#all part of the character innit

[teddyedwards]

seen a few people be like "wow tan/new blended into the background in the first episodes but after episode 9 he is my new favourite!!", couldn't be me! i clocked this scrungy little fucker in the first 3 minutes. skills issue.

[selemina]

Time for a thing I've never done on here: writting down my thoughts on a thing I like.

Today I am talking about the Dream SMP SEASON 1 Finale. (Hopefully I tagged it correctly, if not, SPOILERS AHEAD)

I started it with Tubbo. Incredibly gripping acting, he had such a hard time actually launching the nukes knowing Tommy would die. Jack being there, obviously dying to get it done so he could be rid of Tommy, but also trying to remain a friend for Tubbo, in his own goofy/rough way, was fantastic. And their conflict once the nuke launches put into light the core issue of the server : everyone wants peace, but grudges built up so high with no perspective, that now all that is left is harm. Harm, and trauma, and everything being taken from everyone by everyone else.

All everyone wants is for it to stop. Whatever it takes. Including if it means nuking the server, because the hurt built up on itself to this breaking point.

Them failing to reach Tommy was heartbreaking. Jack was barely starting to have hope to be with his friends again, Tubbo tried so hard to save Tommy, rather than keeping himself safe like he promised. But it was always going to be this way, wasn't it? He was always going to come running after his best friend.

I then went back to watch Jack's stream, set before Tubbo's, to get a full picture. There were already signs of hope from Jack that Tubbo might get away from harm (in his mind, Tommy) and get happier with him. So later when Tubbo re-defined what the harm was (Dream and Tommy's CONFLICT!), it helped Jack balance his opinion on Tommy, at least enough to try to save him to the very end, even when Tubbo had given up.

I don't think he forgave him just like that. But he understood that Tommy was hurting, and that was a part of why he did everything he did that harmed Jack.

And we find this same theme of understanding on Tommy's stream. Not FORGIVENESS, but understanding.

Desperate to hold Dream and Punz in place, Tommy had the right idea, to make them talk about themselves. Except this time he also had to listen, to pay attention. In case he could get new buttons to push to keep them there. And, through the frankly unhinged and evil talk, he did start to see it too : Dream had been hurting. Because of him, because of the mounting grudges, the escalation of pain and retribution. Again, the true plague on the server, and like everybody else, Dream had suffered from it.

His way to deal with it is bad : torture, experiments, mind games, revenge in every direction. Getting lost in his work, anything to look away from the pain and the loss. His road to immortality was his "nuke", his "after that we can be happy and free, so the cost now does not matter".

Tommy and Dream are very similar. But Punz and Tommy were both right in the previous stream : Tommy thinks too small, and Dream thinks too big. Tommy is selfish, and his scale is very human ; Dream has lost touch with that very human scale, and only sees concepts and greater things.

And they both hurt one another because of it. Tommy obsesses over the harm Dream dealt him, while Dream is too disconnected to realize how SEVERE the harm he's doing is, because "in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter."

"I would have revived you." with a scoff, against a shaking "But it hurts...!"

And that, to me, is where the finale became incredible.

Tommy, selfish, self-centered Tommy, saw through the layers of pain. He empathised. He's been there, even if his way of coping was to curl up within himself and lash out, rather than disconnect from it to go play god. It would have been easy to keep going. Satisfying maybe, to push Dream in the lava and kill him. To be selfish again and only think of his own pain. But that is where Tommy really showed strength and growth : he UNDERSTOOD Dream. Not forgave him, no the harm remains, and it would take forever and an insane amount of good will to heal that... but Tommy had the strength to give the first bit of this good will to Dream.

Because someone has to break the cycle. Because if everyone wants peace, why can't they start to let go of the grudges, and gain perspective?

It demands an amount of vulnerability that is striking, to let go of grief and accept that you hurt someone. And to apologise for the harm done is even harder. It does not invalidate everything that happened : Dream still tortured and played with Tommy. Tommy still ambushed and killed Dream, dividing the server, and refusing to stay down.

But through this bit of good will and understanding, Tommy showed Dream that they could do something else but fight. They could talk. Dream's pain could be taken seriously, not just shoved far at the back of his mind and ignored. Tommy showed him that he could think BIGGER than himself... and that Dream could think smaller, think about himself on a human scale.

"It's not worth it, right?" "Why not? Tell me why not?"

Tommy, selfish Tommy, reached out. And Dream, hurt and dangerous Dream, agreed to come down and take his hand. A first step, for once in the same direction. For once with the same goal of peace. Not perfect, not easy, but human, so incredibly human!

And they never got the time to go further, because of the nuke. Tommy clearly regretted that, and apologized (in my opinion) for robbing both of them of more time to maybe heal finally. Because despite understanding and perspective, the consequences of the harm done still existed. And there was no way to escape it.

At least not on that server. That is where a lot of sentiments from many CCs come into play : comments, in and out of character, about how the smp is a violent, destructive place. Build a house out of wood and it will be burnt to the ground. Hide your belongings, expect to die, trust no one. The smp is like living under a constant state of terror. Despite Eret and Aimsey's efforts and first steps towards a better, sainer state for the smp, the damage is done, the grudges are weaved into the history of every block.

The only way is to start anew, with none of those grudges. Which means, none of those memories. A clean slate, to do better. A clean slate, to breathe again, and have fun. Something new, with this knowledge on understanding and perspective, that comes with age and experience.

Would I have loved to see Dream and Tommy continue to take time, carefully dancing around one another, balancing compassion and trauma to finally forgive one another and become friends? Fuck yeah! I live for that healing shit, for people learning to cope with how they hurt others and how they got hurt, for remorses and relapses, and the care and patience it takes to FORGIVE when the time is right and the growth is real! But do I think the CCs had time for that? No. And they were too many characters, and too shackled by history and their own personalities to all follow that path of healing. So taking this into account, YES starting over was a good move!

And if I know many are bitter about how "easy" that is, rejoice! We get to experience a new era! I have heard so much about "the begining times of the smp", we get to live it again now! New, different, the possibilities are endless! :D It's time for us as well to let go of the past and finally get what we wanted : peace and joy and something new!

I cannot wait to see what happens next! This finale was powerful and subtle, with layers of doom and sensitivity, it was human and emotional and full of despair and hope! Growth, so much growth, 2 years of experience! This next season is going to be fantastic, and I hope the CCs have fun with it regardless of what anybody online says! :D

[hiddenbeks]

hmmmmmm rotating idea for a new skyrem character......

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Clownfall: Endgame

I am calling it that in the full knowledge that batshit things may yet happen, but listen. Listen. We have a year left before the general election. I am hedging my bets and assuming all that comes in that year will be Tory manoeuvring ahead of that. Let's all hope for a nice quiet year in which everything can fall neatly under that banner, that won't ruin this naming convention.

Previous Reading

Important Terminology - Required Reading

What is a Whip?

How do Whips work?

Shadow Cabinet

Front Benchers, Back Benchers and the Cabinet

What do we need to call an early General Election?

The Adventures of Big Dog the Clown - Suggested Reading

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Elanor’s Guide to Liz Truss - Suggested Reading

Character-based prequel

The Premiership of Liz Truss

The Next Steps - Suggested Reading

The post-Truss contenders

Bye Matt

BoJo Resigns as MP

Alright, that's probably everything. Just nice to have it all in one place, innit? If you would like a nice soothing soundtrack to your reading, here's my recommendation. On with the show!

Clownfall: Endgame

Wednesday

So, let's start with charismatic and charming Home Secretary Suella Braverman! You may remember her from such hits as "Quitting before she could be fired after breaking the law only to be rehired by Sunak almost immediately and without consequence to appease the right wing nutjobs in the party", and "Claiming Pakistani men have a culture that makes them work in abuse rings to target vulnerable white English girls" (I should add that, if you are unfamiliar with Suella Braverman, regardless of what that quote implies, she is not, in fact, white); recently she made the news because she announced that being homeless is a "lifestyle choice". So true, Suella! They could give it up any time they wanted. They could, for example, get together and break in and steal your fucking house.

But in particular, here we're focussing on her recent stance towards the multiple huge pro-Palestine marches that have been taking place in London. So far she has indicated that she wants people who wave Palestinian flags to be arrested, so that's very measured and rational of her; but, last Wednesday (Nov 8th), she decided to write a lil opinion piece in the Times all about how mean and biased and liberal the police are. This is an absolutely fascinating assertion to I suspect literally anyone who has ever been involved with the police. But no! Quoth Suella, aggressive right-wing protesters are "rightly met with a stern response", while "pro-Palestinian mobs" are "largely ignored".

And, she claims, the march on Saturday isn’t simply a cry for help for Gaza, but an "assertion of primacy by certain groups - particularly Islamists - of the kind we are more used to seeing in Northern Ireland".

Imagine how well all that went down.

Thursday

You are underestimating how that went down, because it emerges that Suella deVille did not, in fact, get any form of validated sign-off or permission from Number 10 before squirting her ill-informed liquid horseshit all over the front desk of the Times news room, and that, Tumblrs, you'll be surprised to learn, is actually quite an important and compulsory part of criticising the police when you are the Home Secretary. Like, there is a Ministerial Code about this. It is very clear. It is in Article 8.2, Tumblrs. Thou Shalt Have Permission From Number 10 Before Making Media Interventions.

“The content was not agreed with Number 10,” a spokesperson for Prime Minister Rishi Sunak told reporters, referring to the prime minister’s Downing Street office. The ministerial code is clear that any ministerial media interventions need approval from No 10.

-AlJazeera

And the Tories are furious! The bloodbath forms quickly and loudly and the hounds start baying! Clown noses are flying everywhere! The factions are drawn! Because even now, there are Tories too stupid to understand that whether you agree with someone or not they still have to follow the rules! Also the other parties realise they can offer some actual opposition here, given that Suella has essentially dragged a barrel into the middle of the House of Commons dressed in a fish costume, handed around a set of loaded rifles, and then crawled inside to wait. The result is that the calls for her resignation are both deafening and pleasingly cross-party.

"(This is a) dangerous attempt to undermine respect for police", says Labour's shadow home secretary Yvette Cooper. "(It's) irresponsible," says London mayor Sadiq Khan. "The PM's weakness when it comes to standing up to Suella is the most shocking thing in all this," claims a senior Labour source.

They're wrong, of course. The most shocking thing is Liberal Democrat leader Sir Ed Davey realising he can actually appear in the paper if he plays this right and so surfaces to attempt some politics. "(Sunak) must finally act with integrity by sacking his out-of-control home secretary!" he declares, frightening many MPs who had forgotten he was even in the room with them.

Meanwhile, several Tories approach the BBC anonymously.

"The home secretary's awfulness is now a reflection on the prime minister. Keeping her in post is damaging him," says one. Another straight-up describes her as "unhinged". Another claims the comparison with Northern Ireland is "wholly offensive and ignorant", and really, all of this is permanently triggering that "Heartbreaking: the worst person you know just made a great point" reaction image.

Saturday

Hey, speaking of reaction images, look, Labour has a go:

Well. They tried.

BUT! Do you want to know the INTERESTING bit??!

Enter: Nadine Dorries! Mad shrieking pink harpy who spends her days maintaining a BoJo shrine in her bedroom! Always the most hinged of politicians, let's see what she has to say.

Former cabinet minister Nadine Dorries claimed Ms Braverman was trying to get sacked to give her a platform of martyrdom in service of the right-wing. "The competition is on now for who is going to be the leader of the opposition," Ms Dorries told the BBC.

???!??!?

PERTINENT POLITICAL OBSERVATION FROM DORRIES?!?!?? The most shocking part of this whole affair. Remember that time she yelled at a journalist during an interview about Boris Johnson's latest scandal when he asked her how Johnson was feeling about the whole thing and inadvertently implied they were having an affair when No One Asked? God, wonders never cease. She's even acknowledging the Tories can't win the next GE, look. I'd say this is growth, except I am 100% positive she's just being catty about BlowJo being fired again.

Anyway, the real Saturday issue: it's Armistice Day, and there's a pro-Palestine march planned.

Now, to give context, Armistice Day has a creepy level of patriotic state-worship attached to it in the UK. Some time in October everyone on telly suddenly starts wearing a poppy, and if you don't you get hanged, drawn and quartered by (a) the British press, and then (b) a baying mob outside your living room. You most be performatively sad. You must perform reverence and hero worship and say things like "Never again" all while whole-heartedly supporting current wars. You must talk about "our brave boys", and share the works of dead poets from the trenches, and then completely fail to absorb any of their lessons. If anyone tries to wear the white poppy to distance themselves from the current political appropriation while still commemorating the millions of conscripted casualties, you accuse them of being "woke" and pissing on the worthy dead of WW1. It's a whole thing, and politicians love using it as an excuse to point fingers and mock each other for being insufficiently patriotic if they wear the wrong tie to the ceremonies, or choose to walk with actual veterans rather than a head of the current army, or any number of other things. And then on November the 12th they'll order a drone strike or something.

So, off the bat, you can see how a pro-Palestine rally on the same day was likely to be seen as provocative to some.

"Some" included Sunak! He didn’t (publicly at least) ask the police to ban the protest, but did call on organisers to call it off, claiming the choice of date was “provocative and disrespectful”, because as I say, a march calling for the ceasefire of a genocide is super disrespectful to every sad dead poet in a trench who dreamed of a ceasefire so they could live, or something.

But the inevitable therefore happens, which is that far-right activists agree that it's disrespectful, and so decide to violently target the march to show their respect for the idea of peace on Armistice Day, or something.

Here's the planned route by the organisers:

Note, though, that the Armistice ceremony happens at the Cenotaph - visibly nowhere near the march. These two events actually wouldn't have overlapped, if it weren't for far-right protestors deliberately linking them to stop them being disrespectfully linked, or something.

And that's exactly what happened. From the Guardian:

Perhaps the most striking incident, though, was when far-right protesters charged past police who sought to hold them back from the Cenotaph. In this video, a man shouts “this is fucking our country” in celebration. Whereas the pro-Palestine march had been excluded from the area as a precaution, the far right was not; by overwhelming the police, they supposedly sought to defend the site from an enemy that simply wasn’t there.

(that's quite a good article of the whole thing, actually, I recommend giving it a read.)

Crucially to the clown show, though, several politicians and others accused Suella deVille of emboldening the far-right, which... well, several of the far-right protestors straight up said was the case on the day, so hard to disagree, really.

Rumours of a reshuffle in Whitehall circumnavigate the land so fast the truth gets sucked into a tornado and is declared MIA.  Here's the thing! I've covered a few Cabinet reshuffles by now, Tumblrs, you know the drill. Reshuffles are always deniable until they actually happen – so if, say, a reshuffle was going to happen on Monday 13 November 2023, there’d be no need to publicise it in advance. That way, if things change and politics happen, you don't need to retract anything :)

Because, remember: reshuffles are always controversial.  Yes, some people get demoted, and those people will often kick off, and some people who don't deserve it get promoted, and lots of people kick off.  But the big thing is that a lot more people get overlooked for promotion.

His most ardent supporters would say that Rishi Sunak is a cautious man (if you'll allow me a moment to express my own view on the matter, Tumblrs, if you'll forgive this crumb of personal opinion amongst my otherwise impeccable journalling of greatest integrity, I once did a teambuilding task with my students where they had to build the best possible bridge out of uncooked spaghetti and pieces of marshmallow, and I personally would liken the structural integrity of his spine to the losing team's entry), and reshuffles will spread a lot of disappointment to Tory MPs who lose – or fail to gain – a cabinet position.

So, all in all... regardless of Suella's idiocy...

There's no guarantee of a reshuffle. Rumours are just that - whether they prove to be true or not remains to be seen.

Week Commencing Monday 13th November, 2023

New week, new challenges! And it's going to be a big week this week. On Wednesday (tomorrow, at time of writing), three big things are going to be announced, and these announcements will colour everything else this week:

One.  The Supreme Court decide whether the government will be allowed to enact their plan to send some migrants claiming asylum in the UK to Rwanda, a signature Braverman plan that human rights campaigners (including many in Rwanda) have been trying to block for ages.

It’s a massive deal anyway – a flagship government idea that’s been bogged down in the court, and we’ll finally have an answer one way or another.  For what it’s worth, the Tories aren’t confident about winning it, either.  The optimists among them reckon it’s a 50/50 chance, the pessimists reckon it’s 70/30 against, so it's iffy at best.

But here's the thing!

Plenty of Tories have always disliked Suella.  Others could handle the odd outburst she has, but can’t stomach the sheer number of them lately - the Lib Dem non-entity man was absolutely right that she is rapidly growing out of control and just does not know when to shut the entire fuck up.

Which means! If the Supreme Court allows the Rwanda plan, Braverman could become emboldened, like a far-right protest injuring police officers to defend the cenotaph from people who are nowhere near it and have no interest in it.  Do we want an emboldened Braverman?? Well; no, obviously. I also don't want dysentery, or rotten meat, or a serial killer in my neighbourhood. But it's a question even Tories are asking themselves, which is notable.

Plus, even if the court allows it, there will still be months of planning, and lawyers might still prevent the plans in the long run...  But psychologically, the issue is this: the government wants this win, but probably doesn’t benefit from Braverman feeling victorious.

Two.  We’ll get inflation figures.  The government promised to halve inflation, and it seems likely they’ve managed this.  Expect them to massively celebrate this, to distract from the promises they haven’t kept e.g. waiting lists in England, competent governance, etc.

Three.  Voting on a ceasefire in Israel seems likely for Wednesday.  It’s the SNP’s idea, and it won’t affect government policy (they won’t support a ceasefire – they claim it’ll empower Hamas).

But it’s a big deal for Labour, even more so than the Tories.  A Shadow minister has already resigned over the war.  A bunch of frontbenchers want a ceasefire, but that isn’t Keir Starmer’s policy, a man who is calling for the colours of the Israel flag to be shown at sports matches to show that "we stand in solidarity with Israel", because you can really count on Starmer to fuck up everything he touches.  So what do they do?  Abstain?  Claim they had a prior commitment??  We might see more resignations, basically.  Big day for Starmer.

So! With all that in mind...

Monday

8.43am

Oh look. Timestamps are back. I wonder if that suggests anything?

Suella Braverman is sacked as Home Secretary.

But! Sunak is accused of waiting too long! Which he demonstrably did!

He should have made the decision after the illegal article that she shouldn't have written and triggered a far-right rally on fucking Armistice Day.  Instead, remember that 'cautious' descriptor I talked about?? He waited until the tide had turned against her completely, and now looks like he (a) was too much of a useless wimp to fire her until he was sure people would still like him and pat his dick and tell him he's a Good PM, and (b) only fired her because he caved in to that appalling lefty liberal cabal that somehow these days includes the Metropolitan Police of all fucking people, and she'd have been able to stay otherwise.

Shout out to the best comment from Reddit:

u/nowonmai666: Doesn't she normally get sacked on a Friday so she can have the weekend off before being reappointed?

Anyway, that's the big risk now: Braverman’s supporters can claim she was only fired because Sunak caved in to the left.

8.56am

Tory MP Andrea Jenkyns claims Sunak only sacked Braverman because he caved in to the left.

9.00am

Neil O'Brian, Pharmacy Minister, quits to live out his stated dream of being a back-bencher with less power.

*sus*

9.09am

Nick Gibb, Schools Minister, quits to live out his stated dream of being more diplomatic, or something.

*sus*

9.42am

The Lib Dems decide to build on the success of their leader getting to be on telly for his one comment on Thursday and call for a general election.  Says Ed Davey: “It was the Prime Minister’s sheer cowardice that kept her in the job even for this long. We are witnessing a broken party and a broken government, both of which are breaking this country.”

Good job! They're having such a good few days.

Anyway remember the Tories don’t have to have a general election until December 2024, though, thanks to the Fixed-term Parliaments Act (2011), which was passed by the coalition government of Tories and, um, Lib Dems.  In which Ed Davey served for three years.

Hmm.

9.43am 

James Cleverly (remember him?) returns to the Cabinet and is appointed Home Secretary. The party attempts to appear trendy by experimenting with emojis:

This appointment is probably because Tory strategists wanted him in a domestic role to help the party’s chances in the next election; as Surprising Political Pundit Nadine Dorries told us, of all fucking people, the race is now on to lead the opposition.

But hey, this is not likely to lead to any more changes -

10.03am

FORMER PRIME MINISTER, BREXIT-TRIGGERER AND PIG-FUCKER DAVID CAMERON BECOMES FOREIGN SECRETARY

!!!!!!!!!!!!

And look! Another emoji! They're so hip!

(Side note... the balls on this one are astounding, actually. The UK political system has been in chaos ever since Cameron, and he was the first domino. This is not a well-loved former hero that will be greeted warmly by the unwashed masses.)

Awkward though, since just last month Sunak claimed that we’d lived through “30 years of a political system that incentivizes the easy decision, not the right one.”  It would be a terrible shame if a journalist was to ask David Cameron whether he agreed with the Prime Minister on that, given that Cameron’s job is to support the Prime Minister now.

Especially since Cameron took to Twitter last month to explicitly criticise Sunak for breaking the Tory promise to deliver High Speed 2.

(Cameron tweeted this criticism last month.  Labour MP Angela Rayner however promptly retweets it now lol suck a dick Dave, but try a human one this time)

Also, fun fact, Cameron has just come out of a large-scale lobbying and corruption scandal. Given the state of Sunak, though, that's actually probably what got him the job.

BUT!!! Here's an even funner fact: the man is not an MP. He left politics after he accidentally triggered Brexit and then it came out he'd once face fucked a dead pig's head while it was held on the lap of another Tory; he's been living it up in the lucrative world of after-dinner speaking, as these people do.

So can you do that?? Can you hold a Cabinet position if no one at all has voted for you??

Yes, turns out.

Don't be alarmed by that, though:

But, convention holds that anyone who becomes a Cabinet member while not being an MP needs to be a Peer - that way, if they do bad and naughty things, they can't be held accountable by the House of Commons but they can be held accountable by the House of Lords. Only problem is, Hameron is not a lord...

10.13am

The reshuffle, bafflingly, continues. Jeremy Hunt will remain as chancellor.

For the first time since 2010, the top four positions in government – Prime Minister (Sunak), Chancellor of the Exchequer (Hunt), Home Secretary (Cleverly) and Foreign Secretary (Cameron) – are all held by men.

10.18am

Lots of people tweeting about the historic context of Cameron’s appointment.  Here’s my favourite:

10.48am

David Cameron is given a life peerage, so his proper name now is Lord Piggledick.

10.52am

Health secretary Will Quince quits.  He wasn’t planning to stand for re-election anyway though, so this one is probably not a shock. But it's important that no one else resi-

11.04am

Decarbonisation minister Jesse Norman resigns.

...

...

...

Time for a

✨Conspiracy Theory✨

Between Quince and Norman – as well as Neil O’Brien and Nick Gibb – we’re seeing several mid-ranking ministers resign, despite being generally regarded as fairly competent.

It’s possible they were fired in private, and they’re publicly resigning to save face.  But here’s another theory.

MPs aren’t allowed to seek commercial employment for six months after resigning from the government.

So hypothetically, if you were going to lose your seat in a general election, you’d want to have resigned six months earlier so you can still get a job.

If that’s what these guys are doing, it suggests we’re on track for a May 2024 election...?

11.05am

11.12am

Remember Cameron's financial scandal? Quick background here: David Cameron was specifically vice-chair of a £1bn China-UK investment fund.

So let’s see what throwback former leader Iain Duncan Smith thinks of Cameron’s return:

“I am astonished at this appointment. It seems to send a signal to China that we are pursuing business with them at all costs and any costs. Those who have been sanctioned now feel more abandoned than at any time. Those facing genocide and persecution will feel more abandoned than at any time.”

I cannot believe I am about to say this.

But.

I agree with Iain Duncan Smith *spits on floor*

11.50am

Former Tory deputy prime minister Lord Heseltine is asked to sum up the return of Cameron, and says it’s the “clearest signal that the sort of right wing lurch that we’ve seen and the anti-European movement that we’ve seen has been put to bed, and that will get a message across to people”.

12.13pm

A Tory MP is worried that Cameron’s return will turn back the clock on Brexit and Johnson’s election.

“It is very alarming. I am predicting a softening on small boats, a softening on legal migration. I would not be surprised if the ban on conversion therapy returns.”

... Don’t threaten me with a good time.

Anyway, let’s see how the public actually sees Cameron compared with other PMs!

Yeah, not sure people will mind if Cameron’s not Boris Johnson.

12.43pm

ITV political editor Robert Peston walks past a minister of state.  The minister’s on the phone, but takes a moment to heatedly shout at Peston, “The PM just sacked me!”

I guess some days are easier than others as a journalist

12.47pm

Therese Coffey resigns as environment secretary!!!!

*choirs of heavenly angels sing*

You'll remember her of course, Tumblrs - she was one of the thugs manhandling people into the 'right' voting lobbies to force their vote on the day of Liz Truss' fracking law. Rumour has it she still has the Whip handle in her ass.

A lot of people seem to be resigning today! But don't be fooled. In almost every case, it’ll be because they were told to resign.  They’ve been sacked, but they resign to save face. A last mercy from their benevolent leader.

My guess: Tessie here is terrible at media skills, so – get rid of her before she hurts general election chances. This, too, is a pattern.

12.52pm

Rachel Maclean sacked as Housing Minister! Fun fact, numbers fans: it took Doctor Who 33 years to make it to eight Doctors, but since the 2019 election, the Tories managed eight Housing Ministers in just under 4 years

trololol

1.15pm

Jeremy Quin quits as Minister for the Cabinet Office.

1.37pm

Times Political Editor Steven Swinford reports that No 10 is struggling to find a new housing minister (owing to rumours the job is cursed). Several people have turned it down, including Jeremy Quin. It is incredible to me that they didn't line someone up before sacking the last guy.

Kemi Badenoch and Michael Gove are apparently unhappy that Rachel Maclean was removed from the role. I for one do not care about the opinions of Kemi Badenoch or Michael Gove.

2.04pm

Health Secretary Steve Barclay becomes Environment Secretary.  This is effectively a demotion for him. It is our 5th Environment Secretary in four years. Chasing that Housing Minister record! It took 19 years for Doctor Who to have five Doctors

2.15pm

Richard Holden appointed new Conservative Party chairman.

A 2019-intake Tory MP, he led the charge against Sir Keir Starmer over Beergate, which did damage Starmer a bit (albeit not much, given that it turned out Starmer had complied with lockdown regs, and the accusation was nakedly to try and distract from Partygate).  So this appointment looks like more strategy to win the next election - someone not known enough to be hated, with what passes in the modern Tory party for a proven track record.

This could be a sign that the Tories intend to at least try to shore up the Red Wall votes? As unlikely as the Tories are to keep those seats.

That said, Holden’s seat disappears in a boundary change next election, sooooo … we'll see what they do there.

2.24pm

Victoria Atkins appointed Health Secretary, replacing Steve Barclay who’s moved to Environment Secretary. She's a relative unknown but also considered actually competent. Massive middle finger to Steve Barclay

2.37pm

Laura Trott (formerly in pensions) promoted to Chief Secretary to the Treasury.

2.42pm

Science minister George Freeman resigns.

3.18pm

YouGov conducts a snap poll: is the appointment of David Cameron as Foreign Secretary a good decision or a bad decision?

Good decision: 24%

Bad decision: 38%

Don't know: 38%

So that's going well

3.24pm

Greg Hands is made a business minister after losing the Tory chairman role.

John Glen moves from chief secretary to the Treasury to become the Minister for the Cabinet Office and Paymaster General.

3.39pm

With Cameron being a Lord now, he’ll be based in the House of Lords rather than the Commons.  The most recent Cabinet Minister to be based in the Lords was former Brexit minister Lord Frost, who did weigh in on the matter:

“[T]hough I was not running a whole Department too. I don’t think it works well to have a lead Cabinet Minister answering questions and defending their Department solely in the Lords. The Lords is not a fully party political environment - nor should it be - and voters are owed proper political scrutiny. In our system, that can only happen in the Commons.”

I cannot believe I am about to say this.

But.

I agree with Lord Frost *spits on floor*

The SNP had already called this out, with MP Stephen Flynn claiming, “The UK is not a serious country.”

4.21pm

Conservative MP Lee Rowley appointed the 16th housing minister in the past 13 years. Even counting David Tennant twice, that's more than all the Doctors Who we've ever had, and that took almost 60 years.

5.16pm

Sky News’s Tamara Cohen reports that Sunak sacked Braverman by phone this morning!  Downing Street says there won’t be any exchange of letters between them - this is almost unheard of. Politics runs on paper trails! Everything happens through formal letters! By phone!

It means we’re denied insight into their differences.  But Cohen reckons we’re likely to hear from Braverman on Wednesday, as the Supreme Court rules on the Rwanda scheme.

6.03pm

Tory MP Andrea Jenkyns, former Education Minister, submits no-confidence letter in Rishi Sunak.

It's almost like, in the absence of Dorries, she's decided that someone needs to step up and have a tantrum and that someone might as well be her. It is, actually, an extremely funny letter, as these letters go. Normally they're written with a sort of furious earnestness wrapped in formal language. I presume that Andrea Jenkyns MP, former Education Minister, was aiming for something similar, and the first paragraph manages it. But by the end you sort of start to wonder if this was supposed to be a letter she wrote with her therapist to get her feelings out:

My favourite line, when pulled in isolation, is "Yes Boris Johnson, the man who won the Conservative Party a massive majority, was unforgivable enough."

Yeah, Andrea babes. You're bang on there.

6.05pm

Esther McVey is appointed as Cabinet Office minister.  Not a full cabinet member, but she will attend cabinet meetings.

This is notable: unlike a lot of today’s appointments, she’s on the right of the party.  Her role will be to represent the government on TV and radio as much as possible, talking about gender/culture/British colonial history issues (i.e. she’s anti-woke and a screaming bigot).

In other words, with Braverman gone, McVey is an offering for the populist right of the party to try to appease them.

6.15pm

Sunak tweets about the new cabinet, claiming they’ll make “the right decisions for our great country, not the easy ones.”  So it looks like that’s the new slogan, and we're pressing on with austerity

6.27pm

Tim Loughton, a Tory MP on the “One Nation” wing (i.e the David Cameron side) responds to Andrea Jenkyns’s letter of no-confidence by tweeting:

“Where can we submit a letter of no confidence in the Pantomime Dame?”

(It’s Andrea he’s publicly referring to as a pantomime dame there. A lil joke from the Tories for you)

6.31pm

Paul Scully sacked as minister for London. Didn't know that one was a position.

9.43pm

Sunak says that only a two-state solution will allow a new future for Israel/Palestine.  This is, um, not what the Prime Minister of Israel wants.  Who knows whether the Prime Minister of Israel will survive this crisis anyway – but these are big words from Sunak.  Cameron’s influence? Maybe? Interesting either way

10.03pm

And then - PLOT TWIST!!!

According to ITV political editor Robert Peston, a senior government source reveals that Cameron was approached on TUESDAY. 

Which means plans were underway to get rid of Braverman not only before the far-right violence on Saturday, but before her anti-police article on Wednesday.  It seems she lost her job not because of what she said about police after all; but because she claimed homelessness was a lifestyle choice.

Well well.

11.05pm

And the day finishes with Andrea Leadsom back in government (as Under Secretary of State for Health and Social Care) which nobody saw coming!  Pretty demeaning to the other 300 Tory MPs who could have been given this.

The final response from numerous Tories: they are feeling jilted and insulted because David Cameron being brought back when he's NOT EVEN AN MP, RISHI suggests that they themselves are not good enough to be in government.

No one tell them

[eilidh-eternal]

You learn the truth

Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist | Ao3 |

| SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Fenella has a thick accent | off-screen death of non-major characters | sorta horror-esque metaphors for emotions/feelings (drowning, rotting, the usual) | your desire is a living thing and it's eating away at you | reader is, once again, Going Through It |

Thank you @gemmahale for reading this monstrosity and helping me fine-tune it <3

“Sergeant. How copy?” 

Simon looms over Johnny in the team room, sidled up to a sagging couch that’s seen better days, and when he lifts his derelict gaze from the battle-worn photo in his hands he’s met with pinched brows, sloped granite, and folded arms. Worry, in the staid manner he’s come to expect from Simon.

“Solid, Lt,” he answers dutifully, devoid of his usual ebullience, and with a tenor forged from damascus and flint. 

Simon rounds with a languid gait to the opposite cushion, stained with something dark, iron-rich and oxidizing in the loose weave, and lowers himself down beside him. Holds out a gloved hand. Johnny obeys his silent command and relinquishes what might just be the most valuable thing he owns. Deposits it gingerly in his waiting palm.

“How’s she doin’?” he asks, smoothing out a crease in the portrait.

“Started school this past year. Whole head taller than last ye saw her. Still carries that damn bear ‘round the house, too.” Takes his tea the same as Simon, according to Isobel.

“Better that than the bloody mask.” 

“Aye. Better, that,” he agrees, and a ragged breath saws out of his lungs when he sinks back into the sun-bleached nylon.

“And your pet?” Simon passes the photo back and Johnny tucks it reverently back into his breast pocket, folded neatly and pressed close to his heart—where it belongs.

“Isnae ‘mine’,” he drawls, somnolence roughening his voice despite the afternoon sun pouring in through the concrete window. “Stubborn thing, too. Hasnae been answerin’ her phone.”

“That what’s got you mithered?”

“Worried,” Johnny corrects, and Simon folds his hands across his midsection, settling back alongside him with a throaty grunt and the echo of artillery fire in his bones, popping and cracking beneath the weight of his battle-worn body.

“All the same, innit?”

“Not with her. Not when she…” He toys with a clip on a canvas belt loop, rough fingers tracing the burnished amalgam of iron and carbon, and for a moment, he feels your skin. Metallic beneath his touch, chilled by the wind, precious and perfect in his hands. “You an’ her are cut from the same cloth. Dinnae care much for sharin’.” Even when you should.

You keep him up at night, itinerant thoughts always finding their way through the morass of post-operative lassitude back to you. Wondering what you fill your days with. If you still linger by the window in the placid hours of the morning with a steaming, ceramic mug warming your hands, marking the passage of time by the melting of the ice. If the final snow of spring has laced the wild cherry trees along the row with pearl-drop blossoms and an almond sillage. If you’ve seen the picture he managed to take from the ramp mid-flight, on transport to Laswell’s station, mareel lea of clouds undulating beneath a star-flecked velarium. 

Thinking about all the things he said, and the things he didn’t, before he left. Burning with the memory of you, pressed flush against him; soft and warm and safe in the lambent halo of his arms. You felt like his in that moment, and he lies awake, breathing in char and soot from the moreish conflagration ravaging his chest, staining his throat a fuliginous shade of black with each serrated exhale.

He might have told Simon—if the big bastard weren’t rattling the ballistic glass in his sleep. 

You’re standing in the pasta aisle, staring at the selection of boxed macaroni, and you’re drifting further and further into an endless, atramentous night.

Funny, you think, when the sun and stars live next door. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. None of it was supposed to be this way. Stars don't fall from the sky. But meteors do. And now… now you have to crawl out of the crater at the bottom of a pitiless ocean, navigate the upheaval of silt and abysmal detritus, and search for the surface without the gilded hand of the sun to guide you.

You should have stayed away.

Isobel would choose the box with the cartoonish bear. Johnny would make a joke about bears liking porridge, not cheesy noodles. You toss it in your basket with the rest of your ready meals, soggy cardboard already weeping condensation, and battle the undertow to the queue at the till. 

You should have left them alone.

“Beautiful day, today is.” They don't know that the stars have gone nova. That the ossified remains of the Earth creak and settle in the brumal gloaming, caliginous and desolate. They can’t hear you, pounding on the ice, desperate for apricity in a nuclear winter. 

Now you’re the one who’s alone.

“It is,” you lie, and the effluvium of ozone burns your lungs. Cauterizes the hemorrhaging, pulpy mess you call a heart, languishing in the frangible cage of your ribs.

Free divers can hold their breath for 10 minutes at a time. You wonder how long you’ll last trapped beneath a frozen mantle.

It snowed again, the morning Johnny left—pillowed the earth in anticipation of your fall—but several weeks of sleet and freezing rain has turned the pavement into a patchwork of slush and ice that mimics the glacial floes in your veins. Your wellies don’t have the same grip as proper snow boots. Crampons are better suited for the climb ahead. Neither are very practical for a quick trip to Tesco, though. Would look quite odd, standing on ice cleats in the pasta aisle.

The same can’t be said of the car park. With your canvas tote clutched close to your side, you pick your way through fissures of lingering snow. Opt for trickling streams of runoff rather than attempting to balance on the slick pavement. It’s slow going. Tedious. The lingering wind of last week's squall whips at your exposed skin. Lashes and bites, pumping a gelid venom into your veins, and the blackening, gangrenous bits of your mangled heart feel numb. Numb enough that you don’t immediately recognize the car parked next to yours. Twin sets of eyes, stratified ice, rich with moraine, watching from the windows. You don’t realize how the world suddenly feels too bright, staring up through a polynya, until you glimpse an aureate complexion and charcoal hair, silver-streaked with ash and tied up in a loose pony, emerging from the driver's seat.

Fenella MacTavish is a star in her own right. Has a gravity to her that demands to be felt and heard. The pull of your name on her lips drags you through the hole in the ice and dangles you there. Bait for something bigger. Hungrier. And she does it all with a friendly face, a cordon of coronal light woven into a beaming smile—aimed at the fallstreak hole that’s been punched through your sternum. 

“Ye’re a fair way from home, lass.” The divisional line of the Baltic and North Sea, from the feel of it. Or maybe somewhere off the coast of Shetland. It doesn’t really matter. Dread still percolates down your spine and you blink against the sudden shock of the sun emerging from the clouds, lurid rays burrowing into your retinas.

“Better prices for produce on this side of town,” you hedge, and she looks pointedly at the sharp protrusions of box corners against canvas, faultline of her brow erupting with skepticism. 

“Thought Tesco’s all have the same prices, more or less,” she reasons, and you watch the way she leans against the D pillar, arms folded and braced against a hiemal wind that tousles loose strands of hair about her face. A similar image of Johnny from several weeks ago effervesces to the surface of your memory and you shove it down. Drown it in the brine that spumes on roiling white caps. 

You answer with an indolent shrug and make to step around her, slipping your hand in a fleece-lined coat pocket in search of your keys, but like the other MacTavishes you’ve come to know, Fenella has a propensity for prying questions.

“Have ye heard from Joh—”

“No,” you say before she can speak his name, gloved fingers curling around the worn canvas strap across your shoulder like it’s a lifeline. Trying to pull yourself away from the hole in the ice, procellous waves lapping hungrily at your feet where she dangles you from artfully strung words. It’s not technically a lie. Even if there’s a novel's worth of texts from him that have gone unopened and unanswered. “I have—”

“Come have dinner wi’ us,” she volleys back. Guts the wretched desiderium curled at the back of your throat, backed into a corner and hissing at anything that comes near. Coaxes the dolorous, indignant want festering in your chest into the light. 

You want Johnny and his ribald jokes. Want him to look at you the way he looks at Isobel when they walk together. To hold your hand inside the pocket of his coat when you both forget your gloves on the way to pick her up from school. Remind you to leave work at the door. Shut your laptop and close the manuscript. Give yourself a break and come watch some mind rotting show with him and Isobel on the couch. Curl up in a tartan blanket, woven with his family's colors, and pretend you aren't falling asleep with your cheek pressed to his shoulder. Want to bake with Isobel and chase Johnny from the kitchen. Read to her on the nights he’s away, out at the pub on Main with friends from work. Be there, sleeping on the couch with Isobel, waiting for him to come home from assignment.

You want, and the teratoid it’s become circles with the porbeagles. Has teeth and a consciousness all it’s own, shredding through sinewy trepidation and tearing through every layer of adamantine flesh that you wear like armor. Stripping you down to the bone and sucking on the treacly marrow.

There’s no reason why you can’t. Johnny’s said as much. Made it patently clear when he all but tucked you into his jacket with him and let the warmth of sun-chapped lips bleed into your algid skin that night on your stoop. But there’s a picture in the livingroom of the townhouse next to yours that clamors each time you pass it. A ghost, bound to this plane by molecules of ink on photo paper, materializing at your back and whispering words of doubt from the umbrage. Telling you to leave. They aren’t yours to have. 

You feel rime creeping up your legs, briny sea spray turning denim stiff in the darkening carpark. The sun is sinking, varicolored sky unfurling against the plumage of clouds and an austere snowscape, and it casts shadows across the city, long as the list of reasons you shouldn’t.  

“Tomorrow night,” she presses, “roads ‘round here get a tad dodgy after dark wi’ the ice an’ all.” Her eyes drift to the ice surrounding your feet. Stare for a moment, like there are memories trapped there. 

You’ve found your keys. Found them several minutes ago, and have been toying with pressing the panic button. Manufacturing some way out of this conversation. Your toes are numb, too. Whether it’s from standing in a river of runoff or Fenella’s snare, swaying precariously and staring down into the gaping maw of repressed desire, you don’t know. But you do know that you can’t stay here. Can’t keep staring at this woman who looks like Johnny and pretend you don’t want to know everything about her. Him. Them. That you don’t want to go to dinner with her and Isobel because you miss them.

“Tomorrow,” you begin, “I have a meeting. Have to stay late.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” she counters. “Bell stays up late to watch Still Game wi’ me. Sure she wouldnae mind waitin’ an hour tae have a friend join us fer some stovies.” You can see Isobel in the car behind her, twisted around in her car seat to watch the two of you, and your heart lurches in your chest. Gnashes and snarls at the web of lies you’ve woven around it, glittering trip wires disguised as a safety net.

Don’t get too close. Don’t get attached. They’re not yours. This will never be your family.

‘Go!’ it wails, and her eyes beg you to stay.

When you finally find your footing again, you take a step towards your car. “I’ll think about it.” Move carefully between cracks in the ice. “See if I can get the meeting moved up. Isobel should keep to her schedule.” Keep your eyes up. Don’t look at the monster she’s dragged out of you.

Fenella nods like you’ve agreed. Either chooses to ignore your feeble attempt at a polite refusal or twists your words into reluctant acceptance as she fishes her phone from her vest. Hums as she taps away at the screen, and you feel the echo of it when your own phone vibrates in your pocket beside your keys.

“We’ll see ye tomorrow night, then.” She smiles, wide and machiavellian, before she severs the snare and watches you plummet. Slips into the warmth of her car as you plunge through the hole in the ice and it freezes over once more. Chum in the water.

Staring at Fenella’s address on your phone screen effects a sinking feeling in your stomach. Drags you down to that abyss again, only this time, you aren’t alone. You weren’t alone before—not really. You’d just denied the truth of what was clawing its way through your chest. Couldn’t face what its existence means.

You stare until the screen goes dark, and then stare some more, until the oven timer chimes and you wade through your kitchen to silence it. Produce a hot pad from an adjacent drawer to pull a cardboard tray of lasagne from the rack, and nearly drop it when the chiming starts again. 

Your phone vibrates on the table behind you, Johnny’s name lit up across the screen. Calling.

‘Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.’

The awful thing in your chest shudders in answer.

Every muscle in your body tenses. Aches to open the line. Grab it with both hands and pull. Drag yourself from the depths of your self inflicted misery and bathe in the ardent warmth of his smile. You want to talk to him. Want to hear that gravel rich timbre and your name rolling off the escarpment of his tongue.

But should you?

Should you even try to be something you aren’t? Something you never thought you could be. Would want to be. Should you—?

“Bonnie? Ye there?”

Oh, fuck…

“Yeah… I’m here,” you breathe, and it’s not salt water but kerosene that fills your lungs. Burns with self-loathing and penitence as it commingles with ozone. “Johnny, I—” Your voice pitches, teeters on the precipice of trepidation and want, and crumbles away with the marl.

You’ve been ignoring him. Ignoring how you feel. Absconding yourself in your abnegation and rotting on the ocean floor, too afraid to swim. To look for the light. Afraid of falling even further. 

And all of that want comes pouring out of you now. Out of the hole punched through your chest when he left. In a briny deluge down the berm of your cheeks when he shushes you. From puncture wounds, perfect impressions of serrated teeth, sunk to the bone. Not letting go.

“I know, sweet girl. I know,” he soothes, palliating and emollient, but the breath you take scrapes against your throat, coarse with sand and silt. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Johnny.” You thought it would hurt, admitting it. That the jaws would clamp down and you would scream and kick and fight. You were so heavy, full to the brim with want, that you mistook it for that leaden, sinking feeling. Thought it was drowning you.

“Bell said she saw ye today. That ye’re goin’ to visit her tomorrow?” There’s hope in his voice, nestled in the colluvium that tumbles from his lips and settles at your feet.

“Yeah,” you decide then and there. “I am.”

The MacTavish home isn’t what you thought it would be, limewashed stone tucked at the end of a winding, gravel lane, cradled by the tussock and sedge of a heathland and perched on the slope of a shallow vale. Double paned windows cast a genial glow onto the drifts around it, tenuous peaks capped in flakes of gold, and a scintillant lamp floods the walkway, salted cobble, free of the ice your tires struggled to navigate on the narrow streets of Old Kilpatrick. The door is a bathic blue, nearly the same depth as the lacuna between stars on a moonless night, and a boar-head knocker greets you, impeccably polished silver despite its exposure to the elements. Your hand halts halfway to the ring that dangles from gleaming ivory tusks and hangs surprised between yourself and the refulgent star across the threshold. Everything about Fenella and her home is bright.

She ushers you inside, pulling you by a handful of billowing cashmere into the foyer, and promptly defoliates you of the flailing garment and congruent scarf wound around your neck, taking your bag and hanging it from a brass hook beside your coat. “Bell, come an’ look who’s here!” she calls down the passageway, and a brontide reverberates through the hardwood and soles of your shoes. A storm rattling the foliage of a coppice in the thick of Summer. 

Isobel shrieks, effusive in the manner of her excitement, when she rounds the corner from the doorway to the left and catches sight of you, teddy forgotten and swiftly discarded in favor of launching herself down the wide hall. You rock back when she connects with your leg, sinking her hands into layers of chiffon, pleated at your waist and cascading to the buckles of your flats around your ankles.

“Ye made it!” She wears a t-shirt many sizes too big, sleeves billowing around her and the hem rolled and tucked up inside with a knot that presses against your shin. The cracked, peeling numerals 141 are barely visible, on her left side just below her breastbone, and her surname is printed just below, peaks and plateau of the M and T rising above the cloud of your skirt bunched up in her arms. Her hair is loose, curls tumbling just over her shoulders in an unruly race to the wide crew-collar of her shirt, and the smile she beams up at you is blinding. Disorienting. Burrowing into your brain in search of a home. Looking for its carbon copy, etched in a memory of Johnny, sitting on a wooden chair in a kitchen that mirrors yours.

A timer chimes, echoing off smooth plaster painted with a whisper of green, sage and seafoam, and an eclectic collection of frames maps a rich family history from the front door down the length of the passageway,

“That’ll be dinner,” Fenella announces, a hand coming to rest between your shoulders and another delving into her granddaughter's curls. “Bell, show ‘er where tae wash up.” She herds you both forward, and your stomach knots with budding nerves.

“Can I help with anything? Setting the table?” you offer, attempt to make yourself useful, and she tuts her disapproval.

“Nae, jus’ wash up wi’ Bell. Dinner’ll be on the table when yer done.” She slips by the two of you, disappearing down the passageway and to the right while Isobel fits her hand into yours and leads you through the door she came from.

There’s a sideboard adjacent to the washroom, and while Isobel scrubs the days mire from her nails you cast your attention to the portraiture above it. Echoes of a convivial home, filled with family during the holidays, outings in the city, and school portraits. Johnny’s service portrait hangs front and center above a shadow box, pin board nearly full with brassy medals and gaudy ribbons. Years younger and clean shaven, he looks boyish and bright-eyed, even with the army drab and neutral expression. But there's a familiar tilt to his mouth, permanently skewed in an inveterate smile, and a whisper of laughter in the gentle slope of his shoulders, not yet filled out with the corded muscle that’s become so familiar. Several inches to the right and many years later, he appears as you know him now. Dark shadow of stubble, interrupted by the stitchwork that created the twisting scar on his chin, and— 

The bulk of his body is curled around a young woman, dark cloud of curls concealing her face, buried in the hollow space beneath his jaw, but the swell of her belly is obvious in her profile. Isobel’s mum. 

“Yer turn!” Isobel lilts from behind you, but you remain rooted to the polished hardwood, staring at a ghost, and wait for the rebuttal.

They aren’t yours. This isn’t your family. 

Budding nerves blossom in the loamy pit of your stomach, creeping along spiculated vines towards the moldering gaps between your ribs, and your heart stutters in its crumbling cage alongside the starving, pacing creature you call want. 

Forget them. Leave.

You wait, and wait, and wait—and it never comes. The ink doesn't wail, the frames don’t rattle, and there is no voice whispering over your shoulder.

There is a darling girl, tugging at the fabric of your skirt and the mess of snarled threads around your heart, picking apart the tangled web you’ve been lost in, and she guides you through the fray to the washroom basin.

“Ah spoke wi’ Johnny this morn’,” Fenella begins, reaching across the table to wipe at the broth dribbling down Isobel’s chin. “Said ye finally had a chance tae talk.”

“Oh. Yes, we did.” You don’t tell her how Johnny did most of the talking, took your sniveled apologies for avoiding his messages and buried them in the colluvium. Caught you, from a world away, and lowered you gently to the earth when you fell apart in your kitchen. “He sounds well.”

“Aye, he does. Havnae heard ‘im like that since Kirsten died.” She leans back in her chair, half-finished bowl of stew all but forgotten. “Those two… och, they were a right pain in my arse. Where one went the other followed, an’ made twice the trouble for their Mam.” 

The revelation glues to your brain, tenebrous and viscid. 

“Has he told ye about ‘er, his sister?”

“She saw the picture in the passageway,” Isobel chimes in, babbling around a mouthful of roast potato.

Their Mam. The picture in the hall. Johnny’s sister. The ghost next door.

“He’s mentioned her once before.” You drag your spoon through cooling beef and potato, breaking up the congealed, starchy mass, and try to do the same with the memories that tangle themselves together in your head. “He told me about his wife; that she passed two years ago. I— He never said his sister passed as well. I’m so—”

“His wife?” Quicksilver brows fly towards the inky peak of her hairline, bewilderment etched in the incredulous slash of her mouth, lips drawn tight. “Johnny’s ne’er wed, lass.”

Your hand stills but your heart rattles, throwing itself against baleen bars, and the pinpricks of teeth, gnawing at the fallstreak hole in your sternum, threatens to crack your ribs open at the dinner table. “Isobel’s mother—”

“Is his sister,” Fenella finishes for you.

“Then, Johnny… Why didn’t Isobel’s father raise her?” 

Fenella casts a furtive glance in Isobels direction and finds cordierite eyes staring back at her over an empty bowl, gleaming with a startling discernment. “Stay here,” she motions towards you, and plucks Isobel from the chair between you, balancing her on a broad hip. “All done, Bell? Let’s get ye settled in the den, hm? With Ghost?” Isobel clutches at her shirt for balance, dips her chin in agreement, and Fenella takes her from the dining room, leaving you alone with the savage things in your chest.

Sister. Never married. Niece.

It percolates through gray matter. Drips from the roof of your mouth, nauseating and saccharine, and when you swallow you feel the drop in your stomach like an iron weight. Wilted petals and desiccated vines withering. A febrile joy laced with bile bubbling up your throat; sickly cocktail of absolution and compunction. 

There was never a ghost trapped in a picture frame. No headstone inscribed with the MacTavish name and the words ‘Loving Wife and Mother.’ Every poisonous word whispered in your ear came from the devil on your shoulder, sowing demurral and rooting it in reproval, and the roaring in your chest, thundering pulse in your ears, screams yes.

The muted playing of fanfare from the TV cuts through the cacophony in your head, and Fenella’s voice allays the discordance. “She knows more than she lets on.” A sigh filters through her nose with a ‘hum’ and she slides into the chair Isobel occupied previously. “She misses him. Misses him like a wean misses their Da.” Misses him the same as her Mum. Gone somewhere she can’t follow, a place kept secret from her, with no way to know when he’ll be back. If he’ll come back. 

The unpleasant realization of that very real possibility scrapes down your spine, whetted talons screeching against corrugated bone.

“Johnny’s the closest thing Bell’s ever had tae a Da,” she elucidates. “They used tae work together, ‘fore Johnny joined up wi’ the Task Force. Passed selection the same year.”

“She—Kirsten—met him through Johnny?” She nods, smiling, but the curve of her mouth has a mournful edge.

“She did. Johnny brought some lads round for Hogmanay one year. Took his sister out wi’ ‘em tae the pubs. Said she took one look at Aaron MacAndrew handin’ ‘er brother his own arse at darts and knew she’d marry ‘im. Did so, the following year. Hardly made it another ‘fore she told us she was havin’ Bell.” The memory of her daughter brightens Fenella’s eyes. Bottled lightning, bouncing off maldivian blue glass. “We were all excited. ‘Specially Johnny; couldnae wait tae meet his niece. Brought home gifts for Kirsten and the wean from every tour and couldnae go to ASDA wi’out buyin’ another teddy or romper.”

“Did Johnny and Aaron tour together?” She nods solemnly.

“Few weeks after Kirsten had Bell they left. Got their orders a month earlier, an’ Aaron… He didnae let Johnny tell Kirstin ‘til after she had the wean. Didnae want her tae stress. 

“They were tae be gone three months, so Kirsten stayed here an’ I helped wi’ Bell. Went a while ‘fore we heard anythin’ from Johnny. Said things got hairy. Had tae go dark. Stay hidden. We didnae know why ‘til he called again an’ said he was comin’ home early, but naw Aaron. Naw ‘til he was the only one tae come off the plane.”

Laughter trickles in from the den, pooling in the hollow silence that yawns between you and Fenella. “I…” you try, but every word you string together with the next frays around the knot in your throat. 

“She was angry wi’ him for some time. Aaron had died weeks before he called, an’ he kept it from ‘er. Didnae want tae tell her on the phone. Wanted tae be there when she found out.” She shifts her weight in the chair. Leans forward to fold one arm over the other on the table. “Johnny took it hard, too. Losin’ his mate an’ then his sister. None of us saw her for the better part of a year after he died, an’ Johnny took the blame for it. She wouldnae see him. Didnae come ‘round for holidays. He thought if he made ‘imself scarce she might come out her shell, so when he heard from a Captain he used tae serve under, ‘bout the Task Force an’ the longer assignments that came wi’ it… He packed ‘imself up an’ off he went. Was another year ‘fore they finally saw one another. Never knew what was said between the two of ‘em, but they were close as ever afterwards. Right up ‘til she passed.”

“And she listed Johnny as Isobel's next of kin.” Fenella nods, bottled lightning limned with a silvery tide. “I… I’m so sorry. About Kirsten, Aaron, bringing it up— I shouldn’t—”

Despite the tears tracking down her cheeks, Fenella shakes her head. Smiles, and reaches across the table to clasp your hand in hers. “Ye dinna need tae apologize, lass. I should be thankin’ ye, really.” You try to pull away but her hand tightens around yours.

“Thank me? I haven’t—”

“Done anythin’? Lass, ye’ve done more than ye know. He talks about ye. Every time we go tae lunch. It’s ye, an’ Bell, an’ how excited she always is tae see ye. How he thinks she might fancy ye even more than he does. And he smiles. You brought that back.”

And fuck, if that isn’t everything you hoped for. To know that he smiles for you. Because of you. It alchemizes the iron in your stomach to lead, bathed in acid and leeching an acrimonious guilt into your bloodstream.

You ignored him.

Pulled away, just like his sister did.

And Fenella is thanking you. 

Midnight settles over the MacTavish home in a mantle of crushed velvet and embroidered stars. Fenella insisted that you stay after dinner. Spend some time with Isobel in the den.

That was several hours ago.

Curled in the corner of a chenille couch, you sit with Isobel pressed to your side, head pillowed by the masked bear she clutches in her sleep.

“Someone’s finally tuckered out,” you muse, brushing an errant curl away from her face. “I should head home. Let the two of you rest.” Fenella stands from her chair beside the couch and maneuvers around the coffee table in the dim light of the TV.

“It’s late,” she rebukes. “I’ll naw have ye out at this hour. Stay the night. Ye can take yer rest in Johnny’s old room.” Fenella croons as she peels Isobel out of her cocoon of blankets and hoists her up into the cradle of her arms. “C’mon Bell, let’s show the lass where she’s stayin’ the night.”

“The roads really aren’t that bad, I— I should be able to make the drive just fine,” you insist, but the admonition in the gaze she levels you with quashes any further argument.

You follow, albeit hesitantly, from the den up a narrow flight of stairs, and hope that she can’t hear the tremulous rattling of your breath behind her. She deposits Isobel, teddy and all, in a colorful room, shelves overflowing with picture books and bins piled high with teddies and toys, tucks her snug beneath a hand-sewn quilt and leaves her with a peck on the cheek to guide you into the room across from hers.

She rifles through a chest of drawers, scratched pine and chipped lacquer, stood up against the wall opposite a wrought iron bed, draped in purples and greens that bring thistle to mind. “Ye can wear some of Johnny’s old things. I’d give ye somethin’ of mine but, well… I think ye’d be more comfortable in this.” Tracksuit bottoms and a pullover. She leaves it on the bed as she moves to where you hover near the doorway. “Washroom is just down there, on the right,” she directs, pointing to the far end of the hall. “An’ I’m just across the way if ye need anythin’. See ye at breakfast.”

With you and Isobel settled in your respective rooms, she ambles off to her own, door clicking shut softly behind her, and you’re left staring at Johnny’s clothes. On Johnny’s bed. In the bedroom where he grew up. Wondering how—if at all—you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[nohaijiachi]

I got randomly recommended this video by YT and wrote a ginormous comment in response because I have no self control, apparently, so I thought I might as well also share my thoughts here in regard to whatever is going with THIS FUCKING SMILE

(under a cut to not clog y'alls dashboards)

(the first part of the comment here is a direct response to some of the ideas put forth in the video, it is very short so give it a quick watch for more context if you want)

Imo it's not necessary to look into overcomplicated theories that rely too much on off screen shenanigans to explain the smile, for how amusing the idea of them having swapped during the kiss is (like, the kind of stuff I won't want to be actually canon, but I'll be very happy to see explored in fan fics lol)

I think to fully explain that smile we have to take in consideration multiple factors:

This show is very purposeful in what it does and doesn't, well... show. That last shot is very long and I think the fact that Aziraphale's and Crowley's expressions in the aftermath of their disastrous break up is shown in such a manner tells us a LOT about the state of mind they might be at the start of S3, and the obstacles they'll have to face. Aziraphale doesn't immediately smile, rather he seems to look almost shell-shocked for most of the shot; it's clear (to me at least lol) that the quiet ride up the elevator is finally giving him some desperately needed time to fully digest everything that happened, because too much has happened in an extremely short amount of time, and we all know Aziraphale doesn't do well with speed lol.

But, for how much he can sometimes be a complete moron, he is smart, and all he needs are just those seconds of quiet to properly ponder on everything, on the choices made and the ramifications of said choices, and that's how we get to smile-- I'll delve into what I think Aziraphale is going through in his mind in more details later, because I also think it's necessary to focus a bit on Crowley's own expression, since the both of them are so intrinsically linked that the narrative cannot make sense without taking the both of them into account.

Crowley's expression is much more static and doesn't change the way Aziraphale's does; he looks profoundly tired in ways we've never seen him before. I don't think he's giving up on Aziraphale, and I fully believe the fact that he stood there and waited for Aziraphale to disappear in the elevator, the both of them sharing that last look, was a quiet message: He'll never give up on Aziraphale, he'll be there, waiting. But wait is all he can do for Aziraphale, now, because he can't follow where Aziraphale is going.

For how messy and full of heightened emotions the confession + kiss are, I think actually denying Aziraphale's request was a HUGE step forward for Crowley's character. He's never been able to deny Aziraphale, he always went back to him after every fight, and we all know how stupidly whipped for Aziraphale he is and how he'd empty the ocean with a spoon if Aziraphale asked him nicely-- But to actually put his foot down and say "no, I cannot do this for you" when asked to all but renounce the person he is now? Especially with how Aziraphale is all but begging him openly? That's a huge step, and something I think Crowley desperately needs to mature as a person (or, well, person-shaped being). We all love how Aziraphale has him wrapped around his little finger I'm sure, but we also all know that if they truly want to build a strong, healthy relationship they also both need to be able to keep their individuality and to put forth adequate boundaries about what they are willing to do for each other within reason.

Asking Crowley to come back to being an angel when he's made blatantly clear for six thousand bloody years how much he despises Heaven is not a 'within reason' request, innit?

So, yeah, for how heartbreaking the break-up was, in a sense Crowley needs it. They both do. They both need time apart to figure their own shit out, dismantle all those unhealthy habits they had to adopt in order to be with one another as safely as they possibly could while still 'employed', and then come back together with a clearer mind and a whole deal stronger than before, both as individuals and as a couple.

And I think how tired and downtrodden Crowley looks in that last shot is a precursor to this process, just as much as Aziraphale's smile is... So, let me get back to our favorite angel and what I personally think is going on with him.

I think to properly contextualize that smile we need to look at not just the happening of those infamous last fifteen minutes, but of S2 as a whole, and what Aziraphale does in it.

So, what is Aziraphale doing during S2?

At the start he seems to be more or less comfortably settled in his current life; he's as happy as ever doing what he's always done, enjoying humanity's creativity with his books and his music and his food and drinks, seemingly content to be puttering about in his bookshop (which is a stark contrast with Crowley's homelessness and his kinda adrift and depressed attitude). Of course then Jim!Gabriel throws a wrench right into that, but imo I think there was a lot more going on behind the facade of Aziraphale's well ingrained habits.

Sure, he still has all of his familiar comforts and his routine, but from the moment we see him interact with Crowley I saw a deep restlessness emerge in him: The panicked look he launches Crowley when Nina asks him about his 'naked man friend', the way he speaks with Crowley with all those 'our' he uses, the blatant way he keeps reaching over and touching Crowley-- To me that suggests that Aziraphale is clearly not as happy as he seems to be on a superficial glance. He clearly wants more with Crowley, wants to bring their relationship to the next step, but because the both of them are so deeply entrenched in their unhealthy coping mechanisms and habits and their inability to openly communicate it doesn't even occur to Aziraphale to just... You know. Take the first step, actually say something about it. So he just keeps throwing bait after bait in the water, hoping Crowley will bite and be the one taking the initiative as he's always done, finally allowing Aziraphale to accept said initiative, this time around.

Of course, we all see that Crowley doesn't take any first step, which is probably something deeply frustrating for Aziraphale at a subconscious level. That's how we get the ball; sure, on the face of it it was Aziraphale's way to make Nina and Maggie fall in love, but... Was it, really? Let's be real, for how entirely believable it is that Aziraphale makes up the lie about Nina and Maggie's love to cover for their miracle is, since we've seen him being anxious around other angels, I don't think for a second that had Aziraphale just stopped and spent three minutes thinking about it he wouldn't have found a way to convince Muriel that Nina and Maggie were, in fact, in love, especially with how 'green' Muriel is about humans.

I fully believe that Aziraphale is not properly thinking during S2, period. He's frustrated by his inability to bring his and Crowley's relationship to what he wants it to be, and that frustration and single-minded objective is utterly obfuscating his thought process. There are plenty of moments he seemed almost manic, imo, which I read as another sign about his 'impaired' (allow me the term) state of mind as of S2.

So, yes, the ball: On the face of it something to actually turn his lie to the Archangels into truth, but deeper down, perhaps almost unconsciously, I think Aziraphale sees the ball as a way to finally make him and Crowley happen. That fact that he's taking pointers about romance from human literature is blatant, and obviously he truly does believe the ball will be THE way to make love bloom.

If you stop and think about it, the ball scene is terrifying. These people are being manipulated to play the perfect background parts to make, what is in Aziraphale's mind, the height of romance atmosphere happen. The fact we get a juxtaposition with Nina's "what the F is going on, am I losing my mind???" rightful attitude underlines this. And I truly believe Aziraphale isn't exerting said manipulation with intent, but rather doing so subconsciously, because he's just so fixated on the idea of having finally the perfect set-up to have Crowley as he desires that he is influencing everything around him. After all, we all know they both have the tendency of making things happen the way they want simply by thinking that's how things are supposed to happen.

And again, he's so manic and giddy when he asks Crowley to dance, his ass is not LISTENING. He literally needed a brick thrown through a window to snap out of it.

So, in the present we have an Aziraphale who , in his own way, is trying to take the initiative, come out with plans. There is a moment that I think might have slipped under the radar of a lot of people but that's frightfully important about who Aziraphale is at this point in the story, and who he will need to become: "I have a plan," Aziraphale said to Crowley during the stare down with the demons outside of the bookshop after the ruined ball; Crowley didn't even seem to have registered that sentence at all, because his mind is already projected forward and going a mile a minute about what to do to keep both the humans and Aziraphale safe in this situation.

Crowley, who loves to swoop in and save Aziraphale, doing what he's always done to keep his angel safe, even to the detriment of their relationship with one another... And Aziraphale, who adores playing the part of the damsel in distress in turn, is actually telling Crowley that *he has a plan*.

That's not something to take lightly, methinks. That's very much just another sign that Aziraphale's individuality is struggling, trying to emerge through Aziraphale's anxiety and doubts and fears and deeply ingrained habits. Aziraphale's cognitive dissonance in regards to heaven, and his shaken faith in God are huge motivators of his actions, and in the grand scheme of things the scant few years he had away from under the oppressive thumb of heaven is nothing. It was barely any time at all in the face of the eternity of an immortal life spent under that oppression, and yet we are already seeing little glimpses of Aziraphale's rebellious side struggling to get fully free.

I think these little glimpses inform us at great lengths about the evolution Aziraphale's character will go through in S3, and greatly explains that strange smile right at the end; in my opinion that smile isn't the smile of someone who's trying to convince himself that he's ok, or realizing that Crowley loves him (he knew already, they both knew and have known for a long time, their inability to properly express those feelings was their downfall, but I don't think either of them has doubted even for a second when it comes to how much they love one another). In my opinion that smile is the smile of someone who is steeling himself for what he envisions in his future; equal parts old-sedated anxiety and yet determination to actually enact plans he's surely concocting in his brilliant little mind. That's the smile of someone who has just realized that not only they can, but that they need to do something, and you can damn well be sure they won't be sitting and twiddling their thumbs waiting to be saved, but they'll be the one saving themselves and everybody else along with 'em, this time.

Just as Crowley needs to actually spend some time define himself as himself, and not just in relation to Aziraphale, Aziraphale needs to spend some time shedding all those fears and doubts that are weighing him down, and emerge the other side someone much more self-assured and ready to do what he thinks is right without all the hesitations that have indirectly been strengthened by Crowley; in a way, by allowing Aziraphale an out with his 'temptations', Crowley had been feeding into those hesitations, and had been holding Aziraphale back from fully maturing, even if not done on purpose, obviously. Imo is very important for Aziraphale's character that he comes to realize that he doesn't need those excuses Crowley gifted him to keep doing what he thinks is right, that he actualizes his own morality properly, and enacts on it.

I don't have the faintest clue about what is going to happen in S3, but I do fully believe the above paragraph is what Aziraphale and Crowley's respective character arcs will focus on. And once they'll come back together they'll be the most power couple that has ever power coupl-ed, and the Metatron will have no clue about what is about to hit him >:)

[jinx-blackout-84]

Okay so basically at the start of the August drama specifically, Tommy made a skit video. You might wanna watch it for context, and if you do, it's called if youtubers were honest.

Here's the part I will be talking about for the post, though

Also for more context, dream has admitted to sexually messaging underage fans, and still associates with George, who made openly sexist comments.

He had a section in there about how Dream handled the Qsmp situation and was basically just making fun of him.

After seeing this, Dream gets on Twitter and starts liking and unliking posts making fun of Tommy.

Inniters get mad, ofc.

Drm stans are ticked bc their precious baby pedo is being bashed, inniters are fighting back.

Drm stans are calling Tommy abelist for the way he portrayed dream, he was not being ableist, he portrayed every character similarly,and are saying he was joking about Dream getting doxxed, which he never did.

Inniters are pointing out that Dream has tried to take credit for Tommy's career before and that this is bot the first time Dream has behaved like a manchild.

And then the Drm stans go after motherinnit.

She fights back, we fight back, all out controversy, that brings us to where we are now.... awaiting Dream's twitlonger so we can watch Philza bash him and end his career. (This has yet to happen but the second it does I'll add it to the post)

Also, a helpful don't stop the party edit to help explain things too

Be careful though, it flashes.

@give-grian-rights

@uncertaininnit

@timetokrill

@uncalamar

@atlusreadsrandomshit

@girldiomedes

@kyromaniacc

@happyunknownunknown

@colorsystem-color

@milkforartist

[floral-force]

hey babes!!! I loved that one of Simon and the meet cute, it had me melting 🥹♥️ I was wondering if I could perhaps request a Simon Riley x reader where the reader is part of the 141, but before working with them, she was apart of a special ops group that focused on stuff like infiltration/sabotage, and she’s almost like a black widow sort of character? seduces her targets and takes them out when they’re alone? she’s usually a ray of sunshine with the group, but Laswell presents the mission and everyone’s like “????” and the reader’s like “fine, I guess we’ll do this again” and she’s just COMPLETELY different once she infiltrates??? it gives the whole crew whiplash, but I’m particularly interested in how Simon would react!!! I hope this isn’t too much!!! thanks for always blessing us with your amazing work, and I hope you have an amazing day!!! ♥️

thank you for loving the meet-cute!! this request was fun to fill. I took some artistic liberties and this one really ran away from me...I hope you enjoy this!

(requests are open! search the tags #prompt requests or #prompts and send me an ask!)

Honeypot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader (code name "Honey")

summary: You’re Task Force 141’s newest operator, and everyone knows you as bubbly and sweet, earning you the code name Honey. How will the team react—especially Ghost, your stoic but sultry lieutenant—when a mission requires your espionage expertise?

words: 2.9k

warnings/tags: my blog is 18+ only. innuendo, canon-typical violence (fist fighting, gun mentions), bamf reader, task force 141 being buffoons, protective and jealous simon “ghost” riley, competency and size kinks if you squint, reader has a code name and uses she/her but no other descriptors

read on ao3 | masterlist

“The coup in Luxembourg is out of our usual bounds,” Laswell said, “but a covert agent working under the deposed Grand Duke has requested our aid.”

“They’ve been an ally to us in the past,” Price added, looping his thumbs under his tac vest, “so I expect you lot to execute this mission with as much precision and urgency as you would any other.”

“Country’s smaller than Scotland, innit?” Soap asked. “How the hell are we s’pposed to be discreet?”

“That’s where you come in, Honey,” Laswell crossed her arms and gave you a pointed look. “You remember your mission in Morocco?”

You smirked. “Is the sky blue?”

She gave you a small chuckle. “We need your expertise.”

“Fine.” You gave a dramatic sigh. “I guess we’ll do this again.”

“”M sorry,” Gaz interrupted with a scoff. “Do what, exactly?”

You turned to look at where he sat across the table from you next to an equally confused Soap. Ghost was twisted in his chair to look at where you sat behind him. 

You raised an eyebrow, your eyes flicked between Price and Laswell. “They don’t know what I did in the States?” 

“No,” Price muttered with a hint of embarrassment. He cleared his throat and shrugged like a tired parent as he said, “I suppose it never came up.”

Gaz gave an exasperated sigh, his impatience getting the better of him. “Well, go on then!” He urged. 

“I was a contracted espionage agent for the Department of Defense, and—”

“The Yanks used contracted agents?”

You rolled your eyes at the interruption. “Yes, Soap. Now, as I was saying,” you continued, shooting the Scotsman a playful glare, “I was hired for infiltration ops. Ones that required a certain…je ne sais quoi, a more feminine touch you lads wouldn’t be capable of.” 

When they all stared at your smiling face with blank expressions for a few moments—even Ghost’s eyes were narrowed with confusion—you jerked your head forward and waved your hands. “Guys, I seduced the targets.”

The confused silence persisted, and you looked around, giggling at each of the guys’ reactions, looking at Ghost last. His gaze pierced you the most, his brown eyes never leaving yours. Your teasing giggles faded, and you severed the eye contact with a roll of your eyes. You looked at Laswell again and crossed your arms, bored of the topic. 

“Now that that’s settled, can we please finish this briefing?” you implored. “I have to make sure I have a dress that’s fitting for a date with a dictator.”

“You sure you’re gonna be alright?”

“For the hundredth time—” you swung a heeled foot on a worn curb with a huff and hiked up the fabric of your dress—“yes, LT, I’ll be fine.” You adjusted the holster on your thigh and smirked at Ghost’s silence. “See something you like?”

There was a pause, and you looked up to see Ghost quickly look away at the street. Guilty.

You knew he felt some sort of way about you; whether it was good or bad was still unclear. One thing was for damn sure: Ghost had his sights set on you. You’d felt his skeletal stare linger on you ever since the briefing a week ago, and he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought he was at stealing looks when you were at the range or sparring.  Anyone else might feel like his prey—trapped by hungry eyes and cornered by a hulking frame—but you were so used to being the predator that you didn’t let it get to you. It was a little…fun.

Sure, he gave you butterflies, but that was because you’d never dealt with seducing men like him—at least, that’s what you told yourself after thinking about him with your hand between your thighs.

For now, you’d innocently tease and poke and prod the masked man with Soap and Gaz’s support. For now, you’d holster your loaded M9 and leave your leg exposed in yellow lamplight as you made sure your clutch had everything you needed. For now, you’d pretend that you weren’t thinking about him trailing his hand up from your ankle to the holster and grabbing the meat of your thigh.  

“We’ll be able to hear everything through your earpiece. Soap and I will have eyes on you in the palace, but stay near windows,” Ghost said, interrupting your thoughts. “Gaz’ll be on the roof.”

You swung your leg back down, wobbling. Ghost clutched your forearm, and you gripped his, fingernails scratching the fabric of his sleeve and digging into it for stability. His large hand snaked up to hold your bicep right above your bent elbow, your ears heating up when you met his eyes and saw something akin to lust in them.

His grip lingered even after you were steady on your feet again, only letting go when you gave him a flustered smile. You busied yourself with smoothing out the full skirt of your dress and adjusting the discreet monitor in your right ear. 

“All you have to do is get ‘im to the roof. The lads ‘n I will take it from there, as planned.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “If anythin’ goes wrong, jus’ get yourself out alive, Honey.”

“Got it.” You adjusted your necklace, and sheepishly asked, “Is it centered?”

You could smell sweat and sandalwood when Ghost stepped closer, his broad armored chest just inches away from your body. His large, gloved fingers graced over your skin and hands, delicately centering the elegant piece with tactical precision. 

Brown eyes looked you up and down. “Looks good, Honey.” 

Ghost stepped back and his hands fell, one curling around his radio and the other limp on the rifle slung across his body. You burned underneath your dress.

After testing the comms and getting location reports, you gave Ghost a thumbs up and started walking to the palace down the street, rolling your shoulders back and taking a few deep breaths. You could feel his brown eyes burning a hole through you the entire time, so you made sure to sway your hips a bit more than you usually did while seductively strutting somewhere.

It hadn’t taken her long to reach the third floor and approach the tall paned window with the target, just as she’d been instructed to do in their final briefing. Watching Honey expertly navigate the gala and get the target attached to her side faster than the speed of light stirred something within Ghost. Whether it was admiration for her skill or arousal was unclear. Either way, he’d be lying if he said she didn’t look ravishing in her dress. He tilted his head and greedily peered through the scope one last time before tearing his eyes away and adjusting his position on the grassy hill.

Honey was as lethal as she was sweet, and if her saccharine smile didn’t instantly ensnare her target, her sugary tongue would. Instead of doling out compliments, she accepted them and kicked innuendos back; instead of making cringy puns and flashing finger guns, she bit her lip and tugged the target’s suit jacket. It was entirely different from who she was around the team on base, and Soap had made sure to emphasize that all bloody night. Even Gaz had chimed in a few times, both men trying to get him to comment. Ghost silently refused, skin flushing under his mask.

Now that she was closing in on the target, things had become even more heated. He looked at her through the scope again and listened. Ghost heard her laugh, the sound bubblier than the champagne in the flute she raised to her pretty lips. She took a sip right as Soap said the punchline of a joke, her shoulders rising and falling sporadically with a daintily covered cough. 

“Watch it, you twat, you made her choke,” Ghost snapped.

“Sorry, lass, sorry!” Soap crackled over the comms. There was a rustle. “In my final position. Eyes on Honey and the target, LT.”

“Gaz?”

“In my final position, LT, eyes on the extraction point,” Gaz replied, his voice set and sure.

“Captain Price will leave on your command to meet you and Sergeant MacTavish at the rendezvous point, Lieutenant,” Laswell buzzed in his ear. “Gaz, you go with Honey and the target.”

“Affirmative,” Gaz and Ghost responded.

“Affirmative. And, Laswell, you can call me Soap.”

“Negative, Sergeant.”

“Aye. Copy that, loud and clear.”

“Shut up, Soap.” Ghost grumbled.

They heard Honey giggle in response to another one of the usurper’s idiotic compliments, and Ghost saw her flirtatiously tap his arm with her knuckles. 

“Y’know, if she heard one of us say tha’ in the pub, we’d never hear th’end of it.”

Gaz hummed in agreement with Soap, and he couldn’t help but shake his head and smirk. Honey laughed again and clearly echoed another awful line the target gave her. Ghost could tell the grin splitting her pretty lips wasn’t genuine—her nose didn’t crinkle like it did when he deadpanned the punchline to a stupid joke or when Soap had called Price “Pa” a few weeks ago.

There was snickering over the comms. Ghost boldly asked, “Honey, take a drink if you meant for us t’hear that shite attempt at flirting.”

Soap cackled when the rim of the champagne flute touched her lips and her throat bobbed with a long sip.

“Well?” Gaz asked expectantly.

“Was a yes, Gaz,” Soap responded.

Ghost saw her eyes flutter closed as she pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, and he grumbled; hopefully nobody had heard him. He was itching to move, his finger hovering over the trigger and his jaw clenching each time the target touched her.

“Right, Honey,” Ghost said, focusing the team again and settling himself down. “Once you’re on the roof, I’ll call Price—Gaz, move on my word or Honey’s, or when Price arrives. Soap, get to the rendezvous when I call Price. I’ll watch Honey and the target. Understood?”

Gaz and Soap gave him their affirmatives. Honey nodded, looking out the window and winking.

She looked back at the target and seductively bit her lip. “Do you think we could go somewhere a bit more…private?” Her query was laced with something sticky.

The target gave her his piss-poor attempt at a sultry smile, resting a hand against her neck and disturbing the necklace Ghost had adjusted earlier. 

He’d be lying if it didn’t make him want to shoot the git dead where he stood.

There was a quiet yes, and Honey said, “I’ve always wanted to be kissed under the stars.” She forced a coquettish giggle. “Well, kiss, and…more, if you catch my drift.”

The target leaned in and pressed a kiss on her right cheek, the act on full display to Ghost.

“That can be arranged, my sweet,” the target murmured, his voice tainting their comms and making Ghost roll his eyes. 

When the target abruptly gripped her waist and pushed her against the window, Ghost heard the faint sound of glass breaking and heard Honey force a playful comment about dropping her flute. Now, Honey’s back was to him, one of her hands flat against the window, her fingers splayed out. His clear shot was ruined. Ghost swore and Soap did as well.

“Target moved too far to my right. Can’t get a clear shot. LT?”

“Negative,” Ghost answered. “Honey, make a fist if you need back-up.”

Normally, he would’ve already had someone storming in to help if he wasn’t already, but Price had made it clear that this mission required tact. Ghost was on edge, but he had to trust Honey, even if the sight unfolding in the scope of his rifle made his skin crawl.

Honey clenched her fist.

“Affirmative. Gaz, Soap, hold your positions. Comms are quiet unless absolutely necessary.”

“Affirmative, LT,” the men immediately replied.

“Extraction is ready on your word. Get out of there—alive,” Laswell stressed over comms. 

“Affirmative,” Ghost sighed, his trigger finger ready and aching to move.

“Not here,” Honey mumbled. Her fist remained clenched, the other hand still clutching her tiny bag. 

She squealed in surprise when one of his hands dropped to grab her ass and squeeze. Ghost sharply inhaled, and he heard Soap clear his throat, holding back from asking for a visual on Honey.

“Not here, Johann,” Honey snapped, the sweetness quickly melting off her voice. “I want you, but I want you to touch me on the roof.”

The target’s other hand grabbed the other hidden cheek, fabric bunching up in his grip. “Want you here, you lovely little thing. Roof can come later.”

Honey gave him the tinkling laugh she shared with the team after showing them a video of a puppy or some other baby animal. Sometimes, Ghost smiled under his balaclava when it was thrown his way—but he’d never tell a soul.

This time, the sunny bells were a warning, and if the target didn’t do as she said, Ghost had a feeling he’d regret more than the coup. 

“If you say so.” Her voice was uncharacteristically dark, its hidden sharp edges revealed.

“Gaz, Soap, be ready for my word,” Ghost said as Honey pushed forward, her heel pressing her dress’s hem against the window.

Just as they both responded, a howl pierced the comms, making Ghost wince. The target was doubled over, and Honey was kicking off her heels, sending them flying towards the windows across the hall. She took a lunging step forward over the broken glass and adjusted her body before throwing a punch to the target’s left cheek. He staggered up and took an angry, sloppy swing at her, but she dodged it and kicked her heel into his knee to destabilize him so she could gut-punch him. The target dropped to the floor. Ghost’s mouth went dry, and his cock twitched as she grabbed a fistful of the target’s hair.

“We’re going to the goddamn roof,” Honey gritted out. 

When the target gave her a sly smile, she took a step back and let go before punching him again. The corner of Ghost’s mouth twitched with a smile when he saw the target staring at her with fear. She’d literally punched the smile off his ugly mug.

“On your fucking feet,” she growled, and he obliged. 

Though he stood, he fought her the whole way to the stair entrance, and each time, his resistance was met with another blow to the gut. Ghost hummed in approval. This honeybee had a wicked stinger and wasn’t afraid to use it.

When she disappeared from Ghost’s sight—still swearing and commanding the target up the stairs—he made the call to Price, then barked over comms, “Soap, rendezvous. Gaz, be ready to assist if Honey calls for it—and, Honey, Gaz is ready to help restrain the target.”

“Negative, LT,” he heard her pant. 

He saw her push the target through the door and onto the roof’s hidden balcony. Gaz was crouching down where he hid, his feet ready to run and his gun in his hands.

Ghost heard her sharply exhale and barely tracked her hand fly up to the target’s bicep. Then, he saw the target slump down to his knees and fall face-first to the ground. 

“Is the target alive?” Ghost hissed, impressed but angry. “If you killed him—”

“Affirmative, LT,” she interjected, catching her breath and pulling an orange bag out of her clutch and depositing something in it. “Just a sedative. He’s gonna take a nice nap during the flight home.”

She hummed a random tune—her favorite song, Ghost noticed—as she put the bag back in her clutch. Honey waved at Gaz when he came out of hiding and walked over to her. Ghost saw her nudge the target with a bare foot and proudly put her hands on her hips.

“Bloody hell, Honey!” Gaz exclaimed, shaking his head. “Did Price know?”

“Affirmative,” Price boomed through the comms. 

The helicopter came into view and Ghost stood up with a huff, slinging his rifle back across his body. He could see them helping Honey up onto the hovering ramp, her dress blowing in the wind. He chuckled before turning running into the forest behind him towards the rendezvous point.

“Headed your way, Lieutenant.”

“Affirmative, Captain,” Ghost replied as he came to a halt next to Soap in the clearing. 

“LT!” Soap exclaimed, yanking his earpiece out, mouth agape. “Th’fuck I’d miss?”

“Ask Gaz,” he said simply, earning a groan from Soap.

The chopper thrummed overhead as it descended. They ran towards the ramp as it lowered, Honey’s triumphant face illuminated by the hold’s red light. Ghost climbed in and sat beside her with a grunt. 

Once they were airborne and starting their flight back to base, Gaz described the scene Soap had only heard. Ghost noticed her diamond necklace was askew from her skirmish and hesitantly centered it. She gave him a soft smile and turned her head so her chin grazed over his covered knuckles. The gentle hum she gave him coated him in sticky-sweet syrup. “Honey” certainly was a perfect codename for her, he reckoned, contrasting her innocent sweetness and cutesy smiles with her impressive—and, at times, lethal—infiltration skills. 

Yeah, Ghost was stuck in her treacly trap—and he didn’t plan on escaping.

masterlist

taglist (join here): @tizylish @dheet @sinfulsalutations

[justarandombrit]

Okay well as you may know from looking at my blog for five seconds, I saw the matinee for Starkid Innit. During the interval and after the show I wrote down some notes. I tried to get them in chronological order but my memory is dogshit and I definitely missed some stuff, I hope you appreciate it though.

Outside:

. EVERYONE SUNG GRANGER DANGER

. IT WAS SO GOOD (except for the high note lmao)

. EVERYONE SUNG DAYS OF SUMMER

. EVERYONE A SMALL GROUP OF PEOPLE SUNG GOIN' BACK TO HOGWARTS

Act 1:

. The Nightmare Time sting punched me in the face

. The shout-out to the confused parents

. BRIAN + MEREDITH IN TGWDLM IS EVERYTHING TO ME

. High School Is Killing Me, Literal Monster and Nerdy Prudes Must Die all got mashed together!

. Corey!Richie is my Roman Empire

. Jaime in NPMD….

. Jaime had a different line to PJ’s original in Literal Monster. I couldn't hear half of it but it was different

. JEFF!MAX

. THE AUDIENCE SINGING RICHIE'S PART!!!!!! I'M NOT A LOSERRRRRRR

. TOGETHER!!!!!

. OUR DOORS ARE OPEN

. Jaime singing Sami/Harry ABOUT HER DOG (Nori)

. The audience whipping out the phone cameras

. CLARK SINGING I WAS GAVE ME SUCH INTENSE CHILLS

. Joey finally giving the white, male side characters attention

. Joey changing “I know I'm not a star” to “I know I'm not Clark”

. He pointed the mic at the audience for the “DEFINITELY NOT!”

. Joey mistimed his jump 😔😔

. Genuinely his best performance of Sidekick yet

. Joey making fun of Brian for not getting a big solo

. Brian kept pretending to beat him up, it was brilliant

. Not Over Yet is definitely Brian's song, shut up

. Brian accidentally singing the same verse twice (How does he always mess this song up?!?!?)

. My mum took a photo during the “EVIL PLAAAAANSSSS” bit and it was right when Brian was choking Joey

. “So look alive and don't forget”

“FORGET WHAT?”

. FEAST OR FAMINE

. Rogues Are We still goes so hard

. Rogues Medley without Kick It Up A Notch is weird, but Kick It Up A Notch without Dylan would definitely be weirder

Intermission:

. Ice cream :D

Act 2:

. Starting with We Got Work To Do is so iconic

. THERE'S BEEN A CHANGE IN THE CLIMATE, SOMETHING'S IN THE AIR, WE FEEL THE HEAT, NO NEED TO DEFINE IT, WE DON'T REALLY CARE

. MEREDITH REQUESTED BACK ON TOP!!!!!!!! AND IT WAS SO GOOOOD!!!!!!!

. Joey shouted “Draco, get on the floor!” at Lauren

. ALL THE UNDERRATED SONGS

. I love how it was hyped up like it was going to be Boy Toy, and then just straight up wasn't lmaooo

. Brian finally got the slow, sexy Hideous Creatures (Take that, Nick Lang!)

. Okay I'm trying to remember the order of the underrated songs they did

. Hideous Creatures (Lauren)

. Pays To Be an Animal (Corey) (He didn't sit in the spotlight and someone yelled “TO THE LEFT, COREY”)

. Get In My Mouth (Jeff) (He fully sprawled out on the stage it was hilarious)

. Land of the Dicks (Jaime)

. Hermione Can't Draw (Meredith) (She sung it so well I briefly didn't recognise the song)

. THEY MANAGED TO WORK IN LUPIN / BRIAN CAN'T SING YESSSS

. I genuinely cannot remember what Brian sung

. Gotta Find His Dick (Joey, and eventually everyone)

. The entire “Oh you wanna know where I got my shirt?” bit

. Brian, Jaime and Joey got it from Primark, Meredith got it from “Primed-mrak”, Lauren’s was a family heirloom, Corey got it from Gucci and Jeff got it from America, from Pri-mart (He made the guy on the drums do a baddum tsh)

. COREY SINGING SHOW STOPPIN' NUMBER. OH MY GOD. (The entire crowd joined in, also, Jeff and Jaime as Steve and Stu)

. Everyone cheering so loud when Joey and Lauren came on stage, and them claiming we had no idea what they were going to sing, and it was actually a completely new song (it was Granger Danger obviously)

. And them continuing to claim it was new throughout the song

. As I expected, I almost cried during Not Alone. Also apparently Darren thought it was going to be a big hit??? And just begrudgingly let them use it for A Very Potter Musical

. Super Friends!

. So sad Jeff’s mic was so quiet for “I WANNA BE A MODERN DANCER”

. THEY SUNG WANNABE BY THE SPICE GIRLS

. The fakeout of everyone leaving stage, then the band coming back on and playing the start of Goin' Back To Hogwarts

. “Darren's not here”

“I'LL DO IT”

. THE AUDIENCE DID THE FIRST PART OF GOIN' BACK TO HOGWARTS ALL BY OURSELVES

. JEFF DID DYLAN'S PART (but he didn't do “All of you to [city name] :( )

. Jeff pointed at various parts of the audience for “Welcome hotties, nerds and tools!” and then whispered “I'm so sorry” immediately after

. Singing (/ shouting) Goin' Back To Hogwarts along with hundreds of other Starkid fans was so exhilarating, I loved it and I almost cried (also I'm gonna be so hoarse tomorrow)

[ilexdiapason]

(part one here)

Martyn, as it turns out, only has three phone numbers memorised.

One of them is his own. The second is his mother’s, which he tries, and receives the unfortunate information that the number has been disconnected and leads nowhere.

He finally has some luck with the third, the landline phone number of his house - while nobody picks this up, either, it does connect to somewhere at least. Martyn is able to leave a voicemail explaining that he’s out of the situation he was in that meant he couldn’t come home, and that he’ll be there by tonight.

“Where’s there?” Oli asks, kind of hoping Martyn won’t need a lift to Bristol or anything out of the way like that.

“Nottingham,” Martyn replies, guarded.

Oh - that’s not so bad, then. “I can give you a lift down, if you need?”

“Aren’t you busy?”

“Oh, no.” Oli’s remote working today; as long as he keeps an eye on his emails, nobody should even notice he’s gone, and if he can always call in a family emergency if Martyn does take him up on the offer to drive. It is a family emergency, after all, it seems - just not Oli’s family.

Martyn perks up at the response, though. “Oh, I getcha. Job market, eh?” He makes a cutting motion across his throat, with noise to match.

“No, I’ve got a job! A pretty good one, actually. That’s why I can afford living on my own.”

“Ah.” A silence, and then Martyn flicks the phone back on in his hands. “Oh, god. December 2023?”

“... Yes?” Why did you not know what month it was? Or, from the sounds of it, what year?

“God, my mum’s gonna be out of her wits, that’s awful.” He flicks at the screen - then, sheepish, asks, “What’s your passcode?”

“Here, I’ll -” Oli takes it out of his hands, taps in the shape of a circle “- what d’you want?”

“Oh, I was just gonna google myself.”

Oli pulls up Google. Waits, expectantly.

“Er - Martyn Littlewood.”

And oh, jesus, yeah, that’s a missing persons case. Last seen April 2021, no wonder he was bloody worried about the year, suspect investigated but no proof identified, case well and truly cold.

Martyn must see it in his face the way he’s started, because he grimaces. “That bad?”

“About what you’d expect,” says Oli, turning the phone around to face Martyn. He snatches it, which is unexpected but honestly not out of character for the stuff he remembers from Martyn in-game.

Wait.

“Hold on - how were you getting on SMPs with us lot if you were… whatever you were?”

Martyn grimaces harder. “Long story. Difficult, too. Let’s just say there’s a lotta people who I last saw lunging for my neck, and they’re not gonna stop because I’m here.”

“Are you a wanted man? Do I need to barricade the doors, close the blinds, what?”

“Nah, nah - just keep me away from your computer.” He pauses again to consider that. “Actually. If you’re here, does that mean everyone else is too?”

“What, the other people on the server? Well, they’re not here, but I could message people if you want, say you’ve… I don’t know, turned up at Sainsbury’s?”

“I’m an ASDA man myself,” Martyn cracks, and then frowns at the screen. “So can I go on your Discord? I won’t send anything. I just want to know.”

“Erm - sure.”

He taps through, immediately lights up. “Scott!”

Ah, yeah, he had been DMing Scott this morning. Something about axolotls, if he’s not mistaken. “Yeah! He’s all the way in Brighton, though, I don’t know if I could swing that much of a lift.”

“And Bek. And Eloise, and - oh my god, I need to know what Sausage’s real name is.”

“I’ve never asked.”

“You just call him Sausage, all the time?”

“S’funny, innit?”

Martyn nods solemnly. “It is funny.”

He sits like that for a while, scrolling through Oli’s DM history, muttering names under his breath. “I mean,” says Oli, “we can add you, if you like.”

“God. Yeah, you prob’ly can. Let me try it.”

A few seconds later, and Martyn’s handing back the phone to Oli with a pending friend request to InTheLittleWood in tow. “Don’t know why you didn’t offer that before, if you’re so excited.”

“Couldn’t,” Martyn says nonchalantly.

“Right, and does that have something to do with this missing persons case of yours?”

His face falls. “Yeah, actually. Something like that.”

“Ah.”

They decide to wait until either his mum calls Oli back or Oli is officially clocked out of work to get back in the car. Until then, it seems like it’s time for Oli to get Martyn up to speed on the last… two and a half years, good lord, that’s a while…

(part three here)

[ayeyolooo]

Jealous girl

PLEASE READ THE WARNING BEFORE INTERACTING WITH THE POST

Part 1 |part 2

Warning; the character is black! She’s a thick girl,with thick thighs, cellulite, lower belly fat allat. There may be some uses of the ‘n’ word. It’s a little long. Gwen,pavitr,hobie,Margo and Miguel will all be mentioned.

Oh! And please excuse my grammatical errors! <3

Summary: Gwen brings a new spiderman to the building and he instantly clicks with you, Gwen on the other hand isn’t liking the clicking between the both of you.

“Mmhm girl like I was saying he ain’t a damn thing.” You said leaning over Margo’s desk as the two of you had your daily conversation gossiping . “Girl you know he not gone do that, Miguel knew you longer than he knew Gwen.” Margo shrugged.

“In fact he treats you like you’re his own daughter .” You just sighed and nodded agreeing with her as you pulled your mask up and over your mouth revealing your nose and your lips. You bit into your Jamaican patty and dusted your hands off. “Listen all I’m saying is ever since she got here things been off. plus ion think that she likes me very much.” You said taking another bite.

“Girl she don’t like me neither.” You and Margo just looked at eachother and busted out laughing. “Ouuu lemme see yo hair.” She said now noticing your long locs that you got done yesterday. You removed your mask revealing your beautiful brown eyes. Your nose piercing shimmered in the dim light as she ran her hands through your neat locs. You winced some as she apologized for being a little harsh.

“Girlll you look so cuteeee!!” She said hyping you up. You just smiled real hard while covering your face. “Thank youuu.” You said giggling and giving her a 360. “GYATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.” She said slapping your butt a few times. You and her just laughed and joked around. The doors opened having you and Margo look at the entrance. You seen hobie, Pavitr, gwen. And who is that?

He stood tall like about 6’0, he had curly hair and he had a sleeper build. He followed behind gwen as he and hobie talked with one another. You turned to Margo with wide eyes as she smiled at you and began to wiggle her eyebrows.

“You better go get him before ms. Winter tries to.” You just laughed as you bit into another piece of your patty. “Here you want the rest, imma go wash my hands and change out of my suit.” Margo nodded as she did a happy dance. She opened a portal to her room and walked through it to get the patty before closing it and munching down on the patty.

As you walked past you bumped into someone. “My bad.” A voice that you didn’t recognize spoke as he looked up and seen you the both of your senses went off as you took a shaky breath. What is that weird feelin? “It’s okkk.” You said with a smile. “I’m spiderman..” he said looking at you mesmerized. “Oh em geee meee tooo!” You said with a sarcastic expression as he laughed and shook his head. “Hey y/n.” Hobie said walking over to you and wrapping his arm around your neck. “Hiii hobieeee.” You said wrapping your arms around his thin waist. “Okay imma be right back I need to change my clothes outta this suit.” You said, as the two boys watched.

As you walked away hobie looked at miles and smirked. “Eyes up here mate.” Hobie laughed at miles shaking his head and licking his lips before letting out a chuckle. “Umm who is that?” Miles whispered as you talked and hugged all of the other Spider-Man’s. “Shes spider girl duhhh.” Hobie said laughing.

“Gimme 3 and a half minutes maybe even fo’ .” Miles said looking at you walk to your room. “ to do wha’?” Hobie asked as he looked at miles. “Nothing of courses.” Miles said with a sarcastic smile. “Guys Miguel wants us.” Gwen said with a little attitude behind her tone. “What’s wrong witchu?” Miles jerked his head back. “Nothings wrong.” She simply smiled before walking with another spiderman.

“Mm, she’s a jealous girl innit.” Hobie said shaking his head laughing. “What do you mean she’s jealous? We ain’t together? Plus ion see her like that no more.” Miles said shrugging. Gwen’s heart dropped ouch.

“Okay so I see that we have a new recruit. Where’s y/n?” Miguel said looking for you. “I think that she’s in her room.” Gwen said with a sour look on her face. “Well we need her for this task.” Miguel said.

“Can I lead this time? Ya know cause I never had a chance to.” Gwen spoke up. “No.” Miguel simply said in a cold tone having Margo make a ‘yikes.’ Face and having Gwen shrink down in her seat.

The doors opened and there you stood with a yellow sundress on, that brought out your dark skin complexion. “Nice to have you here y/n.” Miguel said with his back facing you all.

“Now we’re going to get into how this mission is going to go.” Miguel said.

•••

Once the meeting was over you yawned before walking to your room,that Miguel provided for you. As you were on the way you heard someone behind you call your name. You turned around with furrowed eyebrows and seen who called you.

It was the new boy. And boyyy wasn’t he bout finer than a tall glass of wine. Girllll dinnerrrrrr

You thought to yourself. “So I was wondering if I could get your number so that we could get to know eachother.” You looked at him up and down then began to tap your cheek. “Hm I dunno.” He just ran his hand down his face and did that lil smile then lick the lip combo thing and boy did your knees get weak.

“Lemme stop here you go.” You said holding your hand out for his phone. He placed his phone in your hand as he gently took your phone. The both of you swapped numbers and gave eachother your phones back. The two of you walked around the facility getting to know eachother. You two instantly clicked, you were so going to tell Margo and hobie once you got home. “It was nice meeting you miles.” You said with a smile ,and gave him a short hug before walking into your room.

As miles walked to hobies room, Gwen stopped him. “You know that she’s not going to take you serious right?” Miles jerked his head back. “Huh?” He jerked his head back. “Y/n she’s not going to take you serious. Like if you were looking to date her.” Gwen said miles just made a stank face to her.

“Get out my face Gwen. Because you had me,but you lost me. I found somebody else and now you tryna stop me?” Miles asked her. “N-no it’s not that it’s just.” Miles adam apple bobbed as he waited for her answer. “You jealous ain’t you?” He bent down so that he could hear her. “Of y/n? Of course not. I just don’t like her.” She snorted. “Girl bye.” He said walking past her. Sassy man apocalypse.

To be continued…

Hiiii my babiesssss :) I’m sorry that I haven’t posted in a while💔. I’ve been busy, buttttt did you like itttt!!?🤭 if you did I’m so happy that you did! And I’m thinking about doing a part two, what do y’all think? Until next time byeeeee :)

You will be hated by everyone because of me,but the only one who stands firm to the end will be saved.

Matthew 10:22!

[watermelonfrog2]

Fuck it, long post time.

Dsmp is so AAGGHH. I love it so much, its introduced me to some of the people I care about most and it has made me feel ways no other fandom has made me feel. I love the plotholes. I love the lack of consistency. I love how everyone has a different view on how the story played out. I love how if you asked someone what happened during a certain era their answer will be different from the next. I love the art. I love the animatics. I love the characters. I love the fanfiction. I love the story. I love the aus. I love how homemade it feels. I love how it feels like people wanted to make a cool thing so they made a cool thing. I love how the fandom took small bits of the ccs personality, added it to their character and ran with it. I love how each character had totally different motivations from any other character. I love how some things didnt make sense. I love how somethings never got answered. I love the ending. I love how somethings didnt end. I love unserious it was at times. I love how serious it was at times. I love the fans. I love the theories. I love the edits. I love the gacha reaction videos (ifykyk). I love Henry. I love c!tommy. I love exile arc. I love c!niki. I love the petwar. I love the lines, improvised or not. I love "If you wanna be a hero tommy? then die like one." I love c!SBI. I love c!Bee duo. I love c!disc duo. I love exile arc. I love pogtopia. I love l'manburg. I love c!ranboo. I love c!tubbo. I love the Big Innit/Manifold Hotel. I love shroud. I love how it was able to bring a large group of people together. I love how its let me make so many friends. I love the fandom. I love how its changed me. I love dsmp. Dsmp means so much to me because its become MY fandom. Its become what I return to when Im sad or happy. Its the only fandom I really read fics for. Its the only show/thing Ive cared about to this extent. Its the only show where Ive actually cared about a character. Its how I found my love of watching twitch streamers. It got me back into playing minecraft. It got me into writing. It makes me want to improve on my art. DSMP is my comfort fandom, my main fandom, everything and anything all at once. I love watching compilations of the characters. I love all the cosplays. I love how ive gotten into so many hobbies because of it. I owe my personality to C!tommy and cc!tommy and dsmp as a whole. I owe my internet presence to dsmp. It has such a special place in my heart. I love c!tommy. I love how he cares for animals. I love how hes mean and aggrressive and rude. I love how hes hurt adn traumatised and healing. I love the relationships between the characters. I love how c!tommy cares and he doesnt. I love how the discs mean so much to him. I love how his decisions are drived by emotions. I love him having so many attachments. I love how other people will think my view of him is wrong/different to theirs. I love how dsmp allowed me to experiment with who I am (personality wise). I love how dsmp entered me to a part of the internet I would never have seen before. I love how I feel nostalgic looking at the fanart or fansongs. I love. It all. I know this was really rambl-y but ive just been thinking about it and I have so many feelings. My concluding statement is: DSMP has shpaed me into who I am and no one can take it away from me. It will always have a special place in my heart.

[the-wayfinder-askblog]

Ahoy laddies and lassies, welcome aboard!

'Ello 'ello 'ello and welcome to the official Wayfinder askblog.

Before getting your noses into it, let us ask who Wayfinder! Sally is!

Wayfinder is one of the two Sally's in the multiverse. Shes there one and only cartographer and master navigator. Wayfinder travels to different Welcome Home AUs to map out the various neighborhoods, as well as its location in the multiverse. She lives in the Polaris Post Office with her son Courier (by @kokoiep)(one of the two multiversal Eddie's)

Before asking, be informed of the boundaries and rules:

No NSFW/suggestive topics

Be respectful (thats a given innit?)

Asks might take a long time to be answered if its drawn, but I can also reply in text for some.

Don't interact if youre a prosh-pper, or engage in WH NSFW.

Don't interact if you're transph-bic, homoph-bic or rac-sts. You are not welcome here.

Wayfinder's story is interconnected to the WH!Multiverse, so I will answer based on the boundaries of my fellow creators too.

Sally Starlet is still Clown's character, and I will follow his boundaries too.

Wayfinder's reference (updated):

(Old reference):

Having well been acquainted, have fun!

{Created by @bloomenvogel (with the assistance of @kokoiep )}

●{ additional important sidenote }●

Wayfinder's blog and a few WH Multiverse blogs are a part of an ongoing story which the official cast are :

Disclaimer:

Some asks post are part of the lore and some are just for fun interaction. #wttmvlore and #funinteractions will be the indicator of what will be canon to the on going story or not.

I would like to note that we're still working on the wttmv, so I hope that you all will have patience with us and at least enjoy the blogs that are currently active.

[curiouskurona]

honestly im tired of ppl only lieking lizzie bc of her skill in the book of atlantic . im tired of " lizzie supportive " posts that basically boil down to " i know she may SEEM liek some stupid awful girly girl , but look , theres a part where shes bloody !! what a badass !! "

the book of atlantic arc definitely gave her character some more depth , i understand that some ppl may have lieked her moar once they got some insight into tha things she was dealing with . but it feels liek im expected to liek her in SPITE of her girliness . or rather , liek im only allowed to liek how cutesy and girly she is because , " dont worry , shes ALSO a fencer !! dont worry , she was really cool n fought zombies liek a badass !! "

ive been in tha fandom since liek 5th grade ( i dont remember what year that was , but im 24 now , to put things in perspective . ive been here for a while , i know what tha fandom has been liek ) . to be fair ive interacted w tha fandom on and off over tha years , but it rlly seems liek tha attitude has shifted from :

before boa : ew lizzie is so annoying i hate her shes just a stupid pink girly girl that gets in tha way of everything , ciel definitely hates her hahaha !! eew she sucks !!

after boa : aaaah omg lizzie is so wonderful shes such a badass , omg she looks cute AND can use a sword , slay queen !! give us girls who are feminine AND kick ass 😎

okay .. what abt girls that are just feminine tho ... why did she have to showcase her fencing skills and defend ciel from zombies to be allowed to be cutesy . why was she considered super annoying and awful before boa , but now its liek we can " let that part of her slide " bc we know what shes capable of on tha inside . its tha misogyny innit .

idk . i know how rancid this fandom was wen i was a kid , which is why i distanced myself from it in tha first place . so really i should be happy that lizzie is finally getting some love , that things are changing for tha better , and that tha fandom is looking liek a better and better place . but it still bothers me that ppl only support this idea of lizzie as a cute badass . that when she was only known as a girly girl , everyone hated her . for what .. ? she never did anything to deserve so much hate , unless you count being a cutesy 13-14 year old girl a crime . but now that shes displayed that shes capable of violence , tha tone has shifted into loving her . okay .

idk . ranty post is moar of a diary / journal entry lol . and again i understand ppl who werent fans of her bc she didnt have much depth turning around and lieking her moar bc of how tha manga went into her struggles as a person . but tha ppl who hated her for being " annoying " suddenly kissing her ass bc she got to use her fencing skills and now they wont shut up about it ,, buzz off . can you appreciate something else about her please . shes kind and cheerful and cute and hardworking but all i ever hear is " wow , girls can wear dresses and fight at tha saem tiem !! "

[punkflower11]

Choose Your Own Adventure: Miles Morales - Part 5

Prev | Masterlist

————

Okay, time to diffuse this conversation.

"Tell me what? That his own father works for a fascist and oppressive organization intent on undermining a government of the people? Right, screw this. Sorry Miles, but I think I'm done 'ere."

He needed to do something and fast. By now, Miles definitely should have learned not to act upon the first idea that his mind supplies him with but apparently the universe thought that it was too out of character for him, so.

"You know, that's big talk coming from someone who looks like they'd tear apart the government themselves."

He could grab Hobie and kiss him. That... was certainly an idea. An idea that Miles would not be opposed to he thought, looking approvingly at Hobie's lips.

Ah, shit.

It was happening again.

What if he started choking? The absurdity of the notion slaps Miles across the face. Choosing to ignore how the fuck that idea spawned into his brain, Miles quickly decides that it would probably be the less stupid of the two ideas, given the circumstance.

(Not that it was the one that he preferred, of course.)

"Mate, you are literally proving my point by profiling me. That's exactly what officers like you are doing!"

Miles let out a singular, pathetic wheeze. It was the least convincing choking noise he had never heard, and definitely not enough to tear attention away from the conversation. Louder, Morales.

"'Officers like me?' Son, I don't think that I'm the one doing the profiling here-" the cop was cut off by a harsh cough to his left. Several pairs of eyes snapped in Miles direction.

Not that loud!

Seeing as he already had everyone's attention, he figured that may as well commit to the bit and continues hacking.

"Miles?"

"What's wrong with him?" Jeff asks, genuinely confused. Rio looks at him, incredulous.

"We call it 'coughing'," Hobie deadpans. Jefferson glares right back.

"Oh really? I had no idea."

"Hush. I think he might be choking on something." Rio observes. Miles begins another round of intense coughing. That's it, he thinks. Oh no, I'm dying! Be worried, pay attention to me and forget your quarrels!

Miraculously, it seems works as the arguing ceases and everyone grows concerned.

"Baby hold on- Does anyone know CPR?"

"Don't look at me." Jefferson tells her.

"'Punch to the gut 'll prob'ly help up," Hobie suggests.

What.

"What? No! In what way will winding him will help?" Yes, Thank you sane and reasonable person.

"Dunno, innit supposed to 'elp stun 'is diagram or somethin'?"

"What do you mean- that's exactly-"

"How on God's green Earth did you manage to pass Biology? Did you even pass Biology?"

"Guys, really not the time." Miles rasps. The three watched as Miles continues to figuratively cough up his soul, no doubt tainted by weeks of endless deceit.

The thing is that it wasn't even good deception. If Miles wasn't already cursed for lying then bad acting was definitely a runner-up.

"We should punch him." Please don't.

"Try it and see what happens."

"Miles, hold on-"

“You know what, I think I'm actually starting to feel a little better now, so y-” Oh no.

That's when Miles actually begins to choke.

It's kind of hilarious. What moron thinks he can fool his family by pretending to choke, and then in the process actually starts choking? Miles wants to scoff at the comical misfortune, but can't because at the moment is busy coughing up his own lungs.

Miles feels a hand begin rub circles his around back. Tearing his gaze from the table to find the owner of the arm, his eyes find Hobie. At this Miles dies a little on the inside, dumbstruck by Hobie's touch. He tries not to overthink it. Tries.

Fortunately, his coughing begins to tapper off shortly after downing two glasses of water (his own and Hobie's). Never doing that again, he promises himself, clearing his throat.

"You police and all ya shady tactics." Hobie scoffs. 'Wanna help people.' What a load of bull."

Miles was about to pound his boyfriend's head in for cursing but decided to let it slide as his voice was a bit sore.

"I'm shady?" Jefferson reeled, incredulous. "Alright then, I'd like to know what you were doing with Miles all that time he was at your house." Oh shit. They did not prepare for this.

"Well we- uh, ahem. That's nunya effin' business. As if I would sell Miles out to a copper."

"Well as a 'copper' and his father I'm the best person he could trust." Yikes. This was not a road Miles wanted to go down tonight.

"And I’m asking you to for once get your head out of your arse- er, assets, and try see it from his perspective!”

"This is who you’re dating? Really, Miles? This guy.” Jefferson asks Miles. "I’m just gonna say it. I don’t like him."

"Funny, because I don't remember asking you to." Miles replies, irritated. He isn't sure why, but this tips him the wrong way.

"Miles," Rio warns.

"I’m sorry but no, actually. You asked to meet him and here he is. Why do you have to like him? I do, and really, that should be enough. All I've asked you to do is sit at the same table with him for ten minutes and not kill each other, which for some reason is proving to be a difficult task."

Honestly so what if his parents didn’t like everything about Hobie. Did it really matter if they didn’t approve of his clothes, attitude or opinions so long as Miles was cool with it? In the end he was the one dating the teen, not his parents.

“He is an anarchist-”

"He's also my boyfriend, who clearly happens to care about me. Didn't you tell me to watch out for people who have my back? Guess what; Hobie has my back. Even when you can't." He knows it’s cruel, but it doesn’t stop him.

Underneath the table Hobie intertwines his fingers with Miles’ and gives the hold an encouraging squeeze. Miles continues.

"I'm not asking you to love him. I mean, I would appreciate it, but just getting along would more than enough."

Surprisingly, this seems to silence any remaining disputes. Reluctantly, both Hobie and his Dad turn their attention back to the once abandoned meals.

The stillness is stiff and uncomfortable, which Miles knows he’s likely responsible for.

Miles hates how much of this he has to fight tooth and nail for. And how in the end it wasn't going to matter as he and Hobie weren't even seeing each other in the first place.

If a little part of Miles was somewhat hoping that the whole experience could bring two together, it had proved to be a dumb idea. He wasn't exactly sure why he thought it would work, as fake dating was always recipe doomed to fail spectacularly. Which was fair, as deception hadn't done much for him anyways.

Oh well. Guess you can't lie your way into happy parents and a free boyfriend. It was really too bad.

"I know that it's probably impossible for just one cop to change a system. In fact, sometimes I think I might be contributing to it, doing more harm than good." Jefferson eventually says. "But damn if I won't try anyways."

Miles is left stunned. His eyes follow Hobie who seems to be having a similar reaction to the words. What shocks him even more is the admiration he finds twinkling in the teen's eyes.

"I... actually respect that. A lot."

"You're a little odd, but I think I understand where you're coming from. Miles seems to like you, so you must be alright." Rio adds.

"Yeah. Even if you still look like vandalism and bad ideas." the officer chuckles. Hobie grins mischievously.

"Guilty."

"And you're grades are alright?"

"Dad."

"My grades are brilliant." Funny enough, this was actually true.

"I had to ask."

"You really didn't."

"They had better be for all that silver crap you wear." Jefferson then says to Hobie, much to Miles' mortification. Thankfully, Hobie's response to this is to laugh.

"S'what Abe said too."

"He sounds like a smart guy."

"He wishes." Hobie snorts.

"That your brother?"

"Unfortunately."

"I had a brother." the elder takes a sip from his glass.

"I heard. Sorry 'bout that one." Jefferson smiles, bittersweet.

"All good. Just gotta keep pushin' you know?"

"Yeah."

The four continued to converse throughout the evening, managing to steer clear of any more hiccups. Rio and Hobie engage in a light debate over whether Elvis Presley was really an icon or a fraud, and later, Hobie shares his love of 'expressive art' with Miles' parents.

("I even did this piece on the B's bridge last week," Jefferson chokes on his water.

"Wait, that was you?")

Eventually the dishes were scrubbed clean after Rio's insistence that everyone take a fifth serving (Hobie somehow able to eat more meanwhile Miles was on the verge of combustion) when Miles decided to take the opportunity and excuse the two from the table.

"If you don’t mind, Hobie and I are gonna tap out now." He says, arising from the station. Miles looks to the other and smiles tellingly.

"My room?" Hobie chirps a 'sure' and gets up, following Miles down the corridor.

"Remember to leave the door open!" he hears Rio call from behind him.

"Right." He was not doing that.

Sliding down the corridor with help from his socks, Hobie purposefully slams into Miles. The two stumble forward, awkwardly catching each other all whilst failing to stifle their laughter.

"You boys better be behaving yourselves!" A voice sounds from the kitchen.

Miles stills and gives Hobie a pointed look, grabbing the other by his hand. Hobie fastens the grip and doesn't let go. Instead, he pulls Miles in closer and playfully presses a kiss to his forehead.

"For performance points," Bastard. Heart pounding in his ears, Miles half-hardheartedly rolls his eyes before pushing open the door to his bedroom. Hobie wastes no time in collapsing onto Miles' bed as the door swings closed behind them. Draping himself over his desk chair, Miles sighs a breath of relief.

"We actually pulled that off. Huh."

"I can hardly believe it myself."

"I guess fake dating really does work."

"Careful, you don’t want to jinx it." Miles jokes.

He watches Hobie's gaze thoughtfully trail around his room from his posters, to figurines and art supplies. In a way, having Hobie in his room felt like opening him up an intimate part of Miles' life. Encompassed around his own personal space, filled to the brim with personality and expression. The last non-relative person to visit his room had been Gwen, who, at the time Miles had also low key had a thing for-

-and why exactly was he drawing parallels between people he liked visiting his room-

-honestly it was almost like he enjoyed setting himself up for disaster but-

"Did your mom actually play trombone in high school?" Hobie asks suddenly, fishing Miles from out of his spiral.

"Yup. She’s really proud of it."

"I liked her. Concise." Hobie chuckles.

"Well she hasn’t expressly forbid me from seeing you yet so I’d say that’s a good sign." He says, thoughtful.

"And Jefferson?" Miles winces.

"He doesn't hate you. Dislike certainty, but I think he respects you."

"'e’s not too terrible himself." Hobie shrugs.

"Glad you think so." Miles says dryly.

"But we aren't dating," Hobie points out.

So it doesn't matter anyways.

Miles frowns.

"Guess not." Hobie cocks his head to the right.

"You sound bummed."

"I mean, a little." Miles stiffens.

Did he really just say that?

Out loud?

Goddammit Morales.

"Could have been fun." he hastily adds.

"The food was good," Fortunately Hobie doesn't seem to catch on to the slip up.

"Aye. Shame I can’t eat like that every night." Hobie pokes fun.

Well.

Technically,

"You’re always welcome back, you know. I’m sure my mom would be ecstatic to have you." Miles pokes fun.

"As your…?"

"Which ever. Friend. Boyfriend." Hopefully both. "Just show up as yourself, whoever that is."

"Cool. I uh, should probably head out now."

"Right. Want me to show you out?"

"Out your window?" He asks, confused. Right. Because leaving through the front door is apparently a foreign concept.

"Never mind. So, see you in a bit?" Miles watches as Hobie slides open the unlocked window.

"Sure thing babe." Hobie says whilst climbing out of the room.

What if.

The idea grabs and shakes him by the shoulders, but once it pops up it's definitely there.

Technically, nothing was stopping Miles from asking Hobie out right now. Except for the fact that, well, it was crazy.

It wasn't even a question of whether he liked him or not. Frankly, It was so painfully obvious that it was a good thing his parents thought that they were already dating.

Plus, was it really okay to ask the universe for more? Because, really, it had already been a miracle that tonight had turned out okay. The chance that he could monumentally fuck things up between them were so high on the scale that it should have scared him into going back to chasing Gwen.

But they didn't.

Wait, Miles was getting ahead of himself here. Did Hobie even like him back? Even reading into it was difficult. Additionally, Miles knew that Hobie was a flirt. While it was nice to think that the gestures were sweet, in reality they were probably meaningless. Ouch.

Then again, what was the worst that could happen? It wasn't like Miles was expecting him to say yes anyways. At least this way he'll always know that he tried, and that for sure that nothing was ever there.

"Hobie wait," He blurts out before he's finished weighing the pros and cons.

"Yeah?" Hobie waits, one foot out the window. Miles inhales sharply.

Was this it?

Now or never.

massive shout out to my beta beloved @ihrtwillow for helping with me out with that ending. yeesh.

[bubuslutty]

part 8: carpool karaoke

Pairing: platonic moon boys x fem!reader

word count: 897

Tags: reader is referred to darling because i said so (and steven calls her darling cuz he’s a lil british dude innit), some fluff with our boy Jake!!

Warnings: none

Summary: darling stays late to the library and texts jake to come n pick her up

a/n: Nu Nu & You Wish by Flyana Boss

Me: jake

Me: are you done with work?

Jake: yeah why?

Me: are you home?

Jake: not yet

Me: can you pick me up pls?

Jake: where are you?

Me: library

Jake: I’ll be there in 15

Darling waits for Jake in front of the library building, hood pulled over her head and trying to act like a roadman so she won’t get harassed or killed by some stranger in the middle of the night.

When Jake pulls up in his black taxi, she sighs in relief, bag slung over her shoulder and opens the passenger door, getting in and chucking her bag into the back seats.

“How was work?” She asked, turning her head to look at the man, a dark shadow cast over his eyes due to his hat, his gloved fingers resting on the wheel.

“Good, how was studying?” He asked.

“Torture, can I play some music?” 

“Sure. Are you hungry?” Jake asked and she paused for a second, “A bit yeah, do you want to go somewhere specific?”

Jake ends up driving them to his favourite Kebab place while Darling sings along to the music playing through the car’s speakers. And Jake bobs his head along the beat, tapping his fingers against the wheel when they’re at a red light while Darling sings her heart out to the cuntiest and girliest song ever, and this time it’s songs from a duo called Flyana Boss.

She even goes as far as to make a whole seated choreography in his passenger seat while he glances at her once in a while, secretly amused. She sure has a lot of energy when she has very visible dark circles and droopy tired eyes, maybe it’s human zoomies or some shit, whatever it is, it gives Jake some entertainment in his otherwise empty cab.

Jake also ends up victim to listening to whatever new music she’s listening to at the moment, gracing his ears with new noises and melodies every other week when he has to drive her somewhere. And sometimes, he adds some of her played songs to his own Spotify playlist, without telling her of course, because that’ll make her ego big for no reason and annoy him.

And when they do get kebabs, they sit at a two-person table, facing each other while eating. And Darling is rambling and babbling about random things, she does that sometimes, if she gets enough tired, she somehow becomes delusional and starts talking with no filter.

Jake doesn’t mind the chatting, he’s just happy to be eating something before passing out in bed to rest. But hanging out with their neighbour is also nice. It was nice to have to listen to another voice other than Khonshu’s or the screams of death and pain in dark hallways.

Jake doesn’t tell her about his job, she knows he’s a cab driver as cover, but has never asked anything about what he actually does. And she’s no dummy, she knows he serves Khonshu’s justice with his fists and a gun strapped up to him at all times.

To put it shortly, he’s quite a grey character while she’s violently colourful.

“Yep, that’s what I’m talking about, yummy in my tummy-” Darling talks to herself and nods while devouring her kebab and shoving chips down her throat.

“Thanks for paying, by the way.” She thanks him without looking up.

“Don’t worry about it, anything for my favourite clown.” Jake teases, taking off his hat and running his hand through his slicked-back hair, white crisp button-up stretching over his broad shoulders, muscled back and biceps.

“Hey!” Darling glares at him and he laughs, “You’re a clown. You sometimes dress like one, and you procrastinate revising for tests and then when they approach, you have a panic attack and Steven has to hold your hand while you revise.” 

“Don’t make fun of me, I’m trying!” Darling whines, taking a swing from her Fanta.

“I know,” Jake says, and that’s one of the closest things he can get to as a compliment.

“I’m done, let’s go.” Darling eventually says, slapping her hands on her thighs like a 40-year-old dad and starts cleaning up the table while Jake helps and wears his jacket and hat.

“Cheers, bossman! Good night!” Darling says loudly, giving the man behind the counter a thumbs up and walking out of the door as Jake gives the man a polite nod.

Jake unlocks the cab and goes around to his door, and when he notices her still standing there, he frowns, “What are you doing?”

“Look,” She points at the sky, behind him, and he turns around, “The moon looks beautiful tonight.” 

Jake looks up at the sky, free of any clouds and sees the bright moon shining in the middle of the sky, in all of its beautiful glory, “Hm, it’s nice.”

“Jake, whatever you’ve done tonight, you did a good thing. So thank you.” Darling says, voice low, almost a whisper.

Jake doesn’t say anything and keeps staring at the moon, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. He shivers and turns to look at her, “Get in, Steven has class tomorrow and so do you.” 

“Fine, mum.” Darling groans dramatically and gets in the car, buckling herself in.

“Can I play some mu-”

“Hell nah.”

“Why not? I thought you liked my music?”

“You’ve had your turn, now it’s mine.”

Tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @bobastayhigh @weblesstherains @h-leigh @unspokenmoon @ahookedheroespureheart @thursdaywritings @gebstargeb