international secret agent

Charlie tapped that shutter button way too many times in the few seconds that she stood there. 

She ran out of the restaurant and looked down at her phone. 
Well, could’ve been worse. At least you can make them out.”
 “Why the hell did I get so nervous. I guess I can’t fulfill my dream of being a spy.
- She chuckled to herself. 

I love the season 3 flashbacks because you have this lovely little domestic situation, a husband, a wife and their ten year old son and the young man they sort of adopt into their family. But then the husband is morally gray international secret agent, the wife is a sword wielding warrior in exile, and they adopt a presumed dead billionaire kid who has become an assassin and torturer. 

The agent, the warrior, the assassin. And a ten year old kid. And they’re a wonderful little family. 

anonymous asked:

Please write a short piece of President Barton. Just - it will make a lot of people feel better. Please? (I understand if you don't, but please?)

(This is also somewhat to fulfill Mem’s request for a winter story post-election, which has been in my inbox for like a month. For reference, the rest of the “Clint Barton becomes President” AU is here: Leader Of The Free World.)

The first new snowfall in Washington DC in 2017, a few weeks after the Inauguration, brought icy road advisories, the roll out of the salt trucks, and Vice-President Steve Rogers banging on the window of newly-minted President Clint Barton’s bedroom, which was on the second floor of the Residence.

“Agh, God,” Clint mumbled, rolling over and coming face to face with Steve, wearing a jaunty knit hat and pressed up against the glass. “What is he doing?”

Maria, who had already been up for an hour (”Executing the queer agenda requires getting up earlier than the Republicans, darling”) and was putting her earrings in at the vanity, said, “I think he’s waving madly and asking if you want to build a snowman.”

Clint sat up, rubbing his bristly hair the wrong way. “HOW DID YOU GET PAST THE SECRET SERVICE?” he yelled at the glass.

“LIKE THE SECRET SERVICE WOULD STOP ME?” Steve yelled back, muffled. It was a point. The Secret Service had already given up stopping Steve doing anything.

(There is a readmore below! Read More!)

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Operation Royal Retrieval

The Hotel Lafayette in Paris is one of the city’s finest hotels.  Also one of the tallest buildings in Paris.  The whole building was a tribute practically to the relationship between America and France.  Inside the lobby were grand portraits of Lafayette, Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and Jefferson.  With the 125th anniversary of the Louisiana Purchase going on, red, white, and blue crepe was hung everywhere.  Adjoining the hotel was the equally impressive Eagle Club, an American style night club, bar, ballroom, and lounge.  In addition to the main room, and side dens, there were also private rooms those with membership or money can reserve.  It was one these rooms, the Lincoln Room, that about a dozen men were now gathered, waiting for their special guest.  Some were at the private bar, drinking and shooting the breeze.  Three were playing darts, two were reading, one stood at a window, and the rest were playing poker.

“I’ll call,” says a British gentleman, placing the matching amount of chips in the pot.

“Reckon you would, so I’ll raise you 50,” came the slick reply from an American with a ten gallon hat with a thin mustache.

“I fold,” said a frenchmen.  The other player, a young man with a boyish look about him and looks like he’s barely out of high school, sits with his cards, thinking.

“I’ll raise you a 100,” he says with no emotion.

“I’m out,” says the Britain throwing his cards in.  The Texan and the young man show their cards.

“Three of a kind,” says the Texan.

“Full house,” the kid calmly replies.  The players gasp, even drawing some from the bar.

“Dang it Oliver, how are you good at this.  A youngin’ like shouldn’t even know how to play this game.”

“How do you think the Crosses made their fortune?  We gamble.”

“Yeah but with investments,” said a man from the bar.

“Same thing.”  Oliver’s replay draws a chuckle from the man at the window.  Suddenly, the telephone at the bar rings.  The room goes quiet.  The man at the window walks over as the bartender answers it.

“Hello.  ….  Yes. …. Yes, we’re all waiting.  ….  Good, we’re ready.”  He hangs up.  "Her majesty is here.“  And with that, all the men in the room start tidying up and try to look presentable.  For they were about to come face to face with Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova.

Ah, memories

Oh! Hey, reader, what’s happenin’? It’s me, Witshine, the groovy Bananas Wit. I was just looking at some pictures of me and ALOS, and remembering all the good times we had together. You know ALOS; she’s the fine future-modern with a 60s vibe who’s my main squeeze.

Here’s me and ALOS when we were decked out in our swinging secret agent costumes at Sweet Disaster’s Nightmare Night party last year. Though we had a blast, it wasn’t the last!

From getting bugged by Banana Pie to engaging in some hanky-panky, let’s look back at some of the moments that ALOS and I shared, and cherish the memories before this real gone cat is gone real soon.

The Transcendence Scrapbook (Or Dipper's Life as an Ageless Dream Demon)

Two for one special today, lovelies! Because I’m feeling generous. I actually have quite a few of these backed up, at least ten more that I haven’t posted yet. I’m just sitting on them, letting you know I have them, watching you squirm because I won’t let you have them. Sorry not sorry.

Complete Scrapbook available on a03



Sometimes someone got a summoning down perfectly.

And Dipper was usually okay with that.

Once in a very great while, though, that summoning included a binding.

And that was something Dipper was definitely not okay with.

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