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nesiacha · 17 days ago

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The Women of the French Revolution (and even the Napoleonic Era) and Their Absence of Activism or Involvement in Films

Warning: I am currently dealing with a significant personal issue that I’ve already discussed in this post: https://www.tumblr.com/nesiacha/765252498913165313/the-scars-of-a-toxic-past-are-starting-to-surface?source=share. I need to refocus on myself, get some rest, and think about what I need to do. I won’t be around on Tumblr or social media for a few days (at most, it could last a week or two, though I don’t really think it will).

But don’t worry about me—I’m not leaving Tumblr anytime soon. I just wanted to let you know so you don’t worry if you don’t see me and have seen this post.

I just wanted to finish this post, which I’d already started three-quarters of the way through.

One aspect that frustrates me in film portrayals (a significant majority, around 95%) is the way women of the Revolution or even the Napoleonic era are depicted. Generally, they are shown as either "too gentle" (if you know what I mean), merely supporting their husbands or partners in a purely romantic way. Just look at Lucile Desmoulins—she is depicted as a devoted lover in most films but passive and with little to say about politics.

Yet there’s so much to discuss regarding women during this revolutionary period. Why don’t we see mention of women's clubs in films? There were over 50 in France between 1789 and 1793. Why not mention Etta Palm d’Alders, one of the founders of the Société Patriotique et de Bienfaisance des Amies de la Vérité, who fought for the right to divorce and for girls' education? Or the cahier from the women of Les Halles, requesting that wine not be taxed in Paris?

Only once have I seen Louise Reine Audu mentioned in a film (the excellent Un peuple et son Roi), a Parisian market woman who played a leading role in the Revolution. She led the "dames des halles" and on October 5, 1789, led a procession from Paris to Versailles in this famous historical event. She was imprisoned in September 1790, amnestied a year later through the intervention of Paris mayor Pétion, and later participated in the storming of the Tuileries on August 10, 1792. Théroigne de Méricourt appears occasionally as a feminist, but her mission is often distorted. She was not a Girondin, as some claim, but a proponent of reconciliation between the Montagnards and the Girondins, believing women had a key role in this process (though she did align with Brissot on the war question). She was a hands-on revolutionary, supporting the founding of societies with Charles Gilbert-Romme and demanding the right to bear arms in her Amazon attire.

Why is there no mention in films of Pauline Léon and Claire Lacombe, two well-known women of the era? Pauline Léon was more than just a fervent supporter of Théophile Leclerc, a prominent ultra-revolutionary of the "Enragés." She was the eldest daughter of chocolatier parents, her father a philosopher whom she described as very brilliant. She was highly active in popular societies. Her mother and a neighbor joined her in protesting the king’s flight and at the Champ-de-Mars protest in July 1791, where she reportedly defended a friend against a National Guard soldier. Along with other women (and 300 signatures, including her mother’s), she petitioned for women’s rights. She participated in the August 10 uprising, attacked Dumouriez in a session of the Société fraternelle des patriotes des deux sexes, demanded the King’s execution, and called for nobles to be banned from the army at the Jacobin Club, in the name of revolutionary women. She joined her husband Leclerc in Aisne where he was stationed (see @anotherhumaninthisworld’s excellent post on Pauline Léon). Claire Lacombe was just as prominent at the time and shared her political views. She was one of those women, like Théroigne de Méricourt, who advocated taking up arms to fight the tyrant. She participated in the storming of the Tuileries in 1792 and received a civic crown, like Louise Reine Audu and Théroigne de Méricourt. She was active at the Jacobin Club before becoming secretary, then president of the Société des Citoyennes Républicaines Révolutionnaires (Society of Revolutionary Republican Women). Contrary to popular belief, there’s no evidence she co-founded this society (confirmed by historian Godineau). Lacombe demanded the trial of Marie Antoinette, stricter measures against suspects, prosecution of Girondins by the Revolutionary Tribunal, and the application of the Constitution. She also advocated for greater social rights, as expressed in the Enragés petition, which would later be adopted by the Exagérés, who were less suspicious of delegated power and saw a role beyond the revolutionary sections.

Olympe de Gouges did not call for women to bear arms; in her Declaration of the Rights of Woman and the Female Citizen, addressed to the Queen after the royal family’s attempted escape, she demanded gender equality. She famously said, "A woman has the right to mount the scaffold; she must equally have the right to mount the rostrum," and denounced the monarchy when Louis XVI's betrayal became undeniable, although she sought clemency for him and remained a royalist. She could be both a patriot and a moderate (in the conservative sense; moderation then didn’t necessarily imply clemency but rather conservative views on certain matters).

Why Are Figures Like Manon Roland Hardly Mentioned in These Films?

In most films, Manon Roland is barely mentioned, or perhaps given a brief appearance, despite being a staunch republican from the start who worked toward the fall of the King and was more than just a supporter of her husband, Roland. She hosted a salon where political ideas were exchanged and was among those who contributed to the monarchy's downfall. Of course, she was one of those courageous women who, while brave, did not advocate for women’s rights. It’s essential to note that just because some women fought in the Revolution or displayed remarkable courage doesn’t mean they necessarily advocated for greater rights for women (even Olympe de Gouges, as I mentioned earlier, had her limits on gender equality, as she did not demand the right for women to bear arms).

Speaking of feminism, films could also spotlight Sophie de Grouchy, the wife and influence behind Condorcet, one of the few deputies (along with Charles Gilbert-Romme, Guyomar, Charlier, and others) who openly supported political and civic rights for women. Without her, many of Condorcet’s posthumous works wouldn’t have seen the light of day; she even encouraged him to write Esquilles and received several pages to publish, which she did. Like many women, she hosted a salon for political discussion, making her a true political thinker.

Then there’s Rosalie Jullien, a highly cultured woman and wife of Marc-Antoine Jullien, whose sons were fervent revolutionaries. She played an essential role during the Revolution, actively involving herself in public affairs, attending National Assembly sessions, staying informed of political debates and intrigues, and even sending her maid Marion to gather information on the streets. Rosalie’s courage is evident in her steadfastness, as she claimed she would "stay at her post" despite the upheaval, loyal to her patriotic and revolutionary ideals. Her letters offer invaluable insights into the Revolution. She often discussed public affairs with prominent revolutionaries like the Robespierre siblings and influential figures like Barère.

Lucile Desmoulins is another figure. She was not just the devoted lover often depicted in films; she was a fervent supporter of the French Revolution. From a young age, her journal reveals her anti-monarchist sentiments (no wonder she and Camille Desmoulins, who shared her ideals, were such a united couple). She favored the King’s execution without delay and wholeheartedly supported Camille in his publication, Le Vieux Cordelier. When Guillaume Brune urged Camille to tone down his criticism of the Year II government, Lucile famously responded, “Let him be, Brune. He must save his country; let him fulfill his mission.” She also corresponded with Fréron on the political situation, proving herself an indispensable ally to Camille. Lucile left a journal, providing historical evidence that counters the infantilization of revolutionary women. Sadly, we lack personal journals from figures like Éléonore Duplay, Sophie Momoro, or Claire Lacombe, which has allowed detractors to argue (incorrectly) that these women were entirely under others' influence.

Additionally, there were women who supported Marat, like his sister Albertine Marat and his "wife"Simone Evrard, without whom he might not have been as effective. They were politically active throughout their lives, regularly attending political clubs and sharing their political views. Simone Evrard, who inspired much admiration, was deeply committed to Marat’s work. Marat had promised her marriage, and she was warmly received by his family. She cared for Marat, hiding him in the cellar to protect him from La Fayette’s soldiers. At age 28, Simone played a vital role in Marat’s life, both as a partner and a moral supporter. At this time, Marat, who was 20 years her senior, faced increasing political isolation; his radical views and staunch opposition to the newly established constitutional monarchy had distanced him from many revolutionaries.

Despite the circumstances, Simone actively supported Marat, managing his publications. With an inheritance from her late half-sister Philiberte, Simone financed Marat’s newspaper in 1792, setting up a press in the Cordeliers cloister to ensure the continued publication of Marat’s revolutionary pamphlets. Although Marat also sought public funds, such as from minister Jean-Marie Roland, it was mainly Simone’s resources that sustained L’Ami du Peuple. Simone and Marat also planned to publish political works, including Chains of Slavery and a collection of Marat’s writings. After Marat’s assassination in July 1793, Simone continued these projects, becoming the guardian of his political legacy. Thanks to her support, Marat maintained his influence, continuing his revolutionary struggle and exposing the “political machination” he opposed.

Simone’s home on Rue des Cordeliers also served as an annex for Marat’s printing press. This setup combined their personal life with professional activities, incorporating security measures to protect Marat. Simone, her sister Catherine, and their doorkeeper, Marie-Barbe Aubain, collaborated in these efforts, overseeing the workspace and its protection.

On July 13, 1793, Jean-Paul Marat was assassinated by Charlotte Corday. Simone Evrard was present and immediately attempted to help Marat and make sure that Charlotte Corday was arrested . She provided precise details about the circumstances of the assassination, contributing significantly to the judicial file that would lead to Corday’s condemnation.

After Marat’s death, Simone was widely recognized as his companion by various revolutionaries and orators who praised her dignity, and she was introduced to the National Convention by Robespierre on August 8, 1793 when she make a speech against Theophile Leclerc,Jacques Roux, Carra, Ducos,Dulaure, Pétion... Together with Albertine Marat (who also left written speeches from this period), Simone took on the work of preserving and publishing Marat’s political writings. Her commitment to this cause led to new arrests after Robespierre's fall, exposing the continued hostility of factions opposed to Marat’s supporters, even after his death.

Moreover, Jean-Paul Marat benefited from the support of several women of the Revolution, and he would not have been as effective without them.

The Duplay sisters were much more politically active than films usually portray. Most films misleadingly present them as mere groupies (considering that their father is often incorrectly shown as a simple “yes-man” in these same, often misogynistic, films, it's no surprise the treatment of women is worse).

Élisabeth Le Bas, accompanied her husband Philippe Le Bas on a mission to Alsace, attended political sessions, and bravely resisted prison guards who urged her to marry Thermidorians, expressing her anger with great resolve. She kept her husband’s name, preserving the revolutionary legacy through her testimonies and memoirs. Similarly, Éléonore Duplay, Robespierre’s possible fiancée, voluntarily confined herself to care for her sister, suffered an arrest warrant, and endured multiple prison transfers. Despite this, they remained politically active, staying close to figures in the Babouvist movement, including Buonarroti, with whom Éléonore appeared especially close, based on references in his letters.

Henriette Le Bas, Philippe Le Bas's sister, also deserves more recognition. She remained loyal to Élisabeth and her family through difficult times, even accompanying Philippe, Saint-Just, and Élisabeth on a mission to Alsace. She was briefly engaged to Saint-Just before the engagement was quickly broken off, later marrying Claude Cattan. Together with Éléonore, she preserved Élisabeth’s belongings after her arrest. Despite her family’s misfortunes—including the detention of her father—Henriette herself was surprisingly not arrested. Could this be another coincidence when it came to the wives and sisters of revolutionaries, or perhaps I missed part of her story?

Charlotte Robespierre, too, merits more focus. She held her own political convictions, sometimes clashing with those of her brothers (perhaps often, considering her political circle was at odds with their stances). She lived independently, never marrying, and even accompanied her brother Augustin on a mission for the Convention. Tragically, she was never able to reconcile with her brothers during their lifetimes. For a long time, I believed that Charlotte’s actions—renouncing her brothers to the Thermidorians after her arrest, trying to leverage contacts to escape her predicament, accepting a pension from Bonaparte, and later a stipend under Louis XVIII—were all a matter of survival, given how difficult life was for a single woman then. I saw no shame in that (and I still don’t). The only aspect I faulted her for was embellishing reality in her memoirs, which contain some disputable claims. But I recently came across a post by @saintejustitude on Charlotte Robespierre, and honestly, it’s one of the best (and most well-informed) portrayals of her.

As for the the hébertists womens , films could cover Sophie Momoro more thoroughly, as she played the role of the Goddess of Reason in her husband’s de-Christianization campaigns, managed his workshop and printing presses in his absence accompanying Momoro on a mission on Vendée. Momoro expressed his wife's political opinion on the situation in a letter. She also drafted an appeal for assistance to the Convention in her husband’s characteristic style.

Marie Françoise Goupil, Hébert’s wife, is likewise only shown as a victim (which, of course, she was—a victim of a sham trial and an unjust execution, like Lucile Desmoulins). However, there was more to her story. Here’s an excerpt from a letter she wrote to her husband’s sister in the summer of 1792 that reveals her strong political convictions:

« You are very worried about the dangers of the fatherland. They are imminent, we cannot hide them: we are betrayed by the court, by the leaders of the armies, by a large part of the members of the assembly; many people despair; but I am far from doing so, the people are the only ones who made the revolution. It alone will support her because it alone is worthy of it. There are still incorruptible members in the assembly, who will not fear to tell it that its salvation is in their hands, then the people, so great, will still be so in their just revenge, the longer they delay in striking the more it learns to know its enemies and their number, the more, according to me, its blows will only strike with certainty and only fall on the guilty, do not be worried about the fate of my worthy husband. He and I would be sorry if the people were enslaved to survive the liberty of their fatherland, I would be inconsolable if the child I am carrying only saw the light of day with the eyes of a slave, then I would prefer to see it perish with me ».

There is also Marie Angélique Lequesne, who played a notable role while married to Ronsin (and would go on to have an important role during the Napoleonic era, which we’ll revisit later). Here’s an excerpt from Memoirs, 1760-1820 by Jean-Balthazar de Bonardi du Ménil (to be approached with caution): “Marie-Angélique Lequesne was caught up in the measures taken against the Hébertists and imprisoned on the 1st of Germinal at the Maison d'Arrêt des Anglaises, frequently engaging with ultra-revolutionary circles both before and after Ronsin’s death, even dressing as an Amazon to congratulate the Directory on a victory.” According to Généanet (to be taken with even more caution), she may have served as a canteen worker during the campaign of 1792.

On the Babouvist side, we can mention Marie Anne Babeuf, one of Gracchus Babeuf’s closest collaborators. Marie Anne was among her husband's staunchest political supporters. She printed his newspaper for a long time, and her activism led to her two-day arrest in February 1795. When her husband was arrested while she was pregnant, she made every effort possible to secure his release and never gave up on him. She walked from Paris to Vendôme to attend his trial, witnessing the proceeding that would sentence him to death. A few months after Gracchus Babeuf’s execution, she gave birth to their last son, Caius. Félix Lepeletier became a protector of the family (and apparently, Turreau also helped, supposedly adopting Camille Babeuf—one of his very few positive acts). Marie Anne supported her children through various small jobs, including as a market vendor, while never giving up her activism and remaining as combative as ever. (There’s more to her story during the Napoleonic era as well).

We must not forget the role of active women in the insurrections of Year III, against the Assembly, which had taken a more conservative turn by then. Here’s historian Mathilde Larrère’s description of their actions: “In April and May 1795, it was these women who took to the streets, beating drums across the city, mocking law enforcement, entering shops, cafes, and homes to call for revolt. In retaliation, the Assembly decreed that women were no longer allowed to attend Assembly sessions and expelled the knitters by force. Days later, a decree banned them from attending any assemblies and from gathering in groups of more than five in the streets.”

There were also women who fought as soldiers during the French Revolution, such as Marie-Thérèse Figueur, known as “Madame Sans-Gêne.” The Fernig sisters, aged 22 and 17, threw themselves into battle against Austrian soldiers, earning a reputation for their combat prowess and later becoming aides-de-camp to Dumouriez. Other fighting women included the gunners Pélagie Dulière and Catherine Pochetat.

In the overseas departments, there was Flore Bois Gaillard, a former slave who became a leader of the “Brigands” revolt on the island of Saint Lucia during the French Revolution. This group, composed of former slaves, French revolutionaries, soldiers, and English deserters, was determined to fight against English regiments using guerrilla tactics. The group won a notable victory, the Battle of Rabot in 1795, with the assistance of Governor Victor Hugues and, according to some accounts, with support from Louis Delgrès and Pelage.

On the island of Saint-Domingue, which would later become Haiti, Cécile Fatiman became one of the notable figures at the start of the Haitian Revolution, especially during the Bois-Caiman revolt on August 14, 1791.

In short, the list of influential women is long. We could also talk about figures like Félicité Brissot, Sylvie Audouin (from the Hébertist side), Marguerite David (from the Enragés side), and more. Figures like Theresia Cabarrus, who wielded influence during the Directory (especially when Tallien was still in power), or the activities of Germaine de Staël (since it’s essential to mention all influential women of the Revolution, regardless of political alignment) are also noteworthy.

Napoleonic Era

Films could have focused more on women during this era. Instead, we always see the Bonaparte sisters (with Caroline cast as an exaggerated villain, almost like a cartoon character), or Hortense Beauharnais, who’s shown solely as a victim of Louis Bonaparte and portrayed as naïve. There is so much more to say about this time, even if it was more oppressive for women.

Germaine de Staël is barely mentioned, which is unfortunate, and Marie Anne Babeuf is even more overlooked, despite her being questioned by the Napoleonic police in 1801 and raided in 1808. She also suffered the loss of two more children: Camille Babeuf, who died by suicide in 1814, and Caius, reportedly killed by a stray bullet during the 1814 invasion of Vendôme. No mention is made of Simone Evrard and Albertine Marat, who were arrested and interrogated in 1801.

An important but lesser-known event in popular culture was the deportation and imprisonment of the Jacobins, as highlighted by Lenôtre. Here’s an excerpt: “This petition reached Paris in autumn 1804 and was filed away in the ministry's records. It didn’t reach the public, who had other amusements besides the old stories of the Nivôse deportees. It was, after all, the time when the Republic, now an Empire, was preparing to receive the Pope from Rome to crown the triumphant Caesar. Yet there were people in Paris who thought constantly about the Mahé exiles—their wives, most left without support, living in extreme poverty; mothers were the hardest hit. Even if one doesn’t sympathize with the exiles themselves, one can feel pity for these unfortunate women... They implored people in their neighborhoods and local suppliers to testify on behalf of their husbands, who were wise, upstanding, good fathers, and good spouses. In most cases, these requests came too late... After an agonizing wait, the only response they received was, ‘Nothing to be done; he is gone.’” (Les Derniers Terroristes by Gérard Lenôtre). Many women were mobilized to help the Jacobins. One police report references a woman named Madame Dufour, “wife of the deportee Dufour, residing on Rue Papillon, known for her bold statements; she’s a veritable fury, constantly visiting friends and associates, loudly proclaiming the Jacobins’ imminent success. This woman once played a role in the Babeuf conspiracy; most of their meetings were held at her home…” (Unfortunately for her, her husband had already passed away.)

On the Napoleonic “allies” side, Marie Angélique, the widow of Ronsin who later married Turreau, should be more highlighted. Turreau treated her so poorly that it even outraged Washington’s political class. She was described as intelligent, modest, generous, and curious, and according to future First Lady Dolley Madison, she charmed Washington’s political circles. She played an essential role in Dolley Madison’s political formation, contributing to her reputation as an active, politically involved First Lady. Marie Angélique eventually divorced Turreau, though he refused to fund her return to France; American friends apparently helped her.

Films could also portray Marie-Jacqueline Sophie Dupont, wife of Lazare Carnot, a devoted and loving partner who even composed music for his poems. Additionally, her ties with Joséphine de Beauharnais could be explored. They were close friends, which is evident in a heartbreaking letter Lazare Carnot wrote to Joséphine on February 6, 1813, to inform her of Sophie’s death: “Until her last moment, she held onto the gratitude Your Majesty had honored her with; in her memory, I must remind Your Majesty of the care and kindness that characterize you and are so dear to every sensitive soul.”

In films, however, when Joséphine de Beauharnais’s circle is shown, Theresia Cabarrus (who appears much more in Joséphine ou la comédie des ambitions) and the Countess of Rémusat are mentioned, but Sophie Carnot is omitted, which is a pity. Sophie Carnot knew how to uphold social etiquette well, making her an ideal figure to be integrated into such stories (after all, she was the daughter of a former royal secretary).

Among women soldiers, we had Marie-Thérèse Figueur as well as figures like Maria Schellink, who also deserves greater representation. Speaking of fighters, films could further explore the stories of women who took up arms against the illegal reinstatement of slavery. In Saint-Domingue, now Haiti, many women gave their lives, including Sanité Bélair, lieutenant of Toussaint Louverture, considered the soul of the conspiracy along with her husband, Charles Bélair (Toussaint’s nephew) and a fighter against Leclerc. Captured, sentenced to death, and executed with her husband, she showed great courage at her execution. Thomas Madiou's Histoire d’Haiti describes the final moments of the Bélair couple: “When Charles Bélair was placed in front of the squad to be shot, he calmly listened to his wife exhorting him to die bravely... (...)Sanité refused to have her eyes covered and resisted the executioner’s efforts to make her bend down. The officer in charge of the squad had to order her to be shot standing.”

Dessalines, known for leading Haiti to victory against Bonaparte, had at least three influential women in his life. He had as his mentor, role modele and fighting instructor the former slave Victoria Montou, known as Aunt Toya, whom he considered a second mother. They met while they were working as slaves. They met while both were enslaved. The second was his future wife, Marie Claire Bonheur, a sort of war nurse, as described in this post, who proved instrumental in the siege of Jacmel by persuading Dessalines to open the roads so that aid, like food and medicine, could reach the city. When independence was declared, Dessalines became emperor, and Marie Claire Bonheur, empress. When Jean-Jacques Dessalines ordered the elimination of white inhabitants in Haiti, Marie Claire Bonheur opposed him, some say even kneeling before him to save the French. Alongside others, she saved those later called the “orphans of Cap,” two girls named Hortense and Augustine Javier.

Dessalines had a legitimized illegitimate daughter, Catherine Flon, who, according to legend, sewed the country’s flag on May 18, 1803. Thus, three essential women in his life contributed greatly to his cause.

In Guadeloupe, Rosalie, also known as Solitude, fought while pregnant against the re-establishment of slavery and sacrificed her life for it, as she was hanged after giving birth. Marthe Rose Toto also rose up and was hanged a few months after Louis Delgrès’s death (if they were truly a couple, it would have added a tragic touch to their story, like that of Camille and Lucile Desmoulins, which I have discussed here).

To conclude, my aim in this post is not to elevate these revolutionary, fighting, or Napoleonic-allied women above their male counterparts but simply to give them equal recognition, which, sadly, is still far from the case (though, fortunately, this is not true here on Tumblr).

I want to thank @aedesluminis for providing such valuable information about Sophie Carnot—without her, I wouldn't have known any of this. And I also want to thank all of you, as your various posts have been really helpful in guiding my research, especially @anotherhumaninthisworld, @frevandrest, @sieclesetcieux, @saintjustitude, @enlitment ,@pleasecallmealsip ,@usergreenpixel , @orpheusmori ,@lamarseillasie etc. I apologize if I forgot anyone—I’m sure I have, and I'm sorry; I'm a bit exhausted. ^^

#frev #french revolution #napoleon #napoleonic era #women in history #haitian revolution #slavery #guadeloupe #frustration

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mmani-e · 2 months ago

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And in this week's post for DR: Demix, I'm finally sharing a concept I've had stewing in my head for a while now. A tale of not one, not two, but THREE JUNKOS! Yay!

In DR: Demix, there are 3 Junkos, the reason why is that I wanted Ibuki to have her own little Izuru form, and I thought the perfect equivalent of that was Junko. But to make it work, I needed to retroactively change a lot of stuff, and it was a really fun process ngl. And things got complicated regarding whether or not Junko in DR1 even is Junko at all, so I thought I'd add a little fun tidbit to that too.

"Junko Enoshima" in Demix 1 is Ryoko Otonashi, and the name is just a nickname people gave her in reference to the founder of HP. She takes up the name when Mukuro dies and she goes ballistic, like Mondo becoming Kiyondo.

Junko Enoshima in Demix 2 is the founder of Hope's Peak. An anarchist revolutionary who was granted the opportunity to make a better world and kinda flubbed it because she was a teenager.

The "Junko" Project in Demix 2 is also the hyperactive and insane Mastermind" of the killing game, created in a secret project by disgruntled student geniuses, Ibuki was transformed into a sick reflection of HP's founder and manipulated to becoming a pawn of Taka's... but not really.

Junko 1, the Titleholder - The first Junko is the one we know and love from THH, but that is not her real name. Ryoko Otonashi - the Ultimate Moral Compass - is her real name, and "Junko Enoshima" is just a nickname given to her by the hopeful youth that see her as the successor of the revolutionary woman who founded the school of Hope's Peak itself.

In reality, this "Junko" is no more than an opportunistic teenager, who thinks the name is... weird, at best. Reveling in the popularity and opportunities she's given as the so-called "reborn Junko" to cause chaos, even if beneficial chaos, to every school she is shipped off to after setting the last one ablaze with riots and protest in the name of her vision of a right and just world.

It's not until she experiences an unimaginable loss in the events of Demix 1 that she fully embraces that nickname in a bout of insanity. Swearing to burn the school down to its foundations with everyone inside, promising through running tears that she would accomplish it, any means necessary to avenge her sister.

Junko 2, the Founder - The second Junko is seen in an old busted portrait taken about thirteen years prior to the events of the despair, and she is the revolutionary founder of Hope's Peak. An anarchist leader, she was the first truly identified ultimate. A revolutionary, quite literally, Junko used her incredible talents to bring Imperial Japan to heel in the second world war, starting a prolonged anarchist revolt that would only be quelled when offered to change the system from within, the government granting amnesty, infinite travel funds, and most importantly an institution made in her name where she could support the youth: Hope's Peak Academy.

Ultimately, it was a mistake to take the government's deal, as her efforts to spread revolution worldwide were quashed and Japan restricted her freedoms until she was an old woman who had hardly the energy to walk around the school she founded herself.

Junko 3, the Mastermind - Not forgetting the dream of their founder, many students united clandestinely to discuss the future of their school despite neverending scandals and reports of corruption. With their founder missing, they created a project to rejuvenate the school under a perfect vessel: an ultimate revolutionary of their own. One with every talent under the sun needed to retake the school for themselves.

A council of sixteen students at the head of the project did their best to transform reserve course student "Ibuki Mioda" into their savior... only for her to end up a completely out-of-control maniac.

"Junko" is a hyperactive monster, her only limitation being what her genius mind can come up with. She is constantly in a state of bliss as whatever desire Ibuki once had in that mind of hers was accomplished, even if she doesn't remember who she was anymore. And she lives to revel in that fact, to enjoy her talents now and forevermore, as it is the only thing she has of her old self to cling onto that makes her feel whole.

#danganronpa #fanart #danganronpa demix #talentswap au #talentswap #mani e.#danganronpa 2 #danganronpa 1 #danganronpa thh #junko enoshima #junko #ryoko otonashi #kiyotaka ishimaru #mukuro ikusaba #ibuki mioda #mastermind ibuki mioda

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frattweek · 3 months ago

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This blog is happy to announce… FRATT WEEK 7 !

From October 28 to November 3, this blog is hosting an entire week about Matt Murdock and / or Frank Castle, but their exact relationship is up to you - lovers, fuckbuddies, enemies, friends, partners… you pick! You can also do a Matt-only or a Frank-only work. OT+ (Fratt+) welcome!

All versions of Frank Castle & Matt Murdock are welcome: comics, TV shows, movies… All lengths and sizes, all types of fanworks welcome: fic, art, fibercraft, translation, podfic (don't forget to check in with the original creator if you're podficcing/translating!)... or a new chapter of a fic, an outtake from a series...

Halloween is also right in the middle of FW 7 so if you're in the mood for a little spook... feel free to add bats, spiderwebs, or ghosts to all your Fratt content!

Each day comes with a theme: Monday 28: Blood Tuesday 29: Bar Wednesday 30: Trust Thursday 31/Halloween: Spirit Friday 1: Pray / Prayer Saturday 2: Bag Sunday 3: Free topic / Amnesty day if you couldn't post before!

You can participate as much or little as you want, it’s all up to you!

If you create art / graphic works, a description for accessibility purposes would be much appreciated.

Don’t forget you can already post in the dedicated AO3 collection earlier - one month before the start of the event, the collection will be set so that all new works are invisible! All newly posted works will be revealed on Fratt Week, so you can start as early as you’d like ^_^

On Tumblr, just @frattweek us and #frattweek in the first five tags :-) More info in the FAQ (open the link in a browser!) and if you can’t find your answer, send an ask or leave a message on DW!

Banner art by @nkeiiin

Detailed ID under the cut, as well as extra ideas for the prompts!

Digital art of Matt Murdock and Frank Castle stand back to back on the left of a dark red grid background. Matt is in his red daredevil suit, hanging upside down and his head resting on Frank's right shoulder. Frank is angry frowning and looking up. Two white lines form a tilted X are on the right side of the art. The text on top of the line is "Fratt Week 7 28th Oct - 3rd Nov", the text at the bottom of the line is "Frattweek.tumblr.com"

1/ Blood -- bleeding, family, kin, clan, spill, martyr, thicker than water, vampire, fake, communion… 2/ Bar -- drinking establishment, bar exam, disbarred, rebar (construction worker!Frank, anyone?), ka-bar knife, to bar someone from something, things going fubar... 3/ Trust -- trust fund, to trust, trust in god, mistrust, trusty (gun, fist, baton, friend/partner…) 4/ Spirit -- ghost, alcohol, spiritual, spiritism, spirited, sprite... 5/ Pray / Prayer: religion, Madonna (Like A Prayer;-), misheard prey... 6/ Bag -- under the eyes, heavy bag, grocery bag, to bag (a criminal?), baggy (clothes?), gym bag, duffle bag, bag over the head, bodybag, bagged a criminal…

#fratt #frank castle #daredevil #the punisher #matt murdock #punisher #marvel #matt/frank #frattweek7

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copperbadge · 1 year ago

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What do you mean by digital cleaning?

It's something I've been working on more this year because I had a bit more travel than usual so couldn't do actual home cleaning, but I always take a couple of days in the Month Of Cleaning where I'm focused on my digital life. It's good to make your physical home a comfortable place for yourself, but it's also good to recognize that we have "digital" homes that need attention. And often this is at least less physically demanding, so it's good to keep it in your back pocket for days when you're mentally okay but physically too tired or sore to do more of that kind of work.

In the shortest possible terms, digital cleaning is just making sure that your phone, computer, socials, and other digital "presences" are organized in a way that you find helpful, and that you take a moment to either answer those messages you've been putting off or give yourself amnesty on doing so.

This tends to make a lot of people extremely anxious in a way ordinary physical space cleaning doesn't, so I'm going to put the rest of it behind a cut...

So when I say digital cleaning, I refer to stuff like going through my likes on Tumblr and clearing them out, going through my drafts and turning them into queued posts, answering my asks. I spend time in my email inboxes, either responding to messages or removing them. I am not an "inbox zero" kind of guy, but I like to keep the read-but-not-answered messages to a minimum, and towards the end of the year that usually means a clear-out and amnesty. I clean my Google Drive -- delete old files I uploaded for others, move documents I'm no longer using into an archive, move documents I want to work on into a central work folder. I go through my catch-all folder on my hard drive and organize it; I sort through the year's photos and organize those, partly to archive them and partly because I make a scrapbook from them each year. I don't usually have a ton of tabs open but often have more than I'd like, so I go through them all and either read, bookmark, or get rid of them.

I look in my phone's file tree to make sure I delete files I don't need (mostly menu downloads, Restaurants Stop Making Your Menus PDFs Challenge 2K24) and I sometimes go through each app on my phone, make sure I still use it, and make sure it's set how I want it. If this sounds like a nightmare, bear in mind that I very rarely put apps on my phone to start with -- I think my mother has more apps open at any given time than I have apps on my phone ever.

Everywhere I clean, I look for files named things like "notes" or "deal with" or "random" and move them all into one place so that whatever is in them, I can sort through it and make sure it goes somewhere permanent. Logins go in the login/password spreadsheet I keep, addresses go into my contacts, story notes go into a "fiction scraps" file, random thoughts either get moved into a journal file or put into drafts to become Tumblr posts, etc.

If this sounds like I might have some kind of compulsion disorder, I get that; when I explain my digital hygiene systems a lot of people look at me like I'm spouting a mad but harmless conspiracy theory. But it's something I used to have to do periodically even before I created National Clean Your Home Month, because otherwise I could never find anything, and everything was just...harder. As I once told a boss who admired my organizational skills, "It was this or endless chaos."

Putting addresses into my contacts list means I always know that the addresses I have for my friends are up to date. Putting logins into a spreadsheet means that five minutes spent now will not result in five weeks of procrastination later because I can't find the login and can't do anything else until I do that. Going through my email and archiving old conversations means not only can I find them easily when needed, I don't have to look at them the rest of the time. Sometimes I even go through my various wish lists and remove old/purchased items, or clear out all my "save for later" carts.

There's no doubt this is stressful, but like every part of NaClYoHo, it's broken down into smaller tasks; I don't have to look at my computer and organize everything on it all in one day. I can answer a few asks, then sort photos (something I find very soothing up until the moment I Don't), then read and delete some emails, then I'm done for the day. I can spread "answer or file all your work emails" out over a couple of days. I can maybe empty out my Likes but just turn the ones I actually want to reblog into drafts for now and deal with them later in the "drafts" phase of cleaning. And if I don't manage to empty out my inboxes, at least they're emptier than they were.

I'm struggling this morning with having put a bunch of physical cleaning on the to-do list but not feeling physically up for it, so I did what I felt capable of doing (measuring cabinets for new shelf liners mainly) and later today I might sit down and start building this year's photobook. Or not -- I have to code Radio Free Monday, sort out a prescription and possibly go pick it up, plus a very full day of work and a couple of afternoon appointments I can't shirk, so today may simply be a "get through the day" kind of day. That's okay too; some days the spirit is willing but the schedule is full.

#naclyoho #national clean your home month #digital cleaning

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rainismdata · 5 days ago

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I'm stressed right now, so— here I am thinking about mpreg!Bruce and how would he deal with the information that he's now pregnant. Because... well— because. And this is all would be very much out of character.

this would be for AquaBat, SuperBat, and LanternBat.

It's in one tumblr post bcs I'm too tired to make separate posts.

Arthur × Bruce

Bruce would be furious, confused, afraid, and sad at the same time. Because, he doesn't have any relationship with Arthur (or maybe not yet, idk). Also, it's only a few years after the first born of Arthur Curry's child. He knows Arthur and Mera has separated and still become good friends with each other. He knows he's older than he was the first time he met Arthur and if anything, this pregnancy then would be having more obstacles than if he's younger.

Arthur would find him in the training ground, tiring himself out of confusion as to what should he do about the information. He was just found out that he's pregnant after he was fainted on patrol, and Alfred was checking up on him.

Arthur would catch him into his embrace to stop Bruce bruising himself any further. To watch the realization hits Bruce's eyes. Bruce then get a hold of Arthur, leaning closer.

I'll make Atlanna and Mera (hell, also Orm, later when the babies has been growing up) to be happy and congratulating them. Helping Bruce in the process. Helping Bruce to live in Amnesty Bay, so Arthur, Atlanna, and Mera can keep an eye on him.

Clark × Bruce

Idk but I think they would be very much in fluffy domestic thing. Like I know He would be very much freightened still, but he's more calm. He waits for the right time to tell Clark about it.

Until then he told Clark about it, and Clark was a smiling mess even more. Clark knew about it, because he heard more clear heartbeat, a new one, coming from Bruce, but it's not Bruce's. And Clark also wait the time for Bruce to tell him.

Bruce would probably protest as to why Clark didn't let him know earlier. But, actuall, Clark has gave him signs. For one thing, he realized as to why Clark's becoming to be more protective, alarmed, and attentive to Bruce; Clark tried so hard not to make Bruce's stressing out of the League by making one himself.

Fluff. Domestic. Cute. Everything. I'm adding it right away.

Hal × Bruce

It was actually close as what he feels on what I was writing in Arthur×Bruce, but without the fighting. It's just him becoming more quiet. He didn't tell anyone about it. Just Alfred who knows about it. At times, he would excuse him self to go out from the JL's meeting room. Hal would recognize the unusual eye blinks as if Bruce is more tired than usual. He's continuously telling Bruce to drink more water as his lips sometimes was dry.

After two weeks of Earth time out for galactical mission, Hal's back to the Mansion when he found out that Bruce wasn't at the batcave. Alfred told him that Bruce was in his room all day. He didn't know if he's already eat or not. He asked Hal to tell him know if Bruce has ate the foods Alfred brought to his room.

Fast forwards, Hal sits on the bedside, Bruce's side and heard faint sniffle. They talk a little, to the point of Bruce telling Hal the truth. Hal asked "How are you feeling?" when he's given the time to finally speak after Bruce's story and sorry(s). Bruce got his head down and closed his eyes while answering the question.

Hal put his hand on Bruce's cheek to feel the tears coming down to his hand. He get Bruce's head up towards him. "Show me." Hal said, then Bruce opened his eyes, Hal sees the watery hazel eyes of Bruce. Hal could see what Bruce is feeling.

#batman #bruce wayne #aquabat #superbat #lanternbat #batlantern #clark kent #superman #hal jordan #green lantern #arthur curry #aquaman #dc extended universe #rainfics #mpreg bruce wayne #mpreg #male pregnancy #out of character #this might be controversial but snyderverse!aquabat is 🔥🔥🔥

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capim-tinybang · 4 months ago

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Cap IM Tiny Reverse Bang 2024 Round 1: Nomad | Winghead

The Cap-IM Tiny Reverse Bang Round 1 will run from July 19th - July 26th.

Creators can make drabbles, ficlets, fic, podfics or fanvids inspired by the current week’s posted fanwork prompt round. So come make some amazing works for the Stevetony fanworks in this round of the TRB!

You can create as many fills as you like.

NOMAD:

Artist: fohatic Artist Profile: https://www.tumblr.com/moon-language-0 Rating: General Warnings: None Link to art: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56823556

WINGHEAD:

Artist: Lai Artist Profile: https://laidraws.tumblr.com/ Rating: General Warnings: None Link to art: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56840329

Feel inspired? Write fic of at least 100 words for any or both fanworks until the very end of Friday (any timezone) and earn a badge for every prompt you write for! Creators can also create podfics or fanvids as fills - there are no minimum requirements for these formats.

Post your work to our Collection For Creators Making Fills.

Please read through our Tiny Reverse Bang Guidelines page for more information and submission guidelines.

Late fills are welcome! Post during our Amnesty Week and you will still earn a badge and be included in the final event masterlist. Take a look at the Captain America/Iron Man Tiny Reverse Bang 2024 Schedule to check the art posting and amnesty week schedule.

#stevetony #stony #superhusbands #capimtrb #capimtrb2024 #capimevents

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mitch-the-silly · 8 months ago

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hi!!

id like to request sir pentious x reader headcanons where the reader is sir pentious’ and of course went with him to the hotel to spy on the hotel crew for the vees (let’s just say he wasn’t caught on day one for this..) and the reader starts feeling bad so they take down all of the cameras set up. once pen finds out, he’s absolutely pissed and upset, so he refuses to talk to the reader for about a few weeks, and ends with the reader apologizing (or at least attempting to) and some fluff?

thanks a bunch!!

(I swear I love sir pentious more than life itself he’s such a silly lil thing)

OMG YESSS! Sir Pentious was such a comfort character for me; he deserves the world. Most of my friend group hasn't watched Hazbin yet, and I always get caught lacking because of my "It Starts with Sorry" mini-phase. His parts are actual pieces of heaven to me-

(Post-writing process note: I wrote the best parts while listening to "Christmas Kids" and every time that one pops up on my playlist, I cook really hard with whatever it is I'm writing-)

Enough said, I'm gonna make this a tiny bit of a slow burn. Because... yeah :>

Reader is gn! due to no specification of gender being made in the request.

HOPE YOU ENJOYY!!!

"Amnesty"

Sir Pentious X gn!Reader Fluff

Here are your headcanons!

You had found work under Sir Pentious some decades ago. He wasn’t exactly the most successful overlord, but you were happy to not be part of the lower end of the food chain.

He didn’t own your soul and truly had no interest in such a thing. But you were like an assistant of sorts. Not quite an egg boy, not quite an equal to the man himself.

Despite this, you thought he was quite charming. While he was not destroying half of Pentagram City, he was sitting in the main hall of his steampunk zeppelin drinking tea and conversing with you. It was a very comfortable life.

And thus, as it was routine for the both of you, he began to pick a fight with Alastor again (a sort of fight which he always lost, but when did that stop The Great Sir Pentious). You stood ready to shoot. Your hand on the only lever the egg boys could not reach.

Pulling that lever was literally your only job. The only reason Sir Pentious had hired you in the first place. That’s just how enjoyable your company was to him.

Alas, the fight with Alastor was another failure, but he didn’t go down without ripping a piece of his coat. Action that Alstor didn’t seem to take kindly. The whole ordeal ended in Sir Pentious being flung out across the Pentagram. Of course, you ran off to find him.

Once you found him, you checked if he was alright. “Sir! Are you alright? That was quite the hit the Radio Demon gave you…” you mumbled at him, checking his person to make sure he was alright. He’d put himself together quite well, so you let him be.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine Y/n. I must persist in this endeavor! We mustn’t flail in our pursuit of power.” He called out, a statement at which you nodded.

You two tried to walk back to where the zeppelin had landed, but before you could make it there, in front of an electronics store, the both of you saw a TV light up with a very recognizable face.

Through that TV, Vox (one of the overlords Sir Pentious was trying to catch the attention of by attacking Alastor) explained to both of you that he had a mission for them. To infiltrate into the hotel, blend in, and spy on Alastor and Charlie.

(Valentino butted in to ask that they spy on Angel too-)

The both of you were thrilled to accept this mission. Immediately finding the Zeppelin and making your way back to the Hotel (this time in conditional peace).

Sir Pentious knocked on the Hotel’s main entrance and you waited beside him.

When Vaggie opened the door, you did NOT get punched. Sir Pentious however, did not get the same luck.

You both pleaded your cases. Saying that you’d spoken about the possibility of redemption and had considered it the best idea.

Of course, Charlie just couldn’t resist taking you two into the hotel (much to Angel and Vaggie’s dismay).

That same night, both you and Sir Pentious began to set up Vox’s cameras. You almost got caught, but thanks to your amazing deception skills, you two got away with it (Angel saw you guys, and you pretended you’d lost something).

As the days passed, you seemed to get more used to the way things were. The egg boys, Sir Pentious and you loved it at the hotel.

You became friends with Angel Dust and found Niffty oddly endearing despite her psychotic tendencies. Vaggie’s protective nature made you feel safe, Alastor was good company, Husk was very interesting to talk to and Charlie was the sweetest person you’d met!

And after speaking to Charlie a couple of times on the subject of your dynamic with Sir Pentious, you realized that you were very much in love with him.

After such a revelation, your mindset completely changed. Charlie had helped you realize that truly, you didn’t just follow and care for Sir Pentious because he was the overlord you worked for, but because you genuinely cared about him. How could you live with the guilt of betraying, spying, and intruding on the privacy of such a sweet person as well as her friends? Yes, this mission meant a lot to Sir Pentious, but you… you couldn’t do it anymore.

One night, you snuck down to the lobby. You knew exactly where all the cameras were, and you began to carefully take every single one of them down. And just as you were on the last one, you were faced with the last person you wanted to see: Sir Pentious.

He stood in front of the last camera, looking at you in disbelief. “What are you doing messsssssing wissss the camerasssss?” He whisper-yelled at you. Demanding an explanation.

“Sir… I… I can’t with this anymore… They’ve treated us so well… and we’re betraying them.” You argued, trying to keep it as quiet as he was.

“What? Why would you do that? I’m not letting you back out of thissssss. You’re not acting with ssssensssse.” He hissed back.

“Sir Pentious, please… I… We are gaining nothing from this.” You argued.

“Nossssing? Y/n, we are working for Voxssss. That’ssss exsssactly where we’ve been trying to be for the passssst five decadessss. You’re not gonna throw all of that away, are you?” He frowned. He felt so offended that you would even suggest you both ditch the plan.

“No that’s not what I-, Sir… I… hand me the camera, please...”

“Absssssolutely not.” He spat back.

“Stop being so loud, we’re going to get caught.” You responded, “Please… let’s talk this over, Penty…” You mumbled. An old nickname you hadn’t called him in ages. It was more of an inside joke between the both of you, but you definitely meant it as a term of absolute endearment.

“No. I don’t care what you call me. I’m not going to fall for it. I don’t know what they told you, but I sssssee now that I’ve losssssst your pledged loyalty. Do not ssssspeak to me, ever again, you traitor.” He responded bluntly.

Normally you would find his melodramaticism funny. But this. This one he meant it. You looked at him, a tear rolling down your cheek. You couldn’t take the pain of the wound his words inflicted on your heart. You loved him, and he hated you now. He deemed you as a traitor. So you ran away in an attempt to spare yourself from him seeing you cry. Running up the stairs, you stumbled into your room. Crying in a corner as you looked at the (now deactivated) cameras that you’d taken down. You sobbed bitterly on the floor until you eventually were too tired to remain awake.

The next morning, you crawled into your bed. You didn’t want to leave it. Perhaps it was a bit dramatic of you, but you’d been around Sir Pentious for so long that you didn’t know if it even was far-fetched. But all of that aside, you couldn’t bear to show your face. You felt that if you saw him, you’d start sobbing on the spot. So you simply stayed tucked below your blankets.

Charlie came in to check why you hadn’t left your room, and you simply told her you felt sick.

She had Niffty bring you some stew.

The egg boys went to check on you. You didn’t tell them about the argument you had with Sir Pentious.

They offered to bring you the next bowl of stew. They really cared about you

(Carl has definitely accidentally called you his parent-)

After three days of moping around, you decided you would go downstairs and sit in the lobby.

Once she saw you, Charlie asked you if you felt better now and you told her you felt much better.

However, at some point, you were left alone with Sir Pentious. You knew that you had to approach him. From the very depths of your heart you knew that you loved him and that if you stopped talking to him, you would live in misery for the rest of your eternal existence.

So the second you felt ready, you walked up to him with an apologetic look.

The second he saw you in his field of view, he turned away from you. Letting out a resentful huff, he tried to ignore you. However, you were determined to fix things.

“Sir Pentious… I… I didn’t mean to upset you. I know Vox’s attention means a lot to you… but this place made me realize that… you can be happy without him. We can be happy without him. Here in the hotel! In Heaven!” You exclaimed, begging him to listen.

“We? What do you mean by we? You’ve never sssspoken to me like this before.” He asked, still a bit undignified but still turning to you, confused by your choice of words.

You paused, thinking of how to come clean to him. “The reason why I took down the cameras was… because I felt bad. Charlie and I have been talking about feelings and things of the sort… and she made me realize that… That I love you… And, I’m so thankful for the clarity she brought me that it felt like betrayal. But I guess I… I didn’t stop to think how that would make you feel…” You mumbled.

He gave you a look of bewilderment. He had no words; he was flattered. And suddenly, it all made sense to him as well. The reason why he’d felt so betrayed was because of how he valued you.

“The last thing I wanted was for you to detest me…” You mumbled at him, feeling tears build up in your eyes.

He gave you a look of sympathy. It clicked in his mind that you did it out of love for him. He didn’t know how to feel about your affection towards him, but he was sure he cared about you and that the feeling was at the very least partially reciprocated. But right now, the feeling of betrayal was still fresh on his mind.

“I… I forgive you, I sssssuppose… I can’t stay mad at you after such a heartfelt confessssssion…” He mumbled, blushing, turning away. This time, not out of grudge, but out of embarrassment.

It wasn’t quite long until you two decided to take all the cameras down for good (after you two were discovered by Angel Dust about a week later) and dedicate yourselves to redemption.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #sir pentious x reader #hazbin sir pentious #sir pentious #hazbin hotel sir pentious #sir pentious fluff #hazbin hotel headcanon #sir pentious x you #sir pentious x reader headcanons #snake boi #snake boi fluff #sir pentious is so prescious #i love him #headcanons

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seiya-starsniper · 6 months ago

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Rating: Teen || Chapters: 2/5 || Word Count 3.5k/??

Summary: The Dead Boy Detectives run into a familiar pub while out on a case, and Crystal has to contend with an unfortunate event from her past.

AO3 Tags: POV Multiple, Hob Gadling gives live advice to a bunch of teenagers, while helping them solve cases, that's it that's the fic, also he maybe plays matchmaker for his hot mess bestie

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2 below, or using the link above on AO3!

--------------

Hob Gadling considers himself to be a rather open minded man. He's lived hundreds of years, and seen thousands of strange and unusual things in that same amount of time, so the chances of something catching him completely off guard are rather slim in the year 2024.

The last few days, however, have proven that there are still many, many things that can surprise him.

One of those things being one Charles Rowland, who is currently waving at Hob from the entryway of the New Inn.

Hob normally doesn't like to get involved in anything having to do with the supernatural, and especially not anything related to the type of work that Edwin and Charles do. He'd met them purely by chance after some asshole with delusions of grandeur had tried to frame him for a series of murders. He’d sent Edwin and Charles on a wild goose chase in a poor attempt to cover his own tracks.

Hob thought that once they caught the real murderer together and cleared things up, that would be the end of things. But then, Hob kept getting involved in their cases over the years, all of them entirely on accident. Eventually, somewhere between the fourth and fifth poltergeist, Hob decided he might as well figure out how to defend himself against supernatural entities, and maybe make himself useful for these poor boys too. They certainly needed all the help they could get.

Hob had been glad to hear that Edwin and Charles had recently gotten some sort of amnesty in exchange for continuing to help ghosts and other souls move on. It was good work, what these boys did. Hob has seen ghosts that haunted the same places for centuries finally be to pass on into the afterlife thanks to them. And now, they not only had permission to keep going, but had gotten more help to do it too.

The addition of Crystal to their little crew had been a surprise, and Jenny an even bigger surprise, though the latter seems less interested in solving cases, and more in making sure Crystal doesn't get herself killed in the process.

Still, Hob's only ever seen the teens all together in some sort of group, never alone, and he's definitely never seen Charles without Edwin. From the moment Hob had first met the two ghost boys, they’d always been a singular unit in his mind. And yet here Charles was, alone and looking strangely expectant while trying to appear casual as he waits for Hob to close out the tabs on the last remaining lunch hour patrons.

“Everything all right?” Hob asks when Charles approaches him once his last customer leaves.

“Of course!” Charles answers, his signature smile bright on display. “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to say hello. And to thank you again for the assist the other day.”

As a ghost, Charles is technically always in the neighborhood, so Hob knows that that’s not all that there is to his visit. It also hasn't escaped Hob's notice that Charles specifically picked the one day Jenny wasn't working the kitchen this week to drop by the pub. He clearly doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s here.

But Hob knows by now how to deal with skittish teenagers. Even dead ones.

“Well I'm almost done here and then I'm gonna head upstairs for a cuppa,” Hob says. Mark’s going to be here soon to relieve me of duty. Happy to have some company if you have the time to spare for an old man.”

“Oh! Yeah sure, I'm not busy,” Charles says, and cute that he’s still trying to pretend that he hadn’t come here with a purpose, when his eagerness is so clearly written all over his face. “Don't need any food though, as you know.”

“Sure, sure,” Hob replies, waving his hand dismissively so Charles can head upstairs ahead of him. He's going to make a cup of tea for Charles anyways. The boy always seemed to love the steam that came out of the mugs, even though he’d never admit it out loud.

Mark comes in exactly at 2:00pm, and Hob chats with him for a few minutes, before he clocks out and heads upstairs to his flat above the pub. Charles is already waiting for him in the living room, and Hob immediately sets to the task of warming up some hot water in the kettle and grabbing some mugs for tea.

“So how are things at the agency?” Hob asks as he waits for the water to heat. “Busy as ever, or more so now that you’ve got yourselves a psychic?”

“Definitely busier,” Charles says. “Crystal’s been a massive help with our cases, we're solving them even faster than before.”

“Good,” Hob replies, just as the kettle clicks, letting him know the water is done. “I’m glad she’s using her powers for good nowadays,” he adds as he brings the two mugs over to the couch. Charles looks surprised by the extra mug, but accepts it without a word. Hob doesn’t expect him to drink any of the tea, of course, but as predicted, Charles seems to fall into a trance watching the steam rise out of the cup.

“Thanks for not giving her too much of a hard time,” Charles says when Hob sits down in the recliner across from him. “She’s been really down on herself lately for everything in her past.”

“I can only imagine,” Hob agrees. He knew a thing or two about wanting to reinvent oneself and burning away the past. He’s had hundreds of years to do so after all. In fact, it could even be argued that Crystal was far ahead of where Hob would’ve been had he been in her shoes. The girl he’d met a few nights ago was so different from the one he’d met a year ago in court that Hob would’ve thought she had a twin instead.

“Seems like you two get along well,” Hob notes after a brief silence has passed. Charles perks up immediately, taking the opening in the conversation.

“We do,” Charles replies, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s amazing.”

“Yeah? So are the two of you a thing then?” Hob asks, and would you look at that, turns out ghosts can blush after all.

“I—maybe?” Charles says, his voice pitched higher with uncertainty. “I don’t know, actually. I mean, it's, well…complicated I guess?”

“How so?” Hob asks. He’d suspected there had been something going on between them, it was obvious in their body language, and how they gently teased one another throughout the night after the banshee had gone. Now Charles is talking like a man newly in love and completely besotted.

“Is she giving you mixed signals?” Hob follows up when Charles doesn't answer.

“No!” Charles exclaims, shaking his head. “It’s me really, I’m—I don’t know.” He sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought for a while that’s what I wanted and then Edwin—” he suddenly cuts himself off, a small amount of panic now crossing his features.

Ah. Now the reason for Charles' visit suddenly makes itself clear. Crystal clear even, but Hob keeps that terrible pun to himself.

“So Edwin finally told you how he felt about you?” Hob asks, deciding to rip the bandage off now and quell the strange awkwardness in the room. Charles’ head whips up so fast Hob feels his own neck start to cramp up in sympathy.

“You knew ?” Charles asks. “But Edwin said he’d only figured it out when we were in Port Townsend!”

Hob shrugs. “Sometimes, things are easier to spot when you’re not in the middle of them,” he replies. “But it was pretty clear that, at the very least, Edwin considered you the most important person to him. It's not surprising he fell in love with you too.”

“You really think so?” Charles asks. “Because I don't—I’d never really thought about it before, you know? He's my most important person too, but I never thought that we would be more than that. But now that he's said it, I can't stop thinking about it.”

“Yeah?” Hob asks. “Does it bother you that he feels that way?” A shake of the head. Good. “Do you ever think you could return those feelings?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem!” Charles cries, his voice pitching near to a whine. He stands and paces around Hob’s living room, and Hob has to try not to laugh into his tea. Teenage problems were always the same, whether a live or dead.

“To be honest, I’m still really into Crystal,” Charles starts, “...but then after everything with Edwin, and what happened to Niko, I started thinking, well, how long will that really last? Crystal’s alive, I’m not. She’s going to—she won’t—she’ll eventually—”

“Grow up?” Hob offers when the teen can’t find the right words. “Grow old, hopefully? Live a fulfilling life with someone else that’s flesh and blood?”

“I—yeah. Ideally yes,” Charles replies, though it's clear the thought bothers him by the way he scrunches his features. “But also, what if us being together puts her in too much danger? What if she—if what happened to Niko happens to her, I couldn't bear it, Mr. Gadling.”

“Hob,” Hob corrects the boy gently. “I've told you before that you don't need to call me Mister anything, makes me feel way older than I already feel,” he adds with a laugh. Charles gives him a half smile and just shrugs helplessly. Some habits were impossible to break, it seemed.

“And those are perfectly reasonable fears to have,” Hob continues. “Crystal is her own person though, and you need to take into account that she might find the risk worth it. And to be honest, I feel like the risk to her life is the same, whether you two are romantically involved or not.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right,” Charles agrees, flopping back down onto Hob’s couch and staring back into the still steaming mug of tea. “So do you think we should give it a go, then?”

Hob shrugs. “I think you two like each other,” he replies, “but whether you think a relationship is worth it is up to you. Does Edwin know about you two?”

“He knows—some stuff yeah,” Charles replies sheepishly. “I had told him I liked her way before he, you know, confessed to me and all. And like, even afterwards, it seems like he’s fine, but I really don’t know if it’s all actually fine, or if he’s just trying to act like he’s fine just because I look fine but he’s not really fine and what if I’ve mucked everything up or—”

“Hey, slow down, Charles,” Hob interjects, and the boy’s mouth clicks shut immediately. “From what I can see, nothing has changed between you, so I wouldn't worry about it,” he adds, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Besides, you and Edwin have been together this long now, you've got more than enough time to sort things out, one way or the other.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees, his voice now wistfully soft and clearly full of affection. “When we were in Hell, I said that to him,you know. That we have eternity to figure it all out.”

“Did you now?” Hob asks, now smiling himself. “Sounds like you two are on the same page then, as per usual. Now you just need to make a decision yourself and Crystal.”

“Yeah…yeah you're right,” Charles says, seeming to come to a decision. His back straightens and he sits up, his signature smile back on his face. “Edwin and I may have forever, but Crystal doesn't and it's rude to keep a lady waiting right?”

“Absolutely," Hob replies.

Charles leaves shortly after, promising not to overthink everything and let his feelings come naturally to him. Hob is fairly certain he knows where things will land eventually, and he's sure Charles does too. It doesn't make the journey to get there any less worthwhile.

#dead boy detectives #dead boy detectives fanfic #the sandman #payneland #dreamling #charles rowland #edwin payne #crystal palace #hob gadling #seiya writes #seiya writes dbda #chapter 2 let's go friends whooooo

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odinsblog · 11 months ago

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More than 15,000 people, of whom at least 6,000 were children. That’s how many people Israel has reportedly killed in the Gaza Strip in a matter of weeks – and those numbers are still rising. Israel has bombed basic societal infrastructure and civilian targets such as hospitals, schools, shelters and refugee camps. Israel has imposed a siege, preventing food, medicine, water and fuel from reaching the 2.3 million Palestinians trapped in the occupied Gaza Strip, leading Oxfam to accuse Israel of employing “starvation as a weapon of war”.

Dozens of United Nations experts have described the situation as “a genocide in the making”, hundreds of international scholars have warned of an unfolding genocide and prominent Israeli genocide expert Raz Segal has called it “a textbook case of genocide”. But most of the world, particularly the so-called global north, is looking the other way.

Despite these horrors, some have chosen to focus the public debate on attempts to delegitimise statements about Gaza made by young people in the climate justice movement. Contrary to what many have claimed, Fridays for Future has not “been radicalised” or “become political”. We have always been political, because we have always been a movement for justice. Standing in solidarity with Palestinians and all affected civilians has never been in question for us.

Advocating for climate justice fundamentally comes from a place of caring about people and their human rights. That means speaking up when people suffer, are forced to flee their homes or are killed – regardless of the cause. It is the same reason why we have always held strikes in solidarity with marginalised groups – including those in Sápmi, Kurdistan, Ukraine and many other places – and their struggles for justice against imperialism and oppression. Our solidarity with Palestine is no different, and we refuse to let the public focus shift away from the horrifying human suffering that Palestinians are currently facing.

Due to the amount of misdirected attention on us, as well as the number of misinterpretations of our position, we would like to once again clarify our stance. All Fridays for Future groups are autonomous, and this article represents the views of nobody but FFF Sweden.

The horrific murders of Israeli civilians by Hamas cannot in any way legitimise Israel’s ongoing war crimes. Genocide is not self-defence, nor is it in any way a proportionate response. It also cannot be ignored that this comes within the broader context of Palestinians having lived under suffocating oppression for decades, in what Amnesty International has defined as an apartheid regime. While all of this alone would be reason enough to comment on the situation, as a Swedish movement, we also have a responsibility to speak up due to Swedish military cooperation with Israeli arms companies, which makes Sweden complicit in Israel’s occupation and mass killing.

We are now seeing a sharp increase in antisemitic and Islamophobic statements, actions and hate crimes in Sweden and the world. The leader of the largest member of Sweden’s rightwing governing bloc is speaking of demolishing mosques, and the Israeli flag was burned in front of a synagogue in Malmö. This is unacceptable. We unreservedly condemn all forms of discrimination, including antisemitism and Islamophobia. Everyone speaking out on this crisis has a responsibility to distinguish between Hamas, Muslims and Palestinians; and between the state of Israel, Jewish people and Israelis.

We grieve the lives lost over the past several weeks and are appalled by the fact that those numbers have been allowed to continue to rise. The death rate in the Gaza Strip is at a historic high, with thousands of children killed in just a few weeks. This amount of suffering is incomprehensible and cannot be allowed to continue. When UN experts call upon the world to act to prevent a genocide, as fellow humans, we have a responsibility to speak out.

Demanding an end to this inexcusable violence is a question of basic humanity, and we call on everyone who can to do so. Silence is complicity. You cannot be neutral in an unfolding genocide.

— Greta Thunberg

#politics #greta thunberg #palestine #gaza #israel #genocide #hamas ≠ palestine #war crimes #ceasefire #ceasefire now #never again #never again to anyone #collective punishment #bds #boycott divest sanction #islamophobia #antisemitism #israel is an apartheid state #benjamin netanyahu is a war criminal

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guardianbingo · 5 months ago

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Guardian Bonus Bingo FAQ

Welcome to Guardian Bonus Bingo!

This is a very low stakes, low pressure fest meant to be fun and inspire more Guardian fan creations. Whether you’re returning after having participated in the original Guardian Bingo or are joining for the first time, we’re happy to have you here!

How Does It Work?

We’ll issue five prompts over ten weeks (one new prompt every two weeks), starting on June 9.

Prompts go out every other Sunday and you’ll have two weeks in which to create a fill. Then a new prompt will be issued. This cycle repeats until we make it through all five prompts.

We’ll also have an amnesty period at the end for prompts you might have missed earlier in the fest.

What Do I Earn By Completing Fills?

A sense of accomplishment, the adoration of your fellow fans, and the fun that comes with creation.

Completing all five earns you a bingo, a badge created by the amazingly talented @highlynerdy, and your name on a shoutout post at the end of the fest.

Can I Fill Multiple Prompts With A Single Work?

Maybe. The single work will need to be composed of multiple parts.

As one example, a multi-chapter fic where each individual chapter is inspired by a different prompt would work. A one-shot would not.

Similarly, multi-panel art with each panel inspired by a different prompt would work while a single piece of art would not.

If you have something in mind but aren’t sure, check with a mod.

Is There A Signup Period?

Nope. You are welcome to join at any time up until the end of the amnesty period.

What Works Are Accepted?

Pretty much any new creations, including, but not limited to:

Fanfic

Fanart

Edits/Gif Sets

Vids

Moodboards

Playlists

Rec Lists

FanARTifacts (tangible creations, crafts, etc.)

Podfics (with original author’s permission and a link back)

Translations (with original author’s permission and a link back)

Meta Analysis

If you have another idea, check in with the mods but it very likely works.

What Are The Length/Content Requirements?

None! This is meant to be fun, not stressful.

Want to write a 100k multi-chapter epic? That’s a tall order for ten weeks, but we’re cheering you on! Want to only post drabbles? Also wonderful!

The same applies for non-fic creations.

The point is to make stuff, not worry over min/max requirements.

Is This Fest Novelverse or Drama?

Either or both! It’s totally up to you. All prompts will work for both.

What About Ships And Ratings?

All ratings and any ships (or no ships) are allowed, though works should be appropriately tagged.

Crossovers, Derivatives, Other Priest Novels, And RPF?

While the fest is Guardian themed, all are allowed. Just tag appropriately.

How Do I Interpret The Prompts?

However you wish! They're meant to be a source of inspiration and a starting off point. You can adhere to them as strictly or as loosely as you'd like. Follow your muse and have fun!

Can I Use A Creation For This Fest And Another One?

So long as the other fest has no objections, you are good to go!

Ok, So What Isn’t Allowed?

Old works previously posted

Plagiarized works

Harassment/abuse of other participants

Sounds Great! Where Do I Post My Creations?

The AO3 Collection

Tumblr – Tag @guardianbingo in your post or DM us for a reblog (you can also tag it #guardianbingofest but Tumblr’s tags are very wonky so that might not work well)

If you happen to post elsewhere (Dreamwidth, Twitter, etc.), then you may submit a post on Tumblr if you’d like us to reblog your creation. You do not have to be on Tumblr to participate.

Will The Mods Keep Up With My Fills?

No. Since people may be posting on platforms other than Tumblr, it’s up to participants to keep up with their fills so we don’t miss anyone.

If you’d like to claim a badge and a bingo shoutout, please complete the fills reporting form.

What If I Still Have Questions?

Ask away on Tumblr, or email [email protected]

Email may get a faster response.

Fest Coordinators

Logistical Coordinator & Primary Contact - @tehfanglyfish

Graphic Designs and Badges - @highlynerdy

Original Guardian Bingo Prompt Coordinator - @sasamelons

#faq #bonus bingo

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contentment-of-cats · 3 months ago

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New fic bit: Long Live the Empire

Leia looks out at the massed Imperial fleet, the remains of the Fifth Fleet and a major victory to obtain their surrender. The Republic forces are massed in a show of strength, the coverage by holonews blanketing the media. Grand Admiral Danner Ashbrough brought 500 ISD and smaller ships with him out of the 5,000 he once commanded. He and the senior officers' agreed to stand trial for war crimes, and those junior officers and enlisted with him would enter reorientation and amnesty programs. For now, the meeting will seal the agreement and handle the nuts and bolts. Ashbrough is pleasant, if oddly distant.

"I'm aware not everyone came with you, Grand Admiral." Leia studies the man's face. Most officers at flag rank have sabacc faces that rivals a duracrete wall for lack of expression.

"It is good that you are aware." The man could be standing in the Allisandre's ballroom, holding a glass of Chandrilan sparkle-wine. "I made this voluntary. Those who wished to leave were dispersed to other fleets."

"The Third, Seventh, and Eleventh?" Three thorns in the foot of the Republic with an estimated strength of 10,000 ISD class, at least four Supers, and thousands of smaller ships. "We'd appreciate some help with that. Mitigate your crimes with helpful information."

A small, polite smile. "We don't speak to them often, but they agreed to take in the die-hards."

Leia reaches out with the Force and encounters something like a shield around the man's mind. Luke, in her field of vision, looks puzzled and shakes his head. A text appeares on her datapad.

It's as if every mind on those ships is Jedi-proofed. Music, mathematics, even building model landspeeders.

"Grand Admiral Faro heads the Eleventh, I presume, with Marinth as Grand Admiral of the Seventh's remains." Now to pry open a vault. "I have intel that an officer named Pyrondi has the Third."

Something itches at the back of her mind and she glances at the battle computer to her left. All the Imps have their weapons powered down, hyperdrives offline, as agreed.

"Indeed?" Left unsaid that she was a protege of Grand Admiral Thrawn - like Rear Admiral Hammerly, Commodore Barlin, and others who formed a nucleus of the Trident Fleet. "Thrawn was said to have sent a core of officers with Faro and when she transferred."

"There's nothing on her. Her entire file is redacted. Not even a date of birth or a Homeworld."

"I met her briefly, once, at the Ascension Week games when I was still a Rear Admiral. I am afraid she did not make any disclosures to me. However, you may find the reasons in the Archives of the Senate, under seal."

They can't access and he doesn't need to know that. A COMPNOR general's dying act was to make the archives for every agency down to vermin control inaccessible. Threepio's estimate was that it would take at least a century to slice, and that would be with top slicing droids working nonstop. It could easily take one thousand years as they did not know how many placements the lock had.

"There are things that not even Grand Admirals can unlock. However, I was alive when the reason for the redaction happened. The heart of it was your friend Saw Gerrera." That small smile again. "Pyrondi will have to answer for herself."

"Saw Gerrera was nobody's friend."

"He was, long ago, an ally of your parents." A fleeting smile, more of a quirk of the lips. "I can tell you that if he is alive, he will very much wish not to be if Pyrondi finds him."

"He's dead."

"So you say. However, Pyrondi will look for him until she turns up his body or his bones. I was there to evacuate the world he destroyed so completely that not even decay will come to the dead. The body count of Jegsziv totaled an estimated two billion with less than half a million survivors." That smile again, wider. Leia wishes she could see his eyes under the bill of his kepi. "Rhydonium gas released from an well on the sea floor - an act of terrorism and sabotage that killed half a world in their beds and choked the rest to death on their own blood."

"I've never heard of it." The itch is stronger, almost a burning. A glance at Luke shows he can feel something, too. "Where is it located?"

"Well, secrets take time to uncover, but the truth always comes out. I do hope that you will meet her one day. Until that day and after it - long may she serve, and long live the Empire."

The white flash is soundless, but the shock wave and the onslaught of molten durasteel impacts the Republic ships in seconds. The Imperials caused their cores to go critical, igniting hundreds of mini novas, obliterating most of the Republic fleet in the space of a blink and a breath.

#star wars #thrawn #long live the empire

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rainbowstargazerlilies · 8 months ago

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IT CAN NOW BE REVEALED

Over the last week or two, I made around 10 different dolls as a surprise present for @honey-beesknees. They're all characters from The Adventure Zone (Balance), an arc I've never listened to. (Of the adventure zone, I've listened to like six episodes of Amnesty, all after starting this project). These were made with love, care, and many many references given and questions asked of my sister @ladydragonkiller. Special thanks to her as well for finishing Angus there on her train ride.

Anyway, they were delivered today!

Random pictures from the making process under the cut:

Umbrella size check with Lup for Taako

My color palette for all these :)

Magnus's hair pre-trimming it down

Magnus and a still-in-progress Merle's size difference

A slightly more put together Merle.

Fun little details that I didn't get pictures of: Taako and Lup have similar embroidery on cloak and skirt: Lup's was meant to emulate fire, with orange triangles, yellow lines, and blue dots underneath. Taako's was a color-reversal, kind of, with blue and purple lines and triangles and red dots. Taako's umbrella is a cocktail umbrella, and I'm still so happy that worked. Barry's hood's pattern is pulled from a sock heel. Anyway, I had fun, and I'm so glad they turned out well :)

#stargazer's four inch friends #stargazer crafts #the adventure zone #I'd tag characters but I don't know most of their full names or anything #anyway hope you enjoy

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frattweek · 15 days ago

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Matt Murdock and Frank Castle standing back to backFRATT WEEK 7 starts tomorrow !

All versions of Frank Castle & Matt Murdock are welcome: comics, TV shows, movies… All lengths and sizes, all types of fanworks welcome: fic, art, fibercraft, translation, podfic (don’t forget to check in with the original creator if you’re podficcing/translating!)… or a new chapter of a fic, an outtake from a series…

Halloween is also right in the middle of FW 7 so if you’re in the mood for a little spook… feel free to add bats, spiderwebs, or ghosts to all your Fratt content!

You can participate as much or little as you want, it’s all up to you!

If you create art / graphic works, a description for accessibility purposes would be much appreciated.

On Tumblr, just @frattweek us and #frattweek in the first five tags :-) More info in the FAQ (open the link in a browser!) and if you can’t find your answer, send an ask or leave a message on DW!

Banner art by @nkeiiin

Detailed ID under the cut, as well as extra ideas for the prompts!

Digital art of Matt Murdock and Frank Castle stand back to back on the left of a dark red grid background. Matt is in his red daredevil suit, hanging upside down and his head resting on Frank’s right shoulder. Frank is angry frowning and looking up. Two white lines form a tilted X are on the right side of the art. The text on top of the line is “Fratt Week 7 28th Oct - 3rd Nov”, the text at the bottom of the line is “Frattweek.tumblr.com”

1/ Blood – bleeding, family, kin, clan, spill, martyr, thicker than water, vampire, fake, communion… 2/ Bar – drinking establishment, bar exam, disbarred, rebar (construction worker!Frank, anyone?), ka-bar knife, to bar someone from something, things going fubar… 3/ Trust – trust fund, to trust, trust in god, mistrust, trusty (gun, fist, baton, friend/partner…) 4/ Spirit – ghost, alcohol, spiritual, spiritism, spirited, sprite… 5/ Pray / Prayer: religion, Madonna (Like A Prayer;-), misheard prey… 6/ Bag – under the eyes, heavy bag, grocery bag, to bag (a criminal?), baggy (clothes?), gym bag, duffle bag, bag over the head, bodybag, bagged a criminal…

#daredevil #punisher #the punisher #frank castle #matt murdock #fratt #marvel #frattweek7 #frankxmatt #frankmatt #frankcastleedit #matt/frank #mattxfrank #mattmurdockedit #frank/matt #mattfrank

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laiqualaurelote · 2 years ago

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for the wip ask meme: cover story!

Thank you for this ask (from this WIP game)! a couple of folks have asked about this one. It's the Ted/Trent spy-AU-in-a-Notting-Hill-bookshop-AU, which stalled because the premise got too unwieldy and the literary references got out of hand. (It did have a playlist I was quite fond of, with a number of Kinks songs including, presciently, A Well Respected Man). Because I am unlikely to ever finish it, I thought I'd just fic amnesty the whole thing here, so:

Cover Story

Trent is about to wind up stocktaking when the door to the bookshop bangs open. “We’re closed,” he calls irritably, and then he turns and sees who it is.

“I got something of a reading emergency,” says Ted Lasso.

Trent takes him in: breathing hard, collar askew, perspiration plastering a lick of hair against his forehead. In his hand is a gun. Trent recognises it as a Heckler & Koch P30L.

Trent ought to be going for his own weapon right about now. Instead he says: “So it is you.”

“Yep,” says Ted.

“I knew it,” hisses Trent. “I fucking knew it.”

“Boy, you sure do like to be right about stuff.” Ted pauses, then staggers. Trent sees that he is favouring his left side, and that the shirt beneath the puffer jacket is darkening with blood.

“Ted,” he begins, “wh – ”

“Like I said,” Ted grits out, “emergency.” And then he collapses in the middle of Trent’s bookshop.

Five weeks earlier

“You wouldn’t happen to have the latest John le Carré, would you?”

Trent has to climb a little ways down the ladder to see the man speaking to him. It’s one of the American tourists who wandered in after lunch. There are always Americans underfoot these days, trawling the aisles of the bookshop as if in hope of a meet-cute out of Notting Hill. Trent, as a rule, finds Americans tedious and does his level best to avoid them in all his lines of work; he achieves this in the bookshop by hiding in the stacks and leaving them to the tender mercies of his assistant. Unfortunately, this appears to be a particularly persistent specimen. Trent descends a few more rungs and braces himself.

“Is that the one with Brexit?”

“The one with the bookshop.” The American has a very distracting moustache. He looks almost exactly like a slide Trent once saw in Disguises 101: How Not To Overdo It. He is also wearing multiple layers beneath his puffer jacket, like some sort of Midwestern matryoshka, even though the shop’s heating is working perfectly well. Trent is automatically suspicious of customers with many layers, lest they are shoplifters. But a shoplifter would not go to such lengths to gain his attention.

“If you mean the posthumously published one, it’s not yet in stock. Shipping delays, I’m afraid.”

“Ain’t that a pity,” says the American. “I was sold on the premise. A bookshop that’s secretly a base for spy shenanigans? Tell me you don’t want to see how that turns out.”

Trent removes his glasses, keeping his expression bland. “You could put in an order, but if you’re not in town for long then I daresay there isn’t much point.”

“Oh, we’ll be here for a while. Long vacation. Thought we’d take it easy, like the Eagles would say. Though this ain’t Winslow, Arizona.”

“You can place an order with Miss Bowen at the counter,” says Trent, after he has cast about for a response to that string of gibberish and come up empty.

“You bet I will. If I could just – ” The American reaches out, and Trent almost breaks his wrist on instinct, but he simply brushes past Trent’s sleeve and pulls a secondhand copy of Call For The Dead off the shelf. “Maybe we ain’t see the last of le Carré, but at least it’s a first.”

“Ah, ha,” says Trent, to mask his surprise that they even have a copy of Call For The Dead in stock. It’s probably languished in here for years, unsold. “Good eye.”

“Well, I thank you for the consultation, Mr…”

“Crimm. Trent Crimm, The Independent.”

“Well, Trent, I appreciate you. Keep fighting the good fight.”

Trent blinks. “Against…?”

“Amazon,” says the American brightly. “Which, as an American, I apologise for.”

“Er, quite,” says Trent. “Sorry about Brexit, and all that.”

The American’s name on the order form is Ted Lasso, which makes him sound like a fictional character. He collects his bearded friend from the philosophy section and they depart, engaged in a discussion so animated that Lasso walks into the shop door, rebounds with no perceptible damage and continues his argument without missing a beat. Trent and Miss Bowen watch them go, mildly perplexed.

“Is he a subscriber? I don’t recognise either of them.”

“Just an ordinary customer, from the looks of it. He wanted to talk about books.”

“I suppose it must happen from time to time, in a bookshop,” says Miss Bowen dryly.

Trent crosses to her side of the counter, which is built in such a way that a customer, standing in line, would not be able to see what her hands might be doing. He leans down casually to check the automatic shotgun mounted under the countertop.

“He was talking about the new le Carré. It’s about spies in a bookshop, apparently.”

“Oh,” says Miss Bowen, eyebrow raised. “Is it now?”

“Yes,” says Trent. “We ought to get hold of it quite quickly, I think. In case there’s been a breach.”

“Come now.” She turns to him sharply. “Le Carré couldn’t have written a novel about us. I mean, he’d never been in the shop. We’d know, wouldn’t we?”

“I daresay we would, Miss Bowen. But put in the order anyway.”

“Certainly, Mr Crimm. And did you want new grenades on top of that?”

“I did, yes, thank you for reminding me.”

“Of course.” A pause. “We are quite sure that man wasn’t a subscriber, are we?”

Trent scoffs. “What, that guy? Come on.”

Trent’s childhood dream was to own a bookshop. He thought of bookshops as places where you could read all day and avoid people, which seemed like paradise. However, his family being who they were, his skills being what they were, the job market for English degree-holders being what it was – he spent a year at odd ends, haphazardly weighing the pursuit of postgraduate studies against attempting to break into the publishing industry, until finally he gave up and took the path he knew had always been there, lying in wait for him. He became a spy.

It was another fifteen years before he revisited the idea of the bookshop, in the wake of his abrupt and unceremonious retirement from the Circus. Cleis was one and a half years old by then, and he knew he must find something, for her sake – he had promised – even though he could not stomach the thought of going out in the cold again. He was mulling over his various options – heaven forfend he wind up in something horrible, like insurance – when his mother dropped by for tea and said peremptorily: “Mae is retiring, don’t you know?”

Mae – the only name anyone ever knew her by – was a veritable battleaxe who ran the Crown and Anchor, a pub that doubled up as the London station for agents of every stripe working in or passing through the city. The stations, by the unspoken rules that governed their universe, were neutral ground; they served every agency and freelancer without question and in turn brooked no conflict within their confines. To move against a station was to move against the combined powers of the rest of the agencies. Nobody had tried it in Trent’s lifetime.

“Oh?” said Trent. He was only partially listening to his mother; most of his attention was focused on trying to get Cleis to keep her yoghurt in her mouth. “Who’s taking over, then?”

His mother fixed him with the glare she had honed on some of the finest intelligencers this side of the Atlantic, as well as his teenage self. “I rather thought you might throw your hat in the ring, dear.”

Cleis mawed at her in surprise and dribbled watery yoghurt down her bib. Trent sighed. “I’ll talk to Mae.”

Mae thought it was a ridiculous notion to run a station as a bookshop. “You wouldn’t catch half that lot dead in a bookshop,” was her take on it. “Who has time for reading these days? And you’ll have to get in books! Actual books!”

“That’s rather the idea, yes,” said Trent. “It can’t be harder than maintaining a liquor licence.”

“Well, it’s not like I was going to hand the tender over to anyone else,” admits Mae. “What will you call it, love?”

Trent considered. “The Independent. Because that’s what it is.”

Even Mae had to admit, a few years in, that it was working out quite well. He’d even managed to sell some books.

“How’s the le Carré?” Miss Bowen asks, amid her reshelving. “Are we in trouble?”

“I don’t think so.” Trent is perusing Silverview at the counter, book in one hand, the other on the rifle. “The bookshop’s in East Anglia, and the protagonist hasn’t the first idea how to run it.”

“Oh, well then,” says Miss Bowen. “It will put nobody in mind of us at all. Is it any good? I’m always wary of these late discovery manuscripts. I don’t think I ever got over the disappointment of Go Set A Watchman.”

“It’s unevenly weighted. Makes you miss him at his best.” Trent turns a page. “Still, I’m glad he didn’t go gentle into that good night.”

He tenses as the shop bell rings, then sees that it is Keeley Jones, resplendent in a fluffy yellow coat. “What can we do for you, Miss Jones?”

“Trading in,” sings Keeley. “On Jamie’s behalf.”

Trent takes off his glasses and gives her a forbidding look. “What, has he gone and lost the lot again?”

Keeley winces. “Only some of it.”

Trent sighs. “Let’s get it processed in the back.”

Jamie Tartt is one of the stars of the agency known as the Dogtrack. He’s also aggravatingly cocky and spectacularly laissez-faire with his equipment; Keeley’s always in here, making apologies for him having thrown his Glock into a volcano, or something. Trent has no patience for the likes of Jamie Tartt. One already has so many people trying to kill one in this line of work, but there he is, giving even more people reasons to want him dead.

The back room is behind a reinforced steel door that can only be opened using either Trent’s or Miss Bowen’s fingerprints and a passcode that changes every day. The passcode is in fact a rolling alphanumerical series that progresses through the entirety of Hamlet, and if anyone ever cracks it, Trent will be very impressed by their grasp of Shakespeare. In the back room, Trent lays out the remnants of Jamie Tartt’s mission kit and purses his lips.

“To lose one dart gun, Miss Jones, may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.”

“Oh, you needn’t have a go at me, I’m proper mad at him myself. You know what he did last week? Tried to murder Roy Kent. Roy Kent!”

“What, for work?”

“Not even that! Some kind of fucking…pissing contest.” Keeley makes a noise of exasperation. “Some days it’s like we gave a bunch of five-year-olds guns and let them loose on a jungle gym. You know what I mean?”

“I’ll just put it on his tab,” says Trent. “Which is astronomical, by the way.”

“I’ll chivvy the folks at the Dogtrack to send you a cover. Only they’re rushed off their feet this week – you must have heard.”

Trent has heard, but it always serves one in intelligence gathering to pretend to know less than one really does. “What’s happening over there?”

“The Mannions are going to war,” says Keeley, her voice lush with the juice of gossip - another reason why Trent likes having her in the shop. “The whole Dogtrack’s splitting up. Christ, but it’s a mess down there.”

“Who’s Jamie backing?”

“Hasn’t decided. Rupert’s putting it about that the whole agency’s going with him, but word on the street is that Rebecca Welton’s brought in someone from abroad to take him out. They’re saying it’s an American.” She sucks in an excited breath.

“Why would you bring in an American for that?” demands Trent.

“Beats me. It’s going to keep us all on our toes for a bit, to be sure. I reckon it’s some Tom Cruise type, all Mission Impossible Jack Reacher like. But nobody knows for certain.”

“Surely not,” says Trent. “You at least must have some idea, Miss Jones.”

Keeley flutters her eyelashes at him. “Who, me? I’m just a humble secretary.”

“Of course you are,” says Trent. “And I’m just a poor bookseller.”

Keeley slants a sly look at him. “You haven’t seen any Americans around, have you?”

“We get Americans in the store all the time. Just this morning we had a Mrs Glenda Johnson from South Carolina complaining that we don’t have a café in the store.”

“Yeah,” says Keeley, “fairly sure it’s not Mrs Glenda Johnson. Isn’t there a Costa two doors down?”

“Precisely,” says Trent. “Americans.”

They return to the front of the store, the afternoon light streaming across the polished wood floors and touching the book covers. “It really is awful pretty, when the light’s good,” says Keeley, running a hand across a row of Sally Rooneys. “You know what you ought to do? You should do #BookTok.”

“That,” says Trent, “is the single worst suggestion I’ve ever heard.”

Keeley laughs. “Give me a pot of money and some Madeline Miller and I’ll do it for you. I’ll make you so famous, you’ll be beating influencers off with a stick.”

“Just tell the Dogtrack to pay for your boyfriend’s damage.”

Keeley sticks her tongue out as she swings out of the shop. “If you see the American, you’ll tell me first. Won’t you?”

“Tell me a story,” says Cleis. They’re curled up in her bed, her tiny frame pillowed against his side.

“You’ve had two already.”

“But I want another.” Cleis looks up at him, her eyes clear and green as the sea. “Tell me about Maman.”

Trent stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars that speckle her bedroom ceiling. Tell me about a complicated woman, he hears Coralie say in his head. She sounds slightly amused. This is an anachronism, of course. Coralie never lived to see the Emily Wilson translation of The Odyssey. She would have loved it.

“Where do I start with your mother?”

“Was she very beautiful?”

“Yes. She knew exactly how beautiful she was and what to do with it.”

“Do I look like her?”

“The spitting image.” Even at four, Cleis looks so much like her mother that Trent will sometimes look over at her, in the middle of something mundane like making dinner or brushing her hair, and the resemblance will strike him like a punch to the gut.

Cleis is pleased by this. “What else?”

“Well. She loved old poems, and she was a lot stronger than she looked, and she wasn’t scared of a thing. Never listened to anyone either.”

“Not even you?”

“I like to think she listened to me a bit more than most other people,” allows Trent, “but even that wasn’t very much.”

Cleis kneads her quilt between her small hands. “Why didn’t she come back?”

Trent swallows. “She couldn’t. She had to save everyone.” Including me, he doesn’t add. Instead he says: “She loved you more than anything in the world.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me so. It was the last thing she said, before – ” Trent stops. Cleis is silent.

“Go to sleep now, chouette.”

It’s another hour before she drifts off to sleep proper. He sits in the dark, her hand tucked in his, until she does.

“So that’s your subscriber number, which you should quote in all correspondence with us and over the phone when placing orders. Orders placed within less than twenty-four hours of pick-up will be subject to last-minute fee increments. Is that understood, Mr Rojas?”

The lush-haired young man beams at Trent across the counter. “Si, entiendo.”

“Book club notices are posted on the board to the right,” Trent goes on. “Those are for freelancers, I don’t vet them personally and you attend book club at your own risk. This is for your first assignment.” He hands over a copy of Roberto Bolaño’s 2666. Dani Rojas makes to open it; Trent slams it shut. “Don’t open your books in the store.”

“Okay,” says Dani, wide-eyed. He hefts the book experimentally in his hand. “It is very heavy. Does it have a happy ending?”

Trent snorts. “It’s a Bolaño, what do you think?”

Dani nods cheerfully. “I thank you for this, señor. Literature is life.”

“I mean, it actually isn’t,” says Trent, “which is sort of the whole point – but never mind. All the best, Mr Rojas.”

Dani leaves, whistling. He passes Roy Kent on his way in. “He’s not the American, is he?” says Roy, not quite sotto voce to Trent.

“I rather think he’s Mexican,” says Trent. “Are you all still going on about that? I’d have thought you’d have worked it out by now.”

“Nah,” says Roy. “No idea who it is. Mrs Mannion – that is to say, Ms Welton – is keeping her cards close to her chest. Old Rupert’s foaming at the mouth. They say he’s got hold of some kind of leverage, but fucked if we know what.” He studies the noticeboard. “Anything good at book club?”

“What, are you freelancing now?”

“Reckon I might as well, since it’s all going to shit at the Dogtrack.” Roy frowns at A Moveable Feast, Wednesday 8pm; A Gentleman In Moscow, Thursday 7pm; and Vengeance Is Mine, All Others Pay Cash, Thursday 9pm. He points at the last. “Where’s that one again?”

“East Java. I hear Indonesia’s nice this time of year.”

“Right, let’s give it a go then.”

Trent scribbles down a number on a Post-It and hands it to Roy. “Call it and burn it. You know the drill.”

“Cheers.” Roy regards Trent, brows thickly furrowed. “You’ve seen the American, haven’t you?”

“No comment.”

Roy grunts. “Bet you have. You’re just being a prick about it, as usual.”

“Whoever it is, they’re probably out in the community already,” says Trent. “Bravely or stupidly.”

“Stupidly,” decides Roy, stalking off.

The problem with The Independent is that, despite Trent’s best efforts and the imminently prophesied demise of brick-and-mortar bookselling, it still continues to be a fairly popular bookshop. Trent has no idea why this is. He puts zero effort into the window displays. He shelves the books in no discernible order, so it is virtually impossible for a customer to locate anything. Sometimes he even leaves terrible TripAdvisor reviews for himself, to discourage casual browsers and tourists. And yet the shop continues to see customers – not subscribers, actual book-loving civilians. People keep popping in to have opinions on how Trent should run his bookshop, to complain that he doesn’t sell stationery or upbraid him for not carrying the latest Stephenie Meyer or insinuate that he should hold poetry readings (of their poems) in the store. It’s a marvel that Trent has gone all these years without shooting anyone in the face.

Still, the shop has regulars somehow. There are the subscribers, and then there are normal people who just show up and spend ages browsing, even though Trent has made sure there is nowhere comfortable for them to sit. There is the elderly gent who pops in nearly every morning to thumb through books and point out printing errors to anyone unfortunate enough to be in proximity. There is the teenage girl who spends afternoons seated cross-legged in an aisle, reading The Sandman in instalments. And then there’s Ted Lasso.

“Why’d you call it The Independent?” Ted wants to know. He’s come back to pick up his copy of Silverview, and despite having achieved this with little incident, has nevertheless once more sought out Trent where he is dusting the shelves.

“Because it is an independent bookstore,” says Trent, who is in fact sweeping for bugs. He finds one planted atop a birding guide and surreptitiously crushes and pockets it. “Can I help you with anything else, Mr Lasso?”

“I was wondering where I might find your Graham Greene.”

“I believe we have The Quiet American somewhere in the shop, if you can bear to wait while I excavate it. Though,” adds Trent, “you are a distinctly unquiet American.”

“You can say that again,” says Ted cheerfully. “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of The Third Man, would you?”

Most people haven’t even seen The Third Man, let alone are aware that it was based on a Graham Greene novella. “You know your spy fiction, Mr Lasso.”

“Call me Ted, won’t you?”

Trent drags the ladder around the corner and retrieves The Third Man from a high shelf near where the ceiling dips. He looks down, head tilted, at the man beaming up at him from the foot of the ladder. You’ve seen the American, haven’t you? Ted Lasso does not look like the kind of American called in to bring down the head of an agency. He looks like a caricature of an American. He has worn the same pair of khakis every time he has set foot in this shop and it is likely he does so without irony. Yet Trent has the feeling that something is off, the way that shots in The Third Man are framed at a slight angle so that the city looks like a painting knocked askew.

Ted clears his throat. “Kinda staring there, Trent. Makes a fella wonder if he ain’t got toothpaste in his moustache.”

Trent hands over the book. “Why are you here, Ted? Really?”

“First thing I always do when I land in a new place is find a local bookstore,” says Ted brightly. “Tells you a lot about the town, your local bookstore.”

Trent takes off his glasses. “And what, pray, have you learnt from this one?”

“That nothing is where you think it’ll be,” says Ted. “But it sure helps if you ask for directions.”

“Perhaps you should ask him if he wants to get coffee,” says Miss Bowen after Ted has left. “Isn’t that why you hired me? So you could have more of a social life?”

Trent pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hired you so that in the event of a terrorist attack on the shop, we wouldn’t be short-handed.”

“I’m glad you did. It was this or go back to teaching kindergarten.” She raises her voice sharply as a man in a denim jacket emerges from behind a shelf and shuffles towards the door. “Stop right there!”

“Uh,” says the man intelligently. “What’s this about?”

“We have CCTV in the shop, you know,” says Miss Bowen. “So we’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave the shop with Jonathan Franzen stuffed down your trousers.”

The man leers. “Like to come over and check on it yourself, love?”

Miss Bowen meditatively flicks open the boxcutter she was using to trim plastic wrap. “You know, I just might.”

The man hastily removes the Franzen. “All right, no need to get all shirty about it. I’ll just put it back then.”

“The fuck you will, we’re not touching that again,” says Miss Bowen. “You’re going to leave twenty quid on the counter – with your other hand, mind – and then you’re going to back out the door and never come back.”

“Can’t do that in kindergarten, can you,” remarks Trent after their errant customer has complied and made himself scarce.

“There’s something to be said about the job satisfaction in this place,” agrees Miss Bowen.

Trent arrives at his parents’ just in time to see his daughter stabbing his father in the front garden.

“Ah! Ah! Alas!” cries his father, sinking dramatically into the grass as Cleis bashes him joyously with a foam sword. “You’ve got me, dread pirate!”

“Did you kill grandpa, chouette?” says Trent as she greets him by thwacking him on the shins with her sword.

“Three times,” says Cleis modestly as she is scooped up.

“She’s a bloodthirsty one.” His father is rising ponderously to his feet, brushing grass stains off his knees. He dotes on Cleis in a fashion that was distinctly lacking in Trent’s own childhood. Trent still cannot get over the incongruity of it – the legendary Chester Crimm, scourge of the Stasi Circle, playing pirates on the lawn with a four-year-old. He does have the eyepatch for it, Trent reflects.

His father turns his good eye towards Trent. “Sell a lot of books today, son?”

“Hilarious,” says Trent shortly. “Where’s mum?”

“Getting her hair done.” They head back into the house. “What’s this I’m hearing about an American at the Dogtrack?”

“Christ, I’m sick of hearing about the American. How’d that even get to you?”

“I was at poker night with the old guard. It’s all everyone’s talking about, the Mannion split.” His father pulls a beer from the fridge and hands it to Trent as Cleis makes for the living room television. “Never liked Mannion. Did you know he tried to get off with your mother, back in the day?”

“Ugh,” says Trent faintly.

“That was before he got mixed up with the Welton girl, of course,” says his father with the alacrity of the generation who can get away with calling Rebecca “the Welton girl”. “The agencies are such a shitshow these days. You know, back in my day – ”

“By all means,” says Trent mordantly, “reminisce about the Cold War, dad. What a splendid time that was.”

“You know what I mean,” his father grumbles. “People just got divorced and got on with things. Didn’t go about involving Americans. You’ve not seen the American, have you? Why are you laughing?”

“I’m just thinking of the rhyme,” says Trent. “From The Scarlet Pimpernel.” At his father’s blank look, he recites: “They seek him here, they seek him there, those people seek him everywhere! Is he in heaven or in hell? That damned elusive Pimpernel.”

“Damned!” exclaims Cleis from the doorway. “Damned, damned, damned!”

Trent stares at her, aghast. “Now look what you’ve done,” says his father.

Ted isn’t in the shop today, though his bearded friend has put in an appearance. He has only ever been referred to as Beard, and Trent is coming round to the idea that it might actually be the man’s Christian name, because who even knows with Americans? He’s browsing in the back, which is fine, and has been engaged for the past fifteen minutes in a conversation with Jane Payne, which is not so fine.

“Should we say something?” Miss Bowen wonders.

“We are The Independent,” says Trent. “We have a policy of non-interference.”

“I mean, she’s literally toxic. Did you see the photos from her Dubai job?”

“No. Jesus. Why are there even photos?”

Miss Bowen shrugs. “No idea. Everyone’s been sending them around in the group chats. Did not know you could get blood that colour.”

“Miss Payne can do what she likes, provided she does it outside the shop.” Trent pauses. “Though you could ask him if he wants to get coffee.”

“No thank you,” says Miss Bowen. “I have no wish to be stabbed in the pancreas by Jane Payne.”

They are distracted by the shop bell. Trent is surprised and slightly disconcerted to see none other than Rebecca Welton bearing down upon the counter in all her glory. The agency heads rarely visit the shop in person; Trent typically corresponds with Mr Higgins for the Dogtrack’s interests.

“Ms Welton. What can we do for you?”

“I’d like to see your Canterbury Tales special edition,” says Rebecca without preamble.

Trent blinks. “Certainly. This way.”

In the back room, he opens the case where the Chaucer collection is stored. Rebecca begins looking it over critically. She hefts a rocket launcher experimentally, testing its weight. “Which one is this?”

“The Wife of Bath. Gives you five shots.”

“Hm,” says Rebecca approvingly. “I rather like the sound of that.” She inspects the double-barrelled shotgun dubbed the Man of Law and the poison darts of the Pardoner. “I’ll take the lot for the rest of the month.”

“That’s a lot of firepower,” says Trent bluntly. “You’re not trying to kill your husband, are you?”

“I don’t know why you’d say that, Mr Crimm. Though I suspect he might be trying to kill me.”

“Is it all for you? Or is any of it for the American?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Rebecca, expression immaculate. “Do invoice Mr Higgins.”

“Darling,” says Trent in long-suffering tones, “please get out of the tree.”

Cleis responds by clambering to a higher branch. She’ll be a while. Trent sighs and puts his hands on his hips, gazing out across the green. It’s a pleasant Sunday morning in the park, though it doesn’t stop him from tracking every jogger and picnicking couple in the vicinity, combing the milieu for hands in pockets and inside coats, calculating distances and trajectories.

His gaze moves across and catches on a lone jogger making his way up the path in their direction. That’s Ted Lasso, he’s sure of it: head down, shoulders hunched against the bite of wind off the water, but there’s no mistaking that moustache. As Trent watches, he raises his head and their eyes meet. He does a very convincing double-take. He’s either genuinely surprised to see Trent here, or his acting skills are commendable. That Trent can’t tell says a lot. Then his face splits into a broad grin.

“Hey there, Trent Crimm, The Independent!”

“Hello, Ted Lasso from America.” Trent eyes Ted as he jogs over, beaming affably. He waves his hand awkwardly. “You…live around here?”

“Oh yeah, Beard and I have digs around here. Like to come out for a run on the weekends.”

“Your vacation is stretching on rather,” Trent informs him.

“Oh, we picked up some work,” says Ted evasively. “Thought we’d stick around, make hay while the sun shines. Though you ain’t got a whole lot of hay around these parts. Not like what I’m used to, at any rate.”

“What sort of work do you do, Ted?”

“Human resources,” says Ted blandly.

Trent removes his glasses and fixes Ted with a searching look. Ted meets his gaze, perfectly amiable. Trent narrows his eyes. Ted doesn’t blink. The whole effect is ruined when Cleis leaps out of the tree unannounced and tumbles onto him.

“Oh for f – ” Trent bites off invective as he staggers. “For the last time, my love, climb down.”

“But this is faster,” says Cleis innocently. She appears to notice Ted, and peers at him curiously as Trent sets her down.

“Well hey there, sweetheart,” says Ted. “What’s your name?”

“Cleis.”

“Fais attention,” says Trent, more sharply than is his wont. Cleis stiffens and tucks herself behind his knee. She always takes her cues from him, and he realises too late his body language has been telescoping an ease with Ted that he should not have brooked. She has never introduced herself to a stranger before.

Ted must pick up on some of that, because he stops short of coming over, instead maintaining the distance between them and crouching down till he is at Cleis’s eye level. “That’s a real pretty name,” he tells her. “It’s from a poem, ain’t it?”

“Sappho.” Trent’s throat feels tight.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” says Ted. “Like a small golden flower. Did you name her?”

“No,” says Trent. “That was her mother. She's – she liked the classics.”

On Trent’s first mission to Morocco, he was paired with a young agent with a French accent and a Classics degree. The former was nearly imperceptible except when she was under pressure; the latter was of no use whatsoever on the mission, any more than Trent’s own English degree was.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” she said after they had spent four minutes making out pointedly in an alcove to distract the security guards of the Casablanca mansion they were breaking into.

“I’m afraid so,” said Trent, picking a lock.

“That’s a relief. I was worried I was losing my touch.” The lock clicked open, and she whistled appreciatively. “Sing to me, Muse, of the man of twists and turns.”

“The Odyssey? Really?” Trent was secretly delighted that he was no longer the only one pretentious enough to quote classics during a field op. Or Casablanca in Casablanca, even.

She winked at him. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Her name was Coralie Chénier, though they called her “the Owl”. Trent used to envy her this; everyone, despite his best efforts, referred to him as “Chester’s boy”. Then came the Cuba incident, which was such a bloodbath that it earned Trent the moniker “the Jackal”. After that he decided monikers were overrated. At least they matched: the Owl and the Jackal.

Coralie was an orphan – the service preferred either orphans, or those to the manor born, like Trent – and so for the ten years they spent in the field, he was the closest thing she had to next of kin. It was him she told first about Cleis.

“The father?”

She waved a hand dismissively – not in the picture, then. She did not say who it was. Trent knew it to be a crowded field.

“Are you keeping it?”

“I shouldn’t, should I? It’ll take me out of the field for a good stretch.” But he already knew, from the way she rested her hand over her still-flat stomach, that she would.

“I could marry you, if you liked,” he offered.

She laughed. “That’s the sweetest thing any man has ever said to me, darling. But I think I’ll be just fine.”

The last thing she said to him, before she pulled out her comm and charged back into a building rigged with explosives, was: “Promise me you’ll look after her.”

“There must be another way – ”

“I’ve got to do this, Trent,” she said, too gently. “Make sure she knows how much I loved her. All Croesus’ kingdom.”

“I promise – ” but by then she was already gone.

“I’m sorry,” says Ted, bringing Trent back to the present. His hand tightens on the shoulder of Coralie’s daughter.

“Thank you,” he says, for lack of anything better.

“Heck of a poem,” Ted adds.

“Oh yes,” says Trent. I wouldn’t take all Croesus’ kingdom with love thrown in, for her.

#wip ask game #ted lasso #trent crimm #ted x trent #ted lasso/trent crimm #tedependent #rebecca welton #coach beard #keeley jones #roy kent #dani rojas #miss bowen #long post

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