#if your response is: oh just diy then please shut the fuck up

[king0fcrows]

I hate being poor

I hate that “having nice things” is only for wealthy people

And by “nice things” I mean proper grout between the titles and tub in their bathroom, proper caulk in the seams of the shower

Plaster that’s not riddle with cracks

The peace of mind that if they have to call a contractor to do repairs, it just means they can’t go on vacation—not “if they find unaddressed structural problems it’s going to wipe out all of your savings”

It’s exhausting

[helloalycia]

my patient’s neighbour [three] // wanda maximoff

summary: your relationship with Wanda gets a little bumpy when her work life crosses over with your personal life.

warning/s: implied kidnapping, mentions of anxiety

author's note: so the ‘i love you’ confession was actually inspired by an incorrect quote on @aquamarinescarlet’s page! i thought it would be cute aha

part one | part two | part four | part five | part six | part seven | masterlist | wattpad

It was two months into our relationship when I knew I'd fallen in love with Wanda. I can't remember the exact moment when it hit me – I guess it had happened gradually over time – but I remember the embarrassing moment when I told her.

She'd brought me as her date to an Avengers party thrown by Tony Stark. I'd been to one of them before, about a month into dating her, as she'd wanted me to meet her friends from work AKA the freakin' Avengers. They were actually really great and (somewhat) humble people. I didn't expect to become 'friends' with any of them, more just be friendly whenever I saw them through Wanda. To my surprise, I became quite good friends with Natasha Romanoff.

We had the same dark sense of humour, both had an unexplainable obsession with horror films and she was genuinely just really easy to talk to. I wasn't expecting it, but it was nice to gain a new friend in addition to a new girlfriend.

So, I was at my second Avengers party with Wanda by my side, but the party had ended about half an hour ago and I may or may not have been drunk.

We were sat on the couch, conversing with the other Avengers, and I was sat between Wanda and Natasha. The others were involved in their own conversations and I was too dazed to realise what I was doing until it happened.

"Wanda has no idea I'm in love with her," I said (not-so) quietly, leaning over to my left, into Wanda's ear unknowingly.

Wanda, who was playing with my fingers in her hand, paused and glanced to me with bright eyes, a surprised expression on her face.

"You're in love with me?" she asked, lips twitching into a smile.

I blinked, her words settling in, before I licked my lips. "Oh, sorry." Turning to my right, I moved to Natasha's ear, whispering loudly, "Wanda has no idea I'm in love with her."

Natasha glanced to me with a quirked brow, amused smile on her lips. "She doesn't? You sure about that?"

"You're in love with me?" Wanda repeated, sitting forward and earning my attention.

I gasped, wondering how she knew, before slapping Natasha's arm and looking to her with a frown. "You told her?! I trusted you!"

Natasha ignored me, instead looking to Wanda with an encouraging look. "I'll leave this one to you. Good luck."

She stood up, heading over to Thor and Bruce Banner on the other couch, and I booed her as she left.

"Yeah, run away, you secret-give-away'er!" I called after her with a pout, before crossing my arms.

"I think it's time I take you home," Wanda said decidedly, trying not to laugh as she pulled me up off the couch.

"I don't like Natasha anymore," I mumbled, allowing Wanda to take me away.

She bid her goodbyes to her teammates before leading me to the lift. I don't really remember what else happened until we were suddenly at my house – well, my parents house, but they had given it to me as they travelled the world with their retirement money. She was leading me inside and to my bedroom, getting me dressed like the sweet girlfriend she was, before tucking me into bed.

Of course, being the clingy drunk I was, I pulled her on top of me and didn't let go as I wrapped my arms around her.

"Stay," I mumbled into her shoulder, closing my eyes.

She chuckled, trying to pull away. "Y/N, you need to sleep, c'mon."

"I will," I whined, not letting her leave. "If you stay with me."

She paused, before giving in with a sigh. "Fine."

Tiredly, I smiled. "Yesssss." I patted the spot next to me. "Right here, please."

In the light of my bedside lamp, I saw her roll her eyes playfully, before turning off the lamp and jumping under the covers with me. I sighed with relief, cuddling into her side without hesitating.

"I love you," I mumbled, barely thinking about it.

She tightened her embrace and I felt her kiss the top of my head. "You're probably gonna forget you said that in the morning. But I'll remind you. And if you still think it, then I'll reply."

Her words went into one ear and out the other. I hummed in response, not knowing what I was answering to, and let myself get lost in her scent as I drifted into a peaceful slumber.

When I woke up the next morning, I quite liked the idea of sharing bed with Wanda and waking up to her dishevelled hair and our intertwined legs, even though I didn't remember inviting her to stay. Of course, I also had a banging headache and felt like someone had hit me with a train, so I didn't get chance to appreciate it much.

"Fuck," I mumbled, pulling the duvet over my head to block out the sun streaming through the slit in my curtain.

Wanda, who was shuffling beside me, yawned and stretched her arms. Suddenly, I heard quiet laughter, before she spooned me, wrapping her arms around my stomach and pulling me closer. Her leg raised and clung to my waist, and as much as I appreciated the way she fit perfectly against me, I was still in pain.

"Why did you let me drink that much?" I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut.

"I believe that was your own conscience decision, dorogoy (darling)," she said in that know-it-all voice of hers, and it was hard for me to be annoyed at her because she had a raspy, morning voice and her accent was especially thick with fatigue and damn, Wanda Maximoff was pretty sexy in the morning.

"Whatever," was all I said, but I placed my hand on hers and joint our fingers together.

"You know," she started, tucking her head comfortably into my neck, "I quite like waking up to you like this. You're very cute, even if you're cranky."

Despite aforementioned crankiness, I cracked a smile. "I like this, too."

It was very domestic, something I didn't get the privilege of experiencing with Wanda because she worked a lot, and it felt good.

After hanging around in bed for a little while longer, I got up and showered whilst Wanda offered to make me some breakfast – "Pancakes are a hangover's cure! Or at least according to Tony". After getting ready, I came downstairs to find a stack of pancakes and maple syrup waiting for me.

"You are a Godsend," I told her, pressing a haste kiss to her lips before sitting at the table with the pancakes. "Thank you."

She chuckled, grabbing her own pancakes and sitting opposite me. "Anything for you."

After I dug in, complimenting her on how delicious they tasted, a comfortable silence fell between us. Well, until Wanda spoke up cautiously.

"So, does anything from last night ring a bell?" she asked, making me look up to see her staring eagerly.

My content expression fell. "Shoot, did I do something embarrassing?" I facepalmed. "God, what was it? Did I fall asleep on somebody?"

She smiled with adoration, eyes twinkling in the morning sun. "No, nothing like that."

I could tell there was something though, judging from her hesitant expression. I scrunched my face with regret.

"What did I do?" I asked, unprepared to hear it. "Did I say something to you?"

She played with her fork, twisting it around in her plate nervously, which was very unlike her. "Yeah, actually, you did."

I waited, feeling like the silence was deafening the longer she stayed quiet.

"You said you were in love with me," she said, voice so soft and quiet that I barely heard it.

I felt my heart drop to my stomach. "I what?"

"I mean, technically you said I had no idea you were in love with me, but I think you were supposed to tell Nat that," she continued, eyes avoiding mine. "Then you told Nat and you got mad at her because you thought she told me."

I facepalmed for the second time that morning. "Oh, God..."

"Then you invited me to stay the night and told me you loved me before you fell asleep," she finished rambling. "I just, er, wanted to check if you meant that..."

I raised my eyebrows with disbelief. "Are you kidding?" I reached over the table to grab her hand. "Wanda, of course I meant that! But I hoped to tell you at a better time than by accident whilst I was drunk."

Blue eyes flickered to mine, excitement creeping onto her face. "You meant it."

I breathed out, realising what exactly I'd just said. "I– yeah. I meant it. I'm in love with you, Wanda."

Her smile widened. "I'm in love with you, too."

My heart fluttered in my chest as I relaxed my shoulders. "You love me."

She giggled, squeezing my hand. "We just did this."

"Right! We did," I said, shaking my head, grin forming on my lips. "Sorry. I'm just so happy right now."

"Me, too," she said in agreement, thumb stroking the top of my hand.

I didn't think things could go wrong from here. I was on top of the world! But of course, the world had a funny way of ruining things.

—

Dating a superhero had its pros and cons, I suppose, but neither really showed themselves to me often as it was as if Wanda's superhero life was separate to the one we shared. When she and I were together, it was just us. And she would leave for work and I wouldn't think about it. Then she would return and it would be us again.

If I took a moment out of my day to stop and really think about where she was, what she could be doing, the danger she could be in... I just couldn't do it. Even when she would show up to our next date with a fresh bruise from training, or a broken bone from a mission gone too far, I'd worry about it for the time being then try to let it go. Those weren't superhero perks, those were reasons to be concerned. And I couldn't handle imagining the time when she'd come back to me in a worse state, or to not even come back at all.

So, her superhero life rarely overlapped with our shared one. And I was happier that way. Until it did.

I was running errands one day, little things that required me to run around the city – dry cleaning, grocery shopping, picking up some DIY stuff for my house. It was a pretty relaxing, fun day. I'd treated myself to lunch, was soaking in the sunshine and planning to unwind with some Netflix on the couch.

"Hold on, I need to unlock the front door," I mumbled into the phone. I was talking to Wanda, catching her up with my day as I returned home.

"Try not to drop your phone this time," she teased from the other end, and I could just imagine the smirk on her face.

"So funny," I said with an eye roll. "Real comedian."

She laughed as I placed my phone in my pocket, not quite hanging up. Pulling my keys from my shopping bag, I fiddled with them, attempting to find the key for my front door.

Suddenly, something metal and cold pressed to my back and I jumped, dropping my keys with surprise.

"Don't draw attention," the person said, and I went rigid, looking up to see a reflection of someone unrecognisable in the glass of my front door. "You're going to leave your things here and come with me."

"Who are you?" I asked, trying to turn around, but the object pressed harder into my back, making me wince.

"Leave your fucking things here and give me your hand," the man ordered, ignoring my question. "Phone included. And don't even think about making a call."

I swallowed hard, panic settling in as I listened to the threatening stranger. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I realised that the stranger had no idea I was already on a call. With an Avenger nonetheless.

"I'll put it down," I narrated my actions, soon coming to realise that the object behind my back was in fact the barrel of a gun.

Hoping Wanda was still listening in and could hear the exchange, I put my phone on the ground and placed my shaking hand in the man's outstretched one. He tucked his gun back into the waistband of his jeans before tugging me down the steps and to a black van parked opposite my house.

Too paralysed with fear at the sight of two more strange men getting out the van, I felt my throat go dry and words get stuck at the bottom. Looking around, I hoped to find a neighbour's eyes or dog-walker's lost gaze, but nobody was here. Whoever these men were had timed their entrance perfectly.

When we reached the van, the back doors were opened and the man spun me around roughly before placing a bag on my head and shoving me inside. Hot tears ran down my face as I squeezed my eyes shut, wondering what the hell was happening and who these people were. But mostly, I hoped Wanda was already on her way.

—

The whole incident was over soon. That's what we were calling it now. The 'incident'. Of course, it could have been called other things... the kidnapping, the abduction, the capture. But we settled with the 'incident'. It was less explicit, as if minimising how utterly terrifying the whole experience was.

I never did find out who those men were. Wanda offered to tell me, feeling a need to explain herself and blame herself and drag herself down in the dirt to make me feel better, to bring me out of my silence and give me something to feel good about. I recalled her mentioning they were after her, getting to her through me – her girlfriend.

She rescued me quite quickly. Being tied up and locked away and left to cry like a child, wondering if I was going to die any minute at the hands of captors whom I had never met nor done anything to in my life, wasn't fun. People always wonder what they would do in those situations; maybe they would square up and put up a fight; maybe they would scream and shout and get everyone's attention; maybe they'd even retort with sarky remarks and go out with a blaze of glory.

I never imagined what that would be like, but I discovered I could do neither of those things. I just let them take me, let them threaten me and point their guns at me and tie me up and lock me away and–

I let myself cry and feel terrified and shake and lose my words and imagine the worst. Some would call that giving in, but this wasn't something you could prepare for. Surely my response was justified? I wasn't sure. I just knew that when Wanda burst onto the scene, taking out the men with ease and taking me out of there, taking me home, I was momentarily safe.

But then as she began to ramble off her explanations and apologies and regrets, I found myself turning in on myself, unable to hear her out. I didn't blame her one bit, but I also couldn't listen to one more second. So, I tuned her out.

I sat on the couch, staring at the way the thread was coming loose on one of my cushions. I thought about how quickly the whole 'incident' had happened. How one minute I was sat in a cell and now I was sat on my couch. How I was then shaking with fear and now I felt nothing.

"...you listening? Hey, are you okay?"

I only tuned back in when she sat on the cushion I was looking at. Her fingers rested on my cheek, guiding my head upwards so I was looking her in the eyes, glassy and red and swollen from crying. I probably looked the same, though I was all out of tears.

"I promise you nobody will be back here," she said with certainty, thumb stroking my cheek. "There's S.H.I.E.L.D. agents posted all along the street. And I'm happy to stay here if you need me to. You're safe now."

I knew I was. And despite my calm exterior, my heart was still racing in my chest, adrenaline still pumping through my body as if expecting to make a sudden break for it.

"What are you thinking?" she muttered, eyes flicking between mine curiously. "Talk to me. Please."

I shook my head, looking away. "I'm okay."

"It's okay not to be," she said quietly, squeezing my hand.

"I know."

So, we kept that bit up for a few more days, maybe a week. Me pretending I was okay, though still distant from Wanda as if she'd caught the plague, and her pretending she knew I was telling the truth.

But I knew she sensed the nightmares I had, waking me up in cold sweats. I knew she saw the way I tensed when a shadow cast along the wall from a moving object. Or the way I never faced the front door when unlocking it to get inside.

I guess she couldn't take it anymore at some point, possibly a week or two later, as when I was mixing my soup in a bowl after heating it up in the microwave, she sighed loudly.

"You okay?" I asked, glancing up at her. She was stood by the counter, seeming tired.

She'd been staying with me since the incident happened, obviously, and it was nice having her around so much, despite the circumstances. But I knew she was worried and had been keeping it in. I just didn't have the energy to acknowledge it.

"I'm fine," she said quickly, though her fingers still drummed on the countertop.

I let it go, shrugging, before paying attention to my soup. Her impatience was obnoxiously loud, filling the house with a discomfort she was dying to express. Eventually, she did.

"I'm not fine," she decided, and I stopped stirring my soup as I looked to her tugging on her sleeves distractedly. "I'm not fine because you're not fine."

"I've told you I am," I said monotonously, eyes boring into hers.

"I know you're not," she said, crossing her arms and hugging herself. "I've noticed you and..."

I quirked a brow. "And?"

She frowned, eyes softening with empathy. "Don't make me say it, Y/N."

I pressed my tongue to the back of my teeth as I looked down to my steaming soup.

"Talk to me," she pleaded, rounding the counter and leaning beside me, searching for my eyes. "I just want to help."

I swallowed hard. "I have nothing to say, Wanda."

"A really scary thing happened," she began hesitantly. "The fact that you don't have anything to say– that you've not said anything, isn't right."

"Well, I guess there's something wrong with me," I said dismissively, before grabbing the pepper grinder before me and using it.

"No, there's not," she reassured, not giving up. "You just need to talk.”

I set the grinder down, turning to face her abruptly. She straightened up with surprise, taking a small step back.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked, voice calm but full of unintentional malice. "Huh? What do you want me to tell you? That I'm terrified somebody is watching my house, waiting for a quiet moment to break in? That I have to follow you into every room you go in because I don't want to be left alone? That I can't fucking sleep because I'm scared that when I close my eyes, I'll be locked in a nightmare I can't escape? Is that what you want me to tell you? Does that make you feel better, Wanda? Because it doesn't make me feel any better. It just reminds me how fucking terrified I am."

I pocketed my shaking hands, blinked away the tears that threatened to fall, swallowed down the lump rising in my throat. She watched me, unsure what to say at first and I didn't blame her. It was an outburst waiting to happen.

"I'm–"

"Don't say you're sorry," I snapped, before flinching at my tone. "I know you're sorry. And I don't blame you for what happened. I just– I don't know what to do anymore."

Her eyes were studying me like green lasers burning holes into my skin and I hated that I couldn't meet them. I hated even more that I couldn't leave the kitchen out of anger or frustration because I was too scared to be left alone without her by my side.

So, I leaned against the counter, turning away from her, and let out a shaky breath, eyes burning and heart thumping in my ears. Her arms suddenly wrapped around me without question, and I let her take me into her chest, squeezing me so tight so I knew she was there.

Closing my eyes, I felt tears rolling down my cheeks, but no sound came out. I struggled to breathe, unable to take in air through my nose as I stuffed my head so hard into her shirt that I couldn't see a thing except darkness. I knew I'd eventually be okay, that I'd eventually get back to some sense of normalcy. But for now, having her here with me was okay. And I found it much better to just be with her then have to go over and talk it out.

She was warm and strong and smelt like home and God, I loved her. I was lucky to have her.

—

It took about a month and a half to get over the incident. And after that, we never brought it up again. It was just easier that way. We continued on like usual, falling back into our old routine of having a separate us and her separate superhero life.

At some point, I thought it would be nice for her to meet my parents. They were back in town for the week, wanting to check in and see how I was. It was nice having them around and I was excited for them to meet Wanda, who I'd mentioned in some of our Skype calls.

"We don't have to make it a thing," I said as I proposed the idea. We were cleaning around Anna's apartment as she napped in her bedroom. "It's not like an 'oh, meet the parents' thing. They just happen to be in town and we're having a dinner, so I thought you might want to come. If you don't, it's not a big deal. I haven't told them to expect you. Not unless you say yes. Which you don't have to."

She chuckled, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Dorogoy (darling), calm down. Breathe."

I neatened the cushions on the couch with a bit too much force. "Am I not breathing? I'm pretty sure I'm breathing."

Her hands slipped into mine as she spun me around to face her. An amused smile on her lips, she said, "You need to relax. If you're like this now, then who knows what you'll be like on the night of the dinner?"

It took me a second to realise what she'd said and when I did, my eyes widened. "Wait, the night of the– does that mean you're going?"

She laughed, tugging me closer to her. "Yes, I'm going. I'd love to meet your parents!"

My shoulders relaxed as her fingers played with mine mindlessly. A smile appeared on my lips as I said, "Thank you. I– it'll be fun. No pressure. Just a dinner."

"Just a dinner," she confirmed, before kissing my forehead gently. "Can't wait."

And so on the day before my parents left for Scotland, yet another trip on their never ending retirement travels, I waited for Wanda to pick me up so we could go to a restaurant to meet my parents, who were already there after spending the day shopping in town.

She arrived at the door with a beautiful smile and bright eyes, looking me up and down.

"Just on time," I teased, tilting my head to the side, before being serious. "You look amazing tonight, Wanda."

"As do you, moya lyubov' (my love)," she said sweetly, leaning forward to kiss my cheek, before stepping inside. "Also, these are for you."

She removed her hand from behind her back as I closed the door, revealing a gorgeous, colourful bouquet of flowers.

"I saw them and thought of you," she began to explain without even realising how cute she was; a smile crept on my lips as she continued, "but then I realised I've never gotten you flowers before which is very dumb of me because a pretty girl deserves pretty flowers, right?"

There was no doubt that my face was heating up from the attention, flustered yet honoured at her words.

"Wanda, I love them," I said, accepting the flowers and meeting her gaze. "And to be fair, nobody has ever gotten me flowers before."

"You're kidding," she said with disbelief, stepping forward and wrapping her arms loosely around my waist. Reading my serious expression, she added, "Not even for your birthday? Or a celebration?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

She gave me a knowing look. "Well, that's very unfortunate. But I'm glad I could be the first."

I held her gaze, amusement dancing in her smile. Mirroring her expression, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her nose, making her scrunch it up delightfully.

"Me, too," I said, and I meant it.

"Come on, we should get going," she said, squeezing my waist before letting go. "Don't want to be late, do we?"

"We do not," I agreed, before putting the flowers in a vase of water and leaving them by the door.

"You ready?" she asked, holding open the front door.

I intertwined our hands and met her smile with my own. "I'm ready."

Taking the girlfriend to meet the parents. What could go wrong?

[sleeping-lilies]

Title: I Get Tim a Cat Because It’s What He Deserves (oh and i guess a group chat 🙄)

a batfam/wayne family groupchat would literally never happen in canon but it would be so fucking funny you all don’t even know, so i will do it anyways.

the chat just kinda... starts. no one know where it came from. who added them. who??? none of their emotionally stunted asses would be caught dead making making a family chat tf? why can’t any of them leave? they smash their phones and then on their laptop a notification pops up like “you’ve joined ‘x’ group” and they’re stuck there. might as well use it ig, but for what???

“everyone who is alive type ‘i’” no one responds so bruce spends hours trying to find out where their bodies are until he finds out everyone just had the chat on mute

“why isn’t alfred on here” “huh. alfred isn’t on here and no one knows who made the chat?” “so whoever made it just left immediately?�� “...” “lol anyways”

tim was trying to send a snap to the core four gc but accidentally sent it to the family chat and gets super embarrassed (of course this happens when everyone’s online why wouldn’t they if it makes tim’s life more difficult) and everyone makes fun of him. duke printed out copies and plastered them all over tim’s apartment while tim was out for something and tim nearly murders duke. after that no one puts the chat on mute because this was too funny.

no one actually, like, texts on a regular basis because they’re not like other families 🙄 they only text if it’s really important or someone’s dying.

that’s being said, “dick where is dog” “send doggy” “dog?” “send doggy” “dick when did you get a dog?” “SEND DOGGY” “i demand you send the dog this instant” “dog now.”

damian breaks into dick’s apartment to take a selfie with him and haley (or bitewing, haley is just shorter to type) captioned “she is mine this is a warning to all of you. i will not hesitate if any of you low lives come near her.” and dick is like “??? this is my dog i can’t have anything these days, siblings take everything, man—” oh ya, everyone reacts to the haley photo with a heart. also dick only lets this shit slide with damian, if jason the problem child pulled this shit it would be on sight lmfaooo

- tim: the dog is cute but, but in photography i learned you have to crop out everything unimportant, like this *crops out damian from the photo*

- in other news, tim joined the dead bats club and now only bruce and duke are left 😃🔪

bruce: check in if you are alive. *everyone’s status is online*

u don’t know about y’all, but my bruce wayne is a responsible father who keeps an eye on his kids, or at least does his best, “has anyone seen duke? he has school and i can’t find him” “i will find him... if you give me $50.” “i will give you the money jason just tell me where he is” jason sends a photo of himself and duke laying down on the floor eating pop tarts.

-“literally why do you all keep coming into my apartment” “our apartment, dick” “i pay for this apartment it’s mine, i keep living in blüdhaven for a reason, god, siblings always steal everything that’s your’s—” it’s ok guys dick simultaneously has eldest daughter’s syndrome and absent sibling syndrome, who is doing it like him? legend behavior. anyways, duke and jason left crumbs on the floor and dick beat them up lmao.

“can i have money” “dad” (theyre sent by same person just different text) “yes cass i will sent you as much as you need, $2,000 is enough for shipping with friends?” “dad can i have money too” “dad can i too” “may i have some too dad” “dad” “dad” fhdjdjsks they only call him dad when they’re dying, want something, or are tattling on each other, someone save him 😩

“@everyone the interviewer in the last segment asked me if we have a family chat and i have a feeling they will try to pry into my texts to see what we are texting, please actually send something so they don’t get even more nosy from our lack of communicating” *someone sends the bee movie script*

ok but like, as time goes on they get more comfy texting each other and acting like a normal(ish) family unit that texts a little more. like tattling.

“someone broke the vase in the hallway and if they don’t want me to tell pennyworth who did it they will buy alfred the cat a new scratching post by nightfall” damian is so funny i love him

“HELPPVHRNXKAK” “what’s up with jason?” “cass is sitting on him” “lol” “i think she’s gonna break his arm fhdjdksk” “ANDBSJ I HAT E YO U A LL” “when did you all come to the manor???”

“😂” bruce vs “lol” dick and cass vs “agdhsjak” tim and duke vs “hA” jason vs “i don’t find any of you funny” damian

“damian i am putting your lemon cake pop thingies in the last bottom shelf on the right, i put the code and everything in the safe” “how often does damian even come to your apartment, dick?” “whenever you’re being an asshole bruce” “he’s always an asshole dickhead 🙄” “exactly 🥰”

“dad guess what” “TIM NOOO” “remember when” “TIM TIM TIM” “you told duke to take the day shift” “I WILL NEVER POST YOUR SNAP PHOTOS TO A GROUPCHAT WITH THE ENTIRE SUPERHERO COMMUNITY AGAIN!!!” “and he agreed to if he did his school work first?” “MERCY, MERCY” “what did he do, tim” “fjdjxkskkz duke goes on school zoom meetings during patrol and pretends he doesn’t have a mic and camera and i was watching his helmet footage and it was so funny, the teachers just believe him when he pretends to have really bad network and can barely type in the chat” “my teachers never trusted me that much” “that’s because you made a kid cry once jason stfu” “wait how did u know that cass—“

“AHDBSNZKAJHF” “stfu duke” “what’s wrong with him where is he?” “cain came to visit” “ohhhh” “FHDJFJDJ HELLPPPXSND” “i know you’re taking a video, you little shit, send it” “no todd come here and take one yourself—or don’t, your presence is unwanted” “fucking brat”

“DAD DICK HIT ME” “DAD JASON’S LYING” *bruce wayne online* (he doesn’t fucking respond fhsjskla) (is it because he’s exasperated with them or crying because they called him dad even though it’s a manipulation tactic or both we’ll never know)

“everyone who is alive, type in chat” *everyone is online* then bruce edits the message to say ‘everyone who wants alfred’s cinnamon rolls, type in chat’ “i guess NO ONE wants alfred’s cinnamon rolls, how sad” and the entire chat goes wild lmfao

ok uhhh let’s do on a scale of 1-10 texts most vs is online the most

bruce: 6-texting, 5.9-online because he always makes an effort to text his kids to check up on them and when his kids are texting he will text as well here and there in the convo to interact with them because he never sees and interacts with them normally and he wants to do better 🥲. he get’s minus 0.1 because of that one time jason and dick were fighting and he logged off agdhsjnz

dick: 3-texting, 3.5-online because he’s the only one in this hellhole of a family that has an actual job (in this house we uphold gymnastics teacher grayson 🙏) and sometimes he won’t have energy to text. so. but he does make an effort when he can. he’s online more than he texts because he’s able to sneak looks at the fights when he has downtime during his job and wants to see the drama lmfaooo. also everything goes on in his fucking apartment for some reason, so now he gotta break up a (one sided) fight between cass and tim because someone has to be a responsible adult.

cass: 2-texting, 10-online because she watches more than she texts? she’s more content to watch what’s going on than to join in. also 8/10 she’s usually the one causing the drama that everyone’s texting about, like beating up the others, so she can’t text while beating them up. i mean she could, but she wants to put more energy in beating them up (lovingly) (cass is basically violence (loving)) and watching what everyone’s saying about her fights. she’s always online to catch a glimpse at the drama. also most of her texts are to dick to see bitewing. and ask for money.

jason: texting-8, online-4 because if cass is the one causing drama offline, jason’s causing drama online. jason wants to be chat cryptic but texts the most lmfaoooo. he’s antagonizing his siblings whenever he sees them and whenever he can’t, king shit. he’s online less because he deadass doesn’t care that much, he’ll read the texts later if he really wants to, otherwise either duke or tim will fill him in on the drama. (“jason ur in the chat too—“ “shut up, tim, now tell me how cass beat damian’s ass)

tim: texting-6.44444, online-10, see tim texts a lot just not to the family group chat lmfao, he has REAL FRIENDS 😤 uhh ya, that’s why he’s online all the time, cuz he’s either texting his friends or on his phone doing some shit. broke: tim stays up late working on cases, woke: tim stays up late texting his friends and playing video games over chat. tim just. interacts with his family, gets bullied by them, ya. that’s the life. also he and duke keep throwing hands because it’s the family curse to beat up tim and in this essay i will discuss how dick is the superior sibling because he never tried to kill tim—wait he probably pushed him down the stairs once nvm but it was totally justified, king

duke: texting-4, online-4 because he has, like, school. and daytime patrol. and is like a junior in high school and therefore has a fuck ton of homework. my boy has no time for family and he doesn’t want it because they’re annoying, obviously 🙄. if he wants drama he’ll go into damian’s room and get the drama. diy icon. he’s online as much as he texts but is so fast of a reader he’ll know the drama in time for the next episode of wayne family shit. most of his time online is picking fights with tim and roasting his siblings to a crisp. he’s so mean, guys, legend has it that one time duke told jason that his helmet looked like a shriveled up dildo and that it could never be the gay statement he wanted it to be jason went offline for that entire day in order to cry himself to sleep. at least he got sleep (allegedly) ayyy duke the problem solver.

damian: texting-1.5, online 2 because the only time he’s texting is to ask dick for photos of bitewing and to send photos of his pets back as proper payment. a negotiator ugghhh father like son. damian honestly doesn’t care about the drama he just wants to sketch bitewing (using the photos dick sent as reference) into the Family Portrait Sketch™️ of the rest of the Animal Family™️. it is an honor for damian to create such a piece, picasso the women hater quakes in his grave as such art that blows his dog shit “art” FAR out of the water is developing. anyways, he goes online for that and to throw random barbs at his siblings. like no one is online and damian just throws a “drake is stupid” in chat and just dips. he’s online more to text the other teen titans and jon because they’re better than his dumbass family (and he texts grayson on messenger so fhdjdjsks) true chat cryptic, jason envies him

alfred: 0-texting, 10-online. huh who said that

“duke take down the tik toks, tim is crying”

“who has my sweatshirt??? i will kill you all” “i have it jason” “nvm cass that’s your sweatshirt now i’m sorry for being presumptuous don’t aTTACK ME” fhdjdjsks

“guys i have the day off do you want to hear when delilah said to jonathon it’s so funny” “are those the kids in your gymnastics class?” “ya” “tell us everything”

the bats just... love hearing drama about those kids because they’re so dramatic. apparently alex threw a rubber ball at maya and she tackled them. wild.

time for a round of: WHO SAID IT?!?!

“how do i make my text bold like the rest of you?” —bruce, dick, cass, and jason at some point.

“how do i change my screen name? please change it back to before” -cass when tim changed her name to “hal jordon #1 stan” (“what is a stan” —bruce), (“i don’t like it either change it back” —bruce after finding out what a stan is)

“what the fuck is a pog” —jason

“fucking ‘tik tok’. we used to use vine when i was a teen. i was a front line soldier of great disasters” —dick on one hand lmfao dick is so old but on the other hand holy shit you used vine??? tell us more about the battles fought

“what is a dilf?” —bruce after scrolling through twitter

ok that’s all, my brain is gone.

“cass dick is turning purple get off him” “no. make him give me my scarf back.” “oh dad that’s terrible can you send a video as evidence?”

“GUYS I FOUND A CAT AND IT SCRATCHED ME AND IM GOING TO THE HOSPITAL BUT GUYS!!! CAT!!!” “drake send a photo of the cat immediately” lmfao bruce zooms to the hospital after that text

“GUYS THE CAT HAS AN OWNER I CANT KEEP THE CAT 🥲” “the one time you could prove to be of use and you fail, drake.” “wow tim, find a cat to steal without an owner next time” “timmy, timmy, timmy, i can’t believe you’ve messed up in finding a cat again” “again?” “again?” “again?” “when i adopt a cat i’m not showing any of you, i hate you all” (lmao hard version of guess who is who i’ll give you a hint dick cass and bruce are the confused ones. )ok it’s not hard anymore.

“dad please get me a cat 😳🐱 haha jk 🤣😩 unless 👀😏😃🙏🥰” anyways tim named the cat starry because of her fur-hair-thingy

“they just so you all know steph just crashed in my apartment and i have work in the morning” “i will pick her up in the morning” “you mean tim will, you don’t have a license, cass. anyways”

“dick do you need help moving?” “no, bruce, i think i can handle it, donna and wally are helping me anyways, but thank you” “mOVING???” “OUT OF YOUR APARTMENT???” “DICK THAT SAME APARTMENT ON 666 HELLHOLE AVENUE???” “...ya?” “NOOOOO” anyways they all break into dick’s new apartment when he moves in, walk around it, and then leave. they just... ya... damn, these bats...

anyways that’s all. see ya.

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

@lavstar i was so incredibly stupid and i deleted your ask while i was drafting it… i swear i didn’t forget to do it 😭 anyway i’ve FINALLY finished it so let’s jump into the compilation of the most planes i have ever brainrot ❤️ because no ❤️ you cannot expect me to pick one ❤️ it is impossible ❤️

two airbus A320s taking off from parallel runways, five nautical miles apart ‘cause they’re not gay!

btw i genuinely do not care about military aircraft (never have, prob never will) so these are all to do with civil aviation. also huge disclaimer i did all the commentary off the top of my head (i did have to wikipedia some of the stats im not martin fucking crieff) so if i mess up a term or something that’s on me

of course no post about my favorite planes cannot leave out the OG. my first love, the most plane i have ever ridden; the one, the only, the increasingly irrelevant due to industry shifts, the beloved Airbus A380.

(L) just look at this big beautiful girl! + (R) a view of i believe scotland? as approached from the north

i don’t know why i love this plane so much, because lots of other people certainly don’t for a lot of reasons. her size makes her the main character out of necessity at every airport she comes across, and she’s an inconvenience for air traffic controllers for that reason. her origin story is [twitter stan account voice] a bit problematic. given changes in industry trends, she is also quickly becoming irrelevant. airbus my beloved please just admit that the four engines thing was nostalgia and go. she’s a marvel of engineering sure, but when all is said and done…the B747 came, she served cunt, and then she got phased out. the A380 was made with the intention of doing the same…unfortunately, she didn’t really complete the second step.

wait holy shit. i know why i love this plane so much. it’s because this plane…is me ❤️

—

and now for thee og in terms of famous big-ass planes that everyone loves: the B747. everyone loves the 747. even if they say they’re not into planes, they are. for me, not gonna lie: a very big reason for why i love the Queen of the Skies so much is mark vanhoenacker’s book, skyfaring. he flew the 747 for bri’ish airways (when they still had them) and loved that plane so much and man who am i to blame him.

(L) i think i teared up when i saw her through the big windows for the first time bc i was like oh my god. i am going to be on her. this icon of aviation, the arguable symbol of commercial aviation. so much history, so much significance… + (R) the past, the present, and the future of british airways in one image 🥺

i was on a 747 twice in my life. once on a cathay pacific flight to the philippines, and on my last flight abroad, on a british airways flight to heathrow. little did i know i was flying one of the last of their 747 flights—they phased them out completely the following year, a bit earlier than anticipated due to the pandemic.

as enzo ferrari once probably said, “ask a child to draw a plane, and certainly he will put a hump and four engines on it.” in terms of sheer iconic power and energy, the Queen (and she is the only earthly being to whom I shall ever refer as such) would far and away be the top on anyone’s list, save for the fact that i don’t have a top to this list and i have other planes to get to dear god this is getting long do you know what you’ve got yourself into!! the Queen really said “flight belongs to the people now” and the airlines just had to shut up and listen!! she is truly the main character!!!

genuinely don’t remember what river this is except that it’s in the UK… 🙈

i feel like everything else i say about her is just going to be a pale imitation of how evocative skyfaring was, so honestly i really recommend the book it’s so good and it’s one of my favorites. my copy is sort of falling apart now bc i kept bringing it around to places 😭 anyway, the number of airlines using her for passengers is decreasing, but you know who still use converted versions of her as well as purpose-built models? cargo airlines! anyway, ups and their brown planes my beloved 🤎

—

this slot was going to go to the B767 and 757, and i was going to rhapsodize about how aesthetically the 767 looks like a nicer plane to me because of Chonk, but the 757 is really endearing because it’s a narrowbody jet and it’s got landing gear that is long in a useful but unusual-looking way, which in essence what i’m trying to say is that if the 757 were a person, it would be esteban ocon.

so i was getting ready to write all of this down in much more words than i needed, but i remembered suddenly the very reason i was making this post in the first place. and that, my friends, is the B777.

honestly you don’t fully understand how big the 777 is until you see it in person. because we are all acclimated to think of like the 747 when we think of ‘big plane.’ but the 777 is massive. even i forgot about it when i wrote That Fanfic.

the 777 and 787 are the future of long-haul commercial aviation (and i say this as an A380 stannie). widebody jets with 2 big-ass engines are most likely what we’re going to see in the sky going forward when it comes to long-distance travel, and the pandemic pretty much confirmed that.

that aside, i love the 777. so much that i wrote a whole fanfic around one making an emergency landing ❤️ i really pretended ETOPS (the thing where a plane can fly for a long time on one engine) did not exist for six chapters and an alternate ending and i think that’s just very quirky of me aha 🤪

dear god do not mind my hat i literally bought it because of fred fucking thursday of endeavour… what the FUCK was teenage me on 😭

the 777 was supposed to be a trijet (one with three engines, two under each wing and one built into the vertical stabilizer) but as the mcdonnell douglas and lockheed martin trijets (cba to look up the numbers) were not projected to continue to be successful, they got rid of the trijet 777 idea and instead made it have two engines. another thing i think is neat is that all the examples of the 777 that you will see in the wild right now don’t have winglets bc the wings themselves are so long and raked back that they’re not necessary. which would be a weird thing for me in particular to find neat, because if you know me well you know i have a thing for winglets. (the 2022 f1 car’s front wing my BELOVED WAKSKDKSJSJ!!!!!) i also think the way the wingtip lights are incorporated into the wings are so neat. the upgraded version they’re trying to make now, the 777X, will have foldy wingtips so you can DIY your own winglets and i think that’s hilarious (and also cool).

—

genuinely i think i’m the only plane person that likes this last aircraft: the Embraer ERJ-175. i like her for purely nostalgic reasons. she reminds me of how i returned to my roots and decided to pursue engineering.

so okay this is going to have nothing to do with the plane, but i was lucky enough to be given a visit to the flightdeck after landing back home from a weekend trip. i was so excited to be allowed to sit in the first officer’s seat, and got to poke around the flightdeck for like ten minutes. which was cool, but all this was with the sinking realization that even operating a regional jet might be too physically demanding (read: unsafe) for someone of my… [exhales knowing EXACTLY what i’m about to walk into] height.

that is one fully glass cockpit. also those yokes are specific to embraer, boeing’s look more like f1 steering wheels with stuff cut out of them i think, and airbus’s are operated by side stick. it’s almost funny especially when watching flightdeck videos of the a380 cause it’s like… you’re doing All That *gestures vaguely at plane* with THAT *gestures at thing that looks like a chicken drumstick with semiconductors implanted in it*

so that was piloting as a career done with for me (much to my family’s relief.) and then i thought “hm i don’t have to be flying planes all the time to be working around them…why don’t i work on developing them instead?” and i was passively interested in matsci already, so that’s how and when i decided to pursue engineering, with hopes of working for airbus or boeing and in civil aviation.

we’ll see how that pans out, i say as i side-eye the exponential growth of my interest in motorsport.

thanks for the ask! i’m so sorry i was stupid and deleted it but i hope you like this very long, drawn out, and frankly deranged response 💚

[twinkledadwa]

Twinkledad’s: The “I Got Ghosted” Episode

Today, my CoStar daily alert read like this:

“When you feel an impulse to control another person, use it as a prompt to remember that you can’t.”

Believing in the stars is kind of stupid. Rooting back in my high school naivety, though, I do believe everything happens for a reason. And if you believe in that, then what happens makes sense.

If you read this blog, I made it known there was supposed to be a Twinkledad’s interview. 

If you’re reading this now, you’ll know it fell through.

Reddit PMs are not an efficient way to book plans, first of all. Doing it two months in advanced of a tour they announced morning of is boneheaded too. I recognized how ballsy of an idea it was, given the complete lack of professionalism. I have no professional experience, and honestly, there was no real reason to do the interview. Any money or “clout” ventures are stupid. It was just to have done it.

Yesterday, we agreed to do the interview after the show (through actual DMs). I went to buy merch, and during the interaction, told the initial point of contact who I was. From what I heard (I, a single perspective), the response was:

                                            “Oh...good for you”.

And we exchanged names, which was kinda jarring. I had no idea where to build from, and ultimately didn’t. A friend and I waited until everything was shut off, gear packed, then left. We ate In N’ Out. During the time spent waiting, we delved into conversation that was in the moment. No talks of the future, only discussion that could have existed then.

I couldn’t have had a better finish to the night.

The common response is to fling shit at the walls when your favorite DIY twinkle-emo band doesn’t give you attention, and try to move forces against them. This situation feels inline to being ghosted by/ghosting a romantic interest. 

 I could have handled what led up to it much better. Perspectives differ. They’re a touring band, they don’t owe anything to me as just a fan. Anybody’s selfish, specifically mine in this case, shouldn’t matter to any other but yourself. Not even that statement right there. The night became less of holding onto that sliver of hope and more enjoying where I was at. 

I discovered this band through a person whom my opinion of shouldn’t affect them, and vice versa. It’s nice to know how it has come full circle, ending with a 10 inch, a fleeting experience, and a shirt I’m still going to wear to brunch tomorrow. (EDIT: i also just remembered he didn’t give me my change back for the merch, which i was okay with at the time, but yeah that is kind of dodgy)

However, questions were sent in, and they don’t deserve to be ignored. Here are my answers, and you can imagine some quirky banter if everything went differently.

Dear Twinkledad,

Given everything I just said above, what music recommendations would you give?

Anonymous.

“So I’m leaving...

  voooOOiiiiCCeeeemaaaiiiiiillllsssss”

Cloud District - Hamster Camp

Bug Bath - Unique Experience

Jawbreaker - Boxcar

Algae Bloom - Thornes

Kississippi - Cut Yr Teeth

Dear Twinkledad,

Things recently ended with a person I had been seeing. I hurt them, didn’t communicate my feelings properly, and I feel like garbage for it. I leave the continent for 5 months in a few weeks, and I want to reach out before I leave, but I also want to give her space? Should I wait and see if she reaches out? I’m a dumb stupid idiot.

Dumb, Stupid Idiot.

Dumb, Stupid Idiot,

This is tough. Even through a small paragraph, I could sense a lot of regret. And usually, waiting until they, as the offended party, responds is a smart move, but the continental move complicates it.

If you have genuine sorrow, please reach out as soon as what’s reasonable. The time you’ll be gone will impact how she approaches it, and five months is a lot of time to sit on a negative feeling like that. If you’re in the position of having hurt someone, extending that hand once your heart feels the need to is important. Also, inferring the situation, you’re probably the one who would need to apologize (not a bad thing! we all are in this spot, one way or another!)

Hopefully this helped. I truly do wish you the best.

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone - Nashville Parthenon

Stars Hollow - As You Were Before.

Frail Body - Old Friends

Hightide Hotel - A Soft Subtle Sound

Dear Twinkledad,

how do I find interesting things to do for my last semester of high school? everything feels like too much work to start and everyone else seems too busy to hangout.

Anonymous.

Anonymous,

I was in a similar position Senior year. When you get into college, those troubles will get infinitely better. It’s practically a boiling pot for activity.

For the time being, try relying on your impulses. Stupid, yes, but if you want to experience youth to its fullest, this is how. Interesting things to do lies within the “schizophrenia” (spacy, uneven rhythm in life) of what surrounds you. There is no purpose to try too hard for something. Let it happen, only focus on how your heart beats, and not an ideal nature your mind is trying to create.

Vandalism, finger painting, walks, kratom, anything and everything.

Cow tipping?

Yes.

It sounds like you’re left to nothing but to fuck around for the time you have left. Make it worth it. Hopefully that helped!

Laura Stevenson - Master of Art

Total Downer - Everything Is Gonna Be Alright

For Your Health - Second Aid Kit

Sleep Kit - Je Ne Sais Pas, Aue

Dear Twinkledad,

I am interested in a girl but I'm unsure we are compatible. I always run into her at skramz shows so I know we at least some musical taste overlap but the only other thing I know about her is that she works a blue collar job while I am a white collar professional. I am unsure if it's worth pursuing further knowing that I would rather be with someone that has a similar lifestyle to me. How should I proceed?  

-Business Casual at the Skramz Gig.

Business Casual at the Skramz Gig,

I feel like the point of a crush (opposed to having actual feelings for someone) is to know someone better. It straddles the line between romantic interest and want of general companionship. Our human want is to interact with other humans, and arguably, become more human in the process. Even if she doesn’t check the boxes to your “goals”, there’s a wealth of opportunity there to get to know someone possibly rad. 

Go for it! Skramz is a good starting point. You can’t be an NPC forever. I wish you good luck!

Dianacrawls - Rollercoasting Simulation

Senza - Sentience

Portrayal of Guilt - Among Friends

Shin Guard - Cross Country

Dear Twinkledad,

ask the emo bands how to get gamer girls to step on my face

Anonymous.

Anonymous,

this question makes everything your fault.

Wellspring - Quiver

ORTHODOXXER - IBLOCKEDHIMFROMMYFINSTAINAFITOFRAGE (TIK TOK ANTHEM)

oswald;octopus - montreal is where guys wear nail polish but not condoms (never meant pt. 2 i’m going to beat the fucking shit out of mike kinsella)

SCRAWLERS - 7/11

POSED OUT - THRASHACHUSETTS

friends from home - casket made of stone

god bless gilgamesh - i look for feathers in the rains from heaven, i find mostly piss

Clairo - Bags

[pandemicthestory]

8: masked

YOUTUBE SEARCH// how to make a pandemic mask with a bandana (to save a brain dead sister)

After hanging up with Madison, Emma pulls up a YouTube video on how to make a DIY mask out of a bandana and two rubber bands.

She hasn't been outside for almost three months now, except now and then stepping onto her front porch so she can remind herself what air smells like. Now, it's time to brave the storm--or rather, the toxic virus that has suffocated thousands.

"Where do you think you're going?" calls mom.

"And what the hell is that thing on your face? Looks like a diaper." her dad loves to make jokes at her expense to entertain her mother. Normally, she might tell him to piss off and maybe comment on his lack of a career or any good qualities in general. That would normally land her "quarantined" (ha) to her bedroom. They see it as punishment, but for Emma, solitude away from those assholes has always been a delight.

Sure, these sentiments come across as harsh. But Emma's anger towards her parents didn't come out of nowhere. If it was up to her, she'd have a wonderful relationship with them--hell, they might all be sitting on the couch together right now, watching The Sopranos and sharing a bowl of popcorn. But that's an alternate universe that she'll never live in.

Some parents don't have favorites. Emma's parents are not those parents.

Once upon a time, back when she and Isabel were the best of friends, the four members of their family felt close. A cohesive unit. It was so long ago now that Emma hardly remembers it...but the memories of taking bike rides through the park trails that ended with a picnic, and of ice skating in the winter before the reward of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, those memories are still there. They loved to be outdoors together. It seems like they became trapped indoors long ago, long before this pandemic began.

If Emma could let go of those memories, she would. Maybe it's because they're so deeply ingrained in her mind, like shrapnel in a war wound, that the pain of her current reality is sharper than it has to be. Every time she feels her mom's disapproving stare or her dad's condescending laughter, in the back of her mind, she remembers the ice rink. It's the comparison between then and now that she can't seem to let go of.

When she and Isabel got a bit older, their dad got a better job. Well, one that paid him more money, but not one that made him happier. Still, everyone called it "better." They moved to a bigger house in a more relevant suburb and their mom started wearing fancier clothing. There were no bike trails nearby.

As Emma's dad was around less, Emma's mom had more anxiety. And she had nothing to do with it--at first. At some point, she started to compare and contrast her two daughters. Emma: older, more introverted, creative, distant. Isabel: outgoing, popular, bubbly, positive. Emma's mom always felt that she was responsible for Emma's trouble connecting with others, and in some ways, she was. It was a cycle. Emma's distance led her mom to fear her, which made her more distant.

Emma was very young when her mom decided that she had already slipped away. Her mom made up her mind that she wouldn't let the same happen to Isabel. She felt immense guilt for letting go of Emma, but their strained relationship was a constant reminder of her own inadequacies. With Isabel, it would be different. 

Emma was old enough and smart enough to understand the difference between the way her mom treated her and her little sister. It wasn't Isabel's fault, but Emma resented her nonetheless. So when Emma moved out of the butterfly room into her own space, she shut the door behind her. And thus, over time, the two sisters grew apart. 

With each lonely glass of wine, their mother grew apart from reality. Her mission to "save" Isabel was noble, but she didn't have the energy to fully commit. And Emma's father was in and out of the picture to the extent that she decided to let him go, to shut herself off from the disappointment and scorn, a coping mechanism that she had unintentionally learned from her mom.

Ultimately, money had not solved the problems of the Bradford family. However, that didn't mean that Emma wasn't going to stockpile a shitload of it. And run away from them forever.

"I'm just going for a walk around the block." Emma says through her DIY bandana mask.

"Well, stay 6 feet apart from anyone you might see out there. It's easy to catch this thing even from just breathing." Emma's mom commands. Showing authority is the one of the last ways she knows how to connect with her oldest daughter.

"Yeah, no shit." Emma says under her breath, leaving before they can chastise her.

Emma's mom watches her daughter leave. Her dad shakes his head.

"When this is all over, we'll have to do something about her. She's not well." His concern is questionably genuine. He's not a bad person, though his loyalty has wavered over the years. It's more so that he fell out of touch a long time ago and never returned.

Emma's mom continues to stare. She doesn't like that her daughter speaks to her like that. But what she likes even less is the feeling that overall, in her life, she's losing control.

"I don't know about waiting until this is all over. We might have to do something sooner than that."

Emma steps outside. April in the midwest is nasty. Apparently, before global warming gave the planet a death sentence, this month used to be spring. There were flowers, and grass, and other green stuff. So she'd been told. But now, everything is grey and wet. Just as well, since the outdoors are not so relevant anymore.

She sees a navy blue Toyota Prius rounding the corner onto her street. She grins, she can always count on Madison.

Emma runs down the street so that her parents won't see Emma's car in front of their house. If they make this quick, they can be back before her mom and dad question what could have happened. They'll believe she had only been on a walk.

As Emma gets into Mad's car, the feeling of closeness is overwhelming. The two friends fight the strong urge to hug.

"Oh my god, this is so weird. I can't believe you're here. That I'm seeing you. Oh god it's trippy." Madison rambles.

"I can't believe it. Not hugging you really sucks."

Madison jokingly backs away from her.

"I dunno if I wanna hug you with that mask...looks like a diaper on your face."

"Yeah and where's your mask? You're just jealous cuz you're gonna die, like an idiot." Emma buckles her seatbelt and turns up the radio. David Bowie is really setting the rebellious tone.

"Ok can you please tell me where we're going? Kinda need to know if I'm gonna drive us there." asks Madison.

"Ok get ready for it: we're going to Best Buy."

Madison looks at Emma like, "you pulled me out of my house in a fucking pandemic for this? I hate you."

"What the hell are you talking about, Em? First of all, WHAT. And second of all it's closed!! Duh!!"

"And we're gonna go anyway. Just trust me, ok?"

Madison rolls her eyes and turns the car around. This is not the heist she was expecting, but it will have to do.

Driving through town is freaky, to say the least. Everything is closed, there are no cars, and the fact that it's grey just really makes it the most depressing place one could be on a Friday.

"Everything's really closed, isn't it?" Emma asks, staring out the window at the ghost town. Madison shakes her head.

"And you think Best Buy is gonna be any different?"

Seemingly, it isn't. They pull up to Best Buy and the store is aggressively closed, its darkened windows matching every other depressing business in the strip mall. The expansive parking lot is empty...except for just one car.

"Huh, who do you think that is?" Madison asks, peering while pulling into a parking space. Emma holds her breath, really hoping Madison won't be pissed, but knowing she will be.

"Yeah, um, I know who that is. Because I asked him to come."

"God Emma, what did you do?"

It's then that a young man steps out of his car. Short, athletic build, cropped auburn hair...it's Gabriel. Zoe's senior boyfriend. What. The. Hell.

"Ummm, care to explain why GABE is here?" Madison hisses through clenched teeth, as they get out of the car.

"If I had told you beforehand, you wouldn't have driven me."

They approach Gabriel, who leans against his car, slightly confused. Emma attempts a handshake, as if this is a business conference. She immediately hates herself for her awkwardness. What is the appropriate greeting in a heist?

"Nice mask." He smirks.

"It's a diaper." Madison retorts. He laughs.

"So Emma, I didn't tell Zoe...but if I'm gonna lie to my girlfriend, you gotta give me a good explanation. I mean, you don't even like me."

"True." Madison says, as Emma nudges her in the ribs. Emma takes a deep breath.

"Thanks for meeting us Gabe. Like I said on the phone, I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important, and I'm pretty sure this might be life or death. That sounds stupid but yeah. This is all very weird, and I can't really explain the full story because there's this thing with my sister, and there's a game that she played, and this guy online might be responsible for why she's currently a vegetable, although I'm pretty sure that's temporary, at least I fucking hope it is. Anyway does that make any sense at all?"

Madison and Gabriel stare at her looking completely lost. Emma regains her nerve. Get to the point.

"Gabe, I know you worked here two summers ago. Right?"

He nods.

"Do they have...an employee entrance of some kind? Like a door in the back? Any kind of warehouse opening?"

"There's an employee entrance in the back of the store." he says, cautiously. Again, Emma takes a breath.

"Well then, what I'm hoping...is that you still have a key, or a card, or whatever it takes to get inside."

Both Gabriel and Emma look shocked. Gabe speaks first.

"I um...I keep all my key cards. You never know what could happen." Now that he's catching on, his tone has grown more serious.

"That's what I was hoping you'd say. We need to get inside, Gabe. I need a certain piece of equipment."

Gabe nearly laughs.

"So what you're saying is you want to steal electronics from the warehouse? Do you know what would happen if we got caught?"

"Well yes, well, no...um, my uh...little sister..."

Emma's face is red now. She's now realizing that this was an incredibly stupid idea...how could she have thought of something so reckless, and actually suggested it out loud. She'd fully love to be anywhere but here, even squeezed between mom and pop on the couch.

Oddly, it's Julian's voice she hears echoing in her head--scorning her for letting these other people into a situation so personal. 

They don't know her. No one knows the real her, except him. He's yelling at her for jeopardizing their opportunity to run away together. For putting herself first. 

She gulps back tears. Is it Julian's voice, or her mom's? 

Madison's voice snaps her out of it.

"I say let's fuckin do it." she says.

Emma exhales. Gabriel looks at her intently.

"You sure?" he asks.

Emma looks at the dark, looming building in front of them. She learned at a very young age how to be brave.

"We gotta be quick."

[emospritelet]

Honourable Members - ch 2

[Part 1]

[AO3 link]

I hope you guys like UST :)

The next few days passed without another encounter with Belle French, and Sutherland was surprised to find that he regretted it.  He caught himself thinking of her at the oddest moments, and told himself firmly that his interest had been sparked by her daring to stand up to him, unlike most of the spineless career politicians he had to deal with.  It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was fierce and beautiful and passionate, or that she had delightfully shapely legs, or that she had been just the right height to suit his shorter stature. Nothing whatsoever.

The tabloid press had pursued the idea of the two of them being an item, but he had been pleased to see in the one interview he caught that Miss French had politely but firmly shut down any suggestion of impropriety when asked, and had steered the interviewer towards her concerns over policy.  He was less pleased that her concerns brought further attention to the Wolsingham debacle, but it couldn’t be helped.

Tossing a briefing paper aside, he grinned as he recalled the flash of her eyes, the set of her jaw as she tried to look down her nose at him, the way her chest had heaved in outrage.  The memory dissipated in favour of the more lurid fantasies his mind could conjure up: fantasies in which she was looking up at him from a very different position, his fingers curled in her hair, her eyes half-closed and dark with desire and her lips full and moist...

Sutherland groaned, letting his head thump onto his folded arms, and called himself every word for idiot he could think of.  She was a new MP, she was far too young for him, she wasn’t remotely interested, and he was an old pervert for thinking of her that way.  It was the stress, he decided. A pathetic infatuation brought on by late nights, too little sleep and too much whisky. Clearly he needed more coffee to get through the morning without his mind wandering.

“Look, I know the Wolsingham issue is going to cause an uproar whichever way it goes, but I don’t think things are quite that desperate,” remarked Carrie, making him lift his head.  She dropped another leather folder of documents in front of him.  “The papers you asked for earlier? Just need your signature.”

He grumbled something, pushing upright and pulling the folder towards him. He could feel her eyes on him as he opened it up, and he waited for her to say what was clearly on her mind.

“We’ve had responses on the cross-party group for the Borders regeneration strategy,” she said.  “You know you don’t have to chair this yourself, you could leave it to Sir Anthony.”

“I know, but it was a key campaign promise, I’d rather have a little oversight.”

“You can’t oversee everything.”

“Yeah, well, just let me see how this first meeting goes,” he said, a little impatiently.  “If I don’t feel I’m adding anything, Sir Anthony can take over.”

“Very well,” she sighed.  “They can all attend for an initial meeting today, so I’ve rescheduled your three o’clock; the Minister’s coming in tomorrow instead.  Thought we may as well strike while the iron’s hot and today was the best in terms of diary space.”

“Good.”  He ran his eyes over the document in front of him.  “I presume we’ll be in the Cabinet Room. How many are we talking?”

“Oh, about a dozen, not including you,” she said airily.  “Representatives from DERCA, obviously, along with DII, and I thought DfTI would want in on the act. Plus MPs from the other major parties.”

“Who’s in that group?” he asked absently, signing the papers with a flourish.

“Bit of a mixed bag,” she mused, taking them from him and indicating another document.  “Baron Samdi…”

“Hardly a surprise, it’s his constituency that’ll be one of the most affected.”

“Victoria Belfrey and Fiona Black…”

Sutherland grumbled under his breath, reading over the document in his hands a second time.

“They’ll both disagree with anything I say just to be bloody-minded.  Anyone on our side in this?”

“Well, there’s Sir David,” she said.  “Not saying he’ll be one hundred percent behind the scheme, but he’s fair.  Press the point home about the extra money for farmers in the area and you’ll win him over.”

He looked up then, frowning.

“You’re holding out on me,” he said suspiciously.  “Who else?”

She rolled her eyes, putting fists on hips.

“Can’t I have any surprises?”

“I hate surprises,” he said.  “Come on, spit it out.”

“Belle French.”

“What?”  He stared at her in outrage.  “She hasn’t even been in post three weeks!  How the hell did she swing that?”

“Well, you know what Sir Anthony’s like,” she said.  “If I were her, I’d have batted my eyelashes and paid him a compliment and watched as he bent over backwards trying to keep me happy in the vain hope of getting a shag out of it.”

Sutherland shot her a flat look.

“Are you telling me this is a habit with you?”

“Oh, I didn’t bother doing it to you,” she assured him.  “Waste of time.”

“I’m not sure whether to be relieved or offended.”

“Well, you didn’t need convincing when it came to my competence,” she said. “Besides, I’m just saying what I would do if I were her.  I’m sure she has far too much integrity than to try that one.”

“I’m sure.”

“Which is a good thing, because that randy old goat has no integrity whatsoever…”

“Carrie, could we talk about something other than Miss French’s potential conquests?” he asked impatiently, and she smirked.

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Do you want me to attend the meeting?” she asked, and he grinned at her.

“Of course,” he said.  “Who else is gonna keep me in line?”

Carrie sniffed, gathering up the signed documents.

“Well, perhaps one person springs to mind…”

x

The committee meeting was a disaster.

It had started out well enough; there was general agreement about the level of deprivation in the Borders area and the need for long-term investment and improved transportation.  Sutherland had laid out the preliminary findings of a Government consultation on proposals for regeneration, and it was then that things had started to fall apart. 

Looking back he supposed it was inevitable; different departments had different priorities, and the opposing parties had staked out their own positions depending on their manifesto commitments, but he had hoped they could arrive at something resembling a way forward. Baron Samdi: handsome, erudite, and eager to deliver for his voters, was inclined to support the Government's preferred option, but Sir Anthony Challoner: balding, earnest-looking, and resistant to change, was opposed to anything too ambitious.  It made him want to grind his teeth.  Fiona Black and Victoria Belfrey, members of the Opposition and long-time thorns in his side, had teamed up to attack not only the scheme itself, but also any attempt he made to find consensus on the proposals. And then there was Belle French.

“Well, personally I think the fifth proposal goes some way towards what we need to achieve in the area,” she said, looking around the table after the latest heated exchange had died down.  “But it doesn’t go far enough.”

“That proposal is already absurdly expensive!” protested Victoria Belfrey, glaring at her.  “My party certainly can’t support such a wasteful use of taxpayers’ money!”

“I trust you’re not saying that any investment in my constituency is a waste, Victoria,” said Samdi, shooting her a flat look, and she rolled her eyes.

“Of course not, just - I think we need to be realistic here.”

“I’m not proposing we move ahead with proposal five, I’m proposing we look at something else entirely,” said Miss French eagerly.  “One of the constituencies covered by the scheme borders my own, and I know from talking to my own people what the needs in the area are.”

“Which is presumably why you’ve been given a place at this table,” said Sutherland, sounding far calmer than he felt.  “Opinion has already been canvassed. Proposal five is as radical as the Government is prepared to be, I assure you, Miss French.  Please note our responses as set out in section four of your bundle. Proposal three is the preferred option.”

“But if you just—”

“The consultation is over,” he interrupted.  “This committee hasn’t been formed to come up with proposals, but to discuss those already put forward and agree on a cross-party strategy.”

She seemed to struggle a little, her mouth working, but then reluctantly shrugged acceptance.  His eyes narrowed at the rapid capitulation; he suspected she wouldn’t let the issue drop entirely, and was proven right ten minutes later when she piped up again.

“If we follow option three, how can we be certain that the contractors will get the infrastructure done on time and to budget?” she asked.  “I still think we could go further than what’s being proposed.”

“Preliminary costings and time estimates have already been provided by Wolsingham plc,” said Samdi, waving one of the papers.  Miss French turned to Sutherland with an outraged look on her face.

“You’re going with Wolsingham?”

“They are a Government contractor,” he said blandly.  “It seemed reasonable to let them give us an estimate, at least.”

“But - but everything we spoke about the other day!” she protested.  “I wasn’t making it up! Sir Cyril Wolsingham is known for ripping off subcontractors and employees!  We can’t possibly consider his firm for this!”

“You know, when last I looked, it was my Government that entered into contracts,” he said, his voice cold.

“No, you’re right,” she agreed, in a wry tone.  “It’s definitely not the place of this committee to tell you how to do your job.”

“Well, thank you for that concession, I’m sure,” he remarked.

“Perhaps it’s one of those things that gets sewn up on the golf course or over a glass of something in the clubhouse afterwards.”

“Do I look like I play fucking golf?” he snapped.

Seated at his left, Carrie cleared her throat, a familiar warning that he chose not to heed.  Miss French managed to look down her nose at him, not in the least intimidated, and Fiona Black sucked in her cheeks, pursing her lips and exchanging a knowing look with Ms Belfrey.  It did nothing to improve his temper.

“The estimate was for the purpose of initial costings only,” he said, hating that he sounded defensive.  “The scheme will be put out to tender when we make a decision on how we want to proceed.”

“Well, I really think we should talk about the potential contractors, given Wolsingham’s reputation for dodgy dealings—”

“How about we do that once we’ve chosen a bloody way forward?” he snapped.  “It’s all very well to fight the good fight, Miss French, but you can’t do so on all fronts.”

She glared at him.

“And if you give up the fight entirely, what then?” she demanded.

“Well, sometimes a battle must be lost in order to win the war itself.”

“Easy to say for the king in his castle with nothing to lose!”

His eyes narrowed, mouth flattening in irritation.

“Be careful, Miss French,” he warned.  “You’re currently here against my better judgement, but I can easily find someone else from the New Liberal party who’ll be every bit as competent while keeping a civil tongue in their head.”

"Fine," she said stiffly.  "As you say, nothing's been decided yet."

"Thank you."

"And I suppose with election year looming in the not-too-distant future, you're reluctant to take any risks or lose any friends."

"Miss French, so help me..." he growled.

"Perhaps we could get back to the proposals?" said Samdi, his voice smooth and calming.  "I definitely think we can rule out options one and two."

"Not so fast," said Victoria.  "Let's at least consider option one."

"'Do nothing' is not gonna happen, Victoria, and you bloody know it!" snapped Sutherland.  "I campaigned on this fucking thing, and I'll deliver it with or without your input!"

Miss French leaned forward, the light of fervour in her blue eyes which made him want to groan.

"Prime Minister, I understand you have a lot of conflicting priorities to consider," she said.  "But I really think we have an opportunity here.  An opportunity to make a real difference to the lives of people in the north of England, to increase trade and improve infrastructure!  Isn't that what we're all here for?"

Victoria and Fiona shared a grimace, and Sutherland wanted to sigh.

"No one's denying that we're here for the common good, Miss French—”

"Then why can't we talk around some different options other than what's been proposed?"

"Am I speaking a foreign fucking language?" he snapped, slapping the papers in front of him and making Sir Anthony jump.  "A lengthy consultation has been carried out, and before you are the options on the table!  Bloody well pick one!  Or do you want to just sit around fucking talking about it for the next ten years before someone's got the bollocks to make a decision?"

Miss French sniffed.

"Well, I see your reputation for collaborative working is well-earned," she said dryly.

Fiona Black snorted and tried to turn it into a cough.  Sutherland gritted his teeth, and put down his pen very deliberately.

"Miss French, you've been at Parliament a grand total of eighteen days," he said curtly.  "If you're looking to sit in my fucking chair anytime soon, you're in for a disappointment."

She looked a little chastened at that.

“I just meant that—”

“Can we move on, please?” he interrupted.  “I’d like to get this meeting over with before bloody midnight.”

x

Ten minutes to nine, and he still had a set of prepared responses to read through and approve and a draft paper to look over.  Sutherland sighed, blinking rapidly to try to concentrate on the words in front of him. It had been a long, frustrating day, and he wanted nothing more than to say fuck it all, pour himself a drink, and slump into one of the comfier chairs in his apartments. He kept replaying the cross-party meeting in his head, and wishing he had been calmer.  Miss French seemed to be able to push his buttons. Every last one of them.

He closed his eyes as his mind came up with a very different ending to the meeting, one in which he hadn’t lost his temper in another angry exchange with her, in which he hadn’t stormed out without a backward glance, bristling with righteous indignation.  He imagined the other participants leaving he and Miss French alone, their sniping increasing along with their passion until something broke and she kissed him hard and he shoved her up against the wall and—

He closed his eyes, shaking his head.  Ridiculous!  As if she’d kiss you!  She’d fucking slap you, either with a hand or a bloody sexual harassment claim, and you’d fucking deserve both.  Snap out of it, you moron!

“Well, aren’t you gorgeous?”

A familiar female voice made him look up in confusion.  Miss French was bent over in the doorway, a file in one hand and the other scratching Arthur’s ears. The plump tabby was gazing up at her adoringly, back arched and tail curled over as he butted his head against her fingers.  Sutherland’s mouth flattened in resigned amusement. Traitor.

Miss French was wearing blue again, a slim-fitting dress with a pencil skirt and a V-neck, her pale arms bare. He found that his eyes were following the curves of her hips and waist, and he hurriedly flicked them up above the top of her head just as she straightened up.  Arthur wound around her legs, purring as his tail curled around one pale shin, and she nodded cautiously.

“Prime Minister,” she said, and he sat back, tapping his pen against the paperwork in front of him.

“Miss French,” he said wearily.  “If you’re looking to resume our fight, it’s a little late.”

“No, that wasn’t—”  She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath before opening them again.  “I was talking to Sir Anthony, and he said he had some documents to hand to you regarding Monday’s Select Committee hearing, so I - I said I’d bring them over.”

She held up the file, and at his nod, stepped forward and placed it on his desk.

“You could have just left them with Carrie,” he said.

“I know.”

“In fact, I’m impressed that you managed to get past her.”

“I kind of waited until she went to the ladies’ room, and then sneaked in,” she said, having the grace to look a little guilty.  She was tugging at her lower lip with her teeth, and it was rather distracting. He shook his head.

“Yes, well,” he said.  “It’s late, and I have things to do, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“I - I just wanted to apologise,” she said hurriedly.  “I was out of line. You were right to call me on it.”

“Oh, I know that,” he said dryly, turning the pen between his finger and thumb. “But I appreciate the sentiment."

"You were right to say that we need to make a decision on one of the options, as well," she said.  "I'm not sure we can find a consensus on option five, but three might be possible."

"Well, I'm glad you're committed to working towards a solution," he said. "However, I think I should warn you that if you continue to talk over others on the committee and to push your opinions as fact, you’ll soon find yourself out on your arse.”

She stepped closer to the desk, leaning on it with both hands, her chestnut hair swinging forward, gleaming copper in the light.  The angle of her body gave him an excellent view down the front of her dress, and a glimpse of the lacy edge of her bra. He tried to keep his eyes on hers, cursing himself for a bloody fool.

“Look, I know you think I’m naive,” she said earnestly.  “But I’m not an idiot. I’m right about Wolsingham!”

“I’m sure you think so.”

“I know how Sir Cyril works!” she insisted, straightening up again.  “He’s nothing but a conman and a thug! He duped my father into investing in his business decades ago!  Fed him a bunch of bullshit about contracts that turned out to be non-existent, and by the time Dad realised he’d been screwed over, he couldn’t afford to bring the case to court.  Dad lost everything!”

Sutherland wanted to sigh.  A family history of animosity with a major contractor, and she chooses now to bring it up?  Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.

“So.”  He closed the file in front of him.  “You have an interest in this matter?”

“Well, obviously!”

“Then, even more obviously, it’s not appropriate that you should have any involvement in the regeneration strategy.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She opened and closed her mouth, her eyes wide.

“You can’t be serious!”

“On the contrary,” he said coldly.  “I’m very serious.”

“But—”

“Do you deny that you have highly negative opinions about the intentions and reputation of one of the board members of Wolsingham plc, a potential contractor?”

“I—”  She struggled visibly.  “I - well, no, I can’t deny that, I suppose.”

“Then there’s no more to be said.”  He pulled a document towards himself.  “I thank you for bringing this conflict of interest to my attention, and for your honesty in revealing your father’s prior dealings with the firm.  I’ll expect the Shadow Environment Secretary to name a replacement within due course. Ms de Ville will show you out. Good evening to you.”

Having dismissed her, he dropped his eyes, reading the paper in front of him. He could almost feel her frustration, a pressure in the air around him, as though a whistle was being blown that was pitched a little too high for him to hear.  He sighed, scrawling his signature at the bottom of the document and setting it aside.

“Miss French, you clearly have something you’re almost bursting to tell me, so let’s hear it.”

“I - I just think it’s unfair to throw me off this committee because of my opinion of one aspect of the regeneration!”

Sutherland’s head jerked up.

“Unfair?” he snapped.  “What are you, fucking five?”

She opened her mouth, looking furious, and the door opened behind her, Carrie looking at first puzzled and then cautious.

“I - I was about to go home, sir,” she said.  “I wasn’t aware that you had an appointment.”

“I didn’t,” he said curtly.  “Miss French was just leaving.”

“No I wasn’t.”

Carrie’s eyebrows shot up as her eyes flicked to him, and Sutherland slumped in his seat a little, letting out a rumbling sigh.

“Carrie, go on, go home,” he said wearily.  “Give my regards to your lovely wife. I’m sure she’d like to have dinner with you for once.”

“If you’re sure, sir.”

Miss French had gone very still, as though she thought he would forget she was there, and Sutherland jerked his head towards her.

“I can always get Special Branch to toss her out, can’t I?” he said, and Carrie smirked.

“I’ll say goodnight then, sir.”

She eyed Belle one last time, with a look in her eye as though she had a dozen questions she wanted to ask, but thought better of it.  The door closed behind her, and Sutherland turned his attention to the woman in front of him. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and made a decision.

“D’you want a drink?” he asked bluntly.

It was gratifying to throw her off her game.  She blinked at him, suddenly unsure of herself.

“What?”

“A drink,” he said impatiently.  “Whisky, brandy... I might have some gin if Carrie’s left me any.”

“Uh - okay.”  She seemed to rally again.  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Whisky, then.”

He pushed back from the desk, going to cabinet which housed the bottles of spirits and selecting two cut crystal glasses.  Whisky poured in a tawny stream, and he turned back to her, holding out a glass. She took it from his hands.

“Thank you.”

He sat back down in his chair, the cushioned leather squeaking a little as he sat down, and took a sip of his drink as he met her eyes.

“So,” he said.  “You’ve been an MP for barely three weeks and you’ve already managed to get on my tits.  I don’t know whether to be impressed or pissed off.”

“Well, at least you’ll remember me,” she said, with a tiny grin.

“For all the wrong reasons, maybe.”

“I assure you there are a lot of excellent reasons too,” she said.  “I realise we may have got off on the wrong foot, but there’s no reason we can’t work together, is there?”

“Of course not,” he said, and she smiled.  “But we won’t be working on this committee.”

Her brows drew down at that.

“Prime Minister, if I may, I really think I can bring something to the table—”

“No doubt,” he interjected.  “But I can’t have you on the committee for this particular project, Miss French. I’m sorry, but that’s my final word on the matter.”

She sighed, shrugging in a defeated manner, and took a drink, her eyes on the floor.  Her head bobbed up almost immediately.

“Will you promise to put me at the top of the list for the next cross-party committee you oversee, then?”

“Fuck's sake!”  He scowled at her.  “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not usually.”

“I don’t even know when the next committee will be, or the subject matter,” he snapped.  “I’m certainly not about to agree to put your name on the list on a fucking whim!”

She merely smiled at his aggressive tone, taking a sip of her drink as she eyed him.  She didn’t seem remotely intimidated by him, and it was annoyingly alluring.

“Well, if you can spare ten minutes, I can show you why I’d be an excellent addition to any team you may want to put together,” she said airily.

“I see.”  His eyes narrowed.  “A first class PPE degree from Oxbridge, a head stuffed full of idealistic nonsense, and suddenly you’re a bloody expert, are you?”

“So.”  She looked satisfied.  “You read up on me.”

“No,” he said truthfully.  “I just know what cloth the new breed of politicians is cut from, that’s all.  I know there’s a path to be taken, a set of milestones to be reached, and it has nothing to do with understanding what the majority of working class people go through in this country.  Picking a political party is all about what colour tie suits, for a lot of you.”

“That’s remarkably cynical,” she said flatly, and he shrugged, taking a sip of whisky.

“Goes with the territory.”

“I read about you,” she said.

“I’d be astonished if you hadn’t,” he said.  “It’s all true. Even the bad stuff. Actually, especially the bad stuff.”

“Left school at sixteen, no qualifications, worked your way up from the shop floor in the shipyards,” she went on.  “Quite the firebrand as a union rep, by all accounts.”

Her focus on his background, his lack of qualifications, made him bristle, even as he told himself for the thousandth time not to let his lack of formal education bother him.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Of course not,” she said.  “But given that you’ve reached the highest office in the land, it might be time to get past the chip on your shoulder.  The fact that some have a more privileged upbringing than others doesn’t make their contributions worthless or their intentions less honourable.”

He kept his face smooth, but inwardly he was quivering with outrage.  She may have been right, and it may have been something he told himself regularly, but he didn’t appreciate hearing it.

“I’m not ashamed to call out inequalities when I see them,” he said evenly.

“Then maybe you can understand the reasons for my passion,” she countered, and he tilted his head.

“Oh, I do,” he agreed.  “I also know what this place is like, Miss French.  You can’t get your way all the time. Public service is about compromise. Something you’ll learn in time, I have no doubt.”

“The greater good?” she said sardonically.  “Yeah, that always ends well…”

“Like I said.”  He took another sip.  “Pick your battles.”

She took a sip of her own drink, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.

“Well, since you were kind enough to offer me some of your whisky,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll take your advice.”

“Good.”

“At least for tonight.”

He smiled briefly, and some of the tension left the air.

“Why politics, anyway?” he said, gesturing with his glass, the whisky sloshing inside it.  “Surely you could make better money with better hours doing something else?”

“Do you do this for the money, then?”

“You must be fucking joking.”

“Then why would you assume I would?”

It was a fair point, but he stared at her unblinking, wanting a reply to his original question.  After a moment she sighed, setting down her glass.

“I wanted to do some good,” she said simply.  “Thought I could do more from this place. Couldn’t do much worse than my predecessor.”

“I always find that a bar being set low only invites people to try to go under it, but fair enough.”

“There’s that cynicism again.”

He glanced away to hide a smile, and took another sip of his drink.

“How did you manage to swing the place on the committee, anyway?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Sweet-talked Sir Anthony, how’d you think?”

“I think,” he said, “that Sir Anthony is a fool if he underestimates you.”

“Well, I won’t tell him if you won’t.”

He grinned at that.

“And other than picking a fight with me, how did you find your first meeting?” he said.  “What you expected?”

“More or less,” she said.  “You know what they say, know your enemy.”

“Are we enemies?”

“I hope not.”  She took a drink.  “We both have similar goals, after all.  We’re just on slightly different sides.”

“Perhaps adjacent rather than opposite, then,” he suggested.

She had pursed her lips a little, an amused glint in her eyes.

“You know the press thinks we’re having a passionate affair, right?”

“So I heard,” he grumbled.  “I’m sorry about that.”

She giggled, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said.  “Considering the other men I spend my days with, it could definitely be worse. At least you’re actually my type.”

He almost choked on his whisky at that, and tried to keep a straight face while his eyes watered.

“I’m just hoping no embarrassing pictures from my university days surface while they’re raking around in my private life,” she went on, seemingly oblivious.  “I suppose you’re used to it by now.”

“A single man is a rare thing in this job,” he said.  “Tends to invite speculation. No doubt you can wheel out some large and manly boyfriend to prove them wrong.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said.  “It’s just me and the cats. You’ll have to put up with the gossip.”

“Fuck ‘em, I don’t care what they say.”  He took another drink. “You have cats?”

“Two,” she said.  “They’re called Fifi and Fudge.”

“Well, that’s Arthur,” he said, nodding to the tabby, who had jumped onto one of the chairs and was watching them placidly with jade-green eyes.

“He’s gorgeous.”

“Aye, and he bloody well knows it.”

She smiled, turning a little and sitting on the edge of his desk.  It made his eyebrows climb, but he said nothing. It seemed rude to make her look over her shoulder at him, so he got up, pacing the room with his glass in his hand, listening to the low tick of the clock and feeling her eyes on his back.  When he turned to face her, she had gotten a better seat on the desk, knees crossed, her legs long and pale and perfect. Her lips were parted, full and moist, and for a brief, insane moment he wondered how it would feel to kiss her. He felt a tug low-down in his groin, and took a drink in a bid to ignore it, relishing the mellow heat of the whisky in his mouth.

“How are you finding being an MP?” he asked almost desperately, hoping the innocuous question would get his mind out of the gutter.

“Hard work so far,” she admitted.  “And living in London is - very different. I enjoy the work, but it’s still a relief to get back to the country.”

“Aye, I can understand that,” he said, with a nod.  “You can lose perspective, being here too much of the time. It’s good to ground yourself every now and then.”

“There’s a reason they call it the Westminster bubble, I guess.”

“I guess so.”

Silence.  He watched as she finished her drink.  Good.  She’ll go.

“Another?” he heard himself say, and could imagine the sensible part of his brain making an incredulous gesture.  She held up her glass.

“Oh, go on, then,” she sighed, a tiny smile curving that perfect mouth.

He finished his own, and stepped forward to take the glass from her.  Their fingers brushed, a swift rush of pleasure making him shiver, and she licked her lips as she glanced at him.  His heart was thumping hard, the perfume she wore drifting into his nose, and he was finding it hard to breathe.

“It appears I’m very easily led astray,” she said, holding his gaze.  “Tongues will wag.”

“Everyone in this place knows how to keep their mouth shut, I assure you.”

He wanted to wince as he turned to the whisky bottle.  Why the hell had he said that? It wasn’t as though he was contemplating - no, best not to let his mind go there.

“Well, I imagine secrets are a part of life, at your level,” she observed.

“Sometimes it’s necessary.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

It felt as though they were talking in code, each fully aware of what the other was saying but choosing not to acknowledge it openly.  He told himself he was creating a ridiculous fantasy in his mind, and poured two small measures of whisky, his hand shaking slightly.

“Do you live far from here?” he asked, hoping that his mind would find something to latch onto other than how lovely she was, how good she smelled and how much he wanted to kiss her.

“Not too far.  I just moved into a place in Battersea.  Far cheaper than the city, and easy enough on the Tube.”

“Well, I could have one of the cars take you home,” he said.  “It’s no problem.”

“Are you going to let me drink that whisky first?”

He turned, carrying it over to her, and she took the glass from him, swinging her legs a little.  At that height, she was at just the right position to kiss, and he licked his lips, imagining how it might feel to have his mouth on hers, to taste her on his tongue.  How good it would feel to slide her skirt up to her waist and expose all of those perfect legs, to put his hands on her thighs and push them apart and press himself against her.  His cock twitched, and he bit the inside of his cheeks, hard. She eyed him over the rim of her glass as she sipped at the whisky, her eyes wide and clear and beautiful.

“I do have chairs, you know,” he remarked, and she shook back her hair.

“Does it bother you that I’m sitting on your desk?”

“No.”  No, it doesn’t bother me.  ‘Bother’ isn’t the word I’d use.

“In that case, I’m fine.”

Silence.  The clock ticked.  Arthur stood up with a prrp noise, turned around and curled up again.

“So,” he said, wishing she’d drink faster.  “You got elected. Now what?”

“Now I fight for my people,” she said simply.  “If you want to meet to talk about how that might be achieved, my diary is open.”

She shifted position a little, uncrossing her legs, and he felt his pulse increase, the blood pounding in his throat.

“Well, mine certainly isn’t,” he said truthfully.  “But that’s not to say your concerns and priorities won’t be addressed.”

“Good.”  She took a sip of her drink.  “I’ll put them in writing then, shall I?  Like a good girl.”

“Please do.”  He elected to ignore the dry tone of voice she used.  Protocol was protocol, after all.  He dimly recalled finding it just as much of a pain in the arse when he himself was first elected.  “What are your ambitions?”

“Well, Shadow Cabinet within two years, for a start.”

“Unlikely, given your party’s numbers,” he remarked.  “I know we’re not technically a two-party system, but we may as well be.”

“For now,” she acknowledged.  “But these things aren’t set in stone.”

“So, you’re hoping for a future coalition?”

She smiled at that, a tiny, secretive smile.

“I'm keeping my options open.”

More silence.  Sutherland took a larger drink of whisky than he had intended, coughing slightly, and Miss French sipped her own, eyes flicking around the room.

“I know you’re disappointed about being thrown off the committee,” he said. “But I have to be seen to be impartial. Any whiff of prior interests—negative or positive—and the press would be all over me like a fucking rash. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I do,” she admitted.  “But if you ever want to discuss things off the record, I’d be more than happy to help.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“And make sure you keep me in mind for anything else that may need cross-party input,” she added.

His mouth flattened, but he raised his glass.

“You’re tenacious, Miss French,” he said.  “I’ll give you that.”

“When I see something I want, I go for it,” she said.

There was a moment of silence, a moment in which she met his eyes with a steady gaze.  It gave him a flutter of nerves in his belly, made his mouth dry, and he licked his lips.  Fuck’s sake, man, get your mind out of the gutter, that’s not what she meant!

“You - uh - want me to call you that car?” he asked.

“I’ll take the Tube,” she said, with a shrug.  “It’s not too late.”

Another look, her eyes flicking over him.  His heart was thumping, and he threw back the remains of the whisky.

“Well,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.  “If you’re done with your drink, I’ll say goodnight.”

“For now,” she said.  “You haven’t seen the last of me, Prime Minister.”

“I’d be disappointed if I had,” he said, in a dry tone.

She grinned, draining her glass and setting it down with a clink before she slipped from the desk.

“Goodnight, sir,” she said, and walked out, her hips swaying enticingly.

Sutherland waited until she had closed the door behind her, and sagged a little, letting out a breath that seemed to be all that had kept him upright.  He glanced across at Arthur, who blinked at him contentedly.

“Well,” he said.  “It appears I’m in fucking trouble.”

[whifferdills]

Whifferdills, have you yet done a Twelvedole in which Twelve can't avoid doing some maintenance on Nardole anymore? (If you think that has ever happened, that is.)

i have not, and it has happened, and it’s so tasty thanks for this prompt

Twelve/Nardole, Teen-rated for Tentative Touches, frustrated yearning, ~1.5k words

Everything was very much fine. Nardole’s body was rapidly dissolving into its component parts, but it was fine. He couldn’t walk great, and he fell down a bunch, but it was okay. Deal-with-able.

“You’re fucked,” the Doctor said. Sunglasses on, guitar slung around their waist. “You need seeing to. You need - knock ‘em down for me.”

“I need a doctor,” Nardole said dutifully.

“And the Doctor - ” The Doctor played a riff and let the feedback squawk. “Is in.”

Har har. “No. Not you.” He felt the rush of that statement building an angry blush up his neck.

The feedback petered out awkwardly. The Doctor flipped their sunglasses up, blinking at him. “Sorry?

Nardole with his Big Boy hat on, his Standing Up For Himself accessories. “It’s just that…”

“Spit it out.” The Doctor ditched their guitar entirely and pushed their sunglasses up further up into the broad nest of their hair.

“You were a bit rough, sir.” Bold move, Cotton.

The Doctor’s face scrunched up, in a ‘flipping through the mental Rolodex of ways they might have messed up’ sort of way. “Did I forget to turn off your sensors?”

“No, that’s not - it’s more the principle of the thing. Sir. Which is to say, uh. I mean, you - ”

“Have a terrible bedside manner,” they said, pleased at having solved the word puzzle. Sunglasses off and tucked carefully into their pocket.

Nardole nodded fervently. Not the right answer, but an answer, and an out. “The worst.”

“And here I thought I was providing a needed service. Fair enough.” For all they utterly, gleefully failed at nuanced social interaction, they did bristle quite a lot at having that pointed out.

Which is to say: the pout and storm-cloud eyebrows were out in full force. Nardole stood his ground. “I’d like a second opinion,” he said politely.

The Doctor drifted away, stepping behind their desk. “You do realize this leaves you in something of a conundrum,” they said, sitting down and kicking their legs up onto the cushioning pile of unread essays.

Right. That part. “No one on Earth this year can fix a cyborg.”

“Few in all of time and space are qualified to maintain your, uh.”

Nonsense. Complete fuckery. Cack-handed DIY repair job. The sentient version of the car from that one Johnny Cash song.

“Unique attributes,” the Doctor finished weakly. “So not only would we need to abandon the Vault, and our Oath, we would need to go gallivanting off in search of someone with all of my knowledge but who also, most importantly, is kind, gentle, and reassuring in a way I evidently am not.” ‘Gallivanting off’ accompanied by hand gestures sketching out how’d they go, just go, movement on the syllable.

That was a hell of a sentence to unpack; Nardole did his best. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“I’m using your own logic and tediously frequent guilt trip against you. Huge difference.” The Doctor leaned dangerously far back in their chair, clearly very pleased with themself.

Nardole’s right leg took this opportunity to release a series of washers and bolts that rolled away from him with a cavalier, defiant air. “Touche.”

“So make a choice,” the Doctor said. They swung awkwardly forward, front legs of the chair slamming back down on the ground. “Both choices are bad. You still have to choose.”

Nardole again regretted, for the millionth time, the very long chain of bad decisions that had brought him to this point.

He couldn’t leave the vault. He certainly wouldn’t ask the Doctor to leave the vault. So: they stayed here. Also: this was happening.

Where would be best? the Doctor had asked. Here was fine, he supposed, in the office. The Doctor grumbled and disappeared into the TARDIS for an hour, reappearing with a box filled with truly terrifying implements and two packets of prawn-flavored crisps and a large, unwieldy, unsettlingly-shaped pillow.

Would you like to listen to music, or perhaps watch a film? the Doctor had asked. Maybe some jazz, yeah, sure. Mingus Ah Um on the record player, the needle dropped. Nardole laid down on the sofa and tried to figure out how he was supposed to fit around the pillow, and whether he was getting it wrong or if he was just the wrong shape.

Tell me if anything feels uncomfortable or unpleasant or wrong, the Doctor said.

“The fact that you’re trying so hard is almost making it worse,” Nardole replied, snapping back into the here-and-now.

The Doctor looked up from behind their desk, still rearranging their torture devices/DIY carpentry tools into some inexplicable order. “What is it that you want from me, Nardole.”

Oh, what a loaded question. Said in an altogether too husky voice. Nardole swallowed hard and clutched at the pillow. “Just get it over with.”

“Goodbye Pork Pie Hat” started playing. The Doctor approached, hands empty. Nardole thought about, what if: a black hole came by somehow and swallowed him up.

“Okay,” the Doctor said softly. “Yeah. Right. I’m gonna - you’ll need less trousers for this.”

Nardole waved at his panic from a safe distance and screwed his eyes shut and shimmied out of his trousers, or at least as far out he could considering he still had his shoes on. This was incredibly undignified. This was - other things, also, maybe.

“All sensors off? Or just pain receptors.”

‘All’ would be the sensible choice, the ‘this is just a normal routine thing and not anything weird’ response. So he squirmed and stammered out ‘Just the, uh. Just the - the p-. The pain. Thanks.“ He listened to the sonic screwdriver whirr. “Boogie Stop Shuffle” started playing. All these bad decisions in a row.

The Doctor’s hand light on his thigh, squeezing slightly. They retreated, came back with a rattling, half-dropped handful of Things. Nardole clenched harder at the pillow. “Self-Portrait in Three Colors”, now. (This had been one of his favorite human musical works, and now it was ruined.)

“Okay?” the Doctor asked, while doing something unthinkable with the skin-bits and the padding and then the inner workings of Nardole.

Next track. “Turn it off, please. Sir.”

A break, a pause, where Nardole refused to relax in favor of sweating profusely, and the needle scratched off the record. So. Silence, now. Just his own poorly-regulated breathing and the rustle of the Doctor returning.

“This is the worst possible time to ask this, which I’ve found generally is the best time to get an honest answer. Was it really just my brusqueness that bothered you?”

“As opposed to what,” Nardole ground out. The Doctor was fairly deep inside him now, tugging out wires and soldering them back.

“I’m dumb, I’m not that dumb. I’ve seen how you look at me.”

“Like what,” Nardole said. Mindless repetition was the best-case scenario here.

The Doctor gently but firmly tugged something home. “Don’t make me say it,” they replied.

Like it was something shameful and wrong, something barely thinkable, embarrassing. Funny old Nardole with a funny old crush, ha ha. Inappropriate reactions to any intimacy after half a century as a celibate cyborg, ha ha ha ha. He curled harder around the pillow.

“Just tying you back up now,” the Doctor said flatly. Which they did, presumably, going by the noises and the odd tugging feelings.

And then it was done. And their hand was still on his thigh.

“Not so bad, was it now,” the Doctor said. Squeezing gently.

Nardole thought about what if: he could ascend to the astral plane and leave this universe entirely. “No,” he squeaked.

The Doctor’s hand slid up a fraction of an inch, towards where Nardole was plainly and unfortunately clad in a well-worn pair of pants. “I’ve been here before. And I can - if you want. D'you want?”

Well, yes, but.

“No,” Nardole squeaked again, more firmly this time. Yes, but no. Not like this. It’s complicated.

The Doctor withdrew their hand, and then the rest of themself. They spun the record and set the needle back down, in the middle of “Fables of Faubus”. Put all the bits back in the box, and opened the two bags of crisps; they handed one to Nardole, and poured theirs down their throat. “Just let me know,” they said, mouth full and spewing crumbs.

Nardole detached himself from the pillow, pulled himself to standing. Things seemed okay, down there. The relevant things. The standing-up things. “Thanks,” he said.

“Seriously, though. If you want, yanno. I’m not - ”

“Please stop there,” Nardole snapped. He tugged his trousers back on, once again cursing the general lack of foresight in re: his android body and both it not quite fitting his clothing and, considering all of time and space, his clothing not quite fitting his android body. If he had to be half a robot, surely the upshot should be not having to suck in to get his trousers buttoned.

“But thanks,” he amended. Coulda been worse. Coulda been better, but coulda been worse.

The Doctor wriggled their eyebrows in an unfortunately suggestive fashion. Nardole sighed, testing out his newly-functional limb. No screws loose. “Pussy Cat Dues”, now. He grinned convincingly to the no one looking as the Doctor packed up their tools and crisp wrappers and the baffling pillow-thing into the box.

And the Doctor left, back into the TARDIS, with a loaded glance and silent for once. Like what and where and how?

A whole raft of bad decisions; up to him, apparently, to choose which if any. He followed the Doctor into the TARDIS.

[cantfakethecake]

I fucked up.

Fieldwork this semester’s kind of been a disaster. I got a placement in a private therapy practice, and they didn’t have enough willing clients for me to spend all 16 of my weekly hours observing sessions. Instead they made tasks for me to do out of the office on my own time. In the past two weeks, I’ve...

Been tasked with designing a hypnotherapy app. I was told that they had a tech guy who could do it, but “It would look amazing on a resume if you did it yourself, and it would be a concrete thing to show to future employers.” I said I’d spend a week or two trying to figure out Java, and let them know if it was a reasonable thing to do in the span of one semester. Spent two weeks trying my best to learn it, before realizing that it was 100% unrealistic to expect myself to make anything resembling an app by April. I told them that last Friday, and their response was, “Well I guess the lesson to take away from this is that you shouldn’t say you can do things before you know if you really can or not.” I never promised them I’d be able to do it. I said I’d give it a try, and let them know if it was reasonable.

Was told by my field supervisor that, “Your biggest weakness is your anxiety. Just remember to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” I have both a doctor and a therapist on that already, and it’s something I’ve been working on since I was a teenager - but thanks, those breathing tips are just gosh-darned revolutionary, and not at ALL invasive on your part!

Ended up 20 minutes late to a therapy appointment I was supposed to be observing, because I rear-ended another car. This was just a day or two after telling my supervisor that I’m working on improving my time management skills.

Cancelled on a one-hour seminar on using social media to promote your business, because it was set to start at 8 AM and I’d been up half the night with panic attacks. (Admittedly, I lied and said it was a migraine, because I know perfectly well that people are much more inclined to give a shit about physical than mental unwellness.) Received an email that morning with “I hope you feel better soon. Here’s a paragraph on why it sucks that you missed the seminar. Also, please bring in a piece of concrete prof that you’ve actually been doing the work we’ve assigned you (which has, up until now, been a “do it out of class and bring in verbal updates every week” arrangement). I’m 100% fine with doing that, but the timing comes off as, “We think you’re lazy, and want proof that you’re not dicking us over.”

And today I received an email from one of my supervisors, letting me know that I’d missed a session I was supposed to sit in on. I wrote it down on the wrong day in my planner. I sent her an apology, and I’m going to set up a Google Calendar to write my appointments in in the future, so they can double check it if they’d like visible proof that I’m trying not to fuck up. It’s challenging, because they don’t coordinate between the two of them before asking me to come during certain hours. One person sends me emails throughout the week asking about one or two sessions at a time (which is beyond hard to keep track of, as I’m not great with my school’s email client), and the other just throws a verbal list of times at me to scribble down during our weekly supervision hour. 

I’m terrified that they’re going to terminate me, and I’ll be kicked from the program or at least have to do an extra semester. My organizational skills are admittedly shit (yes, hello, THANK you, ADHD), and I’ve fallen into one of the most DIY field placements my school offers. Every classmate I’ve spoken to has a scheduled set of hours that they complete every week on-site, with consistent supervision.

And on top of already feeling like this is all a little bit out of my control, the people I’m shadowing are just so...cold? They hustle me out of the room as soon as a session’s done, and I don’t get a chance to say a word to them until my supervision hour on Friday. Last week I shadowed during a group therapy session, and on their way out of the group room they asked, “Betsy, did you bring lunch?” They were several steps ahead of me (already completely out of the room, while I was still in the room with a bunch of clients who hadn’t left yet), I couldn’t 100% hear whether they’d said my name or had just been asking each other, and didn’t want to shout “WHAT?” after them. I hurried after them, figuring I’d say, “Sorry, were you talking to me?” as soon as I could see them...but when I got to the top of the stairs, they had already walked into the kitchen and shut the “employees only” door. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow or not (there was a half-hour gap between that session and another I was supposed to shadow), and ended up hovering outside the door for a good five minutes before cracking it open and going, “Oh, THERE you are!” and letting myself in. They then ignored me for the next half hour while chatting to each other.

Which is to say - they’re not the friendliest of people, and even if they aren’t furious enough to terminate me? I dread the rest of this semester. I really, really don’t know what to do. I bumped my meeting with my therapist to this morning, and I was feeling so much better until I got the email tonight telling me that I’d missed a session I’d signed on for. I’m meeting with my academic advisor to get some advice on Friday (because this is not a typical field work experience, and I need to be sure that it’s even okay for me to be doing the tasks that I’m doing), but I have to meet with my fieldwork supervisor before that. I’m dreading it, and just...needed to vent? Or maybe a hug? I don’t know. I have a 3.9 GPA (would’ve been a 4.0 if I wasn’t late to class so often), and I should be better than this.