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foodreceipe · 3 years

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A Brief History of Peanut Butter

The bizarre sanitarium staple that became a spreadable obsession

By Kate Wheeling | February 2021 Smithsonian Magazine

North Americans weren't the first to grind peanuts—the Inca beat us to it by a few hundred years—but peanut butter reappeared in the modern world because of an American, the doctor, nutritionist and cereal pioneer John Harvey Kellogg, who filed a patent for a proto-peanut butter in 1895. Kellogg’s “food compound” involved boiling nuts and grinding them into an easily digestible paste for patients at the Battle Creek Sanitarium, a spa for all kinds of ailments. The original patent didn’t specify what type of nut to use, and Kellogg experimented with almonds as well as peanuts, which had the virtue of being cheaper. While modern peanut butter enthusiasts would likely find Kellogg’s compound bland, Kellogg called it “the most delicious nut butter you ever tasted in your life.”

A Seventh-Day Adventist, Kellogg endorsed a plant-based diet and promoted peanut butter as a healthy alternative to meat, which he saw as a digestive irritant and, worse, a sinful sexual stimulant. His efforts and his elite clientele, which included Amelia Earhart, Sojourner Truth and Henry Ford, helped establish peanut butter as a delicacy. As early as 1896, Good Housekeeping encouraged women to make their own with a meat grinder, and suggested pairing the spread with bread. “The active brains of American inventors have found new economic uses for the peanut,” the Chicago Tribune rhapsodized in July 1897.

Before the end of the century, Joseph Lambert, an employee at Kellogg’s sanitarium who may have been the first person to make the doctor’s peanut butter, had invented machinery to roast and grind peanuts on a larger scale. He launched the Lambert Food Company, selling nut butter and the mills to make it, seeding countless other peanut butter businesses. As manufacturing scaled up, prices came down. A 1908 ad for the Delaware-based Loeber’s peanut butter—since discontinued—claimed that just 10 cents’ worth of peanuts contained six times the energy of a porterhouse steak. Technological innovations would continue to transform the product into a staple, something Yanks couldn’t do without and many a foreigner considered appalling.

By World War I, U.S. consumers—whether convinced by Kellogg’s nutty nutrition advice or not—turned to peanuts as a result of meat rationing. Government pamphlets promoted “meatless Mondays,” with peanuts high on the menu. Americans “soon may be eating peanut bread, spread with peanut butter, and using peanut oil for our salad,” the Daily Missourian reported in 1917, citing “the exigencies of war.”

The nation’s food scientists are nothing if not ingenious, and peanut butter posed a slippery problem that cried out for a solution. Manufacturers sold tubs of peanut butter to local grocers, and advised them to stir frequently with a wooden paddle, according to Andrew Smith, a food historian. Without regular effort, the oil would separate out and spoil. Then, in 1921, a Californian named Joseph Rosefield filed a patent for applying a chemical process called partial hydrogenation to peanut butter, a method by which the main naturally occurring oil in peanut butter, which is liquid at room temperature, is converted into an oil that’s solid or semisolid at room temperature and thus remains blended; the practice had been used to make substitutes for butter and lard, like Crisco, but Rosefield was the first to apply it to peanut butter. This more stable spread could be shipped across the country, stocked in warehouses and left on shelves, clearing the way for the national brands we all know today. The only invention that did more than hydrogenation to cement peanut butter in the hearts (and mouths) of America’s youth was sliced bread—introduced by a St. Louis baker in the late 1920s—which made it easy for kids to construct their own PB&Js. (In this century, the average American kid eats some 1,500 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before graduating from high school.)

Rosefield went on to found Skippy, which debuted crunchy peanut butter and wide-mouth jars in the 1930s. In World War II, tins of (hydrogenated) Skippy were shipped with service members overseas, while the return of meat rationing at home again led civilians to peanut butter. Even today, when American expats are looking for a peanut butter fix, they often seek out military bases: They’re guaranteed to stock it.

But while peanut butter’s popularity abroad is growing—in 2020, peanut butter sales in the United Kingdom overtook sales of the Brits’ beloved jam—enjoying the spread is still largely an American quirk. “People say to me all the time, ‘When did you know that you had fully become an American?’” Ana Navarro, a Nicaraguan-born political commentator, told NPR in 2017. “And I say, ‘The day I realized I loved peanut butter.’”

Though the United States lags behind China and India in peanut harvest, Americans still eat far more of the spread than the people in any other country: It’s a gooey taste of nostalgia, for childhood and for American history. “What’s more sacred than peanut butter?” Iowa Senator Tom Harkin asked in 2009, after a salmonella outbreak was traced back to tainted jars. By 2020, when Skippy and Jif released their latest peanut butter innovation—squeezable tubes—nearly 90 percent of American households reported consuming peanut butter.

The ubiquity of this aromatic spread has even figured in the nation’s response to Covid-19. As evidence emerged last spring that many Covid patients were losing their sense of smell and taste, Yale University’s Dana Small, a psychologist and neuroscientist, devised a smell test to identify asymptomatic carriers. In a small, three-month study of health care workers in New Haven, everyone who reported a severe loss of smell using the peanut butter test later tested positive. “What food do most people in the U.S. have in their cupboards that provides a strong, familiar odor?” Small asks. “That’s what led us to peanut butter.”

George Washington Carver’s research was about more than peanuts

By Emily Moon

No American is more closely associated with peanuts than George Washington Carver, who developed hundreds of uses for them, from Worcestershire sauce to shaving cream to paper. But our insatiable curiosity for peanuts, scholars say, has obscured Carver’s greatest agricultural achievement: helping black farmers prosper, free of the tyranny of cotton.

Born enslaved in Missouri around 1864 and trained in Iowa as a botanist, Carver took over the agriculture department at the Tuskegee Institute, in Alabama, in 1896. His hope was to aid black farmers, most of whom were cotton sharecroppers trapped in perpetual debt to white plantation owners. “I came here solely for the benefit of my people,” he wrote to colleagues on his arrival.

He found that cotton had stripped the region’s soil of its nutrients, and yet landowners were prohibiting black farmers from planting food crops. So Carver began experimenting with plants like peanuts and sweet potatoes, which could replenish the nitrogen that cotton leached and, grown discreetly, could also help farmers feed their families. In classes and at conferences and county fairs, Carver showed often packed crowds how to raise these crops.

Since his death in 1943, many of the practices Carver advocated—organic fertilizer, reusing food waste, crop rotation—have become crucial to the sustainable agriculture movement. Mark Hersey, a historian at Mississippi State University, says Carver’s most prescient innovation was a truly holistic approach to farming.

“Well before there was an environmental justice movement, black environmental thinkers connected land exploitation and racial exploitation,” says Hersey. A true accounting of American conservation, he says, would put Carver at the forefront.

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/innovation/brief-history-peanut-butter-180976525/?utm_source=pocket-newtab

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African American History

Food

Food History

Food Science

#Food #Food History #Peanut Butter #George Washington Carver

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fablesrose · 4 years

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Of Kings and Shadows XIII

Chapter XIII

Description: Y/n, a girl who seems to have found her calling. Being a SHIELD agent is like a dream come true. With a friendship starting to form with the Avengers, she’s the Queen of the world! What could go wrong?

Pairings: Avengers x reader, Loki x reader (eventually)

Notes: On Wattpad –> Here

Warnings: gore, pain, torture

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, how I wish to go back.

The only way I can is to go through the memories. The good times. The only way to pass the time. It's both the most and the least painful way to stay sane. It took a very long while to figure that out. It feels like it's been forever, for all I know maybe it has been. I'm glad I do have some good memories to look back on, a few more before the terror starts.

You don't know what a blessing it is to have your voice go hoarse. When you're crying, screaming, talking, and you can't go anymore. When you're trapped in your own head, you don't have that. Just the sound of your own voice and the darkness, and that's on a good day. The outside world? What I see through my own eyes? It is so much worse.

I don't even see the full picture anymore. It's like looking through binoculars. Everything is slightly blurry unless I focus and I can't see anything that's not in my direct sight. Not that I really want to see anything that my body is doing. What Noxy is doing. Of course, I can't be sure it's really her that's behind the wheel at this point, but I do know that outside of the little corner of my mind I'm trapped in, there's a dark cloud pulling the strings. Noxy is the closest thing I've known to this dark cloud. It doesn't talk to me. If I wasn't here, silence.

I got pulled from pleasant flashbacks with screams.

It's always the screams. This time it was a prisoner. They train me with the prisoners. It's always the same bargain. They gave it to me too, but I was a special case. It wasn't anything new or different, the same old 'fight to survive' bargain. This one didn't last long, they weren't even a challenge anymore, I was the executioner.

It brings back unpleasant memories. So many experiments, lab tables, shots. It all blended together in a horrid ball of terror. I can never seem to stop them from coming through, always being replayed. It's gotten easier, but not by much.

I remember waking up slowly strapped down to a table. I was weak and disoriented. Doctors, if I could even call them that, scientists, tormentors, take your pick, were standing to the side discussing what I assumed was me.

"Her body is too weak, it won't hold up against the formula," one said. He looked tall and skinny, bordering malnourishment.

"We can replace the parts that whither." I already hated the other, short, plump to say it nicely, and very bald.

"The formula doesn't work through metal, it must be flesh. Besides," I felt his slimy eyes look at me but didn't catch my gaze, "he thinks she's special. He wants her intact."

"For himself."

"Do you really want to risk the wrath?"

"What do you suggest then?" The fat one looked annoyed, and I didn't feel bad at all for it. My brain was still fuzzy enough that I couldn't connect the dots on what they were going to do to me. Maybe it was a good thing I didn't know beforehand.

"We must give her the serum."

"Fine, do it quickly."

I could barely turn my head enough to see the slime-balls and I couldn't see what everyone else was doing. I looked back at the ceiling and the bright white light shining on me. I yanked on the restraints, but I didn't have the strength.

"Sedate it."

I flinched at the sudden needle in my arm. The same fuzzy feeling came back in layers, meaning I must have woke up from the same drugs. I didn't have time to fully process that connection before a bigger needle entered my other arm. I clenched my teeth when the liquid entered my body, multiple times more painful than any other vaccine. I relaxed briefly when the syringe exited my arm, but it didn't last long.

I felt like I was consumed by fire. It traveled through my bones, burning through any imperfection. It evaporated the blur of my mind and I cried out in pain. It was a sensation I couldn't describe properly. After the initial flash of agony the pain... it faded. Slightly. It changed into a different kind of burning, the only way to describe it would be a good pain.

It was the feeling of cleaning a wound, stretching an extremely sore muscle, and then mildest was the burn of Solanpas. My breathing became heavy; a large amount of energy was used. A whine would occasionally escape my lips at the residue pain. I felt exhausted, and the effects of the drugs started to take effect again, clouding my mind, my limbs starting to go limp.

They were talking around me, but it sounded foreign, alien, fuzzy. Hands grabbed at my restraints, loosening them. I tried to move, but I couldn't even think straight, let alone lift a finger to fight back. Funny how in a mission you're supposed to fight, yet now I can't.

I was still semi-conscious when they left me in a cell on a mattress. The room was all white. It looked like there were scratches on the walls and ceiling revealing grey cement. Gentle hands arranged so all of my limbs were on the cot and that I was situated comfortably. I was too exhausted to turn my head to see who was my comforter.

It was many hours later when the effects of the drugs wore off. I struggled to sit up to clear my head.

"Woah, woah. Take it easy. They medicated you good, hon." The same gentle hands helped me up paired with a smooth voice.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes, struggling to clear my vision so I could see her properly. Once I was steady on the bed my companion sat on a cot opposite of mine. She was beautiful. She looked soft and kind, with a dark edge to her features that told me she's seen horrible things. She had thick box braids framing her face, looking a little frizzy due to having them in for a long time and not tending to them.

I noticed her grey jumpsuit contrasting with her dark skin leading me to notice my own replacing my Shield uniform I was wearing when I was last fully conscious. It was scratchy and loose with an elastic cinching it to my waist.

The woman looked at me sympathetically while I tried to connect all the pieces in my brain. She offered me a hand, "My names Jasmine, it looks like we're gonna be roomies in this hell hole."

I huffed, "Well that's encouraging..." I shook her hand, "Y/n."

"It's nice to meet you, but I wish I didn't."

I nodded at her, "The same to you." I ran my hands through my hair, "do you know where we are?"

She shook her head, "exact location? I have no idea. I do know that this is a Hydra base though."

I sighed, "I was worried about that..." I decided to think about my kidnapping and the person responsible later, save myself the worse headache. "How long have you been here? Where'd you come from?"

She raised an eyebrow at me, "Well since you asked so politely, I know I've been here for months, but how many? I lost count. I could be bordering a year by now, but I really don't know. As for where I came from..." She lied down on her cot making it squeak, "I used to be an MI6 agent."

I was surprised, "MI6? I didn't peg you for a Brit."

She halfheartedly glared at me, "what? Cuz I don't have that posh accent?" She put on a thick accent to mock me at the end. "Yeah, moved around a lot. Talked to a bunch of Americans, lived there for a long time. Never really picked the accent up again."

I lied down on my cot, looking at the ceiling, "no judgment here. I'm-- I used to be a Shield agent."

"Oh yeah? All the Avengers and that crap?"

I chuckled, "yeah, something like that." We lied there in silence for a while, the grim reality too fresh on our minds. I finally got the courage to ask a depressing question, "how many people have you seen pass through."

"I've lost count. All I know is I've been the longest lasting."

"I'm sorry."

"Just focus on surviving, hon."

I rested my hands over my stomach casually but found it more muscular than I remembered. I quickly sat up making my head spin a bit. I unzipped my jumpsuit to the waist revealing a sports bra and tank top equally grey. I lifted the tank top to show rock hard abs.

"Ho ho, would you look at that! I've always wanted abs..." I had been working on getting them for as long as I could remember, but they never quite got there. My core was strong, but I could never get it to look it.

Jasmine rolled her eyes, "you're acting like you didn't have them before."

I looked at her dead serious, "I didn't."

She sat back up slowly, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I had moss soft flabs however long ago, they took me, slapped me on a table giving me who knows what, and now I have these freaking rock hard abs and..." I looked at my arms, "these killer guns."

She looked thoughtfully at the wall, "It was a shot?"

"Yeah."

She sighed and rubbed a hand over her whole face, "Then they've got plans for you, hon. I pray for your soul."

My heart dropped. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. It didn't matter that I was strapped to a table a couple of hours ago. The reality was just setting in. I was going to be a science experiment. Knowing Hydra, I was either going to die or become a deadly weapon.

I was trapped. And I was going to be left with a horrible fate.

I swallowed deeply, "Ma'am?"

"You call me ma'am and I'm gonna beat you to a pulp, what they want you for be damned."

"What would you like me to call you then?"

"Call me Jasmine. When we're friends you can call me Jazz." She looked into my eyes from her nails, "if you last that long."

I smiled bitterly. "Alright, Jasmine. I intend to earn that nickname, so what can you tell me about surviving in this hell hole?"

She looked at me deeply, searching my eyes for something, "You have an advantage now if they gave you what I think they gave you. You're stronger now, and they want to keep you. How it works here is they weed out the weak ones."

A chill went down my spine, "How do they do that?"

"How much do you know about the Romans?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stood in the corner of a white concrete room. It was a little bit bigger than me and Jasmine's cell, but other than that and the beds, it looked exactly the same. In the opposite corner a man with crazed eyes. He was skinny, but for some reason, I didn't think he was going to be weak. He had on a matching grey jumpsuit. The look in his eyes told me the only reason he wasn't attacking me was because of the rules they gave us before-hand.

Don't start until we give the go-ahead. If you start before you will be punished, but you won't automatically lose, so beware.

Fight like your life depends on it because it does.

Two rules. Anything goes. We were just staring at each other, waiting to be released I guess.

"So, dude, how long have you been here?"

"Doesn't matter, I'll be here longer than you little girl."

I took that as an end to the conversation and started to stretch my limbs. I didn't take my eyes off of him. I was acutely aware of the cameras looking at me, my gut was twisting, but I had to ignore it. No good could come out of it, only distraction. I was gonna beat this punk. I had no other choice.

"Attention."

I let go of my foot and set myself in an athletic, ready stance.

"Begin."

I felt like I was in the Hunger Games all of a sudden. The squirrely guy launched himself across the room at me. I dove and rolled away, my socks slipping on the painted floor. He lashed a hand toward my face, wanting to scratch me. I didn't know my own strength when I grabbed it and heard a snap.

He howled but didn't hesitate to kick my leg out from under me. I kicked him off to stand up again. I punched him in the face, but it didn't slow him down. He ducked his head down and plowed me into the wall causing me to grunt. There was no strategy, no skill. He was utterly unpredictable.

Adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I don't know when, but at some point, there were enough injuries to be dripping blood over my face. I wiped it to not get in my eyes and somehow he got behind me, tackling me to the ground. He sat on my back and held my arms behind my back. I didn't have enough leverage to use my strength to get him off. I turned my head so I could breathe, but it wasn't going to matter.

He grabbed onto my hair and ear and began pounding my head repeatedly into the ground. Pain shot through me and I struggled to get out from under him. Nothing was working and I began to fall limp, my eyesight growing black.

I lost.

The door burst open and guards pulled him off of me. The ground was swaying, and my head felt like he had never stopped pounding my head against the ground. I watched as blood started to pool in front of my eyes. I couldn't bring myself to move, my vision still fizzling out.

The intercom clicked on and a vaguely familiar voice tsked at me, "you're better than that. I need a strong Queen."

My vision finally faded with the man kicking and screaming, "I won! Get off of me! That's not how this works!"

I lost consciousness, my only thought being, "I've gotta get out of here." A tear fell from my eye.

Please find me.

TAG LIST: @nightrose64

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki #Avengers #avengersfanfiction #avengers x reader #torture #capture #pain #fight #blood #Of Kings and Shadows #chapter 13

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sunmoonandeddie · 5 years

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feelings are fatal (7/24)

pairing: bucky barnes x reader, past steve rogers x reader

word count: 4,491

summary: After the events of Endgame, you struggle to come to terms with what you’ve lost, though you’re learning that you still have something to gain.

chapter warnings: swearing

masterlist

a/n: I’m so sorry this took so long, guys. Let me know what you think!

“Peter!” You groaned as you tried to get the webs out of your hair. The sticky substance was difficult, and for a moment you were worried that you were going to have to treat it like gum.

To be fair, the boy who caused it was looking mighty ashamed, his cheeks red and shoulders tense. “S-Sorry, Y/N,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

The two of you had been playing around with his suit for about two hours, since he’d never really gotten to before Tony died. He’d also turned off the training wheels protocol that was supposed to teach him about each function slowly, which is why he had no idea what would happen when he turned on ‘Rapid Fire.’

But then again, what the hell did he expect from a name like that?

“Agent L/N, you have a guest waiting for you in the communal area,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said, startling the both of you.

“Were you expecting anyone?” The fifteen-year-old asked curiously.

Your brows furrowed as you continued to pick at the webs in your hair, heading for the door. “No.” The rest of the team wouldn’t be announced as a guest, and they’d just find you. They wouldn’t wait in the communal area. But then again, it’s not like you really knew anyone that wasn’t a part of the team. “Peter, stay here.”

“Absolutely not,” he retorted, running after you. “What if it’s a bad guy? I can’t leave you alone!” He must’ve caught the look in your eyes, because he added, “N-Not that you can’t take care of yourself! I just… I wanna make sure you’re safe.”

Sighing, you motioned for him to follow you, knowing there was no way he would leave you alone now. In the two weeks since the Fourth of July barbecue from Hell, he’d been over almost every day. He’d said that it was prep for his trip to Europe in August, but you knew better. If it was any other teenager, you’d have found it annoying, but because it was Peter and he was so sweet and sincere, it was rather endearing.

It made you wonder if it’s how Natasha felt about you, even though she’d never gotten to see you at fifteen. She’d gotten out of the clutches of HYDRA at that point, joining S.H.I.E.L.D. in the process.

But maybe that’s how Bucky had seen you. After all, he’d first started training you at that age.

“Y/N, this is the Winter Soldier,” Madame B said as she stood behind you, her hands resting on your shoulders. At just fifteen years old, you’d proven yourself to be the most promising of all the girls in the Red Room. You were deadly with any weapon—a gun, a bow, your body—but you were exceptionally good with your knives. Perfect, even.

Just that morning you’d sunk your knife into one of the older girl’s necks with just a flick of your wrist.

You would’ve felt bad, except she knew what she was getting into when she challenged you. She’d been so close to graduating and had figured that choosing a girl three years younger would make her seem much better than she was. But the fight was over the second it started. You’d simply pulled out your knife—the only weapon allowed in hand-to-hand—and threw it at her. Everyone in the room had watched as she fell to the ground, clutching at her throat while you stood there, looking pristine as ever.

The sound of her blood gurgling in her throat still rang in your ears.

The man in front of you was stunning. It was really the only word you could think of that was appropriate. His long chestnut hair fell in waves around his face like some kind of rogue from the fairytales the older girls whispered to the fresh arrivals when they cried into the night. Even though his lips were chapped from the harsh Russian cold and his eyes had dark circles underneath, he was beautiful. Ethereal. Like a God of the Dead, coming for his spoils.

“Soldat, this is Y/N,” Madame B said, shoving your forward. “Your trainee.”

You stumbled but somehow managed to catch yourself, finding yourself almost chest-to-chest with the man. Heart pounding, your eyes slowly traced up the black Kevlar covering his chest to lock with his. As good as you were at hand-to-hand, you knew that this man could snap you in half without so much as blinking. Girls had heard the stories of him from when he’d trained Natalia.

And now he was here for you.

“Hello, Soldat,” you said, voice wavering as you tried to find your courage.

“Come,” he rasped, his tone leaving no room for argument as he turned on his heel and led you through the door.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., you didn’t let a potential threat in, did you?”

If an A.I. could be indignant, she certainly was. “Of course not, Agent L/N.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, though you knew it wasn’t really the time as you power-walked down the hallway. “Sorry, Fri.”

“What are you doing here?”

You frowned as you heard Peter’s tone, rushing forward. In your day dreaming, the boy had gotten ahead of you and had found your mysterious visitor first. “Peter, that’s—” You broke off as you saw her sitting there on the couch.

Peggy Carter-Rogers.

The elderly woman immediately stood, clearing her throat. She daintily wiped her hands on her pants and it disgusted you. “Hello, Y/N.”

“What are you doing here?” You asked, though you made a point to not be so aggressive as your favorite Spider-Boy.

It was a little adorable how he still insisted on standing in front of you, puffed up like a chihuahua. “Y-Yeah, what she said!”

“I just want to talk,” the Brit said, her lilting voice soothing you, even if you didn’t want it to. There was something so relaxing about her presence and it drove you insane. “Without my idiot of a husband mucking it all up.”

You couldn’t help but snort as you crossed your arms over your chest, but you didn’t immediately dismiss her. “He does that a lot.”

Her lips—perfectly painted red, as usual—stretched as she tried not to grin. “Especially when it comes to talking to women.”

Well, you had two choices. You could turn her away and go back to sitting in Tony’s lap with Peter and consistently wonder what she was going to say, or you could listen and maybe get some closure. As fucked as it was, you really didn’t want to go with the latter. It’d be so much easier to just go back to the lab and pretend like she’d never come.

But you knew that it wasn’t the right decision.

“Peter, you can go back to the lab. I’ll be there soon,” you said, your eyes never leaving Peggy.

He seemed ready to protest but thought better, taking a deep breath in. “Call if you need me,” he said, before disappearing back down the hall.

“Sorry about him,” you said as you stood in place, watching her cautiously. “He’s—”

“Protective?” She laughed, sounding like bells that rang a death march. “It’s alright. I assumed as much when he glared at Steve for the rest of the Fourth of July party after you left.” Peggy motioned to the couch as she sat, and it struck you how odd it was that she was the one inviting you to sit in your own home.

Either way, you sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, your hands delicately placed in your lap. You weren’t sure what to do with them, what to say. “He’s a good kid.”

She cleared her throat as the awkwardness hung in the air, the both of you trying to find where to start. “I am sorry,” she said suddenly, her brown eyes flashing over to you. “And not just about Steve. I was the one who told him it’d be okay to not call ahead. I wasn’t thinking about how it might make you feel. I just knew how badly he wanted to see everyone.”

“It’s alright, rea—”

“No,” she interrupted, reaching over to take your hands in hers. You fought back the urge to yank them away, knowing that you were going to have to give a little. “It was inconsiderate.” Her eyes searched your face for a long moment. “You remind me of myself, you know.”

Startled, you shook your head. “What? No, I—”

“You’ve been fighting war after war for years,” she said, her voice shaking. “You have the same look in your eyes that I’d see in every soldier back in the forties. Steve has it. Bucky has it.” She let out a weak laugh, looking down at your hands, young and supple against her own. “Sometimes I forget how young we all were. Hell, sometimes I forget how young you are when Steve tells his stories.”

Heart leaping in your chest, you tried to keep your cool even though you felt like you were going to vomit. “He talks about me?”

“Of course, he does,” she said, sadness seeping from her pores. It clearly distressed her that you thought he wouldn’t. “You mean the world to him.”

“You have to forgive me for not really believing that,” you said as you took your hands from hers.

Peggy nodded, drawing her bottom lip in between her teeth. “Like I said, Steve doesn’t understand women at all. Or how to communicate with them. But he really does care about you.” She smoothed down her pants slowly. “When he… When he first came back to me and he told me about you… I admit, I was jealous. You were this brilliant agent, good enough to join the Avengers at just eighteen. You had him for over eight years.”

“But he still chose you,” you reminded her, tears pricking your eyes. Desperately blinking them away, you hoped she didn’t notice.

And she couldn’t argue against that. “I suppose the point I’m trying to get at is that even though it might not feel like it, he loves you. He always has.” She swallowed thickly, her hands moving more and more as she spoke. “He’d tell me about all the different missions you went on and how you can hold your own against him and Bucky, even though you’re not a super soldier. How you rebelled against the United Nations and became an international criminal.”

And it hit you that she felt just like you did. Even if she’d had years to get over it, she knew exactly how you felt.

But in her case, you were the untouchable one.

“He carries this picture of you with him,” she said, taking you by surprise once again. “He put it in the compass that has the picture of me in it, knocked out the glass bit. Said it’s so he has both of us close to him at all times. It’s…” Peggy cleared her throat and it somehow still sounded ladylike. “It’s this photo of you in his shirt.” The air felt thick around the two of you as she chuckled. “When I first saw it, I wanted to rip it up. Burn it. Eventually, though, I understood. At least a little bit.”

“How?” You asked, knowing how weak you must’ve sounded. “Because I’m trying to understand, and I just… can’t. Anytime I try, I just feel abandoned.”

“To be quite frank, sometimes I still don’t.” The older woman’s fingers were fiddling together, and your eyes focused in on the slightly chipped red nail polish. The one thing on Margaret Carter Roger’s exterior that wasn’t perfect. That reflected her anxiety as she picked at the polish. That she wasn’t as perfect as you had thought her to be. “He says your name in his sleep sometimes. Cries and thrashes around.” She blew out a huff of air, not meeting your gaze. “Sometimes it’s nightmares of you dying. Sometimes it’s just you telling him you don’t love him, and it’s enough to cause him to panic.”

You blinked slowly, trying to take it all in. “I… I didn’t realize.”

She sniffled, a sad smile on her lips. “It’s better for him to explain exactly what he was thinking, but… I didn’t think you’d listen unless I talked to you first.” She shook her head, turning back towards you. “Not that you have to listen to him. Lord knows that he doesn’t deserve it. But I think it might help, if you knew why he did what he did.”

“Do you…” You cleared your throat, trying to figure out how exactly to ask your next question. “Do you want to stay for lunch?” You knew that this was big, this was an olive branch you were extending to her. “We’ve both heard so many stories about each other, I think it’s only fair that we get to know each other without all the sugar coating. We both know Steve tends to… exaggerate his stories a little.”

Peggy seemed to light up at the suggestion, standing up and following you towards the kitchen. “That would be wonderful.”

“Y/N?” Bucky called as he walked into the lab, frowning when he only saw Peter and Bruce poring over a hologram. Neither of them looked up when he walked in and he cleared his throat.

Nothing.

He coughed, raising his eyebrows.

Nope.

The super soldier sighed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Y/N’s been kidnapped.”

Both of them immediately looked up, panic written all over their faces. Peter looked ready to take down all of New York City as he pushed his stool back with a creek and Bruce was starting to look a little green around his neck.

“What the—”

“What happened to—”

“So all I have to do to get the two of you to pay attention is to say something’s happened to Y/N,” Bucky said, tapping his temple as though to demonstrate that he was making a note of it. “Great.”

Bruce glared at him, huffing. “So Y/N wasn’t actually kidnapped?”

“No.”

Peter looked utterly betrayed. “Mr. Winter Soldier, you can’t do that.”

Bucky sighed, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’m sorry. That was a low blow of me. But have any of you seen Y/N?” He looked around the lab, as though he might find her playing a game of hide-and-seek that he didn’t know he was a part of. “She told me she was gonna be in the lab.”

“Oh, M-Mr. Rogers’s wife—uh—Mrs. Peggy is here,” the teenager said, shrugging at his confused expression.

The hundred-year-old man felt his age as he stormed out of the lab. While he didn’t think Peggy would purposefully hurt you, he also knew that her impromptu visit might not be what’s best for you. His hands were clenched into fists at his side as he entered the communal area. There were signs of lunch being made in the kitchen, but no Peggy and no you.

He stood there for a long moment, perking up as he heard giggles from down the hallway. He tiptoed towards the sound, surprised to find it coming from your old room, the one you had shared with Steve.

You and Peggy were sitting on the bed, giggling as you flipped through all the photos you had of the former Captain America. You were sitting cross-legged and had on one of Bucky’s hoodies that he’d been trying to find for days.

And you were talking about Steve and not crying.

He hid behind the door so that neither of you could see him, listening in with a faint smile on his lips.

“—from the night he asked me on a date,” you said as you held out a picture of the two of you. “We got lost while on a mission when our comms went out, and pictures ended up in the New York Times because someone recognized him.”

“Steve, I just really think we’re lost,” you said, wincing as you tried to keep up with the super soldier. You’d twisted your ankle four blocks before and it sent a pang through your entire calf with every step you took.

It didn’t help that your captain hadn’t even thought to slow down for you, too convinced that he knew the way to stop and reevaluate.

He just grumbled, shaking his head. Turning a corner, he stopped as he realized that going that direction would lead the two of you to a main road, and you were trying to stay out of sight. He quickly turned on his heel to keep down the path you were originally on. “No, we’re—”

You yelped as your foot caught on a loose brick of the cobblestone street, sending you straight to the ground. “Fuck! Shit! God FUCKING damn it!” You cursed, holding your ankle as tears sprung to your eyes. It would be your luck to twist the same ankle twice in twenty minutes and you were pretty sure there was no way it wasn’t strained.

The blond was immediately on you, all furrowed brows and panicky hands. “What the hell happened?”

“If you weren’t so busy insisting you were right, you would’ve noticed that I twisted my ankle ten minutes ago, and now it’s fucked up again, asshole,” you snapped. You knew that it wasn’t fair of you but you were tired, you were hurt, and all you wanted was a bottle of vodka. The kind that the Asset snuck for you, once upon a time.

God, that was the good shit. Smooth. Expensive. An already half-drank bottle stolen from Madame B’s office.

Steve’s teeth grinded together as he tentatively tried to move your ankle, causing you to hiss and jerk back away from him. “I’m sorry!”

“I told you it fucking hurts!” You retorted, cheeks red.

“I was trying to make sure it wasn’t broken!”

“I could’ve told you if it was!”

“You don’t know—”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I do and don’t know. I think I know my own body.”

He stood up, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You’re being difficult.”

“Yeah,” you said with an eye roll, grimacing as you scooted over to rest against the wall of the alley. You could see a few people passing by the entrance he’d been trying to avoid, despite the late hour. “Because I’m the one who was so sure of themselves that they weren’t paying attention to their partner.”

Steve scoffed as his hands went to his hips, reminding you just how much attitude America’s Golden Boy had. “Maybe because I know what—”

“No! You don’t!” You said, eyes squeezing shut as you started to stand up, clinging to the wall and jumping around a bit on your good ankle. “Stop being such an ass!”

“And to think I thought about asking you on a god damn date,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled the comm out of his ear. Squinting in the darkness, he started fiddling with it, twisting the different parts this way and that. You knew he’d probably end up breaking it, but you weren’t going to be the one to tell him and piss him off even more.

“I am not doing this right now,” you said, closing your eyes as you prayed to whatever greater being happened to be listening that the others would find you two soon.

Steve threw his comm to the ground, and you were about to yell at him for it, but he went into another rant. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Taking a step towards him, you ignored the way your ankle shouted in protest. “It’s not like you were actually going to ask me on a date.” You needed to make your point and that included trying to take an intimidating step towards him while poking a finger into his chest that happened to be as wide as a fucking football field.

“Yes, I—”

“No, you wouldn’t,” you laughed, your heart twisting with pain. “For the past year, you’ve done nothing but flirt with me and get close to me, only to push me away. And you know, at first, I thought it was because I’m only nineteen. And I would’ve understood that. But then I heard you telling Tony that age doesn’t matter that much to you, so it can’t be that.” You ran your fingers through your hair, wishing that you’d brought a ponytail for the umpteenth time. “I’m not playing this stupid game of, of tug-of-war with you!” You took another step and immediately started to crumble.

But Steve caught you before you could hit the ground, strong arms wrapping around your waist. “I’ve got ya, doll,” he said, his breath hot against your face as he helped you straight up, holding you flush against his chest. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You nodded, already accepting the fact that he was going to ignore your little outburst, your moment of vulnerability. He turned and bent down, coaxing you up so you were riding piggyback. He smelled like the alleyway, like sewage and trash, but you could pick out the faint scent of his aftershave underneath all of that as you wrapped your arms around him. As you closed your eyes, you were faintly aware of him heading towards the main road on the other end of the alley, but chose not to bring it up as you closed your eyes.

No use even chancing a fight.

The gentle sway of his strides was lulling you to sleep, and you didn’t even register the fact that several people had recognized the infamous Captain America and were starting to take photos.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

There was a long pause, the lights of the main street slowly fading as he carried you further and further away. Turns out, it was much easier to find out where you were if you had street signs. “Would you go on a date with me?”

“As long as you stop being an asshole,” you murmured, falling asleep to the deep rumble of his laughter.

“He didn’t even ask me on a date,” Peggy said with a groan, shaking her head fondly at the memory as she looked at the newspaper clipping. Someone had managed to get a shot of you two while he was carrying you, your face half hidden in the crook of his neck. “Even when he came back, I had to be the one to ask him out.”

You erupted into giggles, falling back on the bed, and Bucky couldn’t help but smile. Hearing you laugh and joke about your ex was a major step up. Especially considering the disaster that was the Fourth of July party.

The older woman hummed as she flipped through more of the photos, smiling as she held up one of you and Bucky that Steve had taken. It warmed your heart, reminding you of a time that seemed so much simpler even though it most definitely wasn’t.

“I just don’t understand it,” Steve said for what must’ve been the eighteenth time. He finally put his cards down, choosing instead to sit back and watch. “I’ll just watch you young whippersnappers play.”

“I’m older than you, dumb ass,” Bucky said with a smirk as he set down one of his white cards onto the pile.

Sam picked up all the white cards, shuffling them as he grumbled. It had become a new rule that each person had to shuffle the cards before reading them, since Sam wouldn’t ever pick a card that the Winter Soldier laid down. They were still in that weird ‘we’re friends but only because Steve is our friend’ stage.

Though, being on the run with only each other to talk to was quickly cementing their friendship.

“Alright, who the hell put down ‘the Rapture?’”

“That would be me,” Natasha said with a triumphant grin, reaching over and grabbing the card. She then snatched a black card, reading, “I got ninety-nine problems but blank ain’t one.” Standing, she shoved her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. “You guys want anything to eat?” She asked as she headed for the hotel room’s tiny kitchenette.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” Sam said as he also stood.

Steve couldn’t help but smile as he watched you and Bucky stare into each other’s eyes, mischievous smirks on your faces. It was nice, seeing how well the two of you got along. He held up his camera—the one you’d gotten him for his birthday the year before—and snapped a picture, neither of you hearing the soft click.

“Hmmm…,” Bucky hummed as he picked through his cards. “Should I go with ‘Seventy-Two Virgins’ or ‘Erectile Dysfunction?’”

“Oh, ‘Erectile Dysfunction,’” you said as you leaned back against the couch. You were bundled up in a giant sweatshirt—whether it was Steve or Bucky’s, none of them knew at that point—and fuzzy socks. You looked so cozy, so warm. Like you weren’t stuck in a cheap hotel in Norway, thousands of miles from home.

And once again, he was reminded just how lucky he was to have you.

“Steve mentioned that you two have a history,” Peggy said slowly, carefully gauging your reaction. “From before you even met Steve.”

Bucky bit his lip, as he tried to not make any noise.

“Yeah. He, uh…” You trailed off, blushing a rosy pink as you looked at the photo. You’d gotten it developed after the Snap, wanting as keep every memory of your friends that you could. “He helped train me in the Red Room.”

The Brit smirked as she nudged you, raising her eyebrows. “You’re blushing.”

“I…” You picked at a loose thread in your comforter. “I had a crush on him back then. It was dumb. I was seventeen, it wasn’t appropriate.”

Bucky’s heart caught in his throat as all his feelings welled up. You were right, it wasn’t appropriate. You’d been seventeen, about to turn eighteen, when he’d realized he had feelings for you.

And he’d immediately told his handler. In a subtle way of course, not wanting it to be obvious. He’d quietly asked him when the next time he would see you was, making sure to emphasize the ‘see you.’ Normally, he didn’t ask anything, but if he did, it was always ‘When am I training again?’

His handler had picked it up immediately, and he’d been wiped. He’d protected you from himself, not wanting to be the creepy old man preying on a young girl.

Bucky took in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut before walking down the hall. He didn’t need to listen to the rest of your conversation. His heart couldn’t take it at the moment no matter which way it went.

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine

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deansmyapplepie · 6 years

Text

Who We Are - Part 2

Title: That’s My Girl

Here is part two of Who We Are from my Supernatural fanfiction collection!

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1,952

(Gif not mine)

Jody tossed the keys to Sam.

"You know where we're goin'?" she asked. Sam nodded.

"Yep."

"Gear up. We roll out in 10." Dean grunted in pain as you helped him stand.

"You ready?" Sam asked him. You pulled his arm over your shoulder for support.

"Oh, no," you protested. "He's not going." Sam looked at you, confused.

"What?" Dean tested his leg and groaned, shifting his weight back to the other side.

"She's right," he agreed. "My leg busted up the way it is I'm no good in a fight." Sam frowned, looking nervous.

"I'll take a jacked-up Dean Winchester over ten other hunters any day."

"Eleven." The boys both looked at you. "Eleven," you insisted. "I'm going with you." Dean shook his head.

"No way, Sweetheart. I need you for backup in case the Brit over here goes rogue. Again. And we all know how that turned out for us last time." You shot Sam a helpless expression.

"Dean, without you or Y/N, we're screwed. They'll take us down before we even get a chance to get inside." Dean chuckled.

"No, I saw you. You're ready for this. You show those sons of bitches who's boss."

"What about you two?" Sam asked, glancing between the two of you. "What are you gonna do?" "We're gonna save mom. Look, if she's in there - if our real mom is in there somewhere - then I'm gonna try and find her, bring her back." Sam shifted nervously. "You got this." Dean pulled him in for a hug. "You come back." Sam nodded.

"Promise." When Dean pulled away, you threw your arms around him.

"Be careful, Sammy," you whispered.

"I will. And Y/N?" You looked up at him. "It's Sam." He ruffled your hair affectionately as you went back to Dean.

"Bitch," he said quietly. Sam chuckled.

"Jerk." Dean nodded slightly.

“Yeah.” You could tell he was trying hard to hold back emotions.

You rolled your eyes in attempts to break the tension.

"Winchesters." After only you and Dean remained, he turned to Toni.

"Okay, you got inside my mom's head once before. What about me? Can you get me in?"

"You? I..." She sighed. "Perhaps. But I need my rig." You shook your head exasperatedly.

"Let me guess: it's at the base." She turned to face you, shooting you daggers.

"It's not my fault all the good equipment is at the bloody base!" She sighed, trying to calm herself. "But I suppose with the right materials I could cobble something together."

"Well, then what the hell are we waiting for?" you exclaimed. "Let's go!"

Dean shut the bunker door behind him and headed down the stairs.

"All right," he began. "Where's the stuff you need?"

"Should be in storage, next to the dungeon." You blocked Toni's path as she turned to walk away.

"No way," you stated, crossing your arms.

"You think we're letting you out of our sight?" Dean asked as he came to stand next to you. She frowned deeply.

"Need I remind you that my organization left me to die? At this point, I'm not on anyone's side but my own." You nodded.

"Oh yeah, and that's real reassuring considering how bat-shit you went last time you were on 'your own side.'" She ignored your snide comment.

"There's a large piece of machinery with electrodes hooked up to them. Do you think you can handle getting these simple components or need I do it myself?" You took a step towards her, but Dean held you back, shaking his head softly. You glared at her and turned on your heel to get the materials.

"Bitch," you muttered under your breath.

When you came back up wheeling the large machine, Toni had the cuffs dangling from one wrist, hands freed and holding two syringes.

"Why the hell are your cuffs off?" you demanded.

"I'm on probation," she answered calmly, not looking up from the syringes. When Dean caught your eye, you raised your eyebrows at him. He walked up next to you and leaned down to whisper in your ear.

"I told her we might let her go see her son after this all goes down."

"Are we going to?" Dean shook his head.

"I don't know, but we can't risk her getting away. Put those bad boys back on her when I give you the signal. Cuff her to the table." You nodded at his serious expression. "All right," Dean sighed heavily as he sat down across from Mary. "Let's do this." You watched as Toni attached the same electrodes on Mary's head to Dean's.

"These electrodes sync your delta waves with Mary's, forming a psychic link," she explained. "But to enter her psyche will take a certain measure of concentration and skill. And as there's no time to teach you how to reach the necessary therapeutic dream state, I'm banking on this." She held up one of the syringes. "Hypnotic agents laced with a potent sedative." Mary winced as Toni injected the liquid into her neck. "It's enough to knock an elephant on its trunk." She looked you up and down judgingly. "I'd hook you up as well, but I don't have enough sedative for the three of you. Plus, I've noticed you American hunters tend to make a mess of things and, well, I'd rather not risk it if it's all the same to you." You grabbed her shirt by the collar, effectively wrinkling the fabric.

"Okay listen up you British bitch. I may not have soft hands and wear sensible heels all the time, but I am a damn good hunter. I've saved lives, and I am proud of that. Now, Dean may have said he'd let you see your son, but I didn't say anything. You know what that means? It means as soon as they both wake up and Mary's back to normal, there's nothing keeping me from killing you. So I suggest you shut your damn mouth and tread lightly around me. Got it?" She didn't say anything, but you could see the fear in her eyes. Dean whistled lowly in the background.

"That's my girl." he chuckled proudly. You huffed angrily and released her. Toni turned towards Dean with the other syringe in hand. "Y/N, now," Dean said.

"Gladly," you replied, cuffing her to the table. Toni turned and shot you a glare.

"Really?" Dean shrugged.

"Little insurance. You understand." She stepped towards him, raising the syringe.

"This will hurt," she mocked. "You understand." He grunted in pain as the needle went into his neck. You watched, concerned, as Toni pushed the plunger down. You held his hand as the sedative worked its magic. Dean looked over at you and gave you a weak smile before his eyes fluttered shut, and he was gone to the world.

Toni sighed and sat down.

"How long will this take?" you asked. She shook her head.

"Their sense of time is different than ours now. It could take seconds, minutes, hours even." For the next fifteen minutes, you sat in silence, frequently checking your phone for any texts from Sam or Jody. You looked over at Mary and noticed a tear streaking down her cheek. You stood and walked over to her.

"What is that? Why is she crying?" you asked, pointing to the tear. Toni shrugged.

"I don't have the slightest idea what could be going on in their heads." The steel door at the top of the stairs rattled, and you whipped around.

"Sam wouldn't be back by now," you whispered to Toni.

"No, no, no," she breathed. "Ketch." You stood urgently and took the gun from your waistband.

"I thought he was at the base with the others!"

"So did I, but he must have tracked Mary's location here and come to take her back." Suddenly, the door swung open, and Ketch walked in.

"Ah, Lady Bevell. Lovely as ever."

"Piss off, Ketch." Toni spat as she tried to wiggle out of the handcuffs. He waltzed into the room, and you aimed your gun at him.

"Not another step!" you yelled. Ketch chuckled.

"And the beautiful Y/N. My, my, the Winchesters did pick a fine toy to play with." The gun clicked as you chambered a bullet. "Oh, not very friendly, are we? Perhaps you need to be taught some manners!" He pulled out his own gun and shot at you, and you dove behind one of the bookcases for cover. After a few moments, the gunshots stopped. You cautiously peered around the side of your make-shift hiding spot, only for it to topple over, effectively pinning you down. Ketch kicked the gun from your hand and walked to Toni.

"Ketch, you need me!" she exclaimed, her tone pleading. He produced a blade from his waistband. "I'm the one who programmed Mary! Without me, you-" Without any warning, he slit her throat. Toni fell to the floor lifelessly as you struggled to shift some of the weight on top of you. Dean gasped as Ketch yanked the electrodes from his face.

"No," he said disbelievingly. Ketch smiled coldly at him.

"Oh, yes." He threw Dean against the bookcase opposite of you, and he slid across the floor.

"Dean!" You exclaimed as you tried desperately to wiggle free of the fallen bookcase.

"Oh, what?" Ketch walked towards him as he struggled to stand. "Thought you'd get your mum back? Sorry, Dean. Not how this ends." He kicked him in the back of the knee, causing him to fall again. "This ends with me ending you."

"No!" You yelled. Dean stood again.

"I'm gonna kill you," he snarled. Ketch laughed humorlessly.

"You won't, but I'd very much enjoy it if you tried." You grabbed onto the edge of a nearby shelf for leverage and began to pull yourself out. "You know what your mother said about you, Dean?" Ketch taunted. "All those long days and even longer nights out on the road, hunting? Hmm?" He grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the jaw. "Absolutely nothing." Ketch pulled Dean up from the floor by the collar of his shirt. "Ah, this is fun." Dean growled and threw Ketch onto the table, breaking it. He stood quickly, table leg in hand and pushed Dean into the wall, the table leg flush against his chest and neck. Finally free of the bookcase, you sprinted at Ketch and tackled him to the ground. He was caught off guard but recovered quickly. He hit you sharply across the face with the butt of his gun, and you cried out.

"Get off of her!" Dean roared. Ketch chambered a bullet and aimed the barrel of the gun at your head. A flicker of fear passed through Dean's face.

"Don't come any closer or she's dead," Ketch threatened. Dean raised his hands in surrender, not moving an inch.

"When you left us alone in the bunker, man, I knew you were psycho, but I didn't think you were stupid." Ketch turned his focus to Dean angrily.

"I may be many things... But I'm not stupid." He pointed the gun at Dean's head, and a gunshot rang out.

"No!" you screamed from the ground. But Dean didn't move at all. It was Ketch that collapsed, clutching his arm. Behind him, was Mary pointing a gun at him.

"Mom?" Dean asked

"Mary..." Ketch pleaded. He fell to his knees, and Dean ran to your side, checking for injuries. When you brushed him off, he helped you stand. "I... I knew you were a killer. You all are." Dean wrapped an arm around your waist and scowled angrily.

"You're right." Mary shot the gun and Ketch collapsed to the ground, dead.

Thank you so much for reading! As always, feedback is highly appreciated!

For more of my writing, here’s my masterlist!

If you would like to be tagged in my writing in the future, go here to add yourself to the taglist!

#Supernatural #Supernatural Fandom #Supernatural Fanfiction #Supernatural Season 12 Spoilers #Supernatural Season 12 #Season 12 Episode 22 #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Original Female Character #Jody Mills #Toni Bevell #Mary Winchester #Fanfiction #Dean Winchester x Original Female Character #Dean Winchester x Reader #Reader

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wftc141 · 6 years

Text

Voltron: Global Military Intelligence and Counter-Terrorism Unit-Chapter 1: Voltron

01/23/2018

1139 Hours

Karachi, Pakistan

In the city of Karachi while on a beautiful morning, there is a Pakistani man with a shaggy beard wearing a Khyber Pakhtunkhwa with a pakol on his head walking through the crowded streets. He nervously looked around to make sure that he's not being followed. He then came up to a green car and gets into the passenger seat where there is a woman is sitting in the driver seat. She is wearing a Shalwar Kameez with hijab only revealing her face showing she has brown skin and green eyes. When the man entered the car, he was feeling afraid of the woman.

"ٹھیک ہے (Well?)" The woman asked in Urdu.

The man didn't answered as he was still feeling nervous with concerns of the woman.

"خالد؟ (Khalid?)" The woman called out the man to get him to talk.

"دیکھو ... مجھے اپنے خاندان کو دور کرنا پڑا. (Look...I had to move my family away.)" Said the man named Khalid. "چونکہ میں آپ کے بارے میں معلومات جمع کر رہا تھا، بہت سے لوگ میرے بارے میں بہت شبہ گزار رہے تھے. (A lot of people were getting very suspicious about me since I was gathering information for you.)"

"آپ اس کے بارے میں فکر کرنے کی ضرورت نہیں ہے. (You don't need to worry about that right now.)" Said the woman. "آپ سب کو یہ کرنے کی ضرورت ہے کہ مجھے بتاؤ جو لوگ اغوا کرتے ہیں اور ان لوگوں کو عمل کرتے ہیں جو میں جانتا ہوں. (All you need to do is tell me who are the ones kidnapping and executing people that I know.)"

"وہ مجھے مار ڈالیں گے اور میرے خاندان کے بعد جائیں گے. (They will kill me and will go after my family.)"

"اگر آپ جو کچھ کرتے ہیں، اور ہم آپ اور آپ کے خاندان کی حفاظت کر سکتے ہیں. (And we can protect you and your family if you do what I say.)"

There was then a moment of silence as Khalid started to think about his current predicament. After a minute of conversation, Khalid gets out of the car and walks off. The woman then pulls out a phone and starts to text someone. Suddenly a middle eastern man, who is in his thirties, wearing also in an Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, has short hair, green eyes and a scruffy beard witnessed khalid walking off. He then received a text from his phone and starts to walk to the car where the woman is. Suddenly a van speeds out from nowhere on to the sidewalk where the man was and four men rush out of the van carrying AK rifles and wearing chest rigs and ski mask to hide their faces and started chasing the man. The man was too slow to react as he was shot in the back of his leg falling like a limp rag doll. The shot echoed around the city's buildings and the onlookers stopped to look at the scene unfolding. The woman in the car was shocked that the man that she knows was shot. The armed men grabbed a hold of the man and started dragging him into the van. He tried to fight back but couldn't and the armed men manage to get him in the van and drove off with him. The woman just couldn't believe that this happened to the man and there was nothing that she couldn't do. Nothing but look at the man's blood left on the dirty city streets from his leg.

"Shit." The woman swore in english and even hit the wheel with her hand.

The woman hit the gas pedal and peeled out of the aria off before more masked men could come after her as well. A few moments passed and the bystanders went back to the daily activities as quickly it all happened as if nothing important happened.

01/24/2018

1400 Hours

London, England

Classified Military Intelligence Headquarters

In a control room of the headquarters building, military intelligence operatives watch the horrific footage on a big screen T.V. monitor in real time. In the footage of armed Middle Eastern men held another middle eastern man who is all bloody and bruised up. The armed me are wearing ski masks to hide their face and are carrying AK rifles. One of the armed men pulls out a pistol and aims it at the hostage and says:

"الله سب سے بڑا ہے. (Allah is the greatest.)"

The man then executed the hostage with a bullet to the head splattering blood everywhere and the hostage dies instantly. The footage then ended but the operatives in the control room couldn't believe that this happened and disgusted.

"Savages" One of the support staff operatives blurted out.

In the room is Commanding Officer Major Allura Brooks, a thirty year old African British woman with dark green eyes, brown skin and long, curly black hair which is tucked into a neat bun and is wearing a military multicam uniform along with the rest of the operatives in the Military Intelligence Headquarters. Next to her is Lieutenant Coran Smythe, a Caucasian British half irish man with black eyes, short orange hair, and a bushy orange mustache and wearing a multicam uniform.

"This is the fifth MI6 operative killed in Pakistan and this time it's our contact." Said Allura. "Amir Tabbal was operating in Pakistan for two years and was even ex-special forces of the British SBS."

"This has to be ISI doing." Said Coran. "There's no bloody way in hell that they managed to find out who those operatives are...they even killed one of my friends' operatives from MI6. His operative was very deep inside Pakistan giving information about ISI and a few terrorist cells operating there."

"Possibly but-"

Suddenly the tv screen change and shows images information of a middle eastern woman with long black hair, green eyes and have brown skin and wearing a suit

"Sergeant Trigel Khan." Allura explained. "One of ours. Ex-Royal Marine Commando and has valuable information about who's really responsible for this and needs to be extracted out of the country before these hostiles get to her."

"We're going to need a covert extraction team to get her out...a team who can get in and get out without drawing attention to the Pakistani government and even ISI."

"I've recruited new lions who can do the job and I'll be leading them."

Coran then turns to Allura with a questionable look on his face curious about her decision.

"You sure about these Yanks?" Coran asked.

"I'm positive." Said Allura. "I'll be joining them at the airfield and brief them on the Hercules. They should already be there."

1630 Hours

Suffolk, England

Royal Air Force Mildenhall

In the airfield next to a C130 is a team in civilian attire checking their gear and waiting for someone to meet with them. They are most likely the new recruits for Allura's Military Intelligence Unit. All of them seem like their still in their twenties. One is Hunk Momoa, a young Samoan American man who is taller than the rest of the recruits and muscular, has medium brown skin, black medium haircut rather short, his bangs reaching just under his eyes, while the rest of his hair barely reaches his neck and has a beard and brown eyes and is wearing a orange long sleeve shirt with a green sleeveless jacket over it, green pants and sneakers. The other is Lance Santo, a young Cuban American man who is built as a athlete, has with light brown skin, short brown hair which has two strands of hair that sprout from the top of his head, thin eyebrows, and blue eyes and even has a scar on his right eyebrow and is wearing a blue button down shirt, white cargo pants and tactical shoes, next is Katie Holt, a young Italian American woman who is a moderate height in her twenties, slightly muscular build, has short light brown hair with two strands of hair that sprout from the top of her head, one slightly longer than the other, brown eyes but also wears glasses, and fair skin and is wearing a blue jean jacket over her green shirt and blue jeans pants and sneakers. The last recruit is Keith Yeun, a young Korean American man who is built as a martial artist athlete, with pale skin, black hair with uneven-cut bangs that tend to sweep to the left of his face, length averaging just under his eyes, but framing his face slightly longer and curled at his cheekbones and the rest of his hair reaches the base of his neck, fairly thick eyebrows, and blue-gray eyes and is wearing a red long sleeve shirt, blue jeans and sneakers.

"So...how is it that four Americans like us are working for the Brits?" Questioned Lance.

"It's a Global unit." Pidge replied. "Meaning it's not just British or Americans but everybody in the task force."

"Still feel strange about it."

"You'll get used to it."

"Well...can we introduce ourselves or are we going to be quiet all the time. I'll start first. I'm Lance Santos, former Marine Sniper."

Keith gives out a defeated sigh as he decided to go first.

"Keith Yeun...from the 75th Rangers."

"I'm Hunk Momoa...Rangers and EOD." Hunk introduced himself.

"Momoa? What kind of name is that?" Lance asked.

"It's Hawaiian. I'm half Samoan."

"What about you cutie? I'm guessing Air Force?" Lance asked Pidge who is busy checking her gear.

"Just call me Pidge and I'm Army...CST." Pidge answered.

"What that?"

"Cultural Support Team." Keith answered. "Most likely Rangers for women. Her job is to work with the female locals and children. Me and her served together since three years back."

"Huh...that's cool."

"Yeah but most of the women I was helping tried to kill me and my guys since they were working for Al-qaeda or Taliban." Said Pidge

"Yep woman strap explosives to their children, send then in to the crowded streets and press the detonator killing their children and everyone else."

"How can you reason with someone like that?" Hunk Momoa asked.

"With a 5.56 round to the head." Pidge answered.

Lance was then impressed of what military job that Pidge had and how she can take care of herself. Later a HMMWV drives up to the team and coming out from it is Allura where Keith, Pidge, Hunk and Lance give their full attention to her.

"Good...all of you here and most likely introduced yourselves. My name is Major Allura Brooks and I'm you're commanding officer of Voltron. Our mission today is to retrieve our own operative from Pakistan before she'll get killed by whoever hunting her and other undercover operatives stationed there. Five MI6 operatives were murdered in Pakistan and our operative have information who are responsible for these horrific attacks and we need to extract her."

"And we have to get out quickly before Pakistan government knows we're there." Keith guessed.

"Correct...even from ISI who might be behind these attacks. We get in, get Sergeant Khan and get out. This is a deniable op. Meaning no backup as no one will know that we're there rescuing our own. If the OP goes sideways, we will regroup at the United States Embassy and contact headquarters to figure out what to do."

Allura turns to the C-130 and walks into the plane with her gear.

"Welcome to Voltron, lions."

2258 hours

Karachi, Pakistan

It is now nightfall in the city in Pakistan and about to be midnight. In a apartment building, there is Sergeant Trigel Khan who is gathering her things. She even place some files into her suitcase. She then hears a knock on the which made her pull out her Glock and aims it at the door. Khan may think that it's the same people who kidnapped and executed the MI6 agent from the other day after she met her contact.

"أزرق. أزرق. (Blue. Blue)" Said a female voice on the other side of the door in arabic.

When Khan heard the codewords that's in Arabic, she holstered her pistol and opens the door. On the other side are Major Brooks and her team except for Hunk who is waiting in a car. Allura and her team are wearing robes with hoodies over their heads except for Allura and Pidge who are wearing hijabs over their heads and under their robes they're wearing casual civilian clothing but wearing tactical belts with pouches that holds ammo for their weapons and holsters for their pistols. Also underneath their shirts are their plate carriers. They are with modified AKMs fitted with eotech sights and suppressors and their sidearms are Glock pistols. Khan invited the team in. Allura removed her hijab as she wants to face Khan who was glad to see her.

"Glad to see you here, ma'am." Said Sergeant Khan.

"Glad to see that you're alive, Sergeant." Allura replied. "What can you tell us?"

"Ma'am...my contact told me that ISI are getting "

"Are these guys that good?" Keith asked.

"Yes but...someone has been giving information to ISI for them to snatch the agents and giving them to the people they hired them to kidnap."

Soon the sound of cars pulling up outside drew the attention of the Operators in the building. Even Hunk knew the the cars pulling up and had to ready his rifle.

"Is that more of you guys?" Khan asked as Keith went to the window quickly, looking outside to see who had pulled up outside.

"Shit… we're made we have to go now!" Keith said as he went to the door.

Opening the door, Keith saw two men running up the stairs with black shemagh over their heads and carrying AK rifles. Curse he raised up hid AK and open fired on the two men and killed them as a few bullets pierced into their bodies. After seeing two of their comrades dead, the rest of the attackers sprinted to the building. Keith, Lance and Pidge takes position as they were about to get into a gunfight.

"Time to go now!" Keith yelled to which Trigel nodded as she grabbed her gear.

"Alright. Let's get the fuck out of here." Trigel said drawing Keith's attention after grabbing her things.

As Keith turned his head to look at Trigel, an attacker threw a grenade up to their floor. As the grenade landed and rolled across the floor, the operators watched before some started rushing back into the room. Allura grabbed Khan and dragged her to the ground and into the wall, protecting her with her body, hoping her plate carrier would catch most of the fragmentation.

Outside, Hunk was taking fire as he was getting out from his SUV and had his head down to avoid the bullets flying above him. Coming outside are Lance and Pidge comes out of the building and helps Hunk get into the building providing covering fire.

"MOMOA MOVE!" Yelled Pidge.

"MOVING!" Yelled Hunk.

Hunk gets up and starts climbing up the stairs to get inside the room. Next was Pidge after pat Lance on the should and then rushes back to the apartment building while Lance provides covering fire. Lance was the last person outside taking on the armed men. Keith was next to the door and was providing covering fire to get his comrade in the building.

"SANTOS MOVE!" Yelled Keith.

"MOVING!" Lance yelled back.

Lance rushes back into the apartment building while Keith provides covering fire for him. Lance finally made it back into the building as he joins his teammates to hold off the armed men outside using his impressive marksmanship as he shot down and killed any combatant that is in his sights. More armed attackers keeps coming and soon the team are going to be surrounded and outnumbered.

"We need a way out of here!" Yelled Lance.

"No shit!" Pigde tells back as she ducks down and inserts a fresh magazine into her AK.

Hunk quickly thought of an idea as he quickly starts to dig into his backpack that he was able to pull out from his car and pulled out two Claymores and place them on the wall from the back of the room.

"Yo Hunk whatcha doing?!" Lance asked as he reloads his AK.

"Making an exit!" Hunk answered as he sets the explosives.

After arming the two claymores, Hunk stood back and pulled out a the two triggers that detonates the two explosives. When the team sees what Hunk about to do they starts to make room and cover their head so that they won't get caught in the blast as did the same to Major Brooks and Sergeant Khan.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Hunk yelled.

Hunk triggered the charge and it exploded. After it explode, it created a giant hole in the wall which leads outside of the back of the apartment.

"That'll work!" Said Pidge.

"I got point!" Said Hunk.

Hunk got up and walks into the hole and the rest of the team follows.

"Lets go now!" Allura yelled to Trigel.

Allura helped Khan to their feet while the rest of the operators came out from the room through the hole in the wall, letting Allura and Trigel to trail behind a bit as Keith, Lance, Pidge and Hunk take point.

"Ma'am I can fight." Said Sergeant Khan.

"I know but we can't risk having you shot or killed." Said Major Brooks.

"Who the hell were those guys?" Lance asked.

"Possibility ISI." Keith answered. "Those guys can fight."

"Doesn't matter who these bastards are just fucking shoot them!" Hunk said as he checked the mag of his AK.

The team are now in the streets which people in the city starts to run for their lives when they saw the operators carrying their rifles. The team then knew that they have to get out of the city immediately before Pakistani police or military arrives.

"Hunk, Pidge." Allura said looking at the two. "Can you split off and find us a car and meet us here?"

"Will do, Major." Pidge excepted with a nod.

Pidge and Hunk starts to break off from the team as they look for a vehicle for the team to evac. As the rest of the team tries to hold off the ensuing onslaught of attackers.

"I swear there's more guys coming at us than the Chinese could throw at us." Said Lance.

"Are you seriously jinxing us right now?!" Keith questioned.

"Dude just shoot the bad guys and have some fun."

Suddenly more fighters who came round a corner and starts shooting at the operators and had to take cover as the four enters a market building. Keith and Lance returns fire on the attackers as they stand their ground until Pidge and Hunk arrives with cars.

"Hey Keith!" Lance called.

"What?!" Keith questioned while focusing on shooting at the attackers.

"Bet $50 I'll get more kills than you!"

"Seriously?!" Keith questioned and giving Lance a confused look on his face as he takes cover as he was getting shot at.

"Yeah seriously!"

"We're already in combat and you're fucking doing this now?! "Yeah starting now! You in?!"

Keith was completely confused that Lance wants to play bets with him while they're in a middle of a gunfight against unknown shooters. He thinks that there is something wrong with him. Before Keith could answered, Keith and Lance sees the attackers shooting at something else that's making their way to the market. It was Hunk and Pidge "commandeered" two cars and drove up to pick up the rest of the operators.

"LET'S GO!" Hunk yelled as he pulled up to the group.

The operators started piling into the cars as rounds flew all around them tearing up the surrounding walls. As the Operators got in Allura and Kahn had gotten separated from the group getting into Hunk's car. Cursing under their breath from the incoming fire the two got into Pidge's car and peeled out behind Hunk. As the two drove off from the area and watched as the attackers disappeared as they turned a corner. In the car the operators let out a small chuckle as they followed Hunk through the eerily quiet streets. Allura looked up to the rooftops of the passing buildings.

"RPG! Rooftop!" Allura yelled as the fighter with the RPG fired.

Pidge swerved off the main road and into an alley to escape the certain death if they continued following Hunk.

"Damn, we have to link up with everyone else." Sergeant Khan said looking out the rear window as the fireball from the RPG died down behind them.

"I'm working on it." Pidge said as she turned onto a street from the alley and started following it. "We'll follow this road and we should…"

As Pidge was explaining her plan to Allura and Khan a car rammed into their side as they drove through the intersection, sending them into the wall. Allura and Trigel slammed into each other in the back seat of the car, Allura laying on the floor groaning in pain, while Khan laid on the seat. Pidge however was slumped over the steering wheel unresponsive. Soon several more cars pulled up and several men with AKs got out, walking over to the car. As they were prying open the door Trigel looked up at them and her heart dropped as the door opened. As she went to grab her pistol, she was grabbed and yanked out of the car, landing on the hard pavement with a thud before one of the men gave her a swift kick to her head. As her vision blurred she watched as Allura was pulled from the car and the two were bound and her vision went dark as a black bag was put over her head. Listening to what was happening she could only assume that the group was put into a car and then drove off from the site of the crash.

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britsyankswheels24 · 2 months

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🇬🇧 Embark on a journey through the illustrious lineage of the Aston Martin Lagonda, spanning from 1976 to 1990, a testament to automotive luxury and innovation!

👑 Founded in 1913, Aston Martin has become synonymous with luxury, English elegance, and high-performance automobiles. In the early 1970s, it continued to push the boundaries of automotive design and engineering.

🚘 The Aston Martin Lagonda lineup of the late 1970s and 1980s exemplified the pinnacle of luxury automobiles, featuring sleek and sophisticated designs that set new standards for elegance and refinement.

🛞 Beneath their refined exteriors, the Lagonda boasted powerful V8 engines, delivering exhilarating performance and effortless cruising. Their spacious and sumptuously appointed interiors were outfitted with the latest amenities, including plush leather upholstery and polished wood trim.

💡 The Lagonda was known for its innovative use of electronic systems, including digital dashboard displays, onboard computers, and advanced climate control systems, setting new benchmarks for automotive technology and innovation.

💔 Despite critical acclaim and a loyal following, production of the Aston Martin Lagonda ultimately ceased in 1990. One of the key factors contributing to the discontinuation of the Lagonda series was the high cost of production and limited demand in the luxury car market.

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waitingtobeimpressed · 6 years

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The Silent Serpent Part 1

Chapter 1 - South Side High

Sweetpea x OC

Part 1

Warnings: maybe a lil bit a violence but that’s life for you.

Word count: quite a bit.

The picture is mine and I did, in fact, create it. And umm if you didn't notice it can kind of only be used for my story because it has the title of the book and my name in it Sooooooo......

I also did not create Riverdale but some people get salty about not making that clear. However, I did create the character of Maeble Mikaelson/ Forgarty and all the relationships she forms. So. Yeh.

Yes her name is Maeble Mikaelson. For a bit of context, her mothers maiden name is Mary Mikaelson and her Fathers name was Fish Forgarty (It's complicated), She prefers to use Forgarty as her last name because to put it lightly she hates her mother with a passion…

She doesn’t remember her father because he was given life in prison when she was still a baby. We might see more of him in the future though...

I’m still new to the whole Tumblr thing so just give a chance and hopefully, I will figure it out.

Car pollution and second-hand smoke filled Maeble Forgartys lungs as she and fangs pulled into South Side High car park. It hadn’t been the first time she had been here even though this was the first time she was actually attending the school.

Maeble spent every summer she could remember on the south side. Her father, who was brothers with fangs’ dad, was a serpent so she knew the majority of the people she saw here. Her mother didn’t really approve of gang lifestyle and shipped her off to England where she attended a prestigious school for ‘Troubled Young Ladies’. Maeble laughed to herself every time that place happened to come up in conversation because she was hardly a rebellious child. She was quite the opposite actually as she didn’t even like socializing, let alone cause any trouble.

Fangs jumped off of the bike and gave Mae a huge grin. She, in return, gave him an eye roll.

“Why are you happy?, if anything I’m going to embarrass you…” She said sliding off a taking a wary glance at her immediate surroundings. Looking to the school she noticed the hoards of students around the entrance, taking turns in tormenting the people who attempted to make their way inside. To her left, she spotted the large row of motorbikes, a line in which they were also sat. Fangs noticed this and smirked with pride.

“Can’t I just be happy that the closest thing I have to a sister is going to be going to the same school as me?” Fangs continued to smile to the point it was starting to make mae feel uneasy. Almost like he was planning something.

“Shut up, Do all of these bikes belong to serpents?” Maeble questioned with a bit of amazement, already knowing the answer.

“Yeh, but this one,” he said and patted the bike they had just ridden in on. “Is the coolest” he stated. Maeble raised her eyebrows and nodded her head. “I dunno Fangs, that one is pretty impressive.” mae said and began to walk to one that had caught her eye. It was completely black except the sliver handlebars and rims of the wheels.

“You would fucking say that wouldn’t you?” Fangs huffed in defeat. “That’s Peas”. Maeble and Sweet Pea had met a few years back when she came to stay with her aunt and fangs for the summer when she was nine. He had immediately taken a liking to her and it quickly became obvious that he wanted to make her life as hard as possible.

Death by cheesy pickup lines…

So whenever she came to stay in the future Maeble would do anything in her power to stay away from him. Not in a cruel way, just as a way of self-preservation for his influence.

Mae’s eyes widened with annoyance “Well, in that case, you’re right, your old, rusty piece of crap is the coolest.” Fangs smiled with satisfaction not letting her words hit him too hard. He Swung his tanned muscled arm around her pale shoulders and guided her towards the entrance of the school. As they walked up the steps of South Side High she could feel the burning glare of at least half of the student body as they quickly ascended. Once they were through the doors Fangs removed his arm and took Mae’s bag and deposited it into a little grey tray and continued to guide her through the metal detector. On the other side, Fangs grabbed the bag again and handed to her

“Well, that was quite the experience.” She mumbled sarcastically (Sounding extremely Britsh making her cringe), pushing her thick, blonde coils of hair out of her face and back into place. Maeble’s hair had always been unruly, but it was only recently that she had become hyper-aware of what it was doing. Mae grabbed a black hairband for her wrist that was already cutting off the circulation to her hand. She attempted to grab all of her wavy curls with one hand and successfully managed a half decent messy bun with minimal effort. Smiling at her self she looked up to see what fangs were doing.

“That was a sight…” he grinned at her playfully.

Maeble rolled her eyes and jabbed him in the ribs. “ you have No idea how much practice and still was needed to pull that off, dear, sweet, baby cousin.” Fangs started to walk away without any explanation. Only looking back to see if she was following. When he saw that she wasn’t he quickly made a hand gesture and she casually followed, trying not to look threatened as a row of greasy Goulies hit their fists against the battered lockers and wolf whistled in her direction. “FRESH MEAT” A voice boomed and echoed through the corridor as almost everyone stopped what they were doing to look. Fangs came to meet her halfway and swung his arm over her shoulder again, glaring at everyone who dared make eye contact with him.

“She’s spoken for, shes with the Serpents” Fangs shouted and they continued around a corner until they were out of sight.

“Shit, Shit. Shit. Fuck” Fangs rambled as his pace slowed, pulling his free hand through his gelled hair. He looked panicked, not his usual state. Fangs had always had a laid-back demeanour, even when he was being scolded. The Serpent institution was an absolute breeze for him.

“What?” Mae asked, genuinely confused and only slightly insulted that she was being treated like today's entertainment.

“Well, darling Cousin. I pretty much just told the whole school you have aligned yourself with us, which puts an even bigger target on your back that if were still a sheep… so it's not great.“ he said.rubbing the back of his head

Suddenly an ear-piercing ringing noise filled the already bustling halls and everyone started to file into the designated classroom. “ Shit, where the fuck is…” Mae Paused to pull her class schedule from her black denim jean pocket. “ B10? History, I think?” Mae looked up, either hoping that Fangs would be in the same class or at least he would be close by.

Fangs’ bad mood jumped off of his face and an evil grin appeared. “Ohhh, unlucky… Soz Cuz, looks like you have Mr Stevens, or over wise know as ‘Brass Balls’”.

“I’m not even gonna ask” Mae sighed and followed Fangs into the classroom. He motioned for her to enter and as soon as she did her bright blue eyes locked with a certain tall Serpent she was hoping to avoid like the plague. He smiled a sickly sweet grin and Maeble turned oh her heal and left, bumping into a hard chest just outside of the room.

“Fangs!” She exclaimed as she hit him lightly. “You arse. You knew he was in there didn’t you?”.

Fangs pretended to look innocent but Maeble knew they had set is up. Those assholes, she thought. Fangs spun her around and pushed her back into the classroom. “I had no idea he would be here, honest, scouts honour, And you cant be skipping on the first day, you're giving the serpents a bad name,” he muttered as he quickly ran back out of the room smirking, leaving her to stand awkwardly at the front. Maeble’s eyes scanned the room hoping to find a seat that was as far away from Sweet Pea as possible. She found one relatively close to the front and as soon as she sat she hear her name being called out from the back.

“Mae Mike? Is that you?” Maeble smiled recognising the voice and the nickname instantly. She turned in her seat to see Toni grinning wildly.

“Toni, God Damned, Topaz!” Toni jumped out of her seat and ran to the front of the classroom, engulfing mae with a soft hug. When they broke apart Mae took the time to see how much her best and only friend had changed over the past year. Toni had defiantly grown into her body, looking absolutely stunning in a black pair of waist-high shorts and a red flannel shirt tied off around her hips. Her long wavy hair was somehow longer and sporting pink stripes that highlighted the structure of her slender face.

“ What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, kicking the kid out of the seat in front of me so she could face me.

“I moved in with Fangs Last weekend… Mum was getting to be a bit much and I got kicked out of the third boarding school she sent me to…” Mae said, smiling when she saw the impact her words had on Toni’s face.

Toni stood up and held her hand out, offering it for Mae to take.

“wha-?” Maeble started but she was yanked out of her seat and being dragged to the back of the classroom, to where the Serpents sat, to where SP sat. “you can’t sit down there, you’re an honorary Serpent, which means No Ghoulies” mae was confused but she noticed Toni’s line of gaze no longer matched hers. Mae followed it to see a slim, bleach blonde girl twiddling a piece of her hair in between her fingers as she flirted with a boy who was sat in front of her. The boy, that was, being Sweet Pea was straddling his seat so he could face her. “Scram Brit” Toni finished, glaring at the girl until she finally collected her stuff and strutted her the seat Mae was just sat in. Mae slid uncomfortably into the warm seat, feeling Sweet peas eyes gaze over her facial features. He didn’t turn around, but then again Mae didn’t think he would.

“Female Forgarty, always a pleasure,” He said as he leaned in even closer, so he could rest his elbows on the table.

“Not for me.” Mae rolled her eyes, Let the torture begin, She thought.

#sweet pea #sweet pea riverdale #riverdale #sweet pea imagine #silent serpent #part 1 #riverdale imagines

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themegalosaurus · 7 years

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A Hiatus (SPN genfic, 1777 words, G)

I wrote this for @quickreaver for Summergen 2017. She had some super creative prompts but I chose this one: ‘downtime’.

LJ || AO3

Dean doesn't notice Sam's beard growing in until he looks up one morning and double-takes at the mountain man entering the kitchen. "Dude," he says, and Sam, soft in long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, blinks at him through a halo of tousled hair. Come to think of it, that's longer than normal too, curling at the nape of his neck where it's usually disciplined into something at least approximating order just under his ears. "You going for some kind of Chewbacca deal?" Dean asks, and Sam rubs a hand over his jaw, back up through his hair which ends up sticking up worse than ever. "Just don't see the need to cut it right now," he says. "I only do it for the Fed outfits, anyway, and we haven't had a proper case in forever." Then he shuffles over to the coffee machine and makes himself a fancy latte with one of the bottles of syrup that have appeared on the counter in the last few weeks. "I'm pretty sure you've been a good few inches off an FBI regulation cut for the past five years," says Dean. Sam shrugs broad shoulders and Dean looks down at his black coffee, sniffing enviously and surreptitiously at the caramel-vanilla scent that wafts in his direction from Sam's girly turquoise eco-mug. It's true that they haven't caught a hunt in a little while. It might be something to do with the Brits; they got so used to being drip-fed leads via text message that he and Sam have gotten lazy on their usual routine of scouring the web for whatever weird stuff might be happening in their line. Add to that, it's summer, and things always just seem to die down a little this time of year. It's like payback for the enormous shit-show that kicks off every spring.

Later that morning, making a grocery run in the 90-degree Kansas heat, Dean can understand why the creepies of the American Midwest, at least, might choose to lie dormant for a few weeks every year. The car has air conditioning but it's old and not good for much, and the black paint and leather interior combine to turn his baby into a sweatbox that has him gasping for the cooler as soon as he hits the gas station on the outskirts of town. He buries his face amongst the chill plastic bottles of soda before reaching in further to swipe the coldest Coke he can find from the back of the shelf. Then he grabs an armful of miscellaneous chips and candy, and three boxes of Popsicles from the freezer by the door. When he gets home he stashes the groceries and is disconcerted to find that Sam isn't in the library, or in his bedroom, or in any of the easily accessible rooms downstairs. Dean is just getting concerned when his phone buzzes with a message. "Did I hear the car? I'm outside. Up the back stairs." Dean bristles at the implied instruction before realising that he has nothing better to do, grabbing a beer for both of them, and heading out. He finds Sam in the centre of a cleared area of ground, hidden from the view of passers-by by virtue of its location in the middle of the disused power station next to their home. Brown brick walls climb up enormous in every direction, the huge span of earth between them covered mostly with nettles and weeds. Dean's only been up here once before, waded through thorns into the open vault of the building and retreated rapidly back down again when he realised it housed nothing but ragged bushes and bits of uncleared factory junk. Sam, though, must have been working on this project for a long time. He's dug out a large, rectangular plot against one of the walls, from which tendrils of green curl up against the brickwork, clinging into the crevices. Neat rows of small plants march out in rows across the earth, right up to the edges of the patch. Evidently, the need for space is such that Sam's decided to expand; Dean's dumbass brother has chosen as his occupation on this hot summer day the insanely unsuitable task of breaking up the next patch of the concrete floor. Just as Dean emerges out into the sunlight, Sam brings a huge heavy mallet down onto the ground, sending dusty powder spraying up in every direction. He staggers backward, drops the mallet and wipes a sweaty forearm over his face. "Beer," says Dean, offering a bottle damp with condensation. Sam gawps at him like he's fricking God's heavenly messenger before taking the beer in a blistered hand and downing what looks like three-quarters of the bottle. "Gardening," Dean says, half a question. Gardening Winchester-style, with a sledgehammer and steel-toed boots. "Yeah," says Sam. He indicates the vines presently sunning themselves against the brick. "Tomatoes are coming out, look." He's not wrong. There are plump red cheeks peeking from under the leaves, all over the wall. "I thought we could jar them up for pasta sauce or something." "Sure," says Dean. He looks at the wall, assessing. There are a lot of tomatoes. "I wasn't sure if they'd take," Sam says. "But." "Yeah," says Dean. He reaches out and snags the nearest tomato, holds it poised for a moment between his two fingers before he pops it into his mouth and bites into it, where it bursts wet and vivid over his tongue. Pasta sauce is always useful, he supposes. He looks at Sam again. It's not just the beard and the unkempt hair that make his brother look wilder than usual. Sam's built up a tan through these days outside, is golden brown where he's too often library-pallid from hibernating with only the glow of a laptop to sustain him, his arms swelling bronzed and sledgehammer-strong. It's also the clothes. Rather than the usual layers of plaid or his neat Fed suit, Sam is wearing an old shirt, a scruffy tee with a hole along one side of the collar that he (naturally) has sweat right through. He smells terrible.

For some reason, the whole disgusting spectacle makes Dean feel great. "You want a popsicle?" he says, and Sam's eyes light up. "Back in a second." They sit straight-legged on the baking concrete and eat the popsicles, looking up through the ragged edges of the factory's rafters to the bright blue Kansas sky. A bird of prey wheels overhead, something big - an eagle, maybe - and suddenly Dean's jolted into a memory of another summer, a motel in the middle of the Arizona desert with an outdoor pool and the sky open like this above them, Dad gone and he and Sam the only people for miles around, except for the worn-out middle-aged woman who ran the place. Dean had done bombs into the deep end of the pool and Sam had ploughed earnestly up and down, swimming laps, his chest and shoulders just starting to fill out into adolescence. Dad had been on some hunt that he hadn't thought Dean ready for (Dean wonders now if it was a siren, something like that). School had been out. Doubtless whatever followed after had been the usual terrifying horror show, but thinking back to that moment what Dean remembers is the quiet and the unusual sense of freedom, of peace. "We could build a pool out here," he says. Sam raises his eyebrows, looks around. "It's big enough, I guess." He glances down at the hammer. "Don't much fancy digging that out by hand." "Yeah." They'd need some machinery, of course, but that could be done. This is farm country. Dean could source a digger, put on dungarees and a southern accent and talk nonsense about crops. No reason why not. "You got anything else fit to eat?" he asks Sam, swiping another tomato. Sam has some zucchini bristling under broad leaves at the back of the plot, so they yank them free and make a garlicky, buttery pasta dish for dinner. After, Dean comes back up outside, notionally to measure out for his pool-in-progress but really to relish the stars scattered overhead across the huge, black-purple sky. Sam comes up with a glass of whiskey and they sit in the dark together, the herby scent of the vegetable patch floating exotic in the air around. "Summer vacation," Dean says, and Sam says, "Breathing space," rapid and a little uncertain. He smiles at Dean, a quick flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Yeah," says Dean. Dean sticks a message on a local small ads site, looking to borrow a digger. He marks out ground across the other side of the space to where Sam has his vegetable patch, deciding how big they need to make their pool. He gets the other sledgehammer and starts breaking up the concrete, acquires a pretty thick tan of his own, and develops his own beard (which, okay, takes a little longer to grow in than Sam's). He's sleeping better than he has done in years, worn out with physical work and the peculiar tiredness of long days in the sun. It's August third when Sam knocks on his door in the morning and sticks his head into the room. He's clean shaven, his cheeks oddly pale against the tan band of skin across his eyes and nose. "Sorry, man," Sam says. "Caught a job up in Wisconsin. Djinn." "All right," says Dean. He rubs his hands over his face, beard prickling under his palms. That'll have to go. The Fed threads are hanging neatly in his wardrobe, a little musty after their long summer of disuse. A lifetime of training means his weapons kit is ready and waiting. He tugs it all out, the guns, the knives, the ammo, and fights down the knot of regret, reluctance, whatever it is that is weighing down his stomach. "Come on," he says to himself in the mirror, shaving away the evidence of the weeks off work. His old self stares back at him. Dean feels his shoulders sag. As the car pulls out onto the highway, the sky rattles thunder. A fat drop of rain hits the windshield. Sam wrinkles his nose and looks up into the darkening clouds. "Good for the garden," he says. Then he pulls a Tupperware out of nowhere. The scent of fresh-picked tomatoes fills the car. Dean's stomach begins to unclench. He looks over at his brother. "You still haven't cut your hair." Sam grins at him. "Eh, it's not exactly regulation anyway." "Yeah, okay." Dean says. He grabs for the Tupperware box. "Give me one of those."

#my fic #my stuff #summergen 2017 #bittersamgirlclub #it's been so long since i posted any writing idk who to tag :-/

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luminis-infinite · 7 years

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*bounces!* Are you still doing prompts? If so, how about a Percival and niffler moment where they finally (sorta-kinda) come to an understanding :D Or heck, the niffler actually even does Graves a solid somehow (And if it's not your cuppa tea I have so many other ideas so feel free to ask me to spin the roulette wheel again)

There’s a priceless silver and sapphire diadem falling out of the Niffler’s pouch. It catches Graves’ eye as the little monster tries (and fails) to sneak past him on his way, undoubtedly, to rob someone else.Percival’s blood runs cold - pooling and congealing around his heart - making it thud painfully in his chest. He knows that diadem. And it is most definitely not where it belongs. “Give that back,” he hisses, startling Scamander out of his report. The Brit blinks, glancing about until his own eyes fall onto the fat black creature, stuck beneath the crack of Graves’ door. It’s enchanted, hellion isn’t getting anywhere, and if he wasn’t feeling like his heart is about to burst with rage, Percival might almost find it funny. As it is, he launches out of his chair and practically dives across the room, dragging the Niffler kicking and screaming from beneath the door and yanking the diadem out of it’s grubby clutches. The Niffler squirms and squeaks and kicks, sharp claws leaving lines that dew with blood across Percival’s hands. He ignores them, shoving the thing back at it’s keeper before tucking the diadem in his breast pocket. “Get out,” he snaps, “And make sure that thing stays where it belongs.”Percival regrets the hard look Newt suddenly gives him, lips pursing into a tight and angry line, but he can’t make himself apologize. Mira’s diadem is important and Percival won’t have some selfish beast taking away one of the only things he has left of her.

“He’s rather odd,” Newt says softly. His voice is muffled by the door and a weak charm, but Percival can still hear him. Graves lingers, despite the tug in his belly that’s telling him to go, that he doesn’t need to overhear this, that he isn’t welcome. O’Brien’s smoke rough alto reaches Percival next. He leans in closer, as if his subconscious is still a junior auror eager to take in everything his mentor says. “He’s a Graves,” she supplies, and then pauses, “What happened to put you off him? You were so keen.”Newt sighs, and something twists in Graves’ gut at the heavy weariness in it, “He was rough with my Niffler. Edward doesn’t mean any harm, you see, he just can’t help it.”O’Brien snorts. Graves can picture her shaking her head, an eyebrow cocked in something like disbelief - he’d been on the end of that expression many a time when he was eighteen. “What’d he take?”“Oh, it was rather pretty. A headband of some sort, silver with sapphires, I think.”His heart drops and his hand instantly flashes to his breast pocket, where the diadem still sits. Graves doesn’t wear his ring - there’s no point anymore, but he keeps the diadem on his person. It’s soothing, to hold it sometimes and imagine it’s warm because of her, and not from sitting in his pocket. O’Brien sighs now. “It belonged to his wife,” she explains slowly. “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Graves was married,” Newt replies, equally slowly and unsure. Percival walks away. He doesn’t need to hear the rest, he doesn’t need to be told his wife is dead.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. The weather turns, becoming Autumn, with its turning and changing. Work picks up, as they hurdle towards Halloween and all the mischief it brings. He’s out on a case, he’s exhausted and famished and running on fumes of a long dead coffee and the notion that he ate sometime a couple of days ago. So Percival thinks he can be forgiven for being bested, for taking a hit for one of his juniors instead of deflecting the spell. He wakes in the hospital with his clothes folded neatly at his bedside, all his possessions laid out on the table. Except Mira’s diadem. Percival’s heart sinks, thudding against his pelvis with a lurching sensation that almost makes him sick. He ignores the pulling ache of healing bones, rolling onto his side and searching through his clothes and coat, through the pocket where he keeps it, and even in his money bag. It isn’t anywhere.When he asks a nurse in a hoarse croak, she blinks and shrugs. She’s entirely unsympathetic. “No can do, honey, thats all there was.”Percival allows himself a few moments of despair before gathering up his shattered thoughts and placing them back in their frame. He’s so busy with this that he almost misses the Niffler, snuffling around his room.“What are you doing here?” He finds himself asking, whisking the beast over to his bedside with just a bit of magic. It squeaks, fighting to get away before landing with a plop in Percival’s lap. Edward stares up at him with something like apprehension, if a creature can be apprehensive. Then, it seems to consider something, before stuffing a tiny hand in it’s pouch. With some digging, Edward produces the diadem. He hands it to Percival with a triumphant squeak, as if to say here you go.Joy and relief tug at the corners of Percival’s mouth. He keeps the diadem in his pocket, before raising the little creature up in his cupped palms to have a better look. “Thank you,” he says, “You don’t know how important that is to me.”Edward squeaks again, before head butting Percival gently. Percival would like to think he’s saying you’re welcome.

#percival graves #fantastic beasts and where to find them

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petermorwood · 7 years

Text

Oh, it was going so well... :-P

I’m not the best person to ask “How to Write British Characters” – or “Irish Characters” either, for more or less the same reasons.

Born and raised 30 years in Northern Ireland (Accent & Idiom #1); 7 years of NI “good school” (A & I #2); 3 years RAF influence ( A & I #3); 6 years Government influence ( A & I #4); 28 years in Southern Ireland ( A & I #5); 30 years married to @dduane, a Manhattanite raised on Long Island who worked for several years in LA in a specific (animation-writing) environment ( A & I #6, 7, 8, 9) but who says all those have been modified by 30 years with me / 28 years in Ireland ( A & I #10).

It’s apparently given me an odd Titanic accent which left Northern Ireland heading for New York, sank in mid-Atlantic and finally almost reached Canada. A Toronto cop, an Ottowa civil servant and a Quebecois immigration officer have all said "Yup, Canadian, but not from here,” while various citizens from NY to Chicago to Dallas to LA to Portland have all said “Nope, not from anywhere in the USA...” (It doesn’t stop the locals here calling both of us “The Yanks...”)

That “How to Write (insert nation) Characters” question came up over pints in the pub the other day (me, DD, a expat Brit IT guy originally from Wiltshire, a local guy who's a Dublin-trained craft brewer, and a well-travelled engineer who inherited and now runs the family farm up the road) and my own accent came in for a fair bit of ribbing. I explained all the above then, for curiosity, put the “How to Write British Characters” into Google on the pad. (How to Write Irish Characters had a lot about letter-with-accent-symbols-on...)

Most of the hits were (fairly) sound advice, but there were sweeping statements in a couple of webpages that made them more like Giggle and went a long way to explain why national stereotypes and caricatures still turn up so much.

This, thanks to the notebook and pen I’d no sooner leave at home than phone, wallet or trousers, is a distillation of that pub chat...

Pop quiz: If a pair of trainers is two coaches then how many wheels do they have?

Once it gets more than the most casual inspection, there’s no such thing as a “British” accent, any more than an “American” or a “European” accent. First divide it into English-Scottish-Welsh-Northern Irish, then divide further and further and further until you get to where your character was born-and-raised, or has lived-for-years, or is trying-to-blend-in.

When I had just an NI accent it was never strong or identifiably regional even when undiluted, because Dad was from urban-small, Mum was from rural-tiny, and I ended up with a mixture of the two combined with BBC British from a lot more TV and radio than they had when growing up. The local accent where I lived was different from theirs and mine, and different again from that of Belfast, just 9 miles away, a city big enough to have district variations of its own.

All of those large colour sections can be subdivided.

Writer advice: if writing a character from the British Isles, don’t think “British” but pick a specific region, city, or even city district (London Whitechapel vs London Whitehall, Glasgow Gorbals vs Glasgow Kelvinside), then read up on what they’d sound like, any odd constructions like adding or dropping letters, and what snippets of local idiom they might use (not too obscure - do you really want to stop to explain every single one?)

All of these can be subdivided as well...

Each big section contains lots of little sections, all for good reasons - for instance Yorkshire Sheffield (Sean Bean in “Sharpe”, “Game of Thrones”, “The Fellowship of the Ring”, "The Martian” etc.) is not only spoken faster but uses different idiom to Yorkshire Dales (local characters in “All Creatures Great and Small”). Urban steel-workers had a different technical vocabulary to rural sheep-farmers and often needed to say it in a hurry.

Use what you’ve learned to spice dialogue with a regional flavour, but like any spice, don’t overdo it. Don’t (IMO) try to write the whole thing phonetically. It’s hard to write, harder to read, and unless your reader already knows what that weird misspelling should sound like, it’s a waste of time. (And if you don’t, it’s even worse.) Better to use a few odd words or turns of phrase here and there in legible dialogue (watch out, a lot are outdated and stereotypical) and refer to “her thick Brummie / Scouse / Geordie accent” or “his affected Eton-Sandhurst-and-the-Guards drawl” and the effect it might have on other characters than inflict it directly on readers who can stop reading and go away...

“Lewk maite, ifn yu dunno vot yer dewin, ven berrer nau dew it, orrite? Speshly ifn it dohn reery marrer.”

(This is why IPA is such a good idea. International Phonetic Alphabet and India Pale Ale are equally effective in their own way.)

Rhythm, vocabulary and syntax count for a lot - DD likes Sherlock fanfic, and has shown me examples of how good writing differentiates Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Mycroft Holmes by how their sentences are formed, then enhanced further by adjectives or descriptions of how that particular voice would sound when saying that particular line.

Pop quiz: which would get more public attention, a woman with braces or a man with suspenders?

Despite the waist-pack / fanny-pack / bum-bag business, British English is usually less coy than American - the insects in run-down housing are cockroaches, not roaches, the male in the chicken-run is a cock or cockerel, not a rooster, and little snippets of things are titbits, not tidbits: there was even a “human interest” magazine with that name...

...which later dropped the hyphen and the tops of swimsuits to become more girlie-mag than gossip-rag, finally getting adult enough to be a top-shelf magazine.

"Top shelf” = smut soft-core enough for sale by regular newsagents though kept up beyond reach of kids, though some shopkeepers had steps if you had coin and looked at least Fifth Form. (ahem) Or so I’ve been told...

Pop quiz: “that’s well fit” is just the right size, worth looking at or hard to keep up with?

This is one of the pages I read, which seems okay but, as one of the comments points out, is too general, stereotyplcal and indeed South-slanted - those sweeping statements again). It also includes the piece of (mis)information which gave this post its title, and that’s not the only one...

We say “arse” not “ass” – an “ass” is a donkey in Britain. But “arse” is not a very sexual word. We’d say “bum” more often. “Bum” does not mean a homeless person in the UK. We say “tramp” for a “bum.”

No. “Arse” is indeed used in a sexual context - “a nice bit of arse” - and is known that way well enough to appear on the big screen...

Vesper Lynd: “You think of women as disposable pleasures rather than meaningful pursuits. So, as charming as you are, Mr. Bond, I'll keep my eyes on our government's money and off your perfectly-formed arse.”

James Bond: “You noticed.”

Vesper Lynd: “Even accountants have imagination.”

“Casino Royale” (2006)

That’s a good example of how picking the right word adds emphasis - “arse” has an edge to it which conveys exactly how Vesper is thinking; “bum”, “rump”, “rear”, “bottom” or - gods save us - “botty” Would Not Work.

A non-sexual usage is “don’t arse around”, which isn’t mooning people but wasting time, acting the fool or playing silly buggers. You’ll also sometimes read of a character - Bertie Wooster, for instance - being (not having ) a “silly ass”, but this does refer back to the animal, just as “being mulish” means stubborn.

“Bum” is actually a little less sexual and coarse, maybe because it’s slightly childish, thus slightly cute, and literally isn’t a “four-letter word” (funny how so many rude words are!) However as a verb, ‘to bum someone” has a very specific sexual meaning, though because it wouldn’t be English without confusion, “to bum something” is quite innocent, meaning to cadge, scrounge, or beg an item or small favour.

You’d bum/cadge/scrounge/beg a lift, which isn’t the stair-avoiding little room that goes up and down but a ride in someone’s car. It’s if they’re going your way, a lift doesn’t mean telling them where to take you, though they might offer if it’s not too inconvenient. Likewise you wouldn’t b/c/s/b the car itself. You’d b/c/s/b A sandwich, not the plateful; A drink, not the bottle; A cigarette or some crisps or sweets, not the pack - also, never b/c/s/b the last one of anything though if offered, refuse once for manners then if offered again take it, no worries.

“If it’s not too much trouble” is seldom said aloud but always implied, as is your intention to return the thing or favour ASAP, which is why b/c/s/b happens with family, friends, fellow-workers - people you know well and/or see frequently. Bumming a lift or, for yet more confusion, “thumbing / hitching a lift”, is not the same as hitch-hiking, since b/c/s/b(t/h) is always with friends or acquaintances, while hitch-hiking is usually with strangers.

While “can I bum / I’m gasping for / a fag” is real Brit-Irish-speak, not deliberate double entendre (AFAIK, not being a smoker, the US meaning doesn’t even occur to people) it’s better avoided for a US readership unless the writer wants to spend an excessive amount of time explaining why they used that word in the first place when “smoke”, “cig” or even “ciggie” would have worked just fine.

Then this happened...

And a “tramp” is not a “hooker” but a “hooker” is not a whore, but is a long pipe used for smoking flavored tobacco a la Alice in Wonderland’s caterpillar…

Oh, it was going so well... :-P

No, no, no! The pipe thing is a HOOKAH, and would have been just a typo until the incorrect explanation turned it into an enhanced mistake on a page about how to avoid mistakes.

In addition, though the writer points out in the page title that they’re a Brit, here “flavo(u)red” and elsewhere “humo(u)r”, “armo(ur)”, “neighbo(u)rs” and “favo(u)rite” are all misspelt. It suggests they couldn’t be arsed - or didn’t bother their arse - to reset their spellchecker’s nationality.

I wonder do any stories now include one of these, confusing readers about why it’s there...?

“Hooker” = “prostitute” (maybe “streetwalker” but not “call-girl”) is well-enough known thanks to Hollywood that it wouldn’t cause blank looks. Context avoids confusion.

However in the UK and Ireland this is also a hooker (it’s the front-row centre position in rugby - see what I mean about context?)

More specific to Ireland, this is also a hooker...

...and by extension, so is this.

I prefer the last one...

#writing #writer notes #writer advice #british characters #british english #idiom #fun with language

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mc-and-elise · 7 years

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How Vanderwood and Elise became friends

(AKA HOW A BRIT AND AN AMERICAN MANAGED TO TAKE DOWN A DRUG RING. Also while I’ll be using them/their for Vanderwood, they will be at times refered to as “boy” or “man” as I assume they are physically male (I dunno, but I didn’t want to keep putting “person” or “Brit” for things like “She helped the male up to their feet” Soooo yeah. Derp.))

Saeyoung: Ok kiddies! I’m going to tell you a story about our two favorite agents! You see, Mary was working at a maid cafe-

Vanderwood and Elise: *hold up tasers*

Saeyoung: Fu- *is tased*

Elise: This is what really happened.

“Vanderwood. Come here.”

The new agent looked up from where they were sitting towards the door to their boss’s office. They had only been there for a month, and already made a rival with a fellow agent. Plus botched a mission with said rival. Hopefully this meeting wouldn’t result in their body being discovered in a ditch somewhere.

Entering the room, they were dismayed to see a familiar woman sitting in one of two seats in front of the boss’s desk. She looked behind her to make eye contact and scowled. “Oh. You again.” “I’m not happy to see you either, Elise.” They hissed, taking the seat next to her. One look from their boss caused the two to become silent.

“Alright you two. Here’s you new assignment.” The man slid a folder across the desk towards the two agents. Vanderwood snatched it before the dirty blonde had a chance to grab it. Opening it, a report of a drug ring caught their eye, along with several photos of dealers trading with suppliers. “Your job is to take them down. Get rid of the leaders. Don’t let anyone know the ring even existed. We already have hackers wiping the identities of the leaders.” “Alright... then why is she here?” Vanderwood asked, glaring at Elise. His rival glared back, her piercing green eyes filled with hatred. “You two are going. Together.” “WHAT?!” They both exclaimed, jumping to their feet. “That is all. Leave.” Their boss waved them out, ignoring the shocked rookies.

“So. What’s the plan, Sherlock?” Elise asked, looking out the car window. Vanderwood gripped the wheel tightly; they had asked her to stop calling them that multiple times. She seemed to refuse to call them by their name, instead saying “You” or “Sherlock”. It was rather annoying. “It’s Vanderwood,” they corrected, “And I’ll go in and take them out. You wait in the car so we can make a quick get away.”

That was a mistake. “Excuse me? I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself! Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’ll just wait here!” Elise protested, gripping her pistol tightly. “Besides, you’ll need backup.” “Why can’t you just let me deal with this?!” They snapped. It wasn’t like they thought she couldn’t handle herself-they knew she could fight, and fight well- it was more of the fact they couldn’t see a girl kill someone. Totally not because they couldn’t stand to see her hurt. Nope.

After all, she was annoying, sarcastic, pretty- no! What were they thinking?! They shook their head to clear their thoughts. Elise was giving them a weird look before going back to looking out the window.

It took about four hours to get to the HQ of the drug ring.Vanderwood had somehow convinced Elise to let them go in first. If they didn’t come out in 15 minutes, she was to go in after him. She tried to argue they should go in together, but eventually agreed that it was better not to go in as they would be more noticeable. Knocking out one of the guards and sneaking inside, they soon found what appeared to be a storage room. There were paperwork and crates everywhere, and the smell was horrible. Vanderwood gagged a bit at the smell of urine and garbage. Obviously these people didn’t care if the place was a shithole as long as they got their money. Just as they were hoping to get this mission over with quickly so they didn’t have to remain in that mess, footsteps came in the direction of the exit. Cursing silently, the agent ducked behind a crate as several men walked in, speaking in Korean. They could only catch a few words as they were not yet fluent in the language, but could understand that the men had found the unconscious guard and were searching for the intruder.

Hoping to slip out, they started to slowly jump from crate to crate. Their freedom was so close, then they could go and get Elise for back up- BANG! Vanderwood cried out as a sharp pain came from their right arm. Falling to their knees, they felt something warm running down their arm and immediately knew it was blood. A pair of feet entered their vision, and looking up they were faced with a gun aimed at their face. Shit.

Elise had lost track of how long the Brit had been inside. Watching guards patrol the building from the hidden vehicle, she had quickly become bored. She was beginning to fall asleep when a loud bang came from the building and several guards went running towards the source. It wasn’t from any of the firearms the agency had provided them, so it couldn’t have been Vanderwood. Elise suddenly felt sick at the idea of the other agent being injured or shot dead. It was a surprise, as she never had cared if they got themselves killed before, so why now all of a sudden? She shook her head and grabbed her gun, now was not the time to think about that.

Vanderwood woke up in some kind of makeshift cell. Their arm was throbbing now, and their sleeve was stiff with dried blood. Groaning, they held their head. They remembered the gun in their face, being hit with said gun, then nothing. “Must’ve been knocked out..” They mumbled, looking around for a possible way out. Nope. Nothing. And nothing they could use as a weapon either. Great. Just great. No way they could fight with their arm in its current state. Hopefully Elise had gotten out of here and called for backup.

Elise... They’d probably never see her again. Never argue with her again. Never hear her voice, her beautiful voice with a faint accent... What. Her voice was not beautiful! She was the most irritating, rude, bitchy person they had ever met! And yet... they acted the same way. Besides, she wasn’t all bad; she seemed to observe the situation instead of running head first into a mission, unlike most agents who come up with a plan as they go. Plus she was the only agent who actually acknowledged their existence. Maybe if they apologized, they could maybe be friends?

Yeah, like I’ll ever get the chance to do that. It was obvious they were going to die here. No way these men would let them live after what they’d seen. They were probably only alive so they could torture them later. Hearing the door open, they looked up to see the men from earlier walk inside.

Elise noticed that the building was eerily quiet. Walking down a hallway, gun at the ready, she kept thinking this was some kind of trap. She had a secret weapon to make sure the mission succeeded even if she died- a bomb. Having discovered the boiler room after sneaking into a basement entrance, she set up the bomb to go off when she pushed the detonator in her pocket. She only planned to use it after she found Vanderwood. She assumed they were dead, as they never came out of the building.

Vanderwood... She would most likely find them dead. Never again to bicker over stupid things, or call them Sherlock, or see their beautiful eyes- What was she thinking?! There was no way she.....liked them, right? Then again, they weren’t that bad. Maybe she had been a bit mean to them, but they were the only person who spoke to her at the agency, and she wasn’t used to other people... I’ll never get to apologize and tell them I’d like to be friends...

Elise was dragged out of her thoughts by screams of pain coming from a room ahead accompanied by laughter. She recognized the scream. “Oh God....” she whispered, hurrying ahead and peeking into the room. A crowd of men were gathered in a circle around someone. One of them bent down and grabbed the person by their hair and yanked them up. The woman had to bit her tongue to keep from making a sound.

The person they were torturing...was Vanderwood.

They looked horrible. Blood was streaming from a gash on their head, and one of their eyes was swollen shut. She closed her eyes tightly, not wanting to see the rest of their injuries. “So you think you can sneak in here without anyone seeing you, huh? Stroll right in here and kill us all with your little gun?” One man sneered, speaking in heavily accented English. The man remained silent, using their good arm to grab at the hand holding them by their hair.

“Is there any more of you little sneaks?” Seeing fear briefly appear in the agent’s eyes, the leader of the group grinned and tossed them to the floor. “Oh so you do have a friend running around, do you?”

“Leave...leave her alone.”

“What was that? Your little girlfriend is around here somewhere?” Looking at the rest of the men, the leader gestured towards the door. “Let’s go find his little lady friend. I’d hate to kill these lovers separately.” Laughing, the group exited, slamming and locking the door behind them. Vanderwood lay on the floor, terrified at this point. How did this mission go wrong so fast? Was Elise long gone, getting help? Or was she somewhere in the building, clueless the the hunt for her?

A loud creak brought them back to reality as the door opened again. Expecting one of the gang leaders, they kept their eyes closed. “Sherlock? What happened to you?!” Their eyes shot open at the sound of the familiar voice. She was alive! “E...Elise? You need to get out...to get out of here.” They croaked, every word hurting to say. The girl instead ran over and fell to her knees, assessing the damage. The boy was a bloody mess.

“Dear Lord..... C’mon. I’m getting you out of here.” She finally said after a long silence. Helping them to their feet, she wrapped her arm around their waist to support them. “Why...Why are you helping me? You could easily get out of here and get backup.” Vanderwood asked, leaning against her for support. “Don’t take this the wrong way. It’s not like I like you or something. I... I just wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I left you here to die.”

The duo slowly made their way out of the building, Elise doing her best to keep Vanderwood up and on their feet while Vanderwood limped alongside her. Finally making it to the car, she laid them in the back seat before getting into the driver’s seat. That’s when they both heard shouting and looked out the back window to see several guards heading towards them. “Shit shit shit shit!” The American squeaked as she shoved the key in the ignition and started the car, slamming on the gas and speeding away. As soon as they were a good distance away, she pulled out the detonator and pressed the button, destroying the building and anyone inside.

Elise walked over to Vanderwood, holding a first aid kit. The two had managed to escape, but to be safe they agreed to hide out in an abandoned warehouse for the night, in case any survivors were looking for them. They had left the car a mile or two away at a motel, where Elise had rented a room in hopes any survivors would think they were staying there. Luckily it seemed no one had survived.

Sitting on the ground next to the Brit, she opened the first aid kit and got out some antiseptic. As she started cleaning the bullet wound in their arm, Vanderwood turned to look at her. “.... Thanks.”

“Hmm?” Elise looked up from what she was doing, having gotten the bullet out and was bandaging their arm.

“I said thanks. If you hadn’t gone in after me, I’d be dead.” They repeated, blushing faintly. They suppressed their pride and continued, “And we would have never finished the mission.”

“....Sorry for being mean to you all the time.” She mumbled, moving to the gash on their head. “I’m not used to people actually giving a damn and acknowledging I exist. So, thanks for doing that.”

They remained silent as she finished tending to their wounds. “We better get some sleep. We have a long drive back to the agency tomorrow.” She finally said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah. We do.” More awkward silence. Noticing her shivering, Vanderwood spoke up. “Hey uh... maybe we should sleep together. For warmth.” They awkwardly said. She merely nodded and laid next to them, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Thanks.... Vanderwood.”

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger mary vanderwood #mary vanderwood 3rd #mystic messenger vanderwood #elise #VanderLise #Yes dat is da ship name #so shush #mm vanderwood #mm saeyoung

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one-of-us-blog · 6 years

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The Living Daylights (1987)

Today Drew is forced to watch and recap 1987’s The Living Daylights, the fifteenth James Bond adventure. It’s a new dawn for Bond, and that means it’s time for another globetrotting adventure. Bond is tasked with helping a KGB general defect, but that spirals into a plot involving gunrunning, stolen diamonds and opium. Can Bond get to the bottom of this ouroboros of a scheme?

Keep reading to find out…

Eli, you’re still killing the recap game! I agree with your thoughts on both “One Old Lady to Go” and “Ebbtide for the Defense”, but I would have sworn Rubin was played by Chong! And it’s always kind of bummed me out that Rose gave such a downer of an ending for Alma after we got to see her so vibrant earlier in The Golden Girls. I’m still playing catch up right now, though, so it’s time for me to hit the bricks and get this recap going!

Buttocks tight!

Screenplay by Richard Maibaum & Michael G. Wilson, film directed by John Glen

We start off with a brand new barrel sequence, now proudly displaying Timothy Dalton as 007, and then we jump into a 00 training exercise. The 00’s need to infiltrate a radar instillation on the Rock of Gibraltar, and it… doesn’t go great. 002 gets taken out of the game right away, then 004 and our own 007 start scaling a cliff face when a real life assassin kills 004 and leaves a note reading Smiert Spionom behind. 007 goes after the assassin, resulting in a rollicking jeep chase that ends with the jeep carrying the assassin going off a cliff while a parachute-wearing Bond lands in a woman’s yacht. He yanks the woman’s old timey cell phone out of her hand, plops down like he owns the place and then delays informing MI6 about the details of his fellow 00 agent’s death by an hour so he can bang this random lady.

With that out of the way we jump into the super saturated title sequence featuring a-ha singing “The Living Daylights” while some ladies pose in water and shoot revolvers.

With that behind us, we cut to Bratislava, Czechoslovakia. Bond is here to help Saunders, head of Section V, with the defection of a KGB general named Georgi Koskov (Jeroen Krabbé). The defection starts alright, but the KGB has a woman sniper (Maryam d’Abo) set up to take Koskov out as he’s trying to flee and Bond just can’t bring himself to shoot a pretty woman. Bond is then a total dick to Saunders, leaving him to lose the KGB agents tailing them while he drives off with Koskov and refuses to tell Saunders how he plans to get him out. Bond’s plan involves shooting Koskov out of KBG territory in an oil pipeline with the help of the Soviet Union’s answer to Rosie the Riveter. Q is there to greet Koskov for no reason, and Bond picks Saunders up like a mom picking her kid up outside the roller-rink while Koskov is sent off in a jet.

At MI6, we meet our first Miss Moneypenny following, with the role now being played by Caroline Bliss. We get an honestly cringe-worthy moment where Q brags about his deadly new boombox (called the ‘ghetto blaster’) before Moneypenny sends Bond off to see M (after he gives her a good natured pat on the ass). Bond is sent to a house in the country where an assassin is posing as a milkman. He meets with M and the cheery Koskov for the debriefing. Koskov informs the Brits that the KGB is now being headed by General Pushkin, who’s hungry for both power and dead spies. Pushkin started the KGB’s anti-spy program known as Smiert Spionom (better known to us as SMERSH). The assassin, who’s name is Necros (Andreas Wisniewski), murders his way through the safehouse and eventually kidnaps Koskov.

MI6 assumes Pushkin is behind this, so Bond is tasked with tracking him down. Bond gets a round of gadgets from Q, including car keys with a lockpick, sleep gas dispenser and an explosive. Moneypenny identifies the sniper Bond refused to shoot as cellist Kara Milovy and Bond tracks her down in Bratislava. Bond arrives in time to see Milovy dragged off a bus and brought before Pushkin (John Rhys-Davies). Bond finds blanks in Milovy’s sniper rifle and deduces that Koskov’s entire defection was a ruse and Milovy is actually his girlfriend. He convinces her he’s a friend of Koskov and she agrees to go to Vienna with him (after first retrieving her prized cello). The KGB are hot on Bond’s tail and we get a standard 007 car chase, this time with extra goofy car gadgets, but eventually Bond, Milovy and the cello make it into Austria.

Meanwhile, Pushkin goes to meet with an American arms dealer named Brad Whitaker (played by the ever repugnant Joe Don Baker) in Tangier. Whitaker is batty and has festooned his complex with grotesque wax sculptures of famous military leaders with his face plastered onto them. Pushkin tells Whitaker that they’re cancelling a contract made between the KGB and Koskov, which Whitaker isn’t thrilled about. We see Bond and Milovy flirting their way through Vienna before we cut back to the actual movie we’re watching and see Whitaker meeting with Koskov and Necros. Koskov lets Whitaker know Bond’s snooping around, and they plan to eliminate him. We sit through Bond and Milovy watching an opera before Bond meets up with Saunders at the Prater. Saunders informs Bond of a history of financial exchanges between Koskov and Whitaker, and then he gets blown up by a bomb placed by Necros.

Bond and Milovy head to Tangier, where Bond confronts Pushkin in his hotel. Puskin denies any involvement with SMERSH getting started up again, and also informs Bond that Koskov is on the lam after embezzling government funds. Pushkin signals for a guard and Bond brutally rips the top off of Pushkin’s girlfriend in order to distract the guard. Bond’s nice enough to throw her a towel before he finished interrogating Pushkin. Later, Necros prepares to assassinate Pushkin but Bond stages a fake killing to save the general’s life and trick Whitaker and Koskov into carrying out their little scheme. While running from the fake assassination Bond jumps into a car with two women inside of it, and they promptly pull a gun on him and take him to a yacht where he’s reunited with our old friend Felix Leiter (John Terry). It’s been a while, Felix! He’s probably been too busy taking care of his son Gordo to spend much time with his buddy James. Bond assures Leiter that Pushkin’s assassination was staged, and then they plan to order some big stuff from Whitaker.

Milovy is left alone too long and gets nervous so she calls Koskov, who tells her Bond is actually a KGB agent and convinces her to drug him. Once he’s passed out, Koskov has Necros load him into a plane with Milovy and an organ transplant container that actually contains an animal’s heart and ice mixed with illicit diamonds. The plane lands in Afghanistan, where Koskov hands both Bond and shocked Milovy over to the local coppers. They escape thanks to the stun gas in Bond’s key fob and free another prisoner (Art Malik) just for kicks. It’s a good thing they did, because it turns out that guy is Kamran Shah, leader of the local Mujahideen. Shah helps Bond and Milovy get to safety, but he’s not willing to help Bond out on his mission. The next day they ride out and Bond discovers there’s yet another link in this unbelievable scheme chain. Those diamonds from that fake organ transplant container? They’re being sold in exchange for opium from the Mujahideen.

Bond plants a bomb among the opium and Milovy inspires the Mujahideen to attack the airbase where the opium is being shipped from. Bond gets caught by Necros and Koskov before he can leave the plane with the bomb on it so he hijacks the plane while the Soviets are distracted by the Mujahideen attack. Milovy manages to catch up to the plane in a stolen jeep and avoids Necros shooting at her long enough to get aboard the plane. She takes the wheel while Bond defuses the bomb. Turns out Necros also managed to get on the plane somehow, though, so he and Bond have to fight before Milovy opens the hatch and causes Bond, Necros and the opium to dangle out of the plane. Bond cuts loose the opium and sends Necros falling to his death, still managing to get back inside the plane in time to defuse the bomb and stop Milovy from steering into a mountain. Bond sees that Shah and his men are being chased across a bridge by the Soviets, so he reactivates the bomb and throws it down onto a bridge the Soviets are crossing. The Mujahideen lives to fight again!

Unfortunately the plane being in a gun fight led to the fuel tanks getting plugged full of holes, so this jet’s goin’ down fast. Bond and Milovy managed to ride Milovy’s jeep out of the plane before it crashes, and they head to Whitaker’s palatial estate. With some help from Leiter, Bond makes it inside and confronts Whitaker. Whitaker is enraged by the destruction of his precious opium, which was supposed to be sold on the streets at heroin in the US, which would have given him and Koskov more money to run weapons and so on and so on. Bond and Whitaker scrap for a minute and Whitaker is killed. Puskin arrives and then Koskov, who’s been found by KGB agents, is brought in. Koskov tries to suck up to Pushkin, but Pushkin orders he be flown home in a body bag.

Later, Milovy puts on a cello performance which M and Pushkin both take in. The Mujahideen also show up, much to Milovy’s delight. Milovy finds Bond waiting for her in her dressing room, and the two celebrate her performance with a duet of their own. A… sexual duet.

The End

~~~~~

Woof, somebody get me a CliffsNotes version of this movie! I know I’m still smarting from the loss of my beloved Roger Moore, but there was just something about this movie that rubbed me the wrong way. There was a smugness to Dalton’s performance that I just didn’t like, and I can’t quite articulate why. And I’m sorry, but I simply cannot take Joe Don Baker seriously as a villain. The plot of this one was really convoluted, and I feel like it took itself way too seriously. Again, I might just be used to the lighter Moore-era romps, but going from A View to a Kill to this was way too jarring for me.

Overall, I give The Living Daylihgts QQ½ on the Five Q Scale.

We’ll see you again soon as Eli gears up to recap “Can’t Stand Losing You” and “Seems Like Old Times, Part 1”, the next two episodes of The Golden Palace, and after that it’ll be my turn at the mic as I cover Licence to Kill, the last James Bond adventure to star Timothy Dalton.

Until then, as always, thank you for reading, thank you for celloing and thank you for being One of Us!

#james bond #007 #one of us

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