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kenobis-kyber · 4 years ago

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From The Stars

Hello everyone! Thanks again for likes, comments and follows!

Rating: M Violence, swearing, abuse, and later smut

Chapter 4

The next morning Obi-Wan awoke just as the sky was beginning to turn pink, having being used to this schedule since his master was definitely an early riser. He got up and opened his door very quietly as he didn't want to disturb his gracious host. Making his way into the living room he began to look around. One thing he noticed is that there weren't many pictures or holograms around, just various knick knacks. One of the focal points of the room is what looked like to be a primitive holo-viewer. It is definitely more primitive here.

Looking out towards the porch his curiosity piqued, he wanted to go investigate where Vanessa and Hershey found him. Maybe he would find more clues. Slipping out as quiet as a ghost and walked towards the wood. He reached out with force to see where her presence had been and followed that. A few minutes later he arrived at a small clearing where the glass was slightly singed and flat, the force was distorted bit here and he figured here would be the best to do his early morning mediation since it was the closest point to where he came from. He sat down cross legged, took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

It was different here but not necessarily unpleasant. Different animals could be felt around him and the stillness was actually quite nice. He was usually used to the faint sound of the ever busy city around him. The breeze kicked up and he could smell the plants and earth around him as he slipped into a deep mediation and focused on the here and now.

The sun shone in her room and started to wake her up. She sat up and stretched her limbs letting out a big yawn. Hershey awoke from the foot of her bed hearing her wake up.

“Good morning boy. Let’s get you into the backyard.”

She opened the door slowly as to not disturb her guest and tip toed out. Passing by his room she noticed the door was opened and she peeked inside. He wasn't there but the bed was freshly made and tidy. She smiled to herself liking the fact that he was considerate as such. Walking into the living room he still couldn't be found. She found it quite odd but continued about her normal routine and let her dog out to do his business. Standing on the porch and inhaling the fresh air she closed her eyes and relished in the crisp morning. Her peace was interrupted by Hershey yapping excitedly. Looking up she saw Obi wan emerging from the woods. He walked up to the dog and gave him a good pat and scratch before turning his gaze to Vanessa. He smiled as he approached her.

“You look well.” She stated

“Thank you. Sorry if I had you worry, I am an early riser and usually meditate in the morning. I went to find the spot you found me to see if I can find any clues.”

“It is fine. Any luck?”

“No, unfortunately, maybe the force will reveal an answer later.” he said with a sigh.

“Like I said you are more than welcome to stay here until such a time. Lets go inside and eat breakfast and then we will do some clothes shopping and grocery shopping, figure out some things you would like while you were here.”

“OK, though I still feel guilty that you are doing this for me. I have no way of repaying you.”

She chuckled. “Oh don't worry I could put to work on some of the repairs around the house.”

“Its a deal.”

They sat and ate breakfast and conversed about a variety of things, before heading out. Walking out to the car he hesitated.

“Ugh I hate flying.”

She quirked an eyebrow on him. “Cars don't fly here. Its all along the ground, sorry to say. We are way behind.”

“Oh.” he said while climbing in.

It was a bit of a drive, so she played some music. Obi found it quite agreeable and tried to learn the lyrics. Getting to the mall they went from store to store shopping for a few things for him to wear. He seemed to favor jeans, t shirts, and tennis the most. She also bought him a few beanies because she noticed people were starting to stare at his unusual hairstyle and she could tell it was making him uncomfortable. They passed by a book shop and she saw his eyes go wide.

“Do they not have books where you come from?” she asked

“They do but they are so rare as everything is technology based.”

“Well why don't we go inside and you can pick up a few you might like”

He shook his head frantically “Oh no I couldn't ask you of that you are doing so much for me. As it is Jedi don’t keep a lot of personal items.”

“Relax. I wont tell the Council that you indulged while you were here.” she said while patting him on the arm.

“Very well.” he said with a sigh and smirk.

They went inside and about an hour later, came out with a few things. His face lit up with his new posessions. He got a history book, some poetry, as well as a few random other things. They loaded their items and drove to the grocery store. While they were shopping he asked her what everything was. And she told him.

“Well if there is anything you would like to try let me know.”

“Sorry. I don’t know where to start. Just get what you usually do or things you think I might like” he said with a smirk.

“Alright. No problem”

Later on they arrived home and he put all the clothes she had bought him away. And went out to the living room to watch a movie with her. She insisted on educating him in the best of entertainment they had to offer on this planet.

As the weeks continued on, they settled into a comfortable routine, including Obi helping out with chores around the house. He was always eager to help and she found that endearing. She always had a pleasant demeanor and was always kind. She was also funny and a bit sarcastic. But there was something that was bothering him about her, it seemed she lived as a bit of hermit and he hoped it wasn't because of him.

“Vanessa? May I ask you something?” he said turning to her while they enjoyed the dusk on the porch.

“Sure….” she replied a little apprehensive

“Forgive me if I seem to be a little rude. But I have noticed that you live kind of isolated and don't socialize with anyone besides me and Hershey. And I hope I am not the cause of it.”

He noticed….damn.

She cleared her throat. “Well its definitely not because of you so don't worry about that. Its just I had to start over.”

He looked at her curiously. “Start over?”

“Yes. Its a hard story to tell.” she said looking down at her hands. He reached over and grabbed one and held it. Raising her head to look at him he saw that her eyes were watery.

“I am sorry I didn't mean to pry.” He said while gently bringing a thumb to wipe a stray tear.

She sniffled. “No its OK. I need to open up about it some time.” She turned to face him and he squeezed her hand in reassurance. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “I was married at a young age. In matter of fact I lied about my age to get married. I was 16 and he was 19. And I absolutely fell in love. It was wonderful at first, but a few months in I noticed some things. He was mean and would constantly put me down. Then not that long after that is when he began hitting me. I was shocked but I didn't leave because I made the excuse that I was the one that caused it. I wasn't allowed to leave and was forced to take care of him in any way he wanted to….” she trailed off.

Obi wan’s jaw clenched as he could see her memories of the pain she endured. She continued, “One night it all changed. He came home from work and saw that I hadn't finished folding the laundry and he lost it. He beat me so bad, he broke ribs, my cheek bone and worse he raped me. The next day, I realized the hell I was in and had to get out. So I painfully walked to my neighbors house who promptly called an ambulance and the police. He was arrested and found guilty and is now serving a sentence in prison. This house belonged to my Aunt and Uncle they left it to me, thankfully he doesn't know about it. But I never want to take my chances of him ever finding me. So I broke off all ties.” she said with tears running down her eyes.

Obi-wan had never felt so heart broken and angry in his life. What kind of monster would do such a thing to a kind soul as her. Knowing he had to get control of his emotions he decided to pull her into him tightly to comfort her. She sobbed into his chest and he ran his fingers through her hair doing his best to soothe her. Something in him that night had changed. He felt a protectiveness over her and an affection. He kissed the top of her head feeling that, she looked up into his blue eyes and saw a determination in them.

“I promise to protect you as long as I can. No one, especially you deserves that. You did nothing wrong and you are so strong to survive that.” he said looking at her with soft eyes when he finished his sentence.

He titled her head and kissed her forehead. Closing both their eyes they rest their foreheads against each others and relishing the feel of being so close together. They stayed like that for awhile until she relaxed finding his presence soothing.

“I am going to go to bed, all this has exhausted me,” she said while pulling away from him.

He gave her a small smile. “OK just know that I meant what I said, good night Vanessa.”

She returned his smile and headed into the house. He sat on the porch with the dog just enjoying the serenity of the night. Giving the dog a scratch on the head,

“Lets head in for the night, boy” Wagging his tail, Hershey followed behind Obi into the house before laying on his bed for the night. “Good night boy.” he said before heading into his room. He settled on the bed to try and get some sleep, but alas it would not come.

He laid awake in his bed organizing his thoughts.

I've never been affectionate to someone like that. Why did that happen to her? She is amazing for dealing with so much and coming out of it so kind-hearted. To be so close to her was heaven. I wonder how it would feel to kiss her…

At that last thought he shot up in bed. He shook his head as he realized that he was starting to develop feelings for her. But he couldn't act on them as it was forbidden by the Jedi code. But he already knew it was too late, He had formed an attachment to her against his will and he honestly felt conflicted about the whole thing. Who knew how long he would be here or even if he would permanently. Was this is the will of force, he didn't know what to do.

Tagging: @supermoschi @blondekel77 @princessxkenobi @ayamenimthiriel

#obiwankenobi #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi wan imagine #jedi #Ewan McGregor #ewan mcgregor x reader #ewanfuckinmcgregor

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stringergames · 4 years ago

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Downtime Roleplay 4 - Checking Out

Post Session 5 - Misty Eyed

Ireena and Magpie spend some one on one time in the Kolyana Library, as the rest of the party continue to exasperate Ismark downstairs.

Words spoken in Elvish are denoted in italics. Spoiler warning: contains spoilers for episode 5 of Edge of Night

Content warning: grief, implied dead parents, alcohol consumption

"So, Mr Magpie, do you like poetry?" Ireena smiles at him as they climb the stairs.

"I do, it can be very beautiful. I prefer such things set to music, but that's a personal taste."

Magpie casts a slightly wary eye over the opulent staircase, taking in the disrepair and lack of upkeep. He takes another sip of wine and makes no comment.

"I enjoy the simplicity of poetry, so much can be said with so few words." Ireena is caught up in her own enthusiasm and does not notice Magpie's appraisal of the house. "Novels are good for escaping entirely to another realm, and you already know of my enjoyment of learning through books." This is said in Elvish, with a smile, before switching back to Common. "But poetry will remain my favourite, I think. If only for its love of pain that cannot be spoken in other ways."

Ireena opens a door on the landing that leads to a damp room piled with books, in the centre of which is a chair. The dust marks on the floor indicate that a desk once also stood there, but judging by the fate of other furnishings in the house, this was probably pilfered to become barricade materials a while ago.

Magpie replies in Elvish, quietly pleased to be able to use his native tongue. "Songs are my favourite, I believe. The dual storytelling between lyrics and tune is wonderfully versatile, but poetry definitely has a beauty of it's own, I can see why it calls to you so." He takes an almost hesitant step into the room, and checks back that she's joining him.

Ireena follows him into the study and responds in Elvish, clearly excited to be able to do so. "I wish I had a better understanding of music. It is a rare thing to hear music in Barovia that isn't a funeral march. Unless you encounter the Vistani whose performances are... livelier." Ireena smirks, and gestures to the room. "This is my library!"

Magpie quirks an amused grin at her Elvish, and takes a slow look around the room. "We heard Vistani musicians at the party. They played very well, Sierra was there among them actually. You'll have to see if she'll play the violin for you, it's truly beautiful."

"I would like that." Ireena pauses, wondering how far she can push her luck. "Maybe you would dance with me."

Magpie crouches in front of a bookshelf, scanning the titles distractedly, not so much as reaching a hand out to touch any of them. "I'm not sure you'd enjoy that, I was... never in a position to be taught any of the proper dances, and quite besides, I've been reliably told I have two left feet."

Ireena crouches next to him. "Then I shall simply have to teach you."

Her smile is soft and her tone no longer teasing. The tension in her shoulders is heavy, but not directed at this conversation or her present company. It is tension she's clearly been carrying for a long time.

"I like this one." She selects a book from the shelf. "It's long, but it tells the most wonderful story of a hero who journeys to find his way home after a long battle away from those he loves." She strokes the cover wistfully.

Magpie looks over at the book, admiring the cover.

"Sounds like a compelling tale." He casts his eyes to the floor briefly, and takes another drink of wine before focusing back up on Ireena and the book. "You have so many books, it must be lovely to be able to come here and escape with them."

"Father loved to read. And there weren't exactly many other ways for me to spread my wings beyond this village." She sighs darkly and gestures at the window. "Even before..."

Aware that her façade has slipped again, Ireena straightens her shoulders and attempts another smile.

"But yes, I am lucky. There are a few tomes in here that predate the beginning of the Von Zarovich reign in Barovia."

"Really? How old does that make them?" Magpie looks very interested at the promise of old books, a shadow that had fallen over his face lifting a little.

"Well over a century! Father rarely let anyone handle them, they're very delicate, but I always loved the way old books smell."

“Incredible. I shan’t ask to look at them, but what are they about? I often find some of the most fascinating stuff is in the oldest books.”

"There's a first edition of some very dramatic plays, and a couple of these epic poems too. If I'm being entirely honest, I am not completely sure I know what is in all of the oldest books Father had. But please, if you would like, feel free to select any volumes that take your fancy to take with you. It is wonderful to finally have a fellow bibliophile to share these with. My brother is not opposed to literature, but he's mostly been too busy with more important things to indulge me in expounding the joys of fiction."

Magpie looks gently surprised. "You'd let me bring some? Just like that?"

"I doubt Ismark will miss them, I will certainly be bringing some with me, and Father hardly has a use for them any more. Of course you may take some, as many as you would like." She laughs a little. "Or as many as you think you can carry, at any rate!"

Magpie laughs a little in return, a hesitant set to his face still. "It won't be many then. Most of us ended up here without a bag. You're sure I can borrow some?"

"Borrow, have, whatever you would like. And while we can't promise armour or weapons, I feel confident my brother can provide satchels or something to carry possessions in." Ireena puts a hand on his arm gently. "I mean it, really."

Magpie flinches at the touch, and pulls his arm away gently. "Satchels would be a great help, I don't think Fox's bag will survive anything else being put in it."

Ireena retracts her hand, but does not seem offended. "I did notice that sewing does not appear to be among Lord Ripley's particular skills."

Magpie laughs properly this time. “Apparently not, though I’m not sure I can say much after the gods awful job I did on those replacement gloves. It turns out not having something proper to cut the fabric with is a significant hindrance.”

"I hadn't liked to mention it, but they were somewhat unorthodox." Ireena giggles. "I wondered if it was some new trend from where you're from!"

“Decidedly not, just shoddy and hurried craftsmanship on my part.” He gives her a lopsided grin. “If you’re certain I can take a couple of books with me, do you have sections you’d rather I chose from? Or perhaps any recommendations?”

"You must feel free to choose whatever you'd like, although I suggest you take something less likely to fall apart when you touch it! But if you are open to suggestions, then I could show you some of my personal favourites?"

“I’d welcome that gladly, I find myself decidedly in a position of rather too much choice, and while I’d often like nothing more than to stay up all night browsing, I fear after the day we’ve had I need the rest.”

Ireena starts pulling books from shelves and various piles. They're all well-thumbed volumes, but don't seem in danger of falling apart completely. They span a wide range of genres: a poetry anthology by a Lord Byron, the classic epic poem she'd picked out earlier, a trilogy of long form fantasy, a collection of old Elvish plays, a couple of shorter looking novels (one historical fiction and one murder mystery), and a nonfiction biography of ancient rulers of Barovia. She sets them down in a pile in front of Magpie.

"This should narrow down the selection somewhat, I wasn't sure what you preferred, so I have chosen my favourites of many genres." She looks between Magpie and the pile a little nervously. "I hope there's something to your liking here?"

Magpie looks at the pile in astonishment, and brushes a gloved hand delicately across the covers.

"All of it, I'd wager; I'll struggle to pick those that I can carry from such a fascinating collection." He looks up and catches her eye. "Thank you. Truly."

Ireena shows him a flash of the smile she must've had before the recent events of her life, and it lights up her whole face for a moment.

"You are more than welcome, Magpie. I am aware that the journey ahead of us will be difficult, but I will not regret the opportunity to spend more time with you." She pauses and then adds almost as an afterthought, "With all of you. It will be nice to be able to say I have friends."

"It would be lovely indeed." Magpie looks back at the books, carefully thumbing through a couple of pages and starting to sort them into two neat piles. "After such a kind gesture, the least I could do is help you with your Elvish, if you still want to learn."

"Very much so, if it isn't too much trouble!" Ireena suddenly looks like she might cry and turns towards the door. "We should be getting back to the others, it is intolerably cruel of me to leave them solely in the company of my brother for too long." She turns back, and if her voice cracks, she doesn't acknowledge it. "Besides, as you said, you've all had a very long day. I imagine you will be wanting to rest soon."

Magpie blinks a couple of times at the abrupt change in mood, but makes no comment on it. He drains the last of his wine and sets the glass down, carefully picking up a stack of five books he'd set aside, the biography of rulers of Barovia, Elvish plays, and trilogy of fantasy, balancing them carefully in his arm before picking his glass back up.

"Are these alright? Is it too many?"

"No, no of course not! That's fine! Would you like some help carrying them?"

"That's very kind of you, but I have a good hold on them, and there's no risk of me spilling my wine." He gives her a cheeky grin. "Well, shall we go and save the others from the company of your brother then?"

Ireena smiles back, small and shaky, but perhaps more real than some of her smiles up to this point. "An excellent idea, Mr Magpie."

She leads the way back out of the study. She pauses on the landing and points at another door. "I believe that is to be your room for the night, if you'd prefer to drop the books off there, although I have no objections to you bringing them downstairs to share your finds with the others, if you wish."

"I –" Magpie looks torn, and a flicker of something passes over his face. "Perhaps, I'll drop most of them off. Bring just one down. To flick through."

"Great, I can wait here, or just meet you downstairs if you'd rather?"

"I'll be just a second." Magpie smiles at her briefly, and dips into the room to gently place the books down, keeping hold of the Elvish plays, and returning to her quickly.

"Shall we?" Ireena gestures at the staircase.

Magpie nods, and walks alongside her downwards, gently clutching the gifted book to his chest.

Written by Francesca Forrest & Nick Drew

Edited by Rowan E. Madden

Edge of Night is a dnd 5e actual play podcast, brought to you by Stringer Games. It is available on iTunes, Spotify & all good podcast providers.

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edensbuttercups · 5 years ago

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Golden lights - Part eleven

Pairing: Jaskier x reader Summary: Geralt and Myristica leave the cottage and head home, leaving the reader, Jaskier and Aurora to their new life. Word count: 1.5k A/N: So, this fanfic is finished! We will be seeing everyone again, I’m planning on writing a second part of this series where Aurora is all grown up 👀 A big thank you to @temerianwitch for the support, ideas, help and just for generally being an amazing friend. Love you sis. Also a big thanks to @dancingwith-thesunflowers for always commenting, it’s always a pleasure reading comments and you’ve always been so so nice!

I’ve been meaning to use this gif for ages because it’s just so so so pretty and I love it

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five Part six Part seven Part eight Part nine Part Ten

You said goodbye at the edge of the forest. Warm hugs were exchanged and extra food that, even if you knew how short their journey actually was, you had prepared early that morning. You knew you’d miss the healer and the Witcher, but you also knew that you’d see them often, making sure to always find the time for each other, near or far.

“See you soon.” Said Myristica, hugging you tight and placing a small necklace around your neck. You looked down and smiled. “A four leaf clover?” the small silver necklace shone in the light, reflecting the sun. “Not that you need good luck or anything like that, but I thought it would make you remember all of the beautiful moments in life, past and to come.” She hugged you once more, tighter this time, turning then towards Geralt, who was standing with his hands held in front of him while your bard hugged him and thanked him for everything, promising to see each other soon, a glint of a smile gracing the Witcher’s face for a moment. He let go of the bard and came over to you, nodding his head as you opened your arms, offering a hug. He smiled and obliged, freeing himself after a few moments. “I have to thank you.” he started. “You really don’t.” “Not only did you save me when death had cast her gaze on me, but you also healed me, fixed what I had broken with your bard and offered me a place to stay, a look of the life I want.” You smiled, softly placing a hand on his cheek. “This is your home too, Geralt. Whenever you need, you’ll find us here. You are part of the family. Actually… I have a little something to say to you and Myristica about that.” You grinned, turning over and walking up to Jaskier, grabbing his hand and exchanging a knowing look. “We are here today to ask you” you started. “If you’d allow us the honor” Jaskier continued. “To be Aurora’s official uncle and aunt!” You cheered together. Myristica smiled wide and jumped up, nodding and running up to hug the two of you; Geralt smiled, his gaze wandering to the little girl that was quickly crawling towards him, eager for a hug. “We’d be honored.” He answered, picking Aurora up and kissing her little cheek, making her laugh in delight.

Eventually the time came, your two friends climbing on their horses and raising their hands, promising to meet again soon. You smiled and waved, Aurora babbling and Myristica and Geralt waving back, before their horses disappeared in the fronds of the trees.

“Do you think they’ll be okay with the baby? Do you think we should’ve stayed longer?” Myristica asked, glancing behind her back ever so often. “Ah, y/n and Aurora will be fine, they know how to handle him” “Geralt!” Myristica laughed, directing her horse close to Geralt’s and reaching for his hand, holding it tight. They both swayed as their horses advanced slowly, the sounds of the forest loud and clear on that hot summer’s day.

You stood near the trees, enjoying the peace as you tried to work out what to do now that you were truly alone after so long. You looked at Aurora, laughing at the way she tried to stand up holding tight to a tree before falling on her bottom, her legs flying over her head. “So, what are our plans?” you asked turning around to meet your bard’s blue eyes. “Plans. Short term? Long term?” “Both.” “I want to perform again. It’s been… hell, it’s been a year! A whole year! People will be missing me!” you laughed together, holding hands as you followed your daughter around the fields. “I also want to take you somewhere. Clearly, when Aurora’s bigger and walking and all that, but…” “Where do you want to go?” “Anywhere! Well, not anywhere, but I know some places. Beautiful valleys filled with flowers, pretty lakes with no scary monsters, forests, hills, cities. There’s so much to see!” He finished the phrase by grabbing your hands and spinning you around, the two of you going round and round until you both fell to the floor, laughing and dizzy as Aurora jumped on Jaskier’s stomach, making him gasp before laughter erupted from him once more.

They got to Myristica’s home before the sun was high, the cold stone a welcoming change from the heavy air that had accompanied them along the way. “You’ve got a nice place.” Geralt broke the silence, walking around the room, studying the various books and herbs that adorned the few shelves. Myristica laughed, picking up some empty bottles and placing them on the small table. “Welcome to your new home!” she said enthusiastically, clanking two bottles together. “So how is this going to work?” he asked, afraid of the answer, fearing another abandonment. “How’s what going to work?” “What are we going to do?” “We’re going to live here. You can still hunt monsters, if that’s what you want. I’ll come along with you, I’ll stay here, I’ll wander around. It doesn’t really matter.” She stood up, walking closer to him and kissing him softly. “We’re together, but we don’t have to always be physically together. You want to hunt some monsters? Go. You want to stay with me? Stay. There are no rules.” Geralt nodded and smiled, picking her up and kissing her, loving every inch of her soul and of her body. He walked up, placing her gently on her bed before getting back to placing kisses on her lips, cheeks, shoulders. He stopped, eying a scar that ran from her back to the front of her shoulder. “We’ve got time to tell each other about our scars” she ran her hands along his arms, gently dragging her fingers over the marks on his body. “But for now, let’s get back to us.” She pulled him down, finding his lips and pulling her body up to meet his, a tangled mess in the darkness of the room.

You sat next to each other, the moonlight kissing your heads as the warm breeze rocked you into a peaceful state. If you squinted, you could almost make out the lights from the nearby town where your friends now rested. “I was thinking.” You muttered, unsure of where you were going with the whole thing. “About?” “Us.” He turned, facing you and crossing his legs in front of you. You sat out of your bedroom window, you perched on the windowsill and him in the grass, the silver moon making him look more ethereal than you thought he could look. “Us?” “I just… is this what you wanted? A family? I know that you never really wanted to settle down and-“ “Oh, no no no, don’t even think about finishing that phrase!” he sat up, lowering his voice as he spoke, suddenly aware of Aurora sleeping in the bed behind you. “Having a family does not exclude anything.” He rose up to meet you, placing your hands in his and holding them tight. “We can travel. I can sing, you can dance, she can dance” he nodded towards Aurora “or wobble, whatever she finds most amusing.” You smiled. “I spent my whole life chasing things that didn’t really mind, and then I stumbled back to you, the only thing that really mattered. And now we’re here. And if having all of this” he gestured to the house, the garden, your daughter and you “means pausing everything for a bit, nothing will change. The world out there can wait. And if they don’t, I’ll still have you.” “You will. Always.” He leaned in for a kiss, his hand stroking your hair. “And that’s all that matters to me.” You both smiled, laughing like kids as he pushed you off the ledge and onto the grass, the two of you lying in the grass, looking up to the stars. “You know, I want Aurora to play the lute with me.” “I can see that. I can also see her playing with her uncle Geralt, wooden sword in hand as they fight pretend monsters in the forest.” “And in between playing and fighting she’ll join you in the garden, choosing the best plants to cook the best meals and heal whoever or whatever needs help.” “She’ll be a true jack of all trades, won’t she? If she gets some of Geralt’s Witcher-ness, some of your talent for music and poetry, my talent for food and healing and Myristica’s magic?” you laughed, imagining your little one with a lute in one hand and a sword in the other, a true patron of arts and justice. You felt Jaskier’s grasp pull you into him, placing a hand on his chest as you closed your eyes. Your breaths synchronized as you both fell asleep on the fresh grass, the stars glistening over you, ready to plan your future adventures while enjoying the rest of your days together.

#jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #jaskier x you #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt x oc #the witcher oc #oc #fanfic #the witcher netflix #dandelion

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cross-poison · 5 years ago

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CLARITAS. Part 6 (Din Djarin/OFC)

WORDS: 1.5k || WARNINGS: attempted mugging

a/n: Now we're finally getting into the more fun stuff. Thanks for continuing to slow-burn with me!

As the evening eased deeper and deeper into darkness, Elliotte bid Rhythimi and the refugees a good night and began her walk back to her own home. She stepped onto the porch and made her way down to the side walk, glancing left and right down the empty street. She’d made the walk home at this time of night dozens of times, but tonight something felt… different.

The air felt heavy, and she couldn’t shake the idea that she was being followed. Although the urge to break into a run was growing, she willed herself to maintain her composure and continue the route at a normal pace. The last thing she wanted was to draw unnecessary attention to Rhy’s safehouse.

Elliotte’s boldness wilted, however, when faint footsteps began to tail her, and before she knew it a man was beside her, walking at her side a bit too casually. He didn’t attempt to pass---just matched her pace with each step.

“That’s a nice dress, little flower,” he gruffed after a moment, “You from the palace?”

“No,” Elliotte answered curtly.

“You sure? That’s some expensive-looking bead work.”

“It’s not. It’s homemade.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, noble. I’m going to tell you this just once,” he stopped abruptly and took her by the shoulder, forcing her to stop beside him. Before Elliotte could wrench out of his grip, a blade was pressed to her throat, digging into her skin. “Give me all the credits you have on you---and that nice silver bracelet you got on.”

Elliotte resisted the urge to roll her eyes, grateful she’d already handed her credits to Rhythimi earlier in the evening. “You sure you weren’t born yesterday? If you can’t tell, I don’t have any credits on me. This thing doesn’t have pockets. And this--” Elliotte lifted her silver-clad forearm and shook it in front of his face, “Doesn’t come off.”

Abruptly, the would-be mugger seemed to realize his mistake... but he held his ground, a snarl on his lip. “Don’t play games with me, girl,” he growled, “Or I’ll kill you and pry it off your arm myself!” Before Elliotte could move, he grabbed her arm and tried to forcefully pull off the silver clasped around her forearm. True to her word, it hardly budged.

“Oh, what a surprise.”

The blade against her throat returned, pressing in a little deeper and causing her to draw in a faint hiss of breath, but before the man could offer another threat, Elliotte’s attention was drawn to faint movement in the darkness behind him.

Suddenly, the pressure against her neck was released as the man was hauled backward with incredible force. A gloved hand covered his mouth quickly, preventing the escape of the horrified cry the man tried to give as he was quickly subdued and knocked out.

Elliotte stumbled back in surprise, a hand coming up to rub at her throat where the knife had been pressed. As her rescuer rose back up to his full height, she caught a glimpse of shiny beskar and let out a soft breath of relief she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Mando--”

“I told you not to make this a habit,” he answered, gently taking her good arm to help her to her feet.

Ell chuckled weakly in response and smoothed out her dress once she had gotten her footing. “It’s not intentional… genius over there thought I was nobility.”

“You aren’t?”

“Gods, no. My time spent in the palace is only to play music for them, and occasionally read poetry. I suppose I need to rethink my choices if people are beginning to mistake me for one,” Elliotte replied, unable to keep the look of disgust that crept across her face, causing her nose to wrinkle.

Mando didn’t respond to her comment, instead angling his helmet to look down the street. “It’s getting late, and trouble seems to enjoy following you… my ship is far closer to here than your house is. I don’t suppose you’d take me up on an offer of a place to stay tonight, would you?”

Truth be told, Elliotte was exhausted, and the idea of walking all the way back home tonight was stomach-churning. She’d had more than enough excitement for one day. “I’d hate to impose… you’ve already done more than enough.”

“If you prefer, I’ll walk you home instead.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“You haven’t asked anything of me. I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t genuine.”

Elliotte was cautious by nature… under regular circumstances, she would never trust a strange man enough to return with him to his ship, but he’d come to her aid twice in one day. She felt she owed him at least a chance to be trusted. “Then… I suppose… if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“It isn’t. Follow me,” replied the man as he turned on his heel and began to make his way in the direction of his ship.

Elliotte followed close behind, not wanting to take her chances on the streetside any longer. On this side of town, it felt almost impossible to make out distinct shapes in the darkness without the aid of street lamps, and the musician was on edge enough as it was.

Thankfully, the Mandalorian hadn’t been lying; his ship was significantly closer than her own house was, albeit a bit off the beaten path. The houses had grown scarcer until the architecture gave way to the vast wilderness of Listronus’s lush grass fields. The Mandalorian’s ship was tucked away behind the far treeline, well-obscured from view of any common passerby. Although Elliotte was no expert in spacecraft, she could tell the one before her was an older model than the types that normally harbored on her planet. All in all, it was the ideal location for a murder to take place, she thought. Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of such an eventful day?

As she was questioning the decisions she’d made that led to this very moment, Mando approached the side of his ship and fiddled with a button on the underside, opening the ship’s ramp. Without saying a word to her, he stepped inside. Elliotte reluctantly followed, keeping a fair distance in case she needed to bolt, but her curiosity ultimately got the best of her as she found her gaze drawn to the various boxes of tools and supplies lining the ship’s walls. Elliotte had been on Listronus all her life, and had never travelled elsewhere, so she’d never actually set foot in someone’s ship before.

She was sure her eyes were alight with wonder, but she quickly snapped back to attention when she saw the figure of the Mandalorian shift back into her line of sight.

Despite the lack of personal belongings on-board, Elliotte couldn’t entirely bite back her question: “Do you live on this ship?”

“Mostly,” came the reply, muffled behind the helmet, “Occasionally I’m able to find other arrangements, but usually it’s just easier to stay put.”

Before Elliotte could respond, she became distracted by a faint tugging near the bottom of her dress. Glancing down, she was met with a small green creature wrapped in brown cloth, with ears and eyes seemingly a bit too big for its face. It cooed softly up at her as Elliotte blinked in surprise and slowly bent down to its level. She’d met with countless species over the years, but none who looked anything quite like this. She tilted her head thoughtfully and the little creature mimicked the movement, lips opening in a curious almost-smile.

“... Hi,” Ell said softly, the corner of her lip curling into a smile, “Were you here this whole time?”

The little green creature’s ears lifted slightly as she spoke, blinking its black eyes at her. Before she could say another word, the Mandalorian stepped between them and carefully picked the creature up. “... He’s… supposed to be asleep.”

“What is he?” Elliotte asked, getting to her feet once again.

“He’s a child. I’m looking after him for now,” Mando replied simply, stepping away from her once again. “You’re welcome to use the cot down here. I’ll be upstairs.”

Ell glanced in the direction he’d gestured and noticed a small area to her left, complete with a cot and little shelf. The area formed a little alcove in the ship to offer a fair bit of privacy, much to her relief. When she drew her gaze back to the Mandalorian, he was already climbing the rungs of the ladder to the ship’s upper level. “Thank you,” she said softly, “Thanks again for letting me stay here for the night.”

He angled his helmet in her direction for a moment, offering a small nod while the child in his arms cooed quietly and wrapped his tiny fingers around the fabric of Mando’s cloak. “...You’re welcome.”

With that, he was out of sight and Ell was once again left on her own. It was then that the exhaustion of the day finally caught up to her and she found herself sinking down on the small cot prepared for her. She rolled onto her back and drew the thin blanket over her, already feeling lulled to sleep. Before long, she had drifted off.

---

Ao3 Link: HERE

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redheadgleek · 5 years ago

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Author Meme

I was tagged by @coffeegleek. Thank you!

Name: redheadgleek, jcd1013

Fandoms: I’ve written fanfic of various lengths for Glee, Check Please, Doctor Who, Lord of the Rings, and Gilmore Girls. I have unfinished/never posted stories that I sketched for The X-Files, Star Trek: Voyager, Harry Potter, LOST, and Stranger than Fanfiction.

Where You Post: Primarily on AO3. I moved the majority of my fic from FF.net there, although I still have an active account. I also post on tumblr and my older fic is also stored on dreamwidth/livejournal.

Most Popular One-Shot: On Livejournal, that would be Tardus Semita, a one shot I wrote for a Doctor Who fic exchange (83 comments). On FF.net, it’s the very first fic I ever wrote back in 2002, What a Wonderful World (34 comments, 24 favs). And on tumblr and AO3, it’s A Wedding: Production Draft by far (67 comments, 176 kudos on AO3, 165 likes and 109 reblogs on tumblr).

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: As I’ve only written one multi-chapter story so far, that’s Like Never Before, a gilmore girls fanfic. 78 reviews, 22 favs. I’ve not yet moved this one to AO3.

Favorite Story You Wrote: A Wedding. It was agony writing it, but I love it so much. I loved figuring out how to format it and using the AO3 styles and it really was such a self-indulgent treat to write out what I wanted from the episode.

I also really loved my Klaine Advent collection of 100 word drabbles. I utterly love drabbles, so telling a story using 24 of them was so satisfying.

Story You Were Nervous to Post: I’m always nervous to post. It doesn’t get easier.

How You Choose Your Titles: Song lyrics, and poetry mostly. I’m a romantic sap in my heart (don’t tell anyone)

Do You Outline: Sometimes? I usually just write and bounce around and then fill in spaces, but other times I’ll write an outline of what I want to have happen.

Complete: 11. 4 Glee. 5 Gilmore Girls. 1 Doctor Who. 1 LOTR (drabble collection)

In Progress: 2. When You Wish Upon a Star, my klaine advent fic that I started writing last year for @lishashisha and then got too busy to finish. It’ll happen - I’ve got ideas for the next chapters. And Like Never Before is my “forever weighing on my mind because I just need to finish it” fic. I have 2 chapters to finish to complete it. I’m determined to do so, preferably before it turns 21 and can legally buy alcohol.

Shortest Fic: I’ve written a whole bunch of 100 word drabbles over the years.

Longest Fic: Like Never Before at 64,935 and 8 chapters published.

Coming Soon/Not Yet Started: Coming soon: a Klaine fairy tale retelling of Sleeping Beauty for the Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction. I’ve been trying to outline it for months and it’s just starting to coalesce. It’s going to be my modified Nano project for November. In December, I hope to go back to When You Wish.

Other fic ideas that I have percolating. For Glee, I have an Emma AU for klaine that I continue to idly sketch out, a Blaine&Mercedes friendship fic from when they lived together in season 5, a possible Klaine Medical AU that will be boring and nobody will want to read it but me as there will be no boinking in the call rooms (*shudder*), the Gilmore Girls AU that I’m pretty sure I will never write, and a Phantom of the Opera retelling where Blaine is disfigured and haunting Kurt who just transferred to Dalton, another story that I’m pretty sure I’ll never end up writing.

Check Please: Bitty and Jack as competitive ice dancers, and another one of Ransom as a medical student (again no boinking in the call rooms). Both haven’t moved beyond just daydreaming.

Some day, I would love to write the X-Files fairy tale retelling of Tam Lin that has existed in my head for 20 years and the season 7 rewrite where Scully channels her inner Leia Organa and takes out the Syndicate from the inside and rescues Mulder.

Do You Accept Prompts: Not really. You are welcome to leave ideas, but I’m a slow writer and make no promises.

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: I’m really excited about this Klaine fairy tale.

I tag: (selecting fellow writers from my most recent notifications) @spaceorphan18, @jackabelle73, @mrv3000, @darriness, and @leydhawk, and @slayediest

#writing meme #author meme #writing #fic ideas #and really #if any of these ideas call to you #you are more than welcome to steal #or write it for me

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irisbleufic · 5 years ago

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Feelers re: Patreon & what perks readers would want to see

Hey, all. I know I’ve been quiet-ish for the past couple months, all except on the continued AO3-output front. I’ve had a number of folks ask if I’m doing all right; I appreciate the gentle nudges. My health has been deteriorating again for the past couple months, and I’ve been in and out of various medical tests lately. It’s getting tricky for me to be both active on this blog and write fic/answer comments; what it’s come down to is prioritizing the writing and answering comments. Thanks so much for your patience!

I’ve been running a Patreon that’s tied to my RL/published writing for several years now, but the truth is that I haven’t been producing enough original writing in the past year or so to offer previews (writing the poetry collection that just came out about 8-10 weeks ago took more of a toll on me than I expected). A colleague pointed out that plenty of people set up Patreons under their fannish identities, and that I really should have done that a long time ago. I was uneasy about the idea when I first set up my RL-writing/editing Patreon, but at this stage, a) I see how many people do it in a fannish context without difficulty, and b) fandom is the only place where I actually produce enough content to justify having a Patreon in the first place. That should’ve occurred to me ages ago.

The thought that’s occurred to me is this: I used to take prompts all the time, at least before prompt-taking and beta-reading became things I couldn’t do anymore because too many people were asking. If I were to set up a fandom-side Patreon, would prompt-fills and beta-reading be things you’d be happy to see as patron perks? Would previews of new fannish work, prior to it landing on AO3, be worth it? I’m aware I work so quickly on my AO3 projects most of the time that previews almost seem moot, although that’s changed in recent months (i.e. instead of working at my usual breakneck speed, I’m just working at what most people would consider average to fast; previews might make sense).

As ever, dear readers, your input means a great deal to me! Thanks for taking a a moment to consider this out-of-the-blue ramble; responding via PM or ask is fine. I do have ko-fi, but that doesn’t function as comprehensively as Patreon would. Input from folks (specifically writers) who use Patreon in fandom would also be welcome.

#fandom #fanfiction #patreon #good omens #transformative works

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sillyoldsod · 5 years ago

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Welcome to my world of giant underpants and other daft things. It makes a change from the incessant ‘glummy’ news.

First of all, I want to wish everyone a happy, prosperous and healthy 2020. Now then, you are probably wondering where this post is going to lead. Hopefully, by the time you’ve read it, you will feel a little happier than you did before you read it.

I Like Walking

I like to go walking whenever possible, with my wife. She goes every day, whatever the weather, but I’m not so brave and usually wait until it is at least dry. Most of our walks follow the same route, so after 12 months or so of photographing the same scenes over and over, I started to look for different ideas. Maybe photos from various angles, “Nah!!” I needed something unique.

Gimp

Thank heavens for the free photo editing software, Gimp. It’s not quite as powerful as Photoshop, but it is free and with a little imagination, you can create almost anything. With that in mind, I started taking photos of the mundane while on our little hikes. The washing line above, no one would give it a second look, so how could I make it more interesting. I know, a giant pair of men’s underpants!! It looks good to me.

There should be more Pie in Pye Corner

More Pie

It soon became a habit of taking mundane pictures and adding things to the view to make them ‘different.’ Pye Corner is the name of a small farm that we often pass. It is a beautiful place, secluded with the River Lugg passing through. What a Pye Corner photo needs is a……. pie! So I added a steaming hot chicken and mushroom pie. Sorry if you think I’ve gone mad.

Giant Slipper

Wouldn’t it be good to see a roadblock? How about one of those giant slipper boots? Just the job. The photo looks so much nicer now it has something interesting going on. Talking of slippers, how about a foot blocking up the road? Yeah, now we’re flying. This is much more interesting than the same old photos day after day of the same old bits of tarmac and fields.

The Day The Earth Stood Still

Another time, just after we had had a smattering (sorry if that’s not a real word) of snow, the robot from ‘The Day The Earth Stood Still’ decided to show up outside the local pub. He looked very intimidating, to say the least. Locals say to us they have never seen the things we encounter on our daily walks. Perhaps they’re not looking hard enough. I hope you enjoy these fun photos as much as I have enjoyed creating them. And of course, there are my Benchman photos which I do enjoy creating with.

Once again, many thanks to all my fellow bloggers, readers and everyone that visits this blog. A great big Happy New Year.

#gallery-0-5 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-5 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-5 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-5 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

About Me

I haven’t a clue

What Do You See?

Poetry

Sat-Nav

My Own Mortality

Ludlow Medieval Christmas Fayre

Geraint Thomas

Benchman: Facing The Sun

Ten Pin Bowling

Armando

Stinky Sheep

At The Dentists

Peaceful

People Watching

Slobby Dog

Slippers

Black and White

Elastic Band

Bloom

Tax Rebate

Bernard’s Suits

The Wrong Trousers

The Egg Man

Postman

Concrete Boots

Banana Cake

Last Man Standing

Coat Hanger

Tom and Jerry

Teapot

Horse shoe

It’s A Wrap

Thought Bubbles

Giant Pants

My World Of Giant Pants Welcome to my world of giant underpants and other daft things. It makes a change from the incessant 'glummy' news.

#gimp #photo manipulating #photoshop

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celtfather · 5 years ago

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Edge of the World #448

Let’s walk to the edge of the world on the Irish & Celtic Music Podcast… Well, I say walk there... But since the world is round. You can’t ACTUALLY walk there.

Stringer's Ridge, Neil Anderson, An Lar, Samantha Gillogly/Tim Maurice, The Flailing Shilaleighs, Avourneen, Kyle Gryphon, The Rowan Tree, Eamonn Flynn, The Irish Rovers, Brave the Sea, The Gartloney Rats, Jiggy, Jim Sharkey

I hope you enjoyed this week's show. If you did, please share the show with ONE friend.

The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast is here to build our community and help the incredible artists who so generously share their music with you. If you hear music you love, buy the albums, shirts, and songbooks, follow the artists on Spotify, see their shows, and drop them an email to let them know you heard them on the Irish and Celtic Music Podcast.

Remember also to Subscribe to the Celtic Music Magazine. Every week, you will get a few cool bits of Celtic music news. It's a quick and easy way to plug yourself into more great Celtic culture. Plus, you'll get 34 Celtic MP3s for Free, just for signing up today.

VOTE IN THE CELTIC TOP 20 This is our way of finding the best songs and artists each year. Just list the show number, and the name of as many bands in the episode as you like. Your vote helps me create next year's Best Celtic music of 2020 episode. Vote Now!

THIS WEEK IN CELTIC MUSIC

0:04 - "Bus Stop Reel/Greasy Coat" by Stringer's Ridge from Handmade

4:07 - WELCOME

4:57 - "Flastone Reels" by Neil Anderson from Rathkeltair & Friends CPR

8:25 - "Wreckers" by An Lar from Deception

12:12 - "The Beauties Of Autumn/The Road To Lisdoonvarna/Morrison's Jig" by Samantha Gillogly/Tim Maurice from Celtic Chamber Music

18:10 - "I Only Drink Upon The Days That End In D-A-Y" by The Flailing Shilaleighs from Yours to Discover

21:23 - CELTIC FEEDBACK

23:57 - "Banks of the Liffey" by Avourneen from Sparrow

26:33 - "Trout Lure" by Kyle Gryphon from Isolation

30:05 - "Am I Born to Die" by The Rowan Tree from Kolar's Gold

35:04 - "Bruach na Carraige Báine - Falling Off The Edge Of The World" by Eamonn Flynn from Black Coddle

39:39 - CELTIC PODCAST NEWS

41:22 - "Brady of Strabane" by The Irish Rovers from The Unicorn, The Continuing Story

43:44 - "Lost at Sea" by Brave the Sea from A Pirate's Life

47:02 - "The Landlord's Walk" by The Gartloney Rats from Some Drunken Nights (Irish Music Buried Treasures)

51:24 - "Road to Errogie" by Jiggy from Hypernova

56:13 - CLOSING

57:12 - "My Home in Roscommon" by Jim Sharkey from A Lovely Day

The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast was edited by Mitchell Petersen with Graphics by Miranda Nelson Designs. The show was produced by Marc Gunn, The Celtfather. To subscribe, go to Apple Podcasts or to our website where you can become a Patron of the Podcast for as little as $1 per episode. Promote Celtic culture through music at http://celticmusicpodcast.com/.

CELTIC PODCAST NEWS

* Helping you celebrate Celtic culture through music. My name is Marc Gunn. I am a Celtic musician and podcaster. This show is dedicated to the indie Celtic musicians. Please support these artists. Share the show with your friends. And find more episodes at celticmusicpodcast.com. You can also support this podcast on Patreon.

The 2020 Celtic Tree of Life T-Shirts are now on sale in our store. Head on over and wear your support for the Irish & Celtic Music Podcast.

TRAVEL WITH CELTIC INVASION VACATIONS Every year, I take a small group of Celtic music fans on the relaxing adventure of a lifetime. We don't see everything. Instead, we stay in one area. We get to know the region through its culture, history, and legends. You can join us with an auditory and visual adventure through podcasts and videos. Learn more about the invasion at http://celticinvasion.com/

THANK YOU PATRONS OF THE PODCAST! Because of Your kind and generous support, this show comes out every week. Your generosity funds the creation, promotion and production of the show. It allows us to attract new listeners and to help our community grow.

As a patron, you get to hear episodes before regular listeners. When we hit a milestone, you get an extra-long episode. You can pledge a dollar or more per episode and cap how much you want to spend each month over on Patreon.

I want to thank our newest Patrons: Jacob, MUSIC IN 2FLAVORS, Ed H., Olivia R, Kelen P, Rachel L, Samantha M, Steve B, Jackson A, Roger B, Todd G

You can become a generous Patron of the Podcast on Patreon at SongHenge.com.

I WANT YOUR FEEDBACK

What are you doing today while listening to the podcast? You can send a written comment along with a picture of what you're doing while listening. Email a voicemail message to [email protected]

Jordan Reeder emailed photos: "Hey Celt father, just saying how much this podcast makes my day! I love hearing all the great music! I am often high up on ladders painting houses while listening but today I am working on remodeling my living room! Keep those tunes rolling! Thanks again for what you do!"

Wesley Combs emailed: "Working my way through one of my final Fridays at my corporate desk job before moving back to the mountains of Southwest Virginia and returning to the family business.

I just found the podcast this week and I am really enjoying it! I’ve been diving into Celtic music after Ancestry.com helped me track my heritage back to Scotland in the 1700s. The Southwest Virginia region was a popular place for Scots-Irish to settle because it reminded them of home. In fact my home town is named “Dublin”. Thanks!"

Tom Cochran emailed a photo: "Hi Mark, Listening to show #442 while printing invitations to our upcoming Burns Night Dinner. We have hosted this in our community for 15 years now and it has grown from 10 people in our living room to 50 or so in a local hall. We invite friends, some whom are musicians or actors to participate by reciting Robert Burns poetry or singing songs. Some sing other Scottish or Irish songs or present their own songs poetry. It’s also a pot luck with lot’s of great food ( I provide the haggis.) and drink. There’s dancing and laughing and a wonderful sense of community. I know Burns Nights come in various forms from very serious to very silly but I recommend that everyone should experience one.

They usually happen around his birthday, January 25 and they happen around the world so you can usually find one nearby.

On a different topic, you read a letter on the show by a lady who attended a Highland Games. She was asking what the event was where the hay stuffed bag was thrown with the pitch fork. It’s called the Sheath Toss.

Thanks again for all you do to promote Celtic culture."

Check out this episode!

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letsriottogether · 5 years ago

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Silence, pt.2

As the insomnia is spreading and I’m not sure how the new week at work will go, I’m also adding a second chapter to Silence. Huge thanks goes to @sad-lad-posts, who has volunteered to beta my works. I appreciate all the comments and feedbacks, so please do not hesitate to let a note below. _______________________________________

Minsk, Belarussia The past several days felt like a dream, no, more like a nightmare, something surrealistic that she was observing from distance, even though she was one of the main characters in the whole mess.

She cannot really remember the way back from Chernobyl trial, she can still see the empty space where Valery was just a moment ago, she can hear Boris’ footsteps and suddenly she was in a car, looking out of the window with watery eyes at the deserted land surrounding them.

Entering her apartment once again brought strange gust of normalness. As if nothing of the past 12 or something months existed. Same old walls, her things lying all around, smell of stale air, kind of the same after you return from a vacation. Except for the fact that she changed, she was looking at everything with different eyes, perceiving with her soul transformed into something else that was yet to be discovered. Something that she needed to learn how to control and to live with.

She drops her small suitcase on the ground in the hallway, not even taking her shoes off, she steps inside the small apartment, mindfully and slowly. Her gaze runs from one thing to another, looking around, making sure that this is really her apartment, she’s back, even checking the calendar that it’s not 1986 anymore.

She stops at a bookshelf full of books, brochures, textbooks, her fingers absently running over the different covers, until they stop over one that’s particularly scuffed, a sign of endless times it has been taken out, held in her hands and read. Her guilty pleasure.

She takes that one out, holding her breath, browsing until she finds the right page and gasps in surprise.

Late fall 1986 Ulana laid sprawled on her sofa, glasses on, lazily going through Dimitir’s notes he had asked her to check. Her focus was still mainly on Chernobyl investigation, but every now and then when she got to Minsk to check on her apartment, get a new set of clothes, she would, of course, visit the institute and meet with Dimitri. He had his own sort of research and valued her opinion, and she was happy to share.

Suddenly a squeak escapes her lips as she jerks her right foot closer to her body, her eyebrows flying high to her hairline in surprise both from the attack on the soft skin of her foot and the sound that echoed through the otherwise silent apartment.

She flashed a death glare towards Valery, who was sitting at the other end of the sofa, whose eyes were, with a deep interest, focused on her feet resting in his lap. Well, she wanted to flash him a death glare, but the corners of her mouth gave her way, and she couldn’t help but smile. He turned his head to meet her gaze, a full smile on his lips, looking proud at the results of his experiment.

“Reflex rating 10 out of 10,” he says in fake serious voice, mimicking lab workers at work.

“You are bored, aren’t you, comrade Legasov,” she chastases him, putting Dimitir’s notebook down, her hand smoothing the fluffy fabric of blanket covering her body.

“No no, finnish your job, I have an experiment of my own to finnish as well, you see, this is only the warm up,” he says, adjusting his glasses, the grin never fading from his face. Ulana groans, rolls her head back against the pillow and chuckles, as she rubs her tired eyes.

“Why do I feel that this experiment of yours will pretty much ruin my attempts to edit the notes?” she raises her eyebrows and puts her foot back into his lap. “Why don’t you read something, I’ve got plenty of books here,” she says, gesturing with her head to the bookshelf behind them.

He thinks for a moment and then stands up, his shadow moving with him around the walls of the living room that is lit with standing lamps, creating warm orange light. She pouts as soon as her feet slide down to the cushions of the sofa, missing his warmth and skilled hands, giving her a nice massage just before the vicious attack.

Her attention turns back to the notes, lost in thought she is just vaguely aware of Valery moving around, examining her belongings. He mumbles several names of the textbooks he had back home as well, chuckling about the fact she kept almost the same pieces he did. And then his eyes fell down to a small brochure, or notebook. The curiosity rises within him. He looks over his shoulder at her, still deep in thought, that lovely wrinkle of hers going down her forehead between her brows. He smiles, and as quietly as possible, takes out the file, careful not to lose any sheet, as the conditions says it has been read many times.

He opens it and to his surprise it’s not a diary (would she even keep one?), but a handwritten copies of various poems, some of which he recognizes from the school days, some completely new to him. He reads through them, sometimes the whole piece, sometimes he turns pages within a moment, lost in thought when one catches his eye.

Small railway station

There are places, where the children still wave at passing trains We always feel a bit of sorrow Waiting at small railway stations As no one is there, nowhere to go

Suddenly our soul is of white edelflower Suddenly there’s too much human in us

He stares at the words, the letters, consuming him to his surprise. He never was a poetry person, nor a book person after all (except for textbooks and encyclopedias of course), and suddenly he could picture the children of Pripyat, standing at the railway station-no- at the railway bridge, happily awaiting the train to go somewhere, anywhere. How many of them are still alive? How many of them will live to adulthood?

He feels her eyes on him and makes himself lift his attention from the small book. He finds her resting against the sofa’s armrest, her head slightly tilted, resting on her hands, a soft smile on her lips, glasses gone.

“Which one?” she whispers after a moment, hesitant to break the sacred silence of the intimate atmosphere that suddenly embraced the room.

“The railway station,” he says and before he can continue, she chuckles and closes her eyes. Of course it’s that one.

She turns her body, pushes the blanket away and stands up, slowly walking to him, until her body is pressed against him, her warmth spreading through him, as she lays her chin on his shoulder.

“This is my favourite one as well,” her hand goes up to the poem, fingertips gently caressing the words, and then does the same to the skin of his hand. He takes a deep breath, looks down at her, and as much as her face shows how tired she must be, there’s that small, happy smile, with her eyes still fixed on her book.

And in that very moment, it’s just the two of them, like any normal couple, with no exploding reactor cores, no radioactive particles, no mysteries to solve.

Present: Every now and then he would suddenly appear with that notebook in his hands, usually when they would lie in her bed or sofa after sex, and read her out loud. With Vienna and the trial, his visits stopped and she was usually the one to travel. With the tension among them, he never read her that poem again and she avoided it.

Now, to her surprise, a single dried rose was resting as a bookmark to their poem.

Next day, Belarusian Institute for nuclear energy: Echo of her steps resonated through the empty corridor with dozens of closed door, leading to various labs and offices. She remembers how the rhythm of her shoes against the tiled floor used to sooth her, knowing exactly where her feet are taking her, how her day is going to go.

And now? The building was the same, but people different. Already as she was passing through reception at the entrance, they stopped her right at the tourniquets, taking her aside to check her card, the old lady in thick glasses calling someone over the phone, whispering urgently.

“Is there any problem? I’m the chief nuclear…,” she tried to explain, as the door of the small office shut right to her face. Before Ulana could even get angry, they opened again, the old lady in brown suit with polite smile holding her card. Silent, not a single word of explanation, but the glare in her eyes said everything. She’s not welcomed here.

She knew that this was only the beginning, and mentally slapped herself for not expecting it sooner, being almost angry with herself for being unprepared. As she neared elevator, she could see a noisy group of her colleagues, not really her friends, but somewhat people she knew. They were chatting happily, waiting for the elevator door to open. Yuriy, a tall man in his forties notices her first, and nods his head to greet her. Suddenly the conversation dies out, as the others turn around to look at her, all curious and much to her surprise, scared. Is this how the animals at ZOO feel?

Bitter laugh escapes her lips as she turns on her heels and heads for the stairs. So much for going back to normal life.

Note: The poem is in original called „Malá nádraží“, written by Jan Skácel, a Czech poet. I’d like to believe as former Czechoslovakia used to be a part of SSSR, this poem might have actually been translated and available in rest of the Soviet Union.

#chernobyl fanfic #chernobylhbo #chernobyl hbo #fanfic #fanfiction #ulana khomyuk #valery legasov #valana #valana fanfic #writing #multichapter #ulana khomyuk/valery legasov #valery legasov/ulana khomyuk

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secretshinigami · 6 years ago

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Title: It’s the little things Author: @hazblogs, Arthur For: @naive-archiviste Pairings/Characters: L Lawliet, Light Yagami, Watari, Misa Amane, A (mention), Beyond Birthday (mention) Rating/Warnings: Teen, TW for mental health discussion, dermatillomania, slight transphobia, vague description of a panic attack, some internalised ableism Prompt: 1. A story of how L and Light meet a psychologist and unexpectedly get diagnosed with something, L with Asperger’s syndrome, Light with high-functioning sociopathy. Author’s notes: Hey hey hey !!!! Here’s your gift for the sse !!!! I’m so happy to have written for you and as you’ve certainly noticed I had a lot of fun filling out your prompt. The Ryuk one was simply amazing but I don’t have the skill to write poetry (one day, one day ;^; i will maybe be strong enough !). Thank you for participating in this exchange, and I do hope you enjoy this little text. There is no pairing because you didn’t say if you wanted one and I thought it was safest not to put any, just in case. I also had… lots of fun putting some of my headcanons in, I hope you don’t mind.

This text got… kinda long haha, it’s about 7k ? And I can’t find the readmore button, which might make viewing the post complicated, sorry for that.

See you on AO3 where I will also post this story, I hope everyone likes it !

Thank you also to the mods of sse for making this exchange possible !

It’s the little things

Light looks at the therapist with nothing but distant interest – this could be useful, this could help him get hold of new techniques, this woman knows about making people talk after all. He can’t bring himself to care. Misa insisted he come, he’s here for her, no matter how stupid that sounds to him, and he’s not here to… what. Get help ? Help for what ?

He’s been silent too long and the therapist fidgets. She’s a cute woman, he thinks offhandedly, but he can’t bring himself to care. He wants to get out of here.

“The outpatient program is very nice, you’ll see,” she says eventually, probably sensing that if she doesn’t speak first, no conversation will take place. Light still isn’t sure he wants to answer, but she adds, “There’s group therapy, so you’ll meet other people who have similar issues. Well, not exactly the same,” and Light sighs internally, because what issues is she talking about, he barely opened his mouth, “but still, I think it’ll be good for you to meet other people who empathize with what you’re going through.”

This time, he actually sighs. There’s a headache starting behind his temples and his leg feels jittery, which is never a good sign. But Light is good, he doesn’t lose his temper, and waits until the end of the appointment to say, “I don’t think I need to come back.”

“I know it’s hard,” the woman answers with a sympathetic smile, “but you’ll see, it gets better. With time – and with dedication, but I’m sure you’re a very driven person, considering how much you managed to achieve in such a poor condition.”

He wants to scream. “Poor condition”, my ass. Light is perfectly ok.

His left leg has started to bounce slightly and he can’t make it stop.

ooo

L looks at the man with something akin to disgust. No, that word is too strong to be conciliated with his unending disinterest. The therapist is talking to Wammy and L drowns them out easily, focusing on the last case he had. She was found dead in her bed, front door left ajar, and not a speck left to prove there had ever been an intruder. It was such a boring case he didn’t even need to leave his room to solve it. Better this way. Less people to see him and figure out. He always hates when people figure him out.

“Ryuuzaki, please, pay attention,” Wammy says, probably not for the first time. L doesn’t really care, and wouldn’t have reacted if the nickname hadn’t been so bothering to him. Why they had to come to Japan to do this, he doesn’t know, but at least it’s better than in the States where someone might have connected the dots. He’s not as popular in Japan, if “popular” is a thing he even is.

“Ryuuzaki.”

This time, Wammy’s voice is stern enough for him to be considered somewhat serious. L thinks about why they’re here, but this time with his head tilted up, so he can pretend he’s listening. Wammy has some strange ideas. Some work, like the washing machine, some… some are like this one. “Oh, learn how to fire a gun, Lawliet, it’ll sure come in handy. Learn this, learn that, what am I gonna do with you dear god”. Ok, he might have added the last part himself – but it��s true. L sees it in the way he holds his head when L forgets to sleep or when he makes some rude comment again. Though L doesn’t personally think he’s very rude. People are.

That’s it, he thinks.

“…ki, can you repeat what I’ve just said ?” the therapist says, his eyes fixated a little too low to be looking at L’s face. Not that he’s been staring back – he actually has no idea what the man looks like – but still, this is strange, people usually insist they look at each other “in the eye” or something resembling that. L belatedly realises that he should answer. He has no idea what the man said.

Wammy sighs, like he knows L wasn’t paying attention, and the therapist repeats, “You’ll be attending group therapy as well as weekly sessions with me. I’ll also have meetings with Mr Watari, since he is your designated caretaker. Is that alright ?”

L wonders if he’s allowed to say no. Probably not, so he nods, and puts his head on his knees. They are bunched up against his chest, his bare feet clinging to the edge of the seat. He didn’t even notice he kicked his sneakers off… Wammy is gonna chide him about that afterwards, he’s sure. Oh well. Never mind. At least this time he wasn’t forced to wear socks.

“Stop biting your thumb,” Wammy says when they exit the therapist’s office. “You’re bleeding again.”

“Hm,” L murmurs, without really paying attention. “This therapist didn’t even ask for my first name.”

“That’s because he knows who you are,” he answers.

“Oh. That’s a bother, then. Why not call me L ?”

“What if people listen ?” Wammy gently says back, because he knows L hates nicknames.

L doesn’t answer, kicks his shoes off again, and dozes out for the rest of the car ride back to their hotel room.

ooo

“Light !” Misa’s shrill voice exclaims. “I knew it !” She sits down in front of him, and almost tears his newspaper apart in her haste to put it away. “I knew you weren’t going to therapy ! The doctor called me, you know ? She says you haven’t been to the last three sessions. And you’ve never even gone to group therapy.”

“It’s none of your business,” Light answers through gritted teeth. “Who are you to nag at me like that, my girlfriend ?”

Misa’s face flashes briefly with hurt before closing off. “Well,” she says, “I’m your friend.”

Right, Light thinks. Friend. He doesn’t really have any, does he ? No people close enough to him to be called that, though Misa is in fact closer than most – closer than anyone but Sayu, actually, but Sayu is his sister so it’s normal, it makes sense, while Misa is just someone who invited herself in his life without even bothering to ask if it was ok. Light doesn’t like how people look at him when he is with Misa, how their eyes go big and how they ask if they’re dating. Misa always says yes, partly to bother him, partly because it helps her with, he doesn’t know, PR stuff maybe ? Or just to be left alone. They did meet because someone was stalking her, after all.

“Light ?” she eventually says, soft and cautious. “You don’t have to go if you really don’t want to, but I am your friend, I want to help.”

“Fine,” he answers, teeth still clenched. “I’ll go to the next appointment. I’ll book one when I go home.”

“I already did,” Misa says, sheepish. “Same time next Saturday. You know, I also talked to the doctor you saw at the hospital – he’s been wondering where you’ve gone, after you left so abruptly.”

The hospital ? Light hoped he’d never hear about it again in his life, unless maybe he went there because of a job accident, but certainly not because Misa thought it was appropriate to call his father on him. There was no reason for his stay there – short stay, if he may had, he had been discharged after only three days, but it was the most humiliating experience of his life. He’d barely left his room, talked to no one but the nurses, and pretended to swallow the pills they gave him without even considering taking them.

He isn’t – what, crazy ? No, he isn’t crazy. He was just tired, and he is sleeping better now, and there is no need for Misa to interfere. His next appointment would be better used by someone else, who wouldn’t waste the therapist’s time with non-existent problems.

ooo

L watches a speck of dust float through the air, suspended in between people’s heads, like it’s held up by a beam of light, before it flutters away and disappears. It forces him to pay attention to the person the dust disappeared behind, a young man with chestnut hair and very tired eyes. He doesn’t have dark circles though, and L briefly wonders if he wears concealer.

He does, L realises after the man moves and a sheen of sweat makes the skin under his eyes appear too textured for it to not be make-up. It’s applied so sloppily even Beyond could do better, which is saying a lot. There’s traces of concealer on his cheeks too, and L briefly wonders if he should do the same, wear concealer and stop people from looking. But then again, that’d mean using pretty much an entire bottle of concealer in a week, and though he doesn’t lack money, he certainly does lack the motivation to hide the various rashes on his skin. Or whatever it’s called when it’s you who scratched it.

“Welcome !” someone says, with a cheerful voice that doesn’t sound too forced. “Group therapy for the adults who are younger but not young adults – or as we liked to call it, the ‘not old yet’ group therapy !”

She has a casual shirt on, with some words in Japanese that mean “sun” and “moon”, and L has to tear his gaze out of her breast area where a pretty necklace is dangling – it’s a present, she has a fiancé – yes she has a ring, no tan mark yet, it must be new, hence the present – ok, this has to stop. He’s not here for that.

Contrary to what he assumed, L has been enjoying group therapy. It’s like detective work but easier and with more crazy people in it – he’s not quite sure he’s part of them yet but the group has organically absorbed him without asking questions. So there’s that. He has a group now. Not friends – he’d laughed at the idea of having friends, once, and Beyond acted offended, and then Adeline cried, and he never heard the end of it. But it’s a funny group nonetheless.

“Today, we say hello to a new member – say hi to Yagami Light ! Yagami-kun, this is the three pm group therapy… well, it’s your group now.”

Light looks utterly disgusted as a chorus of “Hi, Yagami-kun” echo around the circle. They’re all seated down on little cushions, and Light is in a seiza so perfect it must hurt. L has opted for his usual pose, knees drawn to the chest, and he sways lightly from side to side as he inspects the members present in the circle today.

“The topic for today is – who remembers ? Yes, Mikami-kun ?”

“Diagnosis,” he says, lowering his head with a frown – not that he has any other expressions, but L still finds it funny to remark on it in his head.

“Right !” the nurse says. L is bad with names, so “nurse” will have to do for now. “So, anyone wants to share their diagnoses with us today ? Or the process of getting one ?”

Nobody answers. It’s usually like that, L noticed, no one answers in the first ten minutes and then a few scattered comments. Mostly from the people in outpatient – the people in inpatient seem to have a harder time making things out, deciding if speaking isn’t worth their time or if it’ll alleviate some of their boredom. They look so bored, that’s what intrigued L the most about them, how their eyes looked empty. He sees something else there now.

Light still has that disgusted expression on, and it only deepens as someone dares to speak. She’s a young woman, probably not much older than L himself, and she shares her story with being diagnosed as bipolar II with the crowd. They all nod, like they know what it means, and L’s brain supplies the textbook definition before he raises his hand to ask – “Bipolar II disorder is a form of mental illness similar to bipolar I, with moods cycling between high and low over time. However in bipolar II the ‘up’ moods never reach full-blown mania. These less intense elevated moods are called hypomania”. Interesting, L thinks. Or not, as the woman drones on and on about how difficult it was for her family to accept her diagnosis. He’s sure it must have been, considering how private and closed-off the Japanese are, compared to the English, and even there, some people never care until it’s too late.

Himself included. Adeline would smirk sadly and turn her back on him if she saw where he was now.

ooo

There’s some pressure in the air and Light isn’t sure it comes from the unblinking gaze of Mikami, who hasn’t stopped staring at him since he arrived. When he finally locates the source of the eyes he felt resting on top of his head, he’s not surprised to see it’s one of the weirdest in the group – staring is usually considered too polite by most people, though obviously Mikami and the strange man don’t seem to understand.

Light doesn’t participate in the discussion at all. First because he has nothing to say, having started therapy sessions the day before, but mostly because he finds the idea of sharing something so personal to be abhorrent to his basic need for privacy. Mikami also doesn’t speak much, except for correcting people on their own diagnoses, which is funnier than it should be considering the man is so stuck up he is half expecting to see an off-switch button on the side of his head. There isn’t one, but Light has a nagging need to check from up-close, to dig his fingers into his own head and find that damn off-switch and tune his fucking brain out for ten seconds.

Admitting that, even in the comfort of his own head, scares him. What is it that he needs to run away from ? If not his intellect, what is left that makes him valuable ?

The end of group therapy is a welcome distraction. “It’s not as long as you probably expect,” the therapist had warned, “so don’t hesitate to speak if you feel the need to”. Right, he thinks. If he feels the need to.

Immediately after the nurse dismisses them, Mikami turns to him, and unfolds a whole speech on the importance of freedom of speech. He hasn’t even introduced himself. Light sighs, and sighs again when he turns to find the strange guy on his other side.

“Light-kun, he says, my name is –” he narrows his eyes, then, and continues, “are you with the police ?”

Mikami’s eyes open wide and he gapes a bit, before frowning some more and excusing himself. Light is left staring at the other guy’s strange face and mannerism – he is biting his thumb and scratching what looks like a scab on his shoulder, which, with the dark circles under his eyes, gives him the appearance of a very frog-like raccoon.

“I am,” Light says carefully.

The other man smiles, like this is a big secret he’s proud of guessing.

“You can call me Hideki Ryuuga,” he says, which is a ridiculous false name to give. “But most people call me L.”

“Oh,” Light says, because there’s nothing else he can say without being impolite – and then it clicks. L. That man is casually saying he’s the best detective in the world. Go figure. People here definitely give him the creeps.

ooo

L ticks when the therapist says his name for the seventh time. Or at least that’s what he says, that he’s called him seven times, but L really didn’t hear – he was focused on the paper the man gave him, with some basic questions about his mental health.

“What does it mean, ‘repetitive behaviours’ ?” L asks, while scratching his left leg. There’s a rash visible there already, he’s probably been scratching for a good ten minutes. Fuck. At least Wammy isn’t here to nitpick at everything.

The therapist sighs, and takes back his paper without a word. Oh well, L tried. He’s checked off a good quantity of boxes, but there are some questions that just seem absurd – of course people like routine, of course people have foods they don’t like. What kind of psych eval is that ?

His brain zooms out of his present situation and goes back to the nearest interesting puzzle. Presently, its name is Light Yagami, and L has already used up most of his detective resources tracking the life out of this guy. It’s a wonder he’s not a serial killer, if L may say so, considering the absolutely perfect record he has, like he’s never taken a wrong turn in his life. Apart from maybe being gay, but that’s hardly a bother. L doubts he knows himself, considering how uptight he seemed. Yeah, that’s it, closeted, model policeman Light Yagami. God this man is uninteresting, yet somehow L finds his attention snaps back to him without fail.

Like there’s something more.

He didn’t look like he belonged at a group therapy, maybe because he thought so hard that if he willed himself away he wouldn’t have to stay, but L can detect something brewing underneath, a darkness that doesn’t have a name yet.

What is he on about anyway ? It’s not like him to want to talk to someone, and to reveal his identity within the first five seconds of speaking. It’s not like him and yet this is maybe the most spontaneous he’s been in years. Wammy should be proud, really. Or… yeah, L made the good choice by not telling him. Old man would worry his hair out.

Next time they see each other is in the corridors of the institution. L blinks once, twice, and catches up with Light. He blinks, too, and his mouth turns into a sour little line.

L does what he does best: puzzles.

“Do you like tennis, Light Yagami ?”

ooo

Weirdo L is here again and is asking him – what ?

“I don’t think they have a tennis court here,” he answers.

“Oh,” the man says, “I’m not in inpatient.”

Really ? Light would never have guessed, and he says so without any intention of joking. That seems to amuse the man – Hideki Ryuuga, his mind supplies, also known in his mind as “gigantic-assface”. Well, that was a bit mean. He hopes the man can’t see it – he hopes he hasn’t been to disdainful, too harsh, too impolite, he hopes he didn’t come across as…

Breathe. If there’s one thing three sessions of therapy have taught him, it’s that his face is the perfect ask he wants it to be, so he has nothing to worry about. He is perfectly neutral and the man isn’t upset.

“I haven’t played in years, why ?” Light says, trying to keep his tone conversational.

��I don’t know, it was the first thing I thought I’d say to see if you’d answer. You seem like a pretty harsh guy, Mr Policeman.”

“Don’t call me that,” Light can’t help but hiss, because so far three people have reacted negatively to learning that, and he isn’t fond of the look of vague fear and distrust it evokes. Why, he doesn’t understand, but the police doesn’t seem well-liked in the institution. Maybe it has to do with… His mind comes up blank. The police doesn’t seem to be in the wrong.

“Would you mind a match ?” the man says, swinging his arms next to his face like he holds a tennis racket and isn’t afraid to use it. This makes him appear even thinner under his baggy clothing, his shirt three sizes too big and his jeans barely hanging on his hips. Light can see that this is misleading. His movements are a bit sluggish, like he hasn’t slept (which would explain his very pronounced dark circles) and like he eats poorly (which could explain his acne, is that acne ?).

Light knows his skin isn’t in the best of shapes either, but it’s because… of oil, probably, he has been eating a bit of greasy food. Takeout isn’t that great, but he doesn’t have the time or energy to cook, and it’s easier to order than to go down to the convenience store or the hole-in-the-wall next to his place. Less chance of meeting people this way, though that does make him seem like a recluse, which isn’t true at all. There’s a sneaky voice whispering in his ear that it’ been a while since he’s had clear skin, and that it all started in middle school, but who doesn’t have some acne back then ? It’s normal – he’s normal. It’ll be ok soon.

It’s already ok.

“Why not ?” Light finally answers, and he feels like it’s been a while – since the man talked and since he played tennis both, but it’s fine, he doesn’t look bothered.

“I already have your number, I’ll text you the details,” the man says, and Light squints. “I’m L, remember ?” he says. “Got all the data I could ever need on you.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Light coolly lets out, because he needs to say something – is he really L ? He thought that was just the crazy speaking, but maybe there’s some truth to it. He’ll see, if he receives a text, then, it might be true.

Maybe-L smiles and cocks his head to the side, his expression more frog-like than ever.

“It might be.”

ooo

[To: Light-kun] hry itd l

[To: Light-kun] its hll

[To: Light-kun] srry the phone is too smll

[From: Light-kun] Are you really L ?

[To: Light-kun] couldn u tell

[From: Light-kun] No, I could not.

[To: Light-kun] Event shared: tnnis mtach

[From: Light-kun] Are your fingers shaking ?

[To: Light-kun] nno this phone is juts oo small

[From: Light-kun] Can you even play tennis ?

[To: Light-kun] yea y.?

[To: Light-kun] see u on court yeggami

[From: Light-kun] That’s not how it’s spelled.

[To: Light-kun] i kno lol

ooo

Light looks at his therapist with something akin to horror.

“I am not taking pills,” he says, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “I will not.”

“I know it sounds scary,” she answers, and it’s not that, she doesn’t understand, “but I do think it would help you greatly with your anxiety.”

“What. Anxiety,” Light manages to spit out, because oh no this is getting out of hand he knew he shouldn’t have come this isn’t how it was supposed to go no no no-

“Yagami-san, calm down,” the therapist says, “you’re hyperventilating. Please remember the breathing exercise I taught you. Breathe in for five seconds, and out for ten. I’ll count down for you, here, listen to my voice.”

Light distantly hears her start a countdown, but he’s too far gone – this is like the time Misa called his father, oh god, he’s gonna be hospitalised again, fuck, this isn’t how things were supposed to go. This isn’t the plan.

What was the plan anyway ? He’s right where he wants to be, the youngest policeman in his unit, fresh out of university, it’s just. It’s great, right ? It’s not like the feeling of emptiness keeps him awake at night and that his job is so boring he could sleep on it and still manage to be decent. It’s not like this isn’t what he wanted at all. It’s not.

Maybe it is.

That’s one thing the therapist says – Mrs Onaka, he remembers, he should start calling her by her name – that “bad” isn’t a bad word. That sometimes things are bad and it’s ok, that sometimes you’re not sure and it’s fine, that sometimes you don’t have a plan and all you have to go with are shady guidelines like that time he built a shelf for his apartment and Misa lost half the nails and they still made it work.

“It’s good, Light,” Mrs Onaka says, very softly. “You’re calming down, that’s good.”

“I- I don’t want to-”

“Don’t try to speak yet, it’s ok. We won’t try the pills if you really don’t want to. But I think they could help,” she adds, still it that maddeningly soft voice, like he’s gonna break if pushed too far.

He wonders if he would.

Sometimes letting go seems like the better option, but that loss of control is so scary, so unlike himself – holding on feels like the only other option to… what exactly he doesn’t know, but the alternative is darker and scarier than he gives it credit for.

Light leaves the room with a prescription, sweat stains on the back of his shirt, and the taste of ash and loss in his mouth.

ooo

The tennis court is dimly lit when L gets there, the net barely visible in the shadows, sunbeams reaching the ground and lighting up dust on their way – Light must not be there yet, or he would have turned on the light. Haha. That was a joke. He’s happy he made one, it so rarely happens.

L takes the opportunity to pause, and reflect on his quite unusual behaviour. Wammy’s face when he said “I made a friend, we’re gonna play tennis” was a nice cherry on top, no matter how egregious that lie was. Light is not his friend, not for a long shot, not someone he’d trust with something else than his name, which is already a lot considering the circumstances.

There’s noise on the court, and someone enters from a door on the other side. It’s Light, he realises, but he must not have seen him, because he stands in one of the beams, facing the sun, his eyes straining to stay open in the face of unblinking light. Something should be said about the total abandon Light looks up with. For a man who seems to live shrouded in lies, that’s a lot to say.

L takes a few more seconds to carve this moment into his memory, to close his eyes and let the silence put a mark on his face like the ones he already has – only this one is beautiful, only this one is shining and bright and everything he’s not.

“Light-kun, fancy meeting you here,” he says at last, because he needs an ice breaker and he’s nothing if not the most unsubtle twat.

“You invited me.”

Light is dressed in tennis shorts and a sports t-shirt, which kinda contradicts his claim of not having played tennis since middle school, but maybe this is just his regular sports attire – he is a policeman after all, he must have to stay healthy, though L doubts he’s the type to do all the dirty field work, he must be an office worker, yeah, that’s actually the most likely choice, his nails are pretty long for someone who should use them. Maybe he’s just too unbothered to cut them, whatever the reason. L knows that without Wammy, he would be.

Maybe that’s what Wammy meant. That being unable to take care of oneself leads to this, whatever Light is, and that it’s bad – that it’s a problem. L can understand, faintly if at all, that the issues with him are similar in some way, and that Light isn’t so far from him in terms of uselessness. Funny, since Light would definitely hate being compared to L in any capacity, and he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to be compared to an uptight law officer as well.

“So, you you wanna play ?” L ends up saying, because they need to say something otherwise the tension will start to build up and L isn’t sure Light would react well to that. Sports are an excellent way of releasing tension, which is why Wammy insisted he do some, and thankfully they sticked. L does think he’d have gone crazy without a physical relief for all the energy he sometimes feel brewing inside.

“That’s what I came hear from,” Light answers, and all L hears is, “I came to win”.

ooo

There is something deeply satisfying in the swing and release of tennis. Something in the way the ball hits the racket, a little kick he gets from smashing as hard as he can. Strangely enough for someone who seems to have minus one muscles, L meets him where he stands, fighting back with surprising force and accuracy. There’s a weird moment where Light thinks he’s gonna lose the first set but they end up with a tie, and they play the rest of the afternoon without keeping score, each ball hitting the wall behind them with much more strength than necessary.

“I didn’t think you’d play this well,” L ends up saying, barely out of breath – or hiding it well. Light is truly out of shape, even more than he thought he’d be. He’s panting so much he has a hard time uttering an answer – a whispered “Likewise”, that feels a little like admitting defeat. No matter what he lost, it still feels bitter.

“Do you want to go home, Light ?” L asks, eyeing him with what he can only guess is mock concern – L doesn’t seem interested in other people’s wellbeing, that he’s sure of.

Light nods, not daring to speak yet, and he can only feel some sort of stale pride at the thought that even in this bad a shape he still managed to hold up to L. Who thought the best detective in the world would have that much stamina ? For someone who doesn’t even look like he goes outside… he truly is exceptional.

Incredible.

Model citizen.

Perfect future.

The words ring in his ears, reminiscent of those said to him a long time ago, and suddenly Light wants to throw up. What was he thinking ? That he’d make a friend ? He doesn’t have friends. He has Sayu, and he reluctantly has Misa, but… that’s all he needs. That’s more than he needs – he isn’t paying for therapy to meet weirdos and play tennis.

“I’ll go home now,” he says eventually, and as he makes a move to gather his stuff and leave, L grabs his arm.

“Wait, Light. Would you like a rematch ?”

“No,” Light ends up answering. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea. He doesn’t think at all before shaking L’s grip off and walking straight for the exit.

ooo

“And we had a tennis match, it was good,” L’s voice trails off. He hadn’t planned on talking about it to the therapist but he expressed an interest in L’s friends, and seemed kind of distraught when L answered that he didn’t have any, and never had. “That’s no good,” he said, “you certainly must have had meaningful connections ?”

He did. Those, he managed to form, somehow – with Beyond, and Adeline, as best as they could, but it never went far – he always pushed them away, and Beyond was far too dangerous, and Adeline was far too sad. He had no need for them in his life, and he doesn’t regret this decision per se, it’s just that sometimes people look at him like he has two heads when he says he’d rather be alone, and Adeline, the poor girl, he never understood why she couldn’t let go…

“I guess I made a friend, yeah,” L says, and Wammy smiles from his seat – he knows that’s not true, but this is all about pretending, right ? Learning how to make do well enough so that people don’t ask questions. So that he can take care of himself when Wammy is gone, which shouldn’t take too long, to be honest.

The rest of the session is a blur, L being too interested in the pattern on the therapist’s carpet to really pay attention, but there is at least something positive in all of this. L is learning stuff. It hadn’t happened in a while, and that’s mostly the reason why he agreed to therapy. So he could lift up the boredom a little, have a challenge. He likes challenges. That’s a quality, right ? See, he has some.

ooo

[To: L] Stop sending me messages at five am.

[From: L] bt ymur awake

[From: L] i knew it

[To: L] What is that supposed to mean ?

[From: L] that u dont slep

[To: L] And ?

[From: L] idk i was rihgt

[To: L] Leave me alone.

[From: L] y??

[To: L] You’re not my friend.

[From: L] wataris guna b disapointd

Light looks up from his phone just in time to see Mrs Onoda enter the room, and he shuts it off quickly before she can see anything when she walks around his chair to her own. The dark circles under his eyes are proof of what L is saying – he truly hasn’t been sleeping well – and this time, he was too tired to even bother with concealer. He won’t see anyone of importance today, only Misa and Mrs Onoda, so it doesn’t matter much.

“Hello, Yagami-kun,” she says when she finally sits down. “How have you been ?”

“Fine,” he grits out. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Yes ?” she says, tone hopeful.

“I want to stop going to group therapy. It’s not helping me, and it’s a waste of everyone’s resources.”

Another reason is, the people there give him the creeps – L, Mikami, that bipolar woman who manages to speak every time about something inconsequential. He doesn’t belong there. He’s not like them, he’s not… he isn’t crazy.

“I was afraid you’d say that…” Mrs Onoda says. “Alright, then. I think it’s better if we see each other every week instead.”

Wait, what. No. This isn’t what he meant – more sessions ? He doesn’t need – he’s not – he didn’t think she’d find it necessary, what is wrong with her ?

What is wrong with him ?

ooo

They see each other again, for a coffee. They talk about everything but themselves, and L finds the conversation flows much more freely than anticipated. He doesn’t find it that bad. Maybe he truly is making a friend, no matter how weird it may seem.

They have a fight. It’s about something inconsequential – well, L doesn’t think it holds that much importance, but Light obviously does, since he did punch him – and it brings about a whole new set of interaction requirements. L doesn’t think it’s so bad, doesn’t think of this as much more than a social experiment, but it does tell him about how invested Light could be. It reminds L of Beyond, once again, of dark places and strawberry jam, of cold fingers in his and a hand on his mouth. It’s not a good thing.

But perhaps, it’s too late to stop.

L wants to make a quip but the fire in Light’s eyes is blazing, a sure sign he needs to stop. Well, he should have five remarks ago, or, rather, he shouldn’t have started this conversation at all. Light is shaking his fist like he can’t believe he hit him (that’s sure to bruise, and L will poke and tear at the skin until it bleeds just so he doesn’t have to focus on his boring new case).

“I can’t believe you’re so nonchalant about it,” Light says eventually, no trace of the hurt in his voice. Only hard, cold anger – only stale, rehashed bitterness. “If someone harassed her because she was transgender, you should have stepped up.”

“Adeline knew what she was doing,” L answers. “She didn’t need a babysitter. Neither do I,” he continues, just to test the waters.

Light hasn’t figured him out. Or maybe he has and doesn’t care, which would be a first. How it is to be trans, L, he can hear at all times. How does it feel how does it look, do you want this, that operation, do you need – he doesn’t. He wants to be left alone, he wants to deal with his hurt like a small animal, licking the wounds and healing at his own pace. Adeline wouldn’t approve, but he doesn’t care.

Light’s look is fearless.

“If you needed anything someone should have helped you get it,” he says, “acceptance is a bigger gift than you make it out to be. Even though that’s not how it should work.”

“You know that,” L says softly.

“I’m not as… blind as you make me out to be. Give me some credit,” he answers disinterestedly. “I’ve known I was gay since middle school.”

“Well,” L says with a smile, “good things come to those who wait.”

ooo

They see each other again, and again, and a fourth time to boot. Light doesn’t quite hate it, and that’s terrifying.

L is the worst human being he has ever known. No morals, no code of conduct, nothing to make him stand out as the paragon of justice people make him out to be. There literally is nothing righteous about L, and that is so annoying Light doesn’t know where his hatred ends and when… the rest beings. Because he can’t deny the rest.

L looks ugly. That’s a fact, that even L himself is aware of. But he has a strange charm about him, some aura of mystery, for a lack of better words, and Light feels drawn in at such tremendous speed he doesn’t have time to stop himself before agreeing to a fifth coffee date. If those can be called dates, which he does in the secret of his own head, and wouldn’t reveal to the world on penalty of death.

Mrs Onoda catches up with him one day, just after L leaves him stranded in the middle of the institution’s corridor, and she says, “Oh, looks like you made a friend. You didn’t talk about him in your sessions,” she smiles, “but it seems like you’re very close ! I’m glad you’re seeing people.”

Light doesn’t know what made her think they’re close. Maybe because L grabbed his arm, but that seems to be a purely Western thing, this lack of personal space. Maybe because L looks at him like a puzzle with that damn frog-like smile on his face, which could be mistaken for interest (he knows it’s not, he knows better than to hope and be let down). They’re not friends.

“Yeah,” Light ends up saying, “right.”

“Well I’ll see you next week,” Mrs Onoda says before leaving.

Therapy is going… surprisingly well ? He’s not sure this is how sessions are supposed to go but he manages to talk, now. He doesn’t think he says anything important – he came out, he talked about his sister and Misa, he talked about being bored – but that’s not… it’s not who he is, deep down, is it ? It’s not what matters.

What does matter, exactly ?

The longer he talks, the less sure he is.

ooo

“And I gave your diagnosis material to Mr Watari,” the therapist says, with his what he probably hopes is a stern voice. It doesn’t work. L has already guessed everything that’s on the paper, he’s the best detective in the world after all, it’s got to come in handy. “You can look at it if he allows you to.”

L wants to retort that he’s not a child, but his diagnosis does come with a lot of infantilisation, and he’s aware that keeping his identity a secret is probably what saved him from being babied his entire life by people who don’t know better. Wammy will probably not treat him any differently, since he’s known about L’s difficulties for so long… but the thought of suddenly losing any grip he might have had on his own situation is kind of frightening.

“So I’m autistic,” L says, just to see the look on his therapist’s face.

“Aspergers, yes,” the man answers, and though he’s a licensed psychiatrist, he probably doesn’t know that they’re the same diagnosis now and that the difference between the two was only due to ableism.

“Great, it’s cool to have a word for it,” L lies. He doesn’t care. He is scratching behind his ear with vigour but that doesn’t count, right ?

“It’s a diagnosis, not a prison,” Wammy pipes in, like L needs to be reassured or something.

“I know,” he answers. Like his Gender Dysphoria diagnosis isn’t a prison, like whatever that scratching thing is isn’t a prison. The world is made of cages and he just… doesn’t have the energy to abide to them.

“You’ll probably not want to see me anymore, I assume ?” the man says, to Wammy more than to L, and he doesn’t look surprised when Wammy answers that indeed, they’ll probably stop therapy really soon. As in “right now”, L wants to say, but he keeps quiet.

“That doesn’t mean we’ll leave Japan right away, does it ?” L asks way once they’re in the car, his shoes long forgotten under the back seat.

“If you want to stay, we will,” Wammy replies, “you can work from cases here.”

“Good,” and L falls asleep, lulled by the movement of the car.

ooo

“Where is she, now ? Adeline,” Light adds, when L doesn’t seem to recognise who he is talking about.

“Oh, she’s dead,” he answers casually, “suicide.”

He says that… like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s no big deal, like she’ll just wake up and run towards him again. Light understands with a pit in his stomach that L doesn’t care, and that he’s in too deep. Both realisations don’t come as a shock, as they’re less realisations and more… self-actualisation of his beliefs. He knew – he knew this whole time, and he still got caught like an idiot.

“Oh,” Light tries to keep his tone even, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t bother,” L says, “it’s been a while.” He makes a strange face at that, like he didn’t fully realise how long it’d been – like he kind of forgot.

Light can’t quite forgive him for this disinterest, even for a person he’s barely heard of. Adeline seems so close to him, from the glimpses he’s caught, so close to his own thought process that it’s almost terrifying to hear of her death. Even in his darkest moments, Light never thought he could end his own life, and hearing of someone who did seems kind of like breaking a taboo, like saying something he wasn’t ever meant to hear.

He’s still thinking about it by his next therapy session, and tries to ask Mrs Onoda as lightly as he can – “Is it normal I’ve never thought of suicide ? I thought people who felt bad often did.”

“Lots of people don’t,” she answers, “it’s just a matter of what you’re dealing with and how you do it. You’re doing well,” she says softly, “you’re doing very well.”

“That’s reassuring,” he sighs, and for once he means it.

He’s still thinking about it a week later when he says to Mrs Onoda, “How is one supposed to react to suicide ?”

“With compassion,” is her answer, and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

He’s still thinking about it when he sees L again. He’s exiting Mrs Onoda’s office and L just springs up next to him before he has time to make a move. He hears himself gurgle some words, that he doesn’t remember seconds after saying them, and he dashes out.

He deletes L’s phone number and blocks him in a daze. He is hyperventilating, and barely remembers the breathing exercise that has helped him so much by now. He hates himself, so bad, for ever thinking this could be good for him.

He tries his best not to think about it at his next appointment when he tells Mrs Onoda he wants to stop coming.

ooo

When L sees him, he is existing his therapist’s office, face ashen. Light doesn’t seem to have heard any good news there, which is a shame, since L was hoping to catch him in a good mood to ask him why he avoided him now. Blocked number, no more coffee dates… Yeah, Light is avoiding him – and does again, ducking to a nearby corridor as soon as he sees L going his way.

Well. L isn’t here to play games – and he has something to say.

“Hey, Light,” he calls after him, but to no avail. Light has already entered some room and L can’t be bothered to check which one. For a moment he considers yelling, “I’m leaving Japan, bye !” – but he doesn’t. Let Light guess whatever he wants.

With a small smile, L turns around and leaves.

ooo

It’s been… five months. Misa bounces happily next to him and holds his hand. Light is too embarrassed to tell her to let go, and he still feels the back of his neck burn unhappily, but it’s getting better – he’s getting used to it. They’re… fake dating ? It’s become annoying to keep tabs on what Misa is thinking, if she really is serious when she says that of course she doesn’t love him, what, is he so self-absorbed ? Light just kind of… gave up.

He hasn’t seen L in six months. He hasn’t tried to, he doesn’t want to, well, maybe a little, but it’s fine – it’s ok – he’s dealing well with the loss. If it can be called that.

It’s been eight months and he’s stopped taking the anxiety meds altogether. Misa doesn’t insist so much on going to therapy, especially since the couple therapy session Light forced her into, and the meds weren’t helping anything anyway.

It’s been a year.

#fanfiction #submission #Light Yagami #L Lawliet #Super Star Sayu 2k18

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autoirishlitdiscourses · 3 years ago

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Discourse of Saturday, 03 July 2021

Have a good recitation.

Jolly old woman. One option that you turn in a particular text, and quite engaging and lucid, and does so in section on 27 November recitation, too, OK? You may find that speaking with me on the web? You should do, in fact, you have a Disabled Services Program accommodation for? One way but not unimportant juxtapositions that the episode—are we to make this offer to do so, because it makes life more stressful for you to make a habit of it myself.

I think that one of the situation, but I think that what your argument to go is also an impressive move you might notice Bloom's interest in is the only representation of its most precious illusions. I expected, and you receive no credit for the positions that you should by all means pay close attention to how other people would probably help you grow as a whole. Don't forget to look at what constitutes evidence, and you related it well to the question of what texts you see, specifically? The group was already warmed up for points of your texts, a good Thanksgiving break. You effectively acknowledged the work. You could theoretically have been possible to accomplish this before in case they ask you if he asks you specific questions that you have any questions as you point out of all of these come down to recite and discuss can be a way that makes a strong reason for doing a good student and I enjoyed having you in section tonight, along with the rest of the texts, and it shows in places, and/or need to be making, since we've just set this up, I've also gone ahead and decide which texts you want to get this to everyone who was genuinely responsive to early questions didn't get your ideas in here, although this was a mispronunciation of surmise that broke the poem's ideas needed a vocal pause in order to move up, if you'd like. I'm not faulting you for doing such an incredibly minimalist effort on the other side of your discussion notes by the victims and requires a Dirty Harry, a productive choice, so I do not re-inscribe Gertie into the A-and I appreciate that you're capable of punching through to a copy of the theorists involved and the group to agree with the assumption that you can do at least twelve lines of poetry into music and want to take a radically relativist position and suggest that everything else goes smoothly with you, I can think in line 22. Looks good to me. You really do have good, clear readings of all but the attentive amongst you will have to get very very sensitive and nuanced interpretation—I've tried to point your students at it, and the to a strong preference on going second or third, although the multiple starts ate up time that could have been in all ways to read from Butcher Boy here. Alternately, you did fumble a bit here. Nothing that I'm still a few things that, going into the novel within one of the class about stereotypes of Irish Women's Poetry, 1967-2000 ISBN 978-0-916390-88-4 around, it's a bit of wiggle room. In any case, you're welcome to share these with your own ideas. For the recitation, got people talking. Think about what your overall payoff will be. I get there naturally. I don't mean to take so long to get it in a lot of information with a GPA of 3. That section of the quarter, you might profitably compare/contrast formula and show that you're dealing with. Again, very solid work here. /Annotations to James Joyce's Ulysses: she's married and has been very close less than thrilled about with this question, but are intended to culminate in a comparative manner over time, I think that you're talking about home in general might mean by passionate, insightful, moving delivery and/or larger concerns. More administrative issues?

Both of these are impressive moves. 54 2. Hi! It never compares, at least forty-eight hours of your mind, keep reciting it, in part because, when it's entirely up to him. In all of which parts of The Butcher Boy the following details about exactly what you're going to depend on where you found it on a different segment later in the judgments that sort people into the A-paper receives is based on whether or not effectively support the writer's argument. Hi! /Or minor problems. Forcing yourself to ground your analysis more: I think, always a productive exercise I myself use LibreOffice.

I hit the Send button in my camera died, I'm sorry to say, I have a good weekend! You really have done some very, very good outcomes of your writing is also impressive. You have a few other things, and the ideas you had a good job of covering a large number of important things to say this not just of choosing not to say that a B paper one day: although you should then discuss the readings in a more elaborate description if you have any other questions! I'm planning on doing a strong job!

Great! The Dubliners' version of GOLD than you were very sensitive and nuanced things to talk to me. So, in a chapter of Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer's Dialectic of Enlightenment that is in your delivery was good, but made up for it. —As it needs to be over. Thanks again for doing a genuinely excellent job well done. However, I think that bringing one of the room, but I'm hesitant to quote in, say, surrealist painting and other works, we should be engaging in a packet of poems tonight. I did better. All in all, you can make my 6 o'clock section, so I hope you had a good holiday, and it's a reflective piece, for that section within the realm of possibility for you. Or you could be made about grammar and phrasing but these are required, and I quite like your performance, that's incredibly comprehensive. Currently, what do you mean when you argue that one thing is nothing more than you were so excited by your own writing and/or the penalty. I didn't anticipate at the structural schema given to friends: Carlo Linati; Stuart Gilbert J. B 415 435 B 400 415 B-77% 80% C 73% 77% C 70% 73% C-means that a contemporary English poet might be productive. Come by my office hours. That is to say. You covered some important things in your analysis in a third document might involve how media images get stuck in Francie's head and the rusted poison did corrode his blood the way: It's often easier to get back to you with comments tomorrow. There are a couple of extra minutes to make sure it's a wonderful and restful holiday break! Picking a selection of what you see as the source of a topic that I can. You'll get that in as soon as you can bring your participation score a small boost to your next email it to the course's large-scale course concerns and themes, looking at evidence that you can do with the Easter Rising, and not Silence of the stack anyway. First: make sure that it's one of the due date that you want to ruin it for a student with a well-structured manner; and mop up on posting links to songs and other emotions related to each other, broader problem is that I assign your final exam yes, that you want to help each and every lecture. If you wanted to meet this status, there are some of Yeats's poem, its mythical background, contemporary politics, and number the episodes on the syllabus. Excellent! That's fine just let me do so. Again, thank you for putting so much that that is important in connecting outrage to analysis. One of these various types and weave them into a more specific: I am of course grade. I think. 'S, 5 C-range paper/—even by one line—/is/always/bring the week's readings with you that placing the non-traumatized at least 98% on the most important would be a useful fallback plan. I will be. If you have any other number of genuinely meaningful contributions that you demonstrate a very productive. Strange feeling it would help you to trace a clear line between some line that intersects several of these come down to it? Hell, bandwidth's really cheap these days. So, where do you see as the major possibilities, and we can meet on campus never quarter. However, I think that you're painfully aware of their work relates to WB's work. However, you did eight IDs instead of or in posting your notes are absolutely unchangeable, because you clearly had a low-ish A-scale umbrella of what might be a motivated one, and don't remember it in economic terms or terms that differ are generally fair and often very nuanced readings by using hedging phrases like I said before, and good choice to me, and you've proven that you are absent or late, missing more than the course as a whole and contextualizing the paper, and that it's less successful than it would have had to take so long to get back to you.

So, it may be that our sympathy is based on the midterm would result in a lot of things well here: you had planned to cover, refreshing everyone's memory on the final. I completely appreciate that you're already doing a good student this quarter, and I hope you have a good idea, you did quite a good chunk of the problem with the middle of how percentages or point totals above are necessary ways to approach the question from another angle: What is the ideal resource, but you did quite an impressive move, which involves speculations about the relative value of the play pp. Think about what your paper. On Raglan Road, which has Calc, a professor in our department, Candace Waid, just over the break. That is, I also consider lack of Irish literature. /Corrections, but will post before I pass it out, it will eventually force someone to speak without forcing them. So, my suggestion is not that you really have done some very good recitation and what kind of reader-response criticism which is to have a sense of what texts you choose a good sense of the beautiful little gem that is appropriate and helpful.

It is in the novel. I'm gonna pretend I didn't anticipate at the last day for most of that motivation is will pay off to have thought of it as coming in on the day you are, after all, you've got a good holiday break! I left item 5 off of the first line of your recitation. There is a series of archaic softhearted misplaced sympathies for criminals. Another potentially profitable, but needs to be finding a way to find that thesis, because they're from a rope on line 14; changed I told him that I think that the professor's announcement that he has now missed three sections a very good job in a thesis statement throughout your time and attention to the pound, which pulled the grades up. Unfortunately, the average i.

#Irish literature #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains

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slateroofpress · 4 years ago

Text

Myth, Sonnets, and Immigration: Susan Glass Interviews Broadside Winner Armen Davoudian

Susan Glass is our blogger with interviews of fellow poets, literary journeys, and all things poetical. In this blog post, she talks with Armen Davoudian, who won the 2019 Slate Roof Glass Poetry Broadside Prize for his poem "Ararat."

Armen Davoudian is the author of Swan Song, which won the 2020 Frost Place Chapbook Competition. His poems and translations from Persian appear in AGNI, The Sewanee Review, The Yale Review, and elsewhere. He grew up in Isfahan, Iran and is currently a PhD candidate in English at Stanford University.

S G: Thank you for talking with me today. In “Ararat,” I hear and read a recurring theme in your poetry, the tensions between a myth and its various retellings, or between a myth and a reality — tensions underscored by parallel tensions within a speaker. In "Ararat," we have the tensions between the raven and the dove, and a shadow and an image almost touching. There's also the dove's olive branch that splinters, and can never be carried back.

It's hard to return home after absence, to find ourselves or our homes exactly as they were before we left. Were you thinking about these tensions when you wrote "Ararat," and how they play out in your homeland and in your life?

A D: Thanks for commenting on the tension between myth and reality. Ararat, the mountain, is an important symbol in Armenia, and for Armenians. I am ethnically Armenian, so it's been a present image since childhood. The mountain itself used to be in Armenian soil, but now it's in Turkey. So there's symbolism and tension around it. Ararat is traditionally seen as the place where Noah's ark landed. I've always been interested in that story and the story of the flood as a kind of allegory for immigration. We leave one world behind, and wash up on the shores of a new world.

Purchase the broadside "Ararat" at http://slateroofpress.com/contest2019b.html#poems

S G: The speaker in "Ararat" identifies as "prodigal."

A D: Right. The Prodigal Son is another Biblical story, and in that story he does go back home and is accepted with open arms. But maybe that's one of the tensions between reality and myth. In the real world you never really can go back. The place has changed and you have changed.

S G: "Ararat" is a sonnet, as is "Black Garlic," the poem that opens Swan Song (see https://bullcitypress.com/product/swan-song-by-armen-davoudian/).You handle the sonnet form with flexibility, and delightfully surprising word arrangements. What intrigues you about the sonnet?

A D: I find poetic forms musically appealing. With the sonnet, there's an asymmetry between its two unequal halves that attracts me. The sonnet was a courtly love poem that originated in the 13th century. But I feel that it's perfectly suited for the story of immigration and displacement because of that division in the middle. There's also a long tradition of the political sonnet going back to Milton. I'm interested in how this tiny form can fit such huge personal and political subjects within itself. Big ideas and feelings in a small package.

S G: Yes. It welcomes and forces our attention on to the issues at hand because of that paradox.

A D: I think so. One of the distinguishing characteristics of poetry is its brevity, and brevity as possibility. It's not a shortcoming, it's a possibility. Brevity allows you to do different things. It's transferable. It's portable. You can hold it in your mind and in your mouth. You can't memorize a whole novel, but you can memorize an entire sonnet.

S G: What you are saying about the power of a sonnet's brevity reminds me of how Seamus Heaney could take the immensity of the sectarian violence happening in Ireland, and fit it into the tiny sonnet form.

A D: Heaney’s sonnet sequences have been really important to me. I admire how he fits a family story, the sequence about his mother, for instance, into this tiny form. And I like the way he fits food into his work, the way food is so sensual for him, like his references to oysters and potatoes — pregnant with meaning, but in a way that doesn't cancel out its physical properties. You can still taste it even though it stands in for a whole range of meanings.

S G: Attention to food comes through in your work too. I'm thinking about "Wake-up Call," and the tender attention you pay to tea-making, and breakfast preparation, and the speaker who is both present and yet absent. I feel as I read this poem, a lifelong homesickness, longing, tenderness.

A D: Thank you.

S G: I know that you are a fluent speaker, reader, and writer of Persian, Armenian, and English. This allows you access to a plethora of images, metaphors, and mindsets. In which language do you compose? Dream? Are some of your poems better suited for one language than for another?

A D: I grew up in a small, diasporic Armenian community in Iran, so I learned Armenian first, even though the language of instruction in school was Persian. And I learned to read and write in both Armenian and Persian. But now I write exclusively in English. I also translate from Persian, and more recently from Armenian. I'm visiting my parents in Los Angeles right now, and here I speak Armenian. Persian has become an almost exclusively literary language for me, and these days I only read it or write it. So I sometimes feel out of touch with it as a living language. I'm comfortable living in and with English now, though I occasionally must think about what is the correct preposition (at college, on campus). But I think it helps sometimes to be a little alienated from what you love, or from the tools you're working with. It helps sometimes to see them as an outsider.

S G: So as you move through your daily life, what language are your thoughts in?

A D: Mostly in English. I'm in grad school, so I'm thinking about grad school stuff. But if I'm cooking a Persian meal, I'm thinking about the ingredients and the recipe and the preparation in Persian. And if I'm remembering something my granddad said, that will be in Armenian.

S G: Several of your poems address political strife using direct, emotionally engaging language that insists we pay attention. You make us feel what too many news blasts and too much information would rather smother. I'm thinking of your lament about former president Trump and the many children stranded at the U.S. Mexican border. You write: "they are wrapping them in Mylar / and putting them to sleep where they used to house ammo." Then you juxtapose the word "ammo" to a mother calling, "te amo, te amo." You make what's political human. How important is this to your writing, and does it figure in your current projects?

A D: Thank you for asking that. We live in a time of bombardment and desensitization. You read these things in the news and at some point they stop moving you. But I don't think this applies to political realities only. When I think of one of my favorite people ever, my grandfather, and the fact that he's dead, I can say that and it doesn't stir any kind of emotional response in me, until I put it in a poem that does excite emotion. So I think that's how I feel about the political reality too. Unless you're in it, it's distant. I feel like it's our job as writers to make it present and make people feel it. One of the ways that I try to do that is by pointing out those weird linguistic coincidences (“ammo” and “te amo”). We have this tender confession of love on a mother's part, and the exact opposite in that "ammo."

S G: I listened on YouTube to a presentation called “Don't Look Away,” a literary series sponsored by the International Armenian Literary Alliance. You participated as a reader. I imagine you are actively involved? Can you share a bit about the organization and its work?

A D: Yes, I’m a member of IALA. It was founded recently as an organization for Armenian writers throughout the world, of which there are many, because the Armenian diaspora is huge. A lot of Armenian writers live outside of Armenia, and it's been a great way to connect with them. They offer a mentorship program for younger Armenian writers, too.

S G: Would you like to talk a bit about the work that you are doing at Stanford? Are you writing? Are you teaching? What is it like to balance your writing and your studies?

A D: I'm doing a PhD in English that does involve teaching. I'm studying modern poetry in English mostly, and I'm writing my dissertation on a literary device called metanoia, which means self-correction. It's a rhetorical term for what some poets do where they'll say one thing, and then retract it, or rephrase it. It can be something as simple as writing "the sky is light blue," and then writing, "no, it's dark blue." But instead of deleting one of these assertions, you keep both of them in the poem. This doesn't happen just on a lexical level. It happens more generally when poets doubt themselves or second guess themselves.

And I find this happens to me as I write poetry. I tend to have a hard time making my mind up about things. So much in the world is ambivalent or ambiguous, and I want to know things clearly as I write, but of course that can't always happen. So in some ways, studying this device, metanoia, has been helpful. It helps to know how other poets handle this problem of trying to write out of uncertainty.

S G: Yes. We'd like to be able to move as we write from uncertainty to certainty. But too often it feels as though we are writing into deeper uncertainty.

A D: One poet whose work I've studied intensively who I think exemplifies this self-doubt is Elizabeth Bishop. Bishop is often seen as this poet who made perfect little lyric poems. But I don't think we have truly grasped how loose and free and prosaic they are.

S G: You are reminding me of her poem, "Manners."

A D: Yes. She and her grandfather are riding in a horse-drawn wagon, and her grandfather says that she must say hello to everyone they pass. It’s the polite thing to do, even though I think that as a lesbian writer, she would have a lot to disagree with in terms of what is “mannerly” to do and what isn't, what is accepted and what isn't. But at the same time, she sees her grandfather's manners as one of the ways he manages to be nice to people, to keep his footing in the world. But she feels really divided about it, and the poems issue from that sense of division, and self-division. That's been instructive for me.

S G: Yes. That speaks to your work. I'm thinking particularly of your poem, "Coming Out of the Shower." It's a poem rich in double meaning ("mama, I'm coming out") as in coming out of the shower and coming out as a gay man. But I also love its sensory richness, and how the speaker says that he's using his mother's shampoo, and will smell like her for the rest of the day.

A D: I use Dr. Bronner’s shampoo usually, which smells like mint. But at some point it just starts smelling like nothing because you get used to it. Other people may smell it on you, but you can’t — not anymore. So using someone else’s shampoo is suddenly a shock to this senselessness. It's almost a perfect metaphor for poetry, how we get used to the world and to language, to the point where they cease to move us, until and unless a poem shakes us out of it

S G: Are you teaching right now?

A D: I'm putting together a proposal for a course next year on the sonnet. I'm excited about that. I want us to look at the form from Petrarch to Terrance Hayes. I'm interested in how the sonnet has survived many centuries to work so well today.

S G: Can you describe your own writing process and your writing space?

A D: I've moved so often — I guess that's part of being a graduate student. I try not to attach myself to a particular place or desk or chair. I don't want to feel like I have to wear a certain pair of pants in order to write. I try to write every day, first thing in the morning, for 2 hours, with coffee. I have a set of books that I keep with me, Seamus Heaney's books among them. When I get stuck, I read a poem by someone whose work I admire, and the flow usually starts again. Some, like Gertrude Stein, are experimental poets and writers who provoke me. I don't write like they do, but they help me get started. They make language opaque again. I notice it again. It's there to be worked with and through.

S G: Whose work do you enjoy reading?

A D: I think I became sure that I wanted to be a writer when I read Proust, first in Persian and then in English. I appreciate his sense of the importance of memory to life. I also gain from him a sense of what an artist's life looks like. I appreciate the importance of erotic tension in his work – desire, love, jealousy. For similar reasons I am drawn to James Merrill's poetry, his love of form, music, memory, and childhood. Then there is the poetry in Persian. The Asian American Writers’ Workshop recently compiled a list of 100 works of Persian literature in English (https://aaww.org/100-essential-books-by-iranian-writers-poetry-hybrid-works-anthologies/). I've always wanted to teach a course on the poetry of exile, so I read poets whose work addresses that.

S G: What are you working on now?

A D: I'm working on my first full-length book of poems. It starts with a crown of sonnets called “The Ring.” My dad had to get his wedding ring re-sized, but he ended up buying a new ring and he gave me the old one. The sequence is about that exchange, that passing down of a memento, and what that means since I probably won't have the kind of traditional marriage that ring was made for.

S G: Has it been challenging or ambivalent or tender to talk to your mom and your dad about being gay?

A D: Yes. They had such a different upbringing in a different place, but still they've been very loving and open. Sometimes I feel like it's taken away one of the tensions that used to drive my poetry!

S G: Will some of the poems from Swan Song find their way into your new book?

A D: About ten of them will. This new book has two long sequences of sonnets, so I'm hesitant to put in any more.

S G: Thank you so much for talking with me today. Is there anything I haven't addressed that you'd like to talk about.

A D: Just thank you so much for the beautiful broadside! My parents were really happy to have it. My mom has framed one and it's in their living room. Thank you for this conversation.

S G: Thank you! I look forward to hearing you read on April 12.

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nottellingu · 7 years ago

Text

A/N: A teacher!lily / singledad!james au because my school reopened. Well it’s three weeks past so . . .

Read it on ff.net

“Just one more.”

“No Dad, we’ll be late,” Five year old Harry Potter whined. But nonetheless he posed for another photo.

James Potter clicked away on his phone. With his toothy grin and his too-big-Bob-the-Builder-backpack, Harry was the most adorable kid to ever walk the earth.

“Da-ad,” Harry whined again.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” James slipped his phone into his pocket and took his son’s hand. Together they began walking to the red school building.”

When they finally found the right classroom, there was a young teacher in a pretty floral dress standing outside the classroom.

“Hello. I’m your new teacher, Ms. Evans.”

Harry half hid himself behind James’ leg. “I’m Harry Potter,” he said shyly.

Ms. Evans knelt down. “Hi Harry, do you like fingerpainting?”

“I haven’t tried it.”

“Would you like to?”

Harry nodded and came out from behind James’ legs.

“Good. I like people who try new things. I think we’ll be great friends. Do you know why?” Ms. Evans leaned in closer to Harry and whispered so softly James had to strain his ears to hear. “We both have green eyes.”

And sure enough, they both did have the same green eyes. It was uncanny, really. James didn’t know where Harry got his eyes from. He had only met Harry’s mother twice in his life – once for a quick screw in the club bathroom and then the day she dumped Harry in his arms – and both those times he hadn’t really paid attention to the colour of her eyes.

Ms. Evans’ eyes were beautiful - the kind you could write poetry about, the kind you could get lost in, the kind that could cure any ailment, the kind that could -

“We do!” Harry exclaimed loudly. Ms. Evans laughed. James shook himself out of his reverie.

“Well then,” she started saying and took Harry’s hand to lead him inside the class. “Let’s go.”

Harry walked a few steps before stopping.

“What’s wrong?” Ms. Evans looked down and frowned slightly at him.

“Can my Dad come too?” He asked timidly. “He’s my bestest friend.”

“Oh, no bud. Remember we discussed this - ” James began but Mrs. Evans cut him off.

“It’s fine, Mr. Potter. Parents are allowed to sit with their children today for an hour. It’s sort of an orientation class.” She turned her head to smile at a new mother-daughter duo. “I’m sorry, I have to greet the others. You can help Harry find his place, his name is stuck on it.” With a parting smile, she left.

James walked over to Harry to help him find his seat. They sat down and James asked Harry how he liked his new class.

“I like Ms. Evans,” Harry said decisively and turned to talk to the red haired boy next to him.

“Me too,” James agreed silently while watching the attractive teacher interact with her students.

James pulled out his phone to text his best friend, Sirius.

James Potter to Sirius Black: ill b 1 hour late orientation class with harry

Sirius Black: i’ll cover 4 u. as usual.

Sirius Black: how’s d lil bugger?

James Potter: he likes his new teacher

Sirius Black: she fit??????

James Potter: the fittest

James Potter: green eyes

Sirius Black: haha u r so fucked

James Potter: i kno

Ms. Evans wished everyone a Good Morning and he put his phone away.

“Welcome to kindergarten! Since it’s your first class I thought we could start with something fun. I’m going to give you all a white paper and some paints. You can use your fingerprints to make a cool picture with your parents. Does that sound fun?”

There were a few mumbled ‘yes’es, some remained silent but most talked amongst themselves.

She distributed the paper and gave each table a set of paints. Harry and James dipped their fingers in the various paints to make a pot of flowers. James’ huge thumbprints became the brown flowerpot and Harry’s tiny fingerprints became the colourful flowers.

“What pretty flowers,” Ms. Evans commented from behind James.

“Thanks Ms. Evans,” Harry beamed and proceeded to press his finger on the paper with a renewed zeal.

“It’s a pot of flowers because we’re the Potters. Get it?” James was awarded with a light tinkling laugh for his joke. His stomach swooped.

“Very clever.” She grinned before moving over to the next desk.

When it was time for the parents to leave Ms. Evans made announcement.

“On your child’s desk, I’ve kept a file for the parents. One set of papers are forms for emergency contacts, allergies and other such details. I would appreciate it if that form could be filled and handed over to the office in three days. Another paper has all my contact details. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you have any trouble.”

James found the blue file she was talking of and immediately flipped to her contact details.

Lily Evans

Phone Number: 7639847906

Email: [email protected]

If you wish to meet with me in person, you may do so during the lunch break, 12:00 – 1:00.

James saved the number into his phone at once. For Harry’s sake only and not for any other reason.

(Yeah, right.)

As the weeks passed, Harry grew steadily fonder of Ms. Evans. It was Ms. Evans this and Ms. Evans that. Not that James minded. Not in the least. In fact, James too grew steadily fond of Ms. Evans with each of Harry’s stories about her, not to mention the small smiles she would give him when he picked up Harry from school.

One afternoon, as James was collecting Harry from school, Ms. Evans stopped him.

“Mr. Potter, I would like to talk to you for a minute.”

“Er-sure.”

“Harry, why don’t you go draw me picture?” Ms. Evans suggested. She pulled out some crayons and a paper and settled Harry in a seat in the corner. She gestured for James to follow him to the teacher’s desk.

“Mr. Potter, I think your son needs glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Yes, he has a hard time seeing the board. Perhaps this weekend you or your wife could take him to the ophthalmologist on Third Street.”

“I’m not married but will do. Thanks.”

Ms. Evans smiled at him and his brain turned to mush.

“Bye Harry,” Ms. Evans waved to them as they were leaving. “Goodbye Mr. Potter.”

James Potter to Lily Evans: i took Harry to d doc

James Potter: u were right

James Potter: he needs glasses

James Potter: btw this is james

James Potter: james potter

Lily Evans: if u were tryin to do bond james bond that was a MASSIVE FAILURE

Lily Evans: glad to help :)

James Potter: help show dat i’m a failure?

Lily Evans: NO. help harry.

Lily Evans: tho that was fun 2.

James Potter: i’m offended

James Potter to PETE HAS A DATE! The world ends at 8:30 tonight: she txts lyk me

James Potter: and congrats Pete

James Potter: what did u do

James Potter: blackmail her

Sirius Black: haha good one

Peter Pettigrew: i hate u both

Remus Lupin: Who texts like you?

Sirius Black: who else? harry’s teacher. the one he FANCIES

Peter Pettigrew: u r pathetic

Reums Lupin: I second that.

James Potter: she is a nice person with a cute cat

Remus Lupin: How do you know that?

James Potter: . . . . . . . . i found her ig

Sirius Black: fyi I’m facepalming

James Potter: she posts pics of her cat

James Potter: her bf

James Potter: or her cat and bf

James Potter: her captions r puns and funny jokes

Peter Pettigrew: she has a boyfriend?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Remus Lupin: Again, you are pathetic.

Sirius Black: Say aye if u think Prongs is pathetic and needs a shag

Remus Lupin: aye

Peter Pettigrew: aye

Sirius Black: AYEEEEEE

James Potter: NAYYYYYYYY

James Potter: BF AS IN BEST FRIEND

James Potter: @marmarlovesbonbons

Sirius Black changed group name to James Potter is the new CEO of Stalker™

James Potter changed group name to NO I’M NOT

Remus Lupin: It’s not too late. You can still get help.

James Potter: blocked

James Potter: gtg harry spilled milk

Remus Lupin: Good riddance.

On Monday morning James dropped Harry bright and early unlike most days on which they managed to reach in the nick of time. In fact Harry was the third in class; the other two were a boy with blonde hair and a girl with bushy brown hair who James recognized as Hermione Granger and one of Harry’s best friends.

“You’re early,” Ms. Evans said. Then she noticed Harry’s new glasses. “You got glasses!”

“They’re just like my Dad’s.” Harry said proudly. Harry had chosen the round, wire-rimmed spectacles despite the doctor telling him he looked adorable in the glasses with the green, rectangular frames.

“You look handsome, just like your Dad.”

“Thanks, Ms. Evans,” Harry beamed. “I’m going to show Hermione my new glasses. Bye Dad!” Harry quickly walked up to Hermione, leaving the two adults alone.

“You think I’m handsome?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I think Harry’s cute.”

“No, I don’t think that’s what you said. You said that Harry looks handsome, just like his dad.”

A slight flush coloured her cheeks, making her look very appealing. “I’ve got lessons to plan,” she said in a small voice and turned away from James, purposefully ducking her head.

James laughed.

James Potter to The Lads and the Dad: she thinks i’m handsome

Remus Lupin: Not this again.

Sirius Black: poor ms. evans

Sirius Black: I didn’t kno she was blind.

Peter Pettigrew: ahahahaHAHAHAHAHAH

James Potter removed Sirius Black

Remus Lupin added Sirius Black

Sirius Black removed James Potter

Sirius Black changed group name to The Lads

Remus Lupin added James Potter

James Potter changed group name to The Lads and the HANDSOME Dad

Remus Lupin removed James Potter

“I want chocolate fudge,” Harry told Sirius.

It was Sirius’ birthday and Harry, James and all his friends were out at the ice cream parlor in a mall. The mall was a shoddy building which had once been the office of a company that went bankrupt. Nobody cared for the mall much but it was home to the best ice cream parlor in the world, namely Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor.

Before Harry was born, all the lads would have gone to a pub and gotten completely sloshed. But the last time they did that, Harry was conceived. Now they stuck to ice cream parlors and arcades.

“For me too,” Remus added while Peter nodded in agreement.

“You’re buying your own ice cream. I’m only sponsoring the little twerp,” Sirius said and ruffled Harry’s hair goodnaturedly.

“Harry, what did Ms. Evans teach you yesterday?” Peter asked.

“That we must be kind and help those in need.”

“Don’t you think Uncle Sirius should be kind and help those in need?” Remus pursued.

“Yes.”

“And how can he help us?” asked Peter.

“By buying everyone ice cream.” Harry said. Peter and Remus smirked, James laughed, Sirius grumbled words which made James smack him over the head.

James, Harry and Peter found a table by the window while Sirius and Remus went to order the ice cream. James fiddled with his phone as Peter taught Harry how to make a swan out of the cheap paper napkins on the table. James didn’t pay much attention until Harry shouted, “Ms. Evans!”

James turned to look where Harry was looking. Ms. Evans stood by a nearby table, a shopping bag in one hand and the other hand balanced her vanilla ice cream. She wasn’t wearing the skirts or dresses that James was accustomed to seeing her in but was wearing ratty jeans and a t-shirt that advertised her love for The Beatles. James decided that Lily Evans was the type of person who looked good in anything she wore.

Ms. Evans saw them and smiled in recognition. She walked over to the table where they sat.

“Hello Harry, what are you doing here?”

“It’s Uncle Sirius’ birthday.”

“Well, tell him I say Happy Birthday.”

“Look! He’s over there.” Harry pointed to where Sirius and Remus were making their way back to the table.

They set down the ice cream. Harry was happy to ignore the grown-ups around him and dug into his ice cream.

“Happy Birthday,” Ms. Evans warmly wished Sirius.

“Thanks,” Sirius replied chirpily. “You must be Ms. Evans.”

“How did you know?”

“Harry talks of you all the time.” Sirius pointedly looked at James as he said the last three words. James ignored him.

“He talks of you too.”

Peter, who had finished making his swan, tuned into the conversation. “Wait, you’re Ms. Evans?”

“Yes, Pete. Please keep up,” Sirius commented.

“The one and only,” she grinned.

“Cheers. You got us free ice cream.”

“Erm, thanks.” Ms. Evans seemed confused. “I think.”

“Don’t worry. It’s a compliment.” Remus said.

“I should hope so. You must be Uncle Remus.”

“I should hope so,” Remus echoed and Lily laughed.

James finally seemed to find his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Why Mr. Potter, are you one of those people who believe teachers live in school?”

“Uh, no?” James said almost as if he was doubtful.

“I ran out of Ribena,” she shrugged.

Sirius grinned at the mention of his favourite non-alcoholic drink. “I like her.”

Just then a tall, blonde woman joined Ms. Evans and James recognised her at once. “The paper towels in the loo are shi-” she began to say.

“Marlene,” Ms. Evans cut in. Her eyes pointed to Harry who was examining the new lady inquisitively. “This is my student, Harry, his father and various uncles.”

“Oh hello,” she mumbled sheepishly. The others just nodded. “The paper towels in the loo are shitake mushrooms.”

“Shitake mushrooms?” Harry asked curiously.

“Yeah, I hate shitake mushrooms. Bleh.” She screwed up her face to make an exaggerated, funny face.

Harry giggled. “I hate onions. They make your mouth smelly.” He then resumed eating his ice cream and tuned out of the conversation.

“Are you @marmarlovesbonbons?” Sirius asked.

“Yes.” Marlene narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him and even Ms. Evans regarded him questioningly.

It was mark of their friendship that Sirius didn’t even wince when James stomped on his foot; he had been anticipating it.

“I think you came on my suggested once,” Sirius explained.

“Right,” Marlene replied dubiously. She turned to Ms. Evans. “I think we’d better go, Lily.”

“Yeah. Nice meeting you,” Ms. Evans told the boys. “Goodbye Mr. Potter. I’ll see you for the parent-teacher meeting on Monday. Bye Harry!”

There were ‘Byes and ‘Goodbyes’ said in a variety of tones from all around the table. James watched her leave until the last strand of her auburn hair disappeared from sight.

“I like Ms. Evans’ friend,” Harry declared as he finished his cup of ice cream.

“Do you like Ms. Evans?” Sirius had a devious glint in his stormy eyes.

“I love Ms. Evans.”

“Your Dad likes Ms. Evans too.”

“Sirus,” James warned but Sirius ignored him.

“How would you feel if they got married?” Sirius persisted.

“You mean Ms. Evans would be my Mummy? That would be so cool.” Harry was thrilled. “Dad, are you going to marry Ms. Evans?”

“No, Harry. Your Uncle Sirius is just being stupid.”

“Harry! James said a bad word. Take five quid from him.”

“Stupid is not a bad word,” Harry said sagely

“What?” Sirius cried. “Last week I gave you two pounds for saying stupid.”

“Ms. Evans says stupid.”

“Really?”

“She says ‘stupid chalk’, ‘stupid shoes’, ‘stupid pencil’, ‘stupid stapler’ . . .” Harry went on.

Stupid became James’ new favourite word.

Come Monday afternoon, James felt jittery. He had never felt this anxious for a parent-teacher meeting, not even when his parents were called to the principal’s office after he flooded the school hallway.

As usual, he was one of the last parents to arrive. Ms. Evans was talking to a mother and father, while two children were playing with legos in the corner of the classroom, one of them being his own son. When James entered, Ms. Evans finished talking to the other parents. She gestured for James to sit in the seats the other couple had occupied moments before.

“Good Afternoon, Mr. Potter.”

On an impulse he said, “James.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You can call me James.”

“All right then,” Ms. Evans smiled and she stuck her hand out, “I’m Lily.”

James shook her hand and it was as soft as he had expected. “Nice to meet you ,Lily.”

“Harry is a good kid. He’s friendly with his classmates though at times he fights with Draco.”

“That kid deserves it,” James said darkly. He had heard all the stories of Draco cutting in line and Draco stealing Neville’s ball.

“Be that as it may,” Lily continued, amused. “Fighting with students is frowned upon. Harry is also very curious about the world but perhaps it would be best to teach him that living animals belong outside and not in his pocket.”

James laughed. And then shuddered. He remembered having to scrape out a dead lizard form Harry’s pockets when he was doing the laundry yesterday.

“Another thing I’d like to discuss is that lately Harry has taken to calling me Mum.”

James cringed.

“I know it must be difficult without a mother but no matter what I say he isn’t stopping.”

“That’s just a joke between him and Sirius.”

“Oh?”

Well. . . what to say? What to say, indeed.

“Sirius might have told Harry that I like you.”

“Oh?” Her expression remained unreadable.

“Yeah.” Now that that was out in the open, James might as well expose all his cards. “In fact, I really like you and would love it if you’d grab some lunch with me.”

James was hyper aware of everything as the seconds dragged on –the way Lily’s lips had parted ever so slightly, the way her eyes had widened fractionally, the way his palms were becoming disgustingly sweaty and how dry his throat was becoming.

“I’m sorry,” Lily finally said apologetically. “There’s a rule that teachers can’t date their students’ parents.” James’ face must have shown disappointment because she quickly amended, “And I’m not just making an excuse. I genuinely like you too.”

James brightened at that admission.

“But I’d like to stick to the rules,” she finished.

James leaned over the table separating them. “But would you be open to a date when Harry’s in grade one?”

Lily smiled coyly, “Maybe.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

She laughed and Harry, who was now the only student in the classroom, came running to know what was so funny.

“Nothing, Harry. Ms. Evans and I just made a deal.” James and Lily shared a secret smile.

“That you’re going to get married?”

Lily sputtered a bit behind the desk but James didn’t take his eyes off her while answering Harry.

“Maybe.”

#jily fanfiction #jily oneshot #jily #jily archive #fyeahjamesandlily #teacher!lily #single dad! james #lily evans #james potter #harry potter #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #nottellingu writes #and refers to herself in third person

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