#they go one step over and include this as the image description

[rickybaby]

This is cute 🥰

[punkshort]

Broken

Thank you anon for this request!

An I Know Who You Are one-shot

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel finds out you got hurt on patrol.

Warnings: Joel POV, language, allusions to smut, descriptions of injuries/blood, amnesia, angst

WC: 2.5K

When Joel had knocked on Maria's door that morning, he still wore a small smile on his face as images of your perfect morning flashed across his eyes. The way your eyes rolled to the back of your head when he flexed his hips, the breathy sounds you made in his ear, how tight you felt wrapped around his cock.

At that point in his life, he assumed he was not meant for happiness. He had been through too much. The world threw everything it had at him and he crumbled. He let it ruin him and forge him into a cold, distant shell of who he once was.

And then he met you.

You were like a beam of light in an otherwise dark world. A breath of fresh air in a prison cell. A beautiful, yellow flower that grew amongst the disastrous landscape surrounding him. He couldn't help but be drawn to you. To want to lose himself in you, if you'd let him. And against all odds, you wanted him too.

You wanted him, too.

What were the chances? Finding love in the world before was nearly impossible. Once he found you, he began to wonder for the first time if all his suffering had meaning. If everything terrible and rotten that happened to him was all pushing him along on a path to find you.

Maria swung the door open with Violet wrapped around her hip and she grinned.

"You look pretty chipper this morning."

Joel immediately wiped the smile off his face and replaced it with a frown. He preferred to reserve that side of himself just for you.

"Tommy said y'need the dresser looked at?"

She nodded and stepped to the side so he could enter. He toed off his boots and glanced around. Jackson didn't have much, but the community did well with what they had, including toys for kids. Last he heard, the town had a monthly rotation of toys for all the little ones so everyone got to have a turn with the best ones.

He made a mental note to look for some new ones when he was outside the walls next.

"It's Violet's dresser," Maria explained, shifting his niece on her hip and leading him towards the back of the house. "Caught her climbing it last week, nearly gave me a heart attack."

She flicked on the light to Violet's room and made a face when she looked at the broken drawers.

"Well, better the dresser broke than the kid," he said, crouching down to get a better look.

"Do you think you can fix it?"

He gave the other drawers a tug, testing them to make sure they weren't damaged as well before standing with a groan.

"I'll have to make new drawers, this wood's busted, but yeah. Anythin' that's broken, I can fix it."

Maria gasped excitedly and looked at Violet, eyes wide and mouth spread into a huge smile. "Did you hear that? Uncle Joel's gonna fix your dresser, baby!"

He couldn't help but smile when Violet said, "thank you," with some prompting from Maria, of course.

"You're welcome. Just don't go climbin' on it when I'm done."

Joel spent the rest of the morning at the woodshed collecting scraps of two by fours that he could use to create two dresser drawers from scratch. At first, he thought he was in over his head. In a different life with all the right tools, he could have done this task without breaking a sweat.

"'Anythin' that's broken, I can fix it'," he scoffed, repeating his earlier words under his breath with a shake of his head. "The hell was I thinkin'?"

But he used what he had at his disposal, even if it meant using an axe to cut the right pieces of wood for the job instead of an electric saw. With a little patience and some thinking outside the box, he finally collected all the supplies he needed in a wheelbarrow and began his trek back to Tommy's house.

"Hey, before you get started, come in and have something to eat," Maria called from the window. He nodded and shrugged off his flannel, leaving it draped over the wheelbarrow before heading inside.

When he walked into the kitchen, he was greeted with a sandwich and some lemonade on the kitchen table next to Violet, who was nibbling on some fruit and toast and singing along to some children's songs playing from a radio.

"It's all I can get her to eat lately," Maria explained when she said down across from him. "She's growing into a picky eater and it's freaking killing me."

"Mama, bad word," Violet warned with her little chubby finger pointed straight up in the air. Joel chuckled and took a bite of his sandwich.

"I didn't say a bad word, baby, it just sounded like a bad word," she said, then once Violet looked away, she rolled her eyes at Joel and mouthed she hears everything.

He ate mostly in silence, half listening to Violet's music, half thinking about how he was going to tackle the next phase of his project when Maria spoke again.

"So, you think you guys'll end up having one of these?" she asked, casually nodding towards Violet. He glanced up at her in surprise before shifting his eyes to his niece.

"Uh, well..." he nervously scratched the back of his neck as he considered her question. It wasn't something you hadn't talked about but he had been thinking a lot more about it since Violet was born. His mind was screaming absolutely not, it's not safe, it's careless and irresponsible. He couldn't protect Sarah, how could he protect a newborn or keep a toddler from having a tantrum and attracting raiders or clickers?

But then Violet squealed with delight when a berry squished between her fingers and he felt that pull in his chest that he'd been trying to ignore for the past year.

"Dunno. Maybe one day," he finally told her.

"Gonna make an honest woman of her first?" Maria asked as she cleaned up Violet's hands.

"Don't think that's really our thing," Joel replied. And it wasn't. Well, not really. He had a hell of a time trying to settle you down in the first place. He couldn't imagine what the idea of marriage would do to you. And that didn't bother him. At this point, it didn't really matter. You were his, and he was yours, and that's just how it would always be.

After he helped Maria clean up lunch, he headed back outside. The sun was shining but the temperature was comfortable while he worked. And once he had all his supplies and a plan, everything came together rather quickly. Which was good because you and Tommy would be due back from patrol any minute and he very much wanted to relax with you the rest of the day and maybe tend to the garden if either of you had any energy left.

He was just finishing up the drawers and about to take them inside when he heard Tommy shouting his name. Before he even turned around, Joel's blood ran cold. He knew that tone. Something was wrong.

He swiveled around, his face already ghostly pale, knowing and bracing for the inevitable yet he still held out hope and swept his gaze around, hoping and fucking praying he would spot you.

"Joel, c'mon," Tommy panted, swinging his arm as he began to jog back in the opposite direction. Joel grabbed his blue flannel and raced after him, his blood pressure skyrocketing.

"Is she bit?"

Tommy shook his head and Joel felt his heart slow, but it was short lived when he saw the look on his brother's face.

"Is she hurt?"

"She hit her head," Tommy said, pushing people out of the way as they made their way to the infirmary. "She's awake but somethin' ain't right."

"What'dya mean? If she's awake after a head injury, that's gotta be good, right?"

Tommy cast him a forlorn look as they reached the steps of the building. "She can't remember."

Joel frowned. "Can't remember what?"

Tommy's eyes shifted around as they paused for a moment on the stairs. "She can't remember... any of it. The outbreak. This town... nothin'."

Joel swallowed and dropped his chin to his chest. He was grateful you were alive, grateful you weren't seriously injured, but this? This was not something he expected.

"So you're sayin' she don't remember me?"

Tommy's silence was all he needed to know. Joel's chest tightened and he felt his legs begin to shake. This wasn't real. He just saw you a few hours ago. He just fucked you a few hours ago. He was just talking to Maria about your future together... how could this be happening?

"Maybe..." he began, then pinched his eyes shut when he felt the swell of anxiety rise and squeeze his throat. "Maybe she just needs to see me."

"Joel, we gotta be careful 'bout this," Tommy warned, "she's real spooked. I almost couldn't get her to come back with me. She was talkin' 'bout goin' home and findin' her family-"

Joel's face crumpled. "You're fuckin' with me, right?" he croaked, blinking back tears. Tommy averted his gaze and shook his head, giving Joel a moment. He collapsed on the bottom step and hung his head between his knees, trying to focus on taking deep breaths and clearing his vision, but he could feel it. He felt it all those years ago when Sarah died in his arms and he felt it again: the shock that melted into despair which inevitably morphed into white hot rage.

"Joel..." Tommy said lowly, picking up on the shift in his brother's eyes.

"I gotta see her."

He stood and spun around so fast, Tommy hardly had time to react. Joel was halfway down the hallway through the building, kicking in all the doors before Tommy caught up, shouting at him to stop, begging him to slow down.

Then Nick rounded the corner, spotting Joel and Tommy.

"Stop!" Nick said firmly, but Joel just shoved him out of the way and barreled forward. He spotted the exam room that had a sliver of light on underneath the door and he swung it open.

His eyes scanned you up and down, assessing you for obvious injury before looking you in the eye. You appeared fine. You looked just like yourself, like nothing had happened. He didn't even see a mark on your head from the fall.

Joel felt Nick and Tommy rush up behind him and pause, no doubt studying the two of you to see how you would react. Your eyes finally left him to look questioningly over his shoulder and Joel whispered your name.

You angrily brought your gaze back to him and furrowed your brow. "What?" you snapped.

Joel swallowed again but remained perfectly still, refusing to believe you couldn't remember him.

"You remember Joel. Right, sugar?" Tommy asked gently.

Joel knew the answer before you even shook your head. He could see it in your eyes now. They were cold and closed off and scared. You never, ever looked at him like that. Not even after he told you about the hospital.

"Is it permanent?" Joel asked Nick. When the doctor began to give what he considered a bullshit answer, the anger simmering in his veins was lit on fire. He hauled Nick off the ground and yelled something in his face but for the life of him he couldn't remember what. He was seeing red and nothing else was getting through.

That is, until Tommy shouted, let 'em go, you're scarin' her! Then he let Nick go and twisted around towards you. His brows pitched up with concern when he saw you curled up next to the bed, rocking back and forth. Without even thinking, he took a step forward to help you, but you quickly jutted a hand out.

"Don't come near me."

He froze on the spot, speechless. His heart shattered in his chest at the fear in your eye, fear he put there. He couldn't go back to a life without you, he needed you.

"I'm sorry, baby."

And you flinched. You flinched at the term of endearment and the crack in his chest grew so wide, he was afraid he would fall in.

Tommy's voice broke the tension in the room. "Maybe we should give you two a minute."

Instantly, you were panic stricken. Your eyes widened and you scrambled to pull yourself off the floor. Instead of looking to him for comfort, you were looking at Tommy. Begging his brother not to leave him alone with you.

Joel stepped back and sagged against the wall, his eyes fixed on the ground as he tried his best to come to terms with what was happening. All he wanted to do was pull you into his arms and take you home and it was fucking killing him.

To Tommy's credit, he tried to explain who Joel was, that he wouldn't ever harm you, not in a million years, but your chest heaved and your hands shook with fear anyway.

"Look what he just did! How can you say that?"

"Because he loves you!"

The room grew still while you panted for air and tried to process the information Tommy just gave you.

"Is that true?"

He assumed you must have been talking to him so he nodded, still unwilling to look up.

You began to apologize but the pieces of his heart were drifting further and further apart. He was losing you and he had no idea what to do.

When Nick encouraged Tommy's idea to take you home to your familiar surroundings, Joel finally looked up with a little bit of hope.

"What else can we do?" he asked Nick, knowing full well he sounded too eager and hopeful. Nick began to suggest finding objects or keepsakes with sentimental value that could trigger your memory to return, an idea that gave him a spark of optimism, but when he looked back at you, you immediately looked away.

"Can I talk to you?" you asked Tommy. The two brothers stared at one another, communicating silently. Joel knew what you were going to say, Tommy knew what you were going to say: you didn't want to go home with him. And to make matters somehow worse, you were looking to his own damn brother for comfort and safety.

Safety from him.

The thought had his blood boiling and his teeth grinding, but he knew he had to control his temper or else he would make things infinitely worse.

"I'll be outside," he said gruffly, then stormed down the hall towards the lobby.

He took advantage of the few precious minutes he had to collect his fucking thoughts and think. He couldn't let his anger get the best of him. He needed to get that under control if this was going to work. And he needed to be patient. You were meant to be and he would just have to make sure you realized that again.

He took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes.

He could do this. He would do whatever it took for however long it took.

Anythin' that's broken, I can fix it.

[blueeyedgirll]

cuddles - emily prentiss x bau!reader

this fic includes: fluff, cuddling, only one bed trope (kind of?), vague descriptions of cm typical violence, no beta or proofread we die like emily’s fake death, penelope garcia being the best person to ever have graced the earth, no use of y/n, f!reader

a/n: guys i’m on season 7 now (^_-) also i don’t know how the fbi works SUE ME

“God, what a mess!” Emily exclaims, setting her bags down in the corner of the hotel room.

Unfortunately, due to the horrendously overcrowded convention going on nearby and your latest unsub’s comfort zone, you, JJ, Penelope, and Emily were forced to share a room.

“I can’t believe they could only give us two rooms. Couldn’t we have just stayed somewhere else?” JJ adds, removing her coat and hanging it in the room’s tiny closet.

“Unfortunately, my friends, our administration seems to love us enough to pay for our hotels, but not enough to move us into a company they don’t have a rapport with,” Penelope explains. She removes her hair accessories and piles them on the bathroom counter, her foot wedged in the bathroom door to stay in the conversation. “But it’s like a sleepover! Us girls get to share a room, and the boys have their own.”

“I haven’t had a sleepover since I was 12,” JJ says.

“Me neither,” you pipe up. “So who’s sleeping where tonight?”

Your eyes scan the room. Four girls, two beds, and eight eyes glancing at each other.

“I’m fine with sharing, but I do need to let you know I tend to steal blankets,” Penelope says, placing her accessories in a small box.

“Yeah, I’m fine with anything.” JJ says.

You and Emily briefly lock eyes. If you said sleeping in the same bed as Emily didn’t sound amazing, you’d be a liar. She’d been distracting you from your work and almost all your thoughts for the last few weeks; something about her demeanor, or her dark, sharp features, or that streak of playfulness she lets show on occasion. Whatever it is, it continues to drive you up a wall.

“Well, if none of you care, I want the bed closer to the AC unit because it is a stupidly warm night here.” Penelope steps over to the bed on the right side of the room, unpacking a fuzzy blanket and an extra pillow — how did she fit that in there? — from her bag.

“True that. If you two don’t mind, I’ll sleep closer to the AC too.” JJ says, looking between the two of you before moving.

“Yeah, go ahead.” You say, just a little bit too happy. You tell Emily to go ahead and get comfortable because you’re going to change. She nods as you shut yourself in the bathroom.

You use the bathroom to take a moment, take a breath. Part of you wonders what it will be like, sleeping in the same bed as Emily. The rest of you wonders how you’re going to keep your cool.

You change into your sleep clothes, a tank top and small shorts. The cool air of the room makes the hair on your body stand up.

You walk back out to a dark, silent room. The only light left on was the one to the left of Emily.

“Ready for bed?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say, climbing into bed and wrapping the soft covers around you. Emily clicks the light off and slides down in the bed.

Before you can even start relaxing, images of the day flash back into your mind. The things the unsub did to his victims. The distraught loved ones of the deceased. The endless papers, leading you to repeated dead ends.

It only feels like a few minutes, but over the course of time, you grow colder and more restless. You toss and turn, trying to get more comfortable, but to no avail. Sighing, you turn to check the time, trying to find an estimate of how much sleep you would get.

The clock reads 4:24. You start contemplating just waking up extra early, but before you can reach a conclusion, you hear a whisper.

“Hey, you alright?” Emily whispers, turning to face you.

You pause for a moment. How honest should you be?

“Yeah, just… cold,” you say.

Emily takes a moment. You think she’s going to get up to grab a blanket, or lend you a hoodie, or anything else, but she scoots over to where you are and wraps her warm arms around your body. She gives you a firm squeeze. You know she knows you’re not just cold.

She starts to move away like it was just a hug. Before you can make a better decision, your hands stop her.

“Do you want me to stay?” Emily whispers.

You nod. Even though the darkness, Emily understands. She moves back to you, tucking your head into her shoulder. She wraps her arms around your middle and pulls the blanket fully over you.

She smells like lotion and coffee and clean clothes. It’s addictive. You nuzzle your head deeper into her, earning a small laugh and her hand making its way into your hair. She runs her nails over your scalp, brushing the hair off your neck.

“Are you okay?” she asks. You just hum, making her laugh again. “Goodnight. Sleep well for me.”

And with her arms around you, hand in your hair, you drift off into a comforting sleep.

bonus — the next morning, you wake up to giggling, which is quickly hushed. the entire day you and emily are the victims of glances and hushed whispers. on the jet home, you finally decide to ask penelope what was up with it. she doesn’t verbally respond, just shows you a picture of you sleeping like a baby, tucked into emily’s chest. at that moment she comes over, smiles, and walks back to her seat.

[tightjeansjavi]

⟡ sentiments n’ bubbly ⟡

A/N: so, this one another one of my post shower thoughts that has now transformed into this little fic 🥹 this time of the year is a struggle for myself and for others, and I hope it can bring us all a bit of peace before the new year 🤍

~word count: 4.5k~

pairing | Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: it’s NYE and you find yourself in Joel Miller’s coffee shop. He’s a firm believer that no one deserves to spend New Year’s Eve alone.

Warnings: angst, fluff, no age gap, discussions of self image issues, bullying, food/eating, language, anxiety, fear of social situations, fomo, mentions of therapy, NYE blues, self deprecating thoughts, flirting, meet-cute, no outbreak/modern day AU, Sarah and Tommy exist in this universe, soft!joel, mentions of alcohol, reader has no physical descriptions such as body type or skin color, some content included may be triggering for some as Joel and the reader have some very real conversations about life. +18 minors dni!

It’s New Year's Eve. The official last day of the year. A whole 365 days has come and gone, and yet, you find yourself feeling the same way you did last year. It wasn’t like you had a particularly terrible life or anything of the sorts, but you still had your struggles. Your daily contemplations over whether you were doing enough, being enough in your little life. You try to focus on all the good that happened in those 365 days of life.

All the laughter, smiles, the warm fuzzy feelings that you found yourself chasing more often than none. The bad times always find their way to trickle in and weasel into your conscience like an infection. The truth is that you know life comes with both good and bad memories. But why is it so hard to push back the bad? Why is it so easy to beat yourself down? You could have done this better, you shouldn’t have said the things you said, did you remember to turn your out of office on before you left the office?

Shit. There was that one email I didn’t get to.

Maybe you find yourself trying to cram in as many last minute tasks before the new year. Closet clean out? You haven’t worn that sweater in months..yet, you find yourself holding onto it because it was a gift from a dear friend, and you don’t want to unintentionally hurt their feelings by donating or regifting it.

Fridge clean out? Well, it does say that horseradish never expires..but you can never be too careful!

Clean your living space from top to bottom? Maybe next year you’ll invest in cleaner products for both the earth and your brain cells. Bleach can be awfully nasty to deal with.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of you. Leftovers are your meal of choice for the evening. You spent hours cleaning your kitchen, and you’d rather not have to do another wipe down till tomorrow.

Hey, are you sure you don’t want to come out with us tonight? We’re leaving in an hour!

It's not that you don’t want to go out with your friends, it’s the steps before getting out the door that have always been a struggle for you.

What if my outfit doesn’t look the way I planned it out in my head?

What if I completely botch this makeup look?

What if the club is too packed?

You hate feeling this way, often thinking you’re a burden to your friends because you're constantly planning ahead of time. Living in the moment for you has always been tough. A gray area that sometimes you have found yourself making peace with, and other times you just wish you could be different.

You reach for your phone while you’re already mentally planning the steps in order to get ready in time. Being late is never an option, even when it’s just a fun night out in town.

Hey, I thought it over and I’d love to come out with you guys :) see you soon!

You send the text in a flash before tossing your half eaten slice of pizza onto the coffee table and rush to your room.

You tear up every inch of your closet looking for the perfect outfit. It's New Year’s Eve after all, and you want to be shimmering like a grand disco ball.

The outfit is on, and you look great! It turned out even better than you pictured it in your head. But the longer you stare in the mirror.

Fuck. Can’t I just turn my brain off for one night? Please?

And there it is, again. That gnawing little voice inside your head that pops up, gleaming and waving its hand just in case you forgot that it existed.

You aren’t actually going to wear that..are you?

It looks all wrong.

And you’re going to be freezing—

Your friends are going to look 10x better than you—

“ENOUGH!” You shout to no one in particular before you stomp off to the bathroom.

After taking a deep breath, you pull out your array of makeup from one of the bathroom drawers. Pinterest becomes your best friend again while you scroll to find a makeup look that screams you.

Bold. Glittery. Too much glitter?

There is never such a thing as too much glitter. You remind that little voice inside of your head.

Even with your ‘going out playlist’ on full blast, you feel your confidence begin to shrink and diminish as you stare at your painted face in the mirror. It’s not exactly like the picture you found on Pinterest, but there’s no time for you to change it now.

Your phone buzzes again, and this time it’s your friends sending you a group picture of all of them pregaming in their glittery outfits and bright smiles. You heart the message before typing back,

Wow, you guys look amazing! Please don’t be mad, I’m just not feeling up for it tonight. I hope you guys have a blast and stay safe! :)

Your friends understand, because they know that this has always been a struggle for you. A sore spot that hasn’t exactly quite healed the way you wish it had. It’s hard to dig yourself out of a hole that you dug, but you're grateful that they have always been so understanding.

No worries, we love you, and Happy New Year!

And all you feel is guilt.

But instead of wallowing away in your apartment, you grab your coat, purse and keys before making the final decision to go out.

You find yourself outside of a coffee shop just down the block from your apartment. You passed by it everyday during your commute to work, but you never found yourself going in, until now.

The coffee shop is found to be empty as most people are already out to dinner or at a party. It’s somewhat comforting that it’s just you and the lone barista who hadn’t heard you come in yet. His back is turned to you while he wipes down one of the counters, humming to himself as he moves about.

You're immediately drawn into how cozy everything feels. From the decor to the crackling fireplace to the soft music playing through the speakers.

The man turns then, towel gently grasped in his hand when he finally registers that he’s no longer alone. He takes in your attire, finding it odd that someone all dressed up for the evening found themselves here. Then he remembered how his daughter told him it’s rude to judge strangers because you never know what the next person is going through.

He smiles warmly instead. “Hey there, I was uh—jus’ about to close up for the evenin’ but can I get you anythin?’” He’s got a face that you already know you’re going to have a hard time forgetting. Strong built frame, yet soft in all the right places and despite his exterior appearing to be hardened, he seems friendly enough.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed that you were closing up for the night..I don’t want to keep you here. I can always come back another time?”

He detects the way your face slightly begins to fall as he lightly taps his fingers along the counter top he just finished wiping down. “S’alright. I forgot to change the sign out front so that’s all on me. So, what can I get ya? It’s on the house.” He gestured to the menu board above his head.

You hesitated for a moment as you didn’t want to inconvenience this man who probably had his own New Year’s Eve plans to get to. “Are you..sure? I really don’t mind coming back another day.”

“S’alright, I promise. I don’t have anywhere important I need to be anyway.” He said with a slight shrug.

“No fun New Year's Eve plans? And I’ll take a cappuccino, please.” You stepped closer to the counter as you reached into your purse for your wallet.

“Nah. ‘Supposed to meet my brother at a bar nearby for a couple drinks, but he can wait a little longer.” He was already reaching his hand out to stop you from pulling out your wallet, when your eyes met his.

“For the tip.” You said with a smile while placing a couple five dollar bills into the tip jar.

“Oh, thank you. ‘Awfully kind of ya.” He responds softly, out of surprise because most people never bothered to tip. He might even be blushing a little..but he can’t really tell. Maybe it was just the steam from the espresso machine.

“It’s no problem. Gotta support small businesses, y’know?”

He nods in understanding. “Yeah, it’s the least people can do. Anyway, I’ll get that Cappuccino goin’ for ya. Feel free to sit wherever.” He gestured to the empty tables.

The table closest to the fireplace ended up being the one you ultimately chose. It happened to also be his favorite spot as well, go figure.

On any other occasion, Joel would call the customer's name once their drink was ready, but given the current circumstances..and the fact that he hadn’t asked for your name, bringing the coffee to you was perfectly acceptable.

“Here’s that Cappuccino for ya.” His voice drawled above you as he set the mug down in front of you. “Let me know if I can getcha anythin’ else. I’ll just be in the back finishin’ up with the cleanin.’”

“Thank you..” you start to say before realizing that you don’t know this man’s name either.

“Joel.” He clears his throat. “My name is Joel, and you are?..”

You tell him your name and he nods with a small smile.

You're left alone to your thoughts as his footsteps disappear behind the countertop once more. You can faintly hear him busying himself and putzing around as your cappuccino begins to cool without you realizing it.

You find yourself vacantly staring through the windows, and the dimly lit streets and passerby’s. You’ve always had a fond love for people watching and imagining what their lives were like. What their jobs and aspirations were. Did they have a family waiting for them? What made them happy? Would they be able to relate to you?

You don’t even hear Joel’s approaching footsteps nearing the table until he’s saying your name with an edge of concern in his voice because you’ve neglected to have a single sip of your cappuccino that has now become room temperature.

Your eyes meet his deep brown warm ones as your own sense of confusion washes over you.

“Is everythin’ alright? You haven’t touched your cappuccino at all..” he’s not offended, nor hurt, but the empath in him is genuinely concerned, even though you’re just a stranger in his coffee shop.

“Oh.” Your voice falls flat. “I’m so sorry, Joel. I guess I got lost in my own thoughts and completely forgot about it.” You feel bad, awful actually because he took the time to make you this drink, and all you had to do was just drink it—

“Hey, it’s alright. I find myself getting lost in my own thoughts as well. But, I can’t have ya drinkin’ a cold Cappuccino. I’ll make you a new one, alright? It’s no trouble at all.” He’s already reaching over to grab the mug.

“Joel, are you sure? You really don’t have to—”

He cuts you off reassuringly, “I insist. I won’t have my customer drinkin’ a cold Cappuccino on my watch. Ain’t no way.”

He disappears back behind the counter before you are able to protest. Joel returns 10 minutes later with two mugs in hand. You listen to the sound of the chair across from you scraping before he slowly sits down.

“I uh—hope you don’t mind me joinin’ ya? You jus’ seem like you could use some company, darlin.’ S’that alright for me to call you darlin?’”

He’s sweet like warm sticky molasses and honey. He actually might be the nicest guy you’ve met in a long long time.

“Oh, I don’t mind at all, Joel. I could actually use the company, and you can call me darling. That’s alright with me too.”

He smiles at you over the rim of his mug that is clasped between his hands. He gently blows on the billowing steam before he takes a small sip. “So, do you have any fun plans for the evenin’? I’m only assumin’ cus’ you’re all dressed up for a night out in town.” He gestures to your glittery getup that sparkles under the warm flames.

“Well, I did have plans to meet up with some friends tonight..but I wasn’t feeling up for it in the end and somehow ended up here.” You said with a sigh before taking a sip of your own Cappuccino. “This is delicious, by the way.”

“How come?..if ya don’t mind me askin?’ And I’m glad you’re enjoyin’ it. Tastes a lot better when it’s hot.”

The last thing you expected tonight was to engage in a conversation about your daily anxieties with this absolutely gorgeous man. Whom you just met, but crazier things have happened before.

“I don’t mind you asking, Joel. I just don’t want to burden you with my troubles or anything. Especially since I think they’re a bit silly and blown out of proportion.” Your eyes casted downwards into the mug.

“Hey, I doubt you can do that, and between you and me? I’ve heard it all. Got a teenage daughter who’s goin’ through all the things that I’m tryin’ to understand..but as a single father, it’s fuckin’ tough sometimes. But I’d be happy to act as a listenin’ ear for ya.” He genuinely means it, too.

“You have a daughter? How old is she? Teenagers can be a handful, that is very true.” You responded thoughtfully while leaning back against the chair.

You watch the way his eyes light up like a Christmas tree when you show a genuine interest in this man’s life. It’s sometimes a rare occurrence to meet a stranger who you feel like you can just immediately open up to without thinking too hard about it.

“She just turned 13 this year. She’s a good kid, super smart. The kinda kid that probably will end up growin’ up and changin’ the world. She’s..well, my world.” He clears his throat and you notice his dimple poking out in his cheek.

As if this man couldn’t become any more attractive.

“Anyway, she’s already goin’ through some friend and boy drama and it’s jus’ a lot to keep up with. Her mom ain’t in the picture either, so it’s not like I can turn to her for any guidance. She went to her first ever school dance this year in a dress that she picked out. The next thing I know, she’s callin’ me up in tears because some kids thought it was okay to make fun of how she looked. I know kids can be mean sometimes, but I wanted to go in there and teach those little shits a lesson myself.”

He was quite the protective father.

“Kids can be real bitches sometimes, Joel. I never quite understood it myself. Especially since I’m sure your daughter was just minding her own business and having a good time? I learned at a very young age that there’s a lot of jealous people in this world that enjoy causing pain in others for no apparent reason.They might have their own struggles, but that is no justification. Those kids that bullied your daughter will hopefully learn from their mistakes sooner rather than later.”

“She was just mindin’ her own and having a great time. She was so excited to wear her dress. It jus’ makes me so goddamn angry because I can’t protect her from everythin’ out there. It’s somethin’ that I’ve really struggled with this year especially. And I’ve tried to talk to my brother about it, but he doesn’t get it either.” Joel said with a sigh. “I’m glad that you can understand all of this though. I don’t really have any female friends to talk to about this stuff either.”

“Most kids grow out of their ‘mean’ phase after highschool. I can admit that I went through a phase similar to that. Made a lot of mistakes that I had to hold myself accountable for. But, with your love and support, I think your daughter is gonna end up being okay. She’s lucky to have you as a dad.” You reassure him.

“Really? You don’t seem like the type of person to ever hurt someone..then again, I ain’t perfect either. Never have been, never will. I’ve had my own regrets as well. But, I appreciate all that you’re sayin.’ S’Nice to be validated every now and then.” He leans forward with his elbows resting along the table and you’re just beginning to notice how broad his shoulders truly are under his faded flannel.

“I don’t think anyone can ever claim to be perfect. We don’t know everything and can make genuine mistakes. But all we can really do is learn from them, make it up to the people we may have hurt, and move forward. I think you’re a really nice person, based on our conversation, Joel.”

“You’re right, darlin.’ No one in this world can claim they are perfect. It's impossible.” His knee brushed yours gently from how close he was leaning in giving you a clear indication that he was actively listening to everything you were saying. “Anyway, I’m sorry I went off on that tangent jus’ now when we were talkin’ about your New Year’s Eve plans.”

“Dammit.” You sighed with a smile tugging on your lips. “I thought you forgot all about that.”

“Nah. I’m pretty good at rememberin’ even if I find myself havin’ to circle back. So, you didn’t feel up to meeting’ your friends tonight?”

“I was going to, truly. But I just got into my head way too much. It started with finding an outfit to wear. I absolutely tore my closet up and I’m really dreading having to clean it up later. Anyway, I’ve got the outfit on, right?”

He nods while taking another sip of his Cappuccino.

“I’m feeling great, and loving the way the outfit looks on me, and then there’s that stupid mean voice inside my brain. You know the one?”

“Ahh yeah. The voice that tells us that we’re unattractive and worthless? Like when we put on our favorite outfit and it’s not fitting quite right, and we know it’s silly to cry over clothes..but sometimes we just can’t help it? And that voice is right there beating us down because sometimes we forget that it’s natural for our bodies to change?”

Damn, he’s good.

“So...you hear that voice sometimes too? I honestly thought I was alone in this feeling. I tend to keep these thoughts to myself because I don’t want to burden others, y’know? I do see a therapist, though. It definitely has helped a lot, but I’m still struggling.”

“Darlin,’ I know exactly where you’re comin’ from. I had these favorite pairs of jeans that I would wear pretty much everyday. Well, just this past month I found that they ain’t fittin’ the way they used to. The zipper wouldn’t budge, and then I spent a good hour tryin’ all the tricks in the book to get those suckers to fit. Well, none of it worked and then I started beatin’ myself up. Sayin’ all the nasty names I could come up with. Then after all of that, I thought about all the delicious meals I had this year and especially these damn ice cream sundaes that my kid is obsessed with. Suddenly, the jeans not fittin’ didn’t bother me as much anymore.”

“Ice cream sundaes are delicious, and even more-so when you are enjoying them with your daughter. I pretty much went through the exact thing that you’re describing. I know that we shouldn’t give into the societal bullshit of looking a certain way to appear more attractive, but it’s just hard sometimes. That’s why I try to cycle through my closet every now and then so I’m not holding onto clothing that doesn’t fit me anymore. Did you end up keeping the jeans?..”

“She’s been requestin’ them for dessert pretty much every night, and I have a hard time tellin’ her no. They are absolutely delicious. It is definitely hard to pass them up sometimes. It’s comforting to know that other people go through the exact same thing that we’ve gone through. I did in fact donate the jeans, and then bought a new pair the same day. Wearin’ ‘em now actually, and I gotta say, I think I look quite good in ‘em if I do say so myself.” He said in a cheeky tone that sent heat rising on your cheeks.

“Well, I think you should stand up, if you feel comfortable doing so, that is, and let’s see what this jeans talk is all about.”

He grins at you, eyebrows playfully dancing while he sets his mug down along the table before pushing his chair back to stand up.

He gives you a little spin, one that neither you were expecting, but you could tell that he was having fun showing off his new denim.

“Okay, respectfully? Those jeans look amazing on you, they are very flattering, Joel.”

He laughs a warm and hearty laugh as his cheeks turn beet red from your words. Even if you’re just playing along, he’s feeling charmed by your presence.

“Really? Y’know, I was thinkin’ the same thing and a’that..but I’m a pretty humble guy.” He said sheepishly.

“Joel, screw being humble. You’re wearing those jeans like they’re made for you! You gotta own that.” You said with a giggle.

“Alright. Alright. If ya say so, darlin.’ I appreciate the compliment, but have ya taken a look at yourself tonight? You’re glitterin’ like a goddamn mirror ball. Gonna blind me with all that sparkle Y’got goin’ on.” He’s flirting, now. He’s absolutely shamelessly flirting with you.

You find yourself leaning forward then, close enough that he can see the pretty shimmer painted on your eyelids and your undeniable flirty smile.

“Joel, are you flirting with me right now?” You’re feeling bold, and curious to know if you were reading the signs correctly, or letting your brain run a muck in theories.

“I am, darlin.’ Is that..alright? Cus’ if it makes you feel uncomfortable, I can stop.”

“No, please continue to flirt away. I’m glad that you’re getting to see my outfit, Joel. I probably have glitter in places where glitter doesn’t belong.” You said with a light, airy laugh.

“You’ll be finding little bits of glitter all over the place well within the next year. Do you have any to spare?” He asked with a warm chuckle.

“Actually..I do have some to spare.” You reached for your purse along the side of the chair and pulled out your tube of glitter eyeshadow that you had brought just in case you needed any touch ups. “May I?”

“Oh, you really weren’t kiddin’ when you said you have some to spare, huh?” He leaned in closer to get a better look. “That’s a really pretty color, darlin.’ You think I can pull that off?”

“I don’t kid when it comes to my glitter, Joel.” You said teasingly. “I absolutely think you can pull this color off. But, I’ll need you to close your eyes so I can apply this more eveningly.”

“Okay, I’m trustin’ you, darlin.’” He slowly closed his eyes then and only flinched a little when he felt the applicator glide across his eyelid. “Sorry, wasn’t it expectin’ to feel that damn cold.” He murmured softly.

“No worries, Joel. It can be a bit ticklish at times.” You scooted your chair in closer to him so both of your knees were tucked in between his as you delicately applied the shimmering shadow. Your tongue was peeking out between your lips as you focused on the task at hand.

He tried to peek his eye open once, before you playfully scolded him and said, no peeking.

To which he grumbled out a response with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Am I pretty yet, darlin?’” He asked with his eyes still shut as you admired your work.

“Very pretty, Joel. Okay, you can go ahead and open them.” You pulled out a little handheld mirror from your purse and held it out for him to admire his appearance.

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times to get used to the feeling before he averted his attention to the mirror you were holding. “Oh, shit. Wow. Y’know what..I actually think I like it.” He looked over at you then before he realized how close you were sitting to him. “Thank you, darlin’ I feel like I’m a mirror ball too.”

“It really brings out your eyes, Joel. They were already pretty before, but now, they’re even more beautiful.”

You were already forgetting about how awful you felt earlier, and the guilty feelings for turning down your friend's offer to go out. It admittedly felt nice to talk to another person that shared more things in common with you than you realized. To be validated, and in turn, validate someone as well? It felt really, really good inside.

“So, now that we’re both glittered up, and it’s two hours till the start of the new year, would you maybe care to join me for a drink? Only if you’re feeling up for it, that is.” Joel asked you with his eyes flickering back to yours. Truthfully, he’s happy that you somehow found yourself in his coffee shop tonight. He can’t remember the last time he’s connected with someone on such a deep and personal level.

“I’d love to get a drink with you, Joel.” You don’t even second guess your answer, and if the feelings come up later, so be it. That little voice inside of your head is nowhere to be found as Joel offers you his arm.

You help him finish closing up for the night before the two of you find yourselves walking arm in arm to the bar that his brother Tommy was at. During your walk, you find yourselves falling back into conversation that flows easy like a steady stream. When you bring up feeling guilty for often being a homebody, he reassures you that wanting to spend a quiet evening with yourself is perfectly normal, and it’s something you shouldn’t feel ashamed of. He goes on to add that if you want to go out more, that’s perfectly okay to do as well. But you should never pressure yourself to go out and have a good time, if that’s truly not what you want to do.

And when you find Joel’s brother at the high top with a glass of bubbly in front of him, the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Joel, what is that on your face?” He leans in close to inspect the glitter shadow painted on Joel’s eyelids.

You and Joel turn to one another with two knowing smiles plastered on your faces before you laugh in unison, “it’s glitter, of course!”

banners made by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

I no longer have a tag list so please follow @tightjeansjaviupdates for fic updates and notifications!

[probablymoons]

Description below the cut. seeing that it was included in the trial animation made me smile so. here is a compilation of the background raccoon in iwtv :}

edit: 1. just wanted to say that Daniel reads off one of Armand's stage notes in s2e8, "We need an animation here. It's not clear how extreme the hoarding was." 2. added a bts photo from the director below!

Animated during the trial [s2e7]: Walking from right to left. Head pops out from under newspapers. Lestat presents it on a silver platter.

Original shot [s1e5]: Seen stepping on hat box and statue while the camera pans from the dirty stairwell to Lestat and Louis.

Cast diary from Jacob Anderson [s1e5]: “Episode 5, also known as “the raccoon episode”. There is a scene-stealing raccoon. I was going to say you might notice- you will definitely notice her. She is adorable and she put in such a brilliant performance... We were told, like, under no circumstances should you look at the raccoon. Under no circumstances do you approach the raccoon. She basically ran this set for that entire scene. It was that kind of vibe. She was cool. She’s a consummate professional.”

edit: Tweet by @ImmortalUpdates (Oct. 24, 2022) that has behind-the-scenes images from Levan Akin's instagram stories. The one currently in the carousel view says "bts, scoonie the racoon smelling my hair 😭❤️ @MillikensMovieAnimals" the photo shows Levan looking down while someone holds the raccoon over his head to let it sniff him.

[cuties-in-codices]

Where do you find these manuscripts? Is it like a website or do you find it randomly??

hey, thanks for the curiosity! lenghty answer below the cut :)

1)

medieval manuscripts are typically owned by libraries and showcased on the library's websites. so one thing i do is i randomly browse those digitized manuscript collections (like the collections of the bavarian state library or the bodleian libraries, to name just two), which everybody can do for free without any special access. some digital collections provide more useful tools than others (like search functions, filters, annotations on each manuscript). if they don't, the process of wading through numerous non-illustrated manuscripts before i find an illustrated one at all can be quite tedious.

2)

there are databases which help to navigate the vast sea of manuscripts. the one i couldn't live without personally use the most is called KdIH (Katalog der deutschsprachigen illustrierten Handschriften des Mittelalters). it's a project which aims to list all illustrated medieval manuscripts written in german dialects. the KdIH provides descriptions of the contents of each manuscript (with a focus on the illustrations), and if there's a digital reproduction of a manuscript available anywhere, the KdIH usually links to it. the KdIH is an invaluable tool for me because of its focus on illustrated manuscripts, because of the informations it provides for each manuscript, and because of its useful search function (once you've gotten over the initial confusion of how to navigate the website). the downside is that it includes only german manuscripts, which is one of the main reasons for the over-representation of german manuscripts on my blog (sorry about that).

3)

another important database for german manuscripts in general (i.e. not just illustrated ones) is the handschriftencensus, which catalogues information regarding the entirety of german language manuscripts of the middle ages, and also links to the digital reproductions of each manuscript.

4)

then there are simply considerable snowball effects. if you do even just superficial research on any medieval topic at all (say, if you open the wikipedia article on alchemy), you will inevitably stumble upon mentions of specific illustrated manuscripts. the next step is to simply search for a digital copy of the manuscript in question (this part can sometimes be easier said than done, especially when you're coming from wikipedia). one thing to keep in mind is that a manuscript illustration seldom comes alone - so every hint to any illustration at all is a greatly valuable one (if you do what i do lol). there's always gonna be something interesting in any given illustrated manuscript. (sidenote: one very effective 'cheat code' would be to simply go through all manuscripts that other online hobbyist archivers of manuscript illustrations have gone through before - like @discardingimages on tumblr - but some kind of 'professional pride' detains me from doing so. that's just a kind of stubbornness though. like, i want to find my material more or less on my own, not just the images but also the manuscripts, and i apply arbitrary rules to my search as to what exactly that means.)

5)

whatever tool or strategy i use to find specific illustrated manuscripts-- in the end, one unavoidable step is to actually manually skim through the (digitized) manuscript. i usually have at least a quick look at every single illustrated page, and i download or screenshot everything that is interesting to me. this process can take up to an hour per manuscript.

---

in conclusion, i'd say that finding cool illuminated manuscripts is much simpler than i would have thought before i started this blog. there are so many of them out there and they're basically just 'hidden in plain side', it's really astounding. finding the manuscripts doesn't require special skills, just some basic experience with/knowledge of the tools available. the reason i'm able to post interesting images almost daily is just that i spend a lot of time doing all of this, going through manuscripts, curating this blog, etc. i find a lot of comfort in it, i learn a lot along the way, and i immensely enjoy people's engagement with my posts. so that's that :)

[neopronouns-in-action]

So can we start calling this the progress trans flag and using this, or is that too radical a concept for people in 2023?

[ID: A version of the progress trans flag with eight horizontal stripes of: purple, black, blue, pink, white, yellow, black, and brown. In the center are concentric circles of black, dark purple, and gold. End ID.]

Explicitly include nonbinary and intersex people in the trans pride flag. Not just “including nonbinary people” as a single single white stripe for people with “neutral” genders that 99% of people don’t even know is for nonbinary people, and instead think is there to represent transitioning.

If you want support nonbinary people, one small step is to explicitly include us in the trans pride flag, and not just by lumping all of us together into a single “neutral” category that seems like it’s only there to separate the pink and blue stripes.

I’m tired of binary people, both cis and trans, promoting exorsexism and erasing and speaking over nonbinary people. If the pride flag can change to explicitly include and support trans people and people of color, then the trans flag can change too.

Being trans is not just for binary men and women. It’s not just for perisex people or white people. It’s 2023. How about we put the most erased parts of our community front and center in the trans community, and how about the rest of the trans community be proud to fight with us?

There are three main versions of this flag, with the most simplified version up top.

Symmetrical version:

[ID: Three versions of the trans progress pride flag, both with symetrical horizontal stripes of purple, black, blue, pink, yellow, white, yellow, pink, blue, black, and purple. The first version includes a brown sideways chevron, followed by a gold triangle of the intersex flag, with the dark purple circle in the center. The second version has a brown diamond in the center, with concentric circles of black, dark purple, and gold inside it. The third version has only the stripes. End ID.]

The white and yellow stripe on this six-striped version are reversed so that the white stripe, like the black, is easy to see against all background colors.

[ID: Two versions of the six-striped version of the trans progress pride flag, with stripes of purple, black, blue, pink, white, and yellow. The first version includes a brown sideways chevron, followed by a gold triangle of the intersex flag, with the purple circle in the center. The second version has a brown diamond in the center, with concentric circles of black, dark purple, and gold inside it. The third version has only the stripes. End ID.]

Here is the web archive link where you can download the HD versions of these flags, including the symbols:

“https://archive.org/details/progress-trans-flag”

Do not add images to this post unless they include a plain text image description in the body of the post directly below the image.

ALT text is not accessible for everyone who needs an image description. Plain text image descriptions are the most accessible option. That’s why I used an image description and not ALT text.

Please also do not suggest replacements or variations of this flag that leave out the black, white, purple, or yellow. They were all chosen for a reason. You can add other colors if you want, but removing the purple, yellow, black, or white is just as egregious as removing the blue or pink would be.

The black, white, yellow, and purple all represent forms of identity outside the binary. Combining the black and white into grey erases so many people and completely misunderstands the purpose of those stripes.

These are the baseline colors for the flag, you can customize them via less saturation, darkness, ect, when making art or using it for your own purposes. You do not need to color pick directly from this flag any time you use it.

Edit 12/10/23: go read this post too.

[mariipun]

Adventures of Wally & The Gang (plus their Caretaker)

Off Script Shenanigans 

Warnings: None. Humor, wholesome content.

Word Count: 1,513

Brief Description: The Welcome Home cast is alive and live alongside humans. You have been contracted to be their Caretaker, tending to their needs, schedule, and keeping them from (getting themselves into) bad publicity. The gang has some downtime on set, entertaining themselves or each other with nonsensical activities to pass the time as the Technical Director works on fixing the issues.

Welcome Home belongs to @partycoffin [in no means is my work canon]

Dedication: @kandavers 

[ /I hope this gives you a little serotonin boost, I’m cheering you on from my side of the world! ]

.

.

The studio was as energetic as ever. Production had halted due to technical difficulties that needed to be resolved. You lazily sat on one of the deck chairs, elbow on the armrest, cheek leaning against your palm as you scanned across the set and watched some of the cast members. You were glad to get a break and off your feet.

[Eyes first land on Sally]

Sally was going over the script, suggesting certain scenes to be revised with the Director, and penciling in changes.

Sally: “I just think we really should include a song during this scene, making it more—lively, ya know?”  

You overheard her conversation, chuckling as the Director gave her a puzzled look. You weren’t sure how much more ‘lively’ the show could be with the beautiful array of bright colors and every other episode already containing musical numbers. “Oh! Maybe even a dance sequence—”

[Eyes pan towards Poppy]

You watched as the red fluff of feathers hummed to herself, sitting near a basket of props. You couldn’t tell what she was doing exactly, but it looked like she was probably knitting something? Well, she had her hobbies outside of teaching children their ABC’s.

[Next, you saw Julie]

Julie: “Howdy-ho neighbors! Come tour the Welcome Home set with me!”

A small smile formed on your lips as you watched the bubbly puppet hold her phone slightly above her face as she chatted with fans on her live feed.

Your eyes trained on her for a minute as she walked about, introducing some of the wardrobe designers and makeup artists that work on her outfits, looks, and so on. As she moved on, you kept watching as Julie draped an arm around Wally’s shoulders before he could snatch up one of the apples sitting at the spread table, adjusting her phone so both were in the frame of view.

Julie: “Wally Darling, say hello to everyone!”

Wally: “Well hello dear neighbors! Hope you’re all looking forward to the next episode.” He waved, smiling.

Barnaby soon came up from behind the two with a large grin, saying hello as well. You could tell the chat was going absolutely insane getting to interact with them. You giggled at their antics, happy that they got to spend some time with people from all around the world, even if it wasn’t during one of their face-to-face meet-and-greets.

Probably one of the many things you admired about them.

Although sometimes crazy (and difficult to handle), they were always dedicated to entertaining the masses with wholesome content. On camera anyhow. It was your job to make sure no scandalous rumors ended up in the media; constantly protecting their image off screen. You’d hate to see the show canceled, especially since you were dedicated not only to the basis of the show but because you deeply cared for them.

Julie: “Oh! Barnaby, someone asked how many things you’re able to juggle at once.”

Barnaby: “Well, let’s see. Hey, lil’ buddy, toss me a few of those apples will ya?”

Julie released her light hold on Wally, flipping the camera so she could point the phone toward the pair. She stepped back as Wally began gently tossing a few apples in Barnaby’s direction. The blue mass caught them with ease, beginning to juggle. 1…2...3…4….

Barnaby: “Ha! Too easy, c’mon, toss me a few more.”

Julie: “Oh, oh! Someone also said to make it more challenging.”

Wally: “Guess we just have to give our dear neighbors what they’re asking for.” He muses, scanning the spread table and grabbing one of the bananas, then tossing it toward Barnaby.

Again, catching it with ease, Barnaby chuckled as he nodded toward the soda cans. Wally picked one up, tossing them his way.

Barnaby: “…5….6!” The juggling continued, items being tossed a bit higher to make some space as he caught and tossed, and tossed, and tossed.

Julie: “Think you can handle any more?”

Barnaby: “I’m the Great Barnaby B. Beagle, nothing can stop me now!”

Wally looked over, pondering what to toss his friend next. He decided on some sunglasses, then grabbed one of the bowling pin props and a small stress ball out of a box one of the stagehands was carrying as they scooted by.

Wally: “…7…8….9….”

You continued to watch, tilting your head up slightly as Barnaby’s juggling began to waver and then steady.

Barnaby: “Let’s make it an even 10. Toss me one more please.”

There weren’t many other options readily available until Wally saw one of the saran-wrapped sandwiches on the table. Picking it up, he tossed it but misjudged the distance as Barnaby jolted to catch it. Stepping forward, he caught it, but it threw off the balance of the juggled circle and the items began slightly leaning more and more until Barnaby began staggering toward you.

You perked up, stiffening. You noticed he was moving toward one of the cables on the floor, which was unfortunately not taped down to prevent a tripping hazard.

Caretaker: “Barnaby, wait—”

Too late.

Barnaby: “Whoa--!” The puppet’s foot was caught underneath the cable, the apples, banana, sandwich, sunglasses, bowling pin prop, stress ball, and can of soda flying in your direction.

Everything crashed down around you, save for the soda can, which plummeted right in front of you. The sheer velocity of the aluminum can hitting the ground had enough force to burst, a steady, but violent stream of soda onto your face. (Did everything that went wrong have to be an overly exaggerated gag bit?)

You held your hands out to try and shield yourself, aggressively coughing as you accidentally inhaled the fizzy beverage through your nose. After what felt like an eternity, it finally stopped blasting in your face.

Both Wally and Julie were immediately by your side, asking if you were okay, while Barnaby repeatedly apologized from the ground. You could hear the commotion around you as Sally ran to grab a towel, Poppy squawking in concern somewhere in the background.

Wally: “Care, are you okay?” He asked, reaching over, and gently placing a hand on your arm. “Are you hurt—” He stopped, eyes widening slightly as you began to laugh under your breath, which soon turned into loud, boisterous laughter.

You didn’t quite open your eyes since the soda stung, but you couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Doubling over, you just couldn’t stop yourself from cracking up. Both Wally and Julie sighed in relief, smiling as you confirmed you were okay. As you calmed down from your fit of laughter, you thanked Sally for the towel and wiped your face.

Wally: “Well, I’m glad you’re alright Caretaker. It’s also nice to see you having more fun.”

Julie: “Yeah! You have such a wonderful laugh! You should do that more often.”

Barnaby: “Pfft—you call that a laugh? It was more of like a goose hon—” His mouth shut automatically as you gave the blue puppet a warning glance. “Uh.. ha, ha, ha. I mean, your laugh is fantastic Care!” He backtracked before standing and looking you over. Placing his hands on his hips, he shifted his weight to one leg, smiling down at you. “But, it does sound refreshing to finally have you let loose.”

You shake your head, wrapping the towel around your shoulders.

Julie: “Oh! Right!” Julie swapped her phone camera again, leaning closer and placing you both in the frame. “Hey, hey neighbors! Crisis averted! They’re A-O.K.! But let me also introduce you to the most important member of the Welcome Home Cast! This is our dear Caretaker! They work super hard!”

Wally: “That’s right. They always take great care of us.” He adds, leaning closer despite the threat of getting his felt sticky.

Sally: “And they’re super cool!”

Barnaby: “Not to mention, a real spitfire.” He nudged your shoulder gently once he made his way to you.

At this point, Poppy, Eddie, Howdy, and Frank had appeared, joining in the cascade of praises. You were a bit too stunned to speak, not quite used to being complimented so much. You definitely weren’t anticipating this. You were skeptical at first, but their words were truly genuine as each of the cast members looked over to you with smiles reaching all the way up to their eyes. You heard and saw the swift pings of comments from the fans, not being able to read all of them, but catching a glimpse of the ‘hello Caretaker’, ‘keep doing your best’, and ‘you’re incredible’.

Caretaker: “I… thank you….” You replied sheepishly, feeling your face begin to flush. You reached up, grabbing one of the ends of the towel that was wrapped around your shoulders, bringing it up to your nose to hide the blush that had formed.

All cast members, in unison: “No, thank YOU, Caretaker!”

[Bonus]

You would later clean yourself up and ended up scolding Barnaby, Wally, and Julie about the dangers of carelessly tossing so many things in the air without properly considering their surroundings. Someone could have seriously gotten hurt after all. 

[thejockout]

As time passes and I release more files, an increasing number of people DM asking whether I'd be interested in trancing them personally. A few have even requested to do this with me as an altered commission, which they'd pay for on a regular basis as I work with them! To date, I have not said yes to anyone: and I'd like to take a minute here to explain why. If you're one of the people who's asked, offered or suggested this, don't feel bad - I've never given a stance on it. But I'm doing it here now!

Reason #1: As a subject and tist, my "field of expertise" lies in pre-made mp3s. I had my dalliances with sites like Hypnosis4Guys and a few sessions over Skype/Discord back in the day, but they were almost all disastrous. Of maybe... 8/9 separate individuals, 6 violated my set boundaries (by recording me, by jerking off when we'd established it would be a sfw session, by trying to change the topic of trance to get their own suggestions in place) and I frankly have no interest as a subject in repeating this experience. So I stick to MP3s.

But that also means that I have little practical experience of live trance work on either end; I'm sure that I could improvise some BS as well as anyone else can. I'm not so down on myself that I think I'd never figure it out. But I don't have a history with it, and I'm pretty hesitant to pick anyone as my "first subject" who'd have to sit through me fumbling my way through a few sessions before I figured it all out.

Reason #2: Compared to producing 'nosis MP3s, live trance is a whoooole different ballgame intimacy-wise. And it's one I don't feel equipped for because of how seriously I'd want to take it. Needing to provide aftercare, working with safeties, ensuring a sub's comfort and ease... these are all considerations that are uniquely challenging to account for in live trance, and ones I'm very hesitant to do with a stranger as a result. Even something as simple as needing to guarantee my internet doesn't go out, or that I don't get interrupted... I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something went wrong/a subject had an abreaction when they were under for me.

Hypnosis is a tricky business, and it can dredge up unpleasant/unwanted emotions in people pretty easily if you strike the wrong chord (which, in this whole space of TF kink, is possible if not common.) I have had panic attacks a not-insignificant number of times in trance, and I know how scary it can be. I would want somebody more experienced/educated than myself to help me through it if we were trancing together.

Reason #3: To date, I don't consider I've gotten enough training to be engaging with these pseudo-therapeutic topics on a specifically one-to-one basis. I already try to step lightly around certain topics like image and self-worth in my files because I'm not a psych grad and my only "qualifications" in hypnosis or therapy are short-form courses. (I am, however, pursuing further education in hypnosis and doing a course on it right now.)

But this is complicated because the suggestions a lot of subjects in this space want, me included, can really put you in a psychological minefield. Things like habit change, strong TF ideas, ego effects and permanent change ✨... they're closely tied to our sense of identity, self, sexuality, etc, and there IS a risk of some butterfly effect when you go plucking these strings. I'm not criticising other tists for tackling these issues/themes via live sessions. Their choices are their own, and their subjects are choosing their tists just as much as the other way around... but personally, I would feel irresponsible dipping into people's minds in that way.

But then... why are files different?

Ultimately, a file is different because it's premade; I am writing a script, I'm telling you what it contains, and it's up to you to decide if that's right for you. There is no learning on the fly what I'm speaking about (assuming you read a file description), and you've at least broadly decided you like the theme I'm exploring. After pretalks and setup, a live trance is improv; even if you're working repeatedly with a subject on their specific desires, that requires a flexibility/change that demands a lot more "Navigation" of the sub's psyche than files do. It's more involved. As I said earlier, it's more intimate. And it's a lot more responsibility.

I still try to be responsible with my files. I pay attention to safeties, ethics, etc. I am wary of encouraging irresponsible behaviours without appropriate softening, and I generally temper my own desires a little when writing to avoid causing harm inadvertently. But that same caution would make live work very challenging to do well, so I haven't yet.

Sorry for the seriousness of the post, but I figured it was worthy of a full response. Thanks for reading.

[rjalker]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin, is now available in English, transcribed into text from a single PDF scan of the story from Popular Magazine #81, v6.

This is, as far as I am aware, the only version of this story available in English besides the original PDF. You're welcome.

Links:

Read or download from the Web Archive.

Download (and, optionally, leave a tip) on Itch.io <-- now includes two audiobook versions!

Buy a physical copy from Lulu.com

@walks-the-ages, @internet--archive (thought you might like to be tagged, lol)

You can also read this short story under the read-more right here on tumblr. It is 9,051 words long, not including the title.

Summary, by me:

A crime so terrible it barely bears thinking about has been brought to the attention of cabinet minister Jean Rouxval, and he has taken it upon himself to bring those responsible for this horrible deed to justice.

But his plans to go it alone are brought up short when a detective by the name of Hercules Petitgris is assigned to assist him. Despite his poor appearance, detective Petitgris comes highly recommended. The suspects arrive, and Rouxval begins his interrogation, the proceedings watched over by the silent Petitgris as Rouxval takes the lead, driven by anger over the crime he has discovered. Little does he know that Petitgris got the case all worked out as soon as Rouxval started talking...

(Archived read-more link)

[read-more link was here]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin

Written by Maurice Leblanc,

“author of “The Hollow Needle,” “813,” “A Gentleman,” Ect.”

[Image description start: A black and white illustration with a black border, showing four characters. One is a man sitting at a desk, in a suit and tie, gesturing with one hand, while another man stands in front of the desk with his back to the viewer, one hand on his hip. Then a man and woman looking worried, the man with his hat off and hanging by his side, his other hand held out as he speaks, the woman with one hand to her face, the other clutching her chest. Image description end.]

Hands behind his back, head sunk deep in the collar of his coat, his harsh countenance contracted in deep thought, Jean Rouxval nervously paced up and down the length of his vast study. At the threshold the chief page, detailed to the service of of cabinet officers, awaited orders. The minister betrayed by his short, quick steps, his drawn brow, his agitation, that he was shaken by emotion which assail a strong man seldom, and only at crucial moment of his life.

Stopping suddenly, he said to the page in a determined voice:

“A lady and a gentleman, no longer very young, will arrive presently. You will ask them to wait in the drawing-room. Shortly after I expect a gentleman, younger and alone. You will conduct him to the yellow room. They are neither to speak nor to see each other. You understand? I am to be notified at once of their arrival.”

“Very well, sir,” said the page, and withdrew.

Jean Rouxval’s political ability lay mainly in his tremendous energy, his attention to detail and a determination to know a bit about everything, whether it concerned his department or not.

Having enlisted almost at once in 1914 to avenge his two sons – both of whom had seemingly vanished from the field of battle – and the subsequent death of his wife, the war had given him an excessive sense of the value of discipline, authority, and duty. Affairs in which he was concerned always discovered him ready to undertake the most serious responsibilities and consequently found him assuming the greatest amount of power. He won the esteem of his colleagues, but they were also a bit wary lest the exaggeration of his good qualities might not drag the cabinet into needless complications.

He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to give. He still had time to glance over the record of the frightful case which had caused him so much anxiety. Just then, however, he was interrupted by the telephone. He seized the receiver; the president of the council wished to speak to him.

He waited what seemed an endless time. Finally the president himself spoke. Answering, he said:

“Yes, Rouxval speaking, Mr. President.” He listened, seemed annoyed, and then replied in a bitter voice:

“Certainly, Mr. President, I shall receive the detective you are sending. But don’t you think I could have obtained the necessary information? Well, of course, if you insist, my dear president, and if this Hercules Petitgris is, according to you, a specialist in criminal investigation, he can attend the meeting I have arranged … Hello! … Hello! … Yes …. What? … My dear president. … This Petitgris may be… Really! Is it possible? Ah! Well, merely a supposition … That is-- Petitgris has all the perspicacity usually attributed to Arsène Lupin. … Yes, sir...Perfectly. … I shall wait for him. Hello! … You are quite right, my dear Mr. President. … The case is very serious, especially since certain rumors have already begun to be circulated. … If I do not arrive at an immediate solution, and if the truth of the matter is at all what we fear, it will be a frightful scandal and a disaster for the country. … Hello! … Yes, yes, rest easy, my dear Mr. President, I shall do the impossible to succeed. I will succeed. … I must succeed.”

After a few more words, Rouxval hung up, muttering between clenched teeth:

“I must! I must! What a scandal!” He was considering the various paths which might lead him to a successful solution, when he gradually became aware that some one was near him, some one who was not seeking to be noticed.

He turned his head and was dumbfounded by what he saw. All but next to him stood a shabby, wretched-looking individual, a poor devil, one might say, holding his hat in his hand in the humble attitude of a beggar asking alms.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“By the door, sir. The chief page was busy parking people right and left, so I beat it straight in.”

“But who are you?”

The stranger bowed respectfully and introduced himself:

“Hercules Petitgris – the specialist whom the president of the council just recommended to you, sir—”

“Oh, then you were listening?” Rouxval broke in peevishly.

“What would you have done in my place, sir?”

He was a sickly looking, pitiful object, sad-faced – his hair, mustache, his pinched nose, his thin cheeks, the corners of his mouth, all drooped pathetically.

His arms hung wearily in a long, greenish overcoat which seemed about to slip from his shoulders. He spoke in a disconsolate voice, not without care, but accenting certain words in a manner peculiar to the common people.

“I even heard you speak of me as a detective, Mr. Minister,” he continued. “Wrong, all wrong! I am not even on the police force. I was dismissed from headquarters for ‘weak character, drunkenness and laziness.’ Those were the terms of discharge.”

Rouxval was unable to conceal his amazement.

“I don’t understand. The president of the council has recommended you as a man with a disconcerting ability to diagnose clearly and correctly.”

“Disconcerting, Mr. Minister, is the right word. There are people who even believe I am Arsène Lupin, as the president was telling you. That is why some gentlemen consent to my services, in cases where no one has succeeded or could succeed, without looking too closely at my record or my character. Sure they say I am conceited and insolent to my employers. And then what? When one of my employers puts his foot in it and I see the point right off, haven’t I the right to tell him, have a little laugh on the side? On the level, Mr. Minister, I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing. They are funny! You ought to see the faces on them.”

In that melancholy face, under the drooping mustache, the left side of his mouth curled up in a little, silent sneer, uncovering a huge tooth – the tooth of a wild beast. It gave him a look of sardonic joy for a moment. With a tooth like that the possessor would bite, and bite deeply.

The minister was not afraid of being bitten, but the stranger certainly did not appeal to him, and if the president of the council had not so insistently recommended him, Rouxval would have gotten rid of him promptly.

“Sit down,” he said gruffly. “I am about to question three people and have them face each other in my presence. In case you have any remarks to make, you will make them to me directly.”

“To you directly, Mr. Minister, and in a whisper, as I always do when I always see my chief putting his foot in it.”

Rouxval frowned. In the first place, he hated people who did not know their place – like many men of action, he was very sensitive and keenly feared ridicule. Concerning his efforts the phrase “putting his foot in it” seemed particularly outrageous and almost an intentional menace. But he had already rung; the page entered. Without further delay Rouxval ordered the there people brought to him.

Hercules Petitgris took off his worn, green overcoat, folded it carefully and sat down.

The lady and gentleman were the first to enter. They were evidently aristocrats, and both in deep mourning; she, still young, tall and very beautiful, with a lovely face, pale and austere, framed in graying hair; he, slightly shorter, slim, elegant, his mustache almost white.

Jean Rouxval addressed him:

“The Count de Bois-Vernay, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. My wife and I received your summons, which I confess, startled us a bit. But may we hope it has no ominous portent? My wife is not very strong.”

He looked toward her with affectionate solicitude. Rouxval asked them to be seated and answered:

“I am sure everything will be suitably arranged and that Madame de Bois-Vernay will excuse the slight inconvenience I have caused her.”

The door opened. A man between twenty-five and thirty entered. He was of more modest mien, not very carefully dressed; his countenance, though frank and kindly, gave evidences of dissipation and weariness, confusing one’s estimate of his fair, broad-shouldered young man.

“You are Maxime Leriot?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You do not know this lady and gentleman?”

“No, sir,” answered the newcomer, looking straight at the count and countess.

“No, we do not know this gentleman, either,” said the count in answer to a question of Rouxval’s.

The minister smiled. “I regret that this interview should begin with a statement which I am forced to disbelieve. But that little error will right itself at the proper time. Without haste and without undue delay over nonessentials, let us begin at the beginning.”

He opened the records on the table, turned to Maxine Leriot and in a slightly hostile tone said:

“We shall begin with you, sir. You were born in Dollincourt, Maine-et-Loire. Your father was a hard-working peasant who starved himself to give you a suitable education. The mobilization of 1914 found you a private in the infantry. Four years later you were an adjutant, with the croix de guerre and five citations for bravery. After the war you reenlisted. Toward the end of 1920 you were in Verdun. Your papers gave you credit for ‘ability as an officer.’

“But, about the middle of November, in the same year, came a bolt from the blue. One night in a third-rate dance hall, after opening ten bottles of champagne, you lost your head in a senseless brawl. You were arrested. You were taken to the post. You were searched. On you were found one hundred thousand francs. Where did you get that amount of money? You were never able to explain.”

Maxine Leriot protested:

“I beg your pardon, sir, I said that I had received the money from a person who wished to remain anonymous.”

“A worthless explanation!” said the minister. “Nevertheless, an inquiry was instituted by the military authorities. It came to nothing. Six months later, after obtaining your discharge from the service, you were again the center of another scandal,. This time your bill fold contained forty thousand francs in war bonds. And concerning these, too – silence and mystery. And again no explanation as to your means of livelihood or any reason for the dissipated existence you were leading. No position, no resources to speak of, yet money flowed through your fingers as if they supply were endless.

“The special detectives assigned to your case at the time could discover nothing, and you continued from bad to worse. Chance only, or a misstep on your part, could undo you. And that is what happened. One day, beneath the Arc de Triomphe, a man approached a woman who came there each day to pray, and said in a low voice, ‘I expect your husband’s letter to-morrow. Warn him – otherwise—‘

“The man’s attitude was surly, his tone snarling and menacing. The lady was frightened and quickly sought her motor. Must I specify that one of these persons was you, Maxime Leriot, and the other the Countess de Bois-Vernay, and only a moment ago you pretended not to know each other?”

Rouxval abruptly held up his hand. “I beg of you, sir,” he said to the count, who was about to interrupt, “do not try to deny the evidence. The episode occurred near me, for I also go regularly to the sacred tomb each week to pray for my sons. It was I who overheard the whispered threat; and it was for my own enlightenment, without knowing any of the facts which I have just related to you, that I undertook to discover who the man was, and the identity of his victim, in this too-apparently blackmailing scheme.”

The count said nothing. His wife did not stir. In his corner Hercules Petitgris nodded his head and seemed to approve the conduct of the investigation. Jean Rouxval, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, felt reassured. The tooth was not to be seen; therefore all was well. Rouxval continued, forging additional links in his chain of evidence.

“From the moment when circumstances placed the direction of this affair in my hands, it took quite a different turn, perhaps because I saw it in one light rather than another. Instead of Maxime Leriot, the man of to-day, I immediately saw the soldier of yesterday. His past interested me more than his present. Instantly, the moment I glanced at his record, two things struck me forcibly – a name and a date: Maxime Leriot was in Verdun, and he was there in the month of November, 1920 – that is, at the time when the anniversary of the armistice was to be celebrated and when most the solemn of ceremonies was about to take place.

“I went there and directed and inquiry on the spot, which proved neither very long nor difficult. His former battalion chief, whom I questioned, showed me an old order of that date over his signature, which also struck me forcibly. It seemed the key to the situation. The leader of one of the eight funeral cars, brought from eight different points along the great field of battle and bearing the bodies of eight nameless heroes, one of which was to be the Unknown Soldier-- this leader was none other than Adjutant Leriot himself.”

Jean Rouxval struck the desk with his fists, straining every muscle in his anger. Then in a muffled voice, deliberately emphasizing every word, he said:

“You, Maxime Leriot, were in the gallery of the fort where this historic ceremony took place; you were one of the guard of honor. Your heroism, your fame in military annals, caused you to be among those chosen for a part in this ceremony, amid the tricolor flags of your country and the trophies of victory in the great mortuary chapel. You – you were there—”

Overcome by emotion, Rouxval was forced to interrupt his vehement denunciation. It was necessary, moreover, to state facts more accurately and with less passion if the purport of his secret thought was to be clearly understood. Hercules Petitgris continued to nod his head approvingly, which only served to fan the flame of the minister’s ardor.

The former adjutant did not utter a sound. Like troops piercing an enemy line came Rouxval’s accusations. Hesitant, then stronger and stronger, and with greater force they had overwhelmed the foe before he could recover himself. The count listened and looked anxiously at his wife.

“Until this point in my investigation, I have only vague forebodings, no definite suspicions, no clews to lead me. I dared not understand. It was in this spirit, terrified, aghast, that I sought proofs of what I feared to know. These proofs were irrefutable. To begin: On All Saint’s Day, again the third of November, the fourth and the fifth, Adjutant Leriot, whose daily life I succeeded in reconstructing exactly, went, as soon as darkness had fallen, to an isolated inn.

“there he met a lady and gentleman with whom he remained in conference until dinner time. This lady and gentleman came to the inn in an automobile from a near-by city where they stayed at a certain hotel, the name of which I secured. I then went to this hotel and asked to see the register. From the first to the eleventh of November, 1920, two guests had been there – the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay.”

A silence; the pallor of the countess deepened; Rouxval drew from the records two sheets of paper which he unfolded.

“Here are two birth certificates. The one of Maxime Leriot, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is yours, Maxime Leriot. The other, Julian de Bois-Vernay, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is your son’s, Monsieur de Bois-Vernay. Therefore, we may say, the same birthplace, the same age – two facts granted. Here is a letter from the mayor of Dolincourt. The two young men had had the same nurse. In youth they continued the friendship of their childhood. They enlisted at the same time. Again uncontestable facts.”

Rouxval went on reading from the documents as fast as he turned the pages.

“Here is the death certificate of Julian de Bois-Vernay; died in 1916 at Verdun. Here is a copy of the burial permit for the cemetery of Douaumont. Here is an extract of the report of Adjutant Leriot, who ‘brought back from a trench running along the road to Fleury-à-Bras and near an old surgical service station, the remains, in good condition, of an unknown infantryman.’

“Finally, here is a relief map of the whole scene of action. The old service station is here, about five hundred meters from the cemetery where Julian de Bois-Vernay lay buried. I went from one to the other. I had that tomb opened – it is empty! What has become of the coffin of Julian de Bois-Vernay? Who removed it from the cemetery of Douaumont, if not you, Maxime Leriot? You, his friend, and the friend of the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay!”

Each sentence Rouxval uttered lent force to the final charge which the accumulated evidence imposed. The enemy was surrounded by undeniable arguments. There remained nothing but submission.

Rouxval, coming closer to Leriot and looking at him squarely, continued:

“This sinister venture is written on the pages of an open book. We know that the coffin of your foster brother was first taken from Douaumont, where he had been buried in an ordinary grave, to the trench where you were sent to secure the body of an unidentified combatant. We know that you took it there, and we know that it was this coffin which you brought to the fort at Verdun. In this we agree, I am sure. And the sequel – the choice, the supreme hour among the eight unknown—”

Again Rouxval could not go on. He mopped the sweat from his brow and tried to regain his composure. In a few moments he managed to continue in the same muffled and anguished voice:

“I hardly dare paint that scene. The slighted doubt in that direction is blasphemy. And yet, is this not rather a certainty than a doubt? Ah, what a frightful imposture! How did you ever succeed in your infamous plan? Answer—answer me!”

Jean Rouxval questioned, but it seemed as if he were afraid to hear the answer. His voice did not carry the authority which brings confession. A long silence ensued, fraught with uneasiness and anxiety. Madame de Bois-Vernay breathed the salts her husband gave her. She seemed very weak and on the verge of fainting. Maxime Leriot turned to the count, mutely asking his help. The count looked toward his wife, afraid to begin a dangerous struggle, asking himself upon what ground he would stand.

Then the count arose and said:

“Mr. Rouxval, because you have so shaped this interview, we there sit here facing you as if we were guilty. Before defending ourselves against an accusation, the meaning of which we do not yet clearly understand, we should like to know by what right you question us and by what right you demand our answers.”

“By the right, sir,” answered Rouxval, “of my great desire to suppress infamy, which, if it became public property, would injure my country inestimably.”

“If the affair is such as you have outlined it, Mr. Minister, there is no reason to believe it will become known to the public.”

“You are wrong, sir. Under the influence of alcohol, Maxime Leriot has talked. What he said was not understood, but various interpretations and rumors have been circulated—”

“False rumors, Mr. Minister,” broke in De Bois-Vernay.

“That makes no difference. They must be stopped.”

“How?”

“Maxime Leriot must leave France. A position will be found for him in southern Algeria. You will, I am sure, furnish him with the necessary funds.”

“And ourselves, Mr. Minister?”

“You will also leave – both you and madame. Far from France, you will be safe from further blackmail.”

“Exile, then?”

“Yes, for a few years.”

The count again turned to his wife.

Notwithstanding her pallor and frailty, she conveyed an impression of vitality and obstinate determination. She leaned forward and said firmly:

“Not a day, sir! Not for an hour will I leave Paris.”

“And why not, madame?”

“Because my son is there. In the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

Those few words, that explicit, frightful avowal, seemed to drop into a pit of silence, which echoed and re-echoed, syllable by syllable,a message of death and sorrow. In Madame de Bois-Vernay’s attitude there was more than an expression of an unconquerable will – there was a defiance and the calm acceptance of a challenge which she did not seem to fear. Nothing could change the fact that her son lay under the Arc de Triomphe, and no power on earth could trouble his last sleep in that tomb of glory.

Rouxval held his head in his hands, desperate. Until that moment he had been able to keep, in the face of all evidence, some illusion of an impossible justification. The confession took the ground from under his feet.

“It is really true!” he murmured brokenly, “I did not really believe – I could not admit it even to myself – it is beyond all reason!”

Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, standing between the countess and Rouxval, begged her to sit down. She pushed him aside, ready for the struggle, determined and defiant.

Only two adversaries now faced each other, implacable enemies, with the count and Maxime Leriot mere accessories.

Scenes of such extreme nervous tension must necessarily be of short duration, when from the first each one throws every ounce of power into the grueling struggle. What further enhanced the tragedy of this duel was the calm, the intense quiet with which it was waged. Not a loud tone, no apparent anger, simple words, radiating emotion. Simple sentences, no oratory, revealing the depth of Rouxval’s amazement and horror.

“How dared you? How do you continue to live, knowing what you do? I, myself, would have borne any agony rather than permit such a deed for one of my sons. It would seem to me I had brought him ill luck in his last sleep. Given him a tomb which was not rightfully his! Diverted to him the prayers, the tears, all the holy thoughts which flow over a loved one, dead! What an abomination! Can’t you see that?”

He glared at her, opposite him, tense and white, and continued more aggressively:

“There are hundreds – no, thousands! -- of mothers and wives who may believe that their son, their husband lies there. These bereaved women, as sorely smitten as you, with the same rights to seek consolation there – these women have been betrayed, pilfered, robbed – yes, robbed and vilely robbed!”

The countess shrank under these insults, this contempt. She had surely never paused a moment to consider her course of action in itself; certainly she had never weighed its ethical values. She had reacted impulsively, moved by the bitter suffering of a mother seeking to regain a small part of the son so cruelly torn from her; for the rest – nothing mattered.

Murmuring, almost in a dream, she answered:

“He did not rob any one. He is the Unknown Soldier. He is there in the place of the others; he represents them all—”

Rouxval seized her arm. Her words exasperated him. He thought of his own lost ones, whose remains he had almost found again that day of solemn burial and consecration. Now they had vanished once more in a fathomless abyss. Where now could one pray? Where find the dear ones, gone forever?

But the countess smiled, her face transformed by the happiness which fairly irradiated her whole being.

“It was circumstance which caused him to be chosen among all the others,” she said. “What I did, alone, would not have sufficed, if there had not been a greater will than mine in his favor. Chance might have assigned the honor to some soldier who did not deserve it, either in his life or in his death. My son was worthy of the reward.”

“All were worthy!” protested Rouxval vehemently. “Even if during his life he had been the most obscure, the most odious of men, the soldier chosen by destiny became, in that instant, the equal of the greatest!”

She shook her head. Her eyes gleamed with a contemptuous pride. Before her rose the ghosts of a hundred proud ancestors and the heroic dead of her country acclaiming her son the chosen one, born for glory.

“This has happened for the best, sir,” she said. “Believe in me and rest assured that I have stolen no tears, no prayers. Every mother who kneels there and weeps, prays for her dead son. Does it really matter if it is my son, if she does not know it?”

“But I know it,” said Rouxval, “and they may find it out! And then what? Can you imagine what will happen – the anger, the hate, the wild scenes of unbridled fury? No crime in the would would arouse such indignation! Can’t I make you understand?”

Little by little he was losing control of himself. He despised this woman. Her exile seemed more and more the only solution which could avert a calamity and at the same time appease his own pain.

Without any attempt to spare her, he said roughly:

“You must go, madame. Your presence at that grave is an outrage to every other woman. Go, and go now!”

“No, I will not,” she said.

“You will; you must! With you out of the country, their wrongs will be partially righted; the soldier there will once more become the Unknown Soldier.”

“No, no, no! What you ask is impossible. I could not live away from him. If I had to continue to live, it is only because he is there, because I can see him each day, speak to him, and hear him speak to me. Oh, you cannot understand how I feel when I stand there in the crowd! They come from every corner of France, bringing their offerings of flowers, of tears, of prayers. There are moments when I am so overwhelmed by a wave of happiness and pride that I almost forget he is dead. I see my son alive – alive and standing beneath that arch, smiling at me as I kneel before him. And you dare ask me to give up all of that! It is madness. It would be like killing my beloved child a second time!”

Rouxval clenched his hands, to restrain himself from killing this ungovernable woman. He knew now that she was stronger than he was. Driven to desperation, he threatened:

“You force me to the worst. If you do not go – I swear – I swear that I will denounce you! I will unmask you to the whole world rather than permit this ghastly imposture to continue --”

She laughed mockingly.

“Denounce me? Is it possible? You will denounce me and inform the world about this imposture which causes even you to tremble?”

“Nothing, nothing can stop me!” he cried. “I shall do my duty even if it kills me. Your trickery has made life intolerable. If you do not go, madame, he shall go – the body of your son shall be --”

She quivered, stricken by the brutal words. The frightful image of that poor body, torn from the tomb, roughly handled and cast into another grave, was more than she could bear. Tears came to her eyes; with a cry of pain her hand went to her heart. The count made a vain attempt to reach her as she tottered and fell to the floor, unconcious.

The duel was nearing an end. Wounded to the depths, but triumphant, she fell, not yielding a step in her struggle. The count carried her, still unconcious, to the couch with the assistance of Leriot and Hercules Petitgris. She was stifling, grinding her teeth, still fighting in her coma.

“Oh, how could you, how could you hurt her so!” exclaimed De Bois-Vernay.

But Rouxval made no excuses for his conduct. A temperament which drove him to extremes, when he had curbed his desires too long, did not allow him time for reflection or regret in a crisis. He saw red. The problem seemed to him so hopeless he would have stopped at nothing, however ridiculous, to solve it.

What difference did it make what he did, as long as he did something? It seemed as if his revenge were already nearer, if he could only proceed in some way. Action became a necessity. Should he call the president of the council? The telephone! He seized the receiver and, as soon as the president answered, gasped out breathlessly:

“Yes, Rouxval, Mr. President. … I must speak to you immediately, in person… You’re not free? ...In half an hour? ...All right. In half an hour I shall be there. Thanks. Situation serious. ...Quick action… Yes...Later.”

The countess was being cared for by the three men. She was evidently subject to these attacks, as her husband had a small case of medicine from which he quickly administered a dose. He took off his overcoat, knelt beside her, and tended her in an agony of fear which all but suffocated him, speaking to her constantly, as if she could hear him.

“It is your heart, darling, isn’t it? Your poor heart! But you are better, aren’t you? You are better – your cheeks have a little color – I know you are better. Are you, dearest?”

Madame de Bois-Vernay remained in the swoon several minutes, but at last her eyelids fluttered and she slowly regained consciousness.

As soon as she saw Rouxval she gave a cry of distress.

“Take me away! Let us go. I cannot stay here!”

“But, dearest, be reasonable. You must rest a few minutes.”

“No, no, not a moment! We must go. I cannot stay.”

The count begged Leriot’s aid, it was he who carried the countess from the room, while the count followed, completely upset, having been assisted into his overcoat by Hercules Petitgris.

Rouxval had not stirred. One might have thought that he had no connection whatever with the scene which had just taken place. These people, guilty of the most odious crime, were beyond his sympathies; he did not feel he owed either pity or kindness to a woman like the countess. With his head pressed against the windowpane he tried to think of a reasonable course of action. Why talk to the president of the council? Would it not be better to finish the affair and get in touch with headquarters, with the department of justice?

“Come now,” he said to himself, “no nonsense; a level head at any price!”

He decided to go as far as the president’s home; the walk there, the cool air, might calm his overwrought nerves. Taking his hat and stick from the stand, he started on his errand. To his surprise he found Petitgris sitting on a chair in front of the door, completely in shadow. He evidently had not left the study.

“Well, it’s you,” said Rouxval. “Still here?”

“Yes, Mr. Minister, and I cannot advice you too strongly to keep me company.”

Rouxval was annoyed and about to reprove him for his familiarity when a second glance at the man gave him a sudden shock. He noticed that the huge tooth of the detective was clearly visible, under a curling lip. He could not have been more discomfited if he had seen a ghost rise in front of him. The appearance of that tooth, long, white and pointed, the tooth of a wild animal, could only mean one thing – Rouxval was being jeered at, mocked.

“Confound it, I certainly have not put my foot in it!” said Rouxval to himself, remembering Petitgris’ words.

He pulled himself together. A cabinet minister, used to handling men and affairs of state, does not go “putting his foot in it.” Nor does he step into the pitfalls which trip the unwary. Having risen to such a position, he sees clearly, and goes straight to the goal. Yet the sight of that tooth troubled him. Why – what did it mean at this time? To reassure himself, he blamed the detective.

“If one of us has put his foot in it, it is that scamp. This whole thing is perfectly clear; any college boy could see that,” argued the minister to himself.

As clear as it was, however, he answered Petitgris by asking surlily:

“What is it? I’m in a hurry. Speak up!”

“Speak up, Mr. Minister?” he repeated. “I have nothing to say.”

“What do you mean, nothing to say? I don’t suppose you expect to sleep here?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Minister.”

“Well then?”

“Well, I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For something which is sure to happen.”

“What ‘something?’”

“Patience, a little patience, Mr. Minister! You are certainly more interested in knowing it than I am. It won’t be long, anyway – only a few minutes—at the most about ten minutes. Yes, just about ten minutes.”

“Nothing of the sort,” cried Rouxval. “The confessions these people have made are perfectly explicit.”

“What confessions, Mr. Minister?”

“What confessions? Why, Leriot’s, the count’s, and his wife’s!”

“The countess’, perhaps. But the count confessed nothing; neither did Leriot,” said the detective.

“What are you trying to put over now?”

“I’m not trying to put anything over, Mr. Minister; it’s a fact. You might say, the truth, the two men didn’t open their mouths. Only one person talked, and that was you, Mr. Minister.”

Without paying any attention to Rouxval’s threatening attitude, he continued:

“A wonderful speech, really, and I sure did appreciate it. What an orator! In the senate you would have been a riot! An ovation, publicity, and all the rest of it. Only a speech is not all that is needed. When you are trying to dig facts out of a criminal, you don’t stuff him with talk. On the contrary, you question him. You get him to gab. And then you listen. That’s the way to get to the bottom of things. If you think Mr. Petitgris was just snoozing in the corner, you can bet you made a mistake. Mr. Petitgris never took his eye off those two codgers, especially that Bois-Vernay. And that’s why I’m telling you, Mr. Minister, that in eight minutes some one is coming and something will happen – in seven minutes and a half.”

Rouxval was floored. He did not give the least credence to Petitgris’ predictions not to the special announcement that “something” was going to happen. But the man’s tenacity held him. And that canine tooth, which gave him an expression at once arrogant, fierce, wicked, enigmatic--

The minister capitulated, and returned to the other end of the room, where he gave vent to his rage by tapping furiously on the desk with a pen handle, by nervously moving the desk appointments about, by looking at the clock and watching Petitgris out of the corner of his eye.

The detective sat quite still, only moving once. He tore a sheet of paper from a pad, came to the desk, borrowed Rouxval’s own pen with an air of authority, and rapidly write a few lines. He folded the paper in half, put it in an envelope and slipped it under a magazine, which happened to be near the desk edge. Then he sat down.

What did it all mean? Why did he continue to sneer with that mysterious, abominable tooth? Three minutes. Two minutes. Rouxval, in a sudden burst of anger, jumped up and again started striding up and down the room, knocking over a chair, jostling against a table and upsetting all the bric-a-brac. This whole case was stupid. That blockhead Petitgris and his devilish tooth had unnerved him.

“Listen, Mr. Minister,” mumbled the detective, holding up his hand. “Listen!”

“Listen to what?”

“Footsteps! Listen. Some one is knocking.”

Someone was knocking. Rouxval recognized the discreet tap of the page.

“He is not alone,” asserted Petitgris.

“What do you know about it?”

“He can’t be alone, because what I told you would happen is going to happen, and it can’t happen unless some one else comes in.”

“Well, confound it, what is it that is going to happen?”

“the truth, Mr. Minister. There are times, when the hour has struck, that nothing can prevent the truth from being known. It comes in at the window if the door is closed. But the door is so near, Mr. Minister, you don’t want to stop me from opening it, will you, Mr. Minister?”

Rouxval, beside himself with rage, opened the door.

The page looked in. “Mr. Minister, the gentleman who left here a little while ago with the lady is asking for his overcoat.”

“His overcoat?”

“Yes, sir; the gentleman forgot it, or rather he got the wrong one.”

Hercules Petitgris explained:

“He is right, Mr. Minister. I see a mistake has been made. The gentleman took my overcoat and left me his. Perhaps the gentleman can come in and—”

Rouxval acquiesced. The page went out, and almost immediately Monsieur de Bois-Vernay entered.

After the overcoats had been exchanged, the count, having bowed to Rouxval, who carefully looked the other way, started to leave the room. On the threshold, grasping the handle of the door, he hesitated, murmured a few words scarcely audible, stopped and re-entered the room.

“The ten minutes are up, Mr. Minister,” whispered Petitgris. “Consequently, ‘something’ is going to happen.”

Rouxval waited. Events seemed to occur as the detective had predicted.

“What do you wish, sir?” inquired the minister.

After a few minutes’ hesitation Monsieur de Bois-Vernay asked:

“Mr. Minister, are you really going to denounce us? The consequences would be so serious that I am taking the liberty of calling them to your attention. Think of the scandal – public clamor --”

Rouxval lost his temper.

“Will you tell me if I can do anything else?”

“Yes you can – you should. Everything can be arranged between us two, in a perfectly legitimate way. There is no reason why we should not come to some agreement.”

“I did propose an agreement, but Madame de Bois-Vernay would not hear of it.”

“She would not, but I will.”

Rouxval seemed surprised. Petitgris had already made the distinction between husband and wife a short time before.

“Explain yourself!”

The count seemed embarrassed. Irresolute, hesitating between sentences, he went on:

“Mr. Minister, I love my wife beyond words – and – sometimes I am weak enough to do things – for her which I know are – wrong, dangerous. That is what has happened. The death of our son so completely demoralized her – that twice – in spite of her deep religious sentiment – she tried to commit suicide. It became an obsession. In spite of my watchfulness, my every care, she would have carried out her intentions. But at an opportune moment Maxime Leriot came to see me. While talking to him about the war, our son – the idea came to me-- to combine – the Unknown—”

He shrank before the decisive words. Rouxval, more and more irritated, broke in:

“We are losing time, sir, since I know the result of your machinations. And that is all that matters.”

“It is precisely because the result alone matters that I am here. Because you discovered certain preparations, you concluded too hastily, perhaps because of your apprehension, that a sacrilege had been committed. That is not so.”

Rouxval did not understand.

“It is not so? Then why didn’t you protest?”

“I could not.”

“Why?”

“My wife would have had to hear me.”

“But Madame de Bois-Vernay herself confessed.”

“Yes, but I did not. It would have been a lie.”

“A lie! But the facts are there, sir! Do you want me to reread the records, the inquiries, the proofs that the body was removed, your meeting with Leriot?”

“Again, sir, may I say that these facts show definite preparations, but not the execution of a deed?”

“That is to say?”

“That is to say that there were meetings between Maxime and ourselves, and the body was removed. But I never, never had an idea of committing an act which I, too, should consider unforgivable sacrilege. For that matter, Maxime Leriot would never have consented.”

“Your idea then—” began the minister.

“My intention was to give my wife the --”

“To give her?”

“To give her the illusion, Mr. Minister.”

“The illusion?” repeated Rouxval mechanically, as the truth was beginning to dawn upon him.

“Yes, sir, an illusion which might sustain her, give her a faint desire to live – and which has sustained her until now. She believes it, Mr. Minister; she believes it! Try to imagine what that means to her! She believes her son is in that sacred tomb, and that belief has kept her alive.”

Rouxval bowed his head with his hand before his eyes. Overwhelmed by this sudden happiness, the restoration of his shrine, he feared they might see how disturbed he was.

With an affectation of indifference, he said:

“Ah, that is what happened! There was a pretense—” He stopped. “But how about all these proofs?”

“The proofs I took great care to accumulate, that she might have no doubts. She saw all, sir; she insisted upon being there during the entire proceedings: the removal of the body, the transfer to the funeral car. How could she have suspected that the funeral car did not go directly to the fort of Verdun, that our poor child is buried a little way on in a country cemetery where I go, when I can, to kneel at his grave and beg his forgiveness – his forgiveness for me and his absent mother.”

Rouxval was convinced that the count told the truth, that there was nothing in the evidence to contradict his statement of the facts as they had actually occurred.

“And Maxime Leriot’s part in this?”

“He obeyed my orders.”

“How about his actions since then?”

“Alas! The money he received turned his head, degraded him. It is my one great regret. The more I gave him, the more he wanted; that is why he threatened to reveal all to my wife. But rest assured, Mr. Minister, I will answer for him. He is really an honest, loyal soul, and has promised me he will leave the country at once.”

Rouxval meditated a moment and then said:

“Are you prepared to swear to the absolute truth of your statements?”

“I am prepared to swear to anything, provided my wife learns nothing and continues in her belief.”

“We agree in that, sir,” said the minister. “The secret shall be kept. I swear it.”

He took a sheet of paper and was about to ask the count for a written statement when Hercules Petitgris leaned over and whispered to him:

“There it is, Mr. Minister — under the magazine -- just lift it up and you’ll find it --”

“I’ll find what?”

“The statement. I drew it up a few minutes ago.”

“You knew?”

“You can just bet I knew! The count only needs to write his name on it.”

Rouxval, nonplused, pushed the magazine aside, snatched the paper and read:

I, the undersigned, Count de Bois-Vernay, acknowledge that I, with the connivance of Maxime Leriot, proceeded with certain arrangements in order to impress my wife with the conviction that our son was buried under the Arc de Triomphe. But I swear on my honor that no attempt was made by me, or by the said Maxime Leriot, to fulfill these arrangements and give my poor child the honors and resting place of the Unknown Soldier.

While Rouxval remained silent, the count, who was as astonished as the minister, slowly reread the document aloud, as if weighing each word.

“Quite right. I have nothing to add nor curtail. I should have written the same thing if I had drawn it up myself.”

He then affixed his signature without further hesitation.

“Mr. Minister, I must trust you,” he continued. “The slightest doubt on her part would cause the death of a mother who is guilty of nothing but too great a love for her child. I have your promise?”

“I have but one word to give, sir. I have given it. I shall keep it.”

He shook hands absent-mindedly with Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, accompanied him without a word to the door, closed it, and came back to the window where again he remained standing, with his head pressed to the windowpane.

“So Petitgris guessed the truth!” he mused. “In that chaos, that entanglement of fact and fancy, he saw the narrow path which led to the truth.”

Rouxval was distressed, angry; the pleasure he might otherwise have felt in seeing his case in another light was singularly diminished. Behind him he heard a tiny chuckle, undoubtedly the detective’s manifestation of triumph. It conjured up a vision of the pointed tooth, that terrible tooth.

“He has the laugh on me,” thought Rouxval. “He has known from the beginning. He maliciously let me put my foot in it. He could have warned me and he didn’t. What a beast!”

But his prestige as a cabinet officer would not permit him to remain in that humiliating position. He turned suddenly and taking the offensive said:

“Yes, yes, and then what? Luck was on your side! You probably discovered some clew—”

“Not a clew,” sneered Petitgris, who was not granting any favors. “What did you want clews for, anyway? Just a little bit of judgment, a grain of common sense, were all you needed.”

And with hideous good nature, he continued:

“Come on now, Mr. Minister! That long rigmarole of yours didn’t stand up at all. It was just bunk. Contradictions, omissions, impossibilities of every kind and color. Just a rotten scenario! That the countess should have bitten, all right, but you, a minister of your rank! Honestly, do you think people juggle with corpses in real life? Have a heart!

“They make every effort to have the Unknown Soldier be an unknown soldier! Arrangements for the public, funeral cars, functionaries, generals, brigadiers, ministers; in fact, the devil and his whole crew, and are you credulous enough to believe that any little gentlemen with cash in his pocket can afford the luxury of making a laughingstock of the world, and of burying an everlasting concession under the Arch de Triomphe! Well, I’ve heard some good ones, but that one has ‘em all beat.”

Rouxval restrained himself with difficulty and said:

“But the proofs—” began Rouxval.

“Those proofs – they were good enough for kids. I said to myself right away: ‘As long as the count couldn’t possibly afford the Arc de Triomphe, what was he cooking up with Leriot?’ Just as soon as I saw the way he looked at the wife I got it. ‘My boy, you're a good thing. Just to help the wife along, you’re going to play a little game and make her believe you did the real thing. But you’re a bit weak, too, and if my chief gets good and mad and threatens you, you’re going to give in.’ There’s the whole trick, Mr. Minister! Rage and threats on your part, and little Mr. Bois-Vernay gives in.”

“All right, well and good so far,” said Rouxval. “But you could not know he was coming back and that ‘something,’ as you put it, was going to happen.”

“Say, listen! What about the overcoat.”

“The overcoat?”

“Great Scott! how could he come back without it? He had to have some excuse to leave his wife and to confess before the department of justice put its nose in it.”

“Well?”

“Well, when he was leaving, I helped him on with my overcoat instead of his. He was all up in the air; he couldn’t see anything – but red. Then outside in the car, when he saw my cast-off, he jumped at the chance to run back here! D’ye get it? What do you think of that piece of work? I put over some better ones in my life, a couple of harder ones, but never a shrewder one. I got that without moving – a decision with hands in my pockets – and landed a punch that knocked the other fellow out. That’s some good job!”

Rouxval was silent; the cleverness, the ease with which Hercules Petitgris had handled the situation, disconcerted him. All alone in his corner, without interrupting the inquiry, without asking a question, and knowing nothing about the case, except what Rouxval himself was telling, Petitgris had really conducted the examination, guided the trend of questions, thrown light on the whole case. With one little move at the right moment he had managed to have the problem solve itself in the only way possible.

Rouxval put his hand in his pocket to draw out a bank note. But it went no farther. The detective sneered:

“Put it back, Mr. Minister. I’ve got mine.”

The tooth gleamed implacably. A frightful chuckle, and his face again resumed the fierce look of a wild animal. Could one help remembering the jeering words: “when one of my employers puts his foot in it, haven’t I the right to tell him, and have a little laugh? I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing! Are they funny? You ought to see the faces on them!

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Minister. I’ve had worse cases. Your big mistake was to rely too much on logic, and the logic of what you see and hear isn’t worth a nickel. The real logic runs underground like some rivers, and when it does run out of sight, then you have to keep your eye on it. That was where you lost your head. Instead of going into the details of that ceremony in the fort of Verdun, you turned away! ‘I hardly dare paint the scene. The slightest doubt in that direction is blasphemy!’

“Damn it all, Mr. Minister, that’s the time you should have gone ahead, investigated, put your whole mind to it! You would have seen there wasn’t a chance of a fraud. And what is more, Hercules Petitgris wouldn’t be laying down the law to-day to a cabinet minister in his own study.”

He had risen and was putting on the worn, green overcoat. Rouxval had a strong desire to take him by the neck and strangle him, but – he opened the door.

“Let us say no more about it. I shall advise the president of the service you have rendered us.”

“Oh, don’t bother!” returned the detective. “I’d rather do that myself.”

“Sir!” cried Rouxval.

“Well, what, Mr. Minister?”

Petitgris suddenly drew himself up and seemed to change personalities under the very eyes of the minister. He was no longer the poor devil begging alms, but a lively, self-possessed young man entirely at his ease. With thumb and forefinger he delicately removed the enormous tooth; the lines in his face changed; the horrible grin disappeared. He looked cheerful and gay, but still arrogant.

Rouxval asked:

“What does this mean? Permit me to ask who are you?”

“Who I am is of no importance whatever,” he answered. “Let us say that I am Arsène Lupin. The memory of your recent mistake will perhaps be less bitter if you connect it with the name of Arsène Lupin, rather than with that of Hercules Petitgris.”

Rouxval showed him the door. The detective passed gracefully in front of the minister to the anteroom. In that doorway, he said:

“Good-bye, Mr. Minister-- and a word of advice: Don’t go out of your little world again. A case of shoemaker, stick to your last. Straighten out government squabbles, help them make the laws, but – when it comes to police work leave that to the specialist.”

He started to go. Would he never stop talking? He came back and said:

“After all, you may be right – perhaps I put my foot in it. Come to think of it, what proofs have we that the count did stop on the way, that he did not go through with his plot? It is quite possible, and he did make excellent plans! Well, it’s all over my head. Good-by, Mr. Minister.”

This time he had nothing more to add. He left the anteroom.

Rouxval returned slowly to his desk and sat down heavily. He was singularly troubled by the detective's last words. They were a last bite of that frightful tooth – a drop of distilled venom! He felt vaguely that he would always be in doubt, that his case would always remain a mystery. He knew it was absurd, but all the same – the proofs – the removal of the body – the transfer to the funeral car --

“Damn it all!” He cried, infuriated. “What an infernal bird he is! If ever I lay my hands on him again!”

But Rouxval knew that Petitgris was none other than Arsène Lupin, and Arsène Lupin was not one to be caught a second time.

[honestlywtfisgoingon]

You’re My Moon — An Obi-Wan Kenobi Fall Fic

OBI-WAN KENOBI x READER

description: you and obi-wan are sent to a planet during their annual masked festival where they celebrate the moons, a perfect date for two jedi secretly in love.

warnings: language, alcohol, smut, minimal editing, creepy guy (yes he’s a zabrak bc maul) obi-wan’s rat tail slander

a/n: ok no surprise the “masked festival” is supposed to be halloween lol. this is 1/4 fall fics that i’ve planned tho and i’m kinda hyped. also i don’t usually write for padawan obi but it just felt?? so right?? also the smut is a lil rough for obi bc i imagine young him to be a lil more, well, rough lol. i’m sry if this particular fic is mid tho i had to deliver a speech, take tests, basic time-consuming college shit yk the drill

words: 4156

"What about this one?" you looked back at Obi-Wan dramatically, your brown robe swishing around. He looked up from the display of masks to see you holding one up to your face.

"not a big fan of the uh," he stepped forward, "the horns," he touched the tip of the pointy horns that extended out. "can't kiss you without being stabbed," he lifted the bottom of the mask up to reveal your true face, the one he had grown to know so well that not even a mask could hide you from him. He leaned forward to give you a small kiss, but you batted him away.

"Obi, no! We're still in our robes," you urgently whispered. You were clearly in Jedi garb, and the few on the planet who knew about the Jedi also knew that two of them shouldn't be kissing each other. He sighed, knowing you were right but still buzzing with anticipation for tonight. He was going to parade you around in, well, an actual parade.

It was luck that sent you to this small planet on the very week they reserved as an extended holiday to celebrate their three moons. They held a festival for each moon; tonight was the first of them. In the past, it was common practice to use face paint or a mask to decorate the face with lunar symbols and motifs. Over many years, the tradition became an opportunity to dress up and disguise yourself as whatever you liked, moon-related or otherwise.

The masks, plus the fact that the neutral planet was relatively unfamiliar with Jedi, made this the perfect date for the two of you. The only thing that could give you away was your braids, but their image of you only included robes and a saber, making Obi-Wan look less like a Jedi and more like someone who just had a stupid haircut. You were far from anyone who would let your relationship get to the council. There was Qui-Gonn, who you suspected would keep your secret, rebellious master as he was. But Obi-Wan was still nervous as his padawan, so it overjoyed him when he realized he would have the ability to hide from him among the throng of mask-wearers if need be. You were working on Obi-Wan being a little less uptight, but being the prudent Jedi he was, he needed a foolproof plan not to get caught on your date, and he had found one.

"As if robes have ever stopped us before," he whispered in your ear before stepping back with a little smirk. You resisted the urge to rip his off then and there. There was something about how he acted so cocky that both pissed you off…and completely turned you on. Perhaps it was the knowledge that when he was a show-off in front of your peers before you were together, the only one he was really trying to impress was you. It could also be that this trait made it so easy to rile him up before he touched you. Maker forbid you show even the slightest bit of satisfaction after he's made you see stars. He only sees it as a challenge and guarantees you won't be able to walk the next day. You would never let him know the effect he had on you in this way, but of course, he could tell anyway, but you liked to pretend he didn't in order to save your pride. You didn't want to admit that with only a particular voice, he could have you on your knees in front of the damn council if he wished.

To preserve any sense of self-control you had left, you merely rolled your eyes and went back to rifling through the racks of the little shop. You stopped when your eyes landed on the black fabric. With a flourish, you pulled it off the hanger along with the mask it came with and held the sheer black robe over your body to show Obi.

His brows rose a little in shock when he saw you. He definitely was a fan; his…approval was made very obvious through the force as you held the matching intricate black mask up to your face and batted your lashes at him.

"I'm going to wear something under it, Obi," you clicked your tongue. He threw his hands up with a little shrug as if he wasn't just screaming his fantasy of you in the sheer robe and nothing else in your heads. Maker, he was such a teenage boy—and you loved him.

Eventually, he found a mask that he liked, but when he showed you, you let out a little sigh at how predictable he was.

"You really don't know how to wear any other color besides brown, huh?"

"It's my color,"

"It's the standard color," you plucked it from his hands, refusing to let him go to a festival looking like a brown paper bag. He huffed in disappointment, not really enjoying shopping anymore.

Now desperate to leave, he was willing to compromise with you when you found a blue mask that you thought complimented his eyes. with a new robe to complete the look, you thought he looked quite debonair. What really sold him was when you told him he looked very handsome. His blush stood out clearly, even underneath his mask. For all his outer confidence, part of him always yearned for affirmation from you and Qui-Gonn, the two people who mattered most to him.

—

Night finally fell, and the moons had risen high in the sky. The people's laughs and shouts of celebration rose almost higher outside the hotel Qui-Gonn had found. You giggled as you stumbled out of the window Obi and you were trying to sneak out through. He shushed you aggressively, but he wore the same giddy smile you did. Once your boots finally met the ground with a thump, you took off and left Obi to run after you. His momentum caused him to run into you when you stopped abruptly in front of the market square. You lurched forward, but he wrapped his arms around your waist to hold you up, keeping one arm around you even after you became stable. He wasn't keen on chasing you again.

Pulling down your masks, you laced your hands together and joined the crowd. It was a bit annoying bumping into everyone you passed by in the crowd, but it was easy not to get past it when their joy began to infect you. You spotted a lively cantina down the way and began to make your way toward it before Obi-Wan held you back. If the two of you were walking into a cantina, he would make sure you ate first. He would carry you to the ends of the galaxy, let alone back to the hotel if need be, but he'd rather not have to at all. Before touching a single drop of anything, he worked his way over to a stand, keeping you in front of him the whole way.

The man in charge was also masked and greeted you in the native language. You and Obi just looked at each other helplessly, to which the man laughed. The two of you were relieved when he switched to basic.

"What'll you have?" He pointed to the different array of skewers, "roasted porg, roast nuna, deep fried gorb…"

"Three of the nuna please," Obi-wan handed the man some credits while he wrapped up the skewers. You gave him a confused look when he said three.

"Two of them are for you. You'll get hungry later," He smiled at you. It was rather sweet how he always thought ahead, knowing you well. You gave him a little peck on his shoulder that you were already leaning on.

"Enjoy yourselves! Don't get a lot of humans out here, especially young ones in love" the man smiled brightly at the two of you when he handed the two of you your skewers. Obi found a streetlight with a large raised base, enough for the two of you to sit on while you ate. You got comfortable sitting between his legs, leaning your back against his chest while he kicked his feet hanging off the edge of the base like a little kid.

Damn, this is delicious

Apparently, you were already pretty hungry, finishing both of the skewers while you laid back, and people-watched for a while. You saw parents chase after their kids who dashed to the people giving out candy, vendors hanging up their aprons to join in with the festivities, and even some fights, which were quickly broken up. No one was allowed to ruin the night.

Once you realized Obi was getting a little too comfortable, feeling his body slump slightly against the lamppost, you tugged his robe, signaling for him to get up. You were on his way to the cantina as soon as he was on his feet again. The music was blaring inside, and the colored lights roamed over the more adult crowd than outside. You were lucky enough to have snagged a table that had just opened up, so you sent Obi off with your drink order and a kiss while you saved the seats that were so coveted in the busy club.

"This seat taken?" A Zabrak man put his hands on the table's edge and leaned over.

"Yeah, it is, sorry," you answered politely. He didn't seem creepy or rude like most men at bars you were always wary of.

"Well, whoever they are, I don't see 'em," he leered.

And there it was. Spoke too soon.

"I didn't ask if you could see them. You asked me if the seat was taken, and it is." You said bluntly, firmly placing your hand on the table to emphasize your point.

"Well, is the pretty little woman taken too?" He pulled out Obi-Wan's seat and sat in it.

The fuck he just said?

"She is, so you better leave," you gritted your teeth, fingers dancing along the handle of your lightsaber.

"Oh, but baby, I'm only leaving if you're coming with me,"

"Where are we going?" Obi-Wan appeared next to you, placing the drinks down on the table. With his hands now relieved, he placed one on your shoulder and the other over his lightsaber, never taking his eyes from the Zabrak's once.

"You're not invited," the man huffed.

"You should leave. Now." Obi-Wan said firmly. You could tell the man was weighing his options on whether to leave or not. He took a step back when he saw the look in Obi-Wan's eyes, but not before he got in his last word.

"Well, she was asking for it in that dress."

Oh no.

Just like that, Obi-Wan had his lightsaber drawn and held up to the man's neck. Some of the people around you gasped and backed up. The man slowly backed away when Obi pressed his saber closer, breathing heavily with anger. Your hand wrapped around your saber as well.

"No fights in this cantina! Not tonight!" A short man, the owner, you assumed, shouted as he made his way into the ring of people that had formed around Obi and that absolute asshole. It took some time for Obi to calm himself enough to deactivate his saber. When he did, the man looked at you, then back at Obi with a sneer before storming off in the other direction.

While Obi-Wan's narrowed eyes trailed after the man, your head fell slightly.

"Was I really asking for it?"

"What? No." His face melted into one of soft concern. “Your dress isn't even that short—but that's not even the point. Even if you wore half of what you've got on right now, you said no. He was asking for me to chop off his head,"

I love you, Obi-Wan.

You stood up abruptly and stepped towards Obi-Wan Your face was filled with an emotion a little less…wholesome as you grabbed his collar and pulled him in for a rough kiss.

"What was that for?" He looked down at you once your lips parted, cheeks glowing red from the altercation and your affections.

"I just wanted to thank you."

"I'm still sorry though, y/n,"

"Don't be. I could've taken him by myself, though," You teased, "besides, it was…well, it was hot," His brows raised.

"Hot?" He questioned you.

"Yeah. Hot. You were ready to end that guy just because he was hitting on me,"

"Well, I—"you were feeding his cockiness once again.

"Don't let it get to your head," You laughed and sat back down, and he followed your actions with his seat.

You could only manage to have a small conversation; your voices were drowned out by the blasting music. You downed your cocktail, realizing there wasn't much point in sitting down if you couldn't even talk. As soon as the liquid poured down your throat, it hit you. You grimaced at the taste. It was a good thing this was a seasonal drink. It was way too intense to have daily. As your mouth naturally washed out the flavor, you watched while Obi-Wan finished his drink. He started hacking when he took his first sip, causing you to laugh. It really was strong stuff. As soon as he swallowed the last drop, you pulled him over to where the dancing was.

Obi-Wan wasn't a big dancer, but with a bit of liquid courage and a lot of love for you, he moved along to the music like everyone else. The lack of space had you two pressed against each other, not that you minded. That was what tonight was for, anyway. You had gone out often with other padawans, danced and drank just as you had, but not like this. You could never have your arms wrapped around each other openly, always ensuring there was an appropriate amount of space between you. Everything you were doing right now was taboo, the masks ironically the very thing that made it, so you did not have to hide.

Obi-Wan's hands slipped from your waist to grip your hips as you moved them to the fast music. They didn't stop there, dropping even further down to rest slightly on your ass. You responded by spinning around to press your ass against him, feeling him grow harder under the flashing lights as you grinded on him. One of your arms rose behind you to play with the hair on the nape of his neck as you continued dancing. Both of you were enjoying this time immensely, the alcohol causing every part of you to vibrate deliciously. But you started to overheat even in your sheer robe and the small black dress underneath.

When Obi-Wan felt his mask start to stick from sweat, you both gave each other a look that meant it was time to take a break. When you got back to the table, hand in hand, it was already taken. You'd forgotten what a hot commodity seating was, but you were still desperate for a rest. Obi-Wan nodded his head to the door, and the two of you stepped out, the cool air hitting you in refreshing waves. You leaned against the wall of the side of the building, catching your breath. When your heads rolled to the side so you could look at each other, you began to laugh.

This was your first real night together without the code on your mind. No council, no Jedi, not even Qui-Gonn around to recognize you. You were just…people. You could feel Obi-Wan's mind wandering in that direction, as it did every so often. He imagined what it would be like if you left the order, got married, and even had a family. The images he shared with you were beautiful, so beautiful that you couldn't take it. Your force told him to stop, that it wasn't the time. Thinking about that now would only make the two of you sad, and you wanted to enjoy this moment. He nodded to you in understanding, his mind moving to a very different sort of fantasy.

He was still hard from the dance floor and wanted nothing more than to remedy that by pulling up your little dress and making you cum all over him. Quite a change from his previous family-oriented thoughts, but this time you didn't tell him to stop; you told him to continue, to do exactly what he wanted to do.

It didn't take him any time to lead you and push you up against the wall in the alley behind the club. He grasped the hair at the base of your scalp and close to yanked it so that your face tilted up for him to place a heated kiss on your lips. You couldn't help but let out a little whimper at the delicious sting of your hair being pulled. It was only fair that you returned the favor by tugging at the hair that was just long enough to do so. He moaned into your mouth at your actions, only spurring him on further. He moved down to your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin he had already claimed a long time ago.

"No marks,"

"It was one time. And an accident," he mumbled against your jaw. Cutting your little dialogue short, he slipped his hand under your dress dress to cup your cunt, feeling you dripping through the fabric that covered it. He dragged his middle finger, finding the little dip where your entrance was. He circled it with the tip of his finger, making your eyes flutter and mouth sigh. It was a light feeling of pleasure, but Obi always liked the element of surprise and suddenly shoved two fingers into you, your underwear still on. Already soaked through, it didn't stop him at all. The slight friction of the fabric rubbing against your clit every time he pumped you made your mouth drop open. Stooped slightly to have access, Obi-Wan was now leveled with you and used direct eye contact to strengthen your connection through the force. His lids went heavy, experiencing a bit of what you were feeling. He also felt your growing desperation for him to do something more, and he loved nothing more than to humor you. Strong, calloused hands gripped your hips before slipping under the edge of your dress to pull it up while gliding along your silhouette simultaneously. Not wanting to waste any time, you slipped your hands past the band of his underwear, wrapping your hand around his shaft and palming him up and down, feeling the veins throbbing with blood rushing in arousal. He let out a groan, capturing your lips roughly. When he pulled back to pull down his pants, he reached up with one hand to lift his mask. You grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"Can you, uh, keep the mask on?" You asked, looking down a bit in slight embarrassment.

"Why?" He tilted your chin to let you know you didn't have to hide. He left the mask alone, indulging you but still not exactly understanding the reasoning behind your request.

"It's kind of mysterious," You bit your lip, still a little shy.

He suddenly removed his hands from you, "Sorry, mystery woman, I have a girlfriend," You couldn't help but laugh as you pulled his hands back to cup your face, the rest of him following in for a kiss. You went back to fumbling with his pants, finally pulling him out. You wrapped your hand up and down on his dick, spreading the precum dripping from the tip, red and rock hard. His large hands gripped the back of your thighs, running them up and down a few times to tell you to be ready to jump. The two of you used a combination of actual jumping and the force so that you were lifted with your legs tightly secured around his waist. With his forearms against the wall behind you, his robe draped perfectly around the two of you, a little pocket in this world created just for the two of you to feel each other. You always loved this little moment, just before he entered you, where you saw the flicker of love in his eyes no matter how soft or rough it was going to be. With a groan, he slid in easily, both of your foreheads pressed together in the pleasured reaction. As soon as he bottomed out, a feeling you'd never get used to with his size, he began to fuck you fast. Obi-Wan was never one for quickies. Sex had meaning to him, and he liked to savor it. That's not to say this didn't mean anything to him, but maybe it was the alcohol or the adrenaline from sneaking out that had him entering you hard and fast. Hitting all the right spots inside of you, this was a treat far fucking better than candy. You shared open-mouthed kisses, your movements desperate and wild. Heavy breaths accompanied each thrust; his dick pressed tight inside your walls as you began to pulse around him. The air was crisp and cold, but the shelter of his robe was filled with the heat of sex. You pulled your knees closer to you just slightly, but the mere inch of new access you gave him had you crying out his name. More moans fell out of your mouth freely before you tried to silence them into his shoulder. He shifted one arm so that he could use his hand to cup your jaw, moving your face so you could see him.

"That’s it, that's it. When you come, I want you to be loud. Don't worry, they won't hear you, but I will, and I want to hear you shouting for me," it was true. The music and people would drown you out completely, freeing you to let out what Obi-Wan said was his favorite sound in the world. You obeyed, letting out each swear and moan that he worked out of you. He knew you were close when you began to chant his name until you couldn't manage to chant anything. Every syllable encouraged him to fucking up into you, filling you up repeatedly. You felt him in your stomach and against your cervix.

"That's a good girl, taking all of me like that," He praised you in a low voice. Obi-Wan's eyes were hooded, his pupils almost blacking out the striking blue of his irises. Your head rolled back, and your mouth dropped open. At this opportunity, he painted your neck with quick kisses. You felt his thrusts grow erratic, and his head fall into the crook of your neck with a groan. With your last bit of bodily control, you tightened your legs around him to pull him close.

For a moment, you were so lost in pleasure that you thought the fireworks that suddenly exploded in the night sky above was your imagination. It might as well have been, for your connected forces created an explosion between your bodies as you reached your peak together. You gushed all over him while he simultaneously filled you up with his hot cum. It was hard to distinguish between what you were feeling and what he was feeling. Maybe there wasn't. Maybe the feeling of your toes curling and your nerves flaring as you screamed his name out into the night air was shared. Maybe the spasming of muscles and the rush of euphoria that drowned your senses was truly a one in the same experience with the force.

When the final wave of mingled ecstasy washing over the two of you ebbed, you couldn't even tell the difference between who was dripping out of you, either. He stayed in you just a moment, holding you close just a little longer.

He placed a small kiss by your ear before letting you down slowly. After he tucked himself back in and you had smoothed down your dress, the two of you shared a look and began to giggle like the teenagers you were. He slung his arm around you, leaving another one of his small kisses on the top of your head with an exhausted sigh.

“You know what, you’re my moon,”

“Such a sap,”

“No, really. I’m going to celebrate you for the rest of my life,”

“I’d like that,”

“I love you, y/n. Always,”

“I love you too,”

You leaned on his shoulder as the two of you headed dazedly out of the alley and into the party again. You weren't going to let your night's worth of freedom end just yet.

[smninthisworldd]

- ͙۪۪̥˚┊❛ Babysitter next door ; König x fem!OC ❜┊˚ ͙۪۪̥◌

a quick sort of disclaimer: the image with the girl wearing the purple skirt IS NOT how you must view Jasmine. you're free to imagine her to be however you want, the image simply represents the outfit she wore, nothing more. i'm not making any detailed descriptions of Jasmine, because i want everyone to feel included in the things i write. <3

❝SUMMARY OF CHAP 2: Diving into her memories, Ella remembers the breakup of her parents, and all the times her dad chose her over other people, putting her happiness first. Meanwhile, the day passes and Jasmine and Ella are creating a strong bond, but it's time to go to sleep. And Jasmine had permission to sleep in König's room.❞

w.c: 2500 ; part 2/?;

PREVIOUS CHAPTER MASTERLIST NEXT CHAPTER

Tangled was Ella's favorite Disney movie: she loved Rapunzel's dress - especially because it was purple - and her daddy always told her she looked like the princess, with those blonde hair of hers and those big green eyes. Ella was a sweetheart, and König felt extremely lucky to be her father. She's always been such a happy child, always full of life and with a smile on her face, no matter what.

That was, with other people. When she was alone, she would often look at the pictures she kept of her mom, Sarah, and König together with her, missing those moments.

She was 7 years old when they broke up. They weren't married, but they seemed to be a happy couple. Until one afternoon, when Ella was supposedly asleep, König and Ella's mom were talking in the living room, and their calm talk turned into a heated discussion.

Ella didn't intervene, since she thought it was just a temporary argument over something. They would fix this in no time, Ella thought to herself. But soon, she heard her daddy asking her mom about a certain "Jack". And she wasn't replying.

Finally, her mom talked back, explaining that she was so sick of him being out for days, weeks, because of his duties as a soldier... «I can't do this anymore!» she said. «I need attentions, reassurances... and you can't give those to me if you're never home.»

Her dad tried to reason about it, to be civil about it, and forgive her. But it was too much for him to bear.

«Sarah...» he sighed, «I… I tried my best to give you my everything, and to provide everything you and Ella needed. I can't seem to understand why you... did this. I just… can’t.»

Sarah began to cry, feeling guilty. «I can't justify myself. There is nothing I can do to make it up for you, because...» she stopped for a moment, looking into König's eyes, pain in hers.

«You love him.» König finished the sentence for her. It became clear to him, at this point. König's voice was full of pain and tears filled his eyes, as he tried to understand the situation.

Sarah simply nodded, sighing. «I'm sorry...» she whispered, trying to hug him.

But he stepped back. He wiped his tears away, not wanting to waste his tears for that. After he closed his eyes, he went quiet for a moment, thinking about the next thing he would do.

He took a deep breath, gathering all of his strength to say the next things: «Pack your things and tell Jack to come pick you up tomorrow morning.» he whispered, his voice more serious and cold now. «Ella can't see you leave.»

Sarah sighed again, holding back her tears. But she agreed, it was the best thing to do.

And just like that, the following morning was a sad day, breakfast wasn't as good as the previous days, and Ella's smile wasn't as bright anymore.

She wanted to be there for her dad, not sure how to do it properly, though. She knew she couldn't give him the best comfort, but she tried. She hugged her dad tightly, kissed his cheek gently.

«Ich liebe dich, Papa (i love you, dad).» she whispered, holding him tight.

König returned the hug, caressing his daughter's long and blonde hair, kissing her forehead. «Mommy is...» he began, but Ella stopped him.

«I heard you two yesterday, daddy...» she revealed, hoping her dad wouldn't be mad at her.

König looked at her for a moment before smiling reassuringly, the corners of his lips slightly lifting up in a faint smile. «You're a smart girl.» he said, proud of her daughter.

Ella smiled at him, happy to see her daddy smile. Despite his broken heart, König found comfort in his daughter's gentle and kind personality. He loved how mature she was, at her young age. He was so so proud of her.

«Let's watch Tangled, hmm?»

Ella decided to remain with her dad, and see her mom when König was too busy with work. He tried not to make it happen as often anymore, because he wanted to be there for his daughter.

Sarah moved on and decided to marry that Jack guy, but Ella didn't really like him. They even had a baby together, a boy: Louis.

In those two years, König's seen other women, he's been on dates and has tried to find someone to spend the rest of his life with. But to no success.

He couldn't seem to find "the one". Plus, Ella always wanted to know who her daddy was dating, claiming that König's future girlfriend - or wife - should've been chosen by her. She just wanted to protect his dad from getting his heart broken again.

And since she didn't approve none of the women König dated, he simply stopped. He chose Ella over everyone else, deciding to put her happiness first.

He decided to take her out instead, going to cinemas, restaurants, fast foods and car trips. He treated her like the little princess she was, always providing the best for her whenever he could and had the opportunity. In his free days, especially.

She was so sweet and energetic, and König wanted to keep that side of her at all costs. It wasn't easy at first, for him to be a single dad, dealing with a girl. He was scared to raise her alone, but he continued hoping to find the perfect woman that could be there for him, approved by Ella, too.

Ella was glad her dad wanted to be the best for her, that he treated her like a princess and wanted to save the queen treatment for his future girlfriend. She admired her daddy a lot, and was so proud of his job. At school, on father's day, she was always putting so much effort into memorizing poems for him, and doing little gifts for him, too. König kept every single one of her heartfelt gifts into his room, close to his heart.

He also kept a photo of Ella inside the front pocket of his military gear, close to his heart, so that way Ella was with him when he was out for his missions.

Ella grew to be the most important little woman for König, and he managed to find enough time for her, combining it perfectly with his duties.

One day, he surprised her by picking her up at school. He just got off from work, and was still wearing his full gear.

Many moms were outside the school, waiting for their own children. Meanwhile, though, he was getting a little too much attention while waiting for Ella to get out of school. Which made him feel a bit… awkward.

“My goodness, he’s so tall!” one mom whispered to another. “And look at those muscles!”

“He’s handsome!” another joined the chat. “Oh, to be his wife…”

König could hear them even though they tried to be subtle about it. They weren’t. Mothers left and right, eager to know more about that tall and muscular soldier. Craving to know his name, his age, his relationship status, and more.

He wasn’t wearing his hood, either, and he felt naked without it. His nerves were tense, his anxiety growing by the minute. He’s suffered a lot, struggling with anxiety throughout his life. The military has helped him a lot, since he would lash out and free himself from it, especially when he was in the field. But in situations like this, he struggled to keep it together and calm the hell down.

And his anxiety rose when one of those predator mommies, a younger one, approached him, «Are you waiting for your kid?» she asked, a hint of flirt in her voice.

«My daughter, yes.» he replied, looking down before his eyes returned on the school gates. The woman was very pretty, König couldn’t contain his subtle blush. He felt like an idiot. Was he making a fool out of himself? A strong and tall soldier such as himself… blushing due to a conversation?!

«What’s her name?» the young woman asked, taking a step closer to him, noticing his cheeks colored of a light pink.

«Ella.» he simply said. He looked at her now, finally, and with a soft smile on his face. But his voice cracked a little as he asked: «What about you?»

«I’m waiting for my son, Caleb.» she answered, seemingly confident. «I think they’re in the same class, too.»

The flirtatious tone in her voice intrigued König undeniably, causing him to blush more. He looked at the young woman, smiling at her. Maybe… maybe this could be the start of something?

Just then, their kids got out from school and ran toward them.

And Ella was crying.

König didn’t waste any time to run toward his daughter, despite it was supposed to be a surprise. He ruined it, but he hated seeing his daughter crying.

As soon as she saw him, Ella jumped into his embrace, holding him tightly while crying on his dad’s shoulder. Now, of happiness.

Usually, when her daddy wasn’t home, she stayed with her grandma. But it was nothing like when she was with König. He brought out her brightest smile, and she was able to bring the best out of him.

«Ella, mein Schatz (my love/honey)…» König whispered, kissing her cheek and picking her up in his arms. «Why are you crying?»

Ella wiped her tears when he picked her up, trying to stop herself from crying. «Ein Junge warf einen Ball nach mir und er traf mich im Gesicht (A boy threw a ball at me and hit me in the face ? )!» she said, pointing at the bruise forming on her forehead.

«Oh, my princess…» König whispered, kissing the bruised spot while caressing her hair. «Wer war das? (Who was it?)»

Ella pointed at a little boy running toward her mom. And her mom was the young lady he was talking to earlier. No need to say that König never spoke to that woman again, after their discussion because of his son’s bad manners, since he didn’t want to apologize to Ella.

No one could treat his little princess like that. He didn’t allow it.

As the day passed and dinner was served and eaten, Ella and Jasmine were creating such a strong bond, and the little girl grew to like Jasmine more and more. She liked her a lot, and she always thought Jas looked extremely pretty, and her personality made her even prettier. She wasn't very tall, but that didn't matter. She was young, around 23 years old, and Ella aspired to be as pretty as her when she'd grow up.

Knowing that Ella saw her as an example filled Jasmine's heart with pride for herself and adoration for that little angel. She's never really seen herself as someone a child would aspire to be like... but now that Ella told her «I want to be as pretty as you when I grow up!», her heart melted.

«You're the prettiest girl ever already, Ella!» Jasmine kissed the top of her head, smiling warmly.

«Daddy always tells me that, too.» Ella giggled, her smile contagious.

«Because it's true.» Jasmine said, continuing to braid Ella's long and blonde hair like she asked her to.

There was some silence after that, as Jasmine kept braiding Ella's hair and she watched a cartoon on the TV. And then, the little girl broke that silence with a sudden question: «Do you think daddy will come home soon?»

Jasmine wasn’t prepared to hear such a question. Nor did she know how to respond. She took a deep breath, finished braiding Ella’s hair and turned the little girl to face her. «Of course he’ll come home soon, Ella. I bet he can’t wait to see his pretty princess again.»

She tried to reassure her with a warm and gentle smile, taking her small hands in hers. Ella looked down at her feet, then into Jasmine’s eyes again. «What if he’s in danger?»

Jasmine’s brows knitted into a more sad expression. It must be horrible for Ella, she thought, caring so much for her father and not knowing if he’s okay for days, weeks even, sometimes.

She sighed, hugging Ella tightly, caressing her braided hair gently. «Don’t think negatively, Ella. Your dad is a strong and fearless man, and I’m sure he isn’t in danger at all. He knows how to defend himself, especially when he thinks of you.»

Jasmine’s words had an impact on Ella, causing her eyes to fill with tears as she thought of her picture in the front pocket of König’s vest. She loved him, and the feeling was ten times stronger from König.

Jasmine hugged Ella even tighter and she slowly calmed down, relaxing into Jasmine’s hug. She found confort in her gentle embrace, finding the way she stroke her hair very relaxing.

And just like that, after several minutes, the little girl slowly fell asleep in Jasmine’s arms. She smiled at the realization, kissing the top of her head and picking her up to put her in bed.

She made sure Ella was sleeping peacefully in her purple bed, before turning the lights off and closing the door to her bedroom.

Jas then returned to the living room, turning the tv off and cleaning up a bit. After that, she remembered that König told her he was going to be away for two days, and that Jasmine was allowed to sleep in his bedroom. It was still quite strange to her, but she walked quietly toward König’s empty bedroom, and looked around: he had a king-size bed, a large tv and a big window, that overlooked the city: a nice view, especially that starry night. Photos of him and Ella were placed on his nightstand and some of the shelves, along with some gifts handcrafted by her: father’s day poems and letters, photo frames made by Ella, cute origamis and other cute things all over.

She smiled at the sight, but sighed, feeling guilty of sleeping in his room. Still, his bed looked quite comfortable…

Jasmine decided to change into something a bit more comfortable, and opened his closet, grabbing one of his oversized t-shirts and wearing it. She felt a bit guilty about it, too, but as soon as she smelled his intense scent on the shirt, she closed her eyes and imagined him putting it on.

After she changed into it, Jasmine laid on his giant bed, smelling his cologne on his sheets and pillows. Again, the fragrance of him invaded her nostrils, her mind, her thoughts… and all she could think about was how it would feel like to sleep by his side in that enormous bed of his.

All she could think about was how his arms, his muscular and strong arms would feel like tightly placed around her waist, holding her close to himself as he inhaled her scent, kissed her neck…

All she could think about was how it would feel like to properly spend a night with him. She’s never seen König without a shirt, but if he had to imagine it… his broad shoulders would’ve been just a taste of his toned chest and defined abs, as well as his strong and muscular back, well defined and large. She fantasized about him having a happy trail, and how his V lines would led her to… things she wasn’t supposed to think about!

Oh, Jasmine… little did she know her dreams and fantasies would eventually turn into reality…

~ smninthisworldd ; please do not copy.

[ventruevitae]

OC SMASH OR PASS

tagged by @ineed-to-sleep ily <3<3<3

go ahead and consider this a tag if you see it! i can't think of anyone rn + i'll probably be doing these for other ocs anyway so sdgfhhj

--

rules: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

these images are all over the place don't @ me

BASICS:

Full name: Katerina Irakleidis (That last name gets swapped out every few decades. Most people just call her Kat.)

Age: Looks like she's in her mid-twenties, was actually born in the 20s

Height: 5"3-ish (almost always wearing some sort of heel tbh, it's hard to clock her actual height between that & the hair)

Eyes: green

Gender: cis woman

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: bisexual (major preference for masc/butch types gender notwithstanding btw lmao)

PROS:

vampire.

bit of a hard outer shell but if you break through it ohh man, truly one of the most passionate & devoted people you will meet

surprisingly selfless also?

knows how to dress well, you'll always have something pretty on your arm & she'll be so happy if you let her coordinate outfits

you want to see the world burn? cool, so does she. just point her in a direction & tell her who you want dead.

really goddamn good in bed. she knows it too.

money isn't a problem. how did she come by it? don't worry about it darling.

loves physical touch. top contender of the cuddliest vampire in LA currently.

she can teach you how to do some fun swing dance stuff from her fledgling years c: (she knows a ton of partner dance styles & is pretty good at making up steps/choreo on the fly--so yes, you will get those midnight kitchen dances if you so desire)

basically a happy/content kat is someone who likes to get pretty domestic with her partners. she seems like she'd be looking for something flashy, but nope. her biggest desire is really just settling into something peaceful & being called someone's baby.

CONS:

vampire but also a Ventrue. ymmv on how much of a con this is.

see above: ventrue possessiveness. not necessarily your fault, but can & will become your problem.

"hard outer shell" = she can be genuinely prickly & argumentative at times and can leave a fairly negative impression on people. doesn't care if this happens 99% of the time either.

will not be staying with you if her sire is still alive.

actually that probably puts a pretty massive target on your back, sorry.

is probably definitely still hung up on her sort-of-not-really-an-ex. you will never be him, i am sorry. can you blame her though, who's out here getting over nines rodriguez?

she has a sister, which would be a pro except this sister is a lasombra who will regularly fuck up any emotional regulation kat has scraped together after they cross paths (assuming it doesn't get more physical)

chain smokes. dead god she smokes So Much. doesn't matter for health reasons, being dead and all, but still.

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: Digital drawings featuring a variety of characters from Octopath Traveler. There are full descriptions of all images under the cut. End image description.]

you know what? octopath is the only game i’ve ever played that accurately depicts what happens when you eat an olive. thank you octopath

[Image description: First is a drawing of Primrose, Ophilia, Kit, and Lyblac, with certain aspects of their designs altered. Primrose steps forward in a beguiling pose. She wears a red dress with a short, layered front and a long, flowing back. She wears gold jewelry including three rings on her right hand, a headband with a flower adornment, and a belt around her waist. Her knife is strapped to her right thigh and she wears medieval women's knee-high hose, black with red garters, beneath her sandals. A note next to her reads, "Elements taken from 15th century Italian illustration of dancers." Ophilia holds up her staff. A long lace veil covers her head and is tied beneath her chin. She wears a brooch on the left side of her cloak. The notes next to her read, "Mourning veil worn for varying lengths of time depending on relation (parent = 1 year). Mourning brooch of braided hair worn indefinitely by choice." Kit's design is much the same. He looks with slight wonder over at Lyblac, who stands tall with her hands clasped and a blood red halo around her head. She wears a black escoffion and a black and red houppelande with dagged sleeves.

Second is a drawing of Mattias, Esmeralda, and Lianna, with certain aspects of their designs altered. A note above Mattias and Esmeralda reads, "Obsidian fashion is ahead of the times (entirely because I mistook Mattias's sprite as having a ruff)." Along with the ruffs around his neck and wrists, Mattias wears a yellow doublet, orange jerkin, a gold necklace with a red jewel pendant, black paned trunkhose, a blue cape with a pattern of yellow stars, and a black cap with a blue feather. He has a confident expression, with one hand on his hip and the other splayed outwards. The note next to him reads, "If he's posing as a merchant he needs a stupid little hat and plume." Esmeralda holds up a black dagger in one hand and clenches the other into a fist with an irritated expression. She wears a French hood, a black gown with slashed sleeves, and gold jewelry around her neck and waist. The gown's skirt is full on the left side, layered and translucent in the middle, and has a slit on the right side to show the crow tattoo on her thigh. The note next to it reads, "Put it back." Then it points to Mattias's left leg and says, "He has it too." Lianna has a neutral expression as she holds up Aelfric's Lanthorn with a dark flame burning within. She wears the robes of a vestal of Galdera. The note next to her reads, "Love how he made her a special little anti-cleric outfit (takes off mourning veil)."

Third is a drawing of Alfyn smiling in profile, showing off his messy, dirty blonde hair with the sides shaved. To the right is a bouquet of seven white lilies. The text above them reads (in all caps), "Donio sam ja sedam ljiljana / Majko da li znaš još sam sam / Majko da li znaš još sam sam / Spava malena slatka glavica / Majko pokrila mi je travica / Majko pokrila mi je travica."

Fourth is a collection of doodles. 1. Lyblac and Kit stand in front of the Gate of Finis. Kit asks, "what are u trying to say." Lyblac points to the Gate with a smile and says, "go here." Kit asks, "in the dark ?" Lyblac says, "go in the dark." 2. Galdera says, "AND I'M BAD!" The souls around the Omniscient Eye say, "MEAN!! GREEN!! BAD!!" 3. To the left, Therion holds up a pair of rivet spectacles to his eye. To the right, he wears a paisley-patterned headscarf and a chador over it with a small smile. The text reads, "His chador swag. Based on an outfit my friend saw me wearing in a dream cuz I thought he'd look cute in it." 4. Two anthropomorphic birds wear cloaks and hold up staves. The first one has a neutral expression and the second looks more aggressive. The text reads, "My brother mistook Believer I + II in Seaside Grotto for bird people and now I wish they really were bird people." 5. A screenshot of a post by user tlirsgender: "Consider: a gay dude and a lesbian who are BEST friends and also dating the same person but not each other because they are a gay dude and a lesbian but their mutual partner has a weird enough gender for it to work. Polycule that’s lgbt like all at once." Beneath it, Alfyn and Primrose happily shake hands while Therion stands in the background with a neutral expression. The note next to them reads, "This concept is so funny to me that it kinda loops around to being compelling." 6. Cyrus smiles and quirks one eyebrow while pointing upwards. The text reads, "LOVE IS IN THE AIR? / WRONG! LIGHTNING BLAST." 7. Primrose leans back on a counter and Therion sits on a stool with his hands clasped. Both look miserable and share a thought bubble which says, "I'm the only bitch here who's incapable of love and sincerity." They glance at each other curiously, and then return to being miserable and sharing a thought bubble which says, "Nah I'm way more sick and twisted than you."

Last is a comic. In the midst of a battle, Ophilia holds up her staff and does 719 damage; Cyrus holds up a tome and does one hit of 1284 damage and another of 1365 damage; and Alfyn holds up his axe and does 649 damage. One enemy remains: a Creeping Treant with one shield and vulnerabilities to axe and fire. In the foreground, Therion says, "Alright..." He prepares a full-boosted Wildfire and says, "Time to end this." Cyrus shuts his tome and says blithely, "I think not. You shall do exactly 2 damage." Ophilia holds a hand over her mouth and blushes, saying, "Oh my, is the Professor teasing?" Alfyn laughs, "Pff, c'mon now, Therion knows what he's doin'!" Therion uses Wildfire on the Treant and breaks it, doing 2 damage. Therion, Alfyn, and Ophilia stand lined up and look very startled, while Cyrus smiles mildly and thinks, "Oh wow, for real? I literally just said that for no reason." The note beneath the comic reads, "*Based on a true story where I was Therion and my brother was Cyrus. I laughed so hard I cried." End image description.]

[kotlc-deleted-scenes]

Neverseen Deleted Lines (Raw text, screen-reader friendly)

Any relevant description provided by Shannon on the quote image will be included before the quote itself.

1. Deleted Keefe Line. Quote text:

"And no more of that lazy writing stuff!" Keefe told them. "We expect our clues to rhyme!"

2. Quote text:

"Darkness is only temporary," Mr. Forkle said when they reached the bridge that would separate them. "And it helps us appreciate the light."

3. Deleted Dex line. Quote text:

Dex snorted. "Sophie can Telepath you under the table."

4. Deleted Fitz line. Quote text:

"I hate when you call yourself that," Fitz told Sophie. "You're not a freak. You're…kind of amazing."

5. Deleted Biana line. Quote text:

"Does that mean we're walking there?" Biana asked, probably realizing that purple kitten heels hadn't been the best shoe choice.

6. Deleted Tam line. Quote text:

"I've learned to embrace the darkness."

7. Quote text:

"I drank that tea stuff this morning," Fitz said, stretching his shoulder and wincing. "It tasted like banshee toenails."

"How do you know what banshee toenails taste like?" Sophie wondered.

"DON'T TELL HER," Keefe shouted from down the hall. "WHAT HAPPENS AT A LEVEL THREE MIDTERM PARTY STAYS AT A LEVEL THREE MIDTERM PARTY!"

8. Deleted Keefe line. Quote text:

"Will you two quit stalling?" Keefe asked, marching into the dim bedroom. "I mean, I know Fitz is jealous that my human costume is way cooler than his, but he's just going to have to get used to it."

9. Quote text:

"What's the password?" Keefe asked, blocking Sophie from entering the treehouse. "Hint: the answer is the same as whichever one of us is the best looking."

"Not now, Keefe," Sophie begged.

"Keefe! You answered correctly! Welcome to the Fortress of Awesome!" He stepped aside to let them pass, then blocked them when he saw Biana. "Okay—what are you wearing?"

Biana turned as crimson as her furry onesie—which zipped up over her head. "The Black Swan has horrible taste in pajamas."

10. Quote text:

"Physic will be here soon to check on you," Mr. Forkle told Fitz. "In the meantime, you should curl up with your Mr. Snuggles and try to sleep."

"Ugh, Keefe told you about that?" Fitz asked.

Mr. Forkle nodded. "I believe he's currently trying to convince the rest of your friends to call you the Snuggler from now on."

"I thought it was Lord of the Snuggles," Sophie corrected.

Mr. Forkle cracked a smile. "I'll say this for Mr. Sencen. He's definitely creative."

"AWWWWWW—I KNEW THE FORKLENATOR LOVED ME!" Keefe shouted from down the hall.

11. Quote text:

"I think you need a day off," Sophie told Calla. Let me cover your 'To Do' list."

"You cannot sing to trees. And you should be training. Not washing dishes."

"Hey, my human mom used to say, 'if you have two hands you can put them to work.'"

Calla smiled at that. "I'm glad they gave you a good mother—mothers, actually. Lady Ruewen has always been one of my favorites. As has your genetic mother.

Sophie froze. "You know who she is?"

"I suggested her. Please do not ask more than that."

12. Quote text:

"All right then," Physic told them. "I think you can all survive without me for a few hours. Then again, this is the famous Sophie Foster, so there may be another medical disaster soon."

Keefe snorted. "Sounds like word is out in the Physician's circles."

"Oh, it is," Physic agreed, tossing her braids. "And not just on Sophie. You have quite a file as well."

Keefe shrugged. "It happens. You hang with the Foster, you get hur…"

His voice trailed off as he seemed to realize his joke was a bit too close to reality.

Physic cleared her throat. "What you're experiencing right now is what we call 'foot in mouth disease," she told Keefe. "And sadly, I have no cure for that."

13. Quote text:

"Where do you live?" Tam asked.

Sophie chewed her lip. "I'm not allowed to tell you that either."

Tam tilted his head to study her. "Sounds like you have a lot of secrets."

"So do you," she reminded him.

"Maybe," he agreed. "But I'm the one asking questions, trying to figure out if I can trust you."

"You can," Sophie assured him.

"Said the girl standing in my camp, who won't trust me enough to tell me where she lives."

"It's not just my secret! I live with my friends—and it's the Black Swan's hideout."

His eyebrows raised. "Let me guess. You're not going to tell me what the Black Swan is?"

"Not yet," Sophie admitted. "Hopefully someday."

[pastafossa]

Hey I just wanted to ask a writer question. I really admire your writing and the amount of work and dedication you put into your stories and characters. You are one of my favourite authors ever. I have been wanting to get into writing and I was wondering how you flesh out your characters? For example you have a character that you’ve thought out, do you have a template that you fill in? Or just write a whole bunch of points about the character in a Google doc? I know that question might not make the most sense but I have a few characters that I’ve given quirks and backstories in my mind but I have no idea how to transfer them onto paper? Like Jane from TRT, is there just a big template or doc where you randomly put points into or some other type of organization? I know it’s not an easy thing to answer on text or even something you might not want to answer but even one sentence of advice is much appreciated :) Thank you so much for everything! I appreciate you. I will also put this into the ask thingy if you want to answer on there instead of PM 😁

I've managed to hammer this out in bits and pieces over the moments I've been more coherent so I think I'll make sense. First, thank you so, so, so much! I honestly love these characters so I'm always happy to hear someone likes it, even if I enjoy the work! 😭

Second - I do in fact have a template in doc form that I use to keep things organized! It's one I've been using since I took a novel writing course years ago by a published author, and in one particular class we went over character development, which is where I learned the template. The way I was taught (and the way I develop major characters) - first, even before filling in the template, I figure out their archetype(s). What story role are they filling? Who will they be a foil for? I like to think of those as your foundation, because every character is an archetype of some kind, and you can use that to build them up. To use Jane as an example, she's an antihero archetype, yes, but I've also pulled elements from: the Unscrupulous Hero, the Sympathetic Murderer, the Combat Pragmatist, and the Ineffectual Loner. Compared to Matt's hero archetype, she's the Lancer. Archetypes can help you if you're struggling to build up from the bottom.

Once I have the archetype, I start filling in the Major Character/Hero template, which roughly looks like this (if you don't fill it all right away, that's fine, because there's a step after this to fill it in the rest of the way). I like this one because I feel like it covers VERY important things that a lot of online character profiles skip, and has much less of a focus on looks (which I find way less important from a writing perspective):

Name: Age: Family History: Career: Physical Description: (include things like scars, notable or unusual features) Preferred Style of Clothing: (instead of listing brands, try to instead describe their style of clothing as it relates to their character - ex: Jane wears upper-end pantsuits in muted colors when meeting clients, because they carry a strong emphasis on professionalism; when hunting things down, she wears what is practical over anything to do with aesthetic) Goal: (every character should have one; what are they trying to do?) Motivation: (WHY do they want that goal?) Big Secret: (if it were Jane, it'd be what happened in Los Angeles; so what are they hiding? Keeping to themselves?) Self-image: (How do they see themselves? Are they confident and secure? Insecure and depressed?) Internal Conflict: (what are they struggling with?) Game: (What's some little game they enjoy?) Pet: (if applicable) Temptation: (what's aaaalways going to lure them in?) Vehicle: (if applicable; alternatively, how do they prefer to get around?) What makes them unique: (our fake post-apocalyptic character we made as a class had his teeth sharpened into points to scare people; Jane is often fidgeting with threads; just anything that stands out) How do they speak: (do they speak very precisely? Use lots of slang? Do they have an accent?) Quote: (What quote sums them up, or what quote do they relate to most? I have an entire folder of these for Jane tbh, and some for Ciro as well) Lesson Learned: (All characters should grow in some way, rather than stagnating. So how do they grow? What do they learn through the story?)

Now, this is something I was encouraged to do after the template, and also something I was already doing on my own. Once you have the template as finished as you feel comfortable with, you might feel like you need to develop the character a little further to fill in the rest, or solidify what you already have. The way you can do that? Write something short with this character. It doesn't have to be anything you need to post; it can be based on a short scene, based on a prompt, things like that. I like dumping them into: humorous scenarios, angsty scenarios, and Action Oriented (TM) scenes. Those really help you get into the meat of the character (aka: how they react to teasing/flirting/jokes; how they react to strong emotion; how they react in situations that might cause panic). Basically, it's your way of introducing yourself to them and becoming more comfortable writing them, because often a character might act a certain way in a cold, rigid template, but behave entirely differently once you drop them into a scene. Alternatively, you might get to writing and realize you need to make an adjustment so that they have better chemistry with the other characters. Writing a new character's a dance, and you're both going to step on each other's toes in the beginning, but once you learn how they move, it gets easier. And it helps them develop and grow as you learn about them!