car routes and drives of the city. The art society maintains that these signs mar the beauty of the city, especially in the case of landscape scenes on the hills and in the suburbs, and that they are offensive to the public taste.”

The Society was persistent. It took five years but the Cincinnati Post reported [24 November 1901] that the Baldwin Piano Company had demolished 200 feet of billboards erected on company property along Gilbert Avenue. The Post described this as the “first result” of the Society’s campaign.

The Municipal Art Society was soon joined by some strange bedfellows. The Cincinnati Business Men’s Club, among whose members were certainly a number of advertisers who employed billboards to disseminate their messages, created its own Municipal Art Committee to lobby for restrictions on outdoor advertising. On 1 June 1907, the committee circulated a postcard illustrated with a photo of signage clogging the view from the Grand Central Depot, with the sarcastic caption, “A Nice Welcome To Cincinnati.”

As early as 1895, the city chased the Fountain saloon’s advertising off Fountain Square, but appears not to have drafted a comprehensive law about outdoor advertising until 1909 when, as part of a broader safety ordinance, the city adopted limitations on the size of billboards, their placement near thoroughfares and the materials to be used in their construction.

While the city pondered how to encourage commerce while maintaining attractive views, the entire billboard industry was gaining momentum through a Cincinnati entrepreneur named Philip Morton. Before Morton, “bill boards” were basically fences on which bill posters slapped printed advertisements glued up with a flour-water paste. Morton took outdoor advertising to a new level, according to Jay Gilbert, who has researched his influence on marketing [Cincinnati Magazine September 2016]:

“By 1898 he’d become the Steve Jobs of roadside blight. Doing business as Ph. Morton, Phil was an early pioneer of putting ads into free-standing frames called ‘bill-boards’ and plunking them down everywhere. Eventually every railroad route and motorway in America had its view ruined by a Ph. Morton billboard.”

Even the powerhouse Morton found himself in the city’s crosshairs. Parks Superintendent John W. Rodgers, according to the Enquirer [20 September 1907], exasperated by Morton’s billboards blocking the view of Inwood Park, erupted.

“Park Superintendent Rodgers yesterday tore down over 12,000 feet of big billboards that stretched along for a distance south of Hollister street, facing Vine street, in front of Inwood Park. The billboards were 12 feet high, about 1,000 feet long and contained the advertisements of leading firms of the city, and were illuminated at night with electric lights. They had been at that place for years.”

All of those billboards were leased by Philip Morton who, as coincidence would have it, dropped off a check to pay the lease while workmen were busily engaged demolishing his thousand feet of signage. This was the Boss Cox era in Cincinnati where the right hand was very often ignorant of the left hand’s activity. And so it was, while the Park Superintendent was demolishing billboards on Vine Street, the Board of Public Service pondered a lease for billboards along Gilbert Avenue. That’s right – the same Gilbert Avenue divested of billboards just six years earlier.

A common theme of cartoon artists at that time was the eventual coverage of all available exterior surfaces with advertising signs and slogans. In response, Cincinnati Post cartoonist Elmer Andrews Bushnell sketched City Hall wrapped from sidewalk to parapet in advertising while George Barnsdale Cox and his minion, August “Garry” Herrmann, happily apply more posters and Mayor Julius Fleischmann hides behind a billboard.

The battle raged for decades. Photographs from 1927 show dozens of billboards crowding the hillside over the Brighton overpass to Central Parkway and the Enquirer [24 March 1929] begged for relief because billboards and other unsightly structures had a negative effect on property values:

“What of the gaudy billboard that intrudes itself into a residential district, the sign which girds the tree or telephone pole, the roadside ‘shack’ which is made more ugly with bizarre advertisements? Do they affect values?”

A century later, we hardly notice billboards anymore. We’re too busy texting while we drive.

#cincinnati advertising #cincinnati billboards #billboard magazine #philip morton #boss cox

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winchestersickness · 1 year

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What's your favourite headcanon of something that happened in the Impala?

Hiiiii <3 thank you for sending me this!

I've just watched Swan Song for the first time, and the Impala montage is the part that fucked me up the most. The line "they were never, in fact, homeless" destroyed me and put me back together. So I think I'll say something soft, that my favorite headcanon with the Impala is how much it functioned as a home for two kids who grew up on the road, jostled from case to case. How they probably learn to fall asleep with the rock station in the background, lulled by her motor. How many games of "I spy" they've played with the great plains or the rocky mountains or the fields rolling by. How much pride Dean felt in teaching Sam how to drive (even though I'm sure Sam learned how to drive at like, 12), and how ecstatic Sam felt whenever he was riding shotgun, and not in the backseat (much to say about this. Anyway.) The fact that when Dean put her back together he stuck a toy soldier in the astray and a piece of lego in the ventilation, same way you'd hang your favorite posters and photos in all your apartments in the course of your life. In all that uncertainty and sorrow and instability the two of them managed to create a home for themselves, and to carry it with them, always. Even when they had nothing, when they were cut off from the world, when the only certainty was the monsters lurking in the woods, in the cities, in every street and in every bar, they had each other, and they had their Baby ❣️

#I also wanted to thank you for sending this ask to so many people - I've enjoyed reading other people's answers and it made me feel like we #Were all in the same book club or something <3 very cute! Thank you :)#My answer is very corny but fkdnsk these are my feelings at the moment :((#sam & dean #m #Asks #Anon #The Impala was one of the things that confused me the most before watching the show oh but I GET IT now #supernatural #*

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haihaihaitani · 1 year

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Adrenaline ~ *Ken Ryuguji*

Summary: You have some brand new toys you want to show off to Draken. He’s more than impressed with one of them. You can’t wait to show him what you can do with it!

Pairing: Ken Ryuguji X G/N!Reader

Genre: Fluffy Oneshot

Word Count: 1305

Warning: swearing, reckless driving, one vague death threat, a get out of jail free card

Masterlist

Taglist: @soulangel

A/N: Inspired by the song Adrenaline by Shinedown

“Wow.”

“You like it?”

“Like it?” Draken shrugged. “It’s alright I guess.”

Your jaw dropped. “You guess? C’mon! She’s gorgeous! And she was made for the streets! I plan on winning so much money with her!”

He shrugged. “Sure, I mean, I guess you could. But she’s not perfect.”

Pouting, you crossed your arms. “Fine, smart guy. What’s wrong with her?”

You watched closely as Draken examined your bike carefully. “She’s just… I don’t know, wrong. She’s just wrong.”

With a huff, you leaned over the bike and batted your eyelashes at him. “So you’ll fix her for me?”

Ruffling your hair, he smirked. “In your dreams kid.”

You grit your teeth. “Then would you like to buy her from me?”

“I thought you said you were going to make a lot of money off of her?”

“Yeah! I thought so too! But if the best motorcycle mechanic in all of Japan says she’s wrong, I’m going to listen to him and say she’s wrong too.”

Draken rolled his eyes. “I could take her, fix her up nice and good for you if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what’s best for Toman.” You explained with a cheeky smile. “If I can’t win with her, I can’t give any money to Toman. So if you want her, you can have her.”

“Oh alright! I’ll take a look at her when I have the time.”

Squealing with delight, you slipped around the bike and hugged Draken tightly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Alright, knock it off already.” He muttered, but he didn’t make a move to push you off of him.

Instead, you let go of your own accord. With a cheerful grin, you grabbed his hand. “I almost forgot to show you my other surprise! See, I bought this bike with my own, hard won money. But this other beauty I have, I won her off a street race last week! I want to take you for a ride around town with her because she is the real stunner in my collection of fine motor vehicles!”

You didn’t even give a chance to ask what you were talking about. Instead, you showed him your new cherry red hotrod. You giggled as his jaw dropped. Honestly, you should have shown him your new pride and joy before the bike, but semantics.

“Well? What do you think?”

“What do I think?” He breathed. “I think you should’ve started with her.”

You laughed and waved him off. “You’re right, you’re right. But Cherry Bomb deserves to be the grand finale. So what do you say? Wanna go for a ride?”

“You’re kidding right?”

Jumping into the front seat, you put the keys in the ignition. Draken ran his hand over the dashboard in complete awe over the craftsmanship. You couldn’t help but beam with pride.

“It’s all hand-crafted. I verified with a dealer. I also had her recently detailed and cleaned. Had to go way out of town to get it done because there are only two verified details in the whole country that work on cars like this.”

“That must have been expensive.”

Again, you waved him off. “It’s worth it. She’ll be my showgirl for a while and then when she’s ready, I’m going to take her to more high society street races. I’ll let her run some laps before putting her back on the showman’s circuit.”

“Yeah, you’ll definitely be able to sneak into high society races in this.” He assured you. “But to win, you gotta see how she runs.”

With a devilish grin, you put the car into drive. “Then you better hold on to something.”

And just like that, you blasted off like a rocket. You weren’t kidding when you told him to hold onto something. While he looked slightly concerned for your mental health, you just laughed. This was going to be so fun!

Zooming through the city, you made quick, sharp turns and flew past other cars. Most people would have trouble navigating the streets of Tokyo like this. But you were a professional drag racer. You knew what you were doing. And even though Draken looked scared out of his mind, you knew he knew you knew what you were doing. He trusted you, even if he didn’t look like he did right now.

It wasn’t long before you heard police sirens coming after you. Glancing at Draken, who slightly shook his head no, you floored it. His knuckles turned white as he held onto the dashboard. But you just kept laughing. This was the fun part. Nothing like running circles around the cops, only to pull out your secret weapon when the heat got close enough to burn.

And that happened right when you reached the edge of Tokyo. Carefully, you pulled over and rolled down your window. The cop came up to you and you flashed a bright smile.

“Hi officer! How can I help you?”

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

“No. Can you tell me?”

He didn’t look impressed by your answer, his tone sharp as he addressed you, “You were going almost three times over the speed limit. You could have killed someone and yourself with your reckless driving. I need you to step out of the car right now.”

Leaning against the window frame, you batted your eyelashes. “Aw, c’mon. Can’t you overlook this little misunderstanding? See, I didn’t hit or kill anyone. If anything, you should be impressed with how carefully I weaved through traffic. I did some pretty good driving back there.”

“Is this a joke to you?”

You shook your head, eyes wide. “Oh, no sir! See, I think the rules of the road are very important! That’s why I was very careful going almost three times over the speed limit! I would never intentionally try to hit someone! I can promise you that!”

“Get out of the car now or I will be forced to remove you from the vehicle with extreme prejudice.” He snapped.

With a sigh, you grabbed your wallet and pulled out a card before waving it in front of his face. You kept your smirk to yourself as all the color drained from his face. “Does this help?”

“Y-you…” He trailed off before tipping his hat. “My mistake! I must have pulled over the wrong person! You have a good night now!”

And he ran off and drove away just as fast.

Draken glared at you. “What the hell was that?”

You shrugged. “Well, I’m not a real member of Toman and Mikey will never let me join no matter how much I try and sweet talk him. So I had one of the guys make me a Toman ID card. I would have liked a snazzy jacket like the rest of you have. But Takashi won’t do shit for me without Mikey’s permission.”

He shook his head. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“Yeah, I’m absolutely mental.” You winked at him. “But you love me like that, don’t you?”

A dusting of pink fell on his cheeks and he looked away. “Whatever.”

“So what did you think of the car? She runs pretty great, doesn’t she?”

He sighed. “Yeah, I have to admit. She’s a pretty awesome car. Just don’t wreck her.”

You gasped in faux shock. “Just who do you think you’re talking to? I am super careful! I would never destroy her, not that easily!”

“Hey I’ve seen the way you drive. I have every right to be worried.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting the car back into drive. “Oh relax. You haven’t seen anything yet. So if I were you, I’d hold onto something again.”

And you raced back to Draken’s bike shop, him regretting ever meeting you and you laughing your head off the entire way.

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disco-elysium-via-polls · 7 months

Text

It's time to do something very important that we've been putting of for a while.

We're going to buy the FALN pants from Cuno.

CUNO - "Cuno's like Cuno's dad -- Cuno doesn't give a fuck about anything."

3. "I want to buy the FALN pants."

CUNO - "Here, pig. We FALN now. Performance buddies." Cuno unzips his jacket again and pulls the pants out of the plastic wrapping.

Item gained: FALN "Modular" Track Pants

CUNO - "Cuno can already see you soaring through the air like a fucking eagle." He looks at you with pride. "Pig's in Cuno's debt now. Money-debt."

Task complete: Buy FALN pants from Cuno

+10 XP

FALN "MODULAR" TRACK PANTS

+1 Savoir Faire: Spacious crotch/liquid fit -1 Physical Instrument: Performance-unlimited

Entry level FALN Modular track pants, meant to get the urban athele started down the FALN-path. Labels say Hydrophobic 100%, SymanTec, and FALN Mirova Lab, creating an air of pseudoscientific mystery around these pants. They feel rubbery and futuristic to touch.

🎵 The Field Autopsy

THE HANGED MAN - The man is decomposing visibly now. Every hour he looks less like a creature and more like a pile of intestines...

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant adjusts his glasses and takes a deep breath.

2. "Let's bag him. Take him away." (The lieutenant takes the body away -- you work alone for the rest of the day.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "All right." He takes out a shiny black body bag and starts pulling the plastic over the dead man's face.

Task complete: Send victim's body to processing

+30 XP

Level up!

KIM KITSURAGI - "I will need a little help carrying him -- you take the hands, I'll take the legs."

Bag the corpse and drag it to the motor carriage. [Leave.]

Kim is gone.

We *did* want to talk to Klaasje without Kim here, but she's turned in for the night, so that will have to wait.

🎵 Instrument of Surrender

SHIVERS - All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.

The spring thaw must be here. The snow is melting...

What am I doing?

SHIVERS - Looking up at the sky, cold water dripping from your hair.

What do I see?

Shake the shivers off. [Discard thought.]

SHIVERS - Grey sky like great battleships, clouds colliding with one another. Rain falls down on the world.

How does it feel?

SHIVERS - Humid. Your coat shields you from the rain while the city shivers around you.

What is in the west?

What's in the east?

What's in the north?

What's in the south?

"Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

SHIVERS - Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.

The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.

Who are you, ghosts?

What is down the shore?

Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

SHIVERS - The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Will you ever go there?

Will I?

Let go of the feeling.

SHIVERS - No. You are just one of the hundreds of thousands who watch them rise across the bay from Martinaise every day.

2. What is down the shore?

SHIVERS - Urban coastline, rain dripping off eternite-covered roofs. Cinder blocks left over from half-finished construction. A defunct research and development building once seized by revolutionaries. An old wooden church stands on stilts above the water.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - Coal City, end of all lines.

3. Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

SHIVERS - Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.

🎵 Red Rock Riviera

2. What's in the east?

SHIVERS - The great gates of the industrial harbour are locked. A chill runs down your back. You shudder like an animal trying to shake water from its hide.

Clench your teeth to stop shuddering.

Shake your shoulders again.

SHIVERS - Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.

And beyond that?

And before that?

SHIVERS - You -- on the Martinaise plaza. A small dot looking up at the sky. Droplets form on your eyelashes.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.

What is across from the distributary?

SHIVERS - Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.

What is beyond the Couron?

SHIVERS - A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.

2. Shake your shoulders again.

SHIVERS - You shudder, looking down at your feet. Dirty rainwater runs veins into the plaza snow.

You realize you have no shoes on. Your feet are red with cold.

This is incorrect. This dialogue wasn't programmed to account for wearing anything other than the green snakeskin shoes Harry had on him at the start of the game.

3. What's in the north?

SHIVERS - Capeside apartments -- tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.

Hallways collapsed from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.

And closer to here?

SHIVERS - A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. The lingering odour of decomposition mixes with that of damp soil.

4. What's in the south?

SHIVERS - A traffic jam. Rain thrumming on the roofs of motor vehicles. Inside, drivers watch water streaming down their windshields. The statue of a king shudders, he too is cold. The canal bridge has been raised.

What's on the other side?

SHIVERS - The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.

Where the hood, where the hood, where the hood at?

Why am I not there?

Shudder, look further...

SHIVERS -

HAVE A BROTHER IN THE CUT. WHERE THE WOOD AT?

2. Why am I not there?

SHIVERS - To be in Martinaise, where no one goes. At the run-off point of a long-forgotten canal, in the whitest part of town. In the shadow of the day the Revolution failed.

White is the color of communism in Elysium, remember.

What am I doing here?

SHIVERS - Standing in the rain, looking north, where Jamrock Rock City stretches inland.

3. Shudder, look further...

SHIVERS - In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.

+5 XP

MACK TORSON - "Wonder if Vic's found his long lost boyfriend yet." He looks over at Chester McLaine and breaks into a laugh at his own joke. The rain falls outside.

CHESTER MCLAINE - "Mack, they're *hetero-sexual life partners*. It's not like that," his partner smirks. "But yeah. There's trouble in paradise for that duo, Tequila Sunset has..." The sound of the rain grows so loud it drowns out his voice.

SHIVERS - Your vision blurs. You wipe your face with your hand. The rain stings your eyes, making you look up and blink.

5. What's above?

SHIVERS - Coalition aerostatics hang like apparitions under the cloud cover. Way up there -- where rain forms -- rotors flutter silently. Your sight clears.

6. What's below?

SHIVERS - Collapsed storm drains. Old sewage systems flooded with rainwater. Hidden weapon caches from the Revolution. Doors leading down to Le Royaume -- the catacombs to which, for three centuries, they delivered the blue-blooded dead.

7. "Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

SHIVERS - These spring thaw will not last. The winter will return to Revachol.

+5 XP

No point staying out any later without Kim here. Let's turn in for the night.

Seems the walker was either very confused or drunk out of his mind.

SHACK DOOR - It's getting cold this late in the night. Time to call it a day.

Enter the shack.

Not yet. [Leave.]

🎵 Coastal Shack

SHIVERS - A brisk coastal wind still howls against the window of the shack. Occasionally the waves crawl in under the foundation, producing a low hum...

Listen.

Shake it off. [Discard thought.]

SHIVERS - The room feels muffled, like you pulled your hat over your ears. Outside, it is cold and windy, but you're inside, and it feels safe and warm.

SHIVERS -

WHAT IS THIS PLACE TO YOU?

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #harrier du bois #tequila sunset #mack torson #chester mclaine #cuno #la revacholiere

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