#start walking plan pdf

[khaire-traveler]

🔮 Subtle Circe Worship 🪄

Grow your own herbs, especially those you plan to use in magical workings (kitchen related magic may be the most discreet for this)

Take a walk on a sunny day; bask in sunlight

Wear/collect rings or hoop jewelry

Have a candle that reminds you of her (no altar needed)

Keep a picture of her in your wallet

Wear jewelry that reminds you of her

Go for a swim in the ocean; wash your hands in salt water

Visit the beach or the bank of a body of water

Have a pig, dragon, stag, or snake stuffed animal

Have imagery of rings, magic, the beach/islands, winged serpents, various beasts (I'd say whatever animals come to mind with "beats"), or the sun around

Volunteer at an animal shelter

Support environmental preservation, animal sanctuary, or humanitarian organizations

Cook a warm meal for someone in need

Learn to trust your own judgement; trust your instincts

Drink an herbal tea, using the herbs with intention; cook using herbs with intention

Read the Greek Magical Papyri or The Odyssey (you can usually find a PDF; check the Internet Archive)

Bake cakes and pastries, especially with honey; give them to loved ones

Take time to meditate in the sunlight; do this in nature if able

Go outside of your comfort zone; try new things, and take risks

Dedicate time to learning about a new subject or topic

Go out of your way to meet new people or engage with a community

Listen to music that empowers you or that you feel represents you; dance to it!

Play a TTRPG; play D&D (yes, really)

Start a garden; tend to plants

Connect with local nymphs or nature spirits

Stand up for others; stand up for yourself

Learn about the history of witchcraft, especially that of ancient Greece (this ties into the GMP)

Take a self-care bath or shower, especially with herbs

Go camping; take time to appreciate nature

Ground yourself often; practice healthy coping skills; practice emotional regulation skills

Clean your space; keep your environment feeling comfortable, and make it your own

Think outside the box for solutions to problems

Be creative; engage in activities that help you express your creativity

Press flowers; keep dried flowers (preferably for use in later magical workings)

Sit by a fireplace; light a bonfire; allow yourself to focus on the heat and comfort of the flames

Learn non-obvious forms of divination; pyromancy, cartomancy, shufflomancy, carromancy, etc.

Make a list of your personal strengths and pride; focus on how strong and resilient you are; know that you have power, you have strength

Create a sigil or symbol that represents/invokes you and your personal power

-

This is my list of discreet ways to worship Circe. I may add more later on! For now, I hope this was helpful. Thank you, and take care! 🩷

Link to Subtle Worship Master list

[five-rivers]

Chance and the Community Chest

@bellsandmischief phic phight phic!

.

“I don't know, Tuck.”

“Come on, Danny.  You said it yourself.  There's not much else to do on a Friday night since ghosts trashed the mall.  And the arcade.  And the theater.  And the mini-golf course.  And the bowling alley.  And the ice rink.  And the roller rink.”

“You don't even like skating.”

“And Floody Waters.  And the park.  And the Nasty Burger.  Both of them.  And the McMasters.”

“We wouldn't be able to hang out in a McMasters anyway.”

“It's the principle of the thing.  The park is closed, too–”

“The park isn't closed.  It's just that the Amity Park New Religion Convention is happening there.”

“Do you really want to go to the park when it's full of cultists?”

“I don't know that it's fair to call them cultists–”

“One of the groups literally calls themselves the Coalition of Universally Lateral Thinkers.”

“No.  That has to be a joke.”

“It isn’t.  I've looked them up.  They've got some kind of Scientology-level crap going on.  They're convinced that you can astral project yourself to the Ghost Zone and travel to other realities that way.”

“Well, I mean, you can, but–”

“Wait, what?  Stop.  Stop walking.  What do you mean, ‘you can?’  Are you saying that astral projection is an actual thing?”

“Yeah?  Is that not what I said?”

“Right.  So.  Should we, uh, stop them?  Is that why you've been so weird about coming?”

“I haven't been weird about coming.  I've been questioning your decision to bring a dozen binders full of rules for a game when we've never been here before.”

“Excuse you, these are the latest Dragonpath PDFs that I got for the low, low price of free.  And there are thirteen of them, not twelve.”

“Yeah, and then you made up the price difference by making color copies.  Seriously, Tucker, I think community board game night is more like Monopoly and Scrabble, not, uh.  Something with fifty pounds of rules.  And no board.”

“Actually,” said Chance Counter, unable to resist butting in despite his eavesdropping being quite successful so far, “‘board game’ in this case is more shorthand for– What is that?”

He’d been listening in, but he’d thought the teens were exaggerating, as teens tended to do.  Nothing had prepared him for the enormous stacks of white plastic three ring binders.

“Fifty pounds of rules for Dragonpath,” said the white one, deadpan.  He was the one carrying most of the books.  “Weren’t you listening?”

“Oh,” said Chance.  “Yeah.  Are you the only ones planning on playing… that.”  

“I wasn’t planning on playing anything in particular, Tucker just needed help bringing them over from his house.  I’d be perfectly happy with Monopoly or, I don’t know, that one where you’re building stuff on an island.”

“Catan?” suggested Chance.  

“Could be,” said the boy.  Thinking back on the overheard conversation, Chance was pretty sure his name was Danny.  

“I can’t believe it,” said Tucker.  “I’ve been abandoned.  Abandoned by my own friend.  Abandoned!  For what’s objectively the worst board game ever.”  He almost dropped the binders, but his friend shored up his stack with his hip.  

“What, why is Catan the worst?”

“Not Catan!  Monopoly!”

“Why is Monopoly the worst?”

“Because, as our dear friend Sam would say, it signifies and symbolizes the ultimate capitalist hellscape.  And also it causes fights.”

“I don’t think Sam would say that.”

“You don’t think I’d say what?” asked a girl who had just walked through the door of the community center.  “Oh, hi.  Are you one of the organizers?”

“I sure am,” said Chance, smiling.  “My name is Chance Counter.  We’re right in here.”  He gestured behind himself, into the room where he’d just finished setting up the last of the old folding tables.  He hoped they’d withstand Tucker’s massive tomes.  “You three are a little on the early side, but our regulars should start coming in soon enough.”

“You might get some extras,” said Sam, walking past him.  “Basically everywhere else is torched.  Ghosts.”

“It’s not only the ghosts.  There’s also the construction and the convention–”

“But it’s mostly the ghosts.  By the way did you see that one of the groups set up in the park has an acronym that literally spells ‘cult.’”

“Did everyone know this before me?” asked Danny.  He circled Chance and deposited his load on the nearest table.  It creaked alarmingly.  “How much math do you need to know in order to play this, anyway?”

“Less than Monopoly,” said Tucker, also dropping his binders on the table.  “Look, man, we can basically play Doomed with these rules.”

“Why would we do that when we can already, you know, just play Doomed?”

“Because we can do things that we can’t do in Doomed.  Trust me, it’s going to be great.”

Danny blinked down at the books.  “Look, I like a good TTRPG as much as the next guy, but this is a bit extreme.  Sam, will you play Monopoly with me?”

“Sure,” said Sam, sliding the box out from the stack of games on the central table.  

“Sam!  You were supposed to rail against the greed and corruption of capitalist states where monopolies are allowed to form!”

“I can do that and still enjoy a fictional monopoly,” said Sam.  “I get to be the race car.”

“I want the dog, then.”

“You two are horrible.”

“And our battle will be glorious,” said Danny.  “Should we wait for the other people, or will they not want to play Monopoly?”

“Oh, our regulars are very easy-going.  Most of them will go with whatever is set up, although we do have an RPG group that meets every other week.  They mostly play Eldritch Endeavors, though.”

Tucker groaned.  “I want the boot.”

“I sense a butt kicking joke approaching, but would you really kick a dog?  A doggy?  A cute little puppy?”

“I hate you.”

Chance heard the community center door open again. He poked his head back out into the hallway.  “Andrew!” he said, as the teens mumbled something about sense.  “Great to see you.  We don’t usually get you on the first Friday.”

Andrew, who was tall, thin, and sported a goatee, paused.  “The first Friday?”

“Lost track of the days, huh?  Well, might as well make the most of it.  We’ve got some kids setting up a game of Monopoly back there.”

“Yes, I suppose I might as well,” said Andrew.  He pulled off his coat, folded it over his arm, and stopped halfway into the room.  “You!”

“You!” replied Danny.  

“Chance, you really can’t allow this poetry-destroying hoodlum in here!”

“I said I was sorry!  And then you attacked me!”

“It was my magnum opus!” 

“Hey!  Hey!  This is a community game night,” said Chance.  “The center policy is that everyone is welcome here unless they start something here, okay?”

“What about restraining orders?” asked Danny.  

“Do you have one?”

“... No.”

“Then I don’t see how that matters.  Now, you don’t have to play together–”

“Oh, but I will,” said Andrew, pulling a chair up to the table.  “I’ll take any avenue to give this brat the beating he so richly deserves.”

“Oh, it’s on.”

“Uh, could we maybe tone down the smack talk as well?  Maybe to something that wouldn’t get you arrested when taken out of context?”

Andrew simmered.  Danny glared.  

“Hi, Chance, what’ve we got– What are you doing here?”

“Star?” asked Sam, incredulously.  

“Mikey?” asked Tucker, more incredulously.  

“Oh, uh, hi, guys,” said Mikey, shyly.  

Danny looked between the two of them.  “Did you guys not know that they’re dating or something?”

“How do you know that we’re dating?” demanded Star.  

“We’re keeping it secret!” said Mikey, horrified and loud enough that any secrecy was most likely moot.  

“Not very well.”

Star swallowed visibly.  “If you tell anyone–” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, no threats during community game night, please,” said Chance.  “My heart can’t take it.”

“Who would we even tell?” asked Tucker.  “We’re social pariahs.  Hey, Mikey, how do you feel about Dragonpath?”

“Third edition is better.  And Eldritch Endeavor is better than all of them.”

“You’re dead to me.”

“Aw, Tucker, I thought I was dead to you.”

“Anyway, this is the first Friday,” said Star.  “Not RPG night.  Is this the set with the purse?”

“Don’t think so,” said Danny, peering into the box.”

“I’ll get it,” said Mikey, moving towards the stack of game boxes where the second Monopoly set was hiding.  “Is anyone the iron yet?”

“The what?” asked Tucker.  

“The clothes iron,” said Mikey.  “I like the irony.”

“Oh, you mean the useless technological throwback.”

“I iron some of my clothes,” said Sam.  

“Of course you do,” said Tucker, shaking his head.  “Of course you do.”

“I would like to play the game, now,” said Andrew.

Chance clapped his hands together.  “So, Danny, why don’t you start us off, since you were the first one in?”

“Mm, yeah,” said Danny.  “Let me just finish dealing out Mikey’s money.”  He set down a few more bills, then shoved them over to where Mikey had just sat down.  “Okay.  Dice?”  Tucker handed them over, muttering imprecations.  “And… seven.  That’s… one… two… three… four… five… six… seven.  Chance.  Erm.  Chance card, I mean.  So, let’s see here… ‘Take a walk on the Boardwalk. Advance token to Boardwalk.’”

There was a wave of quiet as Danny happily paid the bank four hundred Monopoly dollars and set the Boardwalk deed card down in front of himself.  He looked up.  “What?”

“Danny,” said Sam.  “This is nothing personal, but you know that we all have to destroy you now, right?”

Danny’s eyes narrowed.  “Bring it.”

[charmandabear]

Office Hours - Chapter Eleven

Summary:

You and Astarion have a little check-in about your preferences.

Pairing: Astarion/f!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6.1k Tags/Warnings: mentions of many, many different kinks, slightly less than ideal kink negotiation, choking, blood drinking, fingering, rough sex, honestly all the standard stuff at this point

I swear I'm not doing this intentionally, but I'm finally posting chapter 11 when the draft for chapter 12 is up on my Kofi. Eventually I'll get my shit back on schedule.

As always, the professor screenshot is from @zipzoomzaria.

Read it on AO3 ~ Masterlist

The sky outside your living room window is streaked with orange and purple from the nearly set sun. Lying on your couch with your feet propped up on the coffee table, you open an incognito tab on your phone. No sense in ruining your algorithm. You search ‘BDSM checklist’ and click on the first result, an extensive PDF that looks relatively promising. You’re trying to not be judgmental, but as you scroll through the list you’re plagued with thoughts ranging from “Wait, that’s a kink? Isn’t that just standard?” to “People are actually into that?” to “Oh. Oh.”

Your eyes scan down the list. There are just so many options that you hadn’t considered. 

Bondage – light: yes. Bondage – heavy: maybe? Bondage – all day/multi day: definitely not. Collars – worn in private: absolutely. Collars – worn in public: …maybe?

You picture yourself walking around with Astarion in public with a collar on. Maybe not something so explicit as a dog collar, but like a little choker? Just for you and him? The thought sends a small thrill up your spine. You keep scrolling.

Fetishes: boot worship, cock worship, corsets… sure. Cross dressing? The image of Astarion wearing lacy lingerie and giving you a come hither stare over his glasses brings a light flush to your cheeks.

You open up your text messages and stare at your sparse conversation with him. The picture of His Majesty chewing on The 48 Laws of Power is still prominent, making you smile. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you have no idea what to say. Come over so we can compare kinks? I want to tell you in explicit detail all of the depraved things I want you to do to me? You drop your head back on the couch and stare at your ceiling for a few minutes while you try to sort through your thoughts. Better to be simple and direct, right? After a heavy sigh, you type:

-Do you have plans tonight? Do you want to come over?

You pause before hitting send, suddenly unsure. Why is this the thing giving you anxiety? It’s still hard to be so forthright with him while every instinct screams at you to play it cool. With another huff you clench your jaw and hit send.

You put your phone face down on the couch next to you so you’re not tempted to stare at it. You start to feel antsy without anything for your hands to do and your eyes trace the dents in your worn down popsocket. The seconds stretch on for what feels like hours, and you’re convinced that you’ve said the wrong thing. That he’s changed his mind and decided that you’re not worth the effort after all.

Finally you hear the soft hum of your phone buzz, and you frantically flip it over to read his answer.

-I’d love to. Shall I bring anything? A leash, perhaps?

You giggle and squeal and press your thighs together all at once. You settle back on the couch and tuck your feet beneath you, smiling like a schoolgirl with a crush. An apt comparison, honestly.

-Not yet, but maybe one of those fancy expensive wines.

Your heart thrums as your eyes dart around your apartment, making sure it isn’t too messy. You generally keep it fairly tidy, although compared to Astarion’s place yours is downright spotless. The briefest image flashes through your mind of the two of you living together before you internally scold yourself. Absolutely not, it’s way too soon for those thoughts.

Your phone buzzes again, and you look over at it, surprised.

-You’re still my favorite vintage, darling. 🤍🩸

If someone had been around to hear the noise you just made, you would’ve vehemently denied it.

***

You nearly jump out of your skin when you finally hear the knock on the door. You quickly check your hair in the mirror before opening it, and there he is, looking as dashing as ever in a lavender button down and forest green trousers. His collar is undone just enough to get a peek of the delicate silver chains resting on his collarbone, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing off his sinewy forearms. You take the bottle from his hand, your fingers lingering on his wrist momentarily, and gesture for him to come inside. You put the wine down on the counter and turn back to him as he slips his hands around your waist, his cool hands resting on the skin of your lower back below your crop top. You stand on your toes and loop your arms around his neck, gently pressing your lips to his. 

“Hi,” you murmur with a shy smile.

“Hi,” he repeats, resting his forehead against yours. You pull away reluctantly and open the cabinets to take out glasses for wine. Astarion glances down at your socked feet and then over to your shoe rack by the door.

“Oh, erm… would you like me to remove my shoes?” he asks, uncertainty apparent in his voice.

“Oh!” You didn’t consider that he probably hasn’t spent much time in other people’s spaces, and you don’t want to push him outside his comfort zone. “Well, uh… you don’t have to, I guess.” He studies your expression and frowns.

“I feel as though you’d like me to,” he says carefully, and then before you can respond, he walks over to the shoe rack and slips off his shoes, placing them neatly on top of the rack.

“Thanks,” you mumble, and he crosses back to you and kisses your temple. You linger in his scent for a moment longer before turning toward your tablet resting on your kitchen island. You unlock the screen and pull up the checklist you had been perusing earlier, then slide it over to him to look at.

“So in the spirit of, you know, being on the same page about things,” you tell him as you pull out your kitschy pirate-shaped corkscrew, “I wanted to look at a list of like, things to try, and I dunno, talk about it.” You don’t know why you’re so nervous about this. You certainly don’t have much experience with being so explicit about your desires, preferring instead to rely on nonverbal communication with partners. Which, in retrospect, might explain more than a few disappointing experiences.

Astarion brushes your hair back from your neck and lightly runs his nose along your ear, eliciting a shiver. “You wouldn’t just rather have a repeat of the evening at the bowling alley?” You lean your head back into him for a moment, savoring his touch, before steeling yourself and pulling away.

“No, we should actually talk about it,” you sigh heavily, barely able to keep the disappointment out of your voice.

“Having a conversation, how novel,” he says with that high-pitched giggle you find so very charming. You pour generous servings of wine and take a long sip before settling yourself onto a barstool. 

“So they split it into different categories, and then there are a lot of subcategories,” you explain, trying to be chill about it and only mostly succeeding.

“People can get very specific about their wants, it’s true,” he agrees sagely, and you’re suddenly reminded of his centuries of experience over you. You try not to let that make you feel even more insecure than you already do.

“Right. So um… blindfolds, light bondage, chains.” You make little check marks next to the ones you’re interested in with your tablet pen.

“Collars, I believe you articulated something along those lines,” he smiles at you salaciously, and you take a deep sip of your wine to hide your embarrassment. He places his hand on your lower back reassuringly, and you muster the resolve to continue scanning down the list.

“Various cuffs sound good to me, although I’m not sure if I know what ‘handcuff style’ means,” you say, putting the pen to your lips in thought. 

“May I?” he asks, holding out his hands to indicate that he’s asking for permission to demonstrate it on you. You nod and slip off the barstool, and in an instant he has you spun around and your wrists pinned together behind your back. He’s gentle enough, but uses just the right amount of force to make you gasp. “Do you like that?” His voice is low in your ear and your heart threatens to leap out of your chest.

“I, uh… think you can surmise the answer to that,” you tease a little breathlessly, and the puff of air from his chuckle tickles your neck.

“Perhaps, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I want to hear you say it.” He punctuates the sentence by tightening the grip on your hands ever so slightly.

“Then yes, I do.” The words come out a little strained but he deems your answer satisfactory. He releases your wrists and you turn back to him to see him with an incredibly smug grin. You playfully shove his face and return to the list, and he leans over your shoulder to read along with you.

“Thoughts on gags?” he asks, and you think it over for a moment. 

“I think probably not, although maybe tape, just none of these other ones. I don’t want to get all drool-y.” You throw him a mischievous glance over your shoulder. “Although on you, I might reconsider.” You stick your knuckle in his mouth and he closes his lips around your finger, sucking on it while keeping his eyes trained on you. He pulls your finger out with a lewd pop and pulls your wrist into his lips, grazing his fangs along your pulse point. 

“You’d be hurting yourself more than helping, darling,” he murmurs into your skin, and you bite your lip in an attempt to control your breathing. He uses your momentary distraction to snatch the pen out of your hand. “And I’ll go ahead and put a tick next to ‘leashes’ right here.”

“I thought you wanted to hear me say it,” you needle him back, pressing up against him unnecessarily to retrieve the pen.

“Oh I most certainly would,” he purrs, and you feel a heat creep up the back of your neck. You continue scanning down the list, adding checkmarks to some of the things you’ve already done. You reach ‘blood play’ and add a check. Astarion leans down and gives your neck a quick little nip, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make you yelp. 

“Fetishes,” you read, tapping the pen to your lips. “You know, I’m definitely into some of these things, corsets, high heels – I might even still have some of the costume pieces from when I was in Venus in Fur that they let me keep.”

Astarion’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Venus in Furs, as in, the Sacher-Masoch book?”

“Based on it, yeah. Venus in Fur, singular, by David Ives.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing some production photos from that,” he teases, running his fingers along the waistband of your skirt.

“Well maybe I should just model the costume for you in person,” you murmur, turning into his chest and tilting your chin upward. He follows your lead, capturing your lips into a heated kiss. Your head grows foggy with lust and you finally push him away. “Focus,” you scold yourself as much as him.

“I am extremely focused right now,” he hums, looking down at you through heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Hmm, prove it,” you retort, and tap the pen on your tablet screen. “What are your thoughts, um. On crossdressing.” You’re a little embarrassed to ask, but you continue to barrel through your shame. Jaheira would be proud.

“Would you like that?” His voice remains just as lust-filled and you flush a deep red. “Seeing me in a cute little skirt and thigh high stockings?”

The image in your mind is vivid: Astarion straddling your lap, a miniskirt flaring out from his hips and his cock pressing against you through thin satin panties. You nearly start hyperventilating.

“Uh-huh,” you breathe heavily.

“Duly noted,” he says with a giggle. You blink to focus your eyes back to reality and return to the list.

“Humiliation?” you ask, and he shrugs. “Yeah, me neither. Impact and rough play. Uh…” you scan through the list, putting down a few checks – face slapping, riding crops, spanking. “Oh. Um. Non-monogamy.” You turn to him to gauge his expression. He returns your gaze equally carefully.

“Is that something that interests you?” he asks, his voice neutral. 

“Probably not dating… um… but I could consider a threesome, like, with the right person. Unless you’re not into that,” you add quickly, and his lips curl into a smile.

“We can cross that bridge if we come to it,” he replies and plants a kiss in your hair. 

“Okay, I like that,” you hum appreciatively. You move onto the next category. “Role play. None of these are of particular interest to me, probably… ugh, schoolroom scenes, I can’t.” You shudder and he lets out a cackle.

“Not interested in a professor/student roleplay?” he asks with a roguish smile. “No looking for extra credit to get your grade up?”

You have another visceral reaction. “Too close to home, no thank you. Although…”

“Reconsidering?” he narrows his eyes playfully.

“No! I was just looking… Well, two jump out at me. Uh…” you struggle against your internalized shame and let out a growl of frustration. He takes your face in his hands and forces you to look at him. His cool touch is a soothing balm against the fiery heat in your cheeks.

“Darling, you can tell me. Trust me, I’m sure it isn’t anything I haven’t already heard.” His voice is gentle, but there’s almost a sadness behind it that you can’t place. You take a deep breath and hold onto his hand, keeping it pressed against your cheek.

“Okay. The first one is fear play. Like… I like when you get a little animalistic. Almost a predator/prey kind of thing.” You avoid his gaze despite his insistence, but you power through. “The other one is switching roles. I may have… fantasized… about you being a bit of a needy sub.” You almost swallow your last few words before looking up to his gaze again. His red eyes are completely inscrutable. 

“Well, I’m more than happy to hunt you down, love,” he leers at you and your breath catches. Then his expression falters, shifting into something more contemplative. “As for the second…” Your whole body tenses in anticipation of the ‘but.’ “I’d have to think about it. I don’t relish the idea of giving up that much control.”

“Ohmygodsnoit’stotallyfinewedon’thavetotalkaboutiteveragain.” The words pour out of your mouth in a barely coherent jumble. He laughs and pulls your face into his, giving you a tender kiss.

“I said I’d think about it, darling, not that it’s an outright no.” He searches your eyes for any indication of understanding, and you nod. He looks back at the next category on the list. “Sensation play, non-impact,” he reads, and he laughs when his eyes fall on ‘biting/being bitten.’

“Yeah, I guess that one’s pretty obvious,” you say sheepishly, putting a check next to it. He looms over your shoulder and you feel the electricity crackling between the two of you.

“Now, I’d like to ask for a point of clarification,” he considers while pointing at ‘breath control (choking)’ and ‘breath control (mild restriction.)’

“Uh-huh?” you ask, barely trusting yourself to articulate words. He maintains eye contact with you as he brings his hand to your throat hesitantly, a silent question. You give him a shallow but prolonged nod, your breath quickening with excitement. He closes his hand slowly, testing the pressure. Your mouth falls open with a silent moan.

“Mild?” he asks, his voice husky. Your fingers curl and flex on the counter, dropping the tablet pen.

“Yeah,” you squeak out, your blood pounding in your ears. His eyes glint with a devilish fire and a smile slowly creeps onto his lips. 

“Good,” he hums, low and dangerous. He studies your face for a moment longer, turning your chin left and right, almost like he’s examining you. Your body trembles, waiting for his next move. He suddenly pulls you up onto your toes, your face close to his, his nails digging into your flesh. You whine, high and loud and undeniably aroused. 

He continues with his interrogation. “And how is this? Yes or no, pet.” Under any other circumstances, his voice might be considered gentle. 

“Y-yes,” you stammer, your voice cracking. 

“Yes, what?” he spits through gritted teeth, tightening his hand and tearing another wanton moan from your lips.

“Y-yes daddy,” the word tumbles out of you before you can even think to stop it. 

Evidently it was the correct answer because his features split with a feral grin as he snarls, “That’s my good girl,” before crushing your lips into his. You grasp weakly at his hips as he devours you, and you’re more than happy to let him. He slides his hands under your ass and plunks you down on the island. He grabs the hem of your shirt and yanks it over your head, pulling your hips in closer to his waist as he continues to ravage your lips.

He snakes his hand into your hair and pulls your head back, exposing your neck to his destruction. “Little love, tell me what you desire,” he growls into your ear, and you clutch your arms around his shoulders.

“You,” you manage to gasp out, “I- ah- I want you. To have your way with me. Destroy me, consume me, take your fill. I want you, Astarion.” You tense up, waiting for his bite, but instead he leaves a trail of sloppy kisses and nips down your chest. He closes his lips around your nipple under your bra, sucking on it through the lace. You run your fingers through his curls and drop your head back with a moan. 

Before you can adjust to the feeling of his tongue on your nipple, his lips continue their journey down your stomach and to the waistband of your skirt. He hikes it up to your hips, hooking his fingers into the band of your panties and pulls them down past your knees, discarding them onto the kitchen floor. He hovers his mouth over your slick cunt and shifts his gaze up to you. You can feel his cool breath and you whimper and squirm, aching for any part of him. 

“Your hand, love,” he purrs as he reaches out for your wrist, pulling your fingers to your swollen clit. You groan as you make contact, instinctively rubbing little circles to give yourself the relief you crave. He slides his nimble fingers into your cunt and you jerk your hips into him, clenching around him and breathing heavily. He slowly pumps his fingers as you massage your clit, never taking his eyes off you. It’s almost too intense and you want to look away, but you’re transfixed. His lips drift to your inner thigh, his fangs ghosting over your skin.

“Please,” you mewl, and the breath from his laugh tickles your thigh. He straightens up and puts his lips to your ear, his fingers never straying from their tortuous pace. 

“You’re going to listen closely to what I’m about to say and you will follow my instructions, understood?” You whimper out a noise of assent, trying to match your fingers to his. “I’m going to bite you, and you’re going to continue touching yourself while I drink. And you’re not going to be stingy with those needy little moans of yours, my sweet, I want to hear and taste you come.”

“Yes sir,” you squeal, and your breath quickly turns into a groan when he sinks his teeth into you. Your fingers slow at the overwhelm of sensation, but when his own fingers speed up as he takes in long greedy pulls of your blood, your need becomes almost unbearable. You clutch at the back of his head with one hand as the other services your clit, and you pant in his ear as he drinks. “Fuck, Astarion, gods, yes,” you gasp the explitives into his hair. Your hips buck into your hand as you bring yourself closer, aided by his fingers dragging against your walls and his tongue lapping at your neck. You quickly grow dizzy with lust and blood loss, your vision clouding you ramp up to the edge. Your fingers tangle into his curls as your whimpers and whines grow high and needy. When you feel the vibration of his own groan against your skin, your orgasm crashes down on you, your cunt and neck both throbbing with pleasure. He rides it out with you, lazily licking your wounds closed.

He pulls away from you and the sight of his lips red with your blood sends another surge through you, and you grab his face and kiss him roughly. He wraps his arms around your waist, the fingers on his left hand still sticky with your cum. You claw at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his cool, smooth chest. Once you’ve rid him of the offending clothing, you break the kiss to catch your breath, sliding your hands over his shoulders and down his arms. He growls with a low appreciation.

“My darling, you taste delectable,” he hums and swipes his thumb across your lips, collecting a drop of your blood and sucking it off lasciviously. You pant and look at him through blurry eyes, your legs still shaking. He pulls you off the counter and your knees buckle as you land, barely able to hold up your weight. “On your knees, my treasure.”

You happily drop to the floor, never taking your eyes off his. He towers over you with a sinister smile and you slide your hands around the back of his thighs, just trying to brace yourself. Your mouth hangs open, hungry for him but waiting for instructions. He cards his hand through your hair, letting it run around your ear and down under your chin.

“So eager for me,” he says in a low voice, and he slips his thumb into your mouth. You suck on it fervently, keeping your carnal gaze on him, aching to please. His eyes flutter closed briefly and he lets out a long breath. You keen into his thumb, a nonverbal plea for his cock. He yanks his digit back from your mouth and closes his hand around your throat once more, bending over for a heated kiss. When he finally releases you, you’re panting again, the whimpers practically uncontrollable.

He begins to unbuckle his pants and you pull up on your knees, begging like a needy pup. “Little love, is this what you want? My cock shoved down your throat?” He pulls out his erection, engorged and flushed pink with your blood, as you nod with a whine. “Good. Open,” he commands and you dutifully obey, taking him as far into your mouth as you can. You swallow down your gag reflex, keeping your eyes trained on him as his head falls back with a moan. You bob your head on his cock, your nails digging into the back of his thighs. He tangles his hand into your hair and you hold still as he thrusts into your mouth. 

“Fuck, Tav,” he hisses and you moan around his cock, spurred on by that jolt of electricity you only get from hearing him say your name. He yanks your hair to pull you off his cock, and he looks at you with wild eyes for a moment before pushing you down onto your back. The kitchen tile is hard and cool against your skin, and you’re all too aware of every knot and point of tension along your back. But your legs fall open for him anyway as he pulls his pants down to his knees and positions himself at your entrance. He teases your slit with the tip of his cock, gathering your wetness and spreading it down onto the shaft with his hand. 

“Please,” you croak, your hips canting upwards towards him. He lets out a shuddering breath that’s almost a laugh. 

“Use your words, love.” His voice is thick with lust, which just sets you off more.

“Please,” you beg with even more desperation, “please fuck me and choke me, Astarion. Please.” You’re almost crying with need at this point, and the noise you make when he finally buries himself into you up to the hilt is utterly obscene. He grabs your throat and digs his fingers into the side of your larynx, just barely restricting your air supply. He pounds into you with long, powerful strokes, and you claw at the kitchen floor to keep yourself from sliding backwards. You let out a strained cry with each thrust, pleasure and sensation overwhelming your body.

“Look at me,” he snarls with a slight squeeze on your throat, and you snap your gaze to him. He looks borderline bestial, his eyes wild with bloodlust, his hair falling over his glasses. His expression alone would have been enough to get another orgasm out of you, but the look paired with the feeling of his controlling and possessive hand around your throat sends you careening off the edge with a cry. A few more broken thrusts of his hips and he’s following, his cock throbbing as he spills into you. He falls forward onto your stomach limply, breathing heavily as you push the curls back off his sweaty forehead.

You reach across your alleyway kitchen and grab a dish towel hanging off your oven door. Astarion slides out of you and you gently wipe your combined spend off his cock. When you look up you catch him staring at you adoringly. 

“What?” you shy away as he pulls his pants back up, and he chuckles.

“Nothing. You’re just beautiful like that, is all.” He takes the towel from your hand and returns the favor, wiping down your inner thigh before crawling toward you and planting a featherlight kiss on your lips. A thousand different thoughts run through your head before you resolutely decide to continue the conversation from earlier. You strain your neck up at the kitchen island above you and frown.

“My tablet is so far away,” you pout, reaching upward pathetically. He rolls his eyes and stands to retrieve your tablet and your wine glass, handing them to you as you lean your back against the island cabinets. “My hero,” you croon as he sits down beside you, taking his own glass with him. He takes a long sip while watching you out of the corner of the eye and you pull the list back up.

“Now where were we?” You scoot over towards him and loop your arm through his, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

“I believe we got side tracked right around ‘breath control,’” he says as he takes the pen off the side of the tablet and puts checks next to the relevant entries. You shove him with your body and continue your journey down the list. You consider a few more – temperature play, sensory deprivation, teasing… 

“Ooh, this one is specific to elves!” you squeal with delight when your eyes land on ‘ear play - elves.’ You quickly nip at his earlobe and he makes a shuddering moan, a somewhat disproportionate response for how relatively tame your action is.

“Ah- yes, I thought you had figured that one out,” he quavers with a laugh, and you suddenly redden.

“Oh. Ohh.” It suddenly dawns on you that the differences between elf and human anatomy are more than just visual. “Is that something you like? That you’re okay with?”

He laughs. “Yes, very much so, just be cautious with it if you don’t want things to come to a sudden, messy end.”

You nod and then add mischievously, “Good to know.” You turn your eyes back to the list. “What the fuck are vampire gloves?” You google the phrase while Astarion scoffs.

“There’s nothing more desirable in the world than a vampire, is there?” he spits, venom apparent in his voice. You look up from your phone, which is displaying pictures of leather gloves with spiked palms.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a little nervous. His vampiric nature has become an integral part of your relationship, but it’s never come up so explicitly.

“It’s nothing,” he exhales heavily. “I’ve just had more than my fair share of lovers who were more interested in my fangs than in me.”

You freeze beside him as he continues to scroll through the list with his finger. You’d like him regardless of whether he’s a vampire or not – in fact, you didn’t even know when you first discovered your attraction to him. But you certainly don’t feel neutral about it, and now you’re worried that you’ve fetishized him.

“Love?” He turns to you, since he must have heard your heart stop. You chew on your lip uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry if I, like, made it weird,” you mutter, your cheeks red hot.

“What? Darling, no,” he hushes you reassuringly. “It’s different when it’s you.”

You wrinkle your nose with incredulity. “I don’t know, it doesn’t feel like it is.”

“My sweet, you have a stunning pair of tits,” he begins, and the non sequitur makes you bark out a laugh. “What I’m saying is that it’s something that I like about you, but it’s not the only thing I like about you. And I’m sure you’ve met your fair share of people who only saw you as a walking rack.” You smile, but you’re still not fully convinced. Your eyes linger on the right side of his neck, hidden from view but you can see the bite mark with perfect clarity in your mind’s eye. He brushes a lock of your hair behind your ear.

“Darling, I haven’t exactly been subtle about how I feel about your blood,” he says in a smoky voice, and a shiver runs up your spine, “even moreso when you’re aroused. I wouldn’t change that, not for all the moonstones in Evereska.”

You pout for a moment longer while he gazes at you earnestly. “And you promise to tell me if I get weird about it?”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to your hairline. “Yes, I promise to tell you if you get weird about it.” Your words sound odd in his posh accent, but it gets a smile out of you nonetheless. “Now, I believe the next category is ‘Service and Restricted-slash-Controlled Behavior.’ Well, that’s certainly a mouthful.”

“Funny, you were a mouthful not that long ago,” you say with a licentious grin. 

“Hmm, points for clever wordplay, but reduced marks for low hanging fruit. B+.” He glances at you over his glasses and you gawk at him.

“Excuse me, did you just grade my dirty joke?”

“I hold myself to a higher standard, and I expect the same of you,” he says haughtily and you roll your eyes.

“I think it was at least an A-,” you mutter and he laughs.

“Of course you would, professor,” he smirks at you.

“Are you calling me an easy grader?” you gasp, your affront over the top and theatrical. 

“No, just easy,” he hums, leaning in for a kiss, to which you respond by biting his lip. You snatch the pen out his hand and look back at the list. One in particular jumps out at you.

“Oh, the dress that you got me, you know, the night you did the meanest thing anyone has ever done to me?” you say, and you can feel him tense up beside you. 

“Have I mentioned how sorry I am for that? And also how wonderful and talented and intelligent you are?” His words carry an air of jest but the concern in his eyes is real.

“And funny?” You widen your smile in an attempt to set him at ease.

“Well, let’s not go that far.” He visibly relaxes when it’s clear you’re just teasing.

“Anyway,” you glare at him playfully, “I was going to say that I liked that. I like when you pick out clothes for me.”

“Then I’ll keep that in mind,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Then his voice drops as he breathes, “You truly were a vision in that dress. I’ll have another one made, if it’s to your liking.” You close your eyes contentedly as he nuzzles your ear, and all you can do is nod. You finally clear your throat to shift your attention back to the list.

“Oh, how about chores?” you muse, tossing him a snarky grin. “Do you think you’d want to don a cute little maid’s outfit and clean my apartment?”

“You could sell me on the maid’s outfit, but darling, you’ve seen my home, you know that I’m not one for cleaning.”

Your mind supplies the very unhelpful image of Astarion wearing a French maid outfit and your brain short circuits. Astarion catches you glitching and laughs.

“Someone is very enthusiastic about seeing me in a dress,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“Shut up, you’re just really cute,” you mumble, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder and kisses the top of your head.

“Serving other Doms, supervised only,” he reads. “Well, as long as I get to watch.” His voice drops salaciously and you stifle a giggle.

“Like the idea of watching me beg for some big strong Dom?” you volley back, trying to keep your cool.

“Darling, I just like watching you beg.” His voice rumbles low in his chest and you shiver. You move onto the next category, sexual activity and penetration, and wordlessly check entries that, for you at least, just feel pretty standard. Astarion takes the pen from you and puts a check next to ‘strap-on-dildos.’ You glance at him with raised eyebrows and he just smirks in response.

Despite the amount of semi-public sex the two of you have had, you don’t give the next category, ‘Voyeurism and Exhibitionism,’ much attention. The final category, ‘Magic in the Bedroom,’ gives you pause.

Astarion scrolls through the list with his finger, musing, “Since neither of us are magic users, I imagine we’d simply go shopping for scrolls together.”

“Hey Astarion,” you say, and he turns his head to you.

“Hmm?”

“The charm person potion. That I found in your trash.” You keep your voice even, and he frowns.

“Ah. Yes. I, erm… I’m still very sorry for that.” His voice is uncharacteristically stilted.

“Why did you do it?” you ask quietly. You’re pretty sure you know the answer, but you still want to hear him say it. He exhales a deep sigh and waits several moments before finally answering.

“I’ve had more than a few close calls with, ah, potential lovers, shall we say.” He stares off into the middle distance and your eyes trace his profile. “I didn’t think you were secretly a Gur, but also, I’d rather not take my chances.”

“And the thing you said about wanting to seem more charismatic?” You put your hand on his knee in an attempt to soothe both him and yourself.

“A lie. Well,” he corrects himself, frowning, “a half-truth. If I could guarantee that you wouldn’t want to ram a stake through my heart, then you finding my otherwise grating personality slightly more charming was merely a bonus.”

You study his face for a moment longer and then take your hand and turn his chin so he’s facing you. “Hey. Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it.”

“I was selfish,” he growls, the self-hatred pouring out of him in waves. “I was so focused on my own safety that how you might feel about it didn’t even occur to me.” He clenches his jaw and you put your tablet on the floor and sidle yourself between his legs. You wrap your arms around him, pressing your bare skin flush against his.

“I wish you hadn’t,” you murmur into his ear. “But I understand why you did. I’m certainly no stranger to feeling unsafe on a date. There are other ways to guarantee your safety, but I think you know that now.”

He lets out a shuddering breath followed by a quiet laugh. “I don’t relish you seeing me like this.”

“Too bad, get treasured, idiot,” you giggle and he pulls out of the hug to take your face in his hands and give you a sensual kiss. You melt into his arms, breathing in his scent deeply. “Bed?” you ask, and he nods silently. You stand and help pull him to his feet, leading him into your bedroom.

[commodorez]

How would one go about learning how to make something like the cactus?

Like prerequisites, older code, hardware stuff, etc.

The main prerequisites I can think of are being heavily interested in vintage computers, and having the drive to try and fail and then try again.

I started with building Grant Searle's design, borrowing from other working designs as I went. However, for the front panel? That's alot of time designing, learning, simulating in Logisim, and testing with physical logic gates to produce something 100% original and of my own design. I imagine most folks won't want to go to the trouble of designing an entire front panel state machine like I did.

The good news is that there are way more kits that can help teach the necessary skills than ever before! Most notably, Ben Eater's 6502 kit is a really great way to learn many of the things that I've put into practice here. He has a whole youtube video series associated with it, walking through concepts, construction, programming, etc. step by step. Even if you don't build one of his kits, watching them is an informative process. *I* learned alot, even after having built the Cactus.

If you're going the Z80 direction, the RC2014 series of kits can teach you plenty. There's also glitchworks kits in a few processor types, but those tend to be a bit more for the advanced user. There's the 1802 Membership Card but that's small and not really expandable. I could be here all day listing kits that can help teach and build up experience.

I should mention that I have a computer science degree in my back pocket, but learning logic gates or using assembly was only lightly touched on in the course of my studies. Most of the programming I do involved messing around in BASIC anyway.

I really didn't have a game plan for some of it, so alot of my learning process was trial and error. Alot of errors, in fact. Still making them, and learning from them. I also took the harder route to construction, since I didn't know how to use EDA tools for designing PCBs like KiCAD or Altium or Eagle (don't use Fritzing for the love of fuck).

Oh, one other thing I can recommend: reading through contemporary 1970s computing magazines like Byte (check the internet archive for back issues). There are all sorts of cool projects and ideas present that can really guide you. It doesn't hurt to have a copy of Don Lancaster's TTL Cookbook on hand (I think it's in PDF form online).

Finding a community to help you out is also a great idea. Even back in the 1970s, many folks who jump-started the home computer revolution had the Homebrew Computer Club to help them out. Community meetings to bounce ideas off of, and help one another through debugging are essential in my book -- you don't have to work in a vacuum. I've got a few places I've asked for help, most notably the Retrotech Crew discord server. I've had the benefit of friends who also have homebrewed designs like @techav, who have inspired me with their ideas, but helped me out with mine. In turn, as I've learned, I've been able to help out others.

Hopefully that answers your question. Keep 'em coming!

[zoe-oneesama]

Hi Zoe, I saw a few asks before about a physical edition of Scarlet Lady, I'm curious how you are planning to go about it? For now I saw you talk about volume one, are you planning to make one season = one volume? Will there be any changes to the current comics? (Like color, bonuses etc.) thank you in advance!

Yes, the plan is 1 Volume = 1 Season, with Volume 5 having the finale episodes, so, extra thiccccc.

I have edited the pages to fix spelling errors and made a few changes so subtle that I can't even remember them, as well as trying to make old pages more legible. And there are bonus images and commentary to fill in the blank spots left by page bonuses.

^Here's an example bonus pictures I made for "The Pharaoh". It's the picture Alix joked about sharing with the class of Marinette dressed as Scarlet Lady, and Plagg dressed as the Black Cat statues that the group walks past at the end of the episode.

Because mixam (the ones who'll be making these books) needs pages divisible by 4, I do have some full color pages for the Volumes that happened to not fit that number nicely (so far it's just Volume 2), so look forward to that. I think I'll share those pages later this week.

Additionally, the chapters got new "headers" since they're in a new format:

^Ivan finally got his moment!

So, it's not as easy as just throwing it into a PDF and giving it out like that. I want this to be a special gift for anyone who's willing to put down money for my content - they deserve something extra for their interest, which is also why I'm not trying to spoil everything.

As for the status of everything: - Volume 1: Final Walk-through. I've gone through one draft and added a few things to match changes I made to other volumes, so after I complete a few commissions I'll be ordering in another (hopefully final!) draft. One book costs me about $60 to order, but that's because I'm not ordering in bulk. But it does mean I take plenty of time between ordering draft. - Volume 2: 2nd Draft. Volume 1 had very few errors in its first draft but Volume 2 had quite a lot, starting with the cover being so dark it was basically a black blob with green eyes (the covers are the different heroes). So I've been editing saturation on the cover and need to print just the cover locally to find the right balance. Additionally, there were a handful that accidentally got cut off, so I needed to fix those. The cover is really the biggest thing holding things up. - Volume 3: Ready for it's 1st Draft. Again, these are expensive, and after the debacle with Volume 2 I want to test print Volume 3's cover to make sure it doesn't have the same problem since it also has a lot of black. - Volume 4: Only the pages have been edited. That means I need to do chapter covers, extras, chibis, and page fillers, as well as the cover. - Volume 5: Same as Volume 4, as well as not being done with the season.

Additionally, I'm not out here trying to get sued, so I need an original product to sell with the book being a "freebie". I don't do a lot of original content, so any suggestions would be appreciated. A print? Charm? Bookmark? Stickers?...pencil?

Then there's obviously the store to use, launching a page, creating marketing materials~ All super fun -_-

[spacebaby1]

Only mine (4)

Sanzu Haruchiyo x Reader

(FINALLY! I'm so sorry this took too long, but it's here, and I'm already planning to write the next chapter)

Sanzu watched the pdf file on his laptop screen; the one kokonoi had sent him. The words of kokonoi were repeated over and over in his mind, something in him told him to just avoid it since he surely didn't care enough about you to know whatever had happened to you before. How horrible could it be? Sanzu had seen worse himself . Why should this file about you make him feel uneasy.

Clicking on the file he started reading, the first page was all the necessary details about you; your name, age, and personal details. The next page were your hospital records; records that are probably only seen by the doctor and your father. Surly, they were a bit detailed. However, the more Sanzu read, the more he felt chill as his eyes widened at the horrific records. His mind went blank as he read more and more.

Slamming the laptop shut he kick off the chair when he stood up the sound of the chair falling and hurried footsteps downstairs made you jump from your position next to the couch and stand behind the couch holding your hands together in fear but no sure what did you do to make Sanzu angry but you were sure it's your fault.

Sanzu entered the living room with shaken expression painted on his face as he approached you. Immediately, you took the TV remote and lowered the voice because you assumed that's why Sanzu rushed downstairs, or was he checking on the dishes? You've cleaned the dishes after eating breakfast. Or is it how he is, just like your father and his assistants that you grow up seeing act badly towards you?

Your mind was telling you to apologise so that he won't be mad at you, but you couldn't speak and only looked down at your feet.

Sanzu couldn't make up a question to ask, nor did he know what to tell you, but he needed to know. Was it true? Was that pdf file telling the truth, or was it a mistake? Not thinking correctly Sanzu approached you causing you to stumble backwards with fearful eyes already gazing back at him trying to not fall as you walked backwards, and immediately apologising over and over, "I'm so-sorry I'm sorry please I'm sorry-" you didn't even know what were you apologising for which made Sanzu immediately stop in his track when he heard you begging the apologise like that. He just looked at you with tired eyes, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe under the mask he was wearing that completely covered his scared mouth. Grounding himself, he asked you once, "Do you know a man with the name Jacob parker?" Sanzu saw how your eyes watered, but no tears fell. He could hear you trying hard to hide your heavy breathing at the mention of the name, and it was enough answer for him. He turned his back at you and walked away to his room, for the next hours you didn't move from where you sat next to the TV biting on your fingertips in fear and uncomfortable silence before you heard Sanzu walk back downstairs dressed in a suit and you stood up immediately at his sight. "I'll be heading out for work. Do you remember kakucho?" You nodded at his question, still not meeting his gaze. "He will be here anytime." Your head shot up in his direction as in you were asking him why would kakucho be here? Did you do something wrong? Are you in trouble?

"Don't worry, it's kakucho. You'll be safe around him." Before you could speak, the bell rang, and Kakucho was at the door, "left the door unlocked, your psycho." Kakucho laughed as he entered before Sanzu said something to him, and Kakucho seemed much serious now and nodded as you stood there frozen, not knowing how you should react. You watched Sanzu walk out as Kakucho walked him out, and you took that chance to head upstairs to the room that Sanzu said was yours and locked the door behind you.

[rjalker]

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

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

Links:

Read or download from the Web Archive.

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

Buy a physical copy from Lulu.com

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

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

Summary, by me:

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

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

(Archived read-more link)

[read-more link was here]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin

Written by Maurice Leblanc,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But who are you?”

The stranger bowed respectfully and introduced himself:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rouxval was unable to conceal his amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jean Rouxval addressed him:

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

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

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

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

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

“You are Maxime Leriot?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You do not know this lady and gentleman?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maxine Leriot protested:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the count arose and said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?”

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

“And ourselves, Mr. Minister?”

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

“Exile, then?”

“Yes, for a few years.”

The count again turned to his wife.

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

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

“And why not, madame?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murmuring, almost in a dream, she answered:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without any attempt to spare her, he said roughly:

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

“No, I will not,” she said.

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

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

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

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

She laughed mockingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no, Mr. Minister.”

“Well then?”

“Well, I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For something which is sure to happen.”

“What ‘something?’”

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

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

“What confessions, Mr. Minister?”

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

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

“What are you trying to put over now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen to what?”

“Footsteps! Listen. Some one is knocking.”

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

“He is not alone,” asserted Petitgris.

“What do you know about it?”

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

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

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

Rouxval, beside himself with rage, opened the door.

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

“His overcoat?”

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

Hercules Petitgris explained:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rouxval lost his temper.

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

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

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

“She would not, but I will.”

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

“Explain yourself!”

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

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

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

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

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

Rouxval did not understand.

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

“I could not.”

“Why?”

“My wife would have had to hear me.”

“But Madame de Bois-Vernay herself confessed.”

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

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

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

“That is to say?”

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

“Your idea then—” began the minister.

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

“To give her?”

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

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

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

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

With an affectation of indifference, he said:

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

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

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

“And Maxime Leriot’s part in this?”

“He obeyed my orders.”

“How about his actions since then?”

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

Rouxval meditated a moment and then said:

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll find what?”

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

“You knew?”

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

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

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

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

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

He then affixed his signature without further hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with hideous good nature, he continued:

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

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

Rouxval restrained himself with difficulty and said:

“But the proofs—” began Rouxval.

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

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

“Say, listen! What about the overcoat.”

“The overcoat?”

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

“Well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir!” cried Rouxval.

“Well, what, Mr. Minister?”

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

Rouxval asked:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[thehotelpod]

THE 2024 HOTEL PIN-UP CALENDAR HAS ARRIVED! 🔞 18 and up only please, this is a sexy calendar! It is as always a pay what you want for the PDF starting at $10 and all proceeds go to the good people at Planned Parenthood. 14 full color illustrations by community artists and 12 original Hotel stories written by me! Link in reblog

Song: Walk the night by Kaori Kobayashi. Video editing: Jay Drifting_As_Ice

[csuitebitches]

Getting Ready for Important Events

Do you have a prom coming up? Or a black tie event, a graduation, a wedding? Maybe nothing at all, but here is a beginner’s guide to (my personal) guide of beauty resources for big events.

1. If you’re planning to wear your hair up for an event, don’t get any keratin treatments done a couple of weeks before. Your hair will not stay in place.

2. Start dress shopping as early as possible. The more you leave things for last minute, the more hectic things will get.

3. Don’t buy dresses too small in hopes that you will lose a lot of weight in time. Buy it as per your current size. Drastic short term weight loss is unlikely.

4. Try the dress on at least 3 times before the event - once when you buy/ receive it; once when your event is about a week away; and 2-3 days prior. The reason being that weight can fluctuate. If you need to give it for alterations, you need to have a few days on your side. Make sure you have the right underwear.

5. Don’t get any facials done a couple of days before your event. Get it done a week or two prior, in case you break out. A lot of women make the mistake of getting facials done last minute or drastically changing their routine for just a few days. Your skin can’t get used to the change so fast and as a result, you break out on the day of the event. Stick to your original routine as much as possible.

6. In my experience, square shaped nails chip the most. If you’re unsure about what sort of nails to get, get a classic French nail, it’ll go with everything.

7. If you’re driving there yourself/ with a friend or in a vehicle that will be parked at the event, it is a good idea to carry an extra pair of flats. Keep it in the car if needed.

8. If you can afford to splurge, best to get waxed rather than shaved. If you have sensitive skin, be careful. You can easily get waxed 2 weeks before the event - waxed skin tends to stay hairless longer, and you won’t accidentally cut yourself with the razor.

9. Your clutch should have oil blotting paper (Sephora has good ones), perfume sample, a little cash, card, lipstick, hair tie and mints.

10. If you’re buying new shoes for this event, break into them. Put some talc powder around the edge of shoes and try to walk at least 3-4 minutes everyday until the event. Wear thin socks initially so that you don’t get any injuries.

11. If you’re stuck between two outfits, or if you have more than one event to attend to in a row, make an outfit PDF. Take pictures of yourself in each outfit, with its corresponding jewellery, accessories and shoes. Upload each outfit + accessories + potential hairstyles + make up looks + nails (the last three can be sourced from Pinterest) to Microsoft Word/ Apple Pages. Place each look on each page. Make sure that everything is clear and visible. Export it to PDF. You can print it if you like.

12. Don’t eat anything junk one week before your event. Start your days with lots of water, green juices, fruits and vegetables. Refrain from alcohol, smoking.

13. Start whitening your teeth a month before the event (if you’ve been given that much notice). Crest is decent.

14. If you’re getting your hair and make up professionally done, it really is a good idea to have a trial run, unless the MUA is tried and tested by you.

15. Plan the day of the event carefully. If your MUA tells you that the make up will take an hour, hold it as 1.5 hours. If your hairdresser says 40 minutes, hold it as 1 hour. Make a schedule for the day so that you are not late. Ensure you have enough time for photos!

[chemicalpink]

⋆｡°✩ Bangtan Solo Works inspired Pick a Card ⋆｡°✩

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, so please just take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. On that same note, make sure to choose the lyrics you truly feel attracted to, regardless of your bias and/or liking of the song. Instructions: Pick one of the seven lyrics from Bangtan's solo works and read the results that were assigned to it below the cut. Take some time to meditate on them and when you feel ready choose one. Happy reading! A/N: I'm finally back on regular content after a couple of hard weeks and just as the news broke out. My heart goes out to everyone now that Sag season has started and the members are on their quest. If you're interested in more in depth content, you can get a BTS Astrology Analysis on PDF on my kofi page. OR Sign up for a Tier if you want exclusive, early access to content

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Safety Zone

You've been having some difficult times, but know that they're coming to an end. There's a light at the end of the tunnel–a safety zone of yours– you're improving, you're getting better. You might have had a patch of behaving out of character, but know that by sticking up for your responsibility in the actions you've taken, is how you're able to heal, to regain your peace and Receive the universe's blessings.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ The Astronaut

My dearest creative souls, you might be stuck right now and have a liking towards feeling like you need to isolate yourself–like the astronaut himself– perhaps you've recently had a disagreement which at the time you thought best to be right rather than understanding what the other side was trying to convey. Remember that having good things come to you is all about receiving what is of the highest good for all.

₊˚⊹ ᰔAmygdala

You're reaching your limits, and in danger of burning out, so remember to pace yourself, and introduce some joy and calmness into your situation so that you can change the vibrational frequency of the things that are happening around you. Breathe– take some time to plan your long-term goals and plan things out.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Face-Off

It's okay not to be okay. Having fear of change is only human, not knowing where you're going isn't a sign of weakness, take some time to reset your goals, and know that when you merge your desires with faith in yourself, you are able to take action from a place of peace rather than one that comes from control.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Closer

Remember to dispose of everything that isn't serving you. Overthinking may be your worst enemy at this time, so don't hesitate to rely on others who are willing to help you towards your success, honour your ancestry during this time and connect with the community that is around you, you might find guidance, direction and great wisdom that will make you walk forward.

₊˚⊹ ᰔSomebody

Nothing is set in stone. Timed of grief are meant to happen, we gain forces from them and let go, become stronger. All difficult moments pass because they're not here to stay, you're regaining forces even if you've fallen down and you will rise again, bringing you more than whatever you thought you needed.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ For Us

My most romantic souls, this one is for you. You might encounter help from others, you've come a long way in healing and you will continue to do so. Trust your inner voice, when you're in tune with the abundant energy around you, you become abundant. Receive the messages that will come to you with grace.

[positive-meme-experience]

Introduction to safety planning: The Stanley-Brown Safety Plan

TW: Suicide, mental health crisis

Hi! I wanted to try giving a primer on safety planning as it is something I have a lot of experience with. I will be focusing on the Stanley-Brown Safety Plan and touching on means safety as part of that.

What it is

https://988.ca/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/Stanley-Brown-Safety-Plan-8-6-21.pdf

The Stanley-Brown Safety Plan is an evidence-based document that is meant to assist a person who is building up to or having a mental health crisis. Think of it like a fire drill. We do them because, in moments of crisis, the part of the brain responsible for rational thinking and problem-solving tends to go quiet. Fire drills get practiced so that, even when you can't think clearly, you know what to do. Similar sort of thing. When a person is having a mental health crisis they probably aren't thinking clearly about what they can do to stay safe. This document, if referenced during a crisis, can help remind them of their options.

Who should do it

Anyone with a predisposition toward mental health crises of any sort. It's often used with people who have suicidal ideation, but I've also done them with only slight modification with clients who are prone to substance abuse or anxiety attacks. It's better to have one and not need it than the other way around. I have one that I fortunately haven't needed to refer to because I believe in leading by example.

When should it be done?

Before crisis strikes! While the person is stable and able to think clearly. If a crisis is already ramping up and you don't know what to do, call your local mental health hotline (988 in the US) or emergency services such as 911.

Filling it out

I'll go through and talk about each question individually. Most questions have spaces for a few answers, depending on which format you use (an app or the form I linked)

Warning signs

These are anything (thoughts, feelings, behaviors, situations/triggers) that let you know that you're starting to go into crisis. Note that feelings can be emotional or purely physical. Can be immediate (rapid breathing, panic, thoughts of self harm/suicide) or longer-term (not sleeping well for a few days, not bathing, not taking medication etc.) These will look different from person to person and require some introspection. If you're helping someone else fill it out, you can mention things that you've noticed are precursors to bad mental health. The idea behind this section is to recognize when things are getting bad early enough to start intervening.

Internal coping strategies

Coping strategies that don't involve other people. Something you could do if you're home alone and your phone is dead. Can be coping strategies you learned in therapy (square breathing, mindfulness, etc.) Or things that just help you take your mind off of things until you're regulated again (hobbies, listening to music, going for a walk, spending time with pets, etc.) Should focus on non-harmful strategies, so avoid things like drinking or getting high. There are lots of possible answers, so it's really just whatever helps the person get back to baseline.

People and social settings that help provide a distraction

Anyone you could potentially call to talk or hang out that would help you take your mind off of things. Can also be people you live with. Doesn't have to be someone you're comfortable spilling your heart out to, just someone who can help distract you until you're feeling better. Similar thing with places. Sometimes just getting a change of scenery can be helpful. If being somewhere dark and quiet helps you regulate, you can put that, though the idea is preferably somewhere you're not alone, like the library, a park, the mall, etc. Again, try to avoid things like the bar as alcohol can make things worse.

People you can ask for help

Distinct from the last question in that these should be people you trust a bit more. Once distractions and coping skills have failed, who would you contact saying, "I need help?" Someone that you can talk to about what's going on, and who could feasibly help you call emergency services or drive you to an ER/crisis center. Can be friends, family, caregivers, staff where you live, etc.

Note about the people sections: Should include phone numbers on the plan so that you don't have to think at all to reach them. Also, best practice is to let people who are on your safety plan know that they are, especially in the "ask for help section"

Professionals or agencies you can contact during a crisis

Generally, people like mental health or medical professionals. If the person has a therapist, you can put them here. Or a trusted doctor. Someone with a bit more training than the typical person.

This section is also where you put down the address of the nearest ER or walk-in crisis center so that, safety permitting, you can go there in person without having to call 911. (Calling 911, while sometimes necessary, often leads to having to deal with police, which can be less than ideal when dealing with a mental health crisis depending on where you are.)

Making the environment safer

This step is where you think/talk about lethal means safety. There's a lot to it, and if you're in a position where you need to support someone who is a high suicide risk and you have limited access to professional help, I recommend you look into "means safety" and "Counseling on access to lethal means" ( aka CALM). In brief, you want to identify any specific methods the person may have thought of. Typically, when someone has suicidal thoughts, there's one or a few specific methods their mind tends to go to, and research has shown that if they actually become actively suicidal their mind will go to that method. If You can limit access to those methods such that it takes even just a few extra minutes, you can save their life. Things like hiding knives in a lock box or having someone else hold onto medications until they need to be dispensed can make a huge difference!

A note about guns: firearms are incredibly deadly to a suicidal person. Some people are very resistant to giving up their firearms, but as I mentioned, even just delaying access to them by a few minutes can be helpful. If you're trying to safety plan with someone who owns firearms, look into local laws about storing them elsewhere, letting a trusted family member hold onto them, etc. Gun safes where the at risk person doesn't know the combination or even just storing ammo separately can make a difference.

What is the most important thing to you that is worth living for?

This question isn't on the one I linked, but it is on the one I use for work. I think it's worth noting, even if you have to write it in. The only "correct" answer is the honest one. What is the one thing (are a few things) that will stay your hand if push came to shove?

Additional resources

Suicideprevention.mhrrg.com has some excellent videos about suicidality and means safety

Zerosuicide.edc.org has some great info about suicide, including a course on CALM. I don't remember if you have to pay for the course or sign in through an organization, but if not it's a great thing to learn about.

Also, I would recommend looking into whether or not your local community mental health centers run walk-in centers (WICs) as they can be a resource if you don't want to call the police or go to the ER.

[josiebelladonna]

i found out a way to save fever!!

i went through and saved the chapters of book 1 (altitude and attitude) into the pages app and then i exported that onto my books app, so i can take my time saving it as well as other fics i’ve given that treatment to onto my thumb drive and i don’t have to go through one chapter at a time—192 chapters. it’s not gonna make it to january. hell, it’s not gonna make it to the 4th anniversary in february. i spent too long and too hard on that monolithic beastie to lose it to trump 2.0.

bad news is that i still can’t download dead man walking (or hungry lion of all fics), so i’ll have to do it the hard way—my little blue laptop from 2011, as competent as it is and the fact that i can get internet, is from 2011, which in technological terms is like dog years. it can do it, it just can’t do it without freaking out about the state of the internet 13 years on (can you blame it?) so i’m having to use my tablet to read from and i type it onto ms word on the laptop and save it on my thumb drive. seems very sisyphean, but don’t underestimate my work ethic, though, especially when my mom and i plan on not really bringing attention to ourselves. i really will be like henry darger, work on my imaginary worlds away from the world because i may not be scared of it, but i don’t trust it.

100 chapters, BUT! i have 2 saved on my thumb drive so far. if i can do 2 per day—start after my workout and i type fast, too—i can get it by christmas. all 9 books of fever, i can save by next week.

seasons grey, i’ll have to figure something out there because talk about not wanting to lose that to the orange demon. i vowed to be exorcist and i’m going to do it.

i hope i can save black moon and alone in the dark because… i loved those ones.

***edit: just got dead man walking in pdf form. when that happened, i just went OH THANK FUCK. 600 pages (😅) but I got it.

just gotta get seasons grey now.

[starlazergazer]

Hii!! I’m the anon who asked if u had an ao3, and I’m sooo glad I can have all your fics in one PDF thank u so much 🙏 I can quickly pressed the download button so fast. youre genuinely one of my fav anakin fic writers in the entire galaxy (far far away). Your writing is so so gorgeous and complex, and it just feels soooo real—how each person has their own depth—so much thought is put into every word and how it’s framed.

I just read your latest fic, Separated, and my god I SOBBED. It was SO good. I was listening to sad songs too, to get more into the mood, and it made me cry even harder. My heart just dropped out of my body when Reader and Anakin were saying their last words towards each other through the call: they were so emotionally close but so physically far from each other. How they were imagining a different life where everything was more softer and happier, that living handle their souls more gently, when in reality one was killing her, and the other was walking towards a path of destruction? AARAAGGH IM GOING CRAZY WITH YOUR WRITING (COMPLIMENT). I can’t wait to see the second part and how you plan to execute the follow up.

Btw. Do you have any tips on how you can finish writing stories? You write so much and it’s all such high quality. How do you do it? I have so many ideas but I never actually commit to it. I have this idea where Reader is also on par with Anakin’s skills as a mechanic except she gets extreme motion sickness, which I think would be so funny considering she’s good at building ships but not flying them.

(I really hope you’re okay with me posting this I know your first message was sent anonymously so I wasn’t sure but if you’re not definitely just let me know and I’ll get rid of it) but Oh my god I sobbed reading this 😭. Genuinely this is the biggest compliment I’ve ever received and it means so much to me I’m positively overflowing right now and a little upset I cannot find the words to properly express how much this means to me. I already go back through some of the messages Ive received periodically as a little pick-me-up but I already know this one will be revisited weekly it just means so much to me the way you’ve picked up on everything I’ve tried so hard to do well in my writing making the dialog and situations and characters feel real and complex and messy ugghhhhh I love you so much this means the world 🫶🏻

As far as writing tips for finishing stories I have many cause it’s definitely something I struggle with all the time lol! I’d say the biggest thing for me is to focus on just getting something down rather than finishing a certain work. At any one time I have four or five word documents open on my computer because I’m regularly only writing a scene or a piece of dialog or literally just an idea. A lot of the time I get halfway through something and decide I hate it but keep it there anyways. What usually ends up happening though is I take ideas or scenes from all the different pieces and drop them into my “main story” if I think they fit well so it all works out in the end but just writing (even if it’s not related even remotely to what you feel like you “should” write) is ultimately what’s important.

I also regularly skip around when I’m writing. I find I like writing the big plot points or bits of dialogue the most so a lot of the time I write those first then fill in the gaps later. Finishing a story is a lot less daunting when you already have all of the big pieces in place and just need a few tiny bridges to bring everything together.

Lastly I would say again just get something down on the paper. I’ve written a lot of really bad stuff lol and sometimes I can feel it while I’m writing it and there’s a part of me that wants to just delete it and start over but having the ideas down on the page is always 100% better than having nothing and editing the crap out of what you already have is way easier than starting over from scratch.

Anyways that’s probably way more than what you wanted lol but I really hope it helps! I think just remember this is supposed to be fun, if you’re getting frustration or exasperation out of it more than anything totally feel free to take a step back. I’m known to go MIA for months at a time cause I have periods where I just am not feeling it and forcing myself through it does nothing for anyone.

Seriously though thank you thank you thank you I’m so absolutely overjoyed that you like my writing enough to want to keep it in any form it means the absolute world to me! Also good luck with your potential fic! Tag me if/when you finish it! I’ve been wanting to do a mechanic reader fic forever but never gotten far enough into actually planning it out to start writing anything so I’d love to see your take on it

[funkymbtifiction]

stressing as a 6

More ammo on the 6 vs. 9 debate…

I was talking this morning to a 9 I know about what happens when we both feel overwhelmed. His answer was unequivocal – “I find some way to calm myself down. Like if a bunch of stuff comes up at work, I go take a walk.” I’ve noticed that about my other 9 friends as well – they will mentally check out of a situation or say “Sorry to end this chat, I feel stressed, I need to take a walk.” They just vanish and physically remove themselves from the source of frustration and stress – they take a walk, take a nap, take a bath, read a book, do something that allows them to procrastinate and ignore the situation in the 9ish magical thinking hope that if they refuse to deal with it, it will go away sooner or later.

This is… not me, as a 6. What happened to me this morning is pretty much “normal” for when I get stressed. I was starting to feel anxious about stuff piling up at work, because this is my big “push” week at work (where I have to put together a magazine – format it, collect the ads, check all the expiration dates, insert PDFs, and send it to the press via an online server for pickup next week). It seems like when I get in this stress mode, additional things become “problems.” Manuscripts coming into my inbox seem like additional stressors for me to think about; and I think, honestly, it’s because of the 6ish “present orientation to time.” Like, we focus on what’s right in front of us and we are linear thinkers, so we can’t multi-task at all. We want a clear way ahead, to plan mentally for what we’re going to do… and then stuff bombards us, and divides our attention, and we don’t know where we’re supposed to “look,” or what to do first. And it billows into this hazy chaotic mess inside our mind, where all we know is that we feel PRESSURED. THERE IS TOO MUCH TO DO.

As super-ego types, we can't just check out and not do it, because we feel obligated to attend to anything people put in front of us. (This person is waiting for an answer from me, this person expects me to do that other thing, and these are the twelve obligations that I have this week!) If we procrastinate, we feel guilt because we are letting someone down. Super-ego types get derailed by what other people put in front of them -- we have an idea of what our day is going to be like and then get sidetracked because we feel obligated to do what others hand off to us. Often, that stalls us out, because we feel overwhelmed – everything and everyone is demanding our attention and we don't know which thing to do first! There’s this list of things to do, and this person is asking me to do these other things, and the e-mails in my inbox are annoying me now because MORE people want something from me, and then I check social messages and get bombarded… and then the 6 breaks down and complains about it to a coworker, or their mom, or someone else or has a meltdown.

I do not “take a walk.” I escalate and over-react as a 6.

This morning, I started complaining about feeling overwhelmed and that escalated into me complaining about how every damn thing is costing me a lot of money right now (why does everything have to auto-renewal in December? -- sp stress!). So the stress builds on itself and grows into "reactive anxiety."

Then I kick into competency (handling the problem and resolving it), which is my strategy for de-stressing – I write down everything that needs done and start doing it systematically, starting with either what’s most important or what will take the least amount of time. Having it down on paper allows me to see what needs done, instead of trying to decide inside my mind, where my super-ego has twelve things jostling for position. It also allows me to see that – well, it’s not as bad as I thought, so my meltdown was for no reason. I got this. I can make decisions, cross things off the list, start to see progress, and that feeling of being overwhelmed by demands goes away.

Only then do I calm down; when I have HANDLED it.

Something to think about, when considering 6.

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Author Ask Game

I was tagged by @elbritch-kit - thank you! :D

1) What is the main lesson of your story (e.g. kindness, diversity, anti-war), and why did you choose it?

I am not comfortable trying to "teach a lesson" with my stories. I'm a lil ball of anxiety, and I barely dare to share my writing at all. If I don't claim I want to achieve something with my writing, no one can tell me I did it wrong <3

2) What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding (like real-life cultures, animals, famous media, websites, etc.)?

A mixture of video games (like Elder Scrolls, Baldur's Gate or Guild Wars) and my wish to walk into the forest and never come back again.

3) What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, help readers grow as a person?

Well, my MC would like to live a peaceful life. I personally hope that by ruining that I will make a few people cry :)

4) How many chapters is your story going to have?

32.

5) Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original content. It will be available as ebook and pdf download on my website.

6) When and why did you start writing?

In general? I don't know. It's been way too long. It's a "there was no other option" thing — I loved books, I want to tell my own stories, but I never really made any progress.

The first thing I actually finished? I wanted to write the ace love story I couldn't find, and I abandoned all the worldbuiding in favor of character dynamics.

My latest WIP in particular? I kinda needed to prove to myself that I could work with completely new OCs and a new story. Everything else I've written over the past 2 years was based on older drafts.

After finishing Glass Shards in April, I started with Till Death in May, and I became quickly obsessed. So obsessed I finished the draft of 110k words in about 100 days.

7) Do you have any words of engagement for fellow writers of Writeblr? What other writers of Tumblr do you follow?

I have no idea what words of engagement are.

You can currently find me in another identity crisis, where I don't know where I belong. I feel quite alienated from the whump community, but every time I reblog one of the "torture is fun!" posts, I feel self conscious to interact with writeblr (: Isn't it fun.

I do have a list of my favorite stories which I usually point to when this question comes up, because I follow over 200 people, and I don't know how to choose the ones to list.

So I am gonna cheat a bit and mix it with softly tagging people @moremysteriesthantragedies @sam-glade @clairelsonao3 @sergeantnarwhalwrites @words-after-midnight (if you want to do this :D)

Template under the cut

1) What is the main lesson of your story (e.g. kindness, diversity, anti-war), and why did you choose it?

2) What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding (like real-life cultures, animals, famous media, websites, etc.)?

3) What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, help readers grow as a person?

4) How many chapters is your story going to have?

5) Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

6) When and why did you start writing?

7) Do you have any words of engagement for fellow writers of Writeblr? What other writers of Tumblr do you follow?

[pine-niidles]

April Project Updates

Hiya! I hope you've had a good April. Me, not so much. The month started still heavy with artblock and outside of art I've also not been feeling great. At the very least I've kept up with regular life drawing but I decided pretty early on to focus on making progress on things I needed to get done unrelated to art. It's possible I did just need that time to rest as in the last couple of weeks the artblock has been going away! I've been able to slowly make progress on my art pieces without hating every step :) In other positive news the tree outside my kitchen window has fully regrown its leaves & there are lots of beautiful flowers growing on my regular walking path to the pool. 

2023 Sketchbook

The finish your project jam helped give me that last boost I needed to finish putting together my 2023 sketchbook pdf, which is a mix of my physical sketchbooks & misc digital art from last year. You can get a copy on itch.io.

2024 Hourly Comics Day

Same as above, I did the last couple of steps I needed to finish my hourly comics day pdf, also up on itch.io. 

There's very little new there, I just wanted to have all the hourly strips together in one easy to read place + share the printable booklet version that I made for myself in case anyone else was interested in printing themselves a copy.

Impractical but Cool Fantasy Swords

I've been chipping away at this zine in my off time for a while, now I just have these last 6 swords to finish shading and then finalizing the layout for the whole zine.

​Hopefully marking this as done will help push the last bit of artblock out of my system and I can get back to drawing new things rather than just finishing old art!

Life Drawing

I don't normally share day to day life drawing in these updates but since it's pretty much all the art I've got to show this month here are a few of my fav sketches from April:

Plans for May:

​Zines

I currently have 4 small-medium zine ideas bouncing around my head, I'd like to finish two of them this month but I'm undecided which two.

Don't Wake the Sleeping Dragon

There's a lot to rework with DWSD mechanics based on feedback from the first playtest, the biggest change will be that I'm no longer trying to keep it to two pages max. That was an ambitious goal for my first ever ttrpg, and letting go of it will give me a lot more freedom to explain the rules a little better and add mechanics to facilitate rp. I'm aiming to get a second playtest draft out this month & to start on some art for it.