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astroboots · 10 months

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Punch-Out Love

Artwork by @guruan

FIGHT NIGHT

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You're lucky enough to score ring-side seats at a boxing match on Friday night. Getting the best view in the house of boxing champion: Miguel O'Hara.

Word count: 1,500

Next Chapter

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You know fuck all about boxing.

About the only thing you know about the sport was from the glimpses you caught watching scratched up old recordings of Muhammed Ali fights on the boxy mini-tv of your old childhood friend's house.

It always seemed barbaric. The practice of watching two human beings beat the shit out of each other for spectator's entertainment. It seems like something that was better left in the Ancient Roman times. Have we all human beings as a society, really not come further some 2,000 years later?

Your bestie used to get mad at you for this. Constantly defending the sport from your criticism, because (according to him) it's not just about smashing each other's faces in. Supposedly, there's an art to the sport. Boxers are taught to respect their opponents and adhere to the principles of good sportsmanship. It takes great mental discipline, dedicated work and years of hard and punishing training to master boxing.

You never saw any of that in the matches he showed you. All you saw were two men needlessly being hurt, sustaining brain damage for rich people's enjoyment.

Then again, he was more than a little bit biased, considering it was his dream to go pro one day. Tall and gangly, with his scrawny antelope legs, thick-rimmed glasses and big-ass braces, he looked like he couldn't punch his way out of a paper bag, much less another person. You never understood how exactly he thought he was going to make it as a boxer.

But you never found it in you to burst his unrealistic bubble when he used to point at the screen excitedly, drawing your attention to Ali's footwork and the artistry in it.

"It's like he's dancing," he used to say.

Except dancing is done with swelling music in the background. In dancing you often have a partner. It's an embrace. It's gentle and kind.

Boxing... was not that.

So you don't know how you managed to find yourself in the ringside seats of a local boxing match on a Friday evening, staring up at the boxing ring with the glaring ring lights shining into your eyes.

"Aren't these seats amazing?" Jess shouts excitedly over the familiar lyrics of ‘We Will Rock You' being belted out by Freddy Mercury on the loudspeaker.

You smile, and nod, because boxing-fan or not, she's right, these are some amazing seats. And considering you didn't have to pay a dime for them, personal aversions aside, you're never going to turn down free stuff.

Jess' husband tested positive for covid at the last minute, and you're the only one in your social circle that is anti-social and single enough to not have any plans on a Friday evening.

On the monitors above you, the menacing headshots of the two fighters swish into view.

"The first guy is an old reigning champ," she explains to you, as she leans in, shouting into your eardrums (and yet you can still barely make out what she's saying over the music). "The challenger is some new kid on the block. Has an amazing track record. Zero losses in the season. He's something else."

You look up at the gigantic screen, at the sharp cut cheeks, strong thick brows and the intense pitched brown eyes staring down at you.

Angry looking dude.

...Handsome too.

With a face like that, surely he could've gone into other careers. Calvin Klein model, movie star, or a news anchor. You wonder what makes a guy voluntarily have his face bashed in for money as a career.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a loud booming voice announces from the stage.

You jump in your seat from the suddenness, as you see a bald and overly formal dressed announcer in the middle of the ring.

"Welcome to the electrifying boxing showdown of the century! Are you ready to witness some knockout action tonight?"

The crowd around you cheers with a pandemonium of shouting and whistling.

"Introducing our first fighter, a true hometown hero! With an impressive record of 20 wins, 15 by knockout, and only 2 losses, standing at 6'3 feet, and weighing in at 340 pounds of determination and strength, give it up for ‘the Knockout King’ Bobby Kane!"

You watch as the reigning champion walks down the tunnel to the midst of adoring cheers as he waves and gestures at the crowd like royalty.

Every inch the king that he is nicknamed, he jumps over the rope and stands tall and proud over the ring.

The man is huge, bulging with almost grotesque muscles. He's so large that you almost expect each of his steps to send a reverberation throughout the hall, as if this was Jurassic Park and he's a T-Rex.

"Now, entering the ring with the confidence of a warrior, fighting out of the red corner, with 15 wins, 10 by knockout, and no losses, standing at an astounding 6 feet 9 inches, and weighing in at 310 pounds of raw power, let's hear it for tonight's challenger, ‘Steel Jaw’ Miguel O'Hara!"

Wait what? You do a double take at the announcement. Six foot nine?!?! What kind of giant is that?

From the far corner of the hall, you see his silhouette emerge, and your eyes go wide at the sight of him. Tall doesn't even begin to describe him.

There's a 200 year oak tree at Central Park, and with the shadow this man casts, you think their height must be nearly comparable. If you thought the Knockout King was tall, the "King" is practically tiny compared to this challenger.

You watch, as the man with cheeks so sharp they mind as well be blades (and god never has a nickname made more sense to you) as he strides towards the stage. He reaches the rope and barely even has to climb over it with how tall he is.

He's leaner than his predecessor. Every inch of him is cut muscles and tanned gorgeous skin as he stands in front of you. His presence is electric. The air crackles where he stands, towering over the stage.

You swear that his towering height blocks out the ring lights with it, casting the stage in the darkness of his tall shadow.

Somehow, he's even prettier in person compared to the still image of him blown up and plastered on the big screen. Soft brown curls and pouty lips. You don't understand in what world a man like that is a professional fighter.

From this distance, with the way that the light refracts from his irises, his eyes almost glow with a scarlet red that takes your breath away as you look up at him and meet his eyes.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was staring at you.

The bell rings out, but he's not looking away. The intensity you find there is enough to make you swallow your tongue. Your face prickles with heat and for several long moments you forget to breathe, until the air seems to thin around you and your vision starts to swim.

Then he turns to face his opponent.

You're not quite sure where to look. There's so much happening at once. For his size, Miguel O'Hara is surprisingly deft on his feet. His footwork is somehow both unpredictable yet intentional all at once.

The King throws a strong punch, as he lunges forward, after his tall opponent. But O'Hara dodges them seemingly without effort. It's followed by punches so quick, the movements blur together.

Strike after strike. The King is giving it his all. But none of it properly connects. With every failed hit, you can see him growing increasingly more frustrated.

Your heart is in your lungs, and despite how close you are to the stage, you almost want to get up from your seat for a closer look.

Safe as you are behind the ropes, adrenaline rushes through your veins with a fury. You can't recall the last time you felt this ecstatic about... well, anything.

With each punch O’Hara dodges, you feel yourself lurch back in your seat, trying to dodge the punch with him.

It's titillating.

Exciting.

O'Hara's movements are precise and honed with intention despite the ferocity in his movements. Each one is measured and intricate and if you didn't know any better you'd almost call it graceful.

You think back to those moments in your childhood friend's home, and his excited words buzz in your ears now. For the first time ever you finally understand what he had meant.

It is like a dance.

Before you, O’Hara's eyes cross over in your direction and for a split of a second, you swear your eyes connect again. His gaze holds you there, pinned to your seat, and excitement shoots through the entirety of your spine until you feel lightheaded from the attention.

Then he finally steps forward, no longer evading.

It's brutal and efficient.

An uppercut that connects cleanly to his opponent's jaw.

Spit and blood flies out from the man's mouth, the flabby flesh of his cheek vibrating from the impact as he lands on the floor with an ear-shattering thud.

Then the guy is out.

Barely even eight minutes in.

There's a stunned and shocked silence. The crowd seems both enthralled and disappointed at how fast it all went. On the ring floor, you can practically see the circle of cartoon birds flying above the defeated King's head.

You may not know anything about boxing, but you know that this man is not getting up anytime soon, no matter how far the referee counts.

Tearing your eyes away from the motionless body splayed out on the ground elevated above you, you can see the victor towering menacingly over the body.

But Miguel O'Hara isn't even looking at his defeated opponent

No, his eyes are staring straight into the sea of awestruck spectators. Except he’s not looking at them.

He's looking at you.

~ Next.

Author's note: What's that you say? CiCi wtf are you doing starting another series when you already got one going on? ... Idek man. But I hope you guys enjoy it, cause I had a blast writing it, smut will ensue in later chapters I promise!

Dedications and Credits: Buckle up it's gonna be a big one!

Firstly to @guruan when I say she's my muse THIS IS WHAT I MEAN! Look at that beautiful artwork. I am drooling into my panties. I am crying between my legs. I am so damn horny! I cannot thank this amazingly talented genius enough. Please please give this wonderful brilliant human your love by following her, and drop by her KO-FI SHOP cause the art this woman bless us with is UN-fucking-REAL

Then to @djarinsbeskar who put this idea into my head. In my mind she is the OG Boxer AU champion and mastermind. If you are in the mood for more boxing content, she has a wonderful, devastatingly sexy series Boxer!Din AU that is just woof woof bark bark.

#miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #oscar isaac #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse fanfiction #spiderverse #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you

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octuscle · 5 months

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hey bro can you help? in a real mood to be punished with extreme muscle, maybe even extreme b.o too, think you can do something about it?

Well, my friend… Just don't mess with the big boys in the studio… In the beginning, the muscleheads just ignored your insults and snide remarks. But when you started sharing pictures with nasty comments about cavemen on Instagram, you were ready for a punishment. You don't even remember what exactly happened on that one day after training. Only that at some point you woke up in a small room full of fitness equipment and dumbbells. Naked. Put in chains. "Good, you're awake!" you hear a voice over the loudspeaker. "So you have a problem with big Neanderthals? Then you'd better get used to the idea. Because you're not far away from becoming one."

Your instructions were more than simple. Only when you have gained 20 kilograms of muscle mass will you be released again. Of course you protested at first and didn't go along with it. You had to drink the protein shakes, otherwise you would have starved and died of thirst. However, this meant that you quickly started to gain weight without training. You could see how you lost your slim fitness model body without training. So at some point you started exercising. More and more. Harder and harder. After all, you had nothing to do all day. So you started to train like a maniac.

In the beginning, personal hygiene was still important to you. You washed yourself meticulously with a fresh washcloth every day and shaved. But at some point you no longer felt like it. You only had one goal: to grow up. Really big. You eagerly soaked up all the information on proper nutrition and training that you received on the screen. There was no more variety than that.

One morning, the chains were no longer there… Instead, there were syringes next to the canister with the protein shake. Damn, you finally got your hands on the good stuff. You had learned so much about it in the last few days, weeks or months. You were so small. And you wanted to be so big. You wonder if there are any side effects? Who gives a shit! But there are side effects. You grow fur. Your beard grows. Your hair falls out. You leak precum like you're incontinent. And your brain can only think one thought: grow up. Pump iron and get big!

Eat, pump iron, eat. In principle, this is your life. Okay, at night you have to clean the gym and prepare it for the next day. And sometimes in your spare time you get a tattoo from one of your gym offices. But really, that just distracts you from your goal. To become BIIIIIIIG!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #chronivac #inked man #age progression #bear tf #getting dumber

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natalievoncatte · 11 months

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“Careful with that! We have to assume everything here is dangerous.”

Lena would have preferred to be anywhere else. The last thing she wanted to occupy her afternoon was dealing with yet another reminder of her brother’s sprawling insanity. Every one of these weapons caches -he probably would have melodramatically called them “hideouts” or “secret bases”- was like a tombstone marking the grave of the only truly sincere, loving relationship she’d ever had in her life.

He hadn’t always been the slavering maniac with an incoherent obsession with killing a superhero. He’d been a protector and a benefactor, a chess opponent and a confidant, the only person in her life who presented an uncomplicated human connection, without any ulterior motives or conditions.

Everyone else wanted something from her. Money. Power. A competitive advantage. Technological secrets. Or just sex. Lena resented that most of all, the gray old men who saw nothing of her achievements or her intellect and regarded her as just another piece of ass with blue enough blood that they had to ask permission rather than simply grope.

Watching her crew load up the equipment in this sweltering heat made her physically ill, and she was glad she’d skipped breakfast. Kara would be upset if she knew.

She’s had to text Kara and let her know that she’d be out of the office and would have to skip their lunch plans. Kara was…

Kara was becoming a complication, because Kara was doing the one thing Lena wished she wouldn’t: She was giving Lena hope. She’d barreled into Lena’s life with an earnest intensity that had been bewildering at first and intriguing afterwards, with her insistence that they be friends, and constant reminders that they were friends, even as her eyes wandered to Lena’s cleavage or she unconsciously bit her lip and stared that smoldering stare just to look away at the last second.

Lena shook her head, clearing her thoughts of yet another Straight Best Friend taking her down that well-worn path of sapphic suffering. She had bigger fish to fry right now.

It was too bad that her relationship with Supergirl had been so chilly lately. It might have been easier to simply tip off the hero and the government agency she worked with and let them handle the clean up.

Lena was deep in reverie when one of the crates, a bulky reinforced one, dropped a good two feet from a forklift and the wood splintered as the locks burst free.

“Idiot!” Lena shouted at the driver. “This equipment is sensitive and potentially dangerous, and…”

“STARTUP SEQUENCE INITIATED.”

A metallic voice ground out of the crate and it shifted as something vast and bulky moved around inside. Lena stumbled back, glad she’d opted for a sensible set of flats for this, and turned to run.

A metallic claw crashed out of the crate, followed by an arm-mounted rotary cannon. The older model Lexosuit, one of the originals that Lex had planned to illegally smuggle out of the country in a fake theft scheme and sell to the Kasnians, stood up in its shaky, clanking way and took a few steps, shaking off planks and nylon straps the way a baby bird might shake off pieces of shell.

There was nowhere to go. The machine scanned the room, moving jerkily as it zeroed in on her.

Lex’s voice, a recording, boomed from its loudspeakers.

“Ah, dear sister, I see you’ve found another of my hidden fastnesses.”

You melodramatic-

“Oh well. I should thank you for setting off the security system. I won’t have to waste my precious time killing you myself. Au revoir, Lena!”

The suit spun its arm cannon and aimed at her. The barrels assembly made a half turn, the electric motor charging up as it cycled the first 32mm mass-reactive exploding shell into the chamber. Lex had once called it a masterpiece in the art of violating the Geneva Conventions. It was about to blow Lena inside out, and the subsequent shots reduce her to a the chunky consistency of a good bolognése.

But then there was a wind that was not a wind, and SHE was there.

Supergirl seized Lena with precision and grace, hands that could crush diamonds pressed just so over Lena’s ears to protect her from the roar of the guns. Lena wasn’t sure who screamed louder, her or Supergirl, as the revolving barrels ripped out their entire supply of ammunition in a few seconds, pummeling Supergirl’s back with explosions that could have shredded a tank, as the hero cradled Lena, sheltering her with her superhuman body.

When the hellstorm was over, the machine charged at them.

Supergirl did scream now, and fell upon the machine in a berserk rage. Lena had seen her in a fight before and knew she could be terrible to behold, but this was different. The empty suit was struck with such unending fury that she reduced it to shreds of metal and oil-spitting chunks of machinery in moments, spreading it halfway across the floor of warehouse.

When Supergirl rounded on her, Lena’s heart skipped. The hero’s chest was heaving, straining at the crest on her chest even as the bunching muscles on her arms and stomach pulled at the material, her perfect hair swirling around as she turned, that angelic face marred by a streak of oil and a sheen of sweat.

How dare she just look like that. It was incredibly unfair.

Before Lena knew it what was happening, Supergirl was lifting her into a heart-skipping bridal carry, pulling her much too close as she took off. On instinct, Lena pressed her eyes shut and buried her face in the Kryptonian’s neck, to hide from the heights.

Moments later they landed, and Supergirl threw Lena’s balcony door back and deposited her on her feet, leaving her stumbling back against her kitchen island in a daze. Supergirl stared at her, looming over Lena with the height difference increased by her stacked heels and Lena having lost her shoes at some point, so her stocking toes were left curling on the cold floor.

“That thing almost killed you,” Supergirl snapped. “If Is been a millisecond later you’d be dead.”

Her voice was tight with emotion, somewhere between anger, exasperation, and terror, and it felt like a fist closed in Lena’s chest.

“Are you sure you just weren’t there to make sure I wasn’t taking Lex’s old suit for a spin myself?” Lena spat, though her voice trembled. “You don’t seem to trust a thing I say lately. If I tell you the sky is blue you’ll go check.”

Supergirl’s face flushed and Lena braced for another booming, self righteous speech about trust or safety or the meaning of teamwork or some such heroic nonsense, but then her voice shattered into a million pieces and tears welled wet in her eyes.

“All I want is for you to be okay.”

A thousand thoughts danced in Lena’s mind. To ask her why, to defy her, to taunt her, to demand what exactly it was that made Lena so damned important that this woman was so intense about her safety one moment and so angry the next.

In the dance of all those thoughts, the more base instinct won out. Lena grabbed Supergirl by the neck of her suit, just below those delightful collarbones of hers, and used it as a handle to pull herself into a hard, aggressive kiss.

The world hung still for a moment, and Lena felt it all pivot around her. Something big was happening here. Something huge, something…

Something forgotten entirely as Supergirl’s tongue roughly claimed Lena’s mouth and her hands raked over Lena’s ass, dragging her skirt up.

Oh God, she thought, this is actually happening.

Lips pressed to her skin, the words burning hot into her flesh like an invocation.

“Is this okay?” Supergirl whispered.

“Yes,” Lena moaned, without hesitation.

To be continued…

#supercorp #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl #supercorp fanfic #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara x lena #karlena #supergirl fanfic #ficlet #steamy #spicy #adrenaline rushes do wild things #post-rescue lip locking #oh supergirl how can I ever repay you for saving me?

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marlynnofmany · 1 year

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Stabby the One and Only

“Oh no, there are more of you,” Zhee said drily.

I grinned. “Zhee, this is Captain Parker of the good ship Hold My Beer.”

“A pleasure,” said Captain Parker, smiling with bright teeth in a dark face. A twitch of his arm said he’d been about to go for a handshake, then fully noticed Zhee’s pincher arms. He bowed instead.

“Yes, good greetings,” Zhee said, bending his front legs briefly to lower his eye level in a similar bow. “Is your ship all humans, or do you have someone else to keep you in line? With a name like that, I have my guesses.”

“All human!” Captain Parker said. “We’re just stopping by for fuel on our way to Basal Station.” He waved back towards the sporty silver cruiser that was easily the classiest thing at this out-of-the-way spaceport.

“Oh hey, us too!” I told him. “Our ship is the little lemon-looking dealie over there.”

“Nice, nice,” he said once he’d spotted it. “Solar sails, always a classic. What species’ model is that? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“Uh, Strongarm?” I guessed with a look to Zhee. “Right? It’s the same as Kamm’s ship, and seemed like a family thing.”

Zhee tipped his head at what would be an extreme angle on a human. “Who can keep track?” he said. “It is fuel-efficient and spacious enough, and that is all that matters.”

“We’re doing courier work,” I told Captain Parker. “Delivering some art right now for a big to-do on Basal.”

“We’re headed to our own to-do,” he said with pride. “In the sports sector.”

“Oh cool, what sport?”

He was about to tell me when a lumpy golden monstrosity of a warship roared to the ground, barely clearing the other nearby ships. Repulsor engines blasted a gust of wind that threw spaceport grit into everyone’s eyes and nearly bowled over those standing too close. That included a handful of humans carrying supplies onto their own ship, every one of whom yelled about it.

The ship was silent for a moment, long enough for two of the humans to run over to their captain, and for many other bystanders to cast disapproving looks. That sort of landing seemed deliberately rude. Had they meant it that way?

Oh yeah, they had.

“HUMANS!” bellowed a voice from the ship’s speakers. “Hand over your mascot. You have one chance before we open fire from orbit.” Various gunports flashed weaponry.

Bystanders panicked and ran, some for ships and some for the nearby buildings. No security forces emerged, because this little port wasn’t up to dealing with that degree of threat. The golden ship had picked a smart place for a shakedown.

Paint raced out of a building to wave us toward our ship, worried and fidgety in a blur of orange scales. “Let’s go!” she urged.

I was about to object that we hadn’t gotten fuel yet when Captain Parker shouted back. “What mascot do you mean?”

“Don’t play games, human,” the loudspeaker replied. “Your stabbing droid. Bring it out now.”

“Oh, that mascot,” said Captain Parker with deceptive calm. “Just a minute.” He huddled with the pair who’d come to see him.

Paint tugged at my arm, but I dragged my feet, wanting to know their answer.

The huddle separated. “Okay, you can have him,” Captain Parker yelled. “But come out and get him yourself, you cowards.”

Zhee hissed behind me and Paint squeaked. Angry growls sounded over the loudspeaker, then a hatch opened to admit a half-dozen pissed off dinosaurs.

Not dinosaurs, I thought. Armorlites. Bipedal, toothy, and widely known for not playing well with others. Their entire culture seemed to revolve around strength and superiority. I couldn’t think of a time when I’d seen one NOT act like a bully.

They also called themselves The Mighty, but no one else did. “Armorlite” was the best they were going to get, a reference to the thin scales that did nothing to protect the muscles they were so proud of.

“Hand it over!” bellowed the tall one in front, aiming a gun across the spaceport at Captain Parker.

“Yeah yeah, just a second,” he replied, the very picture of calm and collected. He waved toward his own ship. Someone appeared at the hatch, carrying an inert cleaning droid with a knife strapped to it. “Let me just say goodbye to him.”

Paint stopped pulling abruptly. “Wait, is that the one all the stories are about?” she asked. “That is an icon! A treasure to your people! And they’re just going to give it away?”

“Hang on,” I whispered. “I think he’s got a plan.”

Captain Parker was making a show of it, saluting dramatically and declaring at length what an honor it had been to travel with such a legend. The woman holding the legend in question stood ramrod-straight, and turned to make the delivery with all solemnity. Other humans lined up in front of their ship to salute. A wordless but inspiring song was suddenly playing on the loudspeakers. It was an over-the-top production.

And the Armorlites were loving it. They swaggered forward to accept their prize, with the leader handing his gun to an underling so he could snatch the droid from the human, who retreated in silence.

“Take good care of him,” Captain Parker said in a strained voice. “Make sure you keep his battery charged.”

The Armorlite held his prize up and sneered at the human, launching into a description of everything he was going to do with the precious human mascot. None of it was good.

“…Peel off another section of its casing each day!” he raved. “All will fear The Mighty, who have claimed Stabby the Roomba for their own!”

They weren’t looking at the human ship, but I sure was. The saluting crew all stepped to the side as a whole fleet of cleaning droids trundled down the ramp, silent under cover of the music. Each one wore a knife in stabbing position: right at ankle height.

Armorlite ankle scales are especially weak.

The first Armorlite to get shanked made a squeal of surprise, flailing with his gun rather than shooting it. The others didn’t react quickly enough to avoid the same fate: they looked to their companion’s face for answers, only to be attacked from below. The leader avoided it the longest, dodging to the side and yelling at his crew to fight back, but the droids had circled around him, and it was only a matter of time.

Just as he bellowed in pain, a precision laser unfolded from the human ship and zapped each gun in turn.

The leader dropped the Roomba to crack loudly on the pavement.

He snarled down at it, at the menacing droids, at the humans, and at the laser aimed at his head. Then he pushed past his underlings to limp back to the ship, a fleet of droids in slow pursuit. The Armorlites all made it onboard and shut the door. In moments, the captain was shouting from the loudspeaker about his plans to rain destruction from above. The ship blasted skyward with another gust of hot air.

I opened my eyes once the dust cloud was past to see Captain Parker still standing there. “Aren’t you going to stop him?” I asked, worried.

“Already did,” he told me. “Jenkins snuck Stabby’s cousin Blasty onboard when they weren’t looking. Told him to find the engine room.”

A muffled explosion sounded from the upper atmosphere. I looked up to see the golden ship veering sideways, trailing smoke.

Captain Parker saluted. “Farewell, Blasty Number Thirty-Two. You went out like a champ.” He stepped forward to pick up the cracked droid while the Armorlite ship disappeared across the horizon, not managing to fire a single weapon.

Paint and Zhee moved closer. “Your poor mascot,” Paint said. “Can it be repaired?”

“What, this?” Captain Parker asked. “This doesn’t even have a battery. It’s just spare parts.”

“Oh!” Paint said, perking up.

Zhee cocked his head. “Do you have the real one, or were they wrong about that?”

Captain Parker waved a hand at the fleet of droids that were currently getting rounded up by his crew. “We have LOTS of real ones! We’re on our way to the droid jousting league championships.”

I laughed. “Did they hear some of that and think you had the Single One And Only Human Mascot Stabby?”

“Yup! Sure looks that way.”

Paint was amazed. “I didn’t know there were so many!”

Zhee angled his pinchers in exasperation. “Of course there’s not just one. That’s expecting too much sanity and good sense from humans in general.”

“To be fair,” I said, “I don’t think there was ever just one. Sure, the famous one may have had more adventures than most, but the jury’s out on how many of those adventures were even the same Stabby.”

Captain Parker nodded. “And what fun is good sense?”

“Exactly!” I said.

Zhee stuck his bug eyes up close to my face. “No, you can’t have one.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it!” I said, grinning at the frowny-eyebrow slant of his antennae.

“Oh here, how about this?” Captain Parker dug something from his pocket and handed it to me. “The knife is rubber. We make ‘em for the kids; that’s our team logo.”

“I love it,” I told him, gazing at the palm-sized minidroid with the red chili pepper sticker.

“That had better not end up in my quarters,” Zhee declared while Paint got a good look at it. “I promise nothing in regards to stepping on it.”

“Yes, yes,” I said. “You have so many legs; how could you possibly keep track of them all?”

Zhee made a disparaging noise and clicked off toward the ship.

“Well, I should be going,” Captain Parker said as someone called for him. “See you at Basal Station, maybe!”

“Yeah, maybe!” I said. We waved our goodbyes as he rejoined his crew.

Paint was thinking hard as we turned to follow Zhee. “Do you think Captain Sunlight would be okay with a detour after we make our delivery?” she asked. “I want to see what that championship looks like.”

“It can’t hurt to ask!” I said, holding up my new minidroid. “Just don’t tell Zhee. At least not until she says yes.”

~~~

The ongoing adventures in backstory for this book. More to come!

#my writing #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #haso #hfy #Stabby the Roomba #Stabby the space Roomba #the Token Human

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 4 months

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"Time & the Trickster" A Loki/Doctor Who crossover

Chapter 3: The Doctor and I

You and Loki realize the only chance there may be to sent him back to his native timeline is to consult the one person on Earth who may be crazier than he is. But getting there won't be easy when you have no means or funds with which to travel...

CHAPTER WARNING: none

Previous Chapter · Next Chapter MASTERLIST

Loki was growing impatient again. “Tell me, why aren’t we getting the stone first?”

“I told you, Loki, the guy won’t haggle with us if you look like you fell out of a hamper!”

You’d taken Loki to the local Goodwill, which smelled of mothballs and played the same loop of ten 90’s radio hits over the crackling loudspeaker. After cab fare, you still had about $40 on hand, enough for a cheap pair of jeans, a set of boots, and perhaps two shirts if you budgeted well.

Scooping up a few things without much thought, you shoved them at Loki’s chest and pointed at the changing room, which was little more than a deep alcove in the wall with a swinging wooden door.

“Are you saying we’re going to pay for what is rightfully mine?” Loki asked, offended, going into the booth to try on the clothes you’d picked.

“Welcome to the Realm,” you said bitterly. “Where fairness is made up, and the points don’t matter!”

You heard him snort from behind the cheap wicker door. You couldn’t help but look down at his feet as he slipped them out of Joey’s shoes and into the second hand brown leather boots, ugly but sturdy, and with plenty of wear left. His feet were somehow as beautiful as you’d imagined.

You leaned against the wall next to the changing area with a barely audible sigh. You mumbled under your breath a single word: “pathetic.” Meanwhile, OMC’s ‘How Bizarre’ was playing overhead, and you couldn’t help but smile at the appropriate sentiment.

“It just so happens,” Loki went on, “That I fully intend to get it back without handing over a single credit.”

You were fighting the urge to ‘accidentally’ open the door as soon as you saw the precinct’s old slacks fall to Loki’s ankles.

“How?” you asked. “Loki doesn’t exist here. People will think you’re insane.”

“Well, Loki of Asgard and Jotunheim doesn’t exist on your plane…but the actor who portrays him does, yes?”

“I see, we’re going to commit a little light identity theft today. Now there’s a Loki move,” you admitted. “You’re going to get along with Joey just fine.”

The door opened, and Loki stepped out in a long-sleeved t-shirt in black that may have been a size too small. The jeans you’d picked were dark and stiff at the knee, but the cut still flattered the god’s glorious behind.

It was such a simple ensemble, but you couldn’t peel your eyes away from him.

“Does this look like something this fellow would wear?” he smiled and threw out his arms, modeling the entire look for you with a flashy spin. “How do I look?”

“It’s absolutely not something he’d be caught dead in,” you said woefully. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”

Loki looked down and scoffed. “Perhaps a jacket? Or a robe?”

A robe!

The only jacket in the store that fit Loki was a black leather jacket, so instead of the black undershirt, you got one in dark green to give a little bit of color to the look. Once you were back on the street, you headed southward toward the Valley, where the pawn shop sat kitty-corner to an ice cream stand called Gannon’s. It took about forty minutes at a medium pace to get there, and by the time you did, the afternoon was maturing.

Kit’s Pawn Shop was about the size of a gas station, and a single decaying pickup was sitting in the three-spot parking lot in front.

You turned to one another at the same time, both of you saying “follow my lead” at once.

Loki looked at you oddly. “It was my idea!”

“You don’t even know how electrical outlets work in this world, how are you going to work a scam with a guy like this?” you replied.

“I am the God of Mischief, after all!” Loki said defensively.

“Not in this reality, you aren’t!” you argued.

Loki raised an eyebrow. “You’re a spitfire for sure. Very well, we’ll try it your way.”

“Good. Just act like a snob. Shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”

Even when it was at his expense, Loki was amused by your jab. He straightened his posture and folded his hands in front of him as if he was about to begin a business deal. “Shall we?”

You sucked in a breath and paused for a moment before purposefully shoving the door in with more force than was normal, announcing your presence to the shop with a large “THUMP!” followed by the ringing of the cheap aluminum doorbell. You were instantly accosted by the musty odor of stale cigarette smoke embedded in cheap carpet.

“Be out in a sec!” called a rough voice from beyond your line of sight.

“No, we need you now!” Loki said loudly, adding a phony posh accent to his demand.

You shot him a dirty look. “Don’t press your luck before we’ve even spun the wheel!” you whispered.

The voice was coming from behind a beaded curtain. “Oh well, tough on you, Harry Potter,” grumbled the raspy voice. “I’m doing business on the damn phone!”

You rolled your eyes. “Guess we browse while we wait?”

The shelves behind the glass counter displayed various random items: television sets with cracked screens, vintage posters and newspapers immortalized in laminating plastic, a few toys that looked old enough to have been decorated in lead paint, and a few luxurious hats set awkwardly on white, expressionless heads. Under the counter glass were strings of pearls and gold, a few gems loosely set into tarnished silver rings, and three small pistols lined up under a sign saying “See Management.”

A necklace caught your eye. The pendant was a silver rectangle, and on it, a very small image of a woman looking upward at a sapphire embedded at the top near a roman numeral ‘XVII’. AT the bottom, two barely-readable words were engraved underneath the pretty girl: The Star.

It reminded you of your mother, who had a deck of old tarot cards she played divination games with herself. She would give you and your brother pretend future readings every New Year, while being mindful of making sure even the scariest-looking cards had a positive twist on their meanings so as not to frighten you. Once, she had said The Star would be a prestigious card in your life: one of enduring hope even in hard times.

You hadn’t detected Loki coming up behind you. “It’s lovely,” he remarked. “You should have it.”

“It’s fifty bucks,” you grumbled, quickly moving away and pretending you weren’t dying inside to have it.

“Now, who’s asking for me?” barked Kit, coming out and going behind the counter without looking at you. He was short and hairy, exactly as you’d pictured him.

“Me….Me!” said Loki, standing up straight again.

“Yeah, what can I do for you, Harry Potter?” snarked the crabby old man.

“That isn’t my name, it’s Lo---Tom. Don't you recognize me?”

Kit snorted. “Sweetheart, I’m so high right now I barely recognize my reflection.”

Loki wrinkled his nose in disapproval. You stepped forward, pulling out your cheap phone and quickly pulling up the first picture of Tom Hiddleston you could find: one where he was performing a deep lunge while wearing a soccer uniform.

“He’s Tom-MOTHERFUCKING-Hiddleston, and you have something of his,” you answered. “I’m his agent…Jane Smith.”

“Agent? Oh yeah,” Kit said, leaning down and squinting to look at the photo before looking up at Loki again. “Well, shit. Guess you are.”

Oh, praise every god and creature that he’s stoned, you thought.

“What? You want something? I can give you a great deal on anything in the store!” Kit’s demeanor almost immediately changed after connecting the dots. “Looking for a gun to fight off the fans? Or are you looking for something shiny to impress some model?”

“Last night, Abe came in here with a green stone,” you said quickly. “It wasn’t his to sell to you, and I would like it back now, if you don't mind.”

Kit looked up at the ceiling, taking a few awkwardly-silent moments to dig through the foggy recesses of his memory. “Oh yeah, the ruby!”

“Oh, it isn’t--”

Kit immediately went behind him, took something out of a small chest on a shield, and plopped a shiny green rock in front of you.

“That’s it!” said Loki, going to pick it up. Kit swiped it back first.

“Two hundred for the ruby,” he said simply.

Protesting, you balled your hands in stress. “TWO HUNDRED?? It’s the size of a popcorn shrimp!”

“Rubies aren’t green, you ass,” Loki hissed, his own attitude darkening.

“Listen lady, I’d like to kiss your actor-friend’s ass, but business has been slow this month, and I got rent, you know? I was going to price this at five hundred, actually.”

“I can give you a thousand,” Loki said as if bidding at an auction.

“Oh?” asked Kit, perking up again.

“I find myself a bit stranded at the moment,” Loki added, “And I’m afraid we have no money on us. But once I get back to my hotel room, I can return with the payment, but I do need that stone now.”

You growled and pounded the counter with your fist, “He’ll plug you at the Emmys next year! Think about it…Kit’s Pawn Shop being announced by name just before Best Actor! Your business will explode so fast, you’ll need another store!”

Kit seemed to consider this. “Well…you do look like him a little too much for doubt,” he reasoned through his fog. “You sure you’ll come back?”

“Yes!” you both said a little too quickly. Luckily, this didn’t arouse any further suspicion in the shop owner. He twisted his lip, looking back and forth from one to the other. “I fucking can’t believe I’m doing this.” He gently nudged the pebble over the counter at Loki.

“And also, that pendant!” Loki added, pointing to the tarot necklace you’d been admiring. “I’d like you to give me that as well.”

You opened your mouth, “Oh that isn’t--”

But Kit was already taking the piece out and setting it onto the counter. “Anything else, Mr. Hiddleston?”

Loki raised his nose. “No, I believe that will be all,” he smirked, looking down and winking at you.

Quickly gathering up the stone and the pendant, Loki led you out of the store before the grumpy shopkeep could change his mind. When you were across the road, and in the parking lot at Gannon’s, you let out a relieved laugh, which helped Loki relax.

“I believe that man would have given me the shirt off his back,” said Loki with a sigh of relief. “That was a good idea, Y/N.”

“Loki! You were such a good actor,” you praised, the adrenaline bringing down your normal filter and freeing you to speak your mind more liberally. “Christ, I can’t believe that worked! You’re amazing!”

“Now, look, Y/N!” he said, holding out his palm, the stone flickering a bright green light as it re-attuned to its handler. You had nothing to say as you watched him fiddle a little with the glowing green pebble. It looked like a perfect representation of the Time Stone, and therefore, there was no denying it any longer.

Loki lowered his voice to an intimate whisper, leaning into your face so close that you could feel his cool breath on your neck. You hoped that he didn’t notice it was giving you goosebumps.

“Y/N, do you believe who I am now?” he asked, slipping his free hand under yours and letting you hold the stone. It went out as soon as it left Loki’s hand, becoming an ordinary rock once more.

You looked up into his beautiful soft blue eyes, looking at you with pleading prayer. You closed your hand around the stone. “Yes, Loki. I do.”

“Good girl,” he replied, taking the tarot necklace out of his pocket and untangling it, displaying its full beauty. “And, as a thanks for getting me this far…”

“...normally, I’d tell you to take it back, I don’t need it,” you said sternly. “It’s not necessary.”

Loki moved behind you and placed the chain about your neck gently. “I noticed you admiring it. It means something to you, I think.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Then, after all you’ve done for me thus far, I insist you have it,” he asserted as he clasped the pendant shut and slowly turned you around by the shoulder to examine it. “Silver suits you.”

The metal was cool against your skin, and you were silently trying to command yourself to be still and ignore the tenderness of the gesture. It was almost impossible. Your little fangirl heart hummed with joy. “Loki…this is…thank you.” You looked up at him, somehow managing to keep composure. “And I promise I’ll do everything that I can to get you back to where you belong.”

Loki smiled down at you. “I know.”

“...and,” you continued after a dramatic pause, smirking and taking a step back. “I might know a way.”

With the last ten dollars in your pocket, you bought ice cream cones for the pair of you. It would be a nearly ninety minute walk to your apartment on the other end of town, and the day was waning, but still hot. While you walked at a meager pace in order to conserve your remaining energy, you explained to Loki the extraordinary story of another man who found himself in the same situation.

“So, this Doctor is one of the most famous figures in television,” Loki repeated as you passed downtown and the halfway point of your walk. “And a man appears out of nowhere, resembling him perfectly, claiming to be him…yet he doesn’t present any proof?”

You shook your head. “Which is why everyone thinks he’s a nut. He’s brought people out to see the TARDIS, but he refuses to open the door for anyone but himself. Claims it’s too broken and unstable.”

“How long has he been here?” Loki asked.

“Maybe three months. There was a media storm around it for about five minutes. Then some politico got assassinated and they all moved on.”

“Y/N, at the TVA, I learned a lot about timelines, temporal looms, all of it. I think it means all of reality is in danger if I don't return to my place in time,” he added, his voice tinged with regret. “In this world, nothing is possible except in the minds of people, and yet fictional figures are coming to life. Perhaps its a sign that the timelines are crashing into one another…tangling and tying together…bringing different existences together.”

“I’ll pretend I understood that,” you remarked, turning the corner onto your street.

“There is one way I can think of to save all of us…well, all of you,” he concluded, stopping in his tracks as the disturbing thought invaded his senses. “I have the power to strengthen them again and keep them at bay, at dire cost.”

You turned back to help him. “Not now, ok? Let’s see if this wild idea of mine works.”

“Right…going to see The Doctor,” the God recited. “How soon can we leave?”

You shook your head, your apartment finally visible at the end of the block. “After I get paid next week. If I tell Joey to save his tips, we may be able to book three cheap tickets on a ramshackle airline out there.”

“I don;’t think that will be fast enough!” Loki threw up his arms in distress. “This will only get worse and worse until everything is destroyed!”

“And I thought my therapist was a pessimist,” you quipped. “Look, you can’t just show your face and have everything handed to you around here, Loki.”

“It’s already worked once,” he reasoned, crossing the street with you toward the apartment.

“It won’t always.”

Loki exhaled stressfully. “Perhaps there is something I can do to help speed things up.”

Walking with him up to the back door and taking out your keys, you thought about it for a moment. “Maybe if I take you to the bookstore with me tomorrow, Mrs. Graves will let you do some handiwork for a few extra bucks.”

He smiled. “Good, good, because even if it isn’t showing yet, I am beginning to get this feeling.”

“Feeling? Like what?” you asked as you opened the door and ushered your charge inside.

“As if the air is getting denser, more packed in. Like the potential for chaos is increasing around us with every passing second of inaction,” Loki said quietly but frantically.

“That’s just summer in the city,” you answered. “And you’re an agent of chaos, if I recall, so of course it’s getting a little crazy in here” you added a wink to punctuate it.

“No, no, you don’t--”

“--Joey?”

It was past the usual hour for Joey to leave for work at the bar, yet as you walked in with Loki, he was lounging on your Goodwill couch, watching highlights of a college football game that had taken place last night. When you came in, he sat up to attention.

“Oh, Sis, where’ve you been?” he asked, a yawn rolling out behind his greeting.

“We’ve found something important. And we’ve decided we’re going to fly out to London and see this alleged Doctor,” you declared. “It’s really the only hand we have, isn’t it?”

Joey sighed and shook his head. “We have no money, Y/N.”

“We can fly Craptasmic Airlines if we pull your tips next week with my paycheck,” you described, only to have Joey immediately deny your idea. He slowly stumbled to his feet and approached you in the entryway. Loki scrunched his nose.

Joey smelled of beer. “I got fired today, Sis. I got the call about an hour ago,” he said. “None of us are going anywhere.”

TAGLIST: @crashingwavesofeuphoria @kkdvkyya @red-shirt-mania @misschris1412 @salvinaa @marygoddessofmischief @spiderstyles04 @fireflymoonwitch @mochie85 @loz-3 @lcolumbia1988 @lokilurker @eleniblue @gruftiela @starkzdaughter@mrsbarnes-avenger @thedistractedagglomeration @km-ffluv @lokisgoodgirl@holdmytesseract @itsthattimedarling @wolfsmom1 @scully2u @shinisenko @mischief2sarawr @ririsutty73@lulubelle814 @meg81589 @gloriuspurposeposts @theonetruepotato87 @linllewellyn @wistfulclueless @etherealkistar @tinydancer40 @hardtravelerwizard-blog

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directdogman · 1 year

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what does making/recieving a call sound like from the perspective of the person doing it? like does the audio just play out into the air or would it be more comparable to using headphones?

Varies from model to model. Some very unlucky people have lower quality heads that can only play calls out loud, and then others have more sophisticated heads have the ability to quietly play the audio just for them, like headphones (or modern day hearing aids, which tend to have bluetooth support, allowing paired phones to use them like wireless headphones when they get calls, without even having to take the phone out of your pocket, just with a button on the hearing aid itself. fun fact, this is exactly how many phone-headed people receive calls!)

But, outside of those unlucky few with heads stuck at one volume only (COUGH RANDY COUGH), there's 2 settings, one for quiet audio and one for loud audio, like how mobile phones tend to have a hands-free/loudspeaker option that can be enabled during calls :)

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elbiotipo · 4 months

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Most hilarious thing about Arknights is that the operators are canonically(?) fashion models. Actual fashion models with literal in-universe fashion brands and photoshoots and designer made outfits and everything. Even Kal'tsit in her alternate dystopian future can't help but slaaaaayyyyy with that shorts/top combo, and of course, that jacket. Give them what they want to see, Calcí.

I bet the NPC armies are just jealous with their generic armor when the army of rejected vtuber designs dressed by Balenciaga arrives to slay them (literally)

"Deploying Rhodes Island squad N°1" *Loudspeakers begin playing I DON'T DANCE I WORK, WORK, I DON'T PLAY I SLAY, SLAY, I DON'T WALK I STRUT, STRUT,

#cosas mias #arknights #el biotipo plays arknights #surprisingly enough the designs as wacky as they are rather consistent to the world (with some exceptions)#but they are Like That

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kiwiwinjindouche · 2 months

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I said I'd share some of the voicelines I've stumbled into, and I'm finally posting them (I'm sorry I have such a bad sense of passing time). It's actually nice to hear them without the loudspeakers' white noise.

(English, French and Mexican (for now??))

Personal favorite and easy to get; his little "two" sounds pretty cute in english.

If you're ever curious about the French one; I like it less ngl

I've never, ever heard that one before so I was a bit surprised. There's also one where he talks about his library? anyway, the way he says it is funny

How lovely!!

AND THE MEXICAN JINDOSH HAS MY HEART. I SWEAR

I'm going full cringe when I hear him because???

SIR

don't do that to me i'm not strong enough

Bonus point: tone used when Corvo or Emily is hurt

English ; and I need you all to realize his tone is so different and it makes me go ifjedoswjfjksfkwsjfsjowdjf

Thanks god it's only 10 audios per post on tumblr else I would have rant even more about it tho

#dishonored 2 #kirin jindosh #voice lines #i should listen to the other people in the game in other languages too #there's more than just Jindosh i'm afraid #it's pretty funny to listen to the english names in spanish or idk ngl #japanese Jindosh is pretty funny too and maybe i've mentionned it before but he really can't stop talking good for him good for him #anywayyyyyy that makes me think about my tier list of his laughters ahah Dagyne you are so full of cringe #should i post that too one day #enough cringe in the tags for today but new followers or idk feel free to share again your fav ones (or not) or ones you hate #or if you have anything else on this topic

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captainpoopweinersoldier · 2 years

Text

Night & Day

Battinson!Bruce Wayne x F!Reader x Neil

Summary: In an effort to get Bruce out of a depressive slump, you enlist the help of an old flame.

Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Epilogue

Rating: General

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: None; just some cutesy fun!

Link to AO3

Tags: @ursulaismymiddlename my emotional support cherub. @salt-is-a-terrible-currency you drag me into your fandoms I drag you into mine :)

10:20 LONDON ON TIME

But no gate yet, which - glaring at your watch for the umpteenth time - meant the plane was probably somewhere outside, circling the tarmac until directed to a walkway.

After two hours of traffic, a steep parking ticket, and an additional fifty minutes to get through security, you were nearly biting your nails from anticipation if not for the large cup of cruddy coffee fastened tight in your grip. It’d been too long since you’d seen one of your oldest friends, and with the plan in mind, it was meant to be a special occasion.

Ten more minutes passed and you watched the flight information display update with three other arrivals amid a muffled throaty announcement over the loudspeaker, and it was a fight to keep from having an outburst.

10:20 LONDON ON TIME D51

You tried not to sprint, weaving through passerby in a rush to get to the gate before you lost him in the crowd and wasted yet another hour just to track him down. While he was perfectly capable of looking after himself, events never bode well for lost tourists wandering Gotham International.

But once you made it to the gate, the thought instantly felt foolish - it was impossible for that man to be overlooked.

His long legs carried him above the heights of his fellow passengers, but as always, it was like sunshine sought him out. A halo of light cutting through smoggy cityscape to illuminate his forever messy dirty blonde hair and his sun kissed skin. He could’ve very well modeled, donning an expensive day suit in an olive green color only he could’ve pulled off so handsomely. But he also happened to be one of the smartest people you knew in the world - that is, until you met Bruce.

“Neil!” you practically squealed, startling a family nearby.

He looked for the voice, face splitting into one of his priceless smiles once spotting you. Then you were running, unable to stop yourself, and crashed into his open arms like a scene from a movie.

“My darling girl,” he huffed, quite literally sweeping you off your feet to give you a flourished spin before setting you back down. You were lost in his bright blue eyes as he clutched your face in his hands, then kissed you before you could right yourself. It’d been too long since that too, but also wasn’t the purpose of his trip, and you pulled back before your weak knees sent you to the floor.

“This is not that kind of visit, Neil,” you scolded playfully.

His brows furrowed in mock concern and he stood up straight, a pout settling on his face. “Are you suggesting I’ve come all this way to a city I’ve never heard of not to be romanced?”

“I’m not suggesting, I’m telling. Now, come on.” You took hold of his hand and led him in the direction toward the exits, suddenly remembering there was a time limit to your parking spot. “I’m gonna need your help with something. Someone. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

“Very well, but I’m driving.” He retracted the handle on his suitcase and picked it up so he could walk faster, and his long stride was quick to overtake yours. “I’ve been stuck on a plane eight hours, I need something fun to do.”

“So, what you’re saying is, and correct me if I’m wrong…”

It was difficult to pay attention from the passenger seat. You braced yourself as the car whizzed through traffic, one hand on the door, the other splayed on the dashboard. It wasn’t that Neil was a bad driver, far from it. It was that he fancied enacting a good getaway, enjoyed the speed and sly maneuvers of weaving through cars and lanes and ramps alike. A thrill seeking picked up from his career in espionage.

As the GPS signaled the appropriate exit a thousand feet ahead, you suddenly wished you borrowed the Corvette. Your sedan could only take so much.

“Your boyfriend -”

“- He’s not my boyfriend.”

“- Is a billionaire philanthropist by day and a batsuit wearing vigilante by night, and you want me to, what, exactly? Give him a makeover?”

“Sounds a little insane when you say it like that.”

“My darling,” Neil ignored a blaring honk as the engine revved, sending the car soaring across an intersection. “That’s because it is just a little bit insane. I don’t think depression is your boyfriend’s biggest problem.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” you whined at him. “Why must you keep calling him that?”

His hand darted from the wheel to tickle your side. “Because you make the cutest little face when I do!” You swatted at him, snapping to keep his eyes on the road and he straightened in his seat. “If I’m being honest, you’re making me jealous.”

“Anyway,” you carried on. “You’re a time traveler.”

You watched his mouth open, then close, then open again before gesturing vaguely, and you knew he was debating lecturing you over the semantics. How it wasn’t really time travel. Feynman this, Wheeler that. Electron positron something something. But he was the physicist, and you were a Poli Sci major and the concept was entirely lost on you the second he stopped explaining it.

“Touche,” he eventually settled on.

You took his surrender as an opportunity to segue back to the original topic at hand. “He just has these slumps where he seems so down. I figured you being - well, you -”

“- Charming, devilishly handsome, a fantastic dresser.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, laughing all the same. “Yes. All the things. Give him some guidance, will you? A bit of a friendly push.”

“One Pretty Woman treatment, coming right up.”

At last, the car finally reduced speed and you were relieved to see Wayne Tower come into view, its skyscraping rooftop so high amongst its neighbors, it disappeared into the smokey grey mix of clouds and smog.

“Jesus…” Neil marveled. “He lives in that?”

For the second time that day, it took proper navigating to find parking, even once inside the Tower’s garage. It was the middle of the workday and the building would’ve been brimming with employees, contractors, and housekeeping staff. Once more, you regretted not asking Bruce to borrow his car. While he had his own parking space in the lot, the more secluded space underground was incomparably convenient.

“Oh, one more thing,” you said before you both stepped out. And as he turned toward you, it was a mystery as to how it almost went forgotten. There were some differences, sure. The blonde hair and tanned skin, the aforementioned dress sense. Neil likely even had a trimmer build; he might’ve had history as a soldier but Bruce’s training and expertise went far beyond that.

“You could say I have a type. He looks just like you.”

Upon entering the Tower, Neil made a safe assumption to approach the receptionist desk, only to offer a sheepish grin when spotting you make a beeline for the elevators. There were over seventy buttons on the panels inside, one for each floor, and security clearance was required to select several, including the one labeled ‘PH’. Of course, you had security clearance. You swiped your ID badge, the round knob lit up, and the lift began its smooth ascent.

“Do you work here as well?” Neil asked curiously.

“No.” He fell suspiciously quiet until you cocked a brow at him. “What?”

“Nothing!” Though his smirk said otherwise. “Simply trying to recall the last time I created identification swipes for people I wasn’t dating.”

“Oh, do stop.”

“No, no! Perhaps my faked death has kept me behind the times. Is that a thing now? Should we have one made for each other?”

“Please promise me you’ll behave,” you pressed, eyes skyward in a plea from any higher power this plan of yours would work out. “He’s - he’s important to me.”

“And to this city, I reckon... I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” he added quickly when you raised a fist, fighting the urge to jab him in the gut. You softened when he reached over to grasp the back of your neck in his hand, thumb petting behind your ear, and you realized how much you’d missed the damned man. “Anything for you, darling.”

You threw yourself at him, hugging him tight, basking in the nostalgia of his familiar scent. It was begrudging to release him as there was a low ding announcing the arrival to the utmost tier of the building. Whatever soft feelings warmed your chest were abruptly replaced with anxious nerves. You hoped the two men you loved most liked each other, hoped Bruce would keep an open mind about this…

#bruce wayne x reader #the batman 2022 #neil tenet x reader #tenet #bruce wayne x reader x neil #rob pattinson #my fic

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the-cooler-sidestep · 2 months

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I wanna draw I wanna model I wanna crochet I wanna animate but everything I want is buried under a layered array of loudspeakers all yelling "I don't want to live anymore" like it's baby fucking shark

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snowbunnywatching · 2 years

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Thank you for your intelligent and insightful posts on the topic of cultural Africanization! Do you have any thoughts about how white girls might react to living in a Black-dominated future where they no longer represent the standard of beauty? Do you foresee white girls trying to mimic Black women in some way? Do you foresee those with stereotypically white features being teased, insulted or mocked the way People of Color have been in the past?

In an Africanized society, white bodies are no longer standards of beauty. Beauty models are usually Black, and when, on rare occasions, a white girl is featured, she will always conform to Black beauty standards, with lots of curves, especially in the booty department.

Needless to say, it will be a rude wake-up call for white girls to no longer be the pinnacle of beauty. A well-deserved reminder that we too have a historical debt to pay.

We will have to adapt to the new standards. White girls will be lining up to buy whatever brand of shampoo promising to "put some frizz in that do". Or beg for an appointment at a Black-owned hairdresser where snickering Black women will give us box braids or dreadlocks.

And those booties... oh wow they really need some work. We will be sweating and grunting in the gym, doing squats, bench jumps, and other glutes-building exercises, while rap music is blaring from the loudspeakers.

White girls who insist on keeping their skinny asses are ruthlessly mocked. One of the most popular shows on television is the makeover show Get some junk in that trunk in which a flat white girl is "helped" to a more curvaceous body.

The show starts with a clip from whoever nominated the girl to the show - usually her Black boyfriend smirkingly explaining that "even though Kristen is a freaky bitch, I don't have much to look at when clapping her from behind," accompanied by pictures and home video clips of poor Kristen and her tiny tushy.

The experts - five outspoken Black women - start dressing Kristen down, asking her how she expects to keep a fine Black man with a white girl ass like that. Soon she's shown hard at work at the gym, with the experts yelling encouragements like "work that little white ass harder!" at her.

#racial justice #cultural africanization #white guilt

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majjiktricks · 8 months

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im gonna end up playing that again because i wanna look for more details. things i did see but cant post because the audio is ATROCIOUS. heres what i can remember tho:

if you go into the basement level before you're suppose to, the peace walker theme will be playing over some kind of loudspeaker (instead of the radio like it does when you can pick it up later). the room is pitch dark and completely empty aside from some shelves and gurneys. i'd have to turn the brightness up but i wouldnt be surprised if it was a storage room for medicines and/or some kind of morgue.

theres an entire wing of the quarantine building you cant explore because there are carts and shelves overturned in front of the doors. apparently the people who end up in the basement room were hiding there, and then left once the parasites made them run. im not sure why they went to the basement when the parasites want outside, but props to them for locking themselves in. you have to pick the door to get in.

despite being listed in the credits, ocelot never talks to you over the radio. you only hear kaz, code talker, and eventually huey. ocelot only appears in the casket burning cutscene, and only for a moment with no dialogue.

i cant remember if its present in the english, but in the japanese dub, the people infected with vocal cord parasites have a strange, warbly filter over their voices that makes its sounds like their vocal cords are loose and moving too much when they speak.

all the staff who are infected have visibly clouded over eyes, except for the last one who you carry to the door. when you first look at him, his eyes are dark. they are still dark even after confirming he is also infected. this is likely because it would have been too small of a detail to make a model change for mid-mission, or for a watsonian explanation, perhaps the eyes are one of the last symptoms to present.

there are a handful of different staff reactions to you appearing and then pointing your gun at them. a lot of them are relieved to see you. some are confused and say "wait!" or plead with you when you raise your gun. some of them just look at you and accept it. a few even say thank you as their last line when you shoot them. one staff member laying on the floor will see you shoot another and then pull a gun on you. one refuses to die via parasites and shoots himself. the security team member you find protecting two other staff is the same one you will find at the end behind everyone in the basement.

you cannot use cqc during this mission except for while in the rooftop room. you cannot prevent staff from injuring each other or themselves with stuns or punches.

code talker over the radio will theorize about how the parasites mutated and how they behave. he posits that it may have something to do with the recent radiation leak on the quarantine platform.

he also has a theory about why the disease is progressing so quickly this time and has no visible symptoms: the parasites are reproducing asexually and laying eggs without vocal stimulation, simply overwhelming and destroying the host. the strategy to spread is no longer through bodily fluids, but through animals. the parasites want to get outside so birds will eat the bodies and uncontrollably spread the parasites that way.

the comparison to the snail is apt because multiple parasites alter snail behavior to make them more susceptible to being eaten by birds, who are the parasites' final host. it then releases eggs with the birds' droppings, which can end up in water to infect more snails and bird-prey.

venom snake puts on a set of goggles he took off a guy who died right in front of him, who was COVERED in blood. im amazed he wasnt infected that way.

thats all i can remember right now, will have to go through again and try to get all the radio clips and any details i might have missed 👍

#jazz noises #jazz plays mgsv the phantom pain #metal gear #venom snake

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