#why am I cursed with being so verbose?

[tlburrell]

Train Station

It was hot, night had come and swallowed the city into darkness, but the air still clung to the heat of the day. I could feel the sweat pooling along my spine to drip down my back. Standing on the platform all I could do was wait for the sweet relief the AC air on the train would provide. I was fiddling with my phone when I became aware of someone watching me. It was late and as I discreetly glanced around the platform I only noticed a few people. An old woman who sat on a bench a few feet away from me and a trio of college frat boys who drunkenly swayed to my right. None of them were looking at me. I tried to ignore the feeling, figuring I was just being paranoid after a stressful day at work. But the sensation only grew stronger. Suddenly I became aware of a metallic clicking noise. Glancing around again my eyes found the old woman, truly taking her in for the first time. She was wearing a heavy jacket, thick scarf and woolen cap. Alarm bells rang in my head. It was nearly a hundred degrees out. What was she doing wearing such heavy clothing? A flash of light drew my attention to her hands. Long silver needles wove their way through blood red yarn, clicking as they drew it into its new shape.  I was mesmerized by her needles flashing in the dim light of the platform. Like a moth drawn to a flame I couldn’t look away, even though my brain was screaming at me too. The screech of train brakes finally snapped me out of whatever spell I had been under. I rushed forward, nearly taking out the frat boys in my panic to get away from the old woman. As the train pulled away from the platform I risked a look back. The old woman was still sitting on the bench but she had paused her knitting. She was looking straight at me with a gruesome smile upon her face. When she noticed my attention she held up her work with a manic twist to her smile. Pulling scissors from her jacket pocket she snipped the yarn dripping from her silver needles. And my world went black.

I wrote this piece for Too Many Spirits a @wearewatcher program that I thoroughly enjoy. Unfortunately it was to long for their submission que, but I wanted to share it with y'all so here it is.

[enakane]

Hi, I figured you'd have an interesting take on this, as the #1 The Emporer fucker (affectionate) on my dash. I've always seen Ansur's attempted murder of the Emp being less "you're a horrifying monster who I must kill before you turn on us, even if it kills me to do so" and more "the man I knew would never want to live as a mindflayer, the man I knew would be horrified at what he's become, the man I knew would rather die" but he didnt consider that the man he knew was dead the moment he turned into a mindflayer, as it's (I think) canon that mindflayers feel and think differently than other races, so the 'man he knew' had been fundamentally changed in such a way as to become unrecognizable in his thought process, and thus, would no longer agree with his past-self. So while I don't think what Ansur did was right, I don't think he's the out-and-out villian some people paint him as, just someone so blinded by grief and fear and sadness, that he doesnt realize how changed Emp was. And then when you show up, the Emp at your back and an elder brain on the rise, I think Ansur is blinded by rage, and grief, and betrayal. He thinks all his worst fears about Emp have come true, and that you're, at best, a pawn in Emp's game, and at worst, a thrall, so that's why he attacks. Havent played that section in a while, so I might be talking out of my ass, but that's my take based on what I remember. Thoughts? (Sorry this is so long, I am a Verbose Bitch.)

(brb gonna get "#1 Emperor fucker" tattooed somewhere on me, truly an honor)

I totally agree that Ansur's intentions were first and foremost to enact what he thought would be Balduran's wishes! As far as he knew, he was dealing with an illithid puppeteering Balduran's body, and after failing to bring him back to the way he was (if I remember well, Ansur tried for some time to restore Balduran to his former self but failed), killing him was equivalent to putting down a zombie.

Mind flayers indeed canonically think differently from other races, plus (depending on the source), the host's mind either mostly or completely disappears once ceremorphosis is complete. There was a high chance he was dealing with a master manipulator that only pretended to remember who it used to be to be set free. Ansur was hardly evil for wanting to end Balduran's cursed existence/kill the thing pretending to be him, and Emp was hardly evil for choosing to live.

(If I start talking about how the Emperor wanting to live despite everything ties in perfectly with the game's theme of choosing to live in spite of irreversible changes + the I Want to Live song, I may never shut up, HE'S JUST LIKE US FR-)

Ansur remains as a ghost due to his unfinished business, so when he feels Emp near and speaks to you and him... The situation hasn't really changed for Ansur. Either Balduran is still an illithid or there's still an illithid pretending to be Balduran, and like you said, the chances that you're either a thrall or being manipulated are very high, so why wouldn't he try to finish the job and consider you an unfortunate collateral damage? There's no more evidence that Balduran is actually in control than there was the first time. Plus, I'd never considered that Ansur might feel the Elder Brain nearby and assume Emp is responsible; that would indeed make him feel betrayed and more willing to attack.

I definitely understand why people aren't too keen on the idea of trusting the Emperor bc mind flayers have a Reputation(tm), but how people came to hate Ansur is kind of weird imo? He's not a villain at all, his decision to kill Emp was a desperate last resort, a way to free Balduran from his torment and save the many people who were gonna get their brains eaten if he got out. I know some people dislike that he possesses Tav, but I played that scene before reading about it and it never bothered me, I mean... he's a ghost. If I'd played through bg3 without getting possessed at least once I'd be lowkey disappointed.

Thanks for giving me an excuse to ramble about my bg3 fave, I hope I'm coherent lol

[catboygirljoker]

*crashes through the ceiling* Hi, hello! 💜 I saw you have a KH OC and I love listening about people's OCs, so I have questions:

How did Lamia fall in love with Xigbar? How do their relationship look like? Do they live together and have any domestic life? What does Xigbar think of Lamia?

!!!!!!!!! ourghghghh thank you!! :o) !!!!!!!!!!!!!

i am in the process of writing a novel-length fanfiction that answers all of these questions tee hee. i am clinging on to bitter hope that i will actually be able to write and finish it because i just. really love lamia and xigbar and i really love their relationship in my brain. like im way too verbose to pitch "xiglam" in a way that feels satisfying to me so i have to just write a 100k+ fic and gesture at that and say THAT. THEM. THEY

(though my lamiaposting tag has some art by me and my lovely partner that illustrates at least some of why i love them. smile.)

also oops i hyperfocused and made a xiglam moodboard (featuring art from my partner, depicting them multiple years into their mutual loving relationship). i just. smiling at them and kicking my feet.

long long answer under the cut tee hee

broadly they fall in love because they are both fucked up in ways that happen to mesh together really well. lamia is depressed, self-destructive, prickly, and isolated, and though he has friends who love him dearly (and who he loves dearly!) they try to get him to take care of himself by being like "you have people who care about you" "youre a person and that means you deserve to be happy" etc. and that just. doesnt compute for lamia. he has a million reasons why none of that works for him.

then along comes some fuckin weird old guy in a black coat, a pragmatic and cynical asshole who just laughs at lamia and goes "if you dont get some sleep or eat something soon youre going to straight up die. then what'll you do. idiot" and it works. it shortcuts all of the usual walls they have up against any well-meaning advice and enables them to actually take care of themself in basic ways.

on the flip side, lamia is the first person in a very long time who has sincerely surprised xigbar. xigbar believes that the universe is inherently cruel, indifferent, miserable, painful. and that friendship, hope, altruism, goodness, kindness, all of that, is a result of people either not understanding the true nature of the universe or willfully ignoring it. he clocks lamia immediately as someone who understands firsthand how miserable and painful the universe can be and that their self-destructiveness is a result of that trauma. and he thinks he understands them completely because of that.

however. despite the Horrors, despite being the Bearer of a Curse, despite his Tragic Backstory, despite despite despite—lamia still believes that there is goodness in the world worth fighting for. he may be in many ways pragmatic and cynical like xigbar is, but he also believes fundamentally in friendship. hope. altruism. all of it. that (and a few other Lore things) are deeply intriguing to xigbar.

it also really helps that lamia's into dilfs and xigbar's into blond twinks. and that lamia's pissy argumentative streak (a paper-thin veil for his genuine affection for the old man) is fun and endearing to xigbar. they complement each other in Themes ways but they also just have a dynamic i really like thinking about. :3

they wouldnt have an opportunity to even consider living together or having a domestic life until both of their personal arcs are resolved (they both have to Deal with their Pasts and having been abused/abandoned/neglected by their guardians). "post-canon" i imagine xigbar isnt really capable of settling down and having a "normal life." he lives with lamia but hes frequently gone without warning, wandered off somewhere, like a stray cat you can get to eat on your porch but can never get to come inside.

but theyre happy. they Heal. xigbar eventually moves into a replica once his current body starts failing on him. lamia gains a bunch of weight (positive) and goes on T. they get a cat or something. but they never get married (lamia doesnt see the point) and never have kids (these two should NOT be parents it would be a catastrophe)

[di-daynamic]

@hinnymicrofic Day 25: Letter

Lady Ginevra Weasley would absolutely say that the so-called Lady Whistledown’s letters to the newspapers were the highlights of the week.

Of course, being part of the ton meant she had a grand total of nothing to do except entertain suitors and gossip, which meant the letters didn’t have much competition.

Or any. Because there was only one suitor she was really interested in, and he, on account of being best friends with her brother Ron, was reluctant to publicly court her or make promises.

Still. Lord Harry Potter was an honourable man. He wouldn’t act as he did with her, wouldn’t look at her the way he did, if he didn’t have any intentions to marry her.

She smiled a delightfully secret smile as she twirled one of the flowers he’d given her the last time they’d met. His friend Lord Neville Longbottom, who dabbled in botany, had made up the bouquet, he’d admitted. But he’d laughed and refused to explain the meaning of the flowers saying she ought to find out on her own.

He’d blushed and not met her eyes, so she’d spent the rest of the short meeting teasing him.

She wished they could court in the open, but she understood Harry’s reluctance to upset Ron. Ever since his father had died and he’d had to leave the Crown’s army and take on the mantle of Viscount, he’d become more serious. He smiled deeper and far less often. He held tight to his relationships: his godfather, the Duke of Blackmoor Lord Sirius Black, her family, Lord Neville Longbottom, Mister Seamus Finnigan, Lady Luna Lovegood, and Sir Cedric Diggory.

Still. She couldn’t help hoping that maybe someday. . . He had to, right?

“Ginny,” Fred – or was it George? – leaned in through the door. “I’d stay out of Mum’s way. She’s in a right state after the latest Whistledown.” He frowned as he caught sight of what she was doing. “Is that a honeysuckle? Who gave you that? Did someone propose?”

Generous and devoted affection. That was what honeysuckle meant.

There were far more daring flowers in the bouquet, but the meaning of this was as beautiful as the flower itself, which was why Ginny didn’t want to leave it anywhere. She hurriedly let it drop now though. Harry would never forgive her if she let on to their. . . She wasn’t sure what to call it.

“Of course nobody proposed,” she rolled her eyes. “I’d have to tell you lot and hear Percy’s very verbose lectures on how to choose a spouse and financial matters then.”

Ever since her brother had gotten engaged to Audrey he’d been absolutely unbearable.

“That’s fair,” he agreed. “Though I am curious to know how you would prevent somebody proposing to stop the ramifications from happening.”

Ginny got up and thanked God that her receiving time was done because her mother would no doubt shriek about the creases in her dress from the way she was sitting. “Why, act like a total shrew, of course.”

“Lady Ginevra Weasley,” her brother mocked.

“Don’t call me that,” Ginny chided.

“Where on earth did you learn such language?” He finished. “Still, it’s good to know at least one member of the family won’t spring a surprise engagement on us.”

“Percy was just one, you know—” she laughed, but he cut her off.

“Not Percy. Another. Go take a look at Whistledown, and you’ll learn why Mum’s going crazy. She’s badgering Ron for details right now.”

“Ron’s engaged?!” She exclaimed, delighted and heartbroken and scandalized all at once. “I thought he was head-over-heels for Miss Hermione!”

Miss Hermione was Victoire and Dominique and Harry’s godson Teddy’s governess. She was amazing and below them in class and still utterly out of Ron’s league.

Fred’s laugh was the only response as he left. Cursing her brother under her breath (she could just imagine her mother’s admonition), she picked up her skirts and followed the noises of shrieking.

Mum was fanning herself, besieging Ron – who was red in face – with questions. “Has he ever mentioned this girl to you? When did he propose? How long have they been courting? Why the sudden—”

“Who’s engaged?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, Ginny!” Her mum screamed. “He didn’t even tell us anything! Why didn’t he?”

Impatiently, she took out the held out newspaper.

Dearest gentle reader, started Lady Whistledown’s letter.

Under it was a photo of Harry and a lovely black-haired girl with Asian features.

She was wearing Lily Evans Potter’s engagement ring – something which Harry had once told her he would only give to someone he loved as much as his parents had loved one another. He’d been looking at her as he said it.

Viscount Harry Potter, Heir to the Duke of Blackmoor Proposes to Lady Cho Chang! Screamed the headline.

And Ginny’s heart shattered.

[broodwoof]

oc asks for dimitra: fear, lesson, gift, wish <3

hehehehe i see you sending me many oc asks <3 <3 <3 these are so fun, such good choices! also i am verbose as ever 😂

asks from here

Dimitra:

FEAR: What was the first thing your OC was afraid of? Why were they afraid of it? Are they still afraid now, or have they grown past it?

Mages, no contest. They were the bogeyman in the Chantry, where she was raised. They invaded the Golden City and destroyed it; they unleashed the darkspawn upon Thedas, by becoming darkspawn themselves; and they were always at risk of becoming an abomination. When the children shared scary stories late at night in the dormitories, mages were the common thread. An apostate hiding in plain sight, who one day lost control and became an abomination; a healer who used just a touch of magic on everyone she healed, who had gained their trust, and who one day turned all those she'd helped into her own army, mindless and unable to resist the magic she'd put in them. Mages in the Qun who were so powerful and frightening their own people sewed their mouths shut—usually followed by brash condemnations about the Qun foolishly keeping mages as pets instead of locking them away. Or killing them, someone might chime in, everyone laughing. Mages and magic were the stuff of nightmares.

As she got older those fears became more subdued and realistic, especially as she began her templar training. As much as the Chantry and the Order wanted their templars to loathe and fear mages, they also needed to be sure they could recognize the true threat of magic, the capability and control some demonstrated over it. An abomination was a horrible threat… but a mage who used magic extensively and did not become an abomination was a different kind of dangerous entirely. They needed to be prepared for both.

Thus, when her own magic manifested, she was terrified. She was corrupt, wrong… but she was also young and scared. She didn't want this, but she had no choice in it. And being sent to the Circle was even worse, for as scared as she was of herself, she was even more frightened by the mages in the tower. The young ones who were still learning and those who taught, all of them full of terrifying potential. 

It took years of exposure for that fear to begin to subside, but it's still an underlying dissonance within her. She feels split in two: the clarifying blade and the cursed staff. Now with the Circle fallen, she is forced to confront herself as she is, relying on her own strength of will to deter demons. In many ways, it's her ultimate fear realized, even more than being a mage had been—she is now a mage on the loose. As much as she'd loathed being under the supervision of the templars, as disturbing as that experience had been, she feels far more dangerous alone.

LESSON: What was the first important life lesson your OC learned? How did they learn it? Was it a kind lesson or a difficult one? Do they still remember it now, or has their worldview changed?

Hmm. Her first important lesson—but not her most important lesson—was that magic was dangerous. It was drilled into her and her peers right from the beginning, made into something that couldn't be questioned, as foolish as questioning whether water was wet. It was simple truth to them, and something she still believes. She no longer finds it to be such an uncontrolled force, her studies in the Circle having taught her otherwise, but she does still treat it with great caution. It is dangerous, and she's careful to only use spells she's already learned, to not drain herself, to never use blood magic, and to rely far more on her strength of arms than her magical skill.

GIFT: What was the first important gift your OC remembers receiving? Who was it from, and what was the occasion? Do they still have it?

Interesting… she doesn't know her family, but assumed they were either killed or gave her up to the Chantry because they could not afford to raise her (although after her magic manifests, she occasionally wonders if her parents had any magic and if that was an aspect of what happened to them or why they gave her up), so she has no gifts or mementos from them. And I don't think the Chantry would encourage their wards to have a lot of personal possessions, nor would the Circle.

I think the first would be from a young man who was also a ward of the Chantry and had a crush on her, bringing her flowers. She would have no idea what to do with any of that—the crush, the gift, or the flowers. But she liked the way they smelled and felt flattered by the attention, even if she didn't reciprocate his feelings.

However, she considers her first draught of lyrium to be the most important gift. The Order had accepted her. She still needed to complete practically all of her training, but that first draught made her feel like she was part of the Order, like her future was coming into focus, her childhood dreams being realized. It was the day that she put her youth behind her as best as she could and committed to the path.

WISH: What's the first thing your OC ever wished for or wanted? Do they still want that, or have their desires changed? If so, what changed them? If not, how far would they go to fulfill their wish?

When she was young, she was pretty content. She wanted to know about her family but it never felt pressing—there were so many orphans and children whose parents couldn't take care of them, and children like her, who didn't know. So she never felt like her experience was unusual and didn't have a lot of context for what family would mean. She felt cared for by the Chantry and those within it, and although there were inevitable tensions, she mostly got along well with her peers. She spent most of her youth within the Chantry walls, including attached buildings that held dormitories, kitchens, and other, more utilitarian areas.

However, the older she gets the more curious she is about her family. Her experience with her own magic led to guilt, self-disgust, and also a deep resentment of the Chantry, the Order, and her childhood guardians and peers. She tries to ignore that resentment because it makes her feel even guiltier, but it remains. She's also angry at her family, questioning whether she could have suffered less with them, and whether they were also mages who knew what kind of life they'd be giving their daughter to. However, she has done nothing to fulfill this desire. For now her feelings about it are too complex and there are too many things going on that demand her immediate attention. She may never pursue it, but ever since she'd gone to the Circle she's wanted these answers.

[mathmusicreading]

Blog(ger) Shift

I am, so weird and bad about original posting and about reblogging and about saving things on Tumblr and that's why my blog has been mostly inactive or the lurking consumer type. But I don't want my fears about putting myself out there, being seen and known, articulating myself well vs. having been told my whole life I'm too wordy and opinionated vs. not managing to articulate myself well enough to justify being verbose and passionate, etc. to continue to control me so much.

So for my new specific-interest sideblog that I'm not locking, I hope it being themed will help me with making more original posts and reblogging, and I'm publicizing that here to push myself and also welcome interaction.

RIP to my other public specific-interest sideblog and the fandom sideblog I took over for someone that I didn't take further and to my private sideblogs that were meant to make me reblog and save and say stuff because they would be personal and just for me. I still would like to make those happen and reblogging and posting things that matter to me here, and oh my heart for the content ideas I haven't been working on, but they're pipedreams with how I'm (not) managing my life and I keep kicking those cans down the road.

To the person who I developed a real relationship with as a beta but who by now I probably count as having disappeared on with how long it's been and my not coming back to explicitly say I still can't help and don't know when I can, I am so sorry. I'm being a coward languishing in hoping I can tell you soon that I can get back into beta-ing for you and talking, but that's turned into me not talking to you because I'm waiting to be able to say something positive. Hopefully my vaguing here can help push me into talking to you, or at least this is here for you to read if you happen to see it; and I want you to know you absolutely can talk to me, can call me out, and if you're so gracious as to still want to be friends with me and just chat despite my dropping being your beta, I'm here for you and still want to be your friend even if I don't know if I'll have the spoons to be a good one and I know my saying that preemptively isn't apology or justification enough.

Honest assessment, I'm going to curse and say my living situation and work have both become even more of a shitshow, and with those things in mind I can't begin to imagine handling a real project until basically literally a year from now.

Which segues back into the main topic of this post. My goal isn't to have my new sideblog be like an active mainblog nor to abandon this blog—people interested in that blog can and should still interact with me here given how primary vs. secondary blogs on Tumblr work, and in terms of using that blog to help make me be a better Tumblr user, I think I should make certain original posts here and reblog them there as opposed to them being original there. With my mental-emotional and time resources, I want that blog to be "active" for a given definition of active, but really I think I should see my objective as "clear out tabs and likes and photos and lists and notes and drafts, etc. from the last four months" by saving stuff there, as opposed to my goal being the original posts I want to make there, and actually my long-term goal should be to use that momentum to do the same for older digital and physical storage that hasn't been lost or stolen. In my failure to be an interesting person, do I at least manage to be fascinating as a basket-case? Ha. But, also, as expressed above the Read More, the exercise of my danmei/Chinese sideblog is supposed to be a foray into me allowing myself to be an interesting person.

[nfumbewalk]

Well, I Never!

My Sour Jars are back at my store for $5. Tell me what you need and I'll work my jar for you!

Well guess what...I lost a follower. I only notice because I don't have many yet. I know who it was & probably why. Lolz! The remark made by my muerto, Rodolfo, about his opinion on the term "Latinx." It's not my opinion! I don't give a fuck. Rodolfo just basically said it was "fuckin dope" as in stupid. He prefers Hispanic, Latino or even Mexican. His favorite freaking colors are of the Mexico flag! Haha. I said he is old school but forgot to mention he was also military - Army. That makes a man very different, in my experience.

My husband, Tom, was an Army paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne. Yeah - not a leg. Makes a man an entirely different breed. I'm not dismissing women, but I only speak of what I know. I've had close guy friends who went to the first Iraq war. It's something you just don't ask about. Anyway...why are "dark" dudes such pussies? Jesus, that's all I've encountered. Dated ONE & he was 12 years older than me. Such a whiny little bitch, and he was military too! Well, he was Navy - if that counts. Lol! Joking! Just funning. Guess he left his balls on a ship in Spain. Roflmao! 😂 Sorry, there's tons of joking between branches of the military. It's great.

Am I always this way? Yep, get used to it or move on. Not many people like me or accept me because I *upset* them. Waa! Lol. Actually, I'm very demure and polite in real time situations. I just let all my demons out online. I ended up like most women in my family - no lady friends but I sure love dudes! They love me too. I love cars, especially old ones & I can talk about them. I like guy stuff. I grew up around lots of men & cars. Heh. I'm just an Oregon bumpkin. Not! Unfortunately, my hometown is PDX. Ugh!! Portland is a shit hole & even though my dad died last year, I'm so glad he doesn't live in that horrible place anymore. His ashes are here in Eugene with me.

Anyway, so some dark vampire/werewolf stopped following me. I'm just posting this in case he (I can't remember his pronouns!) comes back. 😅 Am I evil? Yes I am...so the old Metallica song goes...\m/ If ppl don't like my writings here, lemme know and I'll cease & go back to WordPress. My ppl there really love me warts & all. And my audience is older, like me. I'm very middle aged. I do have lots of things to share if you can stand my vernacular, writing style and sarcasm laced words. And obscenities.

I am good at not swearing though - I never, ever said a curse word around either one of my parents. Not once. I respected them. My mom was very hard. My dad was my world. Oh goddamn it! I don't have my Jet bracelet - it broke and my new one is in the mail! I wear Jet for grieving. It helps me not cry about my dad. It works well. Wear Jet if someone close to you passes away. The Victorians were correct! Not French Jet though!! That's nothing but black glass. I'll show you all my 104 year old French Jet necklace. I use it for channeling. Works great for being glass. Don't be fooled on Etsy with high prices unless it's old like mine.

Sorry, I'm all over the place, verbose and sped. Had a weird conversation with Yemanja earlier...don't know what to think. These changes swirling around are making me a little confused. I'm too old for this shit. Makes me just want to do nothing but my Muerteria. Use my cauldrons as vessels, perhaps. Not like Palo though, but kind of...I have been thinking, well, I need religion/spirituality, right? Now, I have no fuckin clue. Nada. Dunno. Roger that, Dahmer. 💀 I have always thought, need a god/ess, demon, etc. Maybe I don't. I really love my mother's though. 💖 They aren't a religion. Just stay away from the ATR folks. Lol. See, confused. We shall see & very soon. My dedication to Yemanja is five days away. A lot can change...I'll be doing divination, looking for signs & omens - anything. If anything breaks, burns, disappears, floats in mid-air - I'll be watching extra close! I'm freakin now!

Gotta run! 💖💀💖

[leggerefiore]

hi ! i like the way you write the submas twins !! the way emmet texts in your recent work was super cute ehe ^^

could i request the twins (separate) with an s/o who picks up their vocal quirks, or sometimes repeats them ? ex. s/o picks up emmets habit of saying "verrrrry"

cursed because i've almost started doing that (i am using very more and i hate it)

▲Ingo▼

● You're less likely to pick up his speaking quirks, but rather start being as loud as him. He's good at listening, but all the noise from the Battle Subway and station in general have made him slightly deaf. He also lacks volume control unless he's actively considering his tone. As such, when you speak in a mumble or whisper, he goes “huh?” at least once.

● Eventually it gets to the point where you're as loud as him. It's a public nuisance and people know when you and the Subway Boss are out together. “This a beautiful garden, isn't it, dear?” Ingo says, like he didn't just scare off a flock of Pidoves. “It really is! I love the tulips' colour variety.” You'll respond at his volume level, and another nearby couple is glaring at you both. Neither of you realize it.

● Though, his train-isms have definitely crept into your vernacular. Phrases like, 'That's the ticket', 'That train has left the station', 'Wrong station' and 'Staying on the tracks'. You hate it, but he stares at you so lovingly when they spill out.

● He's quite verbose, so you'll find your vocabulary growing when you speak with him and your overall conversation abilities increase. If you were struggling with that, he's accidentally helping you. Ingo will comment on it and say he's proud of you after realizing it. Your growth as a person is important to him.

● He'll pick up on your mannerisms, too. If you're extremely vulgar, the older twin might find more curses slipping out of him than usual. Ingo is always flustered when he does and profusely apologises whenever it happens.

● If you have your own -isms you use, say for example ship-isms, he will have you unintentionally join in on his train-isms. After scaring some delinquents who were about to graffiti a station wall, they all split up but left the weakest looking member behind. “Like rats abandoning a sink ship…” he comments mostly to himself. The meek delinquent tilts his head and scratches as hand through his shaved hair, “Uhhhh, aren't you that train guy?”

▽Emmet△

○ As soon as an elongated 'very' leaves your mouth, you curse him. Emmet's speaking habit has crept into your language. How long until you start introducing yourself with just 'I am' before your name. Emmet doesn't just hold out the sound in very, he does with other words when he wants to imply emphasis (and distinguish himself from Ingo).

○ Also spreads train-isms to you. You ended up in a shifty part of Nimbasa and the first thing you mumbled to your friend was, “I think we're on the wrong side of the tracks.” Suddenly, your tension was broke, you stomped your foot in frustration. How long did you have before you found yourself announcing 'All Aboard!' when gathering people or pokemon?

○ Contrary to Ingo, he shortens your sentences. If you're a verbose person who speaks in long sentences, you find your sentences curt and to the point. Emmet doesn't even notice and just assumes it's because you're more comfortable with him. He is truly a curse upon your vernacular.

○ Also picks up on your own mannerism, but a bit more noticeably. If you're vulgar, people are uncomfortable with the sudden crudeness that's morphed its way into the younger twin's words. He apologises and genuinely has no idea why it keeps happened. (If he realizes it's you, he'll probably talk to you about it. That, or, work on it himself because Ingo is glaring at him.)

○ It's funnier when Emmet uses your -isms. Let's say you use air related -isms, for example. The Subway Boss goes to meet with Elesa for a musical, and she's brought Skyla along with her. The three are having a wonderful night together when a punk attempts to steal a younger girl's pokemon. Emmet rushes over with Galvantula already out. The guy notices the angry twin, drops the ball and runs away. “Wooooow! That guy took flight,” he comments while rubbing the crying child's back. Skyla snickers at his words, “I'm the pilot here, thank you.”

[rosered2018]

St. Kilda - Determination and Curiosity

Apologies for skipping a week. I've been struggling with writer's block, and I am hoping that this may help me break it. Also, last week's episode felt like setup for what was to come.

So. The past two weeks, we've had more than a few developments.

First of all, we've gotten some information as to why Andromeda is so determined to have Lockie in her life. Her family's curse is killing her, and she thinks he can heal her. More to the point, she thinks Dubrach himself led Lockie to the island to do that.

Which brings us to this week, where we find out that Lockie's con artistry extended to being a bogus faith healer. And not only has his past come back to bite him in the ass, he's been put in the position where he's going to have to prove he can do what he claimed he could.

I do have to agree with Lockie on the subject of the journals. It seems odd that Cormac, who had been fairly verbose on paper, would suddenly clam up at a point, and that he wouldn't say a word in his journals about his little daughter Andromeda. There was some kind of major change in there, and Andromeda was probably too little to notice it or to know what happened. And, for my money, if there were journals missing, they've probably been destroyed.

I noticed that the fallout from that first ritual and the aftermath is still coming. The immediate political fallout has yet to hit, I think, but it's going to cause a lot upheaval when it does.

It's kind of heartbreaking that Angelique wouldn't even sell Wee Mary any cat foot because she decided to side with Mathias. Poor Toast was an absolute innocent in the whole mess and did not deserve that.

And on the subject of our favorite red-haired disaster area, does Mathias actually have any relationships that he hasn't screwed up in some way, shape, or form?

He alienated probably both of the Torrence brothers, and I can't see Wee Mary wanting anything to do with him. And given what happened after the attempted ritual, I can't see him being too popular with the community in general.

Whatever relationship he's got with Andromeda is probably gone after his attempted coup (whether that was what he actually intended or not) and trying to throw Lockie into a bottomless pit.

His relationship with Niyathi is probably shaky at best, considering she's his ex-wife and that they should probably have never gotten together to begin with. He's been carrying a torch for Andromeda since he was kid, and I don't think he was her first choice, either. The fact she's quite definitely moved on from their relationship and is getting involved with Lockie is not going to help things any. At this point, I'd say that the only thing they have in common at this point is Hari.

Hari, of course, is still an adorable little kid, and I know people guessed that Mathias was his father just from the way they interacted in the first episode. I've gotten the impression that Mathias loves him dearly, but has no idea how the hell to relate to him. The only time that child showed any interest in being in his father's presence was when Mathias was going to get him ice cream and then make the phone call that probably brought Preston to the island looking for Lockie.

The backbone, however, I don't think is as literal a thing as Niyathi and Lockie seem to think it is. For my money, it's probably a person, though at this point, I don't know who, and I can't see Andromeda being happy with the idea of them poking around her family crypt while chasing a metaphor.

Personally, I suspect it might be Mathias, but I don't know if that's just because I have a minor crush on Ben Meredith (I like his voice!) or because he's the only other character with the potential for a major story arc. Mathias certainly sees himself as the backbone of the community, even though everyone else seems to see him as a pain in the ass. Plus, I like the idea of Mathias and Lockie becoming reluctant allies and even more reluctant friends while they deal with whatever's coming.

UPDATE: Just went back and realized that I had a paragraph out of order, and went back and fixed it. I have no idea how I managed to miss it the first time. Sorry about that.

[concussed-to-pieces]

To Tell You The Truth Part Six

Fandom: Prospect [2018]

Pairing: Eventual Ezra/Prospector!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN:  Welcome, welcome! This whole chapter is like. Fluff, with a sprinkle of healing. Prime indulgence hours. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @renegademustelid @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @sporadic-fics @rzrcrst @lackofhonor @the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi @fioccodineveautunnale @absurdthirst @cryptkeepersoul @fleetwoodmactshirt @88dragon06 @roxypeanut

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Ezra displayed your battered helmet alongside his own on the mantelpiece above the faux fireplace, the two domes leaned into one another as if engaged in private conversation. 

Most evenings found both of you in the main room of his modest apartment, him pacing back and forth as he recounted various portions of his 'semi-fictitious' memoir that were giving him trouble, while you drew and offered input where you hoped it might be beneficial. 

"My editor, Kevva bless him, dares to insinuate that I am too ponderously wordy for the average book market." Ezra bemoaned one evening, dramatically collapsing into a sprawl of limbs on the couch alongside you. "'Get to the point, Ezra!' As if it is that simple, to just trim the fat off the prize cut of loin without regard for the flavor it provides!" He spat indignantly. 

"You are very…" you searched through all the fanciful words you had picked up from him, finally settling on, "verbose. Almost to a fault. Sometimes I wonder if you're deliberately taking three times as long to say something."

"If I am to be prolific with my speech, I would rather be saying somethin' that people are interested in listenin' to." Ezra retorted, sounding somewhat betrayed over you taking his editor's side. "I've endured countless lectures from individuals with some form of power over me and none of them possessed a modicum of eloquence. Their words were weapons of the bluntest sort: hackneyed and ramshackle and detestable." His voice dipped lower, gravelly and reverent. "I would rather a singular articulate quote to a thousand plain, lifeless, uninventive platitudes. Words are all I've ever had for most of my existence, gentle soul. They are a precious commodity gleaned not from the treacherous climes of some deadly moon, but from the stolen tomes and salvaged papers of civilization long past." 

He rubbed his temples, obviously exasperated. You, on the other hand, were a bit flushed. His rants were always a joy to witness, whether you wanted to admit it or not. There was something about Ezra getting riled up that you found mesmerizing.

"I apologize, gentle soul. You are not here to be my sounding board, and I shall not treat you as such." He said finally, dragging his hands down his face. "I will not subject you to my bouts of tempestuous querulousness."

"Hey, you can talk to me all you want! I just wish I could contribute usefully to your musing, that's all. I'm not nearly as well-spoken, I'd hate to use a word wrong." You replied, grimacing. "Like querulous...querulousness." 

"It means I am peeved. Cantankerous."

"You?" You gasped in mock-surprise. 

He groaned, "I did not realize how astute you were." You spotted the corner of his mouth twitching upwards and you knew you had him, nudging your elbow into his side until he surrendered and gave you a lazy grin. 

"Ezra, what does 'mercado' mean?"

He jerked upright out of his slump at that, looking confused. "Where did you hear that word?" 

"From...you?" You replied uncertainly. "It was while we were still...um, in the tent, I had just finished with your arm and you were looking through my sketchbook." His blank stare prompted you to continue, "you saw a picture I drew of the west dock and you-"

"Oh!" Ezra gasped, his eyes brightening with comprehension. He bounded off the couch, vanishing into his room. You sat there, wholly bewildered, until he reemerged struggling into his coat. He seized your hands, tugging you upright and then kissing your forehead. "You precious, beautiful woman!" He praised. "I am so glad you reminded me of our blood pact, sworn over the battered salvage of my arm on that accursed moon."

"Uh." Precious. Beautiful. "Blood...pact?"

"Hurry up, hurry up, put on your coat!" Ezra demanded. You imagined you could see his blond streak fairly bristling with excitement. "We must go."

"Go?"

"To the mercado!" Again with that gratuitous, flamboyant roll of the 'r'. You were beginning to suspect that he was enjoying himself. 

"What, now?" You asked, allowing yourself to be essentially spun into your long coat. "But it's dark out-"

"All the more reason to rush! If we aren't expedient, they may be closed when we get there!" He grabbed your hand once again. "Kevva waits for no man, gentle soul!"

...

You had never run the length of the Pug's west dock without some incredibly valid, logical reason. So the fact that you were currently running because you were being giddily dragged along by a large man who was far too invested in deep fried food spoke volumes toward the sheer amount of the things that had changed in your life.

"Wait, wait-" You finally had to stop him, your side aching from your haphazard sprint. Ezra halted, appearing confused as you wheezed for air. You clung to his hand a bit tighter than you meant to.

"What's wrong?" He asked worriedly. 

"C-Can't-" you gasped. "Hurts. Gimme' a second."

"I--oh. Oh! Gentle soul, why didn't you voice your discomfort earlier?!" He erupted in a panic. "Sit down, sit, I'll-"

"No no, I'm okay. It's just a stitch." You tried to calm him, but he was having none of it.

"I must insist that you sit down, immediately." He implored, sounding distraught. "If I have caused you harm, if your wound-"

"Hey, I'm okay." You interrupted him firmly. "I'm just a little less...in-shape, you know? Tender still." 

"I feel like a tyrant, I offer my most sincere reparations." 

"Ezra, oh my gods. You're so dramatic." You half-laughed, your breath catching when he kissed your knuckles in contrition. "We can keep going, I just can't run across the entire dock."

"If you are certain, gentle soul?" Ezra asked, gesturing back the way you came and arching his brows. "We can always jettison this fanciful excursion, should you require a reprieve."

You shook your head, tugging on his hand. "Nope, we're already down here. Keep one foot moving. If we get there and they're closed, then I'll need a reprieve. To mourn my loss." 

"Too true!" He agreed, mindfully shortening his strides. "It's not far now. Once we arrive, promise me you'll rest?"

"If you feed me, absolutely." You joked.

"I would love nothin' more than the opportunity to dote upon you, gentle soul."

You laughed for real this time, assuming he was playing along with your jibe. When he didn't join in, you tucked your chin down into the collar of your jacket in embarrassment. "Ezra, you...you take care of me all the time." You pointed out, feeling shy of all things.

"You are my partner." He answered simply. 

Partner. "I...Damon, h-he-" You began to speak, but then choked off at the last second. 

Ezra stopped dead and you closed your eyes, scolding yourself for starting something you knew you wouldn't finish. "Martyr's malfeasance." The brown-haired man cursed softly.

"I'm...I'm sorry," you hurried to apologize. "I don't know why I...just forget I said anything, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin the fun." 

"Every time I hear about him, he strikes me more and more as a man that I should have taken my sweet time disposin' of." Ezra snarled in that furiously cheery tone, his words stoking the tiny fire that you sheltered in your stomach. 

Your grip on his hand tightened after a moment. "He didn't deserve the effort."

"Do not apologize for the shortcomings of others, gentle soul. I reiterate that I am here to listen if you need me. Though I warn you, I may not be able to keep from interruptin'." Ezra's eyes had gone dark with thought, his expression distressingly grim. "I am, at the end of the day, a loquacious fool." He perked up after a moment, pausing in front of a brightly-lit open air market. "Ah, and here we are! It appears that luck is with us, gentle soul, they do not close for another hour. Shall we fulfill our pact?"

The rest of your evening out was spent (intentionally or not, though you had your suspicions) effectively chasing off the shadow that recalling Damon had cast over you. Despite your protests, Ezra did end up feeding you half an order's worth of the delectable little sopaipillas, one by one.

...

When the rainy season hit, storms whipped through Puggart Bench and its wards with all the delicacy of a green prospector getting their hands on their first pull. It wasn't so much of an issue during the day; the sound of Ezra diligently expounding to himself usually muffled the howling winds or pouring rain. Late at night however, you couldn't help but imagine that the rumble of thunder was the pod striking the atmosphere, or that the rattling of the rain on the windowpanes was thrower fire. Your dreams turned frantic and riddled with nightmares. You even tried keeping your bedroom light on at one point to combat it, but it just amplified the shadows and gave your mind more fuel for its inventive fire.

You struggled in solitude for a good few nights, until one evening when you finally couldn't endure any longer. Surely he wouldn't mind, you would be quiet.

You slipped from your bed, bringing your pillow along as you padded down the hall to his room. Just as you reached for the keypad, the door slid open.

Ezra stood in front of you, a thin blanket and one of his pillows underneath his arm. He stared down at you. You stared up at him, your own pillow clutched tightly to your chest. "I..." he coughed awkwardly. "Er, the howling gale outside has...my nerves a bit...frayed. I merely-"

"Oh thank gods, I'm so glad it wasn't just me." You felt like you would burst with relief. "I was coming to ask if I could sleep in your room."

"What a novel coincidence! I was about to throw myself upon your mercies as well." Ezra winced at the thunder that boomed overhead after he spoke. "An expedient compromise is in order, gentle soul. We will adjourn to my quarters for this particular endeavor."

He stepped aside with a little bow and you entered the room, going to curl up on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"Gentle soul, I think you've done enough proverbial listenin' at the teacher's feet to last a lifetime. Make yourself comfortable." He urged, spreading his blanket back out on the bed. "If we must weather this storm in conjunction, I would prefer you were nearer rather than farther."

You opened your mouth to protest and the wind whipped the rain against the windows with a hollow rattle, sounding for all the world like a thrower shot at range. Your fists clenched on your thighs. 

Damon isn't here. It's just Ezra. It's only Ezra.

Ezra turned to face you after meticulously smoothing out the wrinkles in his blanket, his forced smile and hollow eyes reminding you that you weren't the only one haunted by ghosts of your past. He extended a hand and you grabbed hold, letting him pull you up off the floor.

You fell into him, burying your face in his chest for a selfish moment. "Thank you." You whispered, uncertain if he even heard you over the rumble of thunder.

Ezra pressed his lips to your hairline and then ushered you underneath the blankets. He was achingly chaste, as though he thought you might bolt if he showed any sort of blatant affection. Truly, you might have if it had been any other person. His tentative touch rested on your wrist for a moment before he laced his fingers together with yours.

"Your proximity is a balm to my troubled thoughts, gentle soul." He murmured. "You turn my mind to poetic wanderings; dalliances in sun-dappled clearings, rain that does not make me fear for my life." Ezra sighed, the noise barely audible. "All too often I am back there in my dreams; suffering mutiny, I am left to decompose until a gentle soul comes and pulls me up out of the weeds."

"I have nightmares about Damon." You confessed softly. 

The grip he had on your fingers tightened ever so slightly. "I said I would not ask, and I will not tarnish that promise. I am here, gentle soul." His eyes searched your own, forehead furrowed with concern. "I have never trusted someone as I trust you. I have never...you fought alongside me, you placed your life in my hands, despite-" He paused, swallowing thickly. "You have earned all the time you might ever need. If it is mine to give, it is already yours."

His words, unwavering and slow, were what pushed you over the edge. In a voice that trembled and eventually broke, you finally told him everything. You held nothing in reserve, the terrible stories of all those nights in the pod tumbling out of you one after the other. You were so tired of carrying everything in silence, and talking about it...it was as though it made it all real. Tangible. Something that you could finally release.

Ezra was surprisingly still through the whole endeavor, the normally-animated man obviously reining himself in. The only indication of his own mental state was the way he occasionally rubbed his thumb over your knuckles as you spoke about particularly trying instances. 

"So this is the explanation." He said hoarsely once you lapsed into silence once more. "This is the trauma that you bear upon your precious, gentle soul. I...You've held it so tightly for so long, even though it wounds you. What has changed?"

"I found you." You replied bluntly. It was nonsensically simple to say, but it was true. He inhaled sharply. "You could have killed me, but instead-"

"I couldn't have." Ezra denied, shaking his head. "I saw you and while I knew I could play the part of the villain, I couldn't have...I wouldn't do anythin' to you. If not simply because you didn't slaughter me where I stood, then when you told me you had that kit and you almost broke my jaw after I startled you." He worked his jaw for a moment, like he still felt the echo of your head slamming into it. "And that man, the Sader, tryin' to tempt me into tradin' you in like livestock…"

"Because of everything that happened to me before, I...I panicked. I shouldn't have. I should have trusted you."

Ezra shook his head. "You had every right. I apologize for makin' you feel as though I would have accepted that pittance. I should have discussed everythin' with you beforehand." Lightning flashed nearby and thunder boomed, making you flinch sharply. Ezra urged you closer, his ragged shirt pressing to your cheek as you hid your face in his chest. "Martyr's malfeasance, your tenderness carves the heart out of me." He whispered. "You make me wish I was a reputable individual."

You started to apologize and he waved it off, stroking the back of your head and lulling you to sleep.

Despite the comfort his proximity brought you, the nightmares still came. You woke up panicking, as you often did, struggling away from the grip of the man beside you. He grunted and reached out to switch on the bedside table lamp. Ezra. It was just Ezra. You scolded yourself for your reaction, beginning to apologize again. But he simply rolled over and pressed his forehead to yours, humming in his throat sleepily. 

Your fingers tangled in his shirt as you slowly relaxed against him and he mumbled, "In my dreams you come to me, as timid and inexorable as the dawn," brown eyes already half-lidded again. He sounded like he was reciting something, the words slurred with exhaustion, "In my sleepless hours you find me, tremulous and waning like the starlight." 

You closed your eyes, just listening to his voice and letting it soothe you back into a doze.

"For I am a lost man who wanders bright and dark, all for the fleeting glimpse of you…"

…

His right hand had some minor nerve damage, which was to be expected. The infection had crept deep. You noticed a distinct lack of buttons on a majority of his new clothing, zipper pulls apparently easier to operate left-handed. 

As the storms grew worse though, so too did his hand. It would occasionally seize up in bad weather, which unfortunately was all the time during the rainy season. Ezra was thoroughly miserable, though he attempted to hide it. The rapid progress on editing his memoir slowed to a grinding crawl as he pecked away one-handed, keeping his right secured in a brace for most of the time.

"Kevva damn it." He swore one grey morning, struggling fiercely with the tie around his neck. He was supposed to meet with his publisher and he always tried to dress the part.

"Hey," You yawned from the kitchen doorway, "you okay?" 

"Gentle soul I must beg your assistance, I will be late!" Ezra pleaded from the bathroom, his tone distressed. 

You left your mug on the counter, stifling another yawn as you slipped into the bathroom and batted his hands away from his neck. "Hold still." You mumbled, barely awake. His fingers dug into the sink on either side of you as you worked. When you glanced up you saw that his eyes were bright with unshed tears, his gaze fixed determinedly on his own reflection in the mirror. "It's okay to be upset, you know."

His jaw worked and he swallowed hard, obviously disagreeing but unable to vocalize it.

"I got it. All done." You soothed, patting the knot flat. "You won't be late. Be sure to check your fly." His eyes widened in panic and his hands flew to his zipper, making you burst out laughing. "Not now, Ezra! When you get there!" You grinned, playfully bumping your knuckles into his stomach just above his belt. 

Ezra's chuckle was a little watery, but you chose to ignore it to let him think he was saving face. "What would I do without you, gentle soul? Wander the streets half-dressed with my placket splayed, I imagine." He mused, pressing a fond kiss to your forehead. "Now, Kevva waits. I will return presently. I believe it would be prudent for you to begin amassin' your sketches. We seem to be in the final stages of pre-production."

"Isn't it exciting?" You asked brightly.

"I am nervous enough to void my stomach." Ezra admitted. He squeezed your hand tightly. "I wish you could come with me, gentle soul. You make me feel at ease."

"You should have woken me up earlier, then!" 

"You would have come with me?" He sounded surprised, running his hands through his unruly hair in an effort to smooth it down. "These meetings are so toilsome. At least if you were there, my publisher might spare me his tedious lectures." His blond streak sprang back up once his hands had passed, continuing its perennial goal of sticking out at a rakish angle.

You reached up to gently tug on the unruly little tuft of hair, smiling at him. "Suffering is no fun if you're doing it alone."

"Misery does indeed love its company." He sighed, his hand shifting up to cup your own on his temple. "These hands of yours, I..." he paused, grimacing in pain and flexing his own fingers. "Dammit, I…"

"I'll be here when you get back." You said simply. "Just like any other day."

Ezra's eyes were dark with thought as he stared down at you, the silence stretching almost uncomfortably long. "I...of course. Yes." He replied, his voice quiet. 

You weren't expecting the call from him several hours later. You were just tucking into your lunch when your headset began to chime and you scrambled across the kitchen to grab it. "Yes, oh esteemed roommate?" You greeted him in the usual manner, smiling even though he couldn't see you.

"Gentle soul, are you busy?" 

You stared longingly at your lunch. "I was about to eat. What's up?"

"He wants to see your sketches."

Your heart dropped. You weren't sure why, it wasn't as if you hadn't anticipated needing to have your own work checked over. Deep down you had hoped they would have more important things to consider, but it couldn't be helped. "What, now?"

Ezra's words were strangely clipped, so different from his usual flowery speech. "I'll be returnin' shortly, if you're amenable?"

"Absolutely, absolutely. I'll get...I'll gather everything up." You hurriedly put your plate back into the cooler. "Are you okay?" 

"He has been more abrasive than usual, but I anticipated as much." He sighed raggedly and you heard the sound of the starter. "I've been out of sorts since this mornin'." He confessed. "I am uncertain as to why. Perhaps it's simply the weight of my own mortality catchin' up to me."

Your hands stilled in the process of shoving all your hard copies together. "Ezra, did something happen?"

"Nothin' aside from my immaculate personage being stained with impotence in the most mundane task imaginable." Ezra griped.

"Don't scare me like that." You scolded him. "I understand you're upset, but please don't use words like mortality. Gets me nervous."

"Fear not, gentle soul. I'll plague you for a good few years yet." He teased. "I am simply mourning the loss of a certain autonomy. The rain will not last forever, but while it lingers I imagine my moods shall be as grim as a graveyard."

"You'll have to try harder than that, you...poetically dour thing, you." You retorted dryly, shoving your hard copies into your unused portfolio. His laughter was loud in your ear. You loved when he laughed like that, all bright and startled like you had surprised it out of him.

You loved a lot of things about him, if you were being honest.

…

His publisher was a man named Thomas Anglio. He was in his late fifties, purportedly had no sense of humor and wore suits that were immaculately tailored.

The man's lack of humor was probably due to the stress of his job, you reasoned charitably. Managing so many aspiring authors couldn't be an easy feat, especially when he also had to juggle a certain querulous someone. At least you knew Ezra was paying him generously.

The secretary waved Ezra on tiredly, already reaching for the next Serv tablet before he was even done signing the both of you in. 

You trailed along behind him as he strode into Mr. Anglio's office, the dark-haired man the picture of easy confidence. "I present my illustrious, illustrative companion." Ezra introduced you grandly as Mr. Anglio rose from behind his desk. "Gentle soul, this is Mister Thomas Anglio, a stalwart friend and a fiercely fashionable silver fox."

"You flatter me, Ezra." Thomas sighed, shaking your hand. "Please, take a seat and show me what you have prepared."

You obliged nervously, your hands trembling slightly as you undid your first bundle of sketches. "I believe what Ezra wanted was to have them sort of...scattered through the book at key points. Headers for each chapter, as well." You spread the pages out on the desk and Thomas leaned forward to examine them. 

"Ezra, you are not writing a children's book." He pointed out practically. "The subject matter of this...strangely-realistic fiction of yours is decidedly adult."

"I am wholly convinced that my tale will not be half as impactful without their sketches, Mr. Anglio." Ezra insisted firmly. 

Thomas groaned, rubbing his temples. "At least I know you're not doing this just to pad the final page count." He settled back in his chair, leafing through the piles of sketches. You had tried to separate them out by chapter, though due to Ezra's constant revisions you were certain some of them were out of place. "You understand we will not be using all of these, correct?" Anglio seemed relieved when you nodded hurriedly.

"I thought it would be better to have too many than too few." You explained quietly. 

"You have quite the knack for drawing." He mused, lingering on one stack in particular. "Your portraits of Ezra are remarkable."

You heard Ezra swallow loudly beside you.  "Portraits…?" The former prospector echoed tentatively.

Your brain ran back to you scrambling to collect all your sketches, shutting your eyes in silent panic as you realized you must have shuffled in the extra ones you hadn't meant to bring along.

"Yes, these appear to be for the portion of the story where our brave hero barters with a mercenary gang for safe passage off the moon. If I'm recalling correctly, of course." Mr. Anglio slid the pile of sketches to Ezra, who snatched them up immediately. 

You saw his brown eyes go wide and you quickly ducked your head, busying yourself with pretending to sort through the groups of sketches. This was what you got for being disorganized! There were only supposed to be one or two from that scene!

The rest of the meeting was spent whittling down the groups of sketches to two per chapter, or three if they were small enough. Thomas also politely requested that you retool a few things, "this woman's helmet looks dangerously close to that inquisitor's from the Second Illumination. The last thing any of us want is to be sued by a failed monarchy."

You would say that the meeting went well, but you were so busy dreading being alone with Ezra again that it was all a blur. You just knew that your copious amounts of sketches focused on him would be subject to thorough questioning. And well they should be, it was borderline obsessive.

The jut of his jaw, the strong profile of his aquiline nose, the streak of blond above his right temple...all lovingly captured time and again. With and without the helmet. 

You were certain you would be lucky to escape unscathed, waiting in fear for the proverbial pot to boil over. 

...

"All you needed to do was ask, gentle soul." Ezra finally drawled after watching you anxiously wring your hands for the majority of the ride back to Ward Twenty-Seven. "Had I known that you wished so fervently to render me artistically, I would have happily sat for hours that you might properly capture my magnanimous visage."

"Please, please don't be upset." You begged, your fists tight in your lap. "I'll move out, okay? I'll leave and...and you'll never have to see me again. I'll send you the revised story sketches over the Serv, I'll-" His hand reached for your leg over the center console and you almost jumped out of your skin. "Wait, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please don't-"

"Gentle soul, I am not aggrieved in the slightest." Ezra assured you quietly. "Breathe. You seem ready to go to pieces." He rubbed your thigh soothingly, back and forth. "Breathe."

"You...you're not angry with me?" You asked tentatively. And really, you ought to have established that from your time in the Green! 

Angered Ezra was a looming thundercloud, he was magma barely contained by fragile crust. His fury, though an absolute force of nature, dissipated as soon as it arrived, like the outbursts wearied him too much to perpetuate and maintain. Damon had seethed and resurrected his anger whenever the mood struck him, so it was odd to engage with someone who seemed to deem the emotion more trouble than it was worth. You knew that the man currently in the driver's seat was a hundred times more likely to launch into a woebegone soliloquy about how tenuous material possessions were if he spilled tea on his shirt. But old habits died hard; you couldn't seem to keep yourself from getting wound up.

"Far from it! You capture my countenance in a way that is decidedly more flatterin' than any mirror." Ezra tilted his head. "I am...envious of the man you have drawn." He admitted softly. "I wish that he and I were one and the same."

You weren't quite sure what to say. At least he wasn't angry. Or he said he wasn't. If anything, he sounded...sad. "What do you mean?" You asked, your brow furrowed as you recalled what he had said the night you shared his bed.

You make me wish I was a reputable individual.

Ezra shrugged, sighing, "Nothin' at all, gentle soul. The rain is just makin' me morose, I'm afraid. I'll be glad to be home again."

Home.

"Want me to make some tea when we get home?"

The soft smile he directed your way had no business settling in your stomach the way that it did. "Of course! You are somehow better at makin' it than I, a true conundrum considering how long I toiled away to achieve my technique." 

You almost didn't notice when his hand cautiously returned to your thigh. 

Almost.

Part Seven

[demonprosecutor]

WHEN YOU HYPERFIXATE ON HADES

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11

“you really don’t need to be here for it.” night had fallen and darkness shrouded the overt violence that had occurred that day, the stars trembling and looking away at the savagery of death inflicted so callously. zagreus holds a torch, the flames casting a ghoulish glow over both your features and illuminating the bodies piled on pieces of kindling - a burial pyre.

are their mothers grieving, waiting for them? are their fathers sharpening their spears for vengeance? are their wives and children left without a piece of their family?

such a carelessness in burial, in ritual makes you shudder, guilt curdling your stomach so viciously that you near expel the contents of your stomach. zagreus, of course, did not understand the rituals of man, did not understand what needed to be done in order for them to cross the river Styx by the boatsman Charon and to find home in the underworld.

yet, he does not complain when you press a golden drachma into their calloused palms, scared and roughened by combat. only to be slain by someone whom they believed would aid them.

lord zeus and lady hestia would cast curses upon you...

you scatter dirt on their forms, cinching your pouch of coins tightly and taking a step back. “ok, i’m ready.”

zagreus offers you a sidelong look, lingering in slightly concern. even he could tell that you were not made for combat, not made for war like he was. you could only watch as he tosses the torch onto their bodies, erupting into flames and sparks floating to join the stars above before being kidnapped by the telltale breeze.

the prince does not say anything much as you offer prayers towards their safe journey and for forgiveness for the both of them, desecrating the sanctity of home. you pour libations onto the ground, a blessing and offering to the Chthonic gods. 

the words come easy, come familiar. After all, you were the one to hold funerals for your town that all perished, the temple’s priestess murdered at the steps of her patron’s temple. Blood had run that day like the ocean that lapped at the shore.

you fall silent, crossing your arms tightly, jumping when zagreus places a hand gently on the curve of a shoulder - thumb rubbing exposed skin sweetly. “are you ok? this was... i’m sorry, i didn’t--- they were going to hurt us, hurt you. and i... couldn’t let that happen.”

and the tight ball of pain eased into something warm, the tightness of your shoulders loosening. because in the short time you’ve known him, there’s a steadfast loyalty in him that settles the fear in your heart.

a sigh brushes your lips, staring at the pyre until spots danced before your gaze. “i know. i appreciate that.” your words is weary, bone-tired, something that you haven’t felt in a long time. you were never exactly the most verbose of individuals, especially concerning words that betrayed your true inner self. you were always so used to hiding behind a mask crafted from necessity. 

he squeezes your shoulder lightly, heat lingering when his hand falls away.

you think your eyes are tricking you, but as the flames begin to die down, blackened ash settling as smears upon verdant ground, something ghostly rises from mound. eight shades that stand, corporeal forms shuddering, turning to consider them carefully. 

it makes you take a step back, hackles lifting in alarm at the sight of something so unnatural. after all, one does not see shades unless they were close to death themselves. 

“he should be here soon.” zagreus mutters to himself softly, features drawn in faint anguish that it makes you want to reach out - but in your infinite cowardice, you hold back.

he does not take long to arrive, the air ringing with the ominous clang of something stricking metal and before you, in a flash of blue comes a being so ethereal, so awe-striking, you cannot help, but stare. reaper cloth drapes his form, golden pauldron curling from his right shoulder and right arm encased in a clawed gauntlet. his eyes were of melted gold, hair and lashes as white as the virgin snow and skin the colour of pallid, dead flesh.

yet something about him was familiar, in the moroseness that surrounded him, in the grief that seemed to linger at his feet.

the thought strikes you at the same time zagreus breathes out, “Thanatos”

impassively, death incarnate’s gaze sweeps over you as though you were nothing more than a bug before settling on zagreus. the corner of his mouth curled downward. “zagreus, you made it.” even if the words were monotone, it was enough to make the prince wince slightly. “you do realize that you are setting things into motion that you do not understand. i hope you’re happy.”

zagreus frowns, gaze firmly pinned on the god, “you know why i had to come up here. my mother is here and there’s just... so many things i don’t understand yet, so many pieces missing. are you really going to begrudge me for wanting to know myself more?”

the words were harsh, yet you can sense a history between the two of them. something deeper than association of godhood. while you couldn’t boast much, you are someone who knows the character of individuals fairly well, and you can tell - there was a fondness between the both of them. 

lord thanatos scoffs loudly, “know yourself? don’t make me laugh, zagreus. you had everything down there and you gave it all up for this?” he sweeps his hand in a wide gesture at the empty fields, crickets chirping their melody sweetly. “there’s nothing here. nothing of worth, anyways.” 

you couldn’t help, but feel as though it was a sort of back-handed comment to you. careful to keep your gaze pinned firmly on the ground.

“stop it. stop it. what are you doing here? if father sent you to get me back, i won’t. not without a fight.” even if his words are brave, there’s a weary tone that underlaid it, and you know that if anything, he wanted to avoid fighting the other god as much as possible.

“would you believe me if i said that i was going to harvest these souls?” he swipes his scythe lightning-quick through the eight shades, their forms flickering before wisping away. zagreus tosses him an unimpressed look, brow arched and arms crossed over his chest. “fine. that and i wanted to see y--- where you were. what the place was like.” lord thanatos looks around curiously, nothing sparking in his gaze that indicated that he truly cared about lady persephone’s fields.

(although you are indignant on the goddess’s behalf, her lands were the most beautiful of them all)

you feel the prick of metal claws underneath your chin, tipping your head back to meet the golden eyes of lord thanatos, brow arched as though to say: are you a part of the reason he wants to stay? “and who’s this?”

“Than.” you hear zagreus say in warning, light threat that lingers in his voice.

Lord Thanatos laughs slightly, “relax, zag. i won’t do anything to hurt your little mortal toy. now tell me, who are you?”

there’s a defiant part of you that wanted to seal your lips and stare back, but such impunity was something that was not welcome by any deity and if you wanted to keep your head - you would answer.

“I-- I am the servant to lady persephone. i have been here for a while...” you feel your hands shake, palms start sweating, and for some reason, you cannot look away from Lord Thanatos’ eyes, so magnetic, so hypnotic, it’s as though you were falling. until the illusion was shattered with the way death incarnate pulled back, claws tickling the underside of your chin almost-playfully, satisfied with the truth in your words. 

nonetheless, you feel like a pet. your cheeks burn as you stumble forward, sure-footed legs wobbling enough that zagreus reaches forward to curl an arm around your waist to make sure you didn’t fall. “what did you do?!” even if there was fondness between the both of them, zagreus looked ready to punch lord thanatos.

he quirks a slight smile, teasing and playful. “i didn’t hurt them, i just want to see the truth in their words. and they were telling the truth.”

you manage to find your bearings, brows furrowed and with minimal struggle (zagreus had tightened his grip, thinking you were going to collapse), managed to extract yourself from the prince’s embrace. “i don’t make it a habit to lie.” you valued honesty and in the short life that you have ever known, you do not ever recall a time you ever lied to anyone.

“all mortals do. eventually.” the words were dismissive and it seemed that your interaction with the god was over, considering the way he turned his floating body to face zagreus. “i came to tell you this. what you are doing, what you have done... it roused something.” something unsettled crosses death incarnate’s features. “unnatural things are happening. mortals that should be dead still walk among these lands, monsters cease to die---” he shakes his head, hair whispering against his hood. 

“what do you mean?” zagreus, at this, straightens, worry evident. “things aren’t dying?”

that makes something in you chill, half-remembered rumours of travelers that wander through these lands. but ... those were just rumours, right? 

Lord thanatos shrugs, “whatever it is, it’s no longer your concern ever since you left.” it’s cruel what he says, enough that it seems to wound zagreus. but nothing more was said. in a flash of light, radiant wings arching before lord thanatos disappears, leaving you both with the smoldering ashes of the pyre.

it seemed that zagreus was too shocked to do anything much, staring off into space thoughtfully. you sigh, pouring a bucket of dirt over the remaining embers and stifling them with a soft hiss.

you watch the prince, swathed in ember, eyes that reflected both of his parentage, stand there - looking more alone than ever. “was... were you and Lord Thanatos close?”

zagreus blinks, startled by your voice, turning his head to take in your form - clutching the bucket at your hip and knees smeared with grey. “I--- we--- we are. were. I don’t know.” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “it’s just... ever since i left, i think i hurt him.” there’s true regret in his tone, rocking back on his feet before flopping to the ground and staring at the night sky.

he misses them, you realize with clarity.

quietly, you set the bucket to the side, and gingerly lower yourself to lay on your back next to him. “i think you did too.” you say quietly, honestly as ever. you try to be gentle, but still, you see him wince.

“ouch.” he crosses his arms and turns his head, so that you couldn’t see his face. “i didn’t mean to hurt him.” a whisper.

you don’t respond for a few seconds before sighing slightly, “sometimes, we hurt the people we love whenever there is a desire for change. we never really mean to, but it happens. maybe you should apologize to him.” zagreus looks over at you, opening his mouth to argue. “not because you wanted to leave the underworld, but because you hurt him by leaving.”

the prince stares at you, shifting his gaze to the stars. “i guess, it’s a complicated situation.

“that’s life.” you laugh, pushing yourself up so that you were sitting. “complications.” you make the move to stand; however, the hand around your forearm stops you. zagreus  props himself up on an elbow, brows drawn together in pleading.

“stay with me for a while?”

oh. oh. how could you ever deny your prince anything?

you smile at him, barest hint of teeth before laying back down - “of course.” and you both laid there, staring up at the stars until... until the darkness fell over you, until hypnos cast his spell over you.

---

when you rouse at the rooster’s crow, you smell the scent of morning dew tickling your nose and groan internally. great, this is inviting sickness... yet the chill you had anticipated from sleeping outside never sunk into your bones. you felt warm, unnaturally so.

you open your eyes, squinting at at the sun peeking above the trees, on your back - before looking down at the source of the warmth.

suddenly, your whole body seems to go through a flash of heat, blushing so intensely that you wondered if you were going to burst into flames. 

it seemed that prince zagreus, the scourge of wretches and a personal pain in his father’s backside, was... cuddling you. he had thrown a possessive arm over your waist, basically molding his body against yours and staving off the chill of the night and the morning. oh gods, i never thought that your whole body can blush, but here i am.

you try to wiggle free, but zagreus huffs unhappily, plastering himself firmer against your side and grumbles against your shoulder. that was it - you were doomed to be a god-prince’s cuddle pillow for eternity. 

(a punishment you didn’t seem to mind)

at this point in time, you would be already waking up to feed the animals or to prepare breakfast, but being trapped so thoroughly meant that escape was nigh impossible.

resigned to your fate, you offer a few grumbles before settling back down to sleep some more. it was a hard day yesterday, you figured that you deserved some semblance of rest.

it must be some time later, you roused once more. trapped in the nebulous space between awake and asleep. you murmur sleepily, turning your head slightly and you see... zagreus above you, studying you carefully, face soft and fond and open - in the way that the land could only bring out. he brushes his hand on your forehead, sweeping hair away from your face carefully.

a dream, perhaps?

you wake up again, this time tucked carefully in your bed, blanket pulled to your chin and tucked tightly enough to feel as though you were a baby being swaddled once more. how did you... oh. 

“he carried me up here and tucked me in...” you managed to worm a hand out to smack your face in embarrassment before allowing the limb to drop back onto the bed listlessly. you were feeling lazy and content enough to want to lounge in bed.

well, that is until you smelled something burning.

“what the---” you scramble out of bed, legs tangled in the blankets, and tripping over them and rushed down the hall and into the kitchen where zagreus was frantically attempting to kill the flames from the fireplace where he was attempting to cook food.

fear ran through your mind and you grabbed the pitcher, tossing water over the cauldron AND zagreus in turn.

the flames flickered down into a sad death, the pitcher held in a death-grip, as you looked over to zagreus who... looked like a sad, wet puppy.

you couldn’t help yourself, you promptly burst into loud laughter, setting the pitcher to the side so that you could lean on the table, snorting and cackling hard enough to bring tears in your eyes. soon enough, zagreus follows suit, placing the pan to the side. “what are you doing?” you manage through wheezes.

zagreus snorts, smiling hard enough that his cheeks hurt, “i was trying to make you breakfast, but as you can probably tell, i failed miserably.” 

“ok, first of all, too much kindling. the fire got out of control.” you compose yourself, smiling all the while, walking over to the fireplace, poking at the wet kindling. “how about we get some more kindling and i could teach you how to cook.”

“but i wanted to cook you something.” you can hear the pout in his voice, as you both retreat to the back to dump the wet wood and grab new pieces to replace it. “just as a thank you, you know.”

oh. the smile turns a bit shy and you can feel yourself softening, “well, you can’t cook me anything if you don’t know how to. how about i teach you first and then you can cook me something. tomorrow’s breakfast is on you, deal?” you hold out your hand and zagreus takes it without hesitation, the joy reaching his eyes.

“deal.”

[themarcusmoreno]

Are we flirting? Is that what we’re doing now?

Because, Ezra, your voice is like honey, warm and sweet. Yourself verbose, with words that are flowing and floral, like a stream that has caught the fallen blooms of the trees.

I do believe, if the Devil were to ever tempt me, your voice would be what whispers in my ear.

Your cadence is soothing, a blessing for those you love and curse for those you don’t. I imagine your words alone were not always what has kept you from the danger that is others out on the fringes.

A man of many stories and talents you are.

A man after my own heart.

-🍯🐝

Perhaps we are, perhaps we are. Would you be so cruel to turn me away if we were?

Why I.. sweet honey bee, you had all the poetry just lying in wait to flatter me and you have. Your eloquence goes farther than you know and it is received openly.

Tell me, do you think if you saw the Devil, if he were real and flesh before you that the temptations in his tongue would lure you to depravity? I’ve heard the tongue of the Devil and the whispers of his speech can bring even the sweetest of beings to their knees in worship. Do you think if the he were human, were a god hidden amongst men, that you would heed his call? Because if we are to believe the stories, he was the most beautiful before he was cast out.

Oh darling, you dance with the Devil and fall victim to his nectar drenched words and you may get burned. He is but a man, hidden by the shadows and drenched in mystery. If anything, he could be me because I am not above temptation and as you said - my words alone haven’t kept me from harm, there’s charm that radiates as I’ve been told.

May my words be ever flowing and sweet against your ears, may the cadence keep the Devil at bay and let you find peace in the welcome I offer. Like I said, what is the Devil if not a god hidden amongst men.

[lunelantern]

"I HAVE NO REASON TO LOVE HER OR BE LOVED BY HER"

Let's unravel the symbolism behind Sasuke's seemingly brusque words.

Because EVERY. SINGLE. ONE of Uchiha Sasuke's words are overflowing with underlying meaning and the symbolism behind turns him into one of the most spectacular fiction characters in modern literature, in my humble personal opinion, in terms of construction, inner coordinates, skeleton and philosophy.

Particularly, when his character's evolution embroiders tantalizingly into sakura's canvas of innocence and soul-healing love ❤️❤️❤️♥️💖💕💜

If we abide to the post-modernist literary criticism, we can refer to this terse assertion from Sasuke in the specter of deconstruction and hermeneutics as methodology of interpretation of the manga.

Namely, we shall try to look for the underlying message of the manga in the context as the intrinsec values of Sasuke's words must be referred to as deeper and transcending the message of the author himself.

 I'm considering hermeneutics specifically because it is widely used for the interpretation of biblical texts/writings of wisdom and Sasuke's construction is abounding in such symbolism.

 The problem here lies in mainly two colliding manga ideologies in the brusque change between Sasuke and Kakashi, namely the nihilism/negativism vs humanism/idealism.

 Kakashi's seemingly retort to Sasuke 'you don't need a reason to love someone, you only need a reason to hate someone' creates an anachronism and a hypothetical fallacy in his logic. As a consequence, he once again fails to stop Sasuke from his resolve.

 Kakashi aligns to the Manga's fundamental humanist view as Kishimoto provides the reserves with his own subjective answer to acquire universal peace and ceas conflict: love as mutual understanding.

 Kishimoto annexes 'love' with an intrinsec value that's self-sufficient for quenching conflict. That's the foundation of humanism, the confidence in the good nature of a sentient being.

 Only... He's not necessary correct. He fails to grasp Sasuke's character and delve deeper into his own life principles. As the main antagonist opposing to the hero's messianic humanist role in taking the reins to universal peace, Sasuke as an Uchiha is the manga conceptualized version of the negativism as depicted and analyzd in the classic philosophy tomes of the great philosophers - Kant, Schopenhauer, Hegel with deep roots into Machiavelli's 'Prince'.

 Short note, if you are interested in dechipering the character of Uchiha Itachi, then start with Machiavelli. Itachi is the embodiment of the Prince imagined by machiavelli. I'm giving these cites  for emphasize: "It is better to be feared than loved if you cannot be both" - - itachi telling his kid brother that it doesn't matter if Sasuke hates him because they have each other like brothers.

 " it is not titled that honor men but men that honor titles" - - it's not the one who becomes Hokage that it's acknowledged but thr one who is acknowledge by everyone becomes Hokage as he tells Naruto: " sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are - - itachi's retorts to his fellow Uchiha who questioned him for shisui'death that 'all of you without measuring your own ability had no idea of mine";. I think they are self-explanatory for they are almost perfect quotes from Itachi's iconic phrases.

So back to Sasuke, he is basically the perfect depiction of Arthur Schopenhauer's philosophy which strips the Life of any intrinsec purpose, admittedly attributing 'pein' to life, birth, death itself. This is the Uchiha's infamous  'curse', the biblical curse of knowledge. They are the philosophers of the manga, the great thinkers, the nihilist the ones who question the Life Script.

 Uchiha don't get obsequious towards the Life Script. They are thr ones who ask questions, they don't settle for 'that's how it is' absurdity. They use critical thinking, ration, philosophy, psychology to debunk the mysteries of life and that's why they symbolically 'fell from grace.' Uchiha fell from Paradise metaphorically because they questioned the laws of universe. Naruto and his devotees accept love as having intrinsec omnipotent power.

 Uchiha don't. They are rational, pragmatic, intellectual, philosophers, sophists, great thinkers - - see Sasuke's 'revolution' mentality.

 Sasuke challenges Naruto's 'status quo' as preserving democracy as ensuring universal peace.

 Conversely, let's consider the syntax of his statement. What Sasuke really means by stating that ' I have no REASON to love her' doesn't refer to a justification for love as a feeling itself (a feeling equipped with gratifying powers of being sufficient and inclusive) as 'motive'. Sasuke doesn't deny it, it isn't a contradiction, a negative rejection of her feelings. 'reason' in sausl as care refers to his cognitive process, his ability to JUDGE, to ration, to think critically, to distill and not simply pander to what society considers as being self-sufficient. Sasuke doesn't see love as am intrinsec value to happiness and fulfillment. He doesn't accept the humanist/positivism  MENTALITY, and not the 'motive' itself.

 Sasuke isn't an untutored need in the arts of love. He isn't stupid nor naive. Of course that he doesn't look for a justification for Sakura's feelings nor his very own. He tries to ration logically because this is his manga role - the thinker. He challenges a mentality and not a simple remark.

 Sasuke cannot reasonably comprehend Sakura's ardent devotion. Why would someone so ardently succumb into the den of the devil itself for a decadent criminal with a radical negativist vision who won't reciprocate? He doesn't fathom her masochism, the coherence and rational expansion for her attitude.

 Also, Sasuke doesn't accept the ubiquitous and amorphous dissonance of 'love' as ubiquiptusly omnipotent and soothing.

 Kakashi alludes that life consists of perpetual happiness as innate to every sentient being, that happiness comes for free and passively, that's the gift of life itself. Sasuke on the other hand is the echo of negativism - - pein is the sole governor of life and one must seek happiness proactively.

 Tl:dR: 'REASON' here doesn't refer to a motive as justification for love as a feeling. It reflects Sasuke's role in the manga as a great thinker, a philosopher, a man ebbed with a rational mind, critical thinking who doesn't pander to society's norms. He doesn't accept love as a self-sufficient explanation for Sakura's irrational devotion.

 Sasuke reflects the negativism of Arthur Schopenhauer's/Kant'a philosophy while Kakashi/Sakura/Naruto are the humanists with a positive worldview who deem love as universally present in any sentient being as intrinsec to the very existence of every sentient being.

 Also Kakashi's verbose assertion denotes a fallacy in his logic. Kakashi implies that 'hate' is the opposite of 'love' ans Sasuke depicts this erroneous surmise thus he cannot be swayed by Kakashi's lapses and flaws in logic.

 Let's consider the two symbols in Naruto manga, darkness and light, Naruto and Sasuke, negativism and humanism. Darkness is not the opposite of light, but the ABSENCE of it. The opposite of matter is not the anti-matter but the absence of it. Thus hate isn't the opposite of love. Using the laws of phisycs and metaphysics, the opposite of love shall be the ABSENCE of it.

 Thus once again, just like the first time when his words of wisdom failed to reach to Sasuke's heart and quell his thirst for revenge, Kakashi failed to stop Sasuke because he didn't comprehend his character as the deep rational thinker, the man who doesn't obediently follow the Life Script, the man who asks questions and wants rational answers - admittedly he never did.

 Ultimately, it boils down to the two antithesis that fundamentally cement the  grandiose skeleton of this manga: nihilism/existentialism versus idealists/utopic.

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight prologue (part 1)

I’m back, with as much verbosity and discussion of identity as ever, this time featuring Lan and Perrin.

Loial gets the epigraph this time. Good for you, Loial. Live your dreams.

Prologue: Distinctions

Wait a second. Hold on. Is this… are we… am I being greeted, upon my return to this series after several months, by a Lan POV? Is this possible?

Mandarb’s hooves beat a familiar rhythm on broken ground as Lan Mandragoran rode toward his death.

Because of course. Of course we get Lan’s POV, for the first time in the series, when he is riding at last to his private war with the Blight, to avenge the country that died decades ago and whose death he has always seen as his own, only delayed. Of course we get his POV now, when he is riding to what he believes is, at last, his death.

This has always been his purpose. He is a sword, a weapon, an oath, a fallen nation. A weapon doesn’t get to have a voice. A dead nation doesn’t get to speak. A sword can’t tell its own story. Especially because, all that time, he was held back from this, which he has always seen as his purpose. His only purpose. He let himself be bonded all those years ago but he never really gave up that sense of… I was about to say identity, but it’s both identity and total lack thereof. Identity, but not as a person, not as someone with agency and a story to tell. Just a weapon, forged for a single purpose.

And so, riding to his death, this is the closest he comes in the main series to feeling alive. Now that he is fulfilling that purpose, now that he is following the one path he has always considered his own. This, here, this ride to his death, is his entire identity.

So yes. In that sense it is beautifully fitting that we open with his POV for the first time in the main series, now as it draws towards its end. Now that he is freed, such as it is, to at last meet what he believes is his end, and his beginning, and the task that defined his entire… well. ‘Life’ sounds rather ironic there, but it’s the best I can do.

Anyway, we’re one line in and I’ve already written several hundred words, so I guess even after a hiatus nothing’s changed.

Turns out the earth is apparently quite literally salted here. So that’s a good start.

He’d turned away from it twenty years ago, agreeing to follow Moiraine, but he’d always known he would return. This was what it meant to bear the name of his fathers, the sword on his hip, and the hadori on his head.

All three representative of something dead, something lost, something gone. Something he accepts as lost. He doesn’t ride to revive Malkier, he rides to bury it (though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind praising it along the way). His entire life and self have been defined by this, by death and the past. The wheel of time turns, and stories fade and must ultimately be left in order to find a future, but Lan, for all his wisdom in some areas, has never really understood that. Or, perhaps more accurately, never felt it could apply to him.

I think in some way he did understand it, in that he bound himself to Moiraine even when it meant leaving his burned past and his private war in order to fight for the future of the world, but even then, it was only… temporary. Ultimately, he accepts the past as having a hold on him, accepts the idea the has never had and never will have a future.

It is, in a way, a parallel to or slight variant on Rand, on a different scale. Rand struggled (at least I think it’s past tense at this point) for so long to figure out how to accept Lews Therin as a part of himself without the terror of being bound to his past life’s fate. And on top of that there’s his whole he belongs to the Pattern, and to history. Moiraine saw that as future history – something that is not yet but will be history, but is future from where we stand. But Rand – and Lan – end up with a slightly different view of that. Rand fights against the memory of a doomed past and relinquishes all sense of freedom or choice or agency (until he gets better), and Lan lets the past own him and define him and guide him and kill him, all without ever dreaming to have a life of his own.

Riding to his death didn’t pain him

And why should it? Defined by death as he is. If you never think of yourself as someone who gets to be a person and have a life, what fear would death hold? He was only ever a… placeholder? A delayed strike, a remnant, a part of something dead that just hasn’t got around to lying down and stopping yet.

But knowing she feared for him… that did hurt. Very badly.

There’s a slightly bitter part of me that can’t quite get over the disappointment that the first Lan POV we get in the main series isn’t written by Jordan. Because Jordan’s writing of Lan in New Spring was beautiful. Spare but surprisingly lovely, and yet all threaded through with the idea and mention and thought of death, not in a morbid or even grim way but just as a part of the lens through which the story is told… it was so perfectly suited to Lan, and this feels… less so. It’s not bad; it’s just. I feel like I have a sense of what it could be and it’s not quite that.

Then again we’re still only like two paragraphs in, Great Lord of the Dark Lia would you get on with it already.

He hadn’t seen another person in days.

Too soon for a self-isolation joke?

Oh look, the first of his army has arrived!

Because the Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don. Man, that scene.

This kid’s like ‘hi! I’m here! I brought things, and supplies, and I’m just so excited, and and and’ and Lan is like ‘okay but who the fuck are you’.

Come on, Wheel of Time, let Lan Mandragoran say ‘fuck’.

Bulen? That sounds familiar, and he looks familiar to Lan…he’s definitely from New Spring. He was the errand boy, wasn’t he? Well, three cheers for conservation of characters.

“But when word spread in the palace that the Golden Crane was raised, I knew what I had to do.”

Really, Bulen? Do you not remember what happened last time someone tried to raise the Golden Crane in Lan’s name? I mean I’m all for it and Nynaeve is certainly a long way from Edeyn and that scene of the Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don still gives me at least two-thirds of an emotion when I think about it, but you’d think the kid would have grown a sense of self-preservation after what went down twenty years ago. Then again, no one in this series has a sense of self-preservation, so why change that now?

El’Nynaeve! She gets her title! She once had to fight so hard for people to respect her as Wisdom, and then as Aes Sedai, and now people who have barely met her give her a royal title! Because she’s out there raising an army and a nation from its grave!

(Yeah, yeah, you could point out that she has to fight for all the titles she earns, while this is one given to her by virtue of her marriage to a man, but honestly I’m just going to enjoy hearing this random kid call her El’Nynaeve because he already thinks of her as his queen because she’s just that cool. And you can’t stop me.)

Well, if she could play games with the truth, then so could he. Lan had said he’d take anyone who wished to ride with him. This man was not mounted. Therefore, Lan could refuse him. A petty distinction, but twenty years with Aes Sedai had taught him a few things about how to watch one’s words.

I’m dying. Sure, the prose is Sanderson, but the sentiment it expresses? Is absolutely Lan. It’s a slightly more grown up and jaded version of New Spring Lan, and it’s pretty much exactly what I imagine Lan’s internal monologue throughout the entirety of The Eye of the World looking like. He and Moiraine are well-matched in that for all their extreme competence, and wisdom, and ability to set everything aside for the sake of the world… they are also capable of great pettiness coated in a fine veneer of dry humour and presented as Done With Your Shit.

Lan’s just like ‘nope, no cranes to see here, golden or paper or otherwise, just denial as far as the eye can see.’

Lan would not call anyone ‘son’. He has an epithet for everyone but that is not one of them.

“My father was Malkieri,” Bulen said from behind.

Lan continued on.

“He died when I was five,” Bulen called.

Yes, well, that’s something you have in common, give or take a few years.

Lan’s not here for anyone’s tragic backstory but his own.

Except Bulen, for all that he never learned self-preservation, apparently learned how to tug on the heartstrings.

“I would wear the hadori of my father,” Bulen called, voice growing louder. “But I have nobody to ask if I may.”

Damn it, this kid. Was that me or Lan speaking just now? We may never know.

Lan’s still trying to send him away, because Lan Mandragoran does not need to adopt any more wayward children who are only trying to find their way, and Bulen’s just trying every angle of attack he can possibly find and this kid sure has an arsenal.

“I hardly knew who you were, though I know you lost someone dear to you among us.”

Because if appealing to your tragic past doesn’t work, maybe appealing to his will. I have to admire Bulen’s determination to make a slightly nostalgic nuisance of himself until the Uncrowned King of Malkier finally gives him a sticker.

“I spent years cursing myself for not serving you better. I swore that I would stand with you someday.” He walked up beside Lan. “I ask you because I have no father. May I wear the hadori and fight at your side, al’Lan Mandragoran? My King?”

I’m fine. This is fine. Everything is fine and I do not feel emotions.

And Lan’s cursing Nynaeve for the oath she made him swear but what a conflict this must be for him: to be confronted with the life of his nation, when all he wants is to avenge its death. To have someone look to him not as a sword or a reminder of what is gone but as a father, a king, a leader, a symbol of something returning, something renewed.

It is, in a way, not entirely unlike his conflict in New Spring. Only he’s already learned to crush that hope before it even makes itself known, because it can only end in pain. And yet, it doesn’t stop finding him.

Nynaeve, when I next see you… But he would not see her again. He tried not to dwell upon that.

Don’t say that where Nynaeve can hear you. But really, I think I’ve said this before, but Lan is one of the characters whose survival I am most confident in, largely because of this. Because to let him die… sure, it wouldn’t really be surprising, and in a way it would fulfil the ending he wants, but it wouldn’t… move his story anywhere. Whereas to take a character so certain of and accepting of his death, someone who never believed he should even have a life at all, whose every waking moment has been in waiting of his end, the truly satisfying ending would be for him to get to live. Not just in the sense of surviving, but actually living.

Because again, it’s not unlike a part of Rand’s story, recently: the rediscovery of life. Of the purpose of it all. On Dragonmount he saw it two ways: once as meaningless, pointless, because victory just brings another battle and every lifetime is pain and he has no freedom and why not just end it. But then as another chance, the possibility of life and love and something better. And I think there’s an element of that threaded through the series as a whole. This idea that yes, things fade and die and are lost, and yes there is pain and duty and a Pattern woven, but in amidst all of that the point is to live. Not to just survive until you can die for the cause, but to actually live along the way. It’s that question of what are you fighting for, what is the purpose of all of this? Rand has, at last, found that. Lan… still needs to.

“We ride anonymously,” Lan said.

Sure. As anonymously as Rand riding into Tear, pretending gloves could hide his identity. Whatever you say, Lan.

“You tell nobody who I am.”

There’s a whole Thing here about erasing his own identity, which is almost ironic in that the fact that he has a POV at all is a way of showing him embracing that identity, except that the identity he is embracing is the denial of self to all intents and purposes in favour of a duty and a dead nation that defined him before he could ever define himself.

I mean. It’s just a throwaway line. But I’m me, and so it’s not.

***

Oh hello Perrin, what are you doing in a prologue? Shouldn’t you be off in a real chapter with all your friends? Run along now.

He seems to be at a forge, though, so that’s a good look.

Some people found the clang of metal against metal grating. Not Perrin. That sound was soothing.

I like this, because especially without the surrounding context it plays so well into one of the central dualities of Perrin’s character: that of the gentle, careful one who wants to build things and work a forge and know peace versus the side of him that is terrifying in battle and feels alive when fighting and runs with wolves. Metal on metal, in a forge or a battlefield.

Oh it’s a dream. That works too. Rand dreams of his sworn and fated enemy and sits with him by the fire as they both take a moment away from the tasks neither of them truly want but cannot relinquish, and Perrin dreams of a forge.

He was making something important.

A nation? A decision? A bed to replace the one he ‘lost’ in the bushes? Tell us, Perrin.

Understand the pieces, Perrin.

Ah, and there it is. Such a crucial task for the ta’veren whose power manifests largely in the forging of nations, in bringing people to him and together, in binding. But to do that, you have to know what you’re binding. Which requires not denying it, but I think perhaps Perrin has finally moved beyond that.

Hi Hopper. Want a belly rub?

What am I making? Perrin picked up the length of glowing iron with his tongs. The air warped around it.

Well that is the question, Perrin, is it not? Time to let yourself answer it. Time to move past instinct, or exceptional ability in emergencies that lapses into denial once they’re over. He’s so good in those situations, but he struggles with the times in between, the times when his thoughts catch up to him. And now… he needs to push past that, and be able to truly accept it all, to not just swing the hammer but to know what he’s making, to plan it, to be deliberate and purposeful – which is so much a part of him in some ways, but there are areas he avoids.

Hopper’s like okay okay but can we get our symbolism by chasing things or something fun? You humans and your hammers, I swear.

Master Luhhan would be ashamed to see such shoddy work. Perrin needed to discover what he was making soon

I mean, there’s really nothing for me to even add to that.

More hammering, but he’s angry now.

It should all be better now! But it isn’t. It seems worse somehow.

He continued pounding. He hated those rumours that the men in camp whispered about him.

There’s a pun here to be made about hammers and pounding and Berelain but I am an adult and therefore I shall refrain.

More to the point, though… he’s directing his anger at the rumours but I think it’s rather more about that first part. That things should be ‘better’ now, but they aren’t, and he still doesn’t know what he’s making. He was driven, focused (too driven, too focused) and he had a task and so he could pursue it with single-minded determination, but as soon as he completed it… he was back with his thoughts and a nation following him and a role he has partway accepted but still hasn’t quite come to terms with. He still doesn’t fully accept what he is, who he is, what he can do, what he will have to do.

And so he’s doing what he can, and trying to forge those bonds and face what’s coming but there’s a part of him still holding back, still uncertain of what that means, or still reluctant to face it.

It’s an interesting scene because the framing is so similar to Perrin at the forge in The Dragon Reborn, and yet the tone is so utterly different. That was meditative, deliberate, beautiful; Perrin in his element, creating something perhaps not beautiful but well-made, functional, perfectly suited to its purpose. That was Perrin as he saw himself then, when he knew who he was – or at least, who he wanted to be. This… the work is sloppy and Perrin doesn’t even know what he’s making (whereas then, he decided almost immediately but without urgency; it was just an ease and comfort in knowing what the metal would be) but he’s pressing ahead; this is his identity but he’s still forcing it, and so it all feels wrong.

Hopper’s like okay well why don’t you just, you know, not, and ah, we’re back to the wolf thing. Just because Rand has perhaps finally figured out how to balance the different aspects of himself doesn’t mean all the characters have.

Perrin wasn’t nearly as in control as he’d assumed. The wolf within him could still reign.

But, like with the forging, trying to force it isn’t really the answer. Accept, Perrin. Look at the pieces you actually have. Understand them. Understand the different parts of yourself, and take them as they are, and then you can forge them and fit them together. But you can’t do it by ignoring what they are and just trying to force them into what you think they should be. Especially if you don’t even have a clear idea of what that is.

Problems are not amusing, Young Bull, Hopper agreed. But you are climbing back and forth over the same wall.

At least it’s not that damn garden wall in Caemlyn.

But I like how directly this is acknowledged, first with Tam last book and now with Hopper, here. That Perrin keeps wavering over this same conflict, keeps taking two steps forward and one step back, keeps doubting himself and questioning himself and fearing this aspect of himself that he taps into at need but then runs from again.

I like it, as a way to play out a character arc in a way that isn’t just linear growth. Sure, it’s frustrating as all hell sometimes, but it feels real. Because sometimes we don’t Learn The Important Lesson and then move on with our lives never having to face that problem again. Sometimes you overcome your doubts or fear of something once, or find your way past an obstacle, only to find that when it comes up again, hey, turns out it’s still pretty difficult. Not everything is conquered the first time, or the second, or…

PERRIN DO NOT ASK HOW TO REVERSE YOUR WOLFPOWERS. EMBRACE THE WOLFPOWERS. YOU’VE ONLY GOT TWO BOOKS LEFT.

Ah, Perrin, so much self-doubt. But then, his timeline is a bit behind Rand’s, I believe, so he is rather due for a last moment of crisis before the storm breaks.

The quenching barrel is boiling and Perrin doesn’t know what he’s forging and all his movements are almost…clumsy. Rushed and uncareful and the exact opposite of the spare economy of motion from that first forging scene. Because he’s no longer moving with the comfort of surety in who he is and what he’s doing; he’s doubting himself and his task and his capacity and his purpose, unsure and afraid and trying to force some things and ignore others and it doesn’t work that way.

Oh, I like this.

The glow faded. The chunk was actually a small steel figurine in the shape of a tall, thin man with a sword tied to his back. Each line of the figure was detailed, the ruffles of the shirt, the leather bands on the hilt of the tiny sword. But the face was distorted, the mouth open in a twisted scream.

Aram, Perrin thought. His name was Aram.

That is excellent. And it reminds me so strongly, with the twisted scream and the naming, of that scene that absolutely ruins me in the Rhuidean sequence, where Lewin veils his face and the wind rises and he screams ‘I am Aiel’, as those who call themselves Aiel turn from him and name him lost.

And that Aram is forged from steel, from Perrin’s forge, because Perrin as he sees it made him what he became (took him from a life of peace to one of violence), and it’s a perfectly formed piece; it’s not like a misshapen lump of metal, but it’s still wrong. Not what it should be. Not what it should have been.

Why had he created such a thing?

Oh, Perrin.

What a question. Because of course he holds himself responsible. But… while he may have been a catalyst of sorts, this was Aram’s choice. But that doesn’t make it hurt less. A child of peace, who lost everything and came to Perrin for permission to learn the sword, to fight and kill, and who eventually lost even that and died for it. A follower of the Way of the Leaf, brought to a life and death of violence at Perrin’s side. Perrin, who for all he argued with the Tuatha’an about their pacifism still wished for a world in which it could be true, and, I think, wished a little bit that he could have known something like that for himself.

Aw, we left Malden, do we have to go back in the dreamscape?

Did Perrin really look that imposing?

Yes. Next question?

A squat fortress of a man

I am dying. What a phrase. Who needs a brick shithouse when you can have a squat fortress.

And he’s holding the axe again in his dream. He made that choice, but like so many other things, it still occasionally wavers. He is still not sure of who he is. That, he still hasn’t truly decided and accepted and understood, for all that he’s grasped pieces of it around the edges.

A horn or a hoof, Young Bull, does it matter which one you use to hunt? Hopper was sitting in the sunlit street beside him.

“Yes. It matters. It does to me.”

And yet you use them the same way.

I like this exchange because Hopper is right… but so is Perrin. Because perception is absolutely a part of it. Perception, and choices, and a… claiming, of sorts, of his identity. Yes, he uses the hammer to destroy, just as he uses the axe. But to him, the fact that the hammer can be used for another purpose matters. It makes a difference because he chooses to see it that way. Which is, in its way, just as important as Rand choosing to see his fate not as inevitability and despair but as another chance. The smallest shift in perception, looking at the same thing from a slightly different angle, and yet it makes all the difference in the world.

I just like things like that, where these ideas can be simultaneously so close together and so far apart. These infinitesimal distinctions that alter an entire worldview. One small shift and everything falls into place, even if from the outside you’d never understand that there was a difference.

When Perrin fought, he came close to becoming someone else. And that was dangerous.

But is it someone else? Or is this like Rand and Lews Therin, where he fought so hard to hold to the distinction, because he was too afraid of what it might mean to let Lews Therin be a part of him. Perrin is so afraid of what accepting the wolf aspect of his nature might mean, that he sees it as a different person. As someone else. As something he could lose himself to, rather than as something he needs to find within himself and embrace as part of who he is.

Ah, identity.

“Why are you making me dream this?”

Yeah, sorry Perrin, but no.

Though for some reason this reminds me of that dream Rand and Moridin shared and Moridin finally being like ‘okay so what are you doing here’ and Rand thinking Moridin had brought him into the dream and really, boys, do I need to get Egwene in here to teach the lot of you how to dream responsibly?

Except wait, no, Egwene dreams about Gawyn so she’s not responsible in that regard either. Damn.

Anyway.

So Perrin’s re-living Aram’s death in his dreams.

Perrin stepped back. He refused to fight the boy again.

The shadowy version of himself split off, leaving the real Perrin in his blacksmith’s clothing. The shadow exchanged blows with Aram.

Because Perrin is fighting himself: the blacksmith who wants peace, and the warrior who runs with wolves. But he doesn’t see how they can reconcile, how he could possibly be both.

Also everything about Aram’s story is still rather beautifully sad. A lonely branching of the Aiel’s ongoing story, an offshoot of the main Rhuidean sequence, truncated before it could go anywhere, lost with who knows how many others.

Right before Aram would have killed Perrin.

The horn, the hoof, or the tooth […] Does it matter? The dead are dead.

[…]

“I should have taken that fool sword from him the moment he picked it up. I should have sent him back to his family.”

Does not a cub deserve his fangs? Hopper asked, genuinely confused. Why would you pull them?

“It is a thing of men,” Perrin said.

Things of two-legs, of men. Always, it is a thing of men to you. What of things of wolves?

“I am not a wolf.”

This whole argument with Hopper is excellent because again, Hopper is right. But so is Perrin. And it’s so perfectly… it’s Perrin’s dream, and whether Hopper is actually there or not is almost irrelevant, because it’s essentially Perrin arguing with himself. At war between the two sides of his nature, and he goes around and around because until he accepts that he can be both, that he does not have to be defined as the man or the wolf, he won’t be able to find answers that make sense. Because it’s an argument where both sides are right, but he’s trying to pick only one. And so he can never win, never progress.

Perrin in his dream is literally forging figures of the people from the Two Rivers. Just like in reality he is forging them, binding them together, making them into what they must be to face the Last Battle with him. It’s not subtle, but it is rather lovely.

Though lines like this:

The figurine continued to glow, faintly reddish

Still give me flashbacks to last book, and Rand, and a certain ter’angreal of mass destruction.

But figurines like this wouldn’t be forged; they’d be cast. “What does it mean?”

Hey, at least you know enough of dreams to understand that Here There Be Symbolism, even if you don’t quite understand what of. We’ll call that a solid B+.

Hopper doesn’t think much of symbolism unless he can eat it. That’s fair.

Laughter in the distance? Moridin, are you fucking with people’s dreams again? Though he doesn’t seem like much of one for laughter these days.

Either way, dreamtime’s over. Good night, Perrin.

Next (ToM prologue pt. 2) Previous (TGS final thoughts)

[lesdemonium]

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 2

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 5801 Chapter: 2/16

Summary:  

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier’s mother with Jaskier’s obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the “gift” became more of a curse.

Additional tags: AngstAngst with a Happy EndingHeavy AngstUnrequited LoveNot Actually Unrequited LoveAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanon EraNot Canon CompliantCursed Jaskier | DandelionAlternate Universe - Ella Enchanted FusionCurse of ObedienceRape/Non-con ElementsImplied/Referenced Rape/Non-conJaskier | Dandelion Whump

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Life on the road was harder than Jaskier expected. He was talented, that was for sure, and he often could make a fair bit of coin if he played the works of other bards. But that wasn’t what Jaskier wanted. He wanted to make a name for himself with his own work, and so he kept trying. He tried to write, he tried to perform, he tried to eek some sort of feeling and poetry out of his history lessons and his own personal experiences. They were lacking. He almost didn’t blame his audiences for throwing food at him, though it was still quite rude . At least he got a meal out of it, usually.

When he saw the witcher in the corner in Posada, Jaskier hadn’t approached him thinking he was a gift from destiny. In fact, he had only one thing on the mind, and he hoped to have it inside him in some capacity by the end of the day.

That didn’t happen, but still he followed Geralt. He probably reeked of desperation of two different kinds: he still was incredibly interested in proving his theory that the witcher made more noise in fits of passion than in general conversation, but now he also needed his expertise. If anyone would know about the fae, it was a witcher. Jaskier needed Geralt, more than he would have liked to admit.

If nothing else, he was a particularly effective muse. Jaskier had never written something so quickly as he had “Toss A Coin” and never had he gotten something with such a good reception. Even Geralt warmed to the song eventually, in his way. Not the song itself, Jaskier was sure, but what the song did for him.

With Geralt, there was a certain sort of freedom. Most of his commands Jaskier was happy for. He had never lived on the road quite as much as he did now, and Geralt telling him what needed to be done made things easier on Jaskier. Jaskier’s compliance also made him appear more helpful than he actually was. Any other orders Geralt had for him were easily satisfied.

“Go away,” Geralt said, and Jaskier stumbled a few wayward steps away from the witcher.

“Shut up,” Geralt said, in exasperation. Jaskier’s mouth closed and he hummed loudly until Geralt was forced to bark out, “Stop!”

The vague orders, Jaskier had learned, largely went away on their own. The less specific the better, and luckily they didn’t seem to build on each other too much, unless the orders were specific and goal-oriented. His mother had gotten her way by saying “Do not speak for the entire night.” “Shut up,” seemed to only last until another order was given.

Traveling with a witcher also afforded Jaskier a certain amount of protection from others. It was an easy way to stay away from people, like the fur trader in the red coat who had stared at Jaskier as if the bard was a decoration he’d like to add to his collection. When Jaskier was with Geralt, people stayed away, or if they didn’t, Geralt was there to prevent anyone from stealing Jaskier away.

Not that Geralt realized that was what he was doing. Jaskier was sure that, on some level, if the witcher had been at all aware, he would have allowed the stealing. He let Jaskier stay, nonetheless, and though life with a witcher took adjusting to, Jaskier was up for it.

“This is where we part, bard,” Geralt said, time and time again.

“So you can go fight a striga without me again? Hardly, Geralt,” Jaskier scoffed. “I had to make up half the details, then deal with you bemoaning me for being incorrect on the details, only for you to then refuse to correct me . It’s far easier for everyone if I’m just there.”

“You weren’t going to come with me for the striga, Jaskier. You would have died.” Geralt’s voice was flat, resigned, but he allowed Jaskier to continue following him out of the town.

Jaskier waved a dismissive hand. “Death is merely an unfortunate side effect.” He glanced up at Geralt, only to see a look almost as powerful as Geralt’s igni in burning him on the spot. “Oh, alright . But a rotfiend is hardly the same as a striga. Besides, taking one out does not involve fighting it until dawn inside a castle. There are a great many more places for me to watch from a distance. A safe distance. And, this way, you won’t have to hurt yourself with your attempts to be verbose.”

Geralt seemed satisfied by this answer, if his grunt was anything to go off of. Considering how much time Jaskier had spent around Geralt, he supposed the grunt was quite a bit to go off of. He had commanded Jaskier to stay in town until he returned before, but this time he allowed Jaskier to continue along beside him and Roach.

The rotfiends--it turned out there was a pack of them--were disgusting. Jaskier was pretty sure he would have a few stanzas on the smell alone . But Geralt was incredible. Geralt always had such a dancing quality to his fighting, and more than once Jaskier had distracted himself on this detail alone. So far, he hadn’t truly been able to capture just how graceful the man was in his songs, but he was pretty sure no one would believe it anyway. Usually people did not look at a great beast of a man like Geralt and think “graceful,” no matter how foolish Jaskier thought they were for it.

Then again, they also didn’t look at Geralt and see “beautiful” which was truly a travesty in and of itself. While Jaskier had initially hitched himself to the witcher’s wagon for selfish reasons, he had to admit that they were no longer the reason he was here. Sure, he still would do just about anything to have Geralt pin him to the ground and have his way with him. And, sure, eventually he was still planning on finding a way to casually bring up his interest in the fae. He had to do it without alerting Geralt to his true motivations, which was tricky, and the main reason it hadn’t come up yet in the now four years he had been acquainted with the witcher. Now, though, now he was here because he just… wanted to be. Geralt was brave and noble and a true friend, even if he kept Jaskier at an arm’s length. He was skilled in battle in a way that was amazing to watch, and a solid, safe person to be around.

When Jaskier looked at Geralt, he saw amber: warm, bright, and beautiful. Secure in a way he had never felt before. With Geralt, he could reach out and embrace danger, and know that he would not be harmed. Even his monsters, like the rotfiends, had a simplicity to them that Jaskier’s monsters never did.

Hours later, when they had found their way back to town to collect their coin, and made it into a small, warm room, Jaskier still could only see amber. He hadn’t wanted to perform, beyond an almost half-hearted display of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” to prompt the villagers into fair payment. Jaskier pretended it was because he was trying to compose a new song, but he knew it was truly because he wanted to keep feeling amber. Performing meant oddly shouted-out commands. Jaskier wasn’t in the mood to be clever.

Jaskier perched upon his bed as Geralt worked, reorganizing the saddlebags for probably the hundredth time. He always insisted they were off-balance, and Jaskier had learned long-ago not to interrupt Geralt in his fiddling. Surly witchers were a pain to deal with. Jaskier pretended to be involved in his composing, but he turned just enough to sneak furtive glances Geralt’s way.

“Geralt,” Jaskier finally said, dutifully keeping his voice even.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement. He didn’t pause his work or look up, but Jaskier didn’t expect him to. Didn’t want him to, really. This would be easier to do if Jaskier pretended that this was an idle conversation.

“You’ve met a great many creatures in your time,” Jaskier began. Geralt snorted. “Any particularly interesting ones?”

“Don’t you already have material for a new song? Rotfiends not poetic enough for you?”

Jaskier feigned affront, a hand to his chest as he shot Geralt a scandalized look. “A true artist, as I am, can turn even the most disgusting of creatures into inspiration. Though I will have my work cut out for me to make my audiences trip over themselves in interest, rather than lose their suppers at the thought of the smell .” Jaskier scrunched up his nose, then continued on. “This is for curiosity’s sake. I am a seeker of knowledge, Geralt. I wish to know more of the creatures in the world. Perhaps a particular sort of creature. One that finds itself woefully lacking in printed information, but what is there paints a very peculiar--”

“Speak plainly, bard.”

Jaskier huffed. If he wanted to, he could get around that one, but why bother when the curse was giving him an out to get direct information? “Have you come across fae?”

Geralt paused for a moment. “Once or twice.”

“What were they like?” Jaskier’s heart was beating fast, and he tried everything he could to slow his rate down. He forced his breaths to slow, hoping that soon his anxious heart would get the hint and stop giving away all his secrets to the witcher’s enhanced hearing.

“Tricky,” Geralt answered with a hum.

Jaskier shot him an exasperated look. Geralt was still looking at his pack, but the small smile on his face told Jaskier that he was being taciturn on purpose . Jaskier did not appreciate it.

“Geralt, for once could I get some information out of you without pulling your teeth? Honestly, for someone who has benefited so much from me singing your deeds and praises, you sure are unwilling to offer me any information.”

“I thought this was curiosity, not material?”

Jaskier huffed again, finally dropping the notebook in front of him onto his bed. “It is , but that was more of a blanket statement. It’s not like I can go and find a book on the fae, that’s guaranteed to be chock full of the misinformation you so loathe . So, since you have a wealth of information on the monsters of this region, why don’t you bend my ear with your expertise for once?”

Geralt answered with a huffy laugh and shrugged. “They’re not monsters , exactly. Most witchers won’t take contracts on fae. They’re tricky, they’re vain, and they’re not to be messed with. But they’ll largely leave humans alone as long as they don’t insult them,” he answered with a shrug. “Both times I got mixed up with a faery, I narrowly got away.”

“How would you go about finding one? Any one, or a particular one? Or… or a court, or--” Jaskier cut himself off. To go further down this direction would likely add too much suspicion. The searching, suspicious look Geralt gave Jaskier confirmed this suspicion.

“If you’re smart, you don’t.”

“But it can be done?”

Geralt sighed. He stood, putting away the bags he must have finally been satisfied with. “To find a particular one, you would have to find the court they belong to. Unless you just happened to get lucky--or unlucky--enough to stumble upon them. But the court would know where its subjects are.” Geralt began to undress then, and had it been any other conversation, Jaskier was sure this would have distracted him. Even after all this time, it was hard not to get distracted by a bare-chested Geralt, covered in hair that Jaskier just longed to run his fingers over. This conversation was too important, though, and his dedication to making it seem unimportant even moreso.

“And how would you find the court?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at Jaskier, then returned to his bed. “Fae tend not to venture too far away from their own forests, unless for particular business. If someone was looking for a particular fae they had met before, likely they would find it near where they met the fae in the first place. Then you just… look for the entrance. Humans usually stumble upon the entrance on accident. You can track it with magic. It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible.” He paused, then shrugged. “I can’t say I know the specifics beyond that. Haven’t tried it. Like I said, if you’re smart, you don’t.”

Ah. So that meant a return to Lettenhove. That, Jaskier was not excited about, not in the least. But if he wanted to find Lazuli, he had little choice. For now, though, he could put this off. He felt far from ready to face the fae that cursed him, much less an entire fae court .

Jaskier only realized he had been too quiet, too thoughtful for too long when he finally looked up to see Geralt staring back at him strangely. His eyebrows were furrowed and he leaned forward, and Jaskier was pretty sure he had never studied Jaskier’s face that diligently. Jaskier tried to laugh and make a joke to throw Geralt off, but Geralt cut him off.

“Why are you asking, Jaskier? You aren’t going to try to find a Seelie court, are you?” Geralt asked. His voice held no humor. Honestly, he sounded almost concerned , and wasn’t that just touching?

“Geralt, come on, I told you, I’m just trying to--”

“Tell me the truth, Jaskier.”

Bollocks. Well, Jaskier had gotten around this one before, he could do it now. People never seemed to specify which truth they wanted. “You’re very knowledgeable, Geralt. It’s actually quite impressive to me. All my years of private tutors and my time at Oxenfurt, and I still think you could fill far more books with your knowledge than I could with mine. Then again, you’ve had quite a bit more time to gain that knowledge than I have, so it only seems fitting that you--”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier sighed. “I have no plans to go find a Seelie court, Geralt. I believe you that it’s dangerous.” He had already fulfilled the restrictions of the curse with his previous truth, but even this wasn’t a lie. He didn’t have plans to find the court--yet.

Geralt sat back, satisfied. He nodded, then laid down on the bed and rolled over. Tonight, he would probably actually sleep. The fight with the rotfiends, though Geralt would not admit it, had worn him out, which was why Jaskier had insisted on renting a room rather than setting up camp. Geralt didn’t sleep well on the road, and rarely slept well in an inn, but he seemed to do marginally better in an inn on nights when Jaskier stayed with him, rather than finding another bed to warm.

Jaskier was pretty sure he was not going to sleep even a moment. Not while this new information turned over and over in his head.

read chapter 3

[slytherinknowitall]

Potion Fumes and Cauldron Leaks

Chapter 11: Just A Filthy Mudblood

(Click here for chapter 10!)

(Click here to start from the beginning!)

Disclaimer: I don’t own the “Harry Potter” book series. The story of “Harry Potter” is the property of J. K. Rowling, it is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Over the course of the following month, there was a noticeable cold distance between the Potions Master and his apprentice. Somehow, his snarky comments following the brewing accident seemed to have affected the young witch a lot more than any of his other equally mean remarks in the past. As a result, she stopped raising her hand during class and was always the last one to enter and the first one to leave the gloomy dungeon room – if she showed up at all, that was.

Severus knew that it was very much unlike her to skip class, of course; but he left it at deducting points whenever she did. At the end of the day, she was Minerva’s responsibility and not his. In fact, he was rather glad about the change in her behaviour. He was glad that her essays, which had used to be so elaborate and verbose, were now kept to a minimum and soon turned dull, reading no different to other students’ work. He was even more glad that she wouldn’t make eye contact with him and only gave one-word answers as needed, even during their private lessons. Her complete refusal to communicate with him made it a hell of a lot easier to get her out of his head. After a few weeks, he stopped having indecent thoughts about her all together which finally put his mind at ease – that silly infatuation had only been a phase after all.

Or at least that was what he believed until one fateful Friday evening in mid-October.

Snape was sitting at the cluttered desk in his dark office, grading papers about Lobalug venom and its uses in potions written by his third-year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students. The essay in front of him at that very moment was starting to turn into a sea of red ink and Severus rolled his eyes in frustration. While they certainly had their good qualities, he had yet to encounter a Hufflepuff with a single ounce of talent for potion brewing.

Just as he was about to write a particularly nasty comment at the bottom of the three-foot-long parchment roll, there suddenly was the sound of commotion coming from outside the door.

“Piss off!” the deep voice of a man could be heard resonating through the dungeon hallway.

“No!” Severus instantly matched the high-pitched tone of the second person to Granger. “As Head Girl, it is my duty to protect all students from any physical or emotional harm, and I clearly saw you use the Stinging Hex on poor little Stewart Ackerly as he was going up the Grand Staircase. So whether you like it or not, you will be accompanying me to your Head of House for appropriate disciplinary action at once!”

“Listen here, you minger!” the male retaliated angrily. “I will not be told what to do by someone like you, do you fucking understand?! I do not give a shit about what stupid little title that knobhead of a headmaster gave you or what idiotic principles you think you need to uphold – I will not be bossed around by a Mudblood! The war may be over, but don’t think for a second that you will ever be more than the scum of the earth! Your kind shouldn’t even be allowed at this school!”

When Severus then heard a loud bang directly followed by a squealing outcry, he finally jumped out of his chair and rushed to the door. By the time he had pushed it open and run into the secluded corridor, Theodore Nott had already cornered Granger in an alcove, pushing her significantly smaller frame against the mouldy stone wall as his wand was buried deep in the flesh of her throat.

“I should really just take you out here and now. Not that anyone would care about one less rotten Mudblood tainting –“

All the Potions professor needed was one simple hand movement to nonverbally and wandlessly disarm the Slytherin and catapult him several feet into the air, eliciting an anguished yelp upon impact with the hard ground. Meanwhile, the now freed witch dropped to the floor. Breathing heavily, she struggled to contain her tears as her hand shot up to rub her flushed neck.

“Miss Granger, would you please go into my office and wait there while I … take care of this situation,” Severus muttered, dangerously calm as he walked towards the young pure-blood cowering in front of him.

“But –“

“Now, Miss Granger.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her frantically use the sleeve of her grey sweater to wipe her reddened eyes as she slowly got back up on her feet, throwing once last glance at her assailant before brushing past them and disappearing into the office.

Once Snape heard the lock latch, he grabbed the boy at his feet by the collar and violently pushed him against the wall, much like the wimp had done to the Gryffindor just seconds earlier.

“Mr Nott,” he basically spat the name into the lanky adolescent’s face. “Just what is it that you think you are doing?! Not only did you defy the orders of the Head Girl – someone who has nearly as much disciplinary power as any professor at this school, mind you – but you also just threatened and physically assaulted another student!”

He could practically smell the teenager’s fear. “But Professor, she deserved it! A Mudblood like her –“

“DO NOT EVER DARE TO USE THAT WORD IN MY PRESENCE AGAIN!” Severus roared, the veins of his neck protruding painfully. “Now that the Dark Lord is gone, I will no longer be tolerating this kind of behaviour at this school! Slytherin or not, you would do better to keep your idiotic prejudices to yourself – because if I ever hear you or anyone else use such terminology again, you will learn the hard way that there are worse things to go through other than the Cruciatus Curse, believe me!” With that, he pushed Nott away from him.

“To show you just how unacceptable your behaviour was, I shall deduct 250 points from Slytherin,” he continued, not giving him a chance to speak. “In addition, you will be serving detention twice a week for the rest of the school year; I do believe that Mr Filch could use some help scrubbing the toilets. You will also no longer be permitted to attend any Quidditch games or take part in any Hogsmeade weekend visits. Oh, and I shall also deduct another 50 points for your assault on that Ravenclaw boy.”

Giving him one last scowl, he pointed down the hallway. “Now, get out of my sight!”

Severus watched on in disgust as Nott hurriedly picked up his wand before scurrying off into the depths of the dungeons. Taking a few minutes to regain his composure, he remembered himself around that age.

An outside and a misfit, he had always tried so very desperately to fit in. He’d only had one real friend in his entire lifetime who had truly cared for him – Lily. But in his foolish arrogance, he had managed to screw even that up. It had been then that he had made the biggest mistake of his life: joining Voldemort’s ranks and becoming a Death Eater.

Subconsciously rubbing his left forearm, he felt disappointed in how ignorant he had been. Looking back, it was so easy to see the stupidity of it all – bitter witches and wizards who hadn’t been able to accept the fact that the blood purity they so frantically tried to cling onto no longer possessed any significance whatsoever and a maniac who had turned himself into a monster trying to become immortal. Severus may not be able to change the past, but he would be damned if he let this idiocy carry on any longer.

Shaking his head, he turned around and went back into his office. At first glance, he thought that Granger had somehow managed to sneak out while he had been telling her attacker off as he couldn’t detect her anywhere in the little room. But then he discovered her sitting on the old, rickety three-legged stool he kept in the back corner, her legs hugged tightly to her body.

“Miss Granger –“

At his words, she abruptly startled up, and Severus could see her tear-streaked face. She was a blubbering mess. An agonised sob escaped her mouth before she quickly hid her face behind her hands.

Stunned, Severus walked over to her and carefully placed his hand on her quivering shoulder, trying very hard to ignore how his heart seemed to skip a beat as he touched her.

“Miss Granger,” he repeated. But yet again, he only received more pitiful whimpers in response.

Snape let out a deep sigh before squatting down in front of her. While he had made many students cry in his days, he had never tried to console one before.

“Please look at me, Miss Granger. Why are you so distraught?” he asked in what he believed to be a soothing tone.

After a few more sniffles and sobs, her shaking voice could finally be heard coming from underneath the mountain of untamed curls.

“He’s right,” she said softly, keeping her face well-hidden.

Severus frowned. “Certainly not. Even though Mr Nott may be of a different opinion, the positions of Head Girl and Head Boy are important ones that have proven themselves useful for many centuries now and – “

“No,” she interrupted him hoarsely. “He’s right about me being a Mudblood.”

Severus was flabbergasted. “Don’t say –“

“BUT IT’S TRUE!” she practically screamed, her head shooting up to reveal the anguished expression on her blotchy face. “Voldemort may be dead, but things haven’t changed! In people’s eyes, I will always be worth less because I am Muggle-born. It doesn’t matter how hard I try; even if I’m the best at everything, I will never be more than a, a –“

A lone tear escaped her chocolate brown eyes. “A filthy Mudblood.”

When Severus didn’t react immediately, still too dumbfounded to speak, she grimaced bitterly before jumping up and bolting for the door.

“Miss Granger, don’t –“ he pleaded, grabbing her by the wrist which in turn caused her to lose her footing and fall back onto him. Unable to remain upright following the accidental collision, he soon found himself on the dusty floor, with the bawling girl lying on top of him.

Severus promptly tried to get back up again, embarrassed by the sudden physical contact, but Granger just sobbed even louder and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

Fuck. Fuck. What is she doing?!

He momentarily panicked, not knowing what to do. But then – following a sudden urge inside of him that could only be described as the basic human instinct to comfort the suffering – he awkwardly embraced her shaking frame and started to slowly stroke her back.

“Miss Granger,” he muttered gently, the words leaving his mouth seemingly involuntarily. “I might have to obliviate you after saying this, but believe me when I say that you are worth more than all of Britain’s pure-bloods combined. This school has never seen a pupil as brilliant and smart as you. It is not your fault that those backward-thinking fanatics cannot come around to accept that one’s blood status has nothing to do with one’s magical abilities, you being the best example for that. You are not worth less just because you were born to non-magical parents. If anything, you are superior to those of us who grew up solely in the wizarding community, as you can move around the Muggle world freely without causing much of a stir – you’ve got the best of both worlds, really!”

When his lousy attempt at a joke was met with only more wailing and trembling, he hurriedly carried on with his speech. “Besides, you are a war hero, Miss Granger! If it hadn’t been for your wits and resourcefulness, Potter would have been killed a long time ago; probably not even at the hands of the Dark Lord but rather due to a botched brewing attempt or the like. You played a key role in the downfall of the most dangerous wizard to have ever existed, and any Death Eater that is still left out there as well as those who continue to sympathise with that antiquated mindset would do better to fear you. I mean, none of my Slytherins were even brave enough to become my apprentice. Tell me how anyone could claim themselves to be of superior descent if they cannot even bring themselves to face the bat of the dungeons? Not that any of them would have been academically ambitious enough anyway …”

Severus made a small pause before he continued, “As hard as it may be, do not let their ignorant remarks get to you, and do not let yourself be consumed by hatred for them either, as there is already enough hate in the world as it is. If anything, feel pity for them. Their dim-witted pride occupies them so much that they cannot even get any joy from life. They let themselves be controlled by their fear of becoming insignificant, of losing the power they once held. They cannot admit to themselves that they have nothing left but their half-burned family tapestries filled with incest and tragedy. And once they come to their senses and realise their mistakes – which hopefully, they one day will – be the bigger person and forgive them. The heavy burden of their sins will be punishment enough. I –“

He struggled to find the right words. “I myself am guilty of such a shameful past, and I have spent the last 20 years paying for it. Unfortunately, some people do not seem to learn from history, and it truly mortifies me to see my Slytherins, the students of my beloved house, follow in the footsteps of their misguided parents. It’s … it’s just not right and it never will be.”

No longer audibly crying, the girl in his arms appeared to have at last been calmed down by his words, and Severus was glad about that; just like many men, he was absolutely terrified of a woman’s tears. Taking a deep breath, he finally did what he had done so rarely in life and never to a student at that: He apologised.

“My actions towards you were so often intolerantly mean, Miss Granger. Not only regarding the unfortunate incident with the Boil Cure, which was really caused by my carelessness rather than yours; but also all the years I let you and your …” Trying not to upset her any further, he searched for a neutral word to use for her dunderhead friends. “Peers suffer from my admittingly despotic teaching style. I had to uphold a certain façade, of course; considering that I was still pretending to be on the Dark Lord’s side. However, I often took it too far. Especially you, Miss Granger, should not have been put through all that, as you were an excellent, outstanding student. I know that I certainly do not deserve it, but I hope that you can find it in your heart to one day forgive me.”

Not daring to breathe, he waited for a response – but there was none. Granger remained completely quiet.

Sheer terror arose inside him. Had he gone too far? Did she feel cornered by his sudden confession? Oh, he knew that he shouldn’t have done that! Opening up to anyone – particularly a student – was just asking for trouble. Now she would undoubtedly go out and tell all of her moronic little friends about how much of a weak pussy he really was, and then they would never take him seriously ever again! Just the thought of it was enough to cause him to abruptly become irate.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he said in his typical cold and threatening voice. “For your pathetic behaviour, I shall deduct 40 points from Gryffindor. House of the brave, my arse! Now, get off me at once!”

Still, no response.

“Miss Granger?” Severus asked a bit less forcefully this time, a look of slight confusion appearing on his face. “Miss Granger! … Hermione?”

Just then, a loud snore escaped Granger’s lips – she had fallen asleep minutes ago.

Not wanting to wake her up now that she had finally settled down, Severus carefully readjusted her position on his body and let his head fall back until it came to a rest on the stone floor. He would wait a while to make sure that she was properly asleep before moving her off him and getting back to work. And meanwhile, he would just ignore that stupid feeling forming in his stomach.

Yes, that’s what he would do.

*************** *************** ***************

When Hermione woke up the next morning, her body was aching terribly, but at the same time, she felt extremely well-rested. To tell the truth, she hadn’t slept that well since her fifth year. Sirius’ death had made it all real back then, and she had been battling terrible nightmares ever since. A faint smile appeared on her face – maybe those days were finally behind her!

Her eyes still closed, she snuggled up closer to the life-size teddy bear behind her which her older cousin had won for her at their town’s fair more than a decade ago. Only that teddy bears normally didn’t groan or pull you closer to them – and so the brunette was abruptly wide-awake.

Understandably shocked and confused, Hermione’s eyes flew open, but she immediately flinched in pain; for some reason, her eyelids were swollen and hurt when she tried to open them. How weird, had she been crying?

A quick wandless healing spell later, she was finally able to take in her surroundings. Not that this helped her confusion at all: All she could see was a dark room, dimly lit by a few magically enchanted candles fixed to a dark grey stone wall. Was she in the dungeons? If so, she certainly couldn’t remember how she got there. And why was she lying on the floor? The young woman was quite frankly baffled.

Just then, her “teddy bear” called attention to himself yet again with another loud grunt, reminding her of what had caused her to wake up in the first place. By now, she was certain that whoever was behind her wasn’t her beloved stuffed animal, of course; as it was not only a mere Muggle product without the ability to move or make sounds, but it had also been located on the bed in her childhood room the last time she’d seen it. So who was it that was holding onto her with that grip made of steel?

She frantically ran through the possibilities in her head and for a split second, she even believed herself to have been kidnapped by one of the few remaining Death Eaters still at large, but she quickly dismissed that thought; one of Voldemort’s fanboys surely wouldn’t be hugging her spoon-style.

The next scenario that her mind came up with was a drunken night that had ended in a make-out session with some random guy. Not that she had ever done anything like that before, but that was what always happened in the movies, right? She couldn’t remember getting drunk; however, Hogwarts was famous for its secret student parties. Normally, it would have been her job as Head Girl to prevent those, but what if she had got herself caught up in something just this once?

Hermione furrowed her brows. Oh god, what if it was Ron?! Had she finally given into his advances? She couldn’t help but feel sick to her stomach at the thought of his bloated lips kissing her mouth and his pasty hands roaming her body. If that was really what had happened, then their friendship would be over – there was just no way she could ever look him in the eyes again.

And so even though she would rather not know, she simply had to find out whose hands were holding onto her waist at this very moment. Gulping, she slowly turned her head towards the person behind her. But instead of seeing the expected ginger head of hair and the freckled face of her best friend, she was looking straight into the sleeping face of Severus Snape.

“Oh no,” the girl whispered, her eyes wide in shock. “Oh no, no, no, no, no! What the –“

When the sudden noise caused him to stir, she quickly covered her mouth with her hand – it wouldn’t do any good to waken the Dungeon Bat before she had figured this whole situation out.

After what felt like an eternity, the wizard finally settled down again, and it was only after her lungs started to ache that Hermione realised that she had been holding her breath.

Okay, Hermione, relax! There has to be a reasonable explanation as to how you and Professor Snape ended up like this. Just think!

Purposely avoiding looking in her cuddling partner’s direction, Hermione racked her brain – but she simply could not come up with a plausible reason for their current situation. She didn’t have any classes taking place in the dungeons on Friday evenings and she also couldn’t remember having any extra apprenticeship lessons scheduled with her tutor; not that she would have had agreed to one in the first place. So why had she come down here? And what’s more, what had led to her and Professor Snape cuddling on the cold floor of his office?

Already close to a panic attack, the previous night’s events finally came back to her: How Theodore Nott had attacked her. How Professor Snape had come to her rescue. How she had been able to hear him tear the Slytherin apart. How she had broken down crying. How she had tripped and fallen onto her teacher who had then tried to comfort her. How safe she had felt in his strong arms before drifting off to sleep.

Hermione’s relief about this G-rated explanation was short-lived, however, because she soon noticed how her professor’s face was just a mere inch away from hers. Being this close to him felt so embarrassingly intimate that she couldn’t help her face turning beet red. She made a feeble attempt to remove his arms from around her body, but that just caused him to squeeze her even tighter. Merlin’s pants, what was she supposed to do now?

Trying to ignore Snape’s soft snoring, she pondered for a few seconds before ultimately reaching down between them. After some awkward fiddling, she finally managed to extract her wand from the pocket of her skirt. A basic conjuring spell later, she was holding a fairly large white pillow in her hands.

She took a shaky breath – so far, so good. Now came the tricky part: In one swift movement, she slipped out from between his arms while simultaneously replacing her form with the cushion. While the Potions Master certainly didn’t seem too happy about losing his cuddly toy – Hermione could have sworn that she even saw him pout for a split second – he soon settled back down. His apprentice exhaled in relief.

Trying not to make a sound, she stood up and quickly made herself presentable again by smoothing out her rather wrinkly clothes and fixing her tousled hair. Checking her wristwatch, she realised that it was only 4.53 a.m. – with a bit of luck, it was still early enough for her to sneak back to her tower without anyone noticing.

But just as she was about to head for the door, Hermione took another look at the sleeping man. Snape looked surprisingly peaceful as he lay there, with a five o'clock shadow gracing his cheeks and a bit of drool coming out of the corner of his half-open mouth. He definitely didn’t look as angry or threating anymore, that was for sure. Not that Hermione had ever been scared of him; she had never truly believed him to be that mean monster all the other students – especially her fellow Gryffindors – made him out be. Yes, he had definitely intimidated her during her younger years and he had even made her cry once or twice. But knowing that he had been putting his life on the line trying to save the world from Voldemort, Hermione had always respected and trusted the Potions professor. He was one of the good ones, regardless of how grumpy and nasty he could be. And while he had deeply hurt her feelings with his mean words following the accident, she couldn’t be mad at him anymore after his actions from the previous night. He had not only saved her from an attack, but he had also tried to console her.

A small smile appeared on her lips as she stepped closer to his sleeping figure. Leaning forward, she examined his face. While he certainly wasn’t a classic beauty, he could still be considered handsome. His hair looked a bit uncared for and his nose was a little too big, but with that strong jawline and those prominent black eyebrows, that only added to his rugged and manly look.

He looked so calm and content in that moment that Hermione almost reached out her hand to touch his cheek. Instead, she swiftly conjured a blanket with which she covered his resting form. She then walked over to his desk, which was still filled with dozens upon dozens of documents and essays, and ripped a small piece of parchment paper off a blank roll. Using Snape’s golden quill, she quickly scribbled down some words before quietly moving to the door and leaving the room, the dark-haired wizard still sound asleep on the floor.

*************** *************** ***************

It was not even an hour later when Severus opened his black eyes. Still dazed, he let out a hoarse grunt as he propped himself up on one elbow. He wasn’t surprised about waking up in his office; he had oftentimes found himself there after being summoned by the Dark Lord and spending long nights at Death Eater raids. However, he had never woken up with a pillow underneath his head and a fluffy blanket draped across his body.

Following a brief moment of confusion, he remembered the previous night.

I must have fallen asleep as well.

After a quick scan of the room, he was sure that he was alone. Feeling a heavy migraine approaching, Severus let out a deep sigh before climbing to his feet. He didn’t even want to think about the Gryffindor’s opinion on him now.

With a simple flick of his wand, he swiftly sleeked down his jet-black hair and made his beard stubbles disappear before making his way to the desk. While he felt absolutely whacked physically, he had to admit that he had slept surprisingly well. In fact, he hadn’t slept that well since his own years as a student. Severus frowned. Not that that had anything to do with the little know-it-all, he told himself.

Slumping into his leather chair, he was just about to reach for one of the bottom drawers in search of some bottle of hard liquor to drown his memories of the previous night in when he noticed a short note written in that small, neat handwriting he knew all too well sitting on top of a pile of yet to be corrected essays.

Thank you. – H.

As he read the brief scribble, he could feel a strange, warm feeling that he hadn’t known in about two decades creep through his body.

Shit.

He was starting to like Granger.

(Click here for chapter 12!)