#dogs frock

[wri0thesley]

npc fontaine fashion stay winning

[ourfag]

if you could give ed (and stede, if you like!) exactly 1 stuffed animal of your choice (each) what would it be?

[feddy-34]

For your ship ask game, perhaps some Fred/Brock ?

see below, pt. 2

2. look at that size difference yo (brock's massive ass balances it out tho they have equal mass) (call that physics)

3. cat people (derogatory)

[portrait-paintings]

Lord and Lady Twemlow

Artist: William Barraud (British, 1810 - 1850)

Date: Late 1840's

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut

[shevaults]

so personally i think my dogmeat's armor is adorable

[wrapinfur-petcare]

Clothing for dogs is becoming increasingly popular, with a wide variety of options available. Dog clothing ranges from practical items like raincoats and boots to fashionable items like frocks and t-shirts. Pet owners should consider their dog's comfort and needs when choosing clothing and ensure it fits properly to avoid discomfort or injury.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Is there any chance we could have a round up of the Circus? I am so lost on how the dominoes fell over the last 40 days

Okay this is not comprehensive, because (a) my husband the politics nerd is currently on his way to a gig in west Wales somewhere and so cannot chime in and also (b) all our political journalist friends are understandably quite busy right now doing political journaling, but I seem to have an influx of new followers who are also very confused and don't understand what's going on, so I shall try.

Alright so what we're seeing here is the Second Clownfall of 2022, the hotly anticipated sequel to the Adventures of Big Dog the Clown. However it revolves around the character of Liz Truss, and will use some terminology, so

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

...okay I think that's everything. On with the show!

The Premiership of Liz Truss (2022-2022)

Week One

We begin our tale on September 5th, 2022. Coincidentally, that was also the date that I personally started my new job. Let's see which of us does better!

The Daily Mail is delighted, and runs a headline proclaiming "Cometh the hour, cometh the woman". Tory rag in a frock coat the Financial Times runs an op-ed:

So the results ARE IN! She will definitely fuck us up! But that's a good thing for vague reasons! Blitz spirit everyone. Tally ho, pip pip, shoot a servant and have sex with a wall, hey what. Good old Blighty.

(That's my best impression of Tories I'm good at their accents I hope you like it)

Truss does an interview with Laura Kuenssberg, and fellow guest and comedian Joe Lycett wildly and effusively applauds her every word. Even Liz realises no one would sincerely applaud her. Bafflingly, the entire right wing press and every member of the Tory party freak out about this, because they don't understand the function of a satirist and don't know how to defend against it. It is extremely funny. Joe Lycett announces he's a right-wing comedian now, and begins a new extended career bit effusively and sarcastically praising right wing politicians. They all cry extensively and call him mean.

SO, it's been a long hard leadership campaign! But she made it. For years, Tories have been blighted by the curse of the PM/Chancellor relationship, backstabbing and cheating and lying about each other to try and get power. But not our Liz, oh no; her Chancellor is Maths Mate and BFF Kwasi Kwarteng, an insipid and poisonous gnome known for three (3) things:

He once wrote a stupid book with Liz Truss about his stupid opinions on how he thinks economics work and everyone laughed at him and stuffed him in a locker

On the night of the Brexit vote he was overheard by a journalist gleefully saying “Who cares if sterling crashes? It will come back up again“ which are of course the words of a man who knows all about economics and how they work

This fucking bullshit back in July:

But hey IT'S OKAY! Everything is fine! Because Liz and Kwasi are BFFs who certainly never had an affair and are marching in lockstep and have each other's backs and both love maths more than their own children if they had any! Maths Friends!

Multiple resignations immediately follow.

Among them is Ben Elliot, the Tory Party chair, which is a pretty big deal from a man who just lived through the Johnson years; also, shockingly, Priti Patel, the deportation-happy Home Secretary, decides that even as an animatronic goblin she cannot support this nonsense.

It's not a resignation per se, but at ten to seven in the evening it's announced that Andrew Bridgen, the Troy MP for Leicestershire North West, has been evicted from his home and ordered to pay £800,000 in legal costs, and a possible £244,000 in rent arrears. Also described as "dishonest" by a judge.

This is not directly relevant to Liz Truss but look, it was a staggeringly weird day and this was basically the topper.

Anyway.

Liz goes to the Palace and is duly sworn in by the Queen, who promptly keels over and dies the very next day. Parliament is instantly shut down for mandatory mourning. As omens go, this one was not subtle.

This triggers the circulation of some very awkward footage of Young Truss talking about how she thinks the Monarchy should be abolished for being a gross relic of horrifying social stratification. However you must understand that it's not awkward because anyone thinks she murdered the Queen. It's because Liz Truss's attempts at public speaking are like sitting through a children's Christmas play when you're the only person in the audience and they can all see your face so you have to look encouraging for four hours when inside you are shrivelling into something approximating an apricot pit travelling to the core of Jupiter.

Take a look at her acceptance speech and wither.

Anyway we're now several MPs and a queen down so she's got to get on replacing those so she can focus on her real love: the much-anticipated mini-budget that she is preparing with Kwasi to save the UK from the harrowing quagmire of crippling poverty that Big Dog managed to drive us into (all while pretending it wasn't Big Dog who did it.)

Fortunately, she does not need to replace the queen! Monarchies take care of themselves, which many people would argue is very much the problem, of course. They had a proper reunion with Meghan From Suits and Meghan From Suits' husband, both of whom were banned from visiting Balmoral, and also the Nonce flew in, who was allowed to visit Balmoral. Such heartwarming scenes.

But the Cabinet, that's another matter. That's something Liz DOES have to do, and it's important she gets it right, Tumblrs, because you see, every time a Cabinet minister is replaced it's expensive and a hassle and it weakens a government by making them look all crumbly, like a packet of biscuits that's been rammed against a wall and now someone is opening it and everyone is bracing for Crumbs.

So, step forward to the Cabinet soulless ghoul Suella Braverman, the new Home Secretary. She immediately distinguishes herself by trying to legalise torture.

And then, naturally,

YEAH THAT'S RIGHT IT'S TICK TOCK TERF O'CLOCK also FUCK the sovereignty of the Scottish Parliament amirite ladies lol Girl Power uwu

Not that she can actually do anything at this point, of course. As I say: Enforced Mourning is in process, which means Parliament is shut down for ten days. No work, no speeches, no appearances, no announcements, just taxpayer's money going on legal fees to see if she can interfere with another nation's elected government in order to strip away the human rights of queer people.

However, while we all weep over the corpse of Queen Lizzie Two and beat our breasts in grief, the already-beleaguered pound is slowly bleeding out through this inaction. And this, to the Maths Mates, is unacceptable.

Two things get quietly slid into the news cycle.

Thing the First:

BIG YIKES LADS

Thing the Second:

Fracking ban in England lifted in bid to boost UK gas supply - BBC News

For those who don't know, fracking is an energy extraction process. Water, gas and dust are pumped at high pressure into shale bedrock to crack it open, releasing pockets of natural gas that can then be harvested for fuel. It's environmentally disastrous for multiple reasons, both direct (earthquakes, groundwater pollution, social impacts) and indirect (IT'S STILL A FOSSIL FUEL YOU STUPID CUNTS ARE YOUR SKULLS FUCKING EMPTY). The Welsh and Scottish governments have both banned it outright, a straight-up "Foot down no, petal". England, though, is the Tory paradise, so the ban was less complete.

However, this is still a Huge Deal - the 2019 Tory manifesto was very clear that fracking would only be unbanned IF "the science shows categorically that it can be done safely". In fact, most Tories don't like it either. Their constituents REALLY don't. Also in March Kwasi Kwarteng literally went on record and said it wouldn't lower European gas prices anyway; but not anymore! Now he thinks it's a zippy idea. Just spiffing. Top hole, pip pip (I'm so good at their accents :))

Scientists who have been studying the environmental impacts of fracking produce their report -

And it is quietly buried, so as not to offend the corpse of Lizzie Two.

Here ends the first four days of the Reign of Liz Truss.

Second Week

Anyway, royalists have gone insane and started a REALLY BIG queue to see a box that supposedly contains the rotting cadaver of the old queen. Multiple people have to be hospitalised because they join the Queue and don't take food, water, warm clothes, or essential daily medications with them, even though the Queue is literally days long. Some die. Many take the ashes of their own loved ones so they can wave them at the box for the thirty seconds they get to be in front of it, like a sort of play date for ashes.

Prince Charles, now King Prince Charles, starts swanning about as King, demanding everyone be sad for him and clap him to cheer him up. Someone holds up a sign saying 'Not my King' and gets arrested. This triggers a whole wave of protests and arrests as free speech slides out the window, until the Met Police chief has to step in and explain to the police like they're five-year-olds that they can't do that, actually, and need to cut that shit out.

But we can't wholly blame the police, because the main pressure to clamp down on protestors actually came from...

The government.

Meanwhile the country goes bat shit fucking insane. In order not to offend the fragile sensibilities of royalists, now so brittle they need to be treated with the same delicate touch normally reserved for unstable nitroglycerin, the UK sees supermarkets lowering the volume of self-serve checkout desks, people's funerals cancelled, vital operations and other medical interventions postponed, Centre Parcs cancelling holidays, FOOD BANKS CLOSING, Nintendo Direct cancelling its live stream in Britain (but not cancelling the release of the recording onto You Tube an hour later because as we all know Queen Elizabeth II was a MASSIVE livestream fan and would have been DEVASTATED to miss it but she was very 'meh' about YouTube), cycle racks being closed, and this unhinged shrieking harridan:

Very normal, lads. Very normal.

Oh and also they cancelled Owain Glyndwr Day so as a Welsh person I am now legally allowed to forcibly ram a daffodil into the urethras of the landed English gentry.

However, the protests grow as the suppression wanes. By the time King Prince Charles comes to Wales, he is met with silent protests, this guy who learned a sentence in Welsh specially for the occasion, and a petition to abolish the Prince of Wales title.

Except government is still shut down, so the petitions are all suspended.

But not to worry! That gives the Maths Mates more time to work on their special mini-budget.

Week Three

More of the same at first, really, but she finally addresses the nation to announce that the Queen was the "rock" on which "modern Britain was built".

Also someone finally spots that the necklace she always wears is a day collar, so that was fun.

BUT THEN

The moment we have all been waiting for, with baited breath.

On the 23rd September, 2022, the mini-budget finally arrives. The golden egg of Kwasi and Liz, their beloved, beautiful child, the crowning glory, the culmination of their economic beliefs and values. They are so proud of it, so sure of it, that they do not even submit it for the approval of the Office for Budget Responsibility. Why should they? This is the moment Kwarteng can finally show the world that he was right; that this is the way to do economics after all; that he alone in his brilliance and genius has reinvented the field and will lead the country to a new era of riches and prosperity.

And the pound does this:

Yikes.

Truss goes into hiding for a day and a half, during which time her aids claim all her relatives have died so she won't have to speak to the press, which is obviously a simply fantastic quality in a Prime Minister. Finally, she resurfaces by doing a series of radio interviews for regional stations around the UK, hoping they'll be easier on her, starting with Radio Leeds. The good journalists of Yorkshire eviscerate her and strew her corpse through Adel Woods. It's downhill from there.

Week Four

One poll puts Labour 33 points ahead of the Tories.

It can be a little difficult to translate polls, because the electoral system is complex, so I asked my journalist friends. They cheerfully informed me that, if translated into a General Election, the Tories would have just 3 seats left.

Except! Of course, naturally, that is me reporting naught but the most extreme result, Tumblrs, dancing upon the bones of my enemies as I chant the rites to make the Tory party die faster. If I were to be fair about this - and I am, of course, a journalist of Integrity and Morals - I would actually give the average poll result. And I am wise and fair to all, ancient rites aside, so I shall.

The average poll result is still 19 points ahead.

Tony Blair's landslide Labour victory in 1999 was 12 points.

Rounding off the day, Labour declare that they are backing a change to a proportional representation voting system in place of the UK’s archaic first past the post system. Funny that.

Anyway, that mini-budget is going poorly. Realising unlimited borrowing rather than tax cuts for the rich is maybe Bad Actually, the Maths Mates decide to get the money for their bail-outs some other way. Can you guess, Tumblrs? Can you guess where they decide to get the money from?

Naturally.

Week Five

In a fascinating little twist, the papers claim Liz banned King Prince Charles from going to the Climate Summit in Egypt. This is interesting for about a billion reasons, not least of which is that the papers seem very angry about this and yet also that it's an unsubstantiated rumour - the phrase "it's understood that _" gets a hell of a workout.

She then does not go herself. Makes sense. They'll probably be mean to her about the fracking.

She then loses the support of the Daily Mail, a paper that five weeks before were ecstatic about her rise to power :( so sad. But why? What made them change their minds?

Well. What else from Truss, but a massive and catastrophic u-turn on the economy?

And she does! The absolute nutter!

Plans to cut the 45p tax rate for those earning upwards of £150,000 were abandoned, as were:

abolishing the planned rise in corporation tax

cutting the basic rate of income tax

the two-year energy bill support plan

scrapping the planned dividend tax hike

VAT-free shopping for international tourists

freezing alcohol duty

easing of IR25 rules for the self-employed

ALL GONE! All gone. The mini-budget is not working so lol jk we'll think of something else, that's how government works, right? The pound promptly implodes further. Of all people, Nadine Dorries is the one to criticise

WE ARE IN A TOPSY TURVEY UPSIDE DOWN WORLD

The Daily Mail still finds a way to say it's all Michael Gove's fault, though.

Anyway, the 5th October dawns bright and beautiful and YouGov polls rural voters:

THIS IS HUUUUUUUUUGE, because farmers just will not fucking stop voting Tory, AND YET. Wowsers. Not just popularity. Voting intention. She might as well have personally infected every farm in the South Downs with foot and mouth disease.

Truss realises her popularity is plummeting and she needs a new audience. She tries to appear down with the kids and declares that she's the only PM to have gone to a comprehensive school.

This is not true. Gordon Brown and Theresa May both did. However, it's certainly true that all three of them became PM by ousting a sitting PM, so there's that I guess.

Week Six

At this point I can start putting in PRECISE DATEs just call ME Robert Peston.

13th October

News reporters start speculating that she'll be done by the end of the month as the first rumoured letter of no confidence reaches us. People realise that her competition for shortest serving PM was a guy who died in office of TB at about the four month mark RIP king sorry about your lungs.

(A reminder - normally, if MPs want to oust a party leader, they must send in 54 letters of no confidence. This makes the 1922 Committee - a bunch of back benchers who preside over this shit - hold a vote of no confidence. A leader who loses gives way - this is very rare. A leader who wins is then immune to another such vote for 12 months, but they almost always crumble within a month or two anyway - this is much more common.)

This is extremely funny, because a newly-elected leader of the party has a 12 month immunity to votes of no confidence, same as people who've won such a vote. Likes charge reblogs cast apparently. MPs are getting desperate.

Pressure mounts. Chancellor Kwasi Kwarteng announces that he is "Not going anywhere."

14th October

Chancellor Kwasi Kwarteng is sacked and blamed for the entire economic mess.

Incredibly, Liz does this without first planning a replacement, so it's several hours before Jeremy Cunt suddenly reappears like the spectre at the fucking feast.

Meanwhile here's Ed Milliband on Twitter

Seven and a half years he waited to retweet that. Seven and a half long years, look, to have the last laugh.

In the end, he still went too soon.

15th October

Deputy PM and also Health Minister Therese Coffey (side note - have they always doubled up in roles like that? Or are there just not enough of them anymore?) announces that she loves antibiotic resistance and dead kids and also breaking laws:

16th October

The Sunday Times calls for Extremely Corrupt Former Grand Vizier Rishi Sunak to take over, and then a General Election so that Labour can take the reins.

The SUNDAY TIMES

Calling for LABOUR

The Sunday Mail tries to stir up support for Ben Wallace taking over, because no one has heard of Ben Wallace so he needs the boost, but then accidentally publish their front page with a different man

In another YouGov poll for the Times, not a single political group, age group, area of the country, gender, or other demographic said that Liz Truss was the right choice for PM

This is the new predicted election graph:

Yikes

17th October

The projected election results are a Labour victory so complete the opposition would be the SNP. Legend suggests Nicola Sturgeon's cackle on finding out was so powerful she accidentally resurrected a witchfinder.

18th October

Meanwhile in the Senedd, Welsh Tory leader Andrew RT Davies, a sort of humanoid boil dressed in ham, tries to accuse placid and gentle First Minister for Wales Mark Drakeford's Labour of being responsible for long ambulance waiting times.

T'was a mistake.

19th October

Oh boy.

Well, first of all, Suella Braverman sends an official email from her private email address, and then promptly leaves the Cabinet at cannonball speeds as though she's seen a brown child about to be given citizenship. Was she quietly fired by Jeremy Cunt? Did she do it deliberately to resign? On her way out, she blames the true source of our problems - the Guardian-reading, tofu-eating Wokerati.

Nigella Lawson spends the day tweeting tofu recipes.

Meanwhile, Graham Brady, the Chair of the 1922 Committee, comes to Liz Truss to inform her that he has in fact now received 54 letters of no confidence. Normally, of course, that would be considered enough to trigger a vote in her leadership; but not now.

However, these are unprecedented times. So he changes the threshold - if half of the Tories send him letters, her immunity will be revoked.

But the thing is, Tumblrs, the thing is...

It is all about to kick off in the most spectacular and catastrophic fireworks since Guy Fawkes had a dream.

Because Ed Milliband, once accused of leading the country to chaos and now riding high on the joy of his well-timed Twitter jab of Some Days Ago, wakes this morning and chooses violence.

He has spotted, of course, that no one likes fracking; even the Tories are against it.

He has also spotted that Liz Truss is very stupid.

So he goes into the House of Commons, and he digs a big pit and covers it over with twigs and leaves so it can't be seen, and he bakes a big cake and he places it in the middle of the twigs, and he sets up a net to fall as well and a big stick of ACME dynamite, and he hammers in little signs everywhere saying CAUTION - TRAP, by which I am of course being metaphorical because what he actually does is table a motion to extend the moratorium on fracking. The signs aren't necessary, really. This trap is easy to avoid.

All Liz Truss has to do, you see, is not use a three-line whip on this vote.

The three-line whip, as you'll all recall, is the highest level of coercion. MPs cannot defy a three-line whip. MPs cannot even abstain on a three-line whip. MPs have two choices on a three-line whip: to vote as they're told, or to be removed from the party. You obey or resign. That's all.

For this reason, it's sometimes called a 'confidence vote', as it is effectively a stand-in for one. The vote is not about the issue at hand - this is now a vote of confidence in your leader.

(He's also laid lesser traps. Years back when fracking was first being heavily discussed, Ed was Labour leader and one of the main figures in those discussions. During today, before it all Kicks The Fuck Off, a Tory stands and challenges him on previous statements about fracking, trying to accuse him of hypocrisy.

He was fucking ready for it.)

Graham Brady pops his head back around the door. He's changed his mind - a third of the party is all that's needed now to trigger a vote of no confidence in Liz Truss. And legend says he's only 17 off.

This is presumably the reason for what comes next.

Liz panics. Liz sees she's desperately unpopular. Liz sees that she has to do something to shore up support; and she sees that her important fracking rule, which her party hates her for, is now being challenged by a former Labour leader, and if he wins (which he will) she'll lose all credibility and maybe they'll take her nice office away and tell her she was a Bad Girl.

And so, with the inevitability of gravity on the now-leaden pound sterling, she makes it a three-line whip, and a confidence vote in her government.

INSTANT CHAOS.

There is uproar! There is rage! There is blinding fury! Tory MPs are standing up in the Commons and snarling and pissing and moaning! No one likes fracking except Jacob Rees Mogg! For TWO HOURS they shriek and scream and gnash their teeth, yelling at Liz Truss, demanding to know why this is happening.

(Legend has it chaos-deity Ed Milliband simply leaned back, put his feet up on the chair in front, and made Christian Wakeford hand-feed him grapes and fan him with a palm leaf, but this is unsubstantiated.)

And then, at 6.55, FIVE MINUTES before voting is ready to begin, the Tory Minister for Climate Graham Stewart stands up and declares that everyone should vote how they want because it's not a confidence vote.

Did I say there was chaos before?

Lol. Lmao, even. Rofl, in fact.

Now Tories leap to their feet and basically all scream one long, unending breath of WHAT-DO-YOU-MEAN-IT'S-NOT-A-CONFIDENCE-VOTE-WHAT-THE-FUCK-IS-HAPPENING-IS-IT-OR-IS-IT-NOT-A-CONFIDENCE-VOTE and so Stewart gets up again and says, right to everyone's faces, "It's not for me to say whether it's a confidence vote or not," which is an even faster and more spectacular u-turn than Truss herself could pull off given that he literally just said it wasn't and did so while being a minister.

And then the voting starts. MPs are now milling about like chickens who've sighted the hawk, clamouring to know if they're going to lose their jobs unless they vote for Satan. The Whips - specifically Chief Whip Wendy Morton and Deputy Chief Whip Craig Whittaker - descend upon them like fucking wargs on the hunt. They don't just spit vitriol and blackmail into MPs ears. They fucking bodily drag people into the right voting lobby. MPs are legitimately screaming. Grown men are crying literal tears. Labour's Chris Bryant reports holding multiple Tory MPs as they sob into his shoulder. Multiple MPs report similar scenes.

And Tories still don't know if this is even a damn confidence vote, or if they should just knock the Chief Whip's teeth out.

And then the Whips, filled with bloodlust and frenzy, suddenly realise that NO ONE IS LISTENING TO US, YOU'RE ALL SUPPOSED TO LISTEN TO US SO WE FEEL POWERFUL -

Cue sudden meeting in a locked room with Liz Truss. For over HALF AN HOUR.

So is it a confidence vote? No one is sure. Deputy PM Therese Coffey thinks so, so in the absence of the Whips she decides physical assault is her job now and is seen by David Linden MP (SNP) physically carrying someone into the voting lobby. Jacob Rees Mogg thinks not and starts yelling "It's not a confidence vote!", to which his colleagues reply, "Fuck off." Meanwhile the Whips have possibly resigned, no one is sure. It is still uncertain if this was a confidence vote.

And Ed Milliband basks in the chaos, playing the fiddle while it all burns around him.

Finally, voting concludes. The Whips reappear to lurk.

The votes are in - the government wins, and fracking will go ahead. But.

32 MPs abstained.

And one of those is Liz Truss.

Which is WILD??!? What possible benefit could she get from that??? No one knows. Everything is uproar again. Guess who else abstained? Well, riveted reader, here's a list with important names highlighted:

Nigel Adams, Gareth Bacon, Siobhan Baillie, Greg Clark, Sir Geoffrey Cox, Tracey Crouch, David Davis, Dame Caroline Dinenage, Nadine Dorries, Philip Dunne, Mark Fletcher, Vicky Ford, Paul Holmes, Alister Jack, Boris Johnson, Gillian Keegan, Kwasi Kwarteng, Robert Largan, Pauline Latham, Mark Logan, Theresa May, Priti Patel, Mark Pawsey, Angela Richardson, Andrew Rosindell, Bob Seely, Alok Sharma, Chris Skidmore, Henry Smith, Ben Wallace, Sir John Whittingdale, and William Wragg.

Kwasi still smarting about that p45, I see.

In any case it then turns out that Liz DID vote, but incompetently, because her voting card didn't read properly, which is actually fair given that she was being screamed at by angry Whips waving Graham Stewart's severed dick and balls around while they demanded power and authority. While she's clearing that up, the press are understandably waiting open-mouthed for comment, but don't worry Liz! Your old pal Jacob Rees Mogg is here to fill in for you!

And thus it is that JRM willingly chooses to go on the live news and calmly confirm to the nation that no one knows if it was a confidence vote or not.

Chaos. Chaos again. Unbridled chaos. The Whips are furious. Everyone is furious. The rebels are now in limbo, unsure if they're now out of a job. Tories are weeping, trying to work out if Rees Mogg WANTS to sink the party. Back bencher Charles Walker MP delivers a frank interview to the press absolutely SHIVERING with rage, like the drummer in a Fleetwood Mac concert. Ex-Lib Dem leader Tim Farron, a bland man known only for the time he himself willingly chose to go on the news and calmly explain that he's a homophobe without provocation, tweets that Liz Truss is a Lib Dem sleeper agent they sent in to destroy the Tories, sparking what is likely to be a whole slew of conspiracy theories by next week. No one knows what is going on. They all decide to sleep on it.

The good folks at Wikipedia ultimately decide to make three separate pages for the UK 2022 government crisis, and to label them with the month "to leave room for another by the end of the year."

Ed Milliband skips all the way home, and treats himself to a bacon sandwich.

20th October

Okay, Liz thinks, the morning after. Okay. Last night was bad. But today will be better.

So first... the vote.

Because there's bad news for Tories who like money and good news for people who like liveable planets - there are problems with the vote. For one, the vote counts are being called into question. Are the results reliable?

For another, the Speaker of the House of Commons calls for an investigation into the reports of, um, assault. So will the result stand?

It's so unclear! And so is that ongoing issue of whether or not the damn thing was a confidence vote. Angry whips say YES, JRM says NO, Downing Street refuses to pick up the phone to the BBC, but does send ITV's Robert Peston a text at 1am to say it was definitely a confidence vote and, unrelatedly, the Whips aren't resigning :)

I think we have found the price paid to keep the Whips.

Meanwhile. Let's see what this has done for Liz's leadership stability!

13 letters of no confidence are confirmed submitted by Sky, 5 of which came in overnight. The 1922 Committee reconvenes the coven to discuss matters. Simultaneously, the One Nation Conservatives reconvene their coven to discuss the same. Presumably there is much "Girl what are YOU doing at the Devil's Sacrament?"-ing and "Same cloak, how embarrassing"-ing. MPs are CLAMOURING for her head. It is VICIOUS. It's like cartoon piranhas in a supervillain's lair; which is highly appropriate, because that's exactly what Tory MPs are.

Graham Brady, head jester of the 1922 Committee, demands to see Liz Truss.

He walks into a room with her, and the doors are closed. Half an hour later, he walks back out of the room.

Ten minutes later, she calls a press conference.

45 days after being appointed, Liz Truss breaks the record, and becomes the shortest-serving British Prime Minister.

[spunsugarmusings]

Mirrormask (2005) Starter Sentences

Starter sentences based on the 2005 film Mirrormask. Change pronouns as necessary!

"You'll be the death of me!"

"All of those kids in there, they want to run away and join the circus!"

"I want to run away and join real life!"

"You couldn't handle real life!"

"I am a very important man. I've got a tower."

"If I were to say something apologetic it would reflect my feelings in this matter."

"I shall slip unnoticed through the darkness, like a dark, unnoticeable slippy thing."

"We often confuse what we wish for with what is."

"If we put little wheels on the bottoms of our shoes, we could just roll around everywhere."

"I understand this must be quite painful for you, but really it is a chicken."

"Rocks and logs can bite like dogs, but words will never hurt me!"

"It's like trying to find a needle… no, not a needle. Something SMALLER than a needle, in a haystack, when you don't even know if you're in the right field!

"My mum always said: "It's a dog-eat-dog world, son. You get them before they get you. Eat your greens. Stop embarrassing me in front of the neighbors. Maybe it would best if you leave home and never come back!"

"She wasn't even my real mum. She bought me from a man."

"You can't run away from home without destroying someone's world."

"How do you know if you're happy or sad without a mask?"

"Don't let them see you're afraid."

"LOOK! AN IDIOT!"

"I don't want to be a waiter!"

"I'd rather be juggling bananas."

"It's just a drawing, it's not "called" anything."

"I wasn't worried until you told me not to worry!"

"It's not anybody's fault. These things happen, it's just life."

"You know, sometimes it helps to apologize to others, even if it isn't your fault."

"You need a pretty frock and a happy smile."

"What's the matter with your face?"

"Dangerous, not dangerous, same thing."

"As propositions go, I have to say it is completely, unarguably, quintessentially hopeless."

"We'll do what rich people do! Bathe in fish, eat our weight in chocolate buttons, learn to play the concertina!"

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Catfish and Dog Cemeteries

Chapter Nine of Sweet Home Alabama

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x OC (Linley Mitchell/Floyd), Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x OC (Linley Mitchell/Floyd)

Description: The Annual Pigeon Creek Catfish Festival is always your favorite event of the summer. Being back here after seven years feels different. It should be a consolation that you're only going to be in Pigeon Creek for a few days more. But instead, another encounter with an old friend makes you question everything you thought you knew about your soon-to-be ex-husband. A chance encounter with the man himself makes you question everything else in your life, too.

Themes: love, attraction, angst, sex, cheating, lying

Warnings: discussions of grief, discussions of miscarriage, discussions of animal death

Word Count: 2665

A/N: This chapter is one of the saddest in this entire fic. I know, I know. It's awfully hypocritical of me to say that when most of Sweet Home Alabama (the movie) is really really sad. This is the chapter I sobbed while writing. It's also the first time Jake and Linley address the pain they have put each other through. I hope you love it!

Thanks to the gorgeous @desert-fern for reading over this chapter and smacking my imposter syndrome demon when it refused to give up.

AO3: Cross-posted here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

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Pigeon Creek's Catfish Festival is busier than you've ever seen it when you pull up and park your rental car on Main Street the next day. The festival used to be your favorite day of the summer, the one day during summer vacation when you could run free and eat as much candy and fried things as you wanted. You walk through the crowd on autopilot, walking down the line at the buffet until your plate is filled with all of the things you never actually let yourself eat anymore, and slip a twenty into the donation jar at the end of the table. The fried fish and steaming french fries had looked so good that you couldn’t stop yourself. 

But as you stand in the grass with your plate in your hand, it reminds you of something else. Nobody in Pigeon Creek likes you very much. Everyone you know is chatting and laughing and enjoying the good food. Yet you’re still the outsider. Like you were before Jake became your best friend like you have been every minute of every day since you left town. Not a single person wants to meet your eyes. A part of you understands why. Jake was the golden boy of the town. Jake is still the town hero. You’re just the girl who threw him away.

Of course, what you don’t expect to see is Dorothy sitting at one of the tables with a baby in her lap. She’s the only person who doesn’t glare at you as you walk up.

“D’you mind if I sit here?” Gone is the confident Linley who took New York by storm. In her place is the four-year-old with a lisp who used to get pushed off of picnic tables because she was too different.

“Sure.” You sit silently, gratefully, smiling at the chubby-cheeked baby in Dorothy’s lap.

“I, um..” You’re captivated by the shocks of tiny dark hair and big eyes and the way the little sweetheart is waving their fists around. “I didn’t know you and Mickey had a baby.”

“Aww, yeah. When you came around the bank the other day, there wasn’t much time for us to catch up now, was there?” She hums to the baby for several long moments before turning all of her attention to you.

It occurs to you at that moment that maybe you were more than a little prejudiced yourself as a kid. You have more fun with Dorothy than you’ve had in years. Getting to eat good food and just be yourself probably helps, too. Every time you see her snuggle her daughter, it feels like your heart breaks a little more. You can’t turn back time or change history. Seeing the baby squeal as a calf licks her hand makes you smile.

“Y’know he went up there?” There’s a secretive smile on Dot’s face as she rescues the baby from having her frock eaten by a goat.

“Who?” You drag your eyes away from the kids playing in front of you and focus back on Dorothy. “Dot, who went up where?” When she just looks at you, the lightbulb goes off in your head. “Jake? When?”

“About a year after you left.” That little tidbit of knowledge hits like a dart hitting a bullseye on a dart board. “He doesn’t know that I know, but Mickey let it slip once.”

“Jake was in New York?” You sound like a stuck record, but you can’t believe that Jake ever went to New York. Jake has always hated the idea of the big city, much preferring the country to the city. 

“He told Mickey he'd never seen anything like it.” Your heart is six feet under the earth.

“He realized straight off…” You’re leaning in despite yourself, some sick sense of curiosity expecting you to know, “That he'd need more than an apology to win you back. He needed to conquer the world first. He's been tryin' ever since.”

You didn’t think that you were so cruel a few days ago, standing in the middle of that fashion show back in New York. But now? Now, you feel like the worst person on the planet. 

“That's why he kept sending the papers back.” Is the world spinning off of its axis, or is that just you? How is it that you can know someone for most of your life and that they still surprise you every time?

“Yeah, it's funny how things don't work out.” The baby starts fussing in Dot’s arms, and the sweet burble of sound puts a smile on your face.

“It’s funny how they do.” 

You spend the rest of the day hanging out with Dorothy, smiling and laughing like a fool while playing with the baby. But it’s as night falls and the kids all go home to bed that excitement starts to course through your veins. The first twang of the guitar sets your feet tapping. For the first time since you came back to Pigeon Creek, you feel like you’re at home. With good music and even better alcohol in your hands, you finally feel free. 

Of course, what you’re not expecting, even though you totally should be, is Jake and Bob walking up to the small gathering you’ve found yourself in. It’s almost like once Dot approved of you, everyone else did, too. He looks like sin, his worn jeans clinging to his thighs and a soft red flannel clinging to his broad shoulders. His eyes and hair glisten in the soft light, and if you were a younger, less encumbered woman, you would have climbed him like a tree. But as it is, your soul feels heavy, and your left-hand feels even heavier. The worst part isn’t just how you lost the love of your life. It’s in how you’ve lost your best friend, too.

You can’t look at his smiling face, not when it hurts to see him happy when you’ve never been sadder. So, instead, you fixate on the glass your beer is in. It’s crystal clear and gorgeous, and well, it’s glass like you’ve never seen in New York. Is it any wonder that you lift the glass to see if you can see the manufacturer? Of course, just as you lift up the glass, it’s Dot who notices what you’re doing.

“Oh, honey, you…” She giggles, looking at you, “You drink that from the top.”

“I know that, Dot. I’m just lookin’ to see who makes this Deep South Glass. I wonder if you can get it in New York?" You take a sip of your beer and sigh. "It's beautiful."

"D'you hear that, Jake?" There is mischief in Dot's voice. "Lin wants to know where she can find that snooty-faluty glass." Why's she asking Jake, of all people?

"Why ask me?" See that? That's why Jake Seresin was your best friend. He always knew exactly what you were thinking and had the courage to express the thought, too.

"Oh, I dunno. Maybe it's because…" You've only had a few sips of your beer, so you don't miss the glare Jake shoots at Dot. You don't know why he's keeping secrets, but you have a feeling it isn't for a good reason. "You're all spiffed up and all."

"Wait, y'all." You probably look as confused as you feel. "Am I missing something?"

But all of a sudden, the familiar tones of Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynyrd echo across the dance floor. You can count on one hand the number of times you've passed on dancing to this song - and all of them have been when you were in New York. It's a right of passage, a way of life. A part of you is sure every 'Bama baby has been put to bed at night with a crooned-out rendition of this song since it came out. Already, you can feel the beat tapping your toes, but a part of you isn't sure if anyone will ask you to dance. You smile vaguely as Dot marches off to the dance floor, Jake in tow, leaving you standing at the edge of the dance floor yearning.

"Y'know, she says that I've got two left feet, but the truth is she's got no rhythm." You startle just a bit at Mickey's voice, though you smile when you hear the pure love in it for Dot.

"Why don't we show her just how well I can dance, then, Miss Linley?" 

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Garcia." 

You're smiling from ear to ear as Mickey twirls you around on the dance floor. Your eyes flutter closed as you feel the beat in every hummingbird thud of your heart. But when you open them again, it feels like the world's standing still. The music is gone. There isn't another person on the dance floor other than Jake and you. He's got his hand on your waist, and your heart's not beating in time anymore. Your palms grow clammy, and your tongue feels like it's swollen in your mouth.

There is something unreadable in Jake's gaze as he twirls you once, twice, and then one final time before applauding for the band and walking away. You spend the rest of the night as far away from Jake as you possibly can. You know where he is; you always have. But it's different going out of your way to avoid him. Everyone's cleared out for the night when you finally see the sign for the dog cemetery.

Bear used to love clear nights like this, and something about it makes you remember him. His little plot is the newest, and it hurts to think of the puppy you bottle-fed lying six feet under the ground when you never even got the chance to tell him you loved him one final time.

"Hi there, boy." Your hands shake as you clear away a couple of twigs ensnared in his grave marker. "Sorry, it took me so long. I would have come sooner if I'd known you were sick."

Sitting here tonight, you don't think you can lie. Not to Bear. "Actually, that's probably not true. I've been pretty selfish lately."

Tears track hot down your cheeks as you remember the dog you loved with all of your heart. "Dogs don't know anything about that, do they, though? You were always like a big old pillow. Like when everything went pear-shaped…" Your voice cracks on the words because pear-shaped is an understatement for how your life splintered. "You never left my side. And then I just left you. I bet you sat there wondering what you'd done wrong."

"I told him it was my fault." You stand up so quickly that you nearly fall over. It's Jake because who else would it be when he's so close that you can smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off of his skin?

"Quit bein' so nice." 

"It's the truth." It's not. Not in the slightest. It was your fault. Your body, your mouth. Your fault. But you can't verbalize your words or how sorry you were for everything that you did.

"How come it has to be so complicated?" You sigh the words even as you wipe your tears away.

"What?" Despite his hatred for you, his voice is gentle, a melodic hum over the buzz of a summer night out in the country.

"The truth, life…" Finally, you trace your fingers over Bear's name. "This."

"He was one hell of a good dog, wasn't he?" You can only nod, moving to sit on a stone bench nearby. It's quiet for several moments, just you and Jake staring at the graves.

"You looked like you were having fun out there tonight." It's true, you did have fun. But it wasn't quite as easy as he thought it was to let loose.

"I'm happy in New York, Jake. But then I come down here and…” You gesture around you to all of Pigeon Creek. “This fits, too." Who are you trying to convince? Him? Or yourself?

"Since when does it have to be one or the other? You can have roots and wings, Lin." Not possible, not with your all-or-nothing life.

"Maybe I could just fly south for the winter." As if the Honorable Carole Bradshaw would ever let you do that.

He sits down next to you suddenly, warming the left side of your body as he gets close.

"Look." It takes you a bit to figure out what you're looking for, but when you see it, it makes you feel like a kid again. "There. Do you see 'em?"

"Only you. Lightnin' bugs." There's a childlike wonder on his face. This close, you can feel each exhale and can see the specks of amber floating in the green of his eyes

"You know, I still go out there sometimes. I see those big thunderheads rollin' in. It's like a religion." Of course, he still goes out on the beach in the middle of lightning storms.

But his confession has you spilling one of your own. "I had a dream about it the other night." You watch the lightning bugs track pinpricks of light through the dark night.

"It had me thinking, Lin. You ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn't have gotten pregnant?"

Your heart falls to your feet at his words. Please let him regret you, but not that sweet baby. Please, not your sweet baby. Your throat barely pushes out the sound as you whisper, "Jake."

"Just," His eyes are pleading, and the sight of the pain in his eyes blanks all the thoughts out of your mind. "Let me get this out before I can't. I thought that baby would be an adventure."

"And it took me a while to realize that it would have been your only adventure." Yup. The sound you hear despite the blood pounding in your temples is your heart shattering into infinitesimal pieces. "I just guess Mother Nature knew better, huh?"

Your hands make abortive movements in your lap. But you can't reach for him, not with the ring weighing your left hand down. "I was so ashamed, Jake. 'Cause I felt relieved. How selfish am I, huh? I lost our baby, and I felt relieved. I felt relieved. And I couldn't handle that. All of a sudden, I just needed a different life. So I left."   

Your voice is so quiet you're not sure Jake can actually hear you.

"You’ve done really well for yourself. I'm proud of you, Lin." He's so close all you want to do is fall into him. But you can't. You can't.

"I'm just sorry I never danced with you at our weddin'." How does he make your heart feel so full that you're sure it's going to overflow?

"I'm sure this next one's gonna go better for ya." His hands are strong and warm and perfect as they cradle yours. But every press of his hands rubs the ring, Bradley's ring, into your hands. It feels like a brand, the guilt turning into a five-ton weight sitting there. And it's that itchy, heavy feeling that has you yanking your hands from his own. 

"Jake, I can't do this." Who are you trying to convince as you walk away? Like so much of this conversation tonight, you're not really sure.

"I know."

Something about those words has you turning around. It's not a feeling or an expressed desire, but you still stand on your tiptoes and kiss Jake. Just once, you promise your traitorous heart. Just once. But he feels like home and tastes like it and smells like it. The electricity ricocheting through your veins makes you feel so good that you don't break the kiss until Jake does. Your lips are swollen, and you can barely breathe. But Jake? Jake just looks angry.

"Go home." Is it any wonder that you do so with your tail between your legs?

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

@atarmychick007 @the-romanian-is-bae @lt-spork @buckysdollforlife @blackwidownat2814 @praline357 @seitmai @cheyrenee @trickphotography2 @abaker74 @marrianena-library @angelbabyange @temptest13 @kmc1989 @im-an-adult-ish @chaoticassidy @inkandarsenic @lynnevanss @shanimallina87 @khaylin27 @mizzzpink @emma8895eb @hookslove1592 @leahnicole1219 @djs8891 @sarahsmi13s @desert-fern @horseshoegirl @dakotakazansky @teacupsandtopgun @footprintsinthesxnd @thedroneranger @cherrycola27 @roosterforme @mak-32 @beyondthesefourwalls

[djadecutie]

I might as well make an intro card

Howdy My Fellow Bloaks!!!

Name: ??? [call me Jade]

Pronouns: They/She

Sexuality: Aro Ace (Lesbian?)

Age: Minor, in high school

Hobbies: Drawing/art (mainly character drawing), reading, writing(a little bit, hard to get motivation), binging Youtube, messing with my oc's ( I don't think i've posted them much on here but i will if you want me to ^-^) and talking to myself in my room while spinning in a chair (it's fun)

Some little bits of info: Really love weird core music, Adore disability rep in media(like, want it portrayed more), kinda wise and dumb? I think anyway, Find that the queer disasters are fun to play with, Can't read social cues well, probably low empathy, Probable Neurodivergent spice in the brain (Only got a therapist lady say probably adhd..so...

Some things I like/Fandoms Im in: (some Im more into than others) Danganronpa, Saiki K, Wonder over yonder, Sam and Max Freelance police, fairly odd parents a new wish (I engage through ramblings on youtube), Smiling friends, Unikitty! (Im basically only in it for frock), Captain underpants, Dog man(my childhood liturature:] ), Welcome home, Greatings from mayview(its wowiezowiebaby's ocs, not a show or media) Undertale, Deltarune(I know it but my main thing is the deltarune memes), Fnaf, Poppy playtime, Another crabs treasure (crab darksouls), Hollow night (have not finished playing yet), Doki Doki Literature Club, SMG4, Eddsworld, ROTTMNT (I have not watched the other iterations), Gravity falls, Sonic, Mario, Murder drones, Monkey wrench (indie animated show on youtube) and TADC

My sona:

Hope your day becomes manageable!

[autumnaaltonen]

What are the names of each alucard form?

The Many Forms of Alucard

For just the average shapeshifting, Alucard has shown to be capable of changing into bats, insects, snakes, a dog, or just large masses of darkness and shadow.

But when you say "forms", I am going to assume you mean the persona's Alucard takes on in his Control Art Restriction System, and other associated persona.

The Control Art Restriction System was designed by Abraham Van Hellsing as a sort of leash for Alucard. He is far too dangerous on his own, so his powers must be contained via six 'levels'. Each of these levels, like a safe, has a designated amount of power locked behind them, effecting Alucard's physical form as a result. We the viewers are not prevy to all of these states, becuase when Alucard sees it necessary to unlock the Control Art Restriction levels (or ask permission from his master), he's really an all-or-nothing kind of guy. The states we have observed are as thus:

Level 6: Referred to as "Count", is the most recognizable form for Alucard, as it is his default. He is often seen wearing is iconic red frock coat and large fedora, with a black pin up suit, long leather boots, white gloves, and somtimes his classic google sunglasses.

Levels 5-2: Unknown, possibly the same as Level 6 or 1.

Level 1: Referred to as "Nosferatu". This form is seen multiple times throughout the series, first when he is discovered by a preteen Integra, as well when fighting Luke Valentine, Tubalcain Alhumbra, Anderson and Walter. He wears a full body, black straight-jacket, with his level 6 white gloves.

Level 0: What fans have dubbed as "Vladcard". This form turns Alucard into his previous human-sefl, Vlad 'the Impaler' Dracula. He wears his 15th century Romanian armour, a tattered black cape and a large broadsword at his hip. And, as pointed out amusingly by Seras, he also has a mustache 🥸.

Other forms not associated with a particular level include:

Girlycard, where Alucard appears as a young girl with stright, long black hair, a white jacket and pants over a black button-up, and a white ushanka.

Bussiness Man (or Dripcard🫠), appears when Alucard travels to Rio with Seras and Pip. His air is gown long, and he wears a slick black suit, gray overcoat, black tie, red button-up shirt, black leather shoes, and his classic goggle sunglasses and white gloves.

For more Alucard info, I always trust in the work done by our fellow fans at https://hellsing.fandom.com/

[lilitophidian]

Starter for ;

@xluciifer ⛧ Lust for blood , love is deadly music.

On occasion, she knew he was present.

On occasion, she sensed he was passing judgment, even though she could never do anything wrong in his opinion.

Always so silent amid things even as she played in another man's entrails. Mushy bits to cover her nails in groomed gore. That one—the one she recognized—made his stomach churn. You may find a lot when you open the gut; the memory of whatever they ate had transformed into the dog dung that most sinners were.

But not today; she did not hold hostages on a slab while dissecting a frog in her small unique spot.

Made specifically for her.

Today. She would indulge him. He wanted to spend time with her now that she was back, hmm? This was her method of letting him see through her eyes. Or, more specifically, eyes snatched from the gone.

It was a new setting, not the solitude of home, but her own magnificent invention of amusement in Pentagram City.

A sinner was dangling from above on the stage as a puddle of blood formed under them during the recording of the performances. Glittering against her frock as she stood close to—but far from—Lucifer.

" I was thinking of violins today. The noise is so lovely , you know? I have always admired the way you played the fiddle. Each stroke has a great deal of enthusiasm. "

While she spoke to the tables behind her, he would sit. Her only audience a few weeps came from the poor unfortunate soul who was trapped like salted meat waiting to dry.

Why was it that the only time she appeared truly pleased was when she was doing such...grotesque things?

" I did take it up on occasion. As you are aware, I am not particularly talented; your wife is a better vocalist. "

Chuckles as she places her hand on the fearful one's shoulder.

" May I? "

She beckoned for him to borrow his instrument. Oh dear... What precisely did she have in mind?

[unwantedalien]

THE FAMILY

Today is the day. The day I met Kim Ji Sooks sons. So apparently he has SEVEN SONS NOT TWO OR THREE BUT SEVEN OF THEM.

Good lord, how does one man pay for all of them?

It has been a week since I've met Kim Ji Sook, and yesterday he wanted my permission if he could propose to my mother. For marriage. I did say I was fine with it, but I just wished he wouldn't propose to her at all. I know it's a selfish wish, but I don't want him in my life nor do I want his sons.

"Mi-Rae we're here"

I looked out of the window and blinked. Once then twice

"Omma is this a hotel?"

"yes, this is, it's one of the restaurants he owns, this is where we are meeting them".

"Oh my lord"

Omma simply smiled at me and got out of the car, and I followed behind.

"I have to take a picture of this"

I clicked a few pictures and sent them to Emi and Minhyun.

"They are going to be sooooo mad at me once they see them"

I kept my phone back in my pocket and followed my mom and Kim Ji Sook inside the grand hotel. I understood then why mom wanted me to wear something a bit nicer than a summer-vibes frock, I mean, if I knew it would be this GRAND, I would have definitely worn a suit and tie and match with the butlers.

As the three of us entered, there was a butler who asked for our name and some other stuff. I was too busy admiring the interiors of this hotel. This looked more like a palace than that of a hotel. A huge chandelier that looked silver and gold shimmering from the lights above hung from the ceiling. The ceiling itself looked grand somehow. The floors were a dark colour. A large red carpet was laid which lead visitors to various places in the hotel.

"Mi-Rae"

I turned towards omma, who had a soft smile on her face.

"Let's go"

I smiled back while telling her why I found this place pretty and why it should be a palace instead of a hotel.

We were led to a private dining room on the 3rd floor, the room was at a far corner. I looked around and realized that there weren't many people on this floor. Just a few janitors keeping this place clean and the security seemed really tight, like holy shit, I looked like I was entering a maximum security prison, are we going to get interrogated?

 'Welp I lived a good life, I should send a final goodbye message to my friends' I thought.

Kim Ji Sook stopped in front of the door and looked at us, "well" looked at me and said "meet my sons" and opened the door dramatically.

My eyes fell on one man. His eyes widen and stood up, pointing at me

"YOU!"

"Oops"

Well, this should be fun.

"Mi-Rae-ah do you know him?"

My mother was... surprised to say the least, I mean, I was too! 

"uhhhhhhhhhhhh by passing?"

"YOU MADE ME STEP ON DOG SHIT"

"That was her? lol servers you right for calling her stupid" 

He had a cute smile, with cute dimples, he looked maybe a year older than me, if not the name age.

On tree boy's other side, was a very, very handsome guy, he looked really familiar, and was meddling with his phone, not even looking at me.

"THOSE WERE BRAND-NEW SHOES, YOU BRAT"

Tree boy pointed at me again.

"You shouldn't point at people, and those were MY SHOES!"

The one next to sleepy boy said out loud, accusing tree boy of stealing his shoes.

"TAE YOU TOLD HIM?"

Ah, finally a name for handsome boy, Tae,

"You gave me an expired candy cane and a note that said please you expect me not to?"!

"That-THAT ISN'T THE PROBLEM! THAT GIRL MADE THEM DIRTY!"

This was a sight to see. 

A circle table, where Kim Ji Sook, and Omma had sat in their seats, and with me sitting right in front of tree boy. 

'Tae' was to my right, in other words, tree boys left, then sleepy boy, then the... guy with the cool band tee, and... another pretty boy, then a mature guy who I was sitting next to on the round table, next to me was omma, then Kim Ji Sook and... a cute guy, it was only tree boy who had the most similarities with Kim Ji Sook.

I would have spoken to one of them, but they kept talking over each other, fighting over... banana milk?

I looked at Kim Ji Sook with an 'are these really your sons?' Look. He just smiled at me and nodded before looking at the boys and saying.

"SHUT UP EVERYONE"

[rassilonwatchathon]

It's the 9 year anniversary of The Watch-A-Thon of Rassilon, so this month we're sharing our older episodes!

FOURTH DOCTOR SEASON SIXTEEN (March 12th, 2019-June 11th, 2019) Episode 98- The Ribos Operation (Binro WAS Right) w/ @truestoriesaboutme & Felicity Kusinitz Episode 99- The Pirate Planet (A Very Very Good Sandwich) Episode 100- The Stones of Blood (Rad Frocks Represent) w/ @radiantbaby Episode 101- The Androids of Tara (2 Brash 2 Young 2 David) w/ Mike Gordon Episode 102- The Power of Kroll (Kroll Show) WHOlanta Special- The Macra Terror (The Macra DO Exist!) w/ R. Alan Siler, @mgoldentumbls, & Mike Gordon Episode 103- The Armageddon Factor (You Can’t Just Steal a Dog!)

[butchkaramazov]

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 8

Chapter 7

A week passed by. Paro was eerily quiet when she was with me, and I thought of what I had said that day. Had I really, truly ruined all my chances of saving even our friendship?

A million thoughts rushed through my head as I turned restlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The ceiling of our bedroom was painted with blue fluorescent stickers shaped like stars. Papa had done that. I had asked Maa to take them off if they bothered her, but we never did.

Beside me, Maa tossed in her sleep. They say if you think of someone, they can’t fall asleep. Could she hear my thoughts?

I had nothing to distract myself with. No phone, no book—nothing. Just me, my thoughts and the stars on the ceiling.

A sudden, vivid memory flashed in my mind. We were six. A year had passed since my meeting with Paro. We were running around like hooligans in the park while our mothers talked about work, pados-wali aunties and whatnot. I still remember what Paro was wearing: a frilly, white frock with Minnie Mouse sewn onto its sleeves. The sky was red and so was our laughter, until Paro bent down and ripped a flower right off its stem. “For you,” she had said, clumsily tucking the flower behind my ear. When she touched my earlobe, the flower was white. When she let go, it was red.

Another memory. We were nine. She sat with me on the bed while I rambled on about my latest hyperfixation: dragons. She listened to every single detail I had mentioned and, by the end of the afternoon, showed me a drawing of a wyvern.

Twelve. I was reading The Priory of the Orange Tree, sitting on the windowsill. I took a sip from my milk tea, letting out a contented hum. I wasn’t on the windowsill anymore. I was Ead, pressing a kiss to Sabran’s brow. Sabran was someone who looked uncannily similar to Paro.

An annoying ding! from my phone forced me back to reality. I heard Maa’s grunts and snores: the coast was clear. 

I climbed off the bed, taking care not to put extra weight anywhere that would make the mattress creak. I walked towards the desk and picked up the phone.

WhatsApp: You have 3 messages.

It was Paro. I checked the time: 3:49 a.m. Paro was a morning person, what was she doing staying up all night?

Paro<3: hi renu are you awake? —00:27 do you wanna hang out on the roof like we used to?  —02:01 its ok if you dont wanna. go back to sleep you have a big day tmrw. actually, if ur awake rn i’ll kill you —03:48

Oh, Paro.

I glanced at Maa, slowly increasing the fan’s regulator. Please don’t wake up soon.

I walked out of the room and closed the door. Thank goodness I’d oiled its hinges last week. 

The main door was locked—opening it meant creating a ruckus. “Shit,” I muttered under my breath. No wait, actually not shit. This meant I’d have to take the old way around. Jeez, fourteen-year-old me was fun.

I opened the door to the balcony and hoisted myself up on its railing. It was an easy jump. I tumbled onto the grass, praying that a grasshopper wouldn’t find its new home in my ear. The grass was wet and the air smelled of petrichor. 

I stood up, smoothening my pyjamas. Staying out late at night was a risky thing, especially in our neighbourhood. Plenty of TicTac-shaped pills here and there, and men on the prowl. I didn’t give a damn. I was eighteen and probably feeling some feelings I wasn’t supposed to be feeling. (That’s a lot of ‘feeling’s, I know.) What could possibly hurt me?

A lot of things, I realised, as I walked up to Paro’s house. Like that mad dog Rathode had warned me about. The creepy guy who keeps children in his basement (just a speculation, but when Madhu speculated about something, it was most probably right). An overspeeding motorcycle that could crash into me any minute. My own mother, with her pots and pans, once she realised I was gone.

Oh well, the damage was done. I found myself opening the gate on instinct, as if I knew Paro’s house better than I did my own.

I stepped into their garden, careful not to trample on any beetles—and made my way to the window of the woman who lived below Paro’s flat. Madame Fosco, I called her, in everything but her looks.

The tin shade Madame Fosco had installed last year was probably on its deathbed by now. Rust had made its edges creaky, but Fosco was deaf, anyway. I grabbed onto it and hoisted myself up, finding myself staring right at Paro’s face, our faces a millimetre away from each other’s. She screamed.

I screamed.

My foot slipped and I fell off the tin shade, tumbling onto the grass once again. At this point, I would be surprised if a grasshopper hadn’t found its home in my ear.

“For Whitman’s sake, hush,” I hissed.

Paro peered out of the window, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed. 

I shook my head (in case a grasshopper had organised a nice family dinner in my hair) and climbed onto the tin shaft once again, pulling myself onto Paro’s windowsill.

“Come in,” she whispered, switching the lights on. 

I felt comfortable squatting on her windowsill like a failed Spiderman and grumbled as I walked into her bedroom.

Paro switched her phone’s torchlight off. “I’m gonna kill you.”

“What?” I stared at her retreating figure. “What did I do?”

“Why are you still awake?” she snapped. I followed her to the door.

“Why are you still awake and staring out of your window like Oscar fucking Wilde?” I snapped back. Paro flipped me off while trying her hardest to pull the gates across the door. Sweat shone on her forehead, her eyes illuminated in the moonlight.

“Hold on, let me help,” I offered, gently grabbing her wrist. Paro grumbled, stepping aside.

I pushed the gate back and pulled it in again, keeping the screw in with my thumb. It glided into the opening on the other side, miraculously not making a single noise. I turned towards Paro. She was staring at my arms.

“What?” I asked her, incredulously. One moment she said she wanted to kill me, and the next she looked at me like I was something she couldn’t quite wrap her head around.

“N-Nothing,” she muttered. My heart fluttered. Dammit, these butterflies in my stomach had turned into fucking bats at this point.

Paro walked up the stairs while I followed her footsteps in the dark. “Just like the old times, huh?” I heard her say.

I smiled weakly. “You make it sound like we're old.”

Paro opened the door to the roof, the tensed line in her jaw glinting in a sliver of moonlight. God, she was as beautiful as ever.

“Come in,” she said, her words echoing in the marble walls.

I followed her to the railings, leaning against the cool surface. A light breeze rippled through, making her hair fly for a brief second. Dear God, she was poetry herself.

“Where are Auntie and Uncle?” I asked, trying to break the silence.

A light breeze caressed my cheeks. “They won’t be back before tomorrow. Business trip,” Paro explained, edging closer to me.

“Oh.” I was suddenly aware of the pen still tucked behind my ear.

Silence.

“So we’re—we’re all alone, then?” I asked her, hoping she wouldn’t hear the slight quaver in my voice.

Paro nodded. “We are.” Silence, again.

She leaned against the railing. “You’re going away in three weeks.”

I nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

“I asked you a question.” Her voice was cold and harsh, harsher than I deserved. 

“That was a statement,” I snapped. “And don’t use your CEO voice with me.”

Paro frowned. “I’m not.”

“You are.” I glared at her. “And you know it.”

She stared at me, scrutinising my every feature. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s just been—you’ll be gone—and—”

“I know, it’s okay,” I heard myself murmur, edging closer towards her.

“I—I’ve got that Poe book with me,” she said. “Do you want it now or at the graduation party?”

“Now,” I said, without thinking. “The party will be too loud. And too crowded,” I added as an afterthought.

Paro bit her lip so hard I was scared it would bleed. “Alright,” she nodded. “I’ll get it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I watched her retreat into the shadows, taking the white along with her. The night was a pool of blood, again.

I hummed. Did she know about the history of ‘OK’? Probably not. I’d tell her. Not knowing things I wouldn’t be able to tell her before we drifted apart wasn’t a good idea. At least she’d be able to tell her children that their Renu Auntie had told her about the history of ‘OK’. Maybe she’d sigh and think of me, again. Words were a certain but clumsy way into a person’s mind. 

Papa had told me that. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking of him.

Did Paro know about Jinnah? That Netaji might’ve actually been alive? Did she know that birds came from lizard-hipped dinosaurs? There was so much I had to tell her before I vanished from her mind. It was pathetic. Scrambling onto every crumb of unrelated information I could find, just to hang onto her thoughts, stay on in her mind for a little while longer.

“I’m back,” Paro said, stepping into the moonlight.

She looked like Aphrodite, the goddess of love born from love itself, in all her glory—clutching a book of Edgar Allan Poe, the letters of which shone in the lamplight or moonlight, that I do not know.

“For you,” she said, handing me the book.

“It’s beautiful,” I gasped as I ran my fingers along the edge of its spine. It was a leatherbound book, The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe written in shiny gold lettering. I opened the first page. To Renu, it said. Keep me in your mind, always. From, Paro.

I chuckled, flipping through the pages. “Of course I’ll keep you in my mind, Paro,” I laughed. “What a silly thought!”

Paro looked at me, hope faintly glimmering in her eyes. “You will?” Her voice had softened down to a murmur.

I looked at her incredulously. “Well, duh, Paro, I can’t just forget my best friend of thirteen years now, can I?”

Paro’s lower lip trembled. “You promise?”

I smiled. “Always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

A comfortable silence followed and as we looked at the stars, I knew we were both smiling.

@avani-amulya @manujanolavu @nirmohi-premika @lovesickpdf @arachneofthoughts @sonilaalbindi @desi-yearning @alhad-si-simran @thatpagalchokri @trashmeowcan @waitingforthesunrise @vellibandi @thesunandstarss @chanda-chamke-cham-cham @damnn-dorothea @the-unhinged-fanwinggg @watchingblsnowandforever @disproportionatelysculpting @bundle-of-glitter @bibliophile-dendrophile please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist <3

[lenreli]

Day 14 - “I can see it in your eyes”

[AO3]

Dream gasps, the stained glass refracting the light in many colours, shame and arousal flaring as a finger slicks up his inside, and he lets out a whine. “My poor sweet dog, so faithful to an uncaring myth,” the demon says, and he gasps, clutching at brown-grey hair helplessly as a spot is hit inside, lighting him up like the stained glass. 

“Dog?” He rasps, shuddering as the demon nips at his throat with sharp fangs, “I am―a priest―“

“A dog, who so badly wants to be loved,” the demon derides, voice honey and syrup, a hand in his hair forcing his head down to look at the demon’s ― compassionate, warm ― brown eyes. “I can see it in your eyes,” the demon’s hands go under his eyes, stroking his cheek softly and a moan gets pulled out of him as a finger presses that spot inside again, “you think some god who doesn’t even know you, will love you, appreciate you, like I can?” 

“God knows,” he gasps, arching into the demon’s fingers, “he knows all,” he whispers, words thin and pathetic. The demon chuckles, hand going down to unbutton his frock, callused hands going to flick and twist his nipples. 

“Like how deep you hide, you repress, coming to some church,” the demon spits the word, kissing him harshly, fangs scraping against his tongue and he whimpers, eyes going up to the light shining through the stained glass, pleasure absolute as he comes from the other’s fingers. “My sweet Dream,” the demon purrs and he shivers, unable to look away as the demon swipes his cock, cleaning the come off his fingers, “this crypt isn’t living.”