#'a letter on a stormy night;' 'who was it who was betrayed...?'

[sunsvrs]

Break up scenarios with Enhypen

These scenarios contain sensitive topics related to trust and betrayal within a relationship.

TW: Infidelity, emotion distress, mental health struggles relationship breakdown, emotional conflict, anger, public humiliation, perfectionism, commitment issues.

This kinda took me a while so i hope you like it.

Heeseung

It’s a stormy evening, and the wind howls outside, shaking the windows of your small apartment. You sit alone on the couch, surrounded by the dim light of a single lamp. The air feels heavy with unresolved tension. “Heeseung, we need to talk. It feels like you’re slipping away from me. I’m here alone most of the time.” He finally sits beside you, his face a mix of exhaustion and guilt. He avoids eye contact as he speaks. “I’ve been so consumed by work... I didn’t realize how far I was drifting.” Just as you begin to voice your frustration, your phone buzzes with a notification. It’s a message from Heeseung’s phone left on the coffee table, showing a text from an unknown number that reads, “Can’t wait to see you again, miss you.”

Your heart sinks. “Who is this?” you ask, holding up the phone. “It’s not what it looks like. I... I was just... I don’t know what to say.”

The storm outside mirrors the chaos within. The finality of Heeseung’s betrayal hits hard as you leave, the door slamming shut behind you. Heeseung’s sobs are swallowed by the storm’s roar, a stark reminder of his broken promises.

Jay

It’s late at night, and the apartment is shrouded in darkness, only lit by the faint glow of a bedside lamp. Jay sits on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. The silence is punctuated only by his quiet, anguished sobs. “Jay, what’s happening? I see you’re struggling, but you’re pushing me away.” His voice is muffled as he speaks through his tears. “I’m battling so many demons, and I’m scared... scared that I’m dragging you down.”

Just then, you notice a small envelope on the nightstand addressed to someone else. It’s a letter confessing his struggle with his feelings and his fear of being a burden, but it also hints at an affair he’s been having. Your heart races as you read a line that says, “I can’t keep pretending everything is okay.”

“Is this what you’ve been hiding? Did you think cheating was the answer?!” He looks up, horror and regret in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you like this. I just didn’t know how to cope.“ The room feels colder as you process his betrayal. With a broken heart, you walk away, leaving Jay alone with his regret and the darkened room’s echoes of your departing footsteps.

Jake

The living room is bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, but the atmosphere feels tense and charged. Jake sits on the couch, his face etched with a mixture of pain and resignation. The air between you is thick with unsaid words. “I’ve been hiding something from you. I’m struggling, and I don’t think I can do this anymore... not like this.” “We can work through this together. Let me help you,” you plead, but Jake’s expression remains troubled. “I’ve been seeing someone else. I thought it would help me escape my feelings, but it only made things worse. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix this.”

Your heart shatters at his confession. “So, you chose to betray me instead of facing your problems? I can’t believe this.” The warmth of the setting sun does little to comfort you as you prepare to leave. Jake’s face is a mask of regret and sorrow, his pleas falling on deaf ears as you walk out, the door closing with a finality that echoes his heartbreak.

Sunghoon

The late afternoon sun casts a warm but deceptive glow over the living room. The room feels tense, as if the air itself is charged with unresolved issues. Sunghoon sits on the couch, his expression a mix of frustration and agitation. You stand nearby, struggling with the weight of your discovery. “Sunghoon, we need to talk. I’ve noticed you’ve been distant, and now I get messages like this on my phone.” You hold up your phone, displaying a text that reads, ‘I miss you. Can’t wait to see you again soon.’ Sunghoon’s face darkens, anger flashing in his eyes as he stands up abruptly. “Seriously? You’re going to accuse me without even hearing me out?”

“I’m not accusing you without reason. How can you explain this? Who is this person, and why are they sending you messages like this?”

Sunghoon’s anger rises, his voice sharp and defensive. “You think you know everything, don’t you? I’ve been dealing with a lot, and instead of listening, you’re jumping to conclusions!” “This isn’t about me jumping to conclusions. It’s about the fact that you’ve been seeing someone else behind my back. How do you expect me to react?”

His anger turns to shouting as he paces the room. “You don’t understand what it’s like! I made mistakes, yes, but it’s not all black and white. You think you’re perfect, but you don’t know the full story!” “I don’t need to know the full story to understand that you’ve betrayed my trust. I’m trying to make sense of what’s happened and how you could be so cruel.” Both voices beginning to rise “Cruel? You think I’m cruel?! You’re the one making a scene without knowing anything. I’m tired of your accusations and your expectations. I made mistakes, but this is how you respond?” The warm light of the afternoon sun now feels harsh and mocking as Sunghoon’s anger fills the room. The atmosphere is charged with frustration and bitterness, creating a chasm between you. “I can’t stay here and deal with this. I need to get away from this toxic situation and figure out where to go from here.” As you turn to leave, Sunghoon’s anger is palpable. He watches you with a mixture of rage and frustration, his face flushed and eyes blazing. The door slams behind you, leaving Sunghoon alone in the harsh light of the setting sun, his anger echoing in the empty room. The once-warm light now feels like a stark reminder of the bitterness and disillusionment of your shattered relationship.

Sunoo

The room is softly lit by a bedside lamp, casting a gentle glow over the space. Sunoo sits on the edge of the bed, his posture slumped and his face hidden in his hands. The atmosphere is heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken pain. “Sun, I can see that you’re struggling, but you’re shutting me out. What’s going on?” He lifts his head, revealing tear-streaked cheeks. “I’ve been feeling lost and overwhelmed. There’s been so much I haven’t told you. I’m scared that I’m not the person you think I am anymore.”

As you listen, you discover a series of personal letters and journal entries where Sunoo has been candidly documenting his fears and struggles, including a recent scandal involving leaked videos that left him deeply affected. You realize how much he’s been carrying alone. ”Sun, I had no idea how much you’ve been dealing with. You don’t have to face this alone. We can work through this together.” His eyes widen with relief as he listens to your supportive words. “You really mean that? I’ve been so afraid of pushing you away. I didn’t know how to share this with you.” The room, once filled with despair, now feels like a sanctuary of hope and renewal. You both smile, finding solace in each other's presence and the strength of your bond. As you hold each other, it becomes clear that, despite the challenges, your relationship has the potential to grow stronger.

(I couldn't bring myself to break up with him ;-;)

Jungwon

The living room is dimly lit, with shadows flickering as the city lights cast an orange hue through the windows. Jungwon sits by the window, his shoulders hunched and his gaze distant. The atmosphere feels heavy, as if the room is suffused with the weight of his unspoken struggles. “Jungwon, I can't keep doing this. You’re always so distant, and it feels like I’m the only one fighting for us.” He turns to face you, his eyes betraying deep exhaustion and guilt. “I’ve been trying so hard to be perfect, but it’s breaking me apart. I didn’t realize how much I was failing us.”

As you speak, you find a hidden folder in his desk, containing detailed notes and photographs of his relentless pursuit of perfection. Among them, there’s a shocking revelation—evidence of secret meetings with a performance coach and a therapist. It’s clear he’s been hiding not just his struggles but an entire alternate life focused on an unattainable ideal. “Is this what you’ve been hiding? The pressure you’re under is tearing us apart.” Tears stream down his face as he tries to explain. “I thought if I could be perfect, everything would be okay. I didn’t want you to see me like this, but now I see that I’ve lost myself—and you.” The room feels colder, the shadows growing longer as the weight of his admission settles between you. You leave, the dim light outside contrasting sharply with the stark reality of Jungwon’s struggle, leaving him alone with his regrets and broken dreams.

Ni-Ki

The room is bathed in the soft light of the setting sun, creating a melancholic atmosphere. Ni-ki sits on the edge of the bed, his face troubled as he gazes out the window. You stand across from him, your heart heavy with the realization of your differing paths. “Ni-Ki, I feel like we’re moving in different directions. I’m ready for a serious commitment, but you seem so unsure.” He looks up, his face a mix of fear and regret. “I’m still figuring out who I am. I didn’t mean for things to get this complicated. I don’t want to hold you back.”

As the conversation unfolds, you reveal that you’ve been offered a job abroad, adding to the complexity of your situation. “This opportunity means a lot to me, and I can’t stay if we’re not on the same page.” He tried to hide his tearstained face. “I know. I’m just not ready for the kind of commitment you need.” The setting sun casts a warm yet sorrowful glow as you come to terms with the need to part ways. Ni-Ki watches you leave, the tears in his eyes a reflection of the sadness of your separation.

[witchofhimring]

Alys

Based off Medea

Pairings:

(Jason)Aemond Targaryen x (Medea)Alys Rivers

Aemond Targaryen x Cassandra Baratheon

Synopsis: She gave everything for Aemond Targaryen. Her home, her family, the lives of her two brothers, all of her. They had sworn themselves by the Valyrian Gods and she bore him two sons. New comes to Alys of Harrenhal that her love is to marry another.

Warnings: heartbreak, cheating, emotional manipulation, murder, child murder

Stronger than lover's love is lovers hate

A wail pierced the new day. It carried the pain of a thousand betrayed women on its wings. Each dreaded note bleed into the old walls of Harrenhal. The lady of the castle wept. A great lady and witch reduced to crying on her knees on the cold cold ground. Her black hair shrouded her like a robe in mourning. For Alys lamented the death of a great love. The pain she felt were as if Aemond Targaryen had just been killed before her. And in a way, he was. A letter lay crumpled feet from Alys, stained with freshly fallen tears. It held tidings of their sundering and his pledge to another, sworn in a Sept instead of a hidden cave.

Dear Alys,

I pray this letter finds you well. I know that the contents of this letter will bring you much pain, and for that I am filled with remorse. But this must be done. Alys, I am to marry the Lady Cassandra of Storms End. Please do not hate me for this. To incur you displeasure would bring me great sorrow. I will keep you in my heart, always.

Sincerely,

Aemond

"Please do not hate me for this. To incur your displeasure would bring me great sorrow." What did he know of sorrow?! He brought words of guilt but chose not to come himself. Alys hated him, almost as much as she hated herself.

She had been born Alys Strong, daughter of Ser Lyonel Strong. In those days she was the favoured child, adored by all those in the castle. She'd had two brothers, Harwin and Larys, both so dear to her. And her life might have continued in this peaceful way had Aemond Targaryen not landed in front of their castle on his dragon. He had come to demand the allegiance of house Strong for the upcoming war. But Alys, who knew the deep secrets of this earth long hidden, had spelt an enchantment so powerful that not even dragon fire would breach it. She looked down on the young man from up high, sure in her steadfastness. So he passed swearing to come in peace. When their eyes first meet she suddenly felt a rush of an indescribable sensation. Her whole body came alight with a new energy, possessed with desire. The met the Princes gaze, for even in love she never bowed from a challenge. She was proud, and not even a Targaryen could tame her.

Aemond was the first to approach her. Alys was in her room with the sent of sage wafting through the air. Her pestle grinded against the stone bowl each time. Soft words drifted through her red lips as the fire flickered. No one encroached on the lady during these time. For this was her domain were none but her could enter. But today there was an intruder. Not in person, but in the mind. Aemond Targaryen raced through her thoughts. Breaking off chants and messing up potions. Eventually she grew so irate that Alys slammed the pestle onto the table. She had only meet this man for one moment and already he was on her mind. It was unnatural. Above her hearth were little statues. For only Alys knew the Old Gods of Valyria. They spoke to her in dreams, appeared on stormy nights. And so she followed them in their teachings and received power in return. But remember young one. Ones you have accepted, do not ever spurn us. And so she never had. Alys kept her promises.

It was he who approached her the next day. She had been by the stream when Aemond Targaryen, out on a walk, chanced upon her. Their eyes met and immediately Aemond was enchanted. They talked and talked. He showed her his dragon and she helped him win the war. She helped him fight against Daemon Targaryen. And when her father and brothers found out she shared a bed with the Prince, he threatened to disinherit his own daughter. Aemond needed Harrenhal, but he couldn't if Alys was kicked out. And so she committed her darkest deed, something so abhorrent that it sent shivers down her spine. A fire was set in Harrenhal, an accident to the eyes of all. except Alys and Aemond. With the deaths of her two brothers and father, Alys was lady of Harrenhal.

"We shall marry under the watch of my Gods." Aemond brought Alys into a small sept. Alys looked up at the six statues (the Stranger was missing). The one that caught her attention was that of a young woman. Her head was covered by a veil, eyes cast downward. Aemond walked towards it. "This is The Mother. She watches over married women such as yourself." Alys walked up to her and was face to face with the statue. Reaching up, Alys touched her face.

"Then who is yours's?" Aemond looked towards The Warrior. "It will become king one day, and shall set a black crown of iron upon my brow. And my son after, and his son as well."

The rage of Alys was well known all throughout Westeros. The mistress anger over her husband taking a lawful wife. Little did they knew that Alys was no mere mistress, for they had sworn before the Gods themselves. She howled and raged. Her pain echoed through the halls. Her ladies waited fearfully outside, barely daring to breath. They wanted to comfort their mistress. But were too fearful to enter. Finally, Mara, the oldest of Alys's attendants, plucked up her courage and entered. Alys, who's abode had usually been so pristine, was absolutely wretched. Mara carefully padded towards her lay. She knelt next to her. Alys lifted her head. Normally immaculate coal black hair lay in a messy, for in her distress Alys had clawed out pieces which lay scattered across the floor. Those beautiful emerald eyes which minstrels wrote ballads about were puffy, red and swollen. Unkempt nails scratched against the stone. "Oh my poor lady." Mara gathered Alys in her arms and she sept. "What am I to do! He has shamed me and my sons to the whole world!" Whatever was said next past in a series of incoherent blubbering and wails. It was all Mara could do to hold Alys, internally cursing the prince.

Aemond did not even do Alys the courtesy of going in person. A week later the Baratheon banners flew over Harrenhal as Borros Baratheon stormed in. His meaty hand clasped a letter and when Alys read it she nearly collapsed. She had her children were to be banished to Essos. The Kings untidy handwriting marked this official document. "You are to take your bastards out of this kingdom and go where my daughter will not be shamed by your presence." The sneer adorning his horrid face made Alys's insides curdle. Who was this overlarge illiterate lord to make here and insult her!? She was Alys Rivers, Lady of Harrenhal, witch, and rightful wife of Aemond, mother to his heirs. "You say your daughter can not stand the sight of bastards. Yet she will happily bear them for him as I am Prince Aemond's lawful wife!" In two strides Borros made it to Alys. A blinding pain broke across her face, Borros had struck Alys hard. Her ladies angrily surged forward but Alys raised a hand. Cold eyes regarded this man and an idea struck her. She could rage and storm, letting the pain wear her down. But she had two things, a vial of deadly poison from Ashai and a letter by a septon. Then in her madness Alys thought of another insidious step to this plan. It made her blood run cold. Her eyes went to those two little boys which Aemond had cased off. She would make him regret this.

Her voice would have seemed piteous to any other. Borros was not a man moved by mercy, and so this wounded women stirred no sympathy within him. Not that Alys did not try. "My Lord, I know my behavior has not been courteous as of late. Only my grief has been so heavy as of late. Allow me to at least stay long enough to get my affairs in order." Borros scoffed. "So you may continue infesting this land with your poison? No, I will have you out of this country." Next she appealed to a parents love for their child in hopes it might move him. "My sons are young and innocent. Would you want your own children cast to such a miserable fate? I implore you, as a parent, spare my sons for the sake of them, not me." Borros went red in the face. "Do not compare your whelps to my children." She grasped onto one last hope. "At least allow me to humble myself before your daughter, as she is Queen. I would gladly do her homage if only to incur her mercy. I hear far and wide that she is merciful as she is beautiful. Please allow my sons to present her with tribute to show I mean no ill will. " And Alys, the most powerful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, a woman of unspeakable force, prostrated herself before the lord.

"Very well. You have one day."

He did not see the look on her face.

Before Alys lay two things, a golden dress and a dagger. Her fingers traced the blades sharp edges. Alys did not dare touch the dress. What she was about to do would bring the greatest pain and satisfaction. They say that stronger than lover's love is lovers hate. If this is indeed true then it clouded Alys to anything else. Not even the love she had for her children prevailed. Just as Aemond had cast them of so would she cast all recollection of being his. Alys could not imagine living in a world where she was less than she was.

Her two boys were playing outside, completely ignorant of the storm breaking over their heads. Alys took in their silver hair, indigo eyes and the pink tinge adorning their cheeks. They were truly lovely boys, both in body and mind.

Could she do it? This would hurt her just as much as their father. "He is no father." Alys steeled herself. She would cast a wound such as he had never felt. Alys hoped it would settled into his soul like a seed and haunt Aemond Targaryen for the rest of his days. His line would end.

"Mara. Send the boys in."

Blood drenched the floor. The terrified screams still echoed in impenetrable darkness. A knife lay scattered on the ground, now forgotten. In her arms Alys held who had once been her sons. Now mere corpses they were stark white, no tinge of pink to be seen. The only sound Alys could hear was a wailing scream coming from Mara. Alys let her scream. As she herself could not.

"You slay your sons to revenge yourself upon their father! To wound one in such a way that you throw away all semblance of motherhood, of humanity!" Mara collapsed to her knees. Alys never responded. Standing up both sons in arm Alys walked towards the door. They were coming.

Everyone had come to see the sons of Alys met the woman who took their mothers place. Cassandra Baratheon sat proudly on her throne like chair. Beside her stood Borros, a sneer upon his face. The pair looked as if this display was beneath them. Aemond, standing beside her, bend down and whispered something into Cassandra's ear. Beckoning his sons forth Aemond encouraged them to great her. It was only because all eyes were on her and the lovely presents presented to her that Cassandra did not dismiss the boys outright.

They held up a luxurious golden dress and tiara. The items presented were held up by green cloth, so that it did not touch the boys. Eagerly Cassandra laid hands on the objects. The boys were quickly dismissed and Cassandra entranced the audience by wearing the dress and tiara. For a few moments everyone was happy. The mistress had finally relented to the lawful wife.

And then Cassandra let out a shudder. jerking alarmingly, steam started to issue from the lady. Screams erupted and Borros surged forward with a cry. Collapsing, Cassandra cried out. To the horror of all present her skin started to melt. In great steaming clumps skin curled from her body and feel into puddles. Borros, once he reached his dying daughter, held her, and wept. Then a scream of agony tore through him too. Borros was to meet the same fate as his daughter. Melted into a hideous lump of flesh and fluid.

Aemond looked at the scene of carnage before him. He knew who had done this.

Alys did not flee like the messenger had told her. Alone save for the bodies of her son Alys was levitating with the help of thick black clouds. Curling around her, Alys sat upon the clouds like a throne. Over the hill she could see Aemond. The great party behind him was still miles away. She need not stay for them, only the former.

"Alys!" Aemond came charging around the corner, sword drawn. But the moment he caught sight of Alys, in all her ancient finery, and the bodies of his sons, he fell. On the ground he collapsed, like any common beast. With a just filled with white hot hate Alys's eyes board into him. "Did you truly believe your transgressions would go unpunished? You had not only insulted me, but the gods themselves!" Aemond turned his face to her, filled with anger. "Kinslayer. You bring the gods to shame me when it is your shame! May the gods in all their righteous fury strike you down!" Alys threw her head and laughed. She laughed and laughed until her throat ached. "Why do you laugh! Slayer of my children!"

"Your children? Your children!? The ones you meant to disinherit! You are no father, you are their butcher! Had you held to your vows they would still be here. And as for the gods you are both foul and fey in their eyes. You have thrown away the rules they set in place. For that you shall be dispossessed of everything. Your title, good name and lineage. Live on Aemond Targaryen, and spend the rest of your days in weeping misery. In the meantime I shall take my sons and bury them. I shall be free of my crimes, but you never shall." And with that, Alys of Harrenhal was gone.

From that day forth no one saw Alys. No matter how hard they tried the Witch of Harrenhal, who had lost everything, was simply lost. Aemond would live on. But happiness he would not find. No maiden would pledge her troth to a man who had abandoned his wife (the truth came out) and possibly face a miserable death. Aemond's house too would fall. His brothers were killed and Aemond lead one last battle against his nephew Aegon, son of his sister Rhaenyra. But then he set up battle lines, a flag carrying an image of The Mother fell. it struck him upon the brow and Prince Aemond was dead instantly. He fell into the dust, his head caked in dirt and grime.

[kybercrystals94]

You Promised

By KyberCrystals94

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2023|Day 10|Prompt 10: “You promised you’d never leave.”

Rating: T

Words: 1409

Summary: Prequel to “I Miss You”, Fives goes to collect Echo’s effects from Kamino.

Kamino is always dark, always stormy, but as Fives walks past the yawning panes of glass overlooking the turmoil of waves against the gloaming night, he feels a kindred connection to its anguish. This is his first time on Kamino without Echo.

It’s been weeks since his death, and Fives is about sick of the questions, the looks, the reassuring squeezes of hands on his shoulder. Because not a single word, expression or touch will bring Echo back. Empty condolences are useless. He doesn’t need to be coddled or sympathized with. Fives is as strong and capable as the best of them.

And yet, he’s never experienced life without Echo until now, and the resounding emptiness of his absence burns with the intensity of a blaster bolt right through the heart.

When Rex suggested that Fives be put on a troops transport assignment to Kamino, the ARC leapt at the chance. He’d been quietly looking for any excuse or reason to return to his home planet to collect Echo’s personal effects; however, outright asking would mean admitting…something. That he was weak? Devastated? Heart broken? Clones are supposed to withstand the stresses of warfare, to have unbreakable resolve in the face of death, no matter whose death it was. It is literally bred and cultivated into their DNA. Maybe the Kaminoans aren’t as smart as they think they are…and maybe clones can’t be programmed because they are actual human beings.

Fives shoves away the wandering thoughts, focusing on navigating the halls to their barracks. He thanks the force that most of the troopers assigned to this barracks are off-world, and he’ll have the space mostly to himself. Activating the lock, he wastes no time making his way to his and Echo’s bunk cell. He goes to the storage shelf and pulls down the box with Echo’s CT number. Clean, cold letters.

Fives sits down on what used to be Echo’s bed and opens the box. He isn’t surprised that it is nearly empty. Practical and by-the-book Echo didn’t find much use for sentimental trinkets or useless collections. Which means the things he did keep are — were — invaluable to him. Inside is his graduation medal, his cadet data pad with all the manuals he’d memorized still downloaded, and the deck of cards he had stolen after the rest of the squad had teased him relentlessly for being boring.

Fives remembers when Echo came into the barracks that night. It looked like the kid had murdered someone by the look on his face, awash with guilt and a sheen of nervous sweat.

Echo grabbed Fives’ arm and practically dragged him over to the bunk.

“Who’s boring now, huh?” he whispered, the tremor in his voice betraying the bravado of the words. Echo shoved the deck of cards into Fives’ hands. “I took these off a trooper outside the rec hall.”

“You mean you stole them,” Fives clarified.

Echo frowned. “He wasn’t even supposed to have them. I think he stole them.”

“So, what, that cancels out the fact that you stole them from him?” Fives asked, trying so hard not to smile. It made his whole face hurt suppressing that stupid grin. “What’s the regulation against that, huh?”

Echo looked like he was actually about to answer him when the rest of Domino Squad appeared.

“What are those!” Droidbait crowed, snatching them out of Fives’ hand.

Echo protested indignantly, “Those are mine!”

“Yeah, but you can’t play sabaac by yourself, di’kut,” came Hevy, lightly smacking Echo on the back of the head.

Echo ducked away and tried to get the cards back from Droidbait who immediately tossed them to Cutup. “Hey, give ‘em back!”

“Is there nothing in the manuals about sharing?” Cutup laughed and went to toss the deck back to Droidbait when Fives intercepted.

“I’ll take those,” Fives said, giving Cutup an extra shove for good measure. He handed the deck back to Echo with a wink. “Fine. I guess you’re not so boring after all.”

Fives opens the tin and begins to lay out the cards, chuckling over the matching folds. That was the day he’d decided he never wanted to be on Echo’s bad side. Cutup had barely survived the verbal lashing he’d gotten for damaging Echo’s prized possession just to cheat at a game he was kark at anyway.

The cards are soft and almost pliable, worthless by any sort of functional standard. Shuffling had become too difficult, and they’d resorted to sifting them manually, which in turn led to arguments about stacking the deck, which – depending on the dealer – was often true. After the Risha Moon Outpost, Echo had become even more protective of the deck, grudgingly allowing Fives to use them occasionally. Ironically, it was Echo that caused further damage by dropping a card in his cup of caf one morning.

Fives bit back the laughter that bubbled up, the compulsive need to make a sarcastic comment at his brother’s expense almost overwhelming. But desire was snuffed out the moment he saw Echo’s face as he held the dripping card gingerly between his thumb and index finger.

The man’s eyes had misted over, and if he weren’t a war-hardened ARC trooper, he might have burst into tears.

“Here,” Fives said, taking the card carefully. He laid it flat on the table and patted it dry with his sleeve. “Just a little stained. We could stain the rest of them, and we’d be none the wiser.”

Echo swallowed and blinked. Hard. Fives pretended he didn’t notice. “No. I think I’ll just put this deck away. I can get a new one next time we’re in town.”

Fives picks up the offending card. Even months later, it has the faint smell of caff. “Why’d you have to go be a hero?” Fives asks. “Turns out we didn’t even need that kriffing shuttle.”

Echo doesn’t answer. Echo will never answer him again.

Fives glares at the card, refuses to acknowledge the burning sensation behind his eyes. “You said you’d never leave,” Fives growls to the void where Echo’s presence used to be. “You promised.”

After Rishi Moon, the first time they’d lost brothers, the first time the war was more than just a distant promise of action, they had sat in this room, on this bunk, and Echo tried to comfort Fives from the depths of his own mourning.

“We’re next, aren’t we?” Fives had asked, voice still hitching on exhausted sobs. “What if you die, Echo? I don’t want to be alone.”

Echo is quiet for a moment, an arm wrapped around Fives’ shoulders. “You won’t get rid of me that easy, vod,” he whispers.

“Don’t you dare make promises you can’t keep,” Fives insisted.

“I’ll keep this one,” Echo said.

Like a fool, he’d sounded like he meant it. And in the same foolish vein, Fives had believed him.

Another memory approaches uninvited. Just before they’d become ARC troopers, before the Battle of Kamino, Echo had been driving Fives absolutely crazy, following him around reciting regulations and protocols.

“Force, Echo! Sometimes I wish we’d been assigned to different units,” Fives groused irritably.

Echo smiled, unperturbed. “Give it a day, and you’d miss me.”

Fives stares at the caff stained card. What he’d give to have the culprit back, to hear another recitation of another reg manual, to goad Echo into participating in another inappropriate prank.

Fives stands abruptly and snatches his own box off the shelf. Unlike Echo’s, it is crammed past capacity with whatever junk Fives found remotely interesting. He digs through it until he finds the ink pen Echo said he’d never use because they never use paper. Gripping the pen in his hand, ignoring the way it shakes, he presses the tip into the stained card’s backing and writes: I miss you.

“There,” Fives says out loud, anger disguising grief. “Are you happy? You were right. I would miss you. I do miss you. You didn’t have to go and prove it to me, you kriffing idiot.”

He throws the pen in his box, shoves it back in its slot. He turns to Echo’s bunk, his meager belongings strewn across a regulation blanket that Echo will never use again. He gathers them up, puts the cards and the medal in his pocket, and clips the data pad to his belt.

He tries to leave the memories behind, but they trail after him like echoes of lost voices against cold, empty walls.

END

Author’s Note: I didn’t intend to write a sequel (prequel) to I Miss You, but inspiration struck and refused to be ignored…so here we are, and here it is! **There’s a little hidden Easter Egg somewhere in this post (and on my post on Ao3), so I’m excited to see if anyone finds it!

Tag List: @isthereanechoinhere96 @followthepurrgil @amorfista

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[navigatrixnarrations]

Sharpe’s Beacon, Chapter 9

Chapter Summary: Miscommunication, near-communication, and a disagreement as Sharpe and Davy grow closer.

Word Count: 2029

They continue their patrol. Davy falls in behind Sharpe.

Cooper strolls along beside her, favouring his injured leg only a little. “Remind me never to make you angry.”

Davy doesn’t bother to glance his way. She simply drums her fingers on the hilt of her bayonet.

Sharpe, however, looks at Cooper over his shoulder. It’s a hard stare, and Davy would not wish to be on the receiving end of it. Cooper gives Davy an apologetic little smile, and she nods. She hopes the Major hasn’t decided that she needs him to stand up for her; that would sour her camaraderie with her supposedly-fellow Riflemen.

The Chosen Men are silent; nobody is in the mood for conversation after their run-in with the Frogs. Davy is relieved. What kind of monster must they think she is, losing control so violently. Sharpe, at least, seems to have guessed why she did. She isn’t sure whether she’s relieved by that or not.

  A stormy night meant not many people out and about in camp, so instead of immediately throwing on her uniform and leaving her sergeant’s tent, she lay on Stevens’s broad chest while his hand traced languid lines up and down her bare back.

  His voice rumbled through her body. “I’ll hold you like this every night after the war.”

  After the war. She didn’t want to name all the things that could go wrong, all the ways he’d think her wrong, so she simply said “You’re a good man, Joseph Stevens,” and tilted her face up to kiss him.

  It was nearly dawn by the time she made her way back to her own tent.

Stevens once accused her of being ashamed to be with him because he was an enlisted man. It wasn’t true, not at all. She’d told him that if anything, it was she who was proud that he’d want to be with one such as her. She hopes he believed her, for it was the truth.

They halt for a brief meal. The bread and dried meat taste like ashes in Davy’s mouth but she forces herself to finish her ration, and while the men are taking a brief rest, she decides to begin her letter. Sharpe and Harris are the only other ones among them who can read and write, and Sharpe is discussing something with Harper while Harris is adjusting the flintlock mechanism on his rifle.  Neither seem inclined to read over her shoulder, nor even to approach her. She can’t blame the rest for giving her space, not after the way she’d gone berserk whilst fighting that Frog.

She retrieves paper, pen, and ink from her pack. What to say to the mother of the man who’d given his life for hers, the woman who might have become her mother-in-law had Stevens lived?

  Dear Mrs. Stevens,

  By now you’ll have been told the terrible news of Joseph’s death, but as his officer I wanted you to hear from me directly. We were betrayed to the French, and we were ambushed. Joseph gave his life pushing me out of the way of an incoming mortar shell. It was immediate and he did not suffer.  

  I know you need nobody to tell you what a good, kind, brave, and honourable man your son was. He was exemplary, as a soldier, as a Sergeant, and as a friend. All who served with him are better for having done so.

  Ma’am, I swear to you that I will find the traitor who caused Joseph’s death, and I will make him answer for it, or I will die trying.

  Yours,

  Lt. Jack Davy, 60th Rifles

She crumples it up. She’ll dispose of it in the campfire later.

Sharpe is walking toward her. She leaps to her feet. Her heart is raw with the loss of Stevens, yet she can’t take her eyes off his saucily confident strut, can’t stop her body from responding to it, to him. But she can hide it from him, at the very least. She snaps to attention.

“At ease, Davy.” He plucks the balled-up letter from her hand, unfolds it, and reads it. He’s standing facing her, so close that she can make out every glint of golden stubble on his jaw, so close that she could kiss him. “You were in love with him.”

Damn and blast, is it that apparent? But there’s no denying it. Sharpe is not accusing, not mocking, he’s simply stating facts.

“I was.”

There is sorrow in Sharpe’s hooded green eyes. Davy wants to ask him how to move on. In his case, the answer was probably jumping into bed with a half dozen or so beautiful, wealthy women in quick succession, and carrying grief anyway.

“Were you lovers?”

She bites back the urge to snarl  Sir, with all due respect, that is absolutely none of your affair, but there doesn’t seem to be judgement in the question. If he thinks her a whore for her honest answer, so be it. “For a brief time. He asked me to marry him when the war ends, but I kept putting off answering.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t like us, Sir. He didn’t come from the gutter, and he couldn’t have understood that life. The way it shaped us.”

“Or he would have loved you all the more for knowing.” Sharpe’s voice is low, husky, a wildcat’s purr. His eyes are intent. Focussed on hers. He presses the letter back into her hand. Perhaps he uses the opportunity to hold her fingers longer than necessary to return the letter to her, but she doesn’t dare let herself hope. More likely, he simply means to comfort her, being a widower and knowing what it’s like to lose your love. Surely he can’t tell that her heart is setting a breakneck pace in her chest. His hand releases hers, then drifts up to her cheek as though pushing back an invisible lock of hair from her face. She’s vaguely aware of Harper telling the men to ready themselves to move out. She’s already gotten lost in rage today; she can’t let herself get lost in this moment of tenderness as well, not on picquet and with the men around. It would be all too easy to fall into wishful thinking that Sharpe is coming to care as much for her as she is for him. She reaches up to squeeze his hand before shouldering her pack and Baker.

Davy is walking toward the back of their formation with Hagman. Sharpe’s guts twist with the fear that he scared her off with his forwardness. He’s not used to this, figuring out how to make a woman care for him; usually they chose him and he’d go along. Bad enough that she may have worried he’d touched her in her sleep – how else to explain the check she’d made of her uniform when she woke beside him? Though if that’s what she thought, surely she wouldn’t have given him that mischievous little grin from the doorway of the barn. He’d wanted so badly to physically drag her off that Frog she’d turned to mincemeat and hold her tight. He’d come disastrously close to laying his heart bare to her after reading her letter to her man’s mother, and she didn’t seem to have the first idea.

They make camp in a clearing in the fading daylight. Davy sits on a fallen tree a ways from the campfire, legs bent with her elbows on her knees, staring into the middle distance.

In a low voice that won’t carry to the rest of the men, Harper leans in. “Why don’t you go to her, Sir?”

“She’s mourning her man.”

“Then she could use a bit of comforting, Sir, don’t you think?”

“She were betrothed.” Harper takes the tone that Sharpe has come to think of as his Sensible Sergeant Voice. “Sir, there’s no point being jealous of a dead man. He can’t be your rival.”

Jealous of a dead man? Maybe he is. “I wasn’t suggesting a corpse could keep her warm at night.”

Harper is undeterred. “When you were freshly where she is now, Sir, what did you find helpful?”

Harper had made sure he’d eaten, washed, checked in on him when he were too frozen with grief to do anything more than take care of his duties to the Light Company. Didn’t expect him to talk about it. He doesn’t like to think of the state he would have gotten to without Harper’s steady caring presence. And Davy can’t even openly grieve. She must feel so alone.

Davy slides over to make room for him on the fallen tree. He drops his arse beside her so that their shoulders touch as they did when she sat with him after his nightmare. She glances over at the men sitting ‘round the campfire, clearly checking to make sure they’re not looking in her and Sharpe’s direction, then she leans against him, just a bit.

“Ashamed to be seen with me, Davy lass?” He meant to sound joking, but it doesn’t come out that way. He hopes he didn’t show his hurt.

Her eyes snap up to meet his. She looks stricken.

“Never, Sir.” She swallows hard. “I don’t want them to think I’m trying to get special treatment because I’m a woman.”

He smirks, an expression that Teresa once described as his charming bastard face. “Worried they’d think you’re using your feminine wiles on your Major?”

“Yes, Sir.” She sighs. “If they knew I’m an officer, it would be less of a worry. They’d expect me to work closely with you.”

Sharpe’s smirk fades into something softer. “He were a lucky man, your Stevens.”

Davy’s voice is wry. “Don’t think I’d call getting his head blown off by a mortar shell lucky, Sir.”

She’s still leaning her shoulder against his, so he dares to rest his hand on hers. “While he were alive.”

 “Nothing luckier than a Sergeant in King George’s army.”

 “Luckier still to win the heart of a fierce little alley cat.”

 She yanks her hand from underneath his and recoils as though he’d slapped her. “Calling me an alley-cat, Sir, because I dared to be with the man I loved? With your reputation, that’s rich.” There’s anger in her voice, but there’s a wound behind her eyes. Sharpe wants to kick himself for it, when all he’d meant to do is tell her, subtly, that he cares for her. And aye, there she is, lashing out, just like the stray back in his workhouse days. He decides not to ask what she meant by “your reputation.”

“It were a compliment.”

“Of course it was, Sir. What woman doesn’t enjoy being told that she’s got loose morals.”

“There’s nowt whorish about you, Davy lass.” She looks at him, sidelong and suspicious, not mollified, so he continues. “In the foundling home, there were a stray cat who’d come ‘round the yard. I cared for her from the start. She were a little beauty who didn’t have owt she didn't fight for. Gaining her trust took time, but eventually I were lucky enough to earn it. That’s what I meant when I said you’re an alley-cat. ”

“Did she fight for your care, Sir?”

“She never had to.”

Davy’s hand makes its way back to his. “She was right to trust you, Sir.” He threads his fingers through hers.

“You speak awfully educated for an alley-cat.”

“I speak like the Gipsy I am. But I learnt my letters before my parents died, while we were living roadside, and I read everything I could get my hands on when I got out of the orphanage and away from that bastard. Where did you learn?”

“In a gaol cell in India.”

She meets his eyes, searching, deciding, he sees, whether he’s taking the piss, then smiles at him. “Two alley cats together, Sir.”

He smiles back, and how can he help it. He’d give Davy whatever she asks for one of her smiles. “Even with my reputation, as you put it?”

“Especially with your reputation. Sir.”

They sit, shoulder against shoulder, until the fire burns down nearly to embers.

[saphirafoxgirlspost1]

"Bride of the Cursed Prince"

It was a Night after Saphira's Ex boyfriend betray her at prom..Her father was Extremely Livid about Her ex-boyfriends betrayals, So He decided to Fire his parents and his side chicks family as well..After Saphira's graduation from Highschool, Her father gave her a

Lovely House...This House Is beautiful and Elegant Manor that Was place Far from the Civilization, So she can Start fresh of her New life despite of Her ex betrayals but thank goodness that Her exs family and her ex himself got fired For adultary that He Committed..Then Saphira Just moved into a lovely Manor..but Rumor Has it that This Manor Is haunted.. Some Believe that they saw a Child by day and the Father by night and thought they were Killed by something that cause their death...but Most of them Believed that this Manor Is been taken over by a Demon called the "Incubus" that Awaits For a lovely bride to be Married off..Saphira Didn't believe this story..but She had this feeling that this beautiful lovely Manor is haunted alright...She doesn't know the Real Story..until..This One voodoo Queen name,"Marie Laveau" Just came to her Home..and Ask her to have tea With her on the Stormy Night..Saphira Nodded and agree her offer...She and marie Sits down on the Comfy chair near by a lovely Fire Place..and then..Saphira ask about this manor and told her what rumor said to her..Then the Voodoo Queen Scoffed about the rumors..and then She said,

Marie: " Those Rumors are nothing but Nonsense about Murders and all..but Some are true about the Incubus and the mystery man and child."

Saphira:" Can you tell me about it? how did you even know if there's an Incubus lurking in this manor?"

Marie: " My Dear Sweet Fox Child, let me tell you the tale about this prince...This House can Hold the stories to tell, You See this House is a Birth place of the Prince (your muse name here) is where you are standing right now..Many years ago..this prince has Passion of romance, he's a sweet lad and caring man who loves about everything..despite of all hatred outside of the world...He wanted a lovely Woman who could love him for him..instead of Wealth and power itself..This house contains happiness, joy and above all is Hope..But Many many Women were cruel and heartless...with their hearts is full of greed itself....But on the stormy Night, he grew Ill and decided to Call me in to Curse him..as a "test" to see if One Woman Who will be Worthy enough to win His heart for her hand...So I did..I transform him into the incubus..and made him turn into a child by day and Man by night..and there is..One spell breaker my dear Fox child, is when She Who can prove her love to him Shall break the curse and becomes an immortal man who will live forever with his love for all eternity..So My Dear Fox child, you understand the whole story about this Lovely, elegant manor itself?"

Saphira: " Oh I do..man..those Women was so greedy these days, They can't even learn to love someone for who they are and not just for their wealth and Power as well.."

After Having tea with a voodoo queen..Ol'marie lavaeu Told her that It'll be a Message from "him" at the Stroke of Midnight...I heard that Many women came here and never came back alive...She looked around and all..and made everything all nice and clean and settle it real good...on her bed..she falls asleep..until the Clock Struck Midnight..She hears the Loud Clopping of the High heels..She woke up and got out of the bed..and Sees this Letter..she turns on the Lights and began to read the message and it says...

[theinkmage]

Home

"Do you wonder?"

"Wonder what?"

"Wonder what we would become."

"I leave that up to fate. It's not really my place to decide."

"It can be." The hero said, reaching up to cup the other's face in his palms, forcing him to look directly into his eyes. Brilliant purple meeting stormy grey, like the sizzling flash of a lightning bolt on the cusp of dawn. "If you let it."

The villain looked away, pursing his lips. "Not everyone is as lucky as you."

The hero sighed, his hands falling away, fingers tapping listlessly against his thighs. "That I admit, but my point still stands." After a pause, he continued, "If I didn't know better, I would think you were scared of failing. That would most certainly explain your reluctance to meddle with fate."

He could almost predict the villain's response to that.

"I'm not scared of anything," the villain snapped, glowering at the city that sprawled before them from the rooftop of the building.

The hero had guessed right after all.

"And fate is fixed. It's supposed to be inevitable because it's determined by the cosmos. You can't change it." There was a hint of desperation there, barely, but the hero had known the villain long enough to pierce through his veiled attempts at subtlety.

"Yes…" the hero said slowly, staring resolutely at the villain.

"I sense a 'but' coming."

"But…" the hero let a faint grin slip onto his face. How he had missed these friendly banters with the villain when they were younger. "Destiny isn't."

The villain blinked, the epitome of baffled. "Destiny isn't what?"

"Destiny isn't fixed. It isn't determined by the cosmos. Even if your fate was given to you at birth, you don't have to follow its course. You can change it, by embracing your destiny."

The villain looked ready to argue, but the hero jumped in before he could. "And who's to say what's what? All we have are pre-conceived notions that are rubbed off onto us from the people we are surrounded with. They may be right, they may be wrong. For all you know, your notion of fate may be wrong."

"If you go according to that bizarre philosophy of yours, everything's going to end up wrong, you nitwit."

The hero snorted, his lips quirking up to the side. "The sky's grey."

"No, it's black."

"How do you know that the colour of the night sky is black and not grey?"

The villain scowled. "I just do."

"Oh really? Do you know what makes you happy in life then?"

"The two are not related."

The hero merely grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned to face the villain completely. Oh, how they had both grown. Into two different people, so different, yet so similar. Their paths had crossed once when they were children, young and innocent and naïve to the works of the world, then separated as they had grown, as they had each accepted Nature's calling. And now, here they were. Their paths had led them back together.

"Do you trust me?" The hero asked quietly.

The villain frowned suspiciously, but a soft "yes" ensued after a period of time.

"Try to keep up then." The hero smirked as he brushed past the villain, leaping onto the next rooftop without so much as a glance behind his shoulder.

The villain grumbled, but the faint traces of a smile etched themselves onto his countenance as he followed close behind.

Above them, the faint crescent of a new moon shone, sending slivers of white cascading over the houses and the grass and the stone of the paths. For a moment, it was just the two of them, silhouettes against the backdrop of a starry night sky and the brilliant moon. Surreal, yet concrete.

The villain could have left before the next rooftop. He could have melted into the shadows before the sight of their old childhood spot popped into sight. He could have gone home or returned to base before standing at the top of that very hill where they had once stood, many years ago. Yet he did none of the above.

"You haven't been here in a long time." Somehow, the hero made it sound accusatory.

The villain lowered his head, scuffing the grass at his feet with the tip of his shoe. That, he could not deny. "I didn't have time."

For a long time, the hero didn't say anything, and the villain began to think that perhaps he had been forgiven and the hero would drop all this that was going on between them. He had never meant for both of them to turn out this way, him more than the hero, but life was never fair. Neither was it predictable.

"I don't think so." The hero mused, plopping down onto the soft green grass, palms flattened against the ground. "I think you were afraid. Of this place. Of the memories it would bring back. You think they would go against what you were taught you would become."

"Who I've become is the path I've chosen for myself. No one else forged it for me." The villain snapped harshly, with a little more bite to his words than he had intended.

The hero fixed him with a knowing look. "Is that what you really think? Listen to your heart, and tell me. Honestly."

The villain bit down on his lower lip before sinking down onto the spot beside the hero. He said nothing. Just stared into the distance ahead, and fixed his eyes on the heavens above. It was going to be early morning soon.

"Doesn't being here make you feel small? Infinitesimal? With the land stretching on as far as the eye can see and the stars littering the sky above? I have always come back here, even after you were gone. It made me feel free, like…like an escape from reality. Here, I…we can be whoever we want to be. No one to forge our paths for us, no one to decide what we could be, no one to force us to be what we could never be."

"Life is rarely that simple, Hero." The villain intoned, hands fisting clumps of grass on either side of him.

"And again, you're right. But that would merely be following what the cosmos has planned for you. Many people lament that life is difficult, that it can never give us what we want. Yes, but a few break through life's barriers, because they believe. They believe in what they want, they believe in a happier ending, they believe in embracing destiny and revolting against fate. You don't have to be who you don't want to be just because others have carved the path for you, because others like you have done it before you. You are not like the others. You are unique, and you are what makes you you. I'm not asking you to drop everything all at once, I'm just asking that you rethink your life choices that you have obviously made not for yourself but for others. I'm asking that you give yourself a chance. Just a small one, in a world that's too big for us."

An amalgamation of emotions rushed through the villain, and his heart ached. The words were on the tip of his tongue, struggling past one another to spill past his lips, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He swallowed the chunky letters back down, tasting bitterness and the acridity of them burning sharp against his throat, pressing his lips tight together, stinging eyes staring resolutely ahead.

They sat on the hilltop for a while, the crickets chirping around them, the wind rustling through the leaves on the trees, the brook singing merrily downstream.

"It's getting late," the hero said quietly after what seemed like eons. "I should go. Rest well, Kaison."

The villain started. He hadn't heard the hero use his real name since they were children. It evoked something in him, a stirring deep in his gut, something primal and raw and so achingly sweet and sour at the same time.

"Did you know, your name means "son of fighter or rebel"?"

The villain shook his head and the hero smiled sadly, slowly rising and making his way past the villain.

"Just now," the villain blurted out in a panic, the hero's back the only thing in his vision. His feet had stopped, and he had not turned around to face the villain, but the villain knew the hero was listening. He always had.

"You asked me what makes me happy. You did. When we were kids and all that. You've always been the one stable thing in my life, even after we went down separate paths. You were always there. You never left."

By now, the villain was struggling not to cry. But it was hard, as the tears pooled in his eyes and he bit down on his lip harder, angling his head downwards to stare at the patch of grass between his feet.

Suddenly, the hero was there, kneeling down beside him, taking his hands into his and holding on tight. "It's okay to cry. It's okay to be vulnerable. It's okay to be free, to be whoever you want to be. It's okay to give yourself a chance."

The villain's emotions betrayed him, and the dam broke. It had been more than ten years since he had last cried, since he had last allowed himself to cry.

The hero squeezed his hands tighter. "You don't have to do this alone. If you're ready to try, I'm here to help."

The villain nodded, and he could see the relief in the way the hero's shoulders sagged, the joy in the beautiful smile that broke across his face. The hero pulled him into a hug, one that was long overdue, and that exact same feeling from earlier arose in the villain. It felt like regret, like relief, like a certain kind of joy and bliss, the only kind you could find when you were at home. And it felt like love. The love of an old childhood friend, the love of someone you could call home. It was the love of someone he had loved dearly since day one and had never stopped loving over the years.

As if reading his thoughts, the hero pulled away, cupping his tearstained face in his warm soft palms, resting his forehead against the villain's, their noses touching and their breaths misting in the cool air between them. "I missed you."

"Missed you too." The villain croaked, managing a shaky smile.

One minute, they were barely an inch apart, and the next, the hero's lips were on his. They fit perfectly, like a last piece fitting into a jigsaw puzzle. The kiss felt soft and sweet and slow, something warm and burning that crashed through their veins and threatened to burn them from the inside out. It felt like home, something the villain hadn't had in a very long time.

In the distance, brilliant purple met stormy grey, as the sizzling flash of a lightning bolt appeared on the cusp of dawn.

[dcbutinamrev]

kk. it’s ten pm and i wanna read some good stuff rather than write so

“I don’t think you understand what your words are doing to me.”

for historical lams

(take the tone however you wish 😉)

Sorry this is so late! I was exhausted last night when I got this. But seriously. What the hell is wrong with my brain? Why do you do this to me? Lmao. But ask and you shall recieve! Though, I do ask if you'd include a prompt for your ficlet request. (I used the character Mrs. Ford from D&I because I couldn't think of other names to use)

***

Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton waits on the porch steps of the house of Mrs. Ford, the house they're currently staying for their winter quarters. Hamilton assigned to make arrangements for the General and his staff as they are on their way. Hamilton stands with his back straight, his head inclined slightly with his arms behind his back and his jaw clenched as his heart thrums against his chest with excitment, fear, anger and confusion as he waits for the return of Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens finally coming home after eight months of seperation due to his duties needed in Savannah.

Over the eight months of seperation, Hamilton has recieved no word from Laurens concerning his utmost question, the one he wishes to learn the truth of. While Hamilton remains with the General, he learns something he wishes he never had. A letter was acciddentally thrusted into his hands addressed to Laurens from a...Hamilton grimaces at the thought...from a Mrs. Laurens. A wife Laurens had never mentioned during their relationship. He thinks a daughter was mentioned in the letter as well. He remembers unfolding the letter at the table in the aide-de-camp office with his friends surrounding him, curoitsity getting the best of him. He remembers reading the name John at the top of the page, his brows furrowing as he hears Tilghman and Meade whisper around him, wondering who it's from as they know it's for Laurens. Hamilton remembers clearly the sound his heart made when he reads: "As your wife." Hamilton clenches onto his wrist, his nails digging into the wool of his coat as he presses his lips together, staring out at the distance from the porch, waiting and waiting and waiting.

He remembers very clearly sitting himself down on his bed that night, the letter still in hand as he tries to make sense of it, tries to process the words before him. For the years Hamilton and Laurens have known each other, for the years they have been together, shared intimacies Hamilton never would have thought, he had always believed Laurens was his. And his only. Not some woman's. He swallows the lump in his throat as he blinks his eyes. He tries to think of what to say when he sees Laurens, when Laurens stands before him alive and real. And home.

Hamilton tries to think of possible arguments that would make Laurens fall to his knees and asks, pleads, begs for his forgivness which Hamilton will make very clear he will not earn instantly. Hamilton sighs as he waits, minutes pass then hours, closing his eyes as he remembers their first kiss, their first late night intimacy.

Hamilton has never felt so betrayed before. Not ever since his father abandoned him and his family when he was just ten.

Hamilton snaps his eyes open when he hears a horse's whinny. He forces himself to smile out of relief when he hears the reigns being snapped, urging the horse to go forward, to go faster. Hamilton stands taller, somewhat nervous upon seeing Laurens after so many months apart. He wonders if Laurens would be the same or if he would be different. He knows what war can do to a man.

Despite Hamilton's anger towards Laurens, he feels the corners of his lip quirk up and puffs out a breath of relief when he sees Lietuenant Colonel John Laurens not even a few feet away from him. Laurens, his Laurens, hunches over, his black boots in the stirrups, his gloved hands clutching onto the reigns as he snaps them again, urging the horse to ride faster. A grin appears on Laurens's face, a few wisps of honey blonde hair drops in front of his brows, hiding those beautiful blue eyes, a stormy sky--no--a clear blue sky. The ones that Hamilton had fallen in love with in the first place.

Laurens slows his horse as he approaches Hamilton closer and close. He dismounts his horse once he comes into view, handing the reigns to a servant who gladly takes the horse. Laurens and Hamilton gape at each other, standing not even three feet away. Lauens laughs dryly when he sees Hamilton's beaming and relieved smile as he begins to climb up the porch steps, his hand on the railing. He takes off his tricorn hat and shoves it under his arm. He pauses on the third step just a third step away from Hamilton.

Laurens puffs out a breath of relief. "Hamilton..."

"Lieutenant Colonel Laurens," Hamilton says, his voice stiff despite the smile on his face. He nods once, his indigo-violet eyes ticking up and down as he watches Laurens climb up the remaining stairs. "It is good to see you again."

Laurens hums and shakes Hamilton's hand once, before squeezing it. "You look well."

Hamilton swallows and nod. "Thank you. You as well." Hamilton gestures to the door. "I shall show you the house."

Laurens pinches his lips, hesitant at first, but follows Hamilton nonetheless. He knows the reason for Hamilton's cold tone, the stiffness he can feel when he's near him. Laurens frowns, wondering what would be the perfect explanation for his errors and lies.

"The parlor here," Hamitlon says once Laurens closes the door behind him, gesturing towards the large living room with a fire place and a settee and a small coffee table. He gestures to their right. "The aide office here."

Laurens sighs, finally deciding now would be the perfect time. "Hamilton..."

He tries to reach for Hamilton's arm but Hamilton yanks it sharply back out of Laurens's reach. Laurens sighs.

"The General in the back and the rooms for us and for General and Lady Washington are up on the second floor," Hamilton says, his voice levelled and stiff.

Laurens presses his lips together and clasps his arms behind his back. "Hamilton, please..."

"What?" Hamilton says sharply, spinning around to face Laurens. He raises an eyebrow expectatly up at Laurens and folds his arms over his chest. "What Laurens?"

Laurens scratches the back of his neck as leans against the railing to the stairs which leads the second floor. He glances up at the stairs before back at Hamilton and arches an eyebrow.

"Might we take this more...privately?" Laurens suggests.

Hamilton glances behind him, expecting someone to burst through the front door any moment before huffing out a breath and turning towards Laurens. He nods before following Laurens up the steps to the second floor. Laurens pushes the door and guides Hamilton into the bedroom, his hand gently on the small of Hamilton's back. Hamilton stiffens at his touch and swallows before scrambling out of Laurens's reach. Laurens sighs again.

"Alexander...Alex...I..." He swallows. "I know what you ask of me..."

"Ask?" Hamilton huffs, turning around to face Laurens, pure fire in his eyes. "Why should I feel the need to ask when I should have been told!"

Laurens grimaces and dips his head down towards his chest. He swallows again, licking his dry lips. He hasn't even kissed his Hamilton yet. And he longs for it.

"Alex--"

"Married?" Hamilton snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

Laurens jerks his head up suddenly, both eyebrows wide. Hamilton scoffs, well, it sounds more like a laugh. "Oh. Don't think I don't know."

"Alex--" Laurens tries again, but Hamilton cuts him off once more.

"I'm not niave, John," Hamilton hisses through clenched teeth. He pulls out the letter addressed for him from...Mrs. Laurens...and shoves it directly in his face. He raises an eyebrow. "What the hell is this? Why didn't you tell me you were fucking married?!"

Laurens winces and puffs out a breath of defeat. There's no point now.

Laurens hunches hover and rests his forearms on his thighs, threading his fingers together. Hamilton stands before him, waiting. Laurens glances up and then out the window before back at Hamilton.

"I know..." he clears his throat. "I know I have...I have hurt you, Alexander and that will forever be my deepest regret." A pause. "But you must understand, you must let me speak and explain--"

"Explain what?" Hamilton hisses. "That you've lied to me for two years? It's been two years, Laurens. Since we've been together and neither once did you mention a wife or a...my God..." He laughs dryly before running a hand through his dark red curls, blinking his eyes fast and bites his wobbly lip. "A...A daughter..."

"She was a mistake," Laurens tries. This catches Hamilton's attention, though he still bites his lip hard. Laurens stands and inches closer to him. Hamilton tenses but lets Laurens rest his hands on his arms. Laurens dips his head so his forehead is now pressed against Hamilton's. "You are not."

"And your daughter?" Hamilton question. He ticks his eyes up from Laurens's lapels to his eyes. "Was she a mistake?"

Laurens clenches his jaw and shrugs. "I don't know. But I do know I can't change my past actions and...and I was a coward and a fool not to tell you of such truths."

Silence. Laurens smiles and pecks Hamilton's lips once. "But you..." He tucks back a loose curl behind Hamilton's ear, causing Hamilton's cheeks to flush a beautiful shade of pink. "You are not a mistake."

Hamilton shakes his head. "I don't know what to believe, John. I...I thought you only cared for me..."

"And I do," Laurens says. "I do. There wasn't a moment, Alexander, where I wasn't thinking about you. Only you."

"Not her?" Hamilton says, his voice small as he glances up. "Not your wife? Your family?"

Laurens grimaces and shakes his head. "No. I..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair before flopping back down on the bed. To his surprise, Hamilton sits beside him. "I...I thought it would help me..."

"Help you?" Hamilton asks, raising an eyebrow as he sneaks a glance at Laurens's profile. Laurens clenches his jaw and nods.

"I was hurting at the time," Laurens says, clearing his throat. "I've told you of him. Francis?" He fully turns to Hamilton. "Francis Kinloch?"

"Oh, yes," Hamilton puffs, nodding. "What about him?"

"He and I had...different thoughts. He with the loyalists and...and most of all..." Laurens swallows, threading his fingers through Hamilton's. Hamilton squeezes his hand, which causes the corners of Laurens's lips to quirk up before fading instatly. "His diseres to find a wife..."

"All men would wish for a wife..." Hamilton mumurs.

"Not all men," Laurens says. He grins slyly and leans Hamilton down on the bed. Laurens kisses Hamilton passionately, slowly before pulling back. Hamilton giggles breathlessly, tracing Laurens's jawline. Laurens arches both eyebrows as he stares into Hamilton's deep blue eyes. "Not me..."

Hamilton giggles as Laurens leans down to kiss him again. "I would only wish for you."

"Oh, Jack..." Hamilton gasps, letting his hand slide slowly down Laurens's chest towards the hem of his waistcoat, his finger and thumb twisting the button around before he lets his hand slip under Laurens's waistcoat and up his chest. Laurens shivers, not from the cold, but from the caress Hamilton knows all too well. Hamilton's eyes glint and he grins, his fingers from his other hand trailing up Laurens's arm. "I don't think you understand what your words are doing to me."

"Oh?" Laurens says, climbing over Hamilton and grabbing the back of Hamilton's legs, before slowly leaning down towards him. They're noses touch. Laurens raises a suggestive eyebrow. "I don't?"

Hamilton shakes his head, sliding his arms around Laurens's neck, kissing him hard. Laurens grunts but grins, pressing his lips firmly against Hamilton's, deepening the kiss as he dives down, pushing Hamilton down against the pillows. Laurens moves his lips down Hamilton's jaw, therefore causing him to tilt his head to the side to allow Laurens room.

"I'm sorry," Laurens whispers over Hamilton's ear before nipping his earlobe. Hamilton shudders, closing his eyes gently. "I missed you. So much."

"Jack..." Hamilton breathes as Laurens straightens up slightly, allowing Hamilton's legs to stretch out before him. Hamilton sinks further into the pillows, grinning cunningly at Laurens's lost expression.

"Mon bel," Laurens says. "Mon bel Alexandre."

Hamilton smiles. "Mon chei..." Hamilton blinks his eyes, his chest feeling lighter now. He feels something trickle down his freckled cheek. "Mon cheri Jack..."

Laurens chuckles and dives down for another kiss. Hamilton happily kisses back, kissing every angle, every skin, every time they were apart. He does not fully accept Laurens's apology, not yet, but he can forgive him a little bit more.

Afterward, Laurens flops down onto the bed beside Hamilton, huffing and puffing, his face coated with sweat, his honey hair sticking to his forehead, his face red. Hamilton flips around so he's on his side, the bedsheets crumpled around them, their legs intertwined with the other. Hamilton tucks both hands under his cheeks, his dark red hair flowing around him in a sea of red. Hamilton smiles warmly, tucking back wisps of blonde hair that managed to escape behind Laurens's ear. Laurens sighs, closing his eyes when he feels Hamilton's hand upon his cheek, his thumb stroking Laurens's hot cheek.

"John...?" Hamilton prompts, his voice hushed though he has no clue why he feels the need to keep it hushed since it is only them in the room.

Laurens opens his eyes and smiles wider than before, looking down at Hamilton through his hooded eyes. He snakes his arm around Hamilton's waist, pushing him closer towards him so his head is underneath Lauens's chin.

"Alex..." Laurens says.

"Tell me?"

Laurens nods, nudging the tip of his nose agianst Hamilton's. "I am happy...I am happy..."

"Good," Hamilton hums, curling himself against Laurens, his head upon Laurens's bare chest, his fingers drawing small circles between the light hairs.

Laurens grins before his grin falters and he rests his cheek upon Hamilton's russet curls, wrapping both arms around him securely, protectively. "I wish I could stay..."

"You could," Hamilton offers. "No one would ever blame you."

"Hm," Laurens hums, rubbing his hand up and down Hamilton's small bicep. "Unfortunately, I must finish what I have begun. I won't allow Charles Town to fall next."

Hamilton nods. "I understand...it is your home."

Laurens puffs out a breath, a small smile on his face before he leans down and presses a kiss to Hamilton's forehead.

"What if I should ask to join you?" Hamilton suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

Laurens breathes in slowly, staring up at the ceiling, pulling Hamilton closer. He shakes his shead. "I wouldn't say no. Not like before."

Hamilton smiles with his lips pinched together and tips his head up, causing Laurens to dip his down. The two gape at each other for a brief moment before Laurens finally leans down and presses a soft kiss to Hamilton's lips, causing Hamilton to giggle. Laurens grins as then moves his lips up Hamilton's slightly pointed nose, causing Hamilton to giggle even more and earn Laurens a wobbly smile, until he reaches his forehead and gently presses a kiss on Hamilton's forehead.

"Good night, my love," Laurens huffs, folding his muscular arms around Hamilton's small, wasp-waisted frame once more, pulling him close until his head lays just beneath Laurens's chin. Laurens rolls over for a moment to blow out the candle before engulfing Hamilton in his arms again.

Hamilton smiles wide as he yawns, curling himself against Laurens, making himself look small and vulnerable. Laurens presses a kiss to Hamilton's lips.

"Good night, my dear Jack," Hamilton whispers.

He hums, staring off as he listens to Laurens's heart beating softly against his ear. All anger towards Laurens washed away instantly. Hamilton lets his eyes flutter shut as he hears the soft thump-budda-thump agianst his ear. And smiles once more.

A sign that his Laurens is alive.

That he's whole.

And he's home.

With that kept in mind, Hamilton lets himself go limp.

And lets his eyes slip close.

[of-vamps-wolves-witches-ghosts]

Yours for Eternity {Barnabas Collins x OC} Ch.1

GIFs not mine. Credit go to owners.

blood is thicker than water

Tagging: (let me know if you want to be added to the tag list)

Liverpool, 1760

It is said that blood is thicker than water. It is what defines us. Binds us. Curses us.

A young Barnabas Collins followed his mother and father onto a boat "Come, my love. Come, Barnabas" Joshua Collins beckoned his wife and son.

For some, blood means a life of wealth and privilege. For others, a life of servitude.

Barnabas stared at a young girl as he walked past her. The girl stared back at him. A hooded woman grabbed the girl's arm. "Angelique, how many times do I have to tell you not to stare at him?" The woman chastised.

When I was but a boy... my father took us to the New World to expand the Collins family empire. We brought English industry to the wilds of Maine... and built a fishing business... the likes of which America had never seen.

One year later, Collinsport was a booming business. Joshua walked with his son along the dock. "A man should take pride in what he builds. But remember, Barnabas, family is the only real wealth. Hm?"

As our business grew, the town of Collinsport grew with it... and we decided to put down permanent roots. We spent the next 15 years building our beloved home: Collinwood. But not everyone shared in our family's success.

Fifteen years later, Barnabas and Angelique had found privacy in a dark room, the only light coming the the peaks in the curtain. They were passionately kissing.

Angelique pulled away. "Je t'aime. Let me hear you say "I love you, Angelique. I want you."

Barnabas stared at her. Angelique stepped away from him. “Angelique...I am sorry, my dear...but you would be hearing a lie"

Angelique did not take the rejection well. You see, the woman was a witch. She was alone in her room, reciting a spell. "Make the high and mighty low. Arrogant creatures, down you go"

Joshua and Naomi Collins were taking a stroll one stormy night. The mood was perfectly set for the doom they would meet that night. They would meet their deaths when a statue had fallen on them.

Convinced my parents' death was no accident... I became obsessed with dark magic and ancient curses.

Barnabas read from a book. "Lo! Above the gates of hell...he found a single letter. A letter proclaiming Satan's true name. Mephistopheles" He ran his fingers over the gold M that was on the page.

But even then, in the depths of my grief, not all was darkness. For I had found my one true love.

"Promise we'll be together forever" Ophelia DuPres asked of Barnabas. The two of them were lovers, despite the fact the Ophelia was betrothed to another.

"God as my witness, Ophelia... I swear it" Barnabas promised. He sealed that promise to her with a passionate kiss.

Of all the servants I could have spurned... all the hearts I could have broken... I got the one with the secret. I got the witch.

Angelique watched with no emotion as the two of them kissed. But Angelique wasn't the only one who caught them. Ophelia's fiance, Jonathan Hargreaves. He watched with burning anger as his wife to be kissed another man. Ophelia belonged to him. Not Barnabas. Angelique had managed to spot Jonathan in her peripheral vision. She grinned evilly to herself. She could use his own spurned emotions to her advantage.

That night, Angelique had lured Jonathan into her room that night. She placed him under a spell. "If she doth chooses another, then you must make her pay. By all means necessary" Her sultry whisper spoke in his ear. "Kill her in front of the man she betrayed you with"

Caught in Angelique's spell, Jonathan had taken my beloved Ophelia towards Widow's Hill... where many a despondent soul had leapt to their death.

Barnabas rushed to save his Ophelia from her fate. "Ophelia!" He called her name as he ran. He came to the hill where he saw Ophelia being held by Jonathan. He held a knife to her throat. "Please, let her go!"

"Help me" Ophelia pleaded desperately.

"If I can't have her, then no one can!" Jonathan declared. He dragged the blade across her throat. The stainless steel was stained by the crimson liquid. Ophelia's body went limp. Her body was thrown off the cliff by Jonathan. Barnabas looked over the cliff and watched as her lifeless body hit the rocks below.

Since the deed was done, Jonathan had becom broken from his spell. He looked at the knife in his hand. When he saw it was stained with blood, he dropped it. "What have I done!?" He cried when he realized. "I've killed the love of my life!" With that, he ran.

Barnabas did the only thing he could do now. He wasn't going to live without Ophelia. He took a leap off the cliff. "Ophelia!" He shouted her name as he fell. He hit the rocks but he didn't die. He was still moving and breathing. He looked at Ophelia's body. The water had washed away the blood that was on her neck.

No, Barnabas Collins wasn't dead, but rather he was undead. He looked up at the cliff where Angelique stood. "What have you done?!" He screamed at her. Barnabas watched in horror as he nails grew sharper and his skin turned paler.

Angelique had cursed me to be a vampire... so that my suffering would never end. As for Jonathan... he never faced any punishments for what he do to Ophelia... nor did he live with the guilt. Angelique took care of that... Ophelia's sister, Josette, was too taken with grief, that she jumped off the same cliff where her sister died, so they could be together again.

One day, when Barnabas had opened the door, he was greeted to angry townsfolk carry torches and pitchforks. "There's the monster!" Angelique, who was in front, pointed at him. "He killed the DuPres girl and threw her body off the cliff!" The townspeople grabbed Barnabas. They all followed Angelique as she lead them into the forest.

Resolved that I would never belong to her... Angelique turned the townspeople against me... and condemned me to suffer my anguish alone in the dark

The townspeople had but Barnabas in a chained up coffin. They lowered it into the hole they had dug in the ground. All the while with Barnabas pleading, banging against the coffin. "Let me out! Let me out, I say!"

...for all time.

Angelique watched with a pleased smirk as the coffin was buried.

[13atoms]

Fic idea: reader and orlo are penpals, and when the reader finally visits Orlo for the first time, they expect a suave, intelligent, confident man... And then Orlo's very, very flustered and tongue tied around them, but still in his endearing way?

No idea where to go from there, so have fun I guess?

Oh my god i love this concept. SO much. He’d be so suave in letters. 

Since I’ve been away a while: here’s some flufffffffff

Orlo fidgeted nervously as another carriage pulled away, an elderly Lord in an oversized wig departing rather than the woman he was expecting.

What would she be like? What would she look like? Sound like? Smell like?

What would she think of him?

He tried to gulp down the worst question, buzzing around his head like a wasp he couldn’t swat, cursing his sweaty palms as he rubbed them against his waistcoat subtly. The fear she wouldn’t like him had crept up on Orlo over the last few weeks, threatening to choke him the night before her arrival and keeping him from sleep as he had anxiously considered every possible outcome of their meeting for the first time.

Ought he to have warned her, of his reputation at the palace? Did he owe her some explanation of his flaws?

He wondered who she expected, if she had tried to fantasize about him as he had about her.

Her. This stranger, who he feared might already own his heart, who knew him better than anyone else in the palace walls.

They had flirted through neat script, he had agonised over her every crossed-out work and carefully chosen phrase, and now he was finally meeting her.

It was a strange gap in his day, between coup meetings and appeasing Peter, trying to hold the country together, Orlo had carved out time to await the arrival of her carriage.

He was being ridiculous, he knew it, standing by the turning circle of the carriages for hours. He had no idea what time she would arrive, and yet he could not bare to miss a second of her presence. So her would wait, alone and hoping his intentions remained unchallenged by the gentry at large.

No one in the palace knew of his correspondence, of his flirting and his attempts at charming in letters, of his secret he had harboured in letters nestled between official correspondence and against his heart in the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

He smiled, thinking of all the times he had leaned on the strength of those letters in difficult meetings and raucous parties, eagerly awaiting each new batch of letters in the hopes it might contain a couple of pages from her.

Catherine had almost caught him once, reading a letter from her crouched in a concealed corner of the theatre, squinting in the darkness in desperation to hear more from her.

“What are you reading?” Catherine had asked haughtily, reaching for the letter.

As quickly as he could without damaging the paper, he had declined to share with her, shoving the folded letter back into his pocket.

“Nothing!”

Catherine’s silent challenge, her stormy expression and impatiently tapping foot, had forced more words from him.

“A friend,” he muttered.

Her expression had warped into a wry smile, perhaps no longer afraid of his betrayal, seeing a little more than he would have liked.

Orlo smiled to himself against the cold air, the palace looming behind him and his beau somewhere through the forest, in a carriage. He could not deny the nervousness he felt for her safety, in equal measure to the nervousness he felt for her judgement of him.

In the windows, he could see people waking up, beginning their routines. Couples and single men, children and countless visitors to the huge building flitted in and out of the windows as the Russian wind whistled through the forest and horses and carriage crunched against the road.

A polite, “thank you” drew his eye from the windows above, causing him to staggered around clumsily to see the women disembarking the carriage.

He pulled her latest letter from his pocket, wondering if it might help him identify his mystery pen pal somehow, watching as she tried subtly to stretch from the journey and smiled at the driver.

Her reaction to the huge, grand building was familiar, and it made Orlo smile as she stared up at the windows above, marvelling at what was surely the largest building she had ever seen with wide eyes.

She smiled as she caught him staring, and Orlo found himself shrinking into himself, his chest tight with nervousness as she laid eyes on him.

"I'm looking for... Grigor Orlo?" she asked gently.

His name on her tongue made his heart stutter in his chest, and Orlo knew it. He was fucked.

"That's... actually me," he choked out, wincing at the stutter in his words.

He winced as her eyebrows raised, her gaze falling subtly across his face and clothing, mouth falling open for just a second of surprise too long. Then, she smiled so sweetly he feared he might faint.

“Then I suppose I am your pen pal!” she introduced herself, holding out a hand to him.

Orlo froze, kicking himself as he finally reached for her retreating hand, pulling it to his lips. Her soft skin brushed his lips in a kiss for just a second, but it was long enough for him to feel that clenching of his heart again, almost painful.

His mind was torturing him, seeming to race and halt at once.    

Stop acting like such a fool!

“Orlo,” he choked out, “everyone just calls me Orlo.”

He released her hand and stood, struggling to meet her gaze even as he was inclined to stare at her. She regarded him curiously for a moment, before nodding mutely.

Her carriage was pulling away, her bags awaiting direction as servants stood nearby, and he wondered at what a spectacle this all must be. Still, he found himself lacking words.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she told him sincerely, “at long last.”

“You too,” Orlo managed to return, wondering how a man of his age could manage to have his voice break whilst attempting to pronounce so few syllables.

The conversation had not truly been volleyed back to her, and yet Orlo could do nothing but berate himself for how badly he was failing.

He had thought her his soulmate, perhaps, a life partner. Words alone had been enough to prove their connection, a smart and witty woman he had begun correspondence with quite by accident seemed too good to be true, and he had been delighted each time she flirted back with him, and seemed as eager as him to talk more. She had travelled for days to visit him, for goodness’ sakes. She could not be more perfect, and he was fucking it all up.

“Where should I have my bags sent?” she asked him politely.

He wondered at what she might think, as he fumbled and failed to carry their conversation. Fuck. He had not even welcomed her yet, told her where she would be staying, he –

“Orlo?” she inquired.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “um, there is a guest suite prepared. Near mine. Not that… not that that is relevant. Um…”

He turned to the serf who stood nearby, longsuffering and wincing at the man’s awkwardness.

“The guest suite three doors from my own, the door will be marked.”

They nodded, and vanished with the heavy bags.

His pen pal was staring wistfully across the gardens, and he felt nothing but pity for the poor woman. He had lured her here under the pretence of someone better than him, and now she would be undergoing the worst kind of betrayal, watching him fumble his words and wring his hands nervously.

She had wandered some small distance away, entranced by the morning bustle of the residents of the palace and their finery, the sheer scale of the grounds. He watched her for a moment, taking a deep breath, before stepping by her side.

“I cannot believe you are real,” he exhaled, “I have been so nervous…”

She turned a little to face him, but spared him her gaze. Perhaps she knew that was too much for now.

“Me too,” she admitted, “I mean, that you are real. And who you say.”

Orlo allowed himself to smile, and she turned properly to him.

“I was afraid I would let you down. I still am, in some way,” he admitted, the words rolling from his tongue unpermitted.

At least you are saying something, you fool.

He frowned at her displeased look, noticed how she took him in again, wondering if she was judging him. For his stature. For his clothes. His face. His voice. His demeanour.

He wondered which repulsed her the most.

“I admit, I had the same fear,” she told him.

Orlo opened and closed his mouth in surprise, her letter to him clutched tightly in his hand, the last words she had sent him before he could finally hear her speak in person.

“Why? You could never disappoint me!” Orlo heard himself pitchy, nervous still, and cursed himself for it.

She laughed, looking towards her feet, fluffing her skirt in a gesture which betrayed her own self-consciousness.

“I am embarrassed to admit it, but I fretted for hours on what to wear today. Whether you would think it was… enough. I know things are different here, I… I did not want to embarrass myself.”

Orlo intended to interrupt, one hand raised to make a point, but she continued to speak. She was not watching him, her gaze trained instead on the ladies assembling on the lawn in their ornate jewellery and fine dresses, squinting as if in scrutiny.

“I confess I had even considered turning around, for fear you might not find me as… eloquent in person.”

Orlo caught himself chuckling, quickly reaching for his pen pal’s hand to assuage her immediate fear he was laughing at her.

“I cannot believe how thoroughly your mind seems to match mine, in its cruel patterns,” he explained.

She smiled nervously, unconvinced, and he dropped her hand.

Then, he reached for it again, leaving his fingers awkwardly outstretched as he allowed his rue thoughts to spill from his mouth.

"I find that beautiful words come to me easier than beauty, flattery and emotion are easier through a quill than they are through my own voice. I understand if you want to leave. And if I have misled you in some way... oh, god, I am sorry."

His words were left with a beat of silence, self-depreciation stamping out hope as it blossomed at her timidly upturning lips.

“Now, you are sounding rather more than my pen pal,” she teased, and Orlo caught himself smiling, though the jibe felt rather at his own expense.

“I do not measure up in person…” Orlo attempted to fill her words, to release her from the need to tell him herself that she would be leaving.

She took his hand.

“On account of beauty, you certainly do. And perhaps you might show me a little more flattery and emotion as you introduce me to the grounds?”

She adjusted his arm, and he found himself allowing his muscles to go limp at the contact, letting her manipulate him as she pleased until he had styled him to offer his elbow, and snaked her own arm through his.

He covered her hand with his, feeling butterflies returning to his stomach.

In a good way. An exciting way. She smiled across at him.

“I would truly love that,” he confessed sincerely.

She leant into his side fondly, make his heartbeat accelerate faster than the wildest jigs danced in the palace. I would like so desperately to dance with her, he realised.

Ahead the sky was a bright blue, both of them squinting at the sun as Catherine joined the women in a chorus of bottle-smashing cheers. The bark of dogs inside the palace was accompanied by gunshots, as a hunt prepared to go out.

And Orlo was about to go on a date.

A date who was chirpily hanging onto his arm, looking around at all the new sights and flinching at the new noises.

Just for a second, he wondered that she might get used to them.

And stay.

With a blink he finally took a step forwards, delighting in how she bounced excitedly alongside him, his earlier trepidation giving forwards to the kind of fond nervousness which arrived at the start of something good.

As she smiled to him, he found himself earnestly grinning back.

“Then let us begin.”

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate Chapter 23

Adva was struggling. Despite Geralt obeying her pleas to give her space, things had got no better. The brief glimpses at him at dinner or in passing during the day made the storm inside her more violent. She was tetchy and irritable to the point of wanting to hurl people across the room for very little reason. Jaskier breathing too hard, Vesemir scratching to loudly, Triss asking if she was okay for the 50th time today or Ciri placing another plate of food in front of her. By nature, she very passive person, and the temperament change was concerning, the number of times she had found herself having to leave the room to stop herself from launching an attack on some innocent companion. The others were careful around her, constantly tiptoeing around her which in her opinion aggravated her more, there constant need to try and make things better or help her when all she wanted to do was curl up somewhere soft and think. Think about what she should do, go, or say to make any of this better. But she was never left alone for long enough to think without Jaskier, Triss or Ciri popping up and spoiling her solace.

‘Come on, Adva, come play some Gwent.’ Triss smiled tenderly across at her.

The foursome of Triss, Jaskier, Ciri and Vesemir were all huddled around the end of banquet table with there cards dished out in front of them. Geralt and Yennefer nowhere to be seen. Geralt normally lurked somewhere in the shadows with longing looks while Yennefer appeared and disappeared as often as she felt like it but for the past few days neither had been present. Bile burnt a pit in her stomach as she thought about them, Geralt had grown tired of the rejection had sunk back into the waiting arms of the Mage which is the way it had to be but it still hurt so much.

Shaking her head, she stood from her place by the fire, ‘No, I am fine. I just want to relax for a bit.’

‘If I didn’t know better I would say your pinning for something.’ The older Witcher sniped as he glared down at his hand.

‘Who asked you.’ Adva snapped, sending an icy glare across at the man.

‘Adva…’ Ciri frowned as she looked across the table at her companions, concern marring their faces all apart from Vesemir who retained his usual death glare.

‘Forget it; I am going for a walk.’ Adva bite out as she made her way through the double doors and onto the great stone steps and down towards the lake.

The sky was blanketed with thick white clouds that shielded her from the last of the autumn sun. The wind was bitter but only enough to cause the slightest shiver as she made her way down the incline. The leaves had started to turn some time ago, but now only the evergreens held their vibrant greens, the rest where a stunning arrange of yellows, browns and reds, but now the leaves were shedding and the bare bark of the gnarled branches was the signal for the imminent arrival of winter and the upcoming snow.

‘Ahhhh if it isn’t the little mermaid. Off for a swim?’

The voice tinkled through the wind as smooth as velvet for a moment she thought she had imagined it, blue eyes scanned the landscape in front of her for the purple-eyed mage, but nothing. The rocky path was empty, and the thick, dense wall of trees either side bared no presence either. Narrowing her eyes, she moved further down the path and around the little bend, only for the path to be blocked by the slender mage.

‘Hello, little fish…’ The mage smiled tightly as they stared across at each other.

‘Yennefer… just don’t, whatever you are going to do just don’t. I cannot deal with you right now.’ Adva snapped as she continued down the path towards the water.

Adva was telling the truth, she couldn’t deal with Yennefer right now not without a decent amount of bloodshed. Even just looking at the mage caused an insane amount of irritation, with her perfect hair and immaculate makeup. At least on this occasion, she was wearing something remotely suitable for the changing weather, a thick cotton dress and furs.

‘And why would I do something to you? Are you scared of me little one? No, I don’t think you are. What are you truly scared off? You know a powerful mage can tell a personal creed by simply looking someone in the eye.’

Yennefer watched the woman staring straight at her. A lesser being might be arrogant and cocky or fearful at an approaching mage, especial if said mage had thrown yours through the flooring of a house. Yet, Adva eyes betrayed no fear or hatred just a stormy blue sea. Even when she took a step forward, the girl did not so much as flinch, just staring with those dark eyes. Eyes which where windows to the soul and in which she could see straight into.

‘And what do you see.’ Adva retorted, folding her arms around herself as she waited.

‘I see your fear’ Yennefer cooed softly as she inched closer, her eyes sinking into Adva’s. ‘A fear that you don’t even know, something you hid deep down.’

‘And what is that Yennefer?’

‘What the fun in telling?’ The violet eyes twinkled as she came toe to toe with the girl and stared down till only a few inches of air separated them. The scent of lilac and gooseberry mixed with apples and the scene.

‘I also see…purpose and ohhh destiny. Not something that I would have to imagine or expected….. such an unwanted surprise… Tsk tsk tsk that is a pity.’ Yennefer muddled out as here eye unblinkingly stared into her.

‘Pity? What is a pity?’ Adva croaked out slamming her eyes shut

‘I hate changing plan midway through but needs must when the devils at your doorstep…quite literally in this case.’ Yennefer smiled wide as she stepped back.

Adva scowled as she looked at Yennefer. The smile was not a satisfied or happy one, she, of course, knew the different, she had spent most of her adult life in a whore house and new the difference between a purely happy smile and that of displeasure. It was the sort of smile the girl splayed on when they had to play along with the punter for the hard-earned coin with an ugly old man.

‘Whatever tactic this is Yennefer, I am not playing. Just leave me alone.’ Adva retorted as she stormed off.

‘We can’t escape our nature or our destiny, soul mate or not. It's coming for you.’ Yennefer whispered before disappearing in a flourish of wind and dust.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The path wound around and came to stand in a little creek once you moved past the overground patches of bracken and nettles. Adva was too distracted with her thoughts to mind the thorns tugging at her clothes and the nettle stinging at her flesh as she followed the distant tinkle of water, the soft splashes of the jumping fish and busy otters. A swirl of rage billowed inside her, Yennefer set her on edge pushed her to purposely twist her mind and bring her to the brink of apprehension.

‘Arghhhh’ Adva pushed out a blast of water from the shallow and sent it shooting across the vast lake. Adva watched as the willow gave a creaking groan before it collapsed into the water, and the world went silent even the fish seemed to rush for the safety of the depth. A shuddering breath escaped her lips as she watched the leaves wave across the on the surface of the water, the light-catching them making them glisten in the sun.

A snap and a stumble broke through the silence. Whirling around her eyes darted around the dense wall of wood, even without the greenery, there was little room to see the past cover.

‘Who is there? Yennefer?...Geralt? Jaskier? Who is there?’ Adva called out but was only met by an eerily silence. ‘I mean it who is there….this isn’t funny.’ Adva shouted into the bush arms raised palms outward as a swirl of water slashed around in front of her.

Directly in front of her, another footfall fell and with the branched began to rattle and shake. And slowly the figure emerged from the bush till a slightly dishevelled Earl Crispin stood in front of her and slightly out of breath.

‘Ahhhh Adva….it a really a jungle out there. That purpled eyes woman told me where you were’ the Earl smiled. ‘I do hope you're not going to hit me with that thing, are you?’ the man's dark eyes lingered over the water churning mid-air.

‘No no of course not…’ Adva breathless mumbled and let her arms fall to her side ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Triss came to see me…to help with your situation. I knew you were a beauty but a Witcher’s Mate No wonder he cold-cocked me.’ He smiled as he stepped into the clearing dragging a heavy-looking bag.

Adva groaning lightly as her memory burnt with that night, the memories she wanted to forget but longed to have again. ‘Geralt…is a little overprotective. Sorry, he hit you.’ She gave him a sad smile.

‘Perfectly fine. Not your fault…. I understand thou …he isn’t about is he.’ Nervous eyes flickered around the glade.

‘Don’t worry, you are safe…he is back at the castle, I think. You didn’t answer the question. What are you doing here?’

‘This, I believe, is something that you have been looking for.’ The man smiled and proffered a shimmering scroll of parchment. ‘I brought it at an auction about ten years ago; it had been sitting at the bottom of some fishermen hunt. The seller thought it might be some sort of script of the whale, but to my trained eye, I think it more likely fertility or mating script. The whale image is often or not a mark of such a thing.’ Crispin beamed as he moved behind her peaking at the scroll over the woman’s shoulder.

Adva shakily grasped the scroll in her trembling hands and unravelled the scroll, a hush gasp fulling from her lips, and her eyes flowed over the scripted, greedily taking in every letter of every word. The images where graphic and detailed showing every step and every position of the bonding ceremony. Heat pooled in the pit of her stomach her eyes lingered over the mermaid figure pursed over the man's form in the throes of ecstasy.

‘Oh my….It is…Crispin it is…. Do you know what this means I can…’ A deep frown formed at the corners of her mouth as the froze in mid-speech. A tightness across her throat and the air stuck in her chest.

The scrolls dropped from her hand as the object around her tightened to the point her toe tips where the only just skimming the ground. The cord around her neck stung as it bite into the sensitive skin, causing her silent scream to erupt from her mouth.

‘Do you really think you would get away from me that easy, you halfling monstrosity? The soft snarl of Crispin's mouth as his hot breath glanced over her ear.

‘I…What….Crispin what are you doing?’ the words barely formed in a series of gasped out chokes.

‘I have been looking for you for the last twenty years. I thought you would be so much more. But its pathetic really all the hope for nothing. Your not even a proper mermaid. Can’t even defend yourself.’ Crispin scowled tightening his hold.

Adva growled lightly as her finger scratched at the wire-like cord around her neck while her other hand reached outward toward the water flexing and waining as the water struggled up from the surface of the lake.

‘Your powers are weak. I can snuff them out like I would yearlings.’ Crisping screamed, and he tightened his grip of the bind around her neck, and helplessly she watched as the water slammed back into the lake as it became impossible still, like a sheet of glass.

The hold was too much and too strong no matter how she moved; his hold remained unwavering. The material around her neck was slimy and hot burning. The black spot began to appear on her eyes as she was thrust towards unconsciousness.

‘Look what we have here.’ Yennefer purr pulled Adva from the edge of oblivion.

‘Yenne… help.’ the words were raw, and the taste of metallic copper bubbled up in her throat.

‘Help? Her? Who do you think has been helping me. Once you are out of the way, she gets her witcher, and I get the bloodline clean from scum like you.’ He spat, as hot tears run down her purple face.

‘See that not how it is going to go down.’ Yennefer purred as she moved to stand in front of the struggling couple.

‘What? We have a deal.’

Adva felt the cord losen around her neck just ever so slight, and the small trickle of air escaped into her burning lungs, and the impending darkness seemed to fade in the distance.

‘Do you think I am stupid? A man who makes a blood deal is never to be trusted.’ Yennefer sneered.

‘What are you talking about the mage. My deal is binding.’

‘True you give me Geralt and a baby, but Geralt is no use without her. You think me fool? As soon as his pathetic mate dies, he will wither away before my eyes till he is nothing but a husk.’

Adva felt Crispin's hands stain against the rope and body tensed behind her.

‘You must have known that soulmate cannot be parted. So what was it make me watch him die while handing me a baby? Humph. But it has been interesting to see how your mind works. You call her a weak yearling…yet you’re the one strangling with the roots of Snarling Inferno. Which cause dehydration and paralysis, not the signs of a strong mermaid. But a very interesting method of subduing them.’ Yennefer sneered. ‘See…What was it, Crispin? You are the weak one, having to use a weed to subdue your prey, and I have not lived several lifetimes by aligning myself with the weak side. So let her go, or you will be very sorry.’ Yennefer’s eyes growled a metallic purple.

‘Never’

‘It's your choice. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ The mages smiled as she rose her hands and send out a shock wave of air, forcing them violently back.

Adva clawed at her neck the weed continue to contract her air was. Despite Crispin no longer choking her the bind her, the air refused to refill her desperate lungs. She had landed inches away from the water's edge while mere meters away blasts of purple and white erupted from the hands of Crispin and Yennefer.

‘Yennefer….’

‘Hang on little dolphin.’ The mage grunted as she pushed a swirl of fire towards the flaying man.

Adva nails gouged and ripped at the burnt skin as the weed began to cook her already stinging flesh, blood oozed from every wound and thread by a thread the woody rope, while in front of her the two men duelled in a bluster of light. Gasping tightly, the air slowly began to return as a thread by a thread of the woody root broke. Yet, burning remained, and sweat began to drip down her body, and a violent tremor racked over her body.

‘For the Kingdom of Navacis and our true leader Zaire.’ Crispin roared as he appeared from nowhere, dagger held aloft. But a roaring spark shot out from his chest, causing the man to look down as the sparks began to ignite in small little explosions. Adva air deprived brain could not follow the actions as the towering hate-filled man ignited in a roaring blaze as he shrieked in pain.

Cooly, Yennefer picked up the dropped dagger and gently began to cut through the tough weed that still clung to her neck.

‘You tried….to kill…me’ Adva wheezed out as the air fully returned to her lucks.

‘Oh, grow up. If I truly wanted you dead, you would be dead. AS much as I despise you…I think you can help me. You give a little help; you get a little help. Me with my problem…you with Geralt…’ Yennefer silky tones wafted through the air.

Adva was very vaguely aware of the mage's eyes staring down into hers. Before the familiar feel of the knife delicately cutting away at the last remains of the roots that encircled her neck. Adva felt…she felt wild  Powerful. It was hard to breathe; she still felt like she was being choked, her lung burnt. And a desire for water consumed her.

‘Hold still!... And breath….Breath Adva!’

A pained roared filled the air with one mightly tug the last of the Snapping Inferno’s roots where pulled from her neck. And a taloned hand lashed out against the mage. Yennefer missed the blow by a hair's breadth, and she sprawled backwards in across the dirt as she watched wide-eyed as black sword-like claws extended from Adva figure tips. The girl whimpered and panted, her whole body withering in some unforeseen pain.

‘I can….no brea….’ Adva croaked.

‘Adva the weed is gone. Stop..... now your gonna hurt yourself.’ Yennefer blicked worriedly trying and failing and holding the failing girl still.

Yennefer’s body stifled a gasp for air as the girl lookup. No longer were the eyes of bright pool blue but a sea of black. A terrible piercing shriek vibrated against the shore as a wave of energy blasted out at Yennefer, sending her hurtling into the rocks that lined the shore.

 Blood poor from her as she crawling forward, plunged her self into the lake. Water rolled over her as bubbles shot across her skin as she plunges into the water. A blue glow surrounds her, and the water shone brightly.  In the depth of the water, the burn was consuming; a heat ripped across Adva’s ribs and down her legs. Clawing at her body, the black claws ripped and pulled at the confining clothes as she sunk deeper in the depths.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Purple eyes blinked themselves awake as she pair of rough hands violently shook her, and for the first time in her entire existence, she was glad to come face to face with Vesemir.

‘She is alive.’ His gruff voice grated against her ringing head that pounded violently.

‘Oh, goody we can all breath a sigh of relief.’ Jaskier snarked as he inched closer to the younger Witcher who crouched eyes franticly danced around the area.

‘Yennefer…what have you don?’ Ciri snapped softly as she picked up the remains of the Snarling Inferno.

‘Done? Done? I saved that little fish life. If It wasn’t for me that assassin would have strangled the life out of her? You should be thankful I set a trap for that…Crispin.’Yennefer puffed out in pains as Vesemire yanked her up.

‘You used her as bate?’ Geralt roared appearing out from the clearing bearing down at her.

‘Only to see what we were up against.’ Yennefer pouted timidly at the raging Witcher all too aware of the glinting silver sword in his hand.

‘Where is she’ Geralt voice was low and dangerous.

‘Who do you think did this damage….she was alive when I passed out. Snarling and whipping like some demented creature.’ Yennefer spat as she half-collapsed herself on the remains of the bolder that once sat on the bank of the lake

‘That is her blood soaking into the floor. YOU MURDEROUS…!’ Geralt roared, raising his sword arm above his head to bring down his glinted weapon against the mage.

Jaskier flinched at sight before him. Despite his hatred for Yennefer, the wrath of Geralt was not something he would wish upon his worst enemy. He would kill her for this. Jaskier was sure of this. As soon as he hurried that unholy shriek, and glowing light, he knew it, he knew Yennefer had committed what they had all been waiting for all be it with the aid of another party. The bard just didn’t see it being Crispin. Jaskier eyes settled on a large rusty coloured stain sunk into the brown dirt; it was such an amount that no man or women mermaid or not would survive that. The body carried off by Crispin if he had survived the attack or dragged away by downers. Tears began to build up in his eyes as he turned away from the blood-stained bank towards the rippling water. Adva was gone, destroyed, nothing left but scraps of clothing torn from her body and the fading blood. A flicker of red caught the minstrels attention.

Terror surged within the dark as the flicker of red disappeared below the water, and a shadow glided toward the shallows. ‘ Uh, Geralt….Geralt!’

Geralt let go of the mage's throat as he turned to the bard, his eyes danced across the waters lines and at the shadow drifting toward him. The only thing the keen witchers eyes could make out was the crimson red that shimmered underneath the water as it drew closer. Geralt breath hitched in his throat as gliding out of through the water, Adva bobbed against the surface serenely, hair sticking against her wet skin, the ends dancing in the water as she trod the murky water. The briefest glimmer of a brilliantly red tail that swished benefit, keeping her afloat.

‘Adva? Oh my god….she had a tail, she has a tail.’ Jaskier’s shill cry carried across the lake.

‘Well, I think we can safely say she is most defiantly a mermaid.’ Vesemir sighed as he eyed his golden-eyed protégé wading thought the water before diving head further into the water as his powerful arms cut through the water, stopping just in front of her, so close he could feel the force of her tail moving back and forth.

‘Adva…it me Geralt.’ Geralt soothed softly as he reached out and ever so gentle traced the side of her face.

Her skin looked almost white, like glowing silver, her eyes a vivid metallic blue, she looked the same but different, her face was almost ethereal, features sharper, eyes larger, hair a meadow green. So different but so familiar. Tilting her head, she pressed her face into his warm hand, purring softly.

Geralt heart thudded violently in his chest as he watched raptured as his mate who bobbed against the surface of the water on a beautiful tail. It had been the first time she had allowed him to touch her since that night, that amazing night. The warmth from her skin was enough to send him into a heady frenzy; Geralt smiled as the tail wrapped around his body, pulling him closer. His whole body sung in relief, that itch that made him raw was gone, but that feverish need was bad, that need to bond and feel her skin against his to become one. Cooing down, he felt her tail swish out the water spraying him with a fine mist of water

‘Geralt’

Adva’s snapped open, the metallic blue eyes gone, replaced with pure black pupils.

‘No one move!’ Vesemir demanded.

‘Seriously she has just got a lethal tale.’ Yennefer cried, leaping into the shallow water.

‘Don’t…’ Vesemir warned, but it was too late.

Immediately the tale shift from its magnificent ruby tale shifted to a deathly black, and thin barbs like teeth descend down from her mouth with a sickening slice through the air as she glowered across at the onlookers before, to the horror of the group, Adva lurched forward dropped down into the water, pulling the Witcher under with her.

I hope you are all safe and well I am so sorry! I really wanted to update but it has been non-stop at work and doesn't look like it will get any better There will be smut in the next chapter. Thank you, everyone, who left a review and keeps leaving support, I really appreciate it, it has really pushed me to keep writing. Please let me know what you think.

@threepupsinapuddle @broco8 @introvertedmouse @luxyash @vikingsbifrost @pastelblogsposts @wastingmypotential @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @fandom-lover-4 @sageandberries-png  @just-a-sad-donut @alicia-d-o @dreamerwithapen1 @evangeline73aster

[meowdymista]

Van der Driscoll pt 4

idek how this is still going but here we are. I like to please people like our bae, I guess

Part 3 & Masterlist

Part 5

In this booth in some rundown town west of Lemoyne, you’re grateful to have Arthur’s thumb rubbing calm circles on the back of your hand. His eyes are azure in the sunlight pouring through the shutters, watching the road outside for the third day since you’ve arrived.

The sound of you pushing your plate away attracts his attention.

“You need to eat something,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand with a small frown. You shrug indifferently, although the voice at the back of your mind is nagging the same thing. Your stomach is a separate entity to you now - it will betray you at the drop of a hat by suddenly dropping through the floor and pushing bile up in its place. How are you supposed to eat when you aren’t hungry? When anything that does pass your lips tastes like dirt, and tastes worse when it passes them again?

He sighs heavily, kissing your knuckles before enveloping them beneath both of this own. It’s like you’re watching him jump forward and backwards in time. The lines etch deeper in moments like these, when you’re sat by the window waiting. They drove themselves in hoards when conversation pulled you into heated discussion about right and wrong.

“A baby shouldn’t be born on the run from the law.”

“What about the boy? Jack?”

“It was different then - there weren’t so many Pinkertons, and they weren’t so determined.”

“OK, so why is he still running with you?”

“It’s different - they’re safer with us than out there where they can be grabbed for ransom.”

“Who would hold a boy and his mother for ransom?”

A dark look reminds you of the ten dollar murder. “These guys are the law-”

“And the law hire bounty hunters, don’t they? And them bounty hunters are anyone that steps off the street.”

Despite some strong arguments that stir doubt in your already unsettled insides, you can’t help but see the twinkle in his eyes when the barman talks to you about his own newborn daughter, promising that the baby will be worth every second - although it could be the lack of sleep making him delirious.

You came to bed late last night to find him passed out on top of the blankets still fully dressed. Taking pity on him, you removed his boots, stirring him from his sleep enough to get underneath the quilt and hold it up for you to curl in next to him. You slipped in, gasping as his strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled your back flush against his front, his nose buried in your hair.

“My lady and our baby,” he mumbled against the back of your neck as his palm flattened on your unchanged stomach.

“If you’ll have us,” you whispered in return, inhaling sharply as his grip tightened.

“I can’t be what I ain’t.” A kiss tingled your bare shoulder. “But I want you both more’n anything.”

“You promise?”

His warm breath chuckled over your back. “I ain’t lyin’ if that’s what you mean.” You turned your head, finding his heavy lids in the darkness of the room. “I’m sorry for how I acted - I loved being a father, and I’ve loved being with you. Best o’ both worlds but I know this world don’t work that way - for outlaws at least.”

“It’s worked for your brother.”

“Mm. That fool was always lucky.”

“We make our own luck in this world, Arthur. Have faith.”

He chuckled at that, burying his head deeper into his pillow. “A’ight. I’ll try.”

You push a piece of meat into your mouth and force yourself to chew. You’re sure this would taste amazing if you had found this place before you lost your appetite.

Arthur moves to his feet suddenly, eyes fixed outside. “He’s here.”

You follow his gaze to see a curt old man dismounting a stormy coloured turkoman. You recognise him instantly.

She can’t go free. Not with the Pinkertons after us.

"Arthur!" Hosea calls to the man half running off the wooden porch to meet him, hitching Silver Dollar on the side of the road. "Everything alright?"

"Hosea - you got the letter! I-" He moves his hat on his head, raking his hands through the mane of hair before setting it back down. "I didn't know who else to ask."

"Guess it fell through, whatever you intended to do?" The brown eyes drift to the window where you shrink out of view.

"Somethin' like that," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… we need to talk. I was hopin' you might be able to… to help in some way or at least lend another mind to workin' out what we gotta do now..."

"Is she worth it?" Hosea holds his son’s gaze steadily, tilting his chin towards the saloon.

"Yes. She's-" He breathes out shakily, looking over his shoulder to your peeping eyes. "She's important to me,  Hosea."

A hand clamps on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “Let’s get properly introduced then.”

You hold your breath as the two men walk up to where you’re sat shrinking into the wall. Arthur slides in beside you, squeezing your leg with a small (albeit worried) smile as the stranger settles himself opposite you, his brown eyes bland and unreadable.

"So what is it you need to be telling me?" he asks calmly to no one in particular as he waves for a drink. "What's brought you all this way east for christ's sake?"

"I was gonna get her outta the country," Arthur explains lowly, his knee jittering again. "There're boats - ships that are taking people out of America. Get her away from Colm and us for that matter."

"But…?" He takes the whisky and throws it back, tucking a dollar in the garçon's pocket as he asks for the same again.

"But she- she weren't well."

"I'm pregnant." Your voice breaks, eyes blinking back tears. "Arthur's. I'm carrying Arthur's child."

He blows out his hollow cheeks, looking between the two of you as though expecting a cry of "April Fool's!" in June. Arthur's shoulders sag at his guardian's response.

"An' we ain't even told you the best part. Her cousin was on the ferry in Blackwater. Heidi. She's the one Dutch… you know."

He drags his hands down his face. "Could you bring us the bottle?" he calls before the barman can return. "The bottle and- two? Three glasses?"

“We owe it to her, Hosea!”

“Are you-” He waves his hand, looking between you. “What are your plans?”

“She’s keeping it.”

You nod in agreement, holding onto him for dear life as the man pours you each a glass and toasts. You try to follow suit, but the smell knocks your stomach before you can drink it. You set it back down, pushing the glass away as Arthur rubs your back understandingly.

“Don’t start this again,” growls Arthur, surprising you with his tired hostility. “Please.”

The old man’s voice is hushed, eager. “Think about it - this is an opportunity to get outta this life!”

“I can’t do that, Hosea.”

“This could be whatever deity is up there giving you a second chance! You’ve said it yourself, Arthur. We’re thieves in a world that don’t want us no more.”

“I ain’t leavin’, Hosea. You know I can’t, ‘specially now.”

Regret saturates his sigh, the twinkle in his eye extinguished as he leans his head against the back of the bench. “I know, son. Can’t blame a feller for hopin’.” Silence stretches out between you before the older man speaks again. “So what is it you’re wanting to do? We both know you ain’t dumb enough to want to bring her into camp.”

“What else is there to do?” Urgency cracks his voice as he tries to speak quietly. “Dutch killed her ticket outta here - we owe it to her!”

“He’s paranoid enough without introducing someone with motive. Morale is as low as it’s ever been right now - if word gets out that the girl was related to the new O’Driscoll? People will panic, Arthur. We’ve already lost too many-”

“I just want to keep the baby,” you interrupt, your eyes begging for him to find your honesty. “I know what it looks like, but I didn’t know Arthur was runnin’ with anybody.”

“How did you get caught again? After kidnapping Bill, wasn’t it?”

“That wasn’t me!” you cry desperately.

“But you were there when he was tied to a post?”

“I only went down to see what- what Heidi did. I just wanted to put a face to the story- Please believe me! I ain’t about revenge, and I ain’t about to do anything to put Arthur or the baby in danger-”

“Promises aren’t enough to vouch for you.”

“I won’t leave her side,” intervenes Arthur, squeezing you tight enough to fuse your sides together. “And if I do, you can watch her. Make sure she stays outta trouble.”

“And if both of us are away?”

His exhale is harsh, his mouth searching for words that can’t be found. Hosea tuts, more to himself than anything.

“I know I shoulda realised who I was gettin’ involved with,” Arthur says slowly, blue eyes begging. “But it’s too late for that. If there’s any way of keeping them with me, I gotta try. Please, Hosea. Help us?”

The bony man shrugs tiredly, shaking his head in defeat. "It ain’t me you need to convince, it’s Dutch."

“Do you think he’ll take it?”

“I don’t know anymore. Maybe if he sees how important she is to you.” He sighs, eyes searching the ceiling as though the answer might be hidden in the flaking white paint. “Like I said, he isn’t going to execute a woman carrying a child, and handing her back to Colm would be just that. Can’t hand her to the authorities neither in case she feeds them information.” Lips pressed together they all but disappear, he pours himself and Arthur another glass. “I suppose, until she proves herself to still be a threat we’re at an impasse.”

Arthur taps the glass with his free hand in time with the bounce of his knee. "I- I just don't wanna be the one bringing this gang to its knees."

“You won’t, Arthur.” A ghost of a smile dimples his cheek. “You know what you mean to us. Everyone knew something was happening with you - couldn’t not, knowing you as well as we do - and at the end of the day, you wouldn’t be fighting like this unless you trusted her. So… it’s time we trust your judgement.”

He throws the amber liquid into his mouth, wiping his hands over his thighs. “But - I will say this to the both of you right now-” He fixes you with an unforgiving stare, his neat voice hushed. “-if anyone in camp comes to harm as a result of your actions, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you. Baby or no baby.”

“Hosea-!”

“I mean it.” His gaze doesn’t flicker, holding you like a snake charmer. “We aren’t like Colm, we don’t pick people up to expand our numbers. The Van der Linde gang is family. What we have is thicker than blood. Don’t go shedding any. Understand?”

“Yes,” you croak.

“Good.” He drains your untouched glass and gets to his feet. “Arthur, you should go on ahead. Tell Dutch what’s happened, but leave out the family history. I don’t want to play that card unless we absolutely have to.”

“And Y/N?”

“We’ll be behind you in the cart. On Silver Dollar, you should get back in a day and a half at a push - if we aim for two and a bit, that should give him plenty of time to cool off and think rationally.” The older man squeezes his son's arm. “Don’t look at me like that, son. She’ll be safe with me.”

****

As promised, after two nights travelling with Hosea, you arrive back to the heartlands of New Hanover. He explains, whilst pulling out a book from his bag, that you’re waiting here until Arthur comes to fetch you both. No point walking into camp if the heat is still on.

“And if it doesn’t calm down?” you ask.

“Well, I imagine he’ll come get you and take you on to Valentine.”

You wait for a few hours - it’s only as the sun is beginning to dip lower towards the horizon that Arthur comes out from between the trees. He gives Hosea a look that can only be described as… terse. Understanding immediately, Hosea clambers down.

“Give me five minutes before coming in. No point in talking if nobody can hear what you have to say.”

The two men exchange a series of pats as they pass each other. The shadows under Arthur’s eyes are almost black as he climbs up beside you.

“How’d it go?”

Hesitating, he squeezes your knee, placing a deep kiss to your forehead before flicking the reins. “Well. Guess we’ll see if it was enough.”

He guides the wagon a little further down the dirt track parallel with the train tracks. You can see a glimmer of light through the trees for a brief moment, but it’s not until you turn down a narrow path you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise that you recognise quite how sheltered the camp is. You brace yourself for a sniper to take you out, but you make it through to the clearing without crossing anyone’s path.

Arthur parks the cart, releasing the horses before helping you down.

“How do we even know it’s his?” you hear Dutch cry from the all too familiar central tent.

"You saw how she came in, so she was telling the truth about that. Why would she bother with that get up if they knew?"

“It’s Colm! He’s been trying to take us out for years!”

“Arthur cares for her. We should give her a chance.” A hefty scoff sounds. "He isn't like you or John; they've been intimate. Of course he cares! And she’s pregnant - that baby could come out blacker than the night sky and he’d take it in as his own."

Arthur’s fingers weave through your hair, pulling your ear to his chest. His hammering heart alone almost blocks out the noise but a growl makes you lift your head.

“Herr Morgan!”

“Herr Strauss.”

“There’s a debt I need you to collect.” The man’s face is long and thin with small round glasses perched at the very end of his nose - perfect for looking down into the book he’s carrying. “A rather reluctant client by the name of Downes.”

You jump at the sinister snarl that curls from Arthur’s lips. “I’m busy.”

“You don’t need to go immediately, Mr Morgan, but the sooner the better. Fellow seems determined to die before paying his dues.”

“If it’s so important, get someone else to do it.”

“I’ve tried but Mr Bell was a little too heavy handed. We can’t collect debts from the dead.”

“Well it’ll have to wait. I got more pressing matters right now.”

His beady eyes gleam as he surveys you. “So I’ve heard. The O’Driscoll girl, isn’t it?”

“Git outta here!”

“Arthur! Y/N!” Hosea calls you both from the flaps of Dutch’s tent. With one last sneer at Strauss, Arthur leads you to the castle by the hand, his fingers interlaced with yours as he steps in front of you, entering first to take the brunt of the hostile atmosphere.

Dutch is stood, feet planted apart beside a gramophone, arms folded across his chest as his eyes burn into yours with a fierce intensity.

“What are you wantin’ from us, Miss? To kill us in our sleep perhaps?”

“Dutch-”

“Let her speak, son!”

You take a steadying breath. “Mr Van der Linde-”

“Miss O’Driscoll,” he returns sarcastically, lighting a fat cigar.

“Miss L/N, actually,” you sneer. “I’m not here to harm any one of you. We’re in a predicament, and we’d appreciate it-”

“We got a sayin’ here,” he interrupts brashly. “We save people as need savin’, shoot fellers as need shootin’ and feed those who need feedin’. Which is it you’re needin’, Miss?”

“Feedin’ if you can, Dutch,” Arthur growls, squeezing your hand as he throws you a look. “Savin’ us if you will.”

He scoffs, shaking his head in despair. “So it’s ‘us’ now?”

The apple in Arthur’s throat bobs, his chin still held high. “Yes. We’re in it together. Where she goes I go. You’re my family and I want to stay, but if you can’t accept her, I guess we’ll have to go somewhere else.”

“Come now, Arthur-!”

“She’s carrying my child, Dutch.”

“That didn’t stop John disappearin’.”

“I ain’t Marston. You know that.”

“I know you’re still holdin’ a grudge on him, that’s for sure.”

Arthur sighs harshly, pulling your body flush with his. “What’s it gonna be, Dutch? She needs to rest. Can she stay, or am I takin’ her to town?”

He takes a long drag of his cigar, casually blowing the smoke into your face. “What happened to you, Arthur? You got so sour in your old age.”

“I got tired of worryin’ about everybody else.”

“Worryin’ about everybody else? Son, you want us to take in another O’Driscoll! It’s suicide!”

His shoulders fall, his grip tightening. “Well then, I guess it’s time to thank you for all them years.”

He tuts. “You don’t mean that.”

“Dutch, I ain’t slept proper since I brought her here, an’ I’m gettin’ real tired of talkin’. I can’t risk losin’ her like I did Eliza and Isaac.” They stare at each other, both stubborn and unrelenting.

He takes another long slow drag of smoke and lets it cloud the air between them. “Fine. She can stay. But first sign of trouble and she’s out!”

“A chance is all I’m askin’ for.” Tugging you out of the tent, he keeps his body between you and Van der Linde. “Thank you, Dutch.”

“This is on you, Hosea,” you hear as Arthur leads you to a small cot a dozen feet away. “Soft, the both of you.”

[filmhistorymptv1145]

In your first blog post of the semester, explore the tug of war in cinema between the “classical” in cinematic storytelling and those who try to subvert it. Drawing upon examples from the films we have studied thus far, define what “classical” cinematic storytelling is and demonstrate how it functioned in an earlier period of film history, as well as its continuing legacy. Where do you see evidence of the “classical” today? Then, consider how filmmakers working in subversive modes challenge the dominance of classicism, either through subtle, indirect means or by full-on assaults. What kinds of classical storytelling approaches do they reject? How do they do that? What changes in form and content defy the classical? The films we’ve seen will help, as will the various sources you’ve been given for study. Use examples from the films we have studied, and draw upon others that you think are relevant.

Cinema is often thought to be the highest form of art, since it combines storytelling, acting, and music all in one glorious attempt to do something that feels simple, but as we find in exploring the history of film, not so much: the art of telling a story. There are many different ways to approach conveying information in a visual manner, and although the direct method might seem to be the easiest, we find that directors can get away with telling their story in the most imaginative ways possible. From the use of flashbacks, forwards and sometimes even sideways, the viewer is taken on a journey through which they are given the clues needed to piece the entire story together on their own. Directors use these various methods of storytelling often to drive home a point, possibly about how the main protagonist sees the world, or how memories are often skewed through the lenses of either emotion or possible mental illness. Telling a story on screen involves a lot of elements that were cemented as ‘classical’ during the early days of Hollywood, and many directors still utilize these storytelling techniques to this day. Others have forged their own path in defying the classical model of film, whether by altering how the progression of the story is conveyed to the viewers, or simply casting away the norms all together.

As Hollywood began to come into its own in the early 1900′s, many of the silent films that were made followed a recipe for getting its message across to the audience watching the screen. It all started off with Alice Ida Antoinette Guy-Blaché, credited with creating the first directed narrative. Up until that point, most movies that were being made were what we would call by today’s standards ‘b-roll footage’. Images of trains coming into a station, workers leaving factories for the day, and horses running were what was most often seen in early day Nickelodeon’s. Alice was the first to use a three stage story arc when she directed her first short film Suspense. Illustrating the rising action with the mother seeing the robber in the alley below her bedroom window, the climax of the husband bringing the police home with him in time to save his wife and child, and the resolution when the family is safely reunited, and the would-be robber is taken away by the policeman. Using film to not only illustrate a story but take the audience on a journey that tugs at their emotions and leaves them sitting on the edge of their seat was not something that had been done before.

Alice paved the foundation for classical storytelling in early cinema, which was firmly linear for several decades once the Motion Picture Production Code began being firmly enforced by the Catholic Church. Since villainy was to be punished and goodness was to be rewarded in the rules, many of the films that came out between 1934 and 1965 followed the same formula. The man ended up with the woman he was in love with, and they were able to get through whatever troubles sprung up in their way throughout the movie.

We see this in Ninotchka, where a Soviet agent is tempted by the love of a Frenchman named Leon and driven to betray the Communist regime of her country in order to pursue it. Nothing can come between them, not even when she returns to Russia and Leon is barred from visiting her. Even when his romantic letters to her are censored by the Communists, the hope in the story is not completely lost. 

Through all obstacles, Ninotchka and Leon are happily in each other’s arms by the end of the movie. You would think that the Communist regime of 1930’s Russia would easily get in the way of two lovers, but in the glittering bauble of Hollywood, there was seemingly nothing that could prevent the linear storytelling model from rewarding the deeds of the good-doers. Not even a strong-willed, stony Communist woman can ignore the temptation of the love of a man, or the freedom that would come with fleeing her home land. Betraying their home country in the name of love isn’t something many people have to struggle with. Yet we see Ninotchka’s transformation unfold on screen in an almost eerie fashion, under Leon’s influence. At the same time, she doesn’t lose the core of who she is even after falling in love. We see this when she gets quite drunk while out with Leon, and she’s caught promoting Marxist ideals inside the women’s bathroom. At the end of the day, Leon still loves Ninotchka for who she is, Communist and all. 

However, some modern films still manage to follow a linear manner of storytelling, even if they are groundbreaking via other means. Take Donnie Darko for instance. Filled with strange imagery that represents Donnie’s visions of how to save the tangent universe from certain destruction, it can feel like a film that displaces the viewer. However, if you have watched it a few times, you can see that the strange, obscure events in the story are still told in the order as they happen. From the night that Frank appears to Donnie and warns him of the world’s impending doom that is to come in twenty-eight days, a countdown begins from that point onward. Even when Donnie is experiencing visions of his school flooded with water, or being egged on by Frank to burn down the house of a local celebrity, we see each day pass by in order until the film’s ending. Images of water and fire are placed against Donnie’s relatively normal, everyday life as a high school boy in a stark, brilliantly vivid contrast. 

While Richard Kelly could have chosen to present the film’s events out of order or utilize flash backs and forwards to communicate his vision, his unique and bizarre story was easier to understand since it was told linearly. Kelly still manages to subvert the norm by creating his own science behind what was happening to Donnie, between the tangent universe, living receiver and the manipulated dead and living. Kelly also did not feel the need to show the audience every last little detail of Donnie’s abilities and experiences, feeling that ‘less was more’ in his interview in The Donnie Darko Book. Rather than showing Donnie levitating off of the ground and swinging the axe into the bronze statue of the school’s mascot, Kelly instead cuts to the scene where the disfigured piece of art is discovered by both the police and the principal. 

Choosing to let the audience use their own imaginations to fill in the blanks allows the viewer to come up with their own creative ideas as to how events unfold, instead of being spoon fed them shot by shot. A cult classic, Donnie Darko still comes to mind all these years later whenever the topic of films that challenge the classical model through indirect and still wildly creative means.

Then there are directors which completely subvert the linear story model, turning it on its head and taking the audience through an unexpected, wild ride where they are never quite sure if they can trust what they are seeing on screen. Robert Eggers’ newest film The Lighthouse is a story that is difficult to grasp on the first viewing. Even in just aesthetic terms, Eggers goes against the norm in choosing the 4x3 aspect ratio for his movie, instead of the traditional widescreen. It brings us closer to the actors and their rapid descent into madness, giving off a sense of claustrophobia as the dread slowly builds on screen. The movie is shot in black and white instead of contemporary color film, which leads to our eyes having fewer things to be distracted by as we watch. It also adds to the otherworldly, nightmarish atmosphere of the movie, and gives the director more opportunities to use the lighting on set to convey the deeper messages that are found in The Lighthouse.

Eggers has a way of giving the viewer a creeping sense of foreboding without showing anything scary at all. The opening shot of The Lighthouse begins with a large ship cutting through dark and stormy waters, and then we see our two main characters shot from behind with the lighthouse towering above their heads, accompanied by tense music. There’s something to be feared in these beginning moments, even if the viewer can’t quite put their finger on just what it is yet.

The audience is not sure if the main protagonist, Winslow, is a reliable character or not. There comes a point in the movie where everything we are led to believe up to that point is turned onto its head, and from that moment forward the viewer can not tell if Winslow is of sound mind or not.

The night before their shift is supposed to end and the ferry will come to take them away from the lighthouse and the island, Winslow finally breaks his sobriety and he gets quite drunk with Wake. During what we think is the next day (any attention paid to how much time has passed feeling scrambled by this point), Wake informs Winslow that the rot has gotten to their salted fish. Winslow replies that they had only missed the ferry by a day, and there is no need to ration their food. Wake replies that it had been weeks since they had missed the ferry that was supposed to take them home, not a single day. Wake also says that he had been telling Winslow to ration their food for the past few weeks, to which Winslow does not believe him. Wake comments that he does not want to be stuck at his post with a lunatic, and bids Winslow to go with him to dig up their extra rations, which turn out to be comprised of nothing but more alcohol. Wake makes a few slip-ups of his own in recounting his sailor days with Winslow, having two different versions of how he lost his leg, or whether or not he had been married and had a family. Between Wake’s lying and Winslow’s seemingly unstable mental state, there is no reliable narrator to trust throughout the film.

From then onward, the film spirals into such madness that the viewer can only hope to retain their wits enough to follow what is unfolding on the screen and attempt to piece together what is real and what is not in their own mind. We no longer have any baseline for reality to cling to at this point, between the excessive drinking on screen, and the characters’ untrustworthy narrations. Eggers gives us only the briefest, pin-prick sized moments of normalcy, such as Wake and Winslow catching lobsters for their dinner, or Winslow attending to his various duties on the small outcrop of land that the lighthouse sits on. Even then it is difficult to pay close attention to these tiny seconds of peace after having been put through a dizzying whirlwind of stimulus only seconds prior, with visions of sirens washed up on the beach, or tentacles belonging to some great, terrible beast sliding across the top floor of the lighthouse.

The linear model of storytelling that was cemented in early Hollywood is classical for good reason. The early directors and screenwriters of that era paved the foundation that modern day films still utilize nearly a hundred years later, setting a standard that directors can either utilize, or subvert entirely. It is safe to say that there is no limit on creativity and ingenuity, no matter how the director may choose to tell their story on screen. Whether they follow the classical model, subvert it entirely or land in some sort of middle ground, we as the audience are given plenty of artistic content to work with and ponder about regardless of what they choose.

[imaginebooks]

Cup of Revenge | Draco Malfoy

Pairings: Draco Malfoy x reader

Genre: Uhhhh fluff, maybe slight angst and yeah

Summary: He wasn’t well, even I could tell that. I knew something was up with him, now I just needed to find out what. This could really go one of two ways, incredibly good or horrifically bad.

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: Some swearing. It’s written in first person so be warned. It’s also kind of long but oh well. Your last name in this is Ambry just in case you get confused. Be warned about any grammar mistakes and what not. 

This is my submission for @locke-writes​  Intro to 2020 challenge

Masterlist

Also requests are open. Thanks!

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Draco was acting differently, it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. We may not have been as good friends as we once were but I could still pick up on his feelings.

I raised an eyebrow, staring at the tall man in front of me as he tried to lie to me about how he was feeling.

“I’m just tired, that’s all.” He said, turning to make his way back into the Slytherin common room before I grabbed him. The sunken features of his face were even more prominent in the dingy light of the castle dungeon. Even now, I could fit my hand around his wrist, something which I was never normally able to do (I have small hands).

“I don’t know when you thought lying to my face would be a good idea, but let me remind you, it’s really not.” He gulped once again, furthering my suspicion that something was really wrong.

“Since when do you care Ambry, we haven’t talked in years.” Draco was trying to change the subject and get me riled up, but it wasn’t going to work at all.

“Who’s fault is that anyway? Besides, trying to distract me is going to get you nowhere.” I growled. “You better tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s nothing. Just drop it okay?” He hissed, finally becoming angry with me, glaring down, his eyes turning to a stormy grey. I just needed to push a couple more buttons and then he would spill whatever it is that he was hiding from me.

Draco, whilst he was incredibly clever, could be pretty dense at other times and never picked up on the fact that I knew all of his little quirks and what to say to get him to tell me his secrets. We had known each other since we were in nappies, our parents having been best friends when they went to school and were hoping for us to be the same. This lead to a lot of play dates and sleep overs and I was now able to read him like a book. 

Unfortunately, our parents also shared the same views on half-bloods, muggle borns and blood traitors so you can imagine the uproar from my family when I was sorted into Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin like everyone else.

My parents then promptly forbid me from coming home during any of the holidays that weren’t the summer, seeing Draco and his family (who probably wanted nothing to do with me) and from calling them mum and dad.

They kept me around until I could fend for myself and then chucked me out into the big wide world. I was lucky enough to find a job and an apartment that I was able to rent for a cheap enough price during the summer holidays.  

I thought that maybe, even if I had been sorted into Hufflepuff, Draco and my relationship would last at school. Except that was a far off dream, Draco had blanked me out for most of our years at Hogwarts and I had learnt to do the same with him.

The foundations of our friendship rocked even more when he found out that I was involved with Dumbledore’s Army last year. He had been the one to drag me to where Umbridge was rounding us up, glaring at me the entire way. 

Whilst Harry and a couple of others made their way down to London that night, a few of us stayed at the castle to stop any of the Inquisitorial Squad reporting us to Fudge.

Draco duelled with me that day, the first and only time it had happened. The battle between the two of us had only been stopped as I had shot an curse to keep him immobile, before moving him away from the letter that he was going to write to his father about what had happened. I wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he had forgiven me for that one.

Even if our relationship had failed, I was still worried about him. Especially due to the fact that, ever since the start of our sixth year, he had become even paler and more sickly looking, his cheek bones protruding from his thin face as he stared unseeingly past me.

I had managed to swap prefect duty with the person that Draco was normally with, and thus I was here, confronting him and trying to get an answer out of the stubborn man.

“I’m not going to drop it Draco. You look like death. What’s going on?” He ran a hand through his hair before making his way off in the direction of our prefect route. Running to keep up with his long legs, I continued to pester him with questions.

“Why won’t you just tell me? Seriously Draco, I’m worried.” He stopped at those words before slamming me into the wall behind us.

“You’re worried about me! You betrayed me.” He pushed himself off the wall, continuing our round. I rolled my eyes at his dramatic statement before hurrying after him.

“I’ll find out somehow Malfoy, you know me.”

“Will you leave me alone, Ambry?” He growled, scratching his left arm absentmindedly and my brain started to connect the dots.

“Malfoy, don’t tell me…” I trailed off, watching as he stiffened, pausing the scratching on his arm as he stared at me in horror.

Draco looked like he was in the middle of a mental breakdown as he realised that I had managed to work out what he was doing. He knew that I was very sharp when it came to uncovering people’s secrets before they wanted me to.

“Go away!” He looked so upset with himself. I glanced at his left arm, hoping and praying to any god out there that he hadn’t done what I thought he had done. He saw me looking and began to back away, my fear only growing as he did so.

“Don’t even think about it.” He warned, backing away as I moved forward.

“Draco.” I pleaded, holding out my hand as he continued to back away. “If it’s not true, then you have nothing to fear, just show me your left arm.”

However, I knew almost for sure that I was right so I cast an immobulus charm on him and grabbed his wand before casting the counter curse so that he was standing opposite me. His resolve seemed to crumble as he let me grab his left arm, not even trying to protest. He looked down, blond hair falling in front of his eyes, that seemed fragmented in the light.

I pulled his sleeve up so that the dark mark was shown, marring his skin. It was visibly irritated, the skin around it red and there were scars covering the top of it as if he had tried to scratch it off. My heart broke for the boy in front of me, knowing that Draco wouldn’t have done that if there was any other choice.

“Draco…” I stared up at him, tracing around the dark mark as I did so, trying to soothe the agitated skin. Glancing up at him, I caught his eyes and pleaded with him to help me understand what was going on. “Why?”

“He was going to kill me, what do you think I was going to say?” He hissed back, his voice breaking as he did so. “He’s threatening me, my parents, you. He was going to kill everyone.”

“What’s he asked you to do?” I pressed as Draco rolled down his sleeves and straightened his blond hair again. He rolled his eyes at me. “And why am I involved in that list? As you said, we haven’t talked in years.” 

He gulped and sighed before answering.

“My happiness depends on you. You’ve always been my light, my best friend.” I smiled up at him sadly, the lines reminding me of our past memories together. “Why do you think he’s asked me to do something anyway?” 

“You forget, we grew up in the same types of households, I know how it goes.” He gulped, remembering that he and I were very alike. Both of us had been prepared to take over the family mantle and to take up the dark mark if our parents fell. However, I got out of that life but Draco was still stuck in it. “Tell me, I can help.”

“Kill Dumbledore…He’s asked me to kill Dumbledore.” He replied, rubbing his hand against his face in pain. He glanced back up at me and I saw unshed tears in his eyes. He was terrified.

Draco, who had been my knight in shining armour for years, was absolutely terrified of this. I gulped knowing that it was my turn to stand up and help him in any way that I could.

Shuffling over to his hunched figure, I wrapped an arm around his shoulder and kissed the top of his head, running my hands through his hair as he sighed.

“We can stop this you know.” I told him. “This doesn’t have to be a be all end all situation.”

“How are we going to stop this? Have you met that man, he’s too powerful for us to defeat. We’re students.” Draco moaned, running his hands through his hair again as he pulled away from me.

“No, he’s not. That man’s still scared of one person.” I told him, grabbing his hand and beginning to lead him back towards the gargoyle staircase. Draco was thinking, trying to work out the pros and cons of the situation as I slowly lead him towards the office.

It gave him enough time to try and stop me from talking to the old professor and bolt. But still, he continued to walk with me, staring at our intertwined hands.

“I’m sure that he’s the person who can help us. I have a plan and I think that maybe he’ll be able to help us execute it.” I said, gripping his hands a little tighter as we both ducked out of sight of Mrs Norris, who was prowling the corridors.

“What’s your plan o powerful one?” He said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow as I winked up at him, both of us pressed together in a tight nook on the fifth floor.

“You’ll find out when we get to Dumbledore’s office.”

“Ambry, just don’t. He can’t help me, you can’t help me. I have to carry this mission out alone.” He sighed, twisting his wrist so that I released his hand from my grasp.

It was at that moment that luck seemed to be on my side and Professor Dumbledore appeared from round the corner and approached the two of us.

“Ah. Mr Malfoy, Miss Ambry. This is a pleasant surprise. Why don’t you step into my office for a minute?” He asked, not leaving any room for arguments as Draco and I followed the old man towards the gargoyle staircase.

We must have looked like quite a trio as we walked past; Draco looked like he was being sent to the gallows, I looked worried and Dumbledore just had a knowing glint in his eyes as he watched the two of us closely.

We finally made it up into his office and sat opposite the large desk in two chairs, that he had transfigured from books. I had never been in his office before, and I looked around in awe at the room; the paintings on all the walls, the phoenix that watched the both of us carefully, and the large book cases that lined the room. Draco wasn’t as impressed as I was, and just sat staring at the desk, his hand still clutching mine as he waited for the old professor to speak.

“Now Mr Malfoy, would you like to tell me what’s bothering you?” The professor asked as he shot me a look over his half-moon glasses. Draco sighed and looked away from our joined hands, knowing that Dumbledore would be able to pick up on any bullshit that he tried.

“Draco. Would it be easier to show him?” I whispered, rubbing my thumb across his knuckles and squeezing his hand. It seemed that our relationship had picked up where we left off, and we were back to being (relatively) affectionate with one and other. That was always a good thing about our relationship, we were always able to reconcile after any argument no matter how big it was. As Draco said, we were one and others light to try and keep up sane in this harsh world.

It had always been that way around, me providing affection that both of us had been starved of, and him lapping it all up eagerly. He was a big softy under all his bad boy persona.

Draco, after a couple minutes of tense silence, began to roll up his left sleeve to show the scratched dark mark that had tainted his skin. He looked away, staring into my eyes, ashamed that he had to talk to a teacher about what to do. Dumbledore nodded at the sight and then commented;

“You were supposed to kill me, weren’t you?” Draco nodded, still not meeting the teachers eyes. “Well, this is a stroke of luck isn’t it?”

Draco snapped his head to Dumbledore’s as he glanced between me and the man, confused at the professor’s happy tone.

“How is this lucky?” He asked, looking at the mark, that was now hidden again underneath his shirt, with disgust.

“Well, now there’s someone on the inside isn’t there? I do believe that was your plan all along Miss Ambry.” I nodded at his statement, still confused at how he had worked out my plan before I told him. Draco sat a bit further upwards in his chair, clenching my hand tighter than before.

“Yes sir. I thought that maybe we could use the coins from Dumbledore’s Army and then have Draco be an informant in You-Know-Who’s ranks.” I said, looking at Draco, who had a furrowed brow. 

“Coins? What coins?” He questioned, though Dumbledore and I ignored him.

“Yes, but we should make it look realistic so maybe if Draco could keep up with the assassination attempts. It would mean that Voldemort wouldn’t have a reason to suspect him.”

“He would need to learn occlumency.” I told Dumbledore, becoming more certain with the idea that we created. It would need some more planning, but I thought that we could pull it off. Draco was still looking between the two of us, confused as to what we were talking about.

Dumbledore nodded and suggested Snape before chatting over some final details and letting us go back to our common rooms.

We began to make our way back down to the Great Hall level so that I could branch off to the Hufflepuff common room and he could continue down to the dungeons.

“What did he mean by coins?” Draco asked, pulling me to a stop in front of the corridor leading to the Hufflepuff common room. I pulled out the galleon that was my DA coin and showed it to him.

“It can show a message on it and it used to let us know when to come to the room of requirements to practice.” He picked the coin up from my palm, flipping it over in his hands before giving it back to me.

“Are you going to make a couple?” I nodded at his statement.

“I’ll ask Hermione what the charm is and then I can make one for me, you and Dumbledore so that we can communicate with each other about the plan.” I told Draco who nodded, looking slightly confused about all the information that was being thrown at him in such a short space of time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Draco replied, wrapping me in a hug as he pressed his lips to my head. “Thank you, for doing this...and, I’m sorry, for these past few years. I let my fathers teachings get in the way of our friendship. I know that’s not a proper excuse but I’ll do anything to try and save our relationship.”

“It’s not a problem Draco. You know that I’d do anything to help you.” I made my way out of his arms and back into the Hufflepuff common room as he trotted off downstairs to sleep. It was an interesting night, that was for sure.

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 I had managed to get the charm off of Hermione relatively easily, and had made the coins for Draco, Dumbledore and I. Luckily the charm was still relatively simple, and I managed to make three galleons and deliver them to the other two (it also made meeting up to discuss secret plans a lot easier).

Draco and I had then sat down, a couple of weeks before Christmas, and had brainstormed a couple of ideas for what was going to happen after the holidays, in terms of assassination attempts, and how his occlumency lessons were going with Snape.

Dumbledore had also suggested that we think of something that could be used to assassinate him before Christmas.

Thus, I was brewing a poison in the dungeons, under Snape’s supervision, whilst Draco had his occlumency lesson. It would have been a strange sight if anyone came into the room, me (a Hufflepuff) brewing a poison and Draco (a Slytherin) having occlumency lessons.

Slughorn had vacated the room after hearing that Snape wanted to use it so that Draco and I could complete an extra-credit project.

After two hours of slaving away at the cauldron, I finished the poison and began to watch the occlumency lesson, smiling as Draco managed to keep Snape out of his head for the third time that night. When they had finished practicing, I gave Draco a glass of water and waited for him to catch his breath as I told him all about the potion. Snape had tested it and deemed it above average (so in other words, it could be used).

I’d already sent Dumbledore a message over the galleons, who had then sent a bottle of mead to us and we had tipped the poison in, before giving it to Professor Slughorn. 

Draco had used the imperious curse, so that Slughorn thought it was his idea, which I wasn’t impressed with. I was not a fan of the Unforgivable curses, having seen the damage that they could cause a person.

That night was a good one, as the plan was working a lot better than we hoped. It was all coming together quite nicely.

The next morning, I walked into the Great Hall behind Draco, who still looked tired and pale from the occlumency lesson last night, though less like death. I almost walked straight into his back as he stopped still, staring at a Gryffindor seventh year who was standing at the other end of the hall talking to Harry Potter. I also froze, just like Draco as I realised that everything we worked for could go down the drain if Potter decided to stick his nose into our business.

That was Katie Bell, the girl who was cursed by the necklace that Draco forced her to take. She was also, unfortunately, a friend of Potter’s, which meant that he was bound to go meddling. Bell would probably further confirm his suspicions about Draco and them clashing would not be pleasant.

Draco almost ran out of the room, pushing past others coming in, and I quickly followed him, making sure that I kept him in my eye sight as he moved into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

I rushed in after him, my heart breaking for my best friend who was struggling to come to terms with the fact that he had ended up hurting someone, even if he was trying to protect himself and his family.

He had taken his jumper off and loosened his tie, the top button of his shirt open, taking in big gulps of air as he clutched the bathroom sink, heaving sobs echoing in the small room. Moving up behind him, I touched his back gently to let him know I was there, before wrapping my arms around his waist. He turned around and wrapped me in a hug, burying his head into my shoulder as I ran my hand through his hair, holding me as tightly as I was holding him.

“She’s alive, no one was seriously harmed.” I whispered, keeping an eye on the door in the reflection of the mirror. I glared at Potter as he walked into the room, a book in one hand and his wand in the other. I drew my own wand, staring Potter down.

Potter and I may be on familiar terms but Draco was still my best friend and I would protect him against anyone, even if the other person was a friend of mine as well.

“Piss off Potter.” I hissed at the man. Draco stiffened under my touch, before he too turned around and drew his wand, neither of us pleased with the outcome. “We’re not looking for a fight.”

“You were the one who gave her that necklace, weren’t you?” Potter spat, ignoring my words as Draco and I bristled.

Potter threw the first spell, which I deflected, and then Draco sent one towards him. Potter sent another spell which bounced off my shield and hit the faucet, causing water to start to spray. Draco began to lead Potter away from me, as I tried to control the water that was spurting out of the broken tap. The ground beneath us began to flood with water as I worked to get it repaired.

I could hear the fight coming back towards me again and quickly made my way over to stand back to back with Draco, not sure where the next spell from Potter would come from. I sent a quick glance at Draco, who squeezed my hand lightly in reassurance.

Unfortunately, the spell came in my direction and it wasn’t one that I had ever heard before or knew of.

“Sectumsempra.” Potter shouted and all of a sudden, I felt a searing amount of pain through my chest and back, as if someone was cutting me open with a knife. I let out a shout, before stumbling and dropping my wand.

Draco caught me as I fell down, trying to be careful as he swore loudly. I could see the water around us start to turn red with my blood and I could feel myself getting tired. Potter began to run towards us, skidding to a stop when he saw that there were cuts on my torso and back, not Draco’s.

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean to…” He couldn’t finish his sentence as Snape brushed past him and began to say a spell that lessened the pain slightly as my wounds sealed back together. At that point, I blacked out, the pain becoming too much for me to handle.

I woke up later that night, lying on a bed in the hospital wing, with Draco clutching my hand tightly as he waited for me. I squeezed his hand, smiling widely at the boy as he jumped out of his skin. Giggling, I watched as he sighed in relief and smiled down at me.

“Hi.” I whispered as Draco tried to calm down, before handing me a glass of water.

“Hey.”

“You okay?” I asked, looking at the tall man in front of me.

“I think I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine. Wasn’t your fault. What happened to Potter?”

“Detention and he lost 100 points for Gryffindor.” He smirked at that statement and I could bet that he was very pleased about that considering the house rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Madame Pomfrey came round moments later and shooed Draco out so that she could look at the slashes.

“They might leave some marks Miss Ambry, but otherwise you’re good to go.” I thanked the healer and sat up to put my uniform back on as she closed the curtains around my bed. I managed to get everything back onto my body, bar my tie, as I was struggling to do it up.

“Draco.” I called, hoping that he was near the bed. He appeared inside the curtains moments later and I showed him the tie which he tied for me. Smoothing it out, he helped me into the over robes, that all the students wore, before offering me his arm and leading me towards the common room.  

“Ambry.” Someone called from behind me and I turned to see Potter, Granger and Weasley moving towards us in a hurry. Draco glared at Harry, wrapping his arms protectively around my waist as he did so. “I wanted to apologise to you. I’m really sorry, I had no idea that the spell did that.”

“Why use a spell when you didn’t know what it caused?” Draco spat, glaring harshly at the man. I slapped him on the shoulder and smiled at the distraught boy in front of me. Potter was a good soul really, he just was a bit clueless sometimes.

“It’s fine Harry, it could have been worse. I’ll see you later.” I sent a warm smile their way, as Draco glared over the top of my head, before turning back towards the common room.

Draco lead me to the barrels that were the entrance for the room, and gave me a quick kiss on the top of my head before disappearing back to the dungeons.

 *******************

 Months later, our plan was finally ready, all the careful planning that Draco, Snape, Dumbledore and I put into this would finally pay off. Of course the only downside was that Dumbledore was going to die, but he had assured us multiple times that he was “going to die anyway” and “why wait for the inevitable?” which were morbid thoughts.

Dumbledore notified us, over the coins, that he was taking Potter with him to find the horcrux and that tonight should be the night that he dies. Neither of us were very pleased with the upcoming plan but it was supposedly for the greater good.

The last dinner before the proper war started was tense, well at least it was for me. Draco and I kept catching each other’s eyes from across the hall and giving each other reassuring looks. He motioned for me to follow him out at the end. I nodded slightly, knowing that he wanted to say goodbye before shit hit the fan.

Draco walked out and, moments later, I followed him towards the room of requirements. He pulled me into the room as he quickly closed the door.

“If I don’t see you after this, please make sure you keep safe Ambry.” I smiled up at him, nodding slightly.

“I’ll be fine Draco. You know how to contact me if you need anything, right?” He nodded, showing me the coin that was kept in his pockets. I smiled, pressing my lips against his cheeks before I moved away from him.

“When this happens, don’t come out from hiding. You’ll be pretty high up on the hit list considering you’re a blood traitor and all. I’ll see you soon.” He said.

I began to walk out, waving over my shoulder before I heard him curse behind me. I turned around to ask him what was wrong, when I found myself pushed into yet another wall as his lips met mine in a kiss so passionate that I lost myself in it.

Pulling away, he kissed me again. Everything that he couldn’t say translated into that one kiss.

“Stay safe Draco, I’m expecting a date when this blows over.” I whispered against his lips as he rubbed my arms.

“Don’t die.” I winked at him and finally left the room of requirements, knowing that I wouldn’t see him until next summer at least.

 ***************************

 I didn’t return to Hogwarts the next year, scared for my life as a blood traitor and someone who was supposedly high on the hit list. I had my parents to blame for that one.

Instead, I went on the run and tried to hide out in the muggle world. Of course, I would have gone to a different country altogether, but Draco needed me here and I would stay to finish the plan.

Every night, since I first went on the run, I had begun to listen to Potterwatch (a corny name I know) to try and work out what was going on whilst I was away from it all. They had sent out a couple of messages already asking about my whereabouts and Dean Thomas’. Occasionally, they would send a message that involved some of the information that Draco had procured.

When Draco found any new information, he would tell me over the galleon, in a code we had made up, and then I would send it down the DA galleon that Hermione had given me two years ago, making sure that someone had got it.

It was in June that I finally went back as a call had gone out over Potterwatch to tell us that we needed to make our way into Hogsmeade and then Hogwarts immediately. I had apparated over to Hogsmeade, landing in the Hogs Head pub, before making my way into the castle, through a secret tunnel which came out inside the room of requirements.

The room had become a base for the DA members; hammocks lining the walls and a bathroom and kitchen set up for the students to make sure that they could be self-sufficient.

“Where did the information come from? About the attack tonight?” I heard Harry ask as he looked round the room, his eyes brushing over me as he did so.

“Got it over the DA galleon, thought it was one of you lot.” Lee Jordan, Potterwatch’s host, stated as he showed the coin which had my latest message on it.

“Then who sent it to you? How do we know that we can trust this information?” Harry asked.

“Harry.” I called, stepping past people to see him.

“Ambry, you’re okay.” Hermione said, pulling me into a hug. I nodded. I turned back to Harry before he could ask the same question.

“I’ve been the one sending the information.” Everyone’s eyebrows raised as they turned to me. I pulled the two galleon’s out of my pocket, showing him the DA one and my own.

“What?” Ron asked, his mouth open in shock.

“There was a plan, to help us win the war quicker. Only four people were in on it, one being me, another being Draco and Dumbledore. The last ones still working at the moment.” Everyone’s mouths hung open in shock as they stared at me. “Draco’s been sending me information from the inner circle of death eaters and then I’ve been sending it onto you guys.” Harry began to splutter at the new information.

“But what about Dumbledore?” Hermione prompted, staring at me.

“We had to make it look realistic. It was Dumbledore’s idea really, Draco and I just followed instructions.” I smiled weakly, before showing my own coin to Harry, with a message from Draco on it. “You’re not the only one who wants revenge Harry, a lot of us pure bloods have parents that have been forced into taking the dark mark, or tried to force us. We have people of our own to avenge. Just tell me where you want the Slytherins who are going to fight and I’ll make sure that everyone’s ready.”

 **************************

 There was a scream from outside the Great Hall and all of our heads shot up in an instant. I pulled the cloth over the young girls head before making my way over to Pansy as both of us began to head outside. Most of us who were from Slytherin, or pure blood families, stayed at the back so that our parents wouldn’t be able to see us. Sure we were betraying them, but we didn’t really want it publicly known.

Reaching Draco, who I hadn’t seen in over a year, I pushed my hand into his and both of us held onto one and other tightly. I didn’t want to look at Harry’s body, the sight too haunting as I watched the last hope lie there, dead.

Looking back out towards the Death Eaters, I saw my parents faces of complete and utter betrayal as they glared at me. I took in a sharp breath as I stared at them, clutching onto Draco’s hand even tighter than before. Whilst my parents might have disowned me, they still raised me for a large part of my life and I still hated to disappoint them, even after not being a part of their family for seven years.

Voldemort was talking, calling for people to come over and join him as the war was lost. He was already celebrating and we hadn’t even surrendered yet. His snake light eyes flickered dangerously, watching to see if any of us stepped forward. I saw, from the corner of my eyes, Narcissa step forward, her hand outstretched towards her son.

“Draco.” His mother called, motioning for Draco to walk towards them, and accept being a death eater. He stood his ground, wrapping his arms around me and keeping his eyes on the top of my head. I squeezed his waist in support as I looked at his chest.

They called again, this time louder, pleading with him to come to them. But still he refused, both of his hands holding onto my waist tightly. 

I knew this was hard for him, betraying his family and pushing all of his beliefs away as he stayed as still as a statue. I could feel his shaky breath brushing against my ears as we stood there for what seemed like hours.

Removing my head from Draco’s chest, I looked around, taking in the faces of the other students who stared at us. They all seemed shocked that Draco was standing with them and against his own flesh and blood. He had finally made his own choice on the matter.

His parents stopped calling, betrayal clear on their faces as they stared at their only son. Voldemort was visibly frustrated with the fact that Draco hadn’t re-joined them.

 *********************

 The battle had ended shortly after that, Voldemort being defeated by Harry and Bellatrix by Molly Weasley. My parents had been brought into custody and were going to be held on trial at a later date that I needed to attend. Draco’s parents, along with many of his friends parents were also dragged in to be held accountable for what they had done.

Draco and I were sitting on a large piece of stone, that had come off of one of the towers, clutching onto one and other as we stared out at the castle that once held our home. Draco placed a kiss to my head, as Molly Weasley walked up to us.

“Do you two have a place to go?” She asked kindly staring down at the two of us.

“Yeah, my apartment’s still intact. We’re going to stay there for a bit.” I replied, smiling up at the woman.

“I wanted to thank you.” She said, directly addressing Draco as she did so. Draco looked up, surprised that she was talking to him. After everything that he had said about their family in his younger years, he never expected the matriarch to even look at him. “For saving my son.”

I glanced over at the Weasley clan seeing that, sure enough, all of the children were still there, in one piece more or less. Draco began to shake his head, protesting that he didn’t need thanks. In his mind, he believed that saving Fred’s life was how he repaid them for all of the trouble that he had caused.

“Draco.” I looked at him, elbowing him in the ribs as I did so, to try and make him accept their thanks. He sighed, glancing down at me and then back at the kind face of Molly Weasley.

“That’s okay. But really, you don’t need to thank me.” He said, looking down at the ground as a hint of colour raised in his cheeks. He wasn’t used to getting thanks, neither of us were as it really wasn’t in our parents manners to do so.

“If there’s anything we can do for you, let us know.” Molly squeezed my arm, before moving back to her own family who hugged her tightly.

“Ready to go home Draco?” I asked the tall man, who was still unmoving besides me. His head snapped up, registering that I was talking to him. He squeezed my hand, smiling before bending down to kiss me softly.

“Whenever you are, darling.” I beamed up at him as we made our way out, towards one of the apparition points in Hogsmeade.

“I like that nickname.” He chuckled quietly as I giggled.

 **********************

 19 Years Later

 Kings Cross seemed to never become less chaotic. It was the first of September and all of the Hogwarts students were making their way to Platform 9 ¾ to board the train. Pushing past some muggle commuters who were trying to barge past my son and I, I lead Scorpius in the direction of the station wall.

Scorpius was practically bouncing with excitement as he looked at the station in awe. I chuckled lightly, placing my hands on his shoulders as we got closer to the platform entrance.

“Malfoy.” Someone called from behind me and I turned to see the Potter’s making their way towards me. I waved, bringing Scorpius to a stop as I did so. Harry and Ginny finally reached me, their children trailing behind them, staring at me in confusion.

“It’s good to see you again Potter. How have you been?” He nodded at my statement, smiling at Scorpius.

“I’ve been good, busy with work and all. How about you?” He replied, motioning to the baby bump that was showing underneath my flowery dress. I laughed, stroking the top of the bump.

“Yeah, good. Just sending this one off to Hogwarts for his first year.” I pulled Scorpius closer to me as he smiled widely.

“Really?” Ginny asked. “Well, we’re sending Albus off for his first year as well.” I waved to Albus, who was looking slightly nervous.

“Darling!” A voice called, followed by a chuckle as I felt my husband’s arms slip around my waist. “Potter, good to see you again.”

Our pair of twins, Lucy and Mickey, also collided into the two of us before running off with their older brother.

All of our children had inherited the Malfoy blonde hair and grey eyes, with only a hint of me in their looks. I was, however, holding out hopes for the next child to look like me instead of Draco.

“Malfoy.” Potter replied, shaking his hand as we all walked in the direction of the platform, chattering amongst ourselves as we did so. We went through the barrier first, before waving to the Potter’s and making our way a bit further down to where Pansy and Blaise were also standing with their own kids. We said hello to them before helping Scorpius put his stuff onto the train.

“Remember to write at some point please.” I reminded my oldest as I pressed a kiss to his head. Draco wrapped him into a hug as well, before I handed him a bag of sweets for the train. “Make some friends whilst your at it.” I winked at Scorpius as he laughed, before giving me one last hug and boarding the train.

I heard a grunt from behind me, and watched as the six-year-old twins, who had tried to run after their brother, were restrained by Draco. Taking Lucy out of Draco’s arms, I held her against my waist as our little family waved at Scorpius.

We wouldn’t see him again until the Christmas holidays, if he even wanted to come back. The train left the station and disappeared around the bend in the tracks and we waited until we couldn’t see it anymore. 

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Draco asked, worried due to his own experience at school, and what others may think about him due to his family name.

“He’s a Malfoy and an Ambry, he’ll give them hell.” I said, beginning to lead Draco out of the station by the arm, and back towards the car. He had become a bit more worried after becoming a father, but I was pretty sure that Scorpius was going to have a lot of fun and make a lot of friends.

“I’m sure you’re right Mrs Malfoy.” Draco said as he buckled the twins into their car seats and opened the door for me. 

“I’m always right Draco.” I pressed a quick kiss to his lips before he shut the car door. I knew in my heart that everything was going to be okay.

[eldritchsurveys]

888.

5k Survey XV

701. What is your favorite mixed drink? >> Sazerac, Dark and Stormy, Bloody María, and probably some others that I’m forgetting just because I haven’t had the opportunity to make or order a mixed drink in ages. 702. When answering these questions are you often pulled in different directions, as if committing to one answer eliminates the possibility for all others? >> I feel like I only partially understand what you mean. Not well enough to answer this question. 703. Chicken Marsala, Pasta Primavera, Veal Cutlet Parmesan or Linguini with Clam Sauce? >> No thanks. 704. If you were alone in your friend’s house/room/apartment would you look in their drawers and notebooks? >> Probably not. 705. What would you really like to do but you don’t because you are afraid of getting caught? >> I can’t think of anything right now.

706. Of the following, which word best describes you: responsible, spontaneous, tactful, uninhibited: >> I guess the one most likely to describe me on a given day is “responsible”. 707. Which band would you most likely check out? - The Smiths (indi-pop 80’s-90’s), The Lords of Acid (acid/house/dance 90’s), Front 242 (80’s-90’s industrial/dance) >> I kind of like The Smiths (I like solo Morrissey more). I’ve listened to a bit of Front 242 back in the day, and I remember Lords of Acid but I’m not interested in listening to them right now. 708. How can one put an end to procrastination, as a bad habit? >> I think that would depend on why someone is procrastinating, because finding the root of the habit is the first step in figuring out what to do about it. Trying to blunt-force treat procrastination itself generally doesn’t work out well for most people (or, at best, works temporarily but at great stress to the person). 709. What feature would you want on your car that is not currently offered? >> --- 710. What kind of poetry speaks to you? >> The kind I can comprehend. 711. What is your favorite store that is open 24 hours? >> I don’t have a favourite store, let alone one with that specific criterion. 712. Do you find that sleep is just so much sleepier when you are supposed to be doing something else? >> I don’t find myself in that situation often enough to say. 713. Do you also find that the books you chose are so much more luscious when you have a stack of actual assignments that you Should be reading? >> --- 714. If you have had the chance to compare the original 5000 Question Survey to this edited version, what is your opinion? >> I haven’t had the chance to do that. 715. What’s the most creative answer you can think of for ‘what is black and white and red all over’? >> I don’t have a particularly creative answer to it. I’ve always heard “a newspaper” as the answer to this riddle. 716. Why do people slow down on the highway when they pass a cop car pulling someone else over? >> Either to rubberneck or out of sudden awareness of their own speeding. 717. Are they afraid that the cop will STOP pulling over whoever he is pulling over and pull them over instead? >> I mean, maybe. I don’t know, I’ve never been in this situation so I can’t imagine what it’s like. 718. It’s daddy’s birthday. What do you get him? >> --- 719. What’s your 5,000 question survey nickname? Look at the word next to the 2nd letter of your first name A anything but B bubalicious C captivating D deadly E erotic F funky G greasy H heaps of I indie J jelly K kinetic L lasher M Mr. (or Mrs.) N neglected O ogre-like P parading Q quacking R Rico S stinky T the one and only U uber V Velcro W wishing for X x-tra Y yearning for Z zoobalee Now take the first letter of your last name. A aardvarks B baboo C creme pie D drag queen E eggbert F flex G god H hell I Isabelle J juice K kisses L lightning M mannish boys N nice O octopi P porcupines Q q-bert R rainbows S suave T tushy U underwear V valor W weenie X xtc Y yohimbe Z zipper Put the two words together for your nickname. >> Ogre-like drag queen. 720. You know that shaky feeling that you get when it’s all coming to a climax, and everyone involved is breaking into the good kind of cold sweat, working as individuals and at the same time as a single force of energy, and it all meshes together, and for a brief moment, you’re holding your breath and tingling all over, and after it’s done you’re on an explosive and dizzying high for the rest of the night? What does that feeling come from? >> *withering stare* 721. How many of your teachers can you imagine drinking or doing drugs on the weekends? >> --- 722. Do you like Alice in Wonderland or Through the Looking Glass? >> I haven’t read either one. 723. Write a question and answer it here. >> No. 724. Who is your favorite playwright? >> I don’t have one. 725. What movie has come out recently that you couldn’t have less interest in? >> I don’t know what’s come out recently. There’s been a few movies that have been released to on-demand, I think, but I don’t think I’ve seen any of them. And I certainly don’t remember what they are right now. 726. What would the worst movie ever be about? >> --- 727. Do you like truffles? >> I like some things with truffles in them, or truffle oil, or whatever. Do you like Turkish delight? >> I don’t know. 728. Can you tell the difference between a transvestite and a real woman? >> I don’t go around trying to clock trans people. Period. 729. What’s funnier, plants or fire extinguishers? >> What. 730. For question 720 did you write down sex? >> I was pretty sure that’s how I was expected to answer, and I didn’t feel like playing along. You pervert, I was thinking of musical theater. >> Yeah, I was also pretty sure that I was expected to think of sex and it would turn out that you were describing something completely different. I’ve encountered this situation before, lol. 731. Which is better, leopard print or plaid? >> Plaid. 732. What would you consider ordinary? >> *shrug*  733. What is out of the ordinary? >> *extraordinary shrug* 734. Do you ever watch COPS? >> No. 735. Is there always room for j - e - l - l - o? >> Sigh. 736. If you had your own TV show, what kind of show would you make it? >> I don’t want a tv show, though. 737. Do you know how heavy things like airplanes stay in the air? >> I don’t know how it works offhand, no. I could always look it up if I needed that information. 738. When do you act the most dramatic? >> I’m not sure. 739. Are you one of those people who have, “see photo id,” written on the back of their credit cards? >> No, but Sparrow is. I don’t think I did anything to my card, actually -- didn’t sign it, didn’t write anything. 740. It’s mom’s birthday. What do you get her? >> --- 741. What celebrity has pretty much disappeared leaving you wondering 'where are they now’? >> I haven’t wondered that about anyone. 742. Would you get angry if you and your girl/boyfriend saw the preview for a movie and talked about seeing it together and then they saw it with one of their friends while you were busy? >> No. I would be disappointed and feel a bit betrayed if they had expressed interest in seeing it with me beforehand and then seemingly just... changed their mind without even telling me. Sad, but not angry. I’d definitely ask them about it afterwards, to find out what their thought process was.

743. How many people do you think will finish this whooooooole survey? >> Might just be me and Elizabeth (Elisabeth?). I’m not even sure I finished it any of the other times I tried to take it. I might have, but it would have been a long fuckin time ago. 744. Have you ever written a message, sealed it in a bottle and thrown it into a river/lake ocean? >> No. That’s just littering at this point. 745. If you haven’t would you want to? >> ^ 746. If you ever did what would you write? >> --- 747. What do you wish you could always be protected from? >> Abuse and alienation. Little too late for that, though. 748. What small thing annoys you so much it should be a crime? >> Loudness should be a fucking crime. I don’t even care anymore. 749. Would you rather watch a video of fish in a tank, or the Yule log on TV? >> I like the Yule log, it’s pretty. 750. Is it better to be loved or feared? >> I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had much of either.

[thesinglesjukebox]

DUA LIPA - PHYSICAL

[7.50]

It's okay! Move that boogie body!

Leah Isobel: It is a dark and stormy night. In a sinister science lab located somewhere in Carmen Sandiego's plush pomo lair, a pop singer plugs in a neon light, shrugs into a next-season Gaultier lab coat and gets to work. In the reflection of her gold-tinted goggles we see her add one (1) part Extract of "Into You," one (1) part Juice of Newton-John, and four (4) drops of Synthesizer Spice into a contoured beaker. She turns on the flame of a Bunsen burner; stream gushes from her concoction like a geyser, emitting a high, keening refrain. She whispers a few luscious words into the steam -- "diamond," "sssimulation," "adrenaline" -- but her experiment still lacks a certain something. Then -- BOOM! -- in a thundercrash of lightning, it hits her. Eureka! She turns and sees her reflection illuminated in the glass of an emergency axe container, kept onsite in case of fire. "Well," she chuckles to herself as she breaks the glass with a four-inch stiletto heel, "I am creating something... hot." Axe in hand, she chops the neon light into pieces and stuffs the shards, now glittering like a million sequined dancefloors, into the beaker. With the addition of this Decoction of Disco, her potion bubbles... it burbles... then KABOOM: it explodes the entire building and half of the surrounding city! She stands in the wreckage as thunder splits the sky above and sirens wail in the distance. We see Dua's eyes glow green before she throws her head back to the sky and screams: "GAY RIIIIIGHTS!" [9]

William John: Probably the best example of what parts of the Internet's stan culture would facetiously refer to as "gay rights" from a mainstream musical artist since... the last Dua Lipa single, or, failing that, "Into You." Like those precedents, "Physical" is camp but magisterial; playful but extremely melodramatic; sweeping, dance floor ready, and dripping with an exultant swagger. Her reminder to "hold on, just a little tighter" at the bridge is, truthfully, a hollow gesture; at that stage, the listener is so deeply embroiled in her glorious disco caprice as to not really be capable of gripping anything at all. [10]

Jackie Powell: It couldn't be clearer that Dua Lipa had something to prove not only to herself, but to the pop music intelligentsia on her sophomore offering. What has struck me most about the Future Nostalgia cycle is how Dua is executing every facet of it with confidence. On this track, she's not afraid of hitting notes that eclipse the breadth of her previous singles, especially on the bridge. "Physical" is a representative offering of exactly what she's aiming to prove. Each track we've heard so far reflects a different decade accompanied with a modern polish. I don't think I'm the only one who believes Olivia Newton-John's '80s exercise sexual metaphor smash "Physical" deserves the tribute it's getting here. There's a clear homage paid to her and to Patti LaBelle on Lipa's own "Physical." I'm going to interpret her lyric "We created something phenomenal" as a bit of a double-entendre. Not only is it about sex in the narrative of the track, but it's a comment on Lipa's approach to this era and her confidence on every single part of it. The sexual symbolism isn't just in the lyrics, but also in the track's composition and the narrative communicated in the visual treatment. The vocal highs that she hits on the bridge represent a climax musically and sexually. She has so much confidence in the visual treatment, she spends most of it braless. That takes guts. [9]

Tobi Tella: Dua Lipa's perceived lack of personality has turned out to actually be lack of a schtick preventing her from artistically evolving, something many of her peers are plagued with. Also, I've died and gone to gay heaven. [9]

Alfred Soto: The way Dua Lipa's unexpected bon mots and smoky sultriness ride the beat and compete with the strings compensate for a production too dressed up in leg warmers and headbands for my taste -- I mean, her exhortations are more fearsome than erotic. [7]

Julian Axelrod: Pop's '80s revival arms race has escalated to its natural endpoint: the accidental exhumation of Olivia Newton-John. I wish Dua Lipa had used "let's get physical" in a more literal iteration; singing it over hyperdrive synths guarantees it'll be never played in its intended setting, especially when she has half the energy of ONJ. But she hit the mark where it counts: This is going to rule spin classes for the rest of the year. [6]

Brad Shoup: A throwback training-montage track that suggests sex but is really about dancing and Olivia Newton-John erasure. This is Stranger Things pop. [5]

Thomas Inskeep: Sex is natural, sex is fun, sex is best when soundtracked by throbbing '80s synths. [6]

Ashley Bardhan: Okay, fine, I enjoy horny music. Sue me! This song is what would happen if ABBA was brought back to life as a bunch of hot 20-year-olds in little shirts from Fashion Nova. The "let's get physical" chorus feels a little lazy since it's a direct lift from Olivia Newton-John's 1981 hit, but this is a great song to listen to while thinking about that video of Charli XCX holding poppers. No complaints here. [7]

Alex Clifton: I've underestimated Dua Lipa. Her first album had some hits and misses, but Future Nostalgia is shaping up to be one of the best pop releases of 2020 based on the strength of its singles. "Physical" is a cascade of rainbow lights in a roller rink and makes me long to go out to a club, one where I can get down in a huge crowd of people and dance my white-girl ass off poorly. I'm an extreme introvert, so anything that makes me want to leave the house and be around strangers is powerful stuff indeed. It's a little cheesy, but who cares? It's a love letter to the '80s with all the campiness a song citing Olivia Newton-John should have. I'm desperately in love with Dua Lipa after hearing this, and I have a feeling "Physical" will be one of my favourite songs of the year. [9]

Stephen Eisermann: Dua Lipa has quietly become the pop superstar that so many of us wanted Carly Rae to be. Both women make incredible music, but it is Dua who has found commercial success; after hearing "Physical," it seems pretty obvious why. It's a retro-laden, power-pop track that is extraordinary only in the way Dua delivers it. What should be pedestrian instead is hypnotic, infectious, and oh so delicious. [8]

Lauren Gilbert: I promised a friend I'd blurb this song, and now that I've sat down to write it, I have nothing to say. It is a perfect pop song -- Dua knocks it out of the park on this record. I keep getting distracted from writing jamming to the track. I'm dancing while lying down on my couch. She created something phenomenal; we are left with no choice but to stan. [10]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: I've justified Dua Lipa's dearth of personality in years past, but this is where things don't add up: her dead-eyed singing makes no sense during the chorus, whose synths lack the fervor to make up for clinical vocal melodies. Around this time last year, we had Lizzo's "Juice"; now we have "Physical" as an example of '80s pastiche that only feels like it exudes energy and passion and charm. [2]

Will Adams: It's neat to have a single that's its own Initial Talk remix, but the synthpop revivalism is a bit too literal, to the point of putting all its chips on an Olivia Newton-John quote. It's not until the bridge -- "keep on DANCING!" -- where the drama locks in and starts, but only starts, to feel real. [6]

Kylo Nocom: Dua Lipa, determined more than ever to win the Popjustice £20 Music Prize, accidentally transforms into Alice Chater in the process. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: If "Physical" being by Dua Lipa wasn't hypertargeted enough to the Popjustice set, is that the synth progression from Saint Etienne's "No Cure for the Common Christmas" in the intro and beneath the chorus? It's certainly the same height of drama. The track attached isn't quite so charged: a little too Lady Gaga circa "Applause" and a little too Peloton instructor quoting Olivia Newton-John for absolutely no reason besides the culture deciding at some point to make the phrase a permanent, meaningless meme. (The song doesn't even sound particularly '80s; the disco strings are the decade prior, and the vocal squiggles on the verse are so specifically 2016 a time traveler's on their way to erase them.) Dua Lipa only betrays a personality on the spoken-word bridge; ironic how that and the vaporous intro, the least physical things on this track, are the most thrilling. [7]

Vikram Joseph: The intro feels like a prickling at the back of your neck, the one-line pre-chorus feels like plummeting six floors in a broken elevator, and the chorus is such a headrush you can practically smell the poppers: "Physical"'s thrills might be straightforward, but they're visceral as fuck. There are vintage Lady Gaga vibes, the "come on!"s are surely a nod to "We Are Your Friends," and the whole thing reminds me, inexplicably, of Bon Jovi's "It's My Life." But Dua Lipa is starting to make this all seem effortless, and the panache with which she delivers "Physical" easily pulls it clear of the gravitational field of its forebears. [9]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: "Physical" dares us to be the boldest versions of ourselves. It finds itself at the perfect intersection of confidence and lust. Dua Lipa is flirting with you with a playfulness she can only possess because she already knows you're going home together -- and she won't let you leave until the dancing is done. Dancing here is instinct, it's synths that sound as sweet as they do sinister, it's salty like the sweat that rolls down your forehead after you've been, well, physical. Dua Lipa is crushing the Confessions on a Dance Floor album that I've long been waiting for Lady Gaga to make. Dance floor music has long been my site of refuge and catharsis, so it's refreshing to be reminded that it can still sound so immediately, eminently thrilling. [9]

Kayla Beardslee: This doesn't quite reach the heights of "Don't Start Now," but damn it comes close. "Physical" should, in theory, be a cookie-cutter pop girl release, but Dua proves once again that she is the most important element in her music. The producers are doing everything right too, but who else could pull off her endearing smirk in "common love isn't for us" or that wonderful growl in "follow the noise"? And Dua takes us through a transcendental bridge that highlights the best qualities of her voice: singing simple lyrics that say everything they need to, she's breathless yet confident, desperate for touch yet satisfied with the musical world she's helped to create. Something phenomenal, indeed: this rollout has been a joy to follow. [9]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Physical" takes the opposite approach to "Don't Start Now" -- while that song's studio version swallows up its singer in a beautifully constructed, sterile disco pastiche (the live versions and remixes are much better), turning her into just one more retro cog, "Physical" makes her the center of attention. The production around her is good enough (the synth preset change right before the chorus starts is especially nice), but not particularly coherent or hooky on its own. In the vacuum left, Dua gets to have more fun, charismatically switching between vocal styles and walking around like she owns the place. [8]

Jibril Yassin: A powerhouse vocal colliding headfirst with production that's neither plodding nor limp. It's a song that's meant to feel like a blockbuster and after a few failed tries, it's thrilling to hear Dua Lipa finally nail the landing and sound like the superstar she wants to be. [7]

Michael Hong: "Physical" is magnetic. Its pulse is unrelenting, its atmosphere is shadowy and captivating, and Dua Lipa gives possibly her best vocal performance. There's no sense of the up-and-coming performer who delivered everything with stolid execution, instead, "Physical" is a sly wink of a pre-chorus leading to a forceful command: "baby, keep on dancing like you ain't got a choice." Dua Lipa is at the helm, all thoughts and any other desires are out the window, and the night is neverending. [7]

Joshua Lu: Several of Dua Lipa's past hit songs have relied on a marketable veneer of cool: "New Rules" works because she's the straight-talker friend giving advice, "Don't Start Now" necessitates a stoic character who can't be bothered to fret about her ex, and even on collaborations like "One Kiss" does Dua employ a rather unemotional voice, like she's a blank canvas for Calvin Harris' more playful and engaging production. "Physical" feels like such a departure for Dua not just because of its obvious throwback sound, but because this veneer of cool is completely torn down when the song reaches its rushing chorus. She sounds more and more desperate as her voice climbs and the synths soar above her, and her cries of "come on" ring as desperate instead of dominant. The song is indebted to pop titans of yesteryears (Olivia Newton-John obviously inspired the title, but the theatrics of the song feel more indebted to Bonnie Tyler or Patti Labelle) to the point of it not really feeling like a Dua song, but she sells it all so convincingly that it feels like a natural fit. It's part pop song, part epic showdown, and I look forward to Dua continuing to push herself to the forefront of mainstream pop music greatness. [9]

Scott Mildenhall: Little wonder that Lipa's so keen to get physical, given that she's "dreaming in a simulation" -- her focus seems to be on the former, since the latter exemplifies the aimlessness of the verses in comparison to the locked-and-loaded chorus. That has its thrills, yet never feels as loose as seems intended. "Physical" comes across too in love with the idea of being a kind of Perfect Pop to actually be it; an anthem for kinetics developed via science textbook. [7]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[just-to-comment-in-fanpages]

The promised neverland characters (Demons) with vocaloid quotes

Mujica / Musica: “ Between our dreams, our races, our values, the two of us who differ so have now meet. Let this millennium vow resound to the end of the earth. The Wiegenlied fasted to fate of ruin. I’m different from you but I’m drawn to you, I’ll protect you, so stay by my side.” (Hatsune Miku  in Tree Maiden ~Millennium Wiegenlied~)

Sonju: “No matter where you go or what century you’re in, the show time during the night belongs to monsters, lured by the careless action made by yourself, this show begins with out raising curtain. The cowardly sheep drag a film named science, murder god or pretend to have created a new world looking all proud. Yet in the end this is all nonfiction.  When faced unscientific they miserably make a sign of the cross.” (Kagamine Len in Vampire’s ∞ pathos)

Four Regent houses: “Friendship, Trauma, Justice, illusion, hope, destruction, greed, love and death, all of it continues to melt and turn in the Clockwork Lullaby. Just before the solitary man’s death, he constructed a theater, will the utopia he wished for be completed? Now, let’s see with our own eyes,  this farce called life” (MEIKO, KAITO, Hatsune Miku, Kagamine Rin, Kagamine Len, Gackupo, Megurine Luka and Gumi in “Capriccio Farce”)

Poachers (Bayon, Lewis, Nouma, Noums,…): “Ding Dong, I’ve come in, hurry up and hide,   let’s play hide-and-seek and have fun. The thumping of your footsteps can be heard your ragged breathing can be heard. Hide tightly; I can see your hair. Hide tightly, I can see your hair. Hide tightly; I can see your hair. Hide tightly; I can see your hair, Hide tightly…” ( SeeU in Hide and Seek)  

Geelan: “Try to remember now; how did it all begin? A letter on a stormy night. Who was it, who was betrayed? Take the truth you wanted gone, and hide it in the conffins. Tonight, we shall perform it again: a most magnificent night.” (MEIKO, KAITO, Hatsune Miku, Kagamine Rin, Kagamine Len, Gackupo, Megurine Luka and Gumi in  EveR ∞ LastinG ∞ NighT)

Legravalima: “Devour everything in this world, there is still room in my stomach. Even the deadly poison that’s gleaming blue is nothing but a spice on the main dish. Eat until there is nothing but bones, if that’s enough chew on the dishes, the happiness that dances on the tip of the tongue, tonight’s dinner is far from over…” (Meiko, Rin and Len in Evil Food Eater Conchita)  

  “Once upon a time, there was a little dream, no ones knows who dream it, it was really such a small dream, this made the tiny dream think, I don’t want to disappear, how can I make people dream me? The tiny dream thought and thought, and had an idea. I’ll make the people come to me, and they will make my world”  (Meiko, Kaito, Miku, Rin and Len in Alice Human Sacrifice)