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creepycrawliesanonymous · 1 year ago

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To All The Boys I've Written About Before - Beige Flags

In my never-ending quest to make things that appeal only to me, here's a little exercise for all the boys in my arsenal.

Angel Torres will always help you out around the house, no question about that, but boy will he act like he's a hero for simply loading the dishwasher. I'm talking wiping his brow every time you walk into the kitchen, grunting when he puts a plate on the drying rack. You offer to help but he flat out refuses, and will probably say some shit like "My hands look like this [soapy] so yours can look like that [slightly dirty from repotting your plants]."

Jesse Pinkman will call you "dude" until the end of time. It doesn't matter what stage of your relationship you are currently in, you will always and forever be "dude" to him. "Yo dude, do you want to grab Wendy's on the way home?""Dude, you look pretty today." You could be at the alter and it would be a "Dude, I do." He also 100% buys in to the "glasses make you smarter" myth.

Lemon bought himself a label-maker, and that man LOVES makin' labels. All the drawers in your flat are labeled, so are the spices (even if they already have labels), he labels which food belongs to who, all the wires/cables have a label for what kind of wire/cable they are and what they're for. You told him that you could probably remember which clear jar holds the salt and which holds the ginger-snaps, so he made the label "fuck off" and stuck it to your forehead.

Tangerine refuses to call menu items by their proper names, especially if they're stupid. A matcha latte is "green foamy shit, you know." If the dish is named after someone, this chicken shop you frequent has an Ike's Famous Wings Bowl, he will call it "that bloke's chicken thing, the one with all the spices and shit on it." The worst was when he wanted to order the Foxx on the Roxx Boxx from TGI Fridays (yes that's the spelling, I looked it up), he straight up would not say its name, he just kept pointing at the menu and saying "fucking- this one."

Harvey SDV, sweet man that he is, will always sign off his text messages. It doesn't matter how long or short the message is. There's the standard "darling, I'm running a little bit late, would you like me to pick up something for dinner? Dr H" but there's also the "okay honey (: Dr H" or the "[insert picture of flower] Dr H". You've tried to explain to him that you know that it's him, that he doesn't need to sign off every time he messages you, but it's no use.

Andrew Neiman loves to collect random bits of niche trivia, but will straight up forget incredibly basic things. You two were out at a live music venue, sipping on your tasty little beverages, and he'll just bust out something about the similarities between jazz and Indian music, and while he's expanding on the influence of Ravi Shankar on Coltrane, he'll flip through the menu in front of him and ask you what margarine is.

Carmen Berzatto, common knowledge at this point, always keeps a book on him, which on its own is a very good thing. It keeps him from getting bored, you think it makes him look smart, it's a win by all accounts. But, save for when he's at work, he will whip that book out whenever there's any sort of lull in a conversation or if he's not physically doing something. You were talking to him about weekend plans, and he'll be listening intently because he's a good boyfriend who cares about your thoughts, but as soon as you go quiet to turn around to grab something he's flipping open his copy of The Reivers to quickly read a sentence.

Randal Graves loves to fake propose at restaurants for free shit. He makes a big thing out of it, will pull you aside before you enter Olive Garden and show you the tiny plastic ring he's used about three times already and whisper about the ruse he's about to pull, and all you can do is nod along with him. He's gotten more elaborate each time, from the basic garden-variety proposal, to putting it in your water, to asking to have it put in your Chipotle burrito (you had nearly swallowed it that time), managing to score a few free desserts and, at one point, a bottle of cheapo champagne that he got so incredibly slurshed on at home.

Warren Rojas has this game he likes to play whenever you two go to bars or nightclubs where he will pretend like you two don't know each other just so he can hit on you in the most cheesy ways known to man. Asking to buy you a drink, dumb pick-up lines, saying shit like "My name is Warren, but you can call me anytime." It's so incredibly dumb and he gets the biggest kick out of it. One time when you and Eddie were having a conversation at a party he totally pulled out the "Is this guy bothering you, babe?" He thinks he's so funny.

Jimmy Bartlett, whenever you two are cuddling, will set a timer so he knows when to switch from big spoon to little spoon. He'll bring up the egg timer from the kitchen and set it to 20 minutes before he joins you on his bed. You'll be half asleep after a long shift from work with his head buried in the back of your neck, and the next thing you know he's shuffling around while tiny beeps are sounding and he's somehow got your arms around him before you even realize what's happening, before drifting off again. He says it's only fair.

Miguel O'Hara is like a big dog with the temperament of a house cat; thinks he takes up less space than he does and always at least slightly grumpy. He'll get confused when he goes to put on a sweater that was originally yours (the communal wardrobe holds no prisoners) and finds it tight around his biceps. He knocks his forehead on low doorways constantly, you've taken to shouting 'duck' whenever you see him about to go through one. Watching movies on the couch with him, during a rare moment of peace, can be an ordeal because he always wants to lie down on top of you and you don't have the heart to tell him that he's crushing your lungs.

#angel torres x reader #jesse pinkman x reader #lemon x reader #tangerine x reader #harvey sdv x reader #andrew neiman x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #randal graves x reader #warren rojas x reader #jimmy bartlett x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #the gang's all here #multifandom preferences

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thatonebirdwrites · 1 month ago

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Heroic

Lena Kieran Walsh knew her plan was perhaps the most ridiculous and ludicrous plan of all time. Yet her mother's last wish before her death had been, "become a menace to our enemies."

Lena, in tears, holding her mother's hands, vowed, "I will. Be at peace, Mammy." Her mother exhaled few ragged breaths with a faint smile before she slipped away. As if she'd only needed Lena's vow to finally let herself go.

The funeral had been a quiet affair, mostly due to her mother's instructions. Lena invited those on her mother's list, but she also added Sam Arias and her daughter, Jack Spheer, and Andrea Rojas -- her friend group to help support her.

They stood on the Cliffs of Moher that day, and as requested by her mother, she spread her ashes amongst the dirt by that trail and planted the oak. It had taken a week to get permission for the planting due to the area being a park, but the week had given Lena time to secure the ingredients for one last spell.

Lena herself didn't believe in magic per se. She was a scientist to her core, preferring to study biology and physics at the university, her thesis on the use of nanotechnology to target and destroy cancer cells. A project she shared with Jack and Sam. As much as university had set her apart from her mother’s lessons, she still remembered the old ways.

Traditions taught from mother to daughter, magic and stories that mustn’t be forgotten. Her Mammy was a self-professed druid within a larger druidic coven. She'd been highly regarded in the community as the caretaker of Ireland's history and myths, and Lena had been expected to take her place until she’d flounced off to uni.

But that day, she asked Sam to hold her brolly, it being a soft day, the mists from the heavy clouds like pinpricks against her cheeks. She knelt in the dirt and unstoppered the growing potion, one she’d carefully made per her Mammy’s instructions. Sung the magical words and focused all her mind and heart on imbuing it with her love for her Mammy.

That day, on the Cliffs of Moher, Lena poured the potion into the roots of the oak and sung the activation song. Her voice clear and precise, the melody soothing with little runs, and her eyes closed to keep herself from weeping. Tears would shatter her voice, and she needed to this perfect.

She could do no less for her Mammy.

Later Jack, Andrea, and Sam would swear the tree had grown during that moment, but Lena had her eyes closed and missed it. Lena expected the coven’s agreements that growth occurred, but Jack, Sam, and Andrea? They’re the pragmatics and realists of the group.

In the following months, she’d think of that day often, while she quietly worked through her mother's grimoire. Partly to better understand but also to continue her legacy in a way, and that was what gave her the idea.

Her mother referenced several artifacts that had been stolen from Haitian tribes, who had contacted her out of concern the magic within them was being misused. Her mother's cancer had prevented her from doing much more than attempt wards on the exhibits in London to prevent misuse.

But Lena had a better idea.

Why not steal from the colonizers who ransacked countries, starved populations into submission or outright killed them? Lena knew the stories of her people well. Her mother had taught her of the potato famine, which had been caused by the British literally poisoning the fields. The trauma of that colonization never left her people, and she let the rage from those injustices fuel her plan.

The Haitian tribes would see their lost artifacts returned, and Lena would wear the color of blood as a symbol of the dead left in the wake of the colonizers. Yes, if she planned well, she could leave her mark, and live up to her promise to her Mammy.

"Lena," Sam argued, "You can't do this alone. Let me help."

"I don't want to risk you," Lena protested. "You have a daughter."

"And the risk to you?" Sam crossed her arms and frowned. "You're family, Lena. And we help family always. So if you're going to do this stunt, then let me be your getaway driver."

“She has a point.” Andrea sipped her scotch from where she sat next to Lena’s bar. She leaned against it, both elbows on the counter, while her hand swirled the scotch. “This is a grave risk. Besides, it’ll be way more fun with friends, Lena.” She smirked. “I am an excellent—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Lena pointed her finger at Andrea in warning. Her ex-girlfriend smirked in response and leaned against Sam’s side. The two had become nearly inseparable since meeting, and Lena didn’t mind if it meant less jokes about her own sex life.

Jack, who had stayed silent up to that point, chuckled. "Luv, they’re right. Doing this alone? It's a bit much. You need a team. I'll see if I can rig up a program to keep the cameras off your movements."

Lena already had done some preliminary hacking to see the extent of the security, but now that Jack had mentioned it, having someone to control the cameras would be immensely helpful. And Sam was an excellent driver and had a pilot's license, mostly because Lena had needed a buddy to get through the lessons.

"Fine. You all can help." She made a show of rolling her eyes and sounding put out, but secretly she was thrilled that her closest friends had her back.

Sam turned onto Mare Street in London, and slowed to a stop near 11 Mare Street. She parked with a frown. "Lena, are you sure this is it?"

Lena stared at the rather small storefront. Victor Wynd Museum of Curiosities was emblazoned above the more stately letters of The Last Tuesday Society. The window overflowed with a grotesque display of shrunken heads, skeletons, and voodoo dolls. No wonder Mammy's Voodoo friends contacted her for help. This place stank of exploitation of their craft.

"Yup. It's smaller than expected."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam leaned over her steering wheel. "There's a cocktail menu posted on the door."

“What? Are they drinking out of the skulls?” Andrea quipped, a hint of disgust in her voice.

Anger seared through Lena's veins. "Of course. Typical British."

"Hey!" Jack protested from the back seat, where he sat with a laptop. His fingers danced across the keys. "I am mildly offended, Luv."

"Jack, you're more Scottish-Indian than British-Indian," Lena drawled.

“Still. Till the Scots gain our independence, we do not drink from skulls.” He sniffed dramatically, but she knew he wasn't really bothered. "Their security is a load of tosh."

"Considering how tiny this storefront is, I'm not surprised," Sam said. "So, uh, what's the best way to do this?"

“Too distracted to hear Lena’s hours long presentation?” Andrea teased, which elicited a glare from her girlfriend.

“The placement of your hands is the villain here,” Sam shot back, her cheeks reddening.

Andrea raised her hands and wiggled her fingers. “We all need exercise sometimes.”

Lena rolls her eyes. “Stop acting the maggot you two.” She nods toward the museum-cocktail lounge. “Three am is the goal since they close around midnight. Jack, focus on taking over their security feeds. I'll have a program ready. It'll erase itself within twenty minutes. If I'm not out by then, all of you leg it. If I’m caught, I’m caught, but I won’t have you three joining me."

"That's kind of tight," Sam said, uneasy. "And we can’t just leave you, Lena."

Lena sighed. "I mean it, Sam. This isn’t some grand heroic moment. It’s breaking and entering.”

“I beg to differ,” Jack said. “Heroic is indeed what this is. Lost artifacts returned to their homes? A modern day Robin Hood.”

Lena smiled and shook her head. “Look, I get in, procure the stolen artifacts, and get out. No sight-seeing or distractions. Twenty is plenty.” She turned to glare at Andrea. “Can’t trust you not to lob the gob with Sam, so you’re the lookout.”

Andrea smirked. “Fine. I’ll wear all black.”

“Good. Do that ridiculous whistle if you see any Garda.” In reply, Andrea gave Lena fingerguns. “Sam, use your electric car. The idling’s as silent as a grave.”

Sam nodded. “Can do.”

“Now remember,” Lena narrowed her eyes at Andrea but glanced at the other two in the car for good measure. “We’re scouting now. No getting banjaxed. I need you all as sprightly as a wagtail.”

“Being a craic vacuum today?” Andrea quipped.

“No more dossing around, Andi,” Lena said exasperated. She used that saying once about Sam being too uptight, and Andrea adopted i almost immediately to Lena's annoyance. “Or you’re sitting the rest out.”

“Wait, there’s more planned?” Andrea grinned. “Mina, you’re holding back.”

“Shut it. We have a job to do. Now let’s get cracking.” Lena opened the door and wished she wasn’t about to sully herself in the most exploitive, macabre cocktail lounge she'd ever seen.

The moment she stepped inside, she wished she hadn’t, as the jampacked walls full of macabre exhibits and the strange musky scent almost had her walking right back out.

But no, she needed reconnaissance. Locate exactly where to enter, nab the target, and exit. Surely her ancestors and the ancestors of her mother's friends will forgive her for having a short drink next to a taxidermy lion on a table made from a sarcophagus.

She needed the ancestors protection for this, not their fury. Besides, the cocktails turned out to be manky as hell.

Dressed in a red cloak, wide-brimmed hat, gloves, and boots, Lena felt a trifle ridiculous but also proud of herself. Time to finally live up to her vow, to do what her mother could not, and bring home what was stolen.

From their reconnaissance, she marked several windows large enough for her to slip through. All required a climb. It hadn’t taken her long to make a device to shoot the rope into the wood of the window. Climbing had been a bit stressful, but she’d made it. Below she could see Andi, leaning against a wall as she watched the road. Jack was still in the car with Sam, the program churning through the security.

It took three tries with her tools to unlock the window and push it open. The stench hit her first. She pulled up her scarf to wrap around her face. For feck’s sake, did the owner store poop here? She dropped into the attic and to her horror there was indeed poop here. Several glass jars labeled with celebrity names and dates sat in a container to her right.

It gave her an idea however. She gathered a few and carefully made her way down the rickety ladder to the main floor. In the bar area, she set up each of the jars and uncapped them. Two she dumped their contents in front of the main office.

She tiptoed out of the bar and gingerly entered some of the exhibits. She couldn’t take it all — her bag couldn’t carry it for one nor would the rope hold that much weight — but the staggering amount of human remains on display twisted her stomach with rage.

Maybe she could come back and steal it all, but for now she focused on the Voodoo poppets. They were arranged in rows three exhibits down the hall in front of a macabre set of shrunken heads, African Masks — the designs reminding her of the Igbo people actually — and several skulls.

She bowed her head and murmured the words she’d heard her mother say many a time, “Tagaim chun tú a thabhairt abhaile. Bí ar a suaimhneas.” Irish for ‘I come to bring you home, be at peace.’ Then one by one she wrapped them in the silk the Haitians had sent her mother for this, and tucked them in her bag.

A quick sweep of the other exhibits found her three more poppets, and a search of the attic another six. Her twenty minutes neared completion, so she scurried through the window, slid down the rope, and tapped the button on her belt. The bolt blew apart in a rain of metal, the rope dropping like a flying a snake.

She whistled to Andrea, and the two legged it to Sam’s car. As soon as they tumbled into the backseat, Sam slid out of park and the car silently pulled away from the curb.

"Five minutes to spare," Jack said with a wink. "Nicely done."

"I'll do better next time," Lena leaned back and patted her bag. "Mam's friends will be relieved to have these home again."

"Here you are, being the hero of our time," Andi said with a grin and poke of her elbow in Lena's side. "You need a name though." She looked over Lena's outfit. "Why red?"

"Carmen is the hue actually." Lena laid her hand on her bag and thought of her Mammy, how the cancer had slowly eaten away her life. How hard she'd worked toward causes of liberation. "I promised Mam I'd become a menace to my enemies. I wear the color of anger and blood."

"Right, and whose gonna know that?" Jack pointed out.

Lena smiled. "Oh, the world will know soon enough."

Three hundred Euros later and two days of searching flights, Lena was on her way to the Haiti, her prize carefully hidden in her carry-on luggage. As she watched Ireland fade from view, she took a deep breath and released it slowly. She’d done it.

She’d rescued priceless artifacts, and now they were going home. Smiling, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Already plans formed of improved methods of infiltration. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it well.

#supercorp #lena luthor #Sam Arias #Jack Spheer #Andrea Rojas #Lena's gang of thieves #Lena grew up Irish so she would likely speak more Irish slang and idioms when she feeling safe with friends #Carmen Sandiego AU #What starts Lena's thieving #Also this museum actually exists in London and its grotesque #there's even jars of celebrity poop in this place and yes you can drink cocktails on a sarcophagus table or by a taxidermy lion #The pics of the floor to ceiling shrunken heads and poppets and other stolen artifacts is kind of sickening #So of course Lena will target it to do some good ole returning to their original culture #I'll likely edit this and clean it up once I gather the fragments of this AU and weave it into a larger tale

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