#I reckon my cats would be sad. So I might as well see it to the end.

[tiredclemont]

I forgot to take my medicine last night and now the fatalism is setting in again.

[xanthippe74]

Drarry microfic: The eerie canal

Let's just all pretend that this "microfic" was hit by an stray Engorgio and grew to a hulky 1.2K words through no fault of my own, okay? I grew up in New York State, so my mind automatically thinks "Erie" when I hear "eerie," and every kid in that neck of the woods learns about the Erie Canal.

“Oh, shit,” came a man’s voice through the darkness, not far from where Draco was treading water in the foul-smelling canal. “Are you all right? Come around to the side and I’ll pull you aboard.”

Reckoning it was better than trying to climb back out the way he fell in, Draco swam for the hulking shadow of the narrowboat. A lantern flared to life at the stern, blinding him a little as he reached for the hand extended towards him. And so it wasn’t until he was on the tiny deck, shivering and out of breath, that Draco realised who his rescuer was.

“P-P-Potter?”

“Malfoy! What the hell were you doing in there? Hold on.” Potter cast a Drying Charm like a powerful gust of air. “Come inside and warm up, and then you can explain.”

In a whirlwind minute, Draco found himself tucked into an armchair before a woodburner, with a blanket around his shoulders and a skinny tabby cat butting his legs. Potter was just a few steps away, setting a kettle on a strange little hob with blue flames. Only after he’d put a mug of tea into Draco’s hands did he sit down himself.

“So tell me, why were you having a swim in the Shropshire Union Canal in the middle of the night—in bloody January, I might add? You’re lucky I was still awake and heard the splash when you went in.”

“Lucky, indeed!” Draco grumbled. “The tow path was slippery and I lost my bearings in the fog.”

“That doesn’t explain anything, actually.”

“As you well know, Potter, I work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. A few weeks ago, several Muggle residents of Gnosall Heath reported eerie lights and sounds over the canal.”

Potter choked on his tea. He cleared his throat a few times, then asked, “What do you think it was?”

“It’s possible that a colony of fairies has taken up residence in the trees along this stretch of the canal. Fairies aren’t usually active during the winter months, but something may have roused them. I can’t think of what else it might be.”

“Yeah,” Potter said, nodding eagerly. “Must have been fairies. So… did you find any sign of them tonight?”

“No. I walked up and down the path three times, and I didn’t see or hear anything.” Draco noticed that Potter was suddenly—and suspiciously—intent on fussing over his cat. “Have you noticed anything strange out there?”

“Me? No.”

Draco decided to change tack. He wasn’t considered the department’s best investigator of magical creature sightings for nothing. He made a show of looking around cosy space, with its honey-coloured wooden walls and arched ceiling, and a big double bed piled with quilts at the far end.

“This is rather charming,” Draco said sincerely. “How long have you lived here? Last I knew, you were letting a flat in London.”

“Erm, just since November. Ginny and I broke up, I’m sure you heard. Everyone heard.” Potter shrugged with a sad half-smile. “She moved out, but it felt strange living there alone. I thought a change of scenery might help.”

“Hmm. Aunt Andromeda didn’t mention you had moved house.”

“I asked her not to tell anyone. You know, so the papers don’t find me.”

“Right,” Draco said. Potter’s breakup had been front-page news for weeks, and Draco had no doubt that the canal banks would be swarming with photographers if they got wind of him here. “It’s a shame Teddy can’t visit you now, since there’s no Floo connection.”

“He has, as a matter of fact. I’m, er, surprised he didn’t tell you about it. I motored a few miles up the canal to meet him and Andromeda for lunch in a village with a public Floo, and then he slept over. Look—this table folds down into a little bed.” Potter twisted around in his chair to demonstrate the mechanism for Draco. “Neat, huh? These narrowboats have all sorts of clever features.”

Potter seemed strangely rattled by the mention of Teddy, and Draco perked up like a fisherman who felt a little tug on his line. He thought back to his most recent visits to Andromeda’s house and, specifically, to the chatter that his six-year-old cousin had rained upon him.

His new train set… a loose dog in the garden… the bubbles. Ah, there it is.

“Come to think of it,” Draco said lightly, “Teddy did say something about spending the night. He didn’t tell me it was on a boat, but I remember him saying you conjured some illuminated bubbles that chimed when they popped. Around Christmas, I believe it was.”

“I think— Yes. That sounds right,” Potter fumbled, too quickly. “Teddy loved them. Asked me to keep it up for over an hour. It was hard to convince him to go to bed, but I managed in the end by promising him eggy bread for breakfast. I make very good eggy bread.”

“I’m sure.” Draco sighed impatiently. Time for a direct confrontation, otherwise Potter might keep deflecting until the sun came up. “Potter, did you cast those bubbles inside or outside the boat?”

Potter, for all his heroic reputation, crumbled faster than a stale biscuit. “It was for Teddy! I didn’t think anyone else was around.”

“Your boat was tied up a few hundred yards from a Muggle village, Potter! Are you daft?”

“I’m sorry! I guess I wasn’t thinking. Are you going to report me to the Ministry?”

Draco took his time answering, just to make Potter squirm some more. But the poor sod was simply too pathetic, sitting there in his pyjamas with a raggedy jumper thrown over them. Heartbroken and having fled his home, with no one but a cat for company. It would be cruel to kick a man so down.

“Since there are no magical creatures involved, I don’t see why I can’t dismiss the reports as unsubstantiated,” Draco said, much to Potter’s visible relief. “However, I think I must inform Aunt Andromeda.”

“Oh, fuck. That’s worse than telling the Ministry,” Potter groaned, laughing. “She’ll rake me over the coals for setting a bad example for Teddy.”

Draco raised his mug in salute. “And rightly so.”

“Fine, fine. D’you want more tea? It’s still hot.”

“I’m warmed through now, thank you. I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.” Draco paused to sniff the sleeve of his coat. “Ugh. I may have to Vanish these. Remind me never to fall into a canal again.”

“I think you learnt that lesson already,” Potter replied. With a tentative tilt of his head, he ventured, “But maybe you’d like to try travelling along the canal. Teddy’s coming on Sunday and we’re going to see how far we can cruise in an afternoon. Would you like to join us for the ride and stay for dinner? It’s the least I can do, since you had to come all the way out here at night and then got soaked in the bargain.”

“That sounds like suitable compensation for my hardships. I accept,” Draco said solemnly, even as he felt a new rush of warmth at the invitation. He stood and pulled a Portkey—a tiny plastic tugboat—from his coat pocket. “I’ll be back on Sunday, then. Same mooring place?”

“Same place. One o’clock. And Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

Potter grinned. “Don’t let the fairies push you into the canal this time.”

The Shropshire Union Canal, near Gnosall, via Google maps.

Written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, "eerie."

Masterlist of my microfics

[timeofjuly]

Hello! Ive recently started reading your work and its soooo good! Falling back into my undertale fixation since elementary lmaooo. I was wondering if you have any hcs based on the 3rd chapter when Quinn asked mc if they were in a relationship but what if they were 😳 like for a month now or just seeing someone. What would be the game changer or will she let it go? Im just rlly interested and loveee a jealous moment tbh 🤧 (quinn always number one in my heart though)

Thank you so much, I’m so happy that you’re enjoying! I also have randomly found myself back in the fandom after years, but it’s been really fun!

I can do you one better than headcanons – I love this idea and I love pining, jealous Quinn (I am also procrastinating finishing an assignment but shhhhh), so here’s a little ficlet 😊

truths that bleed through the universes

“What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Quinn asks. She’s afraid to ask the question; a preexisting partner would be the ultimate complication.

At the question, your face brightens, a smile rising to your lips. It’s not the sad expression of before, all downcast eyes and a furrow between your brows. This smile is her favourite, one that she’d once seen daily, a smile that makes you seem as though you’re almost taken aback by your own delight. Quinn wants to make a home in the warm depths of it, burrow so deep into the happiness that you’ll both lose track of where she ends and you begin.

“Well,” you say, and that sunshine is in your voice, too, each word tinged with gold. “I was single for ages, but I actually met someone just over a month ago, and we’ve been seeing each other since.”

“Oh, nice!’ she says and god, she hopes she doesn’t sound as crushed as she feels. Her mind scrabbles for purchase against the jagged edges of the dismay that fossilises in her chest. “What’s their name?”

“Seraphine. Hang on, I’ll show you a picture,” you say, reaching into your tote bag. “You’d really like her. She lives in the apartment below mine. We met because Steven’s a fucking Houdini and managed to escape from my balcony down onto hers, it’s a really cute story. She reckons that Steven’s our cat-cupid. Oh, here you go-.”

Quinn accepts your phone. On the screen – it’s your fucking lock screen, shit -there’s a photo of you and a monster woman, grinning into the camera. It’s a selfie-style picture and the woman’s cheek, a vivid royal purple covered in fine, downy fluff, is pressed to yours, smooshing your smile into an adorable, fishy pout.

“Cute,” she says weakly. “A month, huh?’

“Yep. We’re taking it slow, but I’m not seeing anyone else, and I don’t think she is either. I’ve even deleted Tinder off of my phone.” The words are said with raised eyebrows and enough seriousness for her to realise that that’s apparently a big deal.

Something ugly sits on her tongue and she’s self-aware enough to name it jealousy. The irrationality and unfairness of it – she has no leg to stand on, since she’s in a relationship with eight other people – doesn’t make the feeling any less potent. It writhes in her, a living creature, filthy and starved and pacing the length of its cage, gnawing at the bars.

Does she make you feel as good as I can? Does she know you like I know you? There’s nobody who can love you like I can love you. I know you agree. You agree, right? I know you’ve been chasing my shadow for five years, just like I used to chase yours. We’re both a little wrong without the other.

Quinn takes a deep breath and fixes a smile to her face, cooing appropriately when you begin telling her the story of Steven’s jaunt to the downstairs balcony. This is a setback, yes, but all isn’t lost. She really does think that you’re at your happiest when you’re with her, and you’ve always agreed. Reminding you of that might be tricky, but it won’t be impossible, and once you remember? This girlfriend will just be another notch in your bedpost. Countless people have made their mark on your past, a blur of friends and enemies and lovers, and she’s fine with that, because all of that lived experience is what makes you you.

But your present? Your future? That’s all hers, just like hers is yours, if you want it. She’ll give it time, show you how good it feels to with her datemates and remind you how well you fit with her, and let you make up your own mind. Let you choose.

If there’s one thing that all of the dimension fuckery she’s been exposed to has taught her, it’s that some things are universal truths. Every Sans has a Papyrus. The humans trapped monsters Underground. The sky is blue. The grass is green. These are principles that permeate everything, bleeding through whatever separates each universe.

This is another one of those truths. There is no universe where Quinn Lawson isn’t in love with her version of you, or a universe where you aren’t in love with your Quinn Lawson. You always choose each other, in the end.

Quinn’s already made her choice. She just has to wait for you to make yours.

[loadsofcats]

I’ve been thinking about Yana and Balor again (<- one of the most common sentences for me starting a post) and there were a few details I found interesting.

This will contain some information about the Dreamcatcher volume, as well as, naturally, Demoslayer.

So, number one!

When Balor first manages to actually see something in Yana’s mind that isn’t molten glass, he comes in a… what would we call it? Room? Maybe space would be more appropriate. Space it is.

So, he sees a lot of dolls which are revealed to be, if I remember correctly, Yana’s complexes and fears. Even with him there for such a short time, the space starts to morph into something more like… him.

We see tentacles and little eyes where he passes, and the space changes to, so to speak, accommodate him.

But, there is one thing that stands out. A small, framed picture of Yana, with her eyes covered in black marker, and Balor-like eyes around her. Seems okay, right? Only a temporary influence of Balor.

Except, with what we see in Dreamcatcher, and later in the last issue of Demonslayer, the two of them were always destined to meet. (And, again if I remember correctly, I think Balor was actually the one who killed Yana’s parents (they were in a cult, spooky stuff; that one guy, I’m guessing, had his fingers in it, but Balor was still there).)

If we take this into consideration, Yana could’ve unconsciously remembered him and it stayed somewhere in her mind.

So, this brings us to the next detail. Take this scene, for instance.

Some of the dolls Yana was, or, even better, that she saw herself as. Among these, there are three that caught my eye.

Firstly, the two cats, one on the floor and the other being held by a standing Yana doll in a blue dress. Both are fairly creepy cats, with turquoise eyes nonetheless.

These cats could represent the cat Balor was possessing just a while ago, but with so many broken dolls, I find it hard to believe all of them, or at least even these three (because I reckon these must’ve lasted for longer; this has been mere days, maybe less, since we’ve first seen Balor) are from so little time ago. Even if only one of these cats is new, one of them must’ve been older. I mean, come on, black cat with turquoise eyes that just so happened to be there? Not to mention that the markings don’t wholly resemble those of the recently possessed cat. Could it have been that the cats were normal cats, but when she came into the possession (pun intended) of cat-Balor, they morphed into these? Possible, but there is one other doll we must take into consideration.

It’s this one.

It is Yana, who else, with her signature cat-eared hoodie, but… the hoodie is black, not white like her usual, or, if you want, real one. And look at the eyes. The eyes on the doll - one is turquoise, almost green, in a colour so reminiscent of Balor, while the other resembles Yana’s eye colour better. A doll of not what has been, but of what they’ll become. And this is, I’d say, a bit too far for Balor’s influence to catch on so quickly.

So, how does Yana know? Does she know at all? I’d say she might not, but some part of her mind does - there is something in her that knows about that fate, and it might be a nod to the fact that later on, there will be countless universes where they will meet in various ways. Maybe some of those universes already existed, they’ve just forgotten about them.

Anyway, certainly a few interesting little details to keep us thinking.

Now, on to

Number two!

Upon meeting, and after seeing Balor’s very sad no good backstory, Yana wants to break him (his face, mask, whatever we decide to call the form he has) while accusing him of stealing that face. Balor then tells her that, without any magic or means to protect herself, she is just a dead weight to Danila and Black Hound.

While we know he shouldn’t necessarily be trusted, because he is a) a sneaky bitchard of a nightmare, and b) unbelievably scared for his own pathetic life which Yana is holding in her hands while being extremely angry at him, I’d say he’s lying.

The reason for him to lie is also probably to, as we know he sometimes does, minimise his fear of Yana, because he knows that if someone else taught her magic or helped her with it, he’d be gone.

But we, as the readers, can catch on to the fact that he is lying by paying attention to some other clues.

When Yana discovers Balor and tells him to get out of her head, her eyes start glowing blue.

Despite here being a part of a face, for which I am not sure is maybe Lugh’s or the Antichrist’s (considering courier lore, that could be Antichrist), it’s not their influence Yana is using either.

Both his magic and eyes are a distinctive yellowish-golden colour, and Yana’s light blue doesn’t quite match Balor’s colour either, as his is a slightly more greenish hue.

This also happens with Yana when Sneak tries “possessing” her at Queen of Rot’s demand, and her eyes get the specific colour again.

Therefore, this leads me to the conclusion that, if only partly, Yana’s magic (or more likely courier magic) not only exists, but often manifests in light blue colour, as does the Antichrist’s.

The reason why she couldn’t use it earlier was either that she: wasn’t aware it existed, managed to utilise it only upon first meeting Balor because he was a creature she could actually fight against, or simply wasn’t strong enough before. I reckon she can use it herself, so despite it being a remnant (or part of) his power, it can still be considered hers. The question of why not use it earlier is for someone else to answer, as I’ve grown tired of typing.

I hope, if you have read this far, that you’ve enjoyed my rambles. See you around, I guess!

[brummiereader]

@emotionalcadaver poor Tommy 😩. Jessie digging up memories, was brutal.

I love how everyone is like “He’ll get over it,” about Arthur 😂. Yeh he missed the vote, but it's not like he wasn't missing out on something with what he was doing with Linda 😅.

It was in Tommy’s nature to blame himself for every little thing that went wrong. But still, she needed him to hear it. Maybe, someday, he would believe her. Exactly this! I think it's so important that you wrote this. Because it's never really considered/mentioned in canon, but it's there. You can see Tommy blaming himself for everything. He didn't even blame John for Grace's death. He blamed himself. He takes on everyone's burdens, and I adore the fact that Lucy sees this and trys her best to have him lessen everybody else's faults he blames himself for.

Tommy doesn’t want you to be there when Luca comes for him,” Polly stated simply. Lucy felt her shoulders tense, turning to face her. I have such a bad feeling about this 😬. And the fact Lucy seems to be getting increasingly frustrated with Tommy holding her back, makes me think she's going to try and prove her point.

The way he looked at Tommy, in particular, as if sizing him up, made her particularly nervous. I can't stand Michael. So this right here 👆...this gives me hope that Lucy will keep her guard up when it comes to him. Trust those spidey senses Lucy!!

Devlin was waiting for him with steps she suspected his overdramatic ass was purposefully ensuring sounded booming and intimidating. Definitely couldn't mention stomping Tommy 🤭😂! You just know he purposely prances about as loudly as possible. I reckon he's probably heavy footed naturally. Doubt he does anything quietly 😂.

Clara had quite the intel 👌. I actually really loved the fact she had a certain amount of loyalty towards Tommy and Lucy. And decided to tell them her observations. BUT...arghhhh. Lucy, hun...I feel like this might be a trap for you 😩. Now I don't think Clara would set them up, but I'm not so sure about Elizabeth or Maria. If she's taken with the Italian...she might not be so loyal, or her ditzy personality might slip up 😬.

The whole entire next scene was filled with so much emotion, I honestly started to get that nervous uneasy feeling in my stomach. Heartbreak for Tommy and the memories Jessie cruelly brought up. And heartbreak for Lucy and the emotions/self doubt that she internally battled with.

You did an excellent job at describing both. And I felt like I got a deeper look into how Tommy felt about Greta. But his loving gazes at the woman he knew before the war, broke my heart for Lucy. He lit a cigarette, then picked back up the photo he’d pulled from his pocket before taking off his coat, looking down at it longingly. Lucy felt something inside her twist. I felt so sad for her in this moment when Tommy remembers his time with her. And her trying to find logic in her irrational thoughts about who Tommy might love more etc, was something I think maybe a lot of us has gone through. I think that's why I felt this scene so much. Nobody wants to be second best. And it's something us women do so well...worry. Worry about things that are out of control. Just like Lucy was doing 😭.

“I’ll be right back,” Tommy said, tucking the photograph into his trousers pocket. Wait, where did he go??? Oh god, I know it's not yet but...the scene down by the cut with Lizzie...it just popped into my head 😩. I'm not sure how you're gonna spin this one in your story, I'm nervous. Don't hurt my girl 😭😭.

“I think you would have liked her. I know she would have liked you.” honestly 😭, this was the sweetest way he could have reassured her worries. Tommy's love for Greta I imagine is different to what her shared with Grace and different to what he shares with Lucy. I just hate the way she started criticising herself when he was gone. Lucy that man is obsessed with you!!!!

Tommy kissed up her neck to her cheek, nuzzling at her like an affectionate cat. Thank you for ending this chapter on a fluffy note, I needed it 🥰. You had me worrying on Lucy's behalf how much Tommy loves her 😫😂. Like I really felt it 🤦🏼‍♀️. But that shows how good of a writer you are, hun! I had a visceral reaction to your incredible use of emotions, and the depth they held.

Amazing, amazing, amazing!! Another brilliant chapter, can't wait for more ❤️!

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: New information arrives that could prove extremely useful, and Tommy is reminded of someone from his past.

Word Count: 6,091

Notes: I know that these first couple chapters have been a little slow, so thank you for sticking with me so far. I promise that things are going to start picking up after this chapter! Warnings for references to past sexual assault, prostitution, disease, death of a minor character, and suicide.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 9: No One Came Back

Lucy winced at the way the door slammed behind Arthur, the relief that she’d felt initially at the sight of him alive and well in her and Tommy’s office had quickly drained when he started in on Tommy about the vote Ada had told him about. He was furious and hurt. Not to mention that he looked to be about to come down with the shakes after having just killed two Italians who’d tried to get him.

Great. So now they couldn’t trust the men in their own damn factories not to give them up. The Changrettas were gaining more allies within their territories. That was a problem. 

Tommy stood there, staring at the door Arthur had stomped out of, a hand raising to wipe across his face. 

“He’ll get over it,” Lucy said, rising from where she’d leaned against the desk, arms crossed over her chest while she silently watched the encounter. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Who knows? Maybe he’ll still be the one who gets to kill Luca and this’ll all be a mum point anyway.”

“Mm,” Tommy grunted, dropping his hand and turning to her. “He was upset.”

“He still blames himself.”

Tommy gave her a sad look. “It wasn’t his fault.”

Lucy cocked her head, eyes narrowing slightly at the tone in his voice, it clear who he actually blamed for John’s death. “It wasn’t yours, either.”

“Yes, love. It was.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “John died because he was an idiot and didn’t kill Audrey Changretta when he had the chance. The whole mess with them wouldn’t have even begun in the first place if he hadn’t lost his head over Lizzie dating someone else,” she cupped both sides of his face. “John’s death was his own fault. Not yours. Not Arthur’s.”

He closed his eyes, and she knew that he didn’t entirely believe her. It was in Tommy’s nature to blame himself for every little thing that went wrong. But still, she needed him to hear it. Maybe, someday, he would believe her. 

She leaned her forehead against his for a second, his hands resting upon her forearms before letting him go. He moved to collapse exhaustedly into the chair behind his desk. Lucy followed him, hopping up to seat herself on the edge of his desk beside him. Had there not been men working in the betting shop just outside the office windows, she’d have climbed into his lap instead. But this would do for now. 

“He’s going to be angry over this for a while,” Tommy huffed, rubbing at his brow as if fighting back a headache. 

“Yeah,” Lucy acknowledged, sighing. “It’ll be alright. He’ll understand eventually that it’s for the best.”

“Mm,” Tommy grunted, fingers pressing to his lips, eyes growing unfocused slightly as he was lost in thought. Lucy nudged his knee with her toe to get his attention. 

“Tea?”

“Hm? Oh; sure,” he nodded absentmindedly. Jumping off of the desk, she ducked out the door, dodging around men busy at work in the shop to get to the kitchen. She was just putting the kettle on and grabbing two teacups when the backdoor squealed open and Polly came in.

“What are you doing here?” Lucy asked curiously.

“Just came by to pick up a few things,” she set her hat down on the table. “Did you find Arthur?”

“Yeah, he just left. He’s not too happy about the whole thing.”

“He’ll get over it,” Polly said with a dismissive wave. Lucy raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anymore, instead moving to grab the tea from the pantry. “Where’s Tommy?”

“His office.”

But Polly didn’t move, and Lucy found herself growing increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze, boring into her back, shifting from foot to foot while she tended to the kettle. 

“I’ve set a time and place to meet Luca,” Polly said in a soft voice. Lucy swallowed, throat suddenly dry. It was a dangerous plan, for all of them. But at the moment, it was the best they had.

“That’s good.”  

“Tommy doesn’t want you to be there when Luca comes for him,” Polly stated simply. Lucy felt her shoulders tense, turning to face her.

“He’s protective. Especially after…” she choked briefly on the name. It was still hard to say it without opening up the well of grief inside of herself. “Especially after Grace.”

Polly nodded, pulling out a clove cigarette and lighting it. 

Lucy smiled tightly. “Too bad for him that I’m protective too. I’m not letting him deal with Luca alone.”

“Good. I don’t like the idea of him getting into a shootout all by himself. Even if he knows that they’re coming for him. I’m assuming your presence is to be kept a surprise?”

Lucy nodded, pouring the tea, letting it steep while she cleaned the kettle. 

“You’ll tell Tommy? That I’ve made contact with Luca? I need to be getting back.” 

“Sure,” she didn’t ask where Polly needed to be getting back to, probably home or the hospital. She wondered if Michael might be getting tired of her constantly hovering over him.

At the thought of Michael, something else occurred to her. “Polly.”

She turned at the doors, cigarette between her lips and hat clutched in her hands, brow raised. 

“Yes?”

“Have you told Michael about the thing with Luca?”

Her brows pulled together. “No.”

Lucy nodded, thinking. There had been something in Michael’s eyes for the past year…she couldn’t quite place it. But it had been there since he’d killed Hughes. Lucy had thought at the time that murdering his rapist would help him, similarly to the way it had helped her. But she was beginning to think that might’ve been a miscalculation on her part. 

The way he looked at Tommy, in particular, as if sizing him up, made her particularly nervous.  

 “If it’s all the same to you, I think it best we keep it that way. I don’t know what Michael’s…acting skills are like, and the fewer people that know, the better.”

Polly thought it over, then nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

Lucy cracked a humorless grin. “Look at us, agreeing on things for a change.”

Polly snorted. “Don’t get used to it,” but there was half a touch of humor in her voice, before she turned and wandered her way into the shop. Lucy picked up the two cups of tea, steaming rising steadily and the delicate China warm against her fingers, and carried them back to Tommy’s office. 

∗ ∗ ∗ 

It was dark, when Isiah brought Devlin to them. They were in the kitchen eating a quick dinner when they arrived, and Isiah silently took him to an office, leaving him seated at a table with one of their other men keeping watch. They’d let him sweat a little before actually speaking with him.

In the kitchen, Isiah spoke in a quiet voice. Everyone else had gone home for the day, and the betting shop was dark and eerily quiet.  

“He had a one-way ticket to Glasgow in his pocket when we searched him, like you said he would.”

Lucy nodded. That was to be expected. Tommy had asked her to do some digging into Devlin after Arthur was given up by someone in their own factory. Devlin had keys to all the doors, and he’d been frustrated with them as of late. He was the obvious candidate for a traitor. 

Whether it was fear of the Changrettas, or hatred for them, it was hard to say. To Lucy, it didn’t particularly matter. The outcome was the same. 

“His wife and kids had already left for there three days ago,” she told Tommy, leaning back in her chair and puffing at her cigarette. “According to the woman selling tickets at the train station.” 

“You find the address they’re staying at?” Tommy asked. She nodded, digging around in her pocket and pulling out the little slip of paper she’d scrawled it down on, handing it to him. He looked at it for a moment, committing it to memory, before tucking it away. 

“I already called some of our men we have allegences with in the gangs in the city. They’re prepared to do what we ask if Devlin doesn’t cooperate.”

“Good,” Tommy started fumbling with his briefcase, clasping it shut. Isiah shifted from foot to foot nervously. Lucy raised an eyebrow at him curiously, his eyes lifting to meet hers. 

“There’s a woman who I think you should speak to, Lucy,” he said. “She’s just outside, with Skudboat. I can have him take her home, if you’d prefer, but…”

“What is it?” Lucy asked, head cocking curiously.

“She has information about where Alessio Changretta is hiding.”

Lucy’s eyes snapped over to share a look with Tommy. Her breath caught in her throat with excitement. Finally, they might have something they could use.

“What do you mean?” Tommy asked, being cautious in his optimism. 

“She’s a girl who works at the Midland. She says that one of the other girls there has been bragging about getting some extra work on the side of what she does at the hotel. Serving some Italian men living in a flat nearby.” 

Lucy looked back to Tommy. That certainly sounded promising. Could be a trap, too. So they would have to be cautious.  

“You and Scudboat searched her?” Tommy asked Isiah. The boy nodded. Tommy looked back at Lucy. “See what she has to say. I’ll deal with Devlin,” he turned to Isiah. “Go wait with him. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Isiah nodded, and scurried away. 

“Watch for if she’s lying about anything,” Tommy said, clearly thinking the same thing that she’d been about a potential trap.

“Right.”

He finished clasping his briefcase, standing and making her smile when he dropped a kiss on the top of her head before striding  towards where Devlin was waiting for him with steps she suspected his overdramatic ass was purposefully ensuring sounded booming and intimidating. Standing, Lucy scooped up both of their plates, setting them down in the sink to be washed later. Once the table was cleared, she went to the backdoor. Outside, Skudboat was standing with a young woman Lucy instantly recognized from nights spent with Tommy at the Midland. 

“Clara,” she said in soft greeting. The woman was pretty; almost as short as Lucy, with soft, golden colored hair, and wide, sea-green eyes. Lucy held the door open to her. “Come in,” she let Clara step past her into the dimly lit kitchen. “Wait out here,” she ordered Skudboat, who nodded, leaning against the wall and pulling out his cigarettes.

When she closed the door and stepped back into the kitchen, it was to find Clara with one hand held out, smiling while Asher sniffed at it. Lucy watched the encounter curiously, taking note of Asher’s reaction. A moment later, his tail wagged, tongue darting out to lick Clara’s hand in approval. Clara giggled, and gave him a scratch behind the ears that left the dog practically overjoyed. 

“Ash, come here,” Lucy chuckled, and he trotted to her side dutifully. “Have a seat,” she said to Clara, nodding to the table. She sank down into the seat next to her, Asher plopping down at her feet. 

“Isiah says you have some information for us?” Lucy prompted, opening her cigarette case and offering Clara one, which she politely declined, fiddling nervously with the buttons on her coat while Lucy took a cigarette out and lit it. 

“Yes, um…you know Elizabeth,” Clara started. Lucy nodded. Elizabeth was another prostitute that worked at the Midland who sometimes served her and Tommy. Though not as much as Clara. “Well, shortly after Christmas, she came in wearing this expensive necklace. I thought, maybe her mum or some guy she’d been seeing, or maybe even a client had given it to her for Christmas. They do that, sometimes. But then she started coming in wearing more expensive things, and cutting down on her hours at the hotel. Billy wasn’t happy about it,” she looked down.

“So, eventually, one day, while we were all in the powder room getting ready for the evening, Maria asked her about it. Elizabeth said that she’s been seeing some new man who’s staying in a flat nearby. She says that he and his friends are rich. He and another man work as a…a…I don’t know, I guess as security guards of some kind, for another man. She’s always taken work on the side, you know. Even though Billy doesn’t like it when we do, he doesn’t stop us either. Apparently they called on her and she serviced all three of them one night, and then one man out of the three took a shine to her. He’s been buying her things, taking her around town with him to fancy restaurants. All that sort of stuff. I didn’t think much of it, at first. You know, it happens, sometimes, that a client takes a real shine to one of the girls and decides to play Prince Charming. If you ask me, I think he’s just trying to get free services out of her for him and his friends, but that’s not any of my business. But then…” Clara stuttered, fidgeting with her hands nervously. Lucy held out her cigarette to her, and this time, she took it gratefully. 

“She mentioned that they were all Italian. And I’d…I’d heard rumors that there was trouble between you and Tommy and some Italians that had come to town. And then Elizabeth–she’s got a big mouth, you remember? She mentioned something about how they’d been asking all sorts of questions. Mostly just about the city. But also about you and Tommy. And it just…it didn’t seem right, so I poked around the Garrison until I found the preacher’s son who works with you and told him what I’d heard.”

Lucy leaned back in her chair, fiddling with her rings while she considered Clara’s words. “Did they tell Elizabeth what they’re doing in Birmingham?”

“Just that they’re in town on business.”

“You get any of the names of the men from her?”

“No,” Clara shook her head regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Lucy assured her gently. “Do you know where they are staying?”

“Yes, I made her write it down,” she fumbled with her handbag. “It’s a flat just down the road from the hotel. I told her to give us the address in case something happened to her while she was with them. I think she thought it was silly, but she did it anyway. We have to look after each other, you know?” she handed Lucy the paper. Lucy took it, looking over the address and quickly drawing out her notebook from the inner pocket of her suit jacket and copying it down, handing the paper back to Clara. “I think that they hurt her.”

Lucy looked up sharply. “What makes you say that?”

Clara shrugged. “Just noticed some bruising on her arms that wasn’t there before, and she sometimes gets this look on her face…but she keeps going back. I think because she really likes the one guy, and because they pay her so well.”

Lucy nodded in quiet understanding, sympathy building in her for the girl. “Clara, thank you,” she said genuinely. “Really. You’ve no idea just how big of a help this has been.”

She nodded. “Of course. I…you and Tommy were always nice to me. And since you’ve been around, the men…some of them used to be really bad, sometimes. But since you came around with the whole…punishments for hurting women, things have been a bit better. There are still some arseholes every once in a while, but not so many as there used to be,” she shrugged, looking away and blushing when she realized that she’d been rambling. “So, anything that I can do to help…as a way to say thank you…”

“There’s no need to thank me,” Lucy said gently. “But if you hear or see anything more about Italians in the area, you call my office,” she wrote down the number and handed it to her. “Especially if you get anything more out of Elizabeth.”

“Of course.”

“There may be a day, soon, when I’ll need you to keep Elizabeth away from that flat for a few hours. Do you think you could do that?”

Clara thought about it. “I think so. If I could get Maria to help. Elizabeth is more likely to listen to her rather than me.”

“Okay. Good,” Lucy thought a moment more, then rose to her feet. Clara followed her lead. “Skudboat can walk you home.”

“Alright,” Clara gave Asher a parting little pet to the head. She seemed only then to realize that she was still holding Lucy’s cigarette between her fingers. “Oh,” she offered it back to her, but Lucy shook her head with a kind smile. 

“Keep it,” she led the way to the door, opening it and allowing the chill of evening air to enter the kitchen. “Thank you again, Clara. Really.”

Clara nodded once, with a bashful smile, and stepped out the door. 

“See to it that she gets home safe, Skudboat,” Lucy told him.

“Sure thing, Luce.”

She watched them begin to walk away, not closing the door until they were out of her sight. Returning to the table, she sank back down into her chair, hands clasped in front of her, fingers fiddling idly with her rings while she stared at nothing, just thinking silently in the dark.  

She barely registered it as Tommy came back into the kitchen, softly closing the double doors that led to the betting shop behind him. It wasn’t until he dropped a large hand onto her shoulder that she roused, head raising to peer up at him. 

“We have to go,” he said in a soft voice, expression apologetic. Her brows drew together. 

“We do?”

“Mhm,” he gave her a gentle tug on the arm. “We can talk on the way.”

“Okay,” she stood, still a little baffled, taking her coat that he’d pulled from the peg it was hanging on from him and tugging it over her shoulders, securing her cap atop her head. Tommy shepherded her out the door.

“Stay, Asher,” he told the dog when he moved to follow them. Lucy felt a little bad at the sight of his wagging tail and the eager perking of his ears. But he sat down obediently at Tommy’s command, taking up position quietly guarding the door until they got back. 

“Where are we going?” she asked as they began to walk. Tommy took her hand in his and she was grateful for it, his warm fingers helping to shield hers from the cold of the night air. 

“To see Jessie Eden.”

“At this hour? She won’t like that.”

“She might when she hears my improved offer.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Lucy chuckled with a suggestive raise of her eyebrow. Tommy huffed out a small laugh.

“No,” he gave her a mildly mischievous look. “Not yet, anyway.”

She pressed her smile into his arm, moving to press closer to his side as they walked. He was warm and it was chilly. 

“How did it go with Devlin?”

“It wasn’t him who gave Arthur up,” Tommy sighed, sounding simultaneously relieved and dejected.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. He’s just afraid of the communists.” Tommy’s gaze was focused on some faraway point in front of them. It was late enough that the streets were mostly quiet, a light drizzle of rain slickening the cobblestones. “He said that he heard that there were two Italians who attended a communist meeting in Stechford.”

“Ah. I see now why we’re on our way to speak with Miss. Eden.”

“Mm,” he nodded conspiratorially. “I’m keeping Devlin here in Birmingham. Isiah will get some of our men to watch his house. Tell our friends in Glasgow to look after his family.”

“Will do.”

“Did you get anything useful out of the girl from the Midland?”

“It was Clara. And actually yeah, very useful. She said that Elizabeth has been running around with some Italians that are living near the hotel. Apparently one of them’s taken a shine to her and has been buying her all sorts of expensive jewelry and taking her around town. Clara said that there’s three of them that Elizabeth has talked about. I got the address they’re staying at from her,” she pulled out her notebook and passed it to Tommy. He took it, examining the address carefully before handing it back.

“Do you trust her?”

“I do,” Lucy affirmed, tucking her notebook back into one of her inner pockets. “She seemed genuine. I don’t think it’s a trap. I think it’s just some of Luca’s men getting sloppy with the whore they’ve taken a liking to. But I’ll have Isiah and the boys case the place for a few days to make sure it’s not a trap and to work out a schedule of when they come and go.”

Tommy nodded. “Do you think Elizabeth knows what they’re actually here for?”

“I doubt it. You remember how she is: sweet, but a little ditzy and naive. Clara said that they told her they’re just in town on business.”

“Right. Well, just have the boys look into it and gather up information on the location and the men holed up there for now. Before we decide what to do about it.”

She raised an eyebrow, noting how he clearly was trying to avoid a discussion about her being the one to go after the Italians. But they were approaching Jessie’s building, so she decided not to push it. “Right.”

Tommy paused for a moment before heading inside the building, head craning up to look at the windows, most covered by the material of curtains, some more sheer than others, light only filtering out through them dully. Tommy squinted, as if trying to make out any of the silhouettes that passed across the windows, before moving to the door. He held it open for her, and she ducked in quickly, thankful to be out of the cold. Inside, she could hear a baby crying in one of the rooms, and the hum of music from another one upstairs. She climbed the narrow stairs after Tommy, looking around at the somewhat dingy, cramped lodgings. 

He came to a stop at the door that the music was filtering in from, smoothing down his fringe after he removed his hat, switching the briefcase to his other hand, then knocking softly at the door. The music came to an abrupt stop, and then Jessie’s voice was calling through the door, asking who it was. 

The meeting was going…well, not well, necessarily, but decent enough, considering their past dealings with Jessie. Lucy kept quiet, making herself comfortable in a chair at the little table in the center of the room, sipping at the beer Jessie offered them and observing her carefully. 

Jessie wasn’t particularly helpful, but that wasn’t actually a surprise. Nor was it cause for Lucy to bristle at her.

But, oh, did she bristle at the name that suddenly and entirely unexpectedly fell from Jessie’s lips. 

Greta Jurossi

“Did he ever mention her to you?” Jessie asked, suddenly turning to Lucy, her voice raising ever so slightly in pitch, expression smug.

“Yes,” Lucy said, softly. Many times. He had always been forthcoming and honest, when it came to her questions about Greta. She knew that it was hard for him to talk about, and she appreciated how eager he was to answer her queries despite that.

Under the table, she moved her leg to press against his. The softness in his voice when he responded to Jessie caused her to press it a little harder against him. The mention of Greta had not been something he was prepared for, and it had knocked him off kilter. 

“After she died, you went away to war. Kitty said that the sweet boy who left never came back,” Jessie continued, recounting the sad story that both Tommy and Lucy already knew. 

“No one came back,” Tommy’s voice was hoarse. Lucy cocked her head, looking at him sadly. 

Because the way Jessie recalled Kitty Jurossi’s description of Tommy: charming, sweet, loving, sitting at Greta’s side every day when she was sick, holding her hand, tending to her for months until she died, did not sound all that far off from the Tommy she knew. Perhaps he was a little rougher around the edges, a little more worn down from so much pain and hardship. But the sweet boy she spoke of was not nearly so lost as both she or Tommy seemed to think.

“Jessie, that’s enough,” she said harshly, not wanting to see the pain that had sprung up at the mention of Greta in Tommy’s eyes anymore, but Jessie just smiled in mock sweetness and continued on as if she hadn’t even heard her. Lucy would have snapped at her again had it not been for the sudden admiration in her voice as she recounted the stories Kitty had told her about Tommy. Lucy could see it so plainly: Tommy, young, barely a man grown, wrestling furiously with a brute he’d caught beating a horse, striking him savagely and goadingly on the arse with his own whip as the man scrambled away. 

The mental image made her smile a little. 

But as Jessie went on, Tommy grew more agitated, suddenly rising from his seat. Lucy kept her eyes on Jessie’s face. She couldn’t quite figure out how she felt about her. On one hand, she could appreciate some of what Jessie was trying to do. Particularly the push for advancing women’s standings in the workforce. But on the other, her smugness and attitude of moral superiority bothered her. And this…this action of digging up all these things about Greta, then throwing them in his face…they had been calculated. Lucy couldn’t tell if Jessie was simply trying to draw out his past sympathies with the communist cause, or if she was just trying to hurt him.       

Tommy put back on the music Jessie had been listening and dancing to prior to their arrival. 

All smugness left Jessie’s face when Tommy started to relay the information Lucy had gathered previously on her: how her sweetheart had gone off to war, and returned with shell shock so severe that he killed himself. 

Jessie’s face grew haunted, big dark eyes filling with tears, before hastily looking away. And finally, she was serious, answering Tommy’s previous question with only a minimal grumble. But Lucy was still on edge, her protectiveness of Tommy flaring.

It blazed back into full-force when Jessie pulled out a picture Kitty had given her of Greta and Tommy in Blackpool. 

“We’re done here,” Lucy announced, the legs of her chair screaming against the floor as she stood up hastily. She looked at Jessie with quiet rage, and she must have let a little more darkness filter into her eyes than she’d intended, because for a very brief moment, Jessie looked genuinely unnerved by her.

Tommy did not protest her suggestion that they leave, simply gathering up his things, tucking the photograph Jessie had given him into the inner pocket of his coat.  

Lucy, in what was perhaps a somewhat petty display, did not say a word to her as she went to the door and yanked it open, holding it ajar so that Tommy could follow her outside. And she put perhaps a little more force than necessary into her stomps down the stairs, to really telegraph just how she felt about the whole thing. 

“Are you okay?” she asked once they were back out on the street.

“I’m fine,” Tommy said, in a voice that was very much not fine.

“Tommy…”

“Let’s just go home,” he sighed, swiping a hand through his fringe before replacing his cap back on his head. She hovered in close to him as they started to walk, this time not just for the warmth that his body provided. She didn’t say much, knowing better than to try to push him to talk when he was like this.

When they got home, he went upstairs without a word. Asher greeted them at the door, tail wagging, following eagerly at Lucy’s heels when she ascended that stairs after flicking off all the remaining lights that were on in the kitchen.

Tommy was in the process of taking off both his coat and waistcoat, brows creasing in mild frustration when one of the buttons momentarily caught. Lucy swallowed hard at the sorrow in his eyes, her heart aching for him. 

She did not think about Greta all that much. A part of her didn’t particularly like to, because there was always the question, if Greta had not died, if she and Tommy would have even ever gotten together. It made her feel so incredibly guilty, that her happiness with him might have come at the price of the sweet Italian girl’s life. 

Taking a step forward, she took the coat and waistcoat from him.

“Thank you,” he said softly. She just nodded, hanging the coat up on a peg and folding the waistcoat to tuck away in the chest of drawers. He lit a cigarette, then picked back up the photo he’d pulled from his pocket before taking off his coat, looking down at it longingly. Lucy felt something inside her twist.

It was not right to wonder if he loved her as much as he had Greta. There was no competition between them, and it wasn’t logical, or productive, to even consider such things. 

And yet, a tiny part of her brain, the part that she was pretty sure only existed to cause her pain, still mulled it over.

“I’ll be right back,” Tommy said, tucking the photograph into his trousers pocket. 

“Okay,” Lucy said softly. She watched him go, fingers fiddling with her rings long after his figure had disappeared out the door. In his dog bed, Asher whined. “I know, boy,” she soothed, reaching down to stroke his big head, then setting to work changing into one of her nightgowns, folding her clothes with slow, methodical movements and tucking them away beside Tommy’s in the drawers. 

He wasn’t back yet when she went to the washroom to remove her makeup and finish getting ready for bed. She figured he just needed a moment to himself. He’d come back to her. He always did. 

Wiping off the remains of dark eyeliner, she looked at herself in the mirror and frowned.

She’d never thought of herself as particularly pretty. Not with her face full of freckles, eyes that were a few sizes too big to be in proper proportion to the rest of her face, and messy red curls that never seemed to want to cooperate.

Her lips pursed as she took in the dark circles under her eyes–neither she or Tommy had been sleeping very much since this whole thing started–and a hand raised to brush across one of her cheeks. She might’ve been imagining it, but she swore that she’d lost some weight. Not that she couldn’t stand to probably lose a few pounds, but she was starting to look a little gaunt in the face. 

Shaking her head, she poked and pulled a little at her skin for a moment more before stepping out of the washroom and heading back to bed.

Tommy was there when she entered, scratching Asher absentmindedly behind one ear and undoing the laces on his shoes with the other. Lucy approached him slowly, making sure that her footsteps were loud enough so that he would hear her coming up behind him and not be startled. When he kicked off his shoes and straightened, he turned partially, and looped an arm around her shoulders at the same time that she wrapped her own around his waist, hugging his middle with her head on his chest. Tommy’s face dropped down, burying in her hair with a deep sigh. She felt him inhale, breathing in the scent of her soap and perfume, and relaxing a little in her arms. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. There wasn’t much more that she could say. He rubbed her shoulder, giving a small shake of his head. 

“I love you,” he murmured, and she let out a small breath, squeezing him tighter. 

“I love you too,” adjusting her head on him, she considered her next question for a moment before verbalizing it. “Can I see it?”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the photograph and holding it out to her. Taking it carefully by the edges, she eyed the faded, grainy image, smiling softly at the serious look on the younger Tommy’s face. Good to know that it had always been a chore to get him to smile when having his picture taken. 

Greta was beautiful, with dark hair that was carefully done up and slightly stern features. Her dark eyes fixed upon the camera steadily, but despite the seriousness in her face, there was a spark of levity there too. 

“She was pretty,” Lucy commented. Tommy hummed in quiet agreement, hand smoothing down her back, shifting them so that his head was hooked over her shoulder to look at the photograph with her. 

“I think you would have liked her. I know she would have liked you.”

She craned her head back to look at him. “You think so?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, and closed his eyes, turning his face to press a few kisses to her neck. Lucy raised an eyebrow, even as her head tilted to give him better access. 

“I doubt she would have approved of the part where I’ve fucked her lover.”

“I don’t know…she could be pretty open minded too, you know…” Tommy mumbled, and Lucy chuckled. 

“Building quite the harem for yourself there in your head, aren’t you?” 

He snorted, pinching at her hip playfully. “You know what I mean.”

Angling her head back, she looked deep into his eyes, taking in the sincerity in them, understanding what he was trying to get at.

“I would’ve liked to have met her,” she said, more serious. He was right, after all. Everything he’d told her about Greta indicated that she and Lucy would have gotten along very well together. 

“Yeah,” Tommy gave her a sad smile, and she stretched up on her toes to press her forehead against his. His eyes lowered. “Who knows if we would have even stayed together, after I got back from the war.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know,” he sounded so lost and sad. She wanted to cry for him. It was so unfair, that he’d had to experience the loss of not just one, but two women who he’d loved so deeply. 

“Everything that you’ve told me about her indicates to me that she loved you very much.”

Tommy blinked hard, eyes a little glassy, throat working as he swallowed hard. “She loved the person I was before I went away to war,” his thumb circled mindlessly around Lucy’s hip. “I don’t know what she would think of the man who came back.”

Lucy stroked his face, brows pulling together. She could not say whether or not Greta still would have loved him after he returned to war. She would like to think that she would, and nothing that Tommy had told her indicated that Greta would have rejected him after he returned home. But ultimately, she could never say for sure. 

Unsure what she could possibly say to make it any better, she stretched up on her toes and kissed him. Tommy’s arms tightened around her, leaning into the kiss gratefully. 

“We should get some sleep,” she murmured once they’d parted, still caressing one chiseled cheek. 

He hummed, nodding, and took her hand, leading her over to the bed. She climbed in first, and he immediately snuggled against her, their arms wrapping around each other under the blankets, her head on his chest and his face tucked against her hair. 

“I love you,” she repeated, hand trailing along his strong back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the material of his shirt, tracing delicately over the scar on one of his shoulders. Tommy kissed up her neck to her cheek, nuzzling at her like an affectionate cat. 

“I love you too.”

And with her hands tenderly petting his back, she felt him slowly sink into sleep against her. 

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[marthajonesuk]

Monday, April 16, 2007

The Doctor

Isn't it funny how you don't really find out much about a person until you're both standing still?

Since I met the Doctor it's been all go. We really haven't stopped moving but today we got stuck in traffic. Of course, it was space-age traffic millions of years into the future. And unlike normal traffic jams it was all a bit freaky – brilliant and terrifying. It was so scary, in fact, that afterwards I briefly thought about asking the Doctor to take me home. It was the darkest thing I've been through since I thought we were all going to suffocate in the hospital and in some ways this was even worse because nobody would have known where I was. I was totally alone.

But it was also – I'm trying to think of a better word than beautiful but that's exactly what it was. Think about the first time you went into a church and multiply it by a thousand and you might be halfway there. There were all these people who were trapped in like the grimmest situation possible but they weren't letting it get them down. They had such real hope and faith. I've honestly never seen anything like it. And even though they were all trapped and alone like me, somehow they were like reaching out to each other and refusing to be alone. They just wouldn't give up. And yeah I know this all sounds a bit joss stick-y but it was the most amazing thing I think I've ever felt.

And it made me wonder just who this bloke is. So I asked him and I found out why he's alone. Nearly everyone he knew died in a big war. He's the last of his race is how he says it, but that's just a bit glib - I'm trying to imagine losing my family, my friends, everyone you've ever seen on telly. Them all just being gone. I don't think I could cope.

And to top it all, today he saw one of his oldest friends die. This alien thing called the Face of Boe (and to think when I was growing up, I complained about being called Martha) just died after waiting years to say goodbye to the Doctor. And it was so sad but kind of beautiful and it made me wonder just how many people the Doctor's lost in his life.

And I know I've complained about how noisy my life can be but his... well, I can see why he lives the life he does. He's filling it with noise because I think he'd go mad if he didn't. Thing is, if I hadn't got him to tell me about who he really is, I maybe would have asked to go home but I can't now. I mean, I've been seeing all this as just the biggest most exciting thing in my life but it isn't just that. He needs me. Yeah, he reckons he prefers to be alone but I know he needs me. Of course, he might be a Time Lord with two hearts but he's still basically a bloke so he can't say it. And he'd get all embarrassed if I said anything so I reckon what I've got to do is make it seem like it's his idea. I've got to make him ask me to stay. Because I don't think he'd cope on his own. And because behind all the madness, he's basically a real decent bloke.

Oh, and in case you're reaching for the sick bags because you think I've gone all deep and emotional and stuff, today I also met a talking cat – a cat who was a nun! Which was fun. So there!

[raisinghellonstarbug]

Stumbled Into Laughter, Stumbled Into You - A James Acaster x Reader Story

Basic plot: The year is 2019, and life has been quite dull for you since working in a job that you hate for the past two years after graduating from university. You used to do stand up comedy at uni, but you’ve been putting off pursuing it due to lack of confidence and motivation. Your best mates decide to encourage you to try a comedy mic night for the first time ever and while there you incidentally run into an old mate of yours, comedian Rhys James. That’s when your life gets turned around as you end up diving into the world of the comedy circuit and becoming close with other famous British comedians. In the midst of it all, you end up meeting a particularly distinctive red headed fellow who might end up being the very thing that brings meaning to your life again.

*

A/N: Hello Acaster fans!

So this was an idea I have had in mind for the last few months and I finally finished the first chapter of my story!

Just so you know, the first chapter does not include James, but be patient as he will appear soon (but maybe not quite as soon as you hope). I do reckon it will be worth the wait for his appearance, or at least I hope the story is still enjoyable! It is a slow burn so if you are an inpatient person, then this story might not be for you ;)

You can read this chapter below or if you prefer, there is also the link to the chapter posted on Ao3 right here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33748507

-

Rating: M

Chapter 1 word length: 2326

Characters: James Acaster (duh), Original Female Characters(s), Original Male Character(s), Rhys James, Ed Gamble, Nish Kumar, Josh Widdicombe

Relationships: James Acaster x Reader/you, Original female character/Original Male character

Story tags: Romantic comedy, domestic fluff, slow burn, fluff and smut, British comedy, eventual relationships

Tagging: @laurabeech @rilannon @jasclearwaters @marklily @queensantiagoofthe99

Chapter 1 - Summer 2019

You were sitting at your desk at your mundane job, practically ready to blow your brains out on the usual, dull Thursday afternoon. It was really warm and stuffy inside the fifteen story office block building situated in Canary Wharf. This was a place you found yourself five days a week, doing the typical 9 to 5 hours. A usual day for a usual person.

Your job wasn’t a particularly riveting one. As an underwriter for an insurance company, some days could get especially boring. You knew how to do the job well, but it was not something you really loved. It involved all kinds of clients and claims in paperwork and it sometimes felt tedious and unfulfilling. But hey, it still paid your share of rent and bills. At least you could say you could manage in the hustle and bustle of the London lifestyle.

It was nearly hometime and you were itching to get home and relax. But before that could happen, there were those last set of insurance cover forms you had to copy to get sent to the HR department. And so you typed away on your laptop, clickety clack, clickety clack… the minutes went by like a chalk on a blackboard, scraping away at a snail’s pace.

You put your full force of concentration on the documents on the screen until it was finally done. A sense of achievement was necessary in these moments despite your lack of enthusiasm. It was in the little victories you reminded yourself. You rubbed the sweat from the July heat off your forehead.

* * *

The last 2 hours eventually passed by and it was soon the rush to get out of the door before you got held up by your colleagues. They were nice enough, but sometimes they could hold you back for half an hour chatting when you just wanted to get home, or your manager might try and get you to stay an hour overtime.

Thankfully you did get out promptly, and as you ran and dashed out of the office building saying brisk goodbyes to coworkers, you managed to make it to the tube with the train just arriving on time. But not without being moderately sweaty and hot though. Bloody stuffy platforms.

As expected it was still a busy train with plenty of 5pm finishers getting themselves situated on the half crowded carriages, but as it was only 10 past, it wasn't the worst time of day for commuting yet.

You perched yourself on one of the tube’s seats and let your shoulders drop, having held the tension in your body from sitting at a desk all day. You placed your head slightly back, balancing it on the window of the train. You looked up momentarily above you and then lifted your head back up to look at your phone and choose a song to listen to on Spotify through your wireless earphones.

The streams of sound from one of your favourite songs began to play softly in your ears and you smiled, knowing that the song gave you a little bit of wistful joy. You started mouthing the words.

Call it all for nothing, but I'd rather be nothing to you. Than be a part of something, something that I didn’t do (Best to You - Blood Orange).

The words half mean something but not necessarily anything. You began to wonder about being part of something that you’re not.

I just wish I could float away from my unexciting existence… you thought to yourself.

It sometimes occurred to you that you might have wanted something more out of life, but weren’t entirely sure what. It doesn’t make you dreadfully sad, but you know that life for you hasn’t exactly been the best it could be, and that perhaps something was missing. You wish you knew what it was.

You sighed, ignoring the feeling of sorrow wash over you momentarily and propped yourself back up in the uncomfortable seat of the train. You tried to keep yourself awake so that you wouldn’t miss your stop. The music continued through your ears.

* * *

You opened the door of the three bedroom flat that you had been residing in for the last two years with your flatmates and sighed with relief that you had finally reached home. You hurried to get your handbag off your shoulder and your shoes off, placing them on the rack next to the front door and walked through the hallway.

The minute you poked your head through to the lounge, bellowing a faint hello to whoever was around, you were suddenly greeted by one of your best friends and flatmates, Grace.

“Ahh Y/n! You’re home. Thank christ!”

She grabbed you and reached her arms around to embrace you tightly. You were perplexed by this gesture as it was so random and unusual given that Grace lived with you and saw you everyday of the week. You frowned and reluctantly placed your arms around her to return the hug.

As she then let go, she looked at you with urgency in her eyes and shrieked with excitement, “Oh Y/n guess what? It looks like I’m up for a promotion! Can you believe it?”

Now processing the reason for such an embrace, you raised your eyebrows in glee and smiled proudly, gushing back to your best mate who was obviously chuffed by the matter.

“Oh wow Grace, that's fantastic! I mean, finally. It is about bloody time!”

She smiled, “Yes I guess it is. But I mustn't get too excited. I haven’t officially got the promotion yet.”

“Ah but no. I’m not having any of that. You will get that promotion. It is a guarantee. They would be idiots to not give it to you.” Grace rolled her eyes and bit her lip. She reluctantly nodded and agreed.

The smell of food distracted you momentarily from the conversation. It was a particularly appetising smell.

Grace uttered, “Yes that smell is good isn’t it? Theo insisted on cooking us a nice meal for me as a celebration.”

You smiled knowingly, having known about how Grace and Theo had been in relationship limbo ever since you three became close friends at university. You knew they both had feelings for each other but often danced around the subject, completely oblivious to one another’s obvious attraction to the other. You reckoned they had to do something about it one day.

“Thank fuck. I wasn’t prepared to make dinner tonight. I am too tired for that.”

Grace then had her worried face on. She instantly knew, as she knew you too well, but funnily enough never picked up on Theo’s emotions despite constantly wondering about them, that something was wrong.

“Are you ok babe?” she asked with a look of pity that you scornfully resented.

You sighed, half lying, “Yes. I’m fine. Just tired is all.”

You made a beeline for the couch knowing full well that you were going to talk about it whether you liked it or not. You knew that Grace would see right through your dishonesty and insist that you told her the problem.

So you waited until Grace inevitably sat next to you and gave you that sympathy look she always gave you before coming out with the concerns that were floating around your brain.

“OK fine. I know you won’t leave me alone unless I tell you.”

“Ahh, you know me so well…”

“Yes, just as you know me. I’m just- I’m fed up. Work was slow. I don’t really feel like I’m associated with my life. I feel... disconnected, I guess.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

You shrugged and looked down at the floor and then back at Grace smiling sheepishly, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not- not fulfilled? I just don’t thoroughly enjoy my life right now.”

Grace nodded and put a hand on your leg. You twitched your face in slight discomfort. You hated it when you were given sympathy for something that seemed so miniscule. It wasn’t like you were dying.

It was times like this when you just wanted to curl up in your bed, eat a tub of ice cream and watch your favourite comedy programmes. 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown sprang to mind.

As you sat in momentary silence for a bit, Theo came waltzing through from the kitchen with his silly apron on that had a naked man’s body printed on it, and a spatula in his hand. He smiled at you.

“I thought I heard your voice. I hope meatballs for dinner are good tonight. Not mine of course,” gesturing to the apron as he said it.

You shook your head at Theo’s poor dad joke and stood up to hug him. You realised that you must be really down in the dumps to be hugging Theo. It was his turn to be confused. He looked towards Grace wide eyed.

“She’s had a particularly tough day. But mind you babe, you’ve kinda been like this for weeks now.”

You let go of Theo and turned to Grace, frowning and feeling slightly defensive. You placed a hand on your hip.

“Been like what? I’ve just been a bit fed up, that's all.”

“Yes but it’s not just a bit fed up. You said so yourself you feel disconnected. We’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

You looked to Theo and he nodded gently in agreement.

“Ok… but, nothing is really wrong exactly. My life is fine.”

“Fine, yes. But not amazing. We know it’s getting you down. And the job is the problem.”

“But I’m good at it. And it pays the bills. What else am I supposed to do?”

Grace then looked away from your eyes then, twitching her lip and looking as though she was holding something back. She then sighed and began to admit something you had not been expecting.

“OK look. We know what you can do. Theo and I have figured it out. We can manage money wise. It will be tight, but if you quit your job we should be able to help you out for a little bit.”

Your eyes grew wider than large saucepans. You were totally bewildered and your mouth slightly agape.

“What? Quit my job? Why? What work would I get instead?”

“Well, maybe you won't quit your job yet. Maybe you’re right, that's too hasty. Perhaps what I’m trying to say is-”

Theo then chimed in, “-what Grace is trying to say is…”

You smirked to yourself. How do they not realise that they’re already a couple but without the sex? They’re practically married for christ sake.

“...we reckon that you need to pursue your passion. Perhaps stop wasting your talents in an office job that you hate.”

Grace continued, “yes exactly. We have had an idea in mind. See, we want you to go to this thing… it’s no biggie but well, we’ve already booked it for you.”

Your mind was racing. You couldn’t understand anything that they were saying to you. It was all too much for you to manage.

“Booked what for me? What the hell are you both going on about?”

They both looked at each other with reluctance, pondering the moment and whether to tell you the whole truth. They both shrugged and Grace was then pulling her phone out, this whole conversation beginning to appear as though they had been trying to practice it.

Suddenly Grace’s phone screen was wavering in your face. You moved your head closer to see a photo on the screen. It was a comedy club night poster. Incidentally, it was an open mic night event happening on Saturday night. You began to then put the puzzle pieces together. You folded your arms and frowned heavily.

“What the fuck have you two done now?”

Theo softly spoke, “We… booked you a slot to do that comedy open mic event thing, on Saturday night.”

“Wait. As in to perform? You can’t be serious-”

Grace tried to reassure you and grabbed your arm.

“Look, we know it might seem daunting, but we just wanted to see you happy again. It’s been two years since we graduated and you haven’t performed since then. We thought it might be good to encourage you to perform again. You were always funny to us. And people at uni thought so too. You have the stand up talent, Y/n.”

You could not process anymore. You shook your head in disbelief and placed your head in your hands, rubbing your eyes from sudden exhaustion. You then threw your hands up in exasperation. It was not possible. You could not do that again.

Fucking no way. I can’t be on stage again! It’s too scary. University pub nights are one thing but a comedy club?

You shook your head again and placed your hands on your hips. Grace tried to speak up again seeing the frustration painted across your face. In fact it was anger that your friends chose to do this without your say so.

“Y/n…”

“No. Nope. I’m not doing it. No.”

“But Y/n, we were also going to tell you that Theo is also thinking of doing the same thing! He wants to do his music again. What harm would it be for you to rejuvenate your comedy skills? Surely you can write a quick couple of gags. Nothing strenuous. You have your old material from university, right?”

You had to get out of the room. Nothing that they were saying to you could be fully accepted at that moment.

You then gave them no choice but to let you go with your head in a flurry. They both watched you leave the room, mumbling something along the lines of I’m not really hungry anymore, I’m going to bed. Soon after, you darted across the other end of the hallway, ill-tempered and almost seething, and slammed your bedroom door shut.

[keijislove]

Happiness: Harry Potter X Muggle!Reader

Ding dong

The bell at Number Four, Privet Drive rang.

‘Boy, scurry off!’ Petunia growled at Harry; afraid he would do something to the person who was at the door.

Harry hid inside his old broom cupboard.

Even after spending two whole years at Hogwarts, and about to start his third, the Dursleys never let him come and see whoever was at their door.

It’s not like I’d stun them, Harry gloomily thought. I’ve got better things to do.

In truth, he really hadn’t.

Which is why he peeked through the small crack in the door to see who was there.

Petunia opened the door.

‘Er, yes?’ Harry heard her say.

‘Mrs. Dursley, good afternoon!’ a voice spoke.

The voice was gentle and sweet, a great variation from the Dursleys’ harsh, barking tones towards Harry.

It was the voice of a girl; one he did not know.

‘How may I help you dear?’ Petunia smiled.

‘Er, well, Dudley took my maths book yesterday, and I-I have a test coming up day after, so could you please ask him to lend it back?’ the voice asked.

‘Of course.’ Petunia smiled. ‘Come in, dear.’

That was when Harry finally saw the owner of the calming voice.

It was you.

Looking ever so beautiful and elegant with a halo of politeness surrounding you.

Petunia went upstairs to retrieve your book.

He did not know why exactly, but Harry felt like he had to talk to you.

He had to.

And if he didn’t, then the chance would be lost forever.

He walked out of the cupboard.

‘Oh!’ you exclaimed in surprise.

‘Er, sorry.’ He muttered, feeling foolish.

‘No, no... quite alright... I’m Y/N. Y/N L/N. you are?’ you asked, holding out your hand.

‘Harry. Harry Potter.’ He said, shaking your hand.

You frowned slightly. ‘Potter... I’ve heard that before... you’re Dudley’s cousin, aren’t you?’ you asked.

‘Er, yeah.’ Harry awkwardly said.

For a moment, a small flash of fear took over your face, but you tried your best to hide it.

Harry noticed it anyway.

He felt anger bubbling up inside him.

‘I don’t go to St. Brutus’ if that’s what’s scaring you.’ He said with more venom than intended.

You looked positively nonplussed. ‘Oh? Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. It’s just that... Dudley says such awful things about you... I’d started thinking you were a mad hooligan!’

‘Dudley says a lot of things that aren’t true. For instance, he beat up a toddler and told me he’d won a boxing match.’ Harry shook his head.

You giggled slightly.

‘So... you’re his friend, then?’ Harry asked.

You looked down. ‘Uhm... well, no. I’m afraid he’s not very nice to me. I don’t think he likes me much.’

Harry felt yet another wish to strangle his cousin.

‘Why’d you lend him your book, then?’ he asked in confusion.

You sighed. ‘I didn’t. He took it from me when we were out during recess.’

‘Prat.’ Harry muttered.

When they heard Petunia’s footsteps, Harry jumped back inside the broom cupboard.

She was wiping fake tears, mumbling.

‘Diddykins, always such a gentleman. Asking for a girl’s book so politely.’ She mumbled.

You had to look away in order to roll your eyes.

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

Needless to say, you and Harry became friends since that day.

The Dursleys would always kick him out, and this used to annoy him, but now he had somewhere to go, so he used to leave without a word.

You two would meet up in the nearby playground and do one of the things Harry considered a big privilege.

You’d talk.

Nothing in particular, you’d sit on the swings and just talk.

Harry deeply wished he could tell you about Hogwarts, how Voldemort was a huge threat to his existence, but what would you think?

You’d call him mad.

You still followed the same routine.

You’d talk, everyday you’d talk and talk and one day he would leave, leave you behind, lonely.

Things however, changed quick after that.

He had just gotten home from third year, and was spending the summer there.

You had met up as usual, and he’d excitedly told you how his best friend, Ron Weasley, had invited him to stay over that Sunday for the rest of the vacation.

‘Oh... you’re leaving so soon?’ you had asked, and Harry thought he had heard the slightest bit of sadness in your voice, but that couldn’t be.

You wouldn’t be sad if he left, he wasn’t even on your priority list.

Which is what he thought.

To you, Harry was that cute boy whom you could consider one of your closest (and only) friends.

So, upon hearing that piece of news, you were jealous of this Weasley person.

No, that wouldn’t be right. You thought. He’s been at that school for three years; you’ve just met him. Why would he want to stay because of you?

You had been lonely that summer, and when Harry came back, it was unusual.

When he came back from his fourth year, he was a mess.

He’d jump at the slightest things, like a cat or a stray dog, and would hyperventilate a lot.

One day, he’d had a particularly bad panic attack.

You were on your swings, as usual, when Harry started rolling around on the floor, clutching his head.

You had gotten used to this, so you crouched next to him.

‘Ssh, Harry, breathe.’ You’d soothingly whisper. ‘Focus on your breathing, take deep breaths. Yes, that’s better, isn’t it?’

Harry was more grateful to you than he could have been.

Despite you not knowing the reason his scar hurt, you didn’t poke in further.

You left it at that and helped him whenever he needed help the most.

Your heart sank when Dudley’s gang came marching.

You hurriedly propped Harry up on the swing, before sitting down yourself.

‘Come on a date with a girlfriend, have you?’ Dudley sneered at Harry, his mates laughing loudly.

Yet another surge of anger passed through Harry’s body. ‘Beat up another ten year old, Dudley?’

‘This one deserved it.’ Dudley nonchalantly replied.

‘Five against one... that’s nice.’ Harry snapped.

Dudley’s lips curled over his teeth in a snarl. ‘At least I’m not afraid of my pillow! Don’t think I don’t hear you moaning in your sleep!’

A muscle was jumping in Harry’s jaw.

‘Leave it.’ You whispered.

‘Oh, don’t kill Cedric!’ Dudley mocked. ‘Who is Cedric, your boyfriend?’

More laughter issued as you held onto Harry tighter.

‘Mum, he’s gonna kill him!’ Dudley went on. ‘Where is your mum? Where is your mum, Potter? Is she dead? Is she dead?!’

You had released Harry; however, it was not him who went up to Dudley.

‘Pathetic!’ you snarled in his face. ‘What do you think you’re playing at, joking about his mother’s death? Absolutely pathetic!’

Dudley had given you a half smile, gesturing to his friend.

One of the boys held you and slammed you against the roundabout, making you hit your head as you groaned.

Harry jumped up and pointed his wand right at Dudley.

It was at that moment, that the skies darkened, as if a storm was ahead.

In mid-summer.

You and Harry walked home, Dudley following behind.

Suddenly, you felt cold.

Not because of the lack of warmth, but because it became really, really cold.

You heard a scream as your vision darkened.

Harry choked for air as a Dementor held him in place, desperately searching for his wand.

He saw you collapse to the floor, panting heavily.

With great effort, Harry grabbed his wand and managed to croak out.

‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!!!’

A silver stag rose out of Harry’s wand tip and fought off the Dementor holding him in place, before heading to you.

The Dementor instantly dropped you, almost scowling, which it would have done if it had no face, and glided out of the alleyway.

Dudley looked sick, but Harry didn’t care.

He rushed to your side immediately.

‘Oh my god, oh my god, cloaks.’ You whispered. ‘Cold air, c-cloaks, I saw my father die... all o-over a-again and i-it was so c-cold, all over...’

Harry shushed you, smiling understandingly at your rambling, disgusted at whoever sent those stupid Dementors to harm somebody as innocent as you.

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

‘So... he’s a wizard.’ You clarified, looking at the batty woman whose living room you were sprawled across.

‘And a ruddy good one at that, I mean, a corporeal Patronus at his age-’ she said.

‘Mrs. Figg.’ You interrupted. ‘He’s... he’s going to come back next summer, isn’t he?’

‘Of course, dear, whyever not?’ she looked at you as though you’d gone mad.

‘Those things... Dementors, as you said... were they trying to harm Harry?’ you tentatively asked.

‘Yes dear, sadly, yes.’ Mrs. Figg distractedly muttered. ‘Mundungus Fletcher, when I get my hands on that little squat again, I swear!’

You were trembling.

Something was after Harry, something terrible.

And you were in no power to help him.

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

‘Is something the matter?’ you asked, trying hard to keep a straight face.

‘Have you ever tried macaroons; I reckon they’re brilliant.’ Harry mumbled, ignoring you.

You rolled your eyes. ‘Harry.’

Sighing, Harry looked at you. ‘Hm?’

‘What’s wrong?’ you repeated.

‘Nothing.’

Lies.

‘Harry, something is very much wrong, and you know it.’ You disapprovingly said. ‘What is it?’

Harry sighed. ‘Its just... he’s growing stronger, you know. I... I fear there might be a day where I go to Hogwarts and never come back.’

Your heart sank into your stomach.

‘Its... cmon, Harry.’ You spoke. ‘We can’t... if you think like that, then, you’re not going to fight very well, are you? I’ll have you know, I am always here for you, and I have absolutely no intentions of letting whoever kills you live in peace.’

Harry chuckled at your scathing threats.

‘I’m gonna miss you, Y/N/N.’ Harry mumbled, intertwining your fingers with his.

You sighed. ‘I’ll miss you too Harry.’

More than you can imagine.

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

‘Harry Potter, open this door!’ you screamed, banging furiously, not caring it was raining and you were sopping wet.

‘Harry, I swear, I WILL BREAK THIS DOOR!’ you yelled, ripping your throat raw.

The door hesitantly opened, as a certain boy stood before you.

Choking an enormous sob, you pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

Sobbing into his shoulder, you melted into his touch.

‘Ssh Y/N, ssh.’ He mumbled soothingly.

‘Harry Potter.’ You croaked. ‘You had best returned from this war ALIVE.’

‘I’ll try Y/N/N.’ Harry whispered. ‘I’ll try.’

Your sobs were growing uncontrollable, and Harry did the only thing he could think of to shut you up.

He kissed you.

Slowly and carefully, his lips took in your own, as you melted into the kiss.

Not caring about the salty tears you could taste, you gently stroked his cheek.

When you pulled apart, you sniffed. ‘Good luck, Harry.

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

The rain beat down on your house heavily, as you sat near your window.

Something was wrong, you could sense it.

He’s alive... God, no, he’s alive, please.

Each thought, each dream, showed you endless ways Harry would be dying.

You hated it.

After many days of crying, a knock on your door made you jump.

‘Y/N!’

That voice.

That amazing voice.

Trembling, you opened the door, seeing a messy haired Harry standing there, tears painting his face.

‘My God.’ You gasped. ‘You’re alive. Oh, Harry!’

After yet-another hug, Harry came inside.

‘I reckon I should’ve made this more special.’ He said seriously. ‘But I can not wait any longer.’

You watched, confused, as Harry took your hands.

‘Y/N L/N, the moment you came into my life, I have felt nothing but pure happiness. I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?’

You gasped, hand flying to your mouth.

Sobbing harder, you hugged him.

‘Yes.’

[bunnyofnegativeeuphoria]

Prompt Fill: “Cold”

I’m what they like to call not a clown but the entire circus. I’ve managed to delete one of the asks by accident, but rest assured I did see an anonymous prompter wish for “cold” or something to that effect...

Dear reader, it’s 3,3K words, so here we fucking go, lads.

Islanders

Cleaned up and now also on Ao3

“A room and a bath,” Geralt says without even glancing at the barman, attention fully on the precious cargo in his arms.

“Hang on, Witcher, you can’t just–”

“You’ll get your coin,” he grits through his teeth, “but whether your head is still attached to your neck when you do is for you to decide. Room and a bath. Now.”

A key lands on the countertop. 

“Upstairs and second door on the right.”

 The man shouts to someone behind himself. “Ilde! Hot water for the Witcher, sharpish!” 

“Geralt?” 

His senses turn from the foul stench of old ale and unwashed bodies and funnel inwards towards the shape of Jaskier. His bard moans softly and leans an icy forehead against Geralt’s neck. 

“Hmm?” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s hair.

“C-cold.”

He reeks of misery, sharp and undeserved. A great shiver runs through Jaskier, and Geralt tightens his hold around him.

“Cold water will do,” he grunts at the barman.

“But–”

“As fast as you can,” Geralt says, grabbing the key and making for the stairwell.

***

Casting igni in the direction of the hearth, Geralt lays Jaskier out on top of a humble straw mattress and begins to undress him. There’s no cloak, and the fool’s doublet is wet through. It refuses to budge, but Geralt has one ear turned towards Jaskier’s heartbeat and doesn’t hesitate to rip apart the fabric to get to skin. It’s paler than it should be and cold to the touch – cold where on any other day it is warmth itself. His bard gravitates towards sources of heat like a stable cat to an opportune sunbeam, and to exist in his orbit is a blessing greater than any coin Geralt has ever earned. 

The ruined doublet hits the floor with a squelch. Geralt moves to grab Jaskier’s breeches, but a shaking hand stops him.

“I-I r-rather lik-ked that ‘n,” Jaskier says, looking if anything even more unhappy than before. 

His pulse spikes, and worry roils in Geralt’s gut. 

“Doublets are replaceable,” he says. He spares a quick squeeze to Jaskier’s fingers before pulling the breeches and boots off in one desperate, inelegant action.

Jaskier is not a small man, but now, sad and shivering on the cusp of blue-tinged infirmity, he hunches and curls, reducing himself. Geralt misses his all-encompassing business. 

“In here,” comes a voice from the hallway, followed by what looks like the barman and his entire family. Two boys roll a tub in and settle it in front of the fireplace, and the others empty several buckets worth of water into it. 

“More, go on,” Ilde says, and the troop leaves as quick as they come, casting wary glances at Geralt’s swords as they go. 

“W-we’ll h’ve t-to p-pay more,” Jaskier says.

Geralt frowns and throws a threadbare blanket on top of him, inadequate and dusty though it is. 

“If they get the rest of the water within the minute, they can have double.”

“Not double. They’ll ch-cheat you. Always d-do.” Jaskier clasps at the blanket. His hands, normally so clever and expressive, jerk with exhaustion and looming danger. “Not-t worth it.”

“Let me account for what value I keep,” Geralt says. “Not hush. You have to conserve energy.”

Geralt sits down and takes a hold of Jaskier’s hands.

“W-what?”

“Shh.”

He wraps his giant paws around Jaskier’s hands, feeling wiry strength and a lifeline beneath the cold. Pressing his lips to the gap between his own thumbs, he blows warm air into the space between them. When he looks up after the third blow, he finds Jaskier looking at him. He smells less scared now. There’s a thought dancing on the tip of the bard’s tongue, but Geralt gives him a quelling look.  

“Right,” Ilde says from the doorway, and buckets follow with the kind of efficiency born of a strong desire to done and elsewhere. In less than a minute they are alone once more, door closing with a firm press. 

A steady stream of controlled fire erupts from Geralt’s hand, and he guides it across the surface of the tub until steam rises like from Roach’s back when she’s been safely put to bed in a warm stall after a day of cold and damp. The water ripples as he tests the temperature.

“G-Geralt?” Jaskier is sitting up, blanket having dropped to the ground. “C-can I?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s heartbeat has yet to settle, but his lips have lost their frosty stiffness. Though dry and cracked, they look pinker and plumper than before. “It’s all for you.” 

Gathering Jaskier in his arms once more, he hurries to the tub. He lowers Jaskier as well he can, but when they break the water’s surface–

“Ow,” Jaskier hisses. “Ow, G-Geralt.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to–”

“Hurts,” Jaskier presses, turning his face into Geralt’s neck with the same blind faith as he had when Geralt had come across him only an hour earlier, sodden and lost on the mucky road to the northern realms. His face, however, is not defiant or proud. This is a quiet pain, and Geralt aches in a place he had long thought broken beyond the repair of all charity. 

“I know. Shhh. Hold on to me,” he says. “All in one go.” 

Hands tighten weakly around his arm, and then he sinks Jaskier into the tub.

He doesn’t yell.

He doesn’t yell, but he does whimper – small and vulnerable and a thousand leagues beneath the surface of what he is entitled. 

Geralt pulls his arms away.

“D-don’t g–”

“I’m not.”

Stripping down with stern efficiency, Geralt gets in the tub himself, taking care to not jostle Jaskier. Water spills over the side as he guides Jaskier against his chest, making sure to move his medallion so the sharp angles of the wolf’s head don’t do him harm. It is cramped, and he settles in to cover as much of Jaskier’s surface area with his own body. They sit with their knees bent and peaking out of the water like make-believe islands – an archipelago of muscle and bone.

“How are you feeling?”

Jaskier breaths deeply and leans his face against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Like I’m b-being poked by a h-hundred n-needles.” 

Geralt draws an arm around Jaskier’s chest, using his other hand to cover one of Jaskier’s knees. 

“Rest.”

“I-I’m so...I shouldn’t h-hav–”

He shakes his head. Jaskier must feel it for he falls silent again.

“Rest.”

***

Jaskier falls asleep in the tub with Geralt wrapped around him like a giant octopus from out of a Skelligan skald. The rhythm of his heart gradually calms to his regular song – almost bird-like by Geralt’s reckoning. Twice he warms the bathwater, content to let his meditation be guided by the measure of Jaskier’s recovery. He wills his own warmth to seep from his skin and through Jaskier’s, and if something else should flow with it, then he reckons he is far too old to be duplicitous now. 

“You needn’t stay on my account.”

Geralt looks down into the wild blue yonder.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

The thought sits awkwardly in him, pinching with the discomfort of new shoes. 

“I want you to do what you want to do.”

“Jaskier–”

“Stay,” Jaskier says on the wave of a quiet exhale. Geralt watches the word’s traces whisk across the water and sends a small flicker of flame after it. Steam rises once more, and Jaskier sighs, and it sounds acceptably content.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better. On the whole, practically divine.”

There’s a snobbish artfulness to Jaskier’s tone now, and Geralt allows himself the press of a smile against Jaskier’s hairline. 

“Better or worse than a weekend with the Countess de Stael?”

“Darling, must you? I’ve quite reached my limit with humiliation for today.” There’s a tightness to his lips as Jaskier speaks, and Geralt frowns.

“Will you tell me why you were on the road, no cloak or lute to be seen?” 

Jaskier looks down, and his scent turns abruptly with embarrassment, smelling faintly like something is burning. 

“I suppose I’ll have to tell you.” He looks up with a tinge of defiance in his eyes, but it’s no hardship for Geralt to keep looking at him. “But you’ll have to earn it first.”

“Oh?”

“Wash my hair?”

There is life in his cornflower blues again, and that is reward enough for any challenge. Without a word, Geralt gets up and out of the tub. Water drips all over the creaky floorboards as he makes for the saddlebags brought up by one of the boys. His nose guides him to a bottle of oil scented with mild lavender, and he picks up a cup on his way back to Jaskier. 

With pink-tinged cheeks, Jaskier watches him climb back in behind him.

“I didn’t mean–”

Geralt huffs. 

“Yes you did. Hush.”

Cup in hand, Geralt guides Jaskier’s head into a tilt and scoops water over his hair, using his other hand to block the water from running into the bard’s eyes.

“You know, telling me to hush really isn’t as charming as your dour self might imagine.”

“Try sitting quietly in the knowledge of being,” Geralt says, feeling his lip twitch with the sort of maddening lack of control that eases into existence whenever Jaskier is around.

“Unbearable. Take that back.”

“Close your eyes.”

Jaskier closes his eyes immediately, and Geralt finds he has to swallow past all his want at the blatant display of trust. He spills some oil into his palms and wonders if Jaskier would let him do this if he knew the true shape of Geralt’s heart. Whole kingdoms believe it to be nonexistent or at the very least shrivelled and decaying. Jaskier thinks different. If he is to be believed, Geralt’s heart is like a honeyed bun – warm and dripping with a sweetness that Geralt knows was exterminated the second he saw Kaer Morhen rise in front of his too-young eyes. Little does Jaskier know that if you were to open Geralt’s chest and break it open past ribs and sinew and hold his heart, you would find it alternatingly smooth like silk chemises and rough with fingertip callouses, beating a rhythm to whatever tune it pleases. 

“Are you alright, darling?”

Jaskier has tilted his head back even further to look at him nearly upside down.

“Sorry,” Geralt mutters, hurrying to start to run his hands through Jaskier’s hair. It is brown and short and soft to the touch. With every turn of his hands, he washes away the smell of Jaskier’s hurt and replaces it with lavender and his own touch.

“Did I say divine before? I must have lost my wits. This is my religion.”

Geralt feels a chuckle rumble up his throat and into the still bedroom air. Eyes closed again, Jaskier seems to settle in on his own terms, and Geralt is more than happy to let him.

“Did you know there was an inventor from the southern continent – further south even than Nilfgaard – who discovered the measurement for density by sitting in a bathtub?”

Jaskier prattles on about mathematics and science and a man running naked down cobbled streets, and Geralt lets the sound of his voice cleanse him of all worries. He finishes washing Jaskier’s hair, and rinses it with the cup. Afterwards, he gathers more oil and settles his hands across Jaskier’s shoulders. There’s a hitch in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt begins to gentle the oil into soft, pale skin.

“G-Geralt?”

Geralt frowns.

“Are you cold again?”

“No.” Jaskier’s voice sounds small.

“May I continue?”

Jaskier’s chest expands with a visible breath.

“Please,” he says, shoulders gaining a healthy dusting of pinkish glow. He starts talking again when Geralt continues to oil his skin, Jaskier moving on to a fevered and slightly panic-tinged monologue about the Cintran sonnet form.

Jaskier’s body is strong beneath him. His skin bears only a few scars from youthful mishaps and a characteristic refusal to be left behind. There is one running length of his back that he earned as a boy slipping down a rocky hill. Another – much smaller – has nicked his ear from when he did not move fast enough away from a drowner’s grasp. Geralt remembers tending to the wound in a furious silence, and he also remembers the apologetic look of abject misery that trailed him for a full week thereafter. It is the longest he has ever heard Jaskier be quiet, and he is grateful the bard has never again felt cause to curb his words in his presence.

I love him, Geralt thinks. 

It’s not the first time he’s thought it, and he knows it will not be the last. He will carry the knowledge with him for however many centuries he may have left, and he will die with its truth glowing in every part of his body – an idea so well lived and nurtured that when his rotting corpse becomes earth once more around him will grow a ring made of dandelions and buttercups.

They have bathed together many times, but though Jaskier washes him after practically every monster fight, Geralt has until now not had the opportunity to return the favour. In the beginning he had no desire to. After that he had no cause to. Now, as he watches Jaskier’s nervous energy dispel at every gentle touch of Geralt’s hand, he thinks that perhaps he’s never needed more cause than that he wishes to. 

Geralt may not have as much experience as Jaskier when it comes to bathing another person, but he finds it comes easy when he thinks of how Jaskier bathes him. He thinks of Jaskier’s hands on him, soothing touches on bruised skin – careful even when minor wounds have long healed. He thinks of clever fingers massaging his neck and back. He thinks of timid motions turning methodical with confidence for every evening spent plucking endrega entrails out of white hair. At Jaskier’s waist, Geralt’s hands still. He thinks of – he thinks of how he himself has only ever given impersonal washes to his brothers, cleaning the necessary wounds and skirting quickly past the groin to everyone’s better happiness. He thinks of two nights ago – on the cusp of their yearly parting – how Jaskier had cleaned his thighs, his hips, the vee of his abdomen… 

He thinks of Jaskier with a washcloth, strong with tender caress between Geralt’s fingers – between Geralt’s toes. 

He thinks of the care and acceptance that saturates every action. 

He thinks Jaskier certainly deserves it. He deserves to have the same love – for love he now realises it is – reflected back at himself with as much willingness and devotion. And for that reason alone he shall have it.

Jaskier’s left knee has a thick scar on it from when he tried to ride Roach without permission and she dumped him in a field.

“Darling? Your face looks very Geralt-y.”

He looks to see Jaskier’s face inches from his own.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Brooding? Plotting? Dreaming? I haven’t the foggiest. What are you thinking about?”

“I think our knees look like islands.”

Silence falls save for the occasional sound of a drop of water hitting the now tepid bath and the comforting crackle of the fireplace. Geralt feels Jaskier’s toe twitch next to his own before he shifts, leaning back against Geralt’s chest, and raises his leg straight up into the air.

“I suppose that makes our leg hairs the islanders,” Jaskier says in such perfect sincerity. 

Geralt swallows.

“Where is your lute?”

He feels rather than hears Jaskier’s sigh as he puts his leg back into the water.

“Hopefully still back at the Squealing Pig.”

For a second, Geralt is stunned.

“Wh–”

“I left it–”

“On purpose?” 

Geralt doesn’t think his eyebrows could rise any higher if he willed them to.

“Of course not! Well, perhaps. Not really, though. It’s hard to explain.”

“Explain.”

“You left.”

As if in agreement, they both pause to let that short truth hang in the air like a brightly coloured flag. 

“I left because it’s winter. We always part for winter.”

“I know.”

“You even hugged me goodbye and waved me off.”

“I know.”

“You–”

“I know.” Jaskier digs his forehead into Geralt’s clavicle so hard it hurts, but Geralt finds he has no intention to ever ask him to move. “I know I did, and then I woke the next day, and you were gone, and I felt like something was missing, and then I forgot my lute and my bag and my cloak, and I set off after you.”

There’s a warmth brewing beneath Geralt’s skin, and it ignites at every touchpoint shared between them. 

“And then it snowed,” he says.

“And then it snowed,” Jaskier says, “and it was too late to go back, but I didn’t have my cloak, and I didn’t have my lute so I could play my way to a room. So I kept walking, but it was so cold, and I got lost, and then…”

I love him, Geralt thinks.

“And then you fell asleep in the woods,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rests his hand over Geralt’s heart.

“And then you found me,” he says.

“And you scared me half to death,” Geralt says. 

“And here we are.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt sounds and does not know what to say. Words leap out of Jaskier like pufflballs in a summer breeze, scattering dandelion seeded meaningfulness all across the northern continent. He doesn’t know what to say, and so he gentles his hand down Jaskier’s side, curls his legs up more, and brings Jaskier even closer to him. Jaskier gasps into his neck as Geralt settles him in his lap, and then – slowly, tentatively, achingly – arms come around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt turns his head and nudges Jaskier’s nose with his own, their foreheads resting together in a pleasure so perfect that where he to die in the morning he would do so with the knoweldge that he knew the touch of happiness. 

Hands caress through his hair and cup the side of his face, a thumb stroking back and forth over his cheek, and he can feel it’s well pruned from the water. Jaskier gasps again, almost as if on a sob, but no tears come.

“Geralt, I–” he croaks, faltering as he draws the knuckles of his right hand up and down Geralt’s neck. “Geralt, I think you’re the most magnificent…” 

He tightens his arms around Jaskier and feels his every breath dance across his lips. 

“I think you’re the most magnificent person I’ve ever met. You’re–” Jaskier laughs and shakes his head so their foreheads rub together. “Geralt, I don’t even have the words, I–”

“I do,” Geralt says.

Jaskier blinks.

“Y–you do?”

I love him, Geralt thinks.

“I love you,” Geralt says, not for a second looking away from Jaskier’s face so that he may see the hope, the surprise, and the happiness write themselves across him like an open book. And here they come, and there they go, and here love is to stay. 

Jaskier makes a noise – relief and desperation all in one – and then cracked lips are on his own, and Geralt kisses back. He kisses soft, he kisses gentle, and he kisses joy. 

“You really did know what to say,” Jaskier laughs.

“Mmm,” Geralt says, kissing him again. 

Jaskier cups his face between both hands. 

“Dear heart, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he says and draws breath as if to continue on forever and ever. 

Geralt kisses him one more time, feeling Jaskier’s lips curve up into a helpless smile.

“Not the most complicated rhyme scheme you’ve ever come up with, my lark,” he murmurs. 

“Darling,” Jaskier laughs, “I’ll write you so many songs.”

Liked it? Prompt me!

[squidproquoclarice]

Yeehawgust Day 26: Vultures Circling

August 1870

Gerhardt’s Pass, Oregon

Beatrice wasn’t sure whether it had been one day or two since the doctor had come.  She’d seen the look in his eyes, heard the hushed tones with which he murmured to Lyle over in the corner, and with Lyle cursing as he left the wagon and the pallet where she lay, she’d known what she already felt deep in her bones.  

The fever and the pain that had once consumed her had faded, felt now at some peculiar remove like hearing music from another room.  It would all be over soon, and that was a relief.  The vultures might be circling, so to speak, and she’d seen so many of them in the five years since they’d arrived in America.  She felt them watching her now just at the edge of her vision, not certain whether they were real or phantoms, and not certain whether it mattered.  Exhausted as she was, she could only accept it.  This was her end.

A part of her wondered whether she had caused this by her thoughts.  The nervousness and sometimes despair over being pregnant again, worrying what she would do.  David and Arthur both had readily crossed Lyle’s temper, for all David had been just a baby yet when he died.  Having lost two already, she knew the signs.  But this time, the bleeding hadn’t stopped.  Maybe it was being four months along this time that had done it.

We go together then, you and me, she thought towards that child that would never be, now finally able to offer them nothing but love and tenderness rather than having it mingled so heavily with trepidation and fear.  Perhaps we shall see David, and your other brothers or sisters.

But peaceful as that notion was, that still left Arthur.  He’d be alone with Lyle after this.  Lyle had gone to town hours ago, awkwardly grunting something about getting supplies.  She suspected it was only that he couldn’t sit here and watch her die, and that he’d be at the saloon nursing his sorrow.  Hard-handed and angry as he sometimes was, there was a peculiar vulnerable and tender streak in him all the same.  She was only thankful Lyle had taken Arthur with him.  He’d chased Arthur off most of the time since Beatrice took to bed, growling for him to go find something useful to do.  Sparing him the experience of it, she supposed.  She thanked him for that.  

She’d managed to talk to Arthur last night, though, when he’d crept in after Lyle went to sleep.  Given him the portrait of her taken earlier that year in Wyoming, and showed him the papers she’d hidden behind it.  Papers neither of them could read, but papers that would hopefully be the key to a better future all the same.  The ones that officially made him an American boy, not just another immigrant child.  He would belong here.  He already sounded far more American than Welsh, and she was grateful for that.  She could only hope he’d have the chances she’d wanted for him, even if she wouldn’t be here to see it.      

In the end, that was all she could do for him.  It seemed so little, and she was afraid for him all the same.

Hearing the creak of someone climbing in the wagon, she couldn’t help her surprise.  Lyle had come back so soon?  No, that couldn’t be.  But she heard footsteps approaching, and she heard the scrape of glass and the hiss of a match, saw the brightening behind her closed eyes as someone lit the lantern that had gone out awhile ago.  It hadn’t mattered to her, but now that there was light again, she opened her eyes to look at who had come to call.

She didn’t know either of them by sight, fair-haired and well past her own twenty-eight years. Neighbors?  No, they were far from anyone.  Lyle had made certain of it.  Who else would simply climb up into the wagon like this?  KInd strangers, perhaps.  “Are you looking for Lyle?”  It always seemed to come down to that.  She closed her eyes again.  “He isn’t here just now, and I’m sorry for whatever he’s done, but I’m afraid we don’t have much for the taking.”  Money ran through her man’s fingers like water, fast as his quicksilver dreams of riches.

“Should we...”  The woman spoke, her voice soft. 

She was too tired for this.  “Are you missionaries, then?  I suppose the saving of a soul becomes even more important at the very end.  There’s no need of that.  I’ve made what peace I might with my God, I assure you.”  Even if she’d come so far from the girl who’d attended chapel so faithfully back in Aberdare.

The man finally spoke up, his deep voice low and gentle.  “No.  You don’t need to worry about missionaries.”  The words in Welsh, no less, and the familiar lilt of it lifted her spirits in spite of herself.  “Mam, it’s me.  It’s Arthur.”

Now that snapped her to attention, and she opened her eyes, finding she had some fury to spare yet for someone who’d tease her like this as she lay there dying.  But she saw those eyes looking at her with a sad, knowing tenderness--that familiar blue-tinted green, the eyes she saw whenever she chanced to have a mirror.  The ones she saw too every day in her boy, her Arthur.  His hair--it was dusted with grey, yes, but the same dark blond as hers.  Lyle’s brows for certain, and something of the cast of his cheekbones.

Her boy had just turned seven last month, and yet she’d swear he also sat here beside her now, a man of at least forty, perhaps fifty.  She looked at him, and something in her knew him, something deeper than blood and bone, an echo within the soul.  “So you are.”  She didn’t know how it could be so, only that it was.  She drank in the sight of him.  Such a large man, tall and broad.  He hadn’t gotten that from Lyle, perhaps instead from her own father Dylan, such a large man he’d been permanently stooped long before he died from working in the cramped mine tunnels.  Seeing the marks of age on him, the lines etched into his face, and the scars--the small nick on the bridge of his nose, another on his right cheek, and a large one on his chin only somewhat hidden by a short-cropped beard.  Child-Arthur was healing a similar cut on his nose even now, earned by tumbling off the wagon while playing out a week ago, and by the look of it she’d known it would scar, just as it had on this man.  She glanced past him to the woman.  Tawny hair, a riot of freckles, amber eyes, a large scar on her right brow.  Watching Beatrice just as carefully as she was watched.  She asked, speaking in Welsh and managing some good humor, “Well, my boy, who is this you’ve brought with you?”  But she already suspected.

If she hadn’t already believed, that shy smile, that half-lowering of his gaze, would have told her.  “This is my wife.  Sadie.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”  Her Welsh was less polished, her accent more obvious to Beatrice’s ear, but it surprised her all the same to hear it.  Had Arthur taught her?  There were a thousand other questions.

But she licked her lips, needing now to ask the important question: “Why have you come?  And...how?”  She switched back to English for it.  He was an American, her boy, and she would have him be so to her at the end.  She’d fought hard for that.  It was good he hadn’t forgotten his Welshness entirely, but some things needed to be kept close and secret.  She knew that full well. 

“How?  I don’t know for sure.  There’s some red-headed fella named Sinclair who’s gonna have some explanations for this.”  He leaned in, and reached out to take his hand in hers.  A large hand, work-roughened, so unlike the small hand she still took sometimes to hold onto him in crowds and the like.  “Why?  That’s a question that’s got more answers than I know what to do with, really.  Cause I...”  He sighed, shook his head, and the aching look in his eyes told her too much.

“I know there’s no return from this, <i>fy ngwash i</i>.  It’ll be soon enough.  I knew it last night when I gave you those papers.  Did you have the use of them?”

“Sort of.  We ended up in Canada, so uh, proving I was born in Wales actually helped us there.”

“Not America, then?”

“There was better land in Canada.”

“So you’re a farmer?”  She couldn’t help but brighten at that.  She’d wanted something like that for him.  Something peaceful, gentle, nothing like Lyle’s life.

“Horses, mostly.  Some sheep, cattle, and the like.  It’s a good place.  A pretty good life.  And the rest, well…”

“You’d best tell her, Arthur,” Sadie said, her voice full of the twanging accent she’d heard in New Austin and some parts of Texas.  “She’ll see it eventually anyhow.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.  “I reckon you will at that.  It weren’t...all what you hoped for me, Momma.  Daddy ain’t gonna live but another four years past this.  Gets hanged for horse theft in San Francisco just after Christmas.  After that, a lot happened.  And it took me a long time to get things right.”

“Then tell me how it was, son.”  She heard the tone of both inflexible command and gentle invitation in her words, and knew it for the way she spoke to him sometimes as a mother, asking to know the truth of something.  Usually when he’d done some petty mischief or theft that she knew was Lyle’s influence on him.  You must tell me, and perhaps I’ll tell you that it was wrong and why, but I won’t hate you for it.  Because I love you enough to want you to know what’s right.  She saw that conflict in him already, a boy who could steal candy from the store and shrug about it, but who’d come home the next day taking a beating to save a stray cat from being kicked to death by some older boys.

So he told her.  And perhaps it wasn’t the worst she could imagine after hearing Lyle was dead when Arthur was eleven.  But it made for no pretty picture.  Hearing he’d been taken in by criminals, and ones far better and more sophisticated than Lyle could ever be, something broke within her heart.  She’d wanted so much better for him.  But even as he didn’t quite look at her, he kept talking.

He told her of the gang he’d been in, of seeing no other life or future for himself.  Told her of a little boy named Isaac, her first grandchild.  You’ll meet him someday, long before you should.  He’s such a good kid.  I know you’ll love him, and he’ll love you.  Told her of nearly three decades of mistakes and failures after this.  She might have thought it was a life of only regrets, but then he told her of a new life he’d made, of Sadie, of Canada and the children who had lived, grandchildren she would never see: Beatrice, named for her.  Matthew.  Susanna.  Andrew.  

She felt that pull, as if being summoned.  Light fading, like a fire dimmed now beyond embers.  Arthur must have seen it as well, because he stopped telling her about little things, and reached out to take her hand.  Beatrice felt someone else take her other hand--Sadie, then.  “I don’t exactly know how we got here,” he said quietly.  “But I know how it was that day.  I came back with Daddy and you was gone already.  And...that always stayed with me.  That I wasn’t there.  And I know how it is.  Nobody ought to die alone like that.”  There was some kind of knowing weariness to his voice at that, a question she would never be able to ask and he would never be able to answer for her.  “So here we are.”    So much that would be left unsaid, but no matter.  She would see in time.  She would see all of it, and there was comfort to it, because now she knew her boy would be all right in the end.  That he would remember her too, that he loved her.  That put her fear to rest, and so now she could rest.  There were no vultures now, only the final words of love and farewell spoken, and the reassurance of the hands holding hers as everything faded into peace. 

[weepylucifer]

Tosses another dinluke at you. This one’s about caring for each other

Luke awakens from uneasy sleep filled with nightmares, and immediately can tell that today is going to be terrible.

The occasional phantom pain in his wrist, that he can take. The old, flaring ache, the strange feeling that the hand is still there, which somehow makes both wearing and not wearing the prosthetic feel uncomfortable - well, it’s a drag, but it’s only one part of his body. With meditation to aid him, he finds he can usually sequester it off, away from the rest of him, and go through his day more or less like normal. But sometimes, each and every scar caused by the Force lightning clamors in pain, especially when he’s been dreaming about how he got them. This is the worst, because he hasn’t found a good way to cope with it yet. He can’t make the pain stop, and it’s driving him up the walls.

There’s no way he can teach his padawan like this.

Fortunately, Grogu’s father is visiting, and will probably be more than happy to entertain the kid for a day.

Luke hasn’t gotten the measure of the Mandalorian yet. He talks little, projects an aura of intimidation, being covered in armor all over like that, but he seems very attached to his child, so attached that Luke reckoned upon getting Grogu that breaking their bond would do a lot more harm than good. He’s come over for a few visits to far, and he practically curls over Grogu like a loth-cat over its young. But Luke doesn’t exactly know anything about him besides that.

Also, it’s dawned on Luke that he knows nothing about Mandalorians. He knows Boba Fett is one, but that’s pretty much it.

So he’s not exactly comfortable admitting his plight to the man. What if he perceives it as weakness? So when he emerges from his bedroom to greet him, he is brief, almost curt, making himself speak through the pain.

“I’m sorry, but there’ll be no lesson today. Can you just watch Grogu for me? I’m... something else has come up.”

The Mandalorian looks... like an expressionless helmet on a suit of armor. But his voice betrays some surprise when he says, “Um, yeah. Sure. Not a problem.”

He’s justified in his surprise; Luke has never cancelled Grogu’s lessons before. “Thanks,” Luke says and repeats, “Sorry this is on such short notice.”

The last thing he sees before beating his retreat back to his room is Grogu cooing and reaching a little hand out towards him in concern, doubtlessly feeling in the Force that something is amiss with Luke. He closes the door but can still hear the Mandalorian reassuring the kid to the best of his ability, “Sorry, buddy, your bajuri seems to be busy. No floating stuff today.”

Grogu emits the sad coo again.

“Hey, it’s okay. Wanna go to the pond and look for frogs?”

...

“We can take the Phoenix over there.”

A happy squeak tells Luke that the plan has met approval.

“You like flying with the jetpack, huh? Yeah, me too.”

Their voices recede, Grogu babbling happily and his father talking back pretending to understand him, and then the temple is silent. It dawns on Luke that the Mandalorian is attractive, the juxtaposition between the gleaming armored fighter and the father so gentle with his kid intriguing. The thought is brutally cut short by another sharp flash of searing pain.

He whines and flings himself onto his bed, curling up and tugging at his hair with both hands, hoping beyond reason that the pain in his scalp will distract him from the pain in his everywhere else.

--

Luke has been trying on and off to meditate or at least nap for several hours, when he hears a knock at the door. It can only be Mando.

“Um. Master Jedi?”

The Mandalorian has never asked Luke’s name, maybe he reckons Luke goes by his self-assumed title, just like he seems perfectly comfortable going by Mando. Yes?, Luke wants to ask, but he’s scared it’ll come out an undignified whimper.

“I made some dinner for the kid,” the Mandalorian continues. Is it dinner already? “I thought maybe you’d want some, so I’ll leave it out here.”

Luke blinks at the door. He wasn’t expecting this.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it, it’s, ah. Aruetiise usually find our cooking too spicy. So I made some bread to go with it, it. Helps. With the spice. I used some stuff from your storage for it, hope that’s okay.”

The silence persists.

“Putting it down now. Okay. Good luck with your... Jedi business.”

There’s a sound of, indeed, something being placed on the floor, then footsteps walking away.

Luke opens the door. There is a tray of food waiting for him. An amazingly delicious smell wafts from it and his stomach growls loudly, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten today.

So this man can cook. This man baked bread for him. Luke tries to imagine him, in the kitchen, doing that. Maybe he put Luke’s apron on over the armor. The thought makes him giggle for the first time today. Truly Grogu’s father is full of surprises.

--

It’s already getting dark out when Luke carries his empty plate back to the temple’s little kitchen. He finds Mando there with Grogu on his lap, as always in complete armor, simply watching as Grogu plays with a small silver ball.

Luke clears his throat. “Hi,” he says eloquently and carries his plate to the sink.

The Mandalorian nods in greeting. “All done in there?”

“Not exactly.” Somehow, Luke can feel Mando refocus on him, even through the helmet. He knows he must look rumpled, his hair mussed, his face drawn, and using one of his robes as a shawl. He wishes he had the ability to suffer more attractively, or at least the energy to make himself up a bit.

He sighs and sits down at the table with them. Somehow he feels like, as fair payment for the meal, the Mandalorian deserves his honesty in return. “Full disclosure, I wasn’t doing... Jedi stuff in my room. I just... I’m unwell.”

“Oh.” For some reason, Mando’s head tilts towards Grogu. It becomes apparent why when he asks, “Anything catching?”

“No. No, Grogu will be fine.” Luke folds his hands on the tabletop. Well, he’s already at it being honest. “Do you ever get the feeling of... old scars, hurting again? Like they’re new?”

“Your hand?” the Mandalorian asks. Ah, of course, he’s perceptive, he’s noticed the fake hand.

“Not just the hand. Everywhere. All over.” Luke grits his teeth as his nerves alight again along the lightning patterns. Maker, he hates this. It’s like the shrivelled old prune continues to torture him from beyond the grave.

“All over?” Mando repeats. The helmet’s modulator dulls emotion, but Luke guesses it’s concern he hears.

“Yeah. Look.” Following a sudden impulse, he gets up and shucks his robe, unbuttons his shirt and slips that off too. “Here, see?” He turns himself this way and that, catching the warm lamplight. “And yes, they go all the way down.”

Helmet or no, he can hear the Mandalorian’s breath catch. His hand, the one that’s not keeping Grogu from tumbling off his lap, twitches... rises... reaches out... Luke keeps himself very still. For a breath or two, he thinks that if the Mandalorian were to touch him, trace the lightning bolts on his torso with his gloved hand, then he might feel better. Might be soothed.

The hand is lowered to the table again as if embarrassed. Luke lets out his breath and tries not to slump in disappointment. “I’ve never seen scarring like that before,” the Mandalorian says. “And I’ve seen my fair share.”

“Force lightning,” Luke explains, before remembering that his companion knows nothing about the Force. “A Sith torture technique.”

“You were tortured?” Mando asks, then amends, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Luke sits back down, hugging his knees to his chest. “Pffft. It’s not like I’m not already thinking about it.” He rubs his hands down his arms at another shiver of pain. “The Emperor did this. When I went to confront him on the second Death Star.”

“It was you on the Death Star?” the Mandalorian asks.

“Yeah. The Emperor wanted me to join the dark side. I refused. I had no idea he’d just start frying me with lightning. I had no idea this was something the Force could even do.”

“But then you... killed the Emperor?” The Mandalorian is clearly guessing, and Luke finds himself astonished that there’s someone out there still who doesn’t know the whole Luke Skywalker Saga.

“I did not,” he says. “My father killed the Emperor. All I did was lie on the ground and be tortured.” He picks at his wrist where the synthetic skin joins the organic. “I’m not even bitter about that. It ended up saving my father’s soul. But sometimes, I have nightmares about it, you know? And in those dreams, my father... doesn’t help me. He just stands and stares at me and that’s worse than the pain. Because, when it actually happened, there was... a moment when I thought he wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t care and he’d watch me die. For a moment there, I lost hope, and that’s the worst of it really, knowing that about myself.”

“Why was... your father on the Death Star?” the Mandalorian asks, and huh, apparently he hasn’t heard about the Luke-and-Vader-connection either.

“It’s a long story,” Luke says, because it is, and he’s tired. His scars still hurt, not in these sudden flashes anymore, but as a pulsing, bone-deep, constant ache. But his chest feels a bit lighter for having talked about it.

The Mandalorian now gestures at said chest, instead of asking for the story again. “Can you take painkillers for those?”

Luke shakes his head. “They don’t help much. The pain’s in here.” He taps his temple. “I’ve just been trying to sleep it off, but it hurts too much to get to sleep.”

Mando hisses out a breath, and Luke is by this point fairly certain he’s commiserating. “Phew. Sounds like you need a drink.”

This makes Luke laugh, and he appreciates that. “You know, I’d love a drink, actually.”

After Grogu is put to bed, Luke gets a glass of spotchka and Mando’s company (he tilts the helmet off just far enough to free his mouth in quick, almost furtive gestures and takes tiny sips). His head’s starting to feel pleasantly swimmy when he says, “You know, I’ve just bared all my troubles to you - well, not all, but some, and pretty hefty ones - and yet I know... three facts about you, maybe.”

“Hmm. Yeah, that doesn’t seem fair,” the Mandalorian says amusedly. “What would you like to know?”

“Your name would be a good start,” Luke suggests.

The way the Mandalorian fidgets with his glass, he looks almost flustered. “Ah... Din. Din Djarin.”

“Luke Skywalker.” Luke grins and reaches across the table, ignoring the pinpricks of pain up his arm, to grip Mando’s - Din’s - hand. “It’s nice to have met you, Din Djarin.”

-----

In the following months, these flare-ups return occasionally, but none in such intensity. Luke knows that it’s only a matter of time, though. He’s beginning to suspect that this might stay with him forever. But he’s not as horrified at the prospect as he once was, after talking about it to Din and being neither judged nor pitied. After Din didn’t look at him worried like Leia, or attempted clumsily to walk on eggshells around the topic like Han, and didn’t think less of Luke, and didn’t act like Luke’s admittance to his issues tarnished some sort of larger-than-life image of the glowing Jedi hero. How odd it is to think of a future that has someone in it he can rely on in such an uncomplicated manner. He hasn’t had anyone in his life to rely on - or dared to think of himself as needing this - since... well, since Aunt Beru, probably.

During these months, Grogu has steadily progressed in his studies. Din has visited the temple with some regularity, but Luke has yet to get used to him. How could he, when there’s so much new and exciting to discover about Din still? He finds himself looking forward to these visits, and missing Din when absent, almost as much as Grogu does. Din can only ever stay a few days at once, and Departure Day is a sad one for all two inhabitants of the makeshift Jedi school. (Luke’s not sure what Din does when he’s not here. It can’t be so important, right? Surely not more important than spending time with Grogu? Than talking to Luke?)

This time, though, when Din shows up at the agreed-upon time, it’s weird. He speaks even less than usual, he seems to retreat into his armor even more, he opts to sleep in his ship instead of one of the many empty bedrooms in the temple that Luke has yet to fill with more students. And he barely holds or even touches Grogu, and that tips Luke off. These other observations he could chalk up to paranoia and his own desire to coax Din out of his (figurative!) shell. But that last one tells him that something is off.

Grogu can feel it too, and confusion and worry is seeping off of him into the Force. Luke tries to calm him and get him to sleep, but in the morning, Grogu’s still a bit anxious, and their collective worry mounts when breakfast passes by and Din fails to emerge from his ship. The two of them are reflecting their worry back off each other, and it’s getting aggravating, so Luke gets up and resolves to investigate.

“Okay, Grogu, can you go in the garden and play with Artoo? I’ll go look what’s up with your dad.”

Grogu immediately calms now that he knows the matter is being taken care of, and it warms Luke’s heart to see how much the kid has grown to trust him.

He gains entrance to the ship - it’s not the same one that Grogu has shared memories of with him, but similar enough in layout. The cockpit is empty, so he descends down a narrow ladder into what probably passes for crew quarters here. Peering around a corner, he finds Din hunkered down with his back against the durasteel wall, his threadbare cape wrapped around him as a blanket. He hasn’t noticed Luke come in yet, and that’s wrong in and of itself, and he’s shivering so hard it makes his beskar rattle slightly. As Luke lays eyes on him, he breaks into a horrid wet cough beneath the helmet, the modulator rendering it rasping and metallic.

Okay, something must be done.

“Din?” Luke asks, peeking his head out into open view. “It’s Luke, I’m in here now. You sound like my dad, kriffing-- how long has it been like this?”

Din’s head whips around in Luke’s direction, and he probably only doesn’t flinch because he’s trained to not flinch at things. “I’m fine,” he claims - outrageously lying - and tries to drag himself to his feet, hands bracing against the wall behind him.

Luke is already rushing to his side. “No, no, just stay down. There, that’s right, just sit. Are you wounded? Sick?”

Din tilts his head back against the wall. “Not wounded.”

“Well, that’s... good.” Luke squats next to him, unsure how to proceed. In the Force, he can feel exhaustion and pain radiating off of Din, but that doesn’t tell him what exactly is wrong. He tries to touch his wrist and, of course, meets beskar.

“Din, I realize this might be a... big ask, but can you remove your helmet so I can check your temperature?”

A stuttering sigh comes out through the modulator. “I don’t...”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Luke hurries to add. “It’ll just be for a few seconds. Oh, oh I have a blindfold back at the temple! I can run back and get it.”

Din shakes his head. “It’s okay. You’ve seen it before.” He reaches a shaking hand up and with a hiss, the locks on the helmet disengage. He slides it up and off and Luke takes in his face. It’s flushed, his hair matted and sweaty, his eyes bleary, and yet. It’s as attractive as Luke remembers.

Shaking these thoughts off, because there certainly are more important things now, Luke reaches out and puts his ungloved hand on Din’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he hisses. “I’m taking you back to the temple, I have medicine there.”

He’s already in the process of wrapping an arm around Din’s torso to help him up when Din shakes his head. “No. Gotta stay here.” His speech is washed out, his eyes glassy, and Luke’s concerned he’s not talking sense.

“You’ll be more comfortable at the temple.”

Din tries to brush him off with alarmingly feeble hands. “No. The kid.”

Ah. “I don’t think Grogu can catch anything off of you. Different species and all that.”

“You don’t know.”

Well, strictly speaking, Luke doesn’t. Yoda never mentioned anything like that. For a moment, Luke looks around the room, but his old mentor’s ghost is unhelpfully absent. He settles for promising, “I’ll make sure he keeps his distance.”

Din shakes his head again. “Kid’s going to...” He’s interrupted by another coughing fit. “...try to heal me. Don’t want him to overdo it.”

Even miserably sick, Din’s first concern is for the child. It makes something warm swell in Luke’s chest, and he realizes with no small start that Oh, this might be something a lot more than attraction he’s dealing with.

It doesn’t matter now. “I’ll make sure Grogu doesn’t overtax himself then. I’m his teacher, it’s what I’m here for.” Not at home to any more protests, Luke uses the Force to help him lift Din up in his arms. “Try to have a little faith in me, okay?”

“I’m fine here on my own,” Din insists.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Luke says distractedly as he starts off towards the exit ramp, bridal-carrying a whole Mandalorian warrior.

Din is not cooperative, doing his damndest to make himself a dead weight. “I’m Mand’alor,” he mutters, eyes half-closed. “I don’t have to take that tone from you.”

Luke doesn’t know what that word means. Maybe it’s a special type of Mandalorian. He’ll ask later, if he remembers. “Right now, you’re sick, that’s all,” he says, taking them at a brisk pace back to the temple. “You need attention.”

Din’s answer is a displeased groan. “My own damn fault for taking off the helmet.”

In the moment, Luke wonders if he means that in a metaphysical sort of way, like he’s being punished by the ancient Mando gods for his heresy. He’ll later discover that it’s much more prosaic than that: Din has worn the helmet since he was a child, and it’s protected him amiably against any airborne diseases. Now that he’s decided to start taking if off occasionally amongst other people, his immune system is being thrown into a panic by all these new unfiltered things to be breathed in, and he has prompty caught some kind of space flu.

For now, he gets Din into bed, armor and all, and heads for the ‘fresher and the aid kit he stashed there.

--

Din is burning.

Din is glacier-cold.

He sleeps irregularly in this soft bed he doesn’t recognize, and wakes himself with fits of coughing. He gropes for lucidity and gives up on it again in intervals. At some point, someone took his helmet - no, he remembers taking it off, or was that a dream? He has a memory of being carried in somebody’s arms, but who would carry him in full beskar? Who would care to? He’s not on his ship and he’s not alone and this is wrong. He’s been sick before, even with the helmet: from infected wounds or bad food or bad water or being out in harsh weather too long during a job. He’s always ridden it out by himself, if he was too far off to stumble his way back to the covert. But this isn’t the covert - that’s long gone, isn’t it? - and someone is here.

The person, at some point, helps him sit up and removes his armor, and Din would panic - does - but the person’s hands on him are gentle, and there’s some voice telling him that “It’s just to make you more comfortable, I’m putting it right next to the bed, I’m not taking it away, see? It’s right here waiting for you” and he’s too exhausted to put up a fight, and why would they lie? If they wanted the beskar for themselves they would’ve killed him already. But the person doesn’t. The person gives him water when he’s coughed his throat raw. The person drapes a blanket over him, which he shucks off during the hot spells only to grope for it again during the cold ones. The person puts a hand on his forehead and it’s even more cool and soothing than the damp cloth they also provide.

At some point, the person puts something in the bed with him - some alive thing, some small and fussy thing, some important thing with small green claws and wide moon eyes and large ears that are the softest thing that Din’s ever touched. He reaches out for it on instinct, just to pet the downy white hairs on its little head, and the person’s voice says from somewhere far above, “Okay, Grogu, I promised your father to take this slow. We’ll do this gradually, so you don’t tire yourself. You understand? Small healing. Easy.”

The small and precious thing makes a displeased sound, and Din wants to soothe it again. The voice replies, “I know how you feel, I know you want to fix it all right now, but I promised, okay? Your father will be very disappointed in me if we don’t do this just like he’d have it. And we don’t want that, hm?”

Din hears a coo close to his ear, feels a tiny, three-clawed hand touching him, and then there’s a sudden warmth spreading in his chest, not like the clammy heat of the fever but different, pleasant. Suddenly it seems easier to lie back and get some real, truly restful sleep, and this he does.

This instance repeats several more times, over days, until there is a point at which Din wakes - still sore, shaky, and with his muscles aching from having trembled so much - but with the fever broken and his head clear enough to string a coherent thought together.

He’s vaguely aware of a warbling voice a short distance away that he can’t quite yet discern. The room is dim, with only a singular lamp by his bedside spreading a warm light. There is a window above the bed but no light is coming in. It must be late in the evening - Grogu’s bedtime, is what Din’s inner alarm clock tells him without fail. And indeed, when he raises his head, he spots a small crib across the room that can only be Grogu’s, and Luke is there, rocking it in gentle motions. It is him who’s doing the crooning - singing Grogu to sleep, Din realizes abruptly. As he focuses, the lullaby slowly starts to make some sense: it’s in Bocce, which Din is about as conversant in as Tusken. He’s actually heard the tune before; it’s a nonsensical little ditty that settlers on Tatooine sing to their children.

He stretches out an arm and points a shaky finger at Luke.

“Hick,” he accuses, his voice gritty like he gargled a mouthful of sand.

Luke spins around, his blue eyes widening. “If you’re trying to insinuate that only sand-encrusted, desert-dwelling hicks speak Bocce,” he says, “then you are correct.” He smiles. “It’s good to see you back with us.”

“You’re from Tatooine,” Din says, and wonders why this is so important to him. Maybe it’s because learning things about Luke is like putting a puzzle together. There’s somehow a whole bunch of people that Luke is - he’s fascinating, he’s vexing, he’s confusing, and Din has no idea why he’s this interested in the first place. Well, he does have some clue, but it’s best not dwelled upon. Luke has his Creed and his life, Din has his wholly different Creed and life, and it’s not like the interest can be mutual anyway.

Or can it? Luke seems to have been here for days, watching him heal. Din’s mind veers away from phrases like “nursing” and “caring for” because, well, it implies a needing and a being needed that’s not usually extant for him. He takes care of himself, mostly, that is how it’s been for years. Decades...

Luke nods. “Anchorhead represent. Go Womp Rats.”

Din wrinkles his nose. “Anchorhead? There’s nothing there.”

“You’re telling me! Come talk to me about it when you’ve lived there for nineteen years.” He crosses the room to come perch on the edge of Din’s bed. “Which you won’t, you’re the king of Mandalore.”

Oh, shit. Yeah. He’s probably missing a council meeting right now. Wait. “Who told you?”

“You talked a lot when you were feverish.” Luke passes a hand over Din’s brow. He’s done that before, but it’s very different now that Din is awake for it. “It seems to have broken.”

“You had the kid heal me,” Din surmises. He can’t waste breath right now on wondering what else he said to Luke, when the fever had him. “I told you not to do that.”

“I had him heal you slowly, step by step, so he wouldn’t exhaust himself. Just a little every day,” Luke explains.

“He okay now?”

“He’s-” Luke begins to answer, then stops himself. A truly mischievous smile spreads on his lips. “Prince Grogu is resting, your highness. But yes, your majesty, he’s perfectly fine and healthy.”

“Stop.” Din swats a hand at him. “Not... ‘majesty’. We don’t even do that. It’s just ‘Alor. Actually, it’s just Din.”

Luke dodges his hand and almost falls back onto the bed, laughing. “Oh, dear. Please, your worship, accept this humble Jedi’s apology--”

“I mean it, stop--” He probably sounds petulant. He can’t bring himself to care.

Luke’s smile gentles. So do his eyes, impossibly blue. Huh. He’s beautiful. “I’m just teasing you,” he says, beautifully. “I know this doesn’t change anything here. Just another facet of the man I’ve been getting to know.”

“Ah. So you’ve been.” Din clears his throat. That feels awful, as it is still very dry. “Getting to know me. Huh?”

Does this qualify as flirting? This is probably awful. Din’s not good at this. And anyway, it’s still unclear if Luke is actually--???

The softest pair of lips in the galaxy (the galaxy!!!) is on his forehead. Din’s chest implodes. He can feel Luke’s smile on his skin. He’s never felt anything like it before. How is this happening? He’s most likely still sick, and this is a fever dream.

“I’d like to get to know much more of you,” Luke says, withdrawing, still smiling, his eyes like sun-streaked oceans. Din has no breath in his chest.

He delays his reaction two seconds too long, and Luke’s expression begins to falter. “I’m... sorry, you’ve just recovered, and here I am putting... this on you.” He gestures broadly at himself in his entirety. “I... hold on, I’ll go get you, um, a glass of water or something...”

Din would like a glass of water. He would not like Luke to leave. The latter wins out. “Wait.” He grasps Luke’s wrist before he can get up. “I didn’t mean... I would, um. Like to get to know you also.”

Luke stills, his face a turmoil of emotion. How is this the same man who looked so utterly serene to the point of expressionlessness when they first met?

Din figures it’s way past time he made a move. Luke’s already gone and bared himself so much. It’s only fair that he meet him halfway, Din thinks and kisses him.

[vivithefolle]

Is there anyway you could share the entire livejournal essay about Hermione's reaction to Ron coming back in DH? The few paragraphs that you referred to in your recent answer sound extremely interesting.

[The “recent answer” that goes back to... last December. Oh my god I’m such an ass I left you hanging for so long I’m so sorry.]

Okay, okay, so here goes! KEEP IN MIND: I DIDN’T WRITE THIS. I FOUND THIS ON LIVEJOURNAL AND PICKED EVERYTHING THAT I LIKED ABOUT IT, AS WELL AS SOME COMMENTS THAT INTERESTED ME.

This “essay” was actually more of a “reading the books” thing with the person sharing their thoughts and ideas about it. The person was clearly a Snape fan, but they had sympathy for Ron too. I’ll try to formate it as accurately as I can remember it.

And now, here it is:

---

ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

[About Ron being made a prefect.] The essayist: It’s sad, but this probably is the first time Ron’s beaten Harry at something. And the last time.

A commenter: Ron's had a really difficult life, and this is the book that proved it for me. It made me a Ron fan. Just look at the interactions he has with Fred and George. This is commonplace. I know a lot of people don't like Ron, but just look at this book, this chapter especially. People have accused Ron of being lazy, unambitious, having no emotions, and being a big stupid boy. It's just not true. Look at how Fred and George needle him out of jealousy. Look at how they treat Percy. Imagine Ron having to grow up with two older brothers that will not hesitate to bother, torture and torment people that stand out or that get more attention than they do or that cross them. He saw it happening with Percy, so what's he going to learn? He'll learn to shut up unless he wants to have something happen to him. He'll learn that standing out positively is rewarded with cruelty. I can understand how Mrs. Weasley could not have fully protected him from those two. Not all the time, not while trying to also care for Ginny, keeping up with her other kids in school, and running the household. Worst of all, punishing F&G doesn't seem to do anything. Those two just don't care/they crave the attention, negative or positive. The best thing she could've done would be to give them no attention, but that's so against her nature that unfortunately she just fed the monsters. No emotions? Is it really difficult to understand that sensitivity wouldn't be encouraged in young Ron? He's got these two bullies that only want a reaction out of him. If he cries, it'll only encourage them. Any reaction is encouraging to them, but he has to go with anger. It's a survival thing- puff yourself up, make yourself look bigger than you are so the predator messes with you a little less. Look at the pride Ron's showing in his badge. The desire to do well is there. He likes the good feeling that comes with it, but he's been hard-wired since birth that it's better to be "middle of the pack". In later chapters, I know you'll have to point out the way the power makes Ron behave, so I just want to start on the defence now. It's all Ron knows. It's all he's been taught. It's a huge character flaw, but it's what makes him so human. Rowling did develop this in the book, but only accidentally. We're never going to get a good look at Ron's psychology except through these hints because it's, as usual, All About Harry. Ron's flawed, but I hope we remember that he has a reason why he's got those flaws. It doesn't excuse him, but it really explains him. So yeah... that's why I defend Ron.

...

“I’m not Percy,’ he finished defiantly.”

The essayist: Mmmm-hm. Ron feels nervous at the thought of his good fortune inspiring anger in someone and what's his first defence? "I'm not Percy"? Man, the evidence that the Twins' psychological torment has left lasting scars on Ron could not have been more obvious if he'd shielded himself and said "Please don't jinx me, Fred! ... I mean Harry. ... Shit, what'd I say?"

...

“Excellent,”  said  Ron,  with  a  kind ��of  groan  of  longing,  and  he  seized the nearest plate of chops and began piling them onto his plate, watched wistfully by Nearly Headless Nick. “What  were  you  saying  before  the  Sorting?”  Hermione  asked  the  ghost. “About the hat giving warnings?” “Oh  yes,”  said  Nick,  who  seemed  glad  of  a  reason  to  turn  away  from  Ron,  who  was  now  eating  roast  potatoes  with  almost  indecent  enthusiasm.

The essayist: Ron’s not being very restrained with his eating, is he?

The commenter: I don't know if it's accidental or not, but this is one of those moments that I love, one of the tellings of Ron's home life via his behavior. In this scenario, he's totally a kitten who just got adopted to a house where he's the only cat. He's at a table with food, so his instinct is to eat as fast as he can or his siblings will yoink it. It doesn't help that there are many other people around, encouraging the "get the good stuff fast or you'll have to sate yourself on bread or whatever nobody wants". Ron is so much more human than Harry! How can Harry not be showing any signs of his "horrendous abuse" for eleven years? Well... I guess he sort of does when he buys all that stuff in his first year. And I guess Ron has to go back home every summer where it gets reinforced. But Harry goes back every summer, too... what the hell?

...

“What’s going on?” Ron  had  appeared  in  the  doorway.  His  wide  eyes  traveled  from  Harry,  who  was  kneeling  on  his  bed  with  his  wand  pointing  at  Seamus, to Seamus, who was standing there with his fists raised. “He’s having a go at my mother!” Seamus yelled. “What?” said Ron. “Harry wouldn’t do that — we met your mother, we liked her. . .” “That’s  before  she  started  believing  every  word  the  stinking  Daily  Prophet writes about me!” said Harry at the top of his voice. “Oh,”  said  Ron,  comprehension  dawning  across  his  freckled  face.  “Oh . . . right.” “You know what?” said Seamus heatedly, casting Harry a venomous look.  “He’s  right,  I  don’t  want  to  share  a  dormitory  with  him  anymore, he’s a madman.” “That’s out of order, Seamus,” said Ron, whose ears were starting to glow red, always a danger sign. “Out of order, am I?” shouted Seamus, who in contrast with Ron &#145;was  turning  paler.  “You  believe  all  the  rubbish  he’s  come  out  with  about You-Know-Who, do you, you reckon he’s telling the truth?” “Yeah, I do!” said Ron angrily. “Then you’re mad too,” said Seamus in disgust. “Yeah?  Well  unfortunately  for  you,  pal,  I’m  also  a  prefect!”  said  Ron,  jabbing  himself  in  the  chest  with  a  finger.  “So  unless  you  want  detention, watch your mouth!”

The essayist: Note how Ron’s first reaction is to side with Harry.

The commenter: Not surprising because of the best friends thing (some might argue) but I say it's not surprising considering how Hermione and Ron were treating Harry like a ticking time bomb. Survival!

...

“Hello, Harry!” It was Cho Chang and what was more, she was on her own again. This was most unusual: Cho was almost always surrounded by a gang of giggling girls; Harry remembered the agony of trying to get her by herself to ask her to the Yule Ball. “Hi,” said Harry, feeling his face grow hot. At least you’re not covered  in Stinksap this time, he told himself. Cho seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “You got that stuff off, then?” “Yeah,”  said  Harry,  trying  to  grin  as  though  the  memory  of  their  last meeting was funny as opposed to mortifying. “So did you . . . er . . . have a good summer?” The moment he had said this he wished he hadn’t: Cedric had been Cho’s boyfriend and the memory of his death must have affected her holiday  almost  as  badly  as  it  had  affected  Harry’s.  .  . Something  seemed  to  tauten  in  her  face,  but  she  said,  “Oh,  it  was  all  right,  you  know. . .” “Is  that  a  Tornados  badge?”  Ron  demanded  suddenly,  pointing  at  the front of Cho’s robes, to which a sky-blue badge emblazoned with a double gold T was pinned. “You don’t support them, do you?” “Yeah, I do,” said Cho. “Have  you  always  supported  them,  or  just  since  they  started  winning the league?” said Ron, in what Harry considered an unnecessarily accusatory tone of voice. “I’ve supported them since I was six,” said Cho coolly. “Anyway . . . see you, Harry.” She  walked  away.  Hermione  waited  until  Cho  was  halfway  across  the courtyard before rounding on Ron. “You are so tactless!”

The essayist: So Harry meets Cho, makes a complete faux pas and reminds her of her dead boyfriend. Ron quickly steers the conversation away onto something more happy, i.e., Quidditch, before Cho can get too upset. Nevertheless, Ron is apparently the insensitive jerk around here, not Harry.

[If this reminds you of something, then yes, I absolutely took what the essayist was saying and elaborated on it. I confess, I am a dirty thief.]

...

“Well, I suppose he could’ve played better,” Harry muttered, “but it was only the first training session, like you said. . .” Neither Harry nor Ron seemed to make much headway with their homework  that  night.  Harry  knew  Ron  was  too  preoccupied  with  how  badly  he  had  performed  at  Quidditch  practice  and  he  himself  was having difficulty in getting the chant of “Gryffindor are losers” out of his head. [...] And so they worked on while the sky outside the windows became steadily darker; slowly, the crowd in the common room began to thin again.   At   half-past   eleven,   Hermione   wandered   over   to   them,   yawning. “Nearly done?” “No,” said Ron shortly. “Jupiter’s  biggest  moon  is  Ganymede,  not  Callisto,”  she  said,  pointing over Ron’s shoulder at a line in his Astronomy essay, “and it’s Io that’s got the volcanos.” “Thanks,” snarled Ron, scratching out the offending sentences.

The essayist: So Ron’s getting basic facts wrong in his essays.

The commenter: This is going to look so contrived, but I genuinely believe it, and maybe after these reviews, your standards for contrived have dropped enough for me to pass the bar :3 But... he's not putting in any effort. His ego can't take another beating at the moment (even punching bags have limits). Imagine it- after the Quidditch humiliation with his friend the Star Athlete (when he really was trying) he tries to distract himself by doing school work 1. which he isn't very good at anyway, 2. with the Star Athlete of Academics/Slytherin Spectator Crowd best friend Hermione there 3. with Hermione there to set it right anyway (it sounds as if Hermione isn’t so much correcting their essays as writing them herself). If he tries his best at this and then fails at that, Ron probably would start to consider suicide. It's self-preservation at this point to put in zero effort. This kind of fail is literally "I'm not trying because I have given up."

...

She  wrenched  her  bag  open;  Harry  thought  she  was  about  to  put  her books away, but instead she pulled out two misshapen woolly objects,  placed  them  carefully  on  a  table  by  the  fireplace,  covered  them  with  a  few  screwed-up  bits  of  parchment  and  a  broken  quill,  and  stood back to admire the effect. “What  in  the  name  of  Merlin  are  you  doing?”  said  Ron,  watching  her as though fearful for her sanity. “They’re  hats  for  house-elves,”  she  said  briskly,  now  stuffing  her  books  back  into  her  bag.  “I  did  them  over  the  summer.  I’m  a  really  slow  knitter  without  magic,  but  now  I’m  back  at  school  I  should  be  able to make lots more.” “You’re leaving out hats for the house-elves?” said Ron slowly. “And you’re covering them up with rubbish first?” “Yes,” said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag onto her back. “That’s not on,” said Ron angrily. “You’re trying to trick them into picking  up  the  hats.  You’re  setting  them  free  when  they  might  not  want to be free.” “Of  course  they  want  to  be  free!”  said  Hermione  at  once,  though  her face was turning pink. “Don’t you dare touch those hats, Ron!” She left. Ron waited until she had disappeared through the door to the girls’ dormitories, then cleared the rubbish off the woolly hats. They  should  at  least  see  what  they’re  picking  up,”  he  said  firmly.  “Anyway  .  .  .”  He  rolled  up  the  parchment  on  which  he  had  written  the title of Snape’s essay. “There’s no point trying to finish this now, I can’t  do  it  without  Hermione,  I  haven’t  got  a  clue  what  you’re  supposed to do with moonstones, have you?”

The essayist: This doesn’t seem like a particularly open-minded and enquiring position to take, although I suppose that Hermione’s open-mindedness has always been something of an informed attribute.

The commenter: This trope among fans has got me riled up beyond belief because they use the "Hermione's word is gospel" thing to make unfair assumptions about other characters: Ron's "emotional range of a teaspoon" thing comes to mind, and right after that, Lavender supposedly being silly about believing Trelawney about her dead pet (Hermione never considered that maybe the thing Lavender was dreading was bad news from home or bad news about her pet). Regarding house elves: This is one case where the fans ought to have seen that Hermione was being very thoughtless as far as strategy. Ron has lived all his life up until this point thinking that there was no problem with house elves and she literally expects to be able to just tell him "it's wrong" and he's supposed to change instantly? Talk about your cultural insensitivity. In this case, maybe Ron knows better than you do, Hermione? You didn't even know about house elves until you were at least twelve (but more likely, she didn't know until this year). She must understand the concept of "he doesn't know it's wrong". That was how she defended Crookshanks when he was chasing Scabbers. ... Hey, Hermione thinks Ron's smarter than her cat. That's something, I guess.

...

The commenter: Competition is seriously the worst thing in the world for Ron. He's got wa-a-ay too much baggage. Do well so they'll love you. Do well so they'll notice you. If they notice you, you'll get praised. And tormented by Fred and George. Then if you fuck up, you'll have let everyone down. My brothers never let anyone down. That's the standard. Oh God, I can't live up to that. Which do I want to chose- being ignored or scorned? I could do well. Then I'll be good enough to be called "just like them"! JFC, when's it ever going to be "Good like Ron"? Chess. Literally everyone else has one thing they shine in, even Neville with his Botany and Dean with his art (and... and I'm going to ignore the fact that Hermione and Luna are the only two I can think of with non-appearance based special stuff... someone please help me out? I guess Tonks' doesn't really count as a shallow one because it makes her a master of disguise...)

...

HALF-BLOOD PRINCE

...

Ron gagged on a large piece of kipper. Hermione spared him one look of disdain before turning back to Harry.

The essayist: “Hermione spared [Ron] one look of disdain before turning back to Harry” pretty much sums up her relationships within the trio. It’s no wonder Ron’s so insecure and keeps worrying that she really fancies Harry.

...

“And you’ve been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway...”  “You  can  still  see  where  those  brains  got  hold  of  me  in  the  Ministry,  look,”  said  Ron,  shaking  back his sleeves.  “And  it  doesn’t  hurt  that  you’ve  grown  about  a  foot  over  the  summer  either,”  Hermione  finished, ignoring Ron.  “I’m tall,” said Ron inconsequentially.

The essayist: Ron’s so adorably pathetic here, the way he’s obviously feeling inferior to Harry and being ignored by his so-called friends. *hugs Ron*

...

When they left the Gryffindor table five minutes later to head down to the Quidditch pitch, they passed  Lavender  Brown  and  Parvati  Patil.  Remembering  what  Hermione  had  said  about  the  Patil  twins’  parents  wanting  them  to  leave  Hogwarts,  Harry  was  unsurprised  to  see  that  the  two  best  friends were whispering together, looking distressed. What did surprise him was that when Ron drew level with them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked around and gave Ron a wide smile. Ron blinked at her, then returned the smile uncertainly. His walk instantly became something more like a strut. Harry resisted the temptation to laugh, remembering that Ron had refrained from doing so  after  Malfoy  had  broken  Harry’s  nose;  Hermione,  however,  looked  cold  and  distant  all  the  way  down  to  the  stadium  through  the  cool,  misty  drizzle,  and  departed  to  find  a  place  in  the  stands  without wishing Ron good luck. 

The essayist: Hermione keeps belittling Ron and doing him down, and reacts quite strongly when he even so much hints at losing interest in her and showing attention to another woman. Can we say “abusive relationship”, anybody?

...

“Harry! Ginny!” Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves. “I got back a couple of hours ago, I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck--I mean Witherwings,” she said breathlessly. “Did you have a good Christmas?” “Yeah,” said Ron at once, “pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim—” “I've got something for you, Harry,” said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she had heard him. “Oh, hang on--password. Abstinence.”

The essayist: Wow, Hermione’s just being so childish here, ignoring Ron when he’s talking directly to her. Incidentally, Ron’s speaking to her like a normal friend, it’s Hermione who’s doing the blanking. Still, I’m sure this argument is all Ron’s fault for daring to go out with another girl. Hermione is totally blameless.

[Just in case: the essayist is being sarcastic, they’re pointing out the double standard of the HP fandom blaming Hermione’s immature behaviour on Ron.]

...

DEATHLY HALLOWS

...

“I think you’re right,” she told him. “It’s just a morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one you’d choose—” The three of them spoke at the same time; Hermione said, “the Cloak,” Ron said, “the wand,” and Harry said, “the stone.” They looked at each other, half surprised, half amused. “You’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron told Hermione, “but you wouldn’t need to be invisible if you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, come on!” “We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “And it’s helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed!” said Hermione. “Whereas the wand would be bound to attract trouble—” “Only if you shouted about it,” argued Ron. “Only if you were prat enough to go dancing around, waving it over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable wand, come and have a go if you think you’re good enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut—” “Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” said Hermione, looking skeptical. “You know, the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about extra-powerful wands for hundreds of years.” “There have?” asked Harry. Hermione looked exasperated: the expression was so endearingly familiar that Harry and Ron grinned at each other.

The commenter (?): Actually, I thought that Ron was proving the errors in the story. Because he’s right. The eldest brother didn’t die because the Elder Wand had corrupted him (like the One Ring). He died because he was an idiot. He died because he randomly decided to start blabbing about his new toy.

“You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,” said Harry, “like they canthink for themselves.” “The wand chooses the wizard,” said Ollivander. “That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore.” “A person can still use a wand that hasn’t chosen them, though?” asked Harry. “Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.”

The essayist: Harry’s wand has to think for and protect him because he’s too stupid and incompetent to think for and protect himself! Ollivander’s the expert, and he just admitted it. He said any halfway decent wizard can perform magic with almost any wand. The reason Harry could only work with the holly wand is because of the phoenix feather core it shares with Voldemort’s wand. That is, it wasn’t Harry doing the magic with Harry’s wand! It was the Voldemort soul piece! Once Harry was forced to use wands that didn’t have that core, the soul piece couldn’t do the work for Harry any more. He was forced to rely on his own magical powers and competence, which are clearly minimal. This is proven by his inability to do effective magic with any other wand. It’s also proven by an incident from Philosopher’s Stone. Remember when Harry was being chased by bullies and inexplicably found himself on top of the shed roof? That was the soul piece allowing him to fly like Voldy. Lily could slow her descent from a height, as if she had an invisible parachute, but that is not the same as flying, and we have no evidence she could fly. Only Voldemort and Snape fly without assistance! The evidence is overwhelming that I am right. How many spells can Harry do effectively? Expelliarmus, Expecto Patronum, Protego--that’s it. Even as a young adult, he is incapable of doing the basic healing or cleaning spells a young child should have down pat before going to Hogwarts. Of course, we’re told the Patronus spell is difficult and advanced, but who told us that? Remus Lupin, friend of Harry’s father, sycophant, and notorious liar, particularly when it comes to flattering Harry. Recall Lupin also said Snape didn’t like James because Snape was envious of Potter Sr.’s Quidditch prowess, and we know that was a lie. Given this evidence, anything Lupin says that cannot be confirmed by an independent source, especially regarding the Potters, should be dismissed out of hand. True, Hermione has trouble with the Patronus spell, and she’s super-competent. Doesn’t that prove it’s a very difficult spell? Not at all. To take an example from a different field, Beethoven was a virtuoso organist, the greatest pianist of his day, one of the greatest pianists in history, and probably the greatest improvisational musician ever. But he was only a decent violinist. Everybody has areas of weakness, no matter how good they are overall. In addition, Hermione is very gullible where authority figures are concerned. If a teacher tells her, “The Patronus is a very difficult, advanced spell that many people can’t ever master,” she’ll believe that, which may create a self-fulfilling prophecy. A couple of years ago, another DTCL member and I facetiously suggested Harry was less intelligent than his wand. We didn’t know we were right. It rarely happens, but this is an occasion when I would have preferred to be wrong.

...

If only there was a way of getting a better wand... And desire for the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, unbeatable, invincible, swal-lowed him once more... They packed up the tent next morning and moved on through a dreary shower of rain. The downpour pursued them to the coast, where they pitched the tent that night, and persisted through the whole week, through sodden landscapes that Harry found bleak and depressing. He could think only of the Deathly Hallows. It was as though a flame had been lit inside him that nothing, not Hermione’s flat disbelief nor Ron’s persistent doubts, could extinguish. And yet the fiercer the longing for the Hallows burned inside him, the less joyful it made him. He blamed Ron and Hermione: Their determined indifference was as bad as the relentless rain for dampening his spirits, but neither could erode his certainty, which remained absolute. Harry’s belief in and longing for the Hallows consumed him so much that he felt isolated from the other two and their obsession with the Horcruxes. [...] As the weeks crept on, Harry could not help but notice, even through his new self-absorption, that Ron seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he was determined to make up for having walked out on them, perhaps because Harry’s descent into listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership qualities, Ron was the one now encouraging and exhorting the other two into action. [...] But not until March did luck favor Ron at last.

The essayist: MARCH! That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. The first fifteen pages of this chapter cover three months, and during that entire time, Harry Potter does nothing, nothing, but sit on his ass fantasizing about the Elder Wand and trying to connect with his Voldie-soul mate. Oh, wait. He also tries to open the snitch so he can get the stone out of it. (Nothing gay about that, either.) I wish he’d succeed in that, too. Maybe he’d swallow the stone, and it would end up in his scrotum. He sure needs something that works down there. Harry doesn’t have the right to bail out on his society like this. He can’t have it both ways. He can’t have the adulation that goes with being Mr. Boy-Who-Lived-Chosen-One-Wizarding-World-Savior and abdicate the responsibilities that go along with those titles and that adulation. Look at what happens in this chapter: Harry becomes obsessed with finding and uniting the Hallows, so much so that he withdraws from his friends, bails out on the job his idol Dumbledore gave him, and spends all his time brooding and trying to connect with the Dull Lord. In other words, he acts clinically depressed. Ron and Hermione were exposed to the same information Harry was, but they didn’t become obsessed/depressed. Ron was mildly interested in the Super-Wand, but not enough to distract him from the Horcrux hunt. Hermione dismissed the whole DH story as nonsense and continued following Dumbestbore’s orders. So why weren’t they tempted?

...

The essayist: Harry opens the locket using Parseltongue--interesting that this never occurred to him before now--and two ghostly figures emerge. They’re Voldie-versions of Harry and Hermione, and they articulate Ron’s worst fears: “Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter...Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend...Second best, always, eternally overshadowed...” I’ll say it again: When you’re right, you’re right. The evidence is overwhelming that Molly Weasley treated Ron the worst of all her children. And if Rowling doesn’t want us to ship HP/HG, she needs to quit throwing them together and making them leaders, with Ron either in the background or absent entirely. JKR obviously wants us to automatically dismiss certain statements just because they’re made by “bad guys” such as Voldemort and Rita Skeeter. There are two problems with this: (1) The “lies” make perfect sense, far more sense than what we’re supposed to believe. (2) Even pathological liars sometimes tell the truth, typically when it won’t hurt their own interests to do so. For those of us who live in what cartoonist Garry Trudeau calls “the reality-based community,” the evidence is what matters, not what we’re told by authority figures. Those of us in the higher stages of spiritual development are funny that way.

...

The essayist: Well, whose fault is that, Ms. Rowling? You’re the one who’s spent the last four books making Ron dumber and dumber, depriving him of any meaningful activity, while you shoved Harry and Hermione into increasingly dominant roles.

The commenter: Are we supposed to look down on Ron now so that we can condemn him for leaving Harry and Hermione? Because if so, then that’s just unfair. Every time Ron tries to come up with an idea, Hermione criticizes him or shoots him down. And the twins have done a fine job of intimidating Ron into remaining mediocre and modest so that he doesn’t remind them of Percy, so what is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to come up with ideas when he’s surrounded by people who basically tell him to shut up and sit down?

The essayist: Just then, Hermione comes out of the tent with cups of tea, with tears running down her face and looking terrified her “friend” is going to curse her with her own wand.

The commenter: So, Hermione will snarl at Ron all day long, but cower in fear when Harry gets mad. Is she projecting herself onto Harry and assuming that just because *she’s* quick to hex people who anger her (Ron, Marietta, etc.), Harry will do the same to her?

The essayist: The evidence is overwhelming that Molly Weasley treated Ron the worst of all her children.

The commenter: And blatantly showed favoritism to Harry while snarling at Ron in the same breath. Of course, Horcrux!Tom doesn’t bring that up, because JKR would have to admit that there might be something wrong with Molly favoring Harry the way she does. The essayist: Hermione acts so crazy Harry has to put a protection charm between her and Ron.

The commenter: Yeah…sorry, it’s not “slapstick” anymore when somebody actually has to stop her from hitting Ron. When Harry feels that the situation is dangerous enough that his intervention is necessary. That’s not funny. That’s a true-crime episode. What gets me is that Hermione's tantrum lasts for days. It goes on for several pages into the next chapter. She doesn't start acting normal again until she comes up with the idea of visiting Xeno Lovegood. The essayist: Hermione tells Ron she still hasn’t ruled out attacking him with birds again.

The commenter: *flatly* So, all of the fans who cooed about how “great” it was for Hermione to show “girl power” by sending Ron to the hospital wing in HBP or breezily dismissed the scene as just tired teenage melodrama? Can put a sock in it. Hermione has clearly learned nothing, JKR clearly feels that that scene was funny, and at no point are we supposed to think that Hermione is an abuser. Even though, if the genders were reversed, fans would be calling for Ron’s head on a platter if he dared lay a finger on Hermione. No. This isn’t funny. This isn’t charming. Hermione hurt Ron so badly in HBP that he had to go to the hospital wing. And she tried to repeat the damage she caused here. Is she going to attack him with birds again after they get married? Is she going to do it in front of their children? Will it be “cute” and “funny” then? No, if a man is an abusive monster for losing his temper and trying to hurt his girlfriend, then Hermione is an abusive monster for losing her temper and trying to hurt her boyfriend. Not only did Hermione land Ron in the infirmary with the first attack, but she wants to do it again at a time when they are on the run. She will NOT be able to take an injured Ron to Hogwarts infirmary, nor to St. Mungos. In other words - she intends for him to remain injured and stick with them while camping, or else he must apparate away while injured, risking another splinching so he could be healed.

...

The essayist: Ron and Harry go back to the tent, and Harry fades into the background so as not to interfere with the lovers’ reunion. That’s a mistake. After Harry wakes Hermione, she shows her delight at Ron’s return by--attacking him? She punches him over a dozen times while yelling at him and screaming for her wand from Harry. Remember last chapter, when I talked about how immature Hermione is? Here’s your proof.

[The essayist quotes an article that I haven’t been able to find, but paraphrased: it speaks of a father who came to pick up his 4 y/o daughter from daycare, a little later than usual, and the daughter reacted by punching and hitting her father, upset at his being late. Additional read:  “The parents must know that physical aggression is a common yet natural problem faced by toddlers.”]

The essayist: So there you have it: Hermione Granger, know-it-all supergirl, is so immature she acts like a preschool child when the boyfriend she’s been missing finally returns. I’m not suggesting she has a father-daughter relationship with Ron; this kind of anger is found in other relationships, too. What I am saying is that her way of expressing her anger is appropriate for a very young child. While adults may certainly feel this kind of anger and desire to hit when reunited with a loved one under similar circumstances, they don’t act it out. That restraint is what separates adults from children. Hermione acts so crazy Harry has to put a protection charm between her and Ron. I frankly found her behavior so out of control as to suggest mental instability. She engages in two full pages of histrionics before throwing herself into a chair, sitting so tensely I’m surprised the circulation isn’t cut off to her arms and legs. She remains in a bratty snit until the end of the chapter, which is another six pages.  Hermione is still pouting the next morning. I’m wondering if her real problem is not that Ron left, but that she didn’t. Is she angry at him because he had the guts to admit they were blowing it and take a time out, while she just kept trailing along after Harry like a lost house elf? I think she’s definitely mad because she’s always controlled Ron and their relationship. How dare he assert his independence of her! Who does he think he is? Her equal? In an AU, maybe. This is called the Potterverse after all, not the Ronverse.  Hermione’s having a bad month. First Ron runs out on them; then she saves Harry’s life, but he’s an ungrateful jerk about it; then Harry asserts his independence; then Ron comes back but doesn’t grovel sufficiently for her taste. All this mistreatment is going to give her the idea she’s just a normal character and not an Author’s Darling.   While Ron was gone, he was captured by bad guys called Snatchers, who are bounty hunters for Voldemort. In getting away, he got a spare wand, which he gives to Harry. Of course, it doesn’t work as well as Harry’s “real” wand, so Harry’s still in a snit about that, and with Hermione in a snit, too, they’re a cheerful bunch. Honestly, I don’t know why Ron puts up with these two. The Hs are so spoiled and self-centered, they deserve each other, but I don’t think this is what HP/HG shippers mean when they proclaim the two as an OTP. Sane, normal Ron doesn’t deserve either one of them. Run, Ron! Run while you still can!

...

The essayist: As an interesting aside, ròn is the Celtic word for seal. In Druid lore, seals represent love, longing, and dilemma. No more appropriate totem animal could be imagined for this boy whose sense of selfhood is undermined by his longing for love from a rejecting mother and inadequate father, and who, like the selchie wives of folklore, is faced with the impossible choice of being who he truly is and being rejected, or denying the best part of himself to gain love. Ron’s intelligence and independence threaten his insecure wife (and best friend), just as the selchie’s identity as a seal-woman threatens her human husband; Ron imprisons himself by hiding who he is so the Hs can feel smart and in charge, just as the selchie’s human husband imprisons his wife by hiding her sealskin in a trunk.

[lucivar]

For the ask thing, if it's still going: bugabitha and/or Bret

I'm gonna go for the challenge of bugabitha here, because I think that it would be an adorable throuple and I am obsessed with a crack ship (like how Tabitha and Betty would come to be in love). imo Riverdale is ripe for all sorts of throuples and WE NEED MORE OF THEM. I might do Bret later (ugh, he's so perfect tho) :) :) 

This one got LOOOOOONG so please continue reading under the cut!

Thanks so much for playing! Feel free to ask me questions from this list

when I started shipping it if I did: It's a recent development, sort of a "what if" scenario to bughead getting back together through Tabitha. 

my thoughts (aka how this could happen): To borrow your headcanon, arsenicpanda, I fully accept that Tabitha is a secret goth. As a goth, I reckon she would be attracted to two types of people: emotionally unavailable and violent, unhinged women (aka Betty) and sad, emo, creative, soft bois with a tragic past (aka Jug). She is also a CEO or “could have any CEO job she wanted”. To be a CEO so young, you either need to be either backed by daddy’s funding – which we know is not true, or exceptionally talented. Seeing as Tabitha is not a cis white male, she would have to exhibit outstanding (1) vision and direction, (2) people skills, (3) business acumen incl bullshit detector and (4) ability to get shit done and wrangle cats (not even counting her qualifications). So Tabitha is the only character in Riverdale who goes into anything with their eyes wide open. My cracky headcanon is that her personal endgame is getting Betty and Jughead back together through her. She can achieve this because she’s smart and capable and good with people (something that neither Betty nor Jughead can claim outside of their relationship).  Because of this, she goes for Jughead first because he’s a soft target (lol) and he’ll talk Betty around as well. 

What makes me happy about them: The mental image of CEO corporate goth Tabitha living with her murderous sexy housecat who brings home dead bodies and sad, sexy housecat who lies around and cries for food. She would have endless pats and snacks for Jughead and coo loudly over all the dead things Betty would bring home. Very iconic of her, if you ask me.

What makes me sad about them: Nothing in my mind. I am dreading how CW handle the jabitha situation with Betty tho because we all know that bughead will happen. 

I skipped the fanfic asks because I have no opinions

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: For Tabitha, obviously, she could end up with Veronica or possibly Reggie (or, even better, both).  

My happily ever after for them: 

Bondage threesomes where Jughead is chained up 

Mushroom trip nights

Mothman hunting together

Wild debates about Jughead’s stories where they end up in sex

Tabitha and JB starting a goth rave cave at La Bonne Nuit to show mothman/snuff films again because Tabitha loves this idea

Tabitha and JB being all goth and alternative together, maybe Tabitha sponsors her band 

Tabitha being the only one of the throuple to visit Charles regularly, and Chic doesn’t hate her, but he questions her taste in lovers 

Tabitha owning all the Serpents at darts in the Whyte Wyrm. She eventually gets her photo on the wall as “banned from betting” because she’s swindled too many drunks

who is the big spoon/little spoon: Betty is the biggest spoon, also because she gets up in the middle of the night to kill/hunt, Tabitha is the second spoon and Jug is the baby spoon. 

what is their favorite non-sexual activity: Tabitha and Jughead cooking dinner while Betty bakes gothic desserts. They also love dressing up for Halloween. Look, this all probably ends in sex tho. Let’s be real 

[ozarkhealingtraditions]

Animism and Environmental Protection

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Animism lies at the heart of Ozark folk belief, although it’s a modern word you probably won’t hear many of the old timers using. In the mountains, this worldview manifests as a deep connection to the land, in particular the local bioregions that surround the individual and community. Old trees, caverns, natural springs, rivers, etc. are viewed not as lifeless land features, but rather as unique personalities with their own lifecycles and souls. Solitary trees in fields are often said to be protected by the “Little People” or Ozark land spirits, akin to the fairies from across the Celtic world, brought to these lands in the hearts of believers. Old growth trees hold their own roles within the spiritual hierarchy and often go by the names of “grandpa” or “grandma.” Natural springs were at one time fiercely protected by hillfolk because of their life-giving waters, used not only to sustain the body but also as sources of spiritual cleansing and healing. Legends and folktales abound about the invisible owners of certain caverns or large boulders that often stand out against the wash of the forest landscape.

Traditional views toward appeasing the land spirits is often simplified to maintaining a good relationship with these otherworldly inhabitants. Protecting and maintaining springs or allowing certain parts of the forest to remain wild are just a couple examples of this important take on environmental protection. A good balance with the natural world was at one time integral to not only the physical survival of hillfolk, but also a means to ensure good spiritual health for the community. This is an equilibrium lost to many modern inhabitants of the Ozarks with more and more reliance shifting off the land itself and onto local grocery stores, city water, and the pharmacy. For many though, this balance is still seen as a part of the Ozark identity. I myself have encountered many old timers who still give offerings of food, smoke, water, and other traditional items to these places of power in order to keep this tapestry of life intact.

This relationship with the land has birthed many traditions of environmental protection amongst those still living closely with the plants and animals of the mountains. It’s a culture rooted in the views of animism, which sees everything in the natural world as possessing its own unique identity. As opposed to many pantheistic worldviews, animism is deeply connected to the spirits of the local landscape as opposed to “higher” beings like gods and goddesses. The spirit of a mountain spring is then unique amongst other entities that might surround it. These guardians are often said to have had their own births at one time in the ancient past. Likewise, they aren’t always considered immortal. The destruction of these places of power then means the death of the individual spirit itself.

On one of my travels, I met an old man who was still shaken by the removal of a huge boulder near his home to make way for a modern road nearly thirty years before my arrival. His family had been on their land for several generations and recalled to mind many of their folktales about the spirits or Little People who had their villages inside the rock itself. It was common knowledge to the local community that disrespecting the rock would bring a curse not only upon the individual themselves, but also their family. This spiritual affliction would manifest as strange illnesses without any physical cure, and it was said the only remedy was apologizing to the Little People and making amends with certain food offerings. In a particularly sad part of our conversation, the old man said when the road crew removed and destroyed the boulder it sent a shockwave through his family. They themselves didn’t see any curses from the removal but he reckoned anyone who was a part of the work had. I asked him what he thought might have happened to the villages displaced by the act and he just shook his head saying, “When something like that happens, they’re [Little People] killed off…they can’t survive outside their homes.” In his words, this act was akin to genocide. It was almost as if members of his own family had been taken away to a very uncertain future.

This was by no means an isolated story and I’ve encountered many people, old timers and young folk alike across the Ozarks with similar tales of cutting down old growth forests, plugging up springs, and more. One woman I met said her family protected an old patch of ginseng near their family home for many generations. “Probably the last one around these parts,” she told me. Because the patch wasn’t on their land, they were unable to protect it from eventual clearing for new construction as the local town expanded. She still cursed the name of the developer, although he’d been dead for years. According to her, the ginseng had put a curse on his family for their disrespect. She said shortly after the houses were built, they had trouble with fires and power outages limited only to that spot. In addition, she said the developer’s family all became “sickly,” and eventually moved away from the area. Whether this tale was true or not, I don’t know, but there were others in the area with similar anecdotes about the situation.

When viewed in these terms, protecting the local environment takes on a very different life from simple ecology. The land is protected not just because of the vital food, water, and medicine it might provide, but because the spirits of the land become members of the family or clan itself. The same respect is shown to these invisible members of the community as it is to the living. Just like a person wouldn’t bulldozer over someone’s house, rip out a home garden, or poison a well, the land spirits are respected and left to their own lives and communities. Maintaining this equilibrium with the natural world then recognizes the vital importance the land has to offer to all those living there.

This belief has been such an important part of the Ozark worldview not just here on colonized land, but it stretches back to our ancient ancestors who didn’t see themselves as being separate or above the natural world but as just another link in the chain. The spirits of the land are important because they’re seen as being individual entities with their own stories, wisdom, and magic to offer. Just like when we lose our own tales, remedies, and other traditional knowledge with the passing of the older generations, never to regain them again, how much have we lost from ignoring the spirits of the land? How many grandpas and grandmas have been lost to us by being thrown into the gears of materialism and so-called progress?

For many people today, this animistic worldview is foreign to our modern mindset. Protecting the environment is left to those struggling in the Amazon rainforests, or those fighting for their rights to clean sources of water. We somehow see ourselves as too forgone, perhaps, or wholly apart from the problem. And meanwhile, our mountains are being leveled for new cookie-cutter housing subdivisions, forests uprooted to make straighter roads, and native prairies dug up and replaced with invasive ornamental plants not suited to our climate and local wildlife. Working towards healing this equilibrium starts with you and your home. Here are some other ways you can help protect the land.

Instead of planting invasive ornamentals like privet, bush honeysuckle, nandina, or bamboo, consult local nurseries that specialize in native alternatives. In many cases, native varieties of plants have much more to offer. They are usually better suited to our climate, require less water, and provide a plentiful source of food for both pollinators and birds. They also add to the seedbank of the land. Seeds travel across large stretches of land by air or are carried by local wildlife. Planting with natives ensures the spread of these important species that are too often shaded out and killed by invasive varieties. You can even help out if you’re living in an apartment with little access to the land. Several friends of mine living in apartments have started planting native flowers in pots on their balconies to attract local pollinators. Many of these wildflowers are also edible and used in traditional Ozark medicines.

Reconsider removing large trees on your property and instead try and maintain them by trimming properly.

Spay and neuter your outdoor cats and participate in local programs to catch and release feral cats. Along with deforestation, outdoor cats are the number one source of native songbird loss here in the Ozarks.

Consider volunteering with groups who help to return natural areas to a more sustainable system. There are several here in Northwest Arkansas who go out to the local trails at certain times of the year and pull out invasive plant species that are killing out the native varieties. If you don’t have a group around you, consider starting one! Consult your local extension office for guides to invasive plants affecting the area.

Protect springs and other natural water sources by volunteering to clean up trash around the area. If you’re unsure of how to clean and maintain natural springs on your own property, contact your local extension office.

Honor the spirits of old trees, springs, and mountains with traditional Ozark offerings of loose tobacco, cornmeal, beans, milk, and water.

Many of these suggestions are doable not only for people who own land but even for those living in apartments or on small lots. Whether you’re someone interested in animism as a worldview, an environmental protection advocate, or even someone who doesn’t really like going outside, it’s important to reconsider your own relationship to the land and help out where you feel comfortable. Extreme actions like chaining yourself to an old growth tree about to be removed aren’t required for caring about the natural world around you.

[dragonofelder]

Eri in the past - Story Idea

My take on all of those fics where people get their minds tossed into their past selves. This time, it's Eri's turn

This verse got past most of the bad stuff fairly well, but in the war against the PLF (for the sake of plot) a bunch of people did die, including All-Might, a couple of UA students, Mirio, and Aizawa.

Who had briefly been Eri's adopted father, along with Mic (EraserMic Plus Ultra)

So Eri's lost people, and has been through some crap. Although she didn't directly fight in the war, she had been a target due to her powerful quirk

That's all over and done with though.

Eri gets raised by Mic, with help from Shinso (also adopted), Izuku and everyone else

She's smart, confident, skilled yada yada. Got good control of her quirk as well

Unfortunately, while interning with Deku, she runs into - something

Honestly it doesn't matter what. She could accidentally be injected with Trigger, go up against a villain who messes with other quirks,

Point is her quirk goes nuts, and throws her back through time

Right back to when she was being held captive by the Shie Hassaikai

Aaaand mental breakdown

For like a week

Before she starts to get back into gear, and works on getting out, soon as possible please.

While she has the disadvantage of being tiny again, her understanding of her quirk still applies, and she is pretty crafty, due to Izuku’s influence and teaching

She is also adorable and innocent, and knows how to use it. (Shinso's influence and teaching)

Step one is pretending she’s accepted Overhaul’s ideas, apparently buying into the whole 'quirks are evil' thing, and becoming more cooperative and supportive

Although she does troll him a bit

Big wide innocent eyes - “If quirks are bad, why don’t you get rid of yours?”

Using what freedom she can get, Eri works out where she is in the timeline, a couple months away from Izuku first going to UA

She reckons getting to UA will be the best thing, as from there she can help guide the timeline

And can see her dads and brothers again

Actually getting away from the Shie Hassaikai would be problem on her own, so she simply decides to move up the time frame on the raid that took them down

She gathers a bunch of evidence about the yakuza from their own servers and such, and sends it to Nighteye’s Agency

If she makes them seem worse than they are, goes on a bit about their capabilities, and includes what she remembers from the first timeline’s raid while saying it’s their defence strategy?

Well Nighteye is basically her spiritual uncle through Mirio, and she actually wants to know him this time, so no dying please

(Maybe more top heroes, including All Might, get involved in the raid, with how bad Eri has made them seem)

Using her knowledge of how Pro Hero’s operate, and maybe through some the intel she gives, she works out the date they are most likely to attack on

This allows her to do some sabotage before hand, like destroying the Shie Hassaikai’s Trigger stockpile and weaponry

When the raid happens, she lets Overhaul try to escape with her. Why?

1, if Mimic has Trigger, trying to avoid him will be impossible

2, the Pro's already know the escape route

And what do you know, who is one of the Pros that ambush Overhaul? Eraserhead

"Now," thinks Eri, "what's the best way to get his attention, and convince him he'll need to keep an eye on me, to the point he'll adopt me again? Oh wait."

So poor innocent Eri has a 'panic attack' during the combat, her quirk goes out of control, and Eraserhead has to nullify her, before getting her out. 

Bit manipulative, but hey, it works.

Aizawa and Hizashi adopt her, no one dies or loses their quirk, all the trouble the Shie Hassaikai and the Anti-Quirk drugs would cause is avoided, and because he never made deals with the League, Overhaul gets to keep his arms!

Everyone is happy and everything is good!

(Meanwhile, Aizawa is suspicious. And he's not the only one)

(First there is the unknown mole within Shie Hassaikai, who managed to give a lot of classified and high level information to the Hero Agency that was secretly investigating the yakuza. Despite interrogating the likely suspects, no one has stepped forwards.)

(From what the Pros can work out, the mole even knew the date of the raid, and did some sabotage beforehand, making their job easier.)

(That defence strategy? Apparently not an official thing, and partially made up on the fly, and yet was pretty perfectly predicted)

(Also there are lots of questions about Eri. Apparently she had a surprising personality shift a while ago, going from meek and scared to more confident, more willing to follow Overhaul's goals. Now she's gone back to meekness, but he's certain it's an act.)

(She's also pretty fixated on Aizawa, more than be expected considering, yanno, he saved her. Before he appeared in the Overhaul fight, she seemed pretty calm, but she was trying to escape. She only had a panic attack once she saw Eraserhead, the person who could stop her quirk. Then she went quietly with him.)

(She also seems pretty keen about him adopting her, which, given her isolated and troubled upbringing, doesn't make sense.)

(These points and more make him convinced there is something Eri is no ordinary little girl, so adopting her is definitely the best way to keep an eye on her.)

(Also she is pretty adorable, and Mic loves her the first time they meet, as do the cats. The cats are smart, they'd know if someone was evil.)

All is fine!

So this was just the start of my idea, if people want more I will provide. It can either be the continuation of this story, or information about the PLF war, if anyone is interested. Although I do have sad things about it, including how various people died, I have funny stuff as well. Like that Nedzu technically ruled Japan for a week. Any thoughts about my ideas are welcome.

[hezuart]

Evan Magne add. Info

Hey ya’ll! @blueraggdollcat asked me for more info on Evan and his relationships with others, so I thought I’d post my answers publicly for those who are interested!

~

Vaggie acts like a second sister / borderline mother to him at times. They're very fond of each other, Evan is glad Charlie found someone that makes her happy, unlike her ex boyfriend Seviathan

Evan used to get really dirty and laugh at Niffty's ferocious cleaning as a child, but as he aged he began to clean up after himself and make sure he's well dressed and making as less of a mess as possible which gives Niffty so much relief. Niffty also finds him really cute, totally got the face of a boyband mascot. He’s flattered, but won’t be joining a band any time soon lol. (Niffty also sorta turned him into a clean freak like herself...) 

Husker likes Evan. He used to give him milk and leave him in charge of the bar as a baby. As he aged, Husk now serves him alcohol when he requests it and has utmost trust in him. The two have a lot of friendly conversation on warm evening nights after a long, tiresome day

Angel and Evan are best bros. Evan is sort of gender-fluid when it comes to clothing like his sister. Angel is his opportunity to explore femininity and just have a chaotic teenage life he otherwise wouldn't be allowed to have as the Prince of Hell. The two gossip and Evan attends many of Angel's shows. He always gets free tickets

Evan is fascinated with Sir Pentious' tech. As a baby, he would mess around with all the machines which would drive Pentious nuts. All the egg bois LOVED having Evan around, just cooing at them. Sir Pentious was hinted at having a son, so even though he acts annoyed at Evan at first, he quickly comes to cherish the kid and have very awkward dad-humor or forced bonding time with him. As Evan grows, Sir Pentious feels the hollow place in his heart fill up a little, remembering fatherhood and slowly understanding children / the youth a bit more. Sir Pentious is the awkward uncle to Evan. They like eachother despite the awkwardness. 

Any friend of Angel's is a friend of hers. Cherri Bomb likes Evan, but he can't exactly say the same about her. Her spunky style and need to explode things unnerve him a bit. He gets along with her, but she tests his patience and makes him very upset / nervous, just tossing bombs and exploding things left and right. He’d probably snap, yell himself hoarse at her as she laughs and teases him. He comes home, his hair a mess, his eyes wide with bags under them, and his pristine clothing covered in soot. It's not a happy sight... 

Evan's relationship with "Baxter" would be somewhat similar to Sir Pentious. WHile Evan is fascinated with technology, its not exactly his cup of tea. He likes to hear about it, but he would never actively participate. He sees Baxter as a type of brother to him, one that locks himself away in his room and only comes out if he needs something. They respect eachother's spaces and the two have a silent agreement about it.

Also, I forgot Alastor- Alastor has always been like an Uncle to Evan. He's the reason Evan is always smiling. He learned manipulation tactics and even has a great love for swing music all because of Alastor's influence. Alastor also loves to see him and Charlie. He almost thinks of the two as his own. Because the two are always smiling, they have a silent understanding that... things can be very fake. that there are many insecurities beneath, waiting to crawl their way out of their throats. It's hard work, always having to put up a front and be cruel. So being at the hotel is such a relief to them. Being around eachother... they let their smiles calm a bit. They for once smile genuinely, just being around eachother.

~~

Away from his friends and the Hotel, when it comes to the Overlords, he acts much like his father or mother would. He is cold, calculating, and confident. Even as a baby, he knew better than to act up in front of them. He always needed to keep up appearances for the sake of his family name and reputation.

He'd even threaten some of the Overlords with war if they ever crossed the line, and he damn well means it. Luckily it rarely ever comes to that. Lucifer is proud his son is such a well-composed demon like himself. But Evan doesn't like the favoritism. Lucifer should love Charlie too, but he doesn't, and for that, Evan holds a secret grudge against his father for it.

When it comes to the Helluva Boss characters...

Stolas is someone Evan would be fond of. Stolas is no doubt an evil overlord, but he has a daughter, and can actually be quite sweet to those in his immediate circle. Stolas thinks Evan is the spitting image of his parents and compliments his stature and confidence. He has utmost respect for Evan and surprisingly likes Charlie quite a bit too. "I have a daughter myself, you see. They can be quite a handful, but you can't help but love them all the same." Evan has great respect for Stolas despite his wealth and questionable business practices. Sometimes they bump into eachother during outings or at weird theme parks. They're always happy to exchange "hellos"!

I don't see Evan really meeting or interacting with many of the IMP characters, however..

It's very likely that Evan would bump into Blitzo and Stolas on an outing. Evan isn't exactly clear whether Stolas has a wife or not despite having a daughter, and innocently asks one day "Is this your boyfriend?" To which the two sputter embarrassed and exasperated. Firm denial, teasing confirmation, some bickering later... Evan just watches the two and somehow gets the gist that they'e good friends. Blitzo is quite comical, and his energy comes across as a theater kid, much like his sister. Evan wouldn't interact a whole lot with Blitzo, they'd never be more than acquaintances, but he thinks its cute Stolas can have such a goofy little friend.

Evan wouldn't interact with Loona at all. They'd both just.. sit there, typing away at their phones with boredom. They're both ... for some weird reason... irritated at eachother's presence. But as long as the other keeps their mouth shut and eyes trained on their phone, the cold war between them will remain just that: cold. (Evan might be a little more of a cat person than a dog person....) 

Evan would think Millie is a sweet little thing. Quite surprised she could be such a murder machine. He would compliment Moxxie's music, thinking their relationship is shockingly the most healthy in all of hell. I don't think they'd have much interaction beyond that.

Annndddd something else about Evan: a good portion of his personality is on lockdown. He acts all smiley, friendly, chivalrous, and dainty. Always striving for perfection in both his posture and personality. Of course, when in front of powerful demons he also has to act like a force to be reckoned with. While he does get his escape with the staff at the hotel, the pressure of being the prince of hell gets to him. He sometimes gets so exhausted and stressed. He might accidentally lash out at others because of it, especially his sister, who he is the most comfortable letting his guard down. The two rarely, but sometimes curl up, just holding one another as they cry.

Evan's relationship with his sister may seem perfect, but they do bicker sometimes. They do disagree sometimes. Evan doesn't always like his sister's childish attitude in certain situations, and Charlie doesn't like Evan's mightier-than-thou attitude either. But they are still very good to eachother. Its sorta just.. them against the world. They were born in hell. Evan has accepted the fact that he's a demon, but he knows his sister is different. He knows she doesn't belong here. That makes him sad. It shows his bad side a little. He almost wants to force Charlie to stay, stay in Hell with him. So she can't leave.... leave him there alone. Go somewhere else... somewhere better. It's a struggle. He feels slight guilt over it, but his obsession only drives forth his determination more. He wouldn't sabotage the hotel, but he would be damned if he ever let Charlie leave. I doubt Charlie would want to leave him, but Evan knows there are nights that Charlie wants to abandon it all from the stress. He knows she's the one who actually wants to go to heaven. It's the place she deserves to be. But ...

"Oh sister mine... please allow me a little selfishness. You don't belong here, I know. But I can't ever .... bare to let you leave.... "