#an absolute dereliction of duty

[uniteds]

time to bully richard arnold into resigning

[squidaped-oyt]

The First Warden: How did you survive killing the Archdemon?!

The Hero of Ferelden:

[sweetercalypso]

New Gods ✩ Abby Anderson

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: The first time Abby meets seraphite!reader, she shows her mercy. The second time they meet, reader repays her kindness

Notes: minors dni; fingering and oral (Abby rec.), semi-public sex, afab reader, dom!Abby, mean!Abby, mentions of guns, brief violence, religious references, enemies to lovers

When Abby hears that she’s being put on a patrol headed for the abandoned side of town, she thinks it’s a joke.

Surely this was some form of punishment, or a test of her loyalty to Isaac’s command. Two weeks in an unoccupied base with a batch of new recruits – it has to be a mistake.

It’s not until the transport truck pulls away from the stadium that Abby accepts the reality of the situation, groaning into her hands to hide her indignation.

The only good thing about this patrol, she thinks, is that absolutely nothing can go wrong.

Abby and her entourage of WLF recruits arrive at their assigned base late in the evening, the sun already sinking low behind Seattle’s derelict skyline.

The city is silent beyond the hum of the armored truck rolling to a stop in front of an old office building. Years ago, the area had been a thriving hub of WLF activity, but the threat of Seraphite armies had shifted attention elsewhere, leaving the bases to sit empty and collecting dust.

Abby swallows her complaints as the truck’s engine shuts off, leaving a jarring silence that prompts her fellow gunmen to turn their collective attention towards her.

Her expertise is better suited to combat than to training, and the thought of being in charge of four wide-eyed rookies makes her question the sanity of whoever put this team together.

She briefly explains the patrol assignment before dolling out tasks to each of the recruits, leaving herself the duty of surveying the perimeter.

Early WLF soldiers had cleared most of the infected while the area was still active, and with the lack of excitement in the streets, Abby returns to the base with the verdict that this patrol will be entirely uneventful.

While the others are setting up camp on the second floor – five cots lined against a wall with a radio station by the windows and supply crates littered around the room – Abby keeps herself busy with watching the thick, heavy clouds rolling in the distance.

She imagines what she might be doing if she had been placed on a different patrol and she crosses her arms over her chest with a bitter sigh.

 Anything has to be more exciting than this.

 –

Abby awakens while the sky is still dark, the remaining light of dusk swallowed by the inky black threat of storm clouds overhead.

Thunder cracks viciously in the air, rumbling the dusty room and promising to crumble the building’s frame already bowing under years of neglect.

The sound of her distress is barely audible over the harsh rain beating against the windows and, for a moment, Abby can’t remember where she is.

Her mouth feels dry, and it takes an effort to slow her labored breaths. She runs a hand over her face, wiping away her momentary confusion before checking that the other patrollers are still asleep, slipping off her cot and stumbling blindly through the darkened room.

Her weapons and her pack are still resting against a nearby crate, exactly where she’d left them. She slips the strap of her backpack between her fingers, hoping that the familiar worn canvas will distract from the deafening thunder crackling in her ears.

She holds her breath and counts the seconds between the streaks of lightning and claps of thunder – a trick her dad had taught her when she was young.

Somewhere between flash and bang, the sound of footsteps overhead catches Abby’s attention. Her head jerks up towards the source of the noise and she quickly forgets about the looming urgency of bad weather.

The door to the stairwell is propped open, and although Abby knows it was left ajar to air out the stuffy office space, she can’t help but imagine something sinister looming beyond the doorway.

She grabs the closest gun and makes her way to the stairs, listening for the sounds of movement overhead.

All the floors had been checked for infected and all the windows had been secured, but Abby still couldn’t shake the thought of someone invading their base in the dead of night.

She treads up the stairs and pushes the door open, only to be met with the sight of a lonely silhouette moving through the darkness. Abby jumps into action just as she’d been taught, heart thumping wildly as she raises her weapon and aims.

“Get on the ground – now!”

She spits out the stern command, harsh but still quiet enough that it barely fills the room. Despite the anger twisting in her chest, she’s rational enough to know better than to alert the other patrollers sleeping downstairs.

From the looks of it, the intruder was here alone, unarmed. It seemed better to deal with the situation on her own than to cause unwarranted panic the first night in to a new assignment.

The sound of her voice must’ve caught you by surprise because you stop dead in your tracks, not even moving to lunge for cover from the stranger gunning you down.

Illuminated by only the sharp flashes of lightning cutting through the shadows, it takes a moment for Abby to piece together the scene before her.

You’re soaked to the bone, cloaked in brown cloth and shivering from the rain clinging to your skin.

At first, she thought you might’ve been a soldier from another patrol, separated from your group and seeking shelter in an expectedly empty outpost. Or maybe you could’ve been a straggler roaming the city in search of supplies left behind by its former inhabitants.

But when a crack of lightning catches your features at the right angle, Abby recognizes the mark stretching across your cheek, and realization washes over her.

“Fucking Scars.”

She keeps her gun steady, though her fingers flex against the heavy, steel grip.  

With eyes trained diligently on your figure, she closes the distance between the two of you in a few short steps, scowling when she’s close enough to discern the look of confusion on your face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, shoving the muzzle of her gun roughly into your shoulder and spitting out a sharp “answer me”.

Her boot hits the back of your leg and you crumble into the floor with swallowed discontent.

“I’m not- I didn’t know you would be here.” You scramble to explain yourself, chancing a look at Abby standing behind you. She pushes her gun further into your shoulder, silently instructing your gaze back to the floor.

“This building’s supposed to be empty. It says so on the map.”

“You’re spying on our bases?” Her voice rises with every word, no longer concerned with who might hear. “Planning a fucking ambush?”

“No! Nothing like that. I’m not a soldier, I was supposed to collect supplies from the city, but I got caught in the rain.”

She laughs and rolls her shoulders reflexively.

“I don’t care why you’re here – Scars don’t get second chances.”

Thunder rattles the thin-paned windows lining the room. Abby’s heartbeat fills her ears. Prayer tumbles from your lips like the nervous chatter of teeth – uneasy, repetitive, instinctive.

Abby had never given much thought to prayer before, especially not that of a Scar. It’s always the same routine pleading that’ll never be answered. But it doesn’t sound like you’re begging for salvation, it sounds like you’re making peace.

Something about the situation doesn’t seem fair. You’re completely helpless, caught in a trap you couldn’t see laid out in front of you. Your people must’ve known something like this could happen, yet they sent you into the wolves’ den, anyway – a sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter.

A foreign pang of uncertainty resonates through Abby’s chest, and she lowers her gun with a shake of her head.

“Just- just go.”

A beat passes before you look back at Abby in disbelief. You gape blankly at her for a moment before mouthing a small “what?”.

She huffs impatiently and grabs you by the arm, hauling you up from your position on the floor. If anyone came in and found the two of you standing this close, you’d both be dead before you could part.

“Leave. Now. If the others find you here, they won’t be so nice.”

Her eyes flit over your face, searching for confirmation that she was doing the right thing. She expected to find fear etched into your features, maybe gratefulness, or even shock. But she’s met with only curiosity in your wide, unblinking eyes.

She pushes you away and turns to leave before she can change her mind, shutting the door behind her with a soft thud.

Abby knows what the other patrollers would’ve done if they had found you first. She knows what she would’ve done if the circumstances had been different.

You should be dead – or worse. It hadn’t been that long since she’d assisted in the interrogations that happened to Scars who’d been captured and strung up in cells for the rest of their days.

When Abby thinks about those people now, only one face stares back at her.

–

The next morning, Abby is forced to bite her tongue when someone finds the upstairs window open, raindrops clinging to the wood frame serving as the only evidence of your intrusion.

She blames it on one of the other patrollers, suggesting that they didn’t do a thorough enough sweep the night before, but not everyone is convinced.  

They search the building anyway but come up empty-handed, and the situation is defused and entirely forgotten by midday.

For the remainder of their two-week patrol, Abby wonders if you had really been there at all, or if you were a product of some underlying guilt she had stored in the back of her mind. She would stay up through night and listen for the sound of footsteps, not sure if she should feel relief or disappointment when the mornings arrived without any sign of you.

When the familiar rumble of the armored truck rolls in to collect Abby and the recruits, she returns to the stadium and does her best to keep you off her mind.

She volunteers for extra shifts; she monitors the communications radio; she listens to stories of other patrollers and wonders if they’re describing you in their encounters with unnamed and faceless Scars.

When she hears about another group headed for the abandoned side of the city, she jumps at the opportunity to join their patrol. Anything for some peace of mind, she tells herself.

They’re dropped off in front of a different building, a couple blocks west of where her last patrol had been located. Abby’s chest deflates when she realizes the absurdity of her desire to find you again.

It’d been weeks since she’d let you go, and surely you’d learned your lesson about venturing near WLF bases alone. Maybe you hadn’t, and someone else had found you before Abby had the chance.

She shivers at the thought and moves to catch up with the rest of her team, abandoning her concern for something more practical.

She offers to check the upper floors while the others bring in supplies, and no one objects to avoiding the endless flights of stairs and dusty rooms waiting for her.

Four floors up, Abby stops to inspect a window that had been broken some time ago. Shards of glass and a handful of dead leaves lay at her feet, and when stoops down to look for anything out of the ordinary, the door to the stairwell creaks shut behind her.

“It’s you.”

Her head whips around at the sound of your voice, familiar but different now that you’re no longer at her will.

From where she stands, Abby can see the way your chest rises and falls with anticipation, the way your hands twist at your sides. She waits for you to speak again, but the room falls silent.

“What’re you doing here?” she hisses, praying that the others were too busy to come check on her progress.

“I heard the truck – I knew you were coming.”

Abby frowns and moves a step closer. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you know how many of those soldiers downstairs would like to get their hands on you?”

You cock your head to the side, as if you didn’t understand.

“You saved my life once already. I wouldn’t have come if I thought I’d be in danger.”

She scoffs at the presumption that she would betray her people again, but a small voice reminds her that’s exactly what she’d planned to do.

She moves past you to leave but you stop her with a hand laid over her arm. Abby’s jaw tenses at the contact, but when her resentful gaze flickers up to meet yours, she’s met with the same unabashed interest you’d worn before.

“I owe you, wolf. The Prophet commands us to repay those who show mercy.”

You pause before continuing. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

Abby takes a moment to consider. What does she want?

She wants your leader’s head at her feet; she wants to make her friends proud; she wants to understand why she had let you go that night in the storm.

Her eyes trail down to your lips, to the mottled scar etched into your cheek. She wonders what you’d look like without its crooked ridges marring your skin. She wonders how it would feel under her hands.

It catches you both off guard when her parted lips press against yours, teeth clacking together from the fervency of her kiss.

Her hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, though she’s not sure if she wants to pull you closer or push you away. She grunts into your mouth and slides her other hand around your waist. An unfamiliar heat licks at the base of your spine.

“I want you to thank me for letting you go,” she declares.

Seraphite leaders had spoken on end about the corrupt morals of ‘new world’ adherents, but this was not the danger you’d learned to fear. Abby was unique, addicting, and you wanted more.

You fall to your knees at her feet, almost a mirror image of the night you’d met. This time, however, you’re the one in control.

She hums and rubs the pad of her thumb over her swollen bottom lip, still wet with your spit. “That’s a good start.”

Nimble fingers work open the button of her jeans, shimmying the dark denim down her toned, freckled thighs. Her black boxers follow suit, revealing a smattering of blonde hair trailing down from her naval.

Your hands smooth over her heated skin, palming at her hips in an attempt to pull her closer. She concedes and shuffles forward until her cunt presses to your awaiting mouth and your tongue dips out to taste her.

It’s like nothing either of you have experienced – the guilt of betraying your own people, the trust that comes from such inconceivable circumstances. It’s all too much to comprehend, so you choose to ignore it for the time being.

Abby’s head tips back with a sigh, little breaths and chirps of pleasure pushed from her lungs as your tongue flattens over her clit.

It almost looks like you’re praying, Abby decides. Kneeling in front of your altar, eyes screwed shut, searching for a sign from some divine being. She cards her fingers through your hair and tugs at the roots, pulling you impossibly closer.

It’s messy, greedy, downright sinful the way you press your mouth to her. Slick coats your chin and your cheeks, glistening in the dim light streaming through the windows.

You’re spurred on by the way she tilts her hips, the wet squelch of her cunt against your mouth. Her thighs flex against the sides of your face, smothering your cheeks in her arousal.

“Ah- just like that.”

In addition to your tongue roaming everywhere you can reach, your thumb comes up to rub firm circles against her clit. After a moment, you switch positions, dragging your fingers through her slick and dipping two digits inside her.

She gasps at the intrusion and bucks her hips harshly, urging you to move faster. Your fingers curl inside her, driving into that gummy spot at the top of her walls while you suction her clit into your mouth.

“Fuck,” she pants, grinding down on your mouth. “M’gonna come.”

It’s not long before she’s shuddering through her release, choking back a poorly suppressed moan while she fights to keep her eyes open. You continue to work over her mound until she releases your hair from her grip and takes half a step back on shaky legs.

Remembering her earlier request for gratitude, you lean back on your heels and lick the remnants of her slick from your lips.

“Thank you, wolf.”

She looks down as if she’d only just remembered you were there and her eyes sparkle with renewed interest. A lazy smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“You gonna stay so I can return the favor?”

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for resplendeo; Billy and Damian and the whole soulmate thing.

Batman pulls his cowl back up, because he’s Bruce Wayne and people would recognize him if he didn’t, and Billy flees as adult-ly as possible back to the meeting room. Everyone else is still there, including a very clearly tense Robin, and Billy has absolutely no idea what to say. 

“Um, so–” he tries to start, and Robin immediately bristles and draws himself up to his full height. 

“Silence!” he snaps, baring his teeth at him. “I want nothing to do with you. I have nothing to do with you.” 

“I mean, that’s not actually true?” Billy says, trying not to wince. “Like the soulmate thing is definitely a thing. If you don’t want me around, I understand, just first can I try to–” 

“I do not want you! You are superfluous!” Robin snarls, and, well, at least Billy knows why he’s picking the specific insults he’s picking this time. Though he doesn’t really know why Robin is so convinced of that even thinking that they’re familial soulmates. What’s wrong with having more family members? 

Like, ones who aren’t asshole uncles who’ll steal your inheritance and leave you homeless and destitute on the street just for kicks, he means. Obviously. 

Maybe Robin’s had an asshole uncle or two in his family. Billy can understand that. But also, like . . . that’s really not what’s happening here, so . . . he really needs to figure out how to, like, spin this or something. Or . . . something. 

“I would really like to talk to you first,” Billy says. “Like–just if you let me–” 

“No!” Robin snaps, clenching his fists as his shoulders stiffen. “You are unnecessary and I want nothing to do with you! I have a father, and he is neither dead nor derelict in his duties and I have no desire for–Father, I want nothing to do with him, don’t give me to some other–I am your son and I don’t want a different father!” 

“Oh,” Batman says quietly, and Billy cringes in guilt. Oh. Okay. 

He really, really didn’t mean to make Robin feel like his dad wouldn’t want him just because he had a soulmate. 

Shit. 

Batman opens his mouth and starts to say something, but the speed of Mercury and also guilt gets there first. 

“Please don’t freak out, I promise I’m not your dad,” Billy says with another cringe, half-covering his face with a hand, and Robin–pauses, and frowns.

“Wait, what?” Green Lantern says with a frown of his own. “You said you were the kid’s soulmate.” 

“I mean . . .” Billy winces, then drags his hand down his face. “I am? Just, uh–right, okay, so I maybe kind of joined the Justice League under pretenses that in a certain light might appear to be false and I am so sorry for how weird I have made . . . literally all of this, pretty much, pretty much everything ever? Also, um. Shazam.” 

The lightning hits in a blinding flash. Captain Marvel disappears. 

Everyone says absolutely nothing. A whole lot of nothing. 

Then Green Arrow falls out of his seat. 

“Marvel,” Flash says, just staring at Billy. “What the actual, literal, entire fuck.” 

“What the hell, Cap?!” Green Lantern yells. Billy, since he’s now not incapable of acting like a sassy little bastard with a heart of brass at best, just shrugs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. 

“Should you guys be swearing in front of the children like that?” he asks skeptically. Green Lantern makes a strangled noise. Green Arrow manages to fall out of his seat again without actually having successfully gotten back into it. 

“Is this your true form?” Wonder Woman asks, looking perplexed. Billy shrugs. Black Canary puts her face in her hands. 

“You–you are grounded, Mister,” she says. 

“No I’m not,” Billy says, making a face at her. “You can’t ground me, my parents are too dead for you to tell on me, and I’ll just Captain Marvel myself away if you try and stick me back in foster care. So there.”

Black Canary keeps her face in her hands and makes a very pained sound, for some reason. Superman looks very, very stressed out. 

Robin just tilts his head, looking much less upset than before. So that’s something, Billy figures. Like, that was what he was going for here, with ‘fessing up to this and all. He really was not intending to confess to this before Robin happened. 

“I see,” Robin says after a moment, narrowing his eyes assessingly as he looks Billy over. Billy resists the stupid urge to straighten his hoodie. “So you are a romantic soulmate to me, not a familial one. And you are also a nigh-unstoppable force of magic in possession of incredible godly powers.” 

“I . . . technically, I guess?” Billy says, not sure how to take that. 

“But you are also a literal twelve year-old,” Robin says, his eyes narrowing a little more. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Billy says with a grimace. Robin frowns. 

“I really don’t know how I feel about this,” he says.

[covid-safer-hotties]

The US Government Is Shutting Down A Key Covid Website

Tomorrow the US government agency responsible for biomedical and public health research, The National Institutes of Health, will shut down its Covid-19 ‘special populations’ website.

This site hosts a huge amount of information about how to treat covid and long covid in the immunocompromised and in people with HIV, cancer and similar immune supressing conditions - so-called ‘special populations.’

The site is going totally offline.

It’s a shameful dereliction of duty by the NIH which, behind Harvard, is the second largest publisher of biomedical research papers in the world. Doctors and clinicians all over the world use the NIH site for advice and treatment ideas.

And it’s going offline during a massive summer surge of covid infections in the US, a surge that is now topping 1.3 million infections per day. (One of whom was Anthony Fauci, who was infected for the third time last week). A surge killing 750 people a week in the US. Many of whom will be precisely the type of people this website is intended to help clinicians treat.

It’s a scandal.

The message it sends to vulnerable people could hardly be clearer - when it comes to covid, there’s nothing else we can do for you. Sorry. That’s it. We’re done.

It’s so terrifying.

It also sends a terrible signal to the medical community about where we are with covid

and will be materially damaging in efforts to treat vulnerable people, both in the acute stage of the disease and those with long covid.

The move to shut the page down is premised on an entirely false assumption: that we already know everything we’ll ever know about how to manage covid so there’s no point keeping a live web resource because they’ll never be anything to update it with ever again.

This is simply not true. While we know a lot about treating covid four years in, we absolutely do not know everything, not by a long stretch. As evidenced by the hundreds still dying every week in summer 2024. And as for long covid, we know very little about how to treat it. For a start, there is no agreed treatment plan. Absolutely none. But apparently we also know so much about this disease we can start shutting down online resources dedicated to it.

Please imagine for a second if a Trump administration rather than a Biden-Harris administration was doing this.

There would be an outcry.

But this move has so far been greeted by media silence.

It is left to a few disability activists and the covid aware to shout into the social media void.

Not that this is a surprise. This is how it has been for the last two years at least, guided by the business as usual, vax-and-forget strategy. More people have died of covid under the Biden-Harris administration than died under Trump. Despite having vaccines since 2021. You’d never know it by mainstream media coverage.

Some people have written to the director of the NIH, Monica Bertagnolli, and asked them to keep the advice live and up-to-date. If you want to do this her email address is:

monica.bertagnolli@nih.gov

Long Covid Action has archived the site here

Maybe if enough people write to her and enough noise is made the decision will be reversed. Worth a try.

Overall it’s just another grim episode in the handling of the pandemic by the current US administration, an administration who, we should never forget, won power in large part due to the outrage at Trump’s handling of the first nine months of covid.

Solidarity to everyone still trying to protect themselves and their communities from covid against all the odds.

At least we can keep fighting for each other.

[ingravinoveritas]

Have you seen this?!

I thought I'd seen all the season 2 publicity but Michael asking David about his nerve curve and saying he SAW IT?!

Oh my lordy.

Hi there! First let me apologize for my egregious dereliction of duty when it comes to answering these Asks/Anons. RL stuff has been clogging up my brain and so I just haven't been in the right headspace for answering questions (hence why I temporarily shut off Asks altogether).

To your question, I did indeed see that clip! I think there were SO many interviews happening that day that this somehow passed us all by, but it absolutely is worth talking about...

For those who may be wondering about the subtext here, "nerve curve" (in anatomical terms) generally refers to something related to the curve of the spine. What Michael (shamelessly) seems to be alluding to, then, is him seeing David's bare back and/or his arse.

I mean...good lord. This marks at least the third occasion where Michael has publicly talked about/thirsted over David's body ("slinky hips" twice, and also "sylph-like chest") in the last four years. Whatever filter exists in most human brains clearly does not exist in his, and I suppose we can be thankful for that, but also...wow, Michael.

The truly amazing thing, however, is this wasn't even the only sexual innuendo related to David that Michael made that day, as there was also this gem:

I sometimes wonder how long Michael is going to have to "joke" about him seeing David naked or him having sex with David before people finally pause and go, "Wait a minute..." And the nerve curve moment is so delicious because we can see David actually blushing after Michael says he saw it. They're both so drunk on each other and it is truly gorgeous to watch.

And as much as we miss Michael and David, I don't think it even holds a candle to how much they must miss each other. I can only hope that the studios will get their heads out of their collective asses and come to an agreement with SAG/WGA to end the strikes, because I so thoroughly want more of whatever this is to grace our screens. Please and thank you...

[shepherds-of-haven]

What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding? For Blade please?

We see a little bit of this between him and Chase in Chapter 7, but the Ket take insubordination/disobedience against authority/dereliction of duties extremely seriously and personally: it's not just a, "oh he's just a rebel in general, that's just how he is and don't take it too personally," it's a "that was a direct challenge to you personally and the affront must be shut down with immediate and brutal force with extreme prejudice so it will never happen again" or absolute chaos will ensue. Basically any direct disobedience is perceived as "do not stand for it or you could lose everything" alarm, because that's what Khehi Ket are taught; if you have a society of super-powered warriors who are all military-trained, insanely strong, and used to using casual violence and bloodshed as ways of solving problems, you need (or think you need) extremely iron-clad and rigid rules to hold it all together and keep order, or literal civil wars could and do break out. Ket history is riddled with examples of this: bypassing a superior's orders to not instigate bloodfeud with a rival family who slandered yours, for example (putting your own feelings/family reputation over service to the state), led to incredibly bloody social conflicts and sometimes all-out massacres, extinguishing of prominent clans, etc. So unquestioning obedience to authority is considered paramount, and failure to demonstrate this is met with immediate and unflinching action to nip that shit in the bud real quick. Blade is trying to untangle this hardwired instinctive response, but he still does believe that leaders shouldn't be too 'close' with their subordinates to maintain this kind of authority for this reason, which is why he tends to remain aloof and keep his distance from the lower ranks. But that's also why he's trying to compensate with having other leaders supplement his perceived intimidating status with the recruits and the laypeople, and also why he sometimes questions if he should be more like Trouble (who 'gets along' with the recruits and is considered much more approachable, although he still maintains authority over them) as a leader, or if he's trying to make a square peg (his style of leadership, personality, and what he was taught) fit into a round hole (a military order that is not rooted in Ket ideology, customs, and culture)!

Hope that all makes sense!

[tuurverheydepoetryandprose]

I can’t stand to see some liberals preemptively guilt-tripping and blaming every pro-Palestinian person for a future Biden defeat.

Like, loyalist liberals have let the democrats get away with massive amounts of atrocities and derelictions of duty over the decades. You let them drone strike the Middle East without accountability, you let them renege on codifying Roe, you let them accept republican obstruction, you let them water down universal healthcare, you let them hem and haw over climate action, the list goes on and on. The democrats have had so many opportunities to make meaningful improvements and irreversible protections to people’s rights and they neglected to do so every time, all while cranking up the imperialist and carceral violence.

If Biden loses it’s not the fault of supporters of Palestine, it’s the fault of ‘vote blue no matter who’ diehards who have sat back for decades letting the democrats become more and more unrepresentative, undemocratic, blatantly imperialist and shamefully negligent, letting them get away with it without any pushback.

It’s the people who have pressured strangers into voting for bad options for as long as they’ve been around, but ignored the concerns of millions for literal decades just because the democrats’ ineptitude and cynicism didn’t affect them.

If you support a party no matter what, let them bullshit their way into office, let them go back on most of their promises for multiple terms, this is what you get. A party that is confident there is no accountability or electoral consequences for its antidemocratic policies.

Strategically, voting Biden is a ‘safer’ bet for most, but it’s absolutely not a morally pure choice and framing it that way is disrespectful to the thousands of people who have died because of his decisions.

It’s actually amazing when you think about it. The republicans’ Project 2025 is such an insanely awful prospect, just openly totalitarian, hyperreactonary etc. It’s so extreme most people would have voted against it in a heartbeat if they knew what it was. But now, because the Democrats just won’t abandon their white supremacist imperialist ambitions, the election might go either way. It’s just a staggering feat of immorality and stupidity. And everyone supporting the democrats unquestioningly is responsible.

If you don’t want people to abandon this rotten system, fight to make it better. If you don’t want to do that, don’t be indignant when people abandon you.

You abandoned them first.

[kmomof4]

A Scoundrel… Or a Gentleman?

Ohhhhhh, I’m so happy to FINALLY be posting this fic!!! Inspired by Francesca Bridgerton’s story, When He Was Wicked, I wrote the prologue - 8k words - last September, then took a six month break before sitting down and getting the rest of the thing written. I so hope I did the story justice and that you enjoy and let me know what you think!!

And now thanks to whom thanks are due!!! @jrob64 is a LITERAL SAINT for everything she did to make this fic better. She is an outstanding beta and a dear friend, but I seriously tried her patience going back over and back over and back over AGAIN trying to make this just right. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, my friend, for EVERYTHING!!!

To @hollyethecurious for all the historical info that she shared with me and asking the questions that needed to be asked and answered before the fic was ready for posting. Her support was absolutely invaluable. Thank you, babe!!!

To @motherkatereloyshipper for her work on the Prologue artwork shown below. It is soooo beautiful, I could stare at it for hours!!! Thank you so much, darlin!!! Please give her lots of love!!!

The fic is complete with a total of 9chs. I’ll be updating twice a week- Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Summary: Killian Jones has been in love with Emma Nolan since the day he met her - the day before she married his brother Earl Liam Jones. That was six years ago, and Liam has been gone now for four years. Emma and Killian have both arrived in London for the season - her to seek a husband so she can hopefully bear children, him to finally take up his duties as the earl, including finding a wife. Will they succeed in their respective desires?

*spoiler alert- of course they will. It’ll just take them a little while to get there…*

Rating: M (smut in later chs)

Words: almost 8400 words of approx 59,5k

Tags: Regency Romance, Inspired by Francesca Bridgerton’s Story, Smut in Later Chapters

On ao3 if that’s your preference.

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

@Jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615 @donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings @booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza @djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling @caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones @mie779 @kymbersmith-90 @bluewildcatfanatic

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

Prologue

There is a moment in every man’s life in which his future becomes clear. A turning point of sorts. The moment when he becomes a man, when he leaves the irresponsibility and temerity of youth behind and turns his eyes to the future. A future that he’d never bothered to think about before. Unfortunately, that moment came for Killian Jones when he first laid eyes on Emma Nolan at a supper celebrating the imminent marriage between herself and Killian’s brother, Earl Liam Jones.

After years of chasing anything in a skirt, Killian grimaced at the irony. In all that time, he’d never allowed his heart to become entangled with his many, many romantic exploits. Allowing himself to be chased until he conquered, his reputation as a rake and a scoundrel was well deserved. He’d even stopped attending church, although he assuaged the pricking of his conscience by telling himself the derelict stones of Kilmartin Abbey on the Kilmartin estate up in Scotland… no originality among his ancestors there, who were so proud of the title when it was newly bestowed about 300 years ago, they attached it to everything they possibly could... Anyway, the Abbey couldn’t withstand a direct strike of lightning, which would surely happen if Killian Jones ever showed his face inside. 

Killian Jones

Worst of Sinners

He would have had it printed on calling cards if he didn’t think it would actually kill his mother. The only semblance of honor he’d maintained in his heart over all these years was the fact that the only times he’d slept with married women was if their husbands were tossers, and they’d produced at least two male offspring. Three, if one was sickly. He’d also never seduced a virgin, but even that wasn’t enough to redeem him now. Because this was the one thing that truly blackened his soul beyond all redemption. 

He coveted his brother’s wife. 

And had since that fateful moment two years ago. The day he met Emma Nolan. Now Emma Nolan Jones. Lady Kilmartin. Countess Kilmartin. Wife of his brother, the Earl of Kilmartin.

He could torture himself for days, thinking of every iteration of Emma Nolan Jones, but it would never change the simple fact. He couldn’t have her. She’d never be his.

Now, looking around the room where he, Emma, and Liam were enjoying some after-dinner conversation, he had to rise and cross the room to the decanter, pouring himself a drink to avoid the thoroughly besotted eyes Liam and Emma were making at each other.

“What shall we do for our second anniversary?” Emma asked, sitting down at the pianoforte, her long delicate fingers tickling the keys. Killian swallowed a low groan.

“Anything you want, darling,” Liam answered. He smiled gently at his wife as he opened the evening edition of the Times. She turned her attention to Killian.

“What do you think?”

“About what?” he asked, turning to her, a charming, lopsided smile on his face. No one took him seriously when he smiled like that, which was exactly the point. She pressed her lips into a thin line and Killian relented slightly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

“What should we do for our anniversary?”

If she’d thrust her own hand into his chest and squeezed his heart to dust, it probably would have hurt less. He shrugged indifferently. He was, after all, an expert at hiding what he really felt.

“It’s not my anniversary.”

Emma rolled her eyes, the corner of her lips lifting in amusement. It probably wasn’t a good thing that Killian spent far too much time studying the lips of his brother’s wife.

“I’m aware,” she huffed. “I was asking if you had any ideas for us.”

Killian lifted one brow quizzically. “Why would you ask me, when I have absolutely no experience in the realm of marriage or the anniversary celebration of such?”

The amusement left her face and was replaced with irritation and no small amount of sympathy. Emma rose and moved toward him.

Oh, God, he thought. Please no. There’s nothing worse than when she…

She placed her hand on his arm.

“You won’t always be unmarried, you know,” she said gently.

She shouldn’t be touching him. She couldn’t be touching him. His next words were with the singular purpose of getting her away from him.

“Am I to become your project then?” he bit out. “‘Killian can’t possibly be happy living his life of debauchery and aimlessness, so I must see him married,’” he mocked. “I am not interested in marriage, thank you very much.” 

She removed her hand from his arm and backed up, her brow furrowed, her mouth a small o of hurt. Thank heaven, it bloody worked, he thought, even as the guilt surged.

“We care about you, Killian, and we want to see you happy.”

And there it was. We. Not I. We. They were a unit. Liam and Emma. Lord and Lady Kilmartin. She may not have meant it that way, but that was what he heard. As if he’d ever forget it.

“I care about you, too.” His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and he shot pleading eyes toward his brother who finally gave up all pretense of reading.

“Emma,” he chastised lightly. “Killian is a grown man. Let him find his happiness when he’s ready. In his own time.”

Emma shot her husband a disgruntled look. Killian had to bite back a bark laugh. He knew Emma almost as well as he knew his brother, and he recognized the root of her irritation was at being thwarted in her attempt to arrange the people in her life to her satisfaction. Liam smirked at him and picked his paper back up as she returned to the pianoforte and sat down, her visage contemplative. It suddenly lit up and Killian’s heart rate increased with it. 

“I should introduce you to…”

“Emma.” It was only a single word, but Liam’s voice held a note of reprimand in it. Leave him alone.

Emma deflated and Killian could have kissed his brother. He may have only thought he was saving Killian from Emma’s nagging, but if he had to suffer the woman he was in love with trying to find him a match - a match he was wholly uninterested in - it might be the final straw of his sanity. Truly. 

“We should all go for a walk,” she said suddenly. Killian looked out the windows where darkness had finally descended over London.

“Isn’t it a little late?” he asked.

“Not with two strong escorts,” she cheeked.

“I’ve an appointment in an hour,” Liam said. He winced and rubbed his temple. “And I’ve got a headache. I think I’ll lay down for a bit before leaving.” He looked at Killian then. “But you should go.”

Absolute proof that Liam hadn’t a clue about his brother’s true feelings for Emma.

“Parliament?” Emma asked. Liam nodded and rose. “Do you want me to wake you when we return?”

“I’ll ask my valet to do it, darling,” he said, dropping a gentle kiss to her lips. Killian averted his eyes. He’d never begrudge his brother and his beloved their happiness, but he certainly wasn’t going to watch them bask in the clear love between them. 

“I’ll just be a moment,” Emma assured him once Liam left, a soft smile on her face, her forest green eyes glowing. Perhaps it should disturb him how certain he was of the color of Emma’s eyes when she wasn’t even in the room, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He dreamed in shades of green these days. Emma green, the color should be called. He poured himself another drink and slammed it back, trying to steel himself for their impending constitutional. 

He knew he shouldn’t be accompanying her. He knew he shouldn’t ever be alone with her. But when she smiled, he was helpless to resist her. It may leave him wracked with equal parts guilt and desire later, but he couldn’t deny himself any amount of time in her presence. Because that’s all there would ever be. He’d never act upon his desires. Never betray his brother in that way or sully Emma’s reputation. There’d never be a kiss, meaningful glances or touches, whispered words of love and affection, or moans of passion. 

All he’d ever have was her friendship, her smile, and her company. And besotted fool that he was, he’d be happy with it.

She came back down wrapped in a soft yellow cloak and he held his elbow out for her to take. Resigned to his fate, he escorted the love of his life out of the house and to the street below. Lucky him.

~*~*~

As Emma and Killian walked along the street, Emma couldn’t help but think what a dear man her brother-in-law was. Oh, he’d be certain to scoff and list all the reasons his soul was as black as they came (none of which, she was afraid, were exaggerated) if she expressed those sentiments out loud, but she knew him nearly as well as she knew her husband, and Killian Jones possessed a heart of honor and had a capacity to love that was unequaled among the men of her acquaintance. And if she didn’t find him a wife soon, she’d go mad.

“Killian,” she began, turning to look at him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupted. “Didn’t Liam just suggest that you let me find my happiness in my own time?”

Emma’s jaw dropped in shock. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

“You’re a bit of an open book, my dear,” he said, looking at her and booping her on the nose. Emma huffed indignantly as they continued their walk.

It was funny. When she met Liam, she fell head over heels in love more quickly than she ever imagined possible. He understood her in a way that she’d never experienced before. Of course, she loved her family immensely, but as the youngest of six siblings, she often felt lost in the shuffle. Killian was the only sibling Liam had, and removing herself from the hubbub of London and her large family felt like a breath of fresh air. Not to mention the actual fresh air of Scotland, her new home.

But then there was Killian. She hadn’t met him until the day before her nuptials to Liam, since he’d just recently returned home from the Napoleonic Wars on the continent. He was handsome, to be sure, but there was an undeniable connection between them that she felt from the moment she met him. If Liam understood her the way no one ever had before - the opposite side of the same coin - then Killian was like a puzzle piece that fit her perfectly. A puzzle piece she never knew she was missing. He completed her. Besides Liam, Killian was her very best friend and that was why she wanted him to be as happy as she was. And the only way that was going to happen was if she found him a wife who’d make him as happy as Liam made her.

“Finding me a wife is not among your duties, Lady Kilmartin,” Killian spoke again, drawing her from her musings.

She huffed again. “Well, it should be.”

He laughed, which delighted her immensely. She could always make him laugh.

“Very well, then,” she said, dropping the subject for now. “Tell me something wicked. Something that Liam wouldn’t approve of.” Her lips lifted in a conspiratorial smirk that he returned in kind. It was a game they played, that spoke again to how Killain somehow completed her. As much as she loved her husband, hearing about Killian’s exploits was always immensely entertaining. And she knew Liam enjoyed hearing about them, too, even if he gave a token admonishment whenever he was also present. Killian never shared too much, he had too much discretion for that, but he’d share hints and innuendos that never failed to amuse her greatly.

“Alas, I’m afraid I’ve done nothing wicked this week,” he said with a sigh.

“You?” she asked, incredulous. “I find that very difficult to believe.”

“It’s only Tuesday, my dear,” he reminded her.

“I’m aware,” she shot back, “but aside from Sunday, which I’m sure you’d leave sacred…” She shot him a look that belied her words completely, earning her another laugh, “that would leave Monday, and a man can get up to quite a bit of mischief on a Monday.”

“Not this man,” he assured her. “Not this Monday.”

“What did you do then?”

He was quiet for a moment as they continued walking. 

“Nothing, really.” 

There was a tone of melancholy blanketing his words and Emma stopped and turned to him. His blue eyes shone under the street lamps and Emma was shocked at the intensity she found there. A moment later it was gone and the thought occurred to Emma that Killian Jones perhaps wasn’t really the man he wished others to believe him to be. Even her.

She squeezed his arm gently. “We must find you something,” she whispered into the night.

He held her gaze a moment longer then he looked up.

“We must return. Liam will have my head if you catch a chill.”

“Liam will blame me for my foolishness of insisting on a walk after dark, and well you know it. This is just your way of saying you have a woman waiting for you, probably wearing nothing but a sheet.”

He smirked. A devil-may-care grin that made Emma roll her eyes and recall why the female half of the ton fancied themselves in love with him, even without the title.

“Don’t be jealous, my dear,” he said, the teasing clear in his voice, making Emma roll her eyes again.

“As if I ever could be,” she scoffed.

He stopped and faced her, the way his black hair flopped over his brow making her long to brush it back. The intense look was back in his crystal blue eyes and Emma had trouble drawing a deep breath.

“I know.” His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “It’s the only reason I tease you.” He reached up and lightly ran his knuckles down the side of her face. “You’re the only woman I know who would never stray. I can’t tell you how much I admire you for that.”

“I love your brother. I could never betray him.”

“I know that, too.” His hand returned to his side. He was so handsome and so in need of love, Emma felt her heart would break. If only he’d let someone, anyone, into his heart. If anyone would care enough to look beneath the handsome, yet devilish facade, they’d find the man she knew- kindhearted, loyal, and true.

They continued toward Kilmartin House and Emma took a deep breath. “Thank you for bringing me out tonight. I was just feeling so closed in, claustrophobic almost. The fresh air did me quite a bit of good.”

“Then I’m happy to have been of service, milady,” he said as they climbed the steps to the front door of Kilmartin House. The door opened, the butler obviously looking out for them, and Emma undid and handed him her cloak and gloves.

“Will you stay or must you go?” she asked Killian. She could just see Liam’s valet coming down the stairs out of the corner of her eye.

Killian checked his pocket watch. “I’ll wait for Liam, if he hasn’t left yet. I came on foot, so I might as well avail myself of his carriage after he’s done with it.”

Emma nodded and turned to the valet. 

“Has his Lordship left yet?”

“No, my lady. I’ve rapped on his door, but he must be sleeping quite soundly. Do you still want me to wake him?”

Emma sighed. As much as she wished he could sleep longer, she knew how important this meeting was.

“No need,” she assured the man. “I’ll wake him myself. Thank you.” She nodded at him and Killian and hurried up the stairs.

Moments later, Emma’s scream pierced the night.

~*~*~

Killian had no memory of taking the stairs three at a time to rush to Liam’s bedchamber, one of two thresholds in the house he’d never breached. He suddenly found himself there, staring at the bed on the other side of the room, barely conscious of Emma screaming from where she sat on the edge of the bed as she shook the shoulders of his unnaturally pale and still brother.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Whoever that was lying on the bed, it wasn’t his brother. His brother was gone. He’d seen death in battle, but death wouldn’t dare come for Liam. Liam. Who was so strong. So steady. The pillar of their family. The one they all relied on. The picture of good health. 

He took a laborious step forward.

“Emma.” His voice was hoarse, strangled, and unsurprisingly Emma made no indication that she’d heard him, her screams continuing unabated. When she finally stopped to take a breath, her face turned to him.

She rose, her movements so slow and graceful, her face nearly as pale as Liam’s, Killian could have mistaken her for a ghost. She glided toward him and as she got closer, he could see the splotches of color high on her cheekbones, the sunkenness and redness of her eyes, the tear tracks down her cheeks. She grabbed his hand, her grip so tight her knuckles were white.

“Wake him up, Killian,” she begged, more tears spilling from her eyes. He met her gaze, knowing the same devastation she wore on her visage was reflected back to her on his own. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her in tightly, automatically, like some kind of machine. She grabbed the lapels of the coat he wore and buried her face in his chest, moaning like a wounded animal. “It was just a headache.” Her tears soaked his shirt. “It was just a headache. How could this happen? I don’t understand!” 

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t offer her any sort of comfort beyond holding her as he was now because he didn’t understand either. Between Eton, Cambridge, and the Royal Navy, he’d been trained for everything the life of a gentleman had to offer. But he’d never been trained for this.

She pulled back suddenly, the cry falling from her lips coming from the depths of her soul. 

“WHYYYYYYYY??!!”

Just as suddenly as she pulled back from him, she collapsed in his arms, bringing them both to the floor. He stared, unseeing, at the far wall, wondering why he wasn’t crying. He was numb and his body felt heavy, like his very soul had been crushed. Killian’s internal cry echoed Emma’s.

Why?

~*~*~

“Could she be with child?” 

Killian sat behind Liam’s desk, and blinked at the question posed to him by Lord Isaac, a short and thin man who rather reminded Killian of a rat. The representative of the Committee for Privileges of the House of Lords had a self-important air about him that grated on Killian’s nerves. Liam hadn’t been gone - he still couldn’t bring himself to say or even think the truth - twenty-four hours and here was this bastard, demanding an audience and droning on about some sacred duty to the crown. He turned his attention back to Lord Isaac, his brow furrowed.

“What did you say?”

“Her ladyship,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully, as if Killian had no idea of whom he spoke. “If she’s carrying, it will make things… difficult.”

“I don’t know,” he said, enunciating his own words just as carefully. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this right now. “I haven’t asked her.”

“You need to.” The man sniffed indignantly. “I’m sure you’re eager to assume control of your new holdings, but before you can do that, we must determine if she’s carrying. Furthermore, if she is, a member of our committee will need to be present at the birth.”

Killian was stunned. There was no other word for it. “I beg your pardon?” He was amazed he was able to get the words out.

“Baby switching,” Lord Isaac said grimly, with all seriousness. “There have been instances…”

“For God’s sake…” Killian interrupted, scrubbing his hand down his face.

“It’s for your own protection as much as anyone’s,” Lord Isaac assured him. “If she were to give birth to a girl, and no one is there to witness it, what’s to stop her from switching the babe with a boy?”

Killian couldn’t bring himself to dignify that with any kind of response.

“You need to find out if she’s carrying,” Lord Isaac insisted. “Arrangements will have to be made.”

“She was widowed yesterday,” Killian bit out. “I will not burden her with such intrusive questions.”

“There is more at stake here than her ladyship’s feelings,” Lord Isaac continued, haughtily. “We cannot properly transfer the earldom while there is doubt as to the succession.”

“The devil take the earldom,” Killian snapped.

Lord Isaac drew back in visible horror. “You forget yourself, my Lord.”

“I am not your lord,” Killian growled. “I’m not anyone’s…” He stopped suddenly, realizing almost too late that he was perilously close to tears. He glared at the man in front of him, trying to stave them off. This little weasel, who didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t just an Earl who had died, but a man. 

His brother.

He expected that as soon as the abhorrent little rodent left, the door was locked behind him, and Killian was sure no one would observe him, the tears would finally come. 

“Someone has to ask her,” Lord Isaac said.

“It won’t be me,” Killian murmured.

“Then I will.”

Killian could take it no longer and was out of the chair like a shot, grabbing Isaac by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him against the wall before the man could even blink.

“You will not approach Lady Kilmartin,” he growled, menacingly. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the damnable man choked out. Killian realized he was turning an alarming shade of purple, so he stepped back, releasing him.

“Get out.”

“You’ll need to…”

“Get out!” Killian roared.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, when you’re in a more calm frame of mind.” The man left quickly with as much dignity as he could muster and Killian closed the door firmly behind him, turning the lock before he returned to the desk.

He dropped his head into his hands and a single tear finally spilled over and tracked down his face. His chest was tight and his throat felt so narrow, it was a wonder he could breathe at all. A gasping sob escaped him and the dam broke. Killian’s anguish poured from him in a seemingly endless tide, the tears streaming down his face, soaking the loosened cravat he wore and the shirt underneath.

How had it come to this? Yes, as long as Liam and Emma had remained childless, he was second in line to the earldom. But no one seriously expected him to inherit. Liam was barely thirty and the picture of health. 

Word had already reached him that men at the club were calling Killian the luckiest man in Britain. What no one realized was that he’d never wanted this. He’d never wanted the earldom. He wanted his brother. 

And no one seemed to understand that.

Except Emma. Her devastation equaled his own, he knew. 

They’d put her to bed last night, him and her mother, Ruth, who’d arrived quickly after his urgent summons, and she’d slept soundly all night, too worn out from the shock of it all. Killian knew, because he’d spent the night opposite the large bed where Emma slept, in one of the chairs where he imagined Liam and Emma taking their morning coffee before starting their days. He couldn’t bear to leave her or be alone with his own thoughts.

When she woke this morning, he could see the moment she remembered the events of the night before. Her eyes landed on him and he saw a moment of alarm, surprise, confusion, and then finally realization. He stood on shaky legs as her eyes filled with tears. They only lasted a moment, however. He watched as a firm resolve took over her gaze, her movements choppy and stilted as she swiped away the evidence of her anguish.

He grudgingly admired her for that and stood before her helpless to do anything useful. What were they to do? Neither of them was prepared for this. They were young, happy, carefree. They’d never dealt with death before and all the myriad details involved with it.

Who would have guessed the Committee for Privileges would get involved? And demand a front row seat to an event that should be a private moment for Emma. If indeed she was with child. Which he was not going to ask her.

“We must inform Alice,” she said.

“Of course,” he murmured. Why he hadn’t thought of that, he’d never know. Their mother would be equally devastated.

“I’ll write the note.” 

Killian could only nod, wondering what he was supposed to do. The answer became apparent when Lord Isaac arrived. But he couldn’t think about that now, all that he stood to gain since Liam was gone. There was nothing good about Liam being gone. And if anyone dared to offer him congratulations…

His tears spent, Killian lifted his head and stared sightlessly out the window. He hadn’t wanted this. Had he?

He only wanted Emma. But not like this. Not at this cost.

He’d never coveted Liam’s title. The money or power.

He’d only ever coveted Liam’s wife.

And now he stood to gain everything that had been Liam’s. Except his wife. Guilt wrapped itself around his heart and threatened to strangle him. 

He didn’t want this. He’d never wanted this.

“Killian?” Her soft knock and voice drew his attention to the door. The locked door. He rose and moved toward it, making no effort to hide his grief. He unlocked and opened the door and she stood there, as thin but strong as a young birch tree, her face pale, her green eyes round as saucers and beyond exhausted.

“I’ve sent a note to your mother,” she murmured. “Is there anyone else…”

Killian shook his head slowly. He knew he should say something to her, but his mind just refused to give him anything. He was too broken, too grief stricken. Just like the woman in front of him.

He gently took her elbow. “You should sit down. You look exhausted.”

Emma shook her head, even as she allowed him to lead her into the room and toward a chair. 

“I can’t,” she murmured. “I can’t stop. If I do…” She shook her head. “If I don’t stop, I don’t have to think. And if I don’t have to think…” she trailed away and her eyes filled with tears again. It didn’t matter. He understood perfectly.

Then she turned her eyes upon him and her mouth opened like she had something to say. He steeled himself against the despair in her eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

~*~*~

Seemingly overnight, Kilmartin House in London changed. 

First, Alice Jones arrived from Scotland. 

Second, Emma’s own mother, Ruth Nolan was a much more frequent guest than she’d been when Liam was alive. 

Third, Killian was a much less frequent guest than when Liam was alive. 

And Emma wasn’t sure she’d survive that last one.

Of course, it was a comfort to see her mother-in-law. They got along well and Emma loved her. And she’d known the grief of losing her husband. But now she’d lost her son, and in many ways was in as much need of comfort as Emma herself.

And of course her own mother was also a comforting presence, having also been widowed young, but Killian was the one she needed. Killian was the one who knew and loved Liam best, besides herself of course, and Killian was the one who most understood what she was going through.

He still came to visit occasionally, but when he did, he didn’t feel there. Not like he was when Liam was alive. His eyes were distant and he didn’t come anywhere near her, beyond what propriety demanded when greeting her or taking his leave - a formal bow, a slight brush of her knuckles with his lips, murmured words she could barely hear. He wasn’t the same.

And it was killing her.

But, she reminded herself, he was hurting, too. 

She reminded herself of it when she didn’t know what to say to him. She reminded herself of it when he didn’t tease her. She reminded herself of it when they sat together in the parlor and neither had anything to say.

She’d lost her husband. And she’d lost her best friend at the same time.

She was lonely. And so sad. Why had no one told her how sad she’d be? But would she have believed them? Of course not. There was no understanding this kind of grief without experiencing it for herself. 

Killian was the one link to the husband she’d lost - who’d loved him as she did - and she hated him for being here, but not being here. To walk beside her in their mutual grief. So they could be a comfort to each other.

It never occurred to her that in losing Liam, she might lose Killian, too.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Alice’s gentle question drew Emma from her musings. She blinked, momentarily unable to really comprehend the question, much less answer it.

“Uh, fine,” she said after a moment, with a slight shake of her head. The soft smile on the face of her mother-in-law, coupled with the joyful sadness in her eyes, prompted a small smile from herself as well. It brought home the fact that while Alice had lost her first born, the fact that Emma was carrying a piece of him brought a measure of peace to her grieving heart. “No different than I ever have.”

Alice sat down across from her and folded her hands in her lap. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“If it wasn’t for my missing courses, I’d never know anything was different.” And it was true. She’d been around enough pregnant women to know what to expect in the early weeks and months, and the only thing she was experiencing that might be a symptom of early pregnancy was that she was a bit more tired. But, of course, that could be the grieving as well. Her mother had told her she’d been tired for a year after her father passed. Emma experienced none of the expected quirks and illnesses other women had told her about.

She’d be happy to be losing what little breakfast she was actually eating each morning, if only so she could imagine the little one waving, hello, I’m here!

“I wonder if Killian will be visiting today?” Alice mused.

“He hasn’t been here in three days,” Emma murmured, “So I expect he will.” She’d never admit to counting the days between his visits, but she had been, and he was due for his bi-weekly visit.

“He’s grieving Liam,” Alice said softly.

“So am I.” Her voice was a bit sharper than she’d have liked. “So are you.”

“But it’s different for him,” she continued. “He’s a bit in limbo until you deliver. And that’s still six months away.”

“Well, I can’t do anything about that.”

“Of course not,” she replied. “I just hope that he begins thinking about the future soon. If you do deliver a girl, he’ll have to marry and produce an heir.”

Emma scoffed. “Killian will do what has to be done, but he’d never marry while he’s still grieving Liam and it’d be dreadfully unfair to expect him to.”

“Of course,” Alice agreed. “I just so want him to be happy. Even with Liam gone.” She sighed forlornly.

It was odd. Emma wanted Killian to be happy, too, but imagining him married was rather hard to picture. Of course, it hadn’t stopped her from trying to push Killian in that direction. But if she was really honest with herself, he just didn’t seem the type. For years, she’d had Liam and Killian had been their rather constant companion. Could she be happy for him if he found love and happiness and she remained alone? Was her heart big enough?

She was tired and feeling a bit weak as well. She stood, grasping the arm of the chair when a sudden wave of dizziness came over her. 

“I think I’ll lay down for a nap,” she said. “Wake me when Killian comes, if you please.”

“Of course, my dear. That’s a very good idea. You need your rest.” A sudden gasp escaped Alice and Emma saw that she wasn’t looking at her, but at the seat she just rose from. 

There in the middle of the cushion was a small patch of red.

Blood.

~*~*~

Killian stared at the almost full bottle of rum sitting on his desk. His life would have been much more bearable if that amount of alcohol was enough to get him drunk. But unfortunately, Killian was blessed with quite a robust constitution and could hold his liquor with aplomb and grace. 

He glanced outside the window to see it was still some hours from sunset. Also unfortunately, he couldn’t make himself override the good manners and etiquette Alice had instilled in him from the time he was a small boy that refused to let him get bosky before the sun set. 

He tapped his fingers against the desk and wondered what he ought to do with himself. Liam had been gone for nearly two months now, and he hadn’t yet brought himself to move into Kilmartin House, still living in his modest apartments a few blocks away. According to Lord Isaac, whose lectures he was eventually forced to endure, the title would go into abeyance until Emma delivered. And if she gave birth to a girl, then the title and everything with it would be his. But given that that event was still six months away, Killian felt he could get away with not taking up residence in the earl’s house. He told himself he didn’t want to move in only to have to move out again in six months.

But the truth was something else entirely. He wasn’t sure he could survive living under the same roof as Emma. 

She was still living in the house. She was still the Countess of Kilmartin. And would be until she gave birth to a girl and he married. Which he was absolutely not inclined to do.

Because even if he did end up as the earl, Emma wouldn’t be his countess, and that knowledge was enough to make him seriously think about damning etiquette to hell and downing that entire bottle of rum between now and sunset.

He would have thought his grief would have overtaken the longing in his heart for Emma, that he could be near her and not want her so much he could barely breathe. But no. His heart still ached with the pain of loving her. Even being in the same room with her caused his breath to hitch and his heart to race. 

And now, all that longing was intertwined with a suffocating guilt. As if there hadn’t been enough of that when Liam was alive. 

Emma was in pain. Grieving. And he should be there comforting her. Who could better do so? No one had known Liam better than he did. The two people who knew and loved him best should be comforting one another in their loss. But no, instead of comforting her, he was lusting after her. What kind of bastard lusted after his sister-in-law, his pregnant sister-in-law, when his brother wasn’t even cold in his grave?

Him, apparently. 

And so he stayed away. Not completely. He couldn’t get away with that, not with his mother in residence at Kilmartin House. In addition, although the title wasn’t potentially to be his for another six months, everyone was looking to him to manage the affairs of the earl. 

It was the least he could do. For Liam. For Emma.

He may not be able to be her friend at the moment, but he could make sure her finances were in order.

She didn’t understand. And he knew she didn’t. She’d often come to visit him when he was working in the study of Kilmartin House - going over various solicitor’s and land steward’s reports - looking for their previous camaraderie, he knew, but which he was unable to give. Not yet.

“My lord?”

Killian looked up at the door to see his valet, Smee, and a footman wearing the unmistakable green and gold livery of Kilmartin house.

“A message from your mother,” the man said, approaching with an envelope in his outstretched hand. “She said it was urgent.”

His brows rose on his head. Urgent? That was new. His mother had sent him nearly daily missives, or it seemed like it anyway, but they were never more than just prattling on about the doings at Kilmartin House. She was likely just trying to keep herself busy.

Once Smee and the footman left the room, he opened the letter.

Come quickly, it said. Emma has lost the baby.

~*~*~

Killian himself was nearly killed several times, not to mention the numerous pedestrians who were in his way, as he raced on horseback to Kilmartin House.

But now he stood here in the foyer, holding his crying mother, and he didn’t know what to do with himself.

A miscarriage they called it. It seemed like such a small word for such a profound happening. And why had they called him? This was the province of women and doctors. Of which, he was neither. What could he possibly do?

But then it hit him. He was the earl.

Slowly but surely over the last two months, Killian had been stepping into Liam’s shoes. And now that process was complete. The final nail in the coffin, so to speak. 

It took nary a thought to murmur comforting nonsense to his mother as he led her to the downstairs parlor, her sobs abating. 

“It’s like losing Liam all over again,” she whispered.

“I know,” he agreed. And he did. While Emma had been pregnant, a small piece of Liam still existed on this earth. And while he wasn’t yet prepared to step fully into Liam’s shoes, by the time she delivered, he would have been, and he would have done everything duty demanded. For Liam, his child, for Emma.

But he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t. Not yet.

That last fragile link to Liam was snapped and he was right back where he was two months ago.

“How is she?” he asked.

“In shock,” she answered quietly. “She’s been crying. She can’t seem to stop. She asked for you.”

Killian’s head snapped toward his mother.

“Me? Why?”

Alice’s face was surprised. “She wanted you.”

“But… I can’t…” he stammered.

“Yes, you can.” His mother looked confused at his refusal. “You have to,” she insisted.

Killian shook his head vehemently, his hands starting to tremble. “I can’t go in there.”

“You can’t abandon her!”

“I’m not! I didn’t!” he cried, the grief breaking free. “Liam abandoned her! Liam abandoned me!” he shouted. His voice shocked him. He sounded like a wounded animal - pained, panicked, confused. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. “She was never mine to abandon!”

“Killian George Alaster Jones!” his mother cried, shocked. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Mother,” he all but moaned. “She needs a woman. What can I do?”

“You can be her friend,” she said softly.

“No. I can’t. Not yet.” The anguish on his mother’s face was real and he knew his was the same. In a move of utter and pathetic cowardice, he rose and ran from the room. 

~*~*~

If there truly were nine circles of Hell, then in the month since he’d taken on his duties, Killian surely must have taken up residence in one of the lower levels of Hell on earth. With every new ceremony, each document he signed as Kilmartin, and every “my lord” he was forced to endure, it was as if Liam's spirit was being pushed further and further away.

Everything that had been Liam’s was now his. 

Except Emma.

And Killian was determined to keep it that way. He would not bring that last insult to bear against his brother’s memory. He’d seen her, of course. And offered his best words of comfort. Which were, truthfully, woefully inadequate. And both he and Emma knew it. 

He’d been more relieved that she was physically unharmed than upset over the loss of the child. But he couldn’t very well say that.

Their mothers, for some reason, felt compelled to describe the event in gruesome detail, a chamber maid trotting out the bloodied sheets as proof that Lady Kilmartin had indeed lost the baby. Lord Isaac had nodded in approval when presented with the evidence, but had then added that Lady Kilmartin would still need to be observed closely for the next few months to be sure she was not increasing. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to circumvent the sacred laws of primogeniture, he’d asserted.

The rage inside Killian at that statement nearly propelled him to pick up Lord Isaac bodily and throw him out the window, but he managed to control himself by the most tenuous of grips.

He still hadn’t moved into Kilmartin House. He knew it was expected, but the circumstances at the house hadn’t changed, and Killian still couldn’t bring himself to live in the same house as the woman he loved.

Who now stood at the threshold of his study. She looked thin and pale, but her green eyes flashed.

“Emma?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

He was shocked. He couldn’t deny it. She’d never been here. Not when Liam was alive. And certainly not after.

“I wanted to see you.” The rest of her statement, her accusation really, went unspoken. You’ve been avoiding me.

Was this improper? He hadn’t a clue. Their relationship now was so different and ambiguous, he couldn’t guess what rules of etiquette applied. He motioned to a seat and she took it, her fingers twisting in her lap. 

She finally looked at him, her gaze intense, grief and anger swirling in their depths.

“I’ve missed you.” Make that an even lower level of hell.

“Emma…” he tried.

“You are… were… my friend,” she said, angrily, swiping at the tear that tracked down her face. “Besides Liam, you were my closest friend!”

Emma, I…” he tried again. He was a fool. And a coward. And he didn’t know what to say to her.

“Where have you been?” 

“I…” He was speechless. Brought down by an angry and grief-stricken face, and a mountain of guilt. Although guilt for exactly what, he couldn’t pinpoint any longer. It came from too many sources to make sense of anymore.

“I needed you.” The plaintive need in her voice nearly undid him. “You knew him best. You loved him the most, besides me. Why didn’t you come and help me?”

Killian looked down at his desk. He couldn’t lie to her. But he couldn’t tell her the truth either.

“I don’t know,” he settled upon instead. She was quiet and Killian couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

“That’s it then,” she whispered. 

“I guess so,” he replied sadly. The sadness threatened to consume him. In the eyes of the ton, he may have gained much, but in reality, he’d lost everything. And the one person who needed him the most… he couldn’t be what she needed. He couldn’t stand to be near her. Because the grief and the anger and the love and the guilt were a never ending flood, and he was drowning.

The ticking clock on the mantle was the only accompaniment to her swirling thoughts. She looked at Killian and took in his tense shoulders, his rigid bearing, the unbridled grief on his countenance mirroring hers. 

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he finally said, taking a tentative step toward her. Then another. Then another. Then he was kneeling before her, his hand on her knee. “I’m so, so sorry, Emma.”

“Why did this happen?” she cried. “I don’t understand!” The tears poured from her eyes and Killian gathered her into his arms. “It isn’t fair!” She clutched at his jacket, holding on for dear life as all the grief, all the anger, all the confusion that she thought she’d already released burst forth from her all over again.

“It isn’t fair that it happened to me!” she lamented. “It isn’t fair that this happens to anyone! Oh, what am I to do?”

“I don’t know.” She could just hear him murmuring into her hair and placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. And the comfort she felt from him holding her was almost more than she could bear. For the first time in months, she felt safe and warm. And not alone.

Her tears finally spent, she pulled back from him. 

“Will you come back? To Kilmartin House?” she asked, her voice shaky. “Will you stop ignoring me? I still need you.”

She could see the tears in his own eyes, grief and something else she couldn’t identify, as she waited for him to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t know what to say to you. Didn’t know what I could do, so I stayed away.”

“I know,” she said quietly, looking down at her lap. She still clutched at him, unable to let him go, or the warmth and safety he gave. “I knew that’s why you were staying away, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.” He released her and stood, even as her arms reached for him again. “I’ll take up my residence in Kilmartin House.”

He could deny her nothing. And living under the same roof couldn’t possibly be any worse than what he’d already had to endure. And if it was, and it did actually kill him, then so be it.

“Thank you. That will… that will be a great comfort to me. And your mother as well.” She paused for a moment and rose. “You know, you were to be his father, in a way.”

Killian felt the blood drain from his face and his heart stop. 

“What did you say?” The words were soft, weak, he could barely catch his breath to get them out.

“The baby,” she replied, turning toward him. “In the absence of his father, you’d have been the closest thing he had. And even with him gone, having you here will help me let him go. Let them both go.”

But Killian didn’t hear those last words. His heart started beating again at a gallop and the blood rushed in his ears. All he could grasp from her statement was that he would have been a father to the baby, and that knowledge destroyed him. 

The title, the lands, the money, the power, the responsibility were all his now. The only things that weren’t were Liam’s wife and child. And now Emma was telling him that wasn’t true either.

He grabbed Emma by the arms. He was shaking, and she looked frightened but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t let her go.

“No!” he cried. “I can’t! I won’t! I’m not Liam!”

“Of course you’re not,” Emma cried out, thoroughly alarmed at the sudden change that had come over Killian. She’d never seen him like this. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, his grip on her arms painful, but her words to try and reach him, to get him to release her, fell on deaf ears. He looked wild, crazed, like a cornered animal that would either make a last desperate attack to try and save itself, or fall over and wait for the final killing blow.

“You can’t ask this of me,” he breathed, the strength and energy that fueled him, completely disappearing. He still held her tightly, but his eyes were finally seeing her and not some vision playing out in his mind. “I can’t do it.”

“Killian, you’re hurting me,” she whispered. “Please let me go.” He released her suddenly, the recrimination in his eyes and the restored blood flow in her arms bringing tears to her eyes.

“I’d… I’d better go,” she said, pulling away from him. She looked at him for a moment more, trying to make sense out of what just happened. She’d never seen Killian like that before and it frightened her. She wasn’t afraid of him, though. Even after that, she knew with utter surety that he would never harm her and would protect her to his last breath.

“Perhaps… perhaps it would be better if you remained here instead of Kilmartin House.”

“Y- yes,” he stammered, nodding with a jerky motion. “I think that would be best.” 

Not only had she lost Liam, and her child, but it was now clear she’d lost Killian as well. And she didn’t quite know what she would do about that.

~*~*~

Once Emma was gone, Killian sat back down behind his desk and poured himself a tall drink.

He’d made a promise to her and broken it almost in the same breath. He’d spent the last month fulfilling the duties of the earl and then Emma’s words made him realize something.

She truly had no inkling of his feelings for her, and as long as that was the case, as long as she didn’t understand how much he hated himself for every step he took in Liam’s shoes, he couldn’t be near her. 

And that brought him to a decision. Rarely in life had his path been this clear. He slammed back the rum and rose from his desk. When he arrived at his bedchamber, he found his valet carefully folding a cravat.

“Smee,” he asked. “What do you think of India?”

~*~*~

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought! Next ch will be up on Saturday!

[arokel]

If you're still taking prompts, the Bobby Moch is chatty in bed tag needs more content.

sorry this is so late, anon! but you are absolutely correct; I've been derelict in my duty. hopefully this makes up for it <3

(nsfw under the cut or read on ao3)

Title: Chatty Pairing: Don Hume/Bobby Moch Rating: E Tags: PWP, Dirty Talk, Coming Untouched, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs Notes: written in an hour and a half and unbeta'd, so my apologies for any typos!

Bobby has never been one to keep his eyes open during sex. He himself enjoys being watched, but - selfish as it may sound - he’s always found it too difficult to focus on his own pleasure enough to come and to look at his partner at the same time.

He’s sure giving it his best shot with Don Hume, though.

Every time he feels his eyes start to flutter shut he forces them back open, forces himself to focus on Don’s sweaty curls as they flop over his forehead to tickle Bobby’s stomach, on Don’s strong hands where they grip tight onto Bobby’s waist. He’ll come eventually if Don’s ferocious determination to make him feel good is any indication; he doesn’t want to miss a second of this in the meantime.

It’s easier if he narrates what he sees, lets his mouth run away with him as it so often does in other circumstances. Ordinarily he would lock that part of himself away in bed for fear of being a distraction, but here, too, Don is different. Far from finding it irritating, he seems to love the stream of praise and nonsense blanketing the air between them, drowning out the slick noises of his mouth and hands on Bobby’s skin.

“Fuck, Donny, sweetheart, there, just like that,” Bobby murmurs, as Don sucks a mark into the delicate skin just beside his hipbone. “How’d you know I’d be sensitive there, huh?”

Don hums noncommittal and scrapes his teeth over the darkening bruise. That’s alright; Bobby can talk enough for the both of them if that’s what Don wants.

“Or did you do it just ‘cause you wanted to? I bet it’s torture for you just like it’s torture for me, sitting across from you near-naked every day. Did you sneak looks at my hips when I wasn’t looking, imagine pulling my shorts down and getting your mouth on me?”

“Bobby,” Don gasps. He mouths hotly at Bobby’s stomach, breath coming shaky and fast. What Bobby can see of his forehead is bright red. “Yeah, I - I did.”

That’s enough to make Bobby’s next inhale a little shakier, too. He shifts his hips suggestively until Don gets the hint and returns to his open-mouthed exploration of Bobby’s abdomen and thighs, skirting around Bobby’s obvious erection - not because he doesn’t want to touch it, Bobby suspects, but rather because he’s waiting for a sign of encouragement before he does.

Bobby will gladly give him that.

“I thought about it too,” he says, arching into the press of Don’s lips against his inner thigh, just brushing the coarse hairs leading up to the base of his cock. “Or not even pulling them down, maybe, but if you’d be so desperate for it that you’d just get on your knees and put your mouth on me even like that, suck me through my shorts till I come and then -”

Don whines, high and desperate, and then sure enough his mouth is there, gliding hot and damp along the side of Bobby’s shaft like one long, smeary kiss. He follows the path with his tongue, curling, tasting - more for his own enjoyment than for Bobby’s, but his blissful groan and the concentrated furrow in his brow more than make up for the lack of direction.

“Yeah, fuck, kiss me like that, so good, even hotter than I imagined, want you to taste all of me,” Bobby babbles.

He spreads his legs wider to let Don settle in between them properly - it means that his calf is no longer situated for Don to grind against absentmindedly as he has been doing, but with the exception of one small, mournful noise Don doesn’t protest the loss. Instead he sets to mapping Bobby’s cock with his tongue just as he has the rest of Bobby, ticklish and maddeningly light.

Bobby endures the anticipatory torture of it until his mouth once again gets the better of him. “C’mon, suck me, put those pretty lips on me and let me feel you, you were made to look just like this, Christ, I can barely hold it together and if you don’t get your mouth on me properly I might - god, yes, Don, that’s perfect, you’re everything I dreamed -”

Don gives an agonized moan that reverberates around the head of Bobby’s cock where it rests just inside the heat of his silken mouth. His tongue laps clumsily at the slit and his suction is soft and uncertain, and Bobby might just go out of his mind with how perfect it is. He wants Don to know it, too.

“Just like that; it’s so good, you’re so - do you like that? Me in your mouth, so hard all because of you, because of how good you’ve made me feel?”

Bobby doesn’t mean it as a genuine question needing an answer, but, to his surprise, Don groans again and sinks further down on Bobby’s cock as if to say, yes, I like it, I want more of it. His hips move jerkily, thrusting against air. Bobby can’t catch his breath.

“That’s good, that’s beautiful,” he manages, as Don grows bolder and the circle of his lips tightens around Bobby’s shaft. “I’m glad you like it, ‘cause I’m never gonna stop thinking about it now; god, I wanna kiss my come off your lips, lick it out of your mouth -”

Don makes an urgent sound and pulls back - but not off - so that his lips brush the head of Bobby’s cock as he shapes his words. “Bobby, wait, I’m so close, I can’t -”

His restless hips have settled into a smooth rocking motion, powerful thighs flexing and trembling. Bobby wants to feel that force and rhythm thrusting inside him as soon as possible. But it’s clear Don can’t wait that long.

“Of course you are, sweetheart; we’ve waited so long,” Bobby coos, half-delirious at the sight and the thought of experiencing it for himself. It makes him even less aware of his words than normal.

Don moans helplessly and takes Bobby in again, but he seems too overwhelmed to do more than suckle weakly as his hands clench and unclench on Bobby’s hips. Bobby gently pries them loose and holds them in one of his own, petting Don’s hair back from his forehead to reveal his hazy, watery eyes.

“It’s okay if you’re close. I want to see you come. Hell, the sight of that’ll probably set me off too.” He hisses as Don’s grip on his hand tightens painfully, feeling the tremor wracking Don’s entire frame. “Will you do that for me? Touch your pretty cock and let me see?”

The moan that tears itself from Don’s throat is, perhaps, to be expected. The full-body shudder that overtakes him, the frantic rocking of his hips, the splatter of warmth against Bobby’s thigh - all that is a revelation.

“Holy fuck,” Bobby breathes. He has no other words.

Don twitches and whimpers through the aftershocks, and all the while his mouth never leaves Bobby’s cock. He isn’t sucking - his lips are parted on gasping breaths and the wetness of his saliva is dripping down Bobby’s shaft to dampen his pubic hair - but it’s so fucking erotic that Bobby thinks he might come nearly untouched too.

Finally, the shivers cease, and Don pulls away with an expression like chagrin. He directs an unintelligible mumble towards Bobby’s stomach.

“What’s that?” Bobby says. He’s still holding both of Don’s hands, so he lets go of one and laces his fingers together properly with the other.

Don lifts his head at the nudge of Bobby’s finger to his chin, embarrassment writ clearly in his features. “I said, oh god.”

“Hey, don’t be like that. It wasn’t embarrassing; it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Bobby says. He traces the curve of Don’s swollen lips. “What did it? Did you like sucking my cock that much?”

“No, I - well, yes, but it was more… just you, talking to me,” Don says.

“I talked you off? Oh, Donny, you have given me a dangerous piece of information. I’ll have to watch my words next time, though, because I do want to watch you touch your pretty cock. Almost as much as I want to see your hips moving like that inside me and not just air.”

“Stop, Bobby, I can’t come again,” Don says, strangled. “You’re going to drive me crazy.”

His free hand inching once more towards Bobby’s cock belies his protests.

Bobby pushes his hand away, gently, and replaces it with his own. “You sure you want me to stop? ‘Cause I’m close too and I’m not sure I can keep my mouth shut through all that, especially when I’ve got you here making such a pretty picture for me to look at while I do.”

Don whimpers again. Bobby laughs.

“You just stay right there and let me do all the work.” He shifts slightly so that Don’s head rests more comfortably on his thigh and Bobby’s arm won’t whack him in the face as he begins to stroke himself. It’s an easy glide, still wet from Don’s drooling orgasm, and Bobby feels himself immediately close again.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love having your mouth on me, but I missed seeing you,” he says conversationally. His breath hitches on the next sentence, though, and once it’s gone he can’t seem to get it back again. “You’re the most - the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and - I meant what I said; I wanna see you feeling good, want to watch your eyes when you fuck me and see your face when you come, see what you look like when I suck your cock and if maybe you like listening to me moan as much as you like listening to me talk…”

His words are growing shaky and so is his hand, but before he can slow down or request Don’s assistance there is a broad, warm palm covering his and Don is grinning sleepily up at him.

“You’re five steps ahead, with all your imagining,” Don says, fond and amused. “How about you just focus on me right now and let me make you feel as good as you made me feel?”

Bobby finds himself nodding wordlessly. Don doesn’t ask him to let go of his cock, so Bobby lets Don’s hand guide him as they move together, and the new pace and firmness of it has him writhing, trying not to dislodge Don from his thigh and biting his lip to stop things much more embarrassing than filthy words from slipping out. It doesn’t work.

“Don, please, please, I want - I’m so close, god, so - ah, I - fuck, you - fuck -”

He isn’t proud to admit that he comes with a scream.

“Holy shit,” Don says, wiping his hand on Bobby’s other thigh, mingling Bobby’s come with the drying remnants of his own. He looks just as worshipful as Bobby felt watching Don come undone. “Yeah, I do like listening to you moan.”

“Shut up,” Bobby groans, finally allowing himself to close his eyes for just a moment while he catches his breath. He feels incredible.

He opens them again to watch as Don grins and props himself up on one arm to trace idle patterns across Bobby’s stomach, unrepentant.

“No way. You’re a menace; why didn’t you warn me you were chatty? I wouldn’t have come so quick if I’d been prepared for it.”

“I’m not, usually. Most people don’t like it,” Bobby says. Any sting he might have felt in admitting it is erased by the slow creep of Don’s fingers up his sternum until they can cup his cheek and turn his face down to meet Don’s gaze.

Don shakes his head, grinning even wider. “Crazy. Good thing you’re sleeping with me now, then.”

Bobby can do nothing but lean down and smother that grin with a kiss.

“Oh, are you a fan? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You shut up,” Don tells him, nose scrunching against Bobby’s cheek as he keeps smiling even through the kiss. “For now.”

[genshin-side-piece]

I just read “Love Me Tender” and I’m obsessed with the way you write yandere Neuvillette and his darling. He’s one of those yanderes who are just so soggy and pitiful. I love the idea of a powerful yandere utilizing their power and connections to keep you. The melusines would DEFINITELY watch over you per Neuvillette’s request. And even if they knew he kidnapped you, they wouldn’t do anything about it. Not out of any malice, but because they, like Neuvillette, genuinely believe it’s what best for you. I love non-human yanderes because you can explore the potential of them not understanding humans being a reason for their yandere-ness

I love, LOVE the idea that a darling being submissive or cowering like prey turns him on. I love yanderes who take pride in being gentlemen but then silently salivate at the sigh of your legs. Also, I wish this was included in more fics, but I love the idea of a darling absolutely refusing to be near their yandere. Even if they have to resort to sitting in the corner instead of the comfy chairs by the yandere. I love darlings who try to hang on to the last semblance of autonomy and independence you have.

If you ever write any more yandere Neuvillette in the future I would love to read it!

❤️❤️❤️

Awwww TY Nonny! I'm so glad you liked it. I almost didn't publish this because of how hard I struggled with it. I was considering waiting until 4.1 just to be sure I had his personality right. Ray Chase wasn't kidding when he said Neuvillette was complex AF. It took me a minute to figure out if this was really even plausible for him and what his motivations would and could be. Thankfully the stuff with Childe at the end of the 4.0 archon quest showed Neuvillette could be pushed into action. So the idea that he's happy with observation until he deems there's a threat seems logical. Considering there is a mafia of sorts in Fontaine, and the whole serial k*ller business, it only adds to Neuvillette's mindset. Darling vanishes while he isn't looking and the kill bill sirens go off.

I think he would go deeper in terms of filling a caretaker/protector yandere role. I couldn't work it in fully here, but I believe he would be the type to fuss over your nutrition, your exercise, and your general well being. Not to the point that it's invasive, but enough to where he insures you are being cared for. God help Fontaine if that man ever feels derelict in his duty. The difference between him and some of the other protector yanderes, is in my mind Neuvillette owns the fact that he's the source of you misery. He does what he can to fix it, but he won't deviate from any of his previous actions. He can't.

I love my power hungry yanderes, but it was nice to write something soft for once. His pining and yearning coupled with his own self awareness was an interesting challenge. I would like to get to know Neuvillette better. Like I said, he is a difficult one to get right. I have another one that I am working on for him. I'm just struggling with the end on it. There's a third that I started before he debuted that I'm going to have to completely revise, maybe. He's a bit sterner in it than what he is in the game and there's a slight abuse of power, so I'll have to see. He has that side to him, but I'd like to see more of it for actual research purposes. 4.1 will do a lot for that one, especially considering Neuvillette is willing to manufacture charges in the correct circumstances.

But thank you so much for your lovely comment. I really do appreciate it.

[phoenixyfriend]

if you’re doing the fanfic trope mash up, can i suggest 42 and 56 for jangosoka?

Fanfiction Trope MASH-UP: Send me two (2) tropes from this list + a ship and I’ll describe how I’d combine them in the same story.

This ask meme is from over a year ago. Please don't send new prompts.

42. The Big Damn Kiss 

56. Awful First Meeting

Okay, so: time travel, as is standard for this ship

We'll say Ahsoka is ehhhh 23, has been doing Fulcrum stuff for five or so years, is very competent but not perfect. She falls into the past, as one does, shows up about a year pre-Galidraan, so Jango is 21.

Ahsoka has slipped into some undercover work, eeling her way into the upper echelons of society, attending galas and events and so on in fancy dresses and jewelry. How is she funding this? However you want. Maybe she robbed a Hutt. Maybe she has the codes to some shadow accounts nobody knows she's accessing. Maybe she found teenage Bail and talked him into bankrolling her based on The Future. Doesn't matter.

(Actually, the Bail thing would make a great fic on its own, especially if Ahsoka were young enough to pretend to be his girlfriend. Tell me that wouldn't be hilarious. Not here, but somewhere. Bail is absolutely in love with Breha, but like... the fate of the Republic! The fate of the Jedi! That's a cool thing to be doing! With a cool person!)

Point is, she's lying to a lot of very wealthy, very dangerous people when she shows up at these things. She could have theoretically tricked her way into being someone's long-term date, but that would mean dating to attend more than one, and she's not doing that. Better to just pretend to be the heiress to a company from the rims that's very rich but not quite rich enough for everyone in the Core to have heard of.

She is using these events to spy, of course. Slipping into hotel rooms to slice datapads, bugging white collar criminals with a tap to their favorite watch, wandering into servant's tunnels while pretending to be drunk, all the usual fun stuff.

She gets caught, of course.

Jango's side of the story starts about when Ahsoka's does, with him hearing tales of someone stealing information and sabotaging deals, and he gets hired as security by one of those especially important events. He keeps an eye on this, and he... notices Ahsoka.

He does not notice her as a spy, but as a person who is being harassed by an intoxicated, rich old man, whom she'd clearly like to ditch but cannot safely do so.

(At least, as far as he can tell. We know her better than that.)

Jango steps in, because it's not like he's got a lot to do right now, and intercepting drunk old men has been about the only interesting thing he's had to do all night. Ahsoka... I mean, she thanks him. Technically. She doesn't hide her distaste for him as a person. Jango would think this is just about him being Mandalorian, except she doesn't react as negatively to any of the others. She's neutral and ignores most of them, but there are two moments where she interacts positively, laughing at a joke or something. So. She just doesn't like him.

The night ends without incident. It's not until weeks later that there's an information leak. It could have happened during the party Jango was guarding, but it could have happened at any of three other incidents that same month. There was at least one midnight break-in, several days after the party; there's a solid chance his presence did discourage whoever this spy was from engaging, and made them delay their actions to a Plan B.

Months later, he's doing personal guard duty for the king of something or other. It's another gala or fundraiser or coronation or--honestly, he doesn't care. He's getting paid to keep this one specific person safe, and that's all that matters.

He's not the only mando there, so when he sees a young woman, vaguely familiar, stumble out of the hall with an expression that says 'drunk' as much as it does 'roofied,' he doesn't commit any dereliction of duty by excusing himself to just... see that she's okay. The woman is familiar, even if he can't place her. That usually means something; what if she's an assassin he's run into before, here to kill his client?

(That really is why he's following her. If she's familiar but unplaceable, that usually means she's In The Business.)

He follows her at a safe distance, and sees her ask for a bathroom, get pointed in the right direction, and then... go down the wrong hallway, and enter a room that he's pretty sure is supposed to be locked.

He gives it a few seconds, edging closer slow enough that his boots can't be heard (the music and carpet both help muffle the noise, but he's still wearing a lot of metal), and then opens the door to a library-esque space.

The "drunk" girl is hard at work slicing into a computer terminal she 100% should not be at.

They stare at each other.

"Give me one good reason to not shoot y--"

"I can give you intel on Death Watch."

Jango pauses. Considers. It is not his job to keep information safe, this time. His job is to just keep one specific man alive, and this is an unrelated crime.

There are footsteps in the hall, and he sees her start to look around the room for an exit route. He tries not to think too hard on how she was planning on making the very-much-screwed-into-the-wall vent work.

"Fine," he says, and she looks quick at him, and then at the door, and then disengages from the computer and hops the desk to--plaster herself against him?

She giggles, high and drunken, and fumbles for his helmet. "Oh, come on, Mr. Mando, just a kiss? Just one ki--I told my friends I'd run into a Mand--ma--Mandaloriana... Just a kiss! I wanna--wanna one-up 'em..."

He hears the door crack open, and has no idea what he's supposed to do to play along to this... cover? Cover, sure. "Ma'am, I'm on a job."

"And you can't play? Your friends are totally--"

There's a cough from the door, and Jango turns, and the security guard that actually works here is grimacing.

"You can't be in here."

They manage to talk their way out of suspicion, something about how she claimed she'd seen something important but was just trying to seduce him, does the guard know anywhere a drunk guest can be deposited? Thanks.

She does give him information, but she disappears before he can learn anything more about her.

(Galidraan is avoided, oh so narrowly, because of what she gives him. He may never know how close it really was.)

Months pass. He gets invited an event that isn't a job, but is rather some large gladiatorial event. He's not a fan of it--he's pretty sure the fighters aren't nearly as voluntary as people are claiming--but he goes. He watches.

A familiar face enters the arena. He stiffens.

His helmet can zoom in and analyze, and he finds that the cuffs she wears are Force-dampening.

Definitely not willing.

He dithers too long to figure out how to help, or if he even can, because she wins her fight (no deaths in these matches; makes it expensive to find new combatants), and is ushered out, and Jango himself is invited to an afterparty. Someone tells him that the winning gladiators get to attend. It's a reward, the food and fancy outfits. Even 'the pretty one you seemed to like' is going to be there.

People are still pretending that the combatants are voluntary. Jango grits his teeth. He goes.

He finds her, removes his helmet, meets her eyes from across the room. She is bruised and bandaged, but alert. She blinks at him, slow and measuring, and then taps her lips twice.

He doesn't understand, until she signs--where did she learn Mando battle sign?--and asks him to lie and say they're a couple.

(Well, she's using battle sign, not actual MSL, but he's pretty sure 'cover spouse you self extraction' is... yeah. Sure, that sign for cover is usually about cover from fire, and 'spouse' is a splice of 'law' and 'partner' that is usually hard enough without trying to hide everything, but he thinks he got the gist.)

(He does kind of owe her; the information she gave him was more useful than he'd expected, and even if it hadn't been, he can probably convince her to share something else as 'payment' for getting her out of this.)

He stomps through the crowd, pushing people out of the way, and then sweeps her into his arms and bends her backwards to plant the showiest kiss he can on her.

He holds it long enough for the silence to spread, and then pulls them back upright, closes his eyes, presses his forehead to hers, and hopes that it's enough to sell it to the people around them.

His hands drift down to her wrists, a calculated move that looks natural if he's lucky, and asks quietly for them to remove the cuffs.

Jango Fett is a very heavily-armored, heavily-armed man. People read into his quiet the way he wants them to: that he is very close to slaughtering a whole lot of them, and trying incredibly hard to stay calm.

There are cuff removals, and 'negotiations' for Ahsoka's freedom (he still doesn't even know her name, but he hears the fake she gave to the people who arrested her), and she leaves the planet on his arm, and on his spaceship.

She explains that getting arrested and sent to the gladiatorial arena was part of a greater plan, but that her extraction partner was delayed. They might be dead. She doesn't know, but she was already planning her own escape. She tells him she's gotten out of worse scrapes before.

The fic would end with them separating, and her promising to come find him again. Any sequel would involve a reveal of the Future thing, possibly after a one-night stand.

[patientlibrarian]

Saturday 20 July

The latest Erik the Red picture from Goran's instagram .

"I told you it would be today and here it is. I can see how pleased you are."

Summary:

A.U. The ‘smitten kitten’ returns; No slow burn here but “instant combustion”; a freak event occurs during Lucy and Dave’s rescue of Flynn and they’re forced to seek safety; Flynn gets his Cocoa Puffs and a LOT more! Dave aids the lovers and is an absolute darling; a new home for the team; Lucy has her own room and Flynn will bunk with Dave (well, some of the time!); For aficionados, scruff and ‘the wiggle‘ are included; Consensual protected sex. Some sexual innuendo, thoughts and dialogue. No angst. Only happy Garcy. Some fluff to cheer us in the gloom of these times. 17 chapters mostly short. Wyatt has been re-arrested for desertion and dereliction of duty and Jessica never enters the bunker. Dave Baumgardner has replaced him.

Prologue:

 Suddenly…….. they were shaken out of their idyll……..

 What was that?…

Out of nowhere, there was a very loud ping sound against the car and then another and then another. Flynn instantly pushed Lucy roughly to the floor of  the  car and kept her body firmly pressed down under his. Wide-eyed and taut, all his military and later experience was now to the fore.

Hello everyone, everywhere, it's Saturday. I see my story is listed as 'Chapter 1' when in fact it's complete. I'm not sure why this seems to come up on AO3 like this. Anyway I hope you enjoy it. Hope your day goes as you would wish it to.

[devil-doll13]

Wax & Wane

(Part 1)

Tw: Implied Death, nothing else I can think of

So it looks like I finally got myself into gear to write this! This is my first time writing the Sinclair brothers/Bo so I hope it isn’t disgustingly ooc, I tried my best with what I had and ended up rewatching HoW like twice in one day to get all the details right lol.

Summary: Abigail arrives in the strangely deserted town of Ambrose, but something seems very wrong…

Dividers by firefly-graphics

Abigail’s hands felt cold around the bottle as she took another sip of her coke, tapping her fingers to the rhythm of Slayer’s ‘Black Magic’ pouring through her car’s speakers. After she had seen that dingy sign displaying ‘Trudy’s World Famous House of Wax’ she had finally allowed herself to relax, a little more confident that she was at least headed down the right path.

She didn’t receive very specific directions after all.

…But the way ahead seemed to become increasingly derelict, something she noted somewhat dubiously. It did not look like the well-travelled path to a famous monument, but more like the lost remnants of one. Overgrown grass curled up the sides of the dirt roadway as nature reclaimed its rightful ownership over it again; in some sections it was practically swallowed by the marshes and wetlands.

That, and she couldn’t imagine the constant potholes being particularly attractive to potential tourists.

This was enough to make her sigh quietly in disappointment. She had to admit she was actually quite looking forward to visiting it, but… It was supposedly years ago that this House of Wax had been popular. Who’s to say it was still open now? Although she was all too quick to chart out her newest trip here, Abigail did feel a little sceptical now that she had time to properly consider it. She chewed the inside of her mouth, grimacing sourly when she hit yet another pothole. Her stomach was beginning to pang persistently now; evidently a crummy mars bar was not enough to suffice for a proper breakfast. She held out hope that at least there was someplace to eat down here because she was absolutely famished.

Then she had to brake fast, for she saw wide-eyed that there was an entire sunken bog filled with disgustingly browned and swampy water blocking her way into Ambrose. She blinked owlishly.

Didn’t exactly look very welcoming to potential visitors… Wouldn’t this sort of thing be a priority to fix for the locals? The cogs grinded together continuously in her head. Perhaps there was another way in and out, but it still seemed odd to just let this slime fester here… Was there some kind of reason for it? Well, it was not her duty to question their judgement, she supposed…

Still, that idle thought picked curiously at her brain as she leaned over the dashboard to examine the filthy bog. This was not ideal… But it wasn’t as if this was her first time dealing with difficult roads, so it wasn’t an immediate deterrent either. Gripping the steering wheel, Abigail cautiously tried a few alternate routes before - finding it did nothing else but stubbornly imprison her wheels in muck - she determined that it was a pointless endeavour. Her lips curled in distaste. It seemed any attempt to go forward would simply leave her stuck and waterlogged. It was like she was ensnared in some sludgy web…

Well, shit. Abigail sat back limply in her car, grimly staring at the obstruction with a dropping gut. Did she really have to leave her car here?

(I say mine, though I did steal it… She acknowledged to herself dryly. But she felt fiercely territorial over all her worldly possessions. Perhaps a thief most fears their items will be stolen in turn; as a liar suspects a liar, she mused.)

Abigail heaved another weighty sigh and pushed the door open, her boots squelching in the mud. Biting her lip, she looked back for a moment, considering bringing something… Protective with her. Ambrose was still unknown territory, and she never quite felt safe without a method of defending herself; or safe ever, really.

Her eyes roved methodically over her occult stash. She could always bring her Black Book with her, but due to her curses it admittedly smelled rancid. It no longer bothered her, but it would surely draw some negative attention that she didn’t feel like dealing with today.

Her knife or sickle probably wouldn’t do her much good either; sure, it was useful to have around, but she knew rightly she had the physical staying power of a wet paper bag.

Settling finally on a rusty brooch that pulsated like some sort of metallic internal organ, she pocketed all the money she currently had, her current ID and her car keys, hauling a leather bag out of the trunk. Everything else was more or less replaceable; even her artworks, she reminded herself glumly. They were too hefty to carry around most of the time anyway. It was times like this she wished she had more fixed residence of some sort, but those had never ended well... A too-long lifetime of looking over her shoulder had prepared her for constant shifts of intense paranoia and occasional anxiety; and most of the time it was very much warranted.

Slamming the car door shut, Abigail made her way across the pit with careful steps. Her boots offered her firm purchase, and soon enough she found herself standing awkwardly at the entrance of the town. A few ancient buildings were beginning to come into view now, though still with no people in sight. She glanced longingly back at her car, and in turn all the belongings she had in the world.

(If push comes to shove, I can simply steal another one…)

Ambrose was a strange place. Very strange; and that was high praise coming from her.

Her initial viewing of Ambrose held it up as quite idyllic in its white picket fence normalcy; but on closer inspection everything appeared to be coated with a permanent layer of grime, the affliction of age. The lawns and shrubbery were just a tad bit overgrown, the sidewalks sunburnt, cracked and worn, the style of architecture completely outdated. Even the House of Wax itself - although impressive from what she had seen of it - had an air of sad neglect to it.

Despite that, all the cars she saw were decidedly modern and well looked after. There were also some rather tastefully done sculptures around the place that did draw her eye; but nothing too inspired. So far nothing special.

Presently she strolled rather casually down the street, ignoring the warning pinpricks tickling her neck. She curled an arched eyebrow at the selection of ‘Miss Ambrose’ posters taped to a board as she passed it. She hadn’t heard of too many small-town beauty pageants even in her restless travels.

Again she was struck with the feeling that she was lingering in the ruins of a bygone era. The whole town clung to its vintage aesthetic like it had been stuck in a time loop since the 70s. It would have been endearing to her if there wasn’t a distinct sense of unease about the place. She could easily brush it off as her own suspicious nature, but its vast emptiness was intensely discomforting, rather than pleasing to her as it should have been.

(Usually she would loathe crowds, but this place seemed completely uncanny without them…)

The raucous din of artificial yells and alarm rings made her wince, but at least it wasn’t deathly silent. Yet none of it seemed to have a human source that she could see; it was completely void of all life.

Still, it was Sunday. She supposed the culprit was simply Church; a rather grandiose building she spotted at the end of the road.

Lovely looking building, she mused. Also not a place she would ever enter willingly. Not anymore.

“Hey there.” A deep masculine voice drawled out in a thick, honeyed Southern accent.

Abigail had just stopped to admire a pile of spotted puppies in a shop window, watching their adorable little tails wagging happily. (That in itself was rather odd; usually they would have cowered at the sight of her.) She whirled around now to see a well-dressed man peering questioningly down at her with his hands planted firmly on his hips.

This man - certainly in his Sunday best - held a certain innate confidence in his posture. He was tall and handsome with dark, slicked back hair and blue eyes. He had slight, thin sideburns and was cleanly shaven. At once Abigail couldn’t help but feel he bore a passing resemblance to Elvis Presley; he seemed to be just as old-school in manner as his surroundings.

This was the first living person she had seen upon arriving in Ambrose, but he looked as if he could practically represent the town as a whole.

“Car broke down?” The Elvis Impersonator asked her with a charmingly quirked brow.

“No,” Abigail replied simply. She wondered why he’d assume that.

“Ah, I see… See, one of ours saw ya’ pull out and stall near the entrance there. Came runnin’ to let me know - I’m the guy who fixes up cars round’ here, name’s Bo.”

Bo gestured to himself vaguely.

Curious, she regarded him for a moment. He must have been quite dedicated to his job to be willing to drop whatever he was doing at a moment’s notice.

“Oh. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She said regretfully, still watching him closely. He shrugged.

“But it was the…” Abigail struggled for a word that might sound less crude to describe it as. “…Difficult terrain that stopped me, not a car problem. I couldn’t find a way to pass it without getting stuck in mud.”

“Oh. That.” He nodded knowingly, then shook his head. “Yeah, I get it. We don’t use that road no more.”

“I take it there’s some other way in and out then?”

“Yeah, there’s another one down yonder. Don’t get as many visitors as we used to.” Bo explained, scratching the back of his neck with a wry smile.

“I see...” She hummed. If there indeed was another road out of town, she had not yet seen it.

Abigail did suspect that Ambrose was no longer the tourist hotspot that it was, but now she felt herself wondering if her journey had been a pointless one. If everyone else was still at Church it would be a while until any kind of café or shop was open, she thought to herself begrudgingly. That meant she’d have to wait around first before she got to eat anything, since it seemed the whole town was quite religious.

“Is the House of Wax not open anymore?” She tried not to let the discouragement sound in her voice.

“Well, It’s still open.” Bo said. A sort of unknown enthusiasm illuminated his face. “Seen better days, like, but uh… Trudy’s work never left the premises.”

She let out a relieved sigh. That was good. It was the only reason she came here, anyway.

“Ya’ won’t even need to pay either, it’s all pretty much public domain now… Just ignore the ‘closed’ sign, the ol’ curator forgets sometimes.” He chuckled darkly, casting his amused gaze at the dogs she was previously so enthralled by.

No need to pay? She raised an eyebrow at that.

How charitable.

Abigail studied him inquisitively, tempted to pry a little more, but thought the better of it. Clearly this Trudy was no longer around; maybe alive, maybe dead. She felt a bit of weight lifted off her lungs as she considered that she’d have something to do here after all. She could easily pass the time in the wax museum until she would be able to get a bite to eat.

“Now before I go back, are ya’ absolutely sure ya’ don’t need me to take a glance at the car?” Bo gave her a pointed look now.

“Yes.” Her keys seemed to burn hotly in her pocket.

“Like I said, it was just that I had trouble getting past… Thankyou for your help. I won’t bother you anymore.” Abigail continued swiftly. Now he was of no longer any use to her, she was rather eager to be rid of him and be left to her own devices.

Bo shrugged again, seemingly nonchalant.

“S’alright. I’ll be on my way, then… Should be almost done now anyways.”

He smirked; an expression which struck her as probably more sinister than intended. She watched as he turned on his heels and returned to the Church, whistling cheerfully all the while.

Abigail didn’t waste much more time as she adjusted her bag and made her way back up to the House of Wax. Its tall ivory structure loomed over her, accented with a sickly shade of mint green. Like the Church, it was beautifully made. While it was not so different in style to most of the other buildings in Ambrose, its imposing size cut an impressive figure over everything else. She supposed it must have been really quite something in its heyday.

Then, stroking a careful hand over the wall, Abigail noticed with a jolt of wonderful realisation that the building itself actually seemed to be made of wax!

(So… The House of Wax indeed…)

She cast a quick glance to the sign hanging from the door. ‘Closed,’ it read, just as Bo had told her it might. She ignored it and tried for the handle. It opened without much hassle, and with a thrill of excitement down her spine she stepped inside.

From above, an unknown presence stirred. One large hand came to pull aside a curtain, and from out the window peered a smooth, waxen face. A singular blue eye swivelled in its socket, following her every movement with a discerning gaze. The figure stood silently, contemplating the details of the soon-to-be new addition to his home…

The moment Abigail crossed the threshold of the House of Wax building, she felt her nose crinkle at the thin veil of dust hanging in the entry room. The air was so very stale and stagnant, although it became more bearable as she entered the grand exhibition rooms. It still didn’t stop her from admiring the stunning craftsmanship; both the exterior and interior were magnificent in form. The wax statues were incredibly lifelike, as if they were truly real, living people. They didn’t quite capture the wonder she felt as she gazed upon blood-bathing Countess Bathory as a child, but she supposed that was simply the jaded cynicism of her adulthood speaking.

As well as these sculptures, there were a number of queer little oddities and trinkets filling shelves in the more obscure corners of the museum. They were even more dust-speckled and cobwebbed than the cabinets with silverware in them. She gently blew them off, marvelling at the tiny details she could see, lovingly crafted with wax. They seemed to have a particularly morbid touch to them in comparison to the more conventional beauty of the human-sized wax figures.

Macabre yet oddly quaint; as she liked it to be.

There were also paintings; her preferred medium. Still, whoever the artist was, they certainly had far more skill than she could ever boast to have.

She tilted her head, catlike, as she squinted to make out the golden cursive scrawled on the edge of a lush portrait of a beautiful brunette woman.

‘Vincent’ It read. Odd. Perhaps it was not only Trudy’s wax sculptures here, but a collection of art from the entire town of Ambrose?

Of course, no matter how curious she was Abigail was the ideal spectator, respectful of the artworks, appreciative, strolling by with both her hands kept behind her back.

She was also completely unaware of the mysterious presence lurking in the shadows.

But still, she knew something wasn’t quite right about this place. About the whole town of Ambrose. How empty it was. Quiet. Depopulated.

(At least, in regards to the living.)

How could she have anticipated how noisy these ghosts would be?

Abigail was keenly attuned to these sorts of disturbances, but she never could have expected to feel or hear them now. She didn’t flinch at a haunted building, she’d been in those a hundred times before; but a wax museum seemed like an odd place to die. She wondered if it had anything to do with the loss of popularity over the years…

She stopped in her tracks. A floorboard creaked ever so slightly behind her.

Spidery whispers rippled through the atmosphere and raised the fine, thin hairs on her neck. The uniquely cold, deathly chill of a despairing spirit hung over her like an ominous shroud. It felt like there was a gentle, but still persistent kind of grip latched onto her shoulder that refused to let her walk away.

Someone or something was trying to get her attention.

Then it was eerily silent. Some compulsion drew her to look into the face of a nearby wax statue; who stood still and transfixed in time forever. He was a man with dark hair. He looked cleaner and smoother than the others. Almost new.

“Yes…” She answered his call, her voice soft.

Glassy brown eyes stared fixedly back at her, frozen in wax encasement. But there was something strangely desperate in his empty gaze; pleading, almost.

“…I’m listening.”

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @the-pinstriped-hood, @soupbabe, @bluecoolr, @flower-crowned-lady, @goldrose-star, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @solmints-messyocdiary)

Next

[derryderrydown]

I saw you photo of the ship you sail in response to Lucy Bellwood’s sail anatomy and would love to hear more about it! I’ve never seen a square rigger with … is that a tiny crane for loading? So cool!

What's this? An excuse to talk about The Best Barque In The World, SV Tenacious? Well, I don't mind if I do!

First, yes, that is a tiny crane. She actually has two of them, for launching the two RHIBs.

She also has a more traditional derrick, essentially a human-powered crane, which is used for loading heavy stuff and setting up the gangways.

Tenacious is far from being a traditional ship. She was launched in 2000, and is the only tall ship currently operating* that was designed specifically to be sailed by a disabled crew.

This means:

wheelchair lifts throughout the ship

decks wide enough for wheelchairs**

a talking compass, so people with visual impairments can't avoid taking their turn on the wheel!

power assisted steering and a joystick for people with limited dexterity

wheelchair clamps by the wheel, and seating for those who can't stand for long periods. (And for those who just don't want to, when there's a perfectly comfortable chair right there!)

rigging for a harness to allow people with limited mobility to get into the RHIBs

ascender systems that allow wheelchair users to take themselves up the masts. (Here's a photo of someone doing just that last week.)

On the more mundane side, there are showers with seats, handrails and adjustable showerheads. There are two or three clos-o-mat toilets, and the majority of the toilets are wheelchair-accessible. There are bunks which have anchor points for wheelchairs, and lifts to get in and out of the bunk.

More than that, however, is the ethos of the ship. There are no passengers on Tenacious. Everybody is part of the crew. Everybody stands their watch (and if I could get out of the morning watch, 4am-8am, I absolutely would). Everybody does their mess duty. Everybody takes part in happy hour (cleaning the ship - both the romantic stuff of the scrubbing the deck and the less so of scrubbing the toilets).

Everybody is assigned a buddy when they join the ship. If you're disabled, this is the person you turn to when you need a bit of extra help. (I have CFS. On my first voyage, I pushed myself so hard, because I wanted to get the absolute most out of the experience, that I ended up curled up on my bunk and sobbing because I was too tired to go and eat dinner. My buddy went and spoke to the cook and brought me a meal in my bunk.)

However, if your buddy isn't around, you can ask absolutely anybody, and they'll do it without making a big deal of it.

The Tenacious ethos is that everybody has something to offer, and everybody sometimes needs help. It doesn't matter whether you're disabled, currently able-bodied, or just completely unable to remember which bit of string to pull. You'll never be shouted at, and you'll never be made to feel a burden.

If my hard sell has worked and you want to sail on Tenacious - guess what? YOU CAN!

She's owned and operated by the Jubilee Sailing Trust and you can book a voyage on their website. There are bursaries available to help with cost.

*JST used to operate two tall ships. Unfortunately, COVID and financial issues meant the STS Lord Nelson was taken out of service, and is currently sitting semi-derelict in a Welsh dock, hoping for a buyer.

**Unfortunately, she can only take manual wheelchairs. Powered chairs are largely too heavy and too bulky, and also class as a fire risk. (Batteries and a lot of water aren't generally a good combination.)

[n1ghtwr1ter]

Because I’m not ready to tackle The Unwanted Guest, I’m indulging in my usual maladaptive coping mechanism: building myself a desert so I can stick my head in my own sand!

Come stick your head in my sand if you want to:

Gideon Nav, who had never encountered a fight she hadn’t wanted in on, raised her eyebrows again, offering nothing but surrender. Pyrrha gave her a nod, expression revealing nothing—yet the gesture made Gideon’s cheeks feel hot.

“I appreciate the offer, Nav,” she said, voice almost formal, “but my answer is the same as the first time you asked.”

Gideon was expecting this, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, and she hated that, but she couldn’t help herself:

“Why not?”

Pyrrha shifted her weight, crossed and recrossed her arms, all while her gaze was leveled like a rifle sight at Gideon.

“This is a new world you kids are living in, like it or not,” she said. “A new world with old sins, but it’s one you have the chance to remake for yourselves. A new world needs new gods who will, with the best of intentions and efforts, commit new sins—and I am one of the old ones.” Several mouths had opened to argue, but Pyrrha held up her hand.

“You will. No matter how clever or good or right you are, you’re going to fuck up. You’re going to make mistakes, probably some very big ones.” Pyrrha’s eyes rested on Gideon long enough to make her flush. “What you have to understand, children, is that even the absolute shitshow that we made of the world, even the garbage fire that was John—when it started, at least, we thought we were doing the right thing.”

Multiple voices rose in argument, but Gideon heard them as though from another room. She had locked eyes with Pyrrha, and was being treated to the full force of that ancient, timeless gaze. Pyrrha was old, Gideon realized suddenly. She’d known it in the abstract, of course, but Pyrrha always seemed so full of vitality (sometimes a bit too much—somehow she had always been the one to nudge Gideon and Corona awake with the butt of her rifle just when they’d finally dropped off to miserable sleep in a foxhole under artillery fire) that it was easy to forget. But Pyrrha was old, just as John’s other Lyctors had been old—maybe even older. Pyrrha was old, and heartsick, and unbearably weary.

Coronabeth was arguing: “That’s exactly why we need you, though! You’ve seen it all; you can tell us how to keep from making the same mistakes as—”

And Ianthe, scornfully: “Of course you’re going to take the cop-out—don’t you think it’s a bit like dereliction of Duty…?”

Palamedes was crackling something, and Cam looked ready to jump out of her skin. Only Harrowhark remained silent. Gideon didn’t look at her, but she didn’t have to. She knew on a bone-deep level that Harrow had looked into the eyes of the last of God’s holy fingers and gestures and seen the same thing Gideon had.

“Enough,” her adept said. She hadn’t raised her voice, not much anyway, but she might as well have fired a gun at the ceiling.

“Pyrrha made her choice,” Harrow said, in the ringing tones of the Reverend Daughter declaiming from the pulpit. Gideon was the only one not apparently mesmerized by it; instead, she felt the inane urge to pump her fist. She settled for thinking, That’s my girl!