#dressing up as albert einstein

[voicedbychrispratt]

we all agree that medics german-jewish, right?

right?

[crayonturtle]

guys, happy new year! thank you for being with me, i've had a really nice time with this dress up and it warms me up to see that people support my obsessions even though they're themselves mostly out of them by now. i'm very fond of all the friends i've made in this fandom and excited for all the new ones who are just now discovering it. biggest specialest thanks and loads of smooches to my actual best friend @knifemartin who is my number one accomplice for discussions of obscure ships as well as real life drama 💙

cheers! 🥂

[writemekpop]

Bad Girl | Jung Jaehyun

Summary: Jung Jaehyun is the first guy you’ve ever met who isn’t attracted to you. You’re determined to seduce him. 

Genre: Enemies to lovers AU

Word Count: 1.5k

As you walked into the first play rehearsal, you felt your heart stutter. 

A painfully hot guy was standing by the cast-only coffee table. He was tall, statuesque, in a long black coat and glasses. His chest strained at the fabric of his white shirt, as if his stiff body couldn’t be contained.   

"Hey, you must be Jung Jaehyun," you said, looking up at him through your lashes. Now, you just had to wait for him to start drooling - guys couldn't resist you. 

"Afternoon," Jaehyun said. He barely glanced at you. Was he gay or something? "Thank goodness you're here, we're out of tea." 

You blinked. "Sorry…I’m your co-lead? I play Margot Warner, your character's wife?" 

He stretched out his hand to shake yours, stiffly. "Apologies - I thought you were the coffee girl." 

Damn it, even his cold stare of indifference was sexy.  

"Let’s start with the argument scene," the director said. 

You and Jaehyun took centre stage. "Does my gaze make you feel nothing?" you breathed, looking into his eyes. "My touch?" You twined your fingers in his heavenly soft hair. "My kiss?" 

Standing on your tiptoes, you squeezed a kiss to his lips. They were cool as marble. 

Jaehyun stared into your eyes. Now, overcome with desire, his character was meant to tear the buttons off your shirt and pull you close, just as the lights dimmed. 

But Jaehyun stepped away from you. "Time out!" He sighed. "I just cannot understand what my character sees in hers. Why does he suddenly give in?" 

The director nodded. "He’s right. We need some chemistry here, guys! This is… PG-13 at best.” 

Jaehyun looked at you. "Listen, you may have never seduced a man, but you are going to have to pretend. That is of course, what actors do." 

You could just strangle him. Never seduced a man?  Jaehyun thought he was so much better than you, with his stupid little theatre degree from Harvard. 

You didn’t need a fancy degree to be a good actor. Plus, you could eat Harvard boys for breakfast - and you had. You’d tasted half the football team, in fact. 

Four hours later, you still hadn’t got the scene. 

The director looked like he'd had enough. "Sort out the chemistry by tomorrow, or I’m firing one of you. Which one do you think I should fire?" 

"Him!" you said, at the same time as Jaehyun snapped, 'Her!" 

You stormed up the stairs of the auditorium to get your bag from one the seats. Chemistry problem. Bullshit. That was like saying Albert Einstein had an intelligence problem. 

"Where do you think you're going?" Jaehyun said. 

A tiny shiver ran down your spine. 

"Are you really going to give up on the scene that easily?" Jaehyun taunted. "I've seen chihuahas with longer attention spans." 

"It’s tough acting against a brick wall," you shot back. 

Jaehyun shuddered. "If I have to teach you how to act, I will. Come here."

You walked over to him. 

"Margot is trying to seduce her husband. Your acting is too unidimensional!" 

"Uni-what?" you said. 

"Obvious! You're playing it too obvious," Jaehyun said. "I can see why that would be a problem for you. The whole Barbie thing usually does the trick with men, doesn't it? With your tight dresses and your… long legs. " He glanced at your body, and quickly looked away. But you’d noticed.   

You smirked. "So you think I'm hot." 

Jaehyun scoffed. "What I'm saying is, you need to play the role with your whole body. Subtle - yet hair-raising." He grabbed your script. "I'll try Margot. Watch and learn." 

Jaehyun stepped towards you. 

On the surface, nothing had changed. But Jaehyun was a different man. His face was flushed, his breaths shaky. His eyes kept flashing to your lips, like it took everything in him not to kiss you. 

"Does my gaze make you feel nothing?" he said quietly, his black eyes searching yours. "My touch?" He twined his fingers in your hair, and you couldn't hide the sound of your breath catching.

Every inch of your skin was alive.

"My kiss?" 

Jaehyun kissed you. His lips were so much gentler than you'd expected. You knew it was just acting, but Jaehyun seemed so into you it made him nervous. His whole body trembled with desire. 

You pulled back, struggling to catch your breath. That kiss was hair-raising.  

Something told you Jaehyun wasn't that good an actor. 

Jaehyun pulled back, his face flushed, a pink cloud of lipstick rimming his mouth. He was biting his plump lips, almost as if he was fighting a smile. "Clear?" 

You smiled. "You've forgotten the end of the scene."

An unreadable expression flashed over Jaehyun’s face. 

“How did it end again?” he murmured, his eyes fixed on yours. 

Your eyes fell to Jaehyun’s lips. “Margot and Lewis find the time to… reconnect.” Your fingers found the opening of Jaehyun’s shirt. “To get to know each other again.” 

Jaehyun gulped. “I thought they hated each other.” You started unbuttoning Jaehyun’s shirt, one button at a time. He shivered under your touch. “Hate and love aren’t as different as you think,” you said. 

You abandoned Jaehyun’s shirt on the seats. His body belonged in an art gallery, a sculptor’s impression of the perfect man. Only, Jaehyun was not still and cold anymore. His chest was rising and falling, his flesh hot. 

“This doesn’t mean I’m giving in,” Jaehyun said. “I still abhor you.” 

“And I still don’t give a damn what abhor means,” you said, smirking. Jaehyun hoisted your leg up against his hip. His lips met yours now, hungrily, no script to lead the way. 

On the couch in Jaehyun's big New York apartment, you smirked down at him, stroking his chest. "How was that for seducing a man?" 

"Excellent work," Jaehyun said in mock-seriousness, trying not to look ridiculous despite still panting. "Highly commendable." 

“You know…” you said, nuzzling into his chest, “if you were so into me, why did you act like a jerk?” “I’m married,” he said.

 You felt a pang of disappointment.   

“Divorced, to be precise,” Jaehyun continued. “Eight years. She was my… my first.” He spoke into your hair now. “I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt about you. I know I’m just a fling to you, but-“ “You’re not,” you said, moving to meet his eyes. He was gnawing at his plump lip, and you smoothed your finger over it, stopping him. “The way I felt last night… let’s just say I don’t get that a lot.” Your voice dropped. “Or ever.” “Are you saying I’m the best you’ve ever had?” Jaehyun said, turning you around so he was hovering over you, wearing a smug smirk.

“You’re gonna have to work a lot harder to earn that title…” you said, fixing your fingers in his hair. 

-- 

The next day, when you returned to rehearsal, something had changed. “You- um, you first,” Jaehyun said, gesturing to the coffee pot. 

“No, really, you,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck. You had no idea how to act professionally now. Should you touch Jaehyun? Smile at him? Ignore him completely?  

You both broke out into laughter.  

When it came to that scene, however, you and Jaehyun fought the urge to rush to the end.  

"Does my gaze make you feel nothing - my touch - my kiss, blah blah blah..." you mumbled, then pulled Jaehyun towards you in a kiss that made you weak in the knees. 

A lot of the director’s throat-clearing later, Jaehyun finally prised you off him, and you stood next to each other. The spotlights were a little blurry – or was that your eyes?  

The director started a slow clap, his mouth ajar. 

"Will these two set the house on fire? I think so!" He walked towards you, lowering his voice. "But really, how did you do it? What's the secret?"

You grinned at Jaehyun. "We were just acting. That is, of course, what actors do." 

—     

MAIN MASTERLIST

Let us know what you thought in the comments or on anon! 💋

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

He'll Follow me Down Every Street, No Matter my Crime

PAIRING: John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You had an affinity for shiny objects. This time, a sting of pearls locked away in a mansion calls your name through the crowd of a party - only trouble? You have a hunch the man you help at the front door isn't all who he says he is.

WORDCOUNT: 11.9k

WARNINGS: Guns, blood, death, gore, heists, theft, suggestive mentions, mentions of sex, heavy flirting because reader's a tease, propositions of sex, drugs, the reader is loosely based on Cat Woman from DC, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wouldn’t call yourself a good person.

Life had given you the short end of the stick early on, taking what little you had in your grubby hands and shoving it into the ground, making you watch as they stomped on it until all that remained was a remnant of hope. Like a shard of glass, you held it even as it cut your palms open. But there was only so much that you could hold until you longed for more of it—until you wanted to take the broken bits and try and form a mosaic out of them. 

It started as petty crime—the theft. 

You got good at it. Very good.

You remember the first time you tried to pick a man’s pockets; aged fifteen with a switchblade in your pocket that you had never used before, bought off a man in exchange for cigarettes. When you’d been caught, the man—looking quite like Albert Einstein, mind you—had snapped your wrist so far back you heard it snap in two places. It still aches on cold days. 

In that moment, a firm resolve had taken over you. A rabid understanding.

No one was ever going to do anything for you, and if you can’t rely on your skills to get you through, then you only had yourself to blame when it all went bad. 

As you said, it started with petty crime. Then it got a bit more serious. 

You dabbled with blackmail and multi-level schemes that involved all sorts of money and luxurious items. Extortion.

You considered yourself quite the salesperson, admittingly.

But personality-wise: arrogant, prideful, and vain. The list went on and with no near end in sight. It was life, was it not? You were finally able to live it lavishly even from the time you’d just gone past the border of the drinking age.

But the best part about it was that you were entirely alone. Alone in every sense—not even a cat or dog to your name, much less a person to care for or about. It was perfect. 

Years of this went on, and you mean years. This was a job to you, and as you slipped into the hugging form of a deadly red dress, and rubbed your lips with the exact same shade—#4A0000 Oxblood—it was enough to make your pulse thump with excitement. The thrill of this made you want to never let it go; adrenaline junkie down to the jitters in your fingers when you first got the invitation. 

‘On behalf of Victor Lawson, you are formally invited to his mid-autumn get-together at his estate. Enjoy such finery as a five-course dinner, open access to his ballroom and gardens, and the pleasure of the host himself who’s eager to have you over. This invitation is viable to bring a plus one. We look forward to having you. ’

It was perfect. Perfect.

Chuckling under your breath, you think of the items that Victor had in that mansion of his—the jewelry and the raw cut gems. Your particular interest was a set of pearls that his mistress wore, well, wife now. Affairs are such messy things.

Slipping into black heels and looking into the full-length mirror, you smirk slowly at yourself, glancing up and down. You were the picture of elegant perfection—like a woman born and bred into money. Your penthouse was layered with the remnants of your spoils, stories on every counter or vanity; engraved into the pieces of fine metal and stone you wear on your wrists and neck. Bleeding wealth. Everything you have you had lied for, but did lies not take more practice than truths? 

You consider yourself an artist. 

“Perfect,” you clip the heavy earrings to your lobes, seeing the skin droop at the weight of rubies. Brushing down your dress, you hum, clicking your tongue at the thought of how pearls would better compliment the outfit. “No,” you grumble, frowning in disgust. “Nearly perfect.” 

Walking out of the fabric curtain you have to block off your room, your heels click against the marble floors, creating a large echo over the vaulted ceiling; the place had a coldness to it, really. A separation. 

Not that you cared.

Grasping the modest wool dress coat from the coat rack, you slip it on with a huff and fix the collar; hand moving into the pockets to take out your silk gloves and move your fingers into them. Last was the purse—a small black leather handbag that you let hang off of its strap on your right shoulder like another limb. The invitation was kept safe inside of the wool.

One last breath to try and keep your cool and stop the constant smirk that tries to force its way onto your face, and you call the elevator to your floor before stepping into it. 

“The pearls are in the office,” you say, inserting your key and pressing the button for the lobby. “His wife leaves them in the glass display case if that maid’s words are anything to go off of. And tonight,” you hum, finger grasping your phone from your purse and pressing into the front to unlock it. A social media profile pops up and you stare, eyes half narrowed in lustful pleasure. “She’ll be wearing her sapphires.”  

Victor’s wife is pictured in blues and silvers, and you had to admit, it wasn’t the correct color scheme for a mid-autumn ball. But you supposed she wanted to be the center of attention anyway, so her plan if that was the case would pan out perfectly. No one wears a blue that shade this late into the season. 

You drop your phone into your coat pocket and shrug, blinking slowly as the small waft of the elevator music is interrupted by the ding of the doors; that sudden lightness to your head shows that it has come to a stop. Stepping through the opening, you wave to the doorman and plaster a sickly sweet smile on your lips. 

“I’ll be back soon,” you explain. “Don’t miss me too much, then.”

He grins like an idiot. “Yes, Ma’am! Here,” the man scrambles, “I’ll get the door for you.”

“Oh, lovely, thank you, Dear.” Outside is a nice chilled breeze, leaves moving over the street only a small distance of concrete away—your driver is waiting patiently outside of it, the tinted windows up and the engine already running. 

Your body moves to it. 

“Ma’am,” he nods.

“Hello there, Buck,” you blink slowly at him, politely reaching out an arm and squeezing. “So good to see you again—and the Misses?”

“At home resting, thanks to you.” You hum, dismissing the comment as the man pulls at the car handle and moves to the side.

“It was the least I could do. Such a horrible feeling,” your lips mutter, “getting sick. If I only have to throw some of my money to get people to listen to their patients, it’s money well thrown. Do tell her I hope she feels better soon.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“Wonderful.” Sitting down on the seat, you carefully tend to your dress so it won’t wrinkle, picking at loose bits of wool from your jacket and gazing at your reflection in the glass. Such a vain little creature you’d grown into. Your eyes trail down your nose, lips, down the swell of your neck, and the bones of your face; running a finger over your cheek and trying to stop itching at the makeup you already long to take off.  

But beauty takes time. 

You’d look better with those pearls. 

Buck gets into the car and locks the doors, and soon the entire vehicle is speeding off into the darkening sky. Your skin tingles with anticipation. 

You enjoyed making those who’d broken the backs of others see a bit of your power when they realized you’d won, but the instances when you could go in and leave without a trace made you feel on top of the world. A woman with such a desirable position; an unforgettable ease of mastering a conversation. 

It was addictive to watch them fumble around like idiots. Go crying to authorities about things they could easily buy again and again. It makes you want to never stop talking. Your fingers twitch at it—your heart pounds. 

A sly fox’s smile comes to your lips, and you hum under your breath as the car brings you into the lion's den.

—

“Well,” Johnny grumbles, voice gruff. “I don’t understand why it needs to be me. Gaz looks better in a suit and everyone knows it.”

“Damn right I do,” the man in question replies, tossing a belt the Scot’s way, to which Johnny catches with no problem, slipping it into the loops of his dress pants with a heavy hand. “Don’t forget it.” 

MacTavish's throat echoes with an unimpressed grunt, side-eyeing Kyle as he smirks. Grabbing the fly of his pants, the man runs it up, moving his feet to make sure he’s not stepping on any of the fabric. 

“Garrick needs to be nearby in case of trouble. He’s your oversight.” Captain Price leans against the far table of the hotel room, glancing at his watch. “Five minutes, Sergeant.” 

“Five bloody minutes,” Johnny groans, blinking as he tightens his belt. “Couldn’t at least have bought a bigger dress shirt? Suffocating over here, Sir.”

Ghost glances at him from where he stares out the window, arms crossed and fingers tapping his bicep. “You can blame Laswell for that.”

“Just make sure you don’t rip it in the middle of the party,” Gaz pats his shoulder, and Johnny glares, sighing out aggressively at the pull of fabric. The fellow Sergeant is smug and amused. “Can’t go in and bring you another.”

“Ah,” the Scot grunts. “Don’t worry, it’s just a little public embarrassment. Nothing I haven’t gone through before.” 

“Story for us?” Simon utters, raising a brow.

“Not one I’m willing to tell.

John interrupts the banter session easily with a sharp command. “Alright, you can trade stories all you want later, we’re short on time and the driver’ll be here any minute. Soap,” Johnny blinks over, buttoning up his waistcoat and pushing the blue tie under it. Price stares, raising a brow, but his lips pause for a minute. “...Why are you wearing a bloody blue tie, Son?”

“What?” Johnny’s face pulls in, stubble shifting the scar on his chin. The sides of his eyes crinkle in. “Why’s that matter?”

John’s eyelids close for a moment before he takes a long breath and looks to the side, shaking his head. “No time,” he utters before coming back to it. “Go through it again, Sergeant. Slowly.”

“Target is Victor Lawson’s computer—located in his office at the back of the mansion. Three rights and a left is the fastest way there, barring breaking down the walls.”

“Good,” John grunts, seeing Johnny’s smirk at his joke. The Scot goes and grabs his suit jacket. “And?”

“One gun and a knife, hidden in the back garden with a silencer near the fountain,” the man licks his lips. Gaz passes over an earpiece which he hooks into his shell, clear and nearly invisible against his skin. “M9 with only one magazine. Fifteen rounds.” 

“You don’t have to use it,” Simon weighs in. “In situations like these, opt for a knife. Less mess to clean up if you do it right.”

“Don’t want to think about the types of parties you go to, Lt,” Soap sends a sly smile the Lieutenant's way. “Think I’d shit my pants if I saw you at one. Mask or no.”

“I like parties,” Ghost says blandly back, blinking at him slowly. “They don’t skimp out on the appetizers.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Johnny mutters, moving back and hurriedly flattening out his suit. “Right! Time to get this over with, boys. I’m goin’ in—don’t miss me too much while I’m away.”

Price’s hand goes to rest on his shoulder, moving him out of the door as Kyle calls his good luck to him. The Captain moves a hand in emphasis on the words he ends up speaking. 

“In the inside pocket, you have a USB,” he says, and Johnny’s blue eyes stare at him, serious with his lips flat. “We don’t need the entire system—just plug it into the box and let it do the work.”  

“Rog.” Soap asks, “Anything I need to expect from this Lawson fellow?” 

John grunts. “Negative. Man’s a drunk who likes to flaunt wealth, he’s in the background of his practice; has others do the dirty work for him. But we need his intel.”

“Then I’ll get it,” the Scot assures firmly, steel determination in his gut. “M’not so easily distracted, Price. It’ll be like takin’ a walk through the park.” 

—

“I’ll be back soon, Ma’am,” Buck comments as he opens the door for you, sticking a hand out to assist you out to the red-carpeted grounds. “Call if you need to.”

“Thank you, Buck, I will,” you chuckle, nodding. 

Walking past you run your hands over your jewelry, slipping your fingers up the inside of your wrist until you grasp the sleeve of your coat and pull it down more. It was growing colder out, and it was best to get inside the party as soon as possible. Already the air was thick with the noise of music and small talk, properly illuminated by lights that spilled out like water from a river. 

Around you, the front entrance was guarded by the tall sentinels of rose bushes; decorations in the form of strung lights and pumpkins placed and carved to immaculate detail. The mansion itself was the biggest on the tree-strangled street, and cars were coming and going quickly; lights moving through the dark trunks. 

Looking and walking slowly down the red carpet to the front entrance, your shoulder is lightly grasped. 

“Ma’am?” You startle, head whipping around to the sound of a deep Scottish accent. 

Your eyes lock with cobalt blues, a large man behind your form holding a piece of paper in his hand. You look at it quickly, the calloused and firm fingers extending the item.  

He was in a black suit, and while you fight to raise your brow at the deep shade of blue for a tie, you find that the outfit suited his stocky build quite well. You could see the size of his biceps easily, and in the light, your face nearly went slack at them. 

Not even mentioning the thighs.

“Apologies,” the stranger breathes, backing up a step and releasing you with a soft smile on his lips. “Saw this fall out of your pocket. I’d hate for you to lose it so close to the door.”

Staying silent for a moment, you quickly fall back on your natural charm. 

“My pocket?” Your hand extends, brushing against the man’s own before lightly taking up the familiar shade of the invitation. You flip it over in your hands, eyebrows raising in slight shock. Your other hand pats down your coat pocket, finding no firmness besides the body of your phone. 

“I didn’t even notice,” you chuckle lightly, focusing on the man ahead of you. A small flutter of upset moves in your veins. “Thank you very much, Sir. That would have been embarrassing.”

“Ah,” he shrugs his wide shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. And Johnny’s just fine, Dearie.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Johnny,” you move up and lean forward, lips shifting to leave a delicate kiss on the side of his cheek. Hearing a slight hitch in his breath, you hide your smirk, leaning back fully to stare into Johnny’s slightly widened eyes and the reddish sheen to his cheeks. He clears his throat, mohawked hair shifting in the breeze as he turns his head to the side for a moment. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You tilt your head. 

“So, here for Victor’s party then?” 

“Ah,” the man recovers quickly, nodding as you turn and begin a slow pace. The both of you stay near each other as the stairs to the front door get closer. “Yes, Ma’am. Have you…been to one before?”

You humph, shaking your head. “No way, I only ever go to these things once. Waste of time, in my opinion.” Your eyes send Johnny a glance to find him blinking at you in confusion. “What? You thought I would be all snobby about it? Most of the people here can’t even take back a shot correctly.” 

A shocked chuckle exits the Scot’s lips, eyebrows raising on his face. A far more casual smile now takes form on his part. 

“What are you even here for then,” he asks cheekily. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

You smirk. “The spoils of war, of course.” 

“You’re strange, you are,” Johnny utters, but finds he can’t wipe the grin on his face for the life of him. In his ear, Price’s voice grinds through like iron. 

“Soap, stay on schedule.”

He grunts, rolling his shoulders. Johnny’s thumbs go to rest in his belt, looping the brown leather.

“War’s a big word, Bonnie,” his blues glint.

“Would you prefer quarrel,” you dart back, and your spirits seem to enjoy this conversation some. The man was…new, so to speak. There was something different about him that you couldn’t place; he felt more layered than the normal people at these events usually came. Like you could speak to him for hours and only crack the surface. But, even by just his eyes, you could tell that he was intelligent. Very much so. 

“That might be more your speed,” you end with a tilt of your head, jewelry lightly clinking against one another. 

“I think you’d be surprised.” Your chuckle is smooth and easy to listen to. 

“Perhaps.”

Johnny hums, smirking as he pulls ahead a tiny bit. “And what do I call you, exactly?”

“My name?” You find a hand in front of you when you make it to the stairs, and you mildly get thrown off by it. Blinking quickly for a moment, you recover and delicately place your hand into the Scot’s, smiling as he helps you walk up. 

His flesh is warm, and you can feel it even through your gloves as it bleeds into you. A warmth that pushes back the chill of autumn, sending winter scampering like a dog with a tail between its legs. You ignore how your breath hitches at that action.

“You can just call me Cerise.” Is what you say as the doorman draws near and as Johnny stares with an intrigued furrow on his brow. Before the Scot can speak, you’ve already walked away, heels clicking and your purse swinging; hand whispering out of his like it was never there. 

Blue eyes watch, but they quickly snap out of whatever trance was there beforehand. 

There were things to accomplish—adrenaline was already taking hold in Soap’s bloodstream, making his focus hone in. While your conversation had been…interesting, and you were quite the beautiful woman, of course, he had a job to do. 

But first, he had to get through the door.

As you were speaking with the doorman, easily handing over your invitation, the man slips his hand into his pants pocket to get it ready; voices from other guests all around.

But his hand touches nothing. 

Immediately, Johnny feels his stomach drop.

“Where’s the fuckin’ invitation,” he hisses under his breath down the line, trying to keep his voice low. Soap’s eyes darted about on the ground, thinking that maybe he’d done the same as you and just dropped it. But no, nothing.

John’s hurried voice moves through the earpiece.

“Sergeant, don’t tell me you lost the fucking invitation.”

“It was in my pants!” He growls. “Bastard things that are making my thighs go numb.”

You’re none the wiser to the conversation in the man’s ear, only pausing when you hear the implication of something not going right. As the doorman takes your invitation and looks it over, you turn your head to the side and watch for a moment in confusion as Johnny pats his thighs and backside, hands over the pockets and his body turning in a circle.

“Johnny?” You call, walking towards him. The man freezes, eyes snapping back to you. You grab onto the tips of your gloves and begin taking them off, stuffing them into your coat. “Are you alright over there?”

His jaw is clenched, eyes simmering with annoyance. “Just fine, Hen, no need to ask,” your eyes narrow, slowly dropping to where the obvious lack of an invitation sits in his hands. “Just…uh, seems I’ve gone and lost something o’ mine.”

He goes back to whispering under his breath, throat bobbing with irritation that could rival even yours on a bad day. Even his cheeks gained a sheen of red to them, and not from the wind. 

You blink, sighing under your breath. 

You weren’t a good person, but you weren’t heartless either. The man had been good company, the least you could do was repay him. A good conversation is so hard to come by these days. 

“Oh,” you play off with a chuckle, turning back around and speaking loudly. The doorman looks up at you quickly. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell you about my boyfriend, Johnny.”

The air halts, and wide blue eyes snap to the back of your skull.

“It must have slipped my mind in all the excitement, you can understand how such a magnificent property just takes all of my attention.” You chuckle, pushing an embarrassed sheen to your eyes and body—hunching your shoulders in, gripping by the elbows, even bending your spine lightly forward to lean closer to the man. “It’s so beautiful here, I was so caught up in the decorations. He’ll be my plus one for the night.”

The doorman chuckles with you, glancing at the Scot who quickly clears his throat; taking this blessing for what it is and ascending the last steps in record time. 

A hand hovers over the small of your back, a bulky body slotting beside your own. Your nose twitches to the scent of hair gel and…you pause, swallowing down saliva. Was that the tang of gunpowder?

“It’s just fine, Miss,” you blink back to the present. The invitation is put to the side. “You’re both welcome inside. Please, enjoy your time in Mr. Lawson’s estate.”

“We will,” Johnny grunts, nodding. “You have a good night, Mate.” 

You smile politely, the two of you walking through the open doors. A pair of lips moves to your ear, the words said with low reverence.

“I owe you, Bonnie,” he pauses. “Big time. Nearly scuffed the entire thing.”

“We can’t have that,” you ease, voice like water. “Quickly, what’s your last name?”

You both walk side by side, yourself only stopping for a moment to shimmy out of your coat. Hands move to the back of the collar, helping. 

“Last name?” Johnny asks, confused at the instant question. “Why?”

“They’re going to introduce us when we walk in—I need to know so I can tell the announcer.”

The Scot stares, holding your coat as you take your phone out and put it into your purse. He passes off the item to a man near a side door, who asks your name and scurries off when he has it.

“MacTavish, full first name, John.” He grunts, admitting, “There’s a lot more to this than I expected.”

“It’s all for show, Mr. MacTavish,” your hand moves to his arm, lightly taking him along with you and restraining the want to squeeze the muscle under your fingernails. The man was as built as an Ox—what did he eat? 

“There’s always more to things like this,” you chuckle. 

A small silence falls, but it’s broken when Johnny’s curious nature betrays him. The way you had lied to the doorman…it had been so natural for you it had made him pause now that he had the time to think it over. Hell, he’d half-believed you himself.

Price had even been silent in his ear since then, only a shocked grunt moving across the line. As you shift a hand-held mirror out from your purse and bring it up, looking into it, he speaks up.

“You were good at that,” the Sergeant mutters, looking around at the paintings and decorations in the hallway, hearing more people entering from behind. The noise echoes from ahead as well, the party in full swing. “It was quick-thinking on your part, any reason as to why you’d help me?”

A smirk flicks over your lips as you snap your hand-held closed, moving it back into your purse. “You’re asking if I want to get into your pants?”

Johnny nearly chokes. “N-no! Not at all.”

Your head tilts, side-eyeing him, heels hitting the floor and carrying your snake-like stride. Not once do you blink at him, studying; taking him apart. Johnny’s enamored by the way you do it. 

He suddenly knew to be far more cautious around you than he had been previously. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he goes to push back his mohawk with a run of his palm over his hair. He licks his lips and turns his face forward with a heat writhing under the skin.

“It’s alright,” you explain. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but, unfortunately, tonight I have other things to fuck than you, Mr. MacTavish. Perhaps at a later date.” 

The man is at a total loss, jaw as slack as a piece of paper in the wind.

But what shocked response he could give you is lost as you move into a far more open room, you both at the top of an overhang—pillars and a large chandelier, shining bright. Marble with real vines wrapped around banisters; tables full of food in such quantity it seemed excessive. But the people. Hundreds of them, all dressed their very best at the bottom of these double stairs. 

Soap’s eyes went over all of them, studying faces in an instant and memorizing them for later. No Victor from what he could see…he just needed an excuse to slip away when everyone was occupied. He had to get to the garden first; get that knife and his gun that had been stashed. If it all came to worse, he couldn’t afford to get caught without one of them. 

Gaz can only do so much as overwatch from outside.

You move to a woman at the left, smiling as you move to whisper into her ear your title and Johnny’s.

“Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.” 

The woman nods, and no later does she call into the crowd, moving her voice above the bob and flow of the conversation waves. Many of the men in the crowd choke on their drinks—eyes snapping up—at the mention of your moniker.

“The Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.”

“Johnny,” you call, and the man blinks, seeing and immediately moving out his elbow so you can loop your arm through his. “I am curious about one thing,” you say as the scent of gunpowder returns. 

“Yeah?” Soap asks, scanning the faces that now pause their speeches and look at the pair of you. He grows uncomfortable at the attention, but you seem to soak it up—particularly the glares from a few faces that you seem to be acquainted with. “What’s that then?”

“You’re not here for the party, are you?”

Bloody fucking Christ, who is this woman?

“What makes you say that, Bonnie?” He forces out, his muscles winding up; jaw working itself in a tight clench. The Scot’s stubble writhes with the force of it. Has he been compromised that quickly? Not possible. Johnny’s mind starts running, and Price gets into his ear to call a firm order to move away from you immediately. 

But that would make your unblinking eyes worse, and Soap didn’t want that. The hair on his arms starts to rise, spine straightens like a stick. You felt it, feet going down the stairs without having to look at them, your head is stuck gazing at him. 

“No offense, of course,” your voice even results in his feet wanting to disobey him, to turn your way. The way you spoke was hypnotic. A siren. Some womanly beast from long lost history, coming to haunt him when he had a job to do on a limited schedule. 

You continue. “But you’re not right. You don’t fit into this crowd.”

“What?” Soap tries to push a flat joke. “Did my hair give it away?”

You study him, smirking. “No.” There’s no other explanation beyond that.

This was supposed to be simple.

Give him a gun and he’d be the most experienced shooter in this room; a jumble of cables? He’d have a homemade explosive in minutes. 

But why the hell would they put him in a suit?

“Listen, Cerise, Hen,” Johnny levels, “I’d love to stay and talk, really, but I need to fuck off and find some of my friends. Thank you very much for the save at the door, but there are some things I need to take care of.”

“And here I thought I’d get to keep my fake boyfriend,” you pout, leaning into his side. He watches you tensely. 

Your lips move in a laugh like a ringing bell. “But, yes, you’re right. I also have to take care of my entertainment for the night.” You move up to his cheek again, placing a kiss on his stubble as you both reach the bottom of the stairs. You whisper into his ear. “It was very nice meeting you, Johnny. Do tell me if you’ll ever take me up on the offer I gave you.”

Disappearing into the crowd, it’s like you were never there.

—

Johnny grunts as he tries to bend down, the fabric around his thighs and arms pulling tight enough to stop the blood in his veins. 

“If someone doesn’t get me properly fitted,” he growls down the line, “you can find a new demolitions expert, Price.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant.”

“It was short notice, Johnny,” a Manchester accent follows.

Blue eyes glared at the bag hidden beneath foliage, a hand snatching out and grabbing it quickly.

“Ghost,” Soap huffs. “Good of you to join us with our late-night heist.”

“Figured you could use the support.”

“Oh,” Johnny scowls, “always. ‘Specially when I have to get myself surgically removed from this piece of utter shite.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” With a shake of his head and a growing smirk, the Scot takes out the M9 and the combat knife. Moving to attach the silencer to the gun. Blue eyes scan the garden rapidly; on the lookout for any guests or guards walking near the fountain at his back. 

“Alright, I’ve got the gun.”

“Knife?” Ghost asks. 

“Affirmative, Lt.” 

“You’ll be smart to use it away from any prying eyes. Neck leaves too much of a spray—go for the gut and cover the mouth until they stop moving.”

There’s a moment of rustling fabric as Soap shifts the gun into the small of his back, the back of his suit enough to cover the grip but restricting the ability for a fast draw. Simon was right—the knife was the best option for him. 

“You are stone cold, Simon,” the Sergeant smirks, eyes gazing over grass and gravel as the knife finds a home up his right sleeve, resting against his forearm. “Price, has Gaz checked in?”

“Affirmative,” the Captain comes back on as Johnny stands, re-hiding the bag into the bush. “Says he has eyes on from the neighboring mansion’s roof. He’ll lose you when you go inside, but if you need any guards terminated, lead them outside and he’ll take care of ‘em.”

Soap nods, head swiveling and brushing down his front. “Copy. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

But as he’s walking, the Sergeant pauses, dress shoes getting brushed by the grass. A bead of silence lingers on him like a needle into fabric, a nagging feeling like an itch at the base of his skull. 

“Price?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to look into someone else at the party, calls herself ‘Cerise’.” Johnny can practically hear the confusion over the line and he moves on to explain as he walks farther into the garden. “See if there are any files with that name. I have a bad feeling, and I can’t place it.”

“The woman?” Simon’s voice enters his ear.

“Aye, her. The things she said…they’re stickin’ with me.”

“Hate to tell you, Soap,” Price sounds slightly amused in his dim monotone way. “But the things she says stick to most men.”

He growls, face going heated as his chest tightens. “I’m not speaking ‘bout any of that.” Johnny’s head swivels up to the balcony of the ballroom, trying to pinpoint his location from the maps he’d memorized prior. “I’m talkin’ about how she—”

Speech halts in a fast instant of a choked-off sentence. 

A flash of red catches his eye. 

“Johnny?” Simon asks over the earpiece, confusion in his tone. But with a slack jaw, Johnny can only watch in awe and shock at the woman currently breaking into one of the locked balcony doors. And he knew they were locked. The informant had said they would be. 

It was you. 

Red dress and moonlight over your flesh, you look around the balcony before bending and opening up your purse, fiddling for a moment with the contents inside. 

“Johnny, sit-rep.”

Unblinking, Soap watches as you take something out, moving closer to the door and inserting it into the door lock. 

“She’s fucking picking the lock,” Johnny breathes, his breath making a cloud on the air. 

“Who, Sergeant?” Price asks.

“Cerise,” Soap huffs, his jaw closes slowly, blinking as a hand comes up to rub at the back of his head. Only a minute or so later, you move back from the door swiftly, stuffing your items back into your purse and standing. Hand going to the handle, you push into it…and it opens with no trouble at all. 

Walking through, Soap gapes as the door closes silently behind you.

“She got in,” he relays, and he hears Price order for Simon to contact Laswell—possible hostile inside of the mansion. “How do I go about this, then?”

“We need that intel—neutralize her if she interferes.”

Something swirls in Soap’s chest, but as he hurries to the stairs up to the balcony after you, gravel stuck into the grips of his shoes. With a grunt, he says, “Copy, Sir.”

Reaching the very same door you’d just gone into, the man slips inside without a whisper, clicking off his earpiece.

—

You trail a hand along the wall at your side, keeping to the barrier and resisting the temptation to fill your purse with expensive pewter statues and whatever other bits you can fit. But you can’t fight off the feeling for long, and before you take a fast right on the way to the office, your noiseless hand snatches at a small statue of a knight and stuffs it into your bag. A low chuckle breeds in your throat. 

As you pass mirrors, you gaze at your neck, trying to imagine the glint of pearl and the way they’ll feel over your flesh; sitting heavy with wealth and dripping perfection down to the golden clasp. 

“Three rights and a left,” you go off the words from the maid, pausing when you hear the sounds of staff or security. Heels muffled on the thin carpet, your body slinks along like a cat, red dress trailing with all its dangerous intentions. 

You’re only one last turn to the hallway of the office when you’re unceremoniously grabbed by the scruff of your neck. 

Eyes snapping wide, a sharp inhale is muffled on your lips as a hand settles over your mouth, ripped back along the carpet and shoved into the wall with a rattle of picture frames. 

Ignoring the sting of your spine and the fingers that find purchase around your flesh, you blink away the sheen of panic and lock eyes into familiar cobalt blues. 

“Johnny?” Your voice is muffled behind skin, and your hand snaps up to his wrist when pressure is set over your windpipe. Shock flies to every other emotion available, confusion taking precedence. 

His face is rabid with anger.

“Who the fuck are you?” The words are snarled on his accented tone—lower than the bottom of a canyon. 

Physical interactions, in this sense, were never your strong suit, of course. You specialized in getting out before anything like this ever happened, not when a hand was around your throat and starting to put pressure. In fact, now that you thought about it, the man ahead of you would have absolutely no trouble snapping your neck in a second. Despite all of your pride, a bead of fear moved up your back. 

Yet, you still glare with all the venom you can muster over the barrier of Johnny’s hand. The weight at your neck stays, but the one over your mouth moves to lean into the wall beside your head. 

“Get your hands off of me, you brute,” your words are tight, nails digging into his skin and making indents. 

The man can feel your pulse under his hand, the thump of your blood as he looms, glaring heavily. He wanted answers. 

“I asked you a question, Bonnie,” his jaw clenches, eyes unblinking. “I think it’s in your best interest to answer it truthfully, eh?” 

“And what about you then?” You force out, “I guess my hunch was correct, you’re not here for the party.”

“I have a job to do,” Soap snaps under his breath, eyes moving the hallway as your free hand delves into your purse slowly. “I have a feeling you’re lacking in that department, Cerise, whatever the hell that name bloody means.”

“It’s French,” you snarl, teeth bared, and feeling insulted. “It’s elegant.”

“It’s a load of bullshit. That’s not even your real name, you minx.” His hand tightens even more, and your eyes gain a sheen of panic as your throat closes—his hold was unbreakable just as is, a trained and dangerous thing. Trained? Who was he? What did he want with Victor’s estate? 

Was he a thief like you, or hired security? 

“Answer me!” His face moves forward, nose nearly brushing yours and breath puffing your face. “Who do you work for?”

“Work?” Your voice raises, confused and angry. “I fucking work for myself, asshat! Do you think I’d waste my time doing this for someone else? Those pearls belong with me.” 

His eyebrows pull in, face tight.

You lash out with the pewter statue in hand, aiming for his head. Halfway there, the man’s limb beside your skull flashes out and you find your wrist captured, shoved back into the wall, and outstretched beside you. 

Gasping at the pain that ricochets your bones, your hand drops the item in an instant. Your brows go tight with old wounds, the memory of your first attempt at pickpocketing sparking up along with the pinch of marrow. 

“Not very bright, Hen,” Johnny’s voice is graveled, glancing at the statue as it bounces along the floor. His lips twist, expression shifting as he takes in your prior confession one word at a time. The attack hadn’t even phased him. The scar at his chin roaves, as he huffs out as the hold on your neck loosens, “Now what did mean pearls—?”

Your knee reems itself upward and connects with his crotch.

Balking back, Johnny’s spine bends, curling in as a long and loud groan enters the hallway—a curse hurled out soon after. Not planning on lingering, you bolt off, jewelry jingling, and lungs heavy in your chest. 

“What the hell,” you gasp, taking that last left and staring at the large wooden door at the end of the lineup; fancy gold handle. Fingers shaking and neck aching, you hear the sharp call from behind you as your body gets to the barrier.

Yet, there’s no time to pick the lock. A curt bark moves along the walls.

“Cerise!” 

“Fuck,” you draw the word out, quivering hand moving through your purse to find your picks. 

Johnny rushes the corner, one hand still on his aching lower body and the other pointing down the hall. 

“Get over here,” he snaps. 

“Fuck you!” You snap, glaring. “Stop acting like there was anything down there for it to hurt!” 

“I am five seconds away,” the man hisses, “from dragging you out of here by your arm and throwing you to the fuckin’ security. You’re a damn thief.” He says it with utter surety, knowing as he puts all the pieces together. 

“I am a businesswoman,” you back up a step as he moves even closer, the bulk of his body intimidating now that you know what it could do to you. “And, apparently, you think it’s acceptable to toss one around like you’re trying to have sex with it,” your eyes flare, back going flat to the window behind you. Johnny looms once more, arms caging you in as they go beside your head and the fingers curl. Both of you bark at one another with, at present, no bite.

“I’m not opposed to fun, Mr. MacTavish,” your smirk is venomous. “But I prefer to do it when I’m not on the job.” 

“Stop talking,” he snaps, eyes darting to your lips as your gut spikes with adrenaline. His front is nearly flush with yours. “This isn’t worth it—you’re wasting my time. I need to get into that office”

“Then let me go,” your lips are near his, brushing with every word. Now your silver tongue has something to latch onto. He wants to get into that office just as much as you do. “We can help one another.”

“You?” Johnny scoffs, tilting his head as footsteps echo down one of the nearest halls. “Help me? Sorry, Dearie, but after that stunt of kickin’ my fucking balls in, you’ll have to wait for ‘em to re-drop before I put any sliver of trust into you.” 

“Tempting,” you huff, both of your teeth bared like dogs—not once do either of you blink away. “But you can’t get that door to move without me.”

Johnny raises a disbelieving brow, and you elaborate.

“If the pins aren’t all moved in under ten seconds, and the door opened, an alarm goes off,” the man stills above you, and you smile in pleasure. “All security in the area will come rushing down on you and your horribly styled hair,” he snarls, eyes flashing, but you continue, face triumphant. “And I hate to say it, Mr. MacTavish, really I do, but I doubt you can pick a lock better than me.” 

Johnny glares still, and this time, it’s far more sharp. Something moves behind his blues; consideration or exasperation, you don’t know. Hell, you still don’t know what he’s going to do when he gets into the office. But this is an alliance between wild animals.

The man is about to open his mouth, jaw already loosening, when a loud, questioning, voice moves from the end of the hall. 

Both of you freeze, pupils going tiny from where they stare into one another's. Even the blood in your veins slows to a near stop; shock so potent it renders you speechless. Someone was coming down the hallway.

“Is anybody down there?” A voice calls, echoing off the ceiling. There wasn’t anywhere to hide. 

Johnny moves back immediately, a hand going to the back of his suit to try and grasp at something as you hurriedly blurt out, “Kiss me!” 

The man flinches, anxious eyes narrowed. He blinks rapidly. “What?”

“You heard me,” you snap. Footsteps get closer and the Scot looks at you like you’ve gone mad. 

“I am not fuckin’ kissing you, Bonnie,” he says bluntly, a chuckle on his lips. “No way on God’s green earth.”

“Do you want to get caught or do you want to play it off as a mistake?” Your hand moves forward and grabs at his tie, yanking him back to you. He barely budges, raising an unimpressed brow. “I swear to God, MacTavish, do not ruin this for me.”

The man glares, snapping, “I’m not the one that decided to kick a man in the dic—”

“Hurry up and kiss me!” No time.

Someone’s shadow cusps the visible part of the hallway, and you stare with a pleading expression, Johnny glances over his shoulder before he moves his hand away from the M9. With a deep grunt of disapproval, he leans forward swiftly and slams his lips to yours.

Gasping at the intensity of it, your face is smushed as the Scot’s hand comes up, grasping under your jaw and keeping you attached to him, the other stuck at your hip where it creases the fabric. 

For a moment you even forget why he did it, and your body melts slightly as he huffs through his nose—your fingers finding his waist. He shivers as they dig in, and he pushes you into the wall, making the dichotomy of warm flesh and a chilled window leave your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head. 

When your tongue brushes his lips, soft smacking meeting your ears, he hums, leaning into you harder. Neither of you fight it when your lips meet again and again, this time making your hand go to the back of his head, greedy mouth opening when he growls into your flesh. It’s nearly feral with clacking teeth and a massacre of senses. His fingers knead at your jaw slowly.

“E-excuse me,” Johnny rips himself from you, whipping around with a red face. Keeping you in front of him, his pounding heart makes his eyes blur for a moment, attempting to focus. You peek over his shoulder, face burning like a million suns, but a smirk forcing itself forward.

The man behind the mysterious Scot is older, and not part of Victor’s security at all. Just a partygoer who had gotten lost along his way. How he even got back here through the main way without being spotted was something of an achievement, you supposed.  

He stutters into the heated air. “Sorry to…erm, interrupt, but I don’t suppose you two know the way to Mr. Lawson’s garden?” 

The both of you are brainless for a second, Johnny’s hand still on your hip. 

“Two lefts and a right,” you utter on swollen lips, eyes smug. “Door’s already open.”

He hurries off, without a glance behind him, and silence falls again. 

You blink at the man now suddenly unable to meet your gaze, backing off of you like you’re made of red fire. Your head tiles even as molten heat rages in your bloodstream, pounding in the base of your throat. 

“My, my, Johnny,” you draw out, leaning closer as he sends sharp glances. “I’m impressed, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stop it,” he ends the subject, voice fast and firm.

“And here I thought you’d be a bad kisser. Very attentive to a woman’s needs.” You smirk, slinking past him and muttering in his ear, “Gold star for you, Mr. MacTavish.”

“Get the door open before I change my mind!” He snaps, but you aren’t put off by the darkness of his eyes.

You raise your hands, tossing a look over your shoulder.

“How did I know you’d be so pushy?” The man’s jaw moves as it clenches, nose twitching. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and glares.

You kneel, opening your purse and snickering as you grasp the picks and twirl them between your fingers. They were metal—long and bent to be inserted into the lock and manipulated until you found the correct sequence of pins inside of the mechanism. Inserting the first pick, you take and turn the knob slightly to the left, keeping it like that as you hurriedly insert the second.

“Ten seconds,” Johnny utters, watching closely as his anger simmers down to annoyance with you. Yet, he can’t deny that he liked that kiss, either. “Bastard has a lot to hide.”

You hum under your breath, face close to the door and ear twitching with each click. “Not for long.”

White pearls glimmer in your mind. 

Feeling around, the pressure from one pin to another is easily definable to you—years of practice moving from brain to brawn flooding out. With every bit of loose metal identified, the handle is moved by the first pin to keep them from slipping back down. 

“Five seconds,” the man behind you forces out, looking back from you to the hallway, anxious about getting caught. 

“Do shut up,” you sigh harshly, head tilting. “Stop breathing down my neck and make yourself useful.”

“Doing what,” he grunts, blues getting stuck at the back of your scalp.

“Hand near the door,” your voice is easily forced to sound hurried. “You need to push it open, shoulder and all.”

“When?” He barks, already rushing to hover his large limb over your head. You finally get the small snap of all of the pins in place, a click of achievement. 

Your heart skips a beat, yet you say casually, “Now.” 

He nearly barrels it down, and your eyes widen as he moves through with the force of a bull, your left-behind form kneeling as the man’s shadow dashes. You blink a few times, brows pulling in with distaste.

While you should have been happy, all you do is stare with a raised brow at Johnny as he stops the inside handle from making a dent in the wall, head on a swivel.

“I said to push it open, MacTavish,” you grunt, standing. “Not bring it down, you idiot.”

He turns as you fix your clothes, taking out your compact mirror once more and running your hands along your neck; slinking into the office. Johnny huffs, rolling his eyes. 

“Forgive me, Cerise, if I didn’t want the entire bloody party comin’ to me.”

You wondered if now was a good time to tell him you lied about the alarm but decided it was better to hold off until you had your prize. The less he knew, the better.

“Yes, yes,” your voice is low, “are you going to tell me what you want with this place or am I going to be left in a well of intrigue?”

“You’re not gettin’ a peep out of me, Dearie,” he levels looking around slowly—always keeping an eye on you. Johnny doesn’t trust you, but, hell, you don’t trust him.

Shrouded in mystery. 

You shut the door behind you, gazing with glee at the expensive decor and knick-knacks. Was that a gold statue of a deer, you spied? Oh, that would fit just perfectly on your foyer’s side table. Pity you can’t just carry it out of here. 

“Such a tease,” you hum, sauntering like a fox over the hardwood. “But I have to admit, John, I don’t care a large deal. You’re not important to me.”

“Likewise, Thief,” he grumbles, eyeing the way your hips sway with every step. 

There’s the click of a safety going off, and before your fingers can card along the glass case set into the side wall, keeping velvet boxes in their clutch, you freeze. The door’s lock is reinstated. 

Eyes still, you stare at Johnny’s reflection in the glass, heart slightly pounding faster. His face is staring, lips pulling into a smirk. 

“As much as I’m just loving our little session, Ma’am, I just need you to understand something, yeah?” 

You don’t speak, don’t blink. You hate to admit it, but you feel a droplet of unease as it enters your bloodstream. Had he had a gun this entire time? Your eyes find it now, an M9 hanging from his right hand. It’s black body and the long silencer, an image of death if you’ve ever seen one. You’re not new to guns—no, no, not with how you’ve chosen to live your life; the world you’ve taken by the throat and throttled. But getting threatened with one never became easier.

“I think I understand just fine,” you say, smoother than you feel. Shifting your head, you look over your shoulder, raising a brow. “I have business to attend to, MacTavish. I suggest you do the same.”

“I can’t have witnesses,” you laugh, shrugging. Your hands go to the clasp of the glass cabinet, flicking it to the side with a slide of cold metal.

“And I can’t go without these pearls, do you expect me to care about what you can or can’t have? My needs outweigh yours.”

A low rumble. Johnny’s hips shift weight, and that gun still hasn’t risen from the side. He wasn’t going to shoot you, though you recognize that it may be a bit of a shock to him as well as to yourself. 

“I very much doubt that,” enters the air with an accented drawl.

“Doubt it, then,” your bluntness is cold and precise, attention already taken as you move to grasp one of the jewelry boxes, pushing the top open with a squeak of the tiny hinge. A silver sigil ring meets you, and your lips twitch at its shimmering material. “Just stay out of my way.” 

“Bloody fuckin’ bastard,” the Scot utters under his breath, shaking his head harshly before his feet take him to the desk set near the back. He allows you to stuff your purse to your fancy, even as his mind screams at him to just put a bullet in you and end this—there wasn’t time for games. Certainly not ones played with a damn fox like you. 

The memory of the kiss still sears the man’s brain, until Johnny thinks of every interaction you two had had over this fast-paced and stressful night. 

But now it was time to hone in. Clean-up later. 

“Price, I’m in the office,” Soap mumbles through the line, clicking his earpiece back.

“Good,” the reply is swift. Johnny ignores your small intrigued look, not commenting on the amount of valuables you suddenly have bulging out of your purse. Like a kid in a candy store. The sight is almost enough to make him smirk at you. “Insert the USB and let it do its work. Should take a few minutes—hunker down and assess the exits. There are three floor-length windows behind the curtains; if it comes to it, break through and drop into the pool below.”

“Swimming lesson?” Soap jokes, patting his inner jacket pocket and producing a small black USB stick. 

“Eager, are you, Sergeant?”

“Not particularly, Sir.” 

“Coulda fooled me,” Ghost joins on, dry response adding to the choir of strange humor.

Johnny’s fingers move to plug the USB into the port, hearing the click of it inserting and stepping back as lines of code jump across the now illuminated screen—files pop up and disappear just as quickly, and the blinking light on the stick tells him all he needs to know about if it’s working or not.

“Johnny,” Simon pipes back in, and the man shifts his body to the side, hand coming up to his earpiece on reflex. 

“What is it, Lt?”

Across the way, your eyes glint.

Lieutenant? So the man’s military? Jesus, that changes things. I thought he was just some guy trying to get dirt on someone he disliked. Business partner, maybe. But military?

Your shoulders get a bit more tense, but it doesn’t stop your fingers from brushing your real prize—the last box inside of the case; red leather. It was all but calling your name like a veiled ghost of lust.

“Got a hit for a file with an Unknown, alias ‘Cerise.’ Laswell dug through the records.”

“Do you?” Johnny licks his lips, feet backing up a step and swinging his weapon. “Lay it on me, then.”

“Not much to relay—multi-year investigation, borders on some of their top classified cases for untouched HVTs. Don’t even have a description. String of high-caliber thefts, blackmail, extortions, and suspected of multiple murders to end it all off. Woman’s been busy.”

“Well,” Soap draws, tilting his head with raised brows. “Isn’t that just lovely?”

But the last part stuck with the Sergeant—murders? Call him naive, but you didn’t seem the type for that.

Blue eyes linger on you, slipping up and down with a twitch in their lids. He sees your face light up as you pop open a jewelry case; lips peeling in a violent smile as the round bodies of elegant and expensive pearls meet the light. Hell, Soap nearly hears you squeal. 

Murder? But he knows that looks are deceiving. 

He addresses Price, peeling his eyes away and taking a long breath. “Any advice, Captain?”

“She’s not the mission. Get what we need and get out.” It wasn’t shocking. 

“And Gaz?” 

“Still on overwatch—getting antsy. Says there are more security patrols in the gardens but they haven’t done anything more than speak to an old man.” 

Johnny blinks. “Say again, Sir?”

“Old man,” Price repeats. “Have him out by the gardens, moving about; asking questions.” A pause. “Why?”

“We might have a problem,” Soap growls, and not a second later there’s news being relayed. 

“They’re moving up the stairs into the mansion, Soap.”

“Fuck me,” the Sergeant snaps, rushing to pull at the curtains behind him, seeing the pool far below—it would take a bit of a jump to land a safe distance from the concrete, but there were limited options. 

Making out in a hallway pretending to be horny partygoers wouldn’t fix this.

You glance over at the ruckus, in the middle of clipping your prized necklace over your flesh, feeling the weight of it against your collarbone. The sensation of pleasure was so overwhelming your gut swirled with achievement like a storm at sea. 

It was perfect. 

Staring long at yourself in the glass reflection, your smile is wide and sharp—uncaring to the Scot’s sudden anxieties. You had your pearls and a few extra treasures, that was all that mattered to you. All that was left was your escape. Taking your phone out of your stuffed purse, you text Buck and tell him you’re ready for a pick-up and to park a little way down the street.

‘Need to walk the drinks off a little bit,’ is what you type, before hitting a firm send with a smirk.

Moving backward, Johnny still speaks hurriedly into the earpiece you had deduced that he has, and has probably had since the evening began. Fast-clipped sentences, and glances to the whirring computer, the USB stick you see inserted into its body. Your curiosity has always been your downfall, but you weren’t about to mess with whatever heist this was; especially involving the military and their forces. 

That was a cat you didn’t want to drag out of the bag. 

Making your way to the door, your hand is just about to grasp at it when you full-stop. Blinking slowly, your head tilts, your ear twitching to hear the muttering from beyond the barrier. With a moment of understanding brewing, a hand lands on the back of your neck and yanks you back, dragging you like a toddler for the second time tonight

Before you can shout at the brutish man, a hand is once more over your mouth, and a voice in your ear. Was this really the only way he could figure out how to keep you quiet?

“No speaking—you’ll just give away our position.”

You glare, unimpressed, until he releases you—blue eyes firmly leveled on your face in order. 

“Keep it shut,” he harshly whispers. As your mouth opens, he raises a finger and clicks his tongue, moving away quickly as you stare past in insult. Jaw loose, your eyes glint with hatred, growl in your throat as you turn after him. 

“I’m not fucking three, you asshat!” You exclaim under your breath. “I bet I’ve gotten out of more situations like this than you have. And would you quit dragging me everywhere?!”

The handle across the way is jiggled, Johnny glancing at the computer screen in desperation. It wasn’t done yet. He scoffs, face twisting. 

“Debatable.” You vehemently roll your eyes, looking around the room. This wasn’t exactly good—but it wasn’t unsalvageable. Looking at the woodgrain of the door like a plotting snake, you decide you could always play it off as one of Vicor’s multiple affair partners. He had scores, no way the man could remember them all. Tell security that he’d invited you here to discuss child support or hush money; that had to be fair play. 

You hum under your breath, sighing. How would you explain Johnny? A lover? Bodyguard? Your mind runs through scenario after scenario, until a large knife is shoved right in front of your face. You balk back with a choking sound, startled like a bird on a line.

“Take this before I change my mind,” Johnny grunts, grasping at his gun firmly. 

Your eyes stare with a sneer at the combat knife, which wiggles as the man’s hand shakes it impatiently. 

“I’m not taking that—are you mad?” 

Soap’s face is as stubborn as stone. “I’m not leaving without my intel, and neither are you.” A look is thrown up and down your body which makes you straighten, heels situating themselves below you. “You wanted to be here, Dearie, so you can’t back out now, can you?” 

“If I was here alone, none of this would have gone wrong,” you get into his face, eyes deadly. The door shakes as someone runs a shoulder into it—loud shouting from the hallway. 

“You’re a vain little minx that plays mind games because she thinks it’s fun,” Johnny hisses, breath atop of yours and eyes unblinking. “Mind yourself, you hear? This is bigger than a necklace, you vain creature.”

You huff. “It’s funny you think I care.”

“Little—” The computer beeps, and Johnny’s head whips back around as the frame of the door begins to crack.

The USB’s light glints a steady green, and then goes off, just as the computer screen blackens.

“Price!” Soap barks. “USB is done uploading, I need intel from Gaz, now!”

“Everything below the window is clear, Sergeant—get out!

“I need something to protect the damn thing from the water,” the man is already moving back, gun clattering to the desk as he opens drawer after drawer for anything—even just a little bag of—

“Holy shit,” you laugh, picking up something that had fallen to the floor in Johnny’s rabid search. “Victor was getting up to it.”

Cocaine baggie—the Sergeant snatches it from you. 

“Woah,” you huff. “Wasn’t aware you had an affinity.”

“I am beggin’ you to keep your trap shut.”

“Ooo,” you smirk, eyes shimmering. “I like that.”

Johnny seethes like a dog, looking at you as he dumps out the drug and rips the USB out, shoving it inside as white powder hits his dress shoes. From there, the thing gets shoved into his pocket with a heavy hand.

“Come here,” he takes you by the arm, pulling. With his other, he grasps his M9 once more. Your annoyingly smooth voice in his ear is a constant knife right to his brain. 

“Of course, Handsome.”

“Sergeant, for the love of God, tell me that Cerise isn’t in that room with you.” Price’s voice interrupts the two dogs at each other's throats, baring their fangs with sharp intentions.

Soap tilts his head harshly, moving to the window with you beside him. For whatever reason, he fights his senses to leave you here to be caught. 

“Then I won’t tell you, Sir.”

“Fucking hell, Soap.” The Scot huffs, smirk at his lips. 

“In a worse way because of it, too.” His hand tightens on your arm and you only chuckle, fingers to your mouth as heat moves up Johnny’s neck. He clears his throat, looking away, muttering to his Captain. “Won’t bloody leave me alone.”

“Awe,” your free hand captures his bicep, running up the fabric of his suit jacket. “I’d never leave you alone, Baby.” 

Soap suppresses a whole-body shiver, your heated kiss still strangling him every second he gets a whiff of your perfume. His feelings towards you were strange; potent like a snake to a mouse. 

The worst part was that he didn’t know who was who in this equation.

Releasing you, your body jostles at the sudden lack of a brace, but you recover with a laugh and a raise of your brow. 

Johnny takes his gun and sends four rounds into the glass.

Yelping, your hands go to your head, covering your ears and slightly ducking. 

“Time to go, Sunshine!” Your waist is gripped, legs jerked up with a grunt. All at once your eyes widen, your brain understanding the total lunacy that’s about to take place.

“Wait!” You shout just as the front door is busted down. “I’m wearing tangerine quartz—i-it can’t get wet!”

He’s already in mid-air, a smirk on his face, peeling back the stubble on his cheeks as his body crashes through the broken glass.

There’s the sensation of flying, briefly experiencing what a bird lives before gravity takes over, stealing you just as it does your stomach. You yell sharply, but that’s all you get above Johnny’s heavy chuckle before water enshrouds you both. It sloshes over your head, and takes you down into its depths; chlorine makes your eyes burn before you snap them shut.

You’re taken by the first thing that strikes you as your waist is pulled back to the surface—Johnny hiking you upward with your back to his chest. 

Who keeps water in the pool this late into autumn?

Gasping as your head breaks out of the water again, your nails dig into Soap’s wrist, loud commotion from far above, and the screaming of orders. 

A bullet whizzes past your face. 

“I’m going to need Gaz on this!” Johnny shouts, unwilling to let you go as his legs begin kicking, water running through his hair and flowing off of his nose.

There’s a muffled call before one of the security guards from the office window is struck in the head, a spray of red popping from the burst container of his skull—body slumping out of the hole. He hits the ground with a slapping crunch as you pant on fast breaths. 

Getting forced back along with Johnny, you curse in the open air at the sight, eyes wide as your dress is utterly ruined by the pool. 

You’re tossed upward, body grunting and skidding along the concrete as your palms slap the ground. Scrambling up, Johnny pivots with you behind him, taking his M9 and leveling it up, firing off a few rounds before the sound of your rushing heels strikes him. 

Soap calls to you, but you’re already speeding away to the tree line, water leaving a long trail as you sprint to the best of your ability. The pearls around your neck glimmer, slapping against your flesh.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, heart rushing like a lion. “What the fuck!”

Grass moves near your feet, the estate slashing by—gunshots still echo, those loud booms moving over the night; you even hear the loud panic of the party, beginning to understand what they’re hearing. 

Stumbling on a rock, your palms skin themselves along the ground, but you don’t wait to think about the sting. You push back up and keep running.

“Cerise!” Soap barks, running after, looking over his shoulder as his earpiece is full of loud orders. 

A hand swipes at the back of your arm and misses as you pivot and grasp your purse strap, swinging it around until it slams into Johnny’s head. 

“Fucking hell!” He snarls, hand raising to shield himself as you do it again. 

“You’re crazy!” You yell, mind stuck on blood and bursting heads. Your purse is in the air, swinging from your raised hand; feet still backing up from the bulky form. 

Blue eyes blink at you, occupied with both looking behind for pursuers and shots as you both move into the trees rapidly, circling one another even while escaping. “You’re shooting people?!”

“It’s my mission!” Johnny shoves out, jerking out a hand. “We need to leave—now!” 

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” You yell, looking him up and down, backing up, and bringing your purse close to your chest. 

Both of your eyes lock in a battle. 

“Bonnie,” the man levels, “You’re not staying here with them—they’ve seen your face.”

“I like my chances better when I’m alone,” you swallow down your tone, evening it out to emanate the confidence that you always try to carry like a sword. You’re not going with Johnny—not now. Now you had to go through aliases; move again—run like a petty criminal. You had to hide your valuables and get your finances together.

Staring, you pant, water dripping from your nose. 

You needed to disappear again. 

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” Johnny hisses, moving closer. “C’mon, we need to leave.”

“You’re right we do—go, then.” It’s final. “I’m not following you anywhere,” your eyes darted his form, remembering how his weight had pressed you into your wall. “Enjoy your intel, Mr. MacTavish, but I have my own affairs to deal with.” 

You slip your purse strap over your body and unclip your heels, dangling them by your finger as you stand back to full height with a deep breath. You’re scared now—nervous. Being around guns was one thing, but watching someone get shot was another. 

No one was supposed to die tonight; you’re shaken.

“Cerise,” Soap opens his mouth, annoyance in his veins. But he looks into your eyes and pauses, seeing the fidgeting, the flightiness. The man stills, glancing at your visible heartbeat, gobsmacked. 

You were afraid. The woman who’d smirked when he’d pushed her into a wall—the woman who had no terror of getting caught. Afraid of him.

He backs up a step raising his hand. 

“Hey,” Johnny eases, lowering his tone. You don’t change your attitude.

“No, MacTavish,” you clench your jaw. “This is where our game ends. For good.”

Eyes lock; stare. They dig and they stay still, night aflame with chaos. The game had been fun, but, Soap knew the truth about this as well as you did. It was felt in the very air along the vibrations. He can’t drag you along back to the Exfil point—it would bring nothing of it but wasted time and energy. There wasn’t any time, and even as his instincts told him to level the barrel of his weapon with your skull…he couldn't do that.

He had to let you go.

There aren’t any words spoken; none said in parting or goodbye—in all accounts, the two of you don’t even know if you like one another. Both of you would aggressively deny any such thing, even if the pair of you were absorbed in how one another feels rubbing your hands along clothes. That dig; that pull.

In the end, you turn, and you disappear into the trees, rushing to circle back to the front of the property where Buck will be waiting down the road. Your heart patters, your jewelry bouncing, and your purse full of your stolen quarry.

In the end, blue eyes watch you for a long moment.

And then Johnny backs into the shadows of night, and neither of you seemed to have ever existed at all.

TAGS:

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[vimbry]

*if you've heard a couple songs but don't really know much about them, or haven't listened in a long while, you can play!

update: the highest votes went to gudetama. but was it correct? here are the full titles and albums.

❌ "put your hand inside the puppet head" - they might be giants

the opening verse makes reference to leaving one's job and how "it's sad to say, you will romanticise all the things you've known before. it was not, not, not so great". according to flansburgh, "the lyric revolves around the idea that looking back on anything colors it in sentimentality".

❌ "I'll sink manhattan" - they'll need a crane (ep)/miscellaneous T

this is a flansburgh song, but linnell explained its meaning in a 1989 interview with NME as "a song about a guy who somehow figures out how to sink the island of manhattan just to kill his ex-lover, so it's his apology to the other people he's gonna kill in between. he's just gotta do it!"

❌ "meet james ensor" - john henry

it's about james ensor (belgium's famous painter).

❌ "wicked little critta" - mink car

from the tmbg unlimited collection: "forged in the crucible of an eastern massachusetts junior high, this song expresses the dreams, fears and hopes of a new england young adult" the lyrics seem to suggest said young adult fantasising about being a sports star alongside bobby orr and john havlicek while goofing off outside.

❌ "working undercover for the man" - mink car

from flansburgh: "it's more a meditation on the "mod squad" [a 1968 crime series about cool undercover detectives] than anything else. the idea of the narc just seems... like, those episodes of "dragnet" where they have the young undercover dress in a hippie suit."

✔️ "talent is an asset" - kimono my house

the lyrics illustrate an overly-cautious family shielding their very gifted child from others, to keep him studious and soak in all the glory, and is heavily implied to be little albert einstein through puns on relatives and relativity. it's not by them, tho. it's by the band sparks. it came 2nd, so I think many of you recognised it (or really wanted to see the results!)

❌ "bee of the bird of the moth" - the else

"this is a song about a creature called a hummingbird moth, which imitates another creature, which imitates yet another creature. it's completely fucked up, and can only be explained in song!" so they did.

❌ "2082" - join us

thewrap's review of the album describes this song as, "a science-fiction short story (...) a protagonist who travels into the future, finds himself hobbled but still unhappily alive all the way into the next millennium, and travels back to the title year to smother himself with a pillow in a mercy killing". fun!

❌ "call you mom" - nanobots

referred to by linnell as an "oedipus pan" song, the lyrics follow an unfortunate young man beginning a relationship with a woman, getting dumped due to his behaviour of treating her like a mother figure, then infantilising a possibly younger woman in a different relationship and in turn leaving her, who goes on to experience the same issues. fun! (altho, the final chorus actually still refers to her Mom leaving, not her dad, I got the details wrong there in the poll).

❌ "gudetama's busy days" - dial-a-song / my murdered remains

yes, that's a real song. quote flansburgh: "(...) it is really just about feeling isolated from the world, even if you are in a crowded place and manically trying to keep up with your life. the character of gudetama appealed to me because he is such a mopey sad sack."

❌ "marty beller mask" - album raises new and troubling questions

this is real, too! it's just about how marty beller was actually an alter ego of whitney houston the whole time. he's not, but wouldn't that be interesting. the song name-checks multiple of her own in the lyrics. it was temporarily retired out of respect following houston's death (4 months after its release), returning to live performances ten years later in 2022.

[astroismypassion]

Astrology observations 💚💚💚

Credit goes to my blog @astroismypassion

💚💚 Scorpio Moons, even Moon in the 8th house or Cancer over the 8th house, talk about their sex life either in songs or accidentally "out" some of their sexual preferences online, in podcasts, interviews. Beyonce, a Scorpio Moon native, said she felt somewhat embarassed about song Partition (which is about sex with her husband) when she realized her parents will hear the song as well. Same with Justin Bieber (Cancer over the 8th house native) who wrote song Yummy, which he admitted was basically about his sex life.

💚💚 I noticed Aquarius, Capricorn and Gemini Jupiter are more prone to establish some sort of "rules" in their marriage or with their spouse. Albert Einstein, for example who is an Aquarius Jupiter at a Gemini degree (27 degree) had some unique, unconventional rules established in his marriage with first wife Mileva Marić. Which were that his wife should not expect any intimacy from him, should not reproach him in any way, should stop talking to him if he requested it, should leave his bedroom or study immediately without protest if requested and should refrain from belittling him in front of the children. This is even more prominent if Jupiter is also in the 3rd, 10th or 11th house. Jupiter retrograde natives second guess marriage a lot. Or they might marry the same person twice or they question themselves whether that are able to follow through with the committment and even if they are able to commit in the first place. Or they dislike sacrifices and compromises that marriage brings. There are so many real life celebrity examples of this, such as Elon Musk, Justin Bieber, Steve Jobs, Oprah Winfrey.

💚💚 Gemini Jupiter encounters issues in marriage only, because they seem too invested in their job. It's like they are metaphorically married to their job, work in the community or with social media. Famous Gemini Jupiter natives are: Taylor Swift, Steve Jobs, Tom Brady, Shania Twain, Billie Eilish, Emma Watson etc.

💚💚 Capricorn Moon likes to feel needed, but they do not like needy people.

💚💚 Pluto over the 2nd house transit or in Solar Return chart means that you could receive financial aid, especially from the government and other national institutions.

💚💚 I noticed sometimes person’s surname can be quite revealing about their major threes (Sun, Moon, Rising). Gemini placements can have an animal surname, most often also bird name. Like Fox, Robin, Wolf. Taurus Suns can have a surname that means field, cook, food aliment Youtuber Josh Carrott has Carrott surname and he is a Taurus Sun. Such as Mia Goth has Goth as a surname and is a Scorpio Sun.

💚💚 If you are looking at bands, Leo Sun almost always ends up the frontman or the lead singer. Like Joe Jonas from Jonas Brothers or even Mick Jagger from The Rolling Stones for example.

💚💚 Taurus Sun women often go for bad boy type of partner. Even if their person is the biggest softie and sweetheart. The physical appearance is always tall, hunky, with tattoos or piercings. Real life examples are Megan Fox (Taurus Sun) and grunge-y looking partner MGK, Debby Ryan (Taurus Sun) with Josh Dun from Twenty-one pilots who has tattoos, Behati Prinsloo (Taurus Sun) who has partner Adam Levine, again many tattoos.

💚💚 I noticed Capricorn Suns are always the ones best dressed in the friend group or the one that just dresses in more down to earth, simple, humble and plain clothing so that they don’t stand out too much or draw too much attention.

💚💚 I noticed not a lot of people who date share the same Rising sign. However, Scorpio Rising often times finds and dates another Scorpio Rising.

💚💚 Leo over the 7th house or Leo Descendant or ruler of the 7th house in the 5th house especially when younger can date people that don’t even truly want them or be with them. 🙁

💚💚 After marriage, Libra Chiron people often make their marriage their whole identity.

💚💚 I noticed a pattern with Mars retrograde people. Such as actor Sam Clafflin, Michael Jordan, Morgan Freeman, Theresa May or Robert Downey Jr. Often due to not being as assertive, people would start talking over them or they start a sentence and then don’t finish it, but start a new one or use a lot of “you know”. They often are what people would expect of retrograde Mercury people.

💚💚 Aquarius and Leo Moons really like quirky, modern, fun looking home decor and furniture. They would buy nipple pillows, big stool in form of an orange breast vases. They really don’t take themselves too seriously when it comes to decorating their home.

💚💚 5th house shows your primary education and even creative extensions of self. 2nd house shows earning abilities and manner of meeting financial obligations. 12th house shows emotional blocks and hidden support. 6th house shows your food preparation, but also attitude towards work. 10th house shows how the world judges you. But also your responsibility to society. 11th house shows money from your actual profession, not your job. 1st house shows your very, very early environment.

💚💚 Cancer Suns just love their bathroom selfies.

💚💚 Gemini/Virgo or Aries and even Taurus over the 3rd house often get their driving license in high school. Aquarius and Capricorn might wait a little and do it when they get their first steady job or after their first Saturn Return. They could also buy a car shortly after. Pisces over the 3rd house might decide do car share or car pool or they pass their driving license, but don’t own a car. Libra over the 3rd house could rely on their partner’s car and for them to drive them around.

💚💚 Sun at 20 degrees women often go for the “odd” guy. Sometimes this translates to unconventional looking as well. Such as Mila Kunis who is Sun at 20 degrees native who dated Macaulay Culkin.

💚💚 Taurus Suns often end up getting along with everyone, especially in school and work settings.

💚💚 Aries Mercury can end up always wanting to stay positive no matter what. Always putting on “a brave face”.

💚💚 Pisces Sun photographers are really good at taking pictures of parties, because they capture the moment so well. Libra Sun photographers, on the other hand, really focus more on taking shots of attractive people, not so much with the setting itself and especially couples. Famous photographer Tyrell Hampton who took a picture of Selena Gomez and Hailey Bieber was a Libra Sun.

Credit goes to my blog @astroismypassion

[make-friends-with-the-rats]

could we maybe see albert dasilva for the ask game? :]

ah yes, the ginger

How I feel about this character: Albert is my favorite ensemble newsie in livesies bar none. He is painfully relatable sometimes. I do have some conflicting feelings over the livesies/bway portrayal of his and Race's dynamic because I feel like they took 92sies Race's personality and split it into Race and Albert with Albert taking Race's more serious qualities in the stage adaptation, but I do enjoy Albert as a character and I hope someone gets the poor boy his leg of lamb.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: I believe in aroace Albert. So sorry.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Race and Albert but also Crutchie and Albert, specifically in UKsies. I don't know, I just think they're neat and Newsies UK is so special to me. Just look at them and imagine the chaos:

My unpopular opinion about this character: This is going to upset possibly everyone in the entire world, but livesies/bway Albert needs some sleeves. This goes for all of the newsies in the stage/Broadway musical that are missing sleeves. I don't care what the reasoning behind the sleeveless undershirts and vest combo was there is absolutely no way anyone in 1899 would dress like that. Undershirts had long sleeves for one thing, and why would you wear your vest on top but no shirt?? I need answers and those boys need sleeves. Second, Albert is actually not named Albert. Albert is actually his newsie nickname. (I know I was just complaining about historical dress, and the timeline I'm proposing doesn't directly match up but bear with me.) Imagine one of the newsies reads an article about Albert Einstein and his genius work in physics and what said newsie gets from the article is basically, "wow this guy is smart, I bet he's a real wise-mouth" and then Albert gets his nickname as Albert as in Albert Einstein because it evolves from "okay Albert Einstein" when Albert is being a smart-aleck to "okay Albert" and is the equivalent of "no shit Sherlock" in newsie vernacular.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I honestly don't know that I would change anything about Albert as a character. Actually, you know what? What if Albert scabbed? As a treat.

Thank you for asking!

ask game

characters answered: David Jacobs, Jack Kelly, Blink and Skittery, Bumlets and Swifty, Sarah Jacobs, Specs and Dutchy, Les Jacobs, Crutchie, Snitch and Itey, Mush Meyers, Spot Conlon, Racetrack Higgins, Katherine Plumber, Snoddy, Barney Peanuts and Romeo, Glasses

[creehd]

IM SCREECHING OVER THIS ROARING 20s AU,

but very politely holding your shoulders and giving you a little shake.

I haven't watched much teenage mutant ninja turtles unfortunately, but from what i do know, you putting them in the 1920s is absolutely FASCINATING. The difference in politics and the World in general from the modern version to your AU is just,,, HNGNGNGG im chewing on the leg of your desk

Do they act differently?? Or are they relatively similar to their modern counterparts? How are they forced to adapt to this universe? Are they still ninja trained? How did they get turned into mutant turtles, and what's Shredder's (who you MUST draw, im begging you), motive during this time period? 👀 DO THEY STILL LIKE PIZZA?????

And most importantly, may i give Splinter a kiss on the head? 👉👈

Amazing art as always <3

I owe you my life for this ask. I can feel myself being pulled back into both my obsessions with TMNT and the early 1900s.

SO I'M STILL BUFFERING EDGES AND WORKING OUT WHAT EXACTLY I WANNA DO WITH CERTAIN CHARACTERS BUT HERES THE MAIN SYNOPSIS;

In 1923 New York, post ww1, splinter is the last of his lineage of samurai in the Edo period in Japan, escaping to New York and attempting to build a new life when he came into contact with the Foot, a long-established gang with ties to shredder a yakuza boss who also immigrated from japan at the end of the 1800s once he lost his title as shōgun. He is controlling many facets of New York through experimental science and crime.

Mainly being; bootlegging, gambling, auto theft, narcotics, robbery, And any other gang-sanctioned activity.

In an attempt to stop him, splinter soon finds himself mortally wounded and in desperation to save his life, he is mutated into a rat, alongwith 4 baby turtles and an entire lab of wildlife. (Animal testing has been around for awhile) Hiding away with his newly found family and recovering from injuries that made him slowly lose his eyesight, the boys began to grow in the shadows of a newly technological America.

And that's kinda what I got as an explanation for how exactly splinter got here and what happened before the turtles grew up.. AS FOR THEIR PERSONALITIES. I try to keep them similar, I take inspiration from each different continuity of tmnt for what I think the perfect imalgamation would look like for a basis for who they are, and then I made it time period accurate!

So in order-

Leonardo: Leo is a big boy scout, he respects splinters wisdom and teachings, and when I think of him I picture Steve Roger's before the Super Soldier serum, Leo believes in New York, and he believes he and his brothers can help fight the rampant and rising gang-related crime in the city. He also enjoys tennis, chess,and card playing, alongside supporting the local flapper scene in the city. He also heavily supports freedom of the press AND believes in the abolishment of prohibition! (Not bc he likes to drink but because he WANTS freedom and justice for all) loves to listen to radio shows with Donnie and read newspapers and magazines to keep up with current trends and events.

Donatello: Donnie is hugely interested in the rise of technology across America, hugely interested in the works of Albert Einstein and the amazing minds behind the Tuberculosis vaccine (baxter stockman in this au is a scientist who basically helped discover penicillin before the incident™️) , he's fascinated with radios and tvs however they aren't as sophisticated as he might like yet, he believes he can help the field of science alongside his brothers as a crime fighter, although it isn't his passion to fight, he sees fighting as a science of its own. His hobbies include radio shows and reading! (His favorite book is at the earth's core by Edgar rice Burroughs) and he also really really enjoys April's company, and dressing up with her.

Raphael: Raphael is a vigilante at heart, but also a bit too hotheaded and selfish to see when he is in too deep, he heavily engages in the night life and the scummier parts of New York, bar fights, alley brawls, deals gone wrong, you name it, raphs got a fire for fighting for what's right. He rubs elbows with many of the lower-class gangs, who are just trying to get by, and after learning about the struggles of suffragettes, he lends a hand when he can with their growing cause, he's also a huge jazz fan, attending many flapper shows and frequenting speakeasies. Before he met Casey in late 1919, he dreamed of nothing more than to fight in the Great War, however, when he met Casey Jones, he was quickly attuned to the horrors the war brought to its soldiers, and how horrendously they were discarded after, and prompting vowing to help veterans in need. He and Casey are close and frequently engage in going to silent films, recreational drinking, and smoking together.

Michelangelo: Mikey is an artist, he loves his city and its people, and alongside being an incredibly talented martial artist crimefighter alongside his brothers, he believes in peace and love above everything. (Although he'll finish a fight if he has to) him and raph clash heavily on how to handle issues in new york, and while they can't see perfectly eye to eye, they overlap on alot of ideals and pastimes. Mikey is a prolific painter like his namesake, as well as a silent film connoisseur, a birdwatching fan, a huge fan of jazz, and a frequent at lgbt nightclubs in Harlem.

NOW FOR THE NON TURTLE CHARACTERS!

Splinter: Splinter was born in Japan in the mid 1855, he is now in his late 60s, trying to pass on his knowledge of the time to his sons, while training them the way of the samurai and ninja from when he was a boy. Splinters mutation heavily affected his eyesight, and training and keeping in touch with his culture and fighting traditions helped him overcome the difficulty of navigation, along with his mutated hearing and smell. He's a strict older Japanese dad, he loves his boys but is hesitant about the new boom of technology and heavily encourages the boys to stick to their traditional ways while fighting for what's right.

April: April moved to the city from smalltown in 1915, daughter of a farmer, she came in hopes of starting a career for herself and eventually settle down, but as things began to go down hill for the aspiring woman, she began to work a day job as a secretary at the New York World Newspaper company and at night as a flapper, she ends up getting caught up In ganglife around new york before meeting the turtles during a chance encounter with the foot gang.

Casey Jones: Casey Jones is a poor young man from New Jersey, high aspirations and low funds led him to leave his abusive household and seek out adventure during the draft in 1917, Casey fought In the Great War in Europe, and came back a changed man. Shortly after his return to the States, he moved to New York City to try to rebuild a life he once yearned for, when he meets Raphael. Both boys begin to start a bond, sharing the same pastimes and enjoying the same sights the city has to offer, but it's hard to navigate a life that feels so foreign after his enlistment, what's even harder is understanding why he'd rather enjoy the company of Raphael rather than the girls they watch on stage. He still engages in recreational hockey and the occasional book club since Leo and Donnie insist on helping him with his dyslexia.

As for their motives.. they're just trying to help clean up the streets and not get traumatized along the way! But that's never how it works out is it..

And for the villians.. this posts getting a bit long so I'll make a seperate post about shredder and his whole deal, along with the krang :]

And of COURSE they still love pizza! They're the ninja turtles, it came free with the Xbox,

But if u want an actual answer yes they still love pizza, alot of Italian immigrants came to New york in 1880ish through 1930, and pizza was starting to super get popular.

(And splinter always gets alittle kiss)

BUT YES that's what we're cooking with so far!! And I have many idea for them, and would love to hear more thoughts and opinions !!! Please. This is my brainchild I'm foaming at the mouth to share it.

ask box is always open!!

[ofbluesandyellows]

Black Cat's Curse - TASM! Fem! Reader

Summary: Peter Parker has been cursed, crossing paths with the oh so feared black cat isn't exactly in his itinerary, and no, we are not talking about or favorite lady, Felicia. On Halloween night his bad luck has prodded him to the solution he didn't know he was looking for.

Word count: 6,537

Warnings: cursing, witchcraft (lol idk)

a/n: Hi! I'm back with a lil Halloween story for you, this one fully came to me last week. It isn't anything crazy but I do hope you enjoy it. Happy Halloween y'all. I adopted a black cat recently so maybe that's where the inspo came from. Bye :)

“What do you mean you can’t do anything?” Spider-Man was about to drop to his knees, to beg. And he never begged for anything in his life, other than bringing Ben back to life.

“Ow Spider.” Her finger with a long perfectly manicured nail traced his spandex covered clavicle. “Yes, they call me Black Cat but it doesn’t mean I know how to undo your bad luck. That’s on you and the poor black kitty you crossed paths with.”

“But whenever I get unlucky it’s always because of you, how come this is different?”

“Hey, don’t come to me with that bullshit, that’s just how things are, you should’ve known better. You’re on your own Spider.”

Peter closed his eyes, not that Cat could see him but he needed a second not to throw a punch at her, he knew she’d dodged with ease but he didn’t want to risk it. Exhaling he was about to humiliate himself once more, turning around Cat was long gone.

“Mother fuck-“ a splash of what he knew was bird poo painted the red spandex of his forearm with sickly yellowy-white. “Seriously?” Arms up in the air, no one to reply back.

Peter Parker wasn’t a big fan of Halloween growing up, he always went for the uncool type of costumes, he clearly remembered asking aunt May to buy him a white wig so he could dress up as Albert Einstein when he was about eleven. Uncle Ben ended up buying him white color spray and a fake mustache so they could DIY the look. Knitted burgundy vest, faux wrinkles on his face and the already perfect bushy brows made Peter the happiest kid in the block.

He was beyond ecstatic with the way his costume turned out, adults praised him and aunt May for the effort when he went trick or treating but the real menace were kids’ nasty words and funny remarks about him. After that he either went with a boring costume, he preferred to fit in, or at least try rather than be laughed at. 

It was obvious that the teasing continued up until college, but college was bearable compared to what he had gone through since he became Spider-Man.

Peter hadn’t been in need of a costume for years now, that was the main reason why he liked Halloween now, he could walk around as a civilian in his actual suit, no one batted an eye in his direction during this day.

Flash Halloween party was crazy loud, Peter didn’t know these many people were friends with Flash.

“Hey Spider-Man!” His heart skipped a beat, but Flash was smiling at him. “Peter, you made it!” 

Peter took the mask off, he thought this would be funny, wearing his actual suit was comfortable but now he was regretting it, he had several mini heart attacks whenever called him by his alias. He felt sweat dripping from his back. Yeah he would need to wash the suit.

“Of course man! I promised, right?” he laughed trying to disguise the panic.

Flash was wearing a Beetle juice costume, a pretty epic one if Peter could have an opinion on it. 

“I see you went all in with the costume huh?” He snatched the mask off Peter’s hand. “Nah this isn’t as good as the original.” Flash laughed.

With cherry colored cheeks Peter chuckled. “Yeah, I bought it at Walmart. Everyone seems to love the guy so I just thought why not?” 

“I’ve seen worse Parker, like the guy dressed as Alex Turner? Pfff lazy.”

“Really? I haven’t seen him. Don’t tell me it’s Harry the one dressed like that.” Peter said amused.

“Almost, but no. Harry hasn’t shown up yet, bet he found some expensive costume made suit and will pull off a ‘I’m Leonardo DiCaprio in Wolf of Wall Street.””

Both boys rolled their eyes. “Wouldn’t be surprised.” 

Suddenly Peter felt cold dripping from his back. 

“Hey dickhead, watch where you are going.” Flash was the first to talk, pushing a drunk David Bowie out the way.

Peter was in shock, how come he didn’t notice, why were his senses not alerting him of the guy at his back.

The smell of sweet fruity punch and vodka lingered on his nose. 

“Shit Pete, do you want to change?” 

Peter shook his head, lipped smile on. “No, don’t worry I’m good. Just going to grab a beer.”

“Ok, if you need something just look for me, okay?” 

“Sure, thanks Flash. Cool party by the way.”

Flash grinned. “Thanks Parker! See ya around.”

The lights were kaleidoscopic, New Wave music playing, it was a lot and now his suit was wet and cold and there were pretty girls around, and he couldn’t concentrate in one thing. 

Fuck me.

Tuning around as he dodged a group of girls dressed as fairies he clocked eyes with a witch. She was sitting on the couch with other people, Peter wasn’t sure if she was with them or not but the staring sent shivers down his spine. 

She gave him a lipped smile, one he tried to emulate, not succeeding because she dropped her expression. The next thing he knew it was that she disappeared. 

He shook his body to try and get rid of the odd feeling. Finding a beer was easy, what wasn’t easy was held in the need to puke when the warm and obviously outdated beer’s taste hit his tongue. 

Peter sighed, he was tired of this, it hadn’t even been a week with this black cat curse and he was already done, no fight with Electro nor Vulture had done him this wrong. Sloped shoulders and a bitter taste he was ready to go home. 

Exiting the loud house in Brooklyn, Peter’s eyes found the sparkly ones of a witch. 

A new wave of shivers appeared as Season of the Witch played at his back. Spooky as shit.

“Okay, this is worrying me.” He mumbled.

The girl approached him in two long steps. 

“Hello,” you smiled, showing him your pearly white teeth. 

“Um hi?” 

“Sorry to bother you, I saw you in there and if you don’t mind me saying this… you look like shit.” The apple of your cheeks tinted pink. 

Peter scoffed. “Yeah? Well, I didn’t need to hear it because I do indeed feel like shit, so if you excuse me,”

He took a step to the right to make his escape, but you took the exact same side as he did.

Peter scowled.

“I—I don’t want to sound crazy but you do have like a bad aura around you, you know? Like a dark cloud following you, and… okay yeah I’m going to say this with the risk of sounding like an insane person but I promise you I am not—“

Taking a cautious step closer, you were too close for Peter’s liking. On your tiptoes you angled yourself to reach his ear.

“You are cursed.” 

Peter felt his body freeze, his eyes went wide just as goosebumps formed on his skin.

“You… how did you know?” Peter stumbled back a little. 

“As I said, I can see it.” You took a jump back. Your face went back to a soft smirk. “Need help with it?”

Peter looked around, the streets were busy still, it wasn’t even midnight yet.

“You know how to revert it?” 

“Sure thing. It’s a simple spell.” 

“Can you do it now, like chant it or whatever.” 

You scoffed. “Hell no! It’s a bit more complicated than that,” balancing on the balls of your heels you stared at him. Peter was mulling with the possibilities. You were weird as fuck. But he didn’t feel the Peter tingle as it was. He only felt wary. 

You had this cute smile and very bright eyes. If Black Cat couldn’t do anything to help him, why not take his chances and accept the help of an actual witch.

“Are you like a real witch?” He squinted. 

“Yeah.” 

“Fine. What do we need to do?” 

You grinned, joyous. 

“Follow me Peter Parker.” 

Shrugging, you said: “Flash told me.”

“You know Flash?” Well, that was news to him. He never expected him of all people to be close with a witch.

You seemed offended. “Um yes? We take bioengineering together.” 

Peter almost choked on his own saliva. “You go to Empire?”

“Yes, I’ve seen you around, you’re friends with that rich kid that always looks at the rest of us as if we were dirt under his shoe.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh when Peter scrunched his nose. “That sounds like Harry.” 

“Osborn is not always nice to everyone.” 

Peter knew that but Harry wasn’t a bad person he just hadn’t been given the attention he deserved.

“So bioengineering, huh? You’re pretty smart I assume.”

“It helps with the witchcraft thing, believe it or not.” 

Peter could see why. He grabbed his mask a little tighter.

“Oh.” 

Peter heard you say, a second later a car passed by full gas, the puddle of dirty water splashed wetting his legs. 

“You could’ve warned me, you know?” shaking his legs only made the water go down into his converses, wetting his socks. He needed to come up with a water repellent suit.

“Right, sorry. Never seen such a curse before. The grayish hue around you goes purple whenever something is about to happen. It’s kinda awesome.” You grinned.

Why was this woman always so cheery? Peter sighed and continued walking.

“Do you have a name or should I just call you Witch?” 

You chuckled. “I do have a name but Witch is way more fun. And it’s Halloween, it fits.” 

Peter grimaced. What a time to be cursed.

Both hopped on a bus after walking three blocks.

“Are you hungry Peter Parker?” 

His stomach felt like growling. “I could eat.”

“Nice, I’ll order some pizza. It should be there when we arrive.” 

Peter saw you texting. He noticed for once your whole attire. Pointy hat with purple ribbons and tulle decorating it. You had glitter smeared on your cheeks and eyelids. The dress was black tulle as well with a sparkling touch, he wasn’t sure what it was. The tights had black and purple stripes with a nice pair of black Dr Martens. It was like a modern version of the classic Witch costume he’d seen in movies. 

It suited you, what it didn’t match was your always happy features. Peter wondered if you were in fact a witch or just pretended to be one for the sake of the holiday.

“Do you like mushrooms?” You found him staring. Your cheeks went a tone deeper in red.

Peter panicked and looked out the window, far away from you. “They’re fine.”

“Good, I ordered half pepperoni and half mushrooms.” 

Humming, you, witchy girl unlocked, your phone and started to play…

“Sudoku? Really Witch?” Peter grinned, this was so odd to him.

“I like it, it keeps me on my toes.” you giggled.

Unintendedly, Peter kept an eye on the game, finger pointing to one square and mumbled “there has to be a nine.”

The grid sheet sparkled after you pressed the 9 in. “Nice one, Peter Parker.” 

“Just call me Peter.” 

Your eyes locked on his. “But Peter Parker sounds more interesting.” You nudged him, making him laugh. 

“You’re so weird.”

“Thanks.”

•••

Peter sat in the living room. The apartment was simple, it didn’t even feel witchy at all. It smelled fresh and there was some kind of lavender sent around.

“What? Disappointed?” You laughed at his face.

“A little, yes.”

“It’s 2023 Peter Parker. I don’t have cauldrons and a crystal ball.” Your witch hat rested comically on the kitchen counter.

“So what kind of witch are you, then?” Peter spoke with a mouthful, the pizza was incredibly tasty.

“I’m not one kind, I just do what I want to do.” 

Peter nodded. 

“Careful with the—“ 

Peter’s slice of pizza fell on his converses. He thought he’d been clever by not using his spandex lined boots.

“Shit.”

“I tried to tell you.”

He peeled the slice from his black chucks. “Can I get another slice?” 

You pushed the box his way. 

“How did you get cursed?” You asked, nibbling on your lip, the pizza resting on a plate on your lap, untouched.

“Crossed the path of a black cat.” He grunted. “Sounds stupid but it’s what happened.”

“Been there. I’ll fix it, it shouldn’t be hard” 

Peter straightened. “How long is it going to take?” 

You stared at him. Peter could almost see the nuts turning in your brain.

“A few hours, I suppose.” 

“Is it going to hurt?”

“Maybe?”

Peter had multidimensional war flashbacks from Doctor Strange, and the other Peters. Yeah he wasn’t in. “Well, now that I’ve had time to think about it I remember why I don’t do witchcraft. You need to find another way. I’ve had my fair share of that and it was quite the hustle so no Miss Witch I think I’m good.” He gave you a lipped smile.

“Okay… um why don’t you tell me about it, I assure you this is completely different and safe.”

“I’m not legally allowed to talk about it, so…” He shrugged. “Also you said it can hurt. I’m not down for that."

“Ugh fine, Peter Parker, but if you go, the curse won’t go away, you’ll have to live with it.”

Peter looked down, considering all that had happened maybe you were right, it’s not like he hadn’t suffered enough to handle a little magic.

“Fine.”

You got up in a jump, disappearing inside a room. Peter heard rattling and the closing of drawers. He wasn’t sure what to expect so he tried to not think about it. 

After another two slices of what he considered a perfect pizza, Peter put the plate down on the coffee table. The table cracked in two as if some almighty froze had cut it in two with a really sharp invisible blade.

“How the fuck?” He squealed, holding both sides of his face with his hands. This was nonsense. He didn’t even put force. 

“What happened?” You appeared behind him. “Oh… well I needed a new coffee table anyway.” 

You went away humming again. 

“Insane… she is insane.” Mumbling Peter crossed his arms, trying to not touch or breathe too hard, anything could create a domino effect and make the building collapse or something worse. He could die if he forgot how to breathe!

He guessed that wasn’t possible but he was not going to risk it.

The skin on his back felt sticky but he didn’t dare to move. After a moment you cleared your throat to announce yourself.

“So Peter Parker, I’m going to ask you a few questions…. It's protocol only.” 

Sitting down at his feet, you flipped a few pages, grabbed a pink sparkly gel pen and wrote down in pretty cursive calligraphy. 

Peter Parker. 

Cursed by crossing paths with a black cat :(

“You do this often or-“ he asked.

“Nah, but it’s nice to document these things, who knows when I will need the information.” You beamed, clearly excited by the whole situation.

“Sure,”

“So, have you been cursed before?” blinking, you waited for a response.

Peter wasn’t sure if his Spider-Man issues were a curse, sometimes it felt like that to be honest.

“Not that I’ve been aware of.” He leaned back on the couch. 

“Have you killed people in the past?”

His face contorted, now that was a hard question.

“It’s… um not voluntarily… I mean no, of course no” he let out a pretty fake laugh. “But I saw my uncle die and my… my girlfriend too.” 

Your face dropped. “Sorry about that.”

He half shrugged, looking the other way, he was not going to cry in front of a witch, this was humiliation enough.

“Er, next question. Do you have allergies?” 

“No.”

“Experienced dizziness, or a rush of adrenaline in the past forty-eight hours?” 

Peter squinted, these were very specific questions. “ Yeah, but what does that have to do with the curse?”

You shrugged. “See if there are side effects.” 

“The adrenaline thing isn’t for the curse… I have a stressful job.”

“That responds the next question… so how long has it been since you got cursed?” your head rested on your palm, you reminded him of that one therapist aunt May forced him to go see a few years ago.

“Three days, maybe four.” 

“Hmmm, interesting.” 

“Why?”

“Hmm? Oh well, cats don’t just go out crossing people’s paths like that. Most times they have a reason. Have you wronged a cat in your life?” your knee going up and down nonstop, Peter noticed the nervous thick. He had several.

Felicia could count as a cat but she had wronged him more than he had her.

“No.” He scoffed. 

“Ok, didn’t want to offend you.”

Peter let out a breathy laugh, this was the craziest shit that he had experienced and he had gone through a lot of fucked up shit in his life.

“Please come with me.” 

You stood up with a graceful jump. Dress puffing with air. Peter stared at your hand extended to him. The moment he took it there was this tingly feeling that crossed his whole body. 

You grinned. He glared.

The room you got in was pitch black, a breeze came from somewhere, it smelled like incense. With the snap of your fingers a yellow hue covered the room which was not more than 80 square feet, seemed to be a closet.

Three candles were floating, Harry Potter style. His hand went over the flame no wire attached to them.

“Am I hallucinating already?” He said. Hand now going under the candle he was in awe.

“Nope, we haven’t started yet.” You chuckled. “And those are totally real. It’s a very easy spell.” You said proudly.

“Cool,”

“Sit on the floor.” You demanded, Peter obeyed.

With a bright pink dust, you painted a circle and a bunch of indecipherable symbols that Peter preferred not to know what they meant. Instead he focused on you; your smooth hands tracing patterns as if it was second nature. Your lips were tuned slightly upwards, it was obvious how this made you feel. Peter felt his own lips curving. 

Hmm… he frowned, that was not right. But his mind was taking over, your long lashes with specs of glitter resting on them. Hair, shiny and soft looking. Peter kind of wanted to brush it to the side with his fingers. Shaking his head he couldn’t be thinking such things, he didn’t even know your name. And you were a witch!

And you are a fucking Spider-Man, chill the fuck out Parker.

Great! He was going insane now.

Snapping your fingers, music started to sound. 

“Is that Fiona Apple?” Peter asked, throwing her a quick glance,

“Yes! She gives off the right vibe for this.” Your sly smirk made Peter’s stomach flip.

Oh no.

Squaring down, to be on eye level with him, he caught the very faint scent of cherry. 

“I’m going to give you tea, It’s going to make you a little dizzy and jittery.” Extending your palm, you showed him two little rocks. 

“What’s that for?” Peter took them either way. 

Your index finger pointed to a clear looking crystal. “That’s clear quartz, it clears the mind, attracts positivity and repels negativity. The orange one it’s citrine for positive mood, clarity and focus.” 

His chocolate eyes never left yours, for the first time the whole night your smile quivered. You needed to gain some distance. You stood up quickly.

“Whatever happens, don’t let them go. And you have to have them around until the next new moon. Understood?”

Peter sighed, whatever helps him get over this. “Got it.”

You opened a book with a crimson hard cover. A sage green cup rested on the wooden table in front of you. Your back facing Peter, he let the little crystals roll on his palm as he heard Fiona Apple’s voice mixing with the cooing spell you were casting. Words he had never heard got whispered inside the cup, the energy in the room changed in a second, the yellow hue became brighter. 

Peter’s body shivered when you went back kneeling before him.

“Drink this, you have to close your eyes and don’t open them until I say so, okay Peter Parker?”

Peter nodded, gulping as he took the cup. It was warm to the touch. The liquid inside looked like any other tea aunt May had made him before, a little cloudy but it had a nice smell.

“I added a little honey and it’s spearmint flavored.” You chirped. 

“How many times have you said you have done this?” Peter was really curious, it came pretty natural to you. 

“Oh this is the first time, but I’m sure it’ll go almost perfect.” 

“Jesus, that’s just what one would like to hear in these situations.”

“Come on Peter Parker, this is fun!” 

“Cheers, I guess.” 

Peter drank the whole thing in one go and the taste was surprisingly good.

He sat there waiting for something to feel different but nothing changed. 

“How you feeling?” You asked, looking him in the eye.

“Should I be feeling weird?” he replied, trying to pay attention to his body. Everything was the same. He opened his eyes.

“Shit, you are supposed to be experiencing something by now. And you drank the whole thing,” you stomped your foot on the floor. “I did everything the book said.” 

Quickly, you went back to the book to check the spell as if it was a recipe. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” Peter sighed. “Hey um, this is going to sound weird, but, would you like to… I don’t know, like go for coffee one of these days?” your eyes went wide, big as saucers hearing him ask. “Or not… I mean I was just suggesting.”

“Don’t move Peter Parker.” You squinted, Peter felt something on his arm. 

“You opened your eyes!” She squealed. 

A spider, the same spider that bit him years ago was walking up his arm, then there was another and another, all of them crawling upwards.

“Holy fucking shit.” Horror stained his voice. But Peter couldn’t move. He didn’t know if he was able to feel his body.

“You are Spider-Man for fucks sake keep it together” you cried. “Told you to keep them closed."

In a swift move you grabbed a few vials filled with dust in different colors. Peter was wide eyed, gawking, unmoving about to have a heart attack.

“I can’t move, help!” his voice high pitched. 

“Shut up Peter Parker, I’m trying to think!” 

A marble mortar plopped on the table, a mix of colors and sparks flashed across your face. 

“Sorry for what’s next but you can’t move and I’m not in position to kill our city’s hero.”

Grabbing the dust on the mortar, you put the bright blue dust on your lips as you fell on your knees in front of Peter. Careful not to ruin the pentagram.

Leaning forward you said,

“The spider you see is just in your mind, you are hallucinating for real this time, that’s why i told you to not open your eyes. Wish things were different but this is it, Peter Parker.”

“What?” 

“Good luck.”

You clashed your lips with his. In a second Peter felt his whole body tingle, like he was having a serious case of pins and needles. Involuntarily his palm went up to rest on your cheek. Warm and soft. Cherry scent, and blueberry taste. His eyes fluttered shut as he kissed you, the crazy girl he met a few hours ago at the halloween party.

A sharp turn. Just like when you twirl in one spot until you feel the whole room shake and you are in that state of happy dizziness. Peter felt like that and he kind of enjoyed it. 

When the motion stopped fully he opened his eyes. Blinking he reincorporated, he didn’t know he had been lying down this whole time. 

Spider-Man’s spandex suit still plastered on his torso just that the room was not the tiny room he had been in. 

“Peter?” 

“Aunt May?” 

“Breakfast is ready!” 

Peter rested on his elbows, he was in his room in Queens. He was in Brooklyn just a second ago. And, why was he even here? His apartment was in Manhattan. 

Shaking his head he peeled the tight suit off, his body complained, a common thing by now. Taking a quick shower he saw the water run down the drain, little hints of bright blue in them. He shook his head, migraine settling behind his eyes.

“I had no idea you were staying the weekend Peter, you always let me know.” May dried her hands in the kitchen cloth as she looked at him with fond eyes. “You scared the hell living out of me last night when I heard you in your room.”

Peter frowned, he didn’t remember how he got in, he wasn’t even sure what happened after he saw Flash at the party. Late that night he found two shiny bits of crystal on his bed. His mind screamed at him to keep them near.

Until the new moon, right?

Glimpses of what felt like dreams were trying to tell him something, most days Peter woke up with the feeling that he had forgotten something but he pushed it aside, there wasn’t much time to think of Peter problems when there were Spider-Man real problems. 

It took him six days to notice his bad luck had disappeared, he felt lighter than ever, he even got a rise at his job which was hard to believe. Cat hadn’t been involved in trouble and Peter didn’t need patching or stitches for the week, he was doing amazing.

One night during patrol. He was sitting on a building in Brooklyn, there had been a fire two blocks down, no one had been injured so Peter left the scene before the police arrived. Now his legs hung on the edge of the six story building. Phone in hand. Flash posted the party’s photos, he laughed at one where a group of guys dressed as the one and only Pitbull were carrying Flash as he threw pumpkins shaped confetti in the air. Flash knew how to have a good time, Pete gave him that. 

The next photo was one where he could see himself at the back, he barely noticed it was him, the spandex gave him away. But what caught his attention was the pointy hat, purple ribbons floating. His heart increased its pace. 

•••

Flash was doing some drills at Empire’s gym. Sweaty and all, he greeted Peter with a hug and a laugh.

“Pete, you left too early the other day!” 

Peter’s cheek went warm. “Sorry, yeah I wasn’t feeling well.”

“No problem. You want to play? For the good ol’ days.” Flash chuckled.

Peter remembered high school as if it was yesterday.

“I have class in like twenty minutes, but next time. I was just wondering if you knew the name of this girl I met at your party.”

Flash smirked, nudging Peter on the ribs. “I see why you weren’t feeling well huh? Parker.” 

Peter scratched his neck, this was so awkward, he didn’t even know the girl.

“What she looked like?” 

Peter’s image of you was very vague, he remembered the costume, but nothing else really.

“You have an idea how many girls dressed like that were at the party? I need more intel Parker.” 

Peter closed his eyes for a second. “She- um she said you were taking bioengineering together,” 

Flash huffed, making the basketball bounce. “I’m not taking bioengineering, Peter. Don’t think girls take that class anyway… trust me I’d remember.” He winked.

“Really? Because she was very sure of it.” He laughed, out of pure agony.

Have you been like a dream or something?

“I think someone made you look like a fool Pete. But there’s always more girls.”

“Right, no, you’re right. Um, I’m going to get going. See you later man.”

“Take care Parker!” 

Making his way back home, Peter kicked a can with all the force he managed, it landed inside a trash can. He blinked, shit that was quite lucky. He felt not so lucky when there was no space in the subway to even move your legs, at least it was warm in there, the November wind was getting tougher by the day. Headphones on, he put the music in shuffle. 

In starlit night I saw you

So cruel you kissed me

your lips a magic world

Leaning on the cold metallic tube in front of the doors, he sighed looking at his converse. He needed to give them a wash, those ketchup stains were not making it look any better. His fingers went to his eyes, scratching the corners of them, he could sleep right there if he was sure no one would steal his phone but instead he concentrated on his surroundings. Phone screens shining, Instagram posts passing rapidly, text messages getting deleted and retyped, sudoku grid…

Sudoku grid?

His stomach churned. He had these images like photos archived in his brain. He remembered the sudoku grid, the number 9 for some reason, mushrooms, pink dust, floating candles, a green mug, and a smile. That smile had haunted his dreams for days now.

The owner of the phone had a bright yellow coat. Peter froze just creepily staring at the person.

Next stop was a commotion, people going out, some more coming in. Peter lost yellow coat for a moment only to see it going out with the sea of people.

“Hey!" he shouted. Desperation in his voice. “Yellow coat!” 

Only feet away now, he saw the person go up the stairs. His heart hammering against his ribcage, what was this, why was he so anxious for the person to turn?

Crossing a busy street, he took his earphones off, seeing for one last time yellow coat get into a taxi, mixing in the traffic. 

Peter sometimes really thought he was the most intelligent person in the world. He decided to follow the taxi, this time in Spider-Man clothes. Web shooters full and ready, cold wind wasn’t even a bother, he had perfected the suit to be warmer on winter days. 

Swinging up to Brooklyn’s bridge had been easy, the problem being on which of all the taxis he saw was yellow coat in. 

Running and shooting webs caused lots of honking and almost made a man crash his car thanks to the little kid trying to come off the window to say hello to him.

“Sorry!” He apologized, as he flew by. 

Last taxi entering Brooklyn was his only chance, this better be it. As he plopped as softly as he could on the roof of the car, he bent over to take a peek on the backseat windows. 

He grinned under the mask. Knocking on the window he saw shiny hair flick, and sparkly eyes connected with his white buggy ones. Waving a hand at you, your eyes went wide. In a flash everything came back to him.

The curse, how you feed him and basically cured his bad luck with a blueberry flavored kiss.

Stealing his heart with that, it was absurd yet magical, Peter wasn’t surprised no more with what happened in his daily life.

“Roll the window down?” He made the motion for you to do so.

For a brief second Peter thought you were not doing it, but you did, wind made your hair dance and oh Peter’s heart shivered with joy.

“Witch!” He greeted, still looking at you upside down.

“Peter Pa- Spider-Man!” you smiled, in awe.

The taxi driver rolled his window down too. “Dickhead, get the fuck down of my car!” 

“Just drop me in the next block.” You said, throwing the man some money.

Peter jumped off the car just as the taxi slowed down. 

“Freaks!” The man shouted at them, his middle finger sticking out the window as his goodbye.

“Thank you kind sir!” Peter saluted him.

You snorted by his side. Pivoting on his heels, it took him a second to take it all in. 

“You disappeared,”

“I didn’t disappear, I helped you get home Peter Parker.” You grinned. Oh that smile, Peter wanted to squeeze your cheeks.

“Um, no, that’s not what happened. I was lying in your room, and then you kissed me and then I woke up at my aunt’s? For a moment I thought I was losing my mind.”

You were staring at him amused. “It was fun, right? I know I had a lot of fun that night.” 

“Don't be mean.” Peter’s hand flew to his chest, as if he had been hurt for real. “I even asked Flash about you, and you lied, you never went to Empire.” Hands flying in the air, as he spoke.

“First of all. I do go to Empire, Flash is just not a very observant person.”

“Right, so tell me why you did all this?”

"I had to fix it okay!” Your eyes locked on your shoes. 

“Spider-Man hi!!” A group of teenagers waved their hands at them on the other side of the street.

“Hello, guys!” He had to be kind to the fans, being the beloved neighborhood hero wasn’t an easy task after all. “Have a good day.”

“You are the shit bro!” One of them shouted back.

“Do you mind if we talk somewhere more private?” Peter said through gritted teeth.

You bit the inside of your cheek to not laugh. “Ok.”

Peter took the opportunity to grab you by the waist, in a fast and smooth motion he was flying through Brooklyn.

“This is not what I had in mind.” You squealed against his spandex covered neck, he felt your breath hot on his skin. 

“Oh you owe me, this is the least you can do for me Witch.” 

Peter wowed as they moved between buildings. Landing on the roof of an old cinema. The neon lights casting pretty shadows against your face and the suit’s texture became alive. He took the mask off to reveal the sweetest of smiles. Cheeks rosy.

“What can we do about this?” He asked, arms spread wide, he was falling for someone who he barely knew.

You hid your hands inside your coat, wind biting on your skin harshly. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Peter sighed. “How was it supposed to go? You said you had to fix it, what do you mean by that?”

Why were Peter’s eyes so pretty, his face was a mix of pain and hope, your stomach felt funny again. It had been like that since you first saw him. A month ago.

A blue moon was something you always enjoyed. Making moon water, charging crystals, manifesting and writing spells. 

But Orion, your black cat had been angsty for days now, he always was like that during full moons. He destroyed your quilt, the one to knit together with so much effort. So you let him out.

“Get out! If you could, I’d make you fix this to make me happy!” The window closed with a thud and poor Orion blended in with the night.

After trying to fix it but failing with the quilt you felt guilty. Orion was simply trying to let that energy out, and you took it against the poor thing. After much thinking you decided to go out looking for him. Orion’s name got pronounced several times until you saw him crossing the street a little ahead of you, it was three in the morning. Cars weren’t even passing, the world was still, sirens and honks chimed far away. 

Orion locked eyes with you for a moment. And you knew this was a bit of a dare to him, squatting down you tried to prod the cat to go to you, but Orion only sat in the middle of the sidewalk, liking his paw almost making fun of you. One step closer was what set him off running again. Just in time for Spider-Man to pass walking; half mask up munching on what seemed to be a burrito, mustard on the corner of his mouth, he came to a halt when the cat crossed his path. You saw Spider-Man gulp. 

A moment later his burrito fell flat on the pavement. You knew what this was about, you shut your eyes, cursing Orion under your breath, when you opened them Spider-Man was gone. 

“So you knew I was Spider-Man all along?” Peter scoffed. “You are full of secrets witch.”

“I knew I even said it to you when you were freaking out. Half of the spell had to do with me doing the ritual and half of it was you believing it would work, you still opened those damn pretty eyes.”

Peter kicked a tiny rock off the roof. “So you think I have pretty eyes?” he heard you laugh. 

“You do Peter Parker.”

He blushed deeper. “ So what I felt when you… kissed me was just part of the spell?” 

The disappointment in his voice made your heart jump. “It wasn’t about feelings, Peter Parker, it was just a spell to fix your bad luck. Whatever you felt, that’s on you.”

“Hmm,” he took a step closer, scratching his neck. “I was being serious when I asked you out for coffee.”

“I know.”

Peter smirked. “You like making me suffer, I see how it is.” He laughed, making a full twirl.

The grin on your lips couldn’t be held. “It’s funny to see you all embarrassed.” 

“Jesus… okay so, coffee this Saturday?” His ears were bright red.

“Sounds good to me.” 

“Great.” Another step closer. “Don’t bring your cat, I beg.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Good, because I’m feeling pretty lucky as it is.” His lips ghosted over yours.

On your tiptoes you connected your lips with his cold but soft ones. Both smiling and chuckling. 

“This is even better than the last one.”

“Yeah because you were freaking out about spiders, Spider-Man.” you mumbled, Peter brushed the hairs that floated in your face, he needed a clear path.

“I think I prefer it when you call me Peter Parker.”

Peter kissed the tip of your nose, and you finally let him know your name. He beamed as he repeated it.

“That sounds about right.”

A meow was heard and Peter groaned, forehead connection to yours.

“He won’t do it again. I promise, it was just a blue moon thing.”

You saw his eyes traveling all over your face. “I think I can get used to getting cursed.”

Orion meowed again, rubbing its little black fur against Peter’s leg. 

“Hey pal.” Peter said, patting the cat sweetly.

You snorted. “You’re weird Peter Parker.”

“Thank you.” 

Maybe after all Orion did something that made you happier than a badly knitted quilt.  

Peter found the whole term of black cat curse drastically different, they weren’t about bad luck after all. 

[renlyslittlerose]

The other day I had a dream that I dressed up as Magnus Hirschfeld to attend a con, and I ran into an Albert Einstein cosplayer

I don't know what this dream means, and I won't even begin to dissect it. All I will do is reminisce about the utter joy I felt when I encountered Mr. Einstein in a hotel lobby

[misterlemonztenth]

03-15-24 | Today in 1879 Albert Einstein was born in Wurttemberg, Germany. He would be 145 today. He died in 1955 in Princeton, NJ.

Happy Birthday Albert.

Here are some insights from the one and only Albert Einstein. He is most known as a popular scientist who dramatically changed humanity’s engagement with the world. This post illuminates some of his equally amazing insights beyond the science and beyond the physical.

“I didn't arrive at my understanding of the fundamental laws of the universe through my rational mind.”

2. “Concerning matter, we have been all wrong. What we have called matter is energy, whose vibration has been so lowered as to be perceptible to the senses. Matter is spirit reduced to point of visibility. There is no matter.”

"Time and space are not conditions in which we live, but modes by which we think.

Physical concepts are free creations of the human mind, and are not, however it may seem, determined by the external world."

“Time does not exist – we invented it. Time is what the clock says. The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”

“I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence, and the truth comes to me."

"The intellect has little to do on the road to discovery. There comes a leap in consciousness, call it intuition or what you will, the solution comes to you and you don’t know how or why.”

"A human being experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty."

"Our separation from each other is an optical illusion."

“When something vibrates, the electrons of the entire universe resonate with it. Everything is connected. The greatest tragedy of human existence is the illusion of separateness.”

“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”

“We are souls dressed up in sacred biochemical garments and our bodies are the instruments through which our souls play their music.”

“When you examine the lives of the most influential people who have ever walked among us, you discover one thread that winds through them all. They have been aligned first with their spiritual nature and only then with their physical selves.”

“The true value of a human being can be found in the degree to which he has attained liberation from the self.”

“The ancients knew something, which we seem to have forgotten.”

“The more I learn of physics, the more I am drawn to metaphysics.”

“One thing I have learned in a long life: that all our science, measured against reality, is primitive and childlike. We still do not know one thousandth of one percent of what nature has revealed to us. It is entirely possible that behind the perception of our senses, worlds are hidden of which we are unaware.”

“I’m not an atheist. The problem involved is too vast for our limited minds. We are in the position of a little child entering a huge library filled with books in many languages. The child knows someone must have written those books.”

"The common idea that I am an atheist is based on a big mistake. Anyone who interprets my scientific theories this way, did not understand them."

"Everything is determined, every beginning and ending, by forces over which we have no control. It is determined for the insect, as well as for the star. Human beings, vegetables, or cosmic dust, we all dance to a mysterious tune, intoned in the distance by an invisible piper."

“The religion of the future will be a cosmic religion. It will transcend a personal God and avoid dogma and theology.”

“Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another.”

“Everything is energy and that is all there is to it. Match the frequency of the reality you want and you can not help but get that reality. It can be no other way. This is not philosophy. This is physics.”

"I am happy because I want nothing from anyone. I do not care about money. Decorations, titles or distinctions mean nothing to me. I do not crave praise. I claim credit for nothing. A happy man is too satisfied with the present to dwell too much on the future." misterlemonztenth.tumblr.com/archive

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 2: Employed By Criminals

I can’t stand waiting any longer. I’ve been in my new room for what seems like an hour and no one has come to give any further instructions. The time I took to settle in only lasted five minutes, considering all my possessions fit in a small suitcase. So, I decide now I will explore.

I peek through the keyhole and find the kitchen outside to be empty. After opening the door I stick my head out to survey again. Still empty. Where is everyone? The least I can do now is to prepare dinner. After scavenging the kitchen I find some vegetables and spices to work with. No meat, but I’m not going to make a fool of myself around looking for the meat cellar. After I’ve started boiling water and mixed in some herbs I begin to chop the vegetables.

“You’re back,” Finn states as he enters from another side door, looking at the pot with new-found interest. “What’s that?”

“Dinner. Oh, since I didn’t get a good chance to introduce myself, my name’s Verena. Just so you know. Your aunt hired me to be your tutor.”

Finn scrunches his face in dislike. “Ugh. That again? Aunt Polly knows I hate reading!”

“What do you enjoy instead?” I try to sound optimistic as I peel the carrots.

“I like math better, like the math Tommy does for the business. Reading’s too complicated.”

“Not necessarily. What have you read before?”

“The Wind In The Willows, Peter Rabbit, all that kids stuff.”

“Well then it seems to me that you just need to find content you enjoy. Fiction may not be your choice, but you might like books of science, philosophy, or social issues. Have you heard of the Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy by Isaac Newton, or Relativity: The Special and General Theory by Albert Einstein? Maybe The Jungle by Upton Sinclair? Actually-” I set down my knife and rush to my room, returning with a book from my suitcase. “I brought this with me on vacation for light reading.” I hand the curious child the worn book. “It’s the Common Sense pamphlet by Thomas Paine. It’s American, but I’m sure it’s much more interesting than Peter Rabbit.”

Finn apprehensively scans the first page, and I can’t hide my growing smile as a look of interest begins to spread on his face. He starts reading, wandering down the hall while not looking up once. Maybe I’ll make a good tutor after all.

“Alright, enough chatter. Let’s eat.” An approaching voice speaks.

I go back to chopping carrots and don’t bother to look up until the voice speaks again.

“Who are you?”

When I lift my gaze to find the voice’s source, a pair of icy blue eyes are peering into me. The eyes belong to a man with a well-sculpted face that shows both stern and commanding intentions. He’s wearing gray trousers, black dress shoes, white shirt and gray vest, as well as a flat cap that John was wearing earlier. He’s also smoking a cigarette, which has brought a foul stench along with it.

“Who let you in here?” The man asks, not even waiting for me to answer his first question.

“Polly did. Pleasure to meet you-”

“But you can’t be here. I’ll have to talk to her.” Then he walks off and starts pouring himself some water, and I faintly hear him mutter: “We don’t take in strays.”

Excuse me? Since when does this guy get to treat me like dirt? Maybe it’s the American mutt temper, but I’ve got the urge to give him a piece of my mind!

I lean against the counter and look up with rebellious eyes. “Gotta say, your accent is a bit on the tricky side. Mind saying that again?”

The man seems taken back by the tone of my voice, as if he’s not used to people being sassy with him. He’s quick to regain his posture and has a smirk growing on his lips.

“And I’ll say that your American accent is downright pathetic compared to ours. You lot still never got over being independent, did you? Gotta flaunt it about in all our faces!”

My jaw drops. “I never even mentioned that! I think you’re the one holding a grudge based on a war you weren’t even a part of!” He tries to interrupt but I keep talking. “And for the record, we Americans are current allies with you. So instead of arguing about something that happened a hundred and forty years ago, I say we uphold each country’s honor and talk as if we’re on the same level. Do you agree?”

The man keeps staring at me, seeming to ponder whether or not to argue again.

“This book is really good!” Finn interrupts the silence from down the hall.

I grin at his enthusiasm and go back to chopping carrots, ignoring the man’s blank stare.

“Polly said you know Finn, my new student.”

His eyes flick upwards to find mine again. “Pardon?”

“I’m his tutor, or at least I have been for the past hour. Polly hired me, so that’s why I’m here.”

“Interesting…”

Now he’s looking at me in a different manner, as if sizing me up as a potential threat. Why would he do that? The man slowly walks around the counter towards me and removes his cap, allowing me to see he has dark hair in a style similar to Finn’s. He turns it over and sets it on the counter, as if he wants me to get a closer look. What I do I notice it’s got something shiny peeking out of the brim.

“What’s with the custom hat? It’s made of metal, or something?”

The man simply chuckles and holds back the fabric to show- razors?

“You sew razor blades into your hat? Now I’ve heard everything! And I thought Americans were crazy!”

“Is that soup I smell?” Another voice comes from the same way the man came. Another man enters the room and I recognize him as John. When he sees us, his eyes acquire a hint of uncertainty. “Thomas, I see you’ve met Verena. Polly was just telling me about her.”

So this is the Thomas I was warned about? I guess Polly wasn’t kidding when she said he was ruff. 

“Not officially, John. She was just telling about how Polly hired her to teach Finn. May I ask why?”

“Polly says it’s because he needs a proper education. Not one that’s only taught through bookkeeping. Can’t say I blame her. When’s the last time any of us actually sat down with him and taught him something?”

Thomas shrugs. “If he’s going to be part of the Blinders he’ll learn all he needs to know by watching us.”

The name sends a chill down my spine and I snap to attention.

“Wait- Blinders? As in Peaky Blinders…? Oh my God.” I look back and forth between Thomas and John, still holding the knife. “Shelby! That’s the name! Shelby! I’ve heard things about you, what kind of a man you are! Excuse me, but I do not want to be involved with anything surrounding you!”

I grip the knife and dash for the hallway, yanking on the door handle only to find it’s locked. Panicking, I stand in the corner with the knife held out as Thomas Shelby struts towards me- holding a pistol!

“Please, don’t kill me! I have nothing to offer! You’d just be wasting a bullet!”

There’s no answer, only Thomas looking at me with cold eyes.

“Verena! Verena! Polly, where'd she go?” Finn’s voice comes from down the hall. He turns his head and sees me, with a wide grin on his face. God, I can’t let him see me get killed!

“Finn…? Finn! Did you finish your reading?” I speak in a quivering voice.

“Almost. I’ve only got a few more pages.”

I nod shakily still looking between Finn and Thomas, who’s looking at him while still holding the gun up. “Alright, go and finish up and then I’ll be right over.”

Finn heads back into his room, and I look up to glare into Thomas’ calculating eyes. “I swear to God, if you so much as lay a finger on that boy-!”

“You’ll what?” Thomas asks in a laid-back manner. “A moment ago you were begging for me not to kill you. Now you’re threatening me not to kill my own brother?”

My mind stops. “Brother…? He’s your brother? Oh…” I shamefully look to the floor, cursing myself in my head for making such a stupid mistake. “But you’ll still kill me.”

The next few quiet seconds are so suspenseful I swear I can hear my own heart beating. I dare to look back up at Thomas, who now shakes his head.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

My brow furrows at his words. “This means I’m fired then, doesn’t it?”

By now John’s entered the hallway and comes over to stand in front of Thomas.

“Why would we fire you? From what Polly’s told me and what we’ve seen here, you haven’t given us any reason to fire you.”

“But my question is-” Thomas steps forward. “Can she be trusted? How do we know she’s loyal to us?”

I bite my lip and lower the knife I’m holding. “With all due respect sir, you’re technically my employer. That and the fact that you’re temporarily housing me gives me enough reason to be loyal. And if for whatever reason in the future I might not be, you can kick me to the dirt.”

Both men exchange looks, seeming to have a silent conversation while I stand here awkwardly. Eventually John gestures for Thomas to put away the gun, who seems to have forgotten he had it out.

“We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Thomas says in a lighter tone. “What was your name again?”

Now that he’s not holding a gun at me, Thomas actually seems decent. I might dare to even call him handsome. Remember, this is your boss now. Keep it professional. Don’t lose your head.

I stand up straighter and hold out a hand to shake his. “Verena Nora Steenstra. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shelby.” I turn to John and shake his hand too. “You as well, Mr. Shelby. I was told by Polly to wait for any further instructions. In the meantime there is soup in the pot if you’re interested.”

“Wait.” Thomas gets an odd look. “You… made dinner? Why?”

Now that I have more leverage, I hold my breath to squeeze past the two men and back into the kitchen. “I had nothing else to do, and it’s the least I can do since you’ve allowed me into your home.”

Just then, Polly comes into the room. She hesitates when she sees us, giving John and Thomas a certain look. Then she sees the pot on the stove.

“Who cooked? Ada hasn’t made anything in weeks.”

The two men look at each other, then point to me. Polly seems impressed.

“You appear to be a lady of many talents, Ms. Steenstra.”

My face goes pink at her praise and I busy myself by stirring the soup. “I know my way around the kitchen. My family thinks it’s proper for me to be a suitable housewife, so that’s what I’ve been expected to do my whole life. Cooking, baking, sewing, the works. In all honesty, this is the first real job I’ve ever had.”

When I turn back to them, they’re all sitting at the table and appear to all be whispering something. Thomas is the one to speak first.

“So you’re from America, and for the moment you are stuck here?”

“Correct.”

He nods slowly. “Welcome to Birmingham, Ms. Steenstra. Here’s exactly what you’re getting yourself into, love. My family runs a bookkeeping business, and we do our part to keep a close eye on the authorities. People know better not to mess with us.”

“Bookkeeping, like gambling?”

“Correct.”

Dear Lord, I’ve become involved with criminals!

Polly seems to catch onto my panicked thoughts. “You need not worry about being caught up with our work. You’ll only be interacting with Finn.” Polly’s eyes narrow. “If anyone asks, you’re a private tutor and only a private tutor. Do not go asking too many questions.”

I nod shakily and wring my hands together. “Seems to me like a world made up of gambling, drinking, and violence.” I shake my head and give her a skeptical look. “That doesn’t seem like a world I want to be involved in.”

“You won’t have to, and I suggest you don’t.”

By now Finn’s returned and is sitting next to John, but he’s not the only one who’s entered. Over the past few minutes a man with a mustache and a younger woman with short dark hair wearing a red dress are now standing across from me. Thankfully Polly notices my discomfort.

“Everyone, we need proper introductions. This is Verena Steenstra, and she’s going to be helping Finn with his studies. Verena, you’ve met Finn, Thomas, and John. The final Shelby brother is Arthur over there.” She points to the mustache man. “And Ada’s their sister.” She points to the woman in red.

Wow. The Shelbys are a big family. And suspicious ones at that, because they’re all looking at me as if they’re dogs eyeing a piece of meat.

“Polly, no offense, but I don’t like this,” the one called Arthur grunts. “Who says the bitch won’t tattle to the coppers the instant she leaves? How do you know she isn’t a spy sent by the new bloke?” He jerks his head to see Finn eating my soup and he swipes the bowl. “How do we know this isn’t poisoned?!”

“Because I ate it?” I shrug. “Because unlike most people I’ve met here I actually try to be nice? It’s fun, you should try it sometime.”

John starts outright laughing, leaving us all giving him funny looks. “You picked out a real winner, Polly! She’s just like the Americans I met during the war!”

Lord, what have I gotten myself into?

[innuendostudios]

A new video essay has appeared. The second Protagony, this time looking at Abed Nadir and the weird way modern audiences treat the fourth wall.

If you like this video and would like to see more Protagony, Alt-Right Playbook, and what else have you in the future, consider backing me on Patreon!

Transcript below the cut:

The doors open. The line starts to move. The usher takes your ticket and points in the direction of your seat. Preshow music plays over the soundsystem as you side-shuffle past the knees of the folks in your row. You stick your bag and your jacket under the seat and sit down. You leaf through the playbill, futz around on your phone, until music starts to fade. The lights in the auditorium dim and the lights come up on the stage. The show is beginning.

This is one of those plays set in a single location: three walls on the stage represent the interior of a French bistro. French bistros typically have at least four walls, and that’s where you come in: the lip of the stage - what theatre nerds call “the proscenium” - is where the fourth wall would be, and it’s your job to pretend it’s there. Or - let me rephrase that: it’s your job to ignore that it’s not. That is the bargain you make when the lights go down.

To the characters onstage, everything inside those walls is real, and nothing on the other side of that fourth wall exists. The ambient noise, the guy two rows down and four seats over who’s clearly playing Words with Friends, even you yourself, you are - and this is a nerd word again - “non-diegetic.” You’re here, but you exist outside the story.

That is, until…

[Picasso at the Lapin Agile]

EINSTEIN: My name is Albert Einstein

FREDDIE: You can’t be, you just can’t be!

EINSTEIN: Sorry, I’m not myself today. (fluffs up his hair so he looks like Einstein.) Better?

FREDDIE: No no, that’s - (pause for laughter.) No no, that’s not what I mean. In order of appearance.

EINSTEIN: Come again?

FREDDIE: In order of appearance. You’re not third. (aside, to audience member) Excuse me, ma’am, can I borrow your program? (to Einstein) You’re fourth. It says so right here: Cast in order of appearance. I knew you were fourth. I knew it when you walked in.

[/Picasso at the Lapin Agile]

This is what we call “breaking the fourth wall,” and Steve Martin’s Picasso at the Lapin Agile is a great show for demonstrating it because the character Freddy literally reaches his hand through the wall and into the audience. Like many fourth wall breaks, this is played for laughs, because it’s a kind of narrative transgression; you’re not supposed to do that. When the diegetic intrudes upon the non-, the audience is reminded of all the things they were ignoring: that this is not a French bistro in 1904, but a bunch of plywood flats and actors in pancake makeup and period dress. The disbelief that was suspended is brought back to school, as it were.

But what I want to highlight is how durable the fourth wall is. For starters, in order for this joke to work, the audience has to be already suspending its disbelief; the boundary must be drawn before it can be broken. And, shortly after this gag, Einstein exits, Germaine enters [“Sorry I’m late”], Freddy makes a little wink to the audience [“You’re not late, you’re fourth”], and the scene continues as if nothing had happened. The audience wraps itself back up in the story, and the fourth wall is rebuilt, so that, when it’s broken later in the show [“When will you be there?” “When the play is over.”] it’s funny again! If the wall had stayed down, that joke wouldn’t work.

Why do we build the wall? So we can have a wall to break.

Often enough, these acknowledgements - in theatre but also film, novels, video games - any time a narrative reminds you of its own artifice, it is contained such that it does not disrupt the narrative too much. It operates like the soliloquies in Shakespeare or the songs in musicals. When Deadpool speaks to the audience, everyone around him goes deaf.

But what I got curious about, when I first read Francesco Casetti’s Inside the Gaze - or rather I read the glossary because it’s very dense Italian film theory and I was nineteen - was, what if you didn’t make that bargain when the lights went down? What if breaking the fourth wall wasn’t a disruption of the narrative, because the story is built such that the artifice is part of the narrative? Can you break the fourth wall… diegetically?

Now, that was a punchy idea as a teenager. As a man in his late thirties, I am aware this idea has been approached many times in many ways throughout the history of storytelling [Brecht: “Am I a joke to you?”]. We’re currently living in a golden age of metanarrative where most major properties have folded the audience’s relationship to that property into the text. But I wanna talk about my favorite example: Abed Nadir.

Now, my feelings about the show Community are… mixed, but I love me some Abed. [“pretty adorable”] Abed is a pop culture-damaged perpetual college student raised by his television, who loves TV to the point where it’s his primary metaphor for looking at the world. In other words, he’s an American millennial. His tendency to filter his life through sitcom tropes is lent a certain pointedness by being a character on a tropey sitcom. Por exemplo, when Annie asks him for help [“Phoebe and Chandler” clip], or when the new school year coincides with the conclusion of the previous season’s arcs [“self-contained capers” clip], or when it looks like he’s going to spend the day locked in study hall [“starting to feel like a bottle episode” clip]. In these moments, Abed Nadir is not breaking the fourth wall. He may not fully understand that real life doesn’t have bottle episodes, but this is real life to him. He’s not seeing the cameras pointing at him, he’s not disrupting the narrative by winking at a sitcom audience.

But there is a sitcom audience - we are the sitcom audience - and the writers did just use Abed to wink at us. “Cooperative Calligraphy” is a bottle episode. Abed is speaking diegetically to his friends, who read his comments as the pop culture references they are, but they double as things a person who was breaking the fourth wall might say. [“This is totally meta” clip] The rules of narrative are not transgressed, and, yet, we are, all the same, constantly reminded that we’re watching a work of fiction.

This kind of interreference, in which a sitcom points constantly at itself, at other sitcoms, and at “The Sitcom” as a medium, can come across kind of masturbatory. David Foster Wallace argued that the pop culture reference in mass media serves three functions: “(1) to help create a mood of irony and irreverence, (2) to make us uneasy and so ‘comment’ on the vapidity of U.S. culture, and (3) most important, these days, to be just plain realistic.” I would say (2) is far less prevalent now than when he was writing.

The reality is this: how you gonna write a twentysomething millennial in 2009 who doesn’t talk a lot about what’s on television? This is a conundrum many writers face. There is still the High culture urge to make art that is timeless, that avoids what Foster Wallace referred to as “the frivolous Now,” and the Low culture necessity of not looking dated eight months after you air. This can be approached many ways: you can avoid reference and just take the verisimilitudinous hit; you can create fictional, in-universe pop culture for your characters to reference; you can reference pop culture that is old enough to be considered timeless, functionally setting your story in a different “frivolous Now,” e.g. the way Sex Education and Life is Strange are both canonically set in the present but are aesthetically set in the late seventies and early nineties, respectively; or you can embrace chaos and just reference contemporary culture.

But, once you’re a show on TV with characters referencing other shows currently airing on TV, things might get a little meta, especially shows that lean into it the way Community does. So what does this do to the fourth wall? That supposedly sanctified construct, the violation of which is most often either a failure or an act of deliberate anarchy? How are we to suspend disbelief for stories that don’t even pretend not to be fake, and whose primary pleasure is in acknowledging the fakery?

Abed is, to me, a distillation of the modern audience’s more intricate relationship to the fourth wall. Art imitates life, and when much of life is spent discussing popular art, popular art begins to discuss itself. And art that discusses itself requires a more liminal relationship to the fourth wall. These days we don’t choose to either see it or ignore it, but pay both kinds of attention at once, letting the fourth wall, as needed, fade in and out of visibility, like glass when it catches the light, or seeing your face in the monitor when it fades to black. This was maybe inevitable in a media-saturated environment where the lines between audience, participant, and creator continue to blur, where we watch even straightforward media with an eye towards how it’s made, because we imagine making something like it ourselves one day, or because any viewing experience is potential #content. In a world where it is rarer and rarer to experience art in a darkened theatre that shuts out the world, but where it’s watched on phones during bus rides, in the background while cooking, in an open tab while writing emails. We keep fiction and reality running in tandem, shifting between them with little more than a saccade. The real world isn’t forgotten but edged out of the foreground during a cigarette break.

What tickles me is that Brecht violated suspension of disbelief to create distance between the fiction and its audience. But postmodern reflexivity just makes Abed relatable. He watches TV the same way we watch Community. You can imagine him watching his own show and responding much the way I am now: OK, so you want me to mentally construct a fourth wall that the performers will pretend is there, but the writers will constantly - and entertainingly - bring to my attention its nonexistence, such that I need to suspend my disbelief while thinking about the fact that I am suspending it, which should be mutually-exclusive modes of thought, but, to even understand what I’m watching, I’ll need to do both at once?

Cool.

Cool cool cool.

[innervoiceartblog]

“We are slowed down sound and light waves, a walking bundle of frequencies tuned into the cosmos. We are souls dressed up in sacred biochemical garments and our bodies are the instruments through which our souls play their music.”

~ Albert Einstein.

Photograph by Curtis Eberhardt

[pleasecallmenicole]

While I don't fully buy the idea that all of Value's IP's are connected in one universe (things don't need to be interconnected to be good), I do really like the idea that Team Fortress and specifically Half Life 1 are.

One because Team Fortress started as a Half Life mod so it kinda works in that sense but also, Half Life has a specific artstyle that really complements that cartoony one in Team Fortress 2. It's hard to see Alyx Vance in the same world as TF2, but the scientists of Half Life 1 I can definitely see alongside the mercs.

Half Life 1's design despite working to set a dark atmosphere is kinda silly and ridiculous. I mean you have a quarter of the science staff dressing up as Albert Einstein, soldiers are going around with cigars in their mouth and every single accidental death like falling from a ladder or into a large pit is just a bit silly. Half Life scientist sounds are like a whole meme because they're just a bit ridiculous in general. It matches really well with the silliness of Team Fortress 2, one is more of a goofy team shooter and the other is a more serious but kinda silly single player game. Its fun to think of.

[beardedmrbean]

Hey you know that color hat with a fan on it boys wear like in cartoons? Does anyone knows where that trope came from and why? Is it from the 50’s or something?

The name “propeller-head” is used nowadays for a technophile, sometimes disparagingly, for an enthusiast of technology and (according to the Mirriam-Webster Dictionary) especially of computers. In images, the modern geek may be satirized with a cap having one or two toy propellers mounted to spin horizontally above the top of the hat.

So, was this flamboyant hat originated in the flower-powered hippie era of the 1960s? Well, no - decades earlier, in fact. It is generally accepted to have been first improvised in Cadillac, Michigan, using a beanie (a visorless cap) in 1947, made by Ray Faraday Nelson. It quickly became an icon for science fiction fans to identify themselves, and a national fad.

In a published interview1, Nelson described how “In the summer of 1947, I was holding a regional science fiction convention in my front room and it culminated with myself and some Michigan fans dressing up in some improvised costumes to take joke photographs, simulating the covers of science fiction magazines. The headgear which I designed for the space hero was the first propeller beanie. It was made out of pieces of plastic, bit of coat-hanger wire, some beads, a propeller from a model airplane, and staples to hold it together.” Shortly thereafter, it was worn by George Young of Detroit at a world convention, where it was an enormous hit.

Nelson thereafter frequently drew cartoons for fanzines portraying science fiction fans wearing propeller beanies. In 1948, Artist Guy Pène du Bois (1884-1958) painted a “Boy with a propeller beanie” hovering some feet up in the air above what looks like perhaps a sandy beach.

Shortly, it was further popularized by a television program, Time For Beany (video). The show was hugely popular with children, and even adults. The title character was a propeller beanie-wearing puppet named Beany whose sock-puppet friend called Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent was voiced and controlled by an unknown Stan Freeberg!) Starting in 1949, it ran five times a week for five years. It was hugely popular with children, and even some adults (including Albert Einstein, according to a Stan Freeberg reminiscence) (video). That idea of Bruce Sedley on KTLA in Los Angeles, California, was produced by Disney animator, Bob Clampett, who soon followed up with a syndicated, animated cartoon series of Beany and Cecil, in which Beany's propeller enabled him to fly (video).

Nelson went on to become a professional writer of novels and short stories. He made no profit from the fad of sales of beanie hats that followed from his idea.

In the summer of 1947, while still in high school, science fiction fanzine artist Ray Nelson, per his claim, invented the propeller beanie as part of a "space man" costume on a lark with some friends. He later drew it in his cartoons as emblematic shorthand for science fiction fandom. The hat became a fad, seen in media such as "Time for Beanie", and was sold widely by many manufacturers over the next decade.[11]

The propeller beanie increased in popular use through comics and eventually made its way onto the character of Beany Boy of Beany and Cecil. Today, computer savvy and other technically proficient people are sometimes pejoratively called propellerheads because of the one-time popularity of the propeller beanie.

In 1996, student hackers placed a giant propeller beanie on the Great Dome at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The scaled-up propeller rotated as the wind drove it like a windmill.

Propeller beanie drew laughs from Belgian workmen as they unpacked display shipments to show “How America Lives” for the U.S. exhibit at the Brussels Fair, as shown in Life magazine (31 Mar 1958). (source)

______________________________ there's a good amount of this I didn't know, the article at the top goes on further and further too if you're interested I just hit the opening point of who's claimed to have originated it and why, which the wiki article has too.