#and i’ve been so incapable of creating for months since starting here

[healersadjust]

Finally clocked off for the last time at my job… Hoping to be able to participate in more community things now that i’ll be back to a diurnal schedule <3 Hoping my next job will work out!

[aurenflare]

my 2024 art summary 🫶🫶

for me, this year was the first time that i really tried out digital art, which has definitely been a journey! i think i’ll always feel more confident with traditional art (and there are a couple months where i didn’t do digital art at all! april has a sketch bc i was SOO busy that month, and october has a fun little marker piece) but it’s so interesting to explore digital!

i think i’ve really started to get the hang of it, especially in my november and december pieces — but i also think i’m going to make an effort to get back into posting traditional art. my alcohol markers are rotting over here …

anyways because i’m actually incapable of not babbling here’s a little explanation for each month

january, february, and march: all drawings i did for a mental-health oriented small business in my area — basically each one represents a different cognitive function. these were literally my first rendered digital art pieces ever but yk … there are 6 in all but these i feel are the best ones lol

april: i had ZERO time on my hands due to aps but luckily i was still sketching! my style has evolved a bit since then but what hasn’t changed is my love for coloured pencil sketches ILY COLOURED PENCIL SKETCHES

may & june: these are a couple of oc ref sheets that i was intending to use for artfight! except i never finished the full set and so never participated in artfight. next year i swear. this was also from my phase where i used the crosshatching pattern brush for every single background ever

july: so this was actually a design for a screenprint! the stippling made me and my art teacher miserable in the end but u know it’s about the experience … this was also inspired by kiki’s delivery service my 3rd favourite ghibli movie … i love u kiki

august: this is a wip that i will never ever finish (and i actually posted it on tumblr here over a month after abandoning it 😭) but it’s also the only kotlc thing i’ve drawn in like a year and a half (at least until the unravelled release) and i think it’s cute

september: listen i Love Laufey and every september 8th she does a little fan celebration called a very laufey day! so this was inspired by that, specifically the song “dreamer” — there are a lot of little details that reference various aspects of the lyrics or official video! super fun to draw and one of the digital pieces that i’m the proudest of 🤭

october: okay this one was sooo fun because i hadn’t touched my alcohol markers in a longggg while … it was inspired loosely by the inktober prompt “nomad”

november: this was a piece for one of my school’s publications, and was loads of fun to draw! one of the digital pieces that i’m proudest of tbh simply because there’s so much going on but it still feels fairly cohesive

december: this was my kotlc secret santa gift and also the first fully polished kotlc piece i had done in a VERYY long time — so while i was deathly sick while creating it (literally i was and still am On My Deathbed) it was super nostalgic and fun :)

if u made it to the end of this I LOVE U. why did u read all this u mean more to me than i could ever possibly articulate. have an amazing day u icon 🫶🫶

[glimmerglanger]

Hey there! Hopefully it’s an OK time to make a request! I truly love your Alpha17/Obi fic, “Just Right”!

Hoping that a prompt of Alpha 17 finally making it to the Negotiator and pretty much stalking Obi and courting Obi in a very gentle and patient un-Alpha 17 way ends with some sexy and soft love making?

Anything will do! I just love this trope and the story you’ve created has been on my mind since it was published!

🥰😍🥰😍

Oooooooh! Well, I couldn’t quite do all the courting (that probably would have gotten longer than the original fic) but! I did do a little bit about the next time they run into each other! Thanks for the request! I have a few more in my inbox that I’m working on, as well!

This is VERY SPICY. SO SPICY. NOT SAFE FOR WIZARDS. Feat: intercrural and bjs and Feelings that 17 wishes he weren’t having.

~~~~

17 felt jittery in his skin from the time he heard that the Negotiator was going to make a stop on Kamino. It was an...unusual feeling, and one he found he disliked immensely. He tried to burn it away sparring with his brothers and, when that failed to work, he grabbed a group of shinies and led them on a run around one of the longer loops on the city.

After the third such loop, he still felt itchy along his bones and gave it up for a loss, retreating to his quarters and the quiet of his fresher.

He’d received a few messages from Kenobi since they’d last worked together. They’d been the usual sort of thing. He’d kept track of mission reports coming out of the Third System Army, too, making sure they routed through to him and reading over the lines of text.

He scrubbed a hand back over his short hair. He’d wanted Kenobi to come to Kamino, wanted an excuse to go back into the field. He hadn’t expected this strange twisting in his gut when he finally got what he’d been hoping for.

That did nothing to diminish the feeling.

He blew out a breath. Kenobi was still a day away, but 17 could imagine him well enough, picture his flashing eyes and that pleased little smile of his. He recalled - their memories were, after all, perfect - the stretch of bare skin and the tight, wet, marvelous heat around his cock.

He’d imagined it all, often, while touching himself in his bunk.

His own hand didn’t come even close to comparing. But it was what he had. What he’d had, anyway, but Kenobi was coming to Kamino…

17 frowned around his bunk and wondered how one went about asking for a repeat of the three days they’d spent in transit, fucking on every available surface.

#

Kenobi walked into the city with his cloak damp and sodden across his shoulders and a grin on his face. He nodded a greeting at 17 and fell into a conversation with Master Ti, and 17 tried not to think about how easy it had been to capture both of Kenobi’s wrists in one hand, pressing them down against the floor and sliding into his body, impossibly, and--

Kenobi glanced his way, an eyebrow raising, and 17 met his gaze evenly, shrugging with one shoulder. He’d made no secret of how much he’d enjoyed their activities. It would be pointless to try to pretend he hadn’t thought about it. Often.

Still, he knew how to be professional. He set the thoughts aside and focused on the discussion.

#

17 managed not to dwell too much on what they’d done throughout the day, but that didn’t stop him from steering Kenobi back to his quarters when evening finally arrived.

His quarters were built larger than most places in the city. The ceilings were tall enough to allow him to stand easily and the bed actually fit his proportions; it would swallow Kenobi, make him look so small, sprawled across it. Compared to the cabins on the cruisers, his room must have seemed huge.

Kenobi looked around, nodded, and said, “Certainly to scale, I have to--”

And then 17 backed him against the wall, slid a hand against his shoulder, and curled down enough to kiss him.

Kenobi moaned against his mouth, shifting from a conversation into the kiss easily, like switching gears on a speeder. He tasted good, mouth hot and sweet, his hands sliding up over 17’s armor, and 17 had taken him against a wall, held him up so easily - Kenobi barely weighed anything - and encouraged Kenobi to curl legs against his waist, because they wouldn’t fit all the way around 17 and--

“How do you feel,” 17 panted out, drawing away just enough to speak, “about a good hard fuck?”

Kenobi rasped out a sound, hair still a little damp from the rains outside, and said, “Oh, I’d quite enjoy that, but, hm, our options are somewhat more limited, this time.”

17 frowned, keeping Kenobi tucked against the wall; it was easy, blocking him in, and satisfying on some deep level. “Why’s that?”

“Well,” Kenobi said, clever fingers sliding along his armor, undoing latches, so he must still have been interested. “It’s been nearly two months since last I’ve seen you.”

“So?” 17 asked, not following, as Kenobi floated his chest plate somewhere across the room and placed it down quietly. He wanted to get his own hands on Kenobi, start taking off his robes, but once he started doing that, well…

Following the train of this conversation would grow harder.

“So, I’ve spent two months around all the men in the 212th,” Kenobi said, dry, and for a moment that made no sense as an explanation, until it did. Kenobi had explained, during one of the periods where they’d both needed a rest, how his people’s reproductive systems worked.

After two months, his reproductive organs would be perfectly compatible with all the men in the 212th. There was no way he’d be able to take 17. Not safely. 17 frowned, something twisting fast and hot and unpleasant in his gut at that thought, wondering if any of them realized. If they’d like the thought as much as he’d liked it, when Kenobi fitted him just right.

“Oh,” 17 said, drawing back, setting aside the flash of unknown emotion and a deeper sense of disappointment. Kenobi had been the only person he could--

“But I’m sure there are other options we can explore,” Kenobi said, following him, an arm sliding over his shoulders. “Unless you’re not interested?”

17 considered it. His disappointment almost had him shaking his head, sending Kenobi to his own bunk. But… they’d enjoyed themselves plenty, last time, and not just when he’d slid into the sweet embrace of Kenobi’s body.

And he didn’t want Kenobi to run off.

He frowned and asked, “What do you have in mind?”

Kenobi grinned, pulled himself up to take a kiss, and said, “Come here, let me show you.”

#

Kenobi positively got lost in the middle of 17’s mattress, just like 17 had known he would. He looked small - smaller than usual, even - spread out across the sheets, bare skin all on display, covered in freckles and scars.

17’s cock ached, a solid throb of need between his legs as he stroked himself with the lube Kenobi had pressed into his hands. Kenobi had told him to get very slick before rolling onto his stomach, 17’s pillow shoved under his hips.

“You’re sure this is what we should do?” 17 asked, hearing the doubt in his own voice.

Kenobi glanced over his shoulder - kriffing hell, the way he looked - and flashed a smile. “I think you’ll quite enjoy it,” he said, “just give it a try.”

17 grunted, but, in truth, he felt utterly incapable of refusing Kenobi when he was all stretched out, back bowing from the pillow under his hips, the insides of his thighs slick and shiny with lube.

“Come here,” Kenobi coaxed, shifting his ass back and forth, and, well. 17 wasn’t going to say no to that. He slid forward, hands moving over warm, perfect skin, knees making the bed dip, tilting Kenobi back towards him.

It was so easy to blanket him. 17 could cover him completely, and had, before, on a battlefield to shield him from shrapnel. But there were no explosions in his quarters. Just slick, warm skin as he sank down over Kenobi, cock brushing over the curve of his ass.

Kenobi hummed, tilting his hips back further, and 17’s cock slid forward, easy, between his legs.

“There you go,” Kenobi murmured, pressing his strong thighs closer together and - oh - the pressure felt good, good enough that 17 rocked his hips forward, cock sliding on slick skin, feeling all the lean muscles in Kenobi’s thighs and--

And the hot, wet slide of him, of the place where 17 could no longer fit, and he groaned, frustration and want all tangled together.

“You feel so good,” he rasped out, hips dragging back and pushing forward again, feeling the head of his cock just catch at - at the edge of Kenobi’s body and oh he wanted, but he could only drag the top of his cock along, sliding between the tight pressure of his thighs, muscles flexing against him and--

He dropped to his elbows, his arms long enough to still hold him up off of Kenobi’s back. He could look down, across Kenobi’s bright hair and the bunch of muscles in his shoulders. He could see Kenobi’s hands, clenched in the blankets as 17 moved between his legs, lube making the glide easy, friction building up the heat between them, Kenobi’s ass hard and firm against his hips each time he pushed forward.

He could remember taking Kenobi like this. Force, he’d remembered taking Kenobi like this, so many times, cock sliding in instead of forward, he’d be so tight, so wet, so hot, and--

17’s orgasm caught him by surprise and he groaned, head dropping forward as his cock jerked between Kenobi’s thighs. He shifted his hips back, unthinking, wanting the come all over skin, not his pillow and sheets.

“See,” Kenobi started, tilting to look over his shoulder, “I--oh!”

He looked gratifyingly startled when 17 pushed onto an arm, grabbed his hip, and flipped him onto his back. His chest was flushed - but only a little - and his cock stretched up towards his stomach, still hard.

17 could fix that. Wanted to fix that, so badly it made his jaw ache.

He shifted around, put a hand on Kenobi’s chest to keep him still, and bulled his way between Kenobi’s legs, curving over.

He tasted his own come, when he licked over Kenobi’s cock, sliding his lips down over heated skin. His come was everywhere, there always seemed to be so much of it when they did things together. It streaked over Kenobi’s thighs and--

And 17 couldn’t help but bringing his other hand up, sliding over skin, between Kenobi’s legs and - kriffing hell - it was there, too. He groaned, helplessly, and Kenobi echoed the sound, fingers scrambling at 17’s hair as he rubbed two fingers through the slick smear of his own come.

Kenobi cried out, all thick with pleasure, when 17 slid those two fingers over him, and then, with a renewed throb of want, into him.

Kenobi felt so tight around his fingers, hot and wet and squeezing. He knew how thick his fingers were, wondered if they were just about all Kenobi could take in his present state, and the thought made something in his spine go all white hot.

He bobbed his head, sucking as he moved his hand, curling his fingers while Kenobi’s legs curled up around his shoulders, while Kenobi gasped and tried fruitlessly to squirm under him, the sounds escaping his throat getting thicker and louder and--

17 swallowed when Kenobi gave it up for him, smiling at the feel of Kenobi’s body squeezing around his fingers, clenching in waves. He slid his fingers back and out, giving a last suck, after a long moment, and Kenobi gasped his name.

He looked...dazed and relaxed, sprawled on the bed, uncomplaining about 17’s hand on his chest, his heartbeat translating up into 17’s fingers. He looked...soft. And peaceful. And 17 felt, again, the way he had on their trip, that he’d very much like to keep Kenobi looking that way all the time.

He shivered at the thought, shook his head, and said, “You’re right, that was a good idea.” He cleared his throat, and, before Kenobi could start gloating, pulled both of Kenobi’s legs up, over one of his shoulders, and went on, “Do you think it would work like this, too?”

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

hey so i'm hoping to get some writing advice about creative burnout? like i seem to write in fits and spurts. some months i can churn out a oneshot or chapter everyday and some months i can do one (1) creative thing only. so i'm wondering how to prevent creative burnout and how to just create more smoothly <3 thank you!

Creative Burnout & How To Ward Against It

First, I’d like to preface this all by saying you’re definitely not alone. You probably already know this, but sometimes it’s nice to be reminded.

I know from personal experience that creative burnout can leave you feeling hopeless, detached from yourself—the kind of identity crisis no one needs in 2020. 

So buckle in, folks. It’s a dosy.

I. The Symptoms

Not to be the local WebMD page here, but signs of burnout can include:

Procrastination (more than usual)

Dreading writing and feeling stuck or overly perfectionistic when you try

Physical tiredness and/or irritability

Feeling like everything is monotonous

It’s more than just writer’s block. It’s a physical and emotional exhaustion response to something that goes deeper than a simple lack of inspiration. In my experience, and from a bit of research, I’ve found that what your brain is really looking for is dopamine.

Dopamine is essentially your brain’s chemical reward system for doing something interesting or exciting to you. As someone who is diagnosed with ADHD, I have chronically low levels of dopamine, so this is a constant struggle for me—but it is absolutely made worse by creative burnout.

II. The Problem

Studies have shown that the more we do A Thing the less that thing will give us dopamine (unless a component of the activity changes regularly). This is because eventually our brains desensitise to the stimuli provided by the activity, and subsequently, we become disengaged.

But it’s not necessarily The Thing (i.e. writing) that becomes boring. Actually, more than a few factors could be at play here, and the first step to finding a solution is to identify the problem.

1. ENVIRONMENT LACKS EXCITEMENT/CHANGE—

Sometimes, the monotony of everyday life can feed creative burnout. This becomes especially applicable in quarantine when you’re not leaving your house.

What we don’t realise is that even something as small as the variables of driving to and from work, or interacting with passing coworkers, gives us dopamine. So if you have the same routine every day that does not involve any added variables, your brain will begin staunching that dopamine supply.

2. EITHER TOO EASY OR TOO CHALLENGING—

In 1975, Hungarian-American psychologist, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, coined the term “flow”, which refers to a heightened state of creativity and concentration on an activity. Csikszentmihalyi posited that if your skill level is equal to the level of challenge in any given activity, you will experience this state of flow.

The chart below is taken from Csikszentmihalyi’s own study on the subject of flow and motivation. It examines “your skill level” on the x axis in relation to the “challenge level” on the y axis.

Essentially:

Too much challenge + not enough skill = anxiety, worry (which might lead to procrastination and perfectionism)

Too much skill + not enough challenge = boredom, apathy (which might lead to monotony, irritability, and other depression-like symptoms)

Skill level = Challenge level = Flow

3. NOT ENOUGH “ACTIVE” STIMULATION—

When it comes to dopamine seeking, there is a distinct difference between active and passive stimulation in the brain.

Active stimulation is any form of activity that you have to actively engage in. For instance; exercising, doing a crossword puzzle, or reading a book. These kinds of activities not only give you dopamine, they also facilitate critical thinking and problem solving thought processes, which act as catalysts for creativity.

Passive stimulation, on the other hand, comes in the form of television, social media, and YouTube. It’s anything you can consume without having to actively engage. Passive stimulation will indeed give your brain dopamine, however, it won’t activate your creativity.

The problem also lies in the speed at which you receive the dopamine from passive activities. Passive stimulation is so easy to access that the more you consume, the harder it becomes to pick up active stimulation. Your brain expects a hit of dopamine just by picking up a phone or turning on the TV—it becomes addicted to the quick fix of a Netflix binge.

III. The Solutions

Based on the problems mentioned above, I am going to list a few solutions. Keeping in mind that not every solution will work for everyone, these can act as both preventative measures and remedies for someone who is currently burned out.

1. CHANGE UP YOUR ENVIRONMENT/ROUTINE—

Aim to do at least one thing per day that will add “variables” to the monotony. This can be as simple as going on a long walk, dressing up in that bold outfit you always wanted to wear to the office but never did, or sitting at a different workspace in your home.

Anything you can do that’s simple, but might provide an extra variable to your day to spice things up. Note: this shouldn’t be the same thing every day.

2. CHALLENGE YOURSELF MORE—

If you find yourself bored by your work, try challenging yourself more. This could mean setting goals for yourself that go a bit beyond what you’ve been doing. 

For example, if you’ve been writing 500 words per day, see if you can beat your own word count every day for the next week. If you’ve been writing mainly fluff pieces, switch it up and do an angst piece. See if you can write a book in a month, or start a blog where you don’t write fiction at all!

Anything you can do to add a little kick to your workload. Note: Beware of challenging yourself too much! This can lead straight back into burnout.

3. CHALLENGE YOURSELF LESS—

If you’re on the flip side of that coin, and find that you are anxious, procrastinating, and perfectionistic when it comes to writing, fret not. Just because you’re experiencing any of these things, doesn’t mean you’re incapable of doing the job with your skillset.

It just means your perception of the job needs to be shifted.

Procrastination, at its heart, is a fear of failure, which results in actively avoiding the negative emotions associated with the task that causes this fear. Perfectionism is a type of procrastination that is a combination of a fear of failure and a fear of success (or, more accurately, other’s critiques of your success) all at once.

Neither have anything to do with your actual skillset, but they have everything to do with your perception of your skillset. Obviously, this is a harder thing to fix, as it has to do with deeply ingrained levels of self-esteem.

What I can offer you is a tactic to trick your mind into thinking you’re capable.

If you have a task, big or small, and you are feeling overwhelmed by it (like you might go curl up in bed and scroll Tumblr), immediately break that task up into smaller tasks. Keep breaking up the smaller tasks until you have the smallest possible part of the bigger task without doing nothing.

Then do that smallest possible thing.

If your goal is to write a 2000 word one shot, a small part of that task is writing half of it. An even smaller part of that task is breaking the one shot up into “scenes” and writing one scene. For instance:

Jude wakes up to a sore throat, a runny nose, and a fever.

She tries to go to work, but Cardan, being the mother hen that he is, threatens to never make her another grilled cheese sandwich (her favourite food) ever again if she doesn’t stay home.

Jude agrees begrudgingly, and Cardan sits her down in front of the TV with a bottle of Gatorade. He leaves to go get medicine from the store.

When Cardan comes back, Jude is worse than before. He makes her soup and saltine crackers and spoon feeds her.

She complains the whole time and, in her feverish state, threatens to never buy him another bottle of wine (his favourite food) ever again if he doesn’t let her feed herself.

Each bullet point represents one “scene” of about 200-400 words each. Obviously, there will be more details that you work out as you write. But with these five smaller scenes, your goal is no longer writing the 2000 word one shot. Your goal is writing the first of the five scenes.

If you complete the smallest possible task, you can stop, and you’ll still feel like you’ve accomplished something because you can cross off that task from your list. But chances are, by the time you cross off one task, you may have inspiration enough to keep going.

4. ENGAGE IN ACTIVE STIMULATION—

Since active stimulation has been proven to turn on the creative “tap”, try incorporating more of these activities into your daily routine:

Exercise: As the resident couch potato, I hate to say that exercising is good for creativity, but it is. Even if it’s just going on a short walk, so long as you’re moving.

Reading: Sometimes you have plenty of ideas, but no words to fit those ideas. Fill your well of words by carving out an hour or two each day for reading a good book.

The Creative Process: In the writing world, the creative process is a process of about 20-30 minutes that the writer partakes in every day before they start writing. This process should be creative, but also have nothing to do with writing. You can try colouring in a colouring book, painting, organising a page in your bullet journal. Anything that is creative but does not make you think about everything you have to do that day. Think of it as creative meditation.

Listen to music: Having APD, I personally can’t listen to music while I write. However, studies have shown that if you listen to at least ten songs per day, it will significantly benefit your dopamine levels and overall mood. If you’re like me and prefer to work in silence, maybe stick on a couple songs during your creative process. If you can manage music and writing together, get out those headphones!

5. KEEP A REGULAR SCHEDULE—

I know this is the most cliche point in the book, but it’s valid. This doesn’t mean do the same thing at the same time every day over and over, because ultimately we’re looking to avoid monotony. 

But having pillars of structure to bolster the excitement can definitely work to keep you from slipping into burnout. Going to sleep, waking up, and having your meals at relatively the same time every day are good examples of this. 

Feel free to change up the things you do between breakfast and lunch, but make sure you have those pillars of consistency so your brain knows that a break is on the horizon and doesn’t get tired.

6. PACE YOURSELF—

This is particularly difficult for those of us who are coming out of a creative burnout, but I urge you to pay special attention to this one. If we are suddenly hit by inspiration and the writing is flowing and flowing and flowing, eventually we will hit the point of highest dopamine capacity for writing.

Not putting a check on the flood of inspiration coming out of a creative burnout, I’d argue, is actually a guarantee that many of us will experience burnout all over again. It becomes this vicious cycle in which we are trapped.

While it feels great to write non-stop and receive immediate validation for that work, try to limit yourself to how much you’re writing and how immediately you post your writing (if you plan on posting it).

Whenever I finish a one shot or a chapter of something, I like to allow at least one day for editing before I post. This timeframe is important, because it acts as a buffer of rest between writing marathons. 

You can take however long you need for the editing process, but definitely make sure you have a set amount of time in place. Otherwise, your brain might not have enough time to come down from what is essentially a writing high, and you will always need to reach greater heights in order to achieve that same level of dopamine.

~~~~

Overall, the most important things to take away from all of this are: 

Change up your environment

Keep your brain actively stimulated 

Have pillars of structure between which you can run about chaotically to your heart’s content

PACE YOURSELF!

Hope this helped. Happy writing!

-Em 🖤🗡

Writing Tip Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

Celebrate 2K with me!

[hopelikethemoon]

Moonbeam (Ezra x Reader) [smut] {Werewolf AU}

Title: Moonbeam  Rating: Explicit  Length: 6,000 Warnings: Non-graphic description of bodily injury and smut (cunnilingus, doggy style sex, mentions of masturbation).   Reader Details: To the best of my knowledge, there are no references to Reader’s physical details, beyond being a bisexual woman. I tried my best to keep it as vague as possible.  Notes: So, this is the second lengthy Ezra fic I’ve written this month, but the only one that will see the light of day. Shout-out to @rzrcrst​ for pre-reading this for me.  Werewolves are my niche and I’m absolutely incapable of writing them without creating the lore around their existence. Ezra exudes big werewolf energy (P.S. Javier exudes big vampire energy) and since I’m not really in a fandom until I write a werewolf AU, I present you all with my very own version of space werewolves.  Depending on audience reactions, there might be more of this story to tell. 

Taglist:@princessbatears @djarin-junk @absurdthirst @hdlynn @legally-a-bastard @opheliaelysia @heather-lynn @sabinemorans @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons​ @pedrospunk​ @maybege​ @chews-erotically​ @katlikeme​ @lose-eels​ @youmeanmybrain​ @theindiealto​ @irishleesh93​

You had heard the rumors, but never once had you believed that they were true. A werewolf living on a moon? Werewolves were the stuff of fairytales. They weren’t real. 

They weren’t real. 

But someone who had come before you had clearly considered the potential. Why else had someone thought to set up a cleverly concealed steel trap?

The pain was overwhelming. Worse than anything you’d ever encountered before. You were lucky your leg hadn’t snapped in two — your heavy coveralls were your saving grace. 

You howled out in pain as you dropped to your knees, trying in vain to pry the trap off your leg. The sharp teeth had bit through the fabric of your coveralls and the dark stain forming told you everything you needed to know about your future. If you didn’t get the trap off soon, you were going to bleed out. 

And then you’d become a smorgasbord for whatever creatures lived on this moon. There had to be something terrifying in the forest that had convinced everyone to believe in werewolves. 

“Kriff.” You swore, your arms throbbing with effort as you tried yet again to free your leg from the trap. You dropped back onto your ass, before sinking down onto the soft mossy ground beneath you. 

At least the stars were out. You could see them through the bareboned trees as they swayed above you in the evening breeze. 

The pain wasn’t so bad at a certain point, most likely because of the blood loss. That would do it. That woozy, tingling sensation that had your vision blurring at the edges. 

A branch snapped nearby, sending a dull spike of nerves through you. You hadn’t made a study of the flora and fauna on the moon — but that certainly didn’t sound like a small creature. 

“Please don’t eat me.” You mumbled, tilting your head to look in the direction of the sound. The filtered moonlight from the crescent moon above barely illuminated the forest around you and your flashlight was just out of reach. 

You heard the sound of another branch snapping under foot, “Hello?” 

All men are beasts in their own right, but the man that stepped into your line of view seemed an unlikely candidate. 

“I do believe that trap was not set to ensnare one such as you,” He drawled out with a honey-sweet cadence as he moved towards you.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” You offered weakly, trying to sit up as he knelt beside you, but your vision blurred harshly and you sank back onto the ground. 

“How fortuitous you are that I take my evening stroll through this very copse of trees.” He mused, effortlessly freeing your leg from the steel trap. 

“How—“

“You have lost a considerable amount of blood, little lamb. I would be most obliged to offer shelter and succor. These woods are no place to remain alone. One can never know what creatures fresh blood may attract.”

You exhaled shakily as you stared up at the stars above you. He was right — you’d never make it back to your transport alone on your leg. “Promise not to kill me?” You cracked, tilting your head to look at him.

He flashed you a toothy grin, “I promise.” 

“What is your name?” You asked as he hoisted you into his arms, with surprising ease. 

“Ezra.” He told you, looking down at you. “And what is your name, little lamb?”

“Ezra.” You repeated softly, resting your cheek against his chest as he carried you through the forest. You gave him your own name, feeling a strange warmth wash through you when he repeated it back in that beguiling tone of his. 

“Am I right in my assumption that you are the occupant of the transport that arrived just two nights ago.” Ezra questioned quietly. 

“Depends on who is asking.” You jested lightly, “I am. Reconnaissance mission for a mining program.” 

“Ah,” His grip on you seemed to tighten. “Another greedy venture to strip the moon of its precious lunaxium?” 

“I can only assume.” You glanced up at him, “Above my pay grade.”

“You should leave within the week.” Ezra remarked, keeping his sharp gaze focused ahead of him. “It won’t be safe for you.”

“You don’t believe in that stupid story, do you?” You questioned, “Isn’t that just a tale to keep prospectors from coming here?”

“I once believed that.” Ezra muttered, before falling silent for the remainder of the journey to his humble abode. 

You had so many questions for your serendipitous savior, but he tended to your leg in relative silence and then left you to rest in his bed. 

From what you could tell, Ezra had fashioned a home for himself out of a crashed transport vessel that you could only assume had been his own at one time. Perhaps he’d been like you once upon a time, a drifter picking up odd jobs and landing in bad situations. 

Ezra was handsome. The moonlight hadn’t tricked you into thinking that — in the garish light of his bedroom, he was still just as striking. Warm eyes, long lashes, a mess of chestnut hair with a shock of blonde, and a wiry frame. 

How long had he been living on Lykaios? Had his vessel crashed on a wayward venture and he’d had no one to come looking for him? Not that anyone would come looking for you either. 

Maybe Shiva. They would’ve probably come looking for your corpse just to get what was owed to them. 

It was a damn miracle that Ezra had stumbled upon you. How had he even found you? The woods all looked the same. 

Sleep came slowly and fitfully. Despite the shot Ezra had given you, your leg was agonizingly painful if you moved at all. Fortunately, there were books within reach — well-loved, with worn pages. You wondered if they had been Ezra’s to start with, or if he’d found someone’s abandoned transport. 

He had excellent taste. 

You hadn’t seen a stack of Chaucer since you were much younger. His copy of Canterbury Tales had been opened so many times the spine wilted in your palm. 

Ezra announced himself with a short knock, before sliding open the durasteel door. “I expected you to be asleep. You had quite the evening, little lamb.”

“I tried.” You made a note of the page you were on before closing the book and sitting it aside on the bedside shelf. “I got distracted by… your collection of novels.”

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “I see you’re getting acquainted with my old oppo Chaucer.” 

“I’ll have you know, Chaucer is my friend.” You quipped, drumming your fingers against the cover of the book. “It was nice to retrace old lines.” 

“He’s an acquired taste,” Ezra tucked his hands behind his back and stepped into the room. “Youth may outrun the old, but not outwit.”

You smiled a little, “Earn what you can since everything’s for sale.” 

Ezra chuckled, shaking his head. “And how true that is.” He gestured grandly towards your leg, “But oftentimes it comes with folly.”

“Is that how you ended up here?” You questioned, “I wanted to ask you last night, but with everything...” 

He shrugged, dragging over a trunk and perching on the edge of it. “Five years ago I stood where you stand. They were looking for a new form of clean energy — lunaxium seemed like the answer.” Ezra pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, looking away from you then. “This place is filled with hidden dangers. Once you can put weight on your leg, I encourage you to leave.” 

“You could come with me.”

Ezra’s gaze snapped towards you, “No.” 

Your brows furrowed together, “Alright.” 

“I need to change your bandages,” Ezra exhaled heavily as he rose from the trunk, he turned his back to you as he moved to retrieve the roll of gauze from a shelf. 

Your eyes widened as you spotted a twisted scar that ran up the back of his neck into his hairline and vanished down the back of his shirt. You hadn’t noticed it last night while he fussed over you. 

“Ezra, why can’t you leave?” 

Ezra sighed heavily as he sat down on the foot of the bed, drawing your leg into his lap. “It’s home.” He answered simply, unwinding the bandages. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but this—“ He gestured around him. “It’s mine.” 

“And you haven’t gone stir crazy after five years?” You questioned, grimacing as he prodded at your wound. “I was gone for two months on a solo mission once and I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to Shiva again. Even if they did rob me blind during liar’s dice.” 

“You get used to solitude.” Ezra glanced at you briefly, before turning his attention to the task at hand. He cleaned the area around the wound, before wrapping fresh bandaging around it. “Once or twice a year, someone like yourself arrives and…”

“And the mythical werewolf eats them?” You jested, sinking back against the mattress as he laid your leg back down on the bed. 

“Something like that.” He offered dryly, eyeing at you warily. “There’s a full moon in eleven days. I would advise you not to wait around to discover whether or not it is simply lore.” 

Your brows knit together and you sat up, arms curled around your waist. “You say that like there’s a chance it is true. You’ve been here for five years… What have you seen?” 

“I have things I must attend to away from here.” Ezra said abruptly, “Rest and I’ll return in a few hours to escort you back to your transport.”

Ezra did little to assuage that sinking sensation that told you that maybe just maybe there were werewolves on Lykaios. 

“Before you settled here, what did you do?” You questioned, leaning into Ezra’s side as he kept a firm hand coiled around you for support. “Your transport didn’t offer many clues, outside of your exquisite taste in literature.”

 Ezra chuckled, looking at you from the corner of his eyes. “I was a harvester. A damn good one, at that. But seasons get hard, tides turn, allegiances bend. Fell into a bit of a snare with an associate and had to dig my way out.” 

 “I think we’ve all been there before,” You shook your head. “I enjoy gambling. Nasty habit.” You admitted. “I wasn’t meant to be the one to come to Lykaois. My friend — the one I mentioned before — had been assigned to this mission. They lost it in a dicey bet with me.” 

 “Dicey?”

“What gambler plays honorably?” You countered. “I cheated.” 

“And this friend of yours was meant to come here instead?” 

You nodded, “Tried to win it back right up until the moment I took off.” Shiva had been furious that they’d lost and even more furious knowing that you hadn’t played fair. “I’ve heard the stories about Lykaois and I wanted to find out if they were true.”

“One shouldn’t go looking for the stuff of myth.” Ezra drawled out. “In my erstwhile profession, I had a certain predilection for danger. It can be damning.” 

“Look, I don’t mean to pry, but… is there a reason you can’t leave?” You stopped abruptly, causing him to stumble slightly. “My transport has life support for three. If there’s someone else you’ve got here — if that’s why you don’t want to leave.” 

You could feel Ezra’s gaze bore into your skin. 

“I’m not leaving.” You told him, when he made no attempt to answer your question. “I’ll take a day or two to rest, but I’m finishing what I’ve started.” 

“It’s not safe.” 

“Then why don’t you leave?” You pushed back. “If it’s so dangerous, why aren’t you trying to leave?”

Ezra worked his jaw slowly, before looking towards the sky and sighing heavily. “I’m not the only inhabitant on this moon. Some have been here for much longer than me and they…” He shook his head slowly. 

You curled your fingers around his forearm, turning to stare at him. “They’re what?” 

“Little lamb, be glad you were found by me and not one of them.” Ezra gritted out, holding your gaze. “Consider your luck and leave before it runs out.” 

He wasn’t going to relent. Whatever secrets Lykaois held, he wasn’t going to reveal them to you. 

“Will you at least let me give you a few of my books?” You questioned, squeezing his arm tight as you used him to support your weight. 

“Depends on what you’re offering.” Ezra retorted, “But we need to keep moving. You need to get your leg up.” 

 Ezra was entranced with your small collection of books. Like a man starved, he snatched up every book — flipping through its pages with reverence. You couldn’t imagine spending five years without getting your hands on a new book. 

You thought he would abruptly leave once he had you safely tucked into your transport — but he lingered. 

“Nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle. Why not I with thine?” Ezra read, the words falling from his tongue with a richness that your mind had never been able to give them. 

“Shelley?” You questioned, tilting your head to try to get a look at the book he was holding. 

“Indeed.” He closed the book and held it to his chest. “Our dear friend Percy had quite a way with words. Overshadowed — and rightfully so — by his beloved wife.” 

“I haven’t been able to get my hands on Frankenstein. Not since I was maybe fourteen.” You admitted. 

Ezra snapped his fingers, “You should’ve spoken up, little lamb. Mary has kept me company on many lonely nights.”

“I will part with Percy,” You told him, hobbling towards him on your wounded leg. “But only if you are willing to part with Mary.” 

He hummed thoughtfully, still clutching the book to his chest. “I will have to consult with her.” Ezra told you with a soft smile, “I have no doubt that she is as tired of my company as anyone would be.” 

You reached out and covered his hand with yours, “I will let you reunite the couple for just one night. But you have to promise me that you’ll bring me Frankenstein.”

Ezra’s gaze lowered to where your hand was on his, a faint color rising in his cheeks. “Promise me you’ll leave once books have been exchanged.” He covered your hand with his other hand, squeezing gently. “If you stay, I won’t be able to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?”

“Me.” Ezra breathed out, his dark eyes setting on yours. “I will bring you lunaxium that you can take back to whomever hired you. Warn them from this place and forget it.” 

“It’s not that simple.” You found yourself leaning into him for support, “I have to complete testing and analysis. Reports. I can’t just take back a lump of lunaxium and hope for the best.”

A growl like sound rose up in the back of his throat, “Then I’ll do the reports for you. I know more than I ever cared to know of lunaxium and this godsforsaken rock. You are not to venture beyond this transport.”

You pulled your hand away from his, “I’ll do as I please, thank you.” 

Ezra gritted his teeth, “Do you have a death wish? Now isn’t the time for obstinance. Not this close to a full moon.” 

You blinked at him, “Are you…?”

His expression faltered, fingers twitching against the book before he held it out to you, “Keep it and leave tonight. Please.” 

“No.” You shook your head, “I want to know.” 

“Among these stories,” He gestured to your shelf of books, “I’m afraid it’s an unimpressive tale.”

“I’m always looking to hear new stories.” You told him, grimacing as you put too much weight down on your leg. “Shit.”

“Please sit,” Ezra urged, moving swiftly to curl his arm around your waist as he guided you towards the makeshift sofa you’d made from a weapon crate and oversized pillows. 

He sank down onto the opposite end, hands covering his face as he let out a heavy sigh. “Five years ago, I was just like you. Starry-eyed, devil-may-care.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“Yes.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “I came here looking for lunaxium like every ill-fated prospector before me. The rumors, the legend, the myth — they made for a tantalizing adventure.” His expression sobered as he stared straight ahead. “It’s painful. Muscles tear, bones shatter, skin stretches.”

Your heart clenched and your stomach roiled at the thought. 

“They say the first was a corruption. There are wolves among us, lurking beyond the trees — fearful in their own right of what looms above them. Someone played with fate and made a monster that even Shelley couldn’t have imagined. Lunaxium has no effect on humans, but it calms the beast for awhile.”

Without even thinking about it, you carefully shifted onto your good knee, letting your leg rest over the side of the sofa as you leaned towards Ezra. “This scar.” You said as you gingerly brushed your fingers over the back of his neck. 

He tensed, fingers clenching and unclenching in his lap. “I was attacked on my second night here.” He confessed, exhaling slowly. “Forgive me, little lamb. It has been a right smart spell since I have felt another’s touch.”

“You shouldn’t have to live like that, Ezra.” You whispered, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Isolating yourself… Maybe there’s a cure.”

“I can’t leave Lykaois.” He admitted, closing his eyes as he relaxed under the gentle touch of your fingers. “We’re reliant on the lunaxium and whatever this moon is cursed with. I would go mad.”

“Has anyone ever tried to leave?”

“There are stories.” Ezra turned to look at you. “I appreciate your offer. If it weren’t for what I’ve become, I would accept it without hesitation. But I would rather perish in the solitude of my transport than lose my mind somewhere among the stars.”

You trailed your fingers from his hair, along the curve of his jaw. “I could come back.”

“And put yourself in danger twice over?”

“I put myself in danger every time I venture out on a harvest with a ragtag team that might turn their weapons on me. Life is a risk, Ezra.” You held his gaze as you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip. “I can be your connection to the world you’ve lost. Name it, anything — I’ll bring it back here to you.”

“It’s dangerous.” Ezra seemed compelled by the offer. “The others… they’ve been here long enough to lose what’s left of their humanity.”

“Then protect me.” You brushed your fingers through the hair that fell against his forehead. 

“There’s so much I miss,” He admitted, his expression matching the way his voice broke as he held your gaze. “Five years… it’s a lifetime to spend alone.” He curled his fingers around your hand, rubbing his thumb against the center of your palm. “I don’t want you to risk yourself for me.” 

“I’m not afraid.” You told him, and as foolish as it was — you weren’t. 

Ezra’s gaze flickered between your eyes and your lips and your breath caught somewhere in the back of your throat when he started to lean towards you.  

He wasn’t the only one who had gone years without knowing a lover’s touch. You played things close to the chest, avoided anything that could ensnare you — except for him. 

For all of his warm charm, there was an underlying current of danger that had you feeling like a moth to the flame. He was a monster. A creature made from a curse you hadn’t even believed in.  

“Ezra.” You breathed out, leaning in until your nose brushed against his. 

He petted his fingers over your cheek as his breath mingled with yours, “You’re hurt.” 

“It’s just my leg.” Your lips were a hair’s breadth away from his, “I think we both need this.” 

Ezra curled his fingers around the back of your head as his lips crashed against yours. You groaned against his lips and his tongue took the opportunity to slip into your mouth, curling against yours. 

He kissed like a man possessed, desperate and all consuming. He hauled you into his lap like you weighed nothing, his hands clawing at your back, your ass, your arms — anywhere he could reach. 

He was starved for a connection like this. You had sensed it in the way he gravitated towards you, the way he lingered, the gentle touches as he mended your leg. 

You hissed softly as you shifted your weight in his lap, trying not to put pressure on your leg, but it was hard not to in that position. 

Ezra cupped your cheek, drawing your focus to his face as his other hand curled tight around your hip. “Do you trust me, little lamb?” He questioned, waiting until you nodded before he started to guide you back lengthways on the sofa. 

You scraped your fingernails over his scalp as you slid your fingers through his hair. His knee slotted in between your thighs as he draped himself over you. 

Greedy hands grabbed at the back of his shirt, pulling it up to reveal new skin to touch. He was touch starved. Every brush of your fingers against his untouched skin made him rut against your thigh. 

Ezra’s mouth worked down the column of your throat, teeth lightly scraping as his tongue darted out to taste your skin. His own hands sliding under your shirt, skimming over your ribs. 

You’d missed the feeling of large, rough hands against your skin. It had been more than a few cycles since you’d fallen into bed with a man. A year, maybe two, since you’d been with anyone at all. 

“Ezra.” You breathed out as his mouth moved over your covered breast, his tongue seeking out your nipple through the soft fabric. 

His eyes snapped to meet yours, pupils blown with arousal as he let out a ragged breath. “I can smell you.” Ezra murmured, his tongue flicking out to tease the peak of your nipple, the fabric darkened from his mouth. “You’re soaked, aren’t you little lamb?” He questioned, a hand wandering down your side, curling around your thigh. 

You felt your chest and cheeks burn with a heady mix of arousal and embarrassment. You were slick. You could feel your underwear clinging to your cunt, desire fueled solely by the man crowded onto the sofa with you. 

“In my bed,” Ezra whispered, untangling the hand you had in his hair. He brought your hand to his lips, inhaling deeply before wrapping his lips around your first two fingers. 

An unabashed moan escaped you, your hips lifting off the sofa as you ground yourself against his knee. You should’ve been ashamed — he had known that you’d tried to put yourself to sleep by burying your face in his pillow and your hand between your thighs. 

Ezra released your fingers with a wet pop, his nostrils flaring as he held your gaze. “You didn’t come, did you? Did la petite mort evade you?” 

“Yes.” You whispered, tracing your dampened fingers over his scruffy cheek. “I was so close, but it wasn’t enough.” 

He smirked at you as he pressed his knee firmly against you. “May I?”

“Please.” You nodded, sinking back against the sofa as Ezra moved down your body. Skilled fingers worked at the fastenings of your pants, peeling the heavy fabric down your thighs before tossing them aside. 

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of you, “Sit up, little lamb.” Ezra told you, sinking onto the ground in front of you. “Look at you.” He drawled as your thighs parted, your injured leg draped over his shoulder. 

You gasped quietly as he stroked his thumb over the damp spot on your underwear, barely brushing over your clit — but even that mere touch was enough to make you tremble. 

“Did you think of me?” Ezra questioned, peeling the fabric to the side, sweeping his fingers between your slick folds. 

“Maybe.” You retorted, biting down on your bottom lip as you watched him lick your arousal from his fingers. 

A quiet growl rose up the back of his throat as he leaned in between your thighs. He held your underwear to the side as he lapped at you, his tongue sweeping between your folds. 

Your fingers slid into his hair, grip tightening as he traced the tip of his tongue over your clit. 

“Do you need these?” Ezra mumbled, tugging at your underwear. 

“No. No.” You shook your head, pitching your hips towards him. 

Ezra effortlessly tore away the crotch of your underwear, his mouth descending upon your tender flesh. His tongue delved between your folds, thrusting into your slick core. He grabbed at your thigh, holding you steady as he turned his attention to your clit. 

You cried out as he wrapped his lips around that throbbing bundle of nerves. He sucked lightly at it, swirling his tongue over it as his fingers pressed into your cunt. 

He didn’t let up, his tongue working over your clit as he worked his fingers in and out of you. His fingers were deliciously thick, dragging in and out of you, brushing over that sweet spot within you that made your entire core quake. 

Ezra was good. 

His name was heavy on your tongue as you shattered, your inner walls clenching around his fingers, thighs trapping his face between your legs. 

“I need…” You panted out, breath hitching as he curled his fingers within you. “Fuck!” You shouted, nearly ripping his hair out as you felt a dam break as your vision blurred from the sudden burst of molten desire. Ezra was undeterred, his tongue sweeping up every drop of you. 

“More.” You urged, writhing beneath him. “Ezra, please.” 

“I might hurt you.” Ezra warned you, dragging his hands down your thighs as he nipped at the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “I don’t… I don’t know if I control myself.” 

“Forget about my leg,” You tugged at his hair. “And fuck me.” 

Ezra squeezed your hip and barked out, “On your knees.” 

You waited until he let go of you before you gracelessly flopping over on the sofa, knees planted firmly on the cushion as you grabbed at the metal shaft that made up the back of the sofa. 

“You smell so fucking good like this,” Ezra breathed out, hands sliding over your bare hips as he crowded close to you. “It’s been so long.” He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. 

“Same.” You laughed breathlessly, reaching behind you to grab at his hair. “I don’t break easy.” 

“You’ve never fucked a werewolf before.” Ezra murmured, curling his fingers loosely around your throat, keeping you pinned back against his chest as his cock slid between your oversensitive folds. “Have you?”

“Not yet.” You gritted out, curling your fingers around his forearm, thankful that he was able to keep you upright. He was strong, but the fingers wrapped around your throat were gentle. 

The head of his cock caught against your entrance and Ezra’s hips bucked forward, pressing into you. 

You moaned, completely caught up in the sensation of his thick cock filling you. The stretch was just this side of too much — especially in this angle. 

Ezra pulled back, his cock nearly slipping from you entirely before slamming back into you. His thrusts were brutal — all that strength and power that was hidden in his wiry build. He was reaching spots no one else had ever hit. 

He released his tight grip on your hip, slipping his hand between your thighs to stroke your aching clit. You clenched around him in response, making him feel even thicker as he drove into you. Again and again. 

Your nails bit into his forearm, leaving crescent moon shapes in his skin as you clung to him. You were so close, perched right on the precipice of another orgasm. 

“Come.” Ezra’s fingers curled around your jaw, his lips close to your ear. “I want to feel you come. The sweet clench of your cunt around my cock.” He mouthed a row of kisses down your neck, growling against the crook of your neck as your body obeyed him. 

He didn’t relent, even as your body pulsed around his cock. “Fuck.” He grunted out, his teeth scraping your skin. 

“Ezra.” You moaned out, your eyes falling closed as you basked in the overwhelming sensation of him fucking into you. 

His grip loosened at your jaw as he started to slide out of you, but you reached behind you, grabbing at his ass — desperately trying to keep him right there. 

Something snapped. Some frayed cord of control that he had been clinging to. 

You grabbed at the back of the sofa for support as he roughly grabbed at your hips. He bottomed out once, twice, three times before he growled out your name and came. 

Ezra curled his arm around your waist, keeping you pinned to him as he rearranged the two of you. He kept the softening length of his cock buried within you as he sank down onto the sofa with you resting back against his chest. 

“You’re very strong,” You mumbled, scratching your nails through the hair on his forearm as you looked down at the arm he had tightly curled around you. 

He huffed, a throaty chuckle escaping him as he rested his forehead against your shoulder. “One perk of this damnable curse.” He brushed his thumb over your stomach gently. 

“Is the sex a perk too?” You questioned, closing your eyes as you leaned back against him. “Because, I’m not sure I want to leave at all now.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Ezra kissed your shoulder. “I’ve kept my distance. From the others.” He sighed heavily. “You don’t want to become like me, little lamb.”

“I never said that I do.” You pointed out. 

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” He shifted beneath you, whispering a quick apology when you whimpered at the movement. 

“I’m okay.” You promised, trailing your fingers up the side of his thigh. “Overwhelmed.”

“Two days.”

“Hmm?”

“You can safely stay for two more days, but then you must leave. It gets harder to maintain this the nearer we draw to the full moon.” Ezra told you, nuzzling at the crook of your neck. 

“Two days.” You agreed solemnly. 

Ezra returned just after nightfall with a stack of research notes and his well-loved copy of Frankenstein. 

“Did you know she dedicated herself to getting her husband’s works published.” You mused, looking up from the notes on lunaxium to watch Ezra as he consumed Percy’s book of poems. 

“Hmm?”

“Mary.” You explained. “As accomplished as she was, she also worked to ensure her husband’s writing would be read.”

“Indeed.” Ezra tucked the red ribbon into the page he was reading and sat it aside. “I believe their romance blossomed on her mother’s grave, no? A rather odd pair.”

“His works are dreadfully romantic, for such a macabre couple.” You pointed out, flipping over another page of notes, copying down a comment on your own notations. 

“The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?” Ezra recited, drumming his fingers against the cover. “I had forgotten that was dear Percy.” He sank back against the wall, pushing fingers through his unruly hair. “I miss the sea.” 

“I’d bring it back in a bottle if I could.” You told him, chewing on your bottom lip. “I meant what I said before. I can come back.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, moonbeam.” He let the word slip off his tongue like it was sugar-sweet. “You will grow bored of the to-and-fro.” He pursed his lips. “Though I am much appreciative of the offer. You should go back to your friends.” 

“I have one friend in this galaxy Ezra and oftentimes I’m certain they want to ring my neck.” You shook your head. “You deserve to have a friend too.” 

“I will never be able to leave,” He reminded you. “And you can never stay.”

“There’s still an in-between.” Your brows rose hopefully. “A new moon, perhaps? When the moon is there, but not visible.”

“You’re persistent.”

“I’ve been told that before.” You smirked a little. “What would you like me to bring back when I return after the full moon?”

Ezra exhaled heavily, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I would be forever indebted to you if you might get your hands on a copy of War & Peace. Dreadfully long, but I hunger for some longevity in my literature.”

“Done.” 

He snapped his fingers, “Cheese.” 

You arched a brow. “I have cheese.”

“Real cheese?” Ezra corrected. “That wretched aero cheese is nauseating.” He blanched, watching you as you rose from your seat. 

You hobbled out of the room, into the corridor where the hyperfreeze unit was mounted in the interior wall beside the coolant system. You returned moments later with a block of Reggianito. 

“You’re in luck.” You said, sinking down onto the floor beside him. “I have a hook-up on Sector Block G7.” 

Ezra broke off a piece and popped it into his mouth, sinking back against the wall with a satisfied moan. “It will be safe for you to return in a fortnight.” 

You slapped his leg playfully, “You’ll let me return if I bring cheese?”

He grinned and continued. “If you come then, you’ll have a fortnight to stay, should you choose to.” 

“That should give me enough time to find War & Peace for you and settle my debts.” 

Ezra took another bite of cheese, before passing it back to you. “Do they still make those honeysticks?” He questioned. “Little tubes with honey collected from…” He squinted, “I can’t remember the planet.”

“I can look.” You wrapped the cheese back in the cloth, before sitting it aside. “How will you be when I return?” You questioned. 

“A little worse for wear,” Ezra shrugged a shoulder, resting his hand on your thigh. “The lunaxium helps.”

“Is it… is it like a drug?”

“I suppose.” Ezra dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. “There’s this hunger,” He explained, knocking his fist against his sternum. “This clawing sensation. It gets worse closer to the full moon. I lose my mind.” He shook his head. “I tried to wean myself off two years ago. Just to feel something.”

“What happened?” You rested your hand over his. 

“It triggered the beast.” He answered with a frown. “Middle of the cycle and violent.” Ezra tilted his head to look at you. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t.” You shook your head slowly, interlacing your fingers with his. “Maybe this will be good for you. Help you keep your humanity.”

“How so?”

“The others, the ones that were already here.” Your brows furrowed together as you turned to stare at him, “Did they lose their humanity because they lost touch with other humans?”

Ezra blinked, “You, moonbeam, are a clever one.”

“I read a lot.” You smiled at him, “And you’re  in luck — I have always loved monster stories.”

[ouronlyangelhes]

CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS

You had wanted to say yes. The ring was beautiful, dainty, sparkling, and staring daggers into your soul. It wasn’t that Scott wasn’t the right guy, he was. He was kind hearted, a great listener, funny, charismatic, everything that you thought you wanted. He was the right guy for someone, but that someone wasn’t you.

You were so taken aback by the proposal you realized second if not minutes had gone by without you saying a word. His face began to redden even more than it already was. You had to say something, you couldn’t just run away from this. You had to work up the courage to say no. You had to. He worked up the courage to pick out a ring for you, get down on one knee and ask you, you owed to him to explain why you couldn’t say yes.

“I love you, I really do. I just can’t say yes.” You say with tears building in your eyes.

“Did I say something wrong? Do you not like the ring? I can get you another one?” He said trying to understand.

“It’s not anything you did. It’s not the ring either it’s beautiful. I just can’t say yes to you because I know I’m not the one for you. You have been the most incredible person to me and you don’t deserve this. But you also don’t deserve someone saying yes to say yes. You deserve someone who won’t hesitate or think twice when you ask them to marry you. And I feel horrible because I know in my heart that person isn’t me. I’m sorry.” You said trying to smooth it over as if you could possibly do anything to make it better.

“I’m sorry that you feel like this. God, this sucks so much.” He said with tears in he eyes.

“I know, I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

-

It had been 5 months since you declined that proposal. There wasn’t a day that went by where you didn’t think about it. You had wanted to. the person to say yes, you really did. You just knew in your heart that it wasn’t right. Scott deserved the world. That was one thing you were 100% sure of. He deserved someone who would always say yes, someone who would always be there for him, someone who he could have his forever with. You wanted that for him more than anything and you knew you couldn’t bring yourself to say yes and it be wrong . You couldn’t imagine the pain and the hurt that he was going through. You wanted to reach out to him but you knew that maybe some space would be the best. There wasn’t anything that you could say or do to possibly comfort him. So you decided that creating some distance between the two of you was best.

-

Harry had been your best friend for as long as you could remember. Harry has always been your rock, especially the last several months. You had been all over the place emotionally and you were slowly trying to pick the pieces back up. Harry had really been there for you and you were beyond grateful.

“You wanna come over tonight and have a rom com marathon? Snack, drinks, the whole works?” Harry asked you from the other end of the phone.

“Yeah, that sounds nice. I’m in. But only if we can get some pizza.” You replied.

“You’ve got yourself a deal. How does 7 work?” He asked.

“Sounds good. See you then.” you said and hung up.

Harry had a way of somehow making everything better. His presence could make anyone light up. And that was something you cherished, especially at this point in your life.

-

“I thought you’d never show up.” He said with an attitude as he opened the door.

“I’m like 2 minutes late, calm down.” You said as you pushed past him in the doorway.

“I’m just messing. Glad you’re here.” He said with a smile.

“I ordered the pizza about 15 minutes ago so it should be here in 30 minutes or so. And don’t worry I got your favorite so don’t panic.” He said.

He knew you well and that was something you admired.

“Thank you. So whatcha wanna watch?” You asked as you made yourself comfortable on the couch.

“Hmmm. Well we have a ton of rom coms to choose from so just take your pick.” He said as he got the popcorn out of the microwave.

“Popcorn and Pizza what a luxury we have here.” You said with a smile.

“Only the finest of dining here.” He said as he brought the bowl over to you.

“Okay, so i’m thinking either Love Actually or Pretty Woman. Thoughts?” You asked.

“Tough one. Love Actually is always my go to so you know how I stand on that one.” He said.

“Love Actually it is.” You said as you clicked on the title.

The movie had just started and you felt Harry’s eyes on you.

“What?” You said as you pulled the bowl of popcorn closer to you.

“Nothing.” He said.

You had known Harry long enough to tell when he was lying. And besides he wasn’t a very good liar anyways.

“No, tell me. What? You said as you pressed pause on the movie.

“I don’t know, I guess i’m just surprised you’re so eager to watch a rom com.” He said.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You said.

“I dunno, I mean you did turn down a proposal from a guy you had been seeing for 2 years so I just figured you fight me on the rom com and we’d end up with a comedy or something.” He said.

“I don’t understand where this is coming from. I’m the one that said no to the proposal. I’m not the one who got rejected. I was the one who made the choice for our relationship to not result in marriage. So, why do you think I can’t enjoy a movie?” You asked.

You were thrown off by Harry’s line of questioning.

“You can enjoy a movie. That’s not how I meant it. I just worry about you is all. I just wanted to make sure you’re ok.” He said.

“Then why didn’t you just ask? Why’d you have to make it so cryptic?” You asked.

“You’re right. I should’ve just asked. I’m sorry. We can get back to the movie if you want.” He said.

“Okay, yeah.” You said as you resumed the movie.

-

To be honest your attention wasn’t on the movie. You were so confused by what Harry meant. Sure, the last couple months hadn’t been a breeze but you were pushing through. You knew you had made the right choice regarding your engagement. You couldn’t understand why people couldn’t just forget and move on like you had.

Harry had gotten up and paid for the pizza and grabbed some wine glasses on his way back over to the couch.

“There you are.” He said as he passed you a glass and plate.

“Thanks.” You said.

You poured the wine into the glass and then you realized that maybe Harry was onto something earlier. Did he have a reason to be worried about you? Was there a reason you couldn’t say yes to a good man? What was holding you back?

“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I know you are and you’re just trying to help.” You said as you took a sip.

“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He said.

“No, you’re right. You did nothing wrong. I know what people have been saying. I know that Scott’s friends never thought i’d say yes to marrying him. I don’t know, i didn’t think I radiated runaway bride or in this case runaway proposal tendencies but I guess I do.” You said.

“Stop it. You’re gonna end up married and all that one day. He just wasn’t right for you.” He replied.

“But what if I can’t. What if I just can’t get there with someone. I try to open up and be vulnerable and every time I do it’s just like I close up. Scott was patient with me and he never pushed feelings out of me or anything, he knew what he was getting into. I’m just starting to think it’s me. Maybe I am just incapable of letting someone love me and giving that love in return.” You said.

“You’re not incapable. You love lots of people. You love so much and we’re all lucky to have someone like you in our lives.” He said trying to comfort you.

“Family love is different than romantic love. The love I have for my friends is different. It’s safer, It’s less scary to me. It’s easier.” You said.

“Well maybe that’s the issue. Maybe you need to view someone as a friend first, and then it would turn into romantic love. Because you’d then have a foundation of friendship with that person and a level of comfort and security.” He said.

Harry was always a deep thinker. His advice was always comforting to you as he always has something profound to say.

“I guess that’s a good point. I don’t think i’ve ever really thought about it like that before.” You said.

“What can I say, I’m quite wise.” He said with a smile.

“I guess there’s really ever been one person I could see myself having romantic love and make me feel secure.��� You said.

“Well, who?” He asked.

“You.” You said.

You thought Harry was gonna choke on his pizza you had stunned him so much.

“Sorry what?” He said taking a sip of wine to wash the pizza down with.

“When you say someone I feel safe, comfortable, and myself with that’s you. Nobody else has ever really made me feel that way. Maybe it’s because we’ve known each other an eternity but I’d like to think it wouldn’t take an eternity for my walls to come down.” You said.

“What are you saying exactly?” He asked.

“I’m saying, I don’t know.” You said t trying to piece your thoughts together.

“You know I care for you, I always have. I just never really thought you’d go for me so I guess I never tried. And anytime i’ve ever thought of it the timing was just all off.” He said.

“What about now? Is the timing right?” You asked.

“I’m not sure. We can find out if you want. If that’s not weird.” He said.

“Sure, it’s not weird. You know me better than I know myself. You see me I am. I’m never hiding anything from you, you see me.” You said.

“Of course I see you. I’d be blind not to.” He said to you.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry asked.

“I mean I guess.” You said playfully.

With the meeting of your lips you felt all of your metaphorical walls coming down. You trusted Harry, you felt safe. Not to say you didn’t feel that way with Scott or other relationships. This one just felt authentic, genuine, and right.

[clnriswood]

DRACO MALFOY X CEDRIC DIGGORY X READER

Something Different | Part Four

a/n: so glad to be back! things start getting a bit more, uh, intense -- but stay tuned for p5 bc it’s about to get vv steamy hehe.

tag list: @call-me-banana-bandit @pillowjj @truly-insatiable @natsiboo @justmesadgirl @boredoffmebox @jjjmaybank @jejegu @ superpowereddonut @irritantive @salemlilly @marshmelloyellow02 @puffymints @is-it-really-a-secret  @i-mmunity @sebastiansass @hisoldlover @kyobien @averagefangirl21 @inurealiyah @fuzzzwald @lesfleursmonet @you-bleed-just-toknowyouarealive

X

If matters had been bad between Draco and the girl before, it was safe to say that the strength of their bond now was at an all time low, underground, even. On his end, she was a thieving traitor who was joined in Potter’s ranks against him, and in hers, he was a treacherous snake who was incapable of trust and had been solidified into his cruel habits. Their last encounter, at quidditch tryouts, had been the worst yet. It went something like this: Draco, as he left the field of Slytherin’s recently finished tryouts, jeered some nonsense about “any old fool who can swing a bat (Y/N played the role of beater) being allowed onto the team,” which was met by a swift reply from Y/N, who suggested cooly that Draco’s groin should be her bat's next target. This had led to quite the eruption of bickering between both of the teams, one which Madam Hooch, who was entirely fed up with both houses, abruptly put an end to. After that, the girl simply rode the wave of Draco Malfoy induced rage, and during the tryouts, envisioned the barrelling quaffles to be differing versions of his arrogant head. Shockingly, by an act of God, it had worked. Or, not really. Really it was months of training with Cedric over the summer that won her a place on the team, but, well, the rage certainly helped. And yet, despite it all, a nagging truth scratched relentlessly at the back of her brain. And this truth was that somehow, despite it all, Draco Malfoy was the thing of which she was apparently most attracted to.

“Whaddya reckon?” the voice of Ronald Weasley interrupted the girl’s drifting thoughts.

She and her three Gryffindor comrades had just escaped to the side of the Great Lake following the end of their first week of classes. Desperate to get the last of the sun before the soon to come autumn leaves and grey skies, the quartet had stripped free their thick robes and laid out a crimson picnic blanket upon which they sat surrounded by goods. Around them, other Hogwarts students of every year had done the same. With bellies now full, they’d thrown themselves happily back, their chins all turned towards the bright blue sky. As it was, Ron sat beside Hermione, who sat beside Harry, who sat beside Y/N. As they watched the ginger, he jovially made a stream of rainbow colored bubbles fly forth from the tip of his weathered wand.

“What’re you going to kill Voldemort with multi-colored bubbles?” Harry choked on the last pumpkin pastie with a snort.

“Harry!” Hermione scolded, poorly attempting to conceal her own giggles.

“Laugh all you want,” Ron said, “some girl is going to fancy this, I’m telling you.”

Suddenly Hermione wasn’t laughing at all, and she’d gone quite pink, the girl noticed. Next to her, Harry turned into his elbow to cough, which was really just an attempt to cover the big stupid grin he was wearing. The girl chuckled and batted him away with the back of her hand. He winked in reply.

“I want to go for a stroll,” Harry beamed suddenly, sitting upright in a flash.

“Lovely, shall we come?” Hermione began to stand.

“No!” he protested quite loudly. Then, “sorry, just want a quick chat alone with Y/N, if you don’t mind.”

The girl arched a brow at the jet black haired boy beside her, reluctantly standing and throwing Hermione a confused stare as she padded slowly alongside Harry and away from her other friends. The boy drifted farther from the patch of red blanket and closer to the water’s edge, where the grass was long, green, and swampy around their shoes. For a moment, the girl caught sight of one of the Giant Squid’s long tentacles, and she watched as it went sweeping against the surface of the black water and sending ripples across its inky surface.

“What is it then?” she said when they had gotten far enough away.

“What is what?” Harry said stupidly.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” she replied gruffly.

“Ah,” Harry scoffed and shook his head, “just said that so we could give Ron n’ Hermione some time alone together.”

“Oh?” the girl answered quizzically.

“Totally fancies him,” he continued excitedly, “not that she’s ever going to admit it, mind you.”

The girl felt her lips split, “really?! I did always wonder… though I couldn’t be sure.”

“I’ve spent the last five years watching those two fight, believe me, I am,” he wrinkled his nose with a grin. “Duck,” he added.

Without hesitation, the two friends bent their knees, covering their heads as the Giant Squid sent a tentacle soaring into the air and slapping the water, making millions of airborne droplets come cascading over them. Knowing the system well by now, the girl snapped her wand up, creating a clear arc above herself and Harry. The dazzling white stream of magic sheltered them safely from the Squid’s tidal wave, repelling all liquid outwards from its top. From around the shore, the sound of unsuspecting student cries of surprise echoed loud in reply.

“Anyways,” the girl stood cooly, like nothing had happened, “I assume this means I shouldn’t be saying anything of it to Hermione?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, “she’d throw herself into the lake if she knew we knew.”

The girl laughed. He wasn’t wrong.

For a few minutes they walked, quiet as they enjoyed the hot sun on their skin. Behind them, though she only snuck a quick glance, Ron and Hermione were bickering; apparently Hermione had made bigger bubbles than Ron and he’d taken it as a personal attack. The girl shook her head, letting the moment pass her and the fresh air flow through her lungs before she spoke again.

“Harry,” she started nervously, “there er, is something I actually wanted to speak to you about.”

He stopped walking, sinking his hands into the pockets of his pants as he sighed deeply with understanding, “you mean you causing a row with Malfoy?”

The girl froze in her tracks, “you knew about that?”

“Well apparently you weren’t too quiet about it,” he smiled half-heartedly. “I just… don’t understand what you were doing with him in the first place,” he admitted.

The girl felt her throat go hard, “dunno that myself, really.”

He blinked at her with his big green eyes, awaiting her explanation patiently.

“I- I just,” she started unconfidently, pausing to think. “I’d noticed there was something off about him. I just wanted to see what it was about.”

“And you think Malfoy’d tell you if there was?” Harry said, voice thick with doubt.

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “I know because he -- well, because he kind of told me so.”

Harry’s mouth dropped, “he did?”

“Yes,” she repeated, feeling her face prickle with warmth.

“So what does he,” Harry began, bewildered, “does he fancy you or something?”

“No!” the girl blurted, tucking her windswept hair behind her ears and finding her eyes suddenly glued to the muddy ground. “Of course not!”

“That’s brilliant!” Harry realized, ignoring her completely as he came quickly to an understanding of how this newfound information could play to his advantage, “and what did he tell you?!”

“Erm,” she gave a weak sigh, eyes back on him, “he said he knew I was working with you and told me to shove off, basically.”

Harry’s expectant smile faltered, “oh.”

“Yeah,” she gave him a reluctant glance.

“But you’re not,” he said confusedly.

“Yes I know that,” she echoed.

“Oh,” he said again.

Harry began walking once more, letting his thoughts brew a little before he continued. The sun’s rays were hitting his glasses hard, sending bright beams of light refracting off of them. The Gryffindor chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and gave his head a scratch.

“So then, if that was all, what was it that you’d wanted to tell me?” he said at last.

“I wanted to ask you how I could help,” she said, folding her arms over her chest and keeping her eyes forward on the nearing edge of the lake.

“You want to help me?” he asked.

“Course,” she shrugged. “I still believe he’s off, or up to something at least. And you seem to be the only other one around here who's noticed it, I’ve heard.”

“You’re right,” he affirmed, “and given that Malfoy’s got some sort of soft spot for you or something, I bet you’d have more luck than me finding out what exactly that is.”

“Er, yes,” she voiced hesitantly. “Only, I think I stomped the soft spot out when I called him a fool,” she said. “And he seemed to have taken it a bit personally.”

“Has he?” Harry said with mock surprise.

“You know he spat on me in the hallway the other day?!” she recalled suddenly. “I mean, literally spat on me. Him and his goons were by the courtyard when it happened,” she recounted sourly.

“Ah, the Malfoy rain,” Harry grinned knowingly.

“The what?!” she gaped.

“Ron calls it that,” Harry continued without hesitation, “because it’s like rain… but from his mou-”

“Disgusting!” she gave her friend a shove, making him cackle.

“I’m surprised this is only your first time,” he chuckled, “I’ve been getting the treatment since my first year.”

“That’s foul,” the girl curled her lip.

“Yes, well,” Harry shrugged, unfazed.

The boy-who-lived adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his skinny nose before stopping at the water’s edge. The surface had gone completely still, making the water look like nothing more than a black sheet of paper. It was beautiful, she thought. Harry stared too, before turning back to her, his smile gone and his face hardened with seriousness.

“Y/N,” he started softly and gave a stiff sigh. “Whatever he says, or whatever he does, that soft spot is still there. Vulnerability like that doesn’t just go away, y’know?” he said. “If he had it before, he can get it again.”

The girl looked at him. There seemed to be some kind of knowing in his green eyes. It made her heart lurch nervously.

“And how might that happen?” she asked.

Harry shrugged, looking her dead on, “you’ll just have to make him get it back.”

. . .

“Well,” she tried, “how do I look?”

The girl stood before a large gold framed mirror in her room, her other self glaring steelily back at herself from within the reflective surface. It was late in the afternoon now. Yolky orange light rays seeped from the half-circle windows that encircled the girl’s bedroom and filled the space with a hot haze. One window, with its peeling paint flakes, had been forced open, providing a comforting breeze and the smell of fresh grass to the dormitory room. The circle shaped room, with its exposed brick walls, thick cream carpets, and vine stuffed walls, seemed like the nicest place for her to be at the moment. But, with Slughorn’s unfortunate dinner party approaching at an alarming rate now, the girl was soon to depart and had found her stomach turning faster and faster the closer her deadline approached. Truthfully, she’d take reading an old book whilst tucked sleepily away into her thick sheets over this charade any day of the week. And, judging by the look on her face, this feeling wasn’t one she was successfully concealing. The girl curled her fingers over her faded wooden dresser, sucking in a slow breath as she reluctantly brought her glittering eyes back up to the mirror before her.

She wore a flowing sheer cream dress, one with long sleeves and little patterns embroidered into its circumference. Wanting to stay casual, she’d thrown on her usual scuffed black boots, but swapped her school socks out for ruffle trimmed white ones that peeked over her shoe’s tops. Her hair was in its usual messy state atop her shoulders, too. Behind her, Hannah Abbott stood with her arms crossed, her head tilted as she looked her friend over.

“Erm-” Hannah started unsurely.

“Oh no,” she said, turning around with wide eyes, “is it that awful?”

“No!” the blonde assured her with a wave of her hand. “Just, well, come here.”

The girl stepped timidly closer, nervous as her friend procured her wand, looked her over, and then gave it a flourish. First, the girl’s hair started magically flattening, before finding itself lifting dreamily from her shoulder tops and into a thick bun, one with a huge loose french braid on its side, and with stray pieces dangling at the front to frame her face. Smiling with like, Hannah then stuck her tongue cheekily out and shortened her friend’s dress a noticeable chunk of inches, so that it stopped flirtatiously at the tops of her legs.

“Oi!” the girl laughed in embarrassment, throwing her hands nervously over her front.

“Oh loosen up,” the blonde giggled, looking pleased with her work.

“I’m rarely out of robes,” the girl huffed, turning back to the mirror.

“Exactly,” her friend said from over her shoulder. “You only get so many chances to show those legs off to Cedric Diggory.”

“WHA-” the girl clapped a hand over her mouth in shock, spinning around. “HANNAH!?”

“Oh please,” Hannah said, sinking down onto the plush yellow quilts that were draped over her bed. “Like I haven’t seen him trying to sneak a peak before.”

She felt her face go red quite suddenly, “excuse me?”

Hannah smirked, leaning against one of the four oak posters that closed in around her bed. She twirled her hair around a finger with glee as she blinked slyly at her friend. Wordlessly, she closed her eyes and waved her friend off towards the Common Room.

“Well,” she shrugged, “go on then!”

The girl glared daggers at her unattentive friend as she cautiously approached their room’s door frame. She stuffed her hands in her dress pockets nervously, her feet feeling as if they were sinking through the now goo-like floor with every step. The green vines that trickled down the large woody door waved their tails in an encouraging goodbye.

“Well,” the girl decided with a smile, “I’m going to throw up.”

“At least wait til’ you’ve gotten out of our bedroom,” Hannah said, leaning back in bed with a sigh. “I’m not cleaning up your vomit.”

She snorted, shaking her head as the door slammed tight behind her, and she went tapping quietly down the stone staircase and out into the Common Room. There weren’t many students around, as many of the non Slug Club members had the luck of eating their normal meals and going about their usual after-dinner-weekend plans, unlike her. Cedric was already awaiting her however, and he looked incredibly dashing in his white button up shirt. The shirt was peppered with little black dots, and had its first two buttons undone, so as to expose just a hint of the god-like collarbones Cedric was sporting. His gold streaked chestnut hair was stood just a little straighter than usual, like he’d attempted to neaten it before giving up shortly thereafter. Still, it was quite cute.

When he saw her, Cedric’s face became the sun, his lips splitting into that dazzling smile, and dimples coming to life across his lightly bronzed skin. From above her, one of the hanging plants whistled, not for the first time that year, she noted.

Cedric tilted his head towards the creature, “yeah, what it said.”

The girl chuckled, off put by the flattery and finding it hard to keep looking at the deathly attractive boy before her.

“Ced,” she protested bashfully, worming her fingers nervously around in her dress pockets.

He smiled wider, if possible, and put his own hands timidly into the pockets of his black pants.

“Sorry,” he chuckled warmly, letting her come to him. “You look lovely.”

They met in the centre of the Common Room. With the sun practically set now, the only light was from the flickering of the massive fireplace’s flames, which cast shadows over the hollows of her friend’s cheeks, jaw, and lips. For a moment, neither said anything. Instead, they just looked at each other. It was Cedric who cleared his throat first.

“Erm,” he said, “shall we?”

“O’course,” the girl responded awkwardly, trailing Cedric out of the Common Room and into the deserted halls.

The two were quiet as they made their way around corners and over moving staircases. Neither spoke, or looked at each other, really. Halfway up a moving staircase, Peeves had attempted to toss a water balloon onto the two, but Cedric stopped the thing midair and sent it flying back at the ghost, who cackled as it went through his stomach and splattering against a wall. The two friends couldn’t help but give a laugh there. One of the portrait’s, which was just nearly missed, screamed defiantly at the friends in protest. Then, about a minute later, Cedric and Y/N turned into the corridor outside Slughorn’s, where they ran into none other than Harry and Hermione.

“Hullo,” Harry grinned.

“Mate,” Cedric scrunched his nose with a smile, the two boys clapping a hand together in greeting.

“Y/N!” Hermione beamed, “you look lovely! You too, Cedric.”

Hermione was wearing a pale pink blouse, Harry a black button up. Both looked nice for the occasion. Also, both looked a little nervous.

“You as well,” Cedric and the girl replied in unison.

Hermione smiled, mumbling, “nothing really,” or something like that.

Harry, uninterested, had jerked his head towards the girl, “I take it you’re not interested in being here, either.”

“How’d you know?” she chuckled with a roll of her eyes.

“Well, me n’ you are only here because Slughorn fancies our dead parents-” he began.

“Harry!” Hermione gaped, slapping her friend upside the head so as to shut him up.

The girl let out an explosive cackle, going weak in the knees with laughter, “he’s not wrong you know.”

Harry rubbed his head as he flashed his teeth at her and raised a hand for her to slap hers against. She did, making the two only laugh harder.

“You two are awful,” Cedric said with alarm, gaining a supportive nod from Hermione.

It had seemed that the group’s commotion had drawn the attention of Professor Slughorn, who poked his head out from around the entrance of his room. He wore, on his body, a quite excessive frayed brown blazer with his black pants, and on his face, an almost terrifyingly supportive smile. When he smiled in such a way, his forehead creased with a set of expressive little lines, and he looked somewhat like a happy frog, she thought.

“Dear boys and girls, you’ve arrived!” he declared loudly.

“We have,” Harry echoed in an obvious reply.

“Come in! Do come in!” Slughorn chuckled joivally, ushering his students into the room he’d cleared for them.

It was an interesting sight to see. In the middle of the room, a huge polished oak table had been set up, around which just over a dozen large and eloquently carved wood chairs stood. Students of every house had gathered; notably, Blaise, one of Draco’s henchmen, and Neville, their friend. The table had been filled with large glass mugs, which were topped to their brims with seven massive scoops of decadent chocolate ice-cream each, atop which were further chocolate shavings. Neville, who looked just about ready to faint, sighed in heavy relief as his friends pulled aside chairs next to his own. Instantaneously, Slughorn began his unsurprising fire of questions. First he spoke to two dark haired Ravenclaws the girl was unfamiliar with, then the boisterous Marcus Belby, and finally he landed his beady little eyes on Hermione.

“My parents are dentists,” Hermione blurted nervously when Slughorn asked of her.

The girl slid her mug forward, dipping her silver spoon uninterestedly into the dessert and swirling it around dismissively. Beside her, Cedric was taking polite tastes of his desert, and, beside him, Harry was uncomfortably shoving spoonfuls worth of ice-cream down his throat. The girl snorted, elbowing her friend, who snapped his gorgeous hazel eyes to hers, his lips crinkling into a little smile as he shifted his attention over to Harry. Cedric nudged Harry, who lifted his chocolate covered face up slowly.

“What?” he said defensively, his voice low so as to be unheard as Hermione continued speaking.

“Is that a dangerous profession?” Slughorn asked the frizzy haired brunette.

“Erm… no,” Hermione said awkwardly.

Everyone, including Cedric, stared at her in awkward silence.

“What’s a dentist again?” Cedric said through the corner of his mouth.

On either side of him, Harry and Y/N tried miserably to stifle their giggles. Luckily for them, a perfectly timed interruption shifted the attention away from the two, and instead to Ginny Weasley, who had just entered the room sporting a cute black dress and some unfitting red eyes. Harry scooted loudly back in his chair, emitting a deathly screeching sound that matched perfectly with the absolute silence of the room. Hermione put a hand over her mouth, a smile spreading beneath her fingers.

“Ah, Miss Weasley,” Slughorn beamed, “come in!”

“Sorry,” she replied through a mumble, “not usually late.”

Harry let out a loud grunt and scooted back forward in his chair as if unaware he’d done anything odd. The girl looked first at the-boy-who-lived, then to Ginny, her brows furrowing in confusion as her eyes travelled. Next she looked to Cedric, who mirrored her expression, and finally to Hermione, who flickered her eyes indicatively at the two Gryffindor’s before turning her nose back to her food.

“Miss (Y/L/N),” Slughorn said loudly, refocusing his attention once again to the girl.

Her eyes darted forwards to her professor, “yes, sir?”

“Your parents,” he said, “tell me a bit about them, will you?”

It had been expected, of course. But she’d dreaded it nonetheless.

“I’d rather not, sir,” she tried.

“Please,” the old man quite literally begged.

“Uh, well erm, she started awkwardly, not knowing where to begin. “They both died when I was quite young-”

“Yes, actually about that,” Slughorn fed in, “how was it your father passed? There was little heard of him after he joined You-Know-Who’s ranks.”

The girl was quite taken aback. How bold of him. Actually, how rude.

“Er,” she blinked frustratedly, “an explosion, I think.”

“Go on,” the professor encouraged.

Everyone, not just Y/N, it seemed, wasn’t comfortable with such a discussion. What was the point of asking such things? How did this add a shine to his little collection of trophy students? Mostly, though, how was it that the man was so oblivious to his indiscretion?

“The Ministry notified me about it when it happened. He took out a bunch of muggles with himself, they said. Only, they didn’t do much reporting on him because...”

“Because?” Slughorn persisted.

“Sir-” she tried again.

But the professor looked absolutely carefree as he took a large spoonful of ice cream in with a wave of his small chubby hands, “do tell us, Y/N, we all want to know.”

The eyes of every student in the room were glued eagerly to her, whether in mild interest, discomfort, or both.

The girl felt her whole body heat up. She’d never disclosed the second part of that story with anyone before, let alone a whole damned Slug Club. Flustered, she blinked rapidly, turning her head left, right, and back left again, as the left was where the door was. And by God, did the door look good at that moment. She could feel the blood rushing to her ears, her feet preparing to bring her to a sprint, a nervous glimmer soak her brow, and yet, just as she’d decided to stand and run, something stopped her.

Beside her, the girl felt one of Cedric’s large hands snake under the table and take a reassuring hold of her wrist. It caught her off guard, the way he’d so swiftly done it. The boy’s long fingers dipped straight into her own, first landing on her wrists for a soft little rub, then sliding right up into her palms, where he closed his fingers in on her own. His hands were wam. Warm and rough. This settled her hard beating heart, if only for a moment. And that was all she needed.

“Sorry professor,” she responded flatly, “but no.”

Her eyes scanned those of her classmates more confidently, and most all of them glittered back proudly in reply. Across from her, Slughorn released a disappointed sigh, before continuing on his little train of questions and peppering Cedric with his next rounds of interrogation. Of course, Cedric was as cool, calm, and collected as ever. The boy put on his most handsome and proud lopsided smile as he answered the professor’s questions of -- well, honestly she wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying. For while he spoke, Cedric had released her fingers and found himself absentmindedly tracing the patterns on his friend’s hand, not that anyone could have known. And she, incredibly flustered, but more comforted than anything, let him. Only when dinner ended did the boy retract his touch.

. . .

“Excellent,” Harry declared, the second they’d stepped foot outside of the dungeon. “You were excellent, Y/N.”

The jet black haired boy gave his friend a huge slam of appreciation to the back. He, Cedric, Hermione, Neville, and Y/N were making their tired escape from Slughorn’s party. Together, the group made their defeated and slumped ascent out of the dungeons.

“Thanks, Harry,” she half laughed and half grumbled. “I couldn't have done it on my own.”

Her large bright eyes flickered up to Cedric’s glowing ocean ones, and they twinkled adoringly at her in silent communication. Beside her, Hermione raised a quizzical brow, though, truth be told, Y/N wasn’t paying her much attention at that moment.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be getting an invite back, though…” she’d muttered dryly.

“It’d be his loss,” Cedric fired back confidently, earning a half smile from his favorite girl.

She’d gone to say something else, but her lips had hardly opened when she saw him.

Draco. Draco, with his snow white skin and blue-grey eyes, was heading their way. This was unsurprising, given that they were on Slytherin’s side of the castle. Honestly, he was the last thing she’d wanted to be confronted with at that moment, and judging by the look on his sallow face, it went both ways. As he drew nearer and nearer, his hands stuffed into the black folds of his robes, she waited for the blades of his sharp words to slice her, for him to mouth insults her way as he had so frequently loved to do. But, shockingly, the boy was quiet. In fact, it seemed he had no plan to say anything, but rather to snake right past them, silent and unheard, like a figment of their imagination. He’d almost done it, actually, but the girl had other plans.

“What?” she said, stopping dead in her tracks.

Draco had just passed her, and gone deathly still.

She turned on her heel, asking again, “what? Not going to say anything?”

The boy turned slowly to face her, his icy eyes narrow with dislike, his teeth clenched so hard she could see the definite pulse of his hard jawline beneath his porcelain skin. Beside her, her friends all warily stopped walking, their faces clouding with concern. Apparently, they all thought it better to not acknowledge his existence. The snow white boy blinked silently, keeping his pale lips pressed harshly together.

“What? So now that you don’t have any goons around, you’re no longer interested in making a show out of us?” she asked with a bitter chuckle.

Malfoy’s nostrils flared, a hard grimace taking shape on the curvatures of his perfect mouth.

“You know what I think, Draco? I think you don’t actually care for it. I think you only do it for others to maintain some sort of facade. And I think, you’re too cowardly to face us alone.”

“Y/N,” Hermione tried, “don’t fire him up.”

Draco flickered his narrowed eyes to Hermione, then settled back on Y/N’s. Finally, he spoke.

“Much to Granger’s disappointment,” he started softly, “you don’t have the power to fire me up.”

Her lips split into a sour smile, “don’t I?”

“Y/N,” Cedric huffed with concern, “just drop it.”

Now Draco’s eyes were on Cedric.

“You, however,” he drawled, “are all very easy to fire up.”

Y/N opened her mouth to retaliate, but, as she should have expected, was beaten to it.

“Diggory,” he began, “congratulations on giving your little girlfriend an express pass onto the Hufflepuff quidditch team. I expect she returned the favor nicely with her mouth.”

Cedric flushed a bright red, his nostrils flaring, and eyes growing cold with distaste. This enraged Y/N, yes, but it enraged Cedric more. Before he had the chance to fight back, however, Draco was onto his next target.

“Mudblood,” he mouthed, addressing Hermione. “Did it hurt when Potter here beat your pompous, self righteous self to the Felix Felicis? Is that why you’ve told everyone that he cheated his way to it?”

“N-no,” Hermione replied unconvincingly.

“Shut up,” Neville added.

“You,” Draco chuckled, snapping his attention mechanically to Neville, his lashes fluttering to the beat of his laughter. “Longbottom, please. You’re so pathetic, I could almost find the sympathy to feel bad for you. Everyone can. But, I really needn’t say anything for you to know that, do I?”

Harry had a hand on his wand now.

“Go ahead,” Draco dared, focusing now on the boy-who-lived. “You’re awfully more of a milksop than one would expect of a Gryffindor,” he said, “so you won’t. Especially not on my side of the castle, where you’d be under professor Snape’s jurisdiction.”

He had a point. About that second part, of course. Slowly, Harry released the grip on his wand.

And then Draco’s eyes were back on the girl, and they were a cold stormy gray, touched lightly with a hint of mild intrigue. The girl felt her fingers shaking now, practically aching to take form into a fist. But she had to stand her ground. She had to prove his lack of power over her.

“And you,” he finished with a heavy sigh. He brought his eyes up to her friends before saying his next words. “As of late, this little thing has been of most interest to me.”

Everyone seemed to have frozen in place, including Y/N, who was capable only of blinking up angrily at him, her jaw tilted up so as to be able to reach his searing and curious gaze.

“And d’you know why?” he arched a silver-blond brow, stepping closer to her.

He looked like he wanted to touch her. Wanted to force her jaw up within the tight grasp of his hands. Wanted to step close enough that her heaving chest would bump against his own. But a flicker of his eyes to her friends stopped him, and instead he just stood there, about a foot apart from her, his hands still buried in his pockets.

“Because,” he continued bemusedly, “unlike everyone else here, you have a secret.”

“And what’s that?” she dared lowly.

Draco’s lips split into an awful, cruel, smile.

“You like having me put you in your place.”

There was silence.

The girl wanted to speak. She’d tried. But only a mute and incoherent stutter toppled forth from her agape lips.

“Fascinating,” his lips stretched wider yet, his voice dropping lower yet, “isn’t it?”

And then his hands withdrew from his pockets. Draco let his slender and silver ring clad fingers find themselves on the bend of his knee as he lowered his height so as to be level with the girl’s fiery stare. For a moment, he just let the blazing blue sear of his scrutiny make its way across her face. She could smell his cologne invading her lungs, the inexplicably alluring scent of Draco Malfoy growing vile to her. He lowered his voice, then, so that only she could hear his almost inaudible murmur.

“This little game of ours,” he whispered. “I quite enjoy it.”

Then he raised a finger, a long and slender index finger, and tapped the tip of her nose.

She just stared at him, and it was a long and wordless encounter. His icy blue eyes pierced straight through her own and into the depths of her soul. He seemed eager to see her either crumble beneath him or expel with rage, but what he did not expect is what she said next.

“Incendio.”

Suddenly, her dress was on fire.

Draco leapt back in surprise, his brows knitting as the base of the girl’s cream colored clothing went up in flames. Around her, her friends all gawked and toppled back in shock. In her right hand was Draco’s wand, plucked straight from his pocket only a moment ago.

“Catch,” she grinned, throwing the boy his wand.

The blond chuckled in bitter surprise, “and what does that achieve?”

“A spell search will reveal that you just casted a fire charm on me,” she gaped in mock shock as she extinguished the flames on her dress with a newly learned Aguamenti charm.

Beside her, the faces of her friends told her they were utterly lost. But it was alright, they’d soon find out what had happened.

Draco let loose a chuckle, “and you think Snape is going to believe that, from you?”

“Sure I do,” she shrugged, “because I also did.”

“What-” he began.

“Incendio!”

Now it was Draco whose clothes erupted in flames. Quickly, he stifled the orange licks up his robes with his own water charm. Now it made sense. The boy’s pale face had gone flush with rage upon realizing what she’d done.

“Oh no,” she shrugged sarcastically.

And then they heard the footsteps. No doubtedly, Snape was on his way to see what the commotion was about. From behind her, her friends all gaped, impressed. Then, on her command, they took their cues and bolted, cackling as they disappeared down the hall and away from the scene of the crime. In front of her, Draco’s mouth trembled with a newfound sense of rage. His white and slender figure slumped slowly with defeat, knowing he’d been outsmarted.

“What?” she teased.

He practically snarled, his eyes alight with a blazing hatred.

“I thought I couldn’t fire you up, Draco?”

. . .

“Our detention will be next week!” the girl exclaimed.

Beside her, Julian, Hannah, and Ernie all roared with approval, the group meeting their large mugs of butterbeer together in celebration. After being issued a lovely disciplining from professor Snape, the girl had headed back to the Common Room in her tattered dress, only to enter a hero to her friends, who’d heard of the encounter from Cedric. Together, by the light of the dying fire, the group celebrated the girl’s triumph over Draco Malfoy. She could only assume that somewhere, on the other side of the castle, a set of Gryffindors were doing the same.

Now, by the dim light of the fire’s embers, the group had jovially devoured a set of gooey celebration biscuits and leaned back lazily in the overstuffed armchairs of the Hufflepuff Common Room. From above and around them, plants snored lazily as they embarked upon their nightly slumber. Slowly, one by one, her friends departed for their beds, until it was only Cedric and Y/N who remained in the Common Room. Cedric was unusually quiet as they left. In fact, he’d been unusually quiet the whole evening. It’s not that she hadn’t noticed, but rather that she didn’t want to. And so, upon being left alone with him, she said nothing. Finally, after a minute of deathly awkward silence, he spoke.

“So. What was all of that about then?”

He’d said it softly. And not the way he usually did when he spoke softly to her. No, he sounded outright disappointed in her.

“What d’you mean?” she arched a brow at him.

Cedric sat stiffly upright on the squashy yellow couch, his ocean blue eyes set forward in thought. His previously neat goldish brown locks had found themselves resuming their usual messy state atop his head, with one little curl springing forth attractively upon his forehead. He still wore his button up, but his hands were folded gently upon his lap in an odd manner.

“I mean,” he continued softly, “why would you do what you did tonight?”

He turned now, his stare intense as it bore into her own. The girl found her throat closing up, and her chest tightened with uncomfortability.

“You went explicitly out of your way to rile Malfoy up. And then- and then you make some feat of landing yourself in detention with him.”

“It was about time someone stood up to him-” she began.

“No, but that’s not why you did it,” he interrupted, hurt.

She didn’t know how to respond to that, or to him, really. The boy looked weakened, his handsome figure bent over with a sort of sadness, casting a rather sad looking silhouette over the dark wooden floors of the Common Room. She’d opened her mouth, but upon meeting his eyes, stopped. They were strained. They were strained and ever so softly moistened with hurt.

“Is it?” he asked, more quietly this time, the look on his face desperate for her next word to be ‘yes.’

But it wasn’t.

“I don’t know,” she admitted begrudgingly, her shoulders falling. “Something about him just gets me going, Ced. Now more than ever. It’s- It’s because I know he’s capable of better.”

“Is he?” Cedric said with a raise of his brows.

Cedric, more than anyone, knew how to see the good in people. And Cedric, now, voiced doubt for the redemption of Draco Malfoy.

“There’s just something different,” she exhaled, feeling far too guilty to hold her friend’s gaze.

“I see that now,” Cedric agreed. “I do.”

She blinked up curiously at him.

There was an eerie silence. Aside from the faint chirping of crickets, the rustling of the flora and fauna upon the stone walls, and the gentle crackles of the dying fire, the only thing to be heard was her own faltering breath.

“But not about him,” he said. “About you.”

Her heart sank.

“I see it, you know?” he murmured lowly. “I see the way you look at him.”

“Ced-” she tried.

But he wasn’t having it.

“And I know in that… in that look, you know?” he continued. “There’s something different.”

Her heart was racing now. Cedric had never talked like this to her before, and the feeling was one she was unfamiliar with. And then there was the way he was looking at her, which hurt. It hurt because he was hurting. It hurt because she didn’t know why it hurt him. And then, this certainly wasn’t a revelation the girl had either expected or wanted to be confronted with, of course. But more to the point, to have it told to her like this, by the person she loved most in the world, was too much.

“How would you know that, Ced?” she murmured, the sound of hot blood in her ears making her dizzy.

“Because,” he started.

Then he stopped. His lips quivered and his lashes fluttered, a tell-tale sign that this next act was going to injure him further, that his next words weren’t ones he could take back.

“Because it’s how I look at you.”

[writerwrites]

Little Town Street

Pairing: Andy Barber x Reader

Summary: A college fling with Andy Barber is rekindled when you move back to Boston and you’re both single. 

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Smut 18+, language, tinge of angst, Defending Jacob spoilers / all the warnings that would go along with the series, fleeting mentions of divorce and bad breakups

A/N: *THIS IS A ONE SHOT* This is the Week 3 prompt to the Optimistic Captain Donut Challenge created by @captainchrisbaby, @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho , and @donutloverxo​ || The Week 3 Prompt was based on  All Too Well by Taylor Swift || I’m only 3 months late, minimum || Fall dividers by @firefly-graphics​

Boston. Your heart raced just thinking about getting back to the place you went to college. The glide of the tassel across your cap and the memories of late night conversations over pizza and beer while elbow deep in a tort. You’d loved the smell of law books and the haze of the green lamps on the library’s oversized and ancient oak desks. The magic of that place was lost on you while you were there, as was the magic of the few relationships you managed to establish while getting your law degree. But here you were, the little suburban town just out of the city, boxes piling up in the empty living room as you settled into your newly single life at a small firm that liked your big New York City success. This was a needed change after a painful breakup. This was your clean break.

Covered in sweat with your hair in a messy top bun, tank top slithering up the steep curves of your soft sides while the sun kissed the back of your bronzed skin, you heard a honk at the intersection in front of your house. The unexpected sound jolted you and the heavy box of books slipped from your fingers and landed on your foot. Hopping to the steps of your new brick home, you looked over at the intersection. It was a near-accident that was the cause of the ruckus. Both cars now at a standstill at the center of the four-way intersection. It took a minute for you to process the shock as you rubbed at your aching foot, but there he was, thick brown hair and bright blue eyes looking at you through the windshield of a black Audi A6. Andy Barber.

With such a public court case and the subsequent car accident, every news-viewing American knew who he was and knew a little too much about him. The problem was that while you’d sat in your own office in the Big Apple, trying to put yourself in Andy’s shoes, you watched a person you once knew in a new light and while your now-ex kept bringing up the commentary of obvious guilt, you couldn't help but sympathize with the collapse of his life. It was too easy for you to slip into the heartache of a family stalked and ruined, a person left so completely exposed and judged by everyone that you’d trusted. It was, after all, why you’d left New York. It was a miracle you’d gotten your fresh start, the Barbers certainly didn’t. You could picture it, but you never speculated, never stayed on the channel when the case came on. Every fiber of your being couldn’t look at him, not because of what broadcasters said but because of the too real memories of a love lost.

You were the one that ended the stare-off, your foot aching more with every passing second. Jaw clenched and lips pressed into a line, you were just about to convince yourself that there was no way Andy Barber, your biggest competition in college and your first love, was outside your new home… and then you heard him say your name. God, it always sounded so good coming from his mouth. The last time you’d heard it he was asking you not to go, drunk outside the bar you’d had your first date telling you that what you two had was bigger than the careers ahead. He didn’t see the tears streaming down your face once you turned away to get in your cab. Maybe, after all this time, he thought you didn’t hear him scream your name.

When you opened your eyes Andy was there at the bottom of your driveway on that little town street, brows knit together with concern as he locked his car that was perfectly parked on the steep driveway like he’d done it a million times. “Don’t look so worried about me, Andrew. You’re the one who just nearly crashed a bajillion dollar car.”

He laughed, despite noticing how you’d used his full name like you two were standing on opposite ends of a courtroom- and maybe you were. But that laugh, the warmth of it wrapped you up and you were thrown back through the magic and memories of that romance once more. The plaid shirts you stole in the middle of the night to run to the kitchen for a midnight snack. Your skin was covered in goosebumps despite the heat as you remembered how Andy had peeled you out of his shirts to warm you back up with his skin on yours, the metal of the fridge pressed to your back. Every moment with him was crystal clear in your mind the smells of autumn and taste of cider and beer when your tongues met, the feeling of his beard scratching your thighs, and... It took his hands on your chin to pull you out of the pain and want of those happier days that you’d ignorantly run from scared of settling. “Are you sure the box didn’t land on your pretty little head?”

The sound that passed your lips was practically a damn purr, you mentally cursed him for pulling it out of you with familiar ease. Opening your eyes to look up at him, you wondered if the emotions of that tumultuous relationship sat at the forefront of his mind too and if it was written on your face. “Nope, definitely landed on my foot.” Swallowing at the sandpaper in your throat, you looked at the swollen discolored mess. “You didn’t have to see if I was okay.”

“First, yeah, I did. It’s been fifteen or sixteen years since I’ve seen you. Second, I saw you hop over here clutching your foot. I can’t leave a wounded deer on the side of the road, can I?” His hands were stubbornly placed on his hips and that’s when you noticed the pale indent of a missing wedding band on his left hand’s ring finger. His blue eyes followed your gaze and he rubbed at the spot like he’d not gotten used to the absence of the cool metal. A similar thin, faded line from a discarded engagement ring on your matching finger. “I guess we’ve both been through it.”

Offering him a small smile, he helped you up and as Andy’s strong hands clutched your waist you wondered if he’d remembered just how ticklish the space between your ribs and hip were when he was careful to not touch you there. When you grabbed at the perfectly tailored coat trying to hop around the man let out an amused grumble and scooped you up. “Aren’t we a little old for grand gestures?” Your head rolled back as you laughed and he turned to get you through the door without smacking your injured foot on the frame. “Jesus are you hitting the gym and benching thick girls, Barber?”

The laughter filling the house was only amplified by his unceremonious dropping of you onto the love seat. The crooked smile looking down at you made you melt. That look, it was a drug that you’d had you first taste of in a mock trial, when he knew he’d won his case and looked back at you in the seats behind him, taking notes. “Other than the box on the lawn, are there any more?”

“You don’t have to..”

“But I’m going to and I want to. Besides, you can’t.” Andy was already pulling off his coat, loosening his tie, and buttoning his shirt before you could protest... not that you were capable of it. He bit his lip when he caught sight of you drinking him in. The slacks and the undershirt that clung to him. “Like what you see?”

“It’s rude.” You stated matter of fact, gesturing to all of him. Andy raised his hands as if to apologize, heading to the door to get to work. Closing your eyes, you could perfectly picture that one picture of the two of you at your graduation. Inadvertently, you mumbled to yourself. “I miss looking that damn good.”

If your eyes hadn’t been closed maybe you would’ve seen the way he froze in the doorway, biting his tongue before stepping out. It wasn’t until you heard the hefty thunk of a box on the hardwood floor that you peaked your eyes open. A clear sheen of sweat glistened on his brow and you bit your lip, the heat running over your body was hardly from moving boxes or the summer heat pouring in the front door. “Please tell me the rest of it isn’t boxes of books, Legal Beagle.”

Scoffing at the old nickname you sighed, “Nope, it’s just bottles of wine and liquor and pictures. The remnants that I didn’t want to break or misplace in the moving truck that came a few days ago.”

“You’ve been here for days and you didn’t call.” His tone was surprisingly wounded.

“Well, Legal Eagle, you didn’t exactly shoot me an email either.” Andy’s eyes burned into you when you used his old nickname back, but you couldn’t decipher what that look really meant. Before you could ask or apologize he was turning back out the door, leaving you there to chew the inside of your cheek raw.

Andy made quick work of the boxes in your car while you nursed your bruised foot trying to unravel the feelings bubbling to the surface of your mind in memories and regrets. When the front door shut, you couldn’t even bring yourself to look up, eyes fixed on the bruise while you thought about the emotional bruising you’d caused each other. It wasn’t hard to really know why he hadn’t emailed, nothing funny in the broken pieces you bother were left to pack up and move on from. When had you started crying? Cheeks wet when his hands cupped your face, forcing you to look up at him, thumbs brushing the tears away. “Hey, if it hurts that bad maybe we should take you to get it looked at.”

Reaching up you grabbed Andy’s wrists, but you found yourself hanging there, incapable of pulling him off of you. Instead, your thumbs brushed across the inside of his wrists just applying a little bit of pressure before skimming your hands up the firm muscles of Andy’s forearms. Each of you tried to translate the signals the other was putting off. If it hadn’t been for the haze of being so close to him, maybe you would’ve had the sense to pull away. With a sniffle and apologetic smile you shook your head ‘no’- or at least to the best of your ability when he was still comforting you like no time or pain had passed between the two of you. How long had you been holding on to this first love?

This close you could see it, the little creases of age at the corners of his eyes and a little salt and pepper in his beard. Despite the way those lines seemed to crease his face like words of chapters you’d not been privy to, his blue gaze was unchanged and every welcoming detail of them looked at you like you hadn’t changed either. The moment his knee pressed between your thighs to your core you realized just how needy you were, whimpering and parting your legs as he lowered himself onto you. His hands moved down your neck to your breasts and a firm squeeze and the brush of his thumb over your nipples elicited another breathy moan from your lips. How long had it been since anyone had looked at you like that? How long since you’d gotten off?

“Andy,” The weight of his name on your tongue was dizzying, but the way he said your name back was just as heavy. You pulled his mouth to yours and he parted his lips to wrap around  your bottom lip. His beard scratched at your chin, sending shivers down your body.

Picking your hips up from the couch, you satisfied the ache between your legs on his thigh. Smirking against your lips Andy pressed harder into your core. “You missed me.”

“To the bone,” The confession passed your lips and all you wanted was for him to stay, the thought alone so wholly selfish. Your eyes fluttered open, scared that it had been poison on his own tongue, noticing how he’d pulled away ever so slightly. “That wasn’t fair.”

Though it seemed like a poor apology, Andy was already shaking his head to reassure you that it wasn’t. That quiet, it wasn’t a trait in him you recalled. His hands moved down your frame and he pulled you onto his lap, careful to let you move your legs to straddle him and not hit your foot along the way. “Did you think I wouldn’t care that you were coming back?”

Before you could answer, he stole your air again. Andy’s lips pressed to your neck and he hummed as he tasted the salt on your skin. Then he found the spot he used to always mark, that spot that always seemed to peak just a little out of your favorite courtroom blouse. Gasping, your nails scratched softly at his sides. He took it as a hint and pulled off his undershirt, throwing it at the boxes that had his tie, coat, and button up. “Andrew. I’m trying not to assume anything here but…”

He looked up at you so sweetly that it erased whatever logic you were trying to pull on him with that one dopey smile. “Tell me this isn’t home.”

“I..” Your mouth bobbed open and you looked at him with wide eyes. Did he mean Boston or this moment on his lap like pieces were falling into place since you’d left.

Squeezing your thighs in his palms he repeated the question. “Tell me this isn’t home. Tell me you don’t remember the promise you broke. Tell me those boxes with pictures don’t have the pictures of us all over this town.” Was this a call out? If he hadn’t been looking at you with such heartache you would have looked away. “Maybe I asked for too much and maybe I was just as scared as you were about the future I saw for us… but tell me we didn’t just find our time.”

The tips of your fingers moved up his chest and settled at the sides of his neck, innocently tugging at his beard. Leaning forward you pressed your lips to his forehead and slipped off of his lap though your whole body seemed almost unamused by the cruel neglect of his warmth, your legs staying draped over him and one arm still linked through his. Looking over the boxes you found the stack with the bright blue sharpie, ‘winter clothes’ sprawled across the top as it sat halfway between the bottom of the stairs and the closet by the front door. “Grab that one.”

Andy untangled himself from you with his fingers burning across your skin, reluctantly slipping off the couch to grab the box. When he came back with it you noticed a hesitant look on his face. His eyes moved to his discarded clothes and you sighed and pulled him back to the small couch. “Want to tell me why you’re avoiding my questions?” Ignoring him you peeled the box open and moved a few things out of the way while you pulled out exactly what you knew you needed. “I don’t break over honesty anymo-”

Words seemed to escape him the moment he saw his scarf from the first time he’d gone home with you to meet your family. He didn’t do the meet-the-parents charade and the relationship had been new, but yours had welcomed him in and made him want his own one day. Andy never thought he’d settle with someone else, but that’s exactly what he’d done when you didn’t call, write, visit, or move back… he’d settled. That little trip was a memory he’d revisited often in the torment of waiting for you to come back. The pair of you had spent most of the holiday either studying for exams on your twin sized bed or pouring over old photographs from your childhood. Now you could practically see the memories flooding back as he reached for the scarf and brushed his fingers over the soft fabric.

So, it was your turn for a confession, an apology even. “I remember it all. I miss it all. We may have been young, but we weren’t wrong. No one knew me like you did. No one ever has. We grew up, but you lingered here.” Your fingers combed through his hair and tapped his temple before moving down his body to his sternum, tapping at his pulse, “... and here.” Andy covered your hand in his, drawing your fingers lower to the buckle of his slacks. Your cheeks went red and you nodded a ‘there too’ without being able to form the words.

“Do I get a hundredth chance?” The hope in his eyes was mirrored in your own, your racing heart no longer felt like a warning sign.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” A shaky laugh passed your lips. Andy wrapped his arms around you, tender, before he laughed too, his body shaking against yours. “Oh, this is a prank? Well, damn. That’s embarrassing.”

Andy looked at you and lunging forward, mouths ricocheting in a deep kiss, tongues hungry for the lost time. Only when you came up for air, the pair of you now buried in the couch cushions, did he speak up, “You deserve all the hell I’m going to give you for waiting this long to let me love you.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stay and rub my skin raw with this beard?” Squirming under him, the pair of you frantically reached for every clasp and zipper until there was nothing left between you. His lips moved down your frame and you surprised yourself, pulling him back to your mouth. “You’re staying with me Andy Barber.” Your fingers wrapped around his length and pumped him, brushing the head of his cock against your slit, already dripping. “You’re staying so beard on thighs can wait.” Pressing your mouth back to his as you continued to tease him you whimpered, not even needing to say it but recalling how much he used to love hearing it. “I need you. Don’t make me wait anymore. I need to feel all of you. I miss-”

The begging and pawing, he couldn’t take you slowly, not yet at least. Andy rutted himself into you, growling when your tight wet heat wrapped around him. He buried his forehead into the curve of your neck as he thrust into you over and over, savoring the way you gasped at his every slight movement. Andy worshiped the new softness of your frame and none of this felt like strangers trying to figure out how to get each other off. His thumb brushed back and forth across your swollen clit and, unlike anyone else, you stuttered his name as you got closer, clamping around him, hips bucking off the couch to meet every deep thrust as he slowed his pace to draw this out for both of you.

You loved the look on his face, the way he bit his swollen lips between a million kisses left on your sweaty skin. The way he lost focus when you said his name and how he gently grabbed your chin as you stuttered his name again; so close, so wet for him, so ready to finally get off. Permission, your legs shook and you whined as he kept you right there at the tipping point, building himself up to his own orgasm while he edged you. “Come for me, lover.”

The words were so welcome, just enough to push you over the edge and quickly chased by you begging him, “Stay inside me.” Andy throbbed inside you as you pulsed around his cock, your fingers digging into the meat of his thighs as your orgasm didn’t seem to stop, the room seemingly silent as the echoing thrusts and calling out of names tapered out to the sticky collapse of you both tangled up on the love seat.

Your eyes closed, exhaustion settling in, and Andy watched you breathing. Softly, Andy nuzzled his nose against the top of your head. “If you fall asleep, I’ll fall asleep.”

With a hum you nodded, reaching up to his hand that had settled on your breast, patting it, “Would that be so bad?”

More to himself, voice so low you almost couldn’t hear him. “I can’t lose you again. Can’t lose anyone else.”

“There’s probably a lot we can’t talk about, but this isn’t a dream, Andy.” Pivoting just enough to look at him you held his hand and kissed his chin. “I can’t lose you again either. I already lost a foot.”

There it was, that cheeky little smile. You both sleepy laughed and you watched his body relax. “You almost cost me my car.”

“I couldn’t run away again, even if I wanted to.” Crinkling your nose you smiled, brushing your finger over the smooth part of his skin where the missing ring marked him. He did the same. The scarf hung over the back of the sofa and looked up at him. “I don’t want to, if that wasn’t obvious.”

His blue eyes closed, his smile went soft, and Andy Barber fell asleep in your arms. If someone would have told you that this would have happened when you left New York you would have run back to Boston and spared the pair of you a world of pain. Though you were scared of bridging the gaps caused by the many roads the pair of you had taken to get here, you shut your eyes and smile at the reality that all those roads led home- to him. Like kintsugi everything seemed hopeful, incapable of breaking like the last time, stronger and made beautiful through the healing time of quiet apologies, verbal and physical.

It had been him all along, no denying it. Neither of you would ever have to ask the other to stay again.

All Content Tags: @tom-hlover​

CEvans Content Tags: @void-hoechlin​

[longitudinalwaveme]

Arkham Sessions: Captain Cold

These vignettes, and, more specifically, the characterization of Dr. Hugo Strange, are based on the wonderful Arkham Files YouTube videos produced by Mr. Rogues.

Here's his channel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCyxNOHiNclZlVpeRhYV2QRQ

Since I am a huge Flash nerd, I decided to use this idea as a jumping-off point to explore how the Rogues would respond to therapy sessions. Again, all credit to the basic format goes to Mr. Rogues.

Not everything Dr. Strange says should be taken as truth; his bias against costumed vigilantes affects most of his interviews with the patients.

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Leonard Snart, also known as Captain Cold. The patient displays a number of antisocial tendencies, but no formal diagnosis has ever been given to him, and since he arrived at Arkham only a few days ago, I have not had the time to give him a complete psychological examination. Session One. Good day, Mr. Snart.  

Capt. Cold: Len. 

Hugo Strange: Pardon? 

Capt. Cold: Just call me Len, Doc. I ain’t the type to stand on formalities. 

Hugo Strange: Very well, then. (Pause) So, Leonard-

Capt. Cold: Not Leonard, Len. 

Hugo Strange: I take it you’re not especially fond of your given name? 

Capt. Cold: Believe me, Doc, if your name was ‘Leonard Snart’, you wouldn’t be fond of it, either. 

Hugo Strange: Fair enough. So, Len, what exactly influenced you to put on a parka and go running around robbing banks and jewelry stores with a freeze ray?

Capt. Cold: It ain’t a freeze ray, it’s a cold gun. 

Hugo Strange: Besides semantics, what is the difference? 

Capt. Cold: Mr. Freeze-you got him locked up somewhere in this loony bin, right?- has a freeze ray. It shoots ice. Me? I’ve got a cold gun. My gun negates thermal motion. Stops protons and electrons dead in their tracks. People too. Even the Flash slows to a crawl when I hit him with it. 

Hugo Strange: (Surprised; a bit skeptical) Do you mean to say that you have invented a weapon that can create temperatures of absolute zero? 

Capt. Cold: Yep. And I did it years before that lovesick freak got turned into a popsicle man. 

Hugo Strange: Your records indicate that you dropped out of high school at the age of fourteen, Len. How could you possibly have the requisite knowledge to create such a weapon? Are you even familiar with James Prescott Joule or J.J. Thomson? 

Capt. Cold: Who? 

Hugo Strange: J. J. Thomson is the man who discovered the electron. James Prescott Joule is the scientist who discovered the First Law of Thermodynamics. If what you’re saying is true, you managed to exceed the wildest dreams of either of these illustrious men, without even knowing of them or their theories. 

Capt. Cold: Huh. Guess I did. Well, how about that?

Hugo Strange: How could you possibly have managed this, Len? 

Capt. Cold: Just ‘cause I’m trailer trash don’t mean I’m stupid, Doc. 

Hugo Strange: Clearly not. So, how did you do it? 

Capt. Cold: Sorry, Doc. Trade secret. 

Hugo Strange: Len, we gave you a number of psychological and intelligence tests upon your admittance to Arkham Asylum, and-

Capt. Cold: (Cutting him off) About that-what’m I doin’ in this loony bin, anyhow? I ain’t crazy, and even if I were, I’m from Central City. That’s a thousand miles away from Gotham. 

Hugo Strange: A few weeks ago, Iron Heights Penitentiary’s southwestern wall was destroyed in a mysterious accident. As a result, it is currently incapable of holding supercriminals, metahuman or otherwise, and you and your cohorts had to be housed somewhere. Through a series of political and judicial decisions that I confess make as little sense to me as they probably do to you, all of you so-called “Rogues” were transferred to Arkham Asylum until such time as Iron Heights is properly rebuilt. 

Capt. Cold: I get havin’ to send us someplace else if Iron Heights is destroyed, but...I ain’t insane. Why not send me to Blackgate instead of the loony bin? 

Hugo Strange: Many people are of the opinion that anyone who puts on a silly costume in order to commit crimes is insane by definition, Len. 

Capt. Cold: That include you, Doc?

Hugo Strange: Whether or not you are insane in the legal sense of the term is not for me to decide, Len. That being said, I do believe that your decision to commit crimes in such a...theatrical...manner indicates some level of emotional disturbance. 

Capt. Cold: Hey, Doc, you’re the expert on this stuff, not me. 

Hugo Strange: In that case, why don’t we return to the subject of your astonishing invention? 

Capt. Cold: I’m stuck in the loony bin anyway. Might as well. 

Hugo Strange: Can you please refrain from describing this facility as a “loony bin”, Len? The term is pejorative, both for the staff who work here and the other patients who live here.

Capt. Cold: Pejorative? What’s that mean, Doc? 

Hugo Strange: It means that it is rude. Describing the mentally ill as “lunatics” is unkind and unscientific. 

Capt. Cold: Whatever you say, Doc. Whatever you say. 

Hugo Strange: (Coughs) As I was saying, when you arrived at the asylum, we gave you a number of psychological and intelligence tests. While your scores in the area of mathematics were unusually high, especially for someone who never finished high school, your literacy scores were abysmal. You are thirty-eight years old, but you read at the level of the average six-year-old. 

Capt. Cold: Well, we can’t all have your fancy education, Doc. What’s my reading ability got to do with my cold gun? 

Hugo Strange: I find it difficult to believe that a high school dropout-a high school dropout, moreover, who can barely read-would be able to invent a gun that can produce absolute zero on his own. 

Capt. Cold: Are you callin’ me a liar? 

Hugo Strange: Not necessarily, Len. What I am saying is that I do not believe that the Cold Gun was created in the way that you may believe that it was. 

Capt. Cold: Oh, so you ain’t callin’ me a liar-you’re callin’ me crazy. 

Hugo Strange: I did not say that either, Len. 

Capt. Cold: You didn’t have to, Doc. I may be a redneck high-school dropout, but I ain’t survived as long as I have by not knowin’ when people are bad-mouthin’ me. 

Hugo Strange: Len, I am not bad-mouthing you. I am trying to help you.

Capt. Cold: Sure you are.  

Hugo Strange: (Frustrated) Not everyone is looking to take advantage of you, Mr. Snart! 

Capt. Cold: Funny. Hasn’t been my experience, Doc. (Pause) Look. I ain’t mad, Doc. If I had a buck for every time somebody called me trailer trash or a dumb thug or a stupid hick, I wouldn’t need to rob no more banks. You ain’t said nothin’ I haven’t heard a million times before. But I want you to know this: I invented my cold gun, and I did it by myself. I. Ain’t. Stupid. 

Hugo Strange: (Looking to change the subject) Len, I never said that you were unintelligent. In fact, your criminal history makes it quite clear that you are an effective, pragmatic operative. An unintelligent man could never have organized the only successful costumed criminal combine in the nation. Every other group of costumed criminals has folded within a few months at most, usually due to interpersonal tensions, but you have somehow managed to keep your little group together for over a decade. What is it you call yourselves, again?

Capt. Cold: The Rogues. 

Hugo Strange: That’s right. The Rogues. Now tell me, Len, what exactly is the secret to your group’s...ah...success? 

Capt. Cold: (Amused) You plannin’ to start a costumed gang, Doc? 

Hugo Strange: Certainly not. I am simply curious. It isn’t often that I get the opportunity to interview criminals from outside of Gotham’s borders. 

Capt. Cold: It ain’t that complicated, Doc. The reason we’ve held together for so long is ‘cause we got an unspoken code. We watch one another’s backs to the end. Nobody gets left behind; everybody gets an equal share. 

Hugo Strange: (Surprised) Are you implying that you are...friends...with your Rogues? 

Capt. Cold: You think I’d trust people I hate to watch my back?

Hugo Strange: Admittedly, that wouldn’t make much sense...it’s just that I was under the impression that you were the leader of the group.

Capt. Cold: I am. 

Hugo Strange: Most gang bosses I know keep the majority of the profits from their crimes for themselves.Why don’t you? 

Capt. Cold: ‘Cause we’re a team. We do equal work; we get equal rewards. 

Hugo Strange: A surprisingly admirable sentiment for a common thief. 

Capt. Cold: (Proudly) There ain’t nothin’ common about me, Doc. 

Hugo Strange: (Sigh) That’s certainly true, Len. (Pause) On the subject of things that are not common, why the parka and the silly goggles? 

Capt. Cold: Practicality. Parka keeps me warm; goggles help focus my vision and keep me from bein’ blinded by the flare of my own cold gun. 

Hugo Strange: I see. (Pause) And why call yourself “Captain Cold”? After all, you aren’t really a Captain of anything. 

Capt. Cold: I’ll admit, it ain’t the most creative name in the world...but anything’s better than “Leonard Snart”. 

Hugo Strange: Why not just change your name, then? Why take up a ridiculous costumed alias?

Capt. Cold: Because I’m not just an ordinary thug. Leonard Snart is ordinary; boring…..but Captain Cold? Captain Cold is cool.

Hugo Strange: Was that a...pun?

Capt. Cold: What can I say? I admit they’re dumb, but old habits die hard. 

Hugo Strange: And the Flash had nothing to do with your decision to put on a costume and call yourself by a silly, alliterative name while committing crimes? 

Capt. Cold: The Flash? Why would he have anything to do with it? 

Hugo Strange: I was under the impression that the Flash was your arch-enemy. 

Capt. Cold: (Laughs) Arch-enemy? What is this, a Saturday morning TV show? 

Hugo Strange: The Central City papers make quite a big deal of your rivalry with the so-called “Scarlet Speedster”. 

Capt. Cold: Look, the Flash is basically a cop. Sure, he’s a cop with superpowers, and he’s good for sharpening our wits, but at the end of the day, he’s just an obstacle to our getting the score. 

Hugo Strange: Then you don’t view your battles with him as some epic confrontation between ideologies? 

Capt. Cold: Why would I do that? Ideologies don’t pay the grocery bills, Doc. 

Hugo Strange: And you haven’t dedicated your life to proving your superiority over him once and for all? 

Capt. Cold: No. I fight the Flash for the same reasons I fight the cops: I want to get rich, and he’s standing in my way. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.

Hugo Strange: So the Flash is nothing special to you?

Capt. Cold: I didn’t say that. Like I said, he’s good for sharpening the wits. I wouldn’t be half as successful as I am if he weren’t around to keep me and the guys on our toes, and yeah, it’d be neat to finally get the victory over him once and for all...but really, he ain’t so different from us. He’s just another guy workin’ a nine-to-five, tryin’ to provide for his family. I don’t like him-he’s a stuck-up, self-righteous prig sometimes-but he’s a good person. He’s not a superhero ‘cause he wants hero-worship. He actually wants to help people. He’s even helped me, and I make a career out of trying to freeze-dry him. You gotta respect a guy like that. 

Hugo Strange: You actually see the Flash as a man?

Capt. Cold: What else would I see him as? A Martian? ‘Cause I’ve seen Martians, and I can tell you, the Flash ain’t green enough to be one.

Hugo Strange: It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve spent so much time with the patients who view Bruce Wayne, formerly the Batman, as some sort of supernatural entity or as a grand opposite in a never-ending conflict between order and chaos that it’s rather...odd to listen to a costumed criminal who claims to view their local costumed vigilante simply as a person. 

Capt. Cold: Man, you have got to get out more. 

Hugo Strange: (Coldly)  I don’t recall requesting life advice from you, Mr. Snart. 

Capt. Cold: Well, you should take it anyway. Ain’t often I give stuff away for free. 

Hugo Strange: (Annoyed) This session is not about me, Mr. Snart. It’s about you. 

Capt. Cold: What else do you wanna talk about? I’m not stupid, I’m not creepily obsessed with the Flash, I don’t butcher people for fun, and I don’t have any weird hang-ups about dead relatives or riddles or plants or dolls or jokes or the number two. I’m not a good guy, but I think I’m a pretty normal guy, all things considered. 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Snart, no one puts on a costume without some sort of psychological disturbance. Even if the Flash was not in some way responsible for your decision-something which I am not yet fully convinced of-no rational human being would do such a thing. I just need to find out what your disturbance is. (Pause) Perhaps it began in your childhood, Mr. Snart? 

Capt. Cold: (Icily) My childhood is none of your business. 

Hugo Strange: I am your psychologist, Mr. Snart. That makes it my business. (Pause) Let’s see. Your file says that you were born to Lawrence Snart, a forty-year-old police officer who was kicked off the force for public drunkenness and suspected corruption, and Shirley Snart, a fifteen-year-old high school dropout. You and your family lived in a dilapidated trailer park, and your father was a known alcoholic who drank away your family’s welfare money. Five years after you came along, your younger sister, Lisa, was born...and your mother ran away, never to be seen again. The neighbors called the police because of domestic disputes between her and your father no less than thirteen times in five years, which leads me to suspect that she was spurred to leave the family because of her husband’s abuse. You were left to raise your sister, essentially on your own, at five years old, and you were effectively the head of the household from that point on. You never had a childhood, Mr. Snart. 

Capt. Cold: Don’t you talk about my sister!

Hugo Strange: I take it that you’re close to her? Understandable, I suppose, given that you grew up with her in an abusive household. Your grandfather, who drove an ice cream truck, did his best to protect you and your sister from your father’s cruelty, but he was old and in poor health, and he died when you were only twelve years old. You never got over the loss, and your father’s abuse only got worse as you and your sister got older. When you turned 14, you dropped out of high school; you then worked a number of odd jobs to support yourself and your sister. However, shortly after you turned 18, you and your father got into a dreadful argument, one that ended with you running away from home and leaving your little sister alone with your father. After that, you eventually fell into a life of petty crime. 

Capt. Cold: I...I had no choice. If I hadn’t left, he would’ve killed me! 

Hugo Strange: I am not blaming you for choosing to run away, Mr. Snart. You were an abused child with very few options available to you. 

Capt. Cold: (Quietly) I could’ve taken her with me. 

Hugo Strange: And why didn’t you? 

Capt. Cold: ‘Cause I was an 18-year-old dropout. Nobody was gonna give me custody of my sister...and besides, I’d started hangin’ out with dangerous people. I...I didn’t want her to get hurt. 

Hugo Strange: In other words, she would have been in danger no matter what you had done. 

Capt. Cold: It don’t matter! I’m her big brother! I was supposed to protect her! 

Hugo Strange: (Coming to a realization) And because you weren’t able to protect her from your father as a boy, you’re trying to make up for it now by becoming this “Captain Cold”; a larger-than-life persona that can do all the things you weren’t able to do as a child. You’ve made yourself too powerful and dangerous for anyone to threaten, and you’ve made a surrogate family for yourself and your sister. That’s why the Rogues are so successful...it’s because they aren’t really a gang at all. They’re your family. Isn’t that right, Mr. Snart? 

Capt. Cold: (Sarcastically) An’ I suppose the fact that my grandpa drove an ice cream truck somehow subconsciously influenced my decision to become Captain Cold? 

Hugo Strange: (Aware of the sarcasm, but ignoring it)  That’s perhaps a bit of a stretch, but it isn’t impossible. 

Capt. Cold: I don’t believe this….

Hugo Strange: Don’t be afraid, Mr. Snart. Admitting you have a problem is difficult, but it’s also the first step on the road to recovery. 

[blackwidowmarshal123]

I’ve been trying to wean off of overdosage of Napoleonic warfare and fandom, so I could go for a fresh start upon a new subject. I decided that I’d go for something related to my Muslim heritage and relevant to me as a woman, since I really love the idea of women soaring through the male dominated world. So here it is!!

Razia Sultan: The First and Last Woman Muslim Ruler of the Indian Subcontinent

Sultan Raziyyat-Ud-Dunya Wa Ud-Din, or also referred to as Razia Sultan was known as the first and last female Muslim Ruler of the Delhi Sultanate. She was born in 1205 into the household of Shams-us-din Iltutmish, a Mameluke Sultan, and a former slave under Qutb-ud-din, who had risen to the post of a provincial governor in Delhi. Turkan Khatun was her mother.

Razia was not like most women. Razia grew up under the influence of leading a man’s life out in the world, instead of being shut away into harems and living behind the purdah, the separation of women from men using rooms or curtains.

Unlike most Sultans, her father ensured great qualities in all his children, including Razia. Razia trained in archery, martial arts, and administration.

Ascension

Sultan Iltutmish had longed for his eldest Nasiruddin Mahmoud to be his successor, which unfortunately didn’t work out. He had died in 1229 mysteriously.

However, after Iltutmish's death, the nobles unanimously appointed his son Ruknuddin Firuz as his successor, who was Razia’s half-brother, and the son of Shah Turkan, Iltutmish’s lover. Proven to be an incapable and irrational ruler, this gave Razia a chance to prove herself. During a rebellion against Ruknuddin, Razia instigated the general public against Shah Turkan. He was deposed in 1236, six months after his rule. After the assassination of Ruknuddin and his mother, the throne was finally able to be taken by its rightful ruler.

Razia rose to the throne as Jalâlat ud-Dîn Raziyâ, after the assassination of her half-brother Ruknuddin and Iltutmish’s widow Shah Turkan after six months of his rule. Razia's ascension to the throne of Delhi was unique not only because she was a woman, but also because the support from the general public was the driving force behind her appointment.

Four Turkic nobles had joined with an army officer and decided to rebel against Razia’s ascension. As a result, she decided to seek help from the governor of Awadh, who was then captured by one Turkic nobles forced and killed in captivity. Razia then led an army out of the fortified city of Delhi to fight the rebels, and set up a camp on the banks of the Yamuna River. After a few skirmisher losses, tow of the rebel leaders joined Razia. They both had a discussion with her to capture the other rebel leaders. The other two Turkic nobles were arrested and executed. But the rebel officer escaped and hid in the Sirmaur Hills until his death.

Reign 1236-1240

She appeared in court without veil and in men’s attire. She had issued coins in her name.

Throughout her reign, she faced lots of opposition from Turkic nobles in her court. Being aware of this, she appointed several non- Turkic nobles in high positions, which further created more opposition from her foes.

Razia appointed Malik Qutubuddin Hasan Ghuri to the newly created office of the army. Razia's first military campaign directed at non-rebels was an invasion of Ranthambore, whose Chahamana ruler had asserted his sovereignty after Iltutmish's death. Razia directed Ghuri to march to Ranthambore: he was able to evacuate the Turkic nobles and officers from the fort, but was unable to subjugate the Chahamanas. The Chahamanas, in alliance with the Mewatis, captured a large part of present-day north-eastern Rajasthan, and carried out guerilla war around Delhi. Razia also sent a force to re-assert Delhi's control over Gwalior, but this campaign had to be aborted.

The Shias had revolted against the Sultanate, but the rebellion was suppressed. One major incident occurred, when the Shia Qarmatians carried out an attack on the Jama masjid in Delhi. The Qarmatian leader Nuruddin Turk had earlier condemned the Sunni, Shafi‘i, and Hanafi doctrines, and had gathered nearly 1,000 supporters from Delhi, Gujarat, Sindh, and the Doab. On 5 March 1237, he and his supporters entered the mosque, and started killing the Sunnis assembled there for the Friday prayers, before being attacked by the citizens.

In 1238, Malik Hasan Qarlugh, the former Khwarazmian governor of Ghazni, faced a Mongol threat, and sent his son to Delhi, probably to seek a military alliance against the Mongols. Razia received the prince courteously, assigned him the revenues of Baran for his expenses, but refused to form an alliance against the Mongols.

Overthrow

The Turkic nobles wanted her to be a figurehead, but she asserted herself in her own power. By 1237–1238, she had started issuing coins solely in her own name. Razia appeared in front of her citizens in traditional male attire and rode elephants in the streets of Delhi like a typical Sultan.

In 1238–1239, Malik Izzuddin Kabir Khan Ayaz – the governor of Lahore – rebelled against Razia, and she marched against him, forcing him to flee to Sodhra. However, the area beyond Sodhra was controlled by the Mongols, yet Razia continued to pursue him. Izzuddin was forced to surrender and accept Razia's authority once again. Razia treated him leniently: she took away the iqta of Lahore from him, but assigned him the iqta of Multan, which Iltutmish had assigned to Ikhtiyaruddin Qaraqash Khan Aitigin.

Razia started showing favors to Ikhtiyaruddin Altunia, appointing him the iqta of Tabarhinda. However, him and another leader conspired to overthrow her, while she was away on her Lahore campaign. Once learning of this conspiracy, Razia marched towards Tabarhinda ten days later. The rebel forces imprisoned her.

Once news of her arrest reached Delhi, the Turkic nobles appointed Muizuddin Bahram, another son of Iltutmish. However, this Sultan was not the fairest. He had a former Ikhtiyaruddin Aitigin assassinated, who was supposed to handle affairs of the state. After hearing upon Razia’s return with her new husband, he led a rebel force against their’s. Altunia and Razia were forced to retreat to Kaithal.

Marriage and Relationships

She married, Ikhtiyaruddin Altunia in 1240, who was one of her enemies who sought to initially overthrow her in Tabarhinda. He and the rebel forces had her arrested.

The idea of the marriage came from the overthrow of Razia, after seeing disadvantages of the Delhi Sultanate, who failed to hold the kingdom together. Altunia lost all hope of realizing any benefits from Razia's overthrow, and decided to ally with Razia. Razia also saw this as an opportunity to win back the throne, and married Altunia in September 1240.

Razia also had a lover before her marriage, an Abyssinian slave named Yaqut.

She had no children in the marriage.

Death

Razia died in October 15, 1240 alongside her husband Altunia, after being deserted her soldiers, and from being assassinated by a group of Hindus.

Books

Jamila Brijbhushan, Sultan Raziya, Her Life and Times: A Reappraisal

Films and T.V. Shows

Kamal Amrohi’s Razia Sultana, 1983

Lead actress Hema Malini playing Razia Sultan.

Zee T.V. Series, Razia Sultan, 2015

This poster is in German.

[princessofprocrastination]

Incapable Of Love (Corpse Husband)

MASTERLIST

summary : corpse hasn’t been in a relationship for a while. he thought he was ready when he met you, but now he’s not so sure anymore. (a dash of sykkuno)(angst)

a/n : dude i spent three whole days writing this and maybe i went too far, it’s so long. anyways, enjoy. this might not be the only part, please tell me if you want a continuation and tell me who you want yourself to end up with. 

warning : a very long story, and a whole lot of heartbreak. 

you were semi wild in highschool. no, you weren’t a party goer, you didn’t even start drinking till you reached twenty-one, but you didn’t have a hard time finding a boyfriend. although you never ha a hard time moving on, you are still a virgin, and you are proud to say that. 

your mother always told you to have fun while you were young, and never to feel deprived of the little things like going to clubs, this way, you would settle down and never feel the need to go back to the party phase ever again when you’re married and have kids. 

truth be told, you never thought about wanting kids. while every one of your friends spoke about their dream lives with kids, you never saw yourself with a child. 

you never took dating in highschool seriously. no one does. you did it to have fun. this was because you were in a very abusive relationship early on your teenage days. 

you were too young and naive to say anything when your then boyfriend would hit you, since he was much older than you, which was completely legal as you two weren’t doing anything sexual. 

it started small, just loud screaming or he would get in front of your face. then, he would scream at you while holding your face in one of his hands tightly, which would leave red finger marks all over your cheeks. it didn’t take long till he fully hit you, grabbing your hair and banging it on the wood table. 

it took you almost risking your life for your friends to find out what was happening and reporting him to the police. 

the amount of head injury you took caused a lot of trauma, but you still pushed through and didn’t let it get to you. your friends often called you a ray of sunshine although you dress the opposite. 

you would call yourself lucky. lucky that you found happiness in your job, that you weren’t stuck on a boring desk job. you were lucky to have started youtube. 

your friends would tell you that you deserved the success and fame that youtube had brought you, to keep going and not to let your actual supporters down whenever the hate would come up.

then, quarantine started. which somehow made your channel grow even bigger. also, this meant that you had time to just do better in creating content. 

one of your subscribers had commented about someone by the name of “corpse husband”. 

you had never heard of this name before, which made you more curious, but you never looked into it. 

corinna kopf, had brought you into the idea of streaming in your free time. and since you grew up playing minecraft, you started streaming your minecraft gameplays. 

soon enough, you made new friends and was invited to play among us, a really popular game during quarantine. 

there is where you found out who corpse husband actually is. 

streaming, you joined the discord call. your facecam directly showing your face and your background being your newly cleaned bedroom. 

“this is y/n, she makes one hell of an imposter,” corinna says to the rest of the people in the discord call. 

you blushed, not expecting the attention when you just joined in. 

felix, who goes by the name pewdipie introduces the rest of them to you. 

“and corpse is here too, his name had been popping a lot up in your comment section.” felix said to you. 

“actually, i was about to ask about that.” you replied. confused on why the rest of them were teasing you too. 

“let’s just say, a certain deep voice man had been simping for you recently.” valkyrae told you. 

“awh, that’s sweet, i’ve never had anyone simped for me before.” i said, smiling t myself. 

it took approximately three seconds for your stream comments to be filled with “i simped for you way before he did.” or “i simped since you started your channel” 

you laughed, you were expecting this. 

“okay, i’m guilty of that.” the man itself said. 

that was how your friendship started, which soon continued into a relationship. 

you weren’t even sure how you were capable of finding such a man. he takes good care of you, making sure you ate your medicine at the right time. to which you would remind him to take his, too. 

he’s a respectful man, always making sure he didn’t accidentally go above your boundaries. 

before the both of you were official, you made sure he knew about your past trauma, that’s you were sensitive to a lot of noises. screaming, glasses breaking, even the sound of people clapping. 

months go by and you both are going strong. you are usually at his house more than you are at your own. today was no exception. 

you came back to corpse’ place after filming a video with another fellow youtuber. you didn’t have the best of days. the person you were collaborating with turned out to be a pretty creepy person. 

he kept on asking you about personal thing like your sex life, although you’ve told him many times that you weren’t comfortable with talking about that. 

behind the scenes too, he would try to come up to you and grab your waist. you left his house in anger and rush. 

you left corpse’ apartment before sunrise and came back early enough for dinner. 

you knew that he would be streaming today, and since he usually streams late, you weren’t rushing to make dinner. 

you always had an issue with getting him to eat, but since you both are still in the “honeymoon period” of your relationship, it had still been tolerable. 

you put your bags down on the couch as you start to make dinner, not going to shower in case corpse hasn’t ate anything today. you felt bad for leaving him alone for a long period of time. 

you finished cooking and quickly cleaned up, making sure all the dishes are clean before you call on corpse to eat. 

you stood in front of his steaming room, bracing yourself before asking him to eat. although he is a puppy inside and was only intimidating because of his voice, you couldn’t help but feel scared at times. it was your habit. 

you knocked on the door softly twice, making sure you weren’t interrupting anything. 

you didn’t hear anything from inside the room. you knocked a little louder since you thought maybe he hadn’t heard you. 

you heard some clicking of keyboard keys. you assumed that he couldn’t hear you so you slowly opened the room door, making sure his stream couldn’t hear you just in case he was unmuted. 

although you two have been together for almost a year, he had told you that he wasn’t ready for the public to know, not even your mutual friends. that did make you a little hurt but you brushed it off since you knew it was going to be worth it. 

anything with him was worth it. 

“hey.” you started, making sure not to startle him. 

he put his hand up for you to see. you stopped in the middle of the room, scared that you messed something up. 

corpse clicks one of his keyboards. he turns to you slightly, but not looking into your eyes. you found this a little weird but you pushed the thought at the back of your head. 

“bub i made dinner, let’s eat.” you said to him. 

“not hungry.” he replies. 

you sighed. you knew this was going to happen. 

“you always say this, but you need to eat.” you almost whined at him, practically begging him to eat. 

“‘said i’m not hungry.” he replied to you again. 

“even just a little, please eat.” you tried again.

“JUST STOP, I’VE HAD IT WITH YOU. I TOLD YOU I’M NOT HUNGRY.” corpse screams, while his left hand banged on his gaming table loudly. 

you flinched, and slightly moved back. this brought you flashbacks to your highschool relationship. 

“i’m sorry.” you said, voice soft that you weren’t even sure he could hear.

you left the room in a rush but still tried to get out quietly. 

you could hear corpse continuing his steam. tears were now going down your cheeks as you walked in your shared bedroom. 

you sat on the bed, with your legs folded to your chest as you have a mild panic attack. 

soon, after almost an hour or two of just crying, you knew your anxiety wouldn’t calm unless you slept, not knowing what to do without someone else helping you calm down. 

you laid in bed, tucking your legs into the duvet, almost cuddling into yourself. you felt extra drained with all the things that happened earlier. you soon fell asleep, crying. 

you don’t often struggle with sleep, but when you do, it’s usually hard to take care of. these were one of those days. 

you woke up only a couple of hours later, not even making it into the AM.

you sat on the bed, rethinking about what happened. although you were very tired and in need of sleep, your brain worked perfectly fine after that screaming fest.

you got up and stood in front of corpse’ streaming room, trying to listen in whatever is happening inside. 

“i just need a little break for her, that’s all, i didn’t mean to lash out.” you heard him say. 

he’s probably on the phone with someone. 

“i don’t even think i want this relationship anymore. it’s just so hard, she has her problems too, i can’t handle mine and hers.” he continues. 

you ceased all your movements. you were thinking of talking it out but now you weren’t so sure he even wanted that. 

it took you approximately three seconds to think through what you should do. 

you weren’t one to make rash decisions but you knew for sure that you just had to leave. for good. 

you walked back into your shared bedroom and carefully and quietly packed all your things, making sure to not leave anything behind. lucky for you, you both hadn’t moved in together, you just spent your time here, more than your own apartment. 

you quietly walked to the front door of his apartment, grabbing your car keys. you stood in front of the door, sighing. 

this was it. 

finally, you left his apartment. 

-

CORPSE’S POV 

“- handle mine and hers.” i said. 

“you can’t say that, you know you appreciate her, she’s been there for you through all the major things, don’t be stupid over a small comment someone made about you guys.” sean, who i was on the phone with, told me. 

i sighed. 

“i know, but it just really messed my head up, you know.” i said to him. 

“i get it, but don’t put the blame on her. it’s already bad that you lashed out on her after she made food for you.” sean said. 

food. i’m kinda hungry now. 

the conversation lasted for a couple more minutes before i told him i was hungry and needed to eat. 

i walked out the streaming room, out to a weirdly cold living room. i brushed it off since it happens sometimes. maybe the heater broke. 

it was oddly quiet in the apartment, so i assumed she fell asleep. 

i walked into the kitchen to see two plates of food still sitting there, definitely untouched. 

i glance at the place she usually hangs her keys. 

it was gone. her shoes, gone. 

i walk in the bedroom and open all the cabinets where her clothes are usually in. they’re gone.

shit. 

-

YOUR POV

although it’s been a couple months since the whole “argument”, it never got better. 

but you’ve always been a tough cookie, not showing other people your feelings. you had always been good at that. 

valkyrae, one of your bestfriends, had made sure you were okay, knowing what went down. 

she visited you often, making sure you were okay.

remember the same day the argument happened, you met up with a creepy youtuber for a collab? yeah, well, he went on social media to call you some derogatory words. 

he even made a video saying you promised him sexual things after filming, which you couldn’t even believe came out of his mouth. 

lucky for you, your supporters never ceased to amaze you. they knew you were not that type of person, and even made sure his platform was taken away from him. 

that whole scandal wasn’t taking up your brain but corpse did. it seemed like he didn’t care at all. as if he was just waiting for the day you left his place for your own. 

that took a while to get over, and you were sure that you aren’t 100% over it, hence why rae has been helping you all along. 

only a couple weeks since the argument, you felt like you couldn’t stay in your apartment any longer. there was just too many memories of him in there. 

again, you knew you were lucky in the sense that you had the financials to move. 

this time, you moved to a house, since you needed a bigger space and you felt bad that every time your friends came over, they had to bunk in a small space you called your apartment.

rae and yourself got somehow super close with a lot of the offlinetv members. sykkuno, being one of them somehow clicked with you instantly after meeting. 

he and rae helped you move your things from your apartment to your house. 

it felt good saying that. house. not an apartment. not a place you pay rent anymore. 

you tried to get over the corpse thing, but deep down you knew your love for him would never disappear. he was one of a kind. and although he says he has many problems, you found that special about him. 

but what do you know. you can’t say much when feelings aren’t reciprocated. you understood that you were a handful but why did it have to hurt this bad. 

“hey, stop thinking about him.” sykkuno says, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“who?” you asked, acting dumb.

“you know who, it doesn’t take a genius to know.” he answers you. 

dang it, he caught it. 

you looked at sykkuno. you couldn’t help but think about it at times. although you’ve settled in your new place for a while now, no more memories of him, you just couldn’t help it. 

“come here.” sykkuno says, opening his arms out, reaching out to me. 

you went to his side on the couch, engulfed in his arms. he understood you. that’s what you loved about your friends. they all understood you. 

too busy cuddling up to sykkuno, you hadn’t heard a shutter of a camera from behind you. 

valkyrae giggled silently, glad she got a photo of you two. 

she posted it on her story, captioning it, “so proud of this girl right here for being so strong. also, aren’t these two so cute.” 

you didn’t see the photo until after dinner, once all of you are on the couch, watching the voice. 

“rae, what did you do?” you asked her when you saw your twitter blow up. 

“i have no clue what you’re talking about.” she tells me, acting innocent. 

i clicked on one of the photos on twitter that had been circulating. the moment i clicked on it, i saw a very familiar pair. sykkuno and i. 

“very funny, rae.” i laughed along with her, showing sykkuno what i just saw. 

you didn’t think much of it since you two are just friends but since you saw the amount of ‘ships’, you decided to post something on your instagram 

“guys, come here, let’s take a photo.” you told them two.

you quickly snapped a photo. you made sure none of you look too crazy in the photo. 

you posted the photo on your instagram and wrote “three friends, hanging out. they might kiss. they might :)” 

you showed rae and sykkuno before you posted it. 

sykkuno laughed before opening twitter and tweeting “they might kiss, they might.” 

you saw his tweet from over his shoulder. you high-fived him for going with the joke. 

obviously you two aren’t dating. if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t completely over corpse. you have admitted it to your two friends once in a confession night during a sleepover. 

but you couldn’t lie that you had a very very small crush on sykkuno once. like come on, he’s just so wholesome and sweet, you couldn’t help yourself. 

you were proud to say it too, he was your crush and he knew that. he is very proud to say that too. 

since the breakup, you’ve had a pretty good life.

yes, you moved in a house that you had already fully paid for but other than that, you proud to say you got a new car, amazing house renovations, made a lot more new friends who support you endlessly and you even got a cat as a companion to fill the void you have for staying at such a big house. 

-

CORPSE’S POV 

i’ve been miserable ever since. i see her everywhere on the internet. 

i know she has been better off without me. only an idiot couldn’t tell that. she made a lot of new friends, got a house, got a new car. 

i’ve seen them all. vogue interviewed her. and apparently she can sing too and she’s been singing in a lot of shows. 

it’s getting harder and harder to get her out of my head. 

why was i that stupid. stupid enough to think i was better off without her. 

now when i look at myself in the mirror i feel pathetic. dishes were left piling up in the kitchen, the beds are always unmade. 

i took her for granted. 

FLASHBACK 

shit. 

did she leave? 

a part of me says that this was the easy way to let her go. letting her go without actually letting go. 

i had been dreading to talk to her. but another part of me thinks i should go to her apartment and find her. discuss it with her. 

without realizing, tears rush down my cheeks. 

i wipe it quickly, not understanding my own feelings. why was i crying when i was the one who had wanted this in the first place? 

-

NOW

i regret the time i didn’t rush to find her. i didn’t know what i was thinking. why would i make such a rash decision like then when i knew damn well how well she treated me. 

why did i have to be such an ass?

i called sean that day. he scolded me for being so stupid. i agreed, but i still didn’t make an effort to find her. 

now that she lives somewhere else, i’m regretting it. i can’t ask rae or sykkuno, knowing that i’d just get scolded yet again. they are her bestfriends afterall. 

even since rae posted the pic of you and sykkuno in your living room, i felt jealous. but i had no right, not anymore. 

then i saw your instagram story, then sykkuno’s tweet. have you moved on already? 

was i too late?

you are happy now that i’m not. you are happy doing your own things, thriving and here i was, sitting on my bed, crying. 

i remember not even a day after she left, there was a huge scandal which included her in it. i was heartbroken and stupid, not knowing what to do with the fact that she left that i believed that stupid youtuber. 

sean called me an idiot, stupid enough to believe that she would do that to me when i damn well knew that she wasn’t that type of person. 

 i felt stupid now that i took her for granted, that i lost the chance to get her back into my arms. 

but she’s happy now. and that’s all that matters. even if it’s in another guys’ arms. 

PART 2

[millenniumblog]

[ID: A chart describing the core values of each of the nine Enneagram personality types with YuGiOh characters correlated to each of the types.]

YuGiOh Enneagram Analysis, Part #1

Please note that this is the “boring” informational post about Enneagram with the Types listed and explained as well as a few other things. The next post is what has the actual, in-depth character profiles promised!

Introduction & Motivation

Over the past several months, I have been trying to analyze my strengths and weaknesses as a writer and learn more. I have been writing fanfiction since I was a little kid, making my first FF.net account in 2003 when I would have been twelve years old. Even before that, I was a lurker and wrote fics to share with my childhood best friend on paper or floppy discs.

YuGiOh came into my life at some point shortly thereafter. I know this, because I spent my thirteenth birthday in a comic book shop, mostly watching some of my male friends play the trading card game. I had some of the cards, but I was never much of a player, unable to keep up with the seemingly rapid rule changes. Besides that, I was always way more interested in the story and characters than I was in the card game. I remember I even wanted to call “YuGiOh cards” “Duel Monsters” instead to make it seem a little closer to tween-y LARPing.

Eventually, I gave up on collecting cards or trying to ply the game. I felt that while my male friends didn’t mind me being around when they played, they weren’t extremely interested in helping me learn or keep up. I felt I had other strengths, so I started carrying around a notebook even more than I already did. I started my fledgling forays into online fandom. And YuGiOh was a big part of the beginning of that.

I can’t remember posting any YuGiOh fic in particular, and I’m sure that if I had it would make me cringe now. What I do remember is reading some and also spending a lot of time lying on my bed, headphones plugged into a small purple stereo, listening to the first of the two American-released CDs with YuGiOh-inspired music on them. In particular, the last three tracks were pieces of music from the original score composed for the 4Kids dub, which is - for some reason - different from the original Japanese music.

During that time, I would fantasize and conjure my own YuGiOh plots in my head, most of which were focused on the Ancient Egyptian and more spooky, spiritual, and horror themes in the show. I was really fascinated with the reincarnation angle, though my understanding of and opinions on how that works have grown with time.

Years went by, and I didn’t think about YuGiOh much at all. Then, something happened in 2018. I don’t know what got in my head, but it was like all the joy I once found in thinking about the YuGiOh characters came back in a giddy conversation with my childhood best friend. Then, for a little while, it wouldn’t leave me alone.

I started writing for the fandom then, and after several detours, I’m trying to get back in the groove of it.

My approach to the tone of YuGiOh-fanning is that it’s a bit serious, but it’s also with a tongue placed in my cheek because of how incomprehensible or silly the plot can be on a meta level. Sometimes, it almost brings tears to my eyes by being so over-the-top about something that, in the real world, would make no sense at all. But the drama, in the context of the universe, somehow rings true.

I think that’s all owing to how most of the primary characters are just... really freaking great characters.

It has often puzzled me. Like, did Takahashi do all this layering on purpose? Is it really there, or did earnest fanon just make it seem like it? And, as a person, I am always here for a good fan-and-canon symbiosis.

This post is going to be, from here on, an effort to match the YuGiOh characters to the 9 Enneagram Personality Types. I am writing this for my own benefit as I continue to work on my pet YuGiOh fanfiction project, It’s Always Sunny in Domino City, which is a mixture of YGOTAS-vibes-and-concepts taken seriously and a sincere take on fanfiction for the actual canon. It’s dramedy about a sizeable chunk of the main cast a few years post-canon with some canon divergence such as the Memory World arc not yet and possibly never-happening. If that sounds like something you’d like, I would humbly request you check it out!

Either way, this will be an in-depth character analysis cheatsheet for all of the characters above, based on my observations, opinions, and feelings. I invite discussion, but it’s fine if we need to agree to totally disagree!

If you are interested and enjoy what’s below the Read More and in the coming second post, then you are welcome to utilize the character analyses to aid you in your own fanwork!

Enneagram

What is Enneagram, and why am I using it?

Enneagram is a personality categorization system that one might compare to the somewhat better-known MBTI. However, in the words of excellent writing-advice YouTuber, Abbie Emmons:

MBTI shows us how we behave.

Enneagram shows us what we believe.

I will be referencing Abbie’s video Using The ENNEAGRAM To Write CONFLICTED CHARACTERS and her free Enneagram-cheatsheet, available in the description of the linked video. Whether it’s before you continue reading or after, if you’re interested in writing, I would highly recommend you check out her channel!

The Enneagram system has nine basic personality types that overlap and interact in really interesting ways. It is not a hard science, and it’s not a horoscope. Instead, it’s supposed to be “based on conventional wisdom and modern psychology.” All I can say is that with every set of characters I’ve tried it with, it works! Once you get the hang of it, it feels kind of like ~✰~magic~✰~!

Below, I will list Abbie’s simplified definitions of each of the personality types, in order:

Type 1: The Reformer

The Rational, Idealistic Type:

Principled, Purposeful, Self-Controlled, and Perfectionistic

Basic Fear: Of being corrupt/evil, defective

Basic Desire: To be good, to have integrity, to be balanced

Key Motivations: Want to be right, to strive higher and improve everything, to be consistent with their ideals, to justify themselves, to be beyond criticism so as not to be condemned by anyone.

Type 2: The Helper

The Caring, Interpersonal Type:

Generous, Demonstrative, People-Pleasing, and Possessive

Basic Fear: Of being unwanted, unworthy of being loved

Basic Desire: To feel loved

Key Motivations: Want to be loved, to express their feelings for others, to be needed and appreciated, to get others to respond to them, to vindicate their claims about themselves.

Type 3: The Achiever

The Success-Oriented, Pragmatic Type:

Adaptable, Excelling, Driven, and Image-Conscious

Basic Fear: Of being worthless

Basic Desire: To feel valuable and worthwhile

Key Motivations: Want to be affirmed, to distinguish themselves from others, to have attention, to be admired, and to impress others.

Type 4: The Individualist

The Sensitive, Introspective Type:

Expressive, Dramatic, Self-Absorbed, and Temperamental

Basic Fear: That they have no identity or personal significance

Basic Desire: To find themselves and their significance (to create an identity)

Key Motivations: Want to express themselves and their individuality, to create and surround themselves with beauty, to maintain certain moods and feelings, to withdraw to protect their self-image, to take care of emotional needs before attending to anything else, to attract a "rescuer."

Type 5: The Investigator

The Intense, Cerebral Type:

Perceptive, Innovative, Secretive, and Isolated

Basic Fear: Being useless, helpless, or incapable

Basic Desire: To be capable and competent

Key Motivations: Want to possess knowledge, to understand the environment, to have everything figured out as a way of defending the self from threats from the environment.

Type 6: The Loyalist

The Committed, Security-Oriented Type:

Engaging, Responsible, Anxious, and Suspicious

Basic Fear: Of being without support and guidance

Basic Desire: To have security and support

Key Motivations: Want to have security, to feel supported by others, to have certitude and reassurance, to test the attitudes of others toward them, to fight against anxiety and insecurity.

Type 7: The Enthusiast

The Busy, Variety-Seeking Type:

Spontaneous, Versatile, Acquisitive, and Scattered

Basic Fear: Of being deprived and in pain

Basic Desire: To be satisfied and content—to have their needs fulfilled

Key Motivations: Want to maintain their freedom and happiness, to avoid missing out on worthwhile experiences, to keep themselves excited and occupied, to avoid and discharge pain.

Type 8: The Challenger

The Powerful, Dominating Type:

Self-Confident, Decisive, Willful, and Confrontational

Basic Fear: Of being harmed or controlled by others

Basic Desire: To protect themselves (to be in control of their own life and destiny)

Key Motivations: Want to be self-reliant, to prove their strength and resist weakness, to be important in their world, to dominate the environment, and to stay in control of their situation.

Type 9: The Peacemaker

The Easygoing, Self-Effacing Type:

Receptive, Reassuring, Agreeable, and Complacent

Basic Fear: Of loss and separation

Basic Desire: To have inner stability, "peace of mind"

Key Motivations: Want to create harmony in their environment, to avoid conflicts and tension, to preserve things as they are, to resist whatever would upset or disturb them.

Now that you’ve seen all those, what do you think your favorite character is? In YuGiOh or anything else! It works great for original characters and even yourself and your loved ones.

The actual Character Profiles will be in coming post(s), but continue reading if you want me to explain more about how and why the Enneagram is a great personality typing system. #nonspon, or whatever.

The Enneagram Chart

Now, you could just go to the Enneagram Institute’s page on How the System Works, but below I’ll cut it down to only the parts I’m interested in and explain those in a way that helps me.

Unlike in astrology or MBTI, which are both more restrictive in different ways, the relative position of each type matters a bit on the Enneagram chart, because it can be used to visualize a lot of things about a person!

The Basic Chart

The Types are shown in a clockwise fashion with “1″ in the 1 o’clock position on an analog clock. The interior lines mean things, but I have trouble reading it without further delineation.

Centers of Response

Below are two small charts, displayed side-by-side. (If it’s too small, try right-click, open in new tab!)

The chart on the left shows the three “centers.” The “centers” indicate the first ‘processing language’ a person would use to respond to stimuli.

Type 8, Type 9, and Type 1 respond first based on instinct (primal, gut-feeling). If you want to go Freudian, this is from the id.

Type 2, Type 3, and Type 4 respond first based on feelings (social or personal desires, the heart). If you want to go Freudian, this is from the ego.

Type 5, Type 6, and Type 7 respond first based on thoughts (analytical rather than emotional, the head). If you want to go Freudian, this is from the superego.

Remember that, of course, every single type and person engages their instincts, their emotions, and their thoughts at different times and to different degrees, and some of these are learned or changed behaviors. This is about what their innate drive toward that would be.

Likewise, the same “centers” can also be used for the chart on the right. You will notice that all three of these are defined by what is typically considered a negative emotion. This is because this is about a person’s instinctive, not particularly conscious emotional response when they are backed into a corner and deprived of something that is core to the needs of their personality type.

Type 8, Type 9, and Type 1 tend to respond to a threat to their psychic well-being with anger/rage.

Type 2, Type 3, and Type 4 tend to respond to a threat to their psychic well-being with shame.

Type 5, Type 6, and Type 7 tend to respond to a threat to their psychic well-being with fear.

Stress vs. Growth

We all know that there are times when a person isn’t acting like themselves, for better or for worse. Usually, “You’re not acting like yourself,” means that a person is behaving badly. Of course, it’s way easier to withdraw and bristle and defend rather than growing in the midst of adversity. However, it is certainly possible to experience character growth in response to experiences, good and bad. Unlike a lot of other personality typing schemes, the Enneagram has a way to display and predict what stress and growth do to a person.

The Enneagram never suggests that any Type is an island unto itself. Every person contains multitudes, but a person’s Type is likely to remain relatively stable throughout their lives, once they have had a chance to develop any personality at all. This means that when a person is stressed or growing that they do not become the type they emulate. Rather, they are more highly expressing that aspects of their personality that reflect those drives and desires but in a way that is either fraught, sickly, or unwell (in the case of stress), or aspirational, flying-high, and incorporating the hard-lessons into who a person is going to be going forward (in the case of growth). The latter, especially, isn’t a sustainable mode, while a stressed person can become more entrenched in their bad habits and defensive coping mechanisms.

Stress

Note the white, directional arrows. Each number has an arrow point pointing to it and an arrow leading away from it. The point indicates that this is the stress manifestation for the Type at the origin of that arrow. The origin of each arrow indicates the Type being described.

Confused? Let me finally give you a YuGiOh example.

When I was trying to identify the Types of the characters, defining Marik was difficult, because he has a “Yami,” or Dark Side, which has its own personality and will but which is not its own separate soul or person than Marik himself. Rather, it’s a kind of fantasy/magic-assisted personality splintering where Yami Marik is a full manifestation of the negative traits Marik needed to embody to survive.

So, for reference:

When stressed, Type 1 behaves more like Type 4. 

When stressed, Type 2 behaves more like Type 8.

When stressed, Type 3 behaves more like Type 9.

When stressed, Type 4 behaves more like Type 2.

When stressed, Type 5 behaves more like Type 7.

When stressed, Type 6 behaves more like Type 3.

When stressed, Type 7 behaves more like Type 1.

When stressed, Type 8 behaves more like Type 5.

When stressed, Type 9 behaves more like Type 6.

Alternatively, you can use these sequences to follow the stress lines:

1-4-2-8-5-7-1

9-6-3-9

Growth

Think of the above-explanation in reverse.

The sequence:

1-7-5-8-2-4-1

9-3-6-9

As a Type 1 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 7.

As a Type 2 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 4.

As a Type 3 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 6.

As a Type 4 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 1.

As a Type 5 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 8.

As a Type 6 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 9.

As a Type 7 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 5.

As a Type 8 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 2.

As a Type 9 grows, they incorporate more positive traits of Type 3.

Wings

The final thing to know about the Enneagram chart for my purposes is about wings. The wing of your personality traits accounts for the complementary and contradictory aspects of your personality. They are the inconsistencies that make you human, predicted and jumped in. Typically, a person is not thought to have both possible wings but one or the other. A wing is one of the two adjacent Types to yours, the number before, or the number after, and it is annotated, for example:

Type 1, Wing 2: 1w2

Type 1, Wing 9: 1w9

Link to Part 2 Here!

[violetwolfraven]

“You know they’re gonna get married and have a bunch of unholy babies.”

*deep breath* Here we go. I can do this.

It’s been a long time (like over a month) since I’ve put anything out, but... I’m trying. Got struck with a small bolt of inspiration and I’m gonna try to start creating again. As of now I am gonna say that requests are still closed, but I’m feeling a bit better and I think this fic looks okay, so don’t hesitate to comment with your thoughts!

Tw: implied internalized homophobia, rejection, mentioned child neglect.

...

Flynn knows that Carrie likes girls.

She’s always known. It’s obvious. It’s been obvious. Since even before the first time Ray showed the girls (Triple Threat. Triple Threat was going to be their band name after they were introduced to Carrie in 2nd grade, key words going to be—) Star Wars and while Julie was saying how cool Princess Leia shooting a gun was, all Carrie could talk about was how pretty she was.

Carrie’s favorite flowers are violets. Her favorite Disney fairy is Vidia. Her favorite Avenger is Thor. It’s obvious. It always has been.

Flynn has known Carrie likes girls... well, the entire time they’ve known Carrie. Carrie likes girls. It’s just the way things are. Julie has a seemingly permanent crush on Nick but occasionally gets another one on someone else (she has excellent, though unrealistic, taste) Ray and Rose don’t question it when Flynn shows up at their house unexpectedly, and Carrie likes girls.

And Flynn likes Carrie, not that she feels like telling her that.

Carrie, who shines like a neon pink supernova when she sings, who attacks every move when she dances, who is ambitious and ruthless and... so insecure.

She needs constant validation. She needs reassurance that people can care about her for more than just her dad’s wealth and fame. She needs to know she isn’t going to be left behind again.

She seems to like being needed, when Flynn’s mom and dad finally get divorced, perfectly happy to wake up at odd hours to marathon the entire Pirates of the Caribbean franchise because it’s not like Flynn’s dad will notice if they leave the house in the middle of the night and take an Uber to a mansion above the beach because she needs to feel seen right now.

And it’s not that they blame her for any of it. She doesn’t. It’s just... weird, knowing that Carrie needs those nights, needs to feel needed, as much as Flynn needs to feel noticed.

It would be simpler to go to Julie’s house, but Carrie knows how it feels to have the ground under your feet shaken and your family break apart. Julie can’t possibly understand that yet, so Flynn goes to Carrie.

And Carrie takes to popping in The Curse of the Black Pearl before she can even ask her to. She learns to braid natural hair and will sit for hours doing Flynn’s. She’ll talk absentmindedly about the latest shenanigans her dance class has been up to until they feel up to talking about whatever’s bothering them.

They talk about Flynn’s mixed feelings about her mom’s new girlfriend and their buttload of homework and her dad paying more attention to his car than to them and somewhere in there, Flynn realizes that isn’t just a crush. She’s had those before. This—what they’re feeling now—is love. Or... it has to be.

It has to be love because what else could possibly be this strong?

She really shouldn’t have forgotten that as their dad likes to joke about, love is bullshit.

And Flynn really shouldn’t have taken Julie’s advice about making a move on the girl they have a crush on (she didn’t even tell Julie who it was, what were they thinking?).

Because Flynn pours her heart out, says they’ve been in love with her since they were 7 (and they’re 13 now so literally almost half her life), and Carrie just stares at her for a full 10 seconds, then runs—no—sprints away.

Less than 48 hours later it’s all over her Instagram that she and Nick are going out on a date, and Flynn wants to scream.

They both keep it together for Julie, pretend they’re still friends, because Rose just got diagnosed with cancer and Julie needs them to be normal, so they are.

But the first and last time Flynn tries going over to Carrie’s house again after the fiasco of telling her how they feel, it’s a big argument that narrowly avoids waking Trevor that ends in an unholy, heartbroken mess of you don’t even like him, you don’t even like boys so why and I don’t know what you’re talking about and yeah, right, call me when you’re ready to stop pretending to be something you’re not.

Then Flynn leaves, goes to the Molinas’ (Ray makes her hot chocolate, he’s such a good dad), and pretends it doesn’t hurt until it doesn’t anymore. Until she’s angry instead of heartbroken and they’re not just angry for herself. They’re angry that things are weird enough now that Julie can tell something’s up. Angry that Nick’s inevitably going to get his heart stepped on (because he is a sweetheart, if an oblivious one). Angry that Carrie’s gone and formed her own band without what is now going to be just Double Trouble and her performances are good.

Angry that Carrie thinks liking girls would... what? Make people love her less? Make her dad love her less? Hurt her career bad enough to end it?

And she’s definitely angry that Carrie’s pushing Julie so hard back towards music, after Rose dies.

She means well, thinking what she did to cope with her mom abandoning her will work for Julie, but she’s being short-sighted about it.

Rose’s death is hitting all of them hard in different ways (Rose was almost as good as another mom to Flynn), only Carrie can’t seem to see that. She can’t seem to see that when Julie’s hurting, she shuts down completely. Stops creating music because it’s what she needs to do to cope.

And Carrie... does not react well when Flynn tries to tell her that. That conversation ends in a big, explosive fight in the Molinas’ garage with Julie caught in the middle that doesn’t stop until Ray comes out and makes them stop by telling Carrie he’s driving her home.

Flynn shoves every last bit of feelings they might have had for Carrie down and puts all her energy into making sure Julie will be okay.

They don’t miss the feeling of Carrie’s hands in her hair, hearing her voice sarcastically remarking on how Jack Sparrow is lucky to be alive, and talking about feelings with someone who clearly needs that talk as badly as they do.

It’s almost the same, once Julie feels okay enough to handle listening to other people’s problems, but...

“I know you love her, Flynn,” Julie tells them one day, months after the big fight.

To which Flynn can only respond, “That’s not true.”

Because it’s not. Not after everything Carrie said. Because if there’s still some feelings left over for that beautiful neon pink supernova demon... no there isn’t. She turned them into anger, making snappy comments about how Carrie’s a traitor, a demon, whatever.

About how she’s gonna end up with Nick and live unhappily ever after.

That not happening would require either Nick to get his sweet himbo head out of the clouds (probably not going to happen), or Carrie to get past the denial phase of accepting her sexuality.

Ha. Fucking likely that is.

Because Carrie likes girls. Flynn’s always known she does.

But she’s also insecure and aggressive and obsessed with breaking out of her dad’s shadow, and any possible threat to that dream can’t stand.

Even if accepting herself might actually make both of them her happy. Fill in some of the holes in both of their lives her self-esteem.

Carrie’s too damn stubborn to even consider it, and Flynn doesn’t miss her. They don’t. She’s not stupid enough to hold on to something that will never happen and they have moved on. Can even joke about it now.

“You know they’re gonna get married and have a bunch of unholy babies.”

...

Part 2 here cause I’m physically incapable of not writing at least the possibility for a happy ending!

[clockworkgraystairs]

Letting Go

Rating: M

Warnings: Major character death. Angst. Mentions of sex. Angst. Accidents. Did I mention angst?

Summary:

Cardan thought he and his family were meant to live happily ever after.

He was wrong.

Extra comments: I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.

Extra comments 2: If you’re masochist as me and wish to read this listening to some music, I’ll leave my spotify playlist “Don’t touch me, I’m angsty”

Thank you to the incredible @sweetlyvillainous for holding my hand while I cried because of this, for betaing later and for giving the extra boost to the angst. YES YOU DID, AND YOU’RE AS GUILTY AS ME. I love u. 

Masterlist   •   AO3

As dawn went on, Cardan looked through the window with hooded eyes. It snowed outside. How typical, he thought. 

Not long ago he would’ve been excited about it. The perspective of spending the day building snow castles and angels. Never a snowman, since his daughter had always claimed that was too cliché. He would mock her for it and build tiny figures around her castle. ‘The invasion of the fae snowmen’ he’d called it, despite the insistence of his wife about that being pure nonsense. 

He laid on his bed, staring at nothing in particular. From that position he would normally be able to look at her, snoring softly in the opposite pillow. That used to be his favorite moment of the day. Few minutes that he could spend watching how she slept, calm and unbothered. At least until he couldn’t help it anymore and woke her up, trailing her neck with soft and playful kisses.  

Cold sheets coiled around him now. A reminder of the empty space next to him that haunted Cardan at the beginning and end of each day. Screaming into the silence she’s gone.  

The morning it happened, Ivy wanted pancakes an old store sold a couple of blocks away. Cardan was reluctant to get up. All groggy because he and Jude had spent the night before rolling on the sheets, barely moaning in each other’s mouths trying not to wake their 7 year old. He didn’t want to get up. But his daughter was as stubborn as his wife. So Jude gave him a long sweet kiss and told him to go back to sleep while she fetched breakfast. 

He did. 

He shouldn’t have.

He should’ve gone with her. He should’ve gone instead. Or better yet, he should’ve convinced her to stay and make the bloody pancakes himself. Anything.

Anything except letting Jude go out alone. She was supposed to be back in a matter of minutes, but she didn’t. And he didn’t notice it because he fell asleep again. 

He missed the first phone call. And the second. 

It wasn’t until a tiny hand woke him up and handed him the cellphone. Frowning with dizziness at Jude’s two missed calls he was about to dial back when it rang again. 

“Hey babe, sorry. What’s up?” He mumbled, ruffling Ivy’s hair.

The voice that answered was not Jude’s, instantly startling him awake.

“Yes, he’s speaking.” Loud voices and sirens muffled the voice, making it hard to hear. “I’m- I’m sorry I’m not understanding, where is my wife? Give her the phone so I can speak to her plea-”

He didn’t record the moment when he put on the first clothes he found, nor calling his old college friends that lived two doors away to come and watch little Ivy. 

He didn’t watch for the red lights or cared if he’d parked the right way in the hospital’s parking lot. The world seemed to spiral around him, an unending parade of walls, doors, people in white or blue suits. Voices filled him with details but he could only partially hear them. Something about a kid crossing the street unsupervised and Jude running after him. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

“We’re glad we could reach you Mr. Greenbriar. It’s always better when the patient doesn’t have to go through it alone.”

“Through it? What are you-”

“I’m really sorry. The internal damage is too much...” 

The doctor’s voice faded away as they entered the room. Fighting to bite back a sob he approached the resting figure on the bed. She looked like his wife, but something was deeply wrong. Her face was awfully pale and her lips dry and bruised. Wires rested along her body. The monitor connected to them matched the aching slowness in her breathing. There was no trace of the playful Jude that teased him mercilessly day after day, stealing kisses from his mouth and knowing he’d let her do whatever she wanted to him. 

He found himself still standing centimeters away from her, paralyzed. 

The doctor leaned to touch her shoulder and whispered something to her ear. Her eyelids fluttered a moment before opening, not with the fierceness they carried everyday but tired, wandering. 

Pulling out of his frozen state he reached for her hand, covered in bandages and stroke it softly. “Jude.” 

Her eyes found him and a weak smile curved her lips. “You made it.” She said with a raspy voice. He kneeled, fully taking her hand in his. The door knob clicked as they were left alone. 

“Of course I did.” He choked out, trying to match her smile. It felt as if a thin string was keeping him together. “I’m here to take you home.”

Jude looked at him the way she did every time he promised to bring the stars down for her. She squeezed his hand with a nonexistent force that physically hurt in his chest. “You were always a terrible liar.”

Cardan opened his mouth to joke back but wasn’t able to make more than a suffocated sound. That’s when the first tear rolled down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, opening them as he felt her thumb wiping away the wetness under them. “It’s ok.” 

The string snapped. 

“No, it’s not Jude, gods I’m- I’m...” He sobbed, incapable of stopping himself anymore. “I’m so sorry, it was all my fault. If I’d gone with you, If I’d…”

“Hey, no. It’s ok.” She cooed, holding him as he buried his face in her neck apologizing over and over. “Cardan, this was not your fault. Please.” 

He let her hold him as his body trembled with broken weeps. Cardan shut his eyes close, hoping he would open them and be back home. Not here. Not in this nightmare. They had so much to do, so much to live. He was meant to be with her through everything. He was meant to protect her. And he had neglected everything for five more sleeping minutes instead. If Ivy hadn’t woken him up…  If he’d missed another phone call… 

If he’d answered the first damn time he might have had more time. There was an ache in his chest making it harder to breathe, to think. 

They laid together for several minutes, hearing nothing more than their breathings and the beeping machine.  

“Stay, my love.” He begged, the knot in his throat making it harder to speak. “Fight. I can’t do it without you, I’m not strong enough. I need you, we need you… Ivy...”

Something wet landed on his cheek. Only then he realized she’d started crying too. “You’ll take care of her. You can, you’re the strongest man I’ve ever known.”

He felt her breathing falter and he backed up a little, afraid he’d harm her but Jude didn’t let him go. “I love you. I always have, even when you used to make my life a living hell all those years ago. I love you and our daughter so much.” She said. Cardan sobbed again. Don’t, he wanted to answer, don’t say goodbye. Not yet. “And know that even when you can’t see me, I will be with you always.” 

“I know,” He whispered back, now wiping her tears away and leaning to kiss her. “I love you, Jude Duarte. You are the best gift life could give me. You saw the best in me when nobody else could and for that and everything else, I’ll be eternally grateful. I’ll... watch out for Ivy, and she will know her mom is a hero, I promise.”

She breathed a laugh and asked him to hold her again. He did, he clung to her as tightly as he could without hurting her, breathing ‘I love you’ on her hair until her hand lost strength around him. 

Until the monitor gave out one long final beep and took his heart with it. 

He’d kept his vow. He’d continued with his life, dedicating every second of it to take care of their little girl. To make sure she was happy and wasn’t that affected from her mother’s passing. 

Ivy was strong, and most of the time more mature than her age suggested. She tried to carry on as well. Even if sometimes Cardan caught her staring longingly at that spot on the living room where Jude used to sit and read his old books. 

But even now, months later, it was hard for him to get up from bed sometimes. To wake up from a bad dream only to realize it was real, he was alone. Jude wasn’t coming back.

Some nights nightmares got worse, not because his mind created new scenarios. Quite the opposite, it revived his worst memory.

Hands touched his shoulders, probably seeking to comfort him. But he barely felt them. He barely heard the nurses enter the room after Jude’s pulse stopped. 

He was aware of the uncontrollable way his chest shook between sobs. Pleading her to stay, to open her eyes just one minute more. 

Of how he clutched her hand as if it would squeeze life back into her. He felt the softness of her hair as he caressed it, clinging to her the moment the doctors tried to pull him away. The nurse started to remove the wires.

He dreamed of his throat tearing apart as he roared them to let go of his wife. Later begging to allow him to hug her for a moment more. Just a second. Just a lifetime. Please. 

Just a moment.

Cardan always woke between gasps those nights. Sometimes leading him to stay awake until morning, afraid to fall asleep again. 

It was on days like that that he closed his eyes and let time rewind. 

He returned to the year before, to the mornings when they decided who prepared breakfast with rock, paper, scissors games. 

To years before that, when still half asleep he reached for her and curled his arms around Jude’s swollen belly. Barely weeks away from welcoming their baby.

To the day when he’d held his girlfriend in his arms and waited for her to open her eyes to finally ask her to marry him. 

He knew he shouldn’t. In fact he was sure Jude would beat his ass for doing it. But sometimes he just wanted to feel her close only for a couple of minutes more. Some days he refused to accept she was not there anymore. 

A loud crash startled him, bringing Cardan back from his daydreaming. He sat up to look at the clock and frowned. It was still early for Ivy to be awake. 

He got up and walked to the kitchen, only to find the floor covered in white flour and his daughter on the opposite side with the face of someone that just got caught with a hand in the jar of cookies. 

“Ivy, what are you doing?” He asked. Gods, there was a mess. His mental energy didn’t want to deal with it at the moment.

“I...” She darted her gaze to the right, the same thing Jude did whenever Cardan found her doing something she wasn’t supposed to. 

He crossed the space, to crouch next to her and started picking things up with an exasperated sigh. 

She let out a breath in defeat and murmured. “I was trying to make the muffins.”

“The muffins?” 

“The muffins mom cooked for us every Christmas.” Ivy said as if he’d missed the most obvious thing. 

Fuck. He looked at the calendar hanging on the wall behind him. December 24th. Fuck, fuck. How had he overlooked the date? They’d received an invitation to celebrate Christmas with their friends and another one from Jude’s family. He had intended to answer back. 

“Oh honey…you needn’t.” Cardan turned back to her and took her little hand between his.

“I know. But I wanted to cheer you up.” Ivy’s voice was low. “You’re sad all the time, dad… I thought... maybe mommy’s muffins would help.”

A pang of guilt stung in his chest. Fuck, he tried so hard to keep his emotions at bay around her. Washing his face with frozen water hoping it would take away the redness around his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat and opened his mouth but no words came out so he just pulled his child into a tight hug. 

“I’m so sorry, I-”

“Don’t be,” She interrupted him, clinging to his neck. “I miss her too.”

Blinking back the tears, he pulled back to cup her cheeks. “There is nothing that cheers me up more than you, sweetie. You know that right?”

Ivy’s chocolate eyes shimmered as she nodded. 

Cardan took a deep breath and pulled her up so she was sitting on top of the counter. “Now, you know I suck at cooking those infamous muffins,” He grimaced. Ivy chuckled and bit her lip, totally not denying his statement. “So how about if instead of those, I prepare you my ultra special pancakes?”

Her gaze widened. “With whipped cream and fruit??”

He nodded. The excited squeal of his daughter warmed his heart in that unique way only she could achieve. 

With Ivy’s help, the pancakes were made in little time. Even if all she did was jump around  the kitchen singing Christmas carols. 

Just as he was about to serve the table, she stopped him. “Dad, can we go eat breakfast with mommy?”

Cardan paused, not sure if he’d listened correctly. “With mommy?”

“Yeah, you know, like those days when we went out on picnics.” She said. Excitement floored from every single one of her pores. “She loved Christmas, I’m sure she’ll be glad to see us too!”

He wanted to say no, not knowing if he would make it. It’s too soon, the words hug there in the tip of his tongue. But looking at Ivy and her puppy eyes, he couldn’t. 

~

Covered in scarves and warm coats they arrived at the cemetery. It was a beautiful place, if he was honest. Tall trees and some flowers grew along, giving it the appearance of a valley despite the cold weather. It looked so peaceful. Even if snow covered some parts of it.

Cardan carried a bag filled with the food and a blanket to use as tablecloth. Ivy played with the snow as they walked, and gasped at the sight of her mother’s tombstone. Letting go of Cardan’s hand, she ran towards it. A big smile shining on her face. 

He stopped meters away from it, unsure of his decision. His heart hammered on his chest and he could see the steam formed by his shaky breathing. 

Ivy turned and motioned him to come closer. 

As he approached, he heard the cheerful chatter of his daughter, making him frown. 

“...so I tried to be as quiet as possible, but then the flour fell!” She laughed and darted her gaze to him again. “That’s why daddy caught me, right dad?”

Cardan hesitated. “Uh, yeah… that’s when I found you covered in powder.”

He peered at the marble figure, intentionally avoiding the picture under the letters forming her name. 

After setting the food they ate. Ivy barely chewed her food between words, since she was deeply invested in whatever conversation she was having with her mother. Cardan just listened. She spoke about her school, her exams with almost perfect grades. About aunt Liliver announcing she and uncle Van were expecting a baby, a thing Ivy wasn’t so sure to like since that would probably remove her from ‘the favorite’ position. She talked about the blanket forts Cardan taught her to build and the new books he’d read to her. Occasionally, she would laugh as if she’d listened to something incredibly funny. 

They built a snow castle with the few snow that was gathered around, at least before Ivy accidentally threw a snowball to his chest. The snowball war that unleashed after had them growling and squealing for several minutes. It ended up with both of them lying down on the blanket, tired and giggling. 

He sat up to ruffle her hair and sighed. “It’s time to go, little one.” 

Ivy whined. “So soon?”

“We can return some other day…” That lit her face back up. “But your aunt Lil invited us to a party today. Do you want to go?”

She yelped. “With Christmas gifts?”

“Yeah.” Cardan winked. 

Once everything was back in the bag Cardan started walking, but a tug on his sleeve stopped him. 

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to mommy?” 

He didn’t answer. 

“C’mon dad, go. I’ll wait for you over there.” She signaled a big space where rocks made an odd figure. That said, she was gone.

Haltingly, Cardan turned back to face the tombstone. 

Air seemed to have flown out of his lungs. What was he supposed to say? He looked down and shuffled his foot in the snow. His grip tightened around the bag’s handle. 

He used to spend the nights thinking of all the things he would’ve liked to say to her. But as it was, all of them apparently had vanished into the air. Should he say he loved her? That everything was okay?

“I hate you.” Was what came out. Cardan scoffed and swallowed. That was definitely not what he was thinking. “That is a lie. But I guess you already know it, don’t you?” 

“Sometimes I wish I could hate you though... Maybe it would make it easier. Because sure as hell it’s not.” His voice was hoarse. “I’m trying. I promised you I would but… I miss you all the fucking time, Jude. I can’t go to bed at night without thinking you’re not there by my side anymore.”

He paused and rubbed his eyes. Cardan flashed quick glances to Ivy, trying to find the strength. But once he faced Jude’s picture again, the pressure on his chest was nearly unbearable.

“Everyday something happens that I would like to tell you. When Ivy or any of our friends do something I find hilarious I turn to make sure you saw it too just to find an empty space and I… I hate it.”

“I hate not being able to hug you, I hate not feeling your hands playing with my hair in the morning. I hate not being able to tell you everyday how much I still love you. I hate that Ivy notices how much I struggle with it. I hate not being as strong as you were.”

He spilled the words so fast they were probably intelligible, but he didn’t care anymore.

“Ivy… she’s an amazing little girl, you know? Everyday she does something new that is clever, or brave… and she reminds me so much of you.” A sob broke through him. He turned to look at her, auburn curls bouncing everywhere. Taking a steadying breath he brought back his gaze to the tomb.

“I just hope she’s not as good with  lies or I will be totally screwed.” He let out a low chuckle. “You should be proud of her.”

Before he could say something else something warm spread down his shoulders to his arms and chest. If he was drunk he would say it resembled the feeling of a hug. The pressure on his chest slowly disappeared as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

Not knowing exactly how or why, a weight on his shoulders he hadn’t realized he had, was gone from a moment to another.

“I love you, Jude Duarte.” He breathed. “You will have my heart always, and when this life ends I’ll find you again to give it to you once more.”

Giving a final look to the picture he’d been avoiding since they arrived, he gave a weak smile, wiped the tears away and turned to go find his daughter. 

“Goodbye, my sweet villain.”

A Christmas party with his family (because that’s how he considered his friends), awaited. He found Ivy marching on top of the rocks, claiming it was a conquered fae castle and she, the new Queen. He chuckled and motioned her to return. 

As they walked back to the car, she grabbed his hand and gave him a knowing look. Even when you can’t see me, I will be with you always.

The next morning when he opened his eyes the empty spot was still there. But for the first time in months, he welcomed the memories of his Jude with a longing smile. 

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

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[haxyr3]

Dear Eugenia, that is really out of subject but i have got a question about English. I like learning English so much and i have improved my English pretty much recently! I love learning it so much. As far as i remember, you live in Canada right? If so, here is my question:

Does living in a country where is spoken English helps you to improve your English even though you do not pay a lot of effort like you did before when you lived in your country? Does the person get use to it and can the person really understand the word from the sentence even though it is a new word? Thanks! Sorry, if there is a mistake in my English :) Your page is great!

Hi! Your questions is not out of the subject, because language learning and language acquisition are the topics that we frequently discuss here. 

You are right, for the last ten years, I’ve been living in Canada. Yes, my English has been improving since I moved here. But it is not as simple as it may seem. 

Simply living in a country where your target language is spoken won’t help. I met a lot of families that immigrated to Canada decades ago, but didn’t manage to learn English. Their children are either English speakers or bilingual, but the older generation speaks their mother-tongue and, maybe, very basic English. Those immigrants live in their ethnic communities and don’t interact with the people outside of those communities much. It is possible to live in English-speaking Canada for 20 years and never need English if your neighbours, your boss, your doctor, your priest, your bank teller and all other people around you speak your mother-tongue. 

Native-like level comes with native-like exposure. We speak Russian at home, since my husband is also Russian. Some of my classmates married Americans, and their English improved mush faster than mine. They need English 24/7, while I need English only a few hours a day. We watch British and American movies daily (of course, in English, usually without subtitles). We have no difficulties communicating with native English speakers since we’ve been working for US customers for decades. We read books in English (Vonnegut, Neal Stephenson, Philipp Dick, and others) I would say I am fluent enough, but not native-like. I still make funny mistakes that native speakers would never make.

Language environment does help. Living in Canada helped me to learn the vocabulary I probably wouldn’t learn otherwise. I worked with English speakers before immigrating to Canada, but I never needed certain everyday words, so I learned them only when I came to the country. I also learned the way people speak about things in English, the cliches, canned expressions, ready-made responses for typical questions. I didn’t realize before how much time we speak with those “fast-food phrases”, the phrases that we didn’t create independently, but picked up somewhere else as they are very common. Those phrases make up about 80% of everyday conversations. This is true for any language, just take a closer look at how you speak. As soon as you acquire that average (and pretty limited, to be honest) repertoire, you’ll speak more or less fluently and be understood by others. 

- Hi! It’s a beautiful day today! - Oh, yes, it is so warm and sunny! - Too bad it is going to rain this afternoon. - Well, we could use some rain, I think. - Right, some rain wouldn’t hurt, my lawn is thirsty.  

Typical polite nonsense my neighbors say to each other, actually signalling “I am sociable, you are sociable, we are fine, still not insane, life is normal”. The vocabulary is basic, the grammar is far from being sophisticated. All you need to learn is how to speak in different social situations. 

Second language acquisition is individual. All humans with relatively healthy brain successfully acquire their mother-tongue. However, we all demonstrate different abilities to acquire another language. The factors that may influence SLA are numerous, from how much exposure you get and how much you need to speak your target language to individual personality traits. I firmly believe (and nobody proved me otherwise yet) that if one speaks their mother-tongue, there are no biological reasons that would prevent them from acquiring other languages. I mean, your brain, once primed for using human languages, is capable of leaning as many languages as you wish. It’s a question of how much time you have for that, how much your need those languages, how much you like the language and enjoy learning it.

Case Study. I once helped an Italian guy to learn English. He believed that his brain is somehow broken, and he is incapable of learning other languages. His wife asked me to help that guy to prepare for a job interview in an international company where he wanted to work. I didn’t speak Italian, he didn’t speak Russain, so English was our only choice. We talked about things that were interesting to him, so he forgot about English grammar and everything that goes with a word “learning”, and was totally consumed by the need to convey his ideas to me. After six months of our weekly lessons, he got the job he wanted, and has been working there happily since then.  I didn’t teach him grammar, I only taught him to think about languages as about means, not goals. It worked for him, and it worked for my other students who wanted to use Russian or English to find new job perspectives, or for their academical studies, or even for their matrimonial needs.

Think about what you want to accomplish in your target language as if you are already fluent. Then start accomplishing it gradually. This is the only working recipe for SLA I know. 

Best of luck!  

[echo-bleu]

To Fall, There Is Death

This work was created for the @rnmbb Roswell New Mexico Big Bang 2020 event.

The amazing @slynella/Slynella was my partner for this event and created three absolutely wonderful illustrations for this story! The artworks are incredible and I love them to pieces, thank you so much Sly 💙

Huge thanks also to @eveningspirit for helping me build the plot of this and handholding through the writing. This fic was hard to write, both because I got lost more than once in the narrative and because I basically left the fandom when I was less than halfway done. But, here it is.

This fic is loosely based on both Dumas' The Three Musketeers and BBC Musketeers, and borrows some plot elements (and a few lines) from the latter, but there is no historical accuracy whatsoever and it is set in the fictional kingdom of Antar. The title comes from “Quo ruit et lethum” which is the actual motto of the Musketeers: To Fall, There Is Death. The header of each part is a chess move or a chess opening, usually with some relation to what happens in the part (and a few where I just liked the name :D).

[apparent deaths by shooting and hanging, mentions of war and injuries, canonical levels of violence, past abuse]

Read on AO3 (13k).

The day Alex died was the beginning of the end.

Liz would be hard pressed to tell when it had all started, when the pieces had first been put in motion. So much had happened to lead them there, one step away from checkmate, one step away from the end of the game.

Maybe it had started six months ago, when the King died. She remembered the funeral ceremony that gathered all of the court and so much of the city, Max and Isobel’s regal and solemn faces. Max had worn white, and knelt to receive the crown on his head. “The King is dead,” they’d chanted. “Long live the King!”

But things had been moving even before that. Maybe it had started a year ago, when Lord Michael first came to the court and challenged Alex to a duel. Alex had been injured already, barely able to stand on his feet. Liz remembered the absolute shock on his face, when Michael had pushed back his hood and revealed himself, after the King introduced him as his natural son.

Alex had lost the duel. He’d stood there afterwards, dazed and devastated, unable to take his eyes off Michael for one second, like he’d expected him to disappear again. He’d spent most of the next three weeks drinking himself to the ground every evening, just to dull the pain that never left his eyes.

So maybe the pieces had already found their place ten years ago, in that time Alex only ever hinted at, when he and Michael were engaged to be married. He’d never told Liz and Maria the story. “There was a man, once,” he’d said. “He died.” Kyle had probably known more, after all he was Alex’s friend when they were children, but he never said. In all the years they’d known Alex, though, there were always these shadows in his eyes, that spoke of a dreadful weight, a longing and a guilt that never left him.

*

Bishop Takes Knight

Now

The Musketeers on duty stood in line for muster, as Alex limped down the ranks and inspected their gear. Musketeers had to be dressed perfectly in every circumstance, boots shiny and blue cape draped over their shoulders, because they could be called to attend the King and the royal family at any moment. Liz was with Maria at the very end of the line, Alex’s seconds-in-command, his most trusted people. Kyle wasn’t there, because a patrol had come back injured from a skirmish with the Red Guard the night before and the surgeon hadn’t slept all night, getting a bullet out of a Musketeer’s shoulder.

Alex handed out orders for the day and dismissed his Musketeers. Liz and Maria joined him in the armory, since they were to be on duty at the Palace that day, and together they selected loaded muskets and their trusted swords.

There was nothing to indicate how horrendous things were about to get, except maybe for the slight trembling in Alex’s hands as he fit his scabbard on his belt, or the way Liz and Maria squeezed his shoulder a little tighter than usual before going to ready their horses.

They barely had time to step out of the garrison, leading their horses out of the large wooden gate, before everything went to hell.

“Musketeers!” a voice rung out, harsh and unforgiving.

Alex froze in his steps, recognizing the figure in red before any of them. There were half a dozen Red Guards scattered around the square, unmoving, watching them, and in the middle, Lord Michael, in full leather armor under his red cape. He had several pistols on his belt, and one held loosely in his hand.

“Manes,” he added with venom in his voice. “Still standing, I see. Still the Captain.”

“Michael,” Alex answered, his voice smaller and shakier than Liz had ever heard it in public. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to finally do what I’ve been waiting for for ten years,” Michael spit out. “I’m here to kill you.”

Liz fully expected Alex to take a fighting stance, bring out his pistol and defend himself, but he sagged instead, looking defeated. What had become of her friend, the war hero who went up the ranks so fast he became the youngest Captain ever? Where had Alex Manes, the fearless soldier, best swordsman in the Kingdom, gone?

She’d seen the change, of course. The last year hadn’t been easy on Alex. Ever since Michael first came to the court, he’d been different. There was a spring in his steps, at first, just knowing that Michael was alive, but with the months passing, with Michael showing his loyalty to Jesse Manes at every turn and his hatred of Alex, it had grown into a weight, a ball and chain he dragged everywhere with him.

Liz hadn’t realized that it had gotten that bad. Alex wasn’t defensive, he was resigned. It was almost like he wanted Michael to kill him. Like he felt that he deserved it.

He gave Maria the reins of his horse, and turned back to Michael, facing him.

“We can still work this out,” he said, his voice low and sad. “There are other ways, Michael. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, I believe I do,” Michael snarled, still speaking loudly so that everyone in the square could hear him. “You had me hanged, Alex. On the day we should have been wedded.”

Alex looked stricken. “I didn’t–”

“I was in your bed, for months. I know who you are, deep inside. Definitely not a morally uptight Musketeer. You disgust me.”

“We can settle this like gentlemen,” Alex said, hand going for his sword. “Last time I was injured, but we can duel again. The King isn’t there to stop us from dueling to the death this time. You can have your reparation.”

Michael waved his pistol around. “Damn the rules!”

“Michael!” Liz cried out. This was too much. If Alex wasn’t going to defend himself, then she would. “The King will never forgive you if you do this.”

“The King is my brother,” Michael spit. “He’ll choose me over one Musketeer. Especially one who’s been a thorn in everyone’s side for so long.”

Liz closed her eyes. She wanted to believe that it wasn’t true, that Max truly respected Alex and wouldn’t stand for this, but how well did she really know the King? Just because he liked her, because he always asked her to be his guard and they’d had a few moments together, didn’t mean she knew what he was thinking. This was a matter of politics, the King and the Prime Minister, the Musketeers and the Red Guard. It would never be a simple question of friendships and personal preference.

When she opened her eyes again, Michael had his pistol trained on Alex.

“Michael,” Alex murmured. “Please. I never wanted this. I loved you.” He had tears running down his cheeks.

Michael’s jaw was set, but he twitched at the words.

“You never loved me,” he snarled. “I was just a toy to you, that you discarded at the first occasion. How was it like, Alex, to see me hang at the end of a rope? How did it feel?”

Alex let out a sob. Michael locked eyes with him.

It all happened fast. Michael aimed his pistol just as Alex looked away, devastated. The shot rang out like a death sentence, echoing across the square.

“Alex!” Liz screamed, as her friend collapsed. She ran to Alex’s side, all thoughts of safety be damned. He was lying on his side, unmoving.

“Lord Michael!” someone cried. The Red Guards around the square started moving, rallying around Michael as the Musketeers took out their guns. But there wasn’t going to be an all-out battle, not today, not like this. Michael looked at them disdainfully and turned away, taking his men with him.

“Kyle! Kyle, come here right now!” Maria yelled toward the open gate of the garrison, joining Liz at Alex’s side.

But Jenna Cameron was already moving Alex, checking his pulse. “It's too late,” she said. “He's gone.”

Liz stayed frozen for a second, incapable of believing it. She looked between Alex’s still form and Michael, now retreating from the square without even a look behind him.

“Come back, you coward!” Liz screamed at the top of her lungs. She launched toward him, but Maria caught her across the waist and held her back, sobbing.

Michael’s steps halted for a brief moment, but he didn’t turn. He kept walking away until he disappeared down a side street.

Liz collapsed against Maria, and they both fell to their knees crying, cradling Alex’s lifeless body.

*

King’s Gambit

A year ago

Liz winced as Alex hit the floor hard, head first, grunting in pain. The whole court cheered, but watching it brought her no joy, no excitement. Alex was the best swordsman in the whole Kingdom, he should have easily won against a fresh-faced arrogant Lord, bastard of the King or not. But the asshole was good, and he’s provoked Alex when he was already injured, just a week out of being stabbed grievously enough that his left arm was of no use. Liz seethed in anger as he sneered at Alex from above.

“Come on, you’ve got to surrender,” she murmured under her breath. She hoped her friend would have the common sense to understand that his health was worth more than winning this ridiculous duel, even if he felt the heavy gaze of his father, the Prime Minister, on him.

Maria, beside her, was holding her breath just as much. She knew how much Alex’s abused body could handle, and this was already too much. They sighed in unison as Alex rose to his feet once again, stumbling on his boot-covered wooden leg before dropping into a fighting stance. Lord Michael goaded him openly, exchanging a few parried blow before he plunged under Alex’s guard and elbowed him hard in the temple. Alex crumpled to the floor.

Liz was almost relieved that Alex didn’t rise again, until she realized that he’d passed out. Maria rushed to his side, taking his pulse, and Liz only started breathing again when she looked up and nodded.

“Goddammit, Alex,” she whispered. Cameron squeezed her shoulder from behind.

They both sighed in relief when Alex made it back to his feet with Maria’s help, and knelt in front of the King.

“You fought well, Captain,” the King said. “But my son is an excellent swordsman, and you are obviously injured. Do you accept your defeat?”

“I do,” Alex answered through gritted teeth.

“Very well. Then I declare Michael, count of Dimaras, the winner of this duel. Michael, will that satisfy your call for justice?”

“It will for now, my King,” Michael answered, kneeling beside Alex. “The rest of my claims will be settled another day.”

Liz stared at him, wondering exactly what he had against Alex. She’d never seen him before, so it was obviously something from Alex’s past, from the time he never spoke about. Alex had that look on his face that she’d only seen on his worst days, the ones where he drowned himself in wine, or trained until he collapsed in exhaustion.

There was a story there, and it wasn’t a happy one.

It took several days for it to come out. Alex spent them in the worst mood, spending his days in the armory despite his injuries, hacking at straw mannequins until he couldn’t feel his arm anymore. His friends didn’t push him. Liz and Maria recounted the duel to Kyle in detail, of course, but they didn’t try to force the story out.

They knew their friend. Words didn’t come easily to Alex even on the best of days, but now between his concussion and his exhaustion, he could barely string together a sentence. He seemed to be in shock.

When he was finally ready, one night at the tavern, after almost a full bottle of wine, the words came out stumbling over themselves. It was disjointed, slurred, barely intelligible, but Liz understood enough. There was a boy, once. Lord Michael, before he was the King’s bastard, when he was just a street orphan. He and Alex had fallen in love and gotten engaged. Alex’s father had disapproved, and made it clear, but they were going to elope.

And one day, Jesse Manes had found them in the gardener’s shed, and he’d glimpsed the fleur de lys branded on Michael’s shoulder, marking him a thief and a convict. Alex hadn’t cared, he’d trusted Michael, but it gave Jesse the opportunity he’d been waiting for to destroy them.

He’d attacked Michael with a hammer, and then, by the authority granted to him as the lord of his lands, he had sentenced him to death. Alex had been powerless. The last thing Michael had seen before the rope suffocated him was Alex’s tears.

Except that somehow, Michael was alive. And he held Alex responsible for what had happened to him. His knight in shining armor, the one Alex had thought would steal him away from his monster of a father, had become the black bishop of Jesse Manes’ game, intent on taking his revenge against Alex.

“Ten years learning how to live in a world without him,” Alex sobbed into his bottle when he finished. “What do I do now?”

Liz didn’t have an answer. She hugged him tight until he fell asleep.

*

Endgame

Now

On the day of Alex’s funeral, the sun shone high and hot in the sky and it felt like it was the universe’s way of laughing at them. Liz got up early to clean her leathers and polish her boots until they shone brighter than they should have been able to, given how worn they were. She checked her uniform meticulously, taking particular care of the fleur de lys engraved pauldron that marked her commission and the expensive rapier Alex had gifted her years ago. Squaring her shoulders for the hard day ahead, she walked down the ranks of solemn Musketeers, adjusting blue capes and leather doublets as she gave out orders. Alex deserved them at their best, and she was going to make sure that they were.

The service was beautiful and heartbreaking. Commander Valenti gave the eulogy and all the Musketeers stood at attention under the heat as the casket was lowered into the ground. Alex had been a well-respected and beloved Captain, who’d always taken care of his men.

Liz felt a pang when she saw Gregory Manes, freshly returned from the war on their border, shed a tear as he threw a rose on the casket. He was the only one of Alex’s brothers that she liked, the only one who supported him. Jesse Manes stood, impassible, as people came to offer their condolences. He never even twitched a muscle, and Liz hated him for it.

She kept observing him throughout. This was the man who had had his own son killed. They all knew whose orders Michael had acted on, even if he’d pretended to do it out of revenge. Liz, whose own father was an immigrant tavern owner who’d done everything for his daughters, couldn’t understand how a man like Jesse Manes could even exist. He hadn’t hesitated to have Alex murdered because Alex threatened his position as the Prime Minister.

And now he stood there and didn’t even have the decency to show some grief. He was dressed in the black of mourning, but he looked at people with the same disdain, the same arrogance as he always did.

This was a man who thought himself untouchable.

Liz was going to prove that he wasn’t. They were moving toward the last stretch of the game, and even with Alex gone, she would make sure Jesse Manes didn’t win. She patted the stack of letters tucked into her leather doublet. One way or another, Alex would be avenged.

*

Zwischenzug

Three months ago

“Alex!” Maria exclaimed as Alex joined them at the long mess table in the garrison’s courtyard. Kyle moved to give Alex space to sit down on the bench, while Liz grabbed a bowl of soup for him. “Where were you? We looked for you everywhere!”

“Did Commander Valenti ask after me?” Alex asked, dropping onto the bench.

It wasn’t the first time, in the last few months, that he’d disappeared on them like this. He had done that before, but usually they found him passed out somewhere in a tavern, or occasionally curled up in bed in his room, in too much pain to move. But recently, it had changed. He rarely drank too much anymore, and wherever he went every few days, he came back looking rested and content. It wasn’t common when it came to Alex, so his friends hadn’t pushed him to reveal his whereabouts. That day, though, he seemed on edge.

“No, we just thought we might hit the tavern,” Liz answered. “Dad is making rice pudding tonight.”

“I have something to tell you first,” Alex said, lowering his voice. They all leaned in to listen. “I just came from the Palace. You’ve all heard that Princess Isobel is pregnant?”

They nodded. It was the talk of the month everywhere in the city. Princess Isobel was King Max’s twin sister, and since the death of the old King four months ago, the next in line for the throne. King Max had yet to marry, even though he was already twenty-eight, so Princess Isobel and Prince Noah’s child would be the first Prince or Princess of the new generation.

“You remember how I told you that my father will try to regain more power?”

Liz nodded. “He had the old King’s ear, but Max hates him. He’s been talking about appointing a new Prime Minister.”

“My father won’t stand for it,” Alex said. “He will move against Max soon. He knows Max won’t let him keep his position for long.”

“But what can he do?” Maria asked.

Alex’s eyes turned stormy. “He’s ruthless. He plays the long game, and he’ll stop at nothing to get even a scrap of power. My source says that Prince Noah is his henchman, he’s the one who convinced the old King to arrange this marriage. He wants to get Isobel on the throne.”

Liz widened her eyes in shock. “By killing Max?”

Alex just nodded.

“But Isobel hates him just as much as Max does,” Maria said. “It wouldn’t change anything, would it?”

Alex bit his lip. “It looks like he has some kind of leverage on her. With that and Noah’s influence, he could get her to do what he wants. And–” he hesitated.

“What?” Kyle pressed him.

“Now that Isobel’s pregnant, he could also eliminate her as soon as she gives birth,” Alex sighed. “If he played his cards right, he’d be named Regent.”

Liz swore under her breath. This was bad, worse than she could have imagined. “How do you know all that?” she asked.

“I’m getting...inside information,” Alex answered. “That’s all I can tell you, I can’t put my source’s life at risk. But we have to stop my father.”

“But how?”

Alex ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted. “I don’t know yet. But I will figure it out. In the meantime, we’ll double up all our guard duties for both Max and Isobel. We won’t let them get hurt.”

*

Castling

A month ago

The convent was easy to defend, its thick outer walls ready to weather a siege, but the inside was cold and sparsely furnished. The weather was just starting to warm up, spring giving way to summer, but Liz shivered as she stared at the lime-washed walls, her linen shirt too thin to keep out the chill.

“I can't believe you slept with the King!” Alex exclaimed, throwing his hands up. He was pacing back and forth in the corridor outside the Mother Superior’s private chambers, which had been ceded to the King for the night. They’d arrived at the remote convent the night before, under fire from a host of unidentified mercenaries, intent on killing the King.

“Alex, not so loud,” Liz whispered back. She wrung her hands together, nervous. “It was special circumstances, okay? He was scared and someone was trying to kill him. He just needed some reassurance.”

“And you had to sleep with him?” Alex lowered his voice. “After what happened to Rosa? Liz, did he force you?”

“No, of course not!” Liz clasped a hand over Alex's mouth, worriedly looking at the door behind which King Max was asleep. “He didn't force me. He didn't even ask me, I offered.”

“I don't understand,” Alex said. “We're here to protect him. We spent the whole day yesterday under heavy fire because someone is after him. And he's the King, Liz!”

“I know.” Liz looked away. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. Max had looked so down, so alone, she’d just wanted to offer comfort. The sex had been a spur of the moment thing, and although she was convinced neither of them had really forgotten why it was wrong, they hadn’t cared. Max might be the King, but he was a human being just like any of them, with his own fears and desires, and Liz had felt close to him ever since he started requesting her as his personal guard more often.

“Oh my God, you're in love with him,” Alex realized. “Fuck. That's a development I didn't expect.”

“I'm not in love with him!” Liz protested, but her voice wavered. She could see in Alex’s eyes that he was far from convinced.

She was about to argue more when she saw a nun approach from the corner of her eyes.

“News?” Alex asked.

The nun, a young, fresh-faced woman who seemed nervous and shy under her black veil, pointed toward the convent’s courtyard. “Your friends are back.”

“Good. We'll be with them in a minute,” Alex said. “We'll talk again later,” he added to Liz.

“Alex?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“Yes?”

“Can we keep this quiet for now?”

Alex sighed. “Of course. The King sleeping with a commoner, be it a Musketeer, is not something we want to shout from the rooftops, anyway. Is this about Kyle?”

Liz shrugged. She and Kyle had found comfort in each other, back when they first became Musketeers. Liz had never been in love, and she liked Kyle more as her friend than whatever they had been back then, but she knew he still felt something for her that wasn’t just friendship. She didn’t want to hurt him, and knowing that she’d slept with the King, of all people, surely would.

“Fine,” Alex grumbled. “Let's go.”

He had sent Maria and Kyle with most of the Musketeer team that had traveled with them to pursue their assailants yesterday, after they had managed to make them flee. Liz was relieved that there hadn’t been a single casualty on their side, whether Musketeer or civilian. They had done their best to protect both the nuns and the King, but if it had come to it, the King would have had to be Alex’s priority, and Liz knew he would forgive himself for putting nuns in the line of fire, however willing they had been.

Their friends looked tired and dirty, but not injured. “Did you catch them?” Alex asked.

“No,” Kyle shook his head. “We almost got one, but they disappeared. Only thing we found is one of their horses.” He gestured behind him to one of the Musketeers, who lead a horse over.

“Any identifying marks?” Alex asked.

“Only this,” Maria said. She pointed to the embroidery on one of the saddlebags. Five dots, joined by a thread, making a lopsided W, in yellow thread on the dark leather.

Alex took in a shocked breath.

“What is it? Do you recognize it?”

“That's Cassiopeia,” Alex said. “That's Michael's symbol. His men are the ones who attacked us.”

He brought a hand to his throat, cupping the ever-present gold medallion and ring he wore on a chain. Liz had never asked what they were, but since Alex had told them his story, she’d assumed it was his engagement ring, and maybe a portrait of Michael. She’d seen him do this very gesture many times over the past few months, nearly any time Michael’s presence at court came up, but rarely with such anguish on his face.

“This was in the saddlebag,” Maria said, handing over a stack of what looked like letters, tied with a brown cord. Alex took them with a frown. “Nothing else?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

He nodded tightly, and ran a hand over the embroidered constellation. “I should have known my father would send you,” he muttered. “He knows where to place his pieces. What have you done, Michael? What are we going to do?”

*

Giuco Piano

Ten years ago

They were seventeen, and in love. The sky was full of stars above them, on a warm summer night. Alex and Michael were lying in the grass at the very edge of the Manes estate, behind the gardener’s shed. The gardener, for whom Michael worked during the day, had long retired in his  house further up on the hill, and Michael had brought out the blankets he used to sleep on a straw bed in the shed.

Alex spun the thin golden ring on his finger. Michael had given it to him earlier that day, going down on one knee, a plan already formed for them to get married and escape the Manes estate and its bigotry by the end of the summer. He had made the ring himself, during the shifts he picked up at the village smithy. He’d even plated it with gold he’d saved up from the jewelry people asked him to repair.

Michael was good with his hands. He was good with everything, really. He was smart and quick-witted, and he knew the name of every plant in the estate’s garden. He’d taught himself to read and write, and he spent his night poring over thick tomes Alex snuck out of his father’s library for him.

It wasn’t fair that he wasn’t allowed to make use of all of this knowledge, just because he’d been born a commoner. An orphan. He’d told Alex about all he’d had to do just to survive, unable to even get an apprenticeship because he had no parents to sign a contract. The years of labor, from an age too young to remember. The abusive employers, the orphanages, the streets.

The jail he’d ended up in, and escaped from. Alex knew what the mark branded on his shoulder meant. It meant that Michael had been convicted and thrown in prison, at fourteen, for stealing food from the market. It meant that even if Alex’s father had been willing to let him marry a man, and a commoner to boot, it would never, ever be a criminal like Michael.

That was okay, because Alex had no intention of asking him. In a few days, he’d turn eighteen, and they would run away together.

Right now, they could enjoy a summer evening together under the stars, far away from prying eyes.

“This is Ursa Major,” Michael pointed at the sky. “It looks a bit like a frying pan. Then Ursa Minor. The brightest star is called Polaris, it's the brightest of all stars. Then Draco, the dragon, goes around it, see? A curve here, and then back. My favorite, though, is Cassiopeia.”

“Where is it?” Alex asked.

“There,” Michael pointed a little to the left. “It has five major stars. Like a W, see?”

“I think so,” Alex murmured. “Yes, got it.”

He turned to press a kiss on Michael's cheek. “I like listening to you. Keep going.”

“Cassiopeia is the prettiest,” Michael said. “It was named after a queen who thought she was the most beautiful person in the world, more even than the nymphs. She angered a god, Poseidon, and he set a sea monster on her kingdom. She had to sacrifice her daughter to appease him.”

“Ugh,” Alex made a face. “That's not a nice story.”

Michael shrugged. “I like it, I think. The daughter was saved by a hero and married him. Sometimes I wonder what my mom sacrificed me for. Maybe she's safe and happy somewhere out there.”

Alex squeezed his hand. “Yeah. I wonder that too,” he murmured. “My father would happily sacrifice any of his sons for the kingdom. Me especially. He wouldn't even blink.”

Michael sighed. “I wish that weren't true. We'll get out of here as soon as we're married, right? Then he can't touch us anymore.”

“We'll never truly be out of his reach,” Alex said. “He's the highest ranking officer in the kingdom already. He'll be Prime Minister soon.”

“Then we'll just have to go really far away,” Michael whispered.

Alex closed his eyes and let Michael kiss him, wishing that were possible.

*

Fork

Now

“It’s done,” Michael stated, throwing his pistol on Jesse Manes’ desk. It made a dull thud. Manes looked up and deigned giving Michael his attention. “He’s dead. I’m sure the word will reach your office soon.”

“Any clean-up needed?”

“No. Full daylight, as you specified. Dozens of witnesses can testify that I did it alone. You have nothing to worry about.”

Manes stares at him for a few seconds, then pushed the pistol away from his paperwork and put it aside. “Good,” he said, in clear dismissal.

Michael ignored the implicit order and dropped into a chair, pulling his feet up on the desk. Manes scowled.

“I thought I would feel something more than this...emptiness,” Michael muttered. “I loved him, once.”

“Are you sorry you killed him?” Manes asked him, annoyed.

“Regrets are pointless. Right now, I need help. His Musketeer friends won't let this go unpunished, and even my status will not be enough, not if they can reveal that I'm branded.”

“You're just as weak as Alex after all,” Manes sneered. “I thought you were different.”

“Weak? No. Just practical. I haven't forgotten that you're the one who gave the order to hang me, Minister. I have very few reasons to trust you.”

“You're right, you're not like Alex. Maybe I can still make something of you.”

“You can use me,” Michael offered. “Ortecho and DeLuca want revenge. They want me. Exchange me against the letters.”

“They have leverage. Why would they give it over?”

“It's become personal. Alex was the one who wanted you gone. The other Musketeers care about very little beside their wine and their petty quarrels with the Red Guards. You hand me over, they'll let the letters go.”

“What about you? Why would you even offer that?”

Michael shrugged. “I'll take my chances against them. I came to the city to kill Alex, and I have accomplished my mission. With the old King dead, I doubt Max will keep me in court much longer, and if he learns about my past, he won't take it well. My best bet is to disappear again.”

“So you think you can slip their watch and escape the city?”

“With Alex dead, I'm the best swordsman in the city. I can take two Musketeers.”

Manes shifted in his seat. “Very well. We'll offer the exchange.”

*

Bad Bishop

A year ago

“Careful,” Alex murmured, wincing in pain. He shifted his position until he was more comfortable on the bed, waiting until the ache in his shoulder subsided a little.

“Sorry,” Michael said sheepishly, untangling himself from Alex’s limbs. Propping himself up on his elbow, he trailed his fingers down Alex’s chest to his navel, tracing every scar.

It had been three days since the duel, since Michael had declared his feud with Alex in front of the court and then tended to his wounds and forgave him in the privacy of his chambers. Alex’s arm was still too sore to use, though he’d discarded the sling, and his concussion was just starting to clear up, so he was off duty for the time being, by Kyle’s order. Michael had found them a room in a small inn outside the city, known to be discreet, where they’d spent the night learning each other’s body all over again.

They’d changed, in ten years. Both of them had become different men, forged by hardships and age, but their love hadn’t altered. It was scarred by the wounds Jesse Manes had inflicted on it, just like their bodies, but it was just as strong.

Alex reached out with his good arm to touch Michael’s throat, which he was seeing bare for the first time. The deep rope burn there had become white with age, but it was impossible to miss without the high-collared uniform to hide it, a stark reminder of what their love had cost Michael.

Michael’s face fell, sadness replacing his prior playful smile. “It wasn’t you, Alex,” he said.

“I know,” Alex murmured. It didn’t make it hurt less. He’d blamed himself for ten years, for letting his father catch them and giving him an excuse to go after Michael, and he wasn’t going to stop now. He’d failed Michael in every way. He’d watched him hang, unable to save him from that fate.

He’d walked away, unable to stand the sight of his lover at the end of a rope, and that had somehow allowed Michael to escape.

“I love you,” Michael said. “What your father did isn’t your fault.”

Alex just sighed and let his hand fall back to the bed. Michael leaned in to kiss him, softly, and continued his exploration of Alex’s body with his left hand, the scarred, gnarled fingers brushing against his skin.

He reached past Alex’s waist and down his naked hip, to where his right leg ended just below the knee. Alex froze. His wooden leg was resting somewhere beside the bed, the stump naked and ugly, swollen from overuse. He hadn’t let Michael touch it yet, or even really look at it.

But Michael didn’t pause, didn’t recoil back in disgust. He kept touching Alex’s skin, his fingers light like a feather despite their obvious stiffness. Alex shivered as he slowly went over the scars, then back up the inside of his thigh.

“That alright?” Michael asked in a whisper, looking back up at him.

Alex nodded mutely.

“What’s this?” Michael asked, cupping the medallion that hung from Alex’s neck..

Alex blushed and hung his head. “Open it,” he murmured.

Michael’s breath hitched when he saw the tiny gold plaque inside the medallion, delicately engraved with the lopsided W of Cassiopeia.

“I had it made after you—” Alex cut himself off and swallowed, the words stuck in his throat. “I could never forget you, but I needed to remember what I was fighting for. It kept me going.”

Michael ran his thumb over the engraving, then around the clumsily made golden ring he’d once given Alex.

“When all this is over, I’ll make you a much better ring,” he said.

Alex smiled tightly. “I like this one. But we can get matching rings for our wedding, after all this is over.”

It felt weird to even dare think about such a future, after the one they’d dreamed of had been ripped away from them. It felt like tempting fate. But Alex wanted to daydream again, to stop living like he’d die tomorrow.

To stop wishing that he’d died ten years ago.

“How’s the plan going?” he asked, shaking those thoughts out of his head.

“I think he’s starting to believe me, after the duel. He knows I’m the one who stabbed you in the shoulder too. I’m still sorry about that, by the way.”

“You don’t need to say it every time we meet,” Alex snorted. “I know. I understand why it was necessary.”

Michael nodded. “We’ll need him to really trust me, though. He needs to think that I hate you enough to be willing to ally with him, and that’s not going to be easy.”

“My father isn’t an easy man to fool,” Alex contemplated. “Do you know how to play chess?”

“I’ve learned,” Michael said.

He hadn’t known, back when they were engaged. Alex remembered trying to teach him the basics, but they hadn’t had time for more. He hoped Michael’s game was solid, because they were going to need it. “My father is a master player. Beating him at his own game will be hard, but he taught me well.” Alex bit his lip. “He’d use his belt every time I lost. Which was every game, until I finally learned.”

Michael made a complicated face, full of anger and sadness but also impatience. “Then you’ll have to guide me,” he said with a playful smile. “I can be your pawn.”

“Nah,” Alex shook his head, smiling along. “You’re no pawn. You’re...a bishop, maybe. White bishop pretending to be black.”

“I like that,” Michael smirked.

“I’ll like it more when we’ve won the game,” Alex replied.

*

Queen’s Pawn Game

Four months ago

“Where are we going?”

“I think I’ve figured out the next part of our plan,” Michael said, dragging Alex by the hand. Alex checked that no one was likely to see them, but the place was empty for now. Princess Isobel’s private quarters were off-limits to everyone but her personal servants and, apparently, Michael.

“Michael,” he called, before Michael could take him any further. Alex stumbled a little on his wooden leg when Michael stopped brutally. “Tell me.”

“Okay,” Michael relented. “I’ve been looking for something to use against your father for months. I’ve finally found it. Something that can bring him down.”

“What is it?”

“I asked Isobel—”

“What?” Alex interrupted him in shock. “Do you know how dangerous that is? What makes you sure she won’t just throw us in jail for plotting against the Prime Minister?”

“Calm down, Alex,” Michael sighed. “I know what I’m doing. Isobel wants him gone as much as we do.”

Alex just shook his head, still in shock.

“She says she knows how to get proof that he abused my father’s confidence,” Michael said. “Look, at least heart her out. She’s my sister, she’ll never rat me out.”

“What about me?” Alex asked.

“She admires you. And she hates your father. She will help, I promise.”

“Fine,” Alex relented, though his misgivings weren’t alleviated much. He’d avoided telling even Liz, Maria and Kyle about his plan, by fear that it would somehow get back to his father’s ears. And Michael went straight to the Princess? There was no way this was going to end well.

Isobel was waiting for them in her sitting room, regally sitting on a richly-decorated armchair. She was wearing a blue satin dress with a complex embroidery along her corset and a mounting collar, with matching sapphire necklace and earrings. Her hair was pulled up with pins and braided at the top of her head.

“Captain. Michael,” she welcomed them. “Please sit.”

Alex bowed and obeyed. “Your Highness.”

Isobel didn’t beat around the bush. “Michael told me you’re looking for proof of your father’s misdeeds.”

“I’m—” Alex fumbled, looking for a way to answer that wouldn’t risk implicating him or Michael.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you for details,” Isobel brushed it away with a sweep of her hand. “I believe I know where to find what you need. There are letters. He will not have destroyed them, because they serve as his insurance policy.”

“What do you mean?” Alex asked. “Your Highness,” he added as an afterthought.

“You can drop the address when we are in private,” Isobel said dismissively. “The letters are between him and respected members of the court. They detail a plot fomented to overthrow the old King, years ago. It failed, because some of the plotters opted out at the last moment, but your father keeps the letters as proof to blackmail them into doing his bidding. And if he ever goes down, they will go down with him.”

“If you know all this, why don’t you expose him?” Alex dared to ask. This was not how he was supposed to speak to a member of the Royal Family, and he knew he was overstepping, but he had to know. “What does he have over you?”

Isobel leveled him a glare, but didn’t call him out on his impropriety. She started huffing, but her gaze grew sad instead. “He has Rosa,” she said quietly. “And that means he has me.”

Rosa. Free-spirited, beautiful Rosa. The best of them all, cast out of the court like a criminal and sent back to her father’s country, forbidden from any contact with them.

“You had her exiled!” Alex lost his temper before he could check himself. Rosa had been his best friend, the fourth of the invincible group he formed with Liz and Maria. She should have become Captain, not Alex. But she’d gotten too close to the Princess, and she’d paid the price for it.

That was why he watched Liz’s infatuation with the new King Max, Isobel’s twin brother, with wariness. He wouldn’t let the same thing happen to another of his Musketeers, to Rosa’s little sister.

“I did not,” Isobel sighed. “Your father did. She found those letters, she was going to expose him. Manes had her cast out and convinced my father the King to marry me off to Noah, who is loyal to him. He’s been dangling our relationship over my head for years.”

Alex couldn’t stop his anger now that it was out. He could only think of the tears on Liz’s face when her sister went missing, the months of thinking she was dead in a ditch somewhere. “And you think you got the short end of that stick? Rosa’s all alone in a country she’s never lived in, stripped of everything she accomplished for herself! For all I know she’s still a prisoner, too!” They’d gotten one letter, after months of silence, hand-delivered by one of Isobel’s maids. It had been upbeat and hopeful, like only Rosa could be when things were desperate, and Alex knew she hadn’t told them the whole truth.

Isobel looked away. “I know that, Captain. That’s exactly why I can’t expose your father. I can’t risk Rosa’s life, and he’s capable of having her killed if I take a single step wrong. That’s why I need you.”

“Why now?” Alex asked. “He’s been Prime Minister for eight years. What’s changed?”

Isobel sighed. “You can’t repeat this to anyone. Not even your friends, not until the official announcement is made.”

Alex silently put his hand over his heart as a promise.

“I’m with child,” Isobel said. “My marriage is...what it is, and I was willing to sacrifice many things for the peace of the kingdom, as long as my father was the King. But Max hates your father, and they’re already battling each other by way of new taxes and border strategies. I fear that it will turn into war soon. I won’t let my child get caught in the middle.”

Alex inclined his head. An expectant mother would do a lot for her child, he knew that. And Michael trusted Isobel. He could work with that. “Where are the letters?” he asked.

“Manes keeps them in his office, in a locked drawer.”

Alex exchanged a look with Michael. His father’s office was deep inside the palace, constantly guarded. Getting there without getting caught would be almost impossible.

He stood up and bowed deeply. “I will do my best, your Highness,” he said. He still had misgivings, but if Isobel was telling the truth – and why would she lie? – this was their chance to win the game. The Queen could do a lot of damage on a chess board.

“Captain,” Isobel called him, prompting him to straighten up. “Michael told me some of what happened to the both of you. Manes will not go unpunished for that.”

“He was within his rights,” Alex said bitterly. He didn’t know what to think about the fact that Michael had told Isobel about them, but he had told his friends, too. He couldn’t blame Michael.

“Maybe, but he hurt my brother. He will get what he deserves.”

Alex nodded, still doubtful. “Thank you, your Highness.”

*

Hedgehog System

Two years ago

Alex propped himself up with one crutch carefully as he tended to his horse. He groaned in pain when the young mare shifted her head brusquely and he had to side step, his stump brushing on his other calf. It had been just over two months since he’d been amputated, and the wound was slow to heal, his body still reeling from the infection that had almost killed him.

He wasn’t really supposed to be up and about, but most of the Musketeers were out on palace duty and he was bored. He couldn’t focus on paperwork anymore and he was too wound up to sleep, so he’d come to the stables to have something to do.

His mare moved again, and Alex barely avoided tumbling to the floor, his balance shot. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea after all.

“Alex!” a voice called. “Where are you?”

It was Rosa. Alex dropped his brush and grabbed his second crutch, leaning against the wall of the stall. “I’m here!” he called back, making his slow way back to the courtyard.

“Alex,” Rosa sighed, seeing him. She didn’t scold him for leaving his room, which was Alex’s first clue that something was very wrong. The second was the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“What happened?” he asked, worried. He dragged himself to a bench and sat down, gesturing her closer.

“I have to leave,” Rosa said.

Alex frowned. “Leave? The garrison?”

“The country,” Rosa sighed, drying her face. “I have to run.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isobel and I...we got caught,” she sobbed. “I have no choice.”

Alex closed his eyes briefly, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Rosa, who caught you?” He knew that Rosa has been seeing the Princess in secret for months, since before he and Liz had gone to war. They’d been discreet, but Alex had found a note Isobel had given Rosa by accident once, and she’d confessed everything.

Rosa bit her lip and met his eyes, hesitating. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Isobel is engaged, and I’m just a commoner. If I don’t leave, they’ll have me executed.”

Alex hugged her as she cried, until Liz and Maria returned from the palace. The goodbyes were painful. Rosa was forced to pack light, leaving with only her horse – most of what she had belonged to the garrison, anyway. She could barely stand to tell her father, but he accepted the truth sadly, preparing her as much food as she could carry for the journey.

Liz collapsed as soon as Rosa’s horse passed the garrison gates, weeping in Alex’s arms. Rosa could never come back, now. She’d have to make a whole new life somewhere, in a country at war with their own, and it was hard to tell if they’d ever see her again.

*

Center Game

Four months ago

Getting their hands on the letters turned out to be easier than they’d hoped. It was once they found them that things started to go awry.

Michael had orchestrated a commotion in the palace, enough to attract the Red Guards that stood outside of Jesse Manes’ office away. Alex knew that his father was attending the King, so he picked the lock and took Michael inside. They’d both been in the office many times, and they knew where Jesse kept his confidential papers and prized possessions. The drawer was locked, but it was the work of minutes to get it opened.

There were multiple stacks of paper inside. One was an entire bundle of blank lettres de cachet signed by the old King that made Alex wince internally. His father having that kind of power didn’t sit well with him. These letters could condemn someone to death without a trial or any kind of proof of a crime – only the whim of whoever held it. It was undoubtedly how Jesse had managed to have Rosa exiled.

The second bundle proved to be the one they were looking for. Alex untied it and started looking over the letters to check that it was all of it while Michael stood guard outside.

“Michael, look at those names,” Alex pointed at the headers of some of the letters.

Michael approached and read over his shoulder. “Valenti, DeLuca… They were involved?”

“It looks like it.” Alex sighed, his excitement dropping. “If these letters implicate them, we can’t use them. I can’t do this to Mimi, or to the Commander and Kyle.”

“It looks like it’s only the old Commander, Kyle’s father, not his mother,” Michael said, leafing through the sheets of paper. “But Mimi DeLuca was definitely involved.”

“So this is all useless?”

Michael didn’t have time to answer, because there was a commotion outside. “Guards! Why did you leave your post?” It was Jesse Manes’ voice.

“Shit,” Alex murmured.

His father was too close to the door, there was no way they would be able to get out in time.

“Hide,” Michael whispered hurriedly.

Alex didn’t have time to grab the letters from where he’d dropped them back into the drawer. He stumbled to the balcony and flattened himself against the window frame, hoping against hope that his father wouldn’t notice. It was a terrible hiding place, but there was nowhere else in the office that would fit him.

“Lord Michael, what is the meaning of this?” he heard his father ask.

“I happened to pass by your office on my way to see what was going on in the north wing,” Michael answered, his voice loud and formal. “I saw that it was unguarded and opened, and when I checked that everything was alright, I was almost ran into by someone fleeing the place. I think they searched your desk. I tried to stop them, but I was too late.”

Alex heard someone ruffling through papers.

“Minister, it was a Musketeer,” Michael added. “I saw the uniform.”

Alex held his breath.

“Alex,” Jesse muttered. “Of course. Him or one of his friends. No point in trying to close down the palace, those damned Musketeers have free reign here.”

“I don’t think he had time to take anything,” Michael said.

Jesse ruffled through papers some more, then sighed. “I have to go attend the King,” he said. “I’ll leave you in charge of tightening the palace security.”

“Yes, Minister,” Michael answered. “I will see to it immediately.”

Alex heard their steps retreat, and then the door closed. He didn’t dare move, in case Jesse had remained in the office for any reason, but he couldn’t hear any noise.

Several minutes later, the door opened again. “Alex?” Michael called quietly.

Alex stepped out back inside, grumbling as his leg protested his standing on it for too long. “He’s gone?”

“Yeah, he’s with the King. I sent the guards away for now and made sure no one would notice. We can’t take the letters now, though, or he’ll know.”

Alex cursed through his teeth. “Why did you have to tell him it was a Musketeer?”

“I needed his attention off of me,” Michael said. “If he thinks it’s you, he won’t search for the person responsible any further. The plan doesn’t work if he doesn’t trust me.”

“What plan? Even if we can steal the letters at a later date, we can’t use them. I can’t do this to Mimi and Maria.”

They discreetly walked out of the office and into another corridor, entering the Princess’s wing. This was the only place in the palace where they could be reasonably certain that they wouldn’t be overheard by someone with ill-intent.

“I think I have an idea,” Michael said. “It won’t be easy, and it might be dangerous. But that’s the way you play chess, right? Take risks?”

Alex shook his head. “My father wouldn’t agree with you. He makes hard decisions, but he doesn’t take risks.”

“And you?”

Alex shrugged. “I’ve learned that playing by his rules doesn’t give me the advantage.”

“Good,” Michael smiled. “So, maybe we can’t use the letters to incriminate him, but there are other ways they could be helpful. Getting my hands on them will take some time, but it should be easy enough. He’s starting to trust me.”

“How is that useful to us?”

“He’s going to make his move against Max soon. We need him to trust me enough to ask me to do his dirty work.”

Alex blinked. “You want him to ask you to kill Max?”

“I’ll start dropping hints,” Michael said. “That I’m frustrated that Max won’t give me more power, unlike the old King, that I’ve done this kind of thing before… With my past, he won’t have trouble believing me, and if he thinks he has leverage over me, he won’t think twice.”

“So you want to what, stage a murder?”

Michael laughed. “No, just convincingly fail at my task. And once he’s asked me that, we’ll have proof that he’s conspiring against the King.”

“He won’t give you the orders in writing,” Alex said. “He’s more cunning than that. It will be your word against his.”

“That’s where the letters come in,” Michael smirked.

*

Drunken Knight Opening

Two weeks ago

It happened in a matter of seconds. One moment, Alex was stumbling around the town square outside the garrison, drunk and depressed, ready to collapse into bed. The next moment, he had Michael in a choke-hold, and he was holding a dagger to his throat. Michael had shown up out of nowhere, running from a back alley, and Alex honestly couldn't have explained it if he tried, except to say that his body reacted long before his mind caught up.

“Alex,” Michael let out a strangled whisper. He tried to free himself, but Alex was restraining him too strongly.

“I knew you weren't telling the truth,” Alex hissed. “You had ulterior motives. You just can't let things go, can you?”

“Alex, I don't know what you're talking about,” Michael tried.

“Alex!” Maria called from the garrison door. Alex turned to her sharply, almost driving the knife straight into Michael's neck in the process. “What are you doing? He's the King's brother!”

“He's a liar and a thief,” Alex spit out. “And my father's spy.”

“Alex,” Maria tried, her hands up to show she was harmless. “You're drunk. Free him and we can talk.”

Alex’s rage spiked, hard and unforgiving in his chest. Maria was looking at him with something like pity in her eyes, like he was good for nothing more than her contempt, a shadow of her once great capacity for compassion. Maria, who had let herself be seduced by Michael, who still defended him after Alex had told her everything. She’d probably given him information about Alex, ways to reach his weaknesses.

“You!” Alex rounded in on her, not letting go of Michael. “You slept with him! Are you in love with him?”

“You don't understand,” Maria sighed. Liz came up behind her, her face resigned and sad.

“No, I don't,” Alex said.

“I didn't know, Alex. I swear I didn't.”

They circled each other a few times, in slow steps. Alex could see Liz out of the corner of his eye, ready to intervene, Kyle and his medical kit, waiting.

“Will that do?” he murmured in Michael’s ear.

“Lots of people watching us,” Michael whispered back. “I see Red Guards coming. It should convince your father.”

He chose that moment to free himself of the choke-hold. The main gauche nicked his neck, but the amount of blood wasn’t enough for it to be a serious injury.

Alex immediately drew his sword, but he stumbled, too drunk to fight properly. Michael threw him stumbling backward into Liz's arms, a slash of his blade sending fire down his arm. And just like that, the fight was over.

Michael disappeared into the crowd, swallowed into the sea of red uniforms arriving at the scene.

*

Promotion

Now

“How was my funeral?” Alex asked from his seat by the window, in the shadows, where he’d been watching the garrison’s courtyard slowly fill up.

“Very emotional,” Liz said, carelessly throwing her rapier onto the bed. “Commander Valenti had a lot to say about you. Your father looked very uncomfortable.”

“I'm sorry to have missed it, I wish I'd seen that. Any news from Michael?”

Maria shook her head. “Not since he killed you.”

“You’re never going to let us live this one down, are you?” Alex asked.

Faking his shooting in the middle of the street had been a rehearsed affair, with the help of a blank pistol and creative use of cow blood. Alex’s best friends and Commander Valenti were the only ones who knew. They’d had to bring the Commander in on the whole plan, but though she’d scolded them about taking unnecessary risks, she was overjoyed to get the opportunity to get back at her long-time rival. Jesse Manes had been a thorn in her shoe for too long.

“You and your lover just faked your murder to take down your father,” Maria said. “Things don’t get much more romantic than that.”

“You read too much,” Kyle grumbled.

Liz plopped down on Alex’s bed. “What now?”

“Michael should be talking to my father as we speak,” Alex explains. “He’ll propose to exchange himself for the letters. And since my father will think that getting revenge against Michael is more important to you than blackmailing him, we’ll have the leverage we need.”

“I still think this is a needlessly complicated plan,” Maria crossed her arms on her chest.

Alex shrugged. “But it will work,” he said. “We have a few days to prepare, and I have a mission.” He pointed at Maria. “You’re going to wait for Michael to contact you, and set up the exchange. I’ll give you the details.” He turned to Liz. “Since I need to make myself scarce until then, you and I are going on a trip. We’re going to get Rosa back.”

Liz and Maria looked at each other. “You think it’s safe?” Maria asked.

“I’ll make sure it is,” Alec nodded. “Our job is to get her here. Michael will handle the rest.”

Liz’s face lit up and she got up from the bed to hug Alex. “Thank you,” she murmured in his ear. “Thank you. Dad’s going to be so happy.”

*

Magnet Sacrifice

Two weeks ago

“So we finally meet properly,” Michael said with a smile, shaking Liz’s hand, then Maria’s. “I feel like it’s long overdue.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding us,” Liz joked.

Alex felt a little like his parallel worlds were colliding, his day life as a Musketeer and his night escapades with Michael. Having Michael here, at the garrison – even if they’d taken precautions and let him in through a back door, and he wouldn’t go past Alex’s office – was both exciting and terrifying. They were playing a dangerous game.

“How did it go?” he asked, cutting the pleasantries short.

“The altercation got back to his ears, as planned,” Michael said. “And he knows you have the letters. He sees you as his main threat, and me as his ally.”

“So you've convinced him that you hate me and that you're on his side?”

“Almost. Just one tiny detail left.” Michael shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

Alex frowned. “And what is that?”

“I need to kill you.”

Alex’s friends erupted in questions and protests, while Alex stared at Michael, considering.

“Eliminate a threat and collar you in the same move,” he said slowly. “That sounds like him.”

Michael nodded. “I think he wants to both be certain that I really hate you, and make sure that he has me under his thumb. If I kill you in broad daylight, in front of witnesses, then he’s the only thing standing between me and jail.”

“He probably likes the dramatic irony of it all, too,” Alex rolled his eyes. It sounded just like his father. He wasn’t a dramatic man for the most part, doing everything with military precision and very little imagination, but when it came to torturing his family, he’d always been inventive. He’d forced Alex to watch Michael be hanged, ten years ago. Alex hated remembering what he’d done to his mother until she left, but it had been ugly.

“So, can we do it? We’d have to make it convincing.”

“Wait, you’re actually going to do it?” Liz protested.

“It’s the only way to get at him,” Michael said. “If I don’t do it, he’ll stop trusting me.”

“Won’t it put a wrench in your plan? You still haven’t told us the whole plan,” Maria accused Alex.

“That’s true,” Alex admitted, raising his hands in the air. “I didn’t want to until we were sure it was going to work. I’ve told you about the letters.” He waved at his desk, where the stack of letters Michael had stolen from Jesse Manes’ office were kept under lock. “My father is very careful not to leave a paper trail. We have the letters, but we can’t use them. Michael can testify that my father had him try to kill Max, but it’s not enough unless we have some kind of confession. So Michael came up with a plan.”

“We both did,” Michael corrected. “You gave me the idea.”

“Let’s say it was a collective effort,” Alex conceded. “My father doesn’t know that we can’t use the letters. Maria’s parentage isn’t public knowledge, and Jim Valenti is dead. He’s desperate to get them back. So we came up with an exchange: the letters, against Michael’s head on a platter. We convinced him that Michael and I hate each other, first with the duel, and more recently when I attacked him.”

“Oh, so that was why,” Maria raised her eyebrows.

Alex nodded. “He’s the King’s brother, so I can’t touch him. My father thinks that I want his hide for how he ‘humiliated’ me. We’ll stage the exchange carefully, in a place where he thinks he has the superior position, and I’ll trick him into a confession. He won’t be able to resist showing me he’s won.”

“That sounds like a really complicated plan,” Maria frowned.

“He’s a master chess player. He’d see through something simpler right away.”

“But then how does it work if Michael ‘kills’ you?” Liz asked.

“It will be even better,” Michael said. “Because he won’t feel threatened anymore. I’ll kill Alex, secure my position. You’ll make the exchange, pretending that you don’t care about the letters and just want revenge. With Alex gone, he’ll think he’s untouchable.”

*

Zugzwang

Now

“You murderer!” Liz hissed as soon as Michael walked into the church, on Jesse Manes’ heels. Maria put a hand on her wrist to keep her from lunging at Michael.

They had chosen the church for the exchange because it would be empty at this time of the day, and it was neutral ground. Holy ground. Even Jesse Manes wouldn’t dare try something there. He’d come without guards, unwilling to trust any of them with this mission. A few coins had gone to the priest to make sure that they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“You shot him in cold blood!” Liz cried out again. She was a good actress, Michael has to give her that.

“He would have done the same to me,” Michael shrugged, lowering his collar to expose his neck, and the scar there. “He did, once.”

“Entertaining as this is, perhaps we should get down to business,” Manes said coldly. “Give me the letters, and you can do what you want with Michael.”

Liz took a step forward, and Maria let her go. She bowed her head.

“Minister, I’m sorry for you loss. I’m sure that discovering that your son was killed by one of your own men was devastating. I was surprised to hear that Lord Michael was still free.”

“He was...useful,” Manes said. “Are you aware of the contents of the letters?”

“Oh, she knows,” Michael said through his teeth.

Liz put her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Shut up, you traitor,” she spit out.

“She knows you tried to depose the old King,” Michael said anyway, putting as much contempt in his tone as he could. It wasn’t hard. He had plenty of contempt in store for Jesse Manes. “She knows you tried to kill the new one, too. But she doesn’t care, as long as her precious Alex is avenged.”

Manes hissed in shock and grabbed Michael by the collar. “You told them?”

Michael shrugged cockily, no trace of fear on his face. “I told them everything.”

“You’d murder the King, just to get your little favorite on the throne?” Liz asked, moving so that she was on Jesse Manes’ other side. “Why? Haven’t you got enough power already?”

“It wasn’t about power,” Jesse sneered.

“Of course it was,” Michael said, pushing him away. “You just wanted your own puppet. Max is too opinionated for you.”

Jesse let him go, his face reddening in anger. “You understand nothing.”

“Then tell us,” Liz said, taking the letters out of her pocket. “Tell us, and you’ll get your precious letters. Nothing will be able to hurt you anymore.”

Jesse glared at her. “The King is destroying our country. He’s emptying our coffers, ending taxes, bleeding us dry. We’re at war, you of all people should know that. We can’t win a war without money. I ordered his death because I alone will face the truths that no one else can stomach.”

Liz paused. “And the old King?”

“A youthful mistake,” Jesse shrugged. “Once we got past our differences, he was amenable to work with me. Just like Noah will be.”

“Well, wasn’t that an enlightening conversation,” a voice boomed out behind their backs.

Jesse turned around in shock as Alex walked in from behind the organ. “Hello, Father.”

“You’re dead,” Jesse hissed, eyes widening almost comically.

“Am I really? It seems that I’m a better player than you give me credit for,” Alex said, putting an arm around Michael’s waist. “You should choose your pieces better.”

*

En passant

Ten years ago

Alex stopped humming and jumped to his feet as he heard a horse neigh in the distance. His own horse was placid beside the stream, munching on a clump of herbs, but he perked up as well. Nothing happened for a few seconds, then Alex heard a gallop and a frightened horse passed him at high speed, jumping over the little stream without slowing down.

“Come back!” a voice called.

Alex took a few steps away from the cover of the trees and spotted a young man running toward where the horse had gone, limping slightly. His breeches were covered in mud, like he’d fallen off the horse. His outfit was made of cheap linen and rough wool, the only leather a satchel across his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Alex asked when the boy reached him. He seemed to be about Alex’s age, with light curly hair framing his face. He was beautiful, in the unrefined way that commoner could be, all muscles from hard work and sun-tanned skin. Below your station, Jesse Manes’ voice echoed in Alex’s ears.

The boy stared at Alex for a moment, giving up on chasing his horse. “He’ll come back eventually,” he sighed. “I’m trying to train him, but he’s stubborn.”

“He’s yours?” Alex asked.

“No, he belongs to the Valenti estate. I’m just helping train him.”

The Valentis were the owners of the land bordering the Manes’ estate. Alex mostly knew their son Kyle, who was his age, though they’d had a falling out and no longer spent time together. Kyle’s parents spent most of the year in the capital, since his father was the Commander of the King’s Musketeers. Alex and Kyle had dreamed of becoming Musketeers themselves as children, though now that Alex was preparing to enlist in the Army next year, that dream seemed far away.

“I’m Alex,” he said, because it seemed only polite to introduce himself. He’d never been allowed to interact much with the inhabitants of the town besides the ones that served his family.

“Lord Manes’ youngest son, I know,” the other boy said, irreverently, his face almost daring Alex to react. “I’m Michael.”

Alex hitched to put him back in his place, but he stopped himself. It was clearly what Michael wanted, so he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’ve never seen you around before.”

“Only got here two months ago,” Michael drawled, with a hint of a northern accent. “I’m an orphan. I’ve lived in lots of places. You satisfied?”

Alex shrugged, still not rising to the provocation. “Where do you live now?”

“Here and there,” Michael ducked his head, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “In barns, mostly. I try to pick up work wherever I can.”

Alex bit his lip. Michael’s bravado seemed to stem from not wanting to be put down by rough conditions, and he could admire that. “Can you tend a garden?” he asked.

Michael nodded.

“Our gardener’s old and almost blind, he could use some help. I can’t promise you money, but there’s a shed. It’s sturdy and it keeps warmth pretty well.” Alex knew that mostly because it was where he ran to, when his father was angry enough that staying in the house was dangerous.

“Why?” Michael asked. “What do you want from me?”

Alex shrugged. “Properly pruned rose bushes? People don’t always have an agenda.”

Michael stared at him doubtfully, but he nodded. “I have to go,” he muttered. “Need to find that damn horse before nightfall.”

Alex watched him jump over the stream and take off running and stared after him for a while. He wasn’t sure what to make of this encounter. Mr Sanders would be glad to have some help, especially if it was help he didn’t have to share his paycheck with, but Alex didn’t know what had possessed him to offer the job to a boy he’d just met.

There was something about Michael. Alex couldn’t quite figure out what, but he couldn’t get his face out of his mind, as he hopped onto his horse’s back and led him back to the stables.

He tended to his horse quickly and went to change, knowing that his father was waiting for him in his study for their daily game of chess. It was the only time in the day that they still interacted, as Alex avoided coming down for meals unless they had guests. Since Flint had left the previous year, life at home had been worse than ever, and Alex spent as much time as he could outside or locked in his quarters.

His father scowled at him in displeasure when Alex slid onto the chair waiting for him, and made his first move without a word. He always played the whites. He always won.

Alex dreamed of inverting the board, sometimes. The whites played first, and that gave them an advantage. Maybe with that, he could finally beat his father – finally make him proud.

“You’re hesitating again,” Jesse said, as Alex took a minute second to choose between taking a pawn and protecting his bishop. “You’re still not rigorous enough. There are no easy moves in chess. Whatever you do, there will be difficult consequences, sacrifices that you have to make. You can’t win without making hard decisions.”

Alex didn’t reply, and went with the risky move, that could give him checkmate in five if his father didn’t see it.

Jesse saw it. Of course he did. He played with little creativity, but a ruthlessness that was unmatched, and he had an eye for the combinations. He was always ten moves ahead. Alex couldn’t beat him.

He would beat him one day, he promised himself as Jesse waited for him to topple his king before he stood up and removed his belt. He would beat him, and he wouldn’t do it to make his father proud.

He would win, and his prize would be freedom.

*

Checkmate

Now

“How very cunning,” Jesse sneered at Alex. “You tricked me into making a full confession. And what use is your confession, uh? The word of a lowly Musketeer against the Prime Minister of Antar?”

“The King may not believe their words, Minister, but he will most certainly believe mine.”

Jesse Manes turned sharply at the new voice. Princess Isobel was as beautiful as ever, illuminated in the mysterious light of the church's stained glass windows. Her light green dress, an intricate work of lace and satin, almost appeared white, and so did her long blond hair, gathered above her head with jeweled pins. She didn’t smile as Jesse bowed to her, deeper than his status warranted. “Your Highness,” he said, backing away.

“General,” Isobel replied coldly, as Liz, Maria and Michael retreated out of the church discreetly, giving her the floor. “The King will hear about this. I am certain he will not have any choice but to dismiss you, and even if your status may spare you from standing trial, you’ll be exiled.”

Jesse backed away a few more steps. “Isobel,” he said, his tone condescending, switching out of formal address. Isobel’s face scrunched up in disgust. “You can’t do that. You know what will happen if you do.”

“I highly doubt that,” Isobel answered. She stepped aside, and Rosa came out of the shadows behind her.

Isobel was incredibly good at this, Alex reflected. She waited until Rosa was at her shoulder and bowed her head to her, in a clear sign of her affection.

“Yes, Father,” Alex said. “I took the liberty to have Rosa escorted back to Antar. It turns out that the King was more than happy to pardon his favorite Musketeer’s sister, once the Princess made her case. And now, I have multiple witnesses who heard you confess to your plot to kill the King himself.”

He was still tense, watching his father's every move with his hand on his sword, but jubilation at this tableau is catching up to him. They had him. Their impossible plan had worked, and his father would never hurt anyone again.

Jesse looked scared now, looking around him for support that wouldn’t come as Alex advanced on him. Alex didn’t bother to hide his limp.

“Your blinders are what defeated you, father. You think I'm weak, because I love men. You thought Isobel was easier to manipulate than Max because she's a woman. You were wrong.”

Instead of stopping in front of his father to face him, he kept walking, until Jesse had to step aside to let him pass. “I believe this is checkmate, father,” he said in a low voice, meant to be heard by him only.

*

His friends were waiting for him behind the church. Alex led Rosa out, signaling his men to escort his father and the Princess back to the palace. Jesse Manes was done. He might not go to jail, but as soon as Isobel told the King, he would lose his job and his standing, and probably his title and estate.

Alex knees felt weak with relief, as he walked back to the garrison. Commander Valenti was standing with Kyle by the door to her office, and Alex simply nodded at them. It’s done. Kyle whooped in joy while his mother simply smiled.

Alex turned back to his best friends.

“So we’re four again?” Liz asked, watching Rosa with hesitation in her eyes, a fear impossible to put into words.

“I don’t know if I can get my commission back, but I’ll never stop being a Musketeer,” Rosa said with tears in her eyes. She held out a hand to her sister. “One for all,” she murmured.

Liz grabbed her hand, and Alex and Maria joined in, adding their hands on top. “All for one,” they said together. They fell into a group hug, relieved tears mixing with smiles.

Alex saw Michael standing at the gates out of the corner of his eye, leaning against one of the posts and watching them.

“Go to him,” Liz told him quietly. “You’ve waited for this for so long.”

Alex straightened his clothes. “I have something to do first,” he murmured. He unclasped the chain from his neck and took off the golden ring. Taking a deep breath, he slid it onto his finger.

He swallowed back a sob, looking at his hand.

“Does that mean we have a wedding to plan?” Rosa asked with a smirk.

“Soon,” Alex promised.

He didn’t look back as he joined Michael at the gates, and linked their hands together.

“It’s done.” He smiled softly at Michael, who didn’t speak. “We’re free.”

--

You can read the first two parts of the series for a more detailed account of Alex and Michael's duel and its aftermath (though keep in mind that they were written over a year ago, before season 2, and I've changed a few things to the plot of this AU since, most notably my plans for Maribel). I hope you liked this! And remember to go look at Slynella's amazing illustrations for this fic and give her all the love!