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visit-new-york · 9 months

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The Williamsburg Bridge remains a beloved and functional part of New York City's infrastructure, offering more than just a physical connection between boroughs. It weaves together the social, cultural, and economic fabric of the city while serving as a reminder of the city's enduring spirit and resilience.

Accessibility for Bicyclists: In recent years, the Williamsburg Bridge has become increasingly popular among cyclists. The addition of dedicated bike lanes and paths has made it a key route for those commuting between Brooklyn and Manhattan by bicycle. This has contributed to the city's efforts to promote sustainable transportation options.

Emergency Services: The Williamsburg Bridge, like other major bridges in New York City, is equipped with emergency evacuation plans and protocols. It is considered an essential route for emergency vehicles and personnel during crises or natural disasters.

Cultural Influence: Beyond its practical role, the Williamsburg Bridge has had a profound cultural influence, particularly in the Brooklyn neighborhood it connects to. Williamsburg, with its vibrant arts scene, has become synonymous with the bridge's name, and it has featured prominently in local art, music, and literature.

In Popular Culture: The Williamsburg Bridge has appeared in numerous movies, TV shows, and music videos. Its distinctive architecture and picturesque views have made it a favorite location for filmmakers and artists looking to capture the essence of New York City.

Connecting Diverse Communities: The bridge has played a crucial role in connecting diverse communities in Manhattan and Brooklyn. It has been a conduit for the exchange of cultural influences, economic activity, and social interactions.

Historical Preservation and Restoration: Various organizations and government agencies have been involved in preserving and restoring the bridge to ensure its longevity. Efforts have included repainting the bridge, restoring its architectural features, and maintaining its structural integrity.

Design Features: The Williamsburg Bridge's towers are constructed of steel, and its suspension cables are made of wire rope. The bridge's overall design showcases elements of the Beaux-Arts architectural style, with ornamental details and decorative flourishes.

Maintenance Challenges: Maintaining a bridge of this size and age is an ongoing challenge. The bridge requires regular inspections, repairs, and upgrades to keep up with modern safety standards and the demands of urban transportation.

Future Developments: As New York City continues to evolve, the Williamsburg Bridge remains a vital part of the city's infrastructure. Future developments and improvements may include further enhancements to pedestrian and cyclist facilities, as well as ongoing efforts to reduce environmental impacts.

Centennial Celebrations: The Williamsburg Bridge celebrated its centennial in 2003 with various events and activities to mark its 100th anniversary. This milestone offered an opportunity for New Yorkers to reflect on the bridge's historical importance.

Artistic Expressions: Over the years, the Williamsburg Bridge has been a canvas for artistic expressions. Street art and graffiti have adorned its support structures and pedestrian walkways, contributing to the bridge's cultural identity.

Traffic Congestion and Alternatives: Like many urban bridges, the Williamsburg Bridge experiences traffic congestion during peak hours. This congestion has prompted discussions about transportation alternatives, such as improved public transit options, to ease the burden on the bridge and reduce environmental impacts.

Hurricane Sandy and Resilience: The bridge, like other infrastructure in New York City, faced significant challenges during Hurricane Sandy in 2012. The storm surge resulted in flooding and temporary closures. In response, the city has explored ways to enhance the resilience of critical infrastructure, including the Williamsburg Bridge, to future extreme weather events.

Iconic Landmark: The Williamsburg Bridge is not just a transportation link but also an iconic symbol of New York City's skyline. Its unique silhouette and the way it frames views of the city have made it a subject of admiration for photographers, artists, and tourists alike.

Community Engagement: The Williamsburg Bridge has been the focus of community engagement and activism. Local residents and organizations have advocated for improvements, safety measures, and the preservation of its historical and cultural significance.

Economic Impact: The bridge's role in connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn has had a significant economic impact on both boroughs. It has facilitated the movement of goods and people, supporting businesses and industries on both sides of the East River.

Night Illumination: The Williamsburg Bridge is often illuminated at night, casting a stunning glow over the East River. The changing colors and lighting schemes have been used to mark special occasions and holidays, enhancing the bridge's visual appeal.

Symbol of Progress: Throughout its history, the Williamsburg Bridge has symbolized progress, connectivity, and the spirit of innovation. It reflects the dynamism of New York City as it continues to evolve and adapt to the needs of its residents.

The Williamsburg Bridge stands as a testament to both engineering innovation and the enduring cultural significance of infrastructure in urban life. It has served as a lifeline for generations of New Yorkers, connecting people, neighborhoods, and opportunities across the East River.

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dreadsuitsamus · 8 months

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Anytime | Kensei Muguruma x Reader |

author's note: this hurt a little bit to write lmao and i apologize in advance if it hurts you too

pairing: kensei muguruma x fem!reader

warnings: reader and kensei are divorced, a little bit of angst and jealousy

"I'm on my way."

It rings in your head, over and over, as you sit on the side of the road and wait for your ex-husband to come save you. Stomach a pit and each and every nerve wired and frayed, tears nearly brim in your eyes at the anticipation of his arrival. Being stuck on the side of a road you're sure hasn't seen a single driver on it in at least a week is one thing, and it's another when you've got three flats and an ex-husband with a hefty I told you so locked and loaded.

Your divorce with Kensei was finalized over two years ago, but the sad fact remains that he's the most important person in your life, and vice versa— which is why you informed him of this last-minute road trip, only to be warned against it.

"I don't think your car can handle that trip. Put it off until I can make sure everything is functioning properly."

And like a fool, you neglected to take it seriously and off you went to the festival. Perhaps it's why you had as great of a time as you did— karma was evidently waiting with a dish best served cold.

Your heart jumps at the sight of a black Silverado truck pulling up. He hates that damn truck, much preferring his fuel-efficient Elantra, but you've left him with no choice today. You're so distraught you can't even take much time to appreciate those long legs of his as he steps out of the truck; sometimes you wonder how you could be divorced from the most handsome man you've ever known.

Dressed in jeans with the platinum chain you'd gotten him many moons ago attached, boots and a black button down shirt, your gut tells you he was busy when you called. Looking so fine… He was on a date, wasn't he?

It burns.

With a resounding sigh, you meet him in the halfway distance between your cars. Kensei's never been particularly talkative and mouthy unless angry, and though there's certainly some simmering beneath the surface, he's calmer than you initially expected. He passes you a bottle of water and a protein bar before going to inspect the damage, subsequently sighing and rubbing his temples with his long fingers. "I'm amazed that your luck is so shit that you only got three flats so your goddamn insurance wouldn't cover it."

"I'm still trying to figure out how I only got three."

"Divine intervention." Kensei mutters bitterly and starts to roll up his sleeves past the delicious forearms that once would hold you up against the inferno that is the rest of his body at night. "When's the last time you even got these rotated, let alone changed?"

"I don't even know what having them rotated means."

Kensei sucks in a sharp, irritated breath and steels himself; it'll do no good to get upset this early into the project. He just… Wishes you fucking listened to him. About anything, at this point. "New rule. Get it done every time you get an oil change." And thank God your car is one that will bug the hell out of you about your service interval— he doesn't want to consider what your oil and other fluids would be like otherwise.

"Okay." You mumble and crack open the water, taking a long pull from the cold drink. It's refreshing and perfect, pulling your spirits up just a tad as you start to feel a little bit better physically.

"Eat that protein bar." Your ex-husband demands, heading for the bed of his truck and lowering the tailgate. He's got everything he needs for the swap— including time. "I know you, you little shit. You're running on a refresher from six hours ago and had a hearty helping of hopes and dreams to eat, didn't you?"

You scowl as you chew the protein bar. It's terrible, like every protein bar you've ever tried, but at least he got one that doesn't make you want to vomit. "I didn't call you here so you could lay into me about my eating habits."

Kensei's brown eyes cut to you as he lowers a tire to the ground. "You rather me go off about the rest of the shit you got yourself into now, then? 'Cause I was saving it for later."

Rolling your eyes, you look away from the man you married six years ago. He huffs and resumes himself, setting up a workstation and prepping your car to start swapping the new tires on. You find a spot nearby him, settling down onto the lawn chair you took to the festival as he begins cracking off lugnuts. Sparing a glance your way, Kensei feels a bit of a tug at his heart despite his rage. You may be his ex-wife, but you've never been bad to him a day in his life. "How long did you sit here before you called me?"

"About two hours." You sigh, finishing the water after forcing the protein bar down. "I tried to get my insurance to help me. They wanted to charge even more because it's a Sunday and I just don't have the money for all that. I considered just camping out for a night and having them come out tomorrow, but…"

Kensei shakes his head. He was waiting for your call or text announcing you were back home; that plan would never fly as long as he's in your life. "We gotta get you a new insurance policy, babe. You're done paying for one that would leave a woman stranded like that."

"Yes sir."

Silence settles in for a while as you watch Kensei work. A light bead of sweat trickles from his temple to his neck, and then he tosses his tools down to carefully slip the buttons open and take off his shirt. If it's somehow possible, his biceps are bigger than they used to be. Leaving himself in a white tank top, he tosses the shirt your way. "Keep that clean for me, yeah?"

"Mhm." You slip into the oversized shirt, his handsome smelling cologne flooding your senses. He's not slick at all; it's chilly out in this wasteland, and rather than simply ask if you're cold, he'd rather ensure you won't be.

His unstoppable air of authority wraps you up, even now.

"Were you busy?" Tumbles out of your mouth after the beat of silence lasts too long. He's finished one tire already and it's really hit you how much you relied on him during your marriage.

It's no wonder he didn't fight to salvage it.

"No." He lies through his teeth and it's easy. Just a little too easy.

It's no wonder you served him divorce papers.

Huffing softly, your brow draws together. "Yeah, right. You got dressed all nice just to come bail me out? Bullshit. I'm smarter than you give me credit for, Ken."

"And yet, you went on this trip without getting your car checked out." Kensei snaps right back, irritation creeping up and warming his neck and ears. "If you didn't wanna wait for me, fine! Why not take it to Abarai's place?" He's got a point— You've known Renji for years now, and he'd always make time for a friend, his business needs be damned. He'd have it done in a day, easy.

Still, the embarrassment of being scolded like this lights your temper. "I told you, Ken, this trip was not planned. I had a friend up north mention the festival and we decided to go to it and meet up."

"Even if I accept that answer, which I don't, there's no reason for you to let your car get this bad! I don't even wanna look under the hood! Why do I always have to take care of your shit for you?? Time and time again, you fuck up and then you call me to bail you out!"

Your eyes widen with a series of blinks. He doesn't sound pissed as much as he's simply… Tired. Upset. Kensei being angry or frustrated is not foreign to you— on his surface, it's the only emotion he knows. But as his wife, you saw the softer side of his feelings. He does get sad, he does cry and he does have bad days like anyone else. And as you take in his tirade… The realization hits that those glimpses of his belly showing were almost entirely gone by the time of your separation.

That marriage was already doomed by the time you attempted to save it. Serving the papers to him wasn't supposed to do anything but show his true colors— he'd fight for you, or he'd give up. And Kensei chose the latter.

"Ken." You murmur carefully. "What were you doing when I called you?"

Kensei throws the tools down, rubbing his hands over his face. "I was on a date."

You'd rather have been left on the road to die than hear him say those words to you. The sinking feeling in your stomach threatens to send that protein bar back up just at the thought of him sitting at a restaurant with another woman, treating her in the same ways he'd treated you way back when. Kensei dating isn't unusual, per se. He's a single man, attractive and still quite young…

But he's yours.

"And you came for me?"

Kensei's hands drop to his lap. "For better or worse, babe: that's the promise I made you."

"The wedding vows don't particularly mean shit after the divorce." Tears of shock and hurt fill your eyes, though you refuse to blink and let them fall. He will not make you cry again, ever, but… The turn of your head to look away from him sure does accidentally force them out.

Kensei drops his head— he hates it when you cry, and hates himself for being the reason. He should've just lied again, brushed it off and moved onto the next flat. It wouldn't have worked though; the guilt he shoulders when he lies to you eats him alive, and it triples due to the look on your face when he does lie. You know he's not telling the truth, every time he tries it.

"I don't know why you think I'm the type of man to leave any woman stranded, much less you. You're the exception to every rule I have, always have been."

Your lip wobbles. It's true, you've always been the one to break Kensei's rules. He said he didn't date coworkers. But he dated you. He said he wasn't after a serious relationship. He married you. He said you shouldn't see each other after the divorce. Yet, he was calling and asking how you were doing not even a week later.

He's always loved you.

It's quiet for a while, and eventually Kensei gets back to the entire reason he's here. Clouds are rolling in, and he'll be damned if he gets caught in the middle of a rainstorm right now. His chest cavity feels empty and he wants nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep these horrible feelings away.

"Why?" You ask after a while, your few tears mostly faded now.

Stop, stop, stop! Stop asking questions, stop crying over your ex-husband moving on!!

"Why what?" Kensei mutters as he torques the lugnuts on the second tire.

You sigh to yourself, a beat of silence taking over again. Kensei's amber eyes flick over to you, snuggled into his shirt and avoiding his gaze as you curl into your chair. You're at war with yourself, that mental battle clear as day on what he can see of your face. His heartstrings tug, and next thing he knows he's wiping his hands and kneeling in front of you, cupping your cheek in his hand so you'll look at him.

His thumb swipes away a small tear. "Babe. Talk to me. You're not gonna feel better otherwise."

Your chest heaves at his touch, at his sincere eyes and warmth that keeps you so in love with him even now as a shudder wracks your entire body. "You keep your promises to me. You're always there when I need you. But why didn't you fight for our marriage?"

Kensei's silver brows raise before knitting together. "You wanted to leave. I wouldn't force you to stay if you weren't happy."

"I wanted you to care! I wanted my husband to tell me he still loved me and that we could work it out, but you didn't! You let me leave without so much as asking why!"

Kensei withdraws his hand. "Of course I cared! Does this—" He gestures back to your car. "Look like I don't care?? You had my whole heart in your palm, and you broke it! But I still come for you! All I want is for you to be safe and happy, and if it's not with me, so be it! You matter more to me than I ever have!"

"I've never wanted anybody else." Your eyes burn with fresh tears. You've never so much as entertained another guy for a potential date, let alone go out with someone after the divorce. There's nothing but your love for Kensei stopping you, but foolishly you hoped he would do the same; how unrealistic and unfair of you.

How many dates has he been on with this woman? Has he kissed her yet? The entire idea makes you want to scream and cry and cuss an innocent woman out for banging your husband. Ex or not, he's still so much of your heart that to lose him would ruin you.

"Then why divorce me?" He murmurs, standing and stepping back. The clouds are darkening, and he feels a hefty drop on his shoulder. "Why put me through a divorce if you wanted to stay together?!"

Anger boils inside your stomach, blood churning at an incredible pace as you rocket out of the lawn chair and fill the space he's created between you. "Why not fight?! If you love me as much as you keep saying, why didn't you fucking try?!"

"I already told you!" Kensei yells right back. "You wanted to go! So I let you go, because it's what you fucking said you wanted! You ended our marriage over a goddamn test, like the six years we spent together were some kinda fucking joke to you. You can't accuse me of not caring when you ended a four year marriage over petty shit!"

"I gave you a choice, Ken! I served the papers, but you signed them." You poke his chest harshly as two raindrops bounce against your forehead.

"I'm not having this argument with you; the shit's been said and done with for almost three years." Kensei turns his back to you as the rain starts a steady fall to swap out the last tire and get the hell away from you.

"Is she pretty?" It's beyond petty, so stupid and childish but you've got to know. If he likes this woman, or God forbid loves her, you'll never call him again. You'll die cold and alone before even considering reaching out to him, as an ex-wife to an ex-husband should.

Kensei stops in his tracks. "Yeah."

"Do you love her?"

"Never."

"Why?"

Kensei looks up at the sky, the gray clouds swirling as the rain descends. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and it's the same as always every time he's left to gaze at the back of his eyelids— you and him on the night of your wedding, laying together in bed and giggling like teenagers at the prospect of your happy life together starting.

He turns, white tank top half soaked as he comes back to you and holds your face like porcelain. This beautiful face drives me crazy… "Nobody's ever gonna be able to be you."

You whimper and a fresh set of tears mixes in with the rain as Kensei leans down and kisses you, his passion so pent up that he's picking you up and pressing you to his truck before you can make heads or tails of anything. His shirt is swiftly bunched into your hand as the surprise subsides and the gratification fills you to the brim, your lips and tongue sliding with Kensei's in a messy reunification. Too long, it's been too long since you had this, since you felt his warmth on you and reveled in it.

His silver hair is silky between your fingers and he groans as you massage his scalp with your nails. He's always been a bit like a cat in that sense. Your legs around him and his arms around you tighten as you urge your bodies closer, leaving no room for even Jesus now. The rain pours around you, leaving you drenched by the time you've got no choice but to pull back, lest you die making out with your ex-husband.

All in all, not the worst way to go.

Kensei kisses your cheek gently, his lips lingering as he maneuvers to open the door to the passenger seat and shield you from the onslaught of rain. Peppering small kisses while he wipes the rain from your face, he turns the truck on and sets the heater up to keep you from getting sick.

He strips himself of his tank top once he's left you safely in the truck, tossing it in the truck bed before running to finish up the last tire change with this lucky break in the rain. Your fingers come to touch your tingling, smiling lips and you close your eyes as the space of Kensei's truck encompasses you.

By the time Kensei's back, his tools and your old tires all loaded up, you're beyond sleepy. Scooping you into his arms, your husband walks slowly and kisses your temple as he carries you to your car. "C'mon. Time to go home."

You steal a kiss off his lips, and by the time you're back in town, you weigh every option as you sit at a red light behind Kensei. Taking the next turn leads you home, but going straight will bring you right to Kensei's apartment building.

The light turns green.

#kensei muguruma x you #kensei muguruma x reader #kensei imagine #kensei x reader #kensei x you #bleach imagine #bleach x reader #bleach x you #x reader #reader insert #it's open ended but i'm sure y'all can guess what route i'm personally taking!!

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utilitycaster · 3 months

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you got me. i binged all of midst in two days and it was great, but now i dont have a lot of other podcasts to listen to. do you have other good fiction podcasts you like?

DO I. I am not the Most Podcast Person I know but I definitely follow a lot because I drive a lot and walk a lot and put them on in the background while I do chores. Also, I'm sticking to scripted/plotted fiction here and not actual play but I can provide some actual play podcast recs too, though none are terribly obscure.

Wolf 359 is a completed podcast but a great binge. It also is science fiction and deals with capitalism and corruption and complicated characters and weird space stuff; it regularly makes the "great fiction podcasts" to check out and I think is closest to Midst in that it's also a tightly plotted work that goes to a natural end point.

I frequently talk about and recommend the Silt Verses and the thematic nature is remarkably close to Midst, but the vibe is very different. It has a lot of folk and body horror elements (audio-only, but they are absolutely present). Also covers the "man what if capitalism and religion were working explicitly in tandem" element of Midst with the added dimension of "what if there were many many gods and and they all demanded literal, physical sacrifices". Sister Carpenter is cut from a similar cloth as Lark and I love her dearly. To draw other comparisons would be to spoil it. It's on season 3, which will be its last. It is extremely intense in that when I fell behind I found it tough to binge without taking breaks, but it's really fucking good. (I also recommend this to people who like Candela Obscura, though that's more for eldritch horror vibes).

The Penumbra Podcast is great because it has two separate storylines (it was originally intended to be an anthology, but people fell in love with Juno Steel specifically). I like both, but Juno Steel is the more popular one - it's set in the future, in our solar system but in space, and follows Juno Steel, a private eye. It's extremely weird neo-noir. There is a homme fatale and a fantastic cast of characters, and it's also an interesting ongoing plot. The Second Citadel is more fantasy rather than sf though it's also kind of in that general New Weird bucket and is even harder to describe but I think it's underrated. It's also on its final season but it's been going on a while so it will take a bit for you to catch up.

Within the Wires is also a podcast I've recommended in the past. It's by the people who do Welcome to Nightvale which isn't listed here both because I assume you are aware of it, and because that's an ongoing slice of life sort of thing; there are plots but there's sort of that sitcom-esque "nothing really changes the status quo" element though the earlier era had some more structured stuff. Anyway, Within the Wires is found audio, so each season is different - the first is relaxation cassette tapes, the second museum audio guides, the third voice memos, etc. There are callbacks/connections between seasons at times, and I would recommend listening to at least the first two seasons in full (which are very strong) to get a sense of the world before hopping around later. The reason I recommend it here is because the worldbuilding is spectacularly done in a way that reminds me of the elegance of the worldbuilding in Midst, and because it's found audio, while it's one narrator per season you will get those weird asides and interesting tonal choices.

Tentative rec for Camlann, a roughly modern day post-apocalyptic take on Arthurian legends and the folklore of the British Isles only because it just started and has 3 episodes. I like it, but I don't know what plot it's building to (nor how long it will be; they have funding for one season but aren't sure about future ones.)

#answered #Anonymous

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gaiuskamilah · 2 months

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my brother's keeper

crimes of passion | M | 1.1k words

relationships | vasili thorne & sebastyan thorne, background f!trystan thorne/nb!main character (will rose, he/him)

warnings | character death, graphic depictions of violence

In which Vasili Thorne kills a brother in the name of Drakovia.

[read on ao3]

—

Duty was the one word that rang through Vasili’s head, has been almost all his life. The garrote felt like a dead weight in his gloved hands. There was a slight tremor in his fingertips as he mindlessly fidgeted with the weapon, thoughts preoccupied with the price he was about to pay.

Sebastyan. Duty now demanded for his darling little brother, Sebastyan.

Eight years ago, duty demanded for Juliana. Vasili’s beautiful Juliana—taken from him by none other than one wretched Trystan Thorne. Trystan never was satisfied. The gift of the crown in her lap, the world at her fingertips, and she could never see it as the blessing that it was, as the opportunity to serve and fulfill duty in the most honorable of ways. It was a competition ever since Vasili was born, and Trystan did nothing but take and take and take. In the end, even Juliana, Vasili’s Juliana, Trystan took for herself.

Juliana’s death had been incidental. The glitter wasn’t for her. But duty worked in mysterious ways, and in a haze Vasili awoke to find himself with the syringe at his beloved’s throat. He held Juliana as she died. Her eyes, once full of love and admiration for him, only held accusatory betrayal.

But her death was a gift, a promise.

It was easy to frame Trystan. The death of Juliana Georgescu, a beloved Drakovian countess, at the hands of Princess Trystan? The same Princess Trystan who refused to keep herself in line, who neglected her duties? Not even their father’s favor could save her from something so scandalous as murdering Juliana.

Or so he thought.

One pesky cult and Detective Rose had the king and queen recalling his sister back to Drakovia. The trial for Juliana’s death recommenced, and Vasili’s luck was starting to run out.

Nadja had failed in where Vasili needed her. In turn, he sliced Nadja’s throat open, stabbed her for good measure, and left her in Trystan’s room for the spoiled princess to find. But the work was sloppy, and the only thing that happened next was the start of an investigation by Trystan’s run-of-the-mill American detective. The crown wouldn’t even allow for a Drakovian’s death to be investigated by a Drakovian, no, it had to be Will Rose and his ragtag team, because Princess Trystan always got her way.

Pfaugh! It made Vasili sick.

He wanted to humiliate Trystan, wanted to take everything from her, wanted to make her bleed. In due time, he will, but as of now—

Vasili hid in the shadows of the opera box where he’d soon meet Sebastyan. Vasili steeled himself as he waited. This was different from the previous two—Juliana’s murder was a true crime of passion, a spur of the moment. Nadja’s took longer, but Vasili felt little sentiment for the lawyer that wasn’t disappointment. She was a means to an end, and since she failed once, at least her death could be used for something.

The doors swung open and it was with bated breath that Vasili watched Sebastyan walk into the opera box. The younger walked up to the open balcony and leaned on the railing. It was always a habit of his, ever since they were children—Bas would take in the sight of the world below him before coming down and taking his seat.

With Sebastyan’s back turned, Vasili quickly strode over to the other side of the opera box. He pressed Sebastyan’s body against the rail, holding his brother in place with his own weight and the metal and concrete. “I’m sorry, Bas,” said Vasili, just loud enough for Sebastyan to hear.

“Vasili—”

Vasili cut Sebastyan off as he wrapped the garrote wire around his brother’s throat and strangled him with expert hands.

The wire dug into the exposed skin of Sebastyan’s neck and cut right through his carotid artery. Blood spurted from the wounds and it was with both agony and sick sense of satisfaction that Vasili strangled the younger. Sebastyan thrashed under him, but Vasili was stronger. He held Sebastyan in place and pulled—the wounds on his neck were deep, and Vasili was certain there was no going back now. It would be only a few minutes before Sebastyan would leave him forever. With quick hands, Vasili untangled the garrote wire from around Sebastyan’s neck, and turned the younger man around to face him.

Sebastyan stared back at him with a look not unlike Juliana’s all those years ago. The younger prince spasmed in his older brother’s hold as blood continued to flow down from the wounds on his throat. His white tux, almost always pristine and proper, was stained red by the blood. Holding Sebastyan flush against himself, Vasili pushed Sebastyan’s hair out of his eyes.

“Shh, Bas, shh,” Vasili hushed, his voice soft in an attempt to soothe Sebastyan, much like he did when they were children. Sebastyan’s blood and spit spurted from his mouth, specks of it falling onto Vasili’s face. “This is for Drakovia. Drakovia will thank you, she will remember you. We will remember you.”

Vasili cupped Sebastyan’s face with a gloved hand and silently lamented the fact that he couldn’t feel his brother’s skin under tips of his fingers, that this had to be done with the blasted latex just to make sure Vasili wouldn’t leave too much of a traceable mark. He wanted to hold his little brother properly, wanted to let Sebastyan know that he was treasured and adored by the same person who spilled his blood out on an opera box floor. He wanted to let Sebastyan know that his death would mean something.

Sebastyan let out a choked sound as Vasili pressed his fist against Sebastyan’s neck. The gloves were just thin enough to allow an indent of his signet ring. “I will see our plans to fruition, I promise. Drakovia loves you, and she will love you even more, sevenfold.” Vasili pulled his fist away and ran a thumb over the new indent on Sebastyan’s skin, one in the shape of the Drakovian royal crest. Drakovia’s — Vasili’s — mark. Vasili pressed a kiss on Sebastyan’s forehead. “I love you. I will love you, forever.”

Vasili watched as the last light left Sebastyan’s eyes. With a shaky breath, he shut Sebastyan’s eyes closed when the younger finally fell pliant in Vasili’s arms. Pure grief washed over Vasili as he held Sebastyan in a hug for what would be the final time. Then, he steadied himself, careful to not let his emotions get the better of him. The voice of his brother’s blood cried to him from the ground, from their bloodstained clothes, from Vasili’s gloves—there would be time for it later, when the prince’s death would be revealed to the rest of their kin.

For now, Vasili placed his brother’s body on one of the opera seats, wiped the blood off of Sebastyan’s mouth, and disappeared before Trystan could find him.

—

tags: @choicesficwriterscreations

#playchoices #choices #crimes of passion #vasili thorne #sebastyan thorne #trystan thorne #my writing #ive had this in my drafts since november might as well just post it lol

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illya-roma · 1 year

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Sung Promise

The flesh melds and folds over itself as the greened bloody chains tighten and slacken with a threat of death.

A threat to steel away anatomy.

A threat to take away the loved’s soul.

A threat to hold over one’s soul.

Face smashed into an unrecognizable mess, hands and flesh rumple and extend to hold on to hope as the chains tighten and crack and renew to hold.

To contain.

To control.

To destroy.

Then shatter, then renew, beg and scream, then swear and break, then renew and weep. They screech, demand, kill, anger, break, then scream again.

And again...

And again....

And another screams.

She stops rushing through the air. Staring down at the one that awakened, who stared back with flowing tears. He shrinks away.

Her flames slowed and decrease in size, her enlarged fangs grow smaller as her eyes return from raging fearful reds to oranges. She breathes. Her nonexistent throat shutting.

The child, with a glimpse through the tears, reaches out with familiarity to the ghost holding him.

She holds him closer, cowering and closing and protecting him with her body as her core cracks and heals and cries apology after apology after apologyafterapology.

The warmth spreads through him as he cries and weeps holding and clutching onto his dearest and safest one as she purrs and hums to chase away his tears.

Her core hums about the stars above and her stolen voice sings about protecting and loving.

It feels like everything as it sounds like nothing.

The swinging of child asking to go higher and higher.

The tapping of a ballet dancer's feet as they prepare to jump.

The sizzling of food on the stop as a couple dance through the kitchen.

The childs' tight hugs as they begin their first day of school.

The dog jumping and played alongside its younger siblings.

The crows huddling to their eggs for warmth.

A cat purring and stretching under the sunlight.

Flowers and leafs fluttering about.

Snowball fights and hot drinks

The laughter of children in a tickle fight.

A person's first kiss.

The adults' marriage vow.

Lazy days.

And night's of the moon, stars and planets.

A song.

A beautiful life.

And a promise she intends to keep.

----

Hurried running of children sound across the rooms, the white bland wall allow the signs to pop out. It anchors them through the hollow walls.

The nurse, through his teary eyes and closed throat catches one of the children helping his wheel bound friend to get closer to the windows, and in a cracking voice asks what they're doing.

"The angels here!" they reply.

And run to window nearest to them.

The nurse walks to them and stands near the bald child with wires attached to them. They sit unable to reach the window.

The child holds out a hand without removing their eyes of the black polluted clouds. And the nurse holds it. They smile, breathes calm and steady.

"The angel came." the child falls limp.

Two women buckle on the balcony as an embrace of life, of a new beginning covers them like blankets. Plants around them fluttered as their hold tightened neither wanting to let go.

A man stands from his desk, ringing his phone and waiting patiently as regret rushes through his veins. He moves closer to his tiny window and opening to feel the air

His mother answers.

An elder sitting around the fire beside the others in an alley way, holds up a torn and faded photo. The others hold each other and stare at the darkness above them, each muttering and hiding tears.

The elder brings the photo to their lips then their fore head as they smile for the last time.

The reporter delivering news fallters and quietens, none of her coworkers speak until she asks if they could feel it.

The all answer.

The man in the sewers repeats his rhyme in hastened pace till he reaches the surface. Once he stands above, his voice flatters and reaches his hand above as warmth and calm spreads through him.

His reptilian friend follows without a sound.

They all watch and listen to the silence, as beauty, appreciation and life flows through them without knowing who brought it upon them.

'I love you' she says.

They all loved her back.

Tags under

@meira-3919 @seraphinedemort @s-ourbuns

@phantom00maverick @vixen-uchiha

#come eat #dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp au #dc x dp crossover #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc au

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carminegemstone · 5 hours

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What's your favourite type of dance?

"For various reasons, I have mastered different types of dances at the same time. But when it comes to my favorite one, there is no doubt that it is FLAMENCO DANCE."

"It is listed as my favorite dance, not only because it originated in my homeland, but more importantly because since I can remember, this kind of cheerful and vivid dance has been around me."

"In hell, apart from committing crimes, sinners rarely have other forms of entertainment. However, I still maintain a love for my past habits, which naturally includes a persistence in dance. When I talk to lords over various trivial matters and deal with unreasonable demands from clients like Vees time and time again,I will dance flamenco in my private dance studio during my break time."

◆◆◆◆◆She was like fire◆◆◆◆◆

When it comes to fire, all the demons in hell can think of is the sky of the ring of Wrath, the overly scarlet soil encircled by hot lava. One of the masters of the original demons, Satan's fire is said to be hotter than the Sun.

But today, the primordial nobles, born in the circle of pride and pride, see a different kind of fire in hell. Carmilla Carmine, she's like a burning red rose.

No pair of overly delicate and weak hands can control this dangerous and deadly dancer.

They could only use the magic fig leaf to cover their weak body Native nobility, can not imagine a ball of fire will burn the palm of the hand, and need how much courage and bearing.

Not to mention dancing with her.

So they could only see the dangerous, deadly, beautiful woman, with her raised legs like knives slicing through the air. Her steps were so fierce, her skirts so exaggerated, that at every beat her partner had to follow her, in a ballroom polished with marble, in the polished marble of the ballroom.

Carmilla Carmine. The demons think of her company, the dangerous munitions she sells, the sophisticated weapons she makes.

But they never thought they'd see Carmilla Carmine Dance. Her heels struck a rapid note on the floor, and the presto-allegro made her have to keep lifting her skirt, which almost fell to the floor, and let the dance skirt flutter, like a blooming flower. But the edges of her dress were not ordinary lace, but tiny serrations that could be touched to make a bloody mark on her finger-belly.

Those aristocratic devils who were born with noble and extremely delicate backgrounds did not dare to touch the lace that was strung together by Angel Steel Wire. They were afraid of the dancing skirts and steps that could kill them.

In Carmilla's music, passion is always the main theme, making her songs and ordinary royal aristocratic classical pop music to distinguish. ... But it's not just that. ... Carmilla's own personality, whether she was dancing or not, was a burning flame.

It was only as the beautiful and dangerous sinner danced that the other sinners and demons really realized the danger when Carmilla's toes almost grazed their faces. Burning, there is no better word for Carmilla carmine. She would lift her skirt and clang on the floor of the ballroom. She looked like a flame that would never stop.

When she dances the flamenco, no one can defeat her in her fiery dance.

◆◆◆◆◆She was like fire◆◆◆◆◆

#carmilla carmine #hazbin hotel carmilla #roleplay #hazbin hotel roleplay #rp #Flamenco #Dancers like fire

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sramfact · 2 years

Text

Steel wire is used in a variety of end-use industries, including construction, automotive, energy, agriculture, industrial, and others. It possesses high strength, scrub resistance, and good conductivity, which makes it useful in applications such as wire for tires, hoses, galvanized wires and strands, ACSR strands, and armoring of conductor cables, springs, fasteners, clips, staples, mesh, fencing, screws, nails, barbed wires, chains, etc. However, amidst the global COVID-19 pandemic, the demand for steel wires from the industries mentioned above is expected to show a sharp decline. The global steel wire market size is expected to grow from USD 93.2 billion in 2020 to USD 124.7 billion by 2025, projecting a CAGR of 6.0 % during the forecast period between 2020 and 2025.

Over the past years, steel wire manufacturers have strengthened their position in the global steel wires market by adopting expansions, partnerships, agreements, new product/technology launches, joint ventures, contracts, and mergers & acquisitions. However, owing to lockdown announced by several countries in 2020, the demand for steel wire from automotive, industrial and energy end-use industries has declined sharply, which resulted in declined demand for steel wire. For instance, as per European Automobile Manufacturers Association the demand for the demand for new cars in Europe is declined by 25% in first quarter of 2020, thereby reducing steel wire demand.

The major manufacturers profiled in this report include ArcelorMittal (Luxembourg), Nippon Steel (Japan), JFE Steel Corporation (Japan), TATA Steel Limited (India) and Kobe Steel, Ltd. (Japan), are some of the key players in the steel wire market. JSW Steel Ltd. (India), Bekaert SA (Belgium), The Heico Companies (United States), Ferrier Nord (Italy) and Byelorussian Steel Works (Belarus), and among others. The steel wire business of these companies is severely affected due to the outbreak of COVID - 19 pandemic. Reduced demand for steel wire from several OEMs and disruption in the supply chain have compelled the steel wire manufacturing companies to operate at partial capacities. However, several steel wire manufacturers have focused their concentration on new product development. These developments, coupled with end-use industries resuming their operations at full capacities, would create demand for steel wires during the forecast period. For instance, Bekaert SA reached to and acquisition agreement with Bridon-Bekaert Ropes Group and took full ownership. The company adopted this strategy to grow their business globally and to create significant value over the period of time.

#Steel Wire Demand #Steel Wire Market Analysis #Steel Wire Market Growth #Steel Wire Market 2022 #Steel Wire Market #Steel Wire Market Industry #Steel Wire Market Size #Steel Wire Market Share #Steel Wire Market Trends #Steel Wire Market Research #Steel Wire Market Revenue #Covid 19 Impact on Steel Wire Market #Covid 19 Impact on Steel Wire

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psalacanthea · 7 months

Text

this is for everyone but mostly @tadpole-apocalypse who is of the very correct opinion that Astarion's sibling Petras is in dire need of bullying. I happen to agree, so I took a small break to write something in post-game. :P (is spoilery for my current fic but not hugely)

...

Astarion couldn’t be back soon enough.

People were trying to get Zynatheri to decide things, and utilize her power and parcel out judgments, and she just didn’t want to! The way she’d explained it to Astarion was most sensible. They were making a society of vampires. The politics were going to be corrupt! Why not start the corruption from the top, where it belonged? She’d much rather be his puppet than do work.

And now Petras had showed up, knowing Astarion was gone, and demanded an audience.

She’d already been in the bath, of course, which meant she’d had to heave herself out, throw on some slippers and her robe, and storm down to the meeting room. And then on top of that inconvenience, the part of the palace they did have access to was massive! Enormous ebon corridors where every step echoed, gigantic frescoes of her horrible ancestors and their horrible spider goddess, every surface slick and shiny obsidian. Even the smallest light penetrated far here.

Echoes, too, which she rather thought was the point– every single sound carried.

Dwarfed by the architecture, a clammy bite to the air making her skin prickle, Zyn passed through the hall and into a freshly emptied chamber. The last of the crumbled stone had been moved, the bowed-in stone wall on the left side propped up and tidied up as best as they could. It still looked…rough, but they had seven– six now– thousand vampires to look after. Cosmetics were still a far distant concern.

Before they could try to hire stonemasons or wizards, they had to ensure said professionals wouldn’t be eaten the moment they stepped into the city.

It was rather touch and go.

Passing by a low torch, Zyn clutched at her robe, annoyance turning into frustration and amusement as she mulled over the irritating arrival. Of course. The instant he found out Astarion had left on an expedition to scout further into the city, Petras came to poke at her. After all, she was a surefire way to draw Astarion’s attention.

And Petras very much did want Astarion’s attention, like any annoying little brother.

Not that she knew much about siblings.

In the antechamber outside of the meeting room, a huge vaulted space of ebon columns and recessed ornate sconces of blackened iron, Zyn paused. She tucked her fingers into the component pouch at her belt, searching within until she found her sending wire. Untangling it from the mess, she lifted it to her lips and hummed softly into it until it vibrated in her palm.

Closing her eyes, she sent her voice to her beloved. “Petras has come to try something. Little schemer. I’m going to offend him terribly, so please be prepared. I love you, dearest, so be careful.”

While she waited for a response, she tucked her wire back away.

Astarion’s voice reached her mind within a few moments. “And I love you. If he dies, he dies, but do try to keep him alive? We need him to do the work we won’t.”

He’d managed to just hit twenty five that time! Oh, excellently done. His rhythm and pitch might be horrid at best, but her darling could handle a bit of wordplay.

Steeling herself with that slightest snatch of Astarion’s voice to comfort her, Zynatheri began to do something she had to do so rarely now. She was going to play a part. Glad she hadn’t gotten dressed, she loosened the neck of her dark green, velvet-trimmed robe, letting it slide off of her shoulder, lazy and careless. She tugged out the comb in her hair, letting it untwist, uncoil down to her ankles. The delicate golden comb went behind her ear, contrasting the silver of her swaying hair.

Lazy, idle, uncaring- decorative.

An easy enough ruse.

With the embroidered silk of her robe sliding up her arms, she reached up and pushed open the doors. Normally they were left open because they were so bloody big. Petras must have closed them behind himself, for some petty purpo–

“Forgive me, sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

The doors were pulled away from her hands, her weight shifting dangerously, and although she knew it would likely aid in making a complete ass of Petras, she still couldn’t bring herself to fall into his arms. Yuck. Avoiding his hands, she caught herself and stepped back, staring at him through the now-open doors.

Gods.

She looked at him critically for just a moment– hair unfortunately similar to Astarion’s again, despite the fact that he didn’t have the curls for it. He was wearing his nicer set of clothes, which should have been respectful, but wasn’t. All it meant to her was that he really was trying something.

“Yes, that’s clear,” she said sardonically. His strength was severely lacking in areas other than physical. A complete lack of charm, for one.

And he wanted to be Astarion?

The very idea was laughable.

Petras stepped back politely from the doors. “I’m sorry, I should have reassured you. There was no reason to hurry.”

Why was he being nice?

Ew.

“I didn’t,” she replied, swanning past him and heading for the far end of the table, where her and Astarion’s seats overlooked the rest.

“So you intended to meet me in…wearing that?”

Hells, she wanted to put a hole in him. Or some lightning. “I wear what I like in my home. Please leave your notions of ‘society’ behind. That world rejected you.” She turned at the head of the table with a flare of her robe, hair annoyingly clinging and twisting.

Gods, right, this was why she kept her hair up or shorter. Ugh. It was so heavy. “I would rather speak of a new world. One that we create.” She sank into her chair, gesturing for him to take his.

Much further down the table.

But instead, in some sort of power play, he walked up the line of chairs, running his doughy hand along each one. Zynatheri tried not to be judgemental, but she was a bit of a snob when it came to hands. His fingers were short, and not tapered elegantly. They were repulsive in a way she hadn’t known she’d felt until they were attached to the man himself.

Now every time she saw someone with similar digits she would have no choice but to be disgusted.

“You cut your hair again. I thought you’d been so determined to grow your hair out, now that you’re a ‘full vampire’ at last,” Zyn said, refusing to be cowed when he leaned on top of Dal’s chair and stared down at her. Sometimes it was difficult being the lone mortal.

“You can’t still be holding a grudge over that,” he said, annoyance touching his face. He even leaned back a little, his body language betraying his attempt to manipulate her by seeming friendly. Well, more than friendly. "I didn't mean to kill them."

"But you did."

Here she’d thought he was coming to whine and threaten, but instead he was attempting seduction. As much as these siblings of her lover infuriated her, she felt a deep and profound sympathy for them all. They had all been harmed in the same ways, and had some of the same behaviors, and she could not help but give them grace. Which was Astarion’s fault. He was the one who had softened her heart to his past suffering, after all.

Was it any wonder that concern now extended to his siblings?

It was a strange sensation, the simultaneous desire to protect and care for them, mixed with the constant desire to cause them harm– bully them– both mentally and physically. Was that what they called…siblings? If so, a great many things she had read and witnessed in her life suddenly made much more sense.

All of that to say, she was worried that if Petras was trying to seduce her, there was something very wrong with him. That was dangerous. The family, co-ruler, victim and tormenter both dynamic they all had was precarious, volatile. If it collapsed, so would their delicate, tenuous grasp on the spawn in the city.

That might mean death for them all.

“Whatever you need, if it’s reasonable, I won’t block you– in fact, I’ll help you. There’s no need for this,” Zyn said firmly, hoping that was all it was. Maneuvering, and not…lust or a desire for her blood. If it was bloodlust she could just smack him silly and not feel guilty. "I have no desire to pretend we're friendly."

A well-placed bit of vicious mockery and she’d have him sobbing.

In response, he leaned towards her, Zyn holding her ground with annoyance as he came closer. When his hand darted out, grabbing her by the neck, she only felt relief. Oh, good. He’d come to do something stupid.

Petras glared down his nose at her. “Listen here, cattle. You’re going to watch your tone and do what I say, or I’ll snap this pretty neck of yours.”

Coming from Astarion that would have been attractive and threatening; Petras just managed sullen and bossy. Hardly impressive. Plus, the cattle thing, which was stunningly unattractive. She stared at him flatly, eyes half-lidded, lips pursing into a line. His hand tightened, fingers pressing into the sides of her neck.

Ugh, no, if she didn’t retaliate he’d ruin choking for her with those shapeless, ugly hands of his.

Rather than say something snide, she gathered her rising anger and breath while she still could, and screamed directly in his face. The thuderwave hit him full-force, and Petras went arse over teakettle, hand ripped from her throat as he slammed into the heavy stone chair and then went tumbling to the black tile, landing heavily on his back and skidding.

“That’s it?!” she demanded, voice fighting with the echoes of her scream. Zynatheri shot to her feet and stomped after him, eyes blazing with fury. “All of this just to do your best Cazador impression and attack me? You pissing malcontent! You whey-blooded simpleton! Astarion isn’t stupid and your plan isn’t clever. He’d uncover what you've done, and then you'll be dead!”

Petras pulled himself up to his elbows abruptly, hair just cut back into his old mimicry of Astarion’s falling into his face, making him look all the more stupid. “I am fully capable of hiding a body!” he retorted, vibrating with pure offense.

Her own fury rose in tandem. How dare he think for even a moment he’d be capable of killing her?! “Even if you failed your way into success, he would never stop until he found out what had happened to me,” Zynatheri retorted, stepping in and kicking him back down to the floor, her hands balled up in her robe. He started to struggle back up but she stepped in, planting her foot and shifting all her weight onto it.

She ground her heel into his chest.

“You will listen to me. Astarion’s survival is all that matters to me, and you being content enough not to do anything foolish is important to me because of that.”

His scarlet eyes blazed, lips pulled into a sour, furious grimace.

“All of us are better off because you are alive, so stop trying to die,” she said, dragging her foot across his chest as she pulled back, heel pressing the whole way. Dropping her robe, she smoothed her hands down her soft hips, glaring down at Petras. “But never forget– you are beneath me.” She smiled, slow and mocking, their eyes holding with a vibrant intensity. “So stay beneath me, or I might notice you when I’m feeling less…altruistic. Your oafish presence offends me.”

His fingers clenched into fists. “How dare you. Let go of me!”

“Let go of you? You are entirely free to go,” she said, gesturing with one hand. “Have you forgotten where the door is, I wonder? What a very poor memory you have, Petras. You attacked me. Don’t play the victim.”

Why the Hells was he still lying on the floor? She wasn’t even that strong, she couldn’t have kicked him hard enough to do any damage. What a dramatic little twit.

Well, if he wasn’t going to leave first–

It was petty to step on his shoulder on her way past him, but she did it anyway. A test, perhaps, to see if he would retaliate, but that was just an excuse. The little arse had annoyed her.

He made a small sound in the back of her throat as she ground her weight into his shoulder, but that was all she heard apart from the soft echo of her own footsteps. When she glanced back at the exit to the meeting room, he had pulled up to sit and was staring at her, rage barely contained. She smiled, sweetly.

“Next time your humiliation will be public.”

Oddly, he didn’t snap back immediately, but the intensity of his stare grew all the more intense and venomous. Perhaps he was learning some self-control. When he spoke at last, it was mocking. “I can wait. Sooner or later, Astarion will tire of playing with his food and you’ll be just as dead.”

Was he trying to get her to smack him around more? Ugh. As if she was going to rise to such poorly crafted bait.

“See yourself out, little brother!” she sang mockingly, spinning dramatically and swanning through the doors.

It was an excellent exit despite the insults he was shouting after her, which she was quite smug about. Zynatheri shuffled through the antechamber, yanking her hair over her shoulder so it would stop twisting around her ankles. Very good, very dramatic, hair like this, but she’d forgotten what a nuisance it was. Well, Zyn might as well go chop it off.

Part of her did regret not teaching the brat more of a lesson, but– wait.

Had he been trying to get her to slap him around a bit more? Was that all on purpose? If so, that meant…oh dear.

Malice and misfortune, of course it was.

Zynatheri knew it was a waste of what power her poor body could handle channeling in a day, but Astarion was gone and she needed someone to share this with. Without him, what was the point in anything? If she couldn’t speak with him, why speak at all?

In her haste, mirth bubbling like a spring, mixed with the delight of sheer horror, Zyn Sent to her beloved without counting the words. “Darling, oh my beloved viper! My sanguine heart. Come home, I’m suffering. I may have just accidentally fed one of your brother’s fetishes. Sorry–”

Her fingers clutched around the tangle of wire in annoyance as she was cut off, lips pursing.

“Well,” Astarion responded in her mind, highly amused, “I suppose curiosity killed my little fox, didn’t it? Poor darling. I’ll be home before you know it.”

Pouting to herself, she went skulking back to her bath to scrub the feel of his hand from her skin. All she could do was hope she was wrong, and hope it never happened again. Zynatheri had a small, sneaking suspicion that this was far from over, however. Gods and archdevils, she wanted to kick the little pissant around some more.

But if he liked it...

Ugh, having siblings was complicated.

#bg3 #Baldur's Gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #Astarion x Tav #Tav: Zynatheri Rivati #Pale Petras

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visit-new-york · 1 year

Text

How many lanes does the Brooklyn Bridge have for vehicular traffic?

The Brooklyn Bridge, an iconic symbol of New York City, stands as a testament to engineering brilliance and historical significance. Connecting the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn, this majestic structure has served as a vital transportation link for over a century. As a hub for both pedestrians and vehicular traffic, the Brooklyn Bridge plays a crucial role in the daily lives of countless New Yorkers and tourists alike. In this article, we delve into the specifics of the vehicular lanes on the Brooklyn Bridge, providing a comprehensive understanding of the traffic flow over this architectural marvel.

The Brooklyn Bridge and Its Importance:

Completed in 1883, the Brooklyn Bridge was the first steel-wire suspension bridge ever constructed. Designed by John A. Roebling and later completed by his son Washington Roebling, the bridge spans the East River, offering breathtaking views of the Manhattan skyline. Initially built to accommodate horse-drawn carriages, the bridge has since evolved to handle the demands of modern vehicular traffic.

Vehicular Lanes on the Brooklyn Bridge:

The bridge features a total of six lanes, with three lanes in each direction – Manhattan-bound and Brooklyn-bound. The configuration allows for smooth traffic flow, catering to the thousands of vehicles that traverse the bridge daily.

It's important to note that traffic conditions and lane allocations can be subject to change based on maintenance, repairs, or special events. Therefore, it's advisable to stay informed about any updates or alterations to the vehicular lanes through official channels or traffic alerts.

Challenges and Modernization Efforts:

Over the years, the Brooklyn Bridge has faced challenges related to increased traffic volume and the need for maintenance and upgrades. To address these issues and ensure the bridge's continued functionality, various modernization efforts have been undertaken. These may include repairs to the roadway, enhancements to the structural integrity, and improvements in overall safety features.

Conclusion:

The Brooklyn Bridge, with its historic charm and enduring significance, remains a vital artery in the bustling heart of New York City. Understanding the vehicular lanes on the bridge is essential for commuters and visitors alike. As the city continues to evolve, the Brooklyn Bridge stands as a testament to the enduring spirit of innovation and engineering prowess that has shaped the landscape of one of the world's most iconic metropolises.

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the-90s-music-colosseum · 8 months

Text

Most Attractive 90s Musician bracket: Round 2

Round 1 Masterpost

GROUP A (OVER)

Match 1 - Thom Yorke vs Shakira

Match 2 - Sinead O'Connor vs Blixa Bargeld

Match 3 - Alanis Morisette vs Shirley Manson

Match 4 - KD Lang vs Jarvis Cocker

Match 5 - Donita Sparks vs Mike Dirnt

Match 6 - Selena vs Melissa auf der Maur

Match 7 - Miki Berenyi vs Graham Coxon

Match 8 - Q-Tip vs Anthony Kiedis

GROUP B (OVER)

Match 1 - Bjork vs Justine Frischmann

Match 2 - Dave Grohl vs James Hetfield

Match 3 - Mariah Carey vs Rivers Cuomo

Match 4 - Lauryn Hill vs Shania Twain

Match 5 - Whitney Houston vs Dave Navarro

Match 6 - Missy Elliott vs Hope Sandoval

Match 7 - Jeff Buckley vs Jeff Ament

Match 8 - Gwen Stefani vs Skin

GROUP C (OVER)

Match 1 - Courtney Love vs Peter Steele

Match 2 - Jonny Greenwood vs Mike Patton - TIE!!! victory video!!!

Match 3 - Madonna vs Prince

Match 4 - Keanu Reeves vs D'arcy Wretzky

Match 5 - Martin Gore vs Rachel Goswell

Match 6 - Tupac Shakur vs Ville Valo

Match 7 - Kim Gordon vs Ben Shepherd

Match 8 - Billie Joe Armstrong vs Jerry Cantrell

GROUP D (ONGOING)

Match 1 - Nicky Wire vs Scott Weiland

Match 2 - Tori Amos vs Matt Cameron

Match 3 - Patricia Morrison vs Michael Hutchence

Match 4 - Mike Inez vs Alex James

Match 5 - Tracy Chapman vs Rob Halford

Match 6 - Henry Rollins vs Stephen Malkmus

Match 7 - Layne Staley vs Lisa Lopes (Left Eye)

Match 8 - Adam Yauch (MCA) vs Colin Greenwood

Battle of the Mikes

Check out #poll, #results, #propaganda, #poll request and #asks!

tags to filter if you're not into certain kinds of posts:

#my inbox sings to me sometimes - lyric asks

#digging up dirt - controversies and accusations

what's allowed in my asks? anything 90s music related! ongoing tournament propaganda, discourse and debates, poll requests (plz be specific though), rare photos/stories you want to share. I will also draw stickmen on demand. Be unhinged. Start fights. Make me proud.

previous tournament results <3 congratulations Tidal!

#most attractive 90s musician #masterpost #tournament

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hxdonist · 1 month

Text

.::. I AM THAT I AM .::. ikarus ito

Citizen Profile Loading. . .

profile loaded. ERROR CODE 1F1N1T3FUN: Some Data Expunged.

.::. A SICKNESS UNDEFINED .::. basics.

NAME: IKARUS CAELUM ITO ALIASES: IK, IKKA, THE FOX OF EIGHT EYES, 1NF1N1T3FUN AGE: THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OLD. [JANUARY 17TH] GENDER/PRONOUNS: CIS MAN HE/HIM SEXUALITY: PANSEXUAL // DEMIROMANTIC HUMAN // HOST: HUMAN OCCUPATION: DATA EXPUNGED - - - as far as you need to know, I am a friend. A netrunner and a braintrip cutter of the...shady variety. AFFILIATIONS: NANO ZILLA. And any gang, corp, or solo with the balls to think they can run with me.

.::. IT'S MY KINGDOM COME .::. going deeper.

PERSONALITY: CHARMING TO A FAULT, IKARUS DESIRES ONLY TO CORRECT WHAT HE PERCIEVES AS 'SOCIETAL WRONGS.' WHILE HIS BANNER SEEMS AT FIRST SOMETHING WORTH WORKING BENEATH HIS METHODS ARE MANIPULATIVE MUCH LIKE THE MAN HIMSELF. A HEDON WITHOUT CARE FOR THE 'WAY THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN' HE IS A GLUTTON FOR ATTENTION, POWER, SEX, DRUGS- ANYTHING THAT MAY FIRE THE SYNAPSE REQUIRED FOR PLEASURE- AND RIPS THROUGH THE THINGS THAT PLEASE OR ANGER HIM LIKE A MALICIOUS VIRUS WITHOUT DIFFERENTIATING WHICH IS WHICH. SELF-ASSURED TO THE POINT OF BEING COCKY TO THE EYES OF SOME, IKARUS' SKILLS ARE RARELY CALLED INTO QUESTION, AND HE PREFERS IT THAT WAY, HE WILL ONLY STAND FOR THE BEST IN HIS RANKS, SOURCING NEW MEMBERS THROUGH REGULAR 'TESTS' DEPLOYED ON THE NET BY 'THE FOX OF EIGHT EYES' AND REJECTING ANY WHO FALL SHORT OF STANDARD. DESPITE THIS, HE IS LOYAL TO THOSE WHO EARN IT, A DOGGED, STRONG-WILLED FRIEND TO HAVE IN ONE'S CORNER, DESPITE BEING A RATHER SLIPPERY ASSOCIATE IN ANYTHING TO DO WITH POWER.

AESTHETIC: WIRES COILING AND BLACK, BOUND LIKE CHAINS TO THE NET; ALIVE IN CODE || A FOX WITH TOO MANY EYES AND BROKEN, SPIDERING LIMBS. IT BECKONS TO YOU IN THE DARKNESS. || STATIC SOAKED SCREENS FROM YEARS PAST WATCHING WITH INTENT; THE GHOSTS OF WHAT WE WERE. || A REFINED BLACK SUIT SLICKED WITH BLOOD- UNBOTHERED YOU LIGHT UP A CIGARETTE- JUST ANOTHER NIGHT IN THE CITY.

KNOWN CYBERWARE: NEURAL UPLINK PORT STANDARD IN NETRUNNERS. HEADWARE RIG USED FOR ON-THE-FLY HACKING. SINGULAR PROSTHETIC ARM, MATTE BLACK CARBON AND RED LIGHTING ARRAY. IMPLANTED WEAPONRY LIKELY CONTAINI- DATA CORRUPTED. ERROR CODE: 2NOSY;)

HISTORY: CORRUPTED DATA RESTORED. BACKUP DRIVE CREATED. File Attached: FoxOfEightEyes.txt [TRIGGER WARNINGS: CHILD ABUSE, ANIMAL DEATH] [Mobile version of bio available in a google doc HERE] [hint: use the forcecode to skip the puzzle.]

.::. FROTHING AT THE MAW .::. connections.

CAT TO MOUSE; FOX IN YOUR HENHOUSE: The eponymous 'predator and prey' relationship- but who's who when the chips fall? Be you a Corpo burned by Nano Zilla, a gang member too foolish to determine you were being swindled before it happened, or even a Cowboy with your eyes on a pricy take- 1NF1N1T3FUN welcomes your attempts on his life- and recommends you come prepared.

FOLLOW THE WHITE RABBIT: An understudy/mentor relationship- a recently welcomed netrunner into the embrace of Nano Zilla and their base made in Dreamland, you followed the Fox of Eight Eyes and found its den to rest in the retrofitted depths of a once-bustling theme park; the skeleton of whimsy and fun now inhabited by the kind of people who treat the net as their playground. Ikarus only welcomes the best into his family, those willing to shirk the existing rules and demands of corporations and the government to seek building something greater- through technological subterfuge- he'll take you under wax wings, teach you to wind among the wires with the best of them- just make sure you know exactly what that means, when the time comes.

BITTERLOVER.EXE: The ever-present exes connection. Ikarus is a different man, in love. Dedicated to ideals and the ever-elusive 'better' his goals seem lofty- but oh, he always seemed to have time for you, and a carbon-steel fist that drives his crew so firmly was always soft in the quiet of a tiny apartment- but that was then. It's hard to recognize him now- you can't imagine you want to, because when push came to shove- Ikarus chose power over you. This is a connection for an ex who dated Ikarus recently, while he's headed and operated with Nano Zilla as an active anarchist/insurrectionist.

ISANYONEUP.MP4: You need help sourcing an illegal or otherwise damaging to your reputation braintrip and with some digging- you've found the editor who spun it. Sure, he wasn't the gunman that left your loved one dead in the dirt- wasn't the bastard who filmed the two of you having sex and sold it off after- but he knows who was, picking around in the BT with his editing software- he's said he'll help you, for a price- are you brave enough to take that offer?

ADDITIONAL CONNECTIONS

Childhood friends

Exes (younger than 19 years old/schoolkid ages)

Former coworkers (Ex Gestalt Bureau Corpo, abandoned his position at 23.)

Fellow Nano Zilla netrunners who work for/under him

corpos/ceos/high ranking officials he's got existing dirt on

Braintrip recorders/sellers who use his services as an editor

regular hookups

literally anything I'll take it all babyyyyyy

#anarchicintro.#ikarus.info #ikarus.img #ikarus.hc #ikarus.aes #ikarus.mp3

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insane-control-room · 2 months

Text

rinse and repeat

His job was a grisly one- find the works of the avatars, document them, and then undo them. Then prevent them. Most of the avatars did not like him constantly 'destroying' their work. Most. Not all of them.

rated: T warnings: described death. AU: TMA Length: 1,500 words (short-medium) notes: i don't know much about TMA, but im having a fun time with friends talking about aus so :3

gift fic for @halfusek ft. magenda (as i unaffectionately call this one)

ao3 link here

The pervasive smell in the room clued him off before anything else. It was the sense of dread worsening that immediately followed, an apprehension that made his stomach knot. A flashlight was beaming towards his feet, red slick appearing at the edges of the fallen beam.

Johan did not want to turn on the light, though he could see the words superimposed on the wall above the small switch, a demand rather than a thought. Steeling himself, he flicked it on, filling the room with an unsteady, buzzing light.

Immediately, regret- no, not regret, some other sad emotion- filled him.

The filing room had a desk with three chairs in the center- or usually situated in the center, as they had been moved aside for a ladder that now took stage center left. A few papers were scattered about, ruffling Johan mildly. However, his job was not a pleasant one, and sometimes included observing mis-managed paperwork, and… other, worse things. Such as the corpse - his true purpose for entering the room. He noted the body, at true stage center, was perhaps two or three hours old.

It was a gruesome death.

Suffocation, electrocution, and decapitation all played their roles.

It was hard to tell which had killed him, though Johan snapped on a pair of gloves, and set himself to documenting the gritty scene.

A ladder.

A box of tools.

Electrician’s gear taken out.

It seemed like Bert- the man had taken upon himself to fix a faulty wire. Johan followed the trail to the circuit board and fuse box, and broke past the paneling to see the back of the fuses.

A group of four were miswired. The dead man had turned off the wrong one, without even knowing it.

It made Johan frown and sigh. How pointless.

He returned to the ladder, climbing upwards. Several wires were already dangling loosely, and Johan narrowed his eyes as he attempted to determine the sequence of events.

One of the wires hummed quietly.

Johan traced its path, noting the bloodied loop at one ridge. That would be the decapitation, potentially if the man had fallen forward. Pulling out a tape measure, he checked the likely trajectory. Unfortunately, it lined up. Which meant that indeed, the decapitation had happened last.

A pity.

It would have been the fastest death.

Johan nudged the ladder. It was sturdy. He looked along the wire, along the corpse.

The bruising by the neck was no longer severe, as it all had been, well, cut, but from what he could see, there had been significant pressure upon it. If Johan were to piece together the order of events (which was exactly what he was doing at the moment), he would have said as follows.

Bertrum turned off the fuse box, unaware that what he was turning off had nothing to do with the task he had taken upon himself. As the light switch was off, and the flashlight lay dimming, Johan decided that the man had not bothered to check the lights when he entered the room, setting down supplies. Had he paused to ensure that the fuse was off, he may have survived.

Doubtful.

Some other unfortunate happenstance would have occurred, perhaps more grisly than this.

Regardless. Continuing reconstruction.

Bertrum had then climbed up the ladder, and began working on rewiring the faulty electrical system. A significant burn on his hand, searing through to his flesh, explained the rest. While he was removing the old wire, he had gotten entangled, and as he had tried to pull it off, his hand brushed an unexposed part of the live wire. Then, with his body stiffening to the current, he must have lost his balance.

Severing his throat on the wire.

Johan was meticulous in his documentation. If he was not, he may miss something in the next run that would result in another failure. Or he might get himself… quite hurt. Usually the latter always left him snapping awake in his threadbare bed, gasping for breath and with a dull painful sensation in his chest, ready to try again. However, that was an outcome he tried to avoid.

Speaking of things that one tried to avoid….

Johan heard him before he saw him, the slightly off rhythm gait giving him away. Glancing around the room with a sigh, he acknowledged that:

Magenta had some connection to the death;

Magenta was drawn towards it, like a fly to rotting flesh.

It may have been both.

He said nothing as the other lanky man entered the room, smiling.

Magenta surveyed the scene calmly, suppressing a shiver of delight. He said nothing to Johan, who was marking which of the wires were live. Johan rolled his eyes, and went back to examining the bad wire to determine where its true source really was to make sure that when he corrected this misconstrued blip, he did it properly - once. Magenta watched him work with a smile blandly painted over his face.

Eventually, Johan pulled out a chair, on the opposite side of the table from the corpse, and sat in it heavily, another sigh fighting to escape him. Magenta watched keenly, though his eyes were half open. Johan moved back a second chair, silently expectant, and Magenta sat in it.

“This one is fun, isn't it?” Magenta commented lightly, a smile still on his face. Johan shrugged glumly, staring at the paperwork before him instead of the body just beyond the desk. Unique, certainly; saddening, yes. Not quite so ‘fun’ for him, especially when one considered what his job entailed. “Don’t look so down, Jo!”

“Kinda hard not to when there’s a dead body in f-front of me,” Johan retorted, brow furrowing and mouth twitching downwards. Magenta shrugged, smiling still. “And when it’s so….”

“Purposeful?” Magenta questioned, teeth glinting in his smile. Johan stared at him, not enjoying the shudder of upset that he tried to hide. Magenta noticed it anyway. “Well, maybe that’s not the right word. Artistic might be a better one.”

“Right,” Johan mumbled. It surely was an artistic death. “Maybe the creator might have done well to warn me. Content warnings or w-whatever.”

Here Magenta frowned.

Johan looked away, abashed.

“S-sorry. That was unkind of me. I’m on edge.”

“Sure,” Magenta rolled his eyes, leaning back. Johan stood, picking up the clipboard, making some final measurements and documentations. “Don’t forget the dead fuse.”

Johan tilted his head as he looked at him. Magenta raised an eyebrow, a silent dare to check him. Johan saw no need to do so- as he would be able to check when he would do his… ‘cleanup’. Not to mention, despite the man’s goals, Johan trusted Magenta. Which may have been the fault of memories not his own.

The older man matched the tilt of his head, humorous.

“What?” he asked, a slight grin at the edges of his mouth. Johan’s lips parted to say something, and then closed. Magenta’s smile broadened cheekily, eyes flashing. “Oh, dear. Be more careful, Jo! We wouldn’t want…” Magenta glanced at Bertrum’s mutilated, burned corpse, fighting his smile from growing wider. “An accident.”

“Why d-did you tell me about it?” Johan asked, faced with a troubled emotion that he locked up and decided that he would not think about or confront. Magenta’s smile remained unchanging. “Mag….”

The other man stood up, still evenly looking at Johan.

“You’re smart, Jo,” the avatar of The End chided, tapping the end of Johan’s nose. “Think about it.”

“The resetting, I kn-know,” Johan replied, pursing his lips. He knew why Magenta was much more tranquil and compliant around him than the other essences of fears, who generally disliked watching Johan undo their work time after time. Not Magenta, though. Magenta was quite happy with the fact that he was able to expand on his medium repeatedly thanks to Johan’s role. “But why warn me a-about the fuse not working? You know what h-happens to me if… an ‘accident’ does occur.”

Magenta shrugged, smile still on his face.

“Thought it might make your day a bit better,” Magenta brightly replied. Johan looked away, face warming. “I’m sure that whatever weird process renews you is no party.”

“It’s… it’s definitely not, no,” Johan agreed, feeling pain creeping along his spine. He exhaled, softening, managing a small smile on his stressed visage. “So… I thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Jo,” Magenta’s own relaxed smile was dazzling, toothy and bright; yet sharklike. It made a trickle of fluster bloom in Johan’s chest, worsened by his next words. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a nicer way to thank me, don’t you think?”

Johan did not reply, looking away, face heating considerably. Magenta laughed a little, a chuckle, and Johan’s blushing intensified. A hand brushed his cheek as Magenta sauntered out of the room.

Johan watched him leave, words he could not describe resting on his tongue, unsure if he should go after the man, properly ‘thank’ him.

Instead, Johan checked his paperwork, inhaled, and reset.

#control art #control writes #batim #bendy and the ink machine #joey drew #johan ramirez #magenta #gift fic #tma au #batim tma #joeyverse #joeyverse tma #complicated relationships #tw death #tw described death #magenda #avatar of the end #archivist jo #slight tension

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