#greases miami

[thatsojasminesworld]

Any recommendations for movies or shows

[callalillywrites]

Callalilly's Main Masterlist

About Me:

Callalilly (Calla or Callie is fine, too).

Over 35, Mama of 2 (plus fur baby).

Writer of Fanfic and occasionally original works

An Agnostic, Ace Leo who likes having fun and talking about my favorites.

Current Fandoms and Favorites

Marvel/MCU

Criminal Minds

CSI and CSI: Miami

Chris Evans' characters

Top Gun and Top Gun: Maverick

I'm also working my way through Sebastian Stan and Henry Cavill movies/shows. So, they'll most likely be added as they inspire me as well as others I come across.

About this Blog

I write SFW but read and reblog NSFW - 18+ only please.

No Copying. No Translating. No Reposting. No AI Feeding.

Comments, Likes, & Reblogs are always welcome and encouraged.

Asks are open and also very welcome.

Requests are also open though I can't guarantee I'll get to it fast, but I'll try my best to make my muse cooperate.

Works are also available on AO3.

It Takes All Packs to Make It Work (A/B/O AU) - Multicharacter verse

Cool Rider Barber Shop & Hair Salon (Grease/Grease 2 Themed AU) - Multicharacter verse

To Repay a Debt (Enemies to Lovers AU) - Eventual Soft!Ransom Drysdale/Personal Assistant!Reader

Bucky's Best Friend (Modern AU/No Powers AU) - Pre-serum Steve Rogers x Reader

Surprising His Omega - Horny Hoes Hootenanny Challenge (Alpha!Steve Rogers x Omega!Reader)

Dream Home - Horny Hoes Hootenanny Challenge (Boyfriend!Jake Jensen x Reader)

Bucky's Best Man (Modern Day AU) - Pre-serum Steve x Reader

Best Grandpa Competition: Beast vs. Hades - Descendants 3 Beast, Belle, and Hades (Gen Fic - Grandparents babysitting)

Shooting His Shot (Restaurant AU); Part 2 - Steve Rogers x Reader

The Invisible Avenger - Gen Fic featuring Avengers with Female Reader (no ship...yet) - Flash Fiction Friday Prompt Response

Dark and Stormy Night - Gen Fic featuring various CEvans characters with Female Reader (squint at polyship) - Flash Fiction Friday Prompt Response

Fixer-Upper (Photo-inspired Imagine) - Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Reader

Steve's Choice (You Didn't by Brett Young) - Steve Rogers/Reader

Childhood Best Friend (You Didn't by Brett Young) - Steve Rogers/Reader

His Dream Come True (Marry Me by Thomas Rhett) - Jake Jensen/Reader

[batsplat]

your sampras/agassi post was life changing... my god

(said post) thank you!! I'm really pleased by the pick up that post has gotten - I don't post much about tennis on here, but it always has and always will be my number one sport and this rivalry is one that's very dear to my heart. incidentally, I got a similar ask prompting a write up of the henin/clijsters rivalry, so when I find the time I'll talk about them in similar depth too. now there's a rivalry that definitely deserves more attention that it gets

but speaking of agassi/sampras, while I have you here... there's one particular match from 1994 I only very briefly alluded to that does also speak rather nicely to the themes of that rivalry. it's the final of key biscayne (aka miami), played at a time when sampras is the dominant world number one and agassi is still on just the single slam. the reason why this match is so notable is that it could very easily not have happened. sampras was struggling with health issues at that point of his career - and before the match was scheduled to start, agassi came upon him lying prone on the locker room floor with severe stomach pain

sampras was not ready to start the match at the scheduled start time. by rights, it should have been agassi's win via walkover. the tournament directors requested that agassi agree to a delay of the match - it's particularly awkward to have to cancel a final, after all, with thousands of spectators present to see the big match (x)

On March 20, when Agassi entered the locker room before the final, he witnessed a very unusual scene: Sampras was lying on the ground, suffering from a stomach ache. There was no way Sampras could be ready to start the final on time, which would make Agassi the Miami champion. However, the world No 1 thought he would be able to play if Agassi agreed to delay the final by an hour. Agassi agreed. “It’s not about winning the tournament; it’s about taking pride in what you do,” Agassi explained later, according to The New York Times. “If I couldn’t beat Pete healthy, I didn’t deserve to win the tournament.”

delaying it by A WHOLE HOUR is just objectively extremely generous from agassi - though of course the expectation was that sampras surely wouldn't be particularly competitive anyway. sampras got an IV drip that managed to at least get him back on his feet and ready to take to the court. so at last, after all the fuss and delay, they manage to get the match started. here's agassi in his autobiography describing the delay:

After dispatching Becker, I’m in the final. My opponent? Pete. As always, Pete. The match is slated for national TV. Brad and I are both keyed up as we walk into the locker room, only to find Pete lying on the ground. A doctor and a trainer are leaning over him. The tournament director hovers in the background. Pete brings his knees up to his chest and groans. Food poisoning, the doctor says. Brad whispers to me, Guess you just won Key Biscayne. The director takes Brad and me aside and asks if we’d be willing to give Pete time to recover. I feel Brad stiffen. I know what he wants me to say. But I tell the director, Give Pete all the time he needs. The director sighs and puts his hand on my arm. Thank you, he says. We’ve got fourteen thousand people out there. Plus the network. Brad and I lounge around the locker room, flipping channels on the TV, making phone calls. I dial Brooke, who’s auditioning for Grease on Broadway. Otherwise, she’d be here. Brad shoots me an evil glare. Relax, I tell him, Pete probably won’t get better. The doctor gives Pete an IV, then props him on his feet. Pete wobbles, a newborn colt. He’ll never make it. The tournament director comes to us. Pete’s ready, he says. Fucking A, Brad says. So are we. Should be a short night, I tell Brad.

now, I reckon by now you should be able to guess where this is going. you can find the full match on youtube (samprasfan1987 one of the absolute goats of historical tennis match youtube), though unfortunately only with german commentary. here's three minute highlights with truly horrendous quality:

and I'd recommend it as a match to experience in its entirety. it's........ it's not the best match you'll ever see. it's not the best match those two have played. it's certainly a match those two have played. but, y'know, the thing about tennis is that sometimes it just isn't the best matches that are the most compelling... sometimes it's the matches where both players are fighting their demons. sometimes it's compelling to watch the demons win

because of course sampras can't do the decent thing and just roll over and die. he just HAS to come out swinging, clearly rattling agassi with how he can actually somehow play proper tennis in his condition. this match is such a fun little case study of what an absolute bitch it is to play a physically diminished opponent. the spectators, the commentator, you the viewer, and agassi himself - everyone knows that agassi SHOULD be winning this match. of course he should!! sampras was lying on the FLOOR an hour ago, he's had to IV his way back to his feet, agassi is giving him the "newborn colt" descriptors. and this kind of set-up does run the risk of making you feel like it's a lose-lose situation. if you win, you only won because your opponent was off your game. if you lose, then you're a fucking moron who couldn't even put away the weakest version of your rival

and it's clearly affecting agassi, who plays poorly at the start of the match. he quickly goes down 2-5*, double break to sampras, not finding his rhythm and reeling off a litany of cheap errors as sampras ticks up his games with typical metronomic efficiency. agassi might be making sampras' life easier, but sampras certainly isn't playing like a man who'd lain stricken with agony a short while earlier. then, however, agassi rallies - finds his game, loosens up, probably because he was already down on the scoreboard. the worst case scenario was already happening. the momentum switches quickly and it looks like sampras might be ailing physically after all. agassi still isn't playing his best - but he takes it to sampras, cleans up the error count a little and takes five consecutive games to win the first set 7-5. which, well. a physically healthy sampras generally does not get broken three service games in a row. not with his serve

so going into the second set, it looks like... well, maybe sampras had only about half an hour of decent tennis in him. now he's run out of steam, it's basically game over, right? agassi can cruise home to take the match and the title - probably shouldn't have let the first set get so spooky, but all's well that ends well. spectators got their show, agassi doesn't fall apart against a guy who might keel over any minute

except... except. first set to agassi, and the pressure's once again on him... once again, he's the guy who's supposed to be winning. sampras is down, might be out - he has no reason not to swing freely in a match he probably should be losing. and unfortunately for agassi, there's no guarantee sampras might not recover again physically somewhat after all. energy levels can wax and wane - if you're trying to manage some kind of physical issue, you might be struggling for a while before suddenly clicking back into gear again. agassi has the momentum, sampras has nothing to lose

you know what happens next. sampras gets better and better. agassi gives up a cheap break early in the second - by the third, sampras does manage to find a strong level. it's basically one way traffic. sampras takes the victory. agassi takes another blow

or, as the washington post would put it in a true all timer sports headline:

lovely

here is sampras' description of that episode:

Meanwhile, in a development I kept secret from everyone, I was battling physical problems of my own, although they were paltry compared to Tim’s. For more than a year, I had been struggling with bouts of nausea and an inability, at times, to keep food or even water down. The situation started sometime in 1993, and was so aggravated by the spring of 1994 that I was unable to make the start time for the final of the important Key Biscayne tournament, in which I was to play Andre Agassi. In a gesture I still appreciate, Andre agreed to postpone the scheduled 1 P.M. start of the final for an hour, while I took an intravenous glucose drip. I had been throwing up all morning, which I blamed on the pasta dinner I’d had the night before. The IV did the job, rehydrating me, and I went on to win the final in three sets. At the time, I wanted to believe that the episodes were somehow related to dehydration.

and his immediate post-match comments:

“I woke up at 7 feeling nauseated, heaving and gagging; I didn’t think I’d be able to go out and play,” Sampras added. “But I feel a lot better now. As the match wore on, the adrenaline started kicking in and I started to think I could win when the chips are down. That sort of showed me I’ve got guts.”

guts that were nearly spilling out of him at one point, one might note

and on agassi's side:

“Once he got in front, he started serving big, and that was it,” Agassi commented. “Part of me was saying there was no way he could stay out there for three sets…. I was wrong.” During the trophy ceremony, tournament founder Butch Bucholz thanked Agassi for his sportsmanship, and the runner-up received a standing ovation from the crowd. 

I'm sure agassi felt better getting a standing ovation for having been made a fool of

and that's the problem, isn't it, hinted at by agassi's own line - playing a diminished opponent forces you to think far far more than you should be. it increases the stakes. it makes you feel like you should be winning. it saps at your concentration. it requires you to resist feeling any sympathy or even pity for your opponent when they're struggling. it makes you wonder if you should be taking advantage of your opponent's condition, make them move around the court more, prolong the points, change your style of play to better suit the situation. it makes you wary of celebrating too much, partly out of respect and partly out of a sense of dignity, messes with your motivation levels. makes you think too much about how people are reacting to the match when you should be focusing on how you're playing it. it makes you try and peer into the future - wondering when their level might drop off, if you just need to hold out until their legs give way... all these extra considerations, eating away at your concentration and mental strength. on the flip side, it can make everything easier for the struggling player: they know they only have limited options to pull off the win, they know they probably shouldn't be winning, so they can opt for simplicity over turmoil

it's a universal dynamic in tennis, happens to the best of us - but this specific scenario does also feel like it just happens to be perfect for this specific rivalry. as always, pete; as always, denying andre. sampras, who could swing freely and fight as hard as he dared and show his guts and emerge victorious. agassi, plagued by doubts, second guessing himself as he lets his inevitable rival inevitably snatch away another victory. from right under his nose. after having been lying prone on the locker room floor in front of agassi's own eyes

as ever, of course, agassi himself puts it best:

But Pete does it again. He sends his evil twin onto the court. This is not the Pete who was curled in a ball on the locker-room floor. This is not the Pete who was getting an IV and wobbling in circles. This Pete is in the prime of life, serving at warp speed, barely breaking a sweat. He’s playing his best tennis, unbeatable, and he jumps out to a 5–1 lead. Now I’m angry. I feel as if I found a wounded bird, brought it home, and nursed it back to health, only to have it try to peck my eyes out. I fight back and win the set. Surely I’ve withstood the only attack Pete can mount. He can’t possibly have anything left. But in the second set he’s even better. And in the third he’s a freak. He wins the best-of-three match. I burst into the locker room. Brad is waiting for me, seething. He says again that if he’d been in my place, he’d have forced Pete to forfeit. He’d have demanded that the director fork over the winner’s check. That’s not me, I tell Brad. I don’t want to win like that. Besides, if I can’t beat a guy who’s poisoned, lying on the ground, I don’t deserve it. Brad abruptly stops talking. His eyes get big. He nods. He can’t argue with that. He respects my principles, he says, even though he doesn’t agree. We walk out of the stadium together like Bogart and Claude Rains at the end of Casablanca. The beginning of a beautiful friendship. A vital new member of the team.

such an impressive act of sportsmanship. so completely unrewarded. god, I LOVE the wounded bird trying to peck agassi's eyes out description. can you IMAGINE how annoying that must be if you're agassi? what a thorn in your side this one guy must be? what does it TAKE to put this bloke away? doesn't even have the decency to lose when he's needing an IV drip to take to the court. always, always, ALWAYS catching agassi by surprise. in their first slam final when agassi should've been the favourite, in that 2001 uso quarterfinal when agassi was in far better form, in their last ever slam final and match... even here, when sampras should have been a shell of himself. somehow sampras finds something, somehow he has an evil doppelgaenger to send out in his stead. no wonder he kept scrambling agassi's brain. what a nightmare to deal with

[steddieficrec]

hopelessly devoted (to you) by fivecenturiesverse

(1/1 I 8,863 I Teen)

In Miami, on vacation with his parents, Steve meets Eddie. So what if he doesn't get a last name or a phone number, it was a summer fling and they had a great month together. He doesn't realise it was Eddie fucking Munson until the guy has a broken bottle to his neck and they're about to go face interdimensional aliens together. Steve doesn't know when his life became a very fucked up and non-musical version of Grease.

Robin’s lips twitch. “And it was just a summer fling?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “What?”

“You’re such a hopeless romantic, Steve. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.” He must look as confused as he feels because she laughs and says, “Dude, you like sighed his name, you’re so done for.”

“Shut up. It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again, is it? I’m never even going to hear his name again. It was a summer fling and that’s all.”

[tropes-and-tales]

Take You Home

December 3:  Shopping/Snow - Undercover (Horacio Carrillo x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts by the lovely @youvebeenlivingfictional���, found here)

CW:  Convoluted plot; barely any snow (sorry); slightly angsty; talk of past sexy-times; nothing explicit but 18+ anyway to be safe, I dunno, I’m not the MPAA.

Word Count:  1670

AN:  There is a sequel, found here!

AN2:  Requested by anon!

It was his idea, so he can’t complain about it now:  send two DEA agents undercover to help route out a key distributor linking Escobar to the United States.  Cut off the demand, Carrillo thinks, and disrupt the system a bit.

It was his idea, so he has to bite his tongue.  One of the DEA agents, a man named Perez, is based out of Miami, unknown to him but vouched for by Murphy.  Solid, used to UC work.  The second agent, though?

Well, the world of the narcos turns the same as any other rich and powerful sphere, so Perez is paired up with you.  You’re young and you can pass for the trophy girlfriend of an ambitious and ruthless dealer who wants to set up a route into the eastern seaboard of the United States.  Besides, you’ve been stationed in Colombia for a year now, and you can help while you play out the fantasy of being vapid eye-candy.

It was Colonel Carrillo’s idea, this UC ploy, so he has to swallow down the sick fear that bubbles in his guy when you leave to meet up with Perez.  

Carrillo can’t even talk to Javi or Steve about it.  His thing with you—undefined, casual—is also unacknowledged, a secret thing.  When you wave goodbye to them and leave without a backwards glance, Carrillo has to keep his expression stony to keep up the ploy.

Waiting for you and Perez to make contact and ingratiate yourselves with one of Escobar’s lieutenant…it’s the longest three months of Carrillo’s life.

-----

The next time he sees you, he almost doesn’t recognize you.  

Three months with no contact beyond the handful of words from your handler, and Carrillo is practically climbing the walls with worry.  But when he finally catches sight of you through the window of the surveillance outpost, he can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s you polished to a high shine:  designer dress hugging your curves, designer shoes adding height to you and pushing your ass into a perfect heart shape.  Hair and makeup perfectly done as you climb out of the hired car and gather up an armful of glossy shopping bags from the designer boutiques of Buenos Aires.

Carrillo knows he should like you like this.  Isn’t this the fantasy, a beautiful woman whose only job is to look perfect, an ornament to adorn the arm of her rich and powerful man?

But he doesn’t like it.  There’s something brittle about your beauty like this, something inelastic and ugly under the slick veneer.  

Maybe it’s because he’s seen you as the opposite:  grimy and sweaty from running across Medellín with your gun drawn.

Maybe it’s because he’s had you as the opposite:  not salon-perfect hair but your ponytail gripped in his fist, damp with sweat.  No manicured nails but your ragged, gnawed down nails biting into the meat of his shoulders.  No expensive perfume but just the scent of you, smoky and bitter gunpowder, the fruity gum you chew, the clean smell of your soap.

It’s only a glimpse of you now.  You carry your shopping bags into the rented penthouse where you and Perez are staying, and then you are out of sight.

-----

The bust is planned:  a week later in the Chilean Andes at a ski resort that is playing at being a sort of South American Aspen.  It’s full of expats and LATAM people alike, the same because they have too much money to know what to do with.  For some, like who you and Perez are playing at being, it’s ill-gotten money.  Blood money.

Carrillo greases the skids with the Chilean government, works with their local force to help secure the villa where you and Perez are staying.  Where Escobar’s lieutenant, the one they call El Toro, is meeting you to finalize plans for a new distribution network.

-----

He knows the DEA gives out awards for bravery, for excellence in the field, but Carrillo thinks they should hand one out for acting—because you fucking nail your role in the third act.

When they bust into the villa, you shriek.  You clasp your hands over your ears at the yelling, at the sudden noise.  You reach for Perez (a gesture that makes Carrillo’s jealousy flare up, questioning if you’ve grown too close to your UC partner in these months), and when Murphy points his gun at you, you start to cry.

Carrillo’s never seen you cry before.  He’s seen you teared up and close to it—bleary-eyed from exhaustion, tears threatening after a civilian gets caught up in the war with the narcos.  But never full-on crying, and it makes his protective hackles go up.  He fights the urge to go to you.  He has to keep up the façade.

“I don’t understand!” you cry at the Spanish flying around you.  “What’s happening?”

“You’re under arrest, that’s what’s happening,” Javi helpfully tells you in English, and the fresh torrent of wails is so pitch perfect, so natural that you could win the Oscar if you took your talents to Hollywood.

-----

It’s a long night:  they lead the men away first, including Perez.  You make a final swan song by calling out to your pretend-boyfriend, telling him you love him.  The Chileans take the low level thugs to for their own processing—it was the deal Carrillo cut with them, a boost to their own fight against the narcos, a bit of good publicity to their ongoing success.

El Toro is put on a plane back to Colombia.  Perez is put on a plane back to Colombia too, in theory, though he’s really on his way to States for his debriefing and his return to his normal life.

Javi cuffs you to keep of the charade as the men are filed out of the room, and you slump against the couch as you watch them.  Your makeup is ruined from your histrionics—sooty black mascara runs down your cheeks, and your coral-colored lipstick is smeared at one corner of your lips.  Still, Carrillo can barely get enough of the sight of you.  He catches you out of his peripherals, tries not to openly stare and only half-succeeds.

It’s Javi that helps you up off the couch.  Still cuffed, still playing along in case anyone is lingering outside and catches a glimpse of the would-be narcos’s girlfriend, he hoists you up by gripping your upper arm.  He starts to frog-march you out of the villa, but Carrillo steps in finally.  Unable to let another moment pass without touching you, he gives Javi a terse nod and takes your other arm in his.  He leads you out of the room and to the waiting Jeep.

There’s a handful of voyeurs, workers and guests alike standing in the parameter.  Watching.  Some may be taking notes.  So Carrillo shoves you forward lightly, mutters sorry from behind his clenched teeth as you stumble in your heels in the crust of snow and cry out—which pulls some jeers and taunts from the assembled crowd, so at least it’s a good show.

-----

He gets you into the backseat and gets down the side of the mountain.  Neither of you talk beyond his own low-voiced murmur, asking if you’re okay, and you whispering back that yeah, you are fine.

There’s chatter on the radio, and he keeps his ears tuned into the talk as everyone is sorted out to where they belong:  Javi and Steve on the plane with El Toro, Perez on his way back home.  And you with Carrillo.

He keeps his eyes on the road only half of the time.  When he’s on a straightaway, he glances at you in the rearview mirror.  You have your head back against the seat, eyes shut.  You look exhausted, but he knows you aren’t sleeping.  Your face still holds its usual tension that only disappears when you’re asleep.

Once off the mountain, he pulls off onto the side of the road.  He scans the area—there’s no one around.  The handful of buildings at the base of the mountain are dark, quiet.  He climbs out of the driver’s seat and opens your door.

Your eyes are open now, and you fix him with an unreadable expression.  He shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over your shoulders, and when you lean forward to let him, you press your forehead against his chest for the briefest of seconds.

He reaches out and cups your face between his hands.  It’s more tender than any touch he’s ever given you before; your coupling always had a rough, fervent edge to it.  Pulled hair, scratches, bruises the size of his fingertips mottling your hips and waist.

“Are you okay?” he asks again, and he peers into your eyes to see if you lie to him.  See if you pull on your tough-girl act and joke away any pain or fear or discomfort.

Three months away from everything familiar.  Three months on edge, waiting to be discovered.  Waiting for a bullet to end your life, but you know the narcos all too well—it’s never just a bullet.

“I’m tired,” you whisper back to him and he can see the truth in your words.  And he can see the larger truth too:  the tears that fill your eyes, how you try to blink them away before they fall in earnest.

“I’ve got you,” he replies, and he does.  He pulls you into an awkward hug, gently presses your face back against him.  He can feel your hitching breaths, how you’re trying to hide your crying, but he rubs your back. Tells you it’s fine, to let it out.  Tells you that you’re safe again.

“Let me take you home,” he says, and that’s what makes you finally break.  You shudder against him and start to sob, and he only holds you on the side of a dark road in the Andes and promises that you’re finally safe with him.

[darsynia]

Repeat After Me | Oneshot

(Tony Stark/Reader, Soulmate AU Canon Divergence 'Mob AU')

Summary: You're thriving in Loki's Empire as the most respected smuggler out there. You earned that reputation by remaining neutral, traveling between the city-states run by powerful Magnates like Loki's thrall Tony Stark in NYC or the relocated Wilson Fisk in Miami. It's lucrative business, but the real reason you have to stay moving is written on your arm.

Length | Rating: 3,635 | T (for language)

Notes: Set ten years after Loki successfully mind controlled Tony Stark and took over the world in 2012. My tongue-in-cheek take on a mobster-style AU, series potential if folks are interested.

Written for @caplanbuckybarnes's Three Words Challenge, using 'Don't look back.'

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starksbf @tiny-anne @starryeyes2000 @my-soulmate-is-mycroft

Repeat After Me

You might be the only person who has both soulmate Words written on your body.

Repeat after me: don’t look back.

At first, you’d found them comforting. After all, they’re predictable in a way almost no one else’s Words are: if you’re right about them, it means you can choose whether to speak those fateful Words aloud. Then Loki came with his Chitauri army, and everything changed.

It’s been ten years since Lord Loki became the ruler of the world; ten years of societal restructure and bleak acquiescence. It turns out that humans are well adapted to be ruled, just as he’d said-- but perhaps not quite in the way he’d intended. Everyone has figured out their own way to survive, whether it’s in one of the densely populated city-states, the agricultural backwaters, or the uneasy suburban sprawl that straddles both extremes.

You’re one of the few who can travel easily through all three, and you pride yourself on that. Pre-Empire, you’d been a top exec at a shipping company, and your talent for managing large egos, ability to memorize maps, and knowledge of machinery was easily translated to a life as a smuggler. Your top rule? You do not take sides. Ever. It’s what made you successful, what kept you alive.

And no one knows the real reason.

“Zephyr, how long before you head out?”

You’re half-in, half-out of your truck, the open door heavy on your ass thanks to all the armor plating. “Weather looks like it’s gonna hold for another hour and a half, I was thinking forty-five minutes?” you guess, squinting up through the tint on the upper part of the windshield.

“Got time to meet with a potential?” Karl laughs at your obvious groan, adding, “Fancy suit says D.C., maybe New York. Probably shouldn’t risk skipping.” You trust your second in command, even if you don’t want to take his advice. Karl Mordo is pragmatic, honest, and a baronic pain in your ass sometimes.

“Fuck. Okay. But I’m going right now, before I de-grease for the trip.” You hop down and hold up your dirty hands, wiggling your fingers.

“What if they’re from Stark?”

You clench your jaw. “His people should know better, even after two years. We just did Fisk a favor, maybe he’ll remind Loki’s strongman that there’s a reason he relocated to Miami.” 

Karl nods and heads back to the house, and as soon as he’s gone, you hold still and count to ten to calm your breathing. Tony Stark rules the northeast with a literal iron fist, and no one’s sure whether the mind control has turned him cruel or he’d been released years ago and just likes it. Only people Stark trusts have been close enough to know for sure. 

Despite your reputation for neutrality, a few years back he’d sent his clever and ruthless ex-turned-CFO Pepper Potts to ask you to spy on some of the biggest players on the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been the first time you’d gotten close enough to see the electric blue of Loki’s mind control first-hand. Her threats had been articulate and terrifying, but your response ended up having a lasting effect on the way Lord Loki does his business. Word is that the emperor includes additional spells and enchantments to prevent a simple blow to the head from releasing a thrall and undoing years of work. 

You still get messages from Potts, filtered heavily by word of mouth, through the Resistance.

When you get up onto the porch, you note with approval that someone’s already gotten the burly, suited visitor some sweet tea. He turns around, and your heart sinks as you recognize him from news articles. Tony Stark’s sweet-faced associate, Happy Hogan. 

“Zephyr, is it?” he says warmly, reaching out a hand to shake. You offer him your left hand, and he immediately grins. You wear a binding on your right forearm, and it’s basically an open secret that your Words are there. Words you’ve made very clear you intend to remain a secret, on pain of death. “We have a job for you.”

“That’s truly unfortunate,” you say with a smile. “Your boss burned that bridge years ago. All I have is my integrity, I’m sure you understand.” Leaning up against one of the porch pillars, you send all of your anxiety to your legs, to hold you up and maintain the illusion that you’re not distressed. “Since you’ve come all this way, I can offer to connect you to one of the reputable smaller orgs.”

“Interesting you mention integrity. Did you know your right hand man is a known member of the Resistance?” Hogan’s tone is light, almost teasing.

You do your very best not to react, but on its face, you doubt the accusation. Karl had come to you deeply disillusioned by the Resistance, after working with them openly for a year, spending double that in prison, and being released with an interdict that prevented any employment but fieldwork. By the time you brought him in, he was full of quiet fury and determination to survive. The money you spent to clear his interdict was some of the easiest you’ve ever spent.

“I assume you have newer information than 2013?”

Hogan pulls an envelope from his lapel pocket and hands it over. Inside is a set of pictures showing Mordo speaking with and shaking the hand of Steve Rogers, the most wanted man on the continent. Karl’s hair has only been in that particular style for a few months.

You hand them back, keeping your hand steady. “If you can point and shoot pictures, why not point and shoot that particular problem?” The question is important to your public front, but you also want to know what kind of answer you get, whether it’ll be something you want to pass along.

“One step at a time,” Hogan says, walking over to you. He stops only inches away, a physical power play that masks the psychological threat.

“Which step are you on?”

“The one where you come with me to speak to Stark in person, or we reveal how thin your claims of neutrality really are.”

You nod as though you’re considering it, then say, “What if I dismantled everything and moved to Arizona? Started over.” It’ll sound like a joke, but you’ve considered it. You want nothing to do with Stark.

“You’re welcome to make that decision after the meeting.” The guy’s so confident he slides his hands into his pockets, fully relaxed except for the way his pulse is jumping in his neck. There’s zero chance that Hogan’s anxious because of you, so that means it’s important to his future that you leave with him today. If you have to, you’ll use that.

“You act like meeting with Stark won’t destroy my reputation just as much as your false accusations would,” you point out. 

Happy Hogan shrugs. “Stark is prepared to offer you one alternative. Meet with him or give us a credible way to contact Pepper Potts.”

You want to swear under your breath, but instead, you channel all your frustration into a single act of defiance. Lifting your grease-stained right hand, you press it right in the center of his chest, fingers spread so you get his white button-down and both lapels.

Then you shove, letting your hand slip against the resistance he immediately puts up to avoid moving backwards and show weakness. You would have expected anger, maybe even to be thrown to the ground, but Hogan just chuckles. It’s dismissive, diminishing, and does nothing to lower your level of fury. Especially not since he’s got you over a barrel.

You push past him toward the house. “I’m sending Mordo with my load. Your guys fuck with him and I’ll tear down every fucking thing you’ve built or die trying.” Given the clout you’ve accumulated in the last decade, which one depends on whether the emperor is in town to shield his pet Avenger or not.

You hadn’t told Hogan you’re coming with. You both know you have to.

The flight to New York City is stressful, but most of that is because you know how much effort and care it takes to maintain a fleet of airplanes. Now that flights are nearly all restricted to just the Magnates, you doubt the due diligence of their maintenance teams. This is reinforced when you land and walk down a presidential-style rolling staircase instead of into the abandoned airport. It’s hard not to think of what air travel could do for your business. One flight would take so much food from one place to another-- but the safety margins are horrifying.

“What’s with the face?” Happy Hogan asks, after the two of you get into the waiting limo.

“Just imagining how much work it would be to get an orange to Maine nowadays.”

“You don’t have to live in Georgia, you know. The offer’s always open.”

“Fuck your offer, and fuck you,” you say coolly, crossing your arms and looking out the window. There’s a non-zero chance he’ll kill you, but you’ve got a trick up your sleeve that might just carry the kind of irony that would make even a man as powerful as Tony Stark cry. It’s the reason why Hogan wants Potts back, the reason she won’t go, not while he’s in Loki’s thrall.

Midgard hadn’t been interesting enough for the trickster god. No, he’d grown bored by the way most of his new subjects had responded to his rule. Too many of you had accepted that you weren’t strong enough to resist him, and so, with the power granted to him by the staff he always carried, Lord Loki had bestowed each soulmate pair on the planet a random power set.

Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan’s version had been the ability to detect lies.

Tony Stark’s inability to find his soulmate had been newsworthy before the attack on New York, but now that he’s the de facto ruler of the place, his search has become an obsession.

It’s the reason you live in Georgia, the reason you wear the distinctive binding around your right forearm, the reason you’d balanced yourself on the knife-edge of neutrality instead of choosing a side that’s not Stark’s and then leaving yourself vulnerable to being discovered.

Stark’s Words are well known: ‘Don’t look back.’

Ironically, you don’t think he has connected your well-known quirk about protecting your forearm with his soulmate search. He wants you because Lord Loki wants Pepper Potts’ lie detecting powers, and Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff’s soulmate bond is keeping her hidden. Karl Mordo has forsworn his connection to the Mystic Arts, but a man will do many things to prevent his own death, including oathbreaking, so instead of putting pressure on him, they’ll put pressure on you.

And somehow, you’re going to have to resist without speaking a word.

The car is underground when it stops. You nod at Hogan in thanks for his hand as you exit the vehicle, and he cocks his head to the side and looks at you.

“Passive resistance, eh? Good luck.” He leads you through a warren of hallways, stairwells, and locked doors. This display of strength is clearly designed to intimidate and/or give you time to think and fear what comes next, but you wonder whether it’s annoying to Hogan. Undoubtedly he’d be taking the short way if it weren’t for this task, and that kind of time-wasting adds up.

Sure enough, the last leg of the trip is an elevator ride. The doors open out into the wide expanse of the penthouse, a rich space with wall-to-wall windows looking out over the city. A man in a well-fitting white suit walks out from behind a bar area, and you recognize him to be Tony Stark himself. Instead of a tie, the signature blue of his arc reactor glows against the buttons of his shirt, and as he approaches you, you see that it’s matched by the blue tint of mind control in his eyes.

That knowledge is dangerous; already, this man’s leverage over you has doubled. You wonder what you’ll have to promise to get out of here alive. 

Tony Stark stops a foot away and looks you over. His brown-blue eyes linger on your right arm, and as you’d planned during your pseudo perp-walk, you shift into a challenging pose, popping your hip out and lifting your chin. Stark’s lips curve into an appreciative smile. It’s attractive, he’s attractive, and you’re annoyed that you’ve even noticed. Everything about him exudes the confidence of a man who is never challenged, and that’s always been your catnip, your kryptonite. You love to bust egos, it could even be said that you live for popping that bubble. This man might be the first one you’ve ever met whose arrogance is well-deserved, though, and that could be a problem.

He gestures, and behind you, Hogan answers.“No weapons that we found, multiple scans.”

Ah, so the many doorways and long hallways had more than one purpose, you think to yourself. Well played. You stay still and expressionless as Stark looks you up and down, eyes lingering on your chest and your arm. He lifts his glass in an appreciative salute before finishing off his drink. Something about the way his throat works makes you feel the burn of the alcohol in your own chest.

“What’s under the armguard?” he asks Hogan.

“According to sources, a nasty burn. Sunlight makes it worse.” It’s the truth-- you’d tried to burn off the words as soon as you’d heard about Tony Stark’s search for his soulmate. The magic of the mark protects it, so all you’d managed to do was destroy the skin around it, causing a wound that never fully healed. The vambrace you wear is for concealment, yes, but it’s also there to keep the damaged skin protected and dry.

You turn your head and direct a grumpy look at Hogan. “This whole meeting could have been an email. What is it that you two want?”

Before you can stop him, Stark steps forward and slides his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes.  With a fierce, determined expression, he says, “Repeat after me: don’t look back.”

You can feel the strength in every single aspect of the man, voice, personality, grip, but that just fuels your need to fight back. With all your might, you manage to shake your head just enough to convey your refusal.

Tony Stark’s expression lights up. You realize your mistake immediately: if it didn’t mean something, if the words weren't important, you would have had no trouble repeating them. A million impossible escape routes spill out like marbles in your mind, scattering every other thought.

“Go on, Hap. Keep this to yourself for now,” Stark says. The triumph in his voice is as frightening as it is sexy. 

“You got it, boss.”

You fight back a strong feeling of desperate inevitability. Really, your only hope now is to wrench free and follow your contingency plan: to say the words and play them off, avoiding the physical contact that reinforces the bond. If you can convince this man that you planned to trick him into thinking you’re his soulmate, you might still get out of here with your free will intact.

That’ll be easier to do without Hogan there, so you force yourself to remain still. Stark sweeps a broad, warm caress along your neck with his thumb, and god, it’s been so, so long since anyone’s touched you like that. There’s something insidious about it, like some part of you is already lost to him if you enjoy it even a little bit. All you can do is close your eyes, clench your fists, and wait.

The elevator doors close, and Stark starts pulling his hand away, stroking your neck possessively on the way. You do your very best not to like it. In truth, Tony Stark the billionaire, Tony Stark the Avenger was absolutely your type. You imagine that after ten years of mind control and cruelty, there’s probably little of that man left. 

“You might as well say it,” he tells you with a smug little quirk in his voice. You open your eyes to see that Stark’s headed back to the bar. “Got a favorite drink?” You shake your head. “You strike me as a Tequila Sunrise type. Fun to look at, goes down easy.”

You cross your arms and glare at him, but it was a cute line for such a tense situation. Wrong, but cute.

Stark gestures to you with the Tequila bottle. “So, what, did you think you’d just stay quiet and run back home to Georgia? Happy says it didn’t take much persuading.”

You smile at him, but not warmly. One thing you hadn’t considered was that Stark might be pleased, might be looking forward to the other… perks of having a soulmate. That might make him more inclined to be kind to you, at least until you try to bluff him. You can use that.

“Don’t think I can’t see how furious you are, little one,” Stark purrs. “I’m still figuring you out, but I’ve had a file on you for years. You want to know what people say about you?” 

He rests a large hand on a folder you hadn’t noticed before, pushes it across the bar in invitation. You shrug and turn your head to look out the window, the picture of indifference. You hope it pisses him the fuck off.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s all trash now anyway, now that you’ve met with me.” Stark holds it up. “They’ll never trust you again.” He tosses it behind him. When it strikes the wall, the many single pages that made up the bulk of the file fly out around him like some kind of monstrous confetti, to the accompaniment of breaking glass. You wonder how many bottles he just wasted, whether they’re even replaceable in this brave new world you’re all trapped in.

You nod, feeling the weight of the coming moment. Mentally you gird yourself, but physically you try to adopt an attitude of casual discourtesy. You want Stark to hate his soulmark, to hate you, enough to send you away or destroy you.

Anything, anything but touch you again.

Letting out a sigh, you spread your hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture and say, “Don’t look back.”

The words strike him, so much so that he chuckles ruefully on an indrawn breath. A bitter disappointment sweeps across his face before it hardens into anger. You're grateful; you'd expected something-- a thunderclap, a rush of adrenaline, a gust of magical wind, but there’s nothing to indicate that you’ve both said the Words. Maybe, maybe, you can get out of this, if you’re careful. If you’re just the right level of heinous bitch.

“Did you practice that?” Stark finally says. He walks out from around the bar, and you take the opportunity to make your way over to the window, the picture of unconcerned, unattached, unbothered.

“What do you want, Mr. Stark?” Shit, your voice is shaking.

“I want a challenge,” he snaps, his voice closer than you expected. He’s just a foot away, and you can’t hide your shock fast enough. “You think that file was just for show? I read the whole thing.”

“Then you know I don’t want to be here. I have a business to run, a business you’ve fucked over with--” you back away in the guise of making a dismissive, furious gesture; “--whatever this is. What do you want, so I can get the fuck out of here?”

“What’s wrong, pet? Foot caught in a trap?” he asks, tone suddenly gentle, soothing. You scoff, turning on your heel to stalk away from him--but Stark reaches out swiftly and catches your hand in his.

A jolt of pleasure-fueled electricity floods you with an almost overwhelming need for closeness, companionship-- to be known. It's as if until this exact moment, you’d been empty, and you gasp, screaming against the sudden, insidious desires that have cropped up in your mind.

Oh god, no, this is too much, this is--

What you don’t expect is for Stark to answer.

Oh FUCK yes, telepathy. My second favorite superpower, right after flight.

You snatch your hand away and fall back onto the window, eyes wide. Stark shakes his head almost imperceptibly, then throws both hands in the air as if in disgust.

“You really had me, but there’s just… nothing. I should toss you off of the roof, you know that, right? Faking soulmark words? Ballsy.” He twitches his lips as though he can’t decide whether to be angry or not, and steps closer. “Hold out your hand?”

There’s vulnerability in his expression, something you hadn’t at all expected to see, but you are still reeling from what had passed between the two of you. Tony Stark is one of the smartest men on the planet, and certainly one of the most ruthless. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants-- and it’s well known that every inch of his penthouse is under surveillance, not to mention whatever Lord Loki has monitoring his most powerful thrall.

Just like the words written on both of you, neither of you can look back.

Sullenly, you lift your hand, and immediately, Stark engulfs it in an angry grip.

Okay here’s how this is going to go: Do as I say, and we can keep this our little secret. Resist me and I’ll tell Loki I’ve finally found my soulmate. Believe me, you do not want anything to do with what he has in store for us.

Possibly TBC if there's interest...

[leclerced]

i kinda feel like lando and oscar love sonic now and eat it every time they are in the states and it pisses carhop off because she is like ??? this shit is so gross so the next year (when she preemptively gets off for cota) they INSIST on eating there saying it’s “good luck” and she just grumbles and complains in the backseat the whole time

-🪼🪼🪼

pleaseee every time they are in america nm where they are they’re finding the nearest sonic. maybe she can’t get time off for the miami gp when it rolls around but they’d go to sonic in florida and facetime her to be like “baby we miss u so much we’re at sonic bc it reminds us of u” and she’s telling them to go eat healthier before their trainers kill her. coming back to cota and always going to sonic for their first stop nooo matter what. she does always complain and prob doesn’t get anything except a drink but the boys get half the menu. she loves them but she’s tired of sonic.

also they would so steal her sonic hoodies and wear them around the paddock and the logos would have to be blurred out bc sonic isnt a f1 sponsor. in return she steals their mclaren hoodies and wears them around home, never risking taking them to work nd getting grease stains or smth on them

[female-buckets]

Yknow what's crazy is that she's not a quiet democrat. Her boyfriend and brother r very much public about being democrat especially her brother is very pro-palastine. Republicans and MAGA have taken the image of CC and used it for their own agenda. Do I think she shld dissuade them absolutely. However I think that the name Caitlin Clark has become so much bigger than herself and she's now a brand. She represents the "white American dream". Shes America's sweetheart. The sweet, straight white girl who dresses modestly etc. Shes very much a poster child for the right even if she is left leaning as she just ticks all their boxes. I think her dissuading the haters will just be turned into "ugh look at what those lesbians r making her do? They're forcing her to bend the knee to them .. they're just jealous" etc.

Then she needs to ditch the hairband and start greasing her hair back on game day. She needs to go to Miami and leave Iowa behind. She needs to get several tattoos and a Casamigos sponsorship. Buy a VIP room at the club. Buy a sports car. Start a fight.

I know Caitlin has an inner psycho but she hides it behind this good girl act. And she doesn't need to do that anymore. So throw out the rookie hairband and be bad. Face-heel turn.

[tinybrightthings]

20 Classic Films to Give You Vintage Summery Vibes

(Or to help you romanticize the season, if you're not a big fan of it, like me.)

*I went for anything pre-1980 for those who were looking for something more on the vintage/retro side. I also tried to pick from a selection of different genres to suit whatever mood you might be in.

----------

Comedy:

Gidget (1959)

Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday/Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot (1953)

The Parent Trap (1961)

The Seven Year Itch (1955)

You're Only Young Once (1937)

Drama/Thriller/Suspense:

Key Largo (1948)

Marjorie Morningstar (1958)

Picnic (1955)

Rear Window (1954)

To Catch a Thief (1955)

Horror/Sci-fi:

Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954)

Jaws (1975)

Piranha (1978)

Musical:

Beach Party (1963)

Grease (1978)

Moon Over Miami (1941)

State Fair (1945)

State Fair (1962)

Summer Stock (1950)

Viva Las Vegas (1964)

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

Home Alone 2: Lost in New York (1992, Chris Columbus)

02/01/2024

Home Alone 2: Lost in New York is a 1992 film written and produced (like the previous one) by John Hughes, and directed by Chris Columbus, sequel to Home Alone. The film stars Macaulay Culkin, Joe Pesci, Deniel Stern, John Heard, Tim Curry, Brenda Fricker and Catherine O'Hara.

A sequel with a new cast, titled Home Alone 3, was released in 1997.

A year after little Kevin's misadventures, the McCallister family is once again ready to leave for Christmas, this time for Miami. Once on the plane, he starts listening to music with headphones and doesn't hear the on-board announcements, so he ends up not noticing the mistake and arriving in New York. The parents, having arrived in Florida, realize that they have lost their son and contact the police for searches; in the meantime, however, Kevin, free from the oppressive climate of his family, is not scared and begins an adventurous exploration of the city, realizing among other things that his father's credit card has remained with him and uses it to book a luxury room at the Plaza Hotel.

During the night, Kevin takes refuge in Central Park, where he meets the "pigeon woman", a melancholy good-hearted lady who has fallen on hard times and lives like a homeless person, always accompanied by many pigeons who she feeds and treats as if they were her pets company.

The woman takes Kevin to the attic of Carnegie Hall, where an orchestra is performing "Adeste fideles", and confides to him that from position she has secretly at tented performances of many famous artists, including Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie, Frank Sinatra and Luciano Pavarotti.

Having moved away from the pigeon woman, Kevin decides to stop the two thieves again, so he goes to the house under renovation of his uncle Rob and Georgette, who have moved to Paris, and transforms it into a fortress, placing a series of traps: nail guns, grease, bricks, wrenches, electrical contacts, kerosene and a gigantic iron pipe.

[thatsojasminesworld]

If you don’t like what I post on OWN my page maybe don’t go on it if I don’t like what someone posts I don’t go on their OWN profile bothering them telling them that they need therapy over fuckin made up characters cause honey you are the one that needs it not me if you are that upset over a tv show that you feel the need to tell people who are minding their own business that they need it

[elastijubilee]

Favorite TV Shows Ever (in no exact order):

Frasier (1993-2004)

Cheers (1982-1993)

Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997-2003)

Angel (1999-2004)

Schmigadoon! (2021-present)

Pushing Daisies (2007-2009)

Fringe (2008-2013)

Westworld (2016-2022)

Alias (2001-2006)

I Dream of Jeannie/Bewitched (I couldn't pick, ok?) (1965-1970) (1964-1972)

Honorable Mentions (Some who honestly may be faves depending on how I feel):

That Girl (1966-1971)

The Golden Girls (1985-1992)

Saturday Night Live (1975-present)

30 Rock (2006-2013)

Bob's Burgers (2011-present)

The Middle (2009-2018)

Poledark (2015-2019)

The Muppet Show (1976-1981)

Key & Peele (2012-2015)

Grimm (2011-2017)

Doctor Who (2005-present, and I'll watch classic at some point)

Xena: Warrior Princess (1995-2001)

Community (2009-2015)

The Twilight Zone (1959-1964)

The Big Bang Theory (be mad) (2007-2019)

Daredevil (2015-2018)

Other TV Shows I've Enjoyed A LOT:

The Owl House

Gravity Falls

Dead Like Me

Lost

I Love Lucy

Futurama

Supernatural

Arcane

Parks and Recreation

The Office

Firefly

The Nevers

WKRP in Cincinnati

News Radio

Wings

The Nanny

Married with Children

MadTV

M*A*S*H

Big Brother US

That 70s Show

The Burns and Allen Show

My Hero Academia

Black Clover

She-Ra: Princess of Power

He-Man and the Masters of the Universe

Plus, there are others that I have liked and enjoyed throughout my life but these are the top ones and ones I've watched the most...in some cases I'm still finishing some and they could change placement in this hierarchy.

TV Shows I Hope to Start Someday:

True Detective (hopefully soon)

Miami Vice

Poker Face

Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies

Black Sails

The Expanse

Yellowjackets

Yellowstone

Weeds

Breaking Bad

Better Call Saul

Star Trek Discovery

Wonderfalls

Crystal Lake (whenever that comes out)

Mare of Easttown

That 90s Show

Timeless

Revolution

Dark

1899

Orphan Black

A League of Their Own

Fraggle Rock

Barry

Top Shows I Saw the Potential or What Others Like But Either Wasn't for Me or I Had Strong Critiques of:

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power

Centaur World

Star Vs. the Forces of Evil

Voltron

Single Parents

The Great North

Once Upon a Time

Glee (haven't finished yet but s1 was great with some fun stuff in s3 and everything else I've seen has been up and down and really awful in places)

Galavant

Dollhouse (though I'm thinking about picking up again bc I remember ep 4 being a lot better than the first 3)

Scream Queens season 2 (but maybe nobody likes that one?)

American Horror Story

The Muppets (2015)

Series I need to start watching again to know how I'll feel and it's been awhile:

Black Clover

Central Park

The X-Files

Battlestar Galactica

[libertyeveningsun]

🎶✨️when you get this, put 5 songs you actually listen to, then publish. Send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (positivity is cool)🎶✨️

1) Måneskin - Mark Chapman

2) Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies - Merely Players

3) Kalush Orchestra - Stefania

4) Jade LeMac - Aimed to Kill

5) Miami Boy's Choir - Yerusharalayim

Bonus song cause I refuse to choose: Jorge Rivera-Herrans - Survive

I don't normally do these, but I'm bored.

[armenkojoyian]

"Totems of Oceania #1", two more to come in this series. Mixed media on 18" x 24" archival Fabriano paper.

#abstractart #modernart #kunst #arte #szutka #artistinstudio #artbuyer #artcollector #bijutsu #expressionistart #drawdaily #interiordecor #kojoyian #taide #美術 #abstraktekunst #arteabstracto #pinturas #totems #contemporaryart #contemporaryartist #abstractpainting #abstractartistartist #armenkojoyian #artstudio #decor #oceanart #instaabstract #mixedmediapainting

FIND ME HERE:

https://www.instagram.com/armenkojoyianart/

https://www.instagram.com/armenkojoyian/

http://armenkojoyianart.com/

https://www.behance.net/gallery/32247991/Spectrum-Miami-2015

SUPPLIES USED:

• Oil Sticks and Bars

https://www.jerrysartarama.com/paints-mediums/oil-color-paints-and-mediums/oil-sticks-bars

• Stabilo Fat Woody Pencils

https://www.jerrysartarama.com/stabilo-woody-colored-pencils-sets

• Array of fat graphite black markers, litho markers, crayons, and grease pencils

https://www.jerrysartarama.com/search/go?w=fat%20graphite%20markers

• Array of acrylic, oil, and mixed media surfaces and pads that can take a beating from several multimedia layers with glazed surfaces in between.

https://www.dickblick.com/categories/paper/painting/acrylic-paper/

https://www.dickblick.com/categories/paper/painting/canvas-pads/

[a-tale-never-told]

So seeing as it’s ‘MERICA DAY today any fun facts about the USA in this AU that hasn’t been talked about yet?

Hoo boy, I was hoping someone would say this, let's go do this.

American politics are a lot less toxic at this point, though the legitimate policies towards the communists would be like the 1950s, except less extreme. Instead of trying to entirely focus on nuclear weapons, the Regan administration focused on their Regan doctrine, which would supply anit commie movements, while also building up the nuclear forces.

In short, an adjustment. Plus the fact that people have mostly calmed down from what happened in the 60s and have just somewhat moved on.

Hippies and 1950s Grease diners still exist here, in fact culturally, the United States would be in a 1950s-60s political and culture area, except with the civil rights thing settled already and a little bit more moderate.

Even the American South would be semi-okay too. They didn't like Obama being vice president, but they tolerated him. I guess some things never changed.

Also, we would still have 50s cars riding down the streets of New York and Miami :)

I would want to say a lot more, but I will save it for another post.

[darsynia]

Sneak Peek: Repeat After Me

Tony Stark/Reader 'Mob AU' (set in Loki's 'Empire' after the Avengers lost in 2012)

Written for Round 1 of Trope Madness to vote for Soulmate AU, I was searching for a way to put a fresh spin on Soulmate Words, and came up with this. I decided to combine this with @caplanbuckybarnes's Three Words Challenge and use the words 'Don't look back.'

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starksbf @tiny-anne @starryeyes2000

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! It's... probably going turn into a series. I'm really enjoying the worldbuilding.

Repeat After Me

You might be the only person who has both soulmate words written on your body.

Repeat after me: don’t look back.

At first, you’d found them comforting. After all, they’re predictable in a way almost no one else’s words are: if you’re right about them, it means you can choose whether to speak those fateful words aloud. Then Loki came with his Chitauri army, and everything changed.

It’s been ten years since Lord Loki became the ruler of the world; ten years of societal restructure and bleak acquiescence. It turns out that humans are well adapted to be ruled, just as he’d said-- but perhaps not quite in the way he’d intended. Everyone has figured out their own way to survive, whether it’s in one of the densely populated city-states, the agricultural backwaters, or the uneasy suburban sprawl that straddles both extremes.

You’re one of the few who can travel easily through all three, and you pride yourself on that. Pre-Empire, you’d been a top exec at a shipping company, and your talent for managing large egos, ability to memorize maps, and knowledge of machinery was easily translated to a life as a smuggler. Your top rule? You do not take sides. Ever. It’s what made you successful, what kept you alive.

And no one knows the real reason.

“Zephyr, how long before you head out?”

You’re half-in, half-out of your truck, the open door heavy on your ass thanks to all the armor plating. “Weather looks like it’s gonna hold for another hour and a half, I was thinking forty-five minutes?” you guess, squinting up through the tint on the upper part of the windshield.

“Got time to meet with a potential?” Karl laughs at your obvious groan, adding, “Fancy suit says D.C., maybe New York. Probably shouldn’t risk skipping.” You trust your second in command, even if you don’t want to take his advice. Karl Mordo is pragmatic, honest, and a baronic pain in your ass sometimes.

“Fuck. Okay. But I’m going right now, before I de-grease for the trip.” You hop down and hold up your dirty hands, wiggling your fingers.

“What if they’re from Stark?”

You clench your jaw. “His people should know better, even after two years. We just did Fisk a favor, maybe he’ll remind Loki’s plaything that there’s a reason he relocated to Miami.” 

Karl nods and heads back to the house, and as soon as he’s gone, you hold still and count to ten to calm your breathing. Tony Stark rules the northeast with a literal iron fist, and no one’s sure whether the mind control has turned him cruel or he’d been released years ago and just likes it. Almost no one Stark doesn’t trust has been close enough to know for sure.

Despite your reputation for neutrality, a few years back he’d sent his clever and ruthless ex-turned-CFO Pepper Potts to ask you to spy on some of the biggest players on the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been the first time you’d gotten close enough to see the electric blue of Loki’s mind control first-hand. Her threats had been articulate and terrifying, but yours ended up having a lasting effect on the way Lord Loki does his business. Word is that the emperor includes additional spells and enchantments to prevent a simple blow to the head from releasing a thrall and undoing years of work. 

You still get messages from Potts, filtered heavily by word of mouth, through the Resistance.