#but I WILL promote we shot the moon any chance I get

[deansmultitudes]

Why is there no good way of sharing my silly little music taste with my friends who live in my phone? 😭

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Unification Church/FFWPU makes false claims over photo to promote Moon as a ‘hero.’

Moon himself claimed to have carried Chung-hwa Pak for 600 miles!

Won-pil Kim, Bo Hi Pak, Hyo Jin Moon and Jin-hun Yong all repeated the lie.

From 1983, when the photo (above) surfaced in a newspaper story (see below), the Unification Church leaders always knew it was not of Moon and Pak. But they decided to use it for propaganda, regardless of the truth.

Three men made the journey from Pyongyang in North Korea to Kyongju in the winter of 1950-51: Sun Myung Moon, Won-pil Kim and Chung-hwa Pak. Pak remained in Kyongju – for a couple of years – while Moon and Kim continued on to Busan on the south coast. The Unification Church frequently STILL claim this photo is of Moon carrying Chung-hwa Pak to Yongmae Island. The detour to Yongmae Island never happened either! Won-pil Kim was forced to remove the photo from his testimony book – and he had been one of the three refugees! He repeated his false testimony all over the world.

▲ The photo was taken on Jan 14th 1951 by Cpl J.J. McGinty of the US Army. The caption at a Korean War exhibition in Seoul reads “A Korean carries his aged father across the icy Han River at Chungju, Korea, in their flight to the South to escape the onrushing Chinese Communist Forces.”

중공군의 공격으로 국군과 유엔군은 다시 첨수하였습니다. 중공군 의 공격을 피하려고 총주의 남한강물 건너 더 남쪽으로 가려는 한피란민ol 연로하신 아버지를 업고 차디찬 강물을 걸어서 건너고 있습니다. 일자: 1951년 1월 14일       자료: (사)월드피스자유연합

▲ The profile photo of Moon praying (above) was taken at Heung-in Dong in about 1955. Comparing the facial profiles of Moon and the refugee carrying his father, it is clear that Moon is not in the photo. Moon was 30 at the time of the journey. The refugees are both older than Moon and Pak were in 1950.

Chung-hwa Pak explains how he first saw the photo: “One day in 1983, the international department of the church contacted me. They asked me to stop by because they had some questions to ask. They showed me a picture in the Choong Ang Ilbo newspaper. It was a picture of a man carrying another man on his back, and they were crossing a river. They asked me whether it was a picture of Moon carrying me on his back. I answered them that we had no chance to take any pictures at that time. I never crossed any river on Moon’s back. They said nothing and I thought that was the end of it.”

▲ Here is the photo, published on October 24, 1983 in a memoir about the Korean War in The Joong-ang Ilbo 中央日報.

__________________________________

Chung-hwa Pak explains how his ankle was fractured – his leg was not broken:

“One day [in Pyongyang] I was surrounded by a gang of thugs who called themselves a security force. They were just thugs who joined the North Korean side when it was in control, and later swapped to the opposite side. They said, “You were a real communist who served as a company commander in the North Korean army. We will kill you!” Then some of them struck my leg with hammers. My ankle was fractured and I couldn’t move. I thought that my life was going to end there. An unexpected twist of fate saved me. Fortunately, I was saved by Korean Military Police. I was questioned, but because I had been imprisoned in North Korea I was soon released. All the other prisoners were executed. They were shot. I was a black belt in judo, but I really needed to get treatment for my injury. There were no hospitals in Pyongyang that were functioning.”

__________________________________

Hyo Jin Moon gave a sermon based on the invented story: Inheriting God’s Heart And True Parents’ Heart

April 28, 1991    Belvedere, New York

When he was carrying that person on his back he tried to compare himself to … it’s bothersome sometimes to think of some of the people who were with Father in the beginning. Anyway … many of you have seen those pictures of Father carrying Mr. Pak. He was carrying that person across the seabed [to Yongmae Island] a distance of about six kilometers.

I’ll try to tell you later the circumstances surrounding it. I’ll try to explain it in the video. He had literally to carry this person even though his own physical condition, just coming out of prison, was not good. All through his time in prison he utilized his imagination, thinking.. “I must overcome no matter how difficult it is.” He gave himself inspiration. He relied on his imagination to see that his work was incomparable to the kind of suffering God was facing. He really tried to think about God’s heart and tried to visualize the suffering of God. Based on the visuals that he created with his imagination about God, he overcame all those difficulties, even when he was carrying Mr. Pak. Of course it was physically difficult; he had just come out of Hungnam prison, living under those circumstances for almost three years. Obviously, he was not in shape physically to carry anybody for that long distance, let alone across a slippery, muddy seabed. Try to put yourself in that situation. But he thought to himself, “I’m not carrying a man, I’m not feeling this physical pain.” While he was carrying this person he tried to think about God’s heart. He imagined, ‘This load is nothing compared to what I must bear in order to complete the mission of restoring humanity. This is nothing compared to what I must face later on.” Based on that idea, relying on his pure imagination, Father drew a pure rationale to help him persevere through all kinds of hardship.

Ultimately they reached their destination, but couldn’t find any boat to travel down to South Korea [Inchon] and he had to walk back carrying this man again. He had to travel the same course again. It’s just unbelievable that anybody in that situation, indebted to a person in that way, would ever forget their gratitude. But this person, he rejected Father later on. I guess he couldn’t bear the persecution that he was receiving from all around him. He couldn’t take it so he left. That’s the course of Father. In a way that is the essence of his life. Over and over. People who were to assist and support Father rejected him because of their own individual lack of understanding.

Through these difficult times Father relied on his imagination. He believed in the ideal world. He believed that what he imagined would one day come true.

(LINK to Hyo Jin’s sermon)

__________________________________

Chung-hwa Pak said, in a 1993 interview in Seoul, that on the way south Moon had only carried him a couple of times, and each time for only around 400 yards, during the entire journey from Pyongyang to Kyongju. Pak clearly said that Moon had never carried him across any water.

Michael Breen recounts just two incidents of Moon carrying Pak in his book, Sun Myung Moon, the early years – on pages 129 and 135.

__________________________________

Here is how Moon boasts about his achievement: The Necessity for the Day of Victory of Love

January 15, 1984 – Tarrytown, New York“Upon the victory of my prison experience, I can claim the foundation for the fatherland. After being liberated by United Nations forces, I carried Mr. Chun Hwa Pak 600 miles from North to South Korea. Most people aren’t even able to go beyond their own needs, but I showed the example of serving others by carrying Mr. Pak for that distance.”

__________________________________

Here are the words of Bo Hi Pak in an interview in the documentary “Emperor of the Universe” which was broadcast in 2000:

Narrator: “His followers speak with awe of how he carried an injured man across Korea.”

Bo Hi Pak: “roughly 200 miles walking and walking in a mountain he carried him on the back. 80kg man on the back, all the way to the south. To me alone that shows him the messiah to me.”

LINK

__________________________________

Michael Breen’s description in his book ‘Sun Myung Moon, the early years’ (pages 135-136) is no doubt much closer to the truth than the words of Moon and Bo Hi Pak:

“From Jechon, they took the old road, which used to be the main communication link from Seoul to the south-east in the days before the railroad. It took seven to eight hours one day to struggle over the Moongyeong Pass, at the boundary of North Chungchong and North Kyongsang provinces. Kim carried the bicycle, and Moon carried Pak up the steep, icy track, which was covered in fresh snow. At the top of the pass, they walked through the ancient gate. They stopped at the town of Caun. Pak’s leg was improving and from here, he was able to ride the bicycle without being pushed. …

With Pak now able to walk, they travelled rapidly southwards, through Andong, Uiseong, and Yongcheon. They arrived one evening at Koncheon, near the historic town of Kyongju. …

Moon and Kim Won-pil [left Pak behind in Kyongju and] continued on to Ulsan, a fishing port on the east coast. There they bought train tickets, and travelled the last fifty kilometres of their journey to Pusan in two hours. They rode up front, clinging on to the front of the engine. They arrived at Choryung Station in Pusan, cold and hungry, on January 27, 1951.

However, on pages 129-130 Breen does include a version of the Yongmae Island story which he most probably got from Won-pil Kim.

__________________________________

Here is what Jin-hun Yong presented in 2011. He has known for decades that Moon, Kim and Pak never went to Yongmae Island.

How much can these Unification Church leaders be trusted?

__________________________________

Won-pil Kim was inconsistent with his lies. His own testimony book had to be revised and a replacement rushed out.

Won-pil Kim was a blatant liar

The UC Yongmae Island Fake Story

Young-oon Kim lied. She said Sun Myung Moon was “a pure virgin until the age of 40”

Should Bo Hi Pak be charged with the crime of perjury for his Fraser testimony of 1978?

Bo Hi Pak Contradicts Himself

Sun Myung Moon: “How do you know I’m not the world’s worst con man or swindler?”

[twistedmusings]

Vil Schoenheit: After RSA’S Performance

The first time he had been left speechless was because of you.

You who always knew what to say, you who always had an answer to the problem at hand.

Where were you?

A/N: What is formatting. I don’t even know.

But listen though. When did Vil get hot? I mean he has always been hot but is it now because he is sad boy? A rude boy turned sad boy? Is that why I am attracted to him now and was compelled to write this?

I don’t know but I’m in love so I’m going to run with it.

This is how Vil would react if MC looked like they were enjoying RSA’s performance.

Part 2, here!

What Vil felt couldn’t really be put into words.

His grades would say that he was one of the highest ranking students in the Language Arts for Night Raven College. Not just in regular human speech but also in fairy-dialect, animal dialect and any sort of dialect that Professor Trein would demand. Vil also excelled in prose, poetry and abstract writing.

Being left speechless was not something that was supposed to happen, not twice in a row.

The tightening of his throat would speak otherwise, as well as the sudden feeling of vertigo.

Vil could barely hear Kalim through the jovial sound of Neige’s voice, the one thing that had kept him awake for these past few weeks--no these past few years. When was the last time that he had felt so helpless? Was it when he had first met him? Neige, with his bright smile and lovable personality that made people overlook his mistakes, his very obvious mistakes. The way he wouldn’t go when it was his cue, or how Neige would forget almost every other line only to finally have the script memorized by the time it was opening night.

A children’s song.

“What even is this song! The chorus just won’t leave my head!”

He wasn’t even ready during dress rehearsal, Neige would wait until fucking opening night.

Was it dramatic to say that the whole event had haunted him? As well as the domino effect of undeserved fame that Neige had gotten afterwards?

No, to Vil, being overshadowed by this person despite all the effort that he put into each and everyone of his performances was something akin to being shot by a gun.

Over and over and over.

He had been beaten by a children’s song.

Every single commercial, every music video, every promotion and every product placement that Neige did was like a dagger carving him up from the inside out.

So when the VDC presented itself, he jumped at the chance to not just shape himself into the perfect being to defeat Neige, but to shape others to show that not only could he surpass himself but he could help others break through their own ‘ugly’ exteriors to discover their own personal beauty. And by all means he had done it, he had taken five rough and ugly rocks and turned them into polished jewels.

Polished jewels that framed the diamond he had worked so hard to turn himself into.

His grip on the audience seat loosens when something flashes through his mind.

The practices had been rather arduous, not only having to make sure that he was flawless but trying to deal with Epel’s stupid gender based ideas, Ace and Deuce’s lack of grace and even Kalim’s really really terrible singing voice. Yet something had made it even a little bit worth it.

Someone, he needed to correct himself, someone had made it a bit worth it.

The sixth potato that he had hoped to start shaping after this whole thing was over.

What could he say about you? At first glance you were truly nothing special. An uneventful, magicless person from an equally uneventful place that hadn’t even been accepted into this school but was instead made a student because of the monster next to you. You weren’t even a student, more like a glorified problem solver for the Headmaster. Ideally, Vil should have also hated your guts since you were essentially getting the same education that he had been getting when he was a first year but without any effort but there was something different about you that he had not expected.

I think you’re probably the fairest out of everyone in the school.

A small glimmer of something beautiful.

But in the end your opinion is the one that will matter to you.

You were honest. That is something that Rook had mentioned about you once he did his recon of the new manager for the VDC team. How the Ramshackle prefect really didn’t have anything to offer but that the quality that stood out the most to the hunter was your refreshing honesty.

He had modeled for crowds of adoring fans and yet he found himself pulling out his pocket mirror and fixing non-existent imperfections before talking to you. Yet even when he tried to make himself look presentable to you, you always seemed to catch him when all of his walls were down.

“You should have seen the information that I got from Riddle, Leona, and Azul. They have really gotten a reputation behind them, the Ramshackle prefect. I wonder what will happen if we keep them close~”

Vil wouldn’t admit it to anyone but there had been a brief moment that his heart skipped a beat when the news about how the VDC team would be rooming in Ramshackle. He figured it had skipped out of beat due to the horrific news that he would have to room in a dorm that had not been used for who knows how long but when he had come inside and been greeted by your smile, it was almost surreal how he had come to terms with this feeling of nervousness.

The night before the VDC had found Vil in the Ramshackle lounge, a cup of tea in his hand as he watched a video of that day’s performance. There were still minor imperfections here and there but those would be easily covered up by his own singing and movements. Epel had also improved exponentially which highly increased the probability of a successful performance and with Jami’s hypnotizing movements and Rook’s aura there was no doubt that he had this competition under his heel.

But nerves like these didn’t leave overnight.

A creak on the stairs brought him back to the present, taking a sip of his tea as he continued to look at the video.

“If you’re here to ask me about why I am awake at this hour, Rook, I would like to remind you that you insisted we review the performance in the morning which already did nothing to calm my nerves--”

"Vil-senpai?"

His head snapped up to look at you , the light of the moon masking him in shadows while illuminating you as you made your way down the staircase. He clicked his tongue and turned off his phone.

"Was I interrupting something?"

Vil shook his head, “Last minute detail check. Everything has to be perfect by tomorrow.”

You nod and walk towards him, standing next to the couch before pointing to it. Vil looked at you before looking at the seat next to him. What were you--oh. He nodded and you sat down on the other side of the love seat, both of you farther apart that he would have liked.

“Does the manager have anything they want to say to me?”

“It just gets me thinking. You have been doing this performance perfectly in my eyes. Over and over again that it makes me wonder just what you think is lacking.”

You bring your feet up to the seat, hugging your knees together as you look down at the floor, “Maybe your definition of perfect and my definition of perfect are so different.”

The Pomefiore dorm leader rolls his eyes, “Did your Heartslabyul friends put you up to this?”

“Ace and Deuce? Great Sevens no. If they did I would have rightfully ignored them and gone to bed. I’m just your manager, I’m not here to negotiate.”

“Just a manager.” Vil frowns and looks at you, “You understand that you are currently housing the Vil Schoenheit as well as six other people who happen to be under my temporary tutelage. If you and your dorm weren’t around I would have had to keep those two Heartslabyul potatoes in the Pomefiore dorm and I don’t think I could stand letting them sleep in one of our beds. Our dorm has standards, luckily yours is the most neutral place I can stand being around those two without losing sleep.”

He blinks at the snort you let out, staring as you wave your hands and apologize while trying to prevent another one from surfacing.

“That is the only straightforward compliment my dorm has received. Neutral.” you laugh again before wiping a fake tear from your eyes, “Am I allowed to take it as a compliment?”

Vil is glad for the darkness, it hid the sudden flush in his cheeks.

“Take it as you will.”

You nod and stand up, stretching and letting out a satisfied sigh when your back made a small cracking noise that had Vil clutching at his cup. Anybody else and he would have walked out of whatever conversation he was having, so why did he find that tolerable with you?

“Then let me pay it back.” you hold out your hand and for a brief moment Vil wants to take it. Clearly that was an invitation for something and it alarmed him that he didn’t mind the mystery behind it. Yet your finger pointed at the cup, Vil looking down and seeing it was empty.

Oh.

He hands it to you, doing his best to make it so that your fingers would brush in the most accidental way possible.

“In my own opinion, as well as the opinion of others, I think you are the fairest out of everyone in the school.”

The air in Vil’s lungs gets caught in his throat.

“No joke. The way you carry yourself, the effort you put into everything you are a part of. Even the potato comments are almost...endearing? Potato plants produce rather pretty flowers, right? Maybe you are just trying to get the flowers inside of us to bloom as well?”

He is staring.

He is staring and not saying anything. You had left him without speech.

“But in the end your opinion will be the one that matters most to you. I just hope that it will always be positive.” you scratch the back of your head and yawn, “I’m going to grab a glass of water and head back to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Your eyes are still meeting his as a small flush adorned your cheeks, probably embarrassed by what you had just said. Or he would like to think you would be embarrassed, if this was any regular love story he would stand up and grab your wrist and keep you from running away from him before cupping your face and leaning in--

“Good night, Vil-senpai.”

"Goodnight."

You who always knew what to say, you who always had an answer to the problem at hand.

Where were you?

His eyes start looking around for your figure, hands itching and brain running slower than it ever had before. Maybe you would make it better? No, you would make it better. You would go over to him and smile before saying that the competition hadn’t even started and just because that song seemed to be moving everyone under a stupid nostalgia spell, Vil’s hardwork would shine through. Neige hadn’t taken everything from him, not just yet.

Vil feels the weight on his shoulders lessen when he looks at you only for it to double when he sees your face.

You were smiling, humming along to the silly melody as your head bobbed up and down.

Even in practice your gaze remained fixed on them, yet with Neige you seemed to feel that infectious, annoying melody and enjoying it?

“What’s wrong? You look pale.”

Had he lost you as well?

“Vil...Vil?”

The first time he had been left speechless was because of you.

“...Nothing. Don’t worry.” he turns his back to Rook, “It’s not worth seeing their performance. I will be in the waiting room.”

Vil walks away, so many thoughts clouding his head as he replays the words you had said to him.

Who the hell cared about his opinion when yours was just as important?

[fyeahmeninroyalnavy]

A Letter to the Forester Estate and the Writers of Horatio Hornblower, the TV Series

This is my letter from Horatio Hornblower and the fans of Archie Kennedy to the CS Forester Estate and also the Hornblower writers who killed off Archie Kennedy and then discarded him as if he meant nothing, particularly to Horatio. You may see their relationship as platonic or not. This is nothing against Lieutenant Bush who is a lovely man and a compelling character.

So, you think I’m such a heartless bastard that I could just move on without my best friend who gave up his good name for me to spare my “now purposeless” life? A life without my sun to my moon?

He’s probably still warm as he’s taken to a pauper’s grave or worse and I’m given a fucking promotion and a ship! I just lost my dearest friend, my brother in arms, my companion to whom I could

communicate without words, and he to me. The man I silently vowed to protect from that evil bastard Simpson. The man whose face I tenderly caressed as he writhed in fits, or nightmares, who I carried through the rain, begged to live, to drink. Whose bedside I sat vigil at, watching over him, feeding him, helping him to grow stronger. Because I said it myself. “I can’t do this without you. I won’t make it.”

Never mind that my men gave me hell, most of them anyway. We weren’t going anywhere without Archie and he would not be left behind. I would not, could not fail him again.

When I had to hit my friend in the head as he fitted, agony was clearly written on my face. And my heart broke as I saw the jolly boat drifting away taking a piece of my soul along with it.

And of course there’s more. Perhaps you didn’t notice how Archie and I called one another by our Christian names. And that he inspired courage, light, and greatness in me that I never knew I had. I was just a scared, awkward, seasick little boy that first day, thrust into the bowels of a Hell I never knew existed. And there was that bright faced animated ray of sunshine cheering me on. “Jump! You’ll be allright.” Then grinning at my no doubt green hue, “Welcome to Purgatory!”

How he still had such cheer and optimism after all he had been through on that hell ship is difficult to understand. After all, he was just a boy as well, only months older than me. And he had been on that ship far longer. Only later, after getting to know just what sort of person my dear Archie was would I understand.

Because there is, “was” no one else like him on this earth. I would have been entirely unmanned and crushed to bits had I endured what he had. I will never have that sort of courage, resilience and optimism, and I’ll never love anyone again now that he’s gone.

It is all I can do merely to get through a single hour, let alone a day. My soul is in agony without him and I look forward to my own death.

End of Part One.

Part Two

Did the writers not notice how very close Archie was to me? Because the viewers damned sure did! Any chance we had to gently touch or comfort one another, we took advantage of. When I returned from the hole in El Ferrol, Archie couldn’t get to me quickly enough. He was so loving, and concerned, and even stroked my chest. If the viewers took it as we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves, then they would be right.

And my loyal Archie went back to the prison hell he had been in, not even fully recovered to show his faith in me, his respect, and his love.

Then there was the disaster that was Muzillac. I believe that’s when I realized there was no going back.

I was so proud of my new Lieutenant’s uniform. I actually began to feel worthy of my promotion. And Archie was obviously just as pleased. I saw that look in his warm blue eyes. The look of love and something more. He’d had a drink you see and as he began admiring my new uniform I realized he was flirting with me. And I flirted back!

Neither of us knew what was coming as we escorted Moncoutant and his men to Quiberon. But as always we would have one another’s back. And if one of us should falter, the other would be there for support.

As it came to pass, it was my dear still wounded Archie who held me up, indeed saved my life at the end. My brother in arms serving as acting Lieutenant in his Majesty’s Royal Navy, not truly recovered from El Ferrol or from the terrible abuse from that scab Simpson, would rise to the occasion for me. Indeed risked his very life without hesitation to save mine.

He was still bantering with me in the beginning as he always did, loving nothing more than to tease and annoy me. Knowing I wasn’t fond of horses, let alone using them as transportation, I saw the sparkle in his eye, the smirk of his lips as I struggled to mount the beast. Secretly I enjoyed the teasing and we both knew it. Anything to get that sunshine smile from him was always worth it to me.

Is it not evident to anyone with eyes and two brain cells how well the two of us understand and care for one another?

Then came the turning point. When Archie became what he was always meant to be. A hero.

After all Archie had been through so recently with being in prison and the events preceding it, he struggled with anxiety about the situation we found ourselves in. I tried to make light of things to reassure him but I don’t believe he was buying it. Still he remained with our men, doing the best he could while I was off playing the gallant hero. I‘m not sure what I was doing or why. Yes I had a crush on Mariette. Yes, I wanted information from her about our enemy. Maybe I was trying to find a ray of sunshine in a black cloud of misery; a failed mission of pain, grief, and loss of life. If not for Archie I would be among the losses.

Acting Lieutenant Archie Kennedy. The man was a true hero. He was there for his men and led them in spite of his fear and panic.

Then he came through for me in a big way. He saved my life.

Archie agonized about lighting the fuse to blow up the bridge in Muzillac. His voice had a slight break when speaking to Matthews about whether I was still alive or not. He kept delaying and hesitating, hoping I would show. Eventually Matthews offered to take on that burden, lighting the fuse himself.

When I suddenly appeared with Mariette over the hill, Archie sprung into action immediately. Holding fire of our marines and asking for protection of us both as Mariette was suddenly shot. As I fell to pieces and the fuse came closer to blowing up not just the bridge but me along with it, Archie bravely broke into a run, arriving to pull my weeping form away from Mariette and certain death. He put his arms about me, gently saying there was nothing more to be done for her, and pulling me away as we ran for our very lives, barely escaping. He provided comfort with an arm around me, empathetic looks and touches. As we made it back to the Indefatigable and I was called to brief Captain Pellew, my dearest friend looked at me and lovingly touched my arm. It will all be okay Horatio he said without words. End of Part Two

Part Three to follow

[irene-sadler]

Six Months

someone wondered when the Baroness (a side character from the Tournament aka Sir Reynard and the Red Knight which I wrote earlier this year) was coming back and uh, “back” implies that she ever left in the first place, tbh. spoilers: she didn’t.

anyway so here’s a little something something

its a quick family story plus a story about civilians in wartime packed into a little over 4000 words. rated PG. ft teen romance drama, sheep, grown up romance non drama, and not a single canon witcher character. think Roseanne (original show not the weird remake that died on arrival for Reasons) but in the setting of The Witcher. or don’t if u have no idea what i’m even talking about b/c u dont watch 90s cable sitcoms constantly like i do lol.

Six Months:

The Nilfgaardian soldiers came at night, but they found an empty manor house. The occupants had had plenty of warning they were on their way; the family’s oldest son had ridden nonstop from Rivia Castle to warn them that there had been a coup, that the Queen had vanished and her young son was in charge, and that it was only a matter of time before their old enemy Caldwell came looking for them. Hilde thought they were, in many ways, fortunate - not lucky, because no luck had been involved - fortunate that their son was riding his fastest horse, fortunate that the rest of the household managed to collect what they could and hide the rest without dramatics or incident, fortunate to have somewhere else to go. An old herbalist’s hut in the woods wasn’t much, but it was, she’d said, a roof over their heads. They’d always had a plan, in case everything in their lives went very badly wrong. Everything had, and the hut was part of it.

    Then her son rode off with most of her other sons and the rest of her husband’s knights, on the chance that the Queen was out there somewhere, and left the place somewhat emptier-feeling in his absence.

    “Wish I was going with them,” the Baron said, looking down the woodland road after them.

    “We talked about this, Eldred; you’re sixty-seven years old, your eyesight’s going bad, and your knees don’t bend anymore. A warband’s got no use for you.”

    “I know that,” he said. “Don’t mean I don’t wish I was going.”

    A little flock of sheep crossed the path, with some of her nephews trailing after them, waving sticks and shouting.

    “I’ll be worried about them, too,” she said, as one of the sheep suddenly bolted. Eldred took her hand, squeezed it, and limped off after it.

    The next time their paths crossed he was in a slightly better mood. She hooked her arm through his elbow and looked up at the full moon through the trees.

    “Can’t hear myself think in there, so I came out here for some fresh air,” he said. There wasn’t enough room inside for even half the people who had followed them along. Most of the household had settled around the hut in tents and bedrolls. The inside of the hut was still jammed with the smaller children. They were also fortunate that it was spring, and nobody would freeze to death sleeping outside. No luck involved, again. No army fought in the winter, although she wouldn’t put it past the Empire to try.

    “We’ll have to build pens for the sheep and pigs, tomorrow,” she said. “Maybe some more shelters, too. The farmhands can do it. And I’ll organize some of the women t’ forage in the woods. We’re fortunate it’s spring. We might be living off pottage of oats and chickweed, but we won’t starve t’ death.”

    “You know,” Eldred said, “I was thinking I might get a shot at some of these invaders after all. They might turn up here.”

    “They might.”

    “Wouldn’t want any spies or wanderers t’ spot us and take word back to th’ army that we’re out here.”

    “No.”

    “Anyhow, with all these boys out here, I thought I might train ‘em up a little, just in case.”

    “That’s not a bad idea.”

    “Might take some of these girls, too,” he added.

    “Even better,” she said. He smiled down at her.

    “We’ll be safe here.”

    “Of course we will, with you around,” she said.

    ———

    Wars were just a part of life. She was born and raised in Rivia; she’d grown up watching her brothers and father ride off to war with Lyria, over and over again. Her father was killed by a Lyrian archer when she was twenty-three. She’d watched her mother’s face while they buried him. She never wanted to know what it took to make someone wear that hard, dead expression. Over a decade later the King married a Lyrian princess and those wars stopped, but more took their place. There had been the rebellion, after the King died, led by her own disgruntled brothers, who refused to serve a Lyrian; her husband’s promotion from petty knight to Baron was a direct result of the glory he’d won putting it down. That war had almost destroyed her marriage, but they’d pulled through, in the end. Then there had been bandits, minor invasions, civil unrest; it seemed like there was always something to fight over, but never anything new. Whether Lyrians were killing Rivians or Nilfgaardians were killing Rivians, they always had the same damn excuses for it. The older she got, the less patience she had for any of them.

    ———        

    Smoke from cooking fires floated through the newly cleared area around the camp. The forest echoed with the sounds of axes hitting wood and more trees falling. The pigs slept in the shade out of the heat, watched over by a pack of skinny boys from the village. The herbalist’s hut sat surrounded by a dozen almost identical buildings - buildings, children, chickens, dogs, a donkey that someone had brought in, loaded down with rushes -

    The Nilfgaardians hadn’t found them, but a whole lot of other people somehow had. Some of them brought livestock or food, but a hell of a lot of them had nothing but the clothes on their backs. Hilde refused to turn them away, even if a few of the hands muttered darkly about spies and famine. More was better; more people meant more hands to work and more eyes to keep watch. Eldred’s little force of skinny teenagers with homemade bows and farmhands armed with handaxes had grown in size, if not, in her opinion, in quality. He seemed pleased with them, at least. Some of them were standing watch at the edges of the clearing. She was pretty sure none of them were asleep.

    It turned out they weren’t; a minor racket interrupted the idyllic peace of the summer afternoon - some kind of argument, she thought. She abandoned the shirt she was mending and headed to the north side of the buildings, where she found a pair of youths shouting at each other. One, she noticed, was her own youngest son, waving a bow and turning an impressive shade of red. The other was a dark-haired girl. The latter spotted her before the former; Hilde watched with detached interest as the girl’s eyes widened and her stance shifted from aggressive to frozen fear.

    “Herron,” she said. “It’s -”

    “What’s this about?” Hilde asked.

    “- your mother.”

    Herron deflated, visibly.

    “We were just - we were talking,” he said, staring at his own feet.

    “I heard.”

    “Just a - a disagreement over the watch schedule,” said the girl. She raised an eyebrow, considered telling them to cut the shit, and then decided not to. Whatever it was, it was probably harmless, and it wouldn’t be improved by her involvement.

    “If you have an issue, take it up with the Baron,” she said. “Meanwhile, quit disturbing the peace.”

    The girl bowed and escaped at not quite a jog. Herron stared after her, still beet red.

    “Who’s that?” she asked.

    “Nobody.”

    “No?”

    “She’s just - she wasn’t at the right guardpost.”

    “Whatever you say,” she said. Herron was shifting uncomfortably, showing the usual signs of a teenager who desperately wanted to escape.

    “Go on,” she said. “Get back t’ work.”    

———

    Herron had begged to go to war with his brothers. He was only fourteen, and although he looked like a skinny, lanky, teenage copy of his father, he had none of Eldred’s athletic ability. The best that could be said for him was he was a decent shot. Maybe he would have survived the battlefield, but she didn’t want to take the chance. Besides, he was her baby boy; she felt like he had been ten years old only the week before. She couldn’t let him go, and Eldred had taken one look at her face and hadn’t argued with her. The resulting angst had taken weeks to wear off.

    Whatever Herron was up to, she was just glad he was finally speaking to her again.

    ———        

    The rainy season hit exactly on time; a genuine stroke of luck, because the rain would keep their ever-increasing hideout a secret for a little longer. The pigs were happy, but the sheep and humans less so. Hilde and her selected lieutenants kept the place running anyway, despite the endless mud, the nonstop damp, and the weather that ranged from a drizzly mist in the mornings to downpours in the afternoons and evenings that were so heavy Eldred stopped making his militia patrol the forest for fear they’d get lost or drown in a flash flood.

    During one of the downpours one of the militia members came splashing through the mud and into the hut. Eldred stopped scrubbing rust off his sword.

    “Something going on?”

    Hilde thought he sounded a little too hopeful.

    “Nothin’,” the man said. “Not really. Just, we had this kid come up t’ th’ east guardpost just now.”

    “Ask around; has t’ belong to someone around here,” Hilde said.

    “Don’t think so, milady, on account of it ain’t a human child.”

    “Oh. I’ll take a look,” she said. “Go on, I’ll be there.”

    Eldred shook his head slightly at her as she stood and pulled a cloak around herself.

    “What?”

    “Nothin’.”

      She could barely see where she was going, but she managed to slop her way through the muck between the huts and made her way the guardpost. A little pack of militia stood around the spot, watching a single, very small shape that huddled under a blanket. The shape didn’t look up when the guards all spotted her and stood.

    “Honestly,” she said. “How many people does it take to keep an eye on one five-year-old? Don’t you all have work to do?”

    “We were thinkin’ maybe there could be Squirrels about,” someone explained, awkwardly. She rolled her eyes; the expression might have lost some effect in the pouring rain and dark, so she added a little of it to her tone.

    “Yes, well. If so, I’ll protect you, Jenny. Get going, all of you. Find something else to do.”

    Most of them trailed off, muttering among themselves. One man stuck around; she raised an eyebrow at him, which he seemed to take as a sign. He stumped off a few yards away and stood squinting out at the dark woods. She rolled her eyes again and crouched down.

    “Hello. Who are you?”

    “I’m six,” the huddled shape said.

    “What’s that?”

    “You said I was five.”

    “Oh. Sorry. It’s hard to tell for sure, under that blanket.”

    “I don’t want t’ get wet.”

    “What’s your name?”

    “Ailfe.”

    “My name’s Hilde,” she said. “If you come with me, you can get something to eat and sit in front of a fire. What do you say?”

    “Alright.”

      Ailfe sat next to the fire, inhaling a steaming bowl of barley and dandelion leaves. Hilde offered seconds after the first bowl was done, bided her time, and, finally, asked, “So - Ailfe. Where are your parents?”

    The girl shrugged, took just enough time away from eating to say, “Dead,” and went back to it. Eldred shook his head again, slightly, when she glanced at him; he had looked less than surprised when she came in out of the rain lugging a bundle. He was trying to look like he was wearily embracing the inevitable, but she could see a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth. She smiled back.

    “Where are you from?”

    “Dravograd,” Ailfe said.

    “Ah.”

    She’d heard rumors, in passing, through the militia, who’d heard them from the merchants on the roads. Hilde knew enough to believe them.

    “Well,” she said, “You can stay here, if you like; it’s not like we don’t have the room, and you can help my nephews with the sheep. How’s that sound?”

    “Fine.”

      Not twenty minutes later, the girl was dead asleep. Hilde pulled a dry blanket around her and stretched out on the pallet in the corner next to Eldred.

    “Couldn’t let her starve,” she said to him.

    “We’ve had stranger things than elves in our family, I suppose,” he replied. “Remember my uncle Egbert? Th’ one who turned into an enthusiast and became a priest of Pareplut?”

    “I always wanted a daughter.”

    “I know,” he said, kissed the side of her head, and added, “I love you.”

    “And I love you, Eldred,” she said.          

    -——

    When she’d decided she was going to marry him, her parents hadn’t been too sure about the idea. She was twenty and he was slightly more than a decade older, but she’d seen him in the tournaments, and she’d heard about him outside them. He was very often the best knight on the field - perfect form, an undeniable talent - and he was a close cousin to the King, and her aunt’s husband had it on good authority that he was as capable an administrator as he was a fighter. It was true that he wasn’t much to look at, but she wasn’t foolish enough to care about his missing front tooth, or the scar on his chin, or his crooked nose. The day he’d won yet another tournament and gallantly offered her the prize with a gap-toothed smile, she knew nobody in the world was going to change her mind about Sir Eldred Greenwood. Her parents would just have to get used to it.

    ——

    The rain stopped for good and the sun cooked all the water out of the air. She started sending the kids and donkeys off to the stream, a mile away, every morning and evening to fill kegs with water. Ailfe trooped along with the others, wearing a shapeless cap that covered her ears, looking as filthy and half-wild as any of them. She had forgotten about the incident with Herron completely.

    She was sitting on the top rail of a fence in the twilight, watching bats flutter through the smoke and lights of the camp and chatting about nothing in particular with Eldred. Anything resembling privacy was hard to come by, but most people seemed to be off doing something, somewhere, and nobody was near the sheep pens. At least, they didn’t think so, but they were wrong. Right around the time she lost interest in the bats and they ran out of things to talk about, something interrupted the forgotten background hum of insects and humanity.

    “Wynn?” a voice said, from the nearby guardpost, out of sight past a shed. Eldred jumped about three inches and, to her mild disappointment, stopped kissing her.

    “What the hell-”

    She covered his mouth with her hand, quickly.  

    “Shush.”

    It was only Herron. She recognized his voice. She didn’t immediately recognize the voice that responded.

    “Hi Herron. You on watch?”

    “Yep.”

    “When do you get off?”

    “Uh, in around an hour. Why?”

    She figured it out, after some thought; it was the girl he’d been arguing with, weeks earlier. Eldred raised an inquiring eyebrow up at her. She shook her head at him.

    “Do you want t’ get dinner afterward? My folks are cooking a chicken that quit laying.”

    “Oh,” Herron said. “I already ate.”

     After a brief pause, the girl said, “Um, well, have a good shift, then. I’ll see you later.”

    “Later,” Herron replied.

    Hilde waited a minute, then sighed wearily. Eldred looked pained.

    “That was the single worst thing I’ve ever overheard,” he commented.

    “I’m thinking you ought to have a talk with our son,” she replied, quietly.

    “First thing in the morning, and not a minute later,” he agreed. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

    “We weren’t.”

    ————

    They’d had five sons. The oldest, Hal, had a wife and children of his own. He was at court, most of the time; Eldred had sworn off the place as soon as Hal was old enough to go without him, and only went up for holidays and emergencies. Edgar and Robin, the twins, were five years younger and as unalike as they could make themselves. Edgar was a wanderer, had barely been home for most of the last decade. She wasn’t sure if it was fortunate or not that he had been home during the spring. Robin had just gotten married during the winter, and had a position at court. Jack, the fourth, had died of consumption when he was four. Her youngest son was a surprise; she’d been over forty when he was born, and nobody had expected both of them to survive the event, but they’d been wrong. Herron was weedy, but he was as strong as an ox. He looked like his father, crooked nose and all, but he acted just like her long-dead oldest brother - kind, loyal, brilliant, and unbelievably easy to manipulate. It worried her, sometimes, but she knew better than to wonder if her youngest son would come to a similar end. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on the past, and even less by trying to predict the future.

    ———

    The dry spell continued. One evening the donkeys and children went off as usual. An hour later as she was helping finish butcher one of the pigs, one of the boys scrambled out of the woods. Hilde balanced the knife in her hand and glanced at the trees behind him. Nothing seemed to be following him - at least, not very closely.

    “What’s wrong?”

    “They’re comin’,” he said, wide-eyed and shaking.

    “Who?”

    “Black Ones. We was on our way back, and - and -”

    She swore under her breath and turned quickly; she would have told one of the others to get Eldred, find the militia, but it was too late; someone had already gone.

    “- they took all the donkeys,” he continued, “Even Donny.”

    “What about all your friends? The other kids?”

    “I don’t know; everyone was running around, and there were soldiers, and nobody was payin’ attention to me and I just ran away.”

    Herron raced up, sweating heavily.

    “Ma, someone said th’ enemy’s here, and dad says t’ get everyone inside th’ stockade-”

    “Yes, I know what t’ do,” she said. “There’s a bunch of kids out in these woods, somewhere.”

    Her daughter was out there, somewhere. She had to go find them.

    “I’ll go look for them,” Herron said. “I’ll find them.”

    He looked terrified. She couldn’t send him - but she couldn’t not send him; she knew she couldn’t really go herself. What would she do out in the woods? Get lost. Get killed. Herron was, if nothing else, a good shot, and a halfway decent hunter.

    “I can do it,” he said. He looked even younger than he actually was, but he sounded confident. She breathed out and nodded.

    “Please be careful.”

    “I’ll try.”

      The stockade was barely a wall; it was a fence with a gate, but it was better than nothing. They’d built it to head height with the sharp ends of logs pointed out toward the trees, and it wouldn’t stop an arrow, but it would stop a horse. Hilde stood by the gate, looking through the holes in the fence at the path her husband and a bunch of teenagers and farmers had taken into the woods. He had trooped out with a sword in his hand, smiled at her under his helmet, and hadn’t looked back. She told herself he would be fine, and Herron would be fine, and the collection of women armed with axes and pitchforks and old spears left over to defend the entirety of the camp would be fine.

    Hours passed, and nothing happened. The feeling of stretched nerves in the air turned to one of faint boredom as the afternoon wore on. She took to pacing the perimeter of the fence, watching the trees for movement, listening for a sound other than the endless rattle of cicadas and crickets and the noise of livestock and people. The shadows got long, and nothing happened. She sternly told herself not to worry, or, at least, not to imagine horrible things that could be happening very far away.

    “Horses,” someone suddenly said. “I hear horses comin’.”

    She stared out at the woods, clutching the makeshift spear she’d armed herself with. There were horses out there; she heard a rumble that could only be a line of heavy cavalry, dozens of armored horses and men. She’d heard them a thousand times in a thousand melees, and she could imagine exactly what they would do to her mass of barely-armed, unarmored peasants if they broke through the fence.

    “Get ready with the spears,” she said. “Just like we practiced.”

    Spears was an overstatement; more than a few of the people who lined up behind the fence with the points of their weapons facing toward the trees were holding pitchforks, but Eldred had thought they’d do just as well. She had her own doubts, but they didn’t have anything better. Any side conversations ended as the sound of the oncoming cavalry rumbled louder; they stood and sweated and waited until the first horse appeared on the narrow road between the trees. She squinted at it; it was hard to see in the dusk, and she wasn’t very familiar with Nilfgaardian armor, but she didn’t think the rider was wearing black. In fact, the knight riding up at the head of the column had a distinctly familiar seat. She breathed, finally, and leaned the spear on the fence.

    “Those are Lyrian banners,” someone said.

    “It’s a trick,” someone else replied, shakily.

    “No,” she said. “No it isn’t. Open the gate.”

    She trooped up the road, met the column, found Herron limping along beside them with a bandage on his leg, a pack of children surrounding him, and Ailfe in his arms.

    “What happened?”

    “I did it,” Ailfe announced. “I saved the day.”

    “Oh?”

    “Well, sort of,” her son replied. “She did keep the Blackclads from catching her and the other kids -”

    “-we climbed a tree,” a boy announced, smugly.

    “-and then I found them and they caught me -”

    “Herron fought like a good one,” said Ailfe. “He got wounded, look.”

    “- then Dad and the lads turned up and attacked the Nilfs -”

     Ailfe finished the story in an excited shout.

    “- and then, durin’ the fight, th’ army came!”

    The knight from the head of the column pulled up and stopped.

    “Not that we needed help,” he said.

    “No, of course not,” Hilde replied, rolling her eyes at him.

    “- anyway, it all ended more or less well,” said Herron. “And they’re saying the Queen’s back.”

    She looked up at Eldred, caught a gap-toothed grin on his face.

    “Oh?”

    Eldred nodded at her.

    “We can go home soon,” Herron said.

    “Home?” Ailfe asked.

    “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “Come on, let’s get down to the camp. Ma, are you coming?”

    “In a minute,” Hilde said.

      “Well,” she said, in the comparative quiet after they left, “Did you see any of our sons?”

    “Not in this unit - these people are just scouts, really,” Eldred said.

    “They’re all alive, at least?”

    “Far as I know. We’ll see them soon enough, if all goes well.”

    “That’s a relief.”

    “Can I give you a lift back?”

    “A ride from a noble knight? I can’t say no to that,” she said.

    The camp was swarming with Lyrian soldiers, Rivian civilians, donkeys, barking dogs, and runaway goats and sheep. Eldred reined in the horse at the gate and overlooked the chaos. She thought she caught a glimpse of Herron and Wynn, ducking out of sight behind a hut, and quickly pointed out the leader of the soldiers.

    “Ah,” Eldred said. “Well, I suppose we could wade into this mess and talk to him -”

    “You’re the Baron,” she interrupted. “You can’t just sneak off by yourself with all this going on. Also, it’s getting dark.”

    “I wasn’t going to go by myself.”

    “Oh,” she said.

    “What I’m thinking is we go off somewhere and come back after this has a chance t’ calm itself down -”

    “I suppose I can always pretend you kidnapped me,” she said. “Someone has to maintain an appearance of responsibility around here.”

    “I promise to have you back before dark,” he said. “What d’ you say?”

    “It’s a deal.”            

    “Someone told me our Hal’s a Colonel, now,” he said, turning the horse around. She wrapped her arms around his waist and propped her chin up on his shoulder to see the road ahead.

    “Is he?”

    “Not that it’s a surprise; he’s just like you.”

    “A social climber?”

    “A pragmatist.”

    “You always were a romantic, Eldred.”

    “I’m a lucky man. We wouldn’t have made it all these months without you.”

    Luck had nothing to do with it; they’d planned and fought and were, again, fortunate that it had all worked out in the end. She buried her face in his neck and let him think it had, anyway.

    “I can’t wait to go home,” she said.

[dirt-cup-draco]

Harry x Reader- New Girl

Hey could you do a Harry Potter x reader fic, where reader doesn’t know anything about Harry Potter like the scar or anything but she is still a witch and Harry falls for her because she doesn’t know how famous he is

Your father had been given a promotion, one that had forced you and your family to leave America and buy some sleepy cottage in England that your mother demanded to have. You couldn’t deny that it was beautiful and exciting, yet you were lonely. To all of your fellow students you were an oddity. You spoke strangely, you listened to bizarre music, you ate strange candies and disliked their favorites. You just simply didn’t fit in. 

It was easiest to fly under the radar, keep your head down and do well in your studies but even that was hard to do. You often found yourself traveling around the grounds of the school alone, admiring the beautiful castle that you had come to adore in an objective sort of way. There was no doubting that Hogwarts was a magical place. 

You just wished you could make a friend. 

You kept to the back as people chattered excitedly around you, Dumbledore at the head of the great hall, eyes scanning over his students with pride and amusement at the antics. The first trial of the Triwizard Tournament had just been completed and Hogwarts’ students were full of pride, the contestants being the only source of topic.

“Did you see how Cedric-” One hufflepuff chittered to her friend in excitement as she passed your table, her voice fading into the crowd as she vanished. You took a long sip of pumpkin juice and looked around, taking in the students you still hadn’t gotten to know yet. 

Kids in your house weren’t cruel, in fact they were quite helpful, but nobody seemed to want to know you on a more personal level. They had nothing to relate to you with and once that barrier was up, they wouldn’t let it come down.  

Even the festivities going on hadn’t been enough of a motive to befriend you and so you watched the tournament from the back of the stands, half paying attention to the two Hogwarts contestants that everyone seemed to go wild over. There was Cedric Diggory, a handsome Hufflepuff you had heard too much about to invest any interest in, and then there was another boy that seemed to be spoken about often. Henry Pots? Harley Peter? 

“Harry’s brilliant on a broom!” You caught a Gryffindor exclaim from the seat, shoving a pumpkin pastie in their mouth. 

“Potter just got lucky this time around,” A slytherin sneered, their voice floating up from the crowd, jealousy souring their voice. 

Harry Potter! That was the boy that nobody got enough of. It seemed he could do no wrong, yet was always in trouble. A fan favorite of the students but a magnet for danger. You had yet to see what curse this boy seemed to drag along with him and you were grateful for it. Your mother had heard of the safety issues involving Hogwarts and it had taken your father a great deal to calm her down. Somehow, you doubted that a single teenager could cause so much strife. You were sure it was all rumors. 

You weren’t interested in knowing the top dogs of the school. You didn’t want to be an outcast either, but you simply didn’t care about who you were friends with so long as you had someone. It had been a lonely few months and you grew more exhausted every day with sending cheerful letters to your mother about how great everything was going when in fact you were feeling miserable. 

You didn’t need a Harry Potter or a Cedric Diggory. You just wanted to not be alone. 

--

Harry peered into the darkness of his bedroom, fumbling for his glasses as he stepped out of his bed, drawing the curtains closed and tiptoeing to the door after grabbing the invisibility cloak from his chest. His mind was reeling and he needed some fresh air. The first challenge was still fresh in his thoughts and he couldn’t help but smile. 

He had been chased by the horntail and come out on top! It was a rush of adrenaline that kept him wide awake during the late hours of the night. Harry was feeling quite proud of himself but he also wondered what the golden egg could possibly mean next for him. Admittedly, he still had a bit of a headache after releasing the clasp at the top. The shrieking from within had rattled his eardrums. 

Maybe a walk would help him understand what to do next. 

He easily waded through the halls, cloak secured around him, eyes and ears sharp in case someone was patrolling for kids out past curfew. Luckily, he had done this enough times that he could easily come and go without being caught.

Stepping onto the grounds, Harry let the breeze settle over him. The tension left his shoulders and let his feet carry him wherever they wished to go. He stalled however when he saw a figure in the distance, a lighter shadow against the inky sky that had swallowed the moon. It was hard to make out anything specific of this person and Harry felt his stomach twist, his heart thumping painfully. 

However, his scar remained unresponsive and he took comfort in that. Nowadays, he felt like he had to look over his shoulder and keep his eyes peeled for any sign of danger. His name being in the goblet had been odd enough and he wasn’t looking forward to any more upsets. 

Harry froze as the figure moved, rounding the curve of the black lake and coming nearer to him. He was tempted to keep his cloak on but then he caught sight of a friendly face, a face that he had been meaning to know. 

Pulling the cloak from his head, he bunched it in his hands and began walking with a purpose. You, however, didn’t hear him. When he suddenly seemed to materialize out of nowhere, you jumped; a short scream getting stuck in your throat as you recognized him. He was a gryffindor in your year but that was as much as you knew about him. There was something familiar about him but you couldn’t quite put your name on it.

“Jesus Christ!” You hollered, hand flying to your chest as you stared at the teen with unruly hair and crooked glasses. “When did you- How did you-?”

“Been here for ten minutes, invisibility cloak,” The boy explained with an easy smile, holding the patterned cloak in his hand. 

“You’re kidding me,” You gasped softly, taking two steps forward as your hands bunched in the material, pulling away quickly as you accidentally squeezed his hand. “Hogwarts makes me feel like I’m new to magic, Ilvermorny never had stuff like this,” 

Harry smiled with pride, he had managed to impress you. It was rare that he wasn’t stumbling over his own two feet and wondering how to get someone’s attention. He had been wondering how to befriend you since he’d seen you on the train, whispers of your previous school spreading between students. Harry liked odd, he seemed to attract it, and to everyone else you were the definition of the word.

“Gift from my dad. Sort of.” Harry found himself explaining, eyeing the cloak. 

“Sort of?” You asked, head tilted to the side. “So, what? You stole it?” Your voice was teasing and low and you had a mischievous glint to your eye that sparkled in the night. 

Harry flushed and shrugged, surprised you didn’t know. “Erm, no. H-he was killed by Voldemort-” You didn’t even flinch, yet he could see your expression start to morph to something full of pity and embarrassment. “-Dumbledore held on to it and gave it to me,” 

“I’m so sorry-” You began, eyes sad and bottom lip stuck out in a guilt-ridden pout. 

“You didn’t know?” Harry had to ask, scratching the back of his head as you two stood still in the grass, the water of the lake pushed up against the sides of the earth it resided within. 

“We haven’t met have we?” You questioned, eyes narrowed. You found this boy to be odd, his surprise at you not knowing his father’s fate was all around surprising. How were you supposed to know of such a tragedy? You were far from friends.

“No, we haven’t,” Harry said easily but understanding dawned on him in the form of a smirk. “You don’t know who I am do I?” 

“Is that supposed to make you sound important” You shot back, eyebrow raised. 

Harry fought with himself. He got the impression that you wouldn’t take kindly to him saying, “Im sort of a big deal seeing as I defeated the dark lord before i could even speak”. Instead he opted for, “N-No, I just know a lot of people and a lot of people know me. They probably know too much but I thought since you’d been here since the beginning of the year, you’d know too,” 

“I don’t get around much,” You explained, shrugging your shoulders as if the weight of loneliness didn’t make it feel as if you were trying to raise cinder blocks up to your ears. 

“Well then,” Harry said, fumbling to get his hand from his jean pocket. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter,” 

You stuck out your hand, but paused halfway, mouth dropping in recognition. “The triwizard kid!” 

Harry laughed. “I’ve been known as worse,” 

You shook his hand, a smile on your face that he had never seen before. It was genuine and warm, yet a lot of perpetual surprise lingered- like you couldn’t quite believe you were having a conversation with someone. “It’s nice to meet you,” 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Ilvermorny,” Harry teased and you groaned, rolling your eyes. 

“I don’t think there is anything worse you could call me,” You grimaced. “Nobody cares to learn my name around here,” 

“You didn’t offer it, I didn’t ask,” Harry shrugged and you were finding him quite strange, but no less pleasant. You were starting to understand why others so quickly believed he brought trouble. Yet, you didn’t mind it. He was refreshing and new. 

“Y/N, you can call me Y/N,” You supplied. “Can I ask why you’re out here?” 

Harry thought for a moment, taking a step forward. You followed his lead, the both of you falling into a comfortable pace as you walked around the grounds- having grown bored standing in place. Harry wanted to be moving and tiring himself out so that he could finally rest. “Mind if I ask first?” 

Deciding you didn’t want to chance scaring off the only person you had gotten the chance to speak to thus far, you spoke first. “It’s nice out here. Helps me think when I cant sleep. And to be honest, it’s a bit odd sleeping in a room full of strangers,” 

Harry’s eyebrows scrunched to the space between his eyes, his large glasses wiggling around on his nose. “You’ve had the same room since arriving, haven’t you?” 

“Yes,” You meant to speak simply but it seemed he was confused. “I-I don’t get along well with the other girls. Well, with anyone if I’m being honest. I’m just the weird Ilvermorny girl, no one wants to know Y/N,” 

“I come here to think too,” Harry offered after a moments silence. “And, for what it’s worth, I think Y/N is pretty cool,” 

Your cheeks flushed and you couldn’t help the airy giggle that left you. You were certain that that was the first real laugh that anyone had been able to draw from you since the year began. Harry Potter was turning out to be much different than you had believed. 

“Maybe next time I’m out here, I’ll run into you again,” You chanced, hoping that you would. 

“Chances are good,” Harry smiled at your subtle proposition. “I don’t usually talk to friends when I come out here, but maybe I need to change that,” 

Friend. The word rang loud and clear in your head and you couldn’t fight the grin that was present. Not much longer after, Harry said farewell and you returned to your dorm but it would be much longer until you were able to sleep. You were feeling optimistic, and you were quite certain that you had just made your first friend since arriving to Hogwarts. 

Harry watched the sun rise from his spot leaning against a tree and even if hours had passed since you had gone to sleep he found that you were still on his mind. He sincerely hoped that you two would happen upon each other again. You were a rare treat in this school. Everyone knew him before he had a chance to know them. If he played his cards right, he’d be able to get to know you without anyone else planting stories in your head. 

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, you weren’t just the new girl. And for the first time in his life Harry Potter wasn’t just the chosen one. Maybe, just maybe, you two could build a friendship that surpassed judgement and preconceptions. Maybe, you two could have something beautiful.

Tag List: @angelinathebook @thehumanistsdiary

[writerwrites]

I Would Climb To You

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Summary: You’ve been friends since middle school, shared a lot of firsts, even had a pact that if both of you weren’t married by a ‘respectable age’ you’d tie the knot. For the first time in years you’re both single on the annual Wilson Family Trip, but feeling like you need to find yourselves, hating dating apps, and not wanting to play the rebound game you two come up with a genius idea to have your needs met: friends with benefits... What could possibly go wrong?

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Smut 18+, FWB!au, swearing, a little talk about the military/injuries

A/N: *THIS IS A ONE SHOT* This is my entry into the great @wxntersoldiers​​​ 6k AU challenge! PS. Jammies!

“Damn, I remember this. Never thought it would leave a scar.” Sam’s dark eyes looked over at you, his hand outreached to flick the faded palm sized scar that was a different shade of brown from the rest of your hip. “A Skip It, right?”

“Not just a Skip It,” The words came out through breathless laughter, “A Skip It challenge in Moon Shoes. We really should have known it wasn’t going to end well.”

Sam’s laugh, a missed sound in the last four months when your best friend was deployed, wrapped you up in familiar comfort. It was his first mission since you were honorably discharged and despite your swearing up and down that you didn’t miss the chaos of being a para-rescuer in the Air Force with that goofy asshole that had been your best friend since you moved to his hometown in seventh grade, you did. Moreover, you knew he knew it. That hug goodbye flashed in your memory briefly, Sam coming at you in camo goofy bear arms outstretched for a hug that, when given, didn’t have the smack to it that always made you unsteady on your feet. You’d reassured him you were fine, physically and emotionally, hugging him tightly back before poking him in the ribs and letting him get on with his farewells to his siblings. Despite the inaudible whispers, you knew he was telling them to check in on you. You also knew he didn’t need to say it, they’d taken you in, just like he had, many years ago. “Hey, where’d you go?” Sam’s voice pulled you out of your head and back to the poolside.

“Don’t look so concerned or someone’s gonna think you’re in love with me.” With a wave of your hand you tried to blow him off, but he didn’t bite, so you went to that line the two of you never crossed. “I was thinking about A.C. Slater and how I totally would have milked an injury in school if it would’ve given me a chance to hook up with a guy who could bench my bodyweight. If. You. Must. Know.”

When your head lulled to the side and a playful glare at Sam over your sunglasses, tongue sticking out, he scoffed. “You’re not that thick, I could bench you. It’s all about balancing the weight.”

“Oh, is this the move?” Laughing you hopped up and squeezed the hard muscles of his biceps, your dark curls dripping onto his bare chest. “I always wondered what you said to get a different girl to leave the bar with you every time we went out. I just assumed you did the whole ‘I’m a soldier’ card.”

Sam feigned offense and tickled his fingers at your waist, throwing you into a fit of laughter. Before you could protest he had one large hand on your inner thigh and the other on your ribs. Instinctually, you tightened your thighs around his hand, your hands ready to smack him on the top of his head as he just gripped you tighter, picking you up like you were a doll. “It might be the move.”

He groaned, you laughed and then he was laughing too. The consequence of loosening your muscles was your body falling onto his chest. “Don’t you dare groan, Wilson, or I’m going to let the boys know you dropped me.”

“Oh trust me, the fact that I dropped you poolside would not be the talk of the conversation.” With a scoff you asked what would be and he obliged you with an explanation you should’ve seen coming. “They always thought we were a thing, still do. They didn’t even ask if I was ‘going home’ for our leave. Instead, they asked what we were getting into.” Despite rolling your eyes, Sam went on. “I told ‘em that I was going to interview at the V.A. and that we were joining my family for a vacation- sun and sand, drinks poolside.”

By now you’d gotten off of him, your hip shoving his thigh to the side so that you could sit on his lounge chair and steal sips of his beer. “So, what did you tell them? Destination wedding or honking hula girl titties?”

“They asked for pictures of you in that bikini.”

“Fuck off.” You groaned, knowing that despite the love for your brothers in arms they were still sexist pigs at the best of times. “I hope you told them you think of me like a sister.”

“So I should’ve lied?” Sam snorted, snatching his beer back from your greedy lips. “If I was going to lie I would’ve said destination wedding to make them feel like assholes for not being invited.”

“So what, I’m a broken toy soldier now so I’m not your sister anymore?” You were hurt and Sam could hear it in your voice, but the sunglasses hid the glimmer of tears in your eyes.

In a huff, Sam watched you get up and reach to snatch his beer back, not particularly wanting to walk across the sunny poolside to get another. He pulled it away again, looking up at you. “You really want to do this right here, right now, on vacation, in front of some strangers’ kids playing Marco Polo.”

Stubborn, the both of you.

You were back in your room in the Wilson’s four bedroom and two bathroom villa faster than Sam could catch up with you and you didn’t care that you had left him with flip flops and a long walk to think about how much it hurt to have him push back about you being family after all these years. You’d sputtered away in the rented golf cart, middle finger flying high. Even now, using Paul and Darlene’s timeshare as a getaway for the kids still included you. You bit your lip and rummaged through your things, hoping a shower would stop you from taking an Uber back to the airport.

When you tapped on the bathroom door you shared with Sam’s sister, Sarah, you heard her holler back. “I’ll be out soon. Are you and Sam coming with Gideon and I to that hibachi place with the bar next door?”

“Sam might. I’m feeling jet lagged, so I think I’m going to sleep early today so that I don’t mess up the rest of our vacation.” You nibbled on your bottom lip until it was sore and puffy, rolling your towel over your arms both hoping she’d buy it and wondering she’d tell you how long ‘soon’ was. Before you got your answer Gideon walked out of the master and into his room next to yours, “Hey, Sam’s still at the pool if you want to text him and see if he’s going with you all.”

He was already taking out his phone, texting Sam, and without looking at you he said, “Just use the master bathroom. I promise the ‘boy’s bathroom is just as clean as yours and you know she’s going to be in there for ages.”

As Sarah shouted out some profanity at him, you mouthed a thank you and slipped into Sam’s room. Like your own, the bed was made and the only sign of life was the suitcase with a few items dangling out of its edges. A glance at the closet as you walked into the bathroom was another tell on your similarities and enlistment- all of the clothes neatly hung in the closet.

You couldn’t even be sure how long the hot water was running over you. As you rinsed off the sweat and sunblock, the door burst open and you swore. “What the f-.” Cut off by flying sandals you squawked again, “What the actual f-.”

Sam cut you off again, shutting the door and crossing his arms but turning toward the opposing wall for your modesty, not that the opaque shower curtain he had boomeranged his sandals around was giving you much cover. “When I said I don’t see you like a sister I didn’t mean that I don’t see you as a soldier, you earned every rank and medal working your ass twice as hard as any of us had to. I’m proud of you, so don’t think for a minute I’m going to let you see yourself as broken. I meant I don’t see you the same as Sarah- never have, never will.” Tears streamed down your cheeks and you were grateful for the water to cover the hurt Sam seemed hell bent on inflicting at the beginning of your vacation after you missed the hell out of him. “You are my best friend and you’re my family. Harlem’s a place I called home in a way, but when I thought about where I was going to live, I didn’t think about where. Harlem didn’t feel like home anymore without you. I realized home is where my person is. You’re my person.”

Your stomach lurched as you listened, an anxious flip. Feeling like you had to put a stop to the conversation he seemed to be trying to have you stuck your head out from around the curtain. “If you’re trying to tell me you’re in love with me you can cut that shit out right now, Sam Wilson. I know the first VHS you masturbated to and you puked on me at prom, when you got your first promotion, when you saw your first d-.”

“Stop. Stop, I’m not in love with you.” He waved his hand like the l-word was leaving a bad stench under his nose. “It doesn’t mean that I can think of you like a sister, either.”

Leaning back into the shower you shut off the water, hoping that it would freeze his junk off when it was turned back on. “Why? You never seemed to have a problem thinking about me that way in middle school, high school, basic training… When did it change?”

You stepped out in a towel, curls dripping everywhere as you looked at Sam, his frame still blocking your path to the door. “Oh I sure as shit did, even in middle school. You know the first VHS I got off to, but you don’t know the real person I thought about every time I was single? C’mon.”

Scoffing in disbelief you moved to the door. “Lying ass.”

“Oh, so you didn’t think of me once or twice either.” You refused to answer, eyes on the door behind him. It was a tell, he knew your silence was an omission. “When was the last time?” If you gave him an inch, you knew Sam Wilson was good for a mile. A glare, daggers straight up into his dark eyes. “That recently? Since I’ve been back?”

“Why does it matter?”

“It’s a vacation. We have a whole house to ourselves.” Don’t say it. Don’t ruin this. You chanted in your head. “With clear boundaries, as two consenting grown ass adults, why should we be the only people in this house not getting laid?”

Sam was sleeping on the other side of the hall but you’d told him at the pool that both of his siblings had brought people back from their night out and you now knew way too much about what they were into in the sheets. Your eyes fell to his full lips and you inadvertently licked your own. Against your better judgement and before you could bite your tongue you asked, “Clear boundaries?”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob and his tongue run across his lips, wondering if maybe he hadn’t expected you to be game. “All right, obviously we’d stop if one of us started seeing someone, be honest in and out of the bedroom- like always, and stop if feelings get in the mix, no cuddling or staying over naked. Anything else?”

“Grooming and contraception, always.” Sam nodded in agreement and started to pull his clothes off, stepping out of your way and heading toward the shower. Though your gaze followed him it fell to the tile when he slipped his thumbs under the hem of his boardshorts. “What about kissing… like on the mouth?”

“We’ve done it before.” He laughed, starting the shower before getting in and though your eyes had been on the clothes on the floor and his feet you slowly built up the confidence to really look at him.

With his back turned to you it was easy to see why he was more than capable of picking you up with ease. You’d only stollen a glance at his whole frame a few times; the notorious high school streak challenge, a skinny dipping haze in basic, and the unspeakable time you walked into his room after a bad breakup and he was… Well, shaking your head to erase the thought like an Etch A Sketch, you unabashedly stared at his statuesque frame climbing into the shower before climbing onto the bathroom counter. “Do high school dares and spin the bottle really count?”

“You kiss differently when it isn’t a game?” Sam stuck his head back out of the shower and looked you over, studying your expression as he covered himself in shower gel. Guilty, you’d gone all in to make an ex jealous and Sam knew it then and was calling your bluff now. “If you don’t want to we don’t have to.”

“They left, thought we had an argument to work out and said they’d stay out late to make sure we worked it out.” You could practically hear the smirk on his lips on the other side of the curtain and you felt the urge to climb in the shower and wallop him right on his perfect haunches if it wouldn’t solely prove him right.

There was a long silence, but you stayed perched there on the sink, listening to the water, picturing Sam under it, then feeling guilty about it. He wasn’t wrong, you’d thought about him occasionally, more out of him being the only completely decent guy you knew and recent break ups making you not want to think about the last guy you slept with. Getting off to the thought of Sam felt dirty, which made you squirm a little… because it wasn’t wrong, just personal. With your towel riding up over your thick thighs, the cool marble of the sink pressed into the curve of your ass, making you shiver as you rocked your hips a little trying to get more comfortable. Your legs swung back and forth and you looked across the counter for lotion to soothe the heat from the sun and hot shower. “Lotion?” The question was asked as you watched him step out, catching a glimpse at the front of him as he grabbed his towel and tucked it around his waist. Sam reached into the cabinet behind you and put the container shea butter, opening the lid and taking in the scent that was distinctly Sam. “What’s in it?” Musing aloud as you took a bit between your fingers and started to warm it up in your palms before massaging it into your skin.

His eyes drank up the movements as he toweled off, a bit to your dismay as you were enjoying the sight of water shimmering down the dark lines of his stomach. “I always put a few essential oils in there. I think this one I added black spruce and…” He trailed off, coming closer, nudging your knees apart with his hips like he needed the mirror and you were in his way, “birch, maybe.”

The nudge almost sent you falling into the sink and your shea butter covered hands wrapped around him as you let out a fleeting squeal and laugh. You scooted closer to the edge, wrapping your legs around his for leverage. “Well, I guess I’ve got your back.” Laughing you ran your hands up Sam’s damp back, massaging the lotion into his skin, hitting the knots and curves with intention. You couldn’t be sure when he stopped putting lotion on his arms or finished brushing his fingers over the fresh finally-on-leave stubble blossoming on his jaw but he had. His dark brown gaze was on you when you looked up at him and you became aware of your breath on his chest. A smirk drew across your lips, trying not to let yourself be shaken by the look in his eyes. “You good?”

Sam’s response was a grunted ‘mmhm’ as he picked the shea butter back up and started to caress the lotion into your thighs. You froze and it was his turn to ask, “You good?” A challenge, two could play this game.

There was a time you were quick to snap back with witty comments, but determined to abuse the door Sam had opened, you leaned forward the mere inch to his chest, still hot from the shower, and pressed your lips to his skin. He groaned and you smirked. But the playful back and forth torture continued, you massaging Sam’s back, moving lower with every circle, was met with Sam’s own caresses further up your thighs. His hands were under the hem of the towel before yours had reached his ass. Like turning on the green light at a race, your tongue slipped out of your mouth and brushed down his chest to his ribs, where you nipped at the defined muscle. That set him off and what had been quiet moans between the two of you was now a deep growl from Sam. With a casual “oops,” you were really telling him, checkmate.

But two can play that game, his eyes said as they looked straight into your soul. Sam’s fingers pulled open your towel and you bit your lip, letting him have his moment. Your gaze narrowed and you pulled his own off, your tongue running across your lips when his length sprung free. This wasn’t uncharted territory, you’d long since grew out of the uncomfortable in your skin complex that was debilitating and internalized by so many women of your complexion. The tips of your fingers pressed into the cut of muscle over his hips and Sam leaned forward only to groan as your hands curved away from his semi and down his thighs. Your nails scratched gently around the back of his thighs and teased him again by completely avoiding his toned glutes. Impatient with the teasing, Sam’s brushed the back of his fingers over your chest before palming the slope of your breasts. The way your nipples went hard under the slightest attention from the pad of his thumb made the man’s cock twitch in front of you.

If he was determined to keep pushing the line further, then you were determined to push it faster. Your soft hands wrapped around his muscle, stroking him tight and slow. His eyes closed and his mouth opened in a near-silent groan. No talking was needed, you could see the fire moving straight through him and you squirmed on the sink with delight, all too aware of how wet making him hard in your hand was making you wet. Proud of the littlest accomplishment of pleasure, a little victory in a lifetime long list of teasing, you explored the new territory, brushing your thumb in gentle small circles over the tip of his cock. The pad of your thumb came up wet with precum and you looked right at him as you brought your thumb to your lips and sucked the digit clean. Sam’s fingers dug harder into your thighs and you let him pull you not just to the edge of the sink but so that there was no longer space between the two of you.

A whimper passed your lips and your thumb left your mouth with a pop as his cock pressed against your pelvis and stomach; long, thick, and hard and Sam’s expression was just as proud and uncompromising. He rocked his hips and you squeezed your thighs tighter at his sides. There was a fleeting moment where his eyes softened, his mouth opened, and you knew he was going to ask if you were sure- as if there was some way to come back from giving your best friend a boner while you sat naked in his bathroom talking about thinking about just doing this. “I’d like to know if you’re worth the hype.”

“Oh really?” He laughed and smiled up at him. There was no other reason for a protest and, given how wound up the pair of you were from being in dry spells, there wasn’t a need or want for foreplay beyond the introductory touching you’d both fleetingly just engaged in. Pulses rampant, Sam pulled away just enough to line himself up to your entrance, catching a glimpse of your dripping pussy and nearly giving in to bury his face between your thick thighs. A low and slow, “Fuck,” passed Sam’s lips as he pushed himself into your tight passage.

Your giggle became a breathy gasp as he filled you. Swallowing at your surprisingly dry throat you buried your face in his arm and, as your heat stretched to accommodate him you bit gently into his bicep. Whimpering when he slowed further, he took the hint and kept going until he filed you to the hilt. Your dark eyes looked up at him and you ran your tongue up the vein on his arm where you’d left a little bite mark. Placing careful kisses up his arms and across his chest, you moved your hands to the edge of the bathroom’s countertop and bit your lip as you held on and you moved your legs up over his hips, locking at the ankles over his ass. Sam wasted no time, as if just getting to this point had been a marathon of torture. He held onto your waist and what started as a few long thrusts where he made sure you were okay, quickly turned into deep thrusts at a steady pace. “Yes, right there,” the words were a panted plea when he hit the right spot and like a machine he kept driving himself into you, right there, making the bathroom echo with the sound of your moaning and the obscene echo of his cock claiming you.

Tightening around him, Sam was soon groaning with you, both satisfied and wanting more of you. Untangling your legs, he put them over his shoulders. The combination of being completely under his control and the view of his muscles hard at work with the labor of the deep and frantic fuck made your toes curl. Reaching back you pressed a palm into the curve of the sink for more pressure and leverage. Your breasts with every thrust and his eyes moved from your lips to your chest. The way his tongue ran across his full lips, the way he bit his lip, all of it made the coil in your core impatient for release. When he focused on his own pleasure, and you had no leverage to even roll your hips, your mind went static and you begged, “Sam, please. Please, harder! More. I need you.”

To your surprise Sam pushed your legs off his shoulder and thrust hard and deep inside you so that you called out his name and scratched down his back. Then Sam pulled you up off of the sink. Quickly adapting, your legs wrapped tightly around him and you looped your arms around his neck. With Sam’s hands pawing at your thighs and ass, you using your own strength to grind, and him back in a deep rapid thrusts you knew you were going to fall over the edge. He watched you, both of you cursing loudly in the steamy bathroom, “I know you’re close. Look at me.”

Frazzled, you followed the command like a good soldier and it only made his hips rut into you more enthusiastically. Your skin burned against his and you hungrily pulled his mouth to yours and poured in proof that maybe the both of you hadn’t really poured everything into those silly spin the bottle snogs. You couldn’t pull away, the taste of his beer still on his lips and the familiar comforting scent of him enveloped you and you gave in to Sam’s control. Your lips fell from his and your head lulled back, curls sticking to the fresh sweat on your forehead and shoulders as your legs quaked to the point that he had to cling to your thighs as your orgasm quaked through your body. Your moaning quickly turned into bashful laughter, which you stifled by biting your lip as your muscles spasmed around him.

With Sam still inside you, your juices dripping down his muscle, you pulled yourself back against his chest and nipped at his jaw. His dark eyes had been staring at you, an expression you couldn’t decipher. “I didn’t even know I could cum that hard.” Whatever that expression had been on his face now melted back into the look of lust you’d seen painted on his face when he unraveled your towel. You held onto him more tightly as he moved to the wall and pinned you to it. You watched his muscles in the damp mirror as he fervently rutted himself into you. The tips of your fingers caressed the muscles down his back and scratched at as much of his toned ass as you could grab past your own thighs. “No one has ever felt this good inside me.”

Was it positive praise, did he just love a good compliment because he was a cocky bastard, or could he tell that the confession had slipped past your lips in earnest? Sam gently grabbed your jaw and looked at you before pressing his mouth to yours again, sucking at your bottom lip before biting it. The dedicated rhythm of his pumping into you became as starved as his lips, and you could have sworn the wall was going to bruise your back or that someone a block away would come knocking concerned from the noise you two were making. He knew you were close again, that jagged whimper that sputtered into his mouth in gasps as you started to tighten around him. Like a vice, you milked him and he gave into you. Sam’s cock throbbed against your walls and the satisfied feeling of him filling you up brought you closer to the edge. He pressed a soft, finished and fleeting kiss to your lips, closed to pulling out of you and setting you down, utterly exhausted. But you held your thighs tightly around him, reaching between the two of you and teasing your clit until you came again.

As your second orgasm washed over you, Sam had leaned back to watch the whole scene and only bent down to flick his tongue across your nipples which sent a little aftershock through your body. You gave his arm a little teasing smack as he set you down. With shaking legs you laughed as you walked gracelessly to the shower. “Sam, I know we made a pact Freshman year that if we weren’t married by forty we’d tie the knot, but I never thought I’d want to hold you to it.”

Sitting on the bench in the shower you caught your breath, still laughing as your legs continued to shake. “This is going to be one hell of a vacation.”

“Damn straight.” You winked, reaching over to turn the shower on and meeting Sam’s hand. “You getting in?”

He looked you over and leaned against the wall, the cool water blasting some reality into your sense before it warmed up, “Now I am.” You both laughed and he got in, taking over the shower heads full flow of water. “Now let me clean you up while I catch my breath.”

Biting your lip you nodded, watching his soap covered rough hands move with tenderness back up your thighs, teasing you he pulled down the shower head. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I? No one’s here but us,” He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, “You managed to walk into the shower, I clearly haven’t finished.”

Before you could protest the high pressure of the shower head was between your legs and your hands were clutching his biceps. Closing your eyes, you could only manage to helplessly say one word, maybe tomorrow you’d worry about it sounding like I love you, “Sam.”

[atinytokki]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Chapter 3: Welcome Aboard 

“Unchain me.”

Lieutenant Byun’s head shot up from where it had been nodding off as his lucky prisoner’s request drew him back to alertness.

He scoffed at the boy’s bluntness and pulled his book up from where it had been sliding down his lap.

“No.”

“Won’t you let me go to the window?” 

Now he sounded desperate.

“Not after the stunt you pulled,” Byun scolded, returning to his book but not really reading it.

Hongjoong had almost jumped overboard last week because his hands were small enough to slip out of the restraints. Not that he would’ve gotten far, considering the fact that his legs still didn’t work properly, but these new chains were much tighter, chafing his wrists until they bled and tiring him out with his attempts to escape them.

So he relaxed in his bonds and tried to lay back, resting in the rocking of the ship where it was anchored in the harbour.

Only an hour or two more and they’d be at sea, nowhere for him to run to.

A knock came at the door and the lieutenant dropped his book, peering through the keyhole to see who was calling before ushering three officers in.

One was Lieutenant Park, newly promoted and very excited to meet the rumoured Lucky himself. The other two were the stoic duo, Surgeon Oh and Steward Doh. Both undisputed professionals and the best in town at their respective duties.

“Did anyone see you?” Byun whispered, closing the door tightly behind them.

Lieutenant Park answered quickly, “Just two midshipmen. Both already sworn to secrecy.”

Byun relaxed and hovered in the background while the surgeon began his daily checkup of the prisoner.

Hongjoong was quiet throughout the process, shivering once at the touch of the surgeon’s hands before fixing his gaze on the tiny porthole opposite him and refusing eye contact with anyone.

It was taking a bit longer than usual.

“How is he?” Byun asked, mouth suddenly dry.

“Looking pale again,” the surgeon reported, waving his hand in the steward’s direction. “My surgical knife, if you please.”

All of them watched with baited breath as Surgeon Oh hiked up Hongjoong’s shirt and made a precise incision in his side. 

Park and Byun moved to hold the patient down when he began to squirm and protest while the surgeon collected blood.

The smell of it pervaded the cabin and made Byun begin to grow nervous.

“Remind me not to let you tend to me if I’m ever injured,” Lieutenant Park jabbed at the surgeon with a smirk.

“Isn’t that too much blood?” Byun muttered. “He was haemorrhaging a few weeks ago with all that internal bleeding, I thought he needed to conserve his blood—“

“Will you two let him work?” The steward sighed, wiping off the knife as it was handed back to him.

“You said it didn’t matter if he was dead or alive,” the surgeon reminded Lieutenant Byun with a quirked eyebrow, stitching up the wound smoothly.

“Well,” Byun spluttered. “The Admiral has gotten used to the idea of him being alive. He’s not your experiment, don’t be careless.”

“If the Admiral cares so much, you can tell him I’m only checking for infection,” the surgeon shot back, annoyed, before getting to his feet and carrying out his medical supplies. 

The steward and Lieutenant Park both followed him out, but hearing a groan from Hongjoong, Byun elected to stay.

“So you aren’t nursing me back to health just to kill me?” Hongjoong mumbled, a trace of sarcasm on his voice. He masked it well, but Byun could see him struggling to readjust his clothing without hurting himself.

“Well... no,” Byun answered, trying to sound distant from the whole thing. “But if the Admiral needs to kill you for whatever reason, he’s prepared to do so.”

Hongjoong’s eyes landed on the porthole again. The tiny patch of blue he could see was comforting to him.

“I always wanted to die at sea.”

He closed his eyes and wished he could go back in time.

At first Hongjoong had thought some sort of angel was descending upon him in his last moments. He could not have been more wrong.

The thankfulness that exuded him as he was hurried to safety and healed with expensive medicine decreased significantly when he discovered to whom he owed that gratitude.

It had been Lieutenant Byun, leaping into action when the square was invaded, and noticing the prisoner being impaled by the collapsed wooden structure on top of him. The stage he stood on was to be his downfall. Hongjoong had survived the noose but would likely not survive the battle.

Out of a strange and sudden pity, the Lieutenant scooped Hongjoong up and brought him to the Black Crow where it was anchored, handing him off to the surgeon and contriving an excuse before he faced backlash for it.

He decided to keep his regretful compassion a secret and presented the rescue in a light Admiral Kim would understand- a lucrative opportunity.

This was the most acclaimed pirate of the past decade, surely his skills would be very useful in winning the Admiral praise and war hero status. If not, they could always execute him again.

Though the second option was presented humbly as a last resort, seeing as how Byun wasn’t sure he could let Hongjoong die now.

There was something about saving a life that suddenly put the responsibility in one’s hands. Now Hongjoong was indebted to him, and Byun had to face the consequences of his own spur-of-the-moment actions.

He agreed out of respect for his superior to Kim’s single condition— that the entire turn of events be kept secret from the men. No one was to know what he had done. The stranger in the depths of the Crow was just an injured soldier. The Pirate King was dead.

Otherwise they might be facing uprisings and mutinies and, well, Kim’s bid for fame depended on privateers to do the work for him.

It was jarring, flogging a pirate within an inch of his life one day and holding a rag to his bleeding wounds the next, but Lieutenant Byun was a man of honour, even if his profession didn’t create much space for personal discernment.

Again, the door opened and Steward Doh entered, this time with a bowl of soup to feed the prisoner once he had helped him into a sitting position. 

Byun stood awkwardly in the corner while Hongjoong chatted with the steward. The former had become quite familiar with the officers of the Crow and it made Byun uncomfortable how easily he got under everyone’s skin. How much earlier would he have been moved to save the boy’s life if he’d been given the opportunity to charm them back on Namhae?

“What’s in here, exactly?” Hongjoong asked, mouth still full of bread.

“Oh, I’m not sure you would recognise all the ingredients,” the steward let him down gently. “They’re quite expensive.”

Hongjoong laughed so suddenly he almost choked on his soup. “Mr. Doh, I haven’t always been a pirate. Try me.”

“Well, the meats are blue crab, prawns, clams, mussels, scallops, monkfish and octopus...” here the steward poked at a protruding tentacle. “And for the base there’s fish sauce, lemon juice, anchovy broth...”

Byun watched Hongjoong’s face as he took it all in, nodding at the mention of each soybean sprout or fermented cabbage. It made him wonder what had led to his becoming a pirate if he was indeed so well versed on high society.

“It was very good,” Hongjoong thanked him when he was finished, voice quieting as he added, “Seonghwa should take advice from you.”

Both officers glanced at each other knowingly before rushing to change the topic of conversation.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to. 

The door cracked open and Midshipman Moon poked his head out.

“Admiral Kim’s compliments, sirs, and you’re needed on deck. Weighing anchor.”

The steward looked at Byun in alarm. “But we were told not to leave Lucky alone like last week—“

“He’s weak and he’s tired from the meal, he’ll be fine,” the Lieutenant assured him, pulling him outside and closing the door before muttering, “Prince Seonghwa is present, it will be suspicious if officers are unaccounted for.”

Because even if he fudged the rules about not interacting with the prisoner or not feeding him the same portion as the rest of the men, this order was a serious one and blowing it would land them all in deep trouble.

Both rushed to the quarterdeck, Byun quickly assuming proper posture and running through scenarios in his head in case the prince were to address him.

But he wasn’t in any danger of needing to fabricate a quick lie, because Seonghwa wasn’t paying any attention to the ongoing procedures.

His eyes were on the sea ahead of him.

Byun tried not to think about the fact that just a few decks beneath them was a person the prince believed to be dead.

As always, Byun knew too much. He knew how Seonghwa had become mixed up with the pirate band he had fought so ardently for back in Namhae.

It had been one of those lazy days at the Admiralty a few years ago. Byun was a young midshipman at the time, and nothing exciting had come along in weeks.

Until the captain of a merchant ship burst into the office with reports of piracy. Through stuttering words and shaking breaths he explained how the small pirate vessel, bigger still than the last time it was spotted, had overtaken them and forced them to surrender. 

The ATEEZ had made off with their gold, a chunk of their food supplies, some storage barrels, and one of their men.

But it wasn’t just any of their men. It was the lost prince, entrusted to the merchant by the palace nurse who switched her own child out for him— a preposterous story, most certainly contrived to prioritise the Navy’s search for this crewman, but one so unique it captured Byun’s interest.

And it also moved him to stay the Admiral’s hand when he had the pirates cornered in the inn until after Seonghwa had left.

At so many points along the way, any of his actions could have changed the entire outcome of multiple lives.

Here he was now, because of his insistence that Admiral Kim spare two individuals in two separate events, both of whom could ruin them all given the chance.

And perhaps they still would, a notion which didn’t terrify him as much as it ought to.

Byun remembered having a hard time believing a mere pirate could bewitch his crew to such an extent, but having interacted with him over the course of the month, he was beginning to understand.

Seonghwa had gone from his captive to his friend, Byun could easily go from his captor to his ally.

The prince suddenly turned to Admiral Kim, squinting in suspicion. Lieutenant Byun caught his breath.

“Why are we heading north? I thought the plan was preemptively striking Haemin’s border fortresses.”

“Yes, that remains the plan,” Kim answered dryly. “However, Admiral Lee has called for men to help defend Panhang. He’s a chicken for putting in the request, given how unlikely it is that beach will see action, but the Crow already carries three times as many hands as are needed to crew her, so we can spare them. Then we’ll rendezvous with the rest of the fleet and sail for Haemin.”

At the mention of Panhang, the prince stilled. No more was heard from him until the officers were dismissed and he retreated to his chambers. 

Lieutenant Byun shook off his nerves and tried to return to his duties.

It was a long journey to Haemin but only a day to Panhang. One thing at a time.

... 

By the time Yeosang paid the carriage driver and watched him leave, the sun was already rising.

He had travelled through the night back to the estate, with Jungwan carefully disguised in the luggage carrier among baskets and blankets.

“Are we there?” The boy murmured, stretching his sore legs and standing at his full height. Taller than Yeosang remembered him being.

“Yes, but we still need to exercise caution,” Yeosang told him sternly, ushering him out of the road and towards the side of the mansion. “My father might still be here.”

“And he doesn’t know you’re back?” Jungwan whispered as they rounded the corner to the servants’ entrance.

“No,” Yeosang scoffed. “He thinks I’m still in Doljeon, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Jungwan nodded and stepped into the cramped hallway.

Yeosang still knew the secret passages and shortcuts through the estate from days exploring them in his youth. Though their original function was to help servants move around unseen, they would be useful for the purpose Yeosang had in mind.

“In here,” he whispered, cracking open a door tucked away in a corner of the top floor and ushering Jungwan in. “This is where you’ll stay. I’ll tell the housekeeper, Sohyun, about you. She can be trusted.”

The room was small, but compared to the conditions those boys faced every day, it would do just fine.

Yeosang shuffled about, collecting food, piling boxes and blankets, and wiping away dust where he could while Jungwan looked around the room. 

“Where are you going?” The boy asked suddenly when Yeosang turned to leave.

“To rescue the rest of your friends and bring them here,” Yeosang responded, mouth set into a firm line. 

“But... you could be caught,” Jungwan’s voice became even quieter. “You could be hurt, or-or even killed—“

“If I don’t save them, no one else will,” Yeosang insisted. “You don’t have a better idea, do you?”

Jungwan cracked a small smile and tilted his head. “You’ve changed.”

Yeosang’s shoulders dropped and he looked out the tiny cracked window, relaxing. Becoming part of something will change you, he knew from experience.

“For the better?”

The younger boy considered it for a moment and nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

Yeosang turned to leave, but Jungwan called after him, “Please be careful! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if you don’t come back and one of your servants finds me...”

“Give me three days,” he called back before closing the door tightly behind him.

Three days should be enough.

...

Yunho took a deep breath and collected all three plates of breakfast, balancing them in his arms.

Dooeun, Hanbyeol, and some of the other crewmen had offered their help, having grown accustomed to preparing their own food in the month they’d spent stagnated here, but Yunho refused them. He was back onboard the ATEEZ now, and he wanted to do things himself.

It was reminiscent of their last meal together, even the floppy eggs were shaped the same. But Yunho shoved the thought aside and entered Mingi and Jongho’s room. 

Only Jongho was present, sifting through all the belongings in his trunk. He hadn’t seen any of them in a month, but there wasn’t much to begin with.

“Where’s Mingi?” Yunho grunted, lowering his armload precariously onto a small table. 

“Captain’s room,” Jongho answered, eyes widening gratefully as he accepted a bottle of rum with his breakfast. “Bless you for this.”

Yunho smiled fondly, even as he handed his own bottle over to the younger so he could open it for him. He already knew where Mingi was, but it didn’t hurt to ask. 

“Anything good in there?” Yunho asked after taking a swig, nodding towards Jongho’s chest.

“Some guns I stowed away before leaving, my nicer shirts and vests, old taffy...” Jongho procured a small book and flipped through it with a smirk on his face. “This diary. Mostly empty, except for the pages I wrote back when I was afraid of forgetting all of you.”

Yunho chuckled and stabbed a sausage with his fork, peering into the trunk to see the last item nestled at the bottom in a bed of embroidered coats. 

“Your pan flute.”

Jongho gazed at it, biting his lip, before returning to his meal. “Right.”

That flute was special, and out of everything in the box, had the most memories attached to it.

Yunho coughed uncomfortably and took Mingi’s plate in hand. “I should bring it to him before it gets cold,” he reasoned, leaving Jongho to his dusty chest and broken memories.

The Captain’s cabin felt hollow despite everything remaining exactly where it always had been. Yujin hadn’t touched it. Mingi wasn’t planning on touching it.

“He’s always survived against all odds,” a soft voice surprised Yunho until he turned to see Mingi sitting on Hongjoong’s bed, hands in his lap.

He looked like a different person with his hair newly dyed a flaming red.

Yunho’s jaw fell open in shock.

“There was extra red laying around,” Mingi explained, blushing and looking away. “I thought... to keep him alive.”

Yunho nodded and moved to embrace him. There wasn’t much either of them could say, and the moment passed in quiet remembrance.

“So,” Yunho said, pulling back. “What’s the plan?”

Mingi gestured to the trunks and piles of gold scattered throughout the room. 

“There’s enough in my share to provide for my family,” he pointed out. “I’m going to bring it ashore and give it to them. After that... I’m still not sure.”

“My little brother could use the money too, wherever he is,” Yunho mused.

“Then we should make finding him our next move,” Mingi decided, turning to face him. “Do you think Jongho will want to come?”

Yunho laughed outright. “He’s already put the men on a training regimen. And it’s not like he has anywhere else to go.”

“And the crewmen? They’ll follow me?”

Yunho gripped his shoulder and smiled. “We’re with you Mingi.”

...

San was in the thick of it. His attention was currently split three ways between the ammunition he was loading, the cannon fire raining down, and the man bleeding out next to him.

He’d been struck in the arm and had a chance to live, but not if he stayed there writhing on the ground and screaming San’s ears off. 

San dropped his bag of powder to haul the injured soldier up but was promptly yelled at by an officer, presumably for leaving his post, which meant his attention was now split four ways.

“He needs help!” He tried explaining, obviously not getting through the language barrier. “Look at him, he’ll bleed to death!”

San presented the dying man to the officer, who squinted at him and dragged him along to the infirmary. It seemed he had figured things out.

Together they hurried up the stairs to the second deck, ducking when a fiery cannonball tore through the banister and was quickly doused by a swarm of soldiers.

Haemin’s Navy was completely hectic from what San had seen.

The men around him were clearly untrained or unexperienced or both. Fresh recruits, prisoners of war, and a drunken captain who rarely showed his face on deck. 

San had a feeling that even if he could understand the officers’ orders, he wouldn’t be impressed by their military discipline.

The chaos was unmitigated on arriving at the infirmary, and the gunner in charge of him had to bring along another officer who spoke San’s language for him to explain his medical qualifications to.

“I need a saw or a knife— something sharp,” San enunciated. “Sharp! You know...” he tried to draw the shape in the air and the officer nodded slowly before his eyes lit up and he ran away, returning with a saw.

“Good,” San sighed, rolling the injured man onto a table. “Now clean it with something. Ointment, alcohol— what’s this? Whale blubber soap? That’s fine, clean it with that.”

The officers made eye contact once before nodding and complying.

“Where’s your surgeon?” San asked as he quickly and efficiently tied off the bleeding limb and snatched one of the officers’ jackets for the man to bite into. “I’m assuming you have one?”

“Dead,” the translator answered, pointing to a fresh bloodstain on the floor that a body had clearly been dragged out of. “His head...” the man mimicked an explosion and indicated his own head, as if trying to demonstrate the event.

“I got it, thank you,” San said quickly, wincing and returning to his patient. “Tell him not to squirm, I’ll try to make it as painless as possible.”

The translator complied and the injured man looked up at him with fear in his eyes before trying to relax. It was his best shot at survival, there was no other choice.

Even as much as he hated slaving away for this foreign nightmare ship, as long as San survived the battle, it didn’t matter to him who won the war. He could clean wounds on both sides without feeling guilty about it.

And so he gripped the saw comfortably in his hands and began the work he was made for.

...

Waiting in the stables was one of Yeosang’s old friends.

“Yuma!” He breathed delightedly, almost dropping his bag of supplies in his excitement to reach the horse.

Sure enough, Yuma remembered him. He nuzzled him affectionately while Yeosang searched for his saddle.

“Oh Yuma, I thought maybe Father had sold you or worse...”

Once the horse was ready to go, Yeosang took his long face in his hands and hugged him tight. “I know you’re old and tired but... I need you to take me away. One last time.”

Yuma nickered agreeably just enough to make Yeosang smile softly before swinging himself up and giving the command.

They tore out of the stables and back through the woods, headed east. Yeosang knew the shortcuts back to Doljeon and from there, they would follow the river to where it met the sea.

The naval shipyard of Kon.

The pair made good time, only stopping once or twice briefly for a break and walking when they had to. 

By mid-afternoon, Yeosang had dismounted to offer his steed some water and rented out a cart to hide the rest of the powder monkeys in when he had them.

Yuma had earned his break and waited comfortably in a nearby field while Yeosang hurried off to the docks.

He hoped he wasn’t too late.

The port town was crowded and running wild behind what seemed to be a fresh draft notice.

Yeosang overheard the news on his way down to the ships, but with everyone talking about it the entire length of the street, the news was hard to miss.

“A notice from the palace. All privateers are instructed to report to the Admiralty and join the naval fleet, and all independent pirates who submit themselves to the ranks will be pardoned for past crimes, even awarded if they perform exceptionally in the King’s service.”

Exciting for some, but Yeosang knew the true implications of this draft. No matter how the Admiral framed it, he was still putting children in harm’s way when he could easily deploy his own men or recruit more.

The blabbering sea sponge peddler debating the order with his neighbour seemed eager enough. 

Determined not to let those boys be forced to the front lines, Yeosang made his way to Si-Hyuk’s ship, relieved to find it anchored close to the main street.

It was a place he could never forget.

The last time he’d been on it, he was running away in the dead of night, stolen maps clutched close to his chest and his entire life laid out behind him.

He’d had no idea what awaited him then, but today’s plan was clear. Break in, find the boys, break out.

No pirate worth his salt would ever dream of coming into port at Kon, which meant little security and easy access.

Nearly all the naval attention was focused on the shipwrights and their floating skeletons, all of them growing into new warships while the privateers waited alongside them, readying themselves for battle.

The dockworkers were chatting with each other animatedly and it was almost too good to be true, so Yeosang initiated the distraction tactic of yelling “stop, thief!” and then directing everyone in his vicinity up the hill, clearing out the area so he could freely board.

He knew the quartermaster had eyes on the back of his head, so he moved swiftly and silently into the lower decks.

It was a part of the ship he had never frequented, but the powder monkeys were found where powder monkeys usually are, huddled around in a cramped circle whispering to each other, surrounded by their hammocks in the lowest deck. 

“Let me guess, you don’t want to go to war?”

A dozen heads snapped to attention, eyes widening as they realised who was in their presence. 

“Kang Yeosang? Is that really you?”

Yeosang ducked under a hammock, trying not to be slapped in the face by the dirty feet hanging out of it, and nodded his affirmation.

“I’ve come to get you all out of here.”

Even more puzzled whispers broke out at this, and the first boy who had spoken shushed them all so he could speak again.

“Are you just taking us to another ship? Your father, the navigator— did he put you up to this?”

Yeosang sighed and scrubbed his face. “Yechan, right?”

The boy nodded and crossed his arms.

“Listen, Yechan,” Yeosang said quickly. “If any of you have good parents or a decent home, I’d be glad to take you there. The point is, I’m not letting you sail into gunfire. You’re all too young for this and none of you signed on for it. Jungwan found me and he’s already safe back at the estate, waiting. Anyone who needs somewhere to stay is welcome there until we can arrange something permanent. But there isn’t much time, so all I can ask is that you trust me.”

There was a beat of silence before a younger boy, Myungjoong, stood and faced him.

“We’ve nowhere else to go and I don’t fancy getting my head blown off. I say we go with him.”

A murmur of agreement swept the group.

“He did run away and live with pirates,” Heeseung warned, eyeing Yeosang suspiciously. “It could all be a kidnapping scheme.”

“To what end?” Yechan argued back. “Any pirate with a head on his shoulders is sailing away from this war. I’m with Myungjoong on this. Anyone else?”

A few boys filled their pockets with what little they had and stood to leave. But still, some of them hesitated, and Yeosang tapped his foot impatiently.

“The dockworkers are probably back by now,” Yeosang groaned. “It’s now or never.”

The rest of them communicated silently with each other before coming to a consensus and joining.

“How are you planning on sneaking us out?” Another boy asked. Taehyun, if Yeosang remembered correctly.

The question was a rational one, and it had Yeosang scratching the back of his neck in frustration.

“I can’t just walk out with all of you, it’ll turn heads.”

“Inhong has an idea!” Myungjoong spoke up, nudging an even younger boy who blushed shyly and pointed at the big stack of empty barrels behind him.

Yeosang blinked, impressed.

“Alright, into the barrels, all of you. I have a plan.”

...

Mingi adjusted his grip on his chest of gold until he was holding it as comfortably as possible.

It was a cumbersome load that he and Yunho had taken from the captain’s quarters but it was going to a good cause.

Mingi tried to quell his nervousness and find comfort in Yunho’s presence as he rowed them both back to the beach.

He was thankful Yunho hadn’t given up on him in all his bouts of sullenness and dejection.

It was difficult being here in such a meaningful place, walking on sand that reminded him of another time, taking paths that led directly back to his past.

They stopped at the top of the cliff to appreciate the view and, for Mingi, relive some of the happier moments of his childhood before turning away and following the road home.

Together they stood facing the cottage, one of the window shutters hanging slightly off its hinge, but everything else in the condition Mingi had left it.

“Is this the place?” Yunho prodded gently. 

Mingi nodded and took a deep breath before knocking on the door.

As they waited for an answer, he began having second thoughts. What if his parents didn’t want to see him? What if they did but were angry with him for leaving? What if his proffered chest of gold was an insult to them? What if they weren’t even there and the house had been sold or abandoned for good?

The door flew open and there his mother stood, hand coming up to her mouth in shock.

“Mingi?”

He nodded and placed the chest on the ground so he could wrap her in a hug. He could see Father standing in the hallway behind her, equally surprised to see him and his eyes watered as he pulled him in, too.

They stood there together for a minute longer before remembering their manners and inviting Yunho inside.

“Who is this?”

“Where have you been?”

Both parents asked their questions simultaneously before laughing and letting Mingi speak.

“It’s a long story, but this is my friend Yunho. We... we worked together for the past few years, along with some others.”

“Doing what?” His father asked, ushering the guest into a chair. “Fishing?”

Yunho coughed awkwardly and looked to Mingi for help, unsure how much he was planning on divulging.

“Something like that,” Mingi dismissed, presenting the chest of gold with a deep breath. “We’ve managed to acquire a significant amount of wealth in our travels and... well, we decided to come here to offer some of it to you.”

Mingi’s parents looked at each other with wide eyes before his mother carefully took the box in hand and opened it to see if it was, in fact, true.

Shining gold reflected off of her shocked face and she closed the lid quickly. “Mingi, we could never take this, it’s far more than we need and you earned it. It’s yours.”

“No, Mother,” Mingi insisted, taking her hand. “It’s for you, I’ve made up my mind. You don’t need to work in those conditions anymore, you deserve to live in comfort for everything you’ve done to save our family.”

For a moment, Mingi’s father looked too ashamed to even speak, but he grasped his son’s shoulder in gratitude and told him he was proud.

It was all Mingi wanted to hear.

“Please be careful if you go back out there,” Mother told him when the sun was long gone, their bellies were full, and both boys were on their way out. “With all this talk of war, I would hate for anything to happen to you.”

“And visit when you get the chance,” Father asked him. “We’re always concerned about you.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Yunho smiled confidently. “He has me looking after him.”

As they walked the path back to town, Mingi finally let happy tears fall.

“Do you think they know what you’ve been doing all this time?” Yunho asked softly.

Mingi chuckled and wiped his face.

“I don’t doubt it. They did raise me, after all.”

“I think I had better treat you to a drink,” Yunho hummed, grabbing Mingi’s face and brushing away any excess tears. “You did well today.”

So he slung his arm around his shoulders and led him off to the tavern, the door swinging shut behind them.

...

“Hello Lucky.”

Hongjoong looked up at the sound of the door but didn’t acknowledge the voice addressing him.

Lieutenant Byun, dropping by for no reason. From among the four officers who visited, Byun did so the most frequently and most needlessly.

At least on this chilly evening, he had no reason to be here save for his own inquiring. 

Hongjoong wasn’t dying at the moment, didn’t need to be fed or washed, and wasn’t currently required to help strategise against enemy soldiers.

“You’re curious about me,” he concluded, running a hand through messy bleached hair. The pink had long since disappeared, and an icy sort of white remained.

The lieutenant scoffed and averted his eyes, gazing out the small window at the passing waves.

“I’m curious about the pirate king,” Byun admitted, shuffling back and forth. “Who was he and how did he go from high society to the scum of the earth?”

Hongjoong shook his head with a small smile and obliged.

“A desperate orphan with nowhere else to go, and he met a notorious pirate who was somehow still a better parent to him than his own relatives were. I think you get the picture.”

“But why are you— were you— public enemy number one?” Lieutenant Byun pressed. “What did you do to make the Admiral hate you so much?”

Hongjoong’s smile fell and he looked away, body going limp again and piquing the officer’s interest even more. He regretted it, whatever it was.

The door suddenly opened again for the surgeon, bringing his box of supplies in himself this time.

Byun frowned in confusion. “You already did your daily checkup, what’s all this?”

The surgeon began to lay out his tools without answering, which was answer enough for the lieutenant.

“No, no, no, I said no experimenting!” He insisted. “He’s healthy enough now, so unless your bubbling concoctions and strange looking corkscrews can make him superhuman, don’t expect help from me!”

“I knew you wouldn’t be assisting,” the surgeon chuckled, pushing his patient down and keeping him there with an iron grip. “That’s why I summoned Lieutenant Park.”

Byun pinched his nose in exasperation and attempted to wrestle away a pair of bent scissors. “What are you even trying to induce? Madness?”

“A haircut, Byun!” The surgeon fought back, reaching for Hongjoong as he tried to wriggle away. “It’s just a haircut!”

“Why don’t I believe you?” The lieutenant retorted sarcastically, confiscating the scissors and then whining again when the surgeon snatched up a knife.

“Terribly sorry, I’m here now,” Park panted from the doorway, closing the door behind him and hurrying over. “What’s all the ruckus?”

“Lieutenant Byun won’t let me do my research,” Surgeon Oh said sharply.

“Go steal from a grave instead, I need him alive,” Byun snapped back. “I-I mean the Admiral needs him alive—“

Suddenly the surgeon’s hand was covering his mouth and the room fell quiet. “Listen,” he whispered. All Byun could hear was Hongjoong’s shallow breaths and the scrape of the metal chains as he curled himself into a protective ball.

And then the faint sound of footsteps.

The surgeon suddenly released him and ran to the door to look out the hole.

“You were followed,” he grunted to Park before turning around lightning quick, voice barely a whisper. “It’s the prince.”

The three of them leapt into action, the surgeon muffling the patient’s protests and injecting a sedative into him while Byun silently dragged a card table and pair of chairs over.

Lieutenant Park went about sorting the cards quickly into piles to look like they’d been playing already and when he didn’t have a place to sit, threw a blanket over the prisoner and plopped down on him, ignoring Byun’s glare.

All in all, it took about fifteen seconds. Better than when they’d practiced. The knock came right on cue.

“Come in!” the surgeon called, the door opening a second later.

Prince Seonghwa crossed his arms but stayed in the doorway to voice his complaint.

“Admiral Kim neglected to give me the report. How close are we to land?”

“Another forty minutes, Your Highness,” Byun responded, bowing his head to avoid eye contact.

Seonghwa looked like he was about to leave, but turned to face them once more and tilted his head, almost amused.

“And what are you fine officers doing down here on the lowest decks in secret?”

“Gambling,” Surgeon Oh supplied the prepared answer with finesse, his voice brittle like it was admitting a lurid secret. “The Admiral strictly forbids it so... we hope you’ll understand.”

“Forget you saw anything!” Lieutenant Park laughed nervously, almost too nervously, but the prince seemed to take the bait.

“You should make your play now, surgeon,” he quipped. “None of Lieutenant Byun’s cards are high enough.”

Byun pretended to be put out as if he was surprised the prince knew gambling games or hadn’t known his cards were on full display because he couldn’t hold them properly in his shaking hands, and the trio laughed awkwardly until Seonghwa was safely gone.

Lieutenant Byun abandoned the act and immediately hissed across the table at Park, “You could have cracked his rib, you giant beansprout!”

“A cracked rib is better than the prince deciding to investigate the mysterious lump in the corner for himself!” Park defended himself. “Admiral Kim would shoot me dead before the report even finished leaving my mouth and you know it.”

“Just get off him and let’s see the damage,” Byun huffed, dropping his cards and scooting the table out of the way.

Thankfully, there were no new injuries. Just wounds that had been healing slowly but surely during Hongjoong’s time here. Byun recognised one or two scars he had put there himself a month ago. 

A month or a lifetime... it was difficult to tell.

“He’s asleep,” Lieutenant Park sighed, relieved.

“I need him awake for my pain tolerance study,” the surgeon tutted, putting his tools away once more.

“Pain tolerance!” Byun spluttered. “Focus on getting him back on his feet, then maybe I’ll let you do your job.”

Oh rolled his eyes and saw himself out.

“Do you think his pain tolerance is better than average?” Park posed the question after a moment of silence.

Byun turned to face the prisoner and blinked away the mist in his own eyes. “I tortured him myself before the execution. It was difficult to tell either way.”

“Why do you care so much?” Park asked quietly, and the question echoed in Byun’s head.

He tried to shrug it off. “You would too if you’d seen him that day. Underneath all that wreckage, seconds away from death. I just got this feeling that his life wasn’t meant to be taken from him this way... like we’d made a mistake.”

Park watched the prisoner sleep a minute more before laying the blanket on him again. “I see what you mean.”

Carefully he collected the playing cards and set them up for a game for two. “Go get some rest. He’ll probably destroy me at this, considering he’s a good-for-nothing pirate, but I might as well keep him entertained when he wakes.”

Byun smiled at his friend’s willingness and went to get some hard earned sleep before they docked. 

At least he wasn’t the only one torn between two sides of a secret dilemma.

...

Yeosang quickly found that counting heads was not as easy as Hongjoong made it out to be back in the good old days.

He was already scatterbrained from keeping their volume low while also managing the entire operation.

“Yechan, Heesung, Myungjoong, Inhong, Taehyun, you’re all ready to go. Hello, Sunghoon, keep an eye on Byungwon, there’s a loose nail in his barrel and I don’t have medical supplies...” 

Ten of them rolled past before he began to see faces he didn’t recognise.

“I don’t think I’ve met you, what’s your name? Hansol? Alright Hansol, proceed with caution. Jaehyuk, Changsun, Jisung, are your groups present? Right, who are we missing then?”

Juna.

Juna, the eight year old with the dirty feet. The youngest of their group but most experienced due to the fact that he was born on the ship, and probably also the most vulnerable of them with his hacking cough.

Yeosang helped the boy into his barrel and warned him to be quiet before rolling him out to meet the rest.

Twenty-seven barrels, each with their bottoms carved out and a powder monkey hidden inside.  

It would take some very convincing acting to get them all off this ship.

Just as they’d been instructed, one by one they silently crept up the stairs through the decks until they reached the top, stopping and freezing in place any time another sailor got too close.

Yeosang brought up the rear and once they approached the main deck, it was his time to shine.

The boys all assembled in an orderly fashion in front of him, tucking in their feet and preparing to be rolled down the gangplank as their hero lashed them all together.

“Patience,” Yeosang whispered. “We need to encounter as few people as possible for this to work.”

The moment the man in the crow’s nest became distracted with the sails, they took their chance, rolling down onto the dock and stopping when Yeosang ordered them to.

Unfortunately, he was correct. The port workers were back and much more alert than they had been the first time around. They stopped Yeosang and his barrels and immediately asked why he was unloading the ship instead of loading it.

“Gunpowder,” he lied smoothly. “It’s expired, lost its potency.”

The man reached down to check for himself before Yeosang blurted out, “Very dangerous! I wouldn’t do that.”

Hand halted mid-air, the worker nodded and stepped back so he could pass.

Just when he thought he was in the clear, Yeosang suddenly heard a loud coughing sound from below him, slightly muffled through the barrel boards.

“Juna!” He hissed. “Quiet!”

“What’s that?” One of the dockworkers called out. 

Yeosang forced a smile and turned to face him. 

“Nothing!” He coughed a few times into his elbow for good measure. “Just a little cough. This powder irritates my lungs, I had better get rid of it quickly.”

The port men waved him on again and Yeosang tried to relax, rolling the barrels as quickly as he could without looking more suspicious than he already was.

Yuma was excited to see they had company, and it was all Yeosang could do to keep everyone quiet and get them inside the cart before someone in the area got curious.

A few of the boys were arguing over space and pushing each other around so Yeosang stuck his head in to silence them and hurriedly attached the cart to a restless Yuma.

They turned onto the main path, leaving behind a field full of empty barrels, and set off for the Kang Estate.

Yuma wasn’t accustomed to pulling so much weight, so they took the slower but safer main road to Doljeon and past it. They would have to ride through the night, but it was better than getting lost in the woods with twenty-seven powder monkeys and no emergency supplies.

“Good work, Yuma,” Yeosang encouraged the horse, sitting back with the reigns in hand and listening to the boys converse quietly before they dropped off to sleep.

It was his responsibility to stay awake and keep them moving. He was their guardian now, however unqualified he felt for the position.

The sunset beckoned him and so he followed it.

 ...

San found himself sitting alone with blood coating his arms and the front of his shirt.

It wasn’t his, it was the men’s. One patient had turned into three, then seven, then the entire infirmary was his workspace and some of the men he treated were saved fast enough that they could go back into combat.

These Haemin soldiers weren’t well trained, but they were fighters. They could hit and run nearly as well as any pirate, and so thanks to their combined efforts, they had won this round.

Many had kept their lives, and San had kept his as well.

“Water.”

A voice behind him shook him out of his thoughts.

The translator stood there with a bucket of clean water for San to wash his hands with.

The surgeon took it gratefully and rinsed off the crimson stain, paying special care to his wrists, raw from their chains.

“I suppose you’ll be returning me to the prison deck?” San sighed. His work was done for now, all patients dead or in stable  condition, and the attacking Navy ship had long retreated.

The translator nodded with a small frown and hauled him to his feet, escorting him back. If he didn’t know better, San would think the man felt sorry for him.

San wished, not for the first time, that the Navy was in the habit of taking prisoners. They could attack the ship and drag him away to a ship of the line he recognised. Then at least he’d have someone to talk to.

...

Jongho had to catch Yujin by the back of his collar and drag him to the fitness session. The pirate complained about needing to collect freshwater for the evening meal but Jongho would have none of it.

“We can’t just sit around drinking forever,” he told the gathered men in his most intimidating voice possible. “The Navy is building a garrison just up the beach and that means we need to be ready to face them or flee when they get close. Daehan, when’s the last time you even rigged the sails without Yunho here to tell you to?”

“Um... a month and a half ago?” The pirate coughed uncomfortably.

“Exactly,” Jongho snapped. “The time for being lazy slobs is over. I’m here to whip you all back into shape and prepare you for the fight of your lives. Because I may not see the future anymore, but I still know what’s coming, and you’re in no condition to stand a chance when it does.”

By the end of it they were all sweaty and gasping for breath, but the decks were spotless, the ship careened, the sails repaired, the guns shining and ready to be fired, and every man aboard had been drilled and drilled again in combat manoeuvres and self-defense. 

Jongho took his work seriously, there was no question about that.

When finally Yujin was released to the longboats to row ashore, buckets in hand, his arms were so sore it took him twice as long as usual.

He finished his work quickly and prepared to leave, neglecting to check whether the beach was deserted or not.

That was his first mistake.

...

Panhang.

It was a place neither Hongjoong or Mingi had ever desired to speak about. It was a name that slipped through lips that were soaked in rum and loosened enough to reveal the past.

And it made Seonghwa curious enough to disembark when the men were marched out to the half-constructed garrison. Panhang was situated on a beautiful stretch of coastline and as the wind swept his hair, Seonghwa was hit with that same feeling that came over him in the market. Something reminiscent of his childhood, a desire to explore.

With a glance in the Admiral’s direction, Seonghwa concluded that he wouldn’t be missed if he went for a stroll down the beach and gathered his things.

Some money in case he got hungry, a change of clothes should it snow, and everything needed for his weapons. He never left those behind under any circumstances.

His wanderings took him far down the beach until the Black Crow and the lighthouse were out of sight and the distant arch of weathered rock jutting out from the cliffside had grown closer.

It was a little bit too far, and Seonghwa was considering going back or heading into town when the ocean breeze became a bit too cold for his loose clothing, but when he approached the arch something caught his eye.

There was a ship out there, barely visible from the beach except for from the specific angle at which he was standing.

It was the ATEEZ.

Emotions conflicted inside Seonghwa and squeezed his heart painfully.

There she was, the ship that he considered his home, the place that he had missed so much in his days at the palace— but at the same time, he knew every man aboard it was a traitorous snake, and the thought that they had all left Hongjoong to die at the first sign of trouble was a bitter one.

Sounds from the other side of the rock caught his attention and he drew his gun silently.

Someone was loading a longboat with freshwater and humming to himself carelessly.

Seonghwa could only see the back of the man’s head from where he hid, but it was enough. That was Yujin’s signature headband— it was him.

Before he lost his chance, Seonghwa jumped out from behind the arch and pointed his gun at the traitor.

Yujin squeaked and turned around, almost dropping a bucket of water.

Fire blazed in Seonghwa’s eyes and he pressed the barrel right up to the man’s forehead.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”

...

Taglist: @serendipityunho @celestial-yunho @atzjjongbby @89staytinyzen21

A/N: Wooooow hi everyone, I know this took awhile to get out but just FYI I’m going back to classes tomorrow so I can’t promise the updates to be any faster but, as always, I’ll be working on them :) Let me know what you thought!!

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[kqbluemoon-moved]

  OBLIVIOUS !

SUMMARY :: In which Taeha makes a new friend. CHARACTERS :: Lee Taeha , Choi Soobin , Moon Jangmi , Kim Najoo , Kang Jinri , Della Jang WORDS :: 0.8K WARNINGS :: none ! 

The backstage to Music Bank was quiet as Taeha walked down one of the many hallways, trying to find her way back to their room. According to the boys, the backstage area used to be loud and lively, not that Taeah would know much about that since it was only their first time promoting on any music shows and the circumstances were not quite ideal. 

The girl let out a relieved sigh as she turned down a hallway that finally looked far more familiar to her than anyone that she had seen in the last fifteen minutes. She could see the door with the small sign that read ‘BLUE MOON’ in tiny letters.

“Hey!” a deep voice called out enthusiastically and Taeha could hear some rushing footsteps behind her as she turned to look at the intruder. 

Soobin, one of the hosts for the show, jogged up to her, a shy smile plastered on his face. “You’re Taeha, right?” the tall boy towered over the girl, but Taeha couldn’t help but notice just how shy he looked as he brought a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “I just, I mean, I just never really got the chance to introduce myself and-”

“Hi, I’m Taeha!” the older girl interrupted, saving the boy from having to stubble over his own words for any longer. She held out her hand, smiling up at the older boy.

“Soobin,” he replied, his face looking much more relieved as he smiled down at the much shorter girl. “You just seemed really cool and I wanted to introduce myself.”

The comment made Taeha smile. In a group full of cool people, Taeha was often casted to the side, nobody caring much for the girl who was cute and sweet. 

“Thank you so much!” she replied, the smile never leaving her face as she looked up at the younger. “You’re doing a really good job as an MC,” she told him, thinking back to how nice both him and Arin had been their first time on the show. Not that she’s had bad experiences, but Taeha remembers them sticking out a bit.

“Ah,” he chuckled a bit, bringing his hand up to rub at the back of his neck again, a slight blush forming on his cheeks. “Thank you. You guys perform really well, it’s hard to believe this is your first promotional period.”

Taeha giggled, throwing her head back a bit. “That’s too much, I’m sure we look like rookies out there!”

“No, trust me! If I wasn’t announcing it, I would have thought that you guys debuted a while ago!” Soobin countered, his eyes wide, a big smile on his face.

Taeha opened her mouth to respond, when a loud voice came from down the hall. “Choi Soobin! We need to get back to the stage, stop flirting!” Arin’s voice rang out, causing Soobin’s face to go bright red as Taeha laughed at the action.

“I’ll be back in a second!” he turned towards the older, shooing her away from the scene. Arin listened, running down the hallway she came from, letting out one loud laugh as she left.

Soobin turned back to Taeha, his face still bright red. “Sorry about her, but I guess I have to go,” he looked sad at the thought of leaving Taeha. “I’ll see you at the end of the show, right?” his eyes were hopeful as he stared at the girl.

“Yeah, of course!” Taeha said brightly, shooting her signature smile to the boy, who smiled back brightly.

“See you then!” he told her, walking backwards a bit, before turning and jogging down the hallway that led towards the stage.

Taeha smiled, turning back to the door she had almost made her way too before she was stopped and walking through it. Jangmi, Jinri, and Najoo backed away from the door, looking a bit guilty as Taeha shot them a questioning look.

“They were spying on your conversation with Soobin,” Della told her roommate as she placed a few chips in her mouth.

Taeha raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“He finally talked to you!” Najoo said, smiling wide as she put an arm around the youngest’s shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for it since we started promotions!”

“Again, why?”

Jangmi just let out a small chuckle. “Oh, she’s too sweet,” she nudged Jinri, who was smiling with the older.

“Soobin obviously has a crush on you,” Della deadpanned, rolling her eyes at Taeha.

“I had one conversation with the guy, how can you even tell?” the youngest replied, confused with the whole conversation. “He just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh little, naive Taeha,” Jinri spoke up. “You’ll be able to tell better once you’ve been in a relationship.”

The youngest just rolled her eyes at her members, tuning them out as she watched the monitor, Soobin introducing the next group to person one the screen.

[recentanimenews]

INTERVIEW: Jeff Trammell Speaks on Craig of the Creek and its Anime Influences

  In celebration of Black History Month, Crunchyroll is releasing interviews with prominent Black figures across the anime world! Stay tuned for more announced features, or donate to Black Girls Code, which educates young girls of color to encourage careers in computer science and technology!

  Anime has had and continues to have a huge impact across the globe, and that impact can be found more and more in Western animation! Kids who watched anime on Toonami are growing up and creating series of their own that take with them that seed of affection for the medium. One such creator is Jeffrey Trammell, the head writer of Cartoon Network's Craig of the Creek. Cameron Trentalange, our Associate Manager of Social Video, was lucky enough to talk with Jeff about his work on the series, his love of anime, and how the two are intertwined. See the video interview below, followed by a complete and uncut transcription of the full interview!

        Crunchyroll: Thank you for taking time to meet with us. We’re really excited to be chatting with you today. To get things started, if you could just introduce yourself to our audience, your name and what it is that you do.

  Jeffrey Trammell: My name is Jeff Trammell and I am the head writer, as well as a voice actor, on Craig of the Creek.

  How has anime influenced or inspired your work?

  How hasn't anime influenced my work? It’s been such a big part of everything we do. Everything I do as a writer … We're constantly thinking back to the storytelling, the kind of one arc, one-off episodes, as well as arc-long stories ... it’s really allowed us to use anime as a bit of a blueprint for the stuff we wanna do on Craig. Anime is a big part of the show. A lot of people on the crew grew up watching things like Dragon Ball and Sailor Moon and Evangelion. Samurai Champloo gets brought up a lot, too. So, any chance that we can get to kinda pay homage to those classic shows as well as the other stuff we’re into, we kinda jump at the chance to do.

  via Cartoon Network

  That’s awesome. Are there any other specific elements that reflect your experience with anime in Craig of the Creek or your other works? I know the Elders of the Creek seem to be very pulled from people you might meet in the fandom.

  I would say I'm a bit more of a casual fan. There's people on the crew that are certainly closer to the Elders of the Creek. I'm more like Craig in that I have my own certain fandoms that I'm into. But yeah, anime is such a big part of the show in the weirdest ways — every episode has something we're sneaking in. Our crew early on would meet to do anime nights, so we would watch The Castle of Cagliostro or Totoro ... stuff like that. It's very ingrained in our crew.

  That’s awesome. That sounds like a super fun environment to be a part of.

  It’s really great when your workday ends and you’re just hanging out watching anime and playing D&D. Like there’s no complaints on our end.

  Craig of the Creek often dips its toes into referencing anime, whether it's a background gag or, as you mentioned, an entire episode-long narrative like "Bring Out Your Beast." It sounds like, as a community, you and the team are largely inspired by anime. Was that kind of a coincidence that everyone was into anime or was that intentional in the structuring of the team?

  Our crew consists of a lot of younger writers and creators, so naturally the stuff we grew up watching included so much anime and the stuff aired on Toonami. Even the co-creators, Matt Burnett and Ben Levin are like, really big into this stuff. You go to their office and there's like the entire Evangelion set, or all of Dragon Ball. I think they really created a show full of people who they wanted to be around, who were all going to tell really fun stories. I think it just happened that anime was such a big part of everyone's life on the show.

  It’s kind of amazing to see how much anime has influenced so many people throughout the industry. You mentioned that you guys would do different movie nights for watching anime. Do you have any specific anecdotes or moments from working with the teams where you intentionally wrote an anime reference into the script and someone pointed it out later, or maybe an animator just added something entirely without it even being in the script? Are they any fun little kind of instances like that?

  Yes. There’s a lot of instances where I’ll write something in the script and then at the boarding stage, the boarders would take it so far out. We did an episode where the Elders get trapped under Elder Rock and there's a bit about them having a very cool replica shovel from an anime called Shovelmaster Gorobi Q that I put in there. Immediately, it just became this whole other thing where the basis of the show was that this person's soul is trapped in the shovel, so if you use it, you can tap into their spirit. One of the Elders is in love with the character who inhabits the shovel ... it's wild! I never expected that whole story to come out of this one line I wrote.

  via Cartoon Network

  That's incredible. One of my favorite little background gags is one of the posters for a show called Sadboy Pilotgeddon.

  Yes.

  Was that written into the script, or was it an element someone else wrote in?

  That was our storyboard artist Ashley Tahilan who is usually the impetus for those crazy moments in the show. She put in Sadboy Pilotgeddon really early on, and I think she's also the reason Shovelmaster Gorobi Q became the absurd thing that it is.

  I love it. In one of the very early episodes, there was a character who was holding up a volume of manga and says, "you read manga backwards." I feel like I have said that verbatim as a kid!

  via Cartoon Network

That was a really fun moment. We were trying to introduce the ninja kids who just hang out and read manga. We thought  when you're introducing someone to manga, you can't start without saying, "Well, ya read it backwards!" We decided we NEEDED to put that in the show.

It was very true to life. I love those little moments. Speaking more generally, what does it mean to be a head writer on a TV show?

  Being a head writer means a lot of different things depending on the show. On Craig, it's nice because I get to be the link between the writing and the storyboard artists. Our show is very cohesive in that it's very storyboard driven. That means we take the premise and outline and then hand it off to the storyboard artists, and they draw everything, including dialog. Then we come back together and they'll pitch their work to us. We'll make sure that we pitch ideas and jokes, and really punch it up to make it stronger. We have this kind of cohesion where everyone gets to really leave their stamp on the episode. Being a head writer means overseeing that process, the writing room, recording, assisting with directing, sometimes getting in on editing. It's so much more than just running the room. It's been a really cool experience for me. I get to follow the stories not just from their initial creation, but all the way to their end, which has been really cool.

That sounds so incredible. So, how did you break into being a head writer, as opposed to different writing roles?  

I actually have only been a writer here in LA for about five years. Before that, I was a security guard at Target, oddly enough. I've always had an interest in writing, and I wanted to break in, but I didn't know how. I was able to find out about a yearly contest called the Nickelodeon Writing Program, where you would enter scripts and, out of around 2,000 applicants, they choose up to four people every year. They move you out to LA, and you get to work at Nickelodeon as a writer. You get to learn, you get paid, and you get all these amazing perks. I got to take improv and sketch writing, just all of these incredible things. When I moved out here once I finished up at Nickelodeon, I eventually found my way to Cartoon Network. I started working with Matt and Ben on Craig of the Creek. I was a staff writer for the first year, and by the second season, I was promoted to head writer. I've been very fortunate, the way I got in. I think it was a lot of "right place at right time," but also luckily having the skills to back it up that led to this quick rise. 

  That's amazing, what an incredible journey!

  Thank you!

  To be selected from over 2,000 writers — I think that says a lot about the talent you have.

  Thanks, that's really cool. 

  In addition to Craig of the Creek, I know you have also worked on shows like The Owl House, and you mentioned that you spent some time at Nickelodeon. What is it like to write specifically for animation?

  Writing for animation is tough because there's a lot of visual storytelling you have to be aware of. You are also writing for someone else. I think if you're writing novels or similar stuff, you can write the story exactly as it is in your mind and someone else can read it and see where you're coming from. When you're writing for animation, though, you have to be aware that whatever you write, someone else has to draw. Someone else has to design. Everything you write is going to be on someone else, so it's tempering all of those expectations you have for your own writing. You have to tell a fun, captivating story without pushing it too far, or making every shot a crowd scene. Then people would have to animate 50 people running by in every shot. It's a very intricate level of storytelling where you have to really see what the most important parts of the story are and convey that.

  That's an interesting point. I think there's this sense with animation of like, "Well the options are limitless because I can just draw it!" But then there's the realization of, "Ah, well that burden is laid on a bunch of people who actually have to animate the thing."

  Yes.

  I imagine there's a good amount of give and take there. Did you always want to break into animation, specifically? Has animation been a passion for you?

  Yes and no. I mean, I've always wanted to work in animation because I've been a fan my whole life. A lot of people have that teenage phase where they think, "I'm too adult for cartoons," and they kind of move away from it, but I've never done that. I've always appreciated animation. But I also appreciate live-action. The first time I got to work on an animated show was Harvey Beaks at Nickelodeon, and I really got to work with that crew and see everything that went into creating 11 minutes of television. It's so much work from so many people. It's like watching a conveyor belt in action. Seeing those things really laying out in front of me gave me a brand new appreciation, even more so. Since then, I've known animation is definitely where I want to be. 

  via Cartoon Network

  That's so cool. Craig of the Creek features such a wide cast of characters. How do you and the team approach writing for so many different voices from different backgrounds? I think the thing that's been really successful for us has been to reach beyond our writing room. At the end of the day, we only have so many experiences and can only write from so many perspectives. Our crew is dedicated to representing perspectives people may not have gotten to see growing up. So, we reach beyond our room to the crew. People are welcome to share their stories, welcome to pitch ideas for stories and characters. We really want to make sure that at the end of the day, we're making a show that people are not only proud to work on, but that they're excited to show it to their family and friends. 

Is it common for writing teams to be structured in a way where they have opportunities to work across other departments, or is that harder to find?

  It really depends on the show. I've been on shows where the writers only hang out with writers and the artists only hang out with artists. Coming from Harvey, which was a very closely connected group, I knew that was something I wanted when I was starting on Craig. Matt and Ben had come from Steven Universe, so I knew they wanted the same things. Early on, we really made an effort to make sure our group was close and our crew was excited to hang out, to talk and share ideas. It's kinda been ingrained from the very beginning of the show. 

  I love hearing about the kind of collaborative environment. So, I know you've lended your voice to one of the characters on Craig, and that you've done voiceover for other cartoons as well. Did you always have an interest in voice acting, too?  

I've wanted to be a voice actor since I was a kid! I was definitely that one kid who recognized voices in shows. I was like, "Oh that's Phil LaMarr!" I immediately knew! I always thought it was cool — it was this way to embody a character. You really get to step into their shoes and become someone else in a way that's similar to writing. I've wanted to be a voice actor forever, so it was fortunate that I finally got that opportunity on Craig. It was really nerve-wracking, though! You go into the recording booth and it's really quiet, and you're immediately aware of every single noise, like the weird click your tongue makes when you speak. Everything is hyper-focused. But it's been really cool. I appreciate them giving me the opportunity to really get to do it on Craig. I was able to transition into other opportunities by doing voices on this show called The Fungies! at Cartoon Network. I have a blast every time!

You touch on something really interesting, which is how writing and voice acting both go hand in hand in terms of getting into the head of a character. What have you learned about writing through voice acting and vice versa?  

The thing I've learned about writing from voice acting is that, even if I'm not sure of a joke while writing it, actors are so talented that they can usually deliver it in a way I wasn't expecting. They'll usually knock it out of the park every time. It's also really taught me to write to someone's strengths — just knowing that one actor is really good at these frantic moments lets me know that I can really play them up in the writing. Or maybe another actor is great at delivering heart and emotions, so we can make sure to nail their speech. Being in the booth really taught me that voice acting is so difficult, so I want to make sure we're setting up everyone who enters that booth for success with the best script we can give them, the best lines we can give them, and really set them up to knock it out of the park. It's this weird sort of symbiosis where you each try to prop one another up. Going from each side, from one side of the glass to the other, has shown me that I think we both just want to make sure we're. giving the actors the best material we can, and actors just want to provide us with the best performances that they can. 

  via Cartoon Network

  It's really interesting to hear how that all comes together, and how both of those perspectives are sort of similar in some ways. I'm curious, how did the conversation about you voice acting in Craig of the Creek start?

  I was able to find my way into the booth by begging a lot! Haha, not really, but it's one of these things I had to speak up early about and just say, "Just so you guys know, this is something I'm passionate about. This is something I've really wanted to do." I couldn't be afraid to take those risks, even in a room where I'm pitching a character, putting myself out there with a goofy voice, hoping that I'm impressing them with the passion I'm giving these characters. Luckily, it worked out, and I think they appreciated my drive and how much respect I have for the craft of voice acting. I was also taking voice acting classes as well, so I was really not shy in letting them know that this was something I seriously wanted to pursue. 

I know on Rocko's Modern Life, one of the writers just kept inserting his voice audition in the pile, and finally, someone was like, "This one is really good, who is this?" and he was like "It's me!" I'm always curious about those little moments for everybody. 

  I wish I had known about that story, I might have gone that route!

  The sneaky route!

  Plan B, you know.

  Another question I wanted to ask is, how does it feel to know that people resonate with your work? Your writing and acting contributions to the show are excellent, and the series is a lot of fun for both kids and adults. There's something about it that just captures the charming innocence of being a kid with a big imagination. Everything is whimsical, but there is a lot of grounded humor and references to pop culture we all love. What does it feel like to have your work reach so many people?

  First, thank you for all of those kind words about the show, I really appreciate that. It means so much. I think it's one thing when you're working on something and you get caught up in it and think of it as a day to day gig. But Craig has never felt like that. Early on, it felt very special. The crew felt special, and we were all proud of what we were making. We were all hoping that people would relate to it and really have fun watching it. So, seeing everybody watch all of these moments where we have Sparkle Cadet and people really resonate with a black magical girl in a Western animated show ... Seeing people resonate with our various Slide the Ferret gags which may or may not be related to Sonic — I cannot say legally. Seeing the very heartfelt stuff, the family stuff, the stuff you don't see a lot, and watching people see those things and feel good and feel validated ... it's been incredible. It means so much, more than I can really put into words. It's just a really good feeling, and I feel proud of the stuff we're doing and continuing to do. 

via Cartoon Network

  You and the team are doing awesome work. One of my friends recommended the show to me a while ago, and once I started watching I was like, "Yeah, I get it." There's just something really nice about it. Also, Jeff Rosenstock's music is just great.

  Jeff's the best! Jeff's the absolute best. Every time he sends some music in, I'm like, "How do you do it?"

  Do you guys work together at all? Is there a "meeting of the Jeffs"?  

Oh, all the time. I'm very fortunate to call Jeff a friend. He's one of the coolest people I know. I think we're constantly in awe of each other, which makes for an interesting friendship. He's so talented and so funny, and he makes everything look so easy. It's kind of unfair how talented he is, but I couldn't be a bigger fan of Jeff, he's great. 

  Something I was curious about is if you had any influence on the music. The music really makes the scene sometimes, and then you have the opening and ending songs. Do you work with the music at all as a lead writer, like finding the right vibes for a scene or writing lyrics with Jeff? There's an episode where Craig sings in front of a live crowd, and I was curious what the creative process was like on an episode like that.

  Jeff and I worked together on a musical episode called "In the Key of the Creek," where Jeff came to town. He was living in New York at the time and came to town for a week, and would sit in the writing room while we were breaking the story. He would just write these songs or he'd go home and like three hours later send us a demo saying, "Yo! I came up with this today." And it's like ... how?! This is incredible! Usually, Ben Levin, one of the co-creators, works directly with Jeff, but he's been very open to working with the rest of the crew. The episode you mentioned, "Vulture's Nest" ... I believe Tiffany Ford, one of our directors, wrote that song with Jeff. He's very open and accessible to working with the crew for songs and different episodes, which has been really cool.

  via Cartoon Network

  I have to circle back to this ... you mentioned Slide the Ferret — who may or may not be related to any other legal entity — but UNRELATED TO THAT ... As someone who is a huge fan of Sonic the Hedgehog (and also ferrets, coincidentally), Slide the Ferret really speaks to me. I was like, "This rocks. I love everything about this." I'm curious, was Sonic a big part of your childhood? Or the childhoods of the rest of the staff?

  Yes, Sonic 2 was the first video game I ever beat, actually. I would always get to the plane level and then have to hand it off to my sister. I remember when I finally beat Metal Sonic and Robotnik, and I felt like I was the greatest gamer in the world. So much of our crew has similar feelings about Sonic. Slide the Ferret came into the show very early. I think Matt and Ben came up with the character very early into the show. And then, I think the second the crew was like "oh, this is our Sonic and we can create all the lore?" it just got out of hand. There's like this show within the show loosely based on Dragon Ball where there's these things called the Chaos Orbs that you collect. They're like the Chaos Emeralds but we treat them like Dragon Balls.

  It's been great! It's been so cool to watch our design team really take that world and expand it even more. There's this character named Claus the Badger who is the coolest looking character I've ever seen. I keep pestering them to let me voice him, so we'll see how that goes. 

  That sounds like so much fun! I always love whenever there's a Slide moment. I'm just like, "Yup! I'm here for it." I'd like to know, what are some of your favorite anime?  

Oh man, okay. One of my favorites is My Hero Academia — shout out to my buddy Zeno who plays Hawks as well as The Green Pancho on Craig of the Creek. I've been enjoying Fire Force, The Promised Neverland, I love Dragon Ball Z, of course. What else ... Samurai Champloo — I used to watch that one every week with my dad, so it's special for me. I could name stuff all day, and I know I'm forgetting some. After I'm done, I know I'll be like, "Aw crap! Why didn't I mention this ..." But these are the ones I'll go with.

  Is there any message you want to share with fans of your work?

  Yes! If you want to see more, please find me on Twitter @MrJeffTrammell. I post about my work too much there. I would also say that there is so much more fun stuff on the way. If you are a fan of Craig of the Creek and you love anime, there may or may not be an episode coming up in which the Elders do an anime convention. It may also feature Slide the Ferret and a cavalcade of characters from that video game. Definitely keep your eyes peeled for that.

  This has been wonderful! It's been really cool to hear about your background with the show and how you broke into the industry. Thank you. 

  Thank you so much to Crunchyroll for having me!

  via Cartoon Network

    You can follow Jeff Trammell on Twitter @MrJeffTrammell. Craig of the Creek airs on Cartoon Network and is available on HBOMax and Hulu.

  By: Guest Author

[jade4813]

The Lies We Tell Ourselves, Chapter 8

Fandom: Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist

Title: The Lies We Tell Ourselves

Rating: PG (I’m assuming it’ll stay there?)

Pairing: Zoey/Max

Synopsis: Max would do anything for Zoey. Including posing as her fake boyfriend to give her father one last “big moment” to celebrate with her. Nothing could possibly go wrong. After all, it’s only his heart that stands to be broken. Right?

Chapter: 8/?

Author’s Notes: Takes place after Zoey’s Extraordinary Glitch.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Zoey rarely awoke with the kind of unbridled optimism that made her feel like the world had her back and everything was going to go her way. Actually, she pretty much never woke up with that feeling. But when she opened her eyes the next morning, she bounced out of bed with a smile on her face that even awareness of the early hour couldn’t diminish. As she waited for her coffee to finish brewing, she poked a nose out her window and saw that the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and it promised to be a beautiful day. A perfect day, in fact.

The perfect day to tell Max how she felt about him.

Maybe they could even call off sick afterwards and spend the rest of this beautiful day in bed. With no pillows or blankets between them this time.

A shiver of anticipation shot down her spine, and she was tempted to start singing again. It took a force of effort, but she refrained, knowing that would only attract Mo’s attention. As much as she loved her friend and treasured his advice, she was eager to get to work and see Max. Her Max. Could she call him that now? She certainly thought about him that way. To see her Max and tell him how much she loved him and that she wasn’t scared anymore.

She got an idea, so after she flipped down the lever to start toasting her breakfast, she grabbed a piece of paper and jotted down a quick note for Mo. As soon as the bread popped up again, she grabbed her rather uninspiring breakfast of dry toast and hot coffee and raced out the door. After trying to figure out how she felt about Max for months, it seemed she now couldn’t wait another minute to see him.

Stepping into the hall, she paused long enough to slip the note under Mo’s door. “Next time I see you, I will have earned that bacon!”

With that task done, and feeling incredibly pleased with herself, she hopped up on her toes and raced out the door. It was going to a beautiful, perfect day. Impatient even for the few minutes it would take to see him to pass, she pulled out her phone and reread their text exchange from the night before. In her euphoric, romantic haze, it didn’t occur to her now any more than it had to her then, how uncharacteristically brief and abrupt he’d been in his responses.

“Leif said you weren’t feeling well. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t because I stole your side of the bed last night, is it?” she’d joked, ending the question with a grinning emoji.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I hope you feel better! If you’re feeling up to it, my mom wanted to have a movie night tomorrow. You want to come? I should warn you, there’s a 50/50 chance it ends in a game of charades or something.” It was a family tradition they usually didn’t inflict upon friends and other guests, but they’d long since invited – or, some might say, coerced – Max into joining in. Zoey shook her head, wondering how she hadn’t caught on to the significance of that sooner. “When I talked to David earlier, he mentioned Emily, a rematch, and something about a blood debt.” Unsurprising to everyone, Emily did not take a defeat lying down, and Zoey and Max had always been a formidable team.

She watched the three ellipses flash at the bottom of the screen for a few moments, and then his response came through. “No problem. I’ll be there.”

Worried she was pushing him when he wasn’t feeling well, she texted, “You sure you’re okay? I could bring you some chicken noodle soup if you’re sick.”

A full minute passed before she received his response. “No, I’ll be okay. Just need to lie down.”

“All right, well…I’ll see you tomorrow at work. Feel better!”

“See you.”

Smiling at their brief exchange, ignorant about what was to follow, Zoey slipped her phone into her pocket and picked up her pace. It wouldn’t be long before she saw Max, she hoped. And then… well, and then, everything was going to be all right.

When she walked into SPRQ Point offices a few minutes later, however, her joy morphed to confusion. Max was dressed in a suit, standing by the windows and staring out at the beautiful blue sky. Whether because he heard the ding of the elevator or by coincidence, she couldn’t be sure, but he turned when she walked into the room. Without moving from his spot, his bowed head failing to entirely obscure his expression of sorrow and loss, he began to sing his heart song.

“I know I can’t take one more step towards you, ‘cause all that’s waiting is regret. Don’t you know I’m not your ghost anymore. You lost the love I loved the most. I learned to live, half alive. And now you want me one more time.”

Zoey stumbled to a halt, looking at him in confusion. She’d had her superpower for long enough to no longer be surprised at hearing one of his heart songs, but she hadn’t expected to hear this one. After everything that happened between them, after the heart song he’d sung her the morning before, why was he singing to her now of loss and heartache?

He continued, turning back to the window and resting his weight against one arm as he stared out at the city. “Who do you think you are? Runnin’ ‘round leaving scars. Collecting your jar of hearts, and tearing love apart. You’re gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul. So don’t come back for me. Who do you think you are?”

“Max?” she asked, taking another step forward.

As always during a heart song, he acted like he hadn’t heard her question as he pivoted on one foot, walking over to his desk. He began to dump items into a large cardboard box as he sang, “It took so long just to feel alright, remember how to put back the light in my eyes. I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed. ‘Cause you broke all your promises. And now you’re back. You don’t get to get me back.”

Desperate to understand what was happening, Zoey raced to his side, reaching out to put one hand on his arm. “Who do you think you are? Runnin’ ‘round leaving scars. Collecting your jar of hearts, and tearing love apart. You’re gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul. So don’t come back for me. Who do you think you are?”

His song trailed off, and Zoey asked softly, her voice uncertain, “Max? What’s – what’s going on? Is everything okay?” Her heart ached from his song, but she still didn’t understand the meaning of it.

“Hey, Zoey!” he said, ignorant of what she had just heard, and though he sounded cheerful, his expression was reserved. “Everything’s great!” He hesitated, giving some item he’d pulled from the bottom of his desk drawer a dubious look before throwing it in the trash. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually. I was offered a promotion a couple of days ago, so I’ll be moving up to the sixth floor!”

Zoey felt like she was drowning, gasping for air. She couldn’t understand how Max could act like everything was fine. Like it was downright normal. First that song, and now he was leaving? Leaving their offices? Leaving her? Of course, he was moving two floors, not taking a rocket to the moon. But after the sorrow in his song, it felt like he was putting more than two floors between them. It felt like she was losing him completely.

Although she recognized that she should be happy for Max for his promotion, which sounded like an amazing opportunity he totally deserved, she was still reeling from his song. She had to admit that she was also a little hurt. He’d been offered a promotion and he hadn’t told her about it? They were supposed to be dating! Well…fake-dating. What was going on?

In a shaky voice, she said brightly, “Wow! That’s…amazing, Max! And very well-deserved. I’m – I’m very happy for you.”

He knew her well enough that she expected him to call her on the fact that her professed enthusiasm was belied by the fact she sounded like she wanted to cry, but he didn’t. “Thanks!”

She wanted to cry, and she couldn’t hold back her confusion any longer. “Look, can we talk for a second? In private?”

Max glanced around the nearly-empty office and then shrugged. “Sure. I need to catch Joan when she comes in, but I have a few minutes.”

Desperately needing answers, she led him to the empty hallway leading between the meditation room and the restrooms before realizing she didn’t know what to say. His heart song was the last thing she expected to hear this morning, as was the revelation he was leaving. It had barely begun to sink in; she certainly hadn’t had the time to get her thoughts in order enough to ask him relevant questions. Should she even tell him about the heart song she’d just heard? She probably should, but she didn’t know how.

In silence, she rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, trying to find the words. Finally, when she watched him glance towards the exit for the third time, she blurted, “Max, I really am happy for you. I swear. But I guess I’m just a little…confused. I thought…well, I mean, I-I don’t really understand why you didn’t tell me about this sooner.”

His fake smile didn’t so much as falter. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I probably should have told you about it, but, you know how things get around here. I guess I just got wrapped up in work and it slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your – Max, what’s going on?” Not receiving an answer right away, she admitted, “I heard you sing out there. A heart song. It was…you sounded so heartbroken. Talk to me.”

His smile fell, and he looked at a spot over her left shoulder as he stepped away from her, saying in a hollow voice, “I don’t know what you mean.”

A tiny sob escaped before she could bite it back, and Zoey pushed her hair off of her face with hands that shook with the agonized grief she was trying not to show. In the back of her mind, she suspected she knew what had happened, but she couldn’t believe it – didn’t want to believe it – so she pushed that thought away. Her breath tight in her chest, she couldn’t bear to look into his face and see him look at her in a way he never had before. He looked at her like she was a stranger, his eyes cold, his expression distant. Like he was looking through her, rather than at her.  “Max…please. I-I don’t understand. I-I just…” Stumbling towards him, she pressed her hands against his chest. “Please. Talk to me. I can fix this. Tell me how to fix this.”

For a few, precious moments, his mask slipped. His eyes were soft and yearning, and she almost flinched at the pain on his face. “Zoey, I don’t – I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“But you are! You are hurting me! Just…I know the two of us can fix this. I know it. Please…don’t…tell me what I can do. Don’t give up on me.” Earlier that morning, she’d been so excited, so eager to tell him she wanted their relationship to be real. In the last ten minutes, she felt like she’d lost everything. She had run from him so long, letting the specter of fear hold her back from even giving him a chance. She’d been terrified she would lose him one day, but having him look at her now like he didn’t even know her brought a pain that was worse than she ever could have imagined. In one last, hopeless gamble, she begged, “We’re supposed to be friends. Aren’t we?”

“We are friends,” he breathed softly. “That’s what I’m trying to be. Your friend.” With that cryptic comment, he raised one hand to brush away a tear as it slid down her cheek, but then he paused. His hand hovered mere inches from her face before he let it fall without touching her.

“Then why aren’t you talking to me? I know it’s not real, but we’re supposed to be in a relationship. People in relationships – even fake relationships – tell each other things, don’t they?”

It seemed to be the exact wrong thing to say, as she felt the muscles under her palms stiffen, and though he was no longer smiling, that cold, detached look returned to his face. She’d never realized before how much love was in Max’s eyes when he looked at her, until now that he’d hidden it away. She might as well have been staring at a stranger, and she flinched, pulling her hands off his chest.

He looked down at his chest, where she’d been touching him moments before, and said softly, “That’s the thing though, isn’t it, Zoey? It wasn’t real. None of it was.”

Through her tears, Zoey watched Max start to leave, and she stumbled after him. She couldn’t let this be the end. “Wait! I know I’ve hurt you, but I came here today…I wanted to tell you that I love you, and I’m not scared anymore. I want to be with you.” He stumbled to a halt, his shoulders stiff, as though he was struggling to hold himself together. But he didn’t turn around. “You told me that if I meant it in the morning, you’d believe me, right? Well…I know it’s a little late, but I mean it. I love you, and I want to be with you.”

With none of the fluid grace that usually accompanied his movements, Max turned slightly to look at her over his shoulder. She expected anger, but there was a combination of agony and despair in his voice when he replied, “Well, then, I guess I need to apologize for being a liar. Because, I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.” She gasped, a ragged intake of air, as he stormed through the glass doors enclosing the hall, the hinges making a loud crack as they flew open.

By the time she’d regained her composure and returned to the office, Max and his things were gone.

There was part of Zoey that wondered if she’d never see him again, so she was surprised when, at the end of a long and miserable day, Max walked off the elevator and headed towards her desk. His coat tossed over his arm, he asked, “Hey, are you ready?”

“Ready?” she asked, her eyes itchy and burning from all the tears she’d forced back over the course of the day. “Ready for what?”

“Oh, I thought…that thing with your parents. I thought that was tonight. Did I get the day wrong?” Frowning slightly, he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen, pulling up his texts.

Rising to her feet, Zoey shook her head. “No, you got it right. I just didn’t think you’d want to do this anymore. All things considered.”

That remote mask she hated so much was firmly in place as he replied, “I made a promise, and this is for Mitch, right? I’m up for it if you are. If you still think it’ll make him happy.”

She wanted to scream at him, pound against his chest, anything to get a real reaction out of him. Tell him that of course she didn’t want to do this anymore, not when he was ripping out her heart with every detached, impersonal look he gave her. But she also longed to be close to him, wanting to grab him by the arms and force him to listen to her. To believe her. To act like he loved her again.

“Zoey? Do you want me to go?” he asked softly, almost sounding like himself again as she stared morosely at her desk in silence and tried to decide what to do.

Those six little words, “do you want me to go,” made her feel like her heart was physically ripping in two, and that was enough to make the decision for her. Even if it hurt to be near him, being without him would hurt even more. If he could carry on with his charade, so could she. And maybe, in the meantime, she could find a way to get through to him again. “No,” she said abruptly. “I don’t want you to go.”

It was strange to realize that it was the little things from Max that she missed the most, Zoey marveled as she took his hand and gave it a tug, silently asking him for a kiss. She didn’t know what compelled her to do it. Was she testing him, or just torturing herself? Either way, he dutifully leaned down and brushed his lips against hers in a perfunctory embrace before walking with her to the elevator.

From the outside, they probably looked like everything was as it had been the day before, but Zoey could feel the difference – in his dispassionate kiss, and the way his hand lay still in her own. She’d never realized before how often the feeling of Max’s hand in hers had felt like a small caress, his fingers tightening around her own, his thumb brushing softly and comfortingly along hers. Now, holding his hand was just another reminder that, even though he was right next to her, his heart was a million miles away, locked up tight somewhere she could no longer reach. Even when he spoke to her, it was to talk about the weather, the rush hour traffic – absolutely everything except anything that actually mattered.

She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, as they headed towards her parents’ house. Maybe it was out of a need to feel some passion from him again, even if it was anger. Just to remember what it had been like when she’d had Max in her life, and not this automaton that wore a face she’d come to love so much. Whatever her motives, she blurted, “Max, we should talk. About the kiss.”

For the first time that evening, that got a reaction out of him. His fingers pressed against hers, less a squeeze than a quick spasm. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

“We have to,” she pressed. “We can’t just leave things – us – like this.”

His face was averted from her, but she heard his heavy sigh. “All right. Which kiss do you want to talk about? The one outside of SPRQ Point, or the one in Simon’s office? Because I kind of feel like they speak for themselves, don’t you?”

There was a certain measure of relief in knowing that her suspicion was right, and he’d somehow seen the ill-conceived embrace in Simon’s office. At least she had an answer for his coldness, even if it was the absolute last one she wanted. “Max, that kiss…it wasn’t what you think!”

He feigned surprise. “It wasn’t? Was he choking on something and you were trying to dislodge it with your tongue? Because that’s not how I learned the Heimlich Maneuver.”

“Stop it,” she snapped, yanking her hand from his. “You’re doing it again. Don’t make jokes about this. This is serious -”

Whatever control he’d had on his emotions all day, allowing him to present his impersonal mask to her, it slipped as he lurched to a stop, spinning to face her. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not taking this seriously? Zoey, I don’t know what you expect from me, but I just can’t do this anymore! I can’t keep putting myself out there time and time again, only to…do you have any idea how it felt for me, seeing that?”

“Max, listen. I know how it looked. I do. But it really wasn’t – it didn’t mean anything! It was just -”

His head jerked as he swallowed heavily. “Well, I wish it did. Because if my heart was going to be broken, I would have preferred it actually meant something.”

Frustrated with him and angry at herself for having brought them to this, she felt her hands form fists at her sides. “I know you’re angry with me, but you know that’s not what I meant,” she snapped.

Like a puncture in a balloon, she watched as the air left his body, seemingly taking his will to fight along with it. His shoulders sagged, and his head bowed as though he carried the weight of the world. Defeated, he said softly, “You’re wrong. I’m not mad at you, Zoey. Not really. I’m mad at me. You were honest with me from the beginning. You told me none of this meant anything. And I knew it; I reminded myself of it, time and time again. But, even still, I stupidly let myself believe it did. I let myself believe…I don’t know. That you loved me. Or maybe that there was a chance one day you even could.”

She breathed his name, hopelessly trying to find a way to make him listen. Knowing he was about to leave. But then, just when she expected him to turn and walk away, he did what she’d so recently come to realize that he always did. He pushed his own pain aside and tried to offer her comfort. Instead of walking away, he moved closer to her, cupping his face in his and leaning down to press his forehead against her own. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please don’t cry.” She didn’t even realize she was until she felt him brush his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away her tears. “I don’t what to hurt you. I just don’t know how to do…this. I don’t know how to stop loving you, and I don’t know how to kill that part of me that wishes…” His voice trailed off, the rest too painful to say.

“But I do love you,” she admitted miserably, reaching up to press a hand against his cheek. “I wanted to tell you this morning. I realized it yesterday. I don’t know what took me so long, but you have to believe me.”

She could tell that he didn’t in the way he avoided responding, turning his head to press a kiss against her palm as he pulled away. “It’s all right,” he reassured her. “Don’t feel guilty. It’ll be all right.”

She shivered at the press of his lips against her skin, but he seemed to misunderstand the response, as he grabbed the coat he still carried over his arm and slung it over her shoulders. Glancing towards her parents’ house, he murmured, “What do you want me to do, Zoey? If you want me to go in there with you, I will, but if you want me to go, I’ll go. Whatever you want, just tell me and I’ll do it.”

[olehistorian]

PHYLLIS Logan is only minutes back from New York where the actress has been promoting the new Downton Abbey movie. The national station PBS has been beaming out interviews across the nation, given the series about toffs and toff-servers has been such an success in the classless land of the free.

Logan’s voice is soft and a little subdued. She speaks in thumbnails, not given to flourishes at all. I factor in that the expansive, often dramatic language of hyperbole was spoken by very few in Renfrewshire in the 1950s and 1960s (yet actors tend to be more effusive). And I factor in jetlag of course.

But then again, perhaps there’s a little more of her laconic head housekeeper character Mrs Hughes in Phyllis Logan than we’d suspected? “Well, I can be a bit snippy, a bit terse,” she offers, smiling. “But only to my nearest and dearest.” Would Kevin (actor husband Kevin McNally) agree with that? “Probably,” she says, dryly.

Logan’s thoughts on the Mrs Hughes comparison continues: “She was written down in the script, of course, but I like to think I gave her the legs to run. But when you play a character there are always elements of you in that person. You can’t completely step away from yourself.”

Downton is a phenomenal television success story. The series, which began eight years ago featuring the Crawley family and their legion of servants, began with the Titanic going down, and has covered plague, rape, murder, interwoven with romance, often crossing the class barriers.

Logan’s character was voted No 1 Ever in a 2014 Radio Times poll; no mean feat given the subdued nature of Mrs H, a woman to whom flashes of excitement are to be discouraged as much as relations with those upstairs.

Yet, the original script described Elsie Hughes as a Yorkshire woman. Logan reveals it was only when the casting directors heard the Scot’s natural voice that they asked her to read in her own accent. “I was happy when she was cast as a Scot. She had that Scottish bluntness and I felt right because I have known women like her.”

During the six series of Downton, Mrs Hughes negotiated Branson the chauffeur’s assassination attempt, Carson’s Spanish flu and helped Ethel with her illegitimate Upstairs son, Charlie. The psychologist with an apron also sorted out Thomas’s homosexuality. And although she fell for Mr Carson, (or at least lurched slightly in his direction) it took a bit of persuasion before she agreed to a “full” marriage, where he would make occasional visits downstairs.

“We all know those types,” grins Logan. “But what’s nice about her is she does have a sense of humour. And she’s quite forward thinking. She’s a republican, and has a socialist bent to her for sure.”

Does Logan have left-wing sympathies, considering her late father, an engineer, was a trade unionist? She deflects by referring to Mrs Hughes. “She was of a different type. She knew people were thrown into a caste system but had to make the best of it.”

Yes, but what about you, Phyllis? Did you feel working class containment in Johnstone, where most people’s horizons didn't stretch beyond Rootes car plant or the local carpet factory (where John Byrne took inspiration for The Slab Boys – Logan appeared in the sequel, Cuttin’ A Rug)?

“You just accepted the way things were,” she says, sounding ever so Mrs Hughes. “I never thought I’d break out and become posh. But I did think it would be nice to spread my wings a little.”

Just a little? She smiles and adds: “But I didn’t audition for some of the big London drama schools. I thought that was a step too far for me at the time so I went to Glasgow.”

Not a risk taker. Not a wild child. But very, very good at what she does. Despite her careers teacher declaring the teenager was wasting her time with acting, Logan picked up the James Bridie Gold Medal at the RSAMD. On leaving she landed work at Dundee Rep and worked continuously throughout the 1970s and 1980s with the likes of Borderline Theatre. Real talent was revealed. Yet few would have expected her to land the role of Britain’s most popular posh totty in dodgy antiques dealer series Lovejoy.

Aged 30 in 1986, Logan walked into an audition room as Lady Felsham. Logan’s Lady had a cut-glass accent, spoke authoritatively of renaissance art and invoked a world of stately homes and castles. But in reality, Logan’s only castle connection was her housing scheme, Johnstone Castle, where the recognised art on living room walls was a classic Sara Moon picture. This new cut-glass accent had somehow emerged from a world where ginger bottles were a form of currency.

Logan’s clever deception (aided by being forced to speak RP at drama college) revealed that you don’t have to be a loud extrovert to be emboldened enough to convince you are actually blue blooded: you just need to be talented. “I can’t believe looking back now that 20 million were watching us on Sunday nights. The show was so huge.”

Many other drama successes followed such as Mike Leigh’s Secrets and Lies. But did she feel Downton would be the massive success it became? “I read the scripts and loved them. And when I heard Maggie Smith and Hugh (Bonneville) and Penelope (Wilton) were on board it looked good. Then we signed an option for three series but there was always the chance it could have gone down the pan after one.” Her voice lifts. “And then six came along.”

Did this kill the fear, the insecurity that comes with being an actor waiting to be hired? She answers indirectly. “It used to be that you always knew that when one job was finishing another would be on its way. But that seems to be far less the case these days. That’s why it was great having that guarantee of six months' work each year. And each time it was like going back to school after the summer holidays and seeing your friends.”

Logan seems the worrying type, so why volunteer for a life of insecurity? “And rejection,” she adds in soft voice. “And I’ve had a certain amount of that.” She thinks for a second and makes a dramatic statement that seems out of character. “You know, I wanted this part in Downton so badly I think I might have given up [acting] had I not got it. I don’t often feel that. Usually I have a what’s-for-you-will-not-go-by-you outlook.”

She laughs and allows herself a little flightiness: “Somehow I felt, ‘This is mine! It’s meant to be.'" She then contains herself and becomes more Mrs Hughes. “No, I felt I’d like to give it a bash.”

Logan certainly didn’t get into acting for the glory. She doesn’t seem to be consumed by ambition or the fripperies of acting success. She had genuinely forgotten she’d won a Bridie Gold Medal, and mention of her Bafta for Another Time, Another Place, (the 1983 Scotswoman falls for Italian POW tragic romance) doesn’t swell her head in the slightest. What she does want, however, is to act. All the time. In all the best roles.

“I just wanted to be the best I could. To find the truth in every role. You don’t think about awards. Acting has been the only thing that remotely interested me since I played Mary in the Nativity play at primary school. Then at Johnstone High I’d join every club that had anything to do with acting and take trips to the Citizens'. I’d be in any play going, starting in the chorus and working my way up to playing Polly in the Boyfriend.”

But, of course, there have been set backs. “My dad [David] didn’t live to see me graduate, [he died, aged 59] and that was a real shame but my mum would come and see all my shows.”

Logan’s voice becomes more upbeat as she tells of how her mum and aunt landed roles in one of her films, when the actress appeared in a drama set in Spain, The Legendary Life of Ernest Hemingway (1989). “My mum Betty and my auntie Margaret came on set to have a look around, and they were asked if they wanted to be extras. They loved the idea of this, and were dressed up as posh ladies with big frocks and they had all the make-up done.

“But it was a night shoot, and the second night as they should have been getting picked up they declared, ‘Oh, pet, we don’t think we’ll bother tonight.’ I thought ‘Have you never heard of continuity? Do you know what this means? I had to tell the director they’d both eaten something dodgy.”

Betty and Margaret clearly weren’t captivated by the acting world. Logan herself once claimed she wasn’t captivated by actors. She said she wouldn’t have one in the house, that they were vain people. But then she met McNally while filming the 1993 miniseries Love and Reason and they fell in love and married.

“What I meant was I’d never get together with one,” she backtracks, grinning. “But in a way it makes real sense. We know the business. And we can help each other. Recently, Kevin was doing three episodes of the missing Dad’s Army scripts (playing Captain Mainwaring) and I read lines with him every night. It meant I got to play every other character in the cast.” McNally must have found it a delight, given his wife’s talent. (She slips into a remarkable Clive Dunn/Corporal Jones voice. “Don’t panic, don’t panic Mr Mannering.”

But if all that sounds a little perfunctory, Logan, who lives in west London, once declared: “There’s an excitement in discovering that you can still fall in love when you’re an ancient old trout.”

There’s little doubt the relationship really works. But the Mrs Hughes cross voice emerges when I ask if Pirates of the Caribbean star McNally, who has appeared in Downton in the past, playing Horace Bryant, has a role this time around? “No, he does not,” she says emphatically, (subtext: he’s had his shot and should be thankful, a sentiment which sits neatly against her husband’s quote of the time: “Phyllis said it was like take-your-husband-to-work day.”

Was she a bit territorial? “Yes,” she smiles. “I was thinking: ‘You don’t get me a part as Johnny Depp’s mother and take me to the Caribbean. So why are you here?’”

What of the Downton film, set in 1927, two years after the end of the series? It transpires tiaras and silver will be polished until they sparkle. “We get a visit from the King and Queen (George V and Queen Mary) and there’s a bit of friction between the Downton team and the Royal household staff. Mr Carson (now on gardening duty) is begged by Lady Mary to help out. The cavalry ride into town!”

And, of course, there will be lashings of scandal, romance and intrigue “that will leave the future of Downton hanging in the balance,” says the official movie site.

But what of the future for Phyllis Logan? Despite running up continuous film and TV series, success, from Taggarts to Rab C Nesbitt, from the more recent The Good Karma Hospital to Girlfriends – and attracting great crits for her West End role earlier this year as Patricia Highsmith in Switzerland – she certainly has Elsie Hughes’ worry gene.

Logan’s run, she feels, could end at any minute.

“It’s a snakes and ladders life,” she says in Mrs Hughes' tones. “Your career can be going really well and suddenly the snake appears. But I guess I’ve been lucky because I persevered.”

Nonsense, Phyllis. Talent kicked in. You don’t get Bridies and Baftas and almost continuous work for perseverance. “It’s lovely of you to say so, but I’m not sure that’s really the case.”

Downton Abbey is out on September 13

[pips-fics]

ask: can i request a scenario when chan has a stomach bug but only the maknae line is at home so they take care of him?

this is my first time responding to an ask!!!  so exciting!  hope you like how it turned out :) 

——

tw: vomiting/emeto

woojin loved all of the members of stray kids a whole damn lot.  he loved each and every one of them, really.  changbin and minho included.  he loved them with his whole heart, loved them to the moon and back, even if they can’t whisper to save their lives, i love them.

“why don’t they ever shut up,” chan mumbled from the bunk below woojin’s, sounding very distinctly like he had a headache.

i love them, i love them, i love them… the mantra was on loop in his mind as he dragged himself out of bed at half past midnight ready to shove an entire pillow down both of their throats to silence them.

“what if we add hot sauce-“ woojin heard minho chuckle, interrupting changbin who immediately broke down into almost muffled giggles before continuing, “what if we add hot sauce to pancake batter and see who can eat more?”

when woojin walked into the room, the two were in tears laughing.  he cleared his throat and whispered (actually whispered!  can you imagine?) in a calm, steady manner.  “hey, idiots.”

the idiots went silent immediately.  their lips still wobbled with uncertain smiles trying to force a way onto their faces.  woojin sharpened his glare.

“it’s after midnight.  shut up, you fully grown brats.”

finally, the fiends managed to look remorseful.  minho rubbed the back of his neck, while changbin cleared his throat and spoke up.  “right, sorry, woojin-hyung.”

“we’ll be quieter!”  minho chimed in.  woojin nodded.

“what were you two up to anyway?  i thought everyone would be completely wiped after these pasta few weeks.”

they’d been promoting for two weeks, and had spent the week prior preparing for the their new album.  it had been practice nonstop, and then promos nonstop, woojin didn’t understand how these two had any energy left at all.

changbin scratched the back of his head and gave minho a side-eyed glance.

minho smirked.  “we were… hungry.”

“uh-huh.”  woojin was skeptical.  hadn’t he heard something about hot sauce and pancakes?  and why was there lettuce on one of the kitchen stools?  he shook his head, and went to the cabinet.  he pulled out some instant ramen and shoved it firmly towards the younger boys’ chests.

“make this.  no hot sauce, no lettuce.  you can hard boil eggs in it if you want, but do that and then go to bed after you’ve eaten.  understood?”

both boys nodding up at him, woojin remembered that yes, he did love them.  as long as they allowed him to sleep.

so back to the bedroom he went.  he opened the door slowly.  “chan?  they should be quiet now.”

the only response woojin received was a soft snore.  he smiled slightly as his eyes fell upon his leader’s sleeping face, visible thanks to the light from the hallway.  woojin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen chan asleep before 1 am, and it was a relief, now, to say the least.

content, woojin started to close the door to their room, even more slowly than he’d opened it, not wanting to startle chan.  the door wasn’t even closed when all of a sudden a loud crash followed by a short yelp, and then another crash, sounded throughout the dorm.  woojin saw chan startle and roll over, grumbling sadly, and his blood boiled.

changbin cackled, minho sniggered, neither of them bothering to even attempt inside voices, and woojin gathered all of his willpower to avoid slamming his bedroom door on the way out.

changbin and minho must have heard him coming, socked feet all but stomping towards them, because woojin found them hiding behind the counter.  rather than speaking, he grabbed both of their noses and pulled them straight outside.  he didn’t let go until they were on the ground level, and the two younger boys were practically cowering.

“you two were really ready to wake chan on the first night that he’s slept in, what, months?”

the cowering intensified.  woojin reminded himself: i love them.  he reminded himself: they’re hungry.  he reminded himself: they’re crazy, because they’re hungry.

he sighed, and pulled out his wallet, waving it around a bit.  “let’s go find something to eat, you actual children.”

——

it was quiet in the dorm, then.  for another 30 minutes, it was completely silent.  

and then chan woke up, immediately and very  vaguely aware that woojin had done him a big, big favor.  mostly, though, he just wanted to go back to sleep.  he wanted sleep more badly than he could ever remember wanting anything in his life.  unfortunately, he was freezing.

head pounding, body shaking, and stomach unsettled, chan rolled out of bed with a sudden and stubborn conviction that he rarely got what he wanted.  this was reinforced when he realized that woojin was not in his bed, and neither was minho, greatly reducing his chances of finding a snuggle buddy to warm him up within walking distance.

he tried to settle for dragging three of minho’s numerous blankets back to bed with him, but he didn’t feel warmer.  he just felt more alone.

chan hated feeling alone.

so, even though it felt infinitely far away, he stumbled his way to the shared space of the dorm.  if he could just find one of his other members too cuddle with, he was sure that he would be warm enough to sleep.  there was nobody in the common room, though, and chan wanted to cry.  walking made him so dizzy, he was so exhausted.  his legs didn’t want to hold him.

but he hated being alone.

he got up, and his stomach did flips.

after a quick rest on the couch, chan was on shaky legs again, this time leaning heavily against the walls as he went.  he was looking for jisung, or hyunjin, or changbin - someone who would snuggle with him, no questions asked.  he tried to be quiet as he entered their bedroom, but he missed a step while entering and the door slammed against the wall.

someone (hyunjin?) grumbled unhappily, someone else - probably jeongin - whined while still somehow sleeping.  and someone shot straight up in bed with a gasp that was probably a suppressed scream.

“…channie-hyung?”  unsurprisingly, that was jisung.

“sorry,” chan mumbled.  his head was hurting worse than ever, and walking had made him nauseous.  all he wanted was… sleep.  he crawled into bed beside the younger boy.  “‘m tired.”

“um…” jisung shifted so that he could look closely at chan, then spoke quietly.  “okay.  why aren’t you asleep in your own bed, hyung?”

chan’s head throbbed.  he hadn’t thought jisung would ask so many questions.  “it’s cold,” he mumbled in absent-minded english, snuggling closer to his friend.  “can i stay here?” 

it took jisung’s sleepy brain a second to figure out that chan wasn’t speaking korean, and another to understand what he was saying. 

“yeah but-“ he could feel sweat seeping through chan’s t-shirt, “are you sick, hyung?”

“hm?”  chan was half-asleep already.  jisung put a hand on chan’s head and cringed.

“chan?  can you sit up for a second?”

“no.”

jisung frowned, uncertain as to what he should do.  “c’mon, hyung, why are you being difficult?”

“just wanna sleep.”

jisung shook his head, mystified, once again barely deciphering chan’s slurred english.  he decided to leave it alone for the time being.  anyway, it wasn’t like he didn’t get it - he just wanted to sleep, too.  and sleep was good for healing, anyway.  he’d check on chan again in the morning.

——

no more than 20 minutes had passed when jisung woke up again, this time to chan flailing wildly and then running out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him and effectively waking everyone in it who might have continued sleeping.

“what’s going on?”  jeongin asked.

“what now?” hyunjin growled.

“nothing, guys, don’t worry about-“ jisung’s train of thought stuttered as loud heaving sounds reached his ears.

“someone’s sick, who’s sick?”  hyunjin questioned, now out of bed.

“it’s chan-hyung,” jisung sighed, resigned.  “i’ll go check on him.  you guys go back to sleep, he’ll be fine.”

jeongin flopped onto his back, but hyunjin just nodded and leaned against the bed with his arms crossed, as if standing guard.

ignoring hyunjin for the moment, jisung went to the bathroom.  the door was cracked open so he knocked lightly.  “channie-hyung?  i’m coming in.”

he was not surprised to find chan, kneeling on the ground, shaking like a leaf, with his hand on his bare chest, trying to catch his breath.  more surprising was that felix was somehow already there, sitting on the ledge of the bathtub with his hand on chan’s back.  chan’s shirt was messy and discarded on the ground beside him, small hiccups were wracking his frame, and when he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

“jisungie?”

“ah, hyung, why are you crying?”  jisung knelt down beside the older boy, who was crying harder now and making grabby hands at felix.  felix drew chan into a hug, and jisung gently played with chan’s hair until he jerked away from them both, dipping his head into the toilet.  almost immediately, a violent stream of sick poured out, all while chan continued sobbing.

“i think he’s missing home,” felix mumbled quietly.  jisung’s eyes widened.  he shouldn’t have been so surprised, really.  of course chan would miss home.  but still, it had been years since he’d seen any indication of homesickness, in stark contrast to felix, who often relied on members for comfort when missing australia.  but he and chan were so different.  even if they were similar in some ways, by virtue of his position as leader of course chan would be more quiet about his struggles.

“we should get him some water,” jisung said, nodding towards chan.  he paused a second taking a closer look at felix, who seemed a bit off-color.  “hey, you okay?”

felix nodded, but jisung wasn’t buying it.  thinking about it, he wasn’t sure whether felix got squeamish or not, but if he were to guess at this point, he’d say… “yes.”  or maybe “definitely.”

“o-kay.  can you go grab him some water?”

felix nodded again, this time more convincingly, and stood.  chan whined and jisung shushed him, shooing felix out with his hand.  “channie-hyung, he’s just gonna get you some water, okay?  i’ll stay here with you.”

jisung put a hand to chan’s forehead.  sure enough, it was even warmer now than the last time he’d checked.  unsurprising, considering how chan was acting.  it was unusual for the older boy to open up about anything that was upsetting him, even subtly.  jisung couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen chan express any sort of discontent, actually.

“water delivery!”  instead of felix, hyunjin came in with a glass of cool water.

“hey, channie-hyung, how are you doing?”  hyunjin walked in, offering a glass of water.  

when hyunjin crouched down and pressed it to his lips, chan slowly sipped the water, still curled close to jisung.  hyunjin looked at jisung awkwardly.  jisung looked at chan.

“where’s felix?”  chan mumbled desperately, slipping into english once again.  hyunjin cringed.

“he, uh, needed to rest for a bit,” hyunjin explained.  jisung wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he guessed that meant felix had felt even worse than he’d looked.  chan’s hopeful expression crumbled.

“i miss him…”  chan whined.  jisung sighed.

“he’s right outside, buddy.  how are you feeling?  you wanna go to bed?”

chan made a groaning noise that was definitely not in the affirmative.  looking at him more closely, jisung knew why.  chan’s eyes were squeezed shut, and jisung could see sweat drops on his face.

“okay, c’mon,” jisung put a hand on chan’s back, helping him sit up over the toilet once again.  “hyunjin, can you get woojin-hyung?”

“right, about that…” chan retched and hyunjin flinched.  “woojin-hyung isn’t here.”

“neither are minho-hyung or changbin-hyung!”  jeongin shouted from the hallway.  chan vomited, then groaned loudly.

“feel… so sick,” he complained.  jisung squeezed his shoulder.

“i know, buddy.”

“where’s felix?” chan whimpered, coughing.  his whole body was trembling.  “want felix back…”

hyunjin made an x with his hands, shaking his head quickly.

“uh… we’ll see felix in a minute, buddy.  i miss him, too.”

chan, who seemed to be done puking, shuddered and curled up on the floor.  “hey, nuh-uh.  you are not sleeping on the floor,” hyunjin scolded.  hyunjin lifted chan up and in the process got captured by a koala.  jisung laughed, watching hyunjin flail dramatically and complain about germs, but relent immediately when he saw chan’s miserable expression.  by the time seungmin came back with a thermometer and tea, hyunjin was laying flat on his back on the floor, with chan laying directly on top of him.

“i’m not sleeping on the floor, i’m sleeping on hyunjin,” chan said, sounding content.  jisung snorted.  they were cute, but this was not going to work for either of them for a whole night, and both of them needed sleep.

“okay, let’s get you to bed,” jisung said in his most authoritative voice.  chan pouted as hyunjin sat up and wrapped his arms and lets around the younger boy’s torso.

“no.”

“hyung!”  hyunjin frowned at chan.

“where’s felix?”  chan asked, persistently, and upset once again.

“channie-hyung, i bet felix would sleep with you if you get off the floor.  or, off of hyunjin, i guess…”

at that, chan perked up.  hyunjin joined in.

“you gotta go to bed, though.  your actual bed.  or felix’s.  a bed.”

chan pouted, but thankfully stood up, leaning on hyunjin and jisung for support.  they led him to felix’s room, where they found the younger australian boy already in bed, apparently already asleep.

“what are you guys doing?”  seungmin asked, startling all three of the others.

“chan’s sick.  what are you doing?”  hyunjin asked, eyeing the younger boy skeptically.  seungmin shrugged, his face lit by his phone light.

“listening to music.  i’ll keep an eye on him.”

“‘m fine,” chan mumbled, stumbling into bed with felix.

“lix…”  chan whined, hugging the younger boy.  felix’s face scrunched up before he opened his eyes, squinting and reluctant until he saw chan.

“channie… hyung?”

“can i sleep here?  please?”  chan was begging, which was almost humorous considering how slim the chances of felix ever denying him.

“‘course,” felix mumbled, wrapping chan in a hug and petting his hair.  “you’ll feel better soon, hyung.”

meanwhile, hyunjin explained to jisung and seungmin that felix had nearly vomited after seeing chan get sick.  seungmin volunteered to accompany chan if he had to be sick later that night.  fortunately, seungmin wasn’t squeamish, and could speak english.  still, jisung decided to take changbin’s bed for the night, just in case.

——

when woojin returned with a sleepy minho and changbin, the dorm was silent, but they quickly realized that something was off.  changbin was the first to notice, mainly because jisung was in changbin’s bed.  he made his way to woojin and minho’s room, where woojin was just about to step into the hallway.  woojin raised an eyebrow at changbin and let him in.

“chan’s not in his bed, is he on the couch?”

“uh, no, he’s with felix.  and jisung stole my bed,” changbin pouted.  woojin smirked.

“well why don’t you steal chan’s bed, then?”  changbin nodded, too exhausted to argue.  minho spoke up from where he was lying on his own bed.

“i guess chan woke up even without us trying to make food.  we could’ve just eaten here.”  woojin could hear the smirk in his voice.

“yeah, yeah, i’m so sure.  you’re welcome for saving you not only from chan’s wrath, but also food poisoning.”

minho laughed and woojin smirked.  “okay, time for bed before you two get any other crazy ideas.  we’ll see what went on while we weren’t here tomorrow morning.”

[occult-castiel]

Secret Santa gift for @fallenoriath! Hope you enjoy it, this was my first time trying to write these two, hope I did it some amount of justice! Title: Pillow Talk

Word count: 4842

Characters: Gabriel, Beelzebub, Aziraphale, Crowley, Micheal

Summary: Beelzebub and Gabriel disagree about when things started

Gabriel's fingers ghosted across Beezbub's exposed skin in the early morning light. It was warm, like always. Their heat seeped into him every time they went to bed together, every time their skin brushed. It was always almost like a shock, their flame-charged essence.

Maybe it had something to do with the fall.

Either way, it was something Gabriel found out slowly and quickly, and was reinforced every morning when he cracked his eyes open, staring at the room that shouldn’t be, in the apartment that shouldn’t be, all on the planet that definitely, completely shouldn’t be.

A trifecta was appropriate. But that was the only proper thing about having a Lord of Hell tucked under his arm, burning away and soundly asleep.

Cuddling. A corner of his mind provided, quite dryly.

"How the fuck did this happen."

It wasn't a question, he had a habit of not asking too many of those, unless it was on the backend of an accusation at someone clearly not doing their job. But Beelzebub groaned.

Beelzebub flipped themselves over, and more of their smooth, unnaturally warm skin pressed against Gabriel's.

He almost shuttered. 

"Does it matter?"

He frowned and picked at their unruly black runaway hairs, and hummed in disapproval. "Probably the Fall. I was glad everyone else was gone."

He could remember that very clearly. One minute, he was in a conversation with what used to be Beelzebub, the next, half of Heaven was missing.

They had been beautiful, stunning as an Angel. Not much was different, except for a white robe a subtle heavenly glow, and hair that flowed down in perfect locks of a black that put creation to shame

And their eyes-- their eyes were like two shimmering blueberries. The Angel was up for a briefing, they were to be the patron of the moon, a new promotion that would put at almost equal levels of power. Almost.

"Asariel," Garbiel smiled as the Angel took their seat. "Good to see you."

He’d been on edge, most of the day. Still a hard monolith of a man, he stood straight and held his head high.

But a new scream echoing down the now baren Halls of Heaven was enough to leave a crack or two. Enough, after a few hundred, to all sound the same. Almost like it was one long, uninterrupted.

When the Angel walked in, crestfallen face on display, he figured they must feel the same.

But all the falling really was for the best, so he smiled. Business as usual. “I have good news for you!”

The pulled out a chair across from Gabrial at his always immaculate desk.

“Isn’t anything good about today.”

He ignored the tightness in his throat. “SIlver lining, then.”

A new scream sounded from behind the door. Asariel’s face tightened. They were glaring at their clenched hands.

His own shoulders slumped. “It’s for the best.”

Their gaze snapped up, and fire was shot at him in their deep blue eyes. “Lying doesn’t suit you, Gabriel.”

He scoffed, visibly taken aback. “I am not—” 

All the color drained from the Angel’s face, their eyes froze to the icy, lifeless color it would stay for the rest of eternity as a scream was ripped out of them.

It didn’t take long for the fire to consume them.

Gabriel sat there in silence, staring at the soot-stained spot where the Angel once was.

Beezlebub laid still, their breathing all but stopped.

“That doesn’t count.”

“All I’m saying is— “

“It doesn’t count.” They eyed up at them, there was an edge to it, and pinched upon look. “If you want something that early, then it was when we met.”

“When I assigned— “

They let out an irritated huff of air. “No, Sodom if we’re going that far back.”

Sodom was a city of sand. It seeps, stuck, and whisked in every direction under the pale moonlight. The pillars were lined with it, homes drenched in it, and Beezlebubs shoes were full of it as they trailed two Angels across the dimly lit city— two they were all too familiar with from before.

Eventually, they parted ways, Sandolphone taking refuge in some humans house, and Gabriel ventured off to a nearby pub. Wine had recently been refined again, and the human wasted no time in sharing the fruits.

The little building was bursting with people, all chattering, drinking. Ripe for a bit of tempting, bit that never was Beelzebubs primary objective in any situation. 

They beelined for Gabriel. An untouched cup of wine sat in front of him.

Quietly, over his shoulder, they whispered, "What's a little angel like you doing in a place like this?"

Every muscle in his body stiffened. "Asariel."

They yanked a fistful of his hair back, forcing his inhuman eyes on them. 

"Do I look like that person?"

"Vaguely," Gabriel said, a weariness in his voice.

"I have half a mind to discorporate you." They released his hair.

"Well, it'd be pointless. What's done is done." He rubbed his scalp. "This place is all going to salt and sand soon."

A spark of rage shot threw them and they grit their teeth. "You Angel's are ruining my work again."

He shrugged. "Ineffable plan. Divine work. One day you'll get their souls."

He looked tired. Not necessarily sad, but like the humans do, when they've decided sleeping could be put off for a day or two.

It'd be easy, to make good on the threat. But he'd looked tired that day too.

So instead, they left. What was done is done, and they weren't interested in fighting two Archangels today.

“I was there for decades.”

“Tsk.” he rolled his eyes. “It was disgusting. The place was full of rapists.”

“Yeah, and your lot isn’t? If I recall right, the girls you spared raped their father that very night.”

“Look, that wasn’t my policy decision, okay?”

“This is the problem with you Angels. You all have superiority complexes.”

“Whatever. The point is, that wasn’t it.” 

They glared, and shocked a finger into his chest. "If you're suggesting it was at that wenches implantation, I'll douse you in Hellfire myself."

The sky was black, a deep, unrelenting blackness that only came from the depths of nothing itself.

Which, honestly, should’ve been the first clue.

In the distance stood a small shack. A faint orange glow whispered through the shabby little windows.

The whole house looked run down and muddy, but everything on the planet did. But the son of God was meant to be born into humility, so Gabriel just shrugged it off and briskly walked towards it.

The place smelled. And the silly tunic itched horrendously. The heat of the Earth was nothing like the constant chill of Heaven, and it made the tunic, already uncomfortable, cling to his skin.

He had no idea why the Metatron was so insistent he couldn’t just have Aziraphale tell Mary about the child. It’d been ages since Eden.

A mass of black moved near the corner. Gabriel jerked to a stop.

He cleared his throat.

Nothing.

He lifted a hand. Golden streaks of yellow cracked over his skin. Heavenly light seeped from them. “Come out now, or be killed. Your choice, demon.”

There was a huff, and suddenly, a familiar voice behind him. “I’m not some demon, Archangel.”

He swiveled around, more of his corporal skin cracking to golden light as he sneered.

"Of course it's you." His hand dropped, and the light died down. A deep breath filled his chest. "Now, why are you here?”

They balled their fists. "Why am I here? Why do you think I'm here?!"

"There's nothing you can do about it."

"Oh?" A hoard of flies popped up around them, buzzing, flying erratically. "You're wrong. Your lot loves free will, yeah? Well if Shes going to come be one of them for a while, wants to experience it or whatever, then I have the free will to kill the mother here and now."

Gabriel threw his hands in the air. "And what? I'm supposed to let you? Not happening"

"Just give me a reason. How is this fair to the plan?"

"The humans are supposed to kill him. It's good for both sides."

"I don't care." Their hair raised,  and floated as unnaturally as their tunic. A subtle black mist pooled at their feet "If She wants to come here, She should do it Herzzzelf."

"So you want Her to pay, yeah?"

"More."

"Okay," Gabriel started, "Deep breaths. If you want any kind of vengeance, this kid needs to be born, end of story. Then your," he winced, "corrupting will do something."

"You already destroyed the work I put into that," they snapped.

"Look, what if I tell you the next time something like this is happening? Keep the plan in motion and any, uh, spite aside."

They crossed their arms. "I'm listening."

"Had to have been that. Besides, you're the one who skipped over the Tower."

Beelzebub pressed themself impossibly closer, and they painted Gabriels exposed skin with small pecks, each warm press as skin-meltingly warm as they last. His hand tightened around their waste.

“The tower was a tragedy,” they breathed across the exposed skin of his neck. He shivered, just a bit.

“And attempted murder isn’t?”

“Perspective.”

Their lips pressed together, and, like every time, it felt like diving into a warm pool of water. Gabriel’s entire body relaxed into it, turned to mush. 

A hand like fire trailed across their back, pulling them in. Gabriel’s hair was always sickeningly soft, Beelzebub took every chance possible to grab it, twist it, make it messy. Their fingers trailed up his side, over his chest, and grazed through ever perfectly placed strand, and pulled.

A thought occurred to them, and they pulled away. 

“Did I ever tell you,” they said over Gabriel’s protesting, “That Michael came to Hell?”

He stilled, “after she was attacked?”

“Attacked,” they rolled their eyes, “Is an overstatement.”

Ligur, in his infinite stupidity, got into a tiff with an Angel, which Gabriel had called them into a meeting for not an hour earlier.

Gabriel’s hands were clasped tightly in front of him. He tilted on the back of his heels every few breaths, eyes shifting up and down the impossibly long staircase. 

"So. Michael was attacked."

Beelzebub eyed him. Nervous fuck. "I don't care if an Angel gets hurt."

He glared. "It was one of your people that did it!"

"And we're at war," they said as they turned to leave.

Gabriel's hand snapped out to grab their wrist. The warmth of the steely grip burned. Beelzebub ripped their hand away and glared. 

"Hey! You don't have to be defensive!"

A flash of anger dashed through their veins. It didn't show.

"Better defensive than nervous."

His face twisted into a picture of indignity. "I am not nervous." But his eyes still shifted.

As a rule, Angel's were liars, and not worth an ounce of loyalty. Not that their subordinates were any better, but no one was trying to lie about it. Lying, throwing things away, that was Heaven's business.

Loyalty was dead in Hell, it went down screaming in the Fall. That was the point of it all.

Of course, it was an Archangel Ligur pissed off. Of course, it was Michael.

"It's her fault for trusting a demon."

He rolled his eyes. "Michael doesn't trust demons. She was attacked. In cold blood."

"She set up a backchannel. The demon didn't like the deal."

"Don't be ridiculous. This," he motioned between them, "is a fluke."

Of course Gabriel thought he was the only one with backchannel.

Idiot.

They both left without resolving anything, but Beelzebub’s newfound frustration at the situation got him an unrelated punishment.

Seeing the affronted Archangel in question was a surprise, though. 

Michael, in all her glorious, white, crispness, crossed her arms in front of Beelzebub. Her gaze was ice but her posture slouched.

"You aren't doing anything to him."

Beezlebub stared. It was sort of a sight, some creature of Heaven bothering to sully themselves by venturing into the basement. They'd been in contact with Gabriel for a few hundred years and neither of them ventured to the other side.

After a few beats of silence, Michael continued on in a puff. "You do realise he attacked me?"

They almost smiled. "I don't take orders from Angels." 

Her hand balled into fists. "We had an agreement!"

"My fault you made a bad deal, then?"

She sneered and turned to leave, but hesitated at the hallway entrance. They raised an eyebrow.

“We could have an agreement instead. An exchange of information, little help if needed.”

They felt something at that. A creeping sense of nausea, but something.

Gabriel was an idiot, probably a liar. But he wasn’t slimy. “No.”

She huffed. “What? Do you already have one?”

“And why would I tell the enemy that?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Because, I hear everything first, and I probably have some troubling news about your best field agent.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Even if they said yes, the words already sounded like lies. Beelzebub knew everything they needed to, regardless of if Crowley, they assumed, had done anything he ought to have not. Heaven really overemphasized the apple bit. 

Gabriel was a liar too, but not like the others he’d seen. He lied to protect an image or save his own ass

“Get out of my sight.”

And she did.

Gabriel pushed Beelzebub off of him, albeit softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Just did, didn’t I?”

He huffed. “It would’ve been good to know my associates were— were—”

“Associating?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Either way, at least I actually chose something when that bloody Angel popped in, not just some circumstance.”

“Oh if mine aren’t good enough, do I need to remind you I came to Hell too?”

“Because you were out of options.”

“Because I wanted your help.”

Gabriel had been the most cross being in all of existence, after. Everyone had backchannels. His primary earthly agent was a traitor. Humanity, in all of its stupid bumbling, remained. As did the irritation. 

Barely a week passed before Gabriel, for the first time ever, entered Hell, and very publicly requested Beelzebubs presence.

Each ding on the elevator down, each floor passed, was another memory ticking by. His hands clasped themselves in front of him like steel, very unsteady, almost fidgety, steel.

This was the best option. Beelzebub understood. Beelzebub had helped him on a few occasions, he knew them from before. Certainly, they must understand each other a bit by now. Maybe.

The doors opened. He took a deep breath and stepped into Hell, the corporate end, anyway.

Several demons coward, a few hissed, as he pushed his way past them to the short walk to the throne. No need for this little meeting to be a secret when everyone was doing it anyway, it seemed.

If they were phased, it didn’t show. A single eyebrow raised, their arms crossed, and a little frown was notched into place like it was sculpted there.

“What brings you to my domain, Archangel?” They said in a bored, uninterested tone.

And this was it, wasn’t it? All the Angels in Heaven, a whole Holy army at his disposal, and he crawls to Hell before saying a word, except for putting in a leave of absence.

“I want your help.”

A faint smirk twitched into, and just as quickly flickered out of existence. “I’m listening.”

“Tsk, you knew Angels would be useless here—”

“— You say that like we’ve done anything—”  

“But this place,” they motioned around the room, “that’s… notable.”

It took about a week for both of them to decide that a base of operations was a good idea. So they took residence in a flat across the street from the demons. Somewhere to be while they kept watch. It was large and sleek, full of deep brown wood and dark walls and counters. Unassuming and empty, aside from what little furniture the place came with. 

“Mn, no. This place was useful. But, we were tailing them on dates. So, maybe that?”

Gabriel glared at a plate of food.

The lightening of the place was dim. It was mostly grey, with little splashes of yellow and green in pieces of artwork hung sparsely about. Every plate was about ten times as expensive as it ought to be. 

Gabriel’s plate had what appeared to be a pile of expensive goop on it. In the corner of Beezelbub's eye, they could see the traitorous little Angel devouring it.

“What is this atrocity?” The Archangel shuttered.

Beelzebub studied their own plate, a mirror of Gabriel’s own. They decidedly snatched a fork, stabbed the grey, slimy glob, and swallowed it whole.

Oysters, the menu called them. More like a mistake. They felt them crawl down their throat the whole way down. “Disgusting is what it is. Now eat it.”

He huffed. “I am not putting that in my body.”

“You wear clothes, don’t you?” They stabbed another. “It’s about fitting in. Not that you’d know much about that.”

“We’re watching them, not playing human.”

They shrugged. “Not much of a difference. Unless you have an early exit strategy. Eat up, Archangel.”

He plucked a fork up, and proceeded to swirl the atrocity around his plate. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about. I can fit in just fine. Archangels are the epitome of perfection.”

Beelzebub huffed a laugh. Gabriel shot a glare. “We’re Her chosen Angels. Not that you’d know much about that.”

They took another bite, and washed the thin coating of slime down with a swig of wine. “Then prove it. Play human. Unless you can’t, Because,” they stabbed another piece, “I can.”

He shoved three on a fork. “Anything a demon can do, someone of my stature can do better.”

The oysters disappearing into his mouth, and he almost choked. Unfortunately, two coughs later and he was fine.

“I’m getting these reclassified as a deadly sin.”

They took a sip of wine. It was sweet, not nearly as bad. “Sins are liberating. Humans enjoy them if they’re the kind we get.”

“Well look at that shameless display!” He motioned wildly to their good for nothing underling and the angel, who was still thoroughly enjoying the meal. “If he likes it, it can’t be holy. Aziraphale is backwards.”

“Hell could take him. Maybe holy water would work then.”

He looked disgusted. “And what? We take the demon?” He laughed. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” They pushed his untouched glass of wine towards him. “Try the wine.”

Tentatively, he plucked the glass up and swirled it in the cup. The red liquid almost spilled over as he examined it, nose up.

Eventually, he took a sip. And then another.

“Hm.” He gave the cup another swirl. “Not bad.”

A few weeks of tailing the two from one restaurant to the next, and a wine rack appeared in the apartment’s living room. When Beelzebub looked at it in question, Gabriel just shrugged.

They even got a bit drunk, a few times.

Dust plastered every available surface. It wasn’t something they had to deal with in the etherial plane, so they didn’t deal with it. Little pitters of rain thumped against the windows, the sole reason they were in the apartment for more than roughly a half-hour. Gabriel couldn’t be bothered to get his hair wet.

Ridiculous.

It took Beelzebub almost no time at all to suggest actually drinking some of the wine that was also collecting dust, and that was all the convincing it took.

Three bottles later and Beelzebub sat in a lone chair, scrunched in on themself, wine glass in hand. Gabriel was slung about on the couch. By all means, the wine should’ve been in a puddle on the floor, or the coach, or on his suit.

But Beelzebub figured the liquid must know what was best for it, so it mostly stayed in place, decidedly not spilling. Though the thought of him being that frivolous with miracles was amusing.

“It’s— It’s holy, Beez—”

“Do not call me that.”

He rolled his eyes, and flung into a proper sitting position, however uncoordinated.

“Fine. But the wine, it’s holy. How aren’t you burning alive?” He sounded bewildered

They tsked and took a sip. Warmth radiated from their cheeks, had been for a while now, but it was a comfortable thing, nothing like what they’d seen of holy water. Certainly nothing like the fire of falling.

“People sin with it far more often.”

His face scrunched. “Not as often as they use it in communion.”

“You’re wrong. It’s one of the easier tickets to Hell.”

He hesitated, staring at the glass of liquid like it might burst into fire. They sighed.

"Good for blending in though, hm?"

He glanced at the cup, then at them, then at the cup again. 

They tried a toast. "To blending in."

He drank, albeit wearily. 

But not so much the time after that, or any subsequent.

Other outings happened too, they trailed them to museums, parks, a particularly messy child’s birthday party once.

“I did enjoy the tempting of it, never got out much after the Biblical days.”

“It was not a temptation.”

They snickered. “Just like the whole scarf thing wasn’t flirting, hm?”

Gabriel blushed. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Sure.”

“I hate this… whatever it is.”

Gabriel pipped up, almost bounced in place. “Hey! I know this one! The humans call it Fall.”

They clicked their tongue. “Falling was scorching. Not,” they motioned to Gabriel’s scarf, annoyed that they even needed such a silly, frilly thing. It was bulky and white and only drew attention. “whatever the Heaven that is.”

“It’s fashionable. And if you think food is the only way to fit in, you’re wrong. You don’t even have a jacket.”

“I’ll just be noticed, then.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.” And, before Beezelbub had a word in protest wise, his silly, stupid scarf wrapped around their neck in a swift motion.

Its warmth radiated down their neck and yanked a slew of goosebumps to their skin. An odd sensation, one you would never get in the depths of Hell.

Gabriel sneered. “Better?”

They didn’t answer.

Gabriel chuckled. “You looked so embarrassed then.”

Beelzebub was on top of him in an instant, and whispered into his ear, “Need I remind you who started this?” They motioned vaguely to the bed.

“That was only because you’d said how amazing sleeping was—”

“— So I tempted you— “

“No, I chose you, consciously, after we saw those two dimwits sucking face. No temptation.”

December came, and the traitors were still going out for a nice little walks in the snow-dusted paths of Saint James Park. It was dark and cold, and the human’s inefficient lights barely glowed orange enough to properly light anything, but it was enough.

Enough to see how Aziraphale clung to the creature. To see the way he clung back with an arm over his shoulder.

They weren't often close enough to make out words, but tonight they were lucky when the two stopped under the bandstand.

"You look cold," the demon said.

"Well, tis the season, my dear."

And then, very carefully, Aziraphale let the demon kiss him.

"Better?" He sounded so smug. Aziraphale yanked him back down.

And they didn't explode. Like they should’ve.

Beelzebub shivered.

When they got back to the apartment, Gabriel saw it with frightening clarity. The records were strewn about, the bottle of nail polish on the dresser. Tailor-made clothes were thrown neatly in a hamper. 

They had shampoo. There was food in stock.

Beezlebub pushed past him and grumbled they were going to sleep and to keep it the fuck down. Since they watched movies humans made on a tv humans enjoyed.

A wave of dizziness struck him. He barely heard the slamming of the bedroom door. It all looked big and empty, but still too small, too full of something intangible.

They were native. Both of them. They'd gone native.

Just like their two uncooperative field agents.

For the first time, Gabriel really imagined.

God, he was stupid

“You did this.”

They paused at the door. “Did what?”

“You,” he huffed out a breath in disbelief. “You tempted me.”

Beelzebub’s face scrunched. “What the Heaven are you on about?”

He motioned wildly. “This is all an indulgence!”

“You,” they snapped, “Invited me here. Your idea.”

Anger churned in his blood, a white-hot fury. “To punish them! Not play human!”

They crossed their arms. “And have you figured out a way to do that yet?”

“No, that’s not the point—” he groaned, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m leaving” he called over his shoulder, the door already shut before Beelzebub would say a word.

The dinners, the music, the clothes, and the rituals. It wasn’t bad, and the traitors did it all together. Seemed to like it so much more together.

For the first time, Gabriel imagined. Really imagined.

What if he’d done this alone? If Beezelbub had laughed in his face when he asked them to go to earth? What if Aziraphale got the Mary assignment after all?

He saw Aziraphale and Crowley under the bandstand again in his head, but instead, Beezelbub was under his arm, clung to his side, and after seeing them kiss, he'd turn to the side, look down at the little hellspawn and—  

Aziraphale’s bookshop stared him in the face. How long had his… fraternizing been going on? Why had it been going on?

Months later and he still didn’t get it.

He only had to pound three times before the stuffy little Angel answered the door.The door rushed out the tantalizing heat from within, the shop reeked of sugar and dust. And brimstone. But he was mostly nose blind to that. Mostly.

“I’m sorry but we’re very closed— Oh, Gabriel.”

His eyes bulged like little saucers, any haughtiness from the failed execution wiped out.

“Aziraphale.”

“I, ah,” his eyes shifted towards the cave of books, a dark and yellow cavern full of dust Gabriel had never been the keenest on being inside of. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon”

He smelled the demon before he saw him saunter around a corner, inspecting a wine bottle. “Hey, angel, when did you get— What the Heaven are you doing here, Archangel?”

The demon was next to Aziraphale in an instant, his open hand clutching the doorframe, the other behind the Angel. His yellow slits were blown wide.

He sneered, “I didn’t come here to talk to you— “

“Well then, best get to leaving then.”

He ignored him, and focused his attention on Aziraphale, “You’ve got him trained so well.”

His face pinched, a look of disgust crossed his face. “Trained?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Now, if we can get on with it, all I have is one question."

"Very well," Aziraphale patted his clothes.

"No, Aziraphale, this psycho has been tailing us for weeks, you don’t owe him anything!"

A bout of annoyance flared inside of him. "See?" He motioned towards him, "this is why I don't consort with demons."

The demon sniffed the air. "Yeah. Sure smells like you don't."

"Crowley that's quite enough, if he’s here for a question it's best to answer it and move on." The demon honest to God pouted. 

Gabriel sneered at him. 

"But not if you're going to be rude as well, Gabriel. What is it you need?"

"How did this," he motioned vaguely between the two of them, "Happen?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

"If you cooperate, I'll," he heaves a sigh and shook his head, "personally insure Heaven and Hell leave you both alone."

Aziraphale bit his lip and glanced at his disgusting demon boyfriend, who, after a moment sighed and said, "Sure, go for it. Whatever."

"Oh, well that's quite a long story. Unless you'd like it abridged? Or just the bit about Armageddon?"

His insides coiled, but this was for the best. 

"The beginning."

He hummed, "Well, that starts at The Beginning, so you may want to come inside."

Several hours later, he left with a bit of bike in his throat and a bottle of wine from the early 19th century, apparently, an important part of the process was alcohol. "Extraordinary amount of alcohol."

Beelzebub laughed. "I was wondering where you got that."

"So you see, no temptation."

"Mm," they pressed themselves into his side, skin warm and flush. "Should fix that. Tempt you to some breakfast around the corner? Need to pay my old subordinate a visit."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Someone's got to let him know that wine tasted like shit."

He snorted and agreed. It was on okay breakfast, and miraculously enough their old employees were indeed there, and weren't the happiest to see them, but, as with most things, a bit of misery thrown in that wasn't exactly his, made things a bit more fun.

[kathyprior4200]

Pursuit of Perfection (Entrapta and Hordak scenes/details Seasons 1-3) (in progress)

“Season 1: Light Hope”

 Hordak sat on his throne, staring off into space. Hordak looked over as his imp companion arrived.

“What do you have for me, my little spy?”

His imp crawled up on the left arm rest of the throne. The imp opened his mouth and a recording of Entrapta’s voice came through.

“Catra, I’ve made great strides in analyzing the data from the First Ones data crystal. Look.”

 ‘Fascinating,’ Lord Hordak thought. He didn’t think that Entrapta, a new princess who had taken residence in the Fright Zone could be of much use at first. At first glance, she appeared to be an eccentric troublemaker, eager to play with any tool that was placed in front of her.

Hordak listened to the conversations further and he thought… ‘Perhaps this Dryl princess will be of great use to me and to the Horde.’

Entrapta seemed to be the only one to understand the functions of the First Ones tech they had recovered from the winter wasteland. Having come from another world, Hordak desired to possess the most advanced technology on Etheria…and use it to potentially conjure other universes.

“Where did this come from?” Catra’s voice asked from the recording.

“Oh, you know, here and there, rooms,” came Entrapta’s reply.

“Where there people in these rooms?”

“Well, not when I went back to take the stuff.”

“You belong here with us.”

“So the data…”

Hordak heard Entrapta squeal with delight as the crystal was inserted into the computer.

“Look at these readings. Incredible. This seems to confirm my theories about the techno-organic nature of First Ones machinery, resulting in thaumatrological compatibility between magic and science!”

So Entrapta figured out that First Ones tech was infused with technology and their magic, being partly mechanical, and partly alive in their own way. With both magic and technology on the Horde’s side, it would give his army an advantage over the magic wielding rebels.

 Catra’s voice was heard again, after Hordak tuned out the interactions between Catra, Entrapta, and Scorpia.

“Yes, or no, did that crystal give you enough data to integrate our weapons?”

Catra was a foolish girl. What Hordak had in mind involved more than just weapons. It involved inter dimensional travel, advanced use of magic, perhaps fiddling with time and space itself. No one else could comprehend his grand plans.

“Weapons? Ha! This is so much bigger than weapons! This could change everything. Etheria’s not just a planet. Whatever the First Ones did to it, they went deep”

‘Well, it seems like Entrapta got rudimentary basics in her head.’

Catra spoke again, “And what does that mean?”

“You’re asking me about my theories? I’ve waited years for someone to ask me about my theories! Hang on, I made a model.”

Entrapta sounded like an excited child who completed their first science project for class.

“Behold, Etheria. The First Ones didn’t just settle on the surface of Etheria. Their technology runs throughout the planet’s core. This whole planet, it’s all First Ones’ tech.”

“And what are those supposed to be?”

“Rune stones. From the data I’ve managed to extract, they regulate the planet through the princesses. They’re directly connected to each other and to the planet’s power grid in a delicate balance.”

“Which means?”

“Which means they’re our best access point to hack the planet.”

Hordak tried not to scoff at their pathetic attempts to rule Etheria.

“Hack the planet?”

“Hypothetically. But it’s not so simple. There’s only a handful of Runestones in the whole world.”

Hordak tuned out their conversations until they got to more important details. Catra spoke first.

“Okay calm down. What exactly are you planning on doing to the Black Garnet?”

“If we hack the Runestone grid, we could boost the Garnet’s power and use it for…well anything. As a power source. As …”

“A weapon?”

“Potentially. But if it’s like my other experiments, the results will be explosive.”

Scorpia’s voice was heard.

“I don’t think Shadow Weaver will like that.”

Catra spoke again.

“Scorpia’s right. Shadow Weaver won’t like it. So I will absolutely get you the Black Garnet. Leave it to me.”

So Catra and Entrapta were planning on merging First Ones tech with the Black Garnet…magic and science together. It was an ingenious plan.

Catra: “Alright, hurry it up. Those machines aren’t going to hook up themselves.”

Shadow Weaver: “They won’t be hooked up at all.”

Scorpia: “Shadow Weaver. We just…uh…”

Shadow Weaver (to Catra): “Silence! Did you really think you could invade my inner sanctum without me noticing? I never thought you were so bold as to openly rebel, but it’ll be my pleasure to put you back in your place.”

Catra: “Oh Shadow Weaver, I can do whatever I want with this hunk of rock.”

Shadow Weaver: (chuckles) “Absurd. By whose authority?”

Hordak: “By mine.”

Hordak appears on the overhead screens. Catra, Entrapta and Scorpia bow.

Shadow Weaver: “Lord Hordak, I don’t understand.”

Hordak: “Catra and Entrapta have been working on a way to meld this strange First Ones tech with our machines, to weaponize it. I found out and was intrigued. I gave Force Captain Catra and her team my blessing to go ahead. So, understand, Shadow Weaver, I’m displeased with your interruption.”

Shadow Weaver: “My Lord, you’re really going to let this…this princess tinker with my Runestone?”

Entrapta cowers in fear.

Hordak: “Her tinkering has boosted the firepower of every weapon she’s touched. So yes, she gets to tinker with whatever she wants, including the Black Garnet, which is mine to give or take as I see fit.”

Shadow Weaver: “You can’t. You can’t do this! I alone have learned how to draw power from it, a feat no sorceress has done before. I have unlocked its potential!”

Hordak: “And you wasted it on parlor tricks. Force Captain Catra, proceed. The Garnet is yours.”

Catra: “Yes, Lord Hordak.”

Shadow Weaver: No!”

Destroys the screens with her magic.

 “Season 1: The Battle of Bright Moon”

Scorpia, Catra, and Entrapta walk over to Hordak.

Hordak: “Force Captain, it seems your experiment has failed.”

Entrapta: “On the contrary, the experiment was a huge success. I know more about First Ones tech than ever. This is just the beginning.”

Catra: “I got us closer to conquering Bright Moon than anyone ever has. Not to mention the Whispering Woods is still in ruins. Etheria is ours for the taking.”

Hordak: “Very well, Force Captain Catra. You will have other chances to prove your worth to me as my second in command.”

“Season 2: The Frozen Forest”

Catra: “With the woods frozen, princesses distracted by bots, we’ve been able to gain significant ground.”

Hordak: “You have not disappointed me, Force Captain. Clearly I was wise to promote you.”

Entrapta: “I’m just gonna borrow this.”

(Entrapta hops behind Hordak’s throne, holding a wrench in her hair, a metal face barrier on)

(Entrapta observes the wrench)

Entrapta: “Oh, what is that?”

Catra: “Uh yes. We’ve kept the princesses distracted, but we could be doing more. We should be working to take them out, once and for all. Isn’t that right, Entrapta? Entrapta!”

(Entrapta turns and removes the metal mask)

Entrapta: “Oh right.”

(Entrapta claps her purple hair hands and a larger bot enters the scene)

Entrapta: “May I introduce, Emily’s Kid Sister. EKS for short. With First One’s tech at its core, this little beauty has enough power to rival a princess.”

(Entrapta uses a thin black device to shot a green blast at the robot’s metal leg, which regenerates)

Hordak: “Impressive indeed. And you can make more of these?”

Entrapta: “Yes! I mean no. I mean, I could. But I only had enough First One’s tech to make four.”

Catra: “But I know where we can get more.”

 “Season 2: Signals”

(Entrapta works on a round device on a table. The table wobbles).

Entrapta: “Hmm.”

(goes back to work)

(table moves again)

(Entrapta stops, and goes under the table, noticing a loose black screw)

Entrapta: “Emily, hand me a six-sided hex driver.”

(Robot scurries around, throwing things in the search. Emily beeps and shakes her metal head)

Entrapta: (groans) “You’re right Emily, how can we possibly work like this?” (falls back onto the table in frustration)

 (Entrapta shouts and falls through a hole from a pipe).

Entrapta: “Hi.”

Catra: “You’re not a prisoner anymore. You don’t have to sneak around.”

Entrapta: “The ducts are faster. I don’t have time to waste. I need a six-sided hex driver right now.”

Catra: “I’m the one who doesn’t have time to waste. Aren’t you some kind of genius? Make do with what you have.”

Entrapta: “Of course I could, but it’s the principle. Use the proper tool for the job. If you can’t help me, it’s fine. I saw one in Hordak’s lab.”

(Catra hisses and lunges toward her)

Catra: “I know you’re new to the Fright Zone, and possibly to being around people in general, but Hordak isn’t somebody to mess with. Under no circumstances will you go anywhere near Hordak’s sanctum.”

Entrapta: “Ooh. He calls his lab a sanctum. Oh, this is so classy!”

Catra: “Focus! I need you to promise that you will stay away from Hordak. Promise!”

Entrapta: “Okay, okay! I promise.”

(Entrapta goes back up)

 (Entrapta speaks into a recorder, tapping her gloved hands on her robot)

Entrapta: “Ethical dilemma number, uh… sixty three. I told Catra I wouldn’t go into Hordak’s lab. But if she never finds out, does it count? I could just pop in, grab the tool and pop out. No one would ever know. But I would know. I shouldn’t do it. Or should I? No, I shouldn’t.”

(Entrapta sneaks in)

Entrapta: “A six-sided hex driver.”

(Entrapta reaches for the tool and then notices the green electricity)

Entrapta: “This is amazing.”  

(Light goes out)

Entrapta: “Oh.”

(Ducks from Hordak’s hand swiping the table, covering her mouth. Hordak leaves)

Entrapta: “Well, there’s no reason to get huffy just because an experiment failed. Failure is a vital part of all scientific endeavor.”

(Pats Emily on the head and grabs the hex driver)

Entrapta: “What if I given up on you after the first explosion? Or the 50th? I know. I should leave, but I have to stay. For science.”

  (Entrapta unplugs a dark cord from the metal pillar and connects green cords together. Blue sparks spread from the cords. Entrapta grabs the hex driver.)

Entrapta: “Hello. You’re blocking my light. If you could just step aside…”

Hordak: “Get out!”

Entrapta: “Well, just a sec. I’m almost finished. All done, okay bye.”

(Emily pushes Entrapta out of the room)

Hordak: “There will be dire consequences for this flagrant breach of conduct.”

Entrapta: “You were using uninsulated cables. I, uh, replaced them for you. Try it again. It should hold the charge now.”

Hordak: “Hmm. Huh?”

(Green electricity comes on in a sphere)

Hordak: “She was right.”

Entrapta: “Of course I was right.”

(Entrapta appears beside Hordak.)

(Hordak’s imp takes the hex driver from Entrapta’s hand)

Entrapta: “It’s beautiful. It’s a power source, isn’t it? What are you building that needs so much power?”

(Entrapta looks at a screen)

Entrapta (gasps): “I recognize these formulas! You’re experimenting with portals? But that’s…I mean, I’m familiar with the concept, but multi-dimensional gates are theoretical. No one’s come close to actually achieving one. Right?”

Hordak: “Obviously someone from a backwater planet such as yours couldn’t possibly comprehend it.”

Entrapta: “Hey. All right. I’m the one who got your power source working, so tell me everything.”

Hordak: “Portals aren’t theoretical, they’re real. And I’m going to open one.”

Entrapta: “You are? Ah! Can I help you? Just think of the possibilities! You could transport troops, and weapons, whatever you need, from one side of the planet to the other!”

Hordak: “You think too small. Unsurprising. You can’t begin to understand the potential a device of this nature will possess.”

Entrapta: “Wait! If Etheria is a backwater planet, does that mean that there are others?”

Hordak: “Of course there are. There ae countless galaxies filled with countless other worlds. Etheria is the only planet I’ve ever encountered that does not seem to understand that.”

Entrapta: “Other planets? And you’ve been there?”

(Hordak grins)

 (Entrapta fixes another green cable)

Entrapta: “This is probably the max with what you’ve got to work with here. If we had some First One’s tech, we could generate even more voltage.”

Catra: “I’m sorry, Lord Hordak! Entrapta is new. I promise she will never bother you again.”

Hordak: “You are the one bothering me, Force Captain, with your unwelcome intrusion. I am working, with Entrapta’s assistance.”

Entrapta: “Did you hear that, Emily? I’ve never had a lab partner before.”

 “Season 2: Light Spinner”

  (Electricity goes dark)

Entrapta: “Oh hi Catra. What are you doing here?”

Catra: “I’m a Force Captain. What are you doing here?”

Entrapta: “I’ve been integrating the First Ones’ tech we got from the Northern Reach into Hordak’s portal mainframe. But it maybe, slightly, completely overloaded the Fright Zone energy grid. We’re gonna have to redesign that.”

Hordak: “What Entrapta is doing does not concern you, Force Captain.”

(Entrapta looks at Hordak and Catra, wondering why they looked tense).

Entrapta: “Oh. Were you having a meeting? Sorry, again. I guess I should be going.” (lifts herself up using her hair)

Hordak: “No, you stay.”

(Entrapta hops down)

Hordak to Catra: “You have two days to extract whatever information you can from your prisoner. Then you will banish her to Beast Island.”

Catra: “But…”

Hordak: “Do you understand? Or do I have to make myself understood?”

Catra: “No, Lord Hordak. I understand.”

Hordak: “Good. Dismissed.”

Entrapta: “We should be able to initiate our first test of the portal machine as soon as I rebuild the electrical grid.” (Entrapta sits on the arm of the throne as Hordak sits.)

  SPOILERS FOLLOW

“Season 3: The Price of Power”

Hordak works on his metal arm and reaches for the six sided hex driver. He clutches his side in pain. Entrapta pops out of the pipe, upside down.

Entrapta: “Hordak, great. I’ve got a lot to cover with you today.”

Enrapta hops down and shows Hordak four screens with data on them, holding the devices with her hair.

Entrapta: “I’ve integrated the First Ones tech from the Northern Reach, to our portal machine, but we’re still missing something. Luckily, I just picked up a signal. It’s some sort of First Ones message.”

Entrapta shows a screen with the symbol neon First Ones writing.

Entrapta: “I don’t know what these other words are, but this one’s easy. It means ‘portal.’ It could be the missing something we’re looking for.”

Entrapta looks around.

Entrapta: “Where’s Catra? We should send her out ASAP.”

Hordak: “Catra is no longer a concern of yours. She’s being sent to Beast Island.”

Entrapta: “I’m confused.”

Entrapta runs in front of Hordak.

Entrapta: “As you can see, the overall productivity of the Horde has increased by 400 percent, since Catra has been your second in command. And look at this chart. The evidence shows that First Ones tech has gotten us closer than ever to creating a working portal. Catra has been incredibly successful at getting new tech for us. And this latest signal is coming from here. The Crimson Waste.”

Entrapta pulls out a map.

Entrapta: “We don’t have a moment to spare. We need Catra.”

Hordak swipes the map from Entrapta’s hands.

Hordak: “It is meaningless. I’m not going to squander troops on a lifeless wasteland. This discussion is over.”

Entrapta sighs, lowered her head, the mask falling back on, and lifts herself out of the room back through the pipe.

  Catra is brought out, handcuffed between two guards to Hordak. Scorpia and the others stand at attention to the side.

Hordak: “I want you all to watch and learn. There is nothing I do not know. Nothing I am not willing to do to punish those who betray my trust. Your former Force Captain has proven to be compromised, ineffective, and worthless. To the rest of you, take a lesson from this. This is what happens to failures.”

Catra: “You’re the failure.”

Everyone gasps.

Catra laughs.

Catra: “You need me, just like you needed Shadow Weaver, because you have no idea how to run this place. All you know how to do is hide in your lab. Maybe that’s why you can’t defeat a group of teenagers.”

Scorpia (gasps) “Catra.”

Hordak growls but then stops and has a plan.

Hordak: “Save your little speech. There has been a change of plan.”

Entrapta’s hair curls around Catra’s face.

Entrapta: “Hi Catra. I saved your life. You’re welcome.”

Entrapta does a peace sign, pats Catra on the head with her hair, and then moves to stand beside Hordak.

Catra: “I don’t understand.”

Hordak: “Entrapta has interceded on your behalf. You should be thanking her. Instead of the many punishments I intended, you are being sent to retrieve the First Ones tech for us. In the Crimson Waste.”

Catra: “The Crimson Waste? It’s a total dead zone. Nothing survives out there.”

Hordak: (laughs) “Exactly.”

Catra gasps.

“Season 3: Huntara”

Entrapta and Hordak stand in front of an unfinished portal.

Entrapta: “Day 135, this could finally be it. Initiating first test. Here we go. Aha!”

Entrapta presses a button. A sphere of energy forms from the metal tower. Electricity carries several long metal pieces in a circle, moving faster. The pieces stop and are put together like large puzzle pieces. A green portal forms through the circular opening. Entrapta and Hordak smile. Entrapta then suddenly gasps as the device gets unstable.

Entrapta: “Something’s wrong. I’m turning it off.”

Hordak: “No, you fool. It’ll blow.”

Entrapta runs to the portal and Hordak grabs her hand and pulls her back. The device explodes in a flash of light. Hordak and Entrapta are on the ground among the rubble and fizzles of lightning. A wire comes loose from Hordak’s left metal hand and he grunts in frustration. Entrapta stands up.

Entrapta: “This doesn’t make any sense. It should work. The machine didn’t have enough power, so we added First Ones tech. Then it was blowing out the power grid, so we rerouted it. Now it’s powered, it’s functioning, but it won’t activate a portal. It’s like there’s a key. Maybe when Catra brings that tech back from the Crimson Waste…”

Hordak: (laughs) “Catra is never coming back from that fool’s errand. The machine is a failure. We’re done here. Get out.”

Entrapta: “That was just our first test. If we try…”

Hordak: “I said, we’re done.”

Hordak’s imp pulls Entrapta out of the room by her hair. Entrapta looks back, concerned, before the door closes.

 Entrapta: “I know Hordak told me to go away, but I have some ideas for the portal machine. Emily will you cut that…(shouts)”

Emily, the robot pushes her against a glass vial, glowing green. Entrapta looks and sees an unborn blue creature with bat wings, connected by wires in the water.

Entrapta: “Curious.”

Entrapta spots Hordak having his armor removed from the overhead machines. A small hole in his blue and white arm is revealed. Several other holes surrounded by metal are also on Hordak’s body.

Entrapta: “Okay, Emily, you might have a point. Quietly, quietly…”

Entrapta steps on a wire, which break apart, causing metal to clang to the ground loudly. One big hunk of metal crashes against the ground, catching Hordak’s attention.

Entrapta: “Hi.”

Hordak: “Get out. Get out right…”

Hordak groans and passes out, Entrapta running frantically toward him.

Hordak wakes up with a gasp, a blue blanket around him.

Entrapta: “Ta-da! I made you soup. Soup always makes me feel better.”

Entrapta places a tray with an array of small bowls in front of him. She holds out spoons toward Hordak in her hair, Hordak cringing away from all eight of them. Hordak yells in anger.

Entrapta places soup for Hordak’s imp, who sniffs then pinches his nose in disgust.

Entrapta: “Okay, I know one big soup bowl is probably better, but they’re so cute.”

Hordak: “I am not discussing this.”

Hordak gets up on shaky legs, then collapses. Entrapta catches him in her hair and holds him up.

Entrapta: “Your armor, it’s holding you together.”

Hordak: “It is none of your concern.”

Entrapta runs in front of him.

Entrapta: “You’re from another planet. That thing in the vitrine looks like you. You’ve got tech compensating for your body.”

Entrapta slowly moves Hordak against the glass vitrine.

Entrapta: “As a scientist, I’m not going to stop, until I figure out what’s going on. Now, tell me everything.”

Hordak: “You wanna know what I am? I am a clone.”

Behind him, more vitrines with the creatures are revealed, glowing eerily in the dark.

Hordak: “A clone of the Emperor of the Known Universe, Horde Prime. Horde Prime cloned himself, building an army to conquer all he saw. Planets, worlds, galaxies fell before us. I was his top general. But there was a defect in my cloning, and defects are worthless to Prime. I was sent to die on the front lines. But during battle, a portal opened and sent me crashing to Etheria. Stranding me here. With nothing but a broken ship, I built an empire. When my portal opens, I shall bring forth my brother’s armies, to crush the Rebellion. And Horde Prime will see that he was wrong. I am not a defect. I am worth something.”

Hordak punches the vitrine.

Hordak: “But my portal machine does not work. I haven’t conquered the planet. I could not even clone a new body for myself. Perhaps…perhaps Prime was right. I am a failure.”

Entrapta rummages through draws, throwing tools and parts everywhere.

Entrapta: “Oh, no, no, no. I’m listening. I heard you. I’ve got an idea, but I need my tools. Be right back.”

Entrapta leaves by lifting herself with her hair.

 Entrapta looks at a lighter from her tool.

Entrapta: “Ooh, this is gonna be so much fun.”

Hordak: “I do not need your help in this.”

Entrapta: “Everybody needs help sometimes. And you shouldn’t be upset that you’re not perfect. Take Emily. Her programming is glitch, the left leg sticks and she’s loud. Emily’s got quirks, but that’s why I like her. Imperfection is what makes scientific experimentation possible. Imperfection is beautiful. At least to me.”

Hordak stares, temporarily entranced by Entrapta, as light floods around her head and sparks fly in the background. He is grabbed by Entrapta’s hair.

Entrapta: “Stand here. And you’re really way too obsessed with this whole failure thing.”

Entrapta holds his arms out.

Entrapta: “I mean, I’m a failure.”

Hordak: “You are not a…”

Entrapta covers his mouth.

Entrapta: “I don’t fit in. I became friends with Adora, but she abandoned me. Then I became friends with Catra, but she didn’t talk to me anymore.”

Entrapta presses a button and a remote buzzes. The metal arms overhead attach new armor to Hordak.

Entrapta: “But that doesn’t mean I give up. I scrounged up more pieces of First Ones tech, and I can’t think of a better use for it than this. Ta-da!”

Hordak stares at his blue hands and his improved armor and body.

Entrapta: “Your armor is more of an exoskeleton now. The tech compensating for your organic body. What does it feel like?”

Hordak: “Powerful.” (chuckles) Hordak stops and tries to sound professional.

Hordak: “I…I acknowledge the work you put into this. It is very…technologically sound.”

Imp kicks his foot and screeches, telling Hordak to speak more warmly.

Hordak: “Uh, no matter what you say, you are not a failure. Any who discount you are utter fools.”

Entrapta: “Thanks. I like being friends with you, too.”

Entrapta places her hair on his shoulder. Hordak stares in disbelief, as he has never had a friend before.

 “Season 3: Moment of Truth”

Hordak tests out his strength by lifting a large metal column.

Entrapta: “This suit may be my best work yet. Hordak puts the column down and grins. Then a spark flies up his hand and he cringes.

Entrapta: “No reason to get in a tizzy.”

Hordak: “I have never been in a tizzy.”

Entrapta uses tools to fix his armor.

Entrapta: “You can’t expect everything to work perfectly overnight. Like our machine. We still haven’t figured out the missing piece that’ll let us cut through the planetary interference. If we try now, the portal might not be stable long enough to get anyone through.”

Hordak: “We only need to open a portal for a short time. Long enough to send a signal through to Horde Prime. Once he receives it, he should have no trouble opening a portal from his side.”

Entrapta: (sadly) “And then you’ll have to go with them.”

Entrapa (brightens) “But there’s still so much data we could collect. What’s the rush? We’ll just keep working on it until it’s perfect.”

Hordak and Entrapta smile genuinely at each other, like good friends.

  She-Ra’s sword cracks with electricity and creates the energy needed for the portal.

Hordak (grins) “Oh…she did it.”

Catra: “The princesses are here. There’s no time. We need to open the portal.”

Hordak: “Where’s Entrapta? I need her.”

(Catra had stunned Entrapta with a weapon and ordered her to be sent to Beast Island)

Catra grins evilly.

Catra: “Who do you think let the princesses in?”

Hordak gasps then bangs his fist against a button.

Hordak: “But she…she wouldn’t.”

Catra laughs.

Catra: “Did you really think she was on our side? Oh, you can’t trust anyone, especially a princess. They’ll just use you to get what they want. Open the portal and let’s end this.”

Entrapta works and bonds with Hordak, as she fixes his armor. She describes the portal and serves pieces of metal as food to Adora and her friends. Entrapta goes to tell Hordak to not open the portal and said he would understand. Catra demands for the portal to be opened to enact revenge against Adora. Catra electrocutes her from behind and orders her minion to take her to Beast Island. Catrs later lies to Hordak that Entrapta let the princesses into the Fright Zone, Hordak hurt by this.

  Robots pour water from a teapot into cups.

Entrapta: “This is fascinating. I’ve never had non-robots visit me. Usually it’s just me and all my friends.” Entrapta slurps from her drink.

Adora: “Friends?”

Entrapta: “Aren’t they amazing? And if they break, I can just make new friends.” (laughs) “Tiny snacks?”

Adora, Bow, and Glimmer shake their heads as a robot presents them with gears and screws on a platter. Green spices are sprinkled on.

Entrapta: “Oh, sorry about that. They’re still getting the hang of people food. Unless this is what you eat. I have so many questions. Tell me everything.”

Adora: “Entrapta, I know what I’m about to say sound crazy…”

Entrapta: “Is this about the unstable portal slowly consuming and warping our reality?”

Adora: “You’re not gonna believe…What did you just say?”

Entrapta: “Oh I figured it out a while ago. An unstable portal is the only thing that would account for all the anomalies I’ve been picking up in my research. The portal exists somewhere in our world, and as long as it’s still open, it’s gonna keep destabilizing reality, making things disappear faster and faster, until, bam, there’s nothing left.” (laughs) “Which is a bad thing.”

Adora; “How do we stop it?”

Entrapta: “Portals are gateways, wormholes that connect one area of space to another. The only way to turn it off is from the inside. But whoever shuts the portal down can’t leave. They’ll be trapped between realities, possibly forever. Oh, imagine the data they could collect.”

Glimmer: “Wait, so whoever turns it off will be trapped inside it forever?”

Entrapta: “Exactly.”

Adora: “There must be another way. Try to remember, Entrapta, when you and Hordak built the Portal Machine.”

Entrapta: “Remember. I remember. I had a lab partner, Hordak. Mm…we were friends, and then Catra…Oh. I remember everything now. I’m not really here.” (gasps) The portal starts destroying the surroundings.

Adora: “No, no, this can’t be happening already. We should have more time.”

Entrapta: “There is no more time. It all makes sense now. It’s your sword. That portal is centered on you. It’s following you.”

Adora: “What? No!”

Entrapta: “You need to remove the sword from the inside. It’s powering the portal. As soon as it’s gone, everything will be right again. It was nice being friends with you.” Entrapta disappears.

Adora: “Entrapta!”

  What will be of their relationship in the next season? 

[freddiesaysalright]

Catching Up Part IV

A Joe Mazzello x Reader Story

Summary: Reader is a writer for an entertainment news network and after Joe comes in to do an interview, they reconnect.

Word Count: 2.6K

Tag List: @crazylittlethingcalledobsession, @jennyggggrrr, @somethinginthewayiam, @grandaddy-roger-trash, @rogerloveshiscar, @hopefully-aesthetically-pleasing, @danamaleksworld If you’d like to be added let me know!

Part I  Part II  Part III 

Part IV here we go!!!

Monday rolled around and you dreaded going back to work. Although, you knew Joe was coming in to re-do the Bohemian Rhapsody interview, so you had that to look forward to. The past few days with him had been bliss. Cute dates and great sex. You couldn’t have been happier. The only damper was that Joe was leaving New York a week after the interview at your station. He’d be back the next month, but going so long without seeing him was going to be the wait of a lifetime.

You walked into the newsroom, humming to yourself. You stopped in your tracks when you saw Don sitting at your desk, smiling eerily at you. You shot him a questioning glance as you slowly approached.

“‘Sup?” he said when you reached him.

“Good morning,” you returned. “Is something wrong?”

“Come on, let’s go in my office and talk,” he said.

You set your purse in your seat when he stood up. You shook your jacket off your shoulders and followed him. He closed the door behind you. You worried for a moment he was going to ask you to do the interview again, even though Emily was already at her desk. You took a hesitant seat across from him.

“What’s going on, Don?” you asked.

“Are you seriously going out with Joe Mazzello?” he replied.

Your gaped at him. “I - I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“It is my business,” he said. “When our own magazine Tweets pictures they caught of you two together this weekend.”

Your heart sunk. You thought you’d been so careful.

“Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for us?” he said, raising his voice slightly. “One of our own writers is sleeping with a source!”

“Hey!” you cried. “He’s just doing a promotional interview. This isn’t an ongoing story. Even if it was, I’m not the reporter on it, so it doesn’t violate any ethical rules!”

“So you are sleeping together?” he wondered.

“You know I’m not going to answer that,” you returned levelly. You were impressed with your own composure. Anger was boiling in the pit of your stomach.

“You can’t see him anymore.”

“You can’t ask that of me.”

You glowered at each other over his desk for a moment. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

“I just don’t get it,” he said almost under his breath, but you still heard.

“There’s nothing to get,” you replied. “Joe and I are two adults having a relationship. It’s no one’s business but ours. If those are your only concerns, I’ll be going now.”

You stood up, turning on your heel and going for the door. He leapt to his feet and grabbed your arm to stop you, turning you to face him. Then, before you could ask what he wanted, he kissed you. You scrunched up your face and shoved him hard away from you.

“What the hell, Don?” you demanded. “Is all this because you’re jealous?! You don’t even like me!”

He looked down, clearly embarrassed. “It’s - uh - well, it’s a weird self preservation thing. When I like someone, I’m ruder to them.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” you returned. “I’m going to say something to you that is insubordinate and grounds for termination, but you need to hear it. If you are attracted to a woman, man up and ask her out. You’re an adult, so quit pulling pigtails.”

You stood there, waiting for him to tell you to pack up your desk, but he just looked at you, shocked.

“Well?” you said. “Are you going to fire me or do I have to tell you how to do that too?”

He rolled his eyes, his usual self returning at last. “You’re not fired. Just...don’t mention this to anyone. I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” you said coldly, and you swept out of the room.

You walked over to your desk. You looked up and saw, once again, the four stars of Bohemian Rhapsody coming into the newsroom for their interview. This time, when you caught Joe’s eye, you smiled. He winked and you waved at him. His presence made your anger melt away. Don didn’t matter.

Putting off your work, you made your way to the green room to say hello.

“Welcome back, guys,” you said warmly.

They all said their thanks as you went to Joe and wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his chest. He kissed the top of your head and you hummed with satisfaction.

“What’s up, babe?” he asked.

“I just like holding you,” you said.

“Well, then by all means, carry on,” he said lightly.

You considered for a moment telling him about what happened between you and Don, but decided against it. He was about to do an interview Don was producing, and you didn’t want any tension there. Especially on Joe’s end since he would be on camera.

Emily came into the room shortly afterward. She was definitely made for daytime television. She had think, beautiful blonde hair. Round, brown doe eyes, and a wide, sparkly smile. She was so pretty, but it was hard to be jealous of her because she was also so kind.

“Hey!” she greeted, her thick Georgia accent coming through already. She took in you and Joe. “Aw, y’all are cute! Good for you, Y/N!”

You and Joe looked at each other and smiled in a way you were sure was disgusting to the onlookers in the room.

“Well, I’m Emily,” she said, shaking hands with all of them. “I just wanted to come by and introduce myself before we got started. And apologize for last week. I heard Don was pretty rude.”

“Well, to Y/N, yeah,” said Joe. “But not to us.”

“Still, it was unprofessional,” she said. “He’s still producing the segment, though.”

“Really, it’s alright,” said Gwilym.

As if summoned by the mention of him, Don poked his head in the door. You refused to meet his gaze, burying your face in Joe’s chest and closing your eyes.

“Emily, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to them. “We’re gonna get started in just a few minutes. Y/N, if you could get back to your desk and do some actual work, please.”

You rolled your eyes. To be extra snarky, you kissed Joe long and passionately before you left. But when you got to your desk, you ignored your work further. You jumped on Twitter - which wasn’t abnormal since you often wrote for the social media accounts associated with the network - and found the magazine’s page. The first thing up under the pinned Tweet was the picture of you and Joe. It was a nice picture. You were grinning at each other.

The Tweet just said your name, under your byline, and that you and Joe were the “new flame.” It had pretty good traffic too. There were about two hundred comments, eight hundred retweets, and one thousand likes. You clicked on it to read the replies, hoping that no one recognized you. You had not posted a picture of yourself online since the ones your ex leaked, for fear that someone would reverse search and match your face to the one in the nudes.

The replies were mostly shocked emojis, people congratulating you and Joe, or something nasty about your appearance. You read every single one of them, looking for any chance that someone had linked your image. You breathed a sigh of relief when you read the last one and it hadn’t happened. You kept the page open to keep an eye on it in case that changed. But for now, you could breathe a sigh of relief.

When the interview was over, Joe took you to lunch. You chose a casual place and got burgers. You laughed and talked together. At one point you were tossing French fries at each other, trying to catch them in your mouths, much to the amusement of a baby at the next table over, who giggled, high pitched and adorable.

“Oh, hey, bud,” Joe cooed. “Didn’t see you there.”

The baby gurgled some nonsense back and Joe nodded thoughtfully. “You make a very good point, there. I agree.”

A smile parted your lips as you looked on at Joe having a full, made-up conversation with this little baby boy. It was the sweetest thing you’d ever seen.

“What’s that?” Joe said, leaning closer as the boy said something that sounded like “a-goo.” Joe looked between you and the boy. “Well, you can tell her that yourself.” A beat passed and then the boy went “ga!” loudly and pumped his tiny fists in the air. “Alright, I’ll tell her if you’re really that shy about it.” He looked at you. “He says you look very beautiful today.”

You brought your hand to your chest and gasped dramatically. “My, my! What a kind compliment from such a handsome boy!” You looked at the baby and wiggled a finger at him.

Finally, the mother, who had been in deep conversation with her girlfriends, noticed you and Joe entertaining her son. She smiled.

“Wow, I didn’t realize Russell was over here making some new friends,” she said kindly.

“He’s quite the chatterbox,” said Joe, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Joe, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Nancy,” she replied. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for keeping him busy.”

“No problem,” you assured her.

“He is a great conversationalist,” Joe continued. “And a bit of a flirt.”

She chuckled. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Heck yeah!” he replied.

Smiling still, she took Russell from his carrier. He shrieked with excitement as she put him in Joe’s arms. He twisted his face up to earn laughter from Russell. They babbled back and forth to each other and you thought your heart might explode from how adorable it all was.

“Honey, you need to keep him,” Nancy said to you under her breath. “He’s gonna be an incredible dad one day.”

“We’re just starting out,” you told her. “But it’s something to keep in mind for sure.”

Russell and Nancy left shortly after, but you looked at Joe like he hung the moon.

“You really like kids, huh?” you observed.

“Oh, yeah,” he returned. “My nephews are like, the lights of my life.”

“That’s so sweet,” you said. “Are you going to see them while you’re in town?”

He nodded. “Yeah, actually. This afternoon. But I’m free the rest of the week if you want to spend some time before we leave.”

“Absolutely,” you returned. “I already took the time off work.”

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“I want to be with you, Joe,” you said. “Work just isn’t as important.”

He smiled and leaned over the table for a kiss. You thought of how your day started compared to what you were feeling now. Don didn’t matter. Twitter pictures didn’t matter. All you needed was Joe to take you out of your fear and and anxiety.

The week passed far too quickly. You took Joe to the airport, parked, and walked him inside. You hated that you couldn’t go all the way to the gate with him, but he had a little bit of  time before he absolutely had to be there. After he checked his bag, he came back to you. Hot tears filled your eyes and you tried to wipe them away before he saw. He still saw.

“Aw, baby, don’t cry,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “I’ll call you every night. And, if you’re comfortable with it, we can face time.”

You looked up at him, color draining from your face. “I don’t know about that.”

“That’s okay,” he said, rubbing your arms. “Like I said, only if you’re comfortable.”

You rested your forehead on his chest, relishing each moment you had him here in your arms. Where you could really feel him there with you. You etched the details into your memory to hold you through the next eight weeks until he returned. The rhythm of his heartbeat. The soft warmth of his skin. The way he drummed his impatient fingers against you.

He leaned in and kissed you, and you gave the kiss similar treatment. Although, with the way he kissed you it was hard to concentrate. It was passionate and yet soft. Romantic. A kiss to remember on nights you missed him most.

“I’m not saying this to freak you out, okay?” he said. “But Y/N, I really think I’m falling in love with you.”

Neither of you had used the word “love” before. It felt soon, but it also didn’t. It didn’t scare you to hear that from Joe. In fact, it excited you. You beamed through your tears.

“I’m falling in love with you too,” you said.

He sighed, relieved, and kissed you again. He checked his watch.

“I’ve got to get through security,” he said.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you told him.

“I’m gonna miss you too,” he returned.

With one last kiss and squeeze of your hand, he let go. You watched him until he disappeared through the line. It felt like your whole heart was going with him.

The weeks without Joe passed in a haze. You were exhausted all the time and becoming oddly emotional about him. Each time you hung up with him at night, you cried to yourself a little, missing him so much. You were an emotional person, but you’d never felt so weepy before. It concerned you, but you knew you’d also never felt this strongly about someone before.

After a month of Joe being gone, you were finishing up your feature article on up and coming female directors. The deadline was the following day, and you were making the final edits before submitting it to your editor to look over.

A sudden wave of nausea hit you. You felt your stomach churn uncomfortably, and you pressed your hand to it, frowning. You’d had a normal breakfast so you couldn’t imagine what was causing this. Your body heaved, and you jumped up to run to the bathroom. You just barely made it into a stall - not even having time to lock it behind you - and you vomited into the toilet. It took a few minutes before you were done and sat back on the floor.

“Rough night?” came the voice of Don from the door.

You jumped and squeaked with fright. “God, Don! I know this is a unisex, but don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Are you sick? Do you need to go home?”

“I don’t know,” you replied.

“Well, whatever this is, I don’t want it spread around the office,” he said. “Go ahead and take the day off.”

Tears sprang to your eyes. “Don…that’s so nice.”

“Holy shit, it’s not that nice,” he said, eyes widening. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Everything makes me cry recently, so I’m sorry for the waterworks,” you said with a sniffle. “But I probably should go home.”

“Please do,” he said. “I’m...so uncomfortable.”

You thanked him again before leaving the office and heading home. When you entered your apartment, Christy was there, reading on the couch. She worked in an upscale restaurant that was only open in the evening, so she was home all day.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“Yeah,” you said, wiping tears from your face.

“Everything okay?” she wondered, setting the book down.

“I don’t know,” you told her.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m so tired, I’m emotional as hell, and I just threw up at work. In front of Don.”

“Jesus,” she muttered. “I hope you’re not pregnant.”

You stared at her, wide eyed. She sighed.

“Let’s go to the store.”

You went together and picked up a couple tests. When you came home and took them, the result was always the same. Pregnant. You still had two weeks before Joe returned to New York. How on Earth were you going to tell him?