#And is a little spitfire like his namesake

[badwriterrr]

Aegon the conqueror inverted. 🐉

Or, none of the Targs in ASOIAF ever fight and they all get married and live happily ever after.

About the kiddos.

So In this universe I think Danny probably married Aegon first, because he would have already had the iron throne. Jon wasn’t in the picture when Rhae would have been conceived. So everyone at least knows for sure that Rhaenys is Aegon’s.

Rhaenys is pretty much her namesake/aunt come again. She’s a spitfire and always getting herself into mischief. She’s Aegon’s pride and joy, and Danny’s eternal headache.

Visenya is the second oldest, but it’s a little unclear time wise who’s her father. Danny and Jon didn’t get along at first when they first got married, and it seemed they only really slept together out of ‘duty’. It was only after Visenya was born that Jon and Danny actually started falling for each-other, at the urging of Aegon who was getting annoyed with the both of them and all their pent up sexual frustrations.

Elaena, is the curious middle child. She’s the spitting image of Danny. And a quiet little toddler who spends most of her time nuzzled against Ghost’s fur. Like Visenya, no one is exactly sure who her father is, either Jon or Aegon— but in private both king consorts quietly boast they are in fact her father.

The only boy, and Jon’s only ‘confirmed’ heir is Aemon, who was conceived whilst Aegon was away with negotiations in Essos. He is evidently a Stark in blood, and looks just like a young Jon. He’s a sullen, soft little toddler who prefers not to speak much. Thankfully for him, his three older sisters make talking rather pointless. Obviously there is the implied issue of his birthright, as the only boy against Rhaenys, the eldest daughter. But with a boy so young, and a queen regnant ruling Westeros, the issue isn’t quite a priority just yet.

[non-un-topo]

please give us a summary of summerwind and the tower!

Hello, my friend!! I would love to!

Summerwind is my big project that I'm most excited about currently. It's a canon-divergent au in which Yusuf and Nicolo were childhood friends (turned enemies, of course!). The amount of research and planning that has gone into this fic has made me really consider just writing an original book, but there are some major changes I'd have to make for that to happen. It's got a lot packed into it, and a lot of family ocs. I'm just obsessed with stories of two little friends who keep coming back to each other (or running in to each other by chance) despite the different directions their lives take, and all the strife and conflict they go through in their own lives and with each other, only to finally meet again in adulthood as enemies..... that's the good shit!!!

I've been hesitant to post it for a few reasons: The events lead up to the First Crusade, and so I'm worried about sensitivity. And, this might be stupid but, there is not a lot of romance. If there is any, it's one-sided. I know there must be some readers out there who don't mind non-romantic fics, but still lol. It's niche. There are also some moments that are quite dark, but I will include content warnings. I think I'm just really enjoying my Game of Thrones era.

Here's more of a summary for you: Yusuf's side of the story is mostly about his longing to chart his own path, to be adventurous, and most of all to serve justice. This starts with him witnessing an enslaved man being pulled by a horse as a child, and leads him to make some unfavourable decisions when he manages his own business. His story also has a lot to do with generational expectation (his grandfather leaves huge boots to fill, and his father struggles with this himself) and with his relationship to his mother, who is Indigenous. Nicolo's side of the story is very different, mostly because his family is much poorer than Yusuf's. He has six brothers all in one house, for example. There's a lot more to spoil from his side, but I can say that his close relationship to his uncle (who is his namesake), a seaman and soldier, and his later resentment of the world and the way his family is treated by the people around him all lead him to the Crusade. He's also not a priest in this fic -- I drew from the comics and mixed in my own hefty serving of headcanons lol. Instead, he wants to be a smith. His father, instead, was raised in the Church but left when he fell in love with Nicolo's mother. I've actually become so attached to both of the father ocs lol, Ibrahim and Lucio, but I've rambled enough.

I currently have the first two chapters completed, sort of stuck on part of the third but I'm making slow progress. I expect there will be around 11 chapters. I'll give you the names of the chapters, though, since I have those! And then I'll shut up. In order, with some of the dates included, they are:

Fledglings (1074-75)

Spring Thunder (1077-78)

The Free People (1083-84)

Midas (1085)

[as yet unnamed] (1086)

Spitfire (1087)

Interlude

Redwings

The Tide (1098-99)

To My Old Friend

Flight

The Tower is a tog and Annihilation hybrid I started in.... 2021 or 2022, I think? It's not technically an au. Instead I set it in the future, and from Nile's POV. All of the immortals are there except for Andy, whose death haunts Nile in flashbacks and dreams throughout the narrative. The old guard are tasked with a mission much like the one in Annihilation (book & movie), and things get very strange very fast. Without spoiling anything, I really wanted to explore what it might mean for immortals to enter Area X/the shimmer. I'm mostly following the events of the movie. As of right now, it's about 7.5 thousand words.

The title of the fic came from two things: It's in reference to the "tower" (inverted tower? tunnel thing?) that the biologist finds in the book. In the movie it's a lighthouse. The other reference is the Major Arcana card, which symbolizes danger, destruction, and unexpected change.

[glapplebloom]

They’re like the Wonderbolts... But EXTREME!!!

Rainbow Dash is doing her usual snooping on her own Fan Club (which I’m guilty of sort of as I am in the Official Discord for Death Battle and directly talking to fans), when Scootaloo closed it really fast. Because she has a new obsession: The Washout! This shocks Dash to confront her about the new fandom and this worries Rainbow Dash because she feels she could lose Scootaloo.

With the advice from her friends, Dash decides to check it out and she too enjoys it. She was hoping to show that being a Wonderbolt they would be impressed with her, thus Scootaloo back to being a fan, only to find out each one of them were a Wonderbolt Washout. Rolling Thunder for being reckless enough to do barrel rolls during a very high electrical storm. And Shortfuse for having his namesake. 

And who are leading these knuckleheads? Lightning Dust, making her return since Wonderbolt Academy. While there is animosity between the two, Lightning Dust is happy to be out so she could create the Washouts. Which leads to why Scootaloo may be a fan of the Washouts. While the Wonderbolts are looking for the best of the best, the Washouts believe anyone can be the best.

It's a nice sales pitch, but the problem is their product isn’t really selling them as being the best. They’re just doing things more dangerous than a typical Wonderbolts show. While it would be great for the audience if everything goes smoothly, if something happens said pony would be out. As seen as Rolling Thunder apparently hurt her legs during the Crushinator Jaws of Smashalot! (Patent pending).

Lightning Dust offers Dash a spot but she refuses. She fails to notice that Scootaloo is buying the pitch. So to try to fix it, she takes her to Spitfire. And of all the things to carry from the IDW Comics, I am glad that Spitfire being bad with children is one of them. Especially when she ends her scenarios with the pony in question in a FULL BODY WING-AND-HOOF CAST, DRINKIN' THROUGH A STRAW!

Sadly, all this pushing led to Scootaloo running away from Rainbow Dash. And when she found out Scootaloo went to see them training, she gets a little talking to by Twilight to realize that Dash is afraid to lose Scootaloo. And not just in an accident waiting to happen. She’s afraid to lose her as a little sister. Which makes things worse as Scootaloo is now a Washout.

Between the sales pitch and the Wonderbolts looking only for the best of the best, this led Scootaloo to believe the Washouts are her only choice because she can’t fly. Possibly the strongest example of this being a legit handicap than her just not knowing how. Rainbow Dash reluctantly accepts Scootaloo’s decision as Dash realizes that she is her own pony and can make her own choices.

But on the day of the performance, Scootaloo is getting cold feet. While the stunt sounds good on paper, it's untested. If anything goes wrong, the pony in the rocket could get hurt or worse. And here is where Lightning Dust’s words come back to remind you: “Look, was it wrong of me to endanger the lives of your friends? Yeah. But, hey, now I only endanger these knuckleheads.” And guess who just signed up to be the newest Knucklehead.

Giving Scootaloo no option, Lightning Dust activates the Rockets and sends Scootaloo flying towards the ramp. Luckily for her, Rainbow Dash follows the Sonic Montra: “I know I was supposed to let you make your own decisions, but that doesn't mean I can't swoop in and save you from time to time.” And to get her comeuppance, Lightning Dust gets her hoof tied to the rocket as it is flying by and is launched into the sky vowing that her and Dash are Rivals for Life. And considering we never see Lightning Dust again...

It ends with Scootaloo apologizing for not realizing who Lightning Dust truly was. Rainbow Dash apologizing for not acting like someone she should be idolizing. And Rainbow Dash forming the Scootaloo Fan Club as Scootaloo eavesdrops. Overall, a fun episode that shows the evolving relationship between Dash and Scootaloo.

From a fangirl willing to do anything for Dash’s attention. To Dash accepting the role of a Big Sister. To the two being very good together as sisters. To Scootaloo wanting to find out who she is beyond her relationship with her sister. And comparing how Dash was willing to endanger AB’s life trying to find a cutie mark to seeing her worry about Scootaloo is a big sign of the evolution Dash has as a character.

Click here to see the original review and how it fits in GLAB canon.

[adventsonne]

My new fur baby. His name is Axel. 💖

[sunnibits]

HER NAME IS GWYNETH??? that's so precious! please tell me the doctor and rose tell her the story of her name and tell her how brave her namesake was, please tell me this!! (also, tell me anything else you feel like sharing!)

Oh of COURSE they tell her!! The ‘ordinary’ woman who saved eveyone.. that’s like, the essence of Doctor Who, right?

Gwyneth Tyler-Smith inherited her father’s dark hair and strong nose, of course. But her eyes are her mother’s - warm brown… fierce hazel.. In my head she wears her hair in two braids when she’s little, and just one when she grows up!!

She’s got all the stubbornness and kindness and sass of her parents combined.. she’s little spitfire for sure. A ferocious fun-sized oncoming storm! Their little thunderhead!

I go back and forth as to how much Gwyneth knows about time and space and whatnot, considering originally I imagine her being the result of a more domestic, settled Ninerose. But I think they definitely bring her into it as soon as she’s ready - probably when she’s tiny, tbh - and let me tell you. This is the luckiest little girl. Oh you’re in your dinosaur phase? How would you like to see the dinosaurs? Her dad definitely brings her little trinkets from all over the cosmos.

When she’s old enough, Nine even gives her a couple flying lessons - mostly after she nags him relentlessly for a good portion her teenage years. The TARDIS is just as much of a home to her as it is for her dad and mom.

Oh but for some angst… what if.. what if she grew up all big and strong the storybook monsters finally came? When her dad can’t protect her from his enemies anymore? What then…👀

[vxndictive]

High Noon Flayn

"Ma always said i was a spitfire. Hard to deny that when swinging and shooting this thing is so darn fun."

Summary: Formerly a farmgirl, Flayn was turned into a demon hunting bounty hunter after Thresh razed her family’s farm and killed her mother and younger sister. While a reckless encounter with Urgot costed her her left arm, after getting a mechanical replacement she continues her pursuit, assisting any other hunter she finds at whatever chance she gets. Wielding a massive Gunblade, her main goal is to find Thresh and avenge her family. Purging the demons from the land is just a side effect.

Personality: While this version of Flayn is certainly much easier to handle than her Runeterran counterpart, that doesn’t make her any less tough than her namesake. She’s a wild, rowdy cowgirl that enjoys a good fight and a good drink even more. Always one to take initiative, she’s always the first one to jump into the fray, whether it’s demons, outlaws with a good bounty on their heads or just drunks starting a bar brawl that are in front of her. She’s also definetly not one to keep quiet about her opinions. To put it bluntly: If she thinks you’re a clown, then she’s definetly gonna make sure you’re aware of that. She can also not tolerate injustice of any kind, abuse of power in particular is a really easy way to make her fly off her handle. If she takes a liking to you, though, she’ll also make sure you know that too; from friendly praising to inviting you over for a drink so you both can share stories.

Affilliations: None in particular. Wherever there’s demons to kill, bounties to collect and bar brawls to be on, she’ll go.

Appearence: Her facial features are exactly the same as her Runeterran counterpart, and so is her body shape. The only notable differences are her left arm, that was completely destroyed by Urgot, and had to be replaced with a mechanical one. Clothing wise, she always wears a duster coat over a plain black dress shirt, denim jeans, high boots and a pair of black gloves. On particular hot days she puts on a matte black hat, but it’s not a usual part of her wardrobe.

Weaponry and abilities:

-Maggie: Her beloved Gunblade and named after her deceased mother Margaret, this little beast was forged with the finest steel in the land and can hold 6 high caliber bullets in total that can each pack a massive punch. While slashing and cutting is it’s most obvious use, pulling the trigger can do one of two things depending on how it’s done. A fast tap will fire the round as if it were a regular hand cannon round, but squeezing it for a full second will instead detonate the bullet, causing a small explosion aimed at whatever is directly in front of the weapon. Combining this second firing mode with srikes from the blade itself can make for a very deadly assault.

(Official art from Final Fantasy VIII)

-Mechanical Arm: Losing her left arm to Urgot might as well have been the best thing that could have happened to her. Using the parts from his legs that she managed to blast off before she fell into his trap and with the help of a certain short-statured engineer she met days earlier, Flayn managed to craft a mechanical arm that works just like any other regular limb. The differences being that the physical strength she can achieve with this one is much greater than the rest of her body can manage, and being crafted with scrapped part from Urgot’s body means that she can also channel demonic energy with it. However, doing so is extremely taxing on the rest of her being, so she avoids doing so unless it’s absolutely necessary. Whenever she draws out this demonic power her entire body is engulfed in a dark shadow, and her eyes shine a crimson red color.

Main tag: i’ll give you 3 seconds (high noon verse)

>Her hair color was actually blonde before she had to draft the mechanical arm into her body. After that, it shifted to her current platinum color.

Other headcanons:

>She's actually a Nephilim. More specifically, her father was an angel. He's not around anymore but not due to Heaven's destruction. He's gone because he left for a final duel against an old Demon rival he had when Flayn and her sister were both barely a year old, and needless to say, he lost. And yes, she's completely unaware about this fact.

>The sole reason why Flayn didn’t die alongside the rest of her family at Thresh’s hand was because she just happened to be away when he razed their farm; She had left for a nearby town for some supplies minutes before he arrived. By the time she got back, everyone was long dead and the devil was already taking his leave.

>Urgot crushed her arm at elbow length. Everything before it is still her own body, but after the elbow it’s the mechanical arm.

>Even without the arm, Flayn is still rather strong physically. Being raised in a farm meant that she had to do a lot of work, and that made her body tone itself with time.

>In a certain way, Dranna is still with Flayn even in this verse. The demon that she contacts whenever she channels it’s power also happens to be a sassy female that likes the color purple. Talk about a coincidence.

[mariposalass]

Detective Pikachu Rhymesona AU

And I got the Rhymesona fever right now. Since @husband-of-lucoa and @star-platinums-wife made Rhymesonas in the Detective Pikachu universe, I decided to jump into the bandwagon as well. In case you need some clarification, a Rhymesona is a OC, a SI, or an AU version of an existing character who lives in Rhyme City, the main location of the spin-off game and movie.

Side Note: My partner Pokemon and Philip’s partner Pokemon are capable of Mega Evolving and we do have Mega Stones on hand (Anya’s Mega Stone is a pendant in my choker necklace, while Frederick’s Mega Stone is integrated into Philip’s watch’s wristband). Maybe I might do some of this for Harry, Kairi, Issa, Marina, Sora, and Kirby someday.

Me: I’m a Creative Writing graduate student in the city who also works part-time in the university library and writing a series of young adult book series about a group of teens controlling the 5 elements of nature and have partner Pokemon of the corresponding elements they control. I also do write for the university’s newspaper as a news and literary writer and do swimming and badminton. Both me and Philip first met in a freshman orientation for Arts and Humanities students in our college years, though we only started dating in our third year, plus I’m also a roommate of our mutual friend Theodosia Burr (who’s quite a cheerleader for our relationship) in the graduate students dorms. For some reason, I did bumped into Tim Goodman and Detective Pikachu during their search for Tim’s dad Harry in the cafe discussions scene, but that didn’t last for long as they quickly returned to their quest some time after that.

My Partner Pokemon: Anastasia the Gardevoir, or just Anya, is my partner Pokemon since I was a little girl and she was a little timid Ralts: she has become more outgoing, stronger, and braver over time. She’s my best Pokemon friend, security blanket, and unofficial assistant: she’s named after the youngest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna. The girl enjoys listening to my silly stories, reading, drinking tea, music, & getting groomed by me, and does live up to her Russian namesake to some extent: being a feisty spitfire who enjoys exploring the arts as I do. Anya doesn’t like it when people try to bully me due to my Asperger’s Syndrome diagnosis or people taking advantage of others (human, real animal, and Pokemon alike). Knows Moonblast, Psychic, Shadow Ball, and Shock Wave.

Philip: Philip’s actually a Law student at his father Alexander’s urging (he did took English Literature as a pre-Law course though) upon entering graduate studies in here, and also writes for the school newspaper. As I said before in this AU, he and I first met in a freshman orientation in college. He’s Theo’s childhood best friend and she’s the one who managed to get us together, despite me being a hot-mess when it comes to dating. A cool upstanding big brother for his 7 siblings, can’t hold his liqueur when he gets drunk, and is an unashamed hopeless romantic dork who will send me letters in nearly all locations in the university & swoon me through his piano playing which he learned from his mom Eliza who’s an accomplished pianist.

His Partner Pokemon: Frederick the Garchomp is his main partner Pokemon: Philip found him as a lonely abandoned Gible at childhood and raised to become where he is today, a terrifying looking & powerful but lovable goofball who likes to bite on people and Pokemon as a sign of affection, not knowing that he could hurt anyone with his teeth. Quite energetic, he enjoys taking long walks and jogs with Philip, napping when he’s tired, and training with other Pokemon for fun and learning. He’s upset that he can’t hold books the same way humans do to help Philip in bringing books and study materials everywhere they go. Somehow acts like a puppy when not in battle. Knows Fire Fang, Sand Tomb, Dragon Rush, and Iron Tail.

[varietydisco]

Bunny in a Bunny Suit

Characters: Arthur Morgan & John Marston, Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde, Susan Grimshaw, Mac & Davey Callander Rating: Teen and Up Tags: Pre-Canon, Family dynamics, Trans Male Characters, Vague descriptions of non-sexual nudity, Silly but not technically crack Word Count: 3k

Description: Arthur tells young John an unfortunate lie. (Namesake: Bunny in a Bunny Suit by Simone Whittaker)

Part 3 of the Coming of Age series

1885

The first thing Arthur was greeted with upon riding into their temporary home— an abandoned, but well-off ranch on the plains— was Susan trudging over. She wore a lemon-soured expression that made Arthur briefly consider turning around and heading back for the mountains.

John leaned to one side and looked around Arthur’s shoulder to see what was happening.

“Afternoon, miss Grimshaw,” Arthur greeted. He touched the brim of his hat as he brought his horse to a slow stop beside the pasture fence.

As he lifted his leg, about to swing himself off the horse, Susan hurried her pace and waved her arms.

“Oh, no you don’t!” She exclaimed. “Don’t you boys even think of coming in here.”

“What? How come?” Arthur asked. “Did we get evicted while we was gone?”

Susan’s war-path came to a sudden stop and she huffed. With one finger held up at the boys, she turned back on her trail and went for a bucket of supplies hanging on a fence post a few feet away.

“…What’s she got?” John whispered.

“Somethin’ to beat us with, probably.” Arthur replied.

Bucket in hand, Susan stormed her way back over to the boys. Her expression never shifted once.

“I could smell you both comin’ a mile off,” She spat. “Just take one look at yourselves— you’re both disgusting.”

“I missed you, too.” Arthur said. “And why yes, we are safe and sound. Thanks for askin’.”

Susan huffed. “Take this down to the pond and go wash yourselves, before you even think of comin’ into the house.” She shoved the bucket up towards John, who awkwardly took it. The boy shot Arthur a quizzical look, his brows furrowed, then set it in his lap.

“You can’t be serious.”

Susan crossed her arms firmly. “Don’t test me, Morgan.”

Arthur groaned. He took his hat off and hooked it onto the horn of his saddle. His face was caked with dirt and sweat, and so were his clothes.

“We just finished a three-day huntin’ trip gatherin’ food for you lot, and we don’t even get a thank you.” He waved his hand back at John. “Marston here even caught his first rabbit. Not that you cared to ask any.”

“Good for him, doesn’t change that stench that followed you both home,” Susan made a shooing motion with her hand. “Leave what you caught here and get your asses down to the pond to wash. Don’t bother coming back until you’ve scrubbed every inch.”

“Lord Almighty,” Arthur mumbled. He reached back and elbowed John. “Hand that bucket over and unload the horse.”

John furrowed his brows.

“Why me?”

“‘Cause you smell the worse, and I want Grimshaw to get a good whiff.”

Susan scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, grow up, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled at that, while John eventually forked over the bucket and slid off the back of Boadicea. Silently, Arthur got a kick out of watching John fumble to untie their kill from the wagon and less silently did he enjoy watching Susan pluck at strands of John’s greasy hair while shaking her head in disgust.

Once the whole ordeal was done, John climbed back up, and the boys hit the trail again. As they approached the pond a few minutes later, John spoke up and said, bitterly, “That Grimshaw sure is a spitfire, isn’t she?”

“Not exactly the word I’d use to describe her most days, but that’ll work alright,” Arthur replied.

He rode Boadicea down a small, grassy slope which lead them to the pond’s bank. Mosquitoes and other bugs danced over the water’s silky-smooth surface. A frog leapt over a lily pad, and some birds chirped from the surrounding trees. The scene was pretty enough to have been a painting; Arthur only felt a little bad that they were about to use this pond to wash their asses.

Arthur pulled the horse to a stop and motioned his hand to John.

“Alright, let’s get this over with. Jump in.”

John faltered a second. “You ain’t serious. Clothes an’ all?”

“Naw, you’re right.” Arthur swung his leg and slid off the horse’s back. “Take your clothes off. We’ll have to burn ‘em at this point anyway, no sense in gettin’ them damp.”

John’s cheeks reddened. “Not you, too.”

“Yeah, me too. Now that Grimshaw’s mentioned it, and I’m standing down-wind of you, I can’t help noticin’ how ripe you are.”

Arthur swaggered towards the water. He made swift work of his coat and his shirt, both of which were promptly tossed aside onto some rocks. He scanned the water all the while and savoured the feeling of the early summer sun on his body.

He figured this place wouldn’t be too bad of a spot to stay for a while, assuming they didn’t plan any big commotions yet. The law was getting stricter about things like that and people like them, and frankly Arthur could have used a little peace and quiet for a while.

And there was that sweet girl he met in town— Mary Gillis. If nothing else, Arthur wouldn’t mind sticking around just to see her again. If he kept a low enough profile for a while, he might even have the chance to ask her out for a dinner, or something to that extent.

Caught in his own thoughts, Arthur stopped paying any attention to John, who was slowly taking care of his own clothes. Arthur only came back to reality when John announced, “Don’t look, okay?”

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t even wanna look at you dressed. I promise you, I ain’t lookin’ now.”

Keeping good to his word regardless, Arthur turned halfway to the side, putting his back fully to John. He kicked his boots off, then draped his pants over the rock with his shirt. Eager to get washed and return to camp, Arthur took off for the water.

It was warm at first against his feet as he waded in, though the farther in he went, the cold seemed to creep up his hairy thighs and straight through his bones. Instead of lingering on it, Arthur took a dive into the shallow water. He swam for a bit, letting the water rush over him and clear his senses; when he needed to breathe again, his toes found the soft, muddy bottom of the pond and he stood upright. Arthur burst to the surface, water cascading down his heavy-set body. He glanced around, wiping the water out of his eyes, and then fully turned to the shore.

“Hurry up and get in, Marston.” He called out.

John clutched the bucket to his chest unsurely. He still had his underwear on, but if he wanted to ride back to camp with a chapped ass, that was going to be his own issue. After a few long beats, John started wading out into the water.

He got to about his knees before stopping.

“It’s too cold,” he complained.

“S’ not so bad once you get in further. Also, shut up and throw me some soap.”

John rooted through the bucket with a grumble. He then tossed a bar to Arthur underhanded; Arthur lurched forward to catch it, but just barely.

“Christ!” Arthur scoffed. “What a shitty hand you’ve got.”

John frowned hard. His cheeks went red again as he dumped the bucket of its contents— another bar of soap and a wash brush— then filled it instead with water. He poured it over his head while Arthur started soaping himself up.

“Can’t throw, can barely shoot… It’s a wonder what Dutch sees in you at all.” Arthur called out. “Guess he likes projects.”

John’s cheeks flared hotter as annoyance built inside of him. Soaking wet, he threw the bucket aside and snatched up the soap instead.

“At least I’m not a butterball,” John snapped.

Arthur snorted a laugh. Quickly, he dunked his head underwater, then worked the soap into his hair.

“Butterball, huh? That’s a big word for you.”

“Would you just fuck off already?”

Arthur laughed again. It was so easy to get on John’s nerves, it almost made him understand all the grief Hosea and Dutch used to give him.

“I oughta wash your mouth out with soap. Save Grimshaw doin’ it herself.”

“I’d like to see you try, fatty.”

Arthur cocked his brow. For a long moment he stared at John, quietly sizing him up, before a smirk took his lips. John busied himself with scrubbing and soaping, so he didn’t notice Arthur approaching at first.

“I reckon you should come take a dip with me, Marston.”

John’s eyes widened with fear. He took half a step back, his hands going up.

“Don’t you dare. I can’t swim, you know that.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Arthur grinned. “Promise I won’t throw you out far… Just enough to let the eels get a bite in of your toes.”

“That ain’t funny.” John warned. He took another step back.

“Sure it is. At least to me.”

John stared at Arthur for half a moment, then turned and bolted for the shore.

Arthur gave immediate chase, laughing.

“Come on, not afraid of a little water, are ya?”

John was quick to scramble ashore, crying out, “Don’t you dare!” all the while. Arthur could have easily chased him the whole way, and maybe even caught the little bastard, but he started laughing too hard to make it far.

Arthur stopped a few feet from the shore, hands on his knees, while John scampered away to go hide behind an indifferent Boadicea. Arthur took a long moment to catch his breath, before he stood back up straight. He pushed his wet hair out of his face, then cleared his throat.

“Goddamn, you’re somethin’ else, boy.” Arthur laughed. He paused, smiling, before noting the weird expression on John’s face.

John’s head poked out barely over the top of Boadicea’s saddle. His brows were knitted tight together and his mouth was slightly open with disbelief.

Arthur’s smile slipped off. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure something wasn’t coming up behind him; sure enough, all he saw was an expanse of water and the swaying, shady trees around its edge. He looked back at John, lips pursed.

“What? You got a problem?”

“Where’s…” John started, his voice slow and confused. Maybe a little scared. “Where’s your dick at?”

Arthur glanced down, mostly confused himself. The water came up to the middle of his thighs, gently lapping at the back of his legs. He took half a second to process everything, before he realized. John was so fresh in the gang, he didn’t know a damn thing.

Immediately, Arthur knew the right thing to do. He should sit down, give John the whole spiel Hosea had given him years ago, about people and norms and bodies…

But he wasn’t going to do that. Instead, Arthur gasped in fake terror.

“Oh my god. It must’ve fallen off.”

John’s voice cracked as he exclaimed, “What?!”

“I can’t believe this,” Arthur continued, voice taut with faux panic. “I had it just a second ago— oh my god. One of the eels must’ve taken it.”

John’s face went white as a sheet. His body was stiff.

“All these years, I thought Hosea was pullin’ my leg when he said your dick would fall off if you played with it too much, but he was tellin’ me the truth this whole time!”

“You ain’t for real,” John managed, weakly. His own voice was high-strung with panic he tried to keep control of.

“Look, you can even see for yourself. It sure as shit ain’t there!”

That much was true. Arthur had a mat of hair that went down from his large chest to his stomach and between his legs, but there was nothing else to be seen. John desperately wanted to believe that this was a practical joke, but there was no conceivable way he could think of for Arthur to pull it off. Literally.

Except, after a few long, dramatic pauses, Arthur cracked. He barked a laugh, one which made John’s shoulders tighten and his cheeks flare cherry red. Before he could snap at Arthur, Arthur pushed all his hair back away from his face and waved his hand.

“Ah, I’m just messin’ with ya,” Arthur drawled. “That old thing fell off years ago.”

The annoyance at being laughed at evaded John’s face. In its wake, his eyes snapped open wide again as the colour flooded from his cheeks.

“Yessir, probably when I was about, oh… Twelve, thirteen.” Arthur turned around, trudging back to the water. “I shook it too many times whenever I went to take a piss and one day the damn thing just popped right off in my hand. But never mind that.”

Arthur splashed around, rinsing the soap out of his hair and off his body. Dropping the topic altogether, he said, “Best hurry up an’ finish washin’, Marston; supper won’t wait on our accounts.”

Uneasily, John trailed back to the water. He didn’t have an appetite for supper any more.

                                                     —30—

“If I may,” Dutch announced, as he stepped from the stairs to the open main-floor of the cottage. “I’d like to call a meeting for a moment.”

Hosea, Susan, Mac, and Davey sat around the big dining table in the center of the room, caught amid a poker game. Arthur was across the room, in the kitchen corner, digging through one of their boxes of liquor. Oil lamps burned on the walls, lighting the room in a flickering glow. Smoke hung heavy in the air.

Hosea was the first to look up first from his cards to Dutch. He waved him over.

“Only if you make it quick,” Hosea replied. His eyes returned to the table. “We were having an intellectual and in-depth conversation about politics before Arthur returned, so he didn’t feel left out for not understanding.”

A couple chuckles came from the table. They continued to play as Dutch came around and slid into what was presumably Arthur’s empty spot between Hosea and Davey.

“This involves you too, Arthur, so pay attention,” Dutch said.

“I can hear you just fine. Go ahead.” Arthur grumbled, as he pawed fruitlessly through a rattling box of empty bottles.

“Alright. Now I want adult, honest answers here,” Dutch began. He picked up Arthur’s cards, looked them over, then showed them to Hosea. “I just spent an hour painstakingly talking to the boy, John, about something he was told recently.”

Hosea scanned the cards quickly and nodded silently. Dutch turned them to Davey.

“Alright. What was it?” Hosea asked. He pushed a sizable number of coins into the pot in the center of the table.

Arthur, notably, was silent in the background.

Dutch placed Arthur’s cards back down. He kept his face stony as he could. “Someone, supposedly, convinced the boy that his pecker was going to fall off.”

Davey laughed first, loud and hard. Mac quickly followed with his own chortle. While they both got a kick out of the idea, Susan bit back a grin and Hosea smirked, nodding to his cards. Arthur, in the background, didn’t even try to can his snorting laughter.

Dutch fought hard to keep a stern expression. His lips twitched.

“This ain’t no laughing matter. That boy was scared shitless.”

Mac’s hand shot out to grab onto Hosea’s shoulder. He gripped it, while the rest of his body shook with laughter. Hosea laughed himself, though quieter and more contained.

“You boys are awful,” Susan chided with a smirk. She swatted Davey on the shoulder. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Davey kept laughing. He had already been hitting the bottle since noon, so his laughter carried farther and longer than anyone else’s. “Don’t hit me! I didn’t do it. Wish I had, though.”

“Here, here.” Mac replied.

Dutch turned to his left. “Hosea?”

Hosea patted Mac’s hand, shaking his head. “I would’ve told you already if it were me.”

“And it wasn’t me,” Dutch said, “So it had to have been one of you unlawful bunch.”

Dutch’s eyes roamed across the table and then settled on Arthur in the corner. Innocently, he continued to root through the box with one hand, while he used the other to wipe his mouth.

Dutch narrowed his eyes a little.

“Was it you, Arthur?”

“Me? No, never.” But Arthur couldn’t keep his straight face this time. His cheeks split with a crooked smirk behind his hand.

Dutch scoffed.

“Your poker face is laughable, son. That’s why you’re losing so badly.”

“Actually, it’s ‘cause I’m playin’ with a room full of cheaters… But sure. We’ll go with that.”

Dutch waved his hand.

“Go up there and apologize to the boy, will you? Hell, apologize to me, too, because I spent an hour trying to convince him otherwise and speaking on behalf of topics I am not qualified for.”

“I’m sorry you had to be in the same room as him for that long.”

“Arthur!” Dutch snapped. “Get going! Be the bigger man.”

Arthur had a little, stupid smirk about him as he left the kitchen and crossed the room instead. He slapped Dutch’s shoulder as he walked by.

“You know, if Hosea had done this to me, you wouldn’t have said a word,” Arthur commented. “How come Marston gets all the special treatment?”

“If Hosea had done it, I wouldn’t have to handle it.”

That was all Dutch had to say on the matter, so the rest of the group quieted around the table. Arthur trudged up the stairs, feet pounding the whole way, and eventually they disappeared. Once he did, Dutch tossed Arthur’s cards aside.

“You’re handling the next crisis,” He said to Hosea.

“I figured about as much.”

Then, with a smile, Hosea laid down his winning hand and reaped his rewards from the middle of the table.

[silkandconvalescencerpg]

I’m honestly a little in disbelief that this has finally made its way into the light, and I apologize for how long it took for me to simply put this together. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this little look into ballast and may it spur on any of your own musings!

001. OUT OF CHARACTER,

NAME/ALIAS + AGE. ↳ I’m Dea, eighteen, and my three favorite films are The Mummy, Moulin Rouge!, and Dead Poets Society (with Brother Bear rounding out as my closely-lagging fourth). I like to think they adequately spell out my character, if anything, representing the very core of my soul. (Evie O’Connell was my first crush and forevermore the love of my life, if that makes my personality any clearer.)

TIMEZONE + ACTIVITY. ↳ PST, and as for my activity, I try to be online as often as I can, and that’ll be a lot easier now that we’ve transitioned into the summer season. However, I still have work and that’ll take up a decent portion of my time, though I try to be as transparent as I can in terms of letting you all know when I’ll be absent from the main and such, and will continue to be so when game-play begins. Hopefully I manage to achieve the right balance between the main and James’ account!

TRIGGERS + PRONOUNS. ↳ I go by she/her, but have no problem with being referred to as they/them. Regarding triggers, visuals of excessive gore are pretty much the worst of what I can take.

002. IN CHARACTER INFORMATION,

MUSE DESIRED. ↳ Ballast & James Sirius Potter.

            JAMES, a gentle curse, an exhale, soft and affectionate and incapable of being said without a smile tugging at the corners of one’s mouth. spit in vexation, cursed in crimson-tinged anger, sighed in misled adoration, hiccuped in between gut-wrenching laughs. your mother whispers it (worry creasing lines on her otherwise youthful face, fingers twitching, longing to reach out to stroke your head like you loved when you could still fit in her hands) when she thinks you can’t hear and yells it (anxiety toppling into frustration, showering you in the spitfire that scorches in the center of her belly, distinct to the windswept fire of ginny weasley) when she knows you can’t hear anything but. your father, eighteen years of experience hardly denting the habit, sounds out the syllables of your name with a reverence (half respect for the father he never knew and half tender disbelief for the son he still can’t believe he had a part in creating) and groans them with an age-old tiredness (his scar may not pain him any longer, but you sure do). the very utterance of your name is followed by an exuberant eye roll, high in fashion with both your sister and brother. james, james, james. does it belong to you?

            SIRIUS, a bullet of a name. there are more legends than facts surrounding your namesake, and god, when did they become yours to swallow? you may not carry his blood (pure, black, rotten to the core) but your pout is sculpted from the same lips as his; your hair is as monstrously notorious and decadent; that gruff bark of laughter rings oh-so alike, except he was the grim and you’re a puppy; a leather jacket, illusory with the phantom heat of his flesh, and you can’t quite decide if the weight is a comforting warmth or if it burns, heavy and scathing. i mean, really ⏤ is it still just as funny when your telltale “sirius is my middle name” line is matched with a wince?

            POTTER, both a tragedy and a blessing. out of your unlucky lot, perhaps this is the worst card. your blood is tinged with the greats, the giants of wizarding lore, potters, and weasleys, and evans’ (singularly gifted witch that she was), and just about everything fucking else in between, because sometimes practically the entirety of the wizarding world wants to snatch their own piece and more the pity, you let them. resentment curls in your belly, curdling and hot, warring with the warmth of your love, the kind that seeps tender heat into one’s aching muscles, like the gentle caress of curling inside a bath, of a candle’s gentle flare in the center of your darkened home, rain softly wailing outside. it makes you want to weep; it makes you want to cry and scream and claw yourself inside out; it makes your heart want to burst from love, from bone-chattering laughter, from adoration, from responsibilities to ghosts, from the weight of it all.

            (  B A L L A S T  ), the solid stone beneath, the foundation everyone can’t help but stand upon. (and that’s it, folks, lmao.)

FACE CLAIM. ↳ Xavier Serrano.

GENDER + ORIENTATIONS. ↳ Cis male, he/him, and bisexual biromantic.

DATE OF BIRTH + BLOOD STATUS + YEAR. ↳ Born OCTOBER 30TH, 2005, as a HALFBLOOD, and currently enrolled as a SEVENTH YEAR at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

            This birth date falls under the SCORPIO star sign, in addition to being the day before Halloween, also known as the death day of his grandparents. Irony is a sharp bite to the ass, and this one particularly stings. He’s on the very edge of spilling into the sorrowful night, one brimming with the ghosts of old, beasts of legends, terrors lurking in the encompassing shadows. What is better: to be on the precipice of disaster (everyone sharply aware of just how close he came to being a masochist’s wet dream: firstborn son of Harry Potter emerging into the world on the night of his parents’ anniversary of being murdered; oh, our hearts are positively aching in bittersweet agony) or to narrowly miss another chance to align himself with the ghost who will forever haunt him?

            The exact date was chosen carefully, for the image of James being born in the high tide of the ever-haunting month, on the edge of leave-strewn and rust-tinted November and swarmed in the absolute magic that encompasses October, is one that is so wholly him. One might imagine him in the sweetness of spring, chaste and rosy and so heartwarmingly raw. Or perhaps in the heat of summer, where he is gold, gold, gold, and so unnervingly bright, it blinds you with its scorching radiance. Even winter could be his home, with its stark bitterness and empty promises of warmth and protection in a candle-lit home, cold snow blanketing all life. Yet, the season where leaves dance in the swirling winds and ugly beasts emerge into the night with the beauty of the divine is the one that holds his heart in its grip; fall, fall, fall, and he does.

            Moreover, this analysis cemented his star sign completely ⏤⏤ attracts people by: depth and allure, emotional bonding, safeguarding and undying protection, intellect and mystique, loyalty and slowly revealed vulnerability, ability to inspire inner confidence &  loses people by: antagonism, control and possession, withdrawal and reactivity, emotional coldness and emotional paralysis, self-righteousness, disconnecting privacy, staunch defence of personal ideologies.

HOUSE + ANALYSIS. ↳ GRYFFINDOR, and it almost seems a disservice to the gods above, to the spite burning in his blood and scorching his mind, begging to be contrary just for the sake of a rebellion, a piece of him that deviates from the path he was destined to crawl. Why couldn’t he be different? Why did his heart burst with the same roaring pound of a lion’s and bleed with the same passion and obnoxious sense of self? Courage was a pillar he conquered within his first breath, and nerve was the fire to his blood’s gasoline, lighting up with a stunning vengeance. But, oh no, these are not the grounds upon which his sorting was based on ⏤ if anything, his undying belief in morality, of all stupid things, is what so clearly planted him within the lions den. Even more so, it’s the fact that he values morality above all else, not the details of his beliefs. That dogged perseverance has the capability of swallowing him whole.

FUNCTIONS. ↳ DUELING CLUB & THE BONES CLUB, both sought him out, and though resistance tasted sweet, a part of him was soft for it, the idea of being apart of something other than within the barracks of his family. There’s a feral part of him, hunger aching in his bones, and it’s sated, buzzed on a high, when he’s in the midst of dueling for the fucking hell of it (spells teasing, a flirtatious back and forth of fatal proportions, a dark curiosity licking its paws in the corner, waiting to pounce, and god, does it fill him) or scheming in the dark, four heads weaving together, morbid mischief and jest galore reigning in their souls. The day that a bewitched note appeared in every page of every book he touched, flirting with him to join a club of bones (stupid fucking name, was the first thing out of his mouth in that beginning meeting of his, some years ago now) and daring him to chase (something? anything? everything?) was the day that some fragile chip of him sealed its way back on.

003. WRITING + EXTRAS,

INTERNAL ⏤ CHARACTER ANALYSIS. ↳ Because I’m lacking in time (entirely my fault, yikes, I know), I’ve chosen to highlight three individual aspects (headcanons) of his character as a whole in an attempt to puzzle together a tangible picture of who he is, and through the evulsion of these facets, other details and factors of his persona will become present (or at least that’s what I’m angling for, fingers crossed). Essentially, these are the corners of his character that breathed something a little more divine than life into him, conjuring him in a different light and contorting that light into something blindingly magnificent. 

            RELIGION, something that struck me as i was writing some part of the application above is my constant use of the word god, spitting out in my writing with a vicious ease. this isn’t my own, natural, guttural utterance of the word, but rather the voice of james, spilling out like an unwelcome grease. it started out as a small rebellion, more to himself than anything else, for isn’t it always? ⏤ something to distract himself, purge himself, from the person he is. he’s not a complete idiot, you know; he knew of a god, several of them, upon which muggles called upon, prayed upon, ached upon. magic was his god; his father, his mother, his grandparents, all of his blood family and all their friends; the titans of the wizarding world boiled down to human form, glorified and shining beyond belief; they were gods, or at least, they were treated as such. merlin was the force above them all; and circe and nimue and the founders of hogwarts and everybody else deemed a little bit special. well, perhaps the muggles had something better, and so, he checked. a copy of the bible was snatched by his hands, and the pages were devoured. greek myths were no longer fantasies, but reality; after all, if magic could existed, why couldn’t they? he scoured for any and all gods, learning the way of the old world and diving into cultures and religions with a swimmer’s finesse. he stuck to the idea like an indulgent tar, clinging to the idea with no small desperation; perhaps if there was a god(s), as the muggles proclaimed and spat, then who he is was no mistake ⏤ he was meant to be the firstborn of harry potter, meant to carry the weight of ghosts on his back, meant to feel a crumpling in his bones, meant to burn with a love for his family and yet freeze over with most others. it was out of his hands, yes, finally, thank god. for nearly the first time in his fifteen years of life, he breathed with ease, unfiltered and soft and free. and then, short of a blissful month later, he fell. not unlike a fallen angel, nor unlike a star toppling from the sky, crashing and burnt and dust. there was no fate or destiny of god above, watching and waiting and pulling strings like a grand and demented puppeteer. now, he spits the words, sarcasm denting every syllable, even in earnest. 

            JEWELRY, ever since he can remember, he’s liked the glint of jewels. the way they encompass a color, almost swallowing you alongside with it. the intricacy is unfamiliar to his own fingers, and yet they still grasp to hold it. there’s no explanation or reason behind it all, transparent and easy to receive. a cut, blood red ruby adorns a gold chain on his chest, and a sister piece sits on his finger as a ring, both a gift from his mother. he loathe to take either off in any case, and often treasures them as closely as his wand. moreover, he’s not been known to reject a little smear of matching lipstick, though on occasion it’s been used as a paintbrush for some doodle on his cheeks rather than lined on his lips. he has no qualms with revealing that shard of himself, and the swarm of deep red on golden flesh is quite the sight to behold, anyway.

            GOTTA DO MORE, GOTTA BE MORE, not all characters have an original muse, but mine was definitely charlie dalton from dead poets society, as well as the more obvious character parallel of neil perry. james was written and created for this verse with neither in mind, and a great part of my entire outlook and analysis of him was already set in stone by the time i rewatched the film, but then, it just hit me. the specific mannerisms of charlie’s character are so apparent in james, from his facial expressions to the false bravado and desperation to seek something a little more in life and shatter himself in the process, and of course the advice that would strike james just as severely as it did charlie: “sucking the marrow out of life doesn’t mean chocking on the bone.” moreover, this entire scene perfectly encapsulates a part of james that simply cannot be said through words, which is why it works so well. the loyalty that charlie holds, gritty and strong and unparalleled, is one that lives on within james as well. and then there’s neil perry, who is the brightest light with a heart of gold, passion and soul simply dripping off him in excess, yet is shackled down by the weight of his parents, though not in the same way as james. a darkness feeds off of him, deep inside and caving him in, and that is so true to james’ character. there are plenty more parallels to go over, but those can be dissected at another time (an actual detail-by-detail parallel analysis has been in the works, i can say). 

(And because I haven’t said much else, I’ll just add in this snippet of his character that I wrote a little while ago in response to a question!) To me, James is a highly emotional character who nearly bursts from the zest that breathes within him, but can almost be accused of being a masochist because he so forcefully attempts to swallow that down and play the role of one unbothered by life in whole. He has a great respect and fierce loyalty toward his family, yet this is what so severely hurts him, for in the times that he can’t help but resent the expectations that so massively fall on him, it tears him up inside, which just creates and perpetrates a vicious cycle. The Burrow is one of his favorite places to be, for sure. He’s at a standstill in life where he has no idea what he’s bound to do once he leaves the life he’s known for seven years, desperate to both leave and stay. He isn’t committed to academics in any way (for now), but that doesn’t account for his caustic wit. He’s wonderfully complex and contradictory, but he’s also a massive sweetheart, and I can’t help but simply think of heat in relation to him. Like he’s just That Person that constantly has warm, almost hot, skin and you don’t know how in the dead of winter that’s possible. He’s definitely an anchor, and that’s where my decision of ballast originates from.

EXTERNAL ⏤ CONNECTIONS + POTENTIAL PLOTLINES. ↳ I’m going to wait on divulging on any specific skeleton character connections in mind for fear of inducing any bias, though here are some plotlines I’d like to uncover.

            Something that I’m very eager to explore is the contrast that James feels in relation to his family, and how that positively tears him up inside. It’s likened to a battle of the heart versus the mind: who he truly is and who he feels he can’t be, in fear of sacrificing his soul in the process. Essentially, I want to push him to the breaking point, shattering his senses into some mangled ball of shit that he must sort out. He’s in desperate need a breath of fresh air, and he’s been suffocating for years.  Moreover, he’s never really faced this mass of contradiction within him, always turning a blind eye and swallowing it down, scorching his throat in the process and nailing his heart right through the center. And when he must, all hell will break loose, and what can I look forward to, if not that?

            James is a golden light that may dim, but has never been blown out. Until now. I want to see him untethered and catastrophically scratched, the golden, youthful and scarlet blush of his flesh waned and stark against the image of who he is. What will cause this, lead to this, pioneer his destruction? Furthermore, he’s a seventh year as this school year starts, and that means his ass is out in less than a year, and he is absolutely unsure of what awaits him once he’s left these halls. I want to plant the seeds of possibility, and what may come of them. 

EXTRAS, EXTRAS. ↳ (Uh, I’m enlisting admin privilege?? Once game play begins, trust that there’s going to be loads of unnecessary edits flooding his account, but for right now, it’s a little bare.)

[buckybarnesappreciationsociety]

Little Enforcer

Summary: James Buchanan Barnes and his wife are the proud parents of 8 year old twins, Steven Anthony and Jazmine Rebecca. She’s spunky and he’s more  reserved. What happens when the school bully, Eric Rumlow crosses their paths?

 Words: 2,006 (Yeah I know, it’s long)

 Pairings: Dad Bucky x Wife, twins Steven and Jazmine

 Warnings: None. Mentions of bullying and fluffy fluff!!

  The blinding smile on Bucky’s face comes from 3 sources; Y/N, his wife of ten years and Jazmine Rebecca (Jazzy) and Steven Anthony (Tony) Barnes, age 8. Becoming a family man was the best medicine for him. Bucky never dreamed he’d have twins. After 22 hours in labor, Y/N was ready to cut the babies out herself. Once the pain subsided, she knew those babies had her wrapped around their fingers.

Jazzy and Tony were different as night and day. He was quiet, loved to read and draw. Uncle Steve tutored him when he wasn’t on missions. The blonde super soldier called his namesake the “21st Century Picasso.” Because of his quiet demeanor, Tony endured senseless teasing. Jazzy on the other hand, was a real spitfire. She was a tomboy and didn’t mind mixing it up on the playground with anyone! Bucky and Y/N lost count how many times they were called to the Principal’s Office because Jazzy beat up someone for picking on Tony. Auntie Nat called her “The Little Enforcer.”  It didn’t help that Bucky and Nat rough housed with her..

 One afternoon on the school bus, the menacing Eric Rumlow, school bully decided to pick on Steven, AGAIN. It seemed the shyer sibling became the subject of his wrath more than once.

 “Look Eric. Leave my brother alone,” she stood up and squared her shoulders.

 “And if I don’t what are you gonna do, Winter Barnes?” Eric sneered.

 “Take it back! That’s not my name!” Jazzy’s fists were balled by her side.

 “Well, my pop said your pop use’ta be the Winter Soldier. He’s a killer! That’s why he’s got a metal arm!”

 Tears brimmed in Jazzy’s eyes. “No he isn’t! My daddy’s a hero and you’re just a big nasty meanie!”

 Bucky never told the kids about his past. That conversation could wait until they were older.

 Jazzy got in his face and shouted, “Eric Rumlow, you’re a mean ugly bully!! Somebody’s gonna beat you good, just wait and see.

 Staring her down, “We know it won’t be you or your sissy brother. Run home to your killer pop, Winter Barnes.” The other kids on the bus remained silent. They too were afraid of Eric!

 When Jazzy and Tony exited the school bus, they ran past the house into their treehouse. Uncle Tony hired an expert to build a spacious treehouse, big enough for adults also. The huge treehouse became a meeting place for the twin’s friends when they came to play.

 “Buck, weren’t those the twins running past the door?” Y/N wiped her hands on a dish cloth, peeking out of the kitchen window.

 “I didn’t see’um Doll. Lemme check their favorite hiding spot. Something musta happened at school or on the bus. C’mon babe, let’s go check on’um.”

 Walking hand and hand down the rocky driveway, Bucky’s super hearing picked up on crying. He dropped Y/N’s hand and ran to the treehouse. Inside, Jazzy and Tony were huddled together in a corner, crocodile tears streaming down their faces. It broke Bucky’s heart to see them so distraught.

 “Hey, hey what’s the matter? Did somebody hurt’cha?” Bucky reached out for a hug and they recoiled.

 Y/N was puzzled by their behavior. “Jazzy, Tony what’s going on? You know you can talk to us right?”

 Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Jazzy released Tony and ran to her mother’s waiting arms. Bucky’s eyes clouded. He didn’t understand why the twins wouldn’t let him touch them.

 Tony finally walked over to Bucky and collapsed in his arms. “Daddy, we need to tell you something.” Jazzy nodded in agreement.

 “Okay squirt. Your momma and I will always listen to’ya.”

 Steven looked to his sister with dried tears on his face. She walked over and held his hand. Bucky’s heart shattered! Y/N’s furrowed brow indicated concern.

 “Today on the bus home, that big ugly Eric Rumlow called me Winter Barnes and said you were a killer daddy. His dad told him that’s how you got a metal arm. Is it true?”

 Bucky’s shoulders slumped and Y/N tried to stifle her disdain for the Rumlow’s. It was time to have the dreaded “conversation” with the twns.

 With a lump in his throat and tears running down his chiseled jaw, Bucky nodded ‘yes’.

 “Jazzy, Tony your daddy and I wanted to have this talk when you were older, but I guess the time is right.” Y/N held the kids in her lap.

 “Kids, before your mom and I met, some very bad men hurt me, a lot! They gave me this metal arm. Yes, I have killed before but they had a machine that took away my good memories and replaced’um with bad stuff.”

 Jazzy shifted in his mother’s arms and listened attentively.

 Swallowing hard, Bucky continued. “They made me do horrible things I wouldn’t have done if I was in control of my mind. Uncle Steve came looking for me because we’re good friends and he wanted to let me know I was still a good man.”

 Tony and Jazzy saw the sadness on their daddy’s face and ran to his arms. Immediately, Bucky broke down.

 Y/N finished the story. “My sweet, sweet babies. Your daddy is no longer the Winter Soldier. He’s a kind, gentle and loving man. A big ‘ol teddy bear. Eric Rumlow is mean and so is his dad. I’m so sorry you had to find out like this.”

 Jazzy kissed his cheek, “I don’t care what that ugly boy says, you’re not the Winter Soldier and my name is Jazmine Rebecca Barnes. Just you wait, Eric’s gonna wish he never said that about you daddy.”

 Bucky warned her, “He’s bigger than you Jazz. I don’t want you to get hurt. Okay?”

 With a smirk on her face, Jazzy looked at Tony, “M’kay. I won’t fight mommy and daddy.”

 Y/N glared at Bucky, “Why do I not believe you little lady?”

 Both kids erupted in laughter as Bucky tickled them.

 “Well, I’m going to finish dinner. Babe, you coming?” Y/N stood outside the treehouse.

 Tony placed his hands on Bucky’s cheeks and looked in his cerulean eyes, “Daddy, you’re not a monster. Me and Jazz loves you a whole bunch.”

 Fresh tears pooled in his eyes, “Thanks squirt. I love you and Jazz more than you’ll ever know. Don’t stay out here too long. Supper’ll be done in about an hour.”

 In unison, the twins sang, “We won’t daddy.”

 After Bucky and Y/N were a safe distance away from them. Jazzy devised a plan to beat Eric Rumlow.

 “Tony, I may not be able to beat him by myself but together we’ll beat him good.”

 “But Jazz, I can’t fight. You know that.”

 With a mischievous grin on her chubby face, Jazzy whispered in Tony’s ear, “I’ll teach you how.”

 Tony gulped. “O-okay, don’t hurt me.”

 “I won’t hurt you but we’re gonna hurt that nasty monster Rumlow!.”

 Exiting their comfort spot, Jazzy and Tony skipped to the house and got ready for dinner. You could see the cogs turning in her little head. Hulk Rumlow would rue the day he crossed them.

 As the sun bathed the sky with bright shades pink, yellow and blue, Bucky made his way to the kitchen. Saturday and Sunday, he treated his family to a feast. Today the menu consisted of blueberry waffles, bacon, eggs, fresh fruit, orange juice, milk and coffee (for the adults of course). Padding across the tile floor, Y/N wrapped her arms around his waist. Bucky had jumped up from the bed after a horrific nightmare.

 “Wanna talk about what happened last night?”

 Bucky turned around and embraced Y/N tight. “Ya know, I’d do anything to keep my family safe?”

 Lifting her head and gazing into his eyes, “Yes and always remember, you’re not that man anymore. Those kids love you no matter what. It doesn’t make any difference because in their eyes, you’re daddy. A good, kind and extremely lovable man.”

  “Ya always know what to say Doll. Thank you for loving me.”

 “No thanks needed, Buck, loving you is easy.” She placed a chaste kiss on his lips.

 With their heads overlooking the banister on the stairs, Tony mused, “Ewww! Momma kissed daddy on the mouth!” .

 Jazzy added, “That’s gross!”

 “Looks like we have an audience husband.”

 Winking at Y/N, “Hmmmm, I didn’t hear a thing! Must’a been a ghost.”

 Jumping in his arms, Jazzy and Tony peppered their daddy’s face with kitten kisses.

 Sitting around the family table, talking, laughing, and an occasional food fight were some of the highlights Bucky enjoyed with his family. It brought him unspeakable peace and joy!

  After breakfast, Tony and Jazzy ran outside to their room in the home gym. Bucky put a miniature heavy bag, lined the floor with mats and threw in small boxing gloves.

 “Now, I’m gonna teach you some basic moves.” Her brother looked on attentively.

 Punch-kick….punch-kick…..punch-kick. For an 8 year old, Jazzy’s form was incredible.  Auntie Nat showed her a few moves to ward off bullies and by all account, they were effective.

 Poor Tony was so awkward. His punches missed the bag and he fell at least 3 times.

 Breathing hard, he relented. “Jazz, I can’t do this. I’m not strong as you.”

 With squinted eyes, Jazz stalked up to her brother, stomped her feet and declared, “You listen to me Steven Anthony Barnes. I’m gonna teach you how to fight whether you like it or not!” Tony’s chocolate brown eyes stretched open wide. All he could do was shake his head up and down.

 “Now, shall we try again?” Jazmine and her brother sparred until he mastered the necessary moves. Bucky stood back in the shadows, observing his daughter, giving Tony sage advice on blocking and landing punches. His heart swelled with pride, but the super soldier also became curious. Why was she so intent on teaching her brother how to fight? What were they up to?

 By Monday, Tony’s excitement was replaced with angst. He was no fighter but this had to be done. Sure enough, after school, the behemoth 9 year old strolled over to where they were standing with their friends and knocked Tony’s art sketchbook and pencil case out of his hands, spilling all over the ground. Instead of crying, he glared at his sister and she gave a soft nod.

 Before he knew what happened, Jazzy kicked the back of Eric’s leg. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Tony punched him in the stomach with ferocity. Then, Jazz and Tony unleashed a flurry of punches to the face, bloodying his nose and giving him a black eye!

 Standing over the wounded boy with hands on her waist, Jazz proclaimed,. “You big ugly creature, I told’ya you were gonna get beat. From now on, leave me, my brother and our friends alone or we’re gonna whup you again. Got it?”

 Eric sat up wiping his nose, crying, “My pop’s gonna beat your pop. You’ll see.”

 “Yeah, let him try.” Jazzy and Tony were greeted with pats on the back and high fives.

 Bucky and Nat would be so proud of them. Their expert tutelage paid off! Tony and Jazz’s mission was complete, the threat neutralized, and peace restored. The little enforcer and her brother reigned victorious!

A/N: I’ve been fortunate to cross paths with so many excellent writers on Tumblr. As a newbie, I’m always open and receptive to advice that would improve my writing skills. Description is what I’m working on now. Thank you so much for your comments! ENJOY!

TAGS: @omalleysgirl22 @erisjade @sgtjamesbuchananbarnes107th @supersoldierslover @gaybybirth @readerwinterbarnes @amrita31199 

@mar-gega @gingerbatchwife @rebelslicious @cant-stop-the-fandoms 

@the-witching-hours12-3 @bolontiku @ajimaginingtheworld @iamwarrenspeace @katykyll @katiej98 @tatortot2701 @this-kitty-has-claws @irene-rogue-adler

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[wearehurricanes]

dust through the light || young justice

Here, have more spitfire angst!

Synopsis: Wally comes back but his memories don’t.

Word count: 656 words

Read on AO3

They explained things to him - his name (Wally? Really?), how he’s a (retired) superhero speedster (or used to be at least; he can’t even run faster than Robin now), who was attending Stanford (nice, high-five, Wally) before he…ceased (he notices the way everyone pauses before saying it) eleven months ago. You know, normal, ordinary things, all of which he accepts just fine. He’s a blank slate; he could have been the President of the United States for all he knew.

But what he doesn't understand is why the blonde girl dressed in orange and black keeps avoiding him. For some reason, he remembers the tall guy in the dark glasses who was there when he came back, but that guy hasn't shown up since. But her. She doesn't come to the cave often, but when she does, she does everything she can to steer clear of him. Naturally, he wouldn't have noticed, or cared, if someone didn't talk to him, since he wouldn't have known if they knew each other before he got sucked into the speedforce, but her evasion of him is too obvious to ignore.

The girl they call Tigress never speaks directly to him, leaves the room when he enters, doesn't meet his eyes. They must have a history - friends, lovers, something, but damn it, he can’t remember. Every time he tries, he comes up empty. His mind literally feels like a blank piece of paper. Black Canary, with her gentle voice that belies her fighting prowess, tells him his memories will come back in time, and he believes her. Until then, he can do nothing but wait, while the hole in his chest slowly widens.

He’s asked the others, but they never tell him anything useful - it’s always something along the lines of you should ask Aqualad and when he does Kaldur doesn't tell him anything substantial either, just looks at him with those light, solemn eyes of his. Just yesterday, he asked that green kid - Beast Boy - and the kid literally ran away from him.

The only rational reason that everyone doesn't tell him, he figures, is to protect her. Maybe they were together, and maybe they loved each other, and maybe she’d made her peace with his death. Maybe she didn't think he’d come back.

He doesn't really have anything to do - he just came back from the dead, what? - so he hangs out at the cave most of the time, which is better than doing nothing in a house that doesn't really feel like home, with parents whose love he can feel but not remember. His stuff isn't even in his room - when he asks his parents, his mother says “oh, most of it’s at - ”. Her voice catches and she clears her throat. “In storage. We’ll get it out for you, dear.” “Thanks mom.” He smiles at her and she squeezes his arm. On an instinct he draws her close into a hug and it almost feels like home.

He watches her train. While she excels in hand to hand combat, she runs the obstacle course with ease, like she’s done it a hundred times before. She’s fast and agile, and her aim is impeccable. She draws her crossbow, her arm a straight, perfect line and hits her target every time. He watches her duck and roll and leap and dive fearlessly, deftly navigating the course, as lithe as her namesake. She does a handspring and kicks a dummy in the head, and he feels a little bit in love.

When she notices him watching, an imperceptible frown creases her features. Her eyes are grey.

“What?” He can’t keep the edge out of his voice.

Taken aback, her hard gaze slides downwards. “Nothing. She mutters. Her voice is warm and husky. It slips into his chest, and his mind goes blank.

She wears orange, but when he goes to sleep at night his dreams are all green.

[yeehawdante]

Heaven on a Landslide pt. 13

June 15th, 3:59 p.m. 

Penelope stomped after Vergil, her tears all dried up-leaving her with nothing but her stifling fury. Just looking at him was enough to make her want to scream. 

“I’m not done talking to you!” She barked, letting out a growl when the white haired man didn’t face her. She raised her fist to strike him again, her breath hitching when Vergil caught it. Her nostrils flared as he gave her a pleading look, lowering her first to her side. 

“Stop this, I have no desire to fight you,” she didn’t respond- just yanked her hand from his grip and harshly wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks. She cast her gaze away from him, crossing her arms over her chest as she swallowed the guilt forming a lump in her throat. The very man who left her alone with a child, who hurt her son, who always put his pursuit of power above her was mere inches away from him-she felt like she should have wanted him dead but that was the last thing she wanted. 

There was no love lingering in her heart for him...not after everything he’d done. But she couldn’t let go of those good memories, she couldn’t will herself to hate him no matter how strongly she felt that she should. And Nero...she wanted her son to know his father, not a corpse. 

Nero...her face screwed up as she bit back her tears. She should have told him the truth. There she was fuming over Dante’s lies, when she had done the very same to her son. She actually felt the heat of her anger cool down just slightly when she put it in perspective, although it was misplaced, Dante had just wanted to protect her. Part of her even wished she had gone the whole time without knowing the truth. 

 She could feel Vergil’s eyes boring into her back and her lip twitched, turning to glower at him. She may have not wanted him dead, but she sure wanted to punch his lights out. She couldn’t help but give him a once over, it seemed like he hadn’t aged a day-unlike herself. He had hardly changed since the last time she had seen him-in Fortuna. 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to stare?” She sneered, kicking a piece of debris off the side of the tree. 

“The boy...he’s my son?” Her eyebrows shot up before she broke out into a laugh, the sound empty and bitter. 

“What gave him away? Was it his thick skull?” She got in his face, close enough that he could see the familiar freckles that peppered her skin.Her expression hardened, brow twitching as she spoke, “yes! That kid you traumatized is your son...our son!” She paused, sucking in a deep breath and squeezing her eyes shut. She was so sick of crying, but her rebellious lips trembled anyway when she opened her eyes to glare at Vergil again, “that boy is the bravest person I’ve ever known and you...after what you did, my twenty year old son clung to me like a scared little kid, even slept in my bed one night, for fucks sake!” She covered her face with her hands, heaving out a shuddery breath, “I’ll never forgive that.” Something in Vergil’s cold stare shifted, but it was gone before she could catch a glimpse of it.

“I didn’t know he was our son.” 

“If you had just taken your head out of your ass for one second, just stopped to look at him...” she raked her hands through her hair, the hair tie not doing its job of keeping it out of her face, “of course he was! Why do you think Dante trusted him to keep the Yamato safe?! Just never thought he’d have to keep it safe from his own fucking father!” Her throat was raw from so much yelling, her voice cracking pathetically mid-shout. She averted her gaze and blinked rapidly, fighting off her tears. She jerked away when she felt a hand brush against her arm, and in a split second he was looking down the barrel of her gun. “Don’t...touch me,” he retracted his hand, pushing down the revolver gently. She pulled her other gun out of her holster, raising it in its place and eliciting a frustrated sigh from the man before her. 

“With the power I’ve obtained, I could protect you...and Nero from every kind of harm,” her jaw dropped at the audacity of the man before her, laughing once again, “I just need your help-”

“I bought into your bullshit when I was a kid, I’m not that stupid anymore. You don’t want to protect anyone but yourself!” 

----------------------------------------------------------

Dante’s heart seemed to have made a home up in his throat, the uncertainty of his future with Penny had his stomach churning. He wasn’t sure he could stomach losing her again. 

The legendary devil hunter came to a halt when the pair came into view, his shoulders slumping when he spotted them merely inches apart. The light reflected off of something in her hand, catching Dante’s eye and his lips split into a grin when the realization dawned on him...she had her gun stuck in Vergil’s face, her lips pulled back in a snarl as she raged on about something. 

Dante laughed to himself, shaking his head free of all the silly thoughts that haunted him on his way up. He couldn’t believe he thought for a second she’d go back to Vergil, that she’d leave him. He moved forward with a newfound spring in his step, balancing the sword with his namesake on his shoulder. 

“Thought I warned you brother,” two pairs of eyes fell to the man in red, and he flashed his trademark grin at Penny, “you piss little spitfire there off, and she’ll unhinge her jaw and swallow you whole,” his heart swelled when Penny ran to him, enveloping him in a hug with a relieved sigh. He wrapped an arm around her waist, smiling smugly at his older brother over her shoulder. “Sorry I took so long,” he murmured to her as she pulled away, staying at his side. He turned his attention to his twin, whose composure had been tested slightly when it became clear who had Penny’s heart.  

“Your portal opening days are over,” he extended his hand to Vergil, “give me the Yamato.” 

“If you want it, then you’ll have to take it. But you already knew that,” Penelope’s face twisted up in panic, placing a hand on Dante’s arm. 

“Dante-” she started to plead but he cut her off. 

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” his new sword materialized in his hand, ignoring the hand gripping his bicep. 

“How many times have we fought?” Too many, Penelope thought bitterly. 

“Hard to say. It’s the only memory I have of us since we were kids,” the twins smirked at each other. The interaction was so casual, any outside perspective would have never guessed what they planned to do to each other. Dante stepped forward, only to be tugged back by Penelope’s iron grip. 

“Please, it doesn’t have to go this way-” 

“Stay outta this one, love,” he gave her a small smile before turning back to his older brother. “Time to finish this, Vergil! Once and for all!” The brothers broke into their respective stances before charging at one another. Penelope winced at the clang of their swords, sucking in a deep breath as she came to her final decision. She wasn’t going to let them kill each other. She stood by far too many times before. 

She leapt between them, blocking a blow from Vergil that nearly toppled her over. She gritted her teeth as she fought against his overpowering strength. 

“I’m not…” she grunted when her grip nearly slipped, “letting you die,” her heart jumped into her throat when Dante went to swing at his preoccupied brother. She ceased her clash with Vergil, ducking under the blade of the Yamato and sweeping Dante’s legs out from under him in one swift movement. The devil hunter landed on his back with a hiss, swearing at the stubborn woman continuing to fight off Vergil’s assault. 

“Dammit Penny!” Dante gripped, clambering to his feet in time to see his brother gripping Penny by the throat, lifting her slightly before slamming her onto her back. Her cry of pain transformed into a wheezing cough as she clutched at her throat. She somehow pushed through the dizzying pain in her back to sit up, looking up to see the fury flaring up in Dante’s eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he looked to his brother. 

“Did you just...choke slam my girlfriend?” 

“She was in the way.” 

“Alright,” Dante growled, “you’re fucking dead,” Penelope’s breathing grew labored when her boyfriend activated his sin devil trigger form, charging at Vergil who had retaliated by doing the same. She lifted herself onto her knees just as the two men were about to collide, her ravaged voice giving out mid-plea.  

A shockwave sent her flying back, evoking a groan from the already beaten woman. She gritted her teeth, firmly planting both hands on the ground and heaving herself up. She tilted her head at the sight before her, both men were still standing-held back by an unfamiliar demon between them. 

She limped forward as the twins reverted to their human forms, identical dumbfounded looks etched into their faces. A pair of spectral arms sent the twins flying backward with a powerful strike and Penelope came to a halt, recognition dawning on her face. 

“Nero?” The demon looked to her before morphing back into the familiar appearance of her son. She strode forward as best she could, staggering slightly from pushing herself so hard until she was close enough to embrace Nero. She was beaming when he pulled away, pride written in her features as she looked at the blue wings still lingering on his back. “I’m here to put an end to this,” he said without looking away from his mother, and her face fell slightly. “I won’t let you two kill each other,” her shoulders slumped in relief. A grunt pulled Penelope’s attention away from her son, looking to see Dante stomping toward them with a glare. 

“Listen to me. I told you already, this is not your-” Penelope cringed when Nero struck the man in red in the jaw with his devil bringer. Nero spoke as his mother made her way to where Dante was lying on the ground, crouching down next to him and checking if the blow had dislocated his jaw. 

“You listen, dead weight,” her lover glared at her when she snorted at Nero’s remark, she gave him a sheepish grin as she plopped down on the ground next to him.“I won’t let you kill each other. There are other ways of settling your differences,” Penelope couldn’t fight off her proud smile, swiping a thumb under her eye and sniffling, “I’m putting a stop to this sibling rivalry,” the young devil hunter stomped toward Vergil, his fists clenched yet his tone and expression remained composed. Vergil chuckled and rose to his feet, sighing.  

“Ahh, you came all this way just for that.” 

“Vergil...V...whatever you call yourself...Dante’s not gonna die here, and neither are you. Do you have a problem with that?” 

Dante grunted as Penelope wrapped an arm around his back to help him sit up, he rubbed at his sore jaw, “‘not gonna die’ my ass. That bitch slap nearly killed me,” the brunette supporting him shook with silent laughter, her free hand clasped over her mouth. 

“If I beat Nero…Then by default, I beat you. Agreed, Dante?” Penelope’s expression hardened, moving to rise to her feet so she could step between her son and Vergil but Dante stopped her. Nero turned to give her a firm nod, the confidence written in his features reassured her and she nodded right back-giving him silent permission to kick Vergil’s teeth in.  

“Whatever, I don’t really care. I’m just gonna sit this one out,” a weight settled in Penelope’s lap when her lover rested his head against her thighs, breathing out a long sigh. She rolled her eyes with a small smile, lacing her fingers through his hair and lightly scraping her nails against his scalp. 

The fight was coming to an end, Vergil clearly on his last leg from the powerful assault Nero was dishing out. Penelope almost couldn’t believe the boy she was watching was her son, she didn’t think anyone could ever put that bastard down with such ease. Not even Dante. 

“Could you not cry directly on me, babe? I feel like I’m drowning,” Dante murmured and she jumped, letting out a laugh when she realized she was in fact crying and had been letting it fall directly onto the older man’s face. He sat up with a slight wince, wiping her cheeks with a fond smile. She returned the gesture just as Vergil suddenly landed on his ass next to them, panting from his exertion. 

“Interesting,” he murmured and Dante broke out into a mocking laugh.

“Oh brother, you cut off your own son’s arm for more power, and you still lost,” he continued laughing and Nero scowled, clearly fed up with the brother’s endless feud.  

“Enough dammit! The underworld is taking over, and we need to do something before it’s too late,” as if to further the young man’s point, the Qliphoth started to quake violently. 

“He’s right. We need to close that portal,” the white haired man looked to his older brother, who was struggling to his feet with a huff, “hey, you lost, so you better do what he says.” 

“I can still fight,” Nero tensed, preparing for yet another round with the man in black, “but if those roots continue to spread through town, it’ll just interfere with our business,” Penelope rose to her feet, helping her boyfriend with a slight struggle. 

“Now, that’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” the color drained from Penelope’s face, her throat tightening when she realized what needed to be done. She caught Dante’s hand desperately, and he met her with a pair of raised eyebrows. 

“Where are you going?” Her voice wavered, the hands grasping his began to shake noticeably and Dante tried to ignore the ache spreading through his chest. He smiled softly at her, silently trying to commit the features of her beautiful face to memory...just in case. 

“Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on that jackass,” her face twisted up in despair and she started to shake her head.

“N-no, that-that’s a one way trip, you can’t-” he softly shushed her, cupping her face in his hands and forcing her to look into his eyes, making sure she saw how serious he was when he spoke.  

“I will, this ain’t my first rodeo. I’ll be back before you know it,” she sucked in a shaky breath, the tears pooling in her purple eyes cascading down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her cheek to his firm chest. 

“Please don’t go,” she heard his breath stutter, tightening her hold on him as if she could stop him from going. He softly gripped her chin and tilted her head up, pressing his lips to hers in a loving kiss. Even with the cuts littering her plump lips, they were still the softest thing in the world to him and he found himself getting lost in the taste of her. 

“Make haste, Dante,” Vergil’s voice pulled the couple back to reality, and she gave him one last pleading look before he reluctantly pulled away. Something seemed to dawn on him suddenly, and he stopped to reach into his jacket. He pulled out a thin piece of paper, placing it in her hand and closing her fingers around it. He departed with a delicate kiss on her forehead, turning on his heel and giving his brother a glare out of instinct. 

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat, stashing Dante’s parting gift in one of her pockets as she watched her lover walk away. Her head was pounding from the endless crying and frowning, and she did her best to unfurrow her brow. Nero sprinted past her after the pair of brothers-hardly getting a word out before they simultaneously spun around and nailed the younger man in the face, knocking him on his ass. Penelope’s gaze flicked between her son on the ground and Dante, a crease forming on her forehead and she couldn’t help but snort. She could only stop frowning for two seconds it seemed. Dante looked at the woman before him like she was the most precious thing in the world, relieved that the last memory of her before he left was her smiling. He saluted before jumping off the side of the Qliphoth. 

Vergil stopped for a moment as Nero appeared at his mother’s side, his eyes flicking between the two of them. He tossed a familiar book on the ground in front of his son’s feet. 

“I won’t lose next time, hold on to that until then,” Penelope couldn’t stop the words bubbling up in her throat. 

“Vergil!” He raised his eyebrows at her over his shoulder, “you...you make sure you come back too, please,” a smile crept onto his face, giving her the slightest nod before following Dante- leaving the mother and son alone on top of the Qliphoth. 

“Idiots…” Nero murmured, crouching down to retrieve the book from the ground. He rose to look at his mother, pain stabbing through his heart when he finally took notice of the state she was in. Her droopy eyes were rimmed with a dark shade of exhaustion, a painful line of bruises marking her neck and she seemed she could hardly stand. 

“You okay, mom?” She had just gotten Dante back, just to lose him again hours later. Not to mention all of the other bullshit she’d endured. Yet, when she looked to him...she was smiling somehow. She reached up a hand to cup his cheek, smile somehow stretching even bigger. 

“I am so...so proud of you,” she couldn’t fathom how she had any tears left, shedding another waterfall’s worth as she pulled her son into a hug. He gazed out into the blue sky, breathing a sigh of relief knowing he was finally strong enough to protect the ones he loved. 

------------------------------------------------

The van was waiting for them at a reasonable distance from the crumbling Qliphoth, the neon blue sign bringing an overwhelming sense of comfort. Nico came bursting out of the van, the girls following close behind. The tattooed woman broke into a full sprint, yanking the two devil hunters into the tightest hug she could manage with a cry of relief. 

“Holy shit, what the hell happened? Thought that demon houseplant was gonna take you with it!” Penelope put her hands on her hips, looking at the white haired man beside her. 

“You can tell them, I’m gonna...I’m gonna head home, get some rest,” she gestured in the direction of the office and her son nodded, giving his mother a soft smile. 

“I could give you a ride, mama, you don’t gotta walk all that way,” the freckled woman offered and Penelope waved her off, smiling at the gesture.  

“I just need to be alone right now,” Nico pursed her lips, nodding reluctantly and turning her attention to the young man recounting his fight with Vergil. 

The streets were relatively empty on Penelope’s walk home, save for a few small time demons that took one shot from her revolvers to take down. Nothing she couldn’t handle. The thud of her boots stilled to silence when she made it to the office, no neon glow to welcome her home-the sign was broken. Her face twisted up, feeling slightly foolish for getting so worked up over one stupid sign. She sucked in a deep breath before opening the doors and stepping inside. Her footsteps echoed throughout the empty room, the sound almost deafening in the suffocating silence. She made it to Dante’s desk before her willpower was officially exhausted, collapsing in front of it and leaning her back against the wood. The paper Dante had given her weighed heavy in her jacket pocket, but she was afraid to look at it. 

She certainly wasn’t going to be moving from that spot anytime soon, so she decided there was nothing better to do. She reached inside her coat, her heart hammering against her ribs as she pulled it out. Tears welled up in her eyes when she saw Dante’s face, but she couldn’t help but laugh when she realized what it was. A worn out strip of photo booth pictures they had taken when they were in their twenties, all of them silly except for the last one. She had been feeling daring that day, planting a kiss on his lips and marking the start of a beautiful relationship. He’d kept the damn thing all those years, even after she’d left...not only that, he kept it with him. She let out a sob, pulling her knees to her chest and allowing all of the emotions she’d held in for so long to flow out. 

Her head shot up when the door slowly creaked open, a familiar head of black hair appearing in the doorway. Lady gave her a small, pitying smile as she sheepishly stepped into the room. Penelope hastily wiped at her cheeks, hiccuping slightly. 

“Where are the others?” She asked with a sniffle.  

“Cleaning up,” Lady answered, “the Qliphoth just went down. Guess Dante and Vergil did it,” Penelope nodded, a bittersweet feeling spreading through her chest. 

“Do you need something?” 

“No, I uh-came to check on you,” Penelope’s eyebrows shot up, “can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now, going a whole month worried that Dante was dead...then to find out he isn’t and lose him all over again-I,” she sighed, “I’m just sorry. Especially because I didn’t trust you, and I see now that you’d never betray any of us, Vergil or not.” Penelope grinned, looking down at the picture in her hands. Lady sat down next to her, peering down at the picture and laughing. 

“Wow, he...gave that to you?” 

“Yeah?” Penelope gave her a questioning look. 

“It’s just that... “ she laughed again, “the guy would nearly lose it if he thought for a second he lost it. I’m surprised he managed to part with it,” Penelope chuckled, but her smile fell a second after. Her face scrunched up as she clearly held back the tears she had been letting out before Lady came in. “He’ll come back, he’s done it before. And this time, he’s got you waiting for him. Nothing’s gonna stop that stubborn bastard from getting back to you,” the black haired woman reached out and wrapped an arm around Penelope’s shoulders, letting her lay her head against her shoulder. “I’ll keep you company in the meantime, and I won’t force-feed you pizza,” the brunette’s body shook with silent laughter. 

“Thank you, Lady.”

[filmclingon]

5/9/20 Telegraph “Which is the greatest WWII Film of All?”

Hmmm.  I would add The Longest Day (1962), Guns of Navarone (1961).  Maybe Patton (1970), Saving Private Ryan (1998).  And the prison camp films like Bridge on the River Kwai (1957), King Rat (1965) Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (1983), Paradise Road (1997) -- wow, never heard of Camp on Blood Island (1958).  I’m also partial to John Wayne and Errol Flynn WWII flicks (so sue me).  But in terms of being a spot-on compendium of 1940s/50s B/W British movies, this is pretty great.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Which is the greatest Second World War film of all?

SIMON HEFFER

9 MAY 2020 • 1:00PM

[PHOTO] Jack Hawkins in The Cruel Sea, which (says Simon Heffer) is a first-class war film CREDIT: ALAMY

 British films about the Second World War are a game of two halves; those made during the fight for survival, and those made afterwards. However, after the Fifties, too few writers and actors had experienced war to evoke it credibly, and audiences, filling with generations unborn on VE Day, could not tell the difference. Recent films such as Darkest Hour, in which Churchill rides the Tube, and Dunkirk, in which no actor looks the part, make the point.

I wrote a few weeks ago about The Way to the Stars (1945), and reiterate that it is not just one of the finest films about the war, but one of our finest films. A rival, from 1942, is Ealing’s chilling Went the Day Well?: story by Graham Greene, music by William Walton. It depicts the arrival of Nazi stormtroopers in an English village, and shows levels of violence that were shocking at the time. In a politically pivotal moment, the lady of the manor blows herself up with a hand grenade to shield a roomful of child evacuees from that fate. We really were all in it together.

The Forties was the golden age of Powell and Pressburger. Their supreme propaganda film, 49th Parallel (1941), is about a U-boat crew trying to escape from Canada to the United States, and was designed to put pressure on the US to enter the war. It starred Eric Portman as a fanatical Nazi, the first of five superb performances by him in wartime films. He played, the following year, the second pilot of a bomber shot down over Holland in another Powell and Pressburger triumph, One of Our Aircraft Is Missing. Set in Holland but shot in the Fens and the Wash, the film uses a complete absence of music to amplify the sense of tension.

Portman returned to submarines the following year in Gainsborough’s We Dive at Dawn, starring John Mills, another markedly understated, and realistic account of naval heroism in the Battle of the Atlantic. His next film has a claim to be the greatest of the whole war: Launder and Gilliat’s Millions Like Us (1943), about women working in the Spitfire factory at Castle Bromwich. Portman plays the brusque but decent manager; Patricia Roc a working-class factory girl who marries an airman she meets at a dance. I shan’t spoil it, but if you seek an example of the greatness of “ordinary” British people, wait for the film’s last scene and the sing-song in the canteen, which is overwhelming.

Portman’s fifth wartime success was as the eccentric squire in A Canterbury Tale (1944), in my view Powell and Pressburger’s greatest film – and one crying out for restoration and Blu-ray transfer (British Film Institute, please take note). Ostensibly about a nation preparing to invade France and finish the war, it presents and amplifies English values, values for which people were fighting and dying against a truly savage enemy. For anyone who wishes to understand the national mentality at the time, it is essential viewing.

[PHOTO] 'A little routine': The Dam Busters is among the best-known war films CREDIT: FILM STILLS

It took a few years of escapist cinema after 1945 before studios began to look again to the war – this time not for propaganda, but for inspiration, for entertainment, just when people needed cheering up after years of austerity. Another compelling Powell and Pressburger production, The Small Back Room (1949), tells the story of a maimed, alcoholic bomb disposal expert, played magnificently by David Farrar, and is a sublime study in heroism.

Such films continued with varying degrees of success during the Fifties; the two best known are Ice Cold in Alex (1958), which has its moments (though could have had more; one scene between John Mills and Sylvia Syms was deemed too saucy to include) and The Dam Busters (1955), which has always struck me as a little routine; Richard Todd was never allowed to capture the true character of Guy Gibson, the egotistical commanding officer.

Five much better films are Sea of Sand (1958), a little-known depiction of hell in the Western Desert; Above Us the Waves (1955), with John Mills back in a submarine, being attacked by the Tirpitz; Ealing’s Dunkirk (1958), infinitely better than its recent namesake; Carve Her Name with Pride (1958), with what should have been an Oscar-winning performance by Virginia McKenna as SOE’s Violette Szabo; and Jack Hawkins as the deeply human Captain Ericson in The Cruel Sea (1953). And I’ve finished with that because it is simply the greatest war film ever made.

If you had to choose, which title would win the competition for the greatest Second World War film? Let us know in the comments section or join the conversation on the Telegraph Community Facebook group.

[somar78]

A Brief History of the Triumph Spitfire – Everything You Need To Know

The Triumph Spitfire – An Introduction

The paradoxical thing about the Triumph Spitfire is that it didn’t spit fire. The original Supermarine Spitfire fighter aircraft was powered by a huge supercharged Rolls-Royce V12 engine and was fitted with up to eight machine guns so that it truly did spit fire from engine exhausts and guns.

The Triumph Spitfire sports car however had a diminutive four cylinder engine, no machine guns, and only spat fire if the engine was so out of tune that it caused a backfire in the exhaust. It was however much less expensive to buy, a lot cheaper to run, and it was enormous fun.

Triumph and The Blitz

During the “Blitz” of 1940 the industrial city of Coventry had rather a lot of bombs dropped on it by the Nazi Luftwaffe in their efforts to bomb Britain into submission. Although this had worked quite well for the Nazis in other parts of Europe it didn’t in their efforts to conquer Britain: the pesky British just seemed to get more and more determined. Bombing Britain turned out to be about as profitable as poking a stick into a hornet’s nest expecting the frightened hornets to flee away.

Sadly Coventry was a city where many of the classic British cars were made and as a result of the Nazi bombing some were destroyed, notably Triumph, who had a long history of making beautiful motor cars. What was left of Triumph, which wasn’t much more than the name, was purchased by Sir John Black’s Standard Car Company on December 31, 1945.

Sir John Black understood Britain’s dire post-war financial need to export or perish and he looked to the American market as a place where he would really like to sell cars. Other British car makers were seeing this also and Jaguar had debuted their six cylinder XK DOHC engine in a hand built sports car based on their sedan chassis, but fitted with a hand made sports car body.

It was an instant success and although Jaguar had not actually intended to put that car into production they found they had so many customers with open checkbooks that turning away all that lovely money was unthinkable: thus it was that the Jaguar XK120 went into production, with actor Clark Gable taking delivery of one of the first examples.

Earlier pre-war “SS” Jaguar cars had been based on chassis from Sir John Black’s Standard Car Company. So he reasoned that if Sir William Lyons of Jaguar could create sports cars that would sell like hotcakes in the US then he could do that as well. His first effort was the Triumph TRX concept car, which was basically a sleek body built on a Standard Vanguard sedan chassis and engine.

People did not line up with open checkbooks for that one however.

The design team went back to work and so at the London Earls Court Motor Show of 1952 they showed their second effort: the 20TS. This was a car that looked rather more like a beast and not at all like a beauty a socialite might drive.

It was a car that could compete with Donald Healey’s 1951 Austin-Healey 100 and it led to the creation of the Triumph TR2. In fact a 20TS was taken to the Jabbeke motorway in May 1953 fully speed prepared and driver Ken Richardson, sitting on a cushion because they did not want the extra weight of a seat in the car, belted the car down the road to achieve 124.899 mph. Richardson was not belted in coincidentally: no seat, no seat-belt.

Triumph had their sports car that was a direct competitor for the Austin-Healey 100 and sales of the Triumph TR2 and its successors were good, but in 1958 Austin-Healey debuted their sports car for the not so monied masses, the Frogeye/Bugeye Austin-Healey Sprite.

Small, based on the diminutive Austin A30/A35 sedan the Sprite was marketed as “something a chap could keep in his bike shed”: lots of chaps (and chappettes for that matter) decided that having their very own boy racer sports car was too much of a temptation to be sensible about.

The Sprite did not have a boot/trunk, it just had a stash area behind the seats, something like a miniature Aladdin’s Cave for soft luggage. The Sprite had quite minimal weather protection also, side curtains for the soft top rather than heavy and expensive to make wind-up windows with their winding mechanism.

The Sprite did have seats however, unlike Triumph’s 20TS Jabbeke speed car, because not all chaps have the raw courage of a Ken Richardson, and passengers would expect a car to have seats, even a sports car.

In September of 1960 the chaps at Triumph decided they could do rather better than Donald Healey’s little Sprite and so they started work on their own small sports car, naming the project “Bomb”.

The new car was to be based on a shortened version of Triumph’s small sedan, the Triumph Herald, which boasted a body design by Italian designer Giovanni Michelotti. A shortened Herald chassis was sent to Michelotti and he created the body style. Meanwhile the engineering team at Triumph built a test “mule” using a shortened Triumph Herald, basically a two seater Triumph Herald, to get the mechanics and suspension sorted out.

Although other car makers were shifting to unibody construction Standard-Triumph did not have the financial resources to support that transition: and in any event regarded it as unnecessary.

Small production sports car makers were using a chassis rather than a unibody, Lotus, TVR, and Morgan being examples. The Triumph Herald was built on a backbone chassis with the body made as a separate item and this made it an ideal foundation for the Bomb.

Where the Triumph Herald’s chassis had outriggers these were removed for the Bomb so the bucket seats could be set nice and low. This required the fitting of strong sills to provide structural stiffness but was a sound design.

The project was to be short-lived however as Standard-Triumph were in financial trouble as car sales had slumped as a result of the 1956 Suez Crisis. Petrol rationing had been resumed in Britain as a result and people either stopped buying cars or had very small ones, such as the BMW Isetta bubble car.

This was the political situation that led to the creation of the Austin/Morris Mini, and it was also the cause of Standard-Triumph’s financial woes. By December 1960 work on the Bomb was stopped and the Leyland bus and truck company made a takeover bid for Standard-Triumph, which they succeeded in completing in April of 1961.

The Bomb was put into a corner in the factory and covered up with a cloth like a body awaiting burial, but it was not to be forgotten. When a Leyland executive visited the factory he asked what was hidden under the sheet and when the prototype sports car was revealed he was a very happy camper. He could see the potential, and the Bomb was unexpectedly given a new lease of life: on July 13, 1961 the Bomb development project was underway again.

The Triumph Spitfire 4 (1962-1964)

In getting the Bomb from prototype into production not many changes turned out to be necessary: the Triumph design team had achieved a great deal in the few months they’d had to develop the project and Giovanni Michelotti’s work was brilliant.

This was in part due to the fact that the car could be built on a shortened and modestly modified production Triumph Herald chassis, an advantage the chassis provides that a unibody does not.

The engine was the stock 1,147cc (70 cu. in.) inline four cylinder OHV from the Triumph Herald with a couple of SU carburetors bolted on to improve its breathing ability, the engine then being given a bit of a tweak here and there to make it more sports car like.

The Herald’s front drum brakes were dispensed with and replaced with some nice efficient discs to ensure the little beast could stop as well as go. The suspension was fully independent and originated from the Triumph Herald; at the front were wishbones with coil springs and at the rear were swing axles using a transverse leaf spring bolted to the top of the differential.

The body was made to offer significant advantages over the new car’s main competitors, the greatly re-modeled Austin-Healey Sprite and its twin sibling the MG Midget. The new Spitfire was fitted with a rather awkward to raise soft top, wind-up side windows, exterior door locks, and quite comprehensive instrumentation to give it a hint of an aircraft cockpit look.

The name chosen for the car was not Bomb, but instead took the name of the iconic fighter of the Battle of Britain, the Spitfire. The Bomb had a new identity, reminiscent of the Second World War fighter aircraft which featured in the “Biggles” comic books that so many of the young men and women who would buy a Spitfire would have grown up reading.

This first model was known as the Spitfire 4, simply because it was fitted with a four cylinder engine, unlike its Battle of Britain namesake which had a Merlin V12. The Spitfire 4’s engine produced 63 bhp @ 5,750 rpm and torque of 67 lb/ft @ 3,500 rpm. This gave the little car a standing to 60mph time of 16.4 seconds and a top speed of 92 mph.

While these figures are not particularly impressive they don’t really convey the feeling of the Spitfire. With its seats set very low the car gave the impression it was going rather more quickly than it really was, so low seats, an aircraft like cockpit, and a nice engine warble, all combined to make the little Spitfire a very fun machine. It was also affordable at the petrol pump as it delivered a frugal 31 miles to the Imperial gallon.

The Spitfire 4 had a few optional extras available for it, a heater/demister, removable hard-top, wire wheels, and in its last year of production a Laycock de Normanville electric overdrive. In addition to these were the performance kits available from dealers. These included twin dual throat Weber 40DCOE carburetors, a high compression cylinder head, high lift camshaft, and for the really serious petrol heads such extensive engineering items such as stronger pistons, con rods, crankshafts, clutch and close ratio gearbox kits from the Triumph Vitesse.

This sort of thing had considerable appeal to a generation raised on Biggles comics and Meccano sets.

The Triumph Spitfire Mark II (1965-1967)

The Mark 2 version of the Triumph Spitfire was introduced in 1965 and provided some relatively minor improvements over the original Spitfire 4, which was now often referred to as the “Mark 1”.

The engine power was increased to 67 bhp @ 6,000 rpm and British models were treated to a diaphragm spring clutch while North American market models retained the original coil spring one, and were also fitted with ACDelco distributors as opposed to the British which stayed with Lucas.

The interior trim of the Mark 2 was upgraded to include carpet in place of the original rubber mats, redesigned seats, and the covering of exposed metal panels with trim. There were of course the obligatory new badges and grill to give the car a “new” look.

The Triumph Spitfire Mark III (1967-1970)

The Mark 3 was a major upgrade, the Spitfire was subject to some significant competition from its Austin-Healey and MG Midget rivals and it needed to pull some rabbits out of the hat to keep up with the opposition.

The car also had to comply with new bumper height regulations and this was accomplished by a two fold strategy of raising the bumper on the bodywork and by raising the front springs. This combined effect imparted a quite different look to the car and it was referred to as the “bone in the teeth” model.

In their efforts to beat the competition Triumph greatly improved the folding soft top so it was much easier to deploy. The dashboard was done in wood veneer to significantly bring the look of the interior upmarket. The engine of the Spitfire was increased in capacity to 1,296cc which was the same as on the Triumph Herald 13/60 and 1300 models.

The Spitfire engine with its twin SU carburetors delivered 75 bhp @ 6,000 rpm with 75 lb/ft torque @ 4,000 rpm. The car’s performance benefited from the increase in power with its standing to 60 mph time down to 13.4 seconds and its top speed up to 95 mph. The car’s electrical system was also changed over from traditional British positive earth to the more universal negative earth.

1968 was to produce happy news, and more difficult news for the Triumph Spitfire. The celebratory news was that the 100,000th Spitfire was personally driven off the production line by Standard-Triumph’s General Manager George Turnbull.

The more difficult was the introduction of new vehicle safety standards and exhaust emissions regulations for the US market. Cars exported to the US constituted 45% of Spitfire production and so the cars needed to be able to comply with US standards. In 1968 the Spitfire’s braking system was upgraded to a dual hydraulic circuit with failure warning light: this was also to become a requirement in Australia under the Australian Design Rules (ADR).

1968 was also the year that British Leyland, who owned Standard Triumph, acquired ownership of British Motor Holdings which brought MG, Austin, and Jaguar/Daimler all into the same company. This meant that the Spitfire, Sprite and Midget were all now competing with each other from within the one company.

The Spitfire had to comply with new emissions standards for 1969: this meant that the engine’s compression ratio had to be reduced to 8.5:1, the camshaft was re-profiled, and ignition timing had to be adjusted. So the upshot of these regulations was that the engine had to be made less efficient, which meant less performance and increased fuel consumption.

The cars affected by these changes are nowadays referred to as “Federal Spitfires” and their engine power was down to 68 bhp with torque reduced to 73 lb/ft. The car’s standing to 60 mph time increased to 14 seconds, which was still pretty good by the standards of the time.

Also in 1969 the Spitfire had to provide headrests to guard against occupant neck injury in the event of a rear end collision. This required a redesign of the car’s seats and was a welcome improvement. The car’s dashboard lost its attractive wood veneer which was replaced by a black plastic one for US market cars, and the instrumentation was relocated to be directly in front of the driver.

Of particular note is that the transverse leaf spring with swing axles rear suspension was kept all through to the Mark III. This system produced much the same effect as it did on the Volkswagen Type 1 and the early Chevrolet Corvair, although on those two the effects were more exaggerated because of the rear engine causing the weight distribution to be very rear heavy.

The Spitfire had much more even weight distribution, but the vice of the swing axles was still able to rear its ugly little head. This problem occurs most markedly if the driver lifts off the throttle in a corner or brakes. The weight transfers to the front outside wheel and as it does so the rear outside wheel is lifted and as the swing axle forces a shift to positive camber it “tucks under” which can cause a switch to dramatic oversteer or a roll-over.

This suspension was widely criticized and drivers who wanted to get the best from the handling of their cars installed camber compensator rear suspension kits to fix the problem, just as more technically minded Corvair and Volkswagen owners did.

The Triumph Spitfire Mark IV (1970-1974)

The Mark IV was a major revision of the Triumph Spitfire. The bodywork was redesigned by Giovanni Michelotti and among the changes the weld line on the top of the front wings/fenders was eliminated along with the chrome finisher strips that covered them.

By this stage rather old school chrome headlight surrounds were removed and replaced by body color ones, the grill became black plastic and was complimented by black plastic bumper under-riders. The wheel-arches were stylishly flared and the door handles became neatly flush fitted. The windscreen height was increased by two inches.

At the rear of the Spitfire was perhaps the most dramatic change with the rear end being given a cut-off style which brought it into line with the rear end styling of its stablemates the Triumph Stag and the restyled Triumph 2000. This would be the same sort of style that the Triumph Dolomite of 1972 would also be given so the Triumph cars looked like a part of a coordinated family.

For the Mark IV the instrumentation was moved from the center of the dashboard to being directly in front of the driver for all markets. Many features that had previously been optional extras became standard fittings on the Mark IV Spitfires. These cars had a heater/demister as standard, black sun visors, and three-point seat belts.

The hardtop was greatly improved and included opening rear quarter-lights while the folding soft top was treated to a plastic cover to keep it neatly packed away. The switch for the optional electric overdrive was relocated to the top of the gear lever, perhaps inspired by the red button for the passenger ejector seat fitted to James Bond’s Aston Martin DB5 in “Goldfinger”.

The Mark IV also finally got synchromesh on first gear, something that British car makers seem to have had a near religious aversion to in the same way that British motorcycle manufacturers resisted installing electric starters.

The engine of the Mark IV was mostly the same as used in the Mark III but due to the desire by British Leyland to rationalize component parts and spare parts inventory the Mark IV engine used the heavier con-rods from Triumph’s six cylinder engines. These heavier con-rods affected the engine’s free revving characteristics but did not reduce power. Engine power remained at 75 hp (SAE) but was now quoted in published material as 63 hp (DIN). So all that actually changed was the measurement method for published data, not the engine’s actual power output.

The Mark IV was a tad heavier than the Mark III however, which contributed to the car feeling a bit less spritely, and added to that the final drive ratio was changed from 4.11:1 to 3.89:1 which helped with motorway cruising, but not with standing start acceleration should you want to race a guy in a Porsche away from the traffic lights.

The big fix on the Mark IV was to finally cure the swing axle vice, something that arguably have been done much earlier. The fix was remarkably simple, instead of the whole rear suspension leaf spring assembly being bolted to the top of the differential casing only the bottom-most leaf was, leaving the others free to move around the central axis. The rear suspension was further improved late in production by the widening of the track, improving stability.

The performance of the Mark IV was lively for European specification cars: standing to 60 mph time was 12.5 seconds and top speed was 97 mph. In 1972 however the engine was detuned which brought the top speed down by a couple of miles per hour but, more tellingly, increased the standing to 60 mph time to 14.5 seconds.

In 1972 for the US market Triumph began fitting a larger 1,493cc engine which was created by lengthening the stroke of the older 1,296cc engine. This US version was fitted with a single Zenith Stromberg carburetor and had the necessary anti-emissions control equipment installed on it.

The Triumph Spitfire 1500 (1974-1980)

In 1972 Triumph rationalized production by using the US market 1,493cc engine in all markets, but only applying the emissions controls to the US market engines, and tuning up the engine for British and European markets thus creating the fastest Spitfire yet, other than the car’s fighter aircraft namesake of World War II.

The car fitted with this new engine was called the Spitfire 1500 and its engine produced 71 bhp (DIN) @ 5,500 rpm and torque of 82 lb/ft. This engine was mated to a Morris Marina gearbox with the result that the car could now actually “do the ton”, i.e. 100 mph and boasted a standing to 60 mph time of 13.4 seconds. The British and European market engine had a compression ratio of 9:1 and breathed its leaded petrol through twin SU HS4 carburetors.

The US market Spitfire 1500’s engine was given a compression ratio of 7.5:1 so it could run on the unleaded gasoline that was being phased in. It breathed through the single Zenith Stromberg carburetor and had an exhaust gas recirculating system and catalytic converter. This engine produced 53 hp (DIN) giving the car a standing to 60 mph time of 16.3 seconds.

The Spitfire 1500 had the longer swing axles and resulting wider rear track, and also had its rear suspension a little lowered to induce some negative camber, which all contributed to the car’s improved stability.

The car’s interior trim was substantially upgraded with “chequered brushed nylon centre panels” in the reclining seats and also got steering column stalk mounted controls in the 1977 upgrade. The final model had the features expected by that time including an electric windscreen washer and hazard warning lights. Wire wheels ceased to be available as an option however as the world moved on to accessory alloy wheels.

Conclusion

The Triumph Spitfire was built to be a small, inexpensive fun machine and it delivered an elegant sufficiency of enjoyment of driving and exploring wherever you fancied going. It was a car that did not attempt to deliver the terrifying levels of raw performance of such cars as the AC Shelby Cobra, it wasn’t in the same price league, nor would those who purchased a Triumph Spitfire have been looking for that from it. They were looking for a car that delivered affordable enjoyment, and it delivered that wonderfully.

The Triumph Spitfire has acquired for itself a quite dedicated enthusiast following over the years but there are also a lot of people out there for whom this was the car of their young years: a car that carries with it many memories.

It’s a car that those who were privileged to own one look back on with fondness. We can imagine a young Triumph Spitfire owner having a secret “Snoopy Moment” as he drives thinking “Here’s the World War II flying ace in his Spitfire…” – hopefully there is a little bit of Walter Mitty in all of us.

Picture Credits: Standard-Triumph, Leyland.

The post A Brief History of the Triumph Spitfire – Everything You Need To Know appeared first on Silodrome.

source https://silodrome.com/triumph-spitfire-history/

[sierrawestla]

Planes Into Parkland?  The Future of the Santa Monica Airport by Mike Robinson

Phone to her ear, my mother leaned toward me over the dinner table. “Dad wants to know if you want to go up in the helicopter.”

Another half-hour to wolf down our meals and hop the few blocks west, and there we were at the Santa Monica Airport, traipsing the tarmac toward that blue-white beast, its taillghts winking in the dark like distant red giants, its Cyclopean glass eye pupiled with the figure of my father waiting beneath the hiccuping thunder of the propellers. While most kids damage their eardrums with loud music, I proudly took a few aural whacks from these occasional after-hours flights: the VIP perk of being a corporate pilot’s son.

As one whose stomach knots a little every time I have to face the human blizzard of a massive international airport, I appreciate that Santa Monica Airport, with its kid-friendly Museum of Flying and themed neighboring eateries like the Spitfire Grill, is a place still infused with a “quieter”, more recreational take on aviation. It was, after all, where Harrison Ford took his infamous, fairway-destined flight in 2015. It was also the launching pad for the first aerial circumnavigation of the globe.

That it commands a decidedly unquiet presence, however, is just one of the many issues stirring the local community to action.

Martin Rubin is the founder of the Concerned Residents Against Airport Pollution -- or  CRAAP, to use the aptly tongue-in-cheek acronym. For years he’s been one of the more vocal leaders in the fight to retire the Santa Monica Airport, citing the two major species of pollution -- noise and air -- that it generates. “There are additional issues, too,” he says, “of safety and security.” Not far into our talk, he told me of an interview he was supposed to have with a representative of the NRDC. Unfortunately, the meeting was cancelled. Some of the higher-ups in the organization used the airport themselves, it turned out: an example of the entrenched interests at play for a strip of land used largely by the privileged.

I met Rubin at a coffee shop near the airport. Soft-spoken and knowledgeable, he gave the impression of one swept fatefully and helplessly into this cause, beads of determined light in his eyes that never dimmed no matter the hefty obstacles discussed.

In 1998, Rubin was working at a communal garden at Richmond Elementary when he began noticing bouts of a strange, chemical odor that would make him dizzy. “I thought it came from the freeways, at first,” he says, until he realized each episode was accompanied by a high-pitched whine that “sounded like a jet.” A bit investigation and one self-built computer later, and he had the bones of his website: jetairpollution.com.

Unfortunately, the issue of airport pollution seems destined to be a problem that gets worse before getting better. New ordinances in the last few years, for instance, have forced planes to sit idle as they wait for traffic from LAX, spewing emissions in the process. A striking “Growth of Jet Operations” on Rubin’s website shows just how busy the airport has become in the last thirty or so years, from 1,176 in 1983 to its peak of well over 18,000 in 2007 (from 1983 to 2017, the airport has seen an 18,000% increase in overall jet operations). And with our carbon output such an ever-pressing issue, the airport’s future is but one patch of a much larger quilt of environmental and legislative controversy.

So what might take its place? The crystal ball is hazy, but its colors are a hopeful green: November of 2014 saw the passing of Measure LC, which prohibits any commercial or corporate interest from using the space, instead granting the 227 acres to “public parks, recreational facilities or open space,” unless otherwise approved by voters.  It danced in the ring with the defeated Measure D, strongly backed by aviation interests, which advocated a vote to determine whether or not the airport should be partially or totally closed.

Asked whether or not there was any sense of a deadline to at least partially close the airport by 2028, Rubin shook his head. “It has a right to stay open till then.” At this juncture, he doesn’t think much will change, citing as precedence the 1984 ordinance to install noise monitors for planes. While a step in the right direction, the action has had an anemic impact on eliminating noise pollution -- jets still account for over 90% of noise violations in the area.

In general, however, the battleship of public opinion does seem to be turning slowly against the airport. The Santa Monica City Airport Commission used to be weighted toward aviation interests. Now it’s the reverse, inciting the ire of many pilots. Congressman Ted Lieu and the late City Councilman Bill Rosendahl have added much-needed political momentum. February 4th of 2017 saw a milestone activist demonstration on airport grounds, where Rubin and his wife, Joan Winters, spoke to crowds of concerned residents brandishing homemade signs scrawled with colorful expressions of impatience and outrage.

While with Measure LC the voters waived their rights to whatever developments might usurp the land, another group, Airport2Park (airport2park.org), is pushing to streamline development of what it deems will be the “largest park in Santa Monica, if not the Westside,” combining it with the airport’s existing soccer field, dog park and the nearby Clover Park. The ambitious plans, which deftly analyzes the various parcels of land that make up the airport, and to which different stipulations are attached, call for a resumption of a more “natural habitat,” where citizens might hike, jog, bike, stroll through botanical gardens, engage in exercise, gardening or arts and crafts classes, and play sports. Not only would this be an ideal solution to the pollution problem, it wouldn’t generate miles of additional traffic the way any further residential developments might -- a pollution problem in its own right.

Unlike my father, the love of flying never made its way into my blood. As someone with his own passions, though, I’ve always appreciated it as my dad’s Big Thing, sparked when he saw Peter Pan as a child. There’s no reason, also, that key vestiges of the airport can’t be maintained as a monument to what once was. Interestingly, before it was the airport, the area was known as Clover Field, named after World War I aviator Greayer “Chubby” Clover. And while Greayer might be pleased with the familiar boulevard that bears his name, I’d imagine he’d raise an eyebrow at the cinematic, city-ravaging monster that is also his (indirect) namesake.

The airport -- perhaps in the form of the Museum of Flying -- can remain in monument and in memory. It will certainly remain in my memory. Faced with a myriad of self-inflicted environmental degradations, however (not to mention devastations), we as a species are now blearily opening our eyes to how far we’ve drifted from the mainland, how much these restless swells of material “progress” have separated us from our natural place. Often, it takes experiencing what you’re not to know what you are. Returning Santa Monica Airport to the people, to an air of quiet, greener community, is a micro-step symbolic of the broader decisions that face us on virtually every stretch of this ailed globe.