A/N: This chapter reposted for corrections and such.
"I think I might add 'alcoholic' to the list of things I do not appreciate in women," Snape said admiringly as she downed her seventh shot of Goblin's Revenge, which was a vile excuse for gin that tasted something like mouthwash and perfume mixed with a 'delicate hint of juniper berry.'
"Nungh," she replied intelligently, planting her face on the table.
The Leaky Cauldron's bar table was cool and smooth against her forehead and there was relatively little confetti visible in the poorly-lit conditions. The general din of the place wasn't doing much for her headache, but the whole scene seemed appropriate for a recently unemployed twenty-something who'd just tried to boff her ex-professor in a Herbology-related delirium.
She raised her head just enough to scowl at the ex-professor in question. "Why aren't you dead?" she asked for the umpteenth time that day.
"You will resist your deranged urge to molest me with questions, Miss Granger," he commanded.
"Why did you want to talk to my boss?"
"Former boss. And cease your prattling."
"Do you think I read too much? Ron said I read too much."
"Do you really want me to answer that, Miss Granger?"
"Answering a question with a question, are we? How very witty of you, Mister Snape." The broomstick-up-the-arse title of 'Miss' was really beginning to irritate her. Especially now that she was sober.
Relatively sober, anyway.
Whatever. The point is, relative sobriety did not do wonders for his personality.
Snape looked down at her with utmost patronization. "I do, as a matter of fact, think you read too much. It is entirely unattractive in a woman. Nearly as unattractive as the dragon dung compost packed under your fingernails. Tell me, do you intentionally wallow in the muck and mire of industrial greenhouse filth? Or does your hair have its own gravitational field and naturally suck everything into its nebulous depths?"
He picked up a hank of her befouled hair with two fingers, holding it aloft with the same expression that one might regard a used prophylactic found lying across the seat in a public lavatory. Something about the way he held his mouth told her he was laughing at her. She did not care for it, and batted his hand away.
"Good God, Snape. Who knew you were a misogynist in addition to everything else." She sat up straight, picked up her drink, and sloshed it in his general direction. "You know what? You're an emotional fucking cripple. Your soul is dog shit. Every single thing about you is ugly." She took a deep drink before repeating, "Ugly."
He raised his stupid bleeding eyebrow yet again. It looked like... Like a mass of dead cockroaches writhing in shit. Yes, that's it exactly. Cockroaches. With the squirmy legs and the antennae and the—the—
Not sexy. Not one whit. She mentally congratulated herself on her creativity.
"And you're a cunt. You've always been a cunt. And the only thing that's going to change is that you'll become an even bigger cunt," he said flatly.
"Go fuck yourself."
"I assure you, Miss Granger, I plan to. The fact that I shall never have to subject myself to one of your long-winded essays ever again is, and has been, cause enough for celebratory self-abuse. I could not and would not, on a boat, read another one of those atrocious papers you wrote."
"You can't even get Seuss right. Wanker," she shot back, shaking her head. "Sad little wanker."
"Haven't you been paying attention? I said as much already. Do keep u—"
"You were looking for a job, weren't you?" she accused suddenly, shooting up her seat and pointing a finger at him. It soon became evident that she did not think this course of action through. The world spun in front of her eyes and some blaggard turned off the gravity. She fell back into her seat with a thunk and placed her head back on the table where it would hopefully stop trying to free itself of its attachment to the rest of her body.
He began to speak, but she continued right over him. "You were! Well, look at this. Severus Snape, Order of Merlin, Second Class, sitting in a sodding bar and unemployed. How the mighty have fallen." The effect of her pronouncement was somewhat dampened by the fact that her mouth was smushed against the table top.
"Good God, Miss Granger. I must thank you for opening my eyes to see what a failure I really am. Truly, you have my eternal gratitude. How much do I owe you for those pearls of wisdom?"
She thought for a moment. "That one was on the house."
Snape lapsed into a sour, brooding silence, and she allowed herself a moment to marvel that she'd actually found him and his forearms attractive. Not just attractive. Not even just gentle-swooping-in-her-stomach-attractive. It was more like cosh-you-with-a-sledgehammer-to-the-brain-stem-when-your-back-is-turned attractive, which was, in Hermione's opinion, very attractive indeed. Hermione frowned at her drink and tried not to think about the coshing. Or the kiss. Which wasn't even good. No, definitely not. How could it be? Snape was a vile, digusting, floppy-dicked, cheese-balled—
Okay, so the kiss was good. It might have been more than good. It might have been bloody fantastic. And she just might have wanted another.
Apparently, according to her alcohol-drenched brain, the only logical way to get another was to insult the man even more.
With great effort, she raised her head.
"Look, Snape. You're a pathetic wanker and I'm twenty-five years old, single, and have too much old-school knitwear in my closet. We should..."
She lost her bravado halfway and tried to compensate by taking a deep swig from Snape's tankard, as her own was empty. She spluttered her way to composure and began again. "We should—that is to say... We should finish what we, erm, started. "
Snape gave her a sort of up-down appraising look that made her want to cross her arms in front of her chest. It reminded her of the look of vague apology that Ron gave her when she found out he was cheating on her; a look that made her feel like she was being the unreasonable one for expecting other men to find her attractive; a look condescending in its sympathy. It was the sort of look you give a moldy plate of leftovers you find in the back of the fridge. Guilty, because you bought it and didn't eat it, but left it to rot instead. Disgusted as much by the wasted money as by the sour stink. The sort of look you give roadkill. She frowned.
God, what was she thinking? That he would actually want to shag her when his mental faculties weren't corrupted by the hallucinatory properties of Puffapod Blooms? Maybe Ron was right. Snape said it himself. She was hard to want.
She just wanted to go home now.
"Look, if you don't want to shag me, that's fine," she said, fishing in her pockets for spare coins. She'd be damned if she were to beg for a pity shag, and she'd be damned if she were to accept a pity drink. She tossed the first thing her fingers touched onto the table and stood, holding on to the lip of the bar for dear life. She looked at him coldly, sticking her nose in the air. "If you think I'm beneath your attention, I respect your opinion. But I want you to know that you're wrong and I hate you."
And then, it happened.
The man smiled.
Honest to God smiled. It was a confusing experience for her, but not altogether unpleasant. "So long as your sexuality isn't as dysfunctional as your ability to repot a Mandragora, I wouldn't say 'no'."
It took her eight seconds to process his words. "So... Yes to the sex?" she asked incredulously.
He raised his chin to give her a contemptuous look.
"If we must," he sneered. Somehow, his sneer seemed a lot more friendly.
"How... flattering..." she said slowly, trying not to gape at his face.
"It is hardly the time to be choosy, Miss Granger," he said, nodding wisely.
Dammit. Now she had to say something clever back. Her clever arsenal was running a little low at the moment.
"And...and..." She frowned. "I'll have you know, my sexuality is far from dysfunctional. I'm not some timid little virgin. In fact," she added brightly, suddenly feeling quite happy, "you should see my bollocks! They're gigantic."
If the look on Snape's face was any indication, he'd taken this statement literally.
More like snorted, actually.
"I cannot tolerate women who speak—and laugh—like three-hundred-fifty pound, liquor-guzzling, skirt-chasing sailors, but I suppose I must settle for you," he said, standing from his seat.
"Well, that's good, because I do not like men who...who..." She thought very hard for a moment. "I don't like men who stand like you."
"Stand like me?" he said, his voice too low and quiet for the racket in the bar, but she heard it anyway.
"Yes. You stand... weird. You stand like a... Like a dork."
"I find it rather endearingly pathetic, watching you try to fit your entire vocabulary in one sentence." He pulled out of his seat and moved around to stand in front of her.
"I happen to have an excellent vocabulary! My mental lexicon happens to be meritorious, and estimable, and prodigious, and Brobdingnagian—it's a real bloody word, check it!—and perspicacious, and—"
And she couldn't finish her train of thought, or indeed speak at all, because Snape had grabbed her about the waist and was now kissing the crap out of her. He insinuated his tongue in the seam of her lips and when it touched hers, there was an honest-to-God celestial choir singing their blessed little arses off in her head.
"Shush, Hermione," he whispered against her mouth and proceeded to drive her to near-madness with his wet, wicked muscle.
This was when she noticed that he was slowly walking them both toward the door.
She frowned at him and pulled her arm out of his grip. "And just where do you think you're taking me?" She felt entitled to be a little belligerent.
"Have you revised your opinion on our arrangement, Granger?"
'Arrangement? 'Jesus, he may just have been the least romantic man to ever walk the face of the Earth.
"We still need to pay," she pointed out, gesturing toward their empty glasses still piled on the bar. She had, apparently, thrown nothing more than a sad, dishevelled piece of pocket lint onto the table.
"Keep your voice down. I do not plan on paying for that vile swill. You, however, are free to."
Her jaw nearly dropped. Severus Snape was broke in addition to everything else? She looked again at the pile of abandoned glassware. She certainly didn't have the gold for all of that. Maybe Harry wouldn't mind if she just put it on his tab. She'd pay him back of course, and—
Snape was tugging at her arm again. "Oi! Snape, we can't just leave without—"
But he already had her halfway out the door, and nobody seemed to notice that two war heroes were leaving without paying their tab. She should have been nervous. Horrified, even. But it was oddly... liberating. She had to resist the urge to giggle naughtily.
And that was the story of how Hermione Granger, Prissiest Prig to ever Priss the Prig, became a common criminal.
How the mighty have fallen, indeed.
They were back in Poppy Cock's. The room above Poppy Cock's, to be precise. Did we mention that Hermione lived in a rented room above Poppy Cock's Greenhouse?
Well, Hermione lived in a rented room above Poppy Cock's Greenhouse.
She shut the door quietly behind her and leaned her head against it in an attempt to collect herself. She muttered the incantations to the wards and turned to face Snape.
"So..." she began nervously, wringing her hands together. It felt odd standing with Snape in her very real room, with her very real couch taking up most of the space of the floor behind him, with her very real kitchen table neatly topped with a very real basket of fruit, and her very real cat, Doorknob, staring at them inquisitively from the window sill.
He seemed slightly amused by her disease. "So..." he repeated gravely, all mock seriousness as he too leaned against the wall. Then he ruined it by smirking his stupid (sexy) smirk.
"So... Where were w—"
He saved the moment with a very ardent, very dominant, very real kiss.
"You... have to... stop... Oh!... cutting me... off... like... that..." she gasped breathlessly in between his kisses. He pushed his body resolutely against hers, one hand braced against the door behind her and the other digging almost chastely into her upper arm, and she never thought she would like being pressed up against the wall like this, but oh, Merlin, did she ever.
"Seems... to... work..." he groaned back at her, dipping his knees to grind his sharp hips into the softness of her own. He bit and sucked and licked his way down the curve of her neck, sliding her bra strap down her shoulder with his teeth. The contrast of his heated mouth to the cold air hitting her skin made her knees quiver. Quiver! Like in those trashy romance novels that she did not—absolutely did not—ever read.
"Fuck," he whispered almost reverently, watching as her skin flushed pink, then red from his onslaught. Her face heated and she wondered if she would ever get used to being looked at like that by Severus Snape.
"You... You look..." he groaned raggedly. A small, wet sound came out of her throat and their eyes met, hers impossibly wide, his impossibly black. He was breathing heavily, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his robes. The moment seemed to last forever.
She lunged forward and wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and tugged him down to her level. She kissed him full on the mouth and trailed her lips along the faint stubble on his cheek to the knob where the sharp line of his jaw met beneath his ears. Trying to remember what it was he did to her ears earlier that almost drove her past the brink of madness, she pulled his earlobe into her mouth and sucked.
And the sound of it vibrated against her breasts.
She brought her hands to the first button of his robe and tried desperately to unhook it from its hole. Impatient, she resorted to a muttered incantation. His buttons fell to the floor simultaneously with a metallic clatter.
"Impressive," he drawled, narrowing his eyes. "When did you learn wandless magic? No matter. You have a lot to learn, still."
She was just wondering about the best way to get him to stop bloody talking when she felt a cold draught and looked down to find herself completely naked.
This time he cut her off by swiping the broad part of his tongue against her nipple. He watched it pucker, and blew on it gently.
"So very pretty," he said quietly.
He slid both hands around the outer curves of her breasts and squeezed lightly. He hefted the weight of her right breast in his hand and passed his palm slowly along the underside of it. Using just the very tip of one calloused finger, he traced a faint circle around the outer edge of her areola, pressing his other palm into her belly to quell her spasms of pleasure. He took his hands away and did the same to her other breast.
Then he bent his dark head over her chest, his hair tickling her, and repeated his actions with his tongue, never touching the tips of her nipples. Frustrated and over-sensitized, she thrust her chest out at him in an effort to assuage the unbearable itch rising to a point inside of her and noticed that he was holding both her arms together above her head.
"Do stop squirming, Miss Granger," he chided. "Do you, perhaps, wish me to stop?"
"I just—I can't..." she breathed out, arching her back in a desperate attempt to ease the ache he had caused in her breasts.
"Answer me, girl," he growled, tugging (finally, finally) at her nipple with his teeth.
"Ah!" she yelped. "No! No! Don't stop! Don't you dare!"
"No," he replied firmly before bending and placing the whole of his mouth over her nipple. She felt the suction of his tongue pulling against her flesh and wriggled her arms out of his grip to clutch his head to her chest.
"Contra-contraception," she finally gasped out. Some very small part of Responsible Hermione's brain congratulated her on having the presence of mind to remember such things as family planning.
He practically growled against her neck, his crooked teeth grazing the skin there with a delicious insistence. "Taken care of," he insisted shortly, resuming the sexual onslaught of her breasts.
He rose and traced her bottom lip lightly with his thumb, dipped it to follow the line of her jaw, and allowed his touch to linger at a shivering and wonderful spot behind her ear that she hadn't known existed. She groaned appreciatively and dared to insinuate a hand between his legs to squeeze his cock.
"What's the matter," she teased. "Hand got your snake?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Your creativity astounds me, Miss Gra—"
Shee quite suddenly captured his lips in another kiss, this one even more intense and demanding, if that were possible. He made an angry sound and ground himself against her palm, pushing her shoulders back into the wall. When he nipped at her and she parted her lips just slightly and he, like the opportunistic bastard that he was, slipped his tongue fully in her mouth, the only word she could think of that came close was plunder. It brought a moan from somewhere deep inside her throat, heady and low and getting trapped in the scant space between their bodies.
The hands gripping at her hips seemed to know what they were doing and she wanted—needed—them to move lower and do what they had before. "Get on with it," she demanded insistently.
He drew his lips away from hers with a groan that shot directly to her womb and tightened her nipples. Snape then surprised her by settling on his knees before her.
"Oh!" was her somewhat alarmed response, because there was once an almost-feminist moment back when she was still a teenager involving a hand mirror, shortly followed by a sense of pity for any unfortunate soul who had to go down there.
Snape then actually shushed her as though anticipating the beginning of an objection and finding it rather ridiculous. "Quiet, Granger," he murmured, and the sound of the four little syllables of the two little words skidded across her most intimate parts. And bam! Ka-Pow! There was her heart exploding in her chest.
He then surprised her even more by parting her thighs, his hands on the inside of her knees, completely exposing her to his scrutiny. She choked and tensed as he lowered his face to the triangle between her thighs and she felt his hot breath against her equally heated flesh. She moved her hands down protectively.
"No," he said, batting her hands away. "Trust me." And how could she not, with him on his knees at her feet, his eyes burning indecently into hers?
She watched him as he ran his palms up the insides of her thighs and pushed them apart. He looked back into her eyes as he slid a hand deftly under her knee and lifted until her calf rested on his shoulder and her legs were spread even further. There was the whisper of hair sliding along a thigh
"Trust me," he repeated himself. "You'll like this."
A few well-placed kisses on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh and a swooping sensation in her stomach had her suspecting any objection may have, in fact, been a little ridiculous.
And then, suddenly, his mouth was there. She felt the broad flat of his tongue slide like a masterful brush stroke across the whole of her, from perineum to clitoris, in a way that made her buck her hips and fist her hands in those curtains of hair and decide that yes, any objection to this probably was completely ridiculous.
Because it was so unbelievably good. Wet and warm and throbbing and threatening to rob her of her sense. So good she found herself using that calf at his shoulder to urge him forward with these positively wanton and undulating movements, her heel digging into his back, a series of breathy noises issuing from her throat.
His tongue lingered at that little apex of nerves that she knew so well and he flicked. She gasped when he did it, and again when he did it again, because there was something about the delicacy of the move that made it all the more intense; made her feel like she was teetering on the edge of some disastrous cliff, half-terrified and half-elated at the prospect of a fall.
The lips, skillful and greedy and aggressive, clamped down harder and—oh dear God—he sucked like you'd greedily go after a popsicle, and he did this at the same time she felt two fingers at her entrance, pressing in with a mind-blowing fullness. The pressure of them, pumping in and out and in again, was simply intolerable, cresting like a wave, and she was holding onto the edge by one hand.
She bit her lip and emitted a strangled sound, tossing her head from side to side and pressing her fingers against her mouth.
He surfaced for a moment. "No, Granger," he said sternly. "I want to hear you let go. Just. Let. Go."
And God, that made this guttural sob come out, because she wanted desperately to let go, but she wasn't sure she could or even should, and—
And it became impossible to think because the tongue was there again, and the lips, and the fingers pressing in, not moving, but simply buried pulsating knuckle-deep within her, and just everything. She must have been moaning and keening something completely and utterly shameless and obscene; the ache was unbearable and white-hot and prickling along her scalp and skittering down her spine and he was sucking and fucking and his fingers fluttered inside her, curving upward and making that same curt, decisive "come hither" motion and—
And her climax came on her suddenly, like something paradoxically primitive and sophisticated and—good Lord—just oh. So. Good. She gripped his hair even harder, trying to hold on as she lost balance and began to fall, and she didn't mean to beg him pleaseplease to stop her, but she was doing it anyway. He wouldn't; he didn't stop her, he only pushed her completely over the edge with that tongue and those fingers and their dexterous movements, and it was strange that she should keep falling—in waves, it seemed—because she was breaking to pieces even though she hadn't hit the ground. Shattering into something glimmering and refracting and completely robbed of anything even resembling thought.
From somewhere, she heard dimly: "That's it. Come for me, Hermione. Good girl," whispered broken and crude into her skin.
He kissed her halfway back to rationality and it was something wet and salty and utterly erotic rather than disgusting.
He gently eased her leg off his shoulder, pushed her back into the wall, and supported her boneless body with his knee propped between her legs. He swiftly tugged his trousers and pants down to his knees and lifted her by the waist, his breathing laboured; his face flushed and sweaty.
As she wrapped her legs about him she had a brief impression of blunt fullness pressing against her entrance before he thrust forward, every ridge of his cock stuttering against her climax-ravaged nerve-endings, every pump pressing his crisp-haired pubic bone against her swollen clit. The carnal slapping sound of flesh joining flesh filled her threadbare flat.
Every point of contact was inflated to confounding proportions: his hands supporting her bum, the skin of his thighs dragging against her inner thighs, his clothed chest warm and scratchy against her naked chest. She surged her hips forward in time to his, and he met her eyes and increased his pace.
"Yes, yes, yes, yes..." he panted over and over in a breathless litany.
"Fuck," she hissed out. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" The skin of her back rubbed raw against the not-so-smooth wall, but at this point she wouldn't give half a damn if Boss Man himself materialised on top of her couch.
And there it was; that self-satisfied look again, strangely laboured under his utterly enraptured face. He was looking down at the place of their coupling, apparently lost on the darkling plain of his own impending orgasm. And, amazingly, she felt another climax of her own building in the short silences between the sound of his body meeting hers over, and over, and over again.
"I want you to touch yourself, Granger," he said softly.
"Place your fingers on your cunt like I did. Make yourself come."
And she was powerless to disobey. Tentatively, she withdrew one hand from around his shoulder and touched the tip of her finger to her clitoris, his eyes riveted to its journey there.
"Press... harder..." he groaned, and she complied. She whined through her teeth as he sucked in a breath of air and cursed savagely.
"Fucking hell, Hermione. You taste... You feel... So fucking sweet..."
"Oh God, oh God, oh God!" It was a vulgar prayer punctuated through with the occasional "Jesus!" and "Please!" and "Don't stop! For the love of God, don't stop!"
He didn't stop, not even when she wrapped her arms around his back and twisted her fingers into his hair; not even as her legs wrapped more tightly around his hips; not even when she sunk her teeth into the place where his neck met his shoulder. Because, merciful Zeus, it was too much. She was clutching to the edge for dear life again, and again he impelled her over it. He grunted, his climax raw and breathy; catching in his throat; ripped out from between his teeth; hitting the air between them and spanning across her cheeks and—
And everything was absorbed into a single point inside her head, right between her eyes, and it exploded outward underneath her skin as her eardrums popped and her mouth fell slack and her brain dissolved into mush and her lungs were far, far, far too small for all the air she needed; her body too fragile for the coiling clutching convulsions that seized her by the very bones, and it was half-pain, half-pleasure as she hardly realised she was pressing her thumb and rubbing herself into a delirium; and she belonged to the waves now, never to return, and—
And they somehow managed not to break anything too important as knees gave way and bones turned to jelly and the floor made intimate contact with their tangled bodies.
A great many gasping breaths and just a few apologies for dropping you, Miss Granger, Snape tucked a sweaty lock behind her ear. "Bedroom?" he purred.
It was all she could do to nod, because she was distracted by this funny thought. She thought how silly those people were who said they saw stars. She hadn't seen the stars; she'd been the stars.
She shared this opinion with Snape, but all he said was "You're welcome," and asked her if she wouldn't like to reciprocate.
Later, when they were both spent and lying tangled on the couch, there came a repeated thudding sound issuing from the floorboards. Snape jerked awake and reached for his wand.
"Oh, don't worry about that," Hermione said groggily. "S'just Potato Man. He's harmless."
Snape looked skeptical, but he relaxed and placed his wand back on the coffee table.
From below: "Cease your fornicating ways this instant, Scrivener! You dare have the audacity to return here to my place of business? You can't live here anymore! Out! Out!"
Potato Man's feeble remonstrances were soon lost as they slipped off into the mute bliss of post-coital sleep, his elbow digging uncomfortably into her ribs, her hair smeared all over his face.
It wasn't too unpleasant.
For one thing, there wasn't any confetti.
"Fawkes," Snape said suddenly. It was a whisper; a confession. It was also a complete non sequitur.
"Hmm?" she asked, reluctantly ending her exploration of his sparsely-haired and oh so very sexy chest in order to look up at him. She was thoroughly satisfied and utterly shagged, which must have accounted for her confusion on seeing a strangely stoic expression on Snape's face. "What was that?"
"Fawkes," he repeated. "That's why I'm not dead, as you so eloquently put it. Fawkes, as meddling as his late master, found me after your lot left and he proceeded to completely ruin my noble death."
"By saving your life, you mean?"
"I suppose this is the point where I tell you that you have the rest of your life ahead of you?" she offered playfully.
Snape scowled down his considerable nose at her. "I'm sure you can manage something much more trite, Miss Granger. 'All's well that ends well,' perhaps? Shall we ride off into the sunset? Get married and have a brood of bushy-haired, hook-nosed babies?"
"Oh, absolutely," she replied, smiling deviously up at him. "Et cetera," she added airily, waving her hand in the air in an abstract representation of all the joy that was to come.
He gave her a look that might have been filthy if he didn't seem to still be bathed in post-coital bliss. "Excuse me?"
"It means 'and more'."
"Yes, I do have an elementary grasp of Latin. I know what et cetera means."
"Well, I once read this book—"
"Imagine, Hermione Granger deferring to the wisdom of books," he drawled sarcastically.
Hermione made a face and continued only when she reckoned she'd properly expressed her irritation. "Don't interrupt. Anyway, I once read this book where the author argued—"
"The author inserted himself into the middle of the story? This sounds like a terrible book."
"Jesus, Snape, shut up. I'm trying to make a point here."
He gave a put-upon sigh, toying with her nipple. "Continue."
"Anyway, the author argued that all stories should end with 'etc.' Because that's how it is in real life. More happens."
"What a shockingly original insight. Do remind me, when we're burning away our golden years in the sunset, to thank you for sharing that with me."
"You are the single most insufferable man I've ever met, and I don't like you at all."
"And you are the most obnoxious witch I've ever had the misfortune to encounter." He raised an eyebrow.
Hermione raised an eyebrow right back at him and snaked a hand down between his thighs. "Up for seconds, old man?"
"I imagine so, wench."
And now, Good night.
It is time to sleep.
So we will sleep with our pet Zeep.
Today is gone, today was fun,
Tomorrow is another one.
Everyday, from here to there,
Funny things are everywhere.
"Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college."
The point of this quote is that Vonnegut told us that it's okay to not be so correct sometimes, so any errors you might have encountered while reading this story are entirely Kurt Vonnegut's fault.
On a more serious note, Ccognett and I had a blast writing this together, and we hope you had as much fun reading! We would love to hear what you think!