#ireland office dogs

[rockythebullterrier]

Most jobseekers in Ireland say a pet-friendly workplace is more appealing

Most jobseekers in Ireland say a pet-friendly workplace is more appealing

More than half, or 56%, of jobseekers in Ireland believe that companies that have a pet-friendly policy are more attractive places to work, according to a study by the ISPCA (Irish Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) and Mars Petcare. The research also showed that 27% of jobseekers say that a pet-friendly workplace policy would influence their choice of where to work. The jobseekers…

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Clownfall: Endgame

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

Previous Reading

Important Terminology - Required Reading

What is a Whip?

How do Whips work?

Shadow Cabinet

Front Benchers, Back Benchers and the Cabinet

What do we need to call an early General Election?

The Adventures of Big Dog the Clown - Suggested Reading

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Elanor’s Guide to Liz Truss - Suggested Reading

Character-based prequel

The Premiership of Liz Truss

The Next Steps - Suggested Reading

The post-Truss contenders

Bye Matt

BoJo Resigns as MP

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

Clownfall: Endgame

Wednesday

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

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

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

Imagine how well all that went down.

Thursday

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

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

-AlJazeera

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

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

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

Meanwhile, several Tories approach the BBC anonymously.

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

Saturday

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

Well. They tried.

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

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

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

???!??!?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's the planned route by the organisers:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Week Commencing Monday 13th November, 2023

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

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

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

But here's the thing!

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

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

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

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

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

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

So! With all that in mind...

Monday

8.43am

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

Suella Braverman is sacked as Home Secretary.

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

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

Shout out to the best comment from Reddit:

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

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

8.56am

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

9.00am

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

*sus*

9.09am

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

*sus*

9.42am

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

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

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

Hmm.

9.43am 

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

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

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

10.03am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, turns out.

Don't be alarmed by that, though:

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

10.13am

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

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

10.18am

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

10.48am

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

10.52am

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

11.04am

Decarbonisation minister Jesse Norman resigns.

...

...

...

Time for a

✨Conspiracy Theory✨

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

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

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

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

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

11.05am

11.12am

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

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

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

I cannot believe I am about to say this.

But.

I agree with Iain Duncan Smith *spits on floor*

11.50am

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

12.13pm

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

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

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

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

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

12.43pm

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

I guess some days are easier than others as a journalist

12.47pm

Therese Coffey resigns as environment secretary!!!!

*choirs of heavenly angels sing*

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

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

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

12.52pm

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

trololol

1.15pm

Jeremy Quin quits as Minister for the Cabinet Office.

1.37pm

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

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

2.04pm

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

2.15pm

Richard Holden appointed new Conservative Party chairman.

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

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

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

2.24pm

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

2.37pm

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

2.42pm

Science minister George Freeman resigns.

3.18pm

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

Good decision: 24%

Bad decision: 38%

Don't know: 38%

So that's going well

3.24pm

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

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

3.39pm

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

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

I cannot believe I am about to say this.

But.

I agree with Lord Frost *spits on floor*

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

4.21pm

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

5.16pm

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

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

6.03pm

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

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

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

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

6.05pm

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

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

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

6.15pm

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

6.27pm

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

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

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

6.31pm

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

9.43pm

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

10.03pm

And then - PLOT TWIST!!!

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

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

Well well.

11.05pm

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

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

No one tell them

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Chris de Burgh - The Lady in Red 1986

"The Lady in Red" is a song by British-Irish singer-songwriter Chris de Burgh. It was released on 20 June 1986 as the second single from his eigth studio album Into the Light. The song was written in reference to his wife Diane, who used to come and watch him perform at his parents' hotel. He said that the song was inspired by the memory of when he first saw Diane, and how men so often cannot even remember what their wives were wearing when they first met.

It was a massive hit across the world, quickly becoming de Burgh's best-selling single and his signature song. It reached the number one position in Canada, the UK, Ireland, Norway, and the Flanders region of Belgium. It reached number three in the US during the spring of 1987. The song also propelled its parent album Into The Light to the number two position in the UK and success in other markets. The song tends to divide public opinion and it was voted the tenth most annoying song of all time in a poll commissioned by Dotmusic in 2000.

The song is briefly featured in a scene of the 2000 film American Psycho where Patrick Bateman is listening to the song while in his office, and in the 1988 Academy Award-winning film Working Girl during a slow dance scene. The song is featured in the 2004 film Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, acting as the theme music for the character Fran Stalinovskovichdaviddivichski, who wears a red warmup suit. It is also featured in the 2024 film Deadpool & Wolverine, during the scene when the dog variant of Deadpool named Mary Puppins first appears.

"The Lady in Red" received a total of 55,8% yes votes.

[barcaatthemoon]

could i please request “you weren’t supposed to hear that!” with Katie mccabe? <3

like mam, like son || katie mccabe x reader ||

"woof!"

"shut up!" katie hissed as she tried to sneak the dog into your apartment. she really hoped that you were busy in your office, at least busy enough for you to have not heard the barking. "you're gonna ruin your mum's surprise."

unfortunately for katie, you had known about the puppy for weeks now. a friend of hers from ireland had a dog who had puppies, and despite katie's insistence at every step of your relatioship that coopurr was enough, she had jumped to get you one of those pups. you had grown up on a farm with loads of animals, and this was the first place you had ever lived without a dog. katie hated to admit it, but since you had let your brother take your old dog, you had been a bit down.

katie knew the puppy wasn't the same, but after talking with your brother, she couldn't even attempt to take that dog away from your nieces and nephews. so, she did the next best thing and set out to find you a puppy. you had claimed to be a great dog trainer, and katie was prepared to let you prove it.

"katie, was that what i think it was?" you asked as you stepped out of your office. immediately, the little puppy came rushing towards you. you dropped down to your knees and let the little fur ball climb all over your lap. "aren't you a beautiful little baby?"

"you weren't supposed to hear that! i wanted to bring him into your office all wrapped up cute," katie sighed. you stood up with the puppy in your arms and walked over towards her. she couldn't be upset, not when she saw how happy you were.

"he's obviously a mccabe, you lot are always chatting on about something. oh, and he's a bit handsy," you teased. katie narrowed her eyes as the puppy started to lick at your collar.

"oi, keep that tongue to yourself mister." you rolled your eyes at katie, knowing that there was a genuine twinge of jealousy in her voice. she continued to pout at you and puppy until you handed him over to her and peppered her face in kisses as thanks.

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (II)

Chapter 2 : ‘Through me the way to the City of Woe’

Hi, everyone!!! Here we go for a second chapter! Drama is upon us, the plot is plotting! Let me also introduce you to Samantha, Andrew’s partner… I’m sure you’re going to love her a lot…

I hope you like this series! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 4510

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Through me the way to the City of Woe, Through me the way to everlasting pain, Through me the way among the lost. Justice moved my maker on high. Divine power made me, Wisdom supreme, and primal love. Before me nothing but things eternal, And eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, you who enter here.

Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy : Inferno, Canto III, 1321

Andrew was tired, but then he was tired all the time.

As he prepared himself a strong coffee that morning, Sam was busy on her phone, probably going through her social media or reading the news. It didn’t really bother him, he was quiet in the morning anyway, liked to start slowly, to emerge into the world in a silent and gentle way. He was naturally a night owl, it was a struggle every morning to get out of bed early. At least, before the new year of classes started, he could go to work later, no classes schedule early these days.

Elwood was sleeping again. After an early walk around the neighbourhood, the dog was back on his comfortable bed, curled in a black and white ball, softly snoring. Andrew looked at his dog with love, refraining from petting his head, choosing to let him rest instead. He was a good boy, he deserved all the sleep he wanted.

He thought of you as he poured some coffee in his favourite mug. The meeting to distribute classes for the upcoming year was today. Of course, there had been one already before summer, so lecturers could begin preparing their classes if they needed. But some new arrivals would change a few things, some negotiations between lecturers too. Andrew himself was going to switch a class with Colm, another professor from the English department, inheriting a class about Yeats’s poetry instead of biblical studies. If he wasn’t against some religious metaphors – and given the weight of religion in Ireland, Andrew reckoned that he could never escape from it anyway – he was happy to avoid teaching about it.

But you were new at Trinity, and he wanted you to enjoy yourself during your first year. Upon his arrival, Andrew had lacked a guide, someone who would explain to him how things worked, especially the more selfish and ruthless side of the institution. If Trinity was wrapped in traditions, it was also filled with professors who cared little about their colleagues thriving in their academic pursuits, especially if that meant compromising with their own wants. Some professors were kinder than others, more willing to compromise. He’d help you navigate through the meetings, and hoped you could get to choose your classes too…

“My mother wants to invite us on Sunday,” Sam broke the silence that covered Andrew’s kitchen. A blank silent, an emotionless one; neither uncomfortable of comfortable, one that was there to settle on the furniture and in the corners of the room and simply lay there, undisturbed.

“I can’t on Sunday, I’m helping Jon with his film project, and then I’ll have lunch at my parents’. You were supposed to come to lunch with me.”

Andrew turned to Samantha then, sipping on his coffee and grabbing an apple as a breakfast. She said nothing, but her frown spoke volume. She was annoyed, maybe even angry.

“It was planned, baby. I’m sorry, we can go next week.”

“I think I’ll go see my parents anyway,” she said, her tone cold and firm, the one Andrew knew meant that he had no chance of changing her mind. He heaved a sigh, rubbed at his tired eyes with the back of his hand.

“As you wish, I’ll warm my mom.”

“You’re really not coming with me?” she asked, and her eyes were throwing daggers at him.

Andrew bit on the inside of his cheek, his stare growing sterner as well.

“I had planned to spend time with my family, and my brother needs my help. I’ll come with you another time.”

We had planned to spend time with my family… but he didn’t say that out loud, unwilling to start an argument.

She mumbled something under her breath, turning to her phone again; something about ‘a useless film’, and Andrew didn’t want to hear her comment, he knew he wouldn’t like it.

“Won’t you be late for work?” she asked, her voice calmer again, but the remark annoyed Andrew anyway.

“I don’t have classes, and the meeting is at 1pm, I can take my time.”

She could have added a comment on his time blindness, but she didn’t, and he was grateful for it. He relaxed a bit thanks to that.

“Busy day for you today?” he asked, and she heaved a sigh in response.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll come over tonight. Besides, we might go for drinks with the guys from the tech company we’re working with at the moment. Do you remember? I told you about them.”

“Of course, I remember, honey,” he answered with a soft, tender voice.

“I still haven’t finished that bloody logo for them…”

Andrew was brought back to their university days then, when she studied art and he studied literature. When she longed to paint all day long and he fumbled through notebooks and broken guitar strings. When they both had dreams that were too big for them. They had made a choice, had decided to finish their degrees, and not to make the hardest of the sacrifices that would have opened the gates to a life filled with art. Andrew had changed major from music to English during his first year, had passed his exams instead of spending his time in a studio. Samantha had specialized in design and publicity, and had given up her brushes that painted the coasts of Ireland in favour of simpler shapes created on a screen. Andrew couldn’t say that he had regrets about it. He liked his life like this, on the outskirts of Dublin, sharing his love for poetry, writing his own poems, waking up most days by Samantha’s side, even if after all these years she still didn’t want them to move in together, and he couldn’t fathom why. He loved his job beyond measure, always finding a fascinating detail to study, something new to read that would shake his world. He still sang with friends when he felt like it, sometimes wrote music to fit his poetry. He had a full life, a happy one, he couldn’t complain, really.

He thought about the engagement ring he had bought once, when she wasn’t ready to get married. She had said no, it had broken something inside of him. But he loved her, he would be patient, he could wait, and anyway, that was years ago…

“You’ll do an amazing job, you always do,” he encouraged her, but she rolled her eyes.

“You’re too sweet sometimes,” her words were spoken as criticism, not as a compliment. He clenched his jaw.

“Anyway, I’ll be pretty busy too, today,” he said, even though she hadn’t asked about his plans for the day, but then she hardly ever asked. She listened when he spoke about it though, and that ought to be enough. “We have our final meeting to select the classes we’re going to teach. I’m a little worried for Y/N, though.”

“Why? I’m sure she can take care of herself.”

Sam’s tone was a little dry still, he wasn’t sure if she were jealous or simply still annoyed.

“Trinity isn’t always filled with the nicest people. A lot of academics are quite selfish sometimes. I want her to have a nice time teaching. She seems very nice. And I arrived only last year, I know how stressful this situation can be.”

Sam nodded, but didn’t seem convinced.

Andrew threw the core of the fruit in the bin, finished his coffee, washed his mug. He didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to fight. Still, for some reason, he really wanted to talk about you. He had been worried upon learning that someone would share his office now, and he was relieved to find that you were kind, smart, and everything but annoying. He hoped the two of you could become friends.

“Y/N said that she found a poster for the office too! Can’t wait to see what she’s chosen.”

“Nice,” Sam nodded, and Andrew knew she wasn’t paying attention anymore.

He let out a long exhale through his nose, and she didn’t notice. He grabbed his water bottle, crossed the room, stopped to drop a peck on her head as he walked by her.

“Have a nice day, babe. I love you.”

“You too. Love you.”

She didn’t look up from her phone, and it sounded automatic, the way she answered. Andrew remembered when they started dating, about seven years ago. Both in their early twenties, young and naïve and heads full of dreams. She used to stare at him for hours, she used to look him in the eyes every time she said she loved him, to make sure he knew she meant it. He wasn’t so sure she meant it every time she said it anymore…

He pushed the thoughts away; he reckoned that this was his busy, anxious brain talking. Instead, he put on his shoes and his denim jacket, grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He stopped thinking about Sam, and thought about you and the poster you had promised you would bring today, and he walked out of his flat.

The meeting was over, and you seemed happy. Actually, you seemed ecstatic. And it made Andrew happy as well.

He had managed to get the class about Yeats, as planned. He had helped you through the meeting, discreetly, in whispers, but it was enough for you to secure classes you were interested in teaching. This year, you would teach three classes bound directly to your research, a general introduction to 19th century English literature, another about revolutionary writings in which you planned on including a fair share of pamphlets about women’s rights, and another about 19th century novels. You were buzzing with excitement as you walked back to your office, chatting with Andrew and his good friend Colm.

“I have so many things to prepare, but also… I feel very confident in these subjects,” you grinned at the two men.

“You can’t be happier than Andy finally teaching only classes he wanted,” Colm laughed, bright and loud, throwing his head back like a child despite the fact that he was middle-aged man.

Andrew nodded, heaving a relieved sigh.

“I thought Lydia was about to make a scandal…”

“She didn’t want you to leave one of the difficult classes. You’re too popular a teacher for that.”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

“I definitely am not.”

“You are too! Students love him,” Colm added, turning towards you. “And I will easily admit he’s a good professor, great at explaining things, and always very calm. But let’s be honest, the fact that most of our students are attracted to him helps a lot.”

Andrew looked away, trying to hide that he was blushing, but you laughed anyway.

“Such a pretty mug!” Colm teased, trying to grab Andrew’s chin, but he merely pushed his friend away, laughing.

“Quit your nonsense, would you?” Andrew laughed. “Don’t listen to him, Y/N. He loves talking shite about others.”

“That is not true! Y/N! Please, with your feminine point of view… tell him I’m right.”

You chuckled, shied away, but answered anyway.

“Oh, I’m sure Andrew must be popular, yes. I would have definitely preferred staring at his face when I was a student, compared to the old dinosaurs I had to put up with.”

Andrew was blushing so hard, even his ears were turning a bright shade of red, but he couldn’t refrain his grin nonetheless.

“Please, tell me I don’t fall in that category!” Colm protested, making you laugh.

“No… not quite yet. You still have a couple of years ahead of you,” you joked, and Andrew burst into laughter, while Colm mumbled something under his breath, rolling his eyes.

“Well, children, this is my stop, have a good day,” he mumbled, entering his office while Andrew and you continued a bit further.

“I’m glad you’ll give classes you’re interested in,” Andrew said, giving you a warm smile.

“Thank you so much for helping me throughout the meeting. It was… a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, some people here are proper gobshites.”

You laughed at that, entering your shared office.

“Hmm… I have noticed, yes. You seem particularly fond of Ian,” you chuckled, and Andrew rolled his eyes.

“I’m a very peaceful kind of lad, but that arsehole deserves to get some sense being punched into him.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow at that. If you had been teasing, the fact that Andrew had turned more serious as he answered made you intrigued now, rather than playful.

“Really? What did he do?”

Andrew stared at you for a few seconds, wetting his lips before he would answer.

“Nothing illegal, don’t worry. But he’s an arsehole. He will destroy your career and reputation if it serves his interests. Especially if you’re a woman.”

He saw you clenching your jaw at that last remark, and he heaved a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, and he hoped you could see that he meant it.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not you who is at fault. Anyone else I should be cautious about?”

“Mahon, O’Reilly, Evans, Hillstone and Patterson.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow.

“You’ve got a whole list ready,” you pointed out.

“I’ve been here for a year. Fool me once, shame on you…”

You slowly nodded, Andrew sighed again.

“Don’t worry, the rest of the bunch are nice though. Most of them are nice.”

“I’m used to it.”

You shook yourself out of the conversation, a smile growing on your features.

“I have something to show you!”

Andrew frowned a little at that, bending to avoid the lamp hanging from the ceiling as he walked over to your desk. He had grabbed his thermos filled with his favourite brand of tea.

“Really?”

You pulled out a rolled poster, and he laughed.

“Oh! So you did settle on some decoration!” he pointed out, while he opened the buttons of his grey tweed waistcoat. He buried his hand in the pocket of his tweed pants while you fumbled with the empty frame.

He put down his thermos on the edge of your desk, then pushed back a strand of hair that was falling across his eyes, readjusted his glasses upon his nose. You were quick to place the poster in the frame, and you grinned up at him once you were done, right before turning the frame around to show him the poster.

“I love this illustration. I had it hanging in my dorm when I was a student, and then in my first apartment. But my fiancé finds it a little… dark. And he’s not particularly interested in literature so… he doesn’t really get it. Anyway!”

You stopped your little rambling, grabbed the frame, and showed it to him.

Andrew raised a surprised eyebrow, immediately recognising Gustave Doré’s illustration of Dante’s Inferno.

The black and white print showed Virgil and Dante standing on the edge of a precipice, staring at a hurricane carrying the souls of sinners, talking to a couple crying in their everlasting punishment. Andrew had not read the book since his own college days, but he remembered that this was the punishment for those guilty of lust.

“Do you like it? Can I hang it?” you asked, an excited smile he found adorable on your lips. “I thought the black and white would fit your poster quite well.”

“Sure, go ahead. Need help?”

But you were already placing the frame against the wall.

“I have to admit, I’m quite surprised by your choice,” Andrew inspected the print, leaning against your desk, his hands still in his pockets. “I didn’t picture you as a fan of Dante… especially given his… conservative thoughts.”

“I love Inferno. I’m not going to pretend that I love the entirety of the Divine Comedy, but I love Dante’s image of hell. The haunting part of it. The way it is structured. Of course, it’s medieval thinking about issues that have radically changed now, but… It was a long time ago. If I don’t appreciate all of his thoughts, I do admire his imagination. Besides, it was a heavily political book. I’m surprised you don’t give him more credit for that.”

He answered your teasing smile with a genuine one.

“I do remember a little bit of that. Last time I read it, though… I was a student and hadn’t chosen to suffer through it. Besides… I think I was a little too young to understand it fully.”

You nodded.

“I’ve read it many times. I don’t know, there’s something… something about it that draws me in. Not the Christian moral lessons, of course. But just… I don’t know… there’s something fascinating about it. And I often wonder what our version of hell would be today. If we kept the structure, if we kept the place Dante created… how would we view those who are imprisoned there? Would we find their pain justified? Would we find it unfair to punish them like this? And who would we place in there? If we replaced the references to people Dante knew by people from our world, who would be stuck in Hell?”

Andrew pondered on these questions while he kept on listening to you. He had a few names in mind, for sure. He smiled at the thought, didn’t interrupt you while you babbled away about the book, about the things you loved and disliked about it.

“And I love Doré’s illustrations so much! They’re haunting, just like the book. And this one in particular, with Francesca and Paolo… like… their story is so sad, but even Dante was touched by them. Even if the moral in his book is outdated now, goes against what I believe… I’d like to think that we’d turn their story around today, that we wouldn’t condemn their love or include such a warning towards fiction through them, you know… with the whole reference to Arthurian myths and everything… don’t know if you remember that… but anyway… what would we think of them today? I’d like to believe we would find their punishment in hell unfair.”

You trailed off after that. You were nervous when you looked at him, pushing some of your hair behind your ear.

“Sorry for the ramble,” you apologised, but Andrew frowned in response.

“No need to apologise. Why would you?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me at all. Your thoughts are very interesting.”

You blinked at him, as if surprised. You gave him a bright smile, growing a little shy.

“Right, thanks. But we should get back to work.”

Andrew nodded, moved away from your desk and bent again to avoid the lamp hanging from the ceiling.

He looked at you as you stared at the poster for a moment. He was happy you were the one sharing his office, you were getting along well, you were so nice, you were so smart and always seemed to have something interesting to say. He just wanted to talk to you more about this book you loved, but you were right, you both had a lot of work to do. He should focus on this article he was reading before the meeting. Instead, he looked at you for a moment longer. And before his brain pushed the thought away, before Samantha was on his mind again, he didn’t fail to notice how beautiful you were.

He looked for his thermos across his desk, furrowing his brow when he didn’t find it there. He rolled his eyes, annoyed at himself when he remembered where it was.

He walked over to your desk again, reached for it while you were still focused on the poster. But his fingers got clumsy as he threw you a glance, and it fell across your desk. Some of the warm beverage was spilled on the wooden surface.

“Shite! God!”

You turned around at the sound, but Andrew didn’t see your eyes growing slightly round. Instead, as a reflex, he had grabbed your phone and papers to secure them, was already looking for some tissues to clean the mess he had made. You reached for some Kleenex tugged inside your backpack.

“Christ, I’m so sorry,” Andrew profusely apologised, hurrying to clean your desk too. “Sorry, I’m so… long, clumsy limbs… I’m so sorry…”

He cursed at himself under his breath, didn’t look at you, fiercely blushed. Always count on him to ridicule himself…

“That’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you reassured him, and when Andrew looked up again, you had an earnest smile on your lips. “It was just an accident, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry…”

Andrew was so flustered, so embarrassed… He finished cleaning, handed you back your things without making eye-contact, rubbed at his collarbone through his shirt as soon as his hands were empty again.

When he finally looked up once more, you were still smiling.

“It’s nothing, Andrew. It’s merely a little bit of tea. Besides, you’ve saved the most important items on my desk. Nothing to be so upset about.”

The anxious side of him had kicked in, he couldn’t help it. He ran his fingers through his hair several times while he forced out a chuckle.

“I know, sorry…”

Andrew walked back to his desk, looked at his computer screen while he heard you chuckling lightly. He saw in the corner of his eyes that you were fondly shaking your head at him.

Why did he have to always make a fool of himself, huh?

All you wanted to do was to rush home to share the good news with Frank.

You had managed to get interesting classes, including some linked to your research… you were so excited to get to work and begin teaching in October.

When you came home, Frank was on his computer, working. He kissed you when you leaned closer, but focused on his screen again, and so you decided to wait for dinner to talk to him about your day.

You took a shower, prepared dinner. Frank was still working, he only stopped when you told him dinner was ready.

“Smells nice,” he said with a smile, squeezing your hand, and you took the gesture for a silent thank you.

“Thanks!”

Frank remained silent as he started to eat, and so you jumped on the opportunity to speak about your day.

“The meeting about classes and lectures was today. And it went so well!” you started babbling away, Frank looking up at you with an emotionless gaze. “I’ve managed to get topics I’m interested in, and I’m going to teach about my research too! I mean… not directly about my research, but problematics bound to it! I’ll have a class about the male gaze and female gaze dynamics, another about feminism and feminist essays…”

“That’s great, babe.”

“Yeah! Andrew helped me navigate through the meeting quite a bit, and he got the classes he wanted too, so…”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah! And…”

“Could you hand me the salt, please?”

“Sure. I’m also gonna work quite a lot on the 19th century, which is great! I like that period, especially for novels. And that means that I can include lots of female writers, like Austen and the Brontë sisters, obviously… but I can also spend some time on feminist movements, cause that’s really an important century for them.”

“Good, good…”

“Yeah, that’s grand, and…”

He heaved a sigh, and you grew quiet.

“You’re alright?” you asked, trying not to show your disappointment.

You knew that this question meant that the conversation would focus on him for a while, and you might not be able to talk about today again.

“I… Y/N, we need to talk.”

Your heart sank.

That was not the answer you were expecting…

“Talk?”

“About us.”

“What? What do you mean? About the wedding, you mean?”

“No, I…”

He hesitated, looked at you for a moment, before putting his fork down.

“I think we should break up.”

And that was it. Words that were shattering your world spoken like they were easy to let out, like they didn’t mean the earthquake they produced. You merely stared for a moment, waiting for Frank to tell you that he was joking, to take his words back. But he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he went on. “But I think we should go our separate ways.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We’re engaged! We’re going to get married!”

“I’m sorry, Y/N… I know it’s pretty sudden…”

“PRETTY SUDDEN! WE’RE ENGAGED! YOU’RE EATING MY FUCKING FOOD!”

“There’s no need to shout…”

“NO NEED TO SHOUT! OF COURSE, THERE IS A NEED TO SHOUT! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

“I’m sorry… but it’s best if we don’t stay together.”

“Why? What happened? You… We’re supposed to get married…”

“I’ve met someone else, Y/N.”

Your eyes grew round, and suddenly all air had left your lungs.

“You… you’re cheating on me?!” you asked, your voice lowering again, your emotions bubbling too much, tears rising to your eyes.

“No! No! No!” Frank defended himself, shaking his head vehemently. “Nothing happened. I swear, nothing happened… but… Y/N, if I am able to feel this way for another woman, then we shouldn’t get married.”

“For how long have you known her? Who is it?”

“You don’t know her. We’ve met through work.”

“How long?”

“Not long… a few weeks.”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow, crossing your arms before your chest.

“A few weeks? You’re trying to make me believe that you want to leave me for a woman you’ve met weeks ago?!”

“You don’t understand, we’re in love…”

You felt your head starting to spin, you had buried it in your hands.

This was a nightmare, just a bad dream, you would wake up and everything would get back to normal, you would tick all the right boxes again…

“What do you mean in love?”

“I love her. I know that it sounds… mental, but I do. And if I can fall in love with someone else like this… then you and I shouldn’t get married. It means that I… that I don’t love you enough to marry you.”

“You’ve got to be joking…”

“I’m not. I’m sorry, but I’m serious.”

“What’s her name?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, no… Do you want to be with her?”

“Yes. But I don’t know if she’ll want to be with me.”

“Really?”

“She’s not single either.”

You laughed then, tears streaming down your face too, unable to cope with the tidal wave of emotions that was drowning you.

Denial, pain, betrayal, anger, sadness…

“I’ll gather my things,” he said, standing up while you started shaking on your chair, struggling to breathe.

You didn’t even notice that he was moving away, that he was packing… you remained frozen on your seat, sobbing, while Frank was gathering fragments of your lives and tearing them away from your space.

He only reappeared about an hour later in the kitchen, the rest of your meal was cold. You hadn’t moved an inch.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

And then he was gone.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

the bafta livestream out of context: top 60 cursed quotes.

There is nothing more cursed than the livestream I just witnessed, and I made a summary post but now I'm just going to put in quotes by the worthy maggots in the stream with no context, because BELIEVE ME THE CONTEXT DIDN'T MAKE ANYTHING BETTER. The livestream chat was NOT A PLACE OF THE LORD.

I'm going to make the quotes that were by me a different colour. Please know that I am NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR A SINGLE QUOTE OTHER THAN THOSE. SO HERE'S THE TOP 60 IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:

Barbenhimer awakened things in me ok

aroace people the most disturbingly sexual talkers on the planet fight me on this

WHO JUST GASPED

MICHAEL SHEENS BABY TALKING BARK BADK IM A DOG BARK WOOF

I feel so sorry for this woman. She's being so heartfelt and we're here thristing over a slinky that possessed a man

IRELAAAND PLEASE ADOPT ME AS YOUR OWN PLEASE TAKE ME TO THE LAND OF UNPRONOUNCABLE WORDS, GREEN FEILD, CATHOLISISM AND HOZIER PLEASE

the urge to go to france and misgender a croissant is real

Devastated the slutty knees have gone away

So many men nowadays are so submissive and breedable like thank you lord for these men thank you

witches and murder slime tutorial

speaking of royals did the bloke who ISN'T lizzy's husband but her son apparently die yet

Turtleneck Crowley is my gender.

WE COULD HAVE LEFT IT AS NOT SAFE FOR WORK WHY THE DRTAOLS ASMI

SAY AN BFUIL CEAD AGAM DUL GO DTÍ AN LEITHREAS AN WE'LL LET YOU THROUGJ

"Oompa loompa doopety dee, I really hated being in this movie" -Hugh grant probably

IF YOU'RE A CHILD AVERT YOUR EYES FROM THAT MESSAGE IM SORRY

i want the kilt back this a betrayal

if someone put me in a room with kilt!david tennant one of us is walking out of that room pregnant and its not gonna be me

a lot of these words are in the bible and none of them should be in that order you need jesus

Can we vote to make david wear that kilt back? Maybe make him do a twirl this time

You mean Bildaddy? 😏

Honey what make you think a dude who roamed around with prostitutes and got himself more holes for mankind won't be calling bildad bildaddy? [this was about jesus btw.]

FREE THE KNEE

Show us the knees!

AND YOU'RE COMING AFTER ME FOR MY BLOWJOB BANANA

He looks like those fancy chocolates. Imma take a bite outta him. Think you'll leak molten goo like them?

My brain isn't working, I read "bratty couch jr"

i'm sorry the what holes

FIND ME ON GOAD AND I WILL MAKE YOU PAY APPROPRIATELY

I genuinely thought it was a road typo and I thought you were threatening asmi with physical violence on the road

OHH FLOWER OF SCOTLAAAAAAND

Combine that with the unfortunate oranges and see what happens.

DEVASTATING NEWS I ATE UP ALL OF THEM SO I'VE BROUGHT A BLOWJOB BANANA INSTEAD

That reminded me of the army video where the guy was deepthroating a 7 inch banana without a hitch.

OMG THEY JUST FLASHED BACK & I GOT A GLIMPSE OF THAT KILT 🥵🥵🥵

thats why apollo had to deliver you at an illegal sushi restaurant

How long do you think it would take to get david naked from his chocolate man suit? Can we set a new speedrun category?

SUPERBOWL FOR TENNANTISTS

Big feelings about pants straps in the chat tonight

Last time i check yoire supposed to thank the lord gor his gifts

HEY GUYS ASMI'S FROM A PARALLEL UNIVERSE CONFIRMED

I just have a deep appreciation for ireland

Can you use suspenders as bondage gear? I mean it looks like it would be fine? I mean if you make the length a bit more they might be more comfortable than ropes. Just sayin

All i can think when i see him in the costume is the one specific ken and oppenhimer slash fic. Lord help me i can't be saved

GIVE MY LOVE TO THE LEPRECHAAAAAAAAAAAUNSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Like a giant orange slice on her one arm.

Stop hitting the lectern geez / what if its into that?

Men who wear suspenders are such losers like why do you need so much cloth to keep your pants up. Why dont you just wear a belt. Where do you live. What is your timezone. What are you office hours

what is this suspender shaming ari chappal for you

Aziraphales office hours are: fuck off

Put me ina room with a suspender wearing man and he shall have the same fate as kilttennant

MARIYADAM E ILLAI

It was titled "snake in my b***" It meant butt lmfao

CROWLEY AND LOKI MY GENDERFLUID ICONS

THE KNEES ARE BACK

THEKNEES GOD SAVE ME FROM THESE SINFUL THOUGHTS

What if slutshaming is my kink?

NOT THE BLOWJOB FACE NO

AT THIS POINT IF NEIL HASN'T UNFOLLOWED ME YET HE'S ASKING TO BE MENTALLY SCARRED IM SORRY

I am failing

Tagging the main culprits whose tumblr handles I know:

@thearoacemess @vitrilol @queermarzipan @good-usernames-were-taken

Cheers, maggots.

[slightlyhozy]

“Through the Cold, I’ll Find my Way Back to You.”

Chapter 2: “All my love and terror, balanced there between those eyes.”

Characters: Púca! Andrew Hozier-Byrne x Original Female Character

Summary: Maisie Quinn, after inheriting a home in Ireland from her late grandmother, slowly learns a dark past about the land in which it was built on.

Word Count - 2,098

Warnings - None except for animal death and descriptions of their bodies

A/N - I’m still learning how to write longer chapters, I will get better!

That day, I had looked into whatever the hell this Púca was. Seeing that it wasn’t necessarily a danger in any stories made my anxiety ease, which was a bit embarrassing since I didn’t even believe that it existed.

Closing my laptop, I looked around my new bedroom, the wooden floors were effortlessly dusty and cracked. Grunting, I opened my laptop again, in pursuit of finding someone in the area to install new flooring in certain rooms.

Settling was getting easier despite the fact Mary was the only person I really knew, On a good note, I already had a form in for a commission out in Dublin; they wanted me to paint a mural in the lobby of their office building. I figured the best way to go about living in a new country was to make connections anyway.

——————————————————————

That night, I lay with Lenny in my arms, surrounded by blankets, as some movie played. I pressed a kiss on his head as we cuddled. My mind kept drifting back to the monster, my mind constantly justifying why it wasn’t real; I knew it wasn’t real. I thought about the property and area surrounding it; there were never any bad vibes; it always seemed normal.

While thoughts scurried around my head, a familiar scratch caught me off guard, making me jump. The fox.

My head turned to the door, sighing, I was tempted to go and feed the fox. Thinking back to my conversation with Elsie, interfering with wildlife really wasn’t a good idea. I had just moved here, I should at least put the effort into making a good impression, if not to anyone in particular.

As my dog growled, his attention turned to the door, and I began to pet him in an attempt to calm him down. I understood he tended to be protective of me but never like this, over an animal. “Lenny, shhh.” Scratching behind his ears, he whimpered towards the door, moving to lay back beside me.

Trying to focus on the movie, I could hear the creature outside screaming for attention, it was borderline eerie. I continued to sit, it wasn’t my place to feed it, that was the fox’s job.

After ten minutes, I couldn't handle it anymore. Turning off the TV, I stood up and walked to the stairs, going up to my bedroom for the night.

——————————————————————

I grumbled, pulling weeds from the gravel of the garden. I had been at it for hours now, only joined by the sound of Van Morrison singing in my ears and the chirps of birds in the trees. Other than the labor, it was therapeutic.

Sitting back, I took a swig of water, looking around the garden. The weather had been nice, it was early September, so the weather had started getting colder than it was before. The sky was white, and the trees were less vibrant. As I pulled out the invasive plants, my eyebrows raised as my eyes fell on a small mouse.

The furry rodent in question was undoubtedly dead, but the only injury was a bloody wound on its side. As I continued to pull weeds, 3 more bodies were found. Initially, I believed that there was a cat that lurked in my garden, but then also the lack of injury or puncture to the bodies made no sense. I felt as though I was turning into a skeptic or just feeling the effects of my disorder. Before I could spiral, I was brought back to life by a bird call.

Looking up into the tree, I immediately recognized the black stripe along its eyes, much like a bandit’s mask. Oh. It was a shrike, I wasn’t even aware they had those in Ireland. Internally, I thanked myself for having a bird phase, otherwise, I would be sent into a phase of paranoia over dead mice. Still, I was puzzled around the fact that the mice weren’t eaten, simply impaled, then dropped.

I wasn’t too sure what could be wrong with the animals in the area, perhaps there’s a disease spreading amongst species. I wasn’t informed enough to really have a clue, but it was almost creepy.

While I pondered, another bird flew next to perch beside the shrike. After a moment, the two began to squawk and fight with eachother, their beaks clashing. Not being interested in watching what could happen to the smaller bird picking a fight with a brutal predator, I collected my garden tools and water bottle, making my way back to the house.

Lenny was sniffing around the yard as I cleared out the mouse corpses, like I had the other animal on my porch. The sun was slowly setting, and all I could think about was getting a proper drink and starting on a personal art project, the subject of which is still a mystery to me.

——————————————————————

Over the next few nights, the fox seemed to only get more aggressive. I frowned as I stared at my front door, this time, a dead rabbit was left. Did it think that I ran out of food? The rabbit itself would be unedible if I even wanted to eat it, it was completely squished, presumably roadkill. The wood along the door had been scratched, deep. A shiver ran up my spine as my finger reached out to trace the marks, the light inner wood going about half an inch deep. I wasn’t even sure how it was possible, but I also knew that I would now have to invest in new flooring and a door.

I was a bit worried that it would attack me if I didn’t feed it; with no evidence to back this up, any creak or sound outside would make me jump. When I slept, I dreamt of it attacking me or Lenny. So now, after three nights of ignoring the animal, I decided to give in.

It was almost one in the morning, finally, my couch had been installed, freeing me from the pain of having to haul my long limbs off the ground. With a small tub of ice cream in my hand, I was binge-watching Breaking Bad. The sound of Walter White monologing went through one ear, out the other as I anxiously awaited the arrival of the fox. I was almost worried it wouldn’t come. Why was I worried? Why wouldn’t I want it gone?

As if it were summoned, a familiar squaking woke me from my thoughts, immediately sending me to pause my show and put my ice cream somewhere Lenny couldn’t reach. I shushed him with my finger to my lips. As I went to look through the window. To my expectations, the small animal stood on the top of the steps, its green eyes gleaming under the poarch light.

Afraid of any chances of Lenny putting himself in danger, I led the dog to the study, shutting him inside, the door muffling his barks and growls.

In the kitchen, I worked to fix a wet bowl of dog food and a scoop of pumpkin purée on top. Opening the door, the fox stood expectantly. I set the bowl down, quickly moving to shut the glass door so I could see it eat. Again, it’s eyes stalked me as it ate eagerly, as if I had starved it. Perhaps it couldn’t hunt, wouldn’t…? If it couldn’t, where were these dead animals coming from?

——————————————————————

Fresh air. Fresh air was what I needed, space, was what I needed.

The morning after the encounter with the fox, I decided to go to the beach with Lenny. Throwing on a grey knit sweater, black jeans, boots, and a beanie, I clip on Lenny’s leash, his tail wagging faster than it had in a long time. As I go outside, I make sure to clean up the brutalized hedgehog left on my porch, the guts splattered across my porch. As I cleaned up the insides, visibly unhappy, I simultaneously fought Lenny back from eating it.

Smelling the sea was a specific kind of nostalgia, the beach itself wasn’t too different than some back in Washington. The air kisses my cheeks as I fight it, the clashing waves soothing my ears. I clutched the leash, hoping he wouldn’t try and run along the beach.

I felt grateful that there was no one in the morning, just me, my coffee, and my dog. I wonder if I was becoming a loner, back home, I seemed to be going out every day, with friends and making them as well. Now, all I had available was Mary. As much as I enjoyed some alone time, I wondered how long it would take until it became too lonely for me, I wondered how long it would be until I found a routine with my work, more clients, and when I would meet local artists.

Taking in the scent again, I closed my eyes, the cool wind making me feel more grounded and alive than I had in a year. Keeping them closed, I continued to walk into what seemed to be a never-ending path, curving around the water.

As if enjoying my solitude was too much, my eyes scrunched up as my shoulder was bumped. My eyes shot open as I helplessly watched my coffee cup fall against the sand, the contents leaking into the grains. Lenny immediately went to investigate, sniffing and licking the spill.

After picking up the cup, I look up the figure that disrupted my walk. He was tall. Around 9 inches taller than me, his nose and cheeks were a dusty pink from the cold, the coloration obvious from the cold weather.

His beard was nicely groomed, but his hair was messy and greasy.  Above his pronounced cheekbone, there was a small, healing cut across the skin. His eyes were cold and endless, not kind but not uninviting. Where the hell did he even come from?

“Sorry… Uh, I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t too sure why I was apologizing, according to my therapist, it was one of my weakest traits. The stranger stepped back, sizing me up.

He didn’t reply, I could hear Lenny by my side, growling lowly. “Really, sorry, he’s just protective... I promise he’s a good dog.”

“It’s alright.” His voice was deep, rich, and smooth like honey, he was hansome in general, just unsettling. He brushed a gloved hand through his brown curls, his green eyes following me.

I wasn’t sure what to do, I was pretty desperate for interactions, and he only seemed 10 years older than me at most. “Nice weather?” I cringed at my terrible use of small talk.

“Alright. Cold.”

“I mean, it usually is... cold.” Awkwardly, I itched at my neck, unsure what to do. “I’m Maisie.” I held my hand out, his eyes just darting to stare at it, not accepting it.

“Andrew. Are you American?”

I swallowed nervously, I didn’t want to come off as an uneducated, arrogant American prick. “Uh, well, yes, I just moved in... I live over..east..” My arm extended to point towards my home.

“I know.” My face immediately grew concerned, he knew? How?

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t reply.

“Andrew… Do you live around here? Or do you like, drive down here for walks.” His brows furrow, as if I were asking something invasive.

“I live near here, I like water.” His hand reaches up to scratch at the scab forming on his face, I notice how one of his glove fingers has the tip torn off.

I nod along awkwardly, maybe he didn’t get out much? “Yeah, me too... It’s nice to live this close to the ocean.” He doesn't answer again. “I lived in Seattle, so I was really far away from the ocean, sometimes, we’d go visit family on the coast.”

His brows furrow. “Where’s that?”

“Washington? Uh, it’s in the Pacific Northwest of America; Kurt Cobain was born there.” He seemed clueless. “Oh…” My face furrows with concern as I see blood, almost black, start to drip down his face. “You…your scab… It’s kind of..” I try to point it out casually, not trying to be rude.

Moving his hand away, Andrew moves to lick his finger, his brows raising. “Oh,” He doesn’t seem too concerned with the color of his blood as he observes it. “Habit.”

“Right,” As I am about to speak more, my phone rings—the flooring installers I had been talking to. “Oh, sorry, I need to take this.” I whisper to him as I back up, pressing my phone to my ear. He just gives me a weak wave as I turn away, waiting for my turn in the cue.

As I turned back around not even a minute later to say goodbye, he was gone. Andrew. The weirdest and one of the rudest men I had ever met.

A/N: ANDREW DOESNT STAY LIKE THIS THE WHOLE TIME I PROMISE HE ISNT BORING

[theirishwolfhound]

A Heart of Gold In a Sea of Green: The Synopsis

Heyo! I'm making this post just so I can get ready to start posting on Tumblr as well as Ao3. My main reason is that I can add GIFs/images, music, and color code the dialog on here. With that being said, I'm still working on the imagery for my masterlist post and this is just to act in as the informational "chapter".

"Crow "Wolfhound" O'Neil had been a sergeant in a different troop, known as the WatchDogs, before joining Task Force 141 as an additional sniper, but mostly for his innate understanding of many terrains and the survival skills needed for them. Yet he mostly kept to himself when he joined up as he was still reeling from a recent loss of a loved one; he remained the calm, patient soldier he had always trained to be… despite joining what he could only call as the most chaotic gaggle of men he's ever met. He followed orders, never spoke back or questioned his fellow officers- he was loyal, just as his nickname implied. Though when asked about it he spoke only a simple phrase: "Gentle when stroked, Fierce when provoked" and left it at that."

The fic takes place around six months after Wolfhound transferred into Task Force 141 from the Watchdogs and focuses on him finally putting in the effort to improve his mental state after he lost his fiancé: Malakai Harper. As well as focusing on improving his relationships with his fellow operators: Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap— who are already in a polyamorous relationship.

There is a lot of fraternization that goes on, it's not meant to be a serious down to code/law type of fic— I literally only wrote this because I love the characters and wanted to try writing a fanfiction for the first time. I will also put the other warnings in under this indent, as well as a put the proper warnings before the start of every chapter. Also fair warning: Most Chapters are Long Reads (potentially up to 15k+ type deal).

Below is the first thing on the Ao3 fic, just to give an understanding into Crow's background:

Crow Nevan O'Neil was born in Galway, Ireland and lived there for most of his life. He is currently twenty-seven and has been in the British military for seven years. Previously he was a Forest Ranger at the Wicklow Mountains National Park in Ireland and has visited other places to get the experience of working in different terrains.

He was born into a Catholic family and still holds those beliefs to this day, but does not talk about it with others- just as he keeps his gender identity and sexuality under close wraps. The only person that knows he is transgender would be Captain Price and he was given the accommodation of a private shower to make his time a bit easier on base. He only wears long sleeved shirts and pants to keep a more conservative look, though it was mostly to hide his tattoos so that no one asks him any questions about them- he may be social but not when it comes to speaking, he's a listener not the speaker.

Crow got his nickname "Wolfhound" mainly because he is Irish- but also because his old troop thought it was funny that a 165cm (5'5") man who barely weighs 81kg (180lbs) soaking wet can be called something in relation to a huge dog. He has hazel eyes, many many freckles, and curly reddish brown hair- the pinnacle of Irish stereotypes minus the anger and drinking, but by god does he have the accent of a man who sounds like he is fresh from Dublin. His actual callsign is Foxtrot Four.

He was engaged to a Lieutenant form his previous troop named Malakai Harper, but after his death Crow was looking for any chance to have a fresh start with a new team- and luckily he was given the chance to join Task Force 141 as their third sergeant. He knew very little about the other operators, but that meant they knew nothing of him.

Now time for lists and links:

Ao3

Playlist

Crow's Reference Sheet (Will Be Redone Eventually)

[sednonamoris]

vienna waits for you

Pairing: John Price x gn!reader

Summary: After a one-off meeting with a young Lieutenant Price, you assume you'll never meet again. A mission in Vienna proves you wrong.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, description of knife wounds, lots of blood, strong language, excessive dog puns, pre-relationship, pre-slowburn

Word count: 3,027

A/N: A little prequel action for hellhound (cross-posted to AO3)!! Thank you thank you thank you to the people who love this series as much as I do - your enthusiasm and joy has written this series just as much as I have 🩷

—

Ever since Belfast they’ve called you Hound.

Ever since Price, really. Hellhound, he had said, but it got shortened quick enough. One less syllable to trip through as they tease you.

Dog’s dinner again, eh, Hound? in the mess hall. 

Well sure, every dog has its day, when you make top marks in training.

Pretty as a speckled pup, you are, cooed mockingly on a rare night spent out of fatigues drinking with the lads just off base.

One of the newer recruits even tried whistling at you during a sparring match. He ended up in the med bay for that one, while you were reprimanded by Command yet again. 

In the dog house, your squadmates titter as you march out of your captain’s office with nothing more than a slap on the wrist and anger itching beneath your skin.

The teasing is fine. You like it, even, making your fair share of awful puns just to get a laugh out of the boys. What you can’t shake is the feeling of discontent with your superior officers. You joined up with the Irish Armed Forces at eighteen to do something. When they sent you up the ranks to the ARW just a few years later it was supposed to matter more. Save the good guys when you could, take down the bad ones when you couldn’t. ACTION had been promised by every recruitment poster in big bold letters. And yet, it seems like every time you take some all they do is give out to you.

You’re not good for much more than taking orders and pulling triggers, you know, but still it feels like something’s missing. Like you could do more if they’d just let you.

— 

Weeks later you get your chance: another team-up with the SAS. When it’s announced to the regiment you’re the first one geared up and ready to go.

For a silly, self-indulgent moment you let yourself wonder if Lieutenant Price will be there, too.

—

Between the SAS and ARW, a burgeoning terror cell has been tracked to Vienna. It’s being run by Wesley Martin, an English expat coming off a dishonourable discharge from MI6. Rather than fading quietly into obscurity, he’s taken the opportunity to sell out his country’s secrets and incite insurrection not just against them, but most of Europe as well. He staged an attack on Irish soil months ago, but the trail had gone cold - until now. England was the one to find him again, and Austria’s task force has offered its support, working out negotiations between the three nations as to who gets to make the arrest and on exactly what counts and which soil he will be tried. If the whispers up the chain of command are true, Ireland gets dibs on cuffing him. 

But that’s all above your pay grade. You’d just like to nab the prick.

When your boots hit the tarmac you have a stretch and breathe deep. It was a cramped plane ride with your squadmates. Jacks had snored on your shoulder the whole way, and Murph wouldn’t shut up about his latest shag, who apparently gave him quite a memorable experience in a pub stall over leave. He’d spared no detail. Lieutenant Doyle, of course, was the one who kept egging him on; even a glare from Captain Guiney hadn’t been enough to stop him from asking what color her knickers were. He produced a rather spectacular lacy red thong from one of his pockets in answer. 

Chatter cuts as you make your way over to where the SAS team stands in formation. 

“Pint short as usual, Guinness,” Captain MacMillan’s thick brogue snarks. “You’re late.” 

“They are early,” a less amused Austrian woman corrects. Anna Ebner, if it’s the same person who coordinated and shared all the intel reports.

“Only by Paddy standards, which is to say none at all.”

Ebner rolls her eyes. 

“Je-sus,” Guiney says in greeting, “how’d I get stuck working with you cunts?” His wide grin and open arms counteract the words. 

A series of warm handshakes are exchanged, but then it’s right to business.

 Ebner informs the group that Austria has opted to sideline its men with the promise of support only if things go very, very wrong. They’ll be on comms for the whole operation. That leaves two mixed-company teams to infiltrate the safehouse apartment; one from the front and one from the back. Once the ground floor is secured, Alpha Team will head upstairs while Bravo covers the cellar and makes sure no one gets in or out of the building. 

Team assignments are handed out with efficiency before everyone piles into the vans. Most of your squadron ends up with Alpha, headed by Guiney. You and Jacks are the only ARW soldiers on Bravo, which will be led by MacMillan and his lieutenant. 

“Looks like we’re top dogs today, Hound,” Murph crows, elbowing you in the ribs before heading over to join the others with Alpha.

You grin and flip him off while Jacks tells the lot of them to go fuck themselves, and turn to find Lieutenant John Price looking right at you. Your eyes go wide and your spine snaps straight.

“Hound, is it?” Barely-there amusement curls at the edge of his mouth.

“It is, yeah.” There should probably be a sir attached to that, but you’re too caught up in the starstruck realization that he remembers you to care.

It’s a stroke of luck that he doesn’t seem to mind. Just hums at the back of his throat with a twinkle in his eye before nodding his head toward the van behind him. “With me.”

—

It’s tight quarters inside the vans, so many soldiers pressed knee to knee. Price is seated across from you. At your side, Jacks is shooting shit with the other Brits in your temporary squad. Already he’s insulted the Queen - your favourite pastime, usually - but you ignore him in favor of quietly observing Price, who in turn is quietly observing you. 

He hasn’t changed much in the months since your last meeting.

His face is clean-shaven with an ever-present threat of stubble. The rest of his hair is tucked beneath a dark beanie that either hides a buzz cut or a seriously impressive cowlick - it’s hard to say which would suit him more. His broad frame fills his tactical suit, and the stars in your eyes make him seem that much broader. But it’s his eyes that strike you the most. Clear-cut, no-nonsense blue that sees straight to the heart of you.

What has he found there, you wonder?

In Price it feels like you’ve found the answer to a question that’s been difficult to put to words. He’s so sure. Sure of himself, of his team, of his mission. Every doubt you house is a certainty in him - it’s no wonder they’ve already named him a lieutenant while you can barely keep your rank as sergeant. 

“They didn’t court marshal you, then,” he breaches the silence between you.  

“Not for lack of trying.” Your smile is crooked and self-deprecating. “I’m fairly certain ‘loose cannon’ is at the top of my file in red ink.” 

He huffs a laugh. “Better than ‘temper management issues’.”

“Oh, please,” you say. “Yours has got to be something like ‘hero’ or ‘patriot’. Maybe ‘golden boy’. I bet the recruitment campaigns can’t get enough of you.” 

“They tried to get me to pose for a commercial,” he admits.

“Yeah?”

“Told them to sod off.”

You cackle. “Too right!” 

The rest of the van ride is spent trading quips back and forth, bantering like you’ve known each other for ages and not just from a one-off meeting months ago. In the time that’s lapsed between then and now you’ve imagined working beside him plenty— more than you should have, being honest. It should be impossible for the man to live up to the myth you’ve manufactured in your mind.

Somehow he exceeds it. 

Somehow you’re not surprised.

—

The muffled sound of Bravo team breaching the cellar door is the only thing that breaks the midnight silence of Vienna’s neighborhoods. Combat boots creak down wooden steps, guns at the ready and night vision gear engaged. Captain Macmillan leads the charge, sweeping the space with practiced authority. 

“Clear,” he announces. His voice is too-loud and rough in the cramped space. 

Though no targets are on this level, a wealth of information seems to be. There’s not an ounce of modern technology to be seen, but every inch of unfinished wall is covered in the paper trail three respective countries have been chasing in vain for months. 

“Seems like your man is starting to lose the plot, eh?” Jacks says with his crooked smile, gesturing to documents pinned on corkboards and clipped across strings that hang from the low ceilings. 

Your mouth snaps shut on your reply at MacMillan’s warning to keep quiet, but disagreement is plain across your features. Martin is paranoid, certainly, but you wouldn’t call him crazy. Though this organization system is beyond you, it makes sense in theory; Who better than a former MI6 operative can appreciate how insecure cyber storage is, even with encryptions in place? 

Paper maps cover one of the walls wholly, marked up in unfamiliar code you’re sure some poor interns will have a field day with. Whatever his next moves are, they must be hidden there. Many of the hanging sheets read like weapons orders, others like mercenary pay stubs, all in a myriad of languages. Everything else is too much text to be anything but a manifesto. You snag one of the sheets for yourself and read a few cursory lines of down with the status quo and death to the Other - nothing that hasn’t been done before.

With a nod from his captain, Price starts barking orders. Everything must be taken down and packed away; this kind of evidence is every operation’s dream. You all set about the work as quietly as you can in case things still aren’t clear inside. MacMillan radios Guiney for a sitrep off to the side before he joins in. 

In all of a second it isn’t necessary.

Shouting sounds from inside, then gunfire.

You hear the tinkling of broken glass and the impact of a body hitting the ground and the thunk, thunk of a flashbang falling down cellar stairs before it goes off. Harsh, blinding white overwhelms your senses and forces your eyes to close in a painful squeeze. There’s a ringing in your ears that feels like it���s coming from everywhere. Someone screams. You tear your night vision gear off in a blind panic and blink sightlessly at the chaos.

Fuck.

Fuck!

There’s a dark shape at the foot of the stairwell going up, and before you register what your body is doing you can feel yourself lurch after them. You’re not even sure if you have your gun.

You stagger outside to see Price giving chase to someone who can only be Wesley Martin - him or one of his close associates. Doesn’t matter now. You join in hot pursuit, the thick soles of your boots pounding across Vienna’s pavement. Your lungs burn and your vision is still blurred but you can’t afford to slow down. Price is still several metres ahead. 

Without breaking stride he takes aim with his gun and nails Martin squarely in the back. The crack of the shot echoes sharp in the night and lays him flat out in the street. Price continues his sprint, only slowing a few steps out from the body.

Except it isn’t just a body; he’s still alive. You see him move - he must be wearing kevlar - but before you can shout a warning he whips his body around and takes Price out at the legs. Moonlight flashes off the wicked threat of his unsheathed knife. He shoves the blade up hard into Price’s ribs and slashes a wide arc through his belly. You swear it’s happening in slow motion, like those nightmares where you run and run and run but your legs won’t move.

“Get off him, you bastard!” you shout. Martin’s head turns to see you come barrelling at him. He smiles. The knife drips blood. Price gasps and stumbles backward where he’s shoved aside, fingers clutching desperately at the wound. 

Your hands feel for the familiar weight of your gun only to find it gone. You must have lost it in the confusion. Martin could easily kill Price now - it’s what you would do, if the situation was reversed - but instead he takes your momentary distraction as a chance to take off again.

It’s his mistake. 

You’re close enough and determined enough now that it takes only a few strides to overtake him, and while you don’t have your gun you sure as shit have a knife. The collision happens all at once and in fragments. Your body against his. Your knife in his neck. The scalding spray of blood as you pull it out. The sluice of flesh as you drive it back in. You’re not sure when you stop stabbing, but it’s long after he stops twitching.

His body is limp and strange beneath you. You roll off and stagger to your feet only to retch in the street beside it. Bile bites the back of your throat and you wipe at your mouth with a grimace. Your hands are shaking. Command is going to fucking kill you.

Sirens sound in the distance, now, but the only thing that breaks your thousand yard stare from the man you just killed is the sound of Price’s labored breathing a few metres away. 

You blink and all of the sudden you’re knelt in front of him. It takes a moment for him to register that you’ve come back; his eyes stare unseeing, clouded with pain.

“You killed ‘im,” he slurs. “K-I-bloody-A.” 

“That’s not important right now,” you snap. “Focus on staying alive. One breath at a time, yeah?” You move his hands from the wound to assess the situation and nearly retch again. Martin stabbed clean through the kevlar, and now his guts are threatening to spill into the street. “Did you radio anyone?” 

He just blinks up at you, dumb with shock and bloodloss. 

You curse.

With one hand you fish around for the meager med supplies you keep on you, and with the other you call in for help. The radio is sticky with blood. You’re not sure whose. Price has gone so pale. Blood leaks at the corner of his mouth. His teeth are stained red. 

You’re only a block over from whatever remains of your squadron but it might as well be miles. They say they’re on the way, but there are so many wounded already. Looking at Price, you know it won’t be fast enough, anyway. You only have a disinfectant wipe, a needle, and surgical thread. Sutures have never been your strong suit, but if it’s not you and it’s not here and now then it’s lights out. You’ll just have to make do.

“No bloody dying,” you warn. “This is gonna hurt.” 

You lay Price back carefully, carefully, and smear the alcohol wipe around the edge of the wound. It stings - it must - but he only sucks a sharp breath in without complain. Pinching the skin together, hands slick with blood that isn’t yours, you poise the needle over him.

“Ready?” You’re not sure if you’re asking him or yourself. 

He stares up at you with the most lucidity he’s managed since being stabbed. Clear-cut. No-nonsense. So very blue. “Ready.”

—

Your stitch job is crooked and atrocious, but the hospital staff inform you later that it saves his life.

“Be a hell of a scar,” Price laughs from the sterile white of his hospital bed. The sound wheezes out of him. You can tell it hurts, but he seems in good spirits.

So good, in fact, that he’s managed once again to talk you out of a court marshal. He didn’t let up until he’d convinced Command that Wesley Martin had to be put down. That there was no salvaging the mission otherwise and that your actions saved not just his life, but the lives of many. Once those interns deciphered the rest of his plans they were quick to agree. Now you’re all done up in your service dress for an award ceremony later this afternoon. You wanted Price there, but the hospital staff wouldn’t release him from their clutches. A visit just before will have to suffice.

“Something to remember me by,” you say. 

There’s something fond and familiar in his eyes that makes your throat hurt. “I would be hard-pressed to forget someone like you, Hound.”  

“Running with the big dogs, now,” you grin. He rolls his eyes at the pun. “Next time I kill a target I’m not supposed to I bet they promote me.” 

“I don’t doubt it. You do good work.”

“So do you, Lieutenant.”

There’s more you want to say, questions you want to ask him, but they all die in your throat the longer you look at him lying there. Even battered and beaten he’s still so sure. Certainty stinging in the creases of his eyes. Sunshine slatted past hospital window blinds. Dated rock music filtering grainy through the radio one of his lads must’ve brought in. Half-wilted flowers at his bedside. Sitting upright in an uncomfortable bed wrapped in starchy white sheets he is every inch the soldier you’ll never be.

“If you’re ever in England again…” he starts. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised he’s offering, but you are. A delighted smile lights your face. 

“I’m never in England if I can help it,” you say honestly. He laughs. “But give us a call if you hop the channel, yeah?”

“I will do,” he says.

It’s silly to think you’ll actually meet again. Truly, why would you? But it feels like he means it. Like you’re dogs of war, set on intersecting paths to hell.

Somehow, some way, the two of you are always going to find each other.

Somehow, some way, you don’t think you mind.

[stephensmithuk]

The Sign of Four: The Episode of the Barrel

Victorian literature loves its fainting women. Was this down to overly tight corsets, ill health or someone just deciding to be dramatic for the sake of it? Possibly all of the three.

The woman Mary works for is not called Cecil Forrester. The conventions of this time were that women took their husband's legal identity. They certainly took their nationality, losing their own.

Forty-three is rather a large number of dogs to have. The RSPCA (which was a thing in 1888) would get involved if they knew about this facility today. Back then too.

The "wiper" or viper in this case is almost certainly Vipera berus aka the adder. Males are normally silvery-grey, females copper or brown. However, you can sometimes see black adders. If you want to see baldrics, go watch some Morris dancers.

The adder gives birth to live young (up to twenty at a time) and can live for over ten years. They are the only venomous snake of the three British native species, but for most humans, like Watson, a bite will just cause pain and inflammation. Ireland doesn't have any snake species at all, as the Irish Sea was too wide for them to get across.

The RSPCA would not approve of dropping an adder on someone as it would harm the adder. The police would not approve either.

It is legal to own a pet snake in the UK - indeed there are quite a lot of them - but you need a licence for the venomous ones today. This includes adders and all the viper family.

European badgers are different to the American ones. They are far more social, dig the most complex burrows and can also make a range of noises. They are also nocturnal, and they do bite if provoked. It is today illegal to have a pet badger, disturb their setts or injure them. Unless the government authorises a cull due to bovine TB, a controversial policy. Sadly, they frequently end up as roadkill.

It is legal to keep stoats, although controversial. They can kill animals much larger than themselves, like rabbits or birds. It is legal to kill them as a result.

Slow worms are legless lizards, not snakes despite their appearance. They do not have fangs. You could keep one as a pet, but not buy or sell one.

Sugar is not toxic to dogs but can cause problems in substantial amounts.

The penal colony on the Andaman Islands can really be compared to Devil's Island in French Guiana and should better known in the UK. The British sent many political prisoners, to wit independence activists, there from the 1857 Rebellion onwards. Crossing over the sea threatened devout Hindus with the loss of caste and the possibility of reincarnation, something known as "Kala pani". Arrivals would be put on chain gangs. Conditions would be harsh, with torture, medical experimentation, disease, and cruelty from the guards causing thousands of deaths. You could also be executed for trying to escape. Hunger strikes were common and responded to with force-feeding.

The worst prison at this time was on Viper Island, which contained solitary cells, whipping stands and stocks.

In 1872, a former police officer called Sher Ali Afridi sent there for murder after his death sentence, claiming he was acting on the instructions of Allah, assassinated the Viceroy of India, the 6th Earl of Mayo, who was inspecting the place. He had also wanted to kill the Superintendent but did not manage to do so. He was hanged a month later on Viper Island, where the gallows building still stands.

Viper Island lost its importance following the construction of the Cellular Jail at Port Blair, finished in 1906. That was also a very nasty prison, but it is beyond the scope of this post.

"Mohammedan" was a term used for Muslim in the West at the time, implying erroneously that Muslims worship their Prophet. They certainly hold him in great reverence, but they do not worship him.

Guess people started drinking early in Victorian times; licencing hours would not be introduced until the First World War.

The Oval is an international cricket ground in Kennington, the other famous ground in London along with Lord's. It traditionally hosts the final Test of the English cricket season and after getting gas lighting in 1889, it would get a Tube station nearby originally called Kennington Oval the following year, when the initial stretch of the City & South London Railway opened. Today, just being Oval and on the Northern line, it has cricket-related decorations on some of the tiling.

The land the Oval is on is owned by the Duchy of Cornwall, the large property portfolio belonging to the Duke of Cornwall, the title given to the eldest son of the British monarch; this currently being Prince William, who is also Prince of Wales, that title trumping it.

Coal-tar creosote has traditionally been used as a preservative to stop wood rotting when outdoors, something necessary in the wet British climate. It was also used in dentistry!

However, it was discovered to cause cancer. While still allowed for general use by the US Environmental Protection Agency, the EU banned its sale to and use by the regular public in 2003. The UK carried over this law after Brexit. Coal-tar creosote products can only be sold to certified professionals for specific uses, like farm fencing and railway sleepers. The public have to buy substitutes like Ronseal, whose famous advertising slogan declares "it does exactly what it says on the tin".

[lvox2nitel]

Alright Sir,

My crocodile Presely is a West African breed however they have started living in the wild around Ireland. My home country. I keep him as a tribute to home also crocodiles are f*cking awesome. And also because couldn't get a dog since they are all in heaven and my therapist told me having a pet is healthier than living alone.

I have put together a small menu of child friendly snacks for little Vixx to pick and choose from and have left it in your office along with your lunch and a report from finance.

Lots of love and affection that you sorely need, Your best boy and favorite assistant, Owen Cogg x

Huh. The more you know. Fine you can take your pet, just don’t let it distract you or anyone else.

And thank you. You are a big help. Compared to peppermint.

Wait what do you mean by “love and affection i sorely need” ?

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

The alleged presidential campaign of Ron (Three-Fingers) DeSantis is having so much trouble gaining altitude that you'd think Elon Musk were behind it. (Too soon? Don't care.) He seems to be extraordinarily unlikable, but he makes up for it by proposing policies that are extraordinarily unpopular. He has picked a fight with Mickey Mouse. But there's another devil in the unpleasant details of the DeSantis CV. From the Washington Post:

Hundreds of “enemy combatants,” held without charges, had gone on hunger strikes. As pressure grew to end the protests, DeSantis later said, he was part of a team of military lawyers asked what could be done.

“How do I combat this?” a commanding officer asked in 2006, as DeSantis recalled in an interview he gave years later to a local CBS television station. “Hey, you actually can force-feed,��� DeSantis said he responded in his role as a legal adviser. “Here’s what you can do. Here’s kind of the rules for that.” Ultimately, it was the Pentagon’s decision to authorize force-feeding. Detainees were strapped into a chair and a lubricated tube was stuffed down their nose so a nurse could pour down two cans of a protein drink, according to military records.

Force-feeding is torture. Among other things, it is a stench in the history of England in Ireland going back centuries. There are no "rules" that make it less so. Only alibis.

The Post's story came out in March. As far as I can tell, it got buried in all the other stories about DeSantis' fight with Disney and about the dysfunction in his campaign. But it's now sprung back to life. DeSantis is in Israel, pretending he's a world leader. At a press availability, a reporter dogged him about his work at Guantanamo. Whereupon, DeSantis blew his cork. From The Hill:

“No, no, all that’s BS,” DeSantis told reporters at a press conference in Jerusalem. “No, totally, totally BS...How would they know me? OK, think about that. Do you honestly believe that’s credible? So, this is 2006. I’m a junior officer. Do you honestly think that they would have remembered me from Adam? Of course not.”

“They’re just trying to get into the news because they know people like you will consume it because it fits your preordained narrative that you’re trying to spin. Focus on the facts and stop worrying about narrative.”

"Narrative" is one of the newest conjuring words that conservative politicians use to obscure the obvious. And the only "pre-ordained narrative" I'm aware of concerning DeSantis is that he's a not-very-bright lightweight who's punching way above his weight class and who's running the 1962 Mets of presidential campaigns. This Gitmo business is way beyond both of those.

Mansoor Adayfi, a former Guantanamo detainee, alleged in an Al-Jazeera op-ed earlier this month that DeSantis was present when he was force-fed during an effort to break a hunger strike at the prison. Many international groups have said force-feeding amounts to torture. “As I tried to break free, I noticed DeSantis’s handsome face among the crowd at the other side of the chain link. He was watching me struggle. He was smiling and laughing with other officers as I screamed in pain,” Adayfi said in the op-ed.

He's going to need a better answer than "Narrative!" for this one. It would be a very sad irony if the only American politician to suffer politically for the torture regime created in 2001 were Ronald DeSantis, as a potential presidential candidate in 2023. History has some formidable teeth.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

David Ingram at NBC News:

Tech billionaire Elon Musk has repeatedly prophesied a future civil war related to immigration. Musk has posted about the subject on his social media platform X at least eight times in the past 10 months, according to a review of his posts by NBC News. And his posts usually include a specific prediction: He thinks that Europe in particular is headed toward a “civil war” due to the arrival of refugees from other continents.  Musk’s interest in the subject of a civil war poked into public view earlier this month when he weighed in on anti-immigration street riots happening across Great Britain. “Civil war is inevitable,” he wrote on X.  The post received 9.8 million views and it caused a furor among some in the U.K., initiating a heated back and forth with the office of British Prime Minister Keir Starmer, who was dismissive of Musk’s prediction, saying there was “no justification” for such comments. Other U.K. critics said Musk was only inflaming tensions by making such a dire prediction. 

Musk’s rhetoric is unheard-of for a corporate executive speaking in public, but the prediction of a civil war has become a frequent talking point among some far-right activists who view a civil war in Europe or the U.S. as not only unavoidable but also as something to be welcomed. “What you’re seeing in these calls for civil war is a white supremacist clarion call. It is a dog whistle,” said Jon Lewis, a research fellow at George Washington University’s Program on Extremism.  Musk has stopped short of issuing a call to arms and has not mentioned the race or religion of refugees arriving in Europe, but Lewis said that Musk doesn’t need to be explicit to get his message across. He said he sees similarities between Musk’s posts and the language in white supremacist chat rooms where commenters are obsessed with changing demographics.  “Rhetorically, there is very little difference, and at this point it’s barely coded language. It’s everything but explicit incitement,” he said.  “It’s only a matter of time, unfortunately, before someone listens,” he added, warning that Musk’s words could inspire violence by others. 

Musk did not directly respond to questions about his civil war predictions in an email to NBC News. Hyperbole about civil war is common on the far right. White nationalist Nick Fuentes said last year that Ireland was “on the brink of civil war” because of immigration, and followers of the “Boogaloo” anti-government movement have for years called explicitly for civil war.  The far-right’s rhetoric around a future civil war is part of a philosophical framework referred to as accelerationism. Extreme practitioners of the philosophy believe that stoking tensions around topics like immigration could lead to wars and hasten a larger societal collapse, creating an opportunity to reformulate society in a way that’s more favorable to extremists. A gunman who attacked a synagogue in Poway, California, in 2019 said his goal was to hasten the start of a “civil war” over religion, race and firearms. While some progressives also talk about dismantling existing systems, predictions of a civil war are less common on the left.

[...] Musk has invoked the idea in relation to numerous conflicts. Last October, days after the Hamas terrorist attacks on Israel, he responded to pro-Palestinian demonstrations in Europe with a call for reduced immigration onto the continent.  “If current trends continue, civil war in Europe is inevitable,” he said on X. It was a reply to Konstantin Kisin, an author, podcaster and Russian-born immigrant to the U.K.  Kisin responded to Musk: “Civil war implies someone will fight back. Based on current evidence, I’m not even sure that will happen.” 

[...] In the past two weeks, far-right activists in Great Britain have used misinformation about an attack on a Taylor Swift-themed dance class as a pretext for anti-immigrant demonstrations. There have been mob attacks on mosques, immigrant-owned shops and hotels housing asylum-seekers. The suspect in the dance-class attack in which three children died is a 17-year-old who was born in the country, according to police.  [...] Musk has a record of spreading false information that could stir up fear of immigrants. Last year, he embraced the debunked “great replacement” theory, which says that there is a top-down plot to replace the white population with nonwhite “hordes.” He has smeared Haitians as cannibals, and he has boosted false claims that non-citizens are registering to vote in the U.S.  After those claims were debunked, Musk has had various responses. He said he was “sorry” for his post about the great replacement theory but left it online. After criticism of his Haitian posts, he said he wanted to “screen immigrants for potential homicidal tendencies and cannibalism.” And after his claims about immigrants voting were found to be false, he has repeated them. 

Right-wing X owner Elon Musk has repeatedly trafficked in far-right “civil war” fantasies over the past year or so, especially in regards to immigration and refugees in Europe.

Read the full story at NBC News.

[foundtherightwords]

The Simple Thought of You - Chapter 1

Pairing: Billy Knight x OFC (Esme from "The Quiet Chaos")

Summary: Billy and Esme have been dating for nearly two years, and naturally, their thoughts turn to the next step in their relationship. But when it turns out that their future plans may not align, can they reconcile their differences and stay together?

A/N: I've been thinking about a sequel/epilogue for Billy and Esme's story for a while, but it didn't take shape until I happened across an article about the scouring of the White Horse of Uffington, so here it is. It's short compared to "The Quiet Chaos", but I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: angst, discussion of children and being childfree, mentions of mental health issues, some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter word count: 3.9k

Chapter 1

Everyone agreed that the weather was perfect for a wedding. The sky was the clearest, brightest shade of cerulean, the sun was warm and gentle, some of the cool spring air still lingering about, slowing down the march of the heavy summer heat, and the lawn where the ceremony was to take place shone a brilliant emerald green.

Esme, however, paid little attention to the gorgeous weather except to feel relieved that the rain, which had been plaguing them for a week, had decided to stop. She was relieved, too, that the cake had been delivered in time, and that her youngest sister, Tiffany, had been convinced not to dye her whole head of hair rainbow-colored for the occasion. Tiff had settled for the hyacinth blue that was part of the wedding's color scheme instead.

Clutching her bouquet of grape hyacinths that matched her bridesmaid dress, Esme fought the urge to run into the kitchen one last time to make sure everything was OK. Across the aisle, Billy caught her eyes and gave her a reassuring smile as if to say "Relax". He must have noticed how nervous she was. He always did. Esme smiled back and let out a breath. Yes, relax. Billy's smile never failed to have a calming effect on her. She stole another glance at him, and her heart soared with a familiar sense of pride and affection. He looked nice today, with his hair brushed back from his forehead in soft waves, his beard trimmed, and in a new brown suit that matched his eyes, though he still forwent a tie, as usual.

A crash from the kitchen made Esme jump, and she closed her eyes briefly. What possessed Sybil and her fiancée Roisin to have the wedding at their parents' house, Esme would never know. Their flighty, artistic parents may be able to host boisterous Bohemian parties for their friends, but they couldn't handle anything more structured than an afternoon tea, and with Roisin's family coming in from Ireland, that would not do. So it had fallen to Esme, as the maid of honor, to make sure everything was perfect for her sister's big day.

When I do get married, it'll be at a registry office, Esme thought resolutely. Short, sweet, and simple, with none of this faffing about. Then she looked at Billy again and blushed. Thankfully, he was bending over to play with their dog Angua, and didn't see her.

They had been together for nearly two years, two years filled with love and joy, but also heartache and uncertainty. In the first six months, Billy's struggle with his mental health and the return of his no-good older brother, Jimmy, had nearly derailed them. They were parted for several months while Billy recovered in the hospital, agonizing months for Esme, though she'd visited him every day. But once he left the hospital, they moved in together, and had been inseparable since.

With so much on their minds, they had never discussed marriage in those two years. Billy's condition meant that Esme had to learn to take one day at a time, be happy with what they had in the present, and never look too far ahead. It was difficult for someone who used to plan her day down to the hour, but she'd managed it, for the most part, for him. Still, she would be lying if she said she hadn't thought about marriage at all. She'd almost gotten married once, right before she met Billy, and in the fallout of that, she no longer cared about weddings, or even marriage for that matter. After meeting Billy, though, she'd started thinking about marriage again. Not because she had any particular hankering for a big wedding, but because she felt marriage would give both of them some much-needed stability in their lives.

What about Billy, though? She didn't know how he felt about marriage. He had progressed in leaps and bounds since a year ago—the fact that he was here, at this wedding, amongst all these virtual strangers, was a testament to that—and had been holding down a nice, steady job at a woodworking studio, making furniture and doing some woodcarving on the side. Anyone looking at him now would see a healthy, happy young man.

Only Esme knew how Billy's past still loomed over them, how its shadow haunted his looks, how some nights it sent him into her arms, trembling with fears that were very much real but could not be put into words. Marriage is a big step. She knew how difficult it was for him to form connections, to trust, and didn't want to push him into anything he wasn't comfortable with. She'd made that mistake early in their relationship; never again.

Stop stressing about it, she sternly warned herself. One day at a time. If and when it felt right to get married, they would talk about it.

And then music started, the two brides came down the aisle together on the arms of their fathers, and Esme pushed all thoughts of her potential wedding out of her head, to focus on her sister's actual one.

The ceremony went off without a hitch, though Esme couldn't quite relax until all the intricate rituals of the reception—all the speeches and the cutting of the cake—were done. Nobody told an embarrassing story in their speech, nobody tried to smash anybody's face into the cake, and nobody tried to request the DJ to play "Another One Bites the Dust". She counted that as a successful wedding.

She had just barely sat down with Billy and Angua at their table when Sybil and Roisin came over. Both gave Esme rib-crushing hugs. "Thank you so much, sis, for helping us with all this," Sybil said.

"Yeah, it was perfect," agreed Roisin. "You've got a superstar here," she added to Billy, and he responded with a smile as if to say I know.

Before Esme could hide her blush, a little girl, about six or seven, holding the hand of a little boy, about three or four, came running up to them with a bashful look. Roisin's niece and nephew, Esme remembered, her older brother's kids.

"What is it, Daffy, darling?" Roisin asked, turning to them. The little girl leaned over and whispered something into her aunt's ear. Roisin turned back to Esme and Billy, smiling. "Daphne and Jamie are wondering if they could play with your pup," she said.

"Of course!" Esme said. "Angua is very friendly. Let's take her over there so she can run around and don't bother the people dancing, OK?" She half-rose from her seat and motioned to the kids, but Billy gently pushed her back down.

"I'll go with them," he said. "You sit and rest."

Nodding gratefully at him, she watched as Billy led Angua and the kids to a corner of the garden, where he started throwing a ball for the dog to catch, making the kids shriek with delight. Esme smiled to herself. For all his shyness, Billy always had a way with animals and kids, a natural, almost childlike openness that made them feel at ease around him.

"So, when are you two going to get married?" Roisin's question pulled her back to reality. Esme looked over. Roisin and Sybil were smiling at her like two cats that got the cream.

"We're not," Esme said automatically, then remembered to add, "Yet."

"What are you waiting for?" Sybil said. "He worships you, and you adore him. It's sickening to watch, really." Esme gave her sister a playful slap on the shoulder, like she used to when they were little, and Sybil grinned. "And he'll be a great dad."

Esme's embarrassed laugh died halfway to her lips. Suddenly the sky lost its brilliance and the laughter and all the joyful sounds of the wedding faded. A strange coldness spread across her chest. She realized there was something else she and Billy had never discussed, something much more fundamental and perhaps even more important than marriage—the question of having kids.

In all her previous relationships, regardless of how serious they were, Esme had always been careful to bring up the discussion about kids early on. With Billy, between her anxiety about his condition and the drama surrounding Jimmy's return, it had completely slipped her mind.

No, that wasn't quite true. It had occurred to her once or twice to ask him about it, but like the question of marriage, Esme didn't want to make it seem like she was rushing Billy or pressuring him, so she just shrugged it off. Besides, he had never expressed an interest in having kids. She had always assumed that he didn't want them. But now, watching him play with Daphne and little Jamie, she was no longer so sure. And it frightened her. It frightened her terribly.

Because she didn't want kids. She had spent most of her childhood taking care of her siblings while their parents were busy with their latest creative projects, and it had soured the whole idea for her. Oh, sure, she liked kids. Her friend Priya had three and Esme could always be counted on to babysit them, but it was always a relief to be able to hand them back at the end of the day.

Looking at Sybil's teasing smile now, Esme realized her younger sister had no idea about any of this, despite the two of them being the closest in the family. Esme had never told any of her siblings that she didn't want kids. She didn't want them to think that she resented them.

Flustered, she muttered something about making sure Billy didn't let Angua run into Mum's delphinium, and got up. By the time she reached Billy, Angua had tired herself out and was laying on her belly, panting, and the kids had wandered off. "Fancy a dance?" she asked, and Billy looked up at her with a smile. At the sight of that smile, Esme breathed a little more easily.

They didn't move to the dance floor. They remained at the corner of the garden, amongst the delphinium and hollyhocks, and Billy held her while they swayed slowly to the music.

"You OK?" he asked.

"I'm fine, just tired."

"Here." He pulled her a little closer, and she put her head on his shoulder with a comforted sigh.

"How about you?" she asked. "This isn't too much for you, is it?"

"No, no. I'm all right as long as you're here with me."

Standing there in his arms, with the music barely audible, only serving as a backing track to the peaceful chorus of a summer garden, of birds and insects, Esme suddenly felt rather silly about all her worries. She knew Billy, and he knew her. Perhaps she was getting worked up over nothing after all.

But what Billy said next shattered that illusion. "Besides, I don't mind people so much now," he said. "Actually, I've always wanted a big family."

Her head snapped up. "Have you really?"

"Well, you know how it was, when I was a kid..." Billy's voice trailed off uncomfortably.

Yes, she knew. Billy's mum died when he was two. His dad was alcoholic and violent. His brother, Jimmy, older by ten years, was cut from the same cloth. The Chiswells, who employed Billy's dad and on whose estate they lived, were dysfunctional in their own way and had been partly responsible for the worst memory of Billy's childhood, perhaps even of his life. Yes, with such a childhood, Esme could understand why Billy would want a big family, something to give him the sense of kinship and belonging that had been sorely lacking in his life.

And with that understanding came a horrible, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Billy must have noticed how she'd gone quiet and stiff, because he leaned down, brushing his lips over her hair. "Esme?"

"So does that mean you want kids?" she blurted out.

He went quiet as well, contemplating the question. A part of her was dying to look at him, to gauge his reaction, but another part was terrified of what she may find there. On the grass next to them, Angua turned over with a sleepy whine.

Then Esme felt Billy shrug. "I don't mind them," he said.

The sinking feeling became an abyss, and Esme fell into it, falling without anything to hold on to, without knowing where the abyss would end. The music and the chorus of birds and insects stopped. Billy was saying something to her, but she didn't hear him. All she heard was that he wanted a family, and she couldn't—no, even worse, wouldn't give it to him.

She couldn't deal with this right now. Her head was crowded with nasty thoughts of not good enough and he deserves better. All the fears from her last breakup came flooding back. Dropping Billy's hands, she staggered into the house, mumbling some lame excuse about checking on the caterers and ignoring his confused look.

He wanted kids. How could she have been so stupid, so thoughtless? Now she had wasted two years of their lives, all because she neglected to have a conversation.

But if you knew earlier, she asked herself, would you still be able to give him up?

No! her heart, her foolish, cowardly heart, cried out.

That's just selfish.

Once before, when Billy checked himself into the hospital, he'd wanted to give their relationship a break, saying it wouldn't be fair to her. Was she going to have to do the same for him now?

She took refuge in her old bedroom. Being the eldest, she'd had the privilege of having her own room, though after she moved out, her mum had turned it into her study and few traces of Esme's childhood remained. Not that there was much to remain in the first place. Esme had always preferred a nice, clean room, not a book out of place, not a wrinkle on the bed sheet, and she'd taken everything with her when she moved. Now, sitting down in a sagging armchair by her mum's desk, Esme was surprised to discover Mum had kept all the awards and trophies she'd won in school, including a sad participation trophy for lacrosse in year six—Esme had hated playing; she couldn't imagine why Mum would keep that. Still, a little smile crept around her lips when she looked over the row of trophies on the shelf. Her parents may be feckless and infuriating at times, but they still cared.

Would it be so bad? Would it be so bad to compromise, have a kid, make Billy happy? She was sure she could be a good mum, if—

No. If staying with Billy was unfair to him, then having a kid would be unfair to all of them. She knew what it was like, growing up feeling like an outsider in her own family, feeling like she was not wanted. Children knew these things. She would never put a kid through that.

Just get out of your head and talk to him!

Esme pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and sighed. She couldn't avoid this. She would have to talk to Billy and live with the outcome, whatever that may be.

***

But Esme didn't find the courage to talk to Billy until a few days after the wedding. She knew he'd noticed something was off but was waiting for her to break the silence first. His consideration only drove the hot needles of guilt deeper inside her. At night, whenever she looked over at Billy, at his face so young and relaxed in sleep, yet the hair falling across his forehead already had a streak of silver in it, those needles would scorch her insides, making her want to cry and tell him to stop wasting his time with her and find someone that could give him the family he wanted. She didn't want him to stay with her only because he thought he wasn't good enough for anyone else.

That day, Esme didn't have the night shift at the clinic and came home in the evening to find Billy already seated at his table, whittling something. They still lived in her tiny two-room flat because it was close to both the vet clinic where she worked and Billy's studio, but their dream was to find a bigger place, preferably somewhere with a garden so Angua could run around and Billy could set up a shed for his woodcarving. Right now, he had to make do with a table in a sunlit corner in their living room, so he only bought home the smallest pieces or his personal projects, little spoons or jewelry like pendants and brooches, carved out of wind-fallen branches he found during their walks.

"You're home early," she said, taking off her bike helmet and leaning down to rub Angua between the ears.

Billy got up and gave her a peck on the lips. "We finished that monstrous Chippendale-knockoff cabinet today, so Jacob told us to have an early night." Jacob, Billy's mentor and boss at the studio, was one of the few positive influences in Billy's life before Esme met him. "What'd you fancy for tea?"

As she watched him move into the kitchen, Esme realized this was it. She had to talk to him now, before her courage failed her or life got in the way and she found another excuse.

"Let's hold tea off for a bit," she said. "There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

Billy sat back down, his big brown eyes turning serious. "I thought you would," he said. "It's about what I said at the wedding, isn't it? About wanting kids?"

A bewildering mixture of relief and dread coursed through Esme—relief because he knew her so well and had taken the difficult task of starting the conversation for her, and dread because the conversation was started so quickly, giving her no time to gather her thoughts. She could only sit down in front of him and nod.

"I know it was kind of sudden," Billy began, "but I mean what I said—"

"You mean you do want kids?"

"I never really thought about it," he said. "Never been with anyone where I had to," he added, taking Esme's hands, "until I met you. Just—you know, the idea of a mini version of you running around—how could I not want that?"

Esme's heart twisted when she thought that she was the one that made him want kids and that he wanted to have kids with her because he loved her so much, yet she—fool, stupid fool! Billy stared at her, probably wondering why she was looking so stricken.

Then it dawned on him.

"You don't want kids," he said. It wasn't a question, not really.

Esme shook her head. "No."

"Is it—is it because of my condition?"

If Esme's heart had been twisting before, then it broke now to see the sad look in Billy's eyes. "No, no, no," she said quickly, putting her hands over his. "No, it's not you. It's just—I've never wanted kids. With anyone. I've spent my entire childhood taking care of Sybil and Sam and Tiff, and that's enough for me."

"But—you'll be a wonderful mum."

For some reason, that raised her hackles. People always say that to women, don't they? But you'll be a great mother. You just haven't met the right person. Biological clock is ticking. You'll change your mind later. On and on and on. To hear it from Billy's mouth felt like the ultimate betrayal. "You mean I should have kids, lest I squander my precious potential, is that it?" she bit out, jerking away from Billy's grasp.

Billy seemed to realize he'd said the wrong thing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." He reached for her across the table, then thought better of it and dropped his hand again. "And I should've been clearer about the whole kids thing. I only said that because I thought you wanted kids! I don't mind having kids, but I don't mind not having them either." Now he did reach for her and squeezed her hand again. "You're so much more important to me than having kids. Really. Besides, with my genes, I probably shouldn't have kids anyway."

He tried to joke, but every word was another needle in her heart, another painful reminder that she wasn't enough, that she couldn't make him happy.

"We could've adopted," she said.

"But that's not the point, is it?" Billy said, exasperated. "It's not that you don't want to get pregnant, the point is that you don't want kids!"

"Yeah, that's the point," she agreed, her voice muted. "So perhaps you should find someone else. Someone who does want kids."

Billy jumped to his feet. "What the hell are you saying?!"

"This is a deal breaker, Billy," she said. "This kind of incompatibility—there's no going back from it. You either want kids or you don't. There's no in-between."

"Who says there's any incompatibility here? I told you, I don't care about having kids. Why do you have to change your mind and not me? Why is it always you that has to sacrifice?"

"I don't under—"

Billy was getting worked up now, picking up his tools and throwing them down again, his hand flying to his nose and chest in an agitated manner that Esme knew well. She wanted to calm him down, but it was too late. "Is it because I've had it worse?" he said. "Because I've been through more? I thought we'd agreed not to think like that."

Esme was stunned. She'd never considered it that way. "It's not—I don't—" she stammered, trying in vain to keep her voice steady. "I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy! With you! What can I do to convince you?"

A tiny hope bloomed in Esme's chest, making her heart beat wildly behind her ribcage like a frantic bird. She fought to keep it down, trying to stay rational, practical. "What if you regret it later?" she asked.

"I won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, how can you be so sure that I will regret anything?"

She didn't have an answer for that. Seeing her relenting look, Billy softened as well. He drew her into his arms and tucked her under his chin. "I know you're worried about me," he said, "but don't be. Why would I want a mini version of you when I already have you?" Esme let out a choked laugh, and he laughed softly as well. "You're my family, Esme. I don't need anyone else."

Esme nestled her head against his chest and allowed herself to believe, for a moment, that she was enough. But she couldn't shake the feeling that Billy was just saying all that to placate her. She knew that the nasty, nagging voice in her head had not been shut down completely, only quieted. If only she knew how to silence it for good...

Chapter 2

I know the consensus is for daily chapters, but I want to give everybody a chance to read this chapter first before I post the others. Don't worry, Chapter 2 and the epilogue are coming soon!

[albonoooo]

got tagged by @wanderingblindly, thank you my beloved <3

what colour are your eyes?: a mixture of blue, green and grey that looks puddle-coloured most of the time.

tell me about your pets/your dream pet: after 15 wonderful years, our family dog paul (i named him that when i was five lol) unfortunately passed away in august 2023, i loved that dog more than most people. (there were some pictures of him here, but i got nervous that someone i know might see this so i removed them lmao). i'd love to get a dog or a cat at some point later in my life, but not now or any time soon.

share some interesting fact about yourself: i'm genuinely incredibly boring, so much so that i had to ask for help to find an answer here. the council decided on the fact that i know how to ride and own a motorcycle and am also a member in an mf in my hometown.

what was the first fandom you were a part of?: i guess the first time i was properly involved with fandom in any capacity was during my teen wolf days.

do you have any phobias?: i don't know if it's bad enough to be considered a phobia, but i'm terrified of heights. there have been several instances of me breaking down crying despite trying to keep it together while being in very high places (usually while having to climb dodgy stairs in very high buildings, among other things).

are you a picky eater? if so, what food can't you stand?: YES! and i hate it because it's so so limiting and annoying. i am incredibly sensitive regarding taste and texture and i have to physically force myself to hold back visceral reactions to foods i don't like. it'd probably be easier to list the foods i can eat tbh.

do you eat the burger and fries at the same time or one after another?: first some fries, then burger, fries, burger, fries, finish the burger, finish the fries. anything else is weird (what the fuck do you mean you eat them completely separately, liquid???)

winter or summer: winter all the way. i sweat easily, my body generally doesn't cope well with heat and i prefer bundling up and being a little cold over feeling too warm.

favourite fanfiction tropes: i LOVE a good au, any au really, but especially the cute ones. i'll read almost anything at least once and so there's just too many things i have read and enjoyed to list here. also, anything with an enemies to lovers situation. i am a sucker for that.

are you studying or working? what do you study/is your job?: both! i'm a full-time student (english major, history minor) and i am one of the student assistants in the english department's student office. i've also had other, less fun part-time jobs in the past.

what is the last country you visited: the netherlands and belgium during a day trip (by motorcycle) in june or july last year, i think.

what country would you want to move to after retiring?: i've haven't ever even considered living that long. i've always had a fascination with ireland and scotland, so based on looks and vibes alone i'd go there. or somewhere with solid winters, like a scandinavian country or finland.

who was your first crush?: hannes (played by nick romeo reimann) in the vorstadtkrokodile movies. i was ready for marriage, dreaming up a life together and everything. it also lasted until i was like 12 years old, so about six years in total. he really had me in a chokehold.

how did you get into f1 fandom?: after my interest was peaked by f1 edits that randomly popped up all over my social media one day (thank you algorithms), i did what i always do when something like that happens and opened tumblr to see what's up. and then i got stuck lol.

i have no clue who has or hasn't been tagged already, so feel free to ignore this!! @hrhgeorgerussell @bright-and-burning @borntogayz @lil-italian-disappointment @liamlawsonlesbian @piastrisms

[just-barrow]

How close are the characters of SAS: Rogue Heroes to the real people? The most difficult to personify, the indomitable Blair Mayne played by the electric Jack O'Connell.

There are numerous conflicting accounts of 'Paddy' Mayne, from stone-cold, violent killer to quiet tactical genius who was a poetry loving gentleman. His legend is more myth than fact and it is difficult to ascertain where the truth lies.

Mayne was born to a protestant family of landowners, attended grammar school and subsequently Queen's University to study law. He was an excellent sportsman with a handicap of 8 at golf, runner up in the British Universities boxing championship, and played rugby for both Ireland and the British Lions. His rebellious nature was evident from reports of his drinking and mischievous activities during the tour.

On the outbreak of war he was part of the reserves and soon volunteered for regular service with the Commandos, which lead him to fighting against the Vichy French in Syria where he was Mentioned in Dispatches. Reports of Mayne being recruited by Stirling from prison are almost certainly invented, although there may be some truth in him beating up another officer... for killing his pet dog whilst he was away fighting.

Mayne seemed to have been a Jekyll/Hyde type character. He was the consummate soldier who instinctively knew what to do at any given moment, with a god-given ability to lead men in battle. When sober he was quiet and reflective, when blind drunk he could be violent and terrifying. The other soldiers loved him, but knew not to cross him at the wrong moment. The loss of his dear friend Eoin McGoningal in Op Squatter was a source of great pain, and he really did go to look for his body on his own.

Mayne received a record 4 DSO's and a Croix De Guerre, the most decorated British soldier during WW2. One of his DSO citations has 'VC' crossed out and replaced. There is a long running campaign to overturn this possibly political decision and award him the medal he almost certainly deserves.

After the war he retired from the military and returned home to practice law. He sadly died whilst driving home one evening, crashing his beloved sports car.

Jack O'Connell brings a fantastic energy and a huge amount of sympathy to a larger than life character who simply cannot be explored enough in only 6hrs of television. Paddy Mayne could have a series just about him and his life.

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