#lots of parenthetical thoughts today | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lesfeldickbiblestudy · 2 years ago

Text

Through the Bible with Les Feldick LESSON 3 * PART 1 * BOOK 77 CONNECTING THE DOTS OF SCRIPTURE – PART 45 Genesis – Revelation (Eternity) Okay, it’s good to see everybody in this afternoon. Again, for those of you out in television, we’re just an informal Bible study. Today we’ve got folks in here from Kansas and Oklahoma City and several outside of Tulsa. All right, again we want to always thank our television audience for your prayers. My, how we appreciate that you all pray for us every day. And your letters, my goodness, how we love our mail time. I want people to know that I’m not just wasting words when I say that we appreciate your letters. And of course, your financial help, we can’t pay the bills without that. We’re in the final four lessons of Book 77 today. We’ve been connecting the dots of Scripture for the past four books. The girls have been asking me the last few days, “Well, Les, people are asking what you mean by connecting the dots?” Well, I just thought everybody knew. Sometimes you’ll see a blank sheet of paper with a whole bunch of dots and numbers. You take a pen or a pencil and start going from one to two to three to four to five, then all of a sudden something comes up that’s recognizable. It’s just a matter of making sense out of something that maybe didn’t make sense. Well, that’s what we’ve been doing in these past four books, including this one. We’ve gone from Genesis through Revelation. We’re just hitting the highlights, not in-depth like we did the first time through, but just sort of a review. I like to think of it as an overview of Genesis to Revelation. I’m hoping that today we can finish with connecting the dots of Scripture. But before we get into connecting the dots, I was reminded again by a magazine that somebody sends me every so often from people that call themselves Preterists. Now, a lot of folks aren’t acquainted with the term. It’s not new. I used to always call them Amillennialists, because they reject all end-time prophecy. But I have found out since I’m in the ministry, that a true Preterist maintains that everything was fulfilled in A.D. 70. And of course they go by Matthew 24, where it says “that this generation shall not pass until all things are fulfilled.” From that they maintain, and they show Scriptures—you know you can do anything with the Scripture if you look often enough—that Christ returned, and that everything was finished in A.D. 70. Israel disappeared and the Jews are no more, and the people who claim to be Jews today are not Jews at all. They’re impostors. Oh, it’s ridiculous. But the thing that really raised my hackles in this last article was that they started it out by saying, “There is nothing in Scripture to indicate a gap or a parenthesis in God’s timetable.” And that’s what I’m always emphasizing that the Church Age is, a parenthetical period of time. We’re going to be looking at that after the boys turn the board. I decided I’m going to confront that. I just can’t let people get away with something like that without warning people to “look out, look out!” They’re highly educated, no doubt about that. They use the Scriptures seemingly to make their point. But I’m going to use the Scriptures to show that they are totally out in left field. So, we’re going to start right now in Acts chapter 15 at verse 13. The background for this chapter, of course, is that Paul and Barnabas have come up from their work of service amongst the Gentiles. Especially up in Antioch where Judaizers have been coming in behind them and telling Paul’s Gentile converts that they cannot be saved unless they practice circumcision and keep the Mosaic Law. So the Lord directed Paul and Barnabas to go up to Jerusalem and confront the Twelve about this very thing. After they had spent a good part of a day, Peter, James, and John finally came to conclusion that Paul was right. He was sent specifically to the Gentiles. This is one of the portions that I feel makes

it so plain that God definitely stopped the Old Testament timeline and opened it up for the Church Age. All right, let’s start our reading in Acts chapter 15 verse 13. Now remember, they had been discussing these things all day up there in Jerusalem. Acts 15:13-15 “After they had held their peace, James (who was the moderator) answered, saying, Men and brethren, hearken unto me: (Now remember, he’s got nothing but a Jewish audience here.) 14. Simeon (Peter) hath declared how God at the first did visit the Gentiles, to take out of them (the Gentile world) a people for his name. 15. And to this agree the words of the prophets; (the Old Testament) as it is written,”Back in Amos, and in a moment we’re going to go back and look at it in Amos. Acts 15:16 “After this (After the calling out of a people for His name from amongst the Gentiles.) I will return, and will build again the tabernacle of David, which is fallen down; (Which certainly it is as we speak.) and I will build again the ruins thereof, and I will set it up:” Hasn’t happen yet, but it will! All right, now if you’ll go back with me to Amos, we’ll see exactly what Peter is referring to. Amos chapter 9, now that’s right after Daniel and Hosea, and then there’s Amos. Those little Minor Prophets are sometimes hard to find. I know they are. Okay, this is what James quoted. And that’s what’s interesting about Scripture. When the New Testament writers quote the Old Testament, check them out. Go back and see exactly what the setting was in the Old Testament. Amos 9:11 “In that day I will raise up the tabernacle of David that is fallen, (In other words, it’s gone into the dustbin of history for all these hundreds of years now, remember.) and close up the breaches thereof; and I will raise up his ruins, and I will build it as in the days of old:” In other words, that’s the promise of Israel’s total restoration to all the things promised in the Old Testament. Of course, it’s a reference to the coming in of the King and the Kingdom, as we’ll see as we read on—verse 12. Amos 9:12-13a “That they (Israel) may possess the remnant of Edom, and of all the heathen, (the Gentiles) which are called by my name, saith the LORD that doeth this. 13. Behold,…” Now this is the Kingdom after the Church Age has been Raptured out. Then God will come back and pick up where He left off with Israel in their prophecies and promises. Amos 9:13 “Behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that the plowman shall overtake the reaper, and the treader of grapes (will overcome) him that soweth the seed; and the mountains shall drop sweet wine, and all the hills shall melt. Well, enough of that. I think my timeline is up here. Here we are. We’ve come out of the Old Testament promises and all the Covenant promises. Had Israel at some point in Jesus’ earthly ministry recognized Jesus of Nazareth as their King and their Messiah, then according to all the Old Testament, the Four Gospels, and the early chapters of Acts, after He had ascended in Acts chapter 1 then in would come the wrath and vexation—which we call the seven years of Tribulation. Then Christ would return and bring in the Kingdom. All right, now here is the gap thing that these people are just furiously opposing – that God stopped His timeline before the Tribulation came in after He had ascended and brought in instead what Peter refers to as “a calling out a people for His name.” Well, that’s exactly what the Church Age is. Paul calls it the “Body of Christ.” Israel never tried to evangelize the Gentiles. They had no commission to go and bring salvation to the Gentile world until they had the King and the Kingdom. Then they would, but they rejected everything. All right, so if you’ll come back to Acts a minute and rehearse what Peter said, because I’ve got to make the point in verse 15. Acts 15 and we’ll start at verse 14 for review, again. Acts 15:14-15a “Simeon (or Peter) hath declared how God at the first (for the first time) did visit the Gentiles, (See? God never went to the Gentiles until Paul.

) to take out of them a people for his name. 15. And to this agree the words of the prophets; as it is written, 16. After this (After the calling out of the Gentile Body of Christ, then--) I will return, and will build again the tabernacle of David,…” And finish His program with Israel. Well, that’s my number one reason that it’s definite that there is a parenthetical time between Israel’s fall and her promises of the Kingdom. All right, now I’ve got another one that I’ve used before. We’ll use it again, still in Acts. Change over to Acts chapter 13 and drop in at verse 6. Here we have Paul and Barnabas just beginning their first missionary journey. They’ve left Antioch where the church has prayed for them and sent them out. And the Holy Spirit leads them, of course, first to the Island of Cyprus. As they go to the western end of Cyprus, they come to the major city, which, of course, is Paphos. Then we come to verse 6. Acts 13:6a “When they had gone through the island unto Paphos, they found a certain sorcerer, a false prophet, (who was) a Jew,…” And, remember, Israel in the future is going to do the same thing this Jew did—try to keep the Gospel from going out to Gentiles. Acts 13:6b-7 “…whose name was Bar-jesus: 7. Which was with the deputy of the country, Sergius Paulus, a prudent man; who called for Barnabas and Saul, and desired to hear the word of God.” In other words, this guy had his head on straight. Acts 13:8-10 “But Elymas the sorcerer (for so is his name by interpretation) withstood them, seeking to turn away the deputy (the Gentile) from the faith. (That, of course, Paul and Barnabas were proclaiming.) 9. Then Saul, (who also is called Paul,) filled with the Holy Spirit, set his eyes on him, 10. And said, O full of all subtilty and all mischief, thou child of the devil, thou enemy of righteousness, wilt thou not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord?” Now verse 11: Acts 13:11a “And now, behold, the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind,…” Highlight those words, “Thou shalt be blind.” Now in this case, it’s a physical blindness, because it is a symbolic prophecy concerning the Nation of Israel as a whole. All right, this individual Jew who is withstanding the Gospel from going to the Gentiles will now be physically blind. Acts 13:11b “…not seeing the sun for a season. (not for the rest of his life, but for a period of time) And immediately there fell on him a mist and a darkness; and he went about seeking some to lead him by the hand.” All right, now there we have in symbolism, again, a preview of the Nation of Israel as a whole, who also were blinded because of their constant rejection of the Gospel of the finished work of the cross and who Christ was, and so on and so forth. All right, now just to make that point, come over to chapter 17. We’ll see what I’m talking about, that this Elymas was merely a preview symbolically of the Nation as a whole—because here, instead of just one Jew withstanding the Gospel, we’ve got a number of them. All right, verse 5 of Acts 17, they’re up in Thessalonica. Acts 17:5 “But the Jews which believed not, (See that? Just like this fellow over on Cyprus.) moved with envy, took unto them certain lewd fellows of the baser sort, and gathered a company, and set all the city on an uproar, and assaulted the house of Jason, (Who was with, of course, Paul and Silas.) and sought to bring them out to the people.” All right, now then, just to take it a little step further, come on down to verse 10. Acts 17:10-12a “And the brethren (That is the fellow believers up there in the area of Thessalonica.) immediately sent away Paul and Silas by night unto Berea: (Which is the next little city further south.) who coming thither went into the synagogue of the Jews. 11. These (Jews) were more noble than those in Thessalonica, in that they received the word with all readiness of mind, and searched the scriptures daily, whether those things were so. 12. Therefore many of them believed;…” But now look in verse 13.

Acts 17:13-14a “But when the Jews of Thessalonica had knowledge that the word of God was preached of Paul at Berea, (to Gentiles, remember) they (the Jews from up at Thessalonica) came thither also, and stirred up the people. 14. And then immediately the brethren sent away Paul to go (toward) as it were to the sea:…” So, there’s evidence that the Jews would not only reject it for themselves, but they did everything in their power to keep the Gentiles from hearing our salvation message of faith in that finished work of the cross and His glorious resurrection All right, now in response to that, then, the Holy Spirit leads the Apostle Paul to make a graphic statement, and if you’ve had any contact with bringing the Gospel to the Jewish people, you’ll know exactly what it’s talking about. Romans 11 verse 7. Now this is years and years later, remember. We’re now into the early 60’s, whereas up there in the early part of Paul’s ministry, we’re still down in the 50’s. But here we are up in the 60’s, and Paul, by inspiration of the Holy Spirit, writes this graphic statement. Romans 11:7a “What then? Israel (that is the Nation) hath not obtained that which he seeketh for;…” In other words, they were always looking for that glorious promised Kingdom and so forth, but they couldn’t see it as fulfilled in this Jesus of Nazareth. That was their hang up. Not that they didn’t believe in a King and a Kingdom. They just couldn’t see that Jesus had any connection to it. Romans 11:7 What then? Israel hath not obtained that which he seeketh for; but the election (In other words, that little small number of Jews who did embrace Jesus as the Messiah—which later on became the church at Pentecost and the Jerusalem church. They embraced it, but they were only a small, small percentage of the Nation as a whole.) hath obtained it, and the rest were blinded.” The vast majority of the Nation was blinded. Blinded. Just like the sorcerer was up there in Cyprus, and that was the preview. Now, why and when were they blinded? Well, they’ve been blinded for this whole period of what we call the Dispensation of Grace, or the Church Age. Not all Jews, but for the most part. In fact, I had a call from a Rabbi not too long ago. My goodness, he was hot under the collar to the extreme, because he said, “I’m getting phone calls from California to Tel Aviv.” I said, “Rabbi, I’m not on in Tel Aviv.” And he said, “You must be. I’m getting phone calls.” But anyway, he’s probably listening. During the course of our conversation, he let me know. He said, “Now, Les, we do not believe one word of that New Testament.” I said, “I know that. Aren’t you glad it’s a free country? That’s your privilege. It’s a free country for me, so I can teach the way I see it.” And he had to agree that this is part of our freedom. But you see, it just pointed out that the Jewish people in general cannot believe one word of the New Testament. Why? They’ve been blinded. Providentially blinded until the Body of Christ, the true Church, is out of the way. And then God will again pick up dealing with His chosen people Israel. Absolutely, God loves the Nation of Israel. He loves the Jewish people. But as Stephen said in the Book of Acts, and I think even Peter used the same word, they were stiff-necked. They just would not bow to the fact that Jesus was who He said He was. So, they’ve been blinded. All right, that gives rise to my next point, which is still in Romans chapter 11 verse 25. And if this doesn’t show a parenthetical period of time, then I don’t know how to read. Romans 11:25a “For I would not, brethren, that ye should be ignorant of this mystery,…” Now let’s see, we don’t have the mysteries up here. They’re on the other side of the board. My, how much time we have spent on the mysteries in Paul’s epistles. It’s that whole body of truth between Romans and Philemon that was kept secret through the thousands of years of the Old Testament, through Christ’s earthly ministry, and through the early chapters of Acts.

Nobody had an inkling of any of these so-called mysteries. Not a one of them. All right, now here’s another one. Paul is again showing us a particular secret that was not understood until it came to the pen of this Apostle. All right, so he said: Romans 11:25a “For I would not, brethren, that ye should be ignorant of this mystery, (or this secret) lest ye should be wise in your own conceits;…” Now stop and ask yourself a question. Who’s writing? Paul. Who’s he writing to? Gentiles. Not to Israel, he’s writing to Gentiles. He says that you should not be ignorant lest you should be wise in your conceits. Now, here is the mystery, the secret that nobody really understood until Paul comes along. Romans 11:25b “…that blindness (a Spiritual blindness. Forever? No. What are next two words?) in part...” For a period of time. Now for us this is a long period of time. It’s been over 1,900 years. How long is it in the mind of God? A snap of the finger. God’s timeless. Don’t ever forget that. Time means nothing to God. So when it says here that they would be blind in part, we think that more or less means a month or two. No, it’s been 2,000 years. But it’s a snap of the finger in God’s thinking. And here Israel has been blind all these 1,900 and some years, but now don’t stop there. Romans 11:25c “…that blindness in part is happened to Israel, (And what’s the next word?) until (And what have I called that for 20-some years? A time word! Oh, it doesn’t give a month and a day and a year, but it gives a point in time that Israel is going to be kept spiritually blind—until some point in time, and then it’s going to be lifted.) the fullness of the Gentiles be come in.” That is the Rapture of the Church! All right, now you get the picture? While Israel is in a spiritual blindness, God is doing something He never did before. He went to the Gentile world with this glorious Gospel of Grace without works, without sacrifice, and without Temple worship. It’s a parenthesis, and it’s going to end. And when that parenthetical period of time ends, this “until” ends, and what is God going to do with Israel? He’s going to come back and deal with them on the basis of the Old Testament promises again. Then all of this—that’s why we’ve got it in a double line. Once we get through this Dispensation of Grace and the Church is out of the way, God is going to pick up right where He left off. We’re still going to have Israel in the limelight, the seven years of Tribulation leading up to the Second Coming—which we’ve been talking about now for the last several months—bringing in the Kingdom. Now, if you’re watching your news, my goodness, I think we’re getting close! You know we’re planning a tour to Israel – October? November? After reading some of my news magazines last night, I don’t know if we’ll be going or not. Because this one commentator maintains that either Israel or America is going to attack Iran before election day. Well, if they attack Iran before election day, we will not be going to Israel! And if it does happen, then to me that’s just the opening for the seven years of Tribulation. So we’re getting close one way or another. I don’t set dates. You know that. But here we have a definitive statement that Israel is going to be blinded for a period of time during which God will go to the Gentile world with Paul’s Gospel. But when it ends, it’ll be when the Church is complete. All right, let’s get back to our verse in Romans again. My goodness, time is gone already. Romans 11:25c “…that blindness in part is happened to Israel until (What?) the fullness of the Gentiles be come in.” Now remember what James said back in Acts? That He would call out a people for His name from among the Gentiles. Well, something that starts has to what? End. I mean, that’s just common life. So, once God started calling out the Gentile Body of Christ, it’s going and going until it gets to the full mark, and then what? We’re out of here in the Rapture. It just has to be.

And once we’re out of here, what does God do? He picks up where He left off with Israel, and in comes the seven years of the Tribulation. Everything is now moving forward to the coming of the King and the Kingdom, which we will pick up again in our next half hour. All these things are just literally laid out so simply. First, James and Peter and John recognized that Paul and Barnabas indeed had a ministry to the Gentiles that did not affect Peter, James, and John and the Twelve whatsoever. They are over there with Israel. These guys are out with the Gentiles. Then we have the picture of the Nation being blinded, because of their rejecting all these things. And when the Nation was blinded, that opened the door for the Gentiles. Then Paul comes back with this graphic statement that Israel’s blindness is going to end when the fullness of the Gentiles is brought in. And my goodness, how many times have I used the illustration of a young lady who is waiting for delivery? What’s the time frame? Who knows? Nine months or thereabouts—when that little baby is complete and everything is in place, what happens? Delivery. And that’s what we’re looking for. We’re going to be delivered out of this mess. We trust sooner rather than later.

0 notes

heroofthreefaces · 2 years ago

Note

🍰 Name one of your fave comfort fics (doesn’t have to be your all time fave).

I actually don't read a lot of fanfiction these days; usually just my mutuals' when they post links. ... I thought this ask meme was about one's own work, but this question doesn't seem like it, but I'll answer it both ways.

When I want to read a comfort fic from my own work I tend to go back to the courtroom dramas - Picard defending Sela after her failed invasion of Vulcan, Archer defending the Enterprise's warp configuration against inadvertent (and bogus) copyright violation, the Doctor defending the Doctor when Voyager gets home (prose version/comic strip version). Though another favorite is the mirror Alliance invasion of the Federation, led by the Master; that one is just six setpieces/cliffhangers with just enough leader on each one to fill out a semblance of a chapterfull of plot but it's one of two stories I'd start off with if I were going to do podfic.

At the moment, though, I'm rereading my mother's stories, The Thousandth Man (Ni Var unabridged) and her magnum opus Simple Gifts (in which, though a parenthetical description doesn't do it justice, her OC bears children to both Kirk and Spock and raises them, over the course of fifteen years). My late wife used to read that and then call me Spock for weeks. When I had an Amiga 500 I animated selected scenes from it for my mother one Christmas. The bits of that I like enough that they've always stayed with me, today when I come to them again, well they kinda get me right there, y'know?

fanfiction ask game

#writing memes #memes

10 notes · View notes

caralara · 2 years ago

Note

I know everyone is up in arms about the return of F mentions but I am... thinking thoughts about timing and checkered theory. Two mentions in one day, but very minor in the radio interview and none in the direct quotes of the print interview. None prompted or relevant to the other subject matter at all. None that felt organic at all, either (I think, for example, if somehow we were wrong about F and he were organically bringing F up in these interviews, it would flow naturally in those direct quotes, not get shoved into a parenthetical).

From a PR/album promo perspective... no point. None at all. No one is buying his album because he's a good dad, and it's not like Alt Press readers care about that. Honestly, not even his existing fans care about that. And if it's not for promo and it's not organic, then I'm left wondering why. And a reason that I come back to is... groundwork for ending it. It was justified, he was rightfully angry and almost certainly being sabotaged by his team but... Louis did not come off as a good dad in early bbg days. And if it's going to end (and he's not going the burn it all down route), he needs to come off as a good dad. He can claim privacy, but if there's still early stories about the mess that was 2015-2016 and nothing to replace them, you just resurface bad stuff when you end it. If you casually seed quiet mentions of his son, not so much that it's awkward and forced (like Walls promo) but just like... closer to normal, and then things end, you have a much more organic story. And that article ALSO included that quote about Louis not wanting people to feel sorry for him, not wanting the narrative of his life to be things never going his way, so you have quotes to back up a kind of "move on, look to the future, give privacy and don't pity him" attitude when it ends. This timing feels to me like it fits with the theory that bbg might end in the slow period between album announcement and release, just because it feels a little heavy handed for an early next year end, and if that was the timing I'd think they try pretty hard to keep F out of the promo.

This is a long anon and I'm sorry but you're like... a rational person about bbg ending and I just have thoughts.

hi anon, first off - your last sentence gave me butterflies ngl hehe

Secondly - I can only give that back to you, what you’re laying out here, your observations make a lot of sense.

I said in a response to a different anon already today that his mention of Freddie was unprompted during the radio interview, and the print interview is also… not ver organic. Why mention Freddie when you’re listing the tragedies of his life?

I like your theory about the timing a lot, and I lean more towards this now, especially after attributing the September signalling to promo / album instead of babygate.

You’re welcome back in my inbox anytime to talk about this!!

#anon #babygate #bbg

13 notes · View notes

flameohotwife · 3 years ago

Note

For the fanfic writer ask game: 4 and 32!

4. Are there any writers that inspire you?

Absolutely!! I listed a bunch in a ffwf a while back but SO many writers have inspired me. I also have a couple friends who are real, published writers IRL and, while they sometimes make me wonder what I'm doing with my life (ha), they inspire me a whole lot because we were all English Majors (with Creative Writing concentrations) together, and they make me think that maybe one day I could write something worth publishing, too. But also, so so many of my online fic-writing friends inspire me every day (INCLUDING YOU!)!! I would not be writing today at all if it weren't for @itsmoonpeaches and @vanillabutspicy, who both inspire me for the immersive and visceral way they write, provoking intense emotions and vibrant pictures. @waterbearwaltz writes in a fashion that is absolutely poetic. @chocomd is a master of angst AND fluff and that is an impressive range! @the-last-cuddlebender has SUCH big brain ideas and the way she writes drips with metaphor and her descriptions are unlike any others I've read. @coyotelemon is amazing with plot and character development in a way that always keeps me on the edge of my seat as I read her stories, and that is a truly underrated talent because it is SO SO important, especially in longer works. @thinkingisadangerouspastime, as you well know, is an absolute MASTER at introspection and has an amazing, unmatched grasp on characterization. And YOU, Northern, have such a wonderful way of tying your stories together with parenthetical thoughts or purposeful repetition or other imagery and it is so, so gorgeous. I know I'm forgetting people but also this is getting really long, haha. I will often read something that one of you wrote and just be speechless afterward, and it takes me a while to figure out how to even begin a comment, because my mind was blown and there's nothing left to construct proper sentences, haha. Kataang fandom is truly blessed with some AMAZING, TOP TIER writers <3

32. Summarize a random fic of yours in 10 words or less.

Aang and Katara daydream about their baby’s mixed cultures

Thanks for sending questions for fanfic writers!

#fanfic writer ask game #northerngoshawk #asks

11 notes · View notes

parkers-gal · 4 years ago

Note

hey honey! how are you doing?

i was wondering if you could write something where the reader is either tom or harrison’s sister, around 19-20 years old, and she hears her brother talking bad about her behind her back and she gets distant towards them and her brother realizes how much he’s missing out on (her first boyfriend and stuff like that)

sorry if it’s long or if you don’t wanna write it lol it was just an idea!!

don’t be sorry! i loved this! also doing pretty good :-)

i didn’t really understand what was in the ending parentheticals so i hope this is what you wanted!

wc: 1.7k

—

Being the established girl in a group of four boys meant a lot of things. Often, you were confused as a girlfriend to whichever boy you were accompanying, aside from your brother, of course. There was a lot of territory that came with being close family-friends with the Holland family. Especially since your brother used to be Tom’s assistant. It was expected, though, because they had been close friends growing up, especially since being in the same grade.

You were younger, which meant you were in between ages for the twins and Paddy. You didn’t consider yourself too young for them, though, and found yourself in the presence of the boys for most of your time.

Today, however, you were with your friend Aisha, walking around the shops. She had to leave unexpectedly early, so you parted ways. You came into the house quietly, setting a few things as you silently made your way into the kitchen. It wasn’t actually your house, but you practically spent all of your time there anyways. You heard voices coming from the den. Though you knew it was wrong, you halted in announcing your arrival, choosing to listen in on what they seemed to be joking around about.

“Finally got ‘er off your back, huh mate?” You heard Tom’s voice, followed with joined laughter from everyone else. Your mind wandered, thinking maybe Harrison had a girl he was interested in, though he never brought that up, so you stayed quiet to hear more.

“Yeah. Out with Aisha or whatever.”

Your eyes widened as the realization dawned on you. You purse your lips and think not to assume anything just yet.

“That her only her friend?”

“Honestly,” Harrison laughs in agreement. “Mum said to be a good older brother but I’m tired of playing babysitter.” They all laugh again and you will yourself not to burst into anger — or worse: cry. “She’s gotta grow up or something.”

“Mate.” Tom snickers. “She needs a life. The boys are a tight circle; can’t let no baby sister in on that.”

“Yeah,” Harry’s voice pops in. “Who else would we spill disgusting secrets to?” They laugh seemingly in universal knowledge.

“Anyways,” Tom settles down. “Good thing we finally got the superior Osterfield alone, for once.”

You abandon your station near the kitchen door and speed walk out the other swing door. You pick your bags up quietly, making for a quick escape as your tears attempt the same. You’re almost done putting your shoes on when Sam comes down the stairs, brows furrowed while he wipes his damp hands on the front of the shirt. You curse in realizing he was probably in the bathroom.

“Y/N? Everything okay?”

“Uh…” You glance to the hallway that leads to the kitchen, wearily hoping nobody comes out. “Yeah, just uh… forgot I had to do something. I’ll see you later.”

You quickly make your way out of the house, shoving everything into your car while you can, starting the engine with great speed. Sam was in the middle of saying something else to you on your wait out, but he never got around to finishing because you were already out of the door.

He didn’t mention anything to the boys, trusting that you were okay and that you did actually have something to do.

That night, you tried not to cry yourself to sleep in your small apartment, one you shared with Aisha. When you woke the next morning, she wanted to go to the skating rink for some fun, so you agreed, eating breakfast before showering. You spent the entire day there, really, and let your phone in a rented locker, ignoring the texts from a few of the boys asking if you wanted to come over for a movie and some pizza.

When you did have the chance to reply — over five hours later — you gave them scarce replies in the main group chat, apologizing without much sorrow. From their end, they shook it off, knowing you probably just had other plans that specific day. The five of you were planning on going to the golfing course tomorrow, so you’d get time together then.

But they were wrong, because you cancelled on them, simply stating that “golf isn’t your mood, today.” They’d accepted that, but Harry knew that was bullshit, because half of the fun of golfing was competing with you.

They tried not to think much of your absence while they were on the field, but it was weird and awfully quiet without you. They’d figured it might be different throughout the week, but they were still wrong. You were with other people throughout the week while you could be, and it only made it worse for the boys because you were posting it all over your social media. Not in a flaunting manner, but just for the aesthetics. They didn’t find it very pleasing, though.

Harrison knew something was off, knew you didn’t normally just start ghosting people unless you had a real reason. He intended on figuring out what that reason was, and Tom was hell bent on learning it too. They drew up a plan to get you to come over, telling you they had a few of your missing things. You complied, figuring you’d have to face them at some point.

Strolling up to the house for the first time in ten days, you opened the door as casually as you could, only to be met with four pairs of eyes staring in your directions from seats in the open living room.

“Uhm,” You cleared your throat. “Where’s my stuff?” Tom wordlessly points to a bag on the head of the couch, and you pick it up wearily, sifting through it while you hummed. “Thanks, I’ll just take this and get out of your hair.”

“Well, wait-” Tom stands abruptly. “Why… why don’t you hang out for a bit?”

“I mean… do you want to?” The tone in which you speak catches him off guard for all of ten seconds before each of the boys are nodding their heads.

“Of course we do.” Harrison smiles and you nod wearily.

“Okay.”

However, you don’t make any move in settling down for the long run, and Tom huffs. “What’s going on here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re avoiding us!” Harry concludes. “Why?”

You clear your throat, looking at your feet while your tongue clicks. “I, uhm, I heard you guys talking the other day.”

Harrison raises his eyebrows as a silent message for you to elaborate a little.

“You said you were tired of babysitting me, so I gave you guys some space.” They all physically defeat and you begin to defend yourself. “I just thought it’s what you wanted! You don’t have to explain.” You’re unknowingly beginning to tear up, and they all know it before you do.

“I think we should talk.”

“No, I- uhm…” You glance out the window to your car. “I should really get going.”

“No!” Harry pleads with you. “We just… we miss you.”

You stop short in your tracks, turning around slowly. “Well I don’t really think you get to. Not after what I heard.”

“That’s not fair, Y/N/N, and you know it.” Harrison’s stern with you, and you can feel the tension beginning to set nicely like a creamer.

“None of this is really fair for me, so why should it be fair for you?” You point a finger up in their direction while you shrug offendedly. “I mean, if you’re gonna say one thing don’t act like you don’t mean it.”

“But we didn’t,” Harrison says.

“Really, we didn’t. It was a stupid thing to say.” Tom adds on.

“Yeah, we’d never say it knowing you were there.”

“Oh, but you’d say it if I wasn’t around?” You’re making this more difficult, you realize, but you don’t much care, because when feelings get hurt, things get difficult, and you’ve come to terms with that.

“That’s not what I meant.” Harrison crosses his arm.

“No, but that’s what you implied.” You jab him back with your next words.

“Stop making this hard.” He’s reminding you of what things were like when you were young and arguments were regular.

“I’m not the one that started this.” You huff angrily, hand finally gripping the handle of the front door, swinging it open and slamming it harshly with an “I’ll see you all around.”

Tom blinks, glancing to Harrison in question on what to do next. Harrison sighs and so does Harry.

“I saw her leaving that day she heard you guys.” Sam speaks calmly, almost nervously. “She was- uh… she was crying.” “Oh jesus.” Tom groans, hands running through his curls. “We made her cry, Haz.”

“I know, I know.” He speaks hastily. “C’mon, I know what to do.” He picks his coat up, opening the front door as the rest of the boys follow him out.

You’re coming home that night after spending the rest of your day at the country club with some friends. You’re alone, of course, expecting to eat dinner with Aisha, though the two of you normally dine separately because you’re always with the boys and she’s always with her girlfriend. Things are different now, though.

As you open the door to your flat, you expect to find it dark and empty, but you’re met with your favorite take out meal and four very sorry boys, a large teddy bear sitting on the couch for you. You drop your bags and glance at each of them.

“What’s all this?”

“We’re really, really, really sorry.” Harrison steps forward with an apologetic smile and three DVD disks in his hands, all of your favorite movies. “But me especially. I love having you around… even if you are my baby sister.” You slap his arm playfully and he laughs. You let a smile creep onto your face at his demeanor. “We really missed you this past week.”

You nodded, fiddling with your fingers. “It just… hurt. You broke the one rule I thought…. The rule I thought we all swore to keep.”

“I know.” He sighs, looking at the boys as everyone says it simultaneously. “The circle before yourself.”

You’d seemingly all established it during your first all-nighter as a group of five. You vowed to put them before your own silly ego or public facade. Obviously, some things are harder for others.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“Can you ever forgive us?” Tom speaks up, eyes deep.

You smile softly, voice laced with feelings. “Of course I can.” You don’t miss the smiles that break out onto their faces, and when everyone comes in for a group hug, they know things are going to be okay.

read the spinoff! - circles before yourselves - rule #2

#harrison osterfield x reader #tom holland x reader #tom holland fic #harrison osterfield fic #harrison osterfield fanfic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland angst #harrison osterfield angst #peter parker #harry holland #osterfield!reader #tom holland x osterfield!reader #reader fic #reader

292 notes · View notes

amindamazed · 3 years ago

Text

Tagged by @quipxotic & @littlepichon

nicknames: none for my RL name; a or ama for amindamazed

zodiac: Sagittarius

height: 5′6″ (and a little bit more if I make special effort with posture. which I suppose I should do in general)

last movie: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, which I thought I’d seen way back when it first came out? But either I was wrong about that or I just forgot 90% of the story in the intervening years. I also finally binged We Are Lady Parts entirely due to everyone here who posted gifsets. Very annoyed that there aren’t already 5 more seasons.

last thing i googled: no idea, though I generally use Duck Duck Goose first, which doesn’t quite roll off the tongue as a verb.

fave musicians: I don’t really have favorite musicians the way I have favorite authors, but the two names that first came to mind were Zoe Keating and Max Richter. I have a lot of Joan Armatrading from the 1980s-1990s too. Haven’t kept up with her work since then.

song stuck in my head: none at the moment or in recent memory. Last serious earworm I had was the Hamilton musical cast album, from which random snippets would pop up. That went on for months in 2015-2016.

other blogs: I started out on LJ and moved to Dreamwidth but haven’t posted to either in a loooong time. My side-tumblr is @namedabee.

blogs following: 168 but at least 50 of those haven’t updated in months or years

amount of sleep: Up until my mid-40s, I slept very well, but perimenopause tossed that out the window. Thanks to hormone therapy I’m back to about 7 hours, *IF* I can make myself go to bed before 11pm. It’s unusual for me to sleep later than 7am.

lucky number: don’t really have one, but I do have a fondness for 3/multiples of 3, as well as primes generally.

what I’m wearing: umber tank top and navy shorts; ankle socks and no shoes

dream job: being job-free by choice. see also: #capitalism ruins everything

dream trip: I’ll copy Quipxotic here: a week-long train trip. One with my own sleeping cabin, and a big observation car with giant windows, and afternoon tea service. Preferably no murder aboard. A more modest option I’m looking at is the 30-hr route from Toronto to Halifax. Another travel dream is to find someone who likes long car rides as much as I do to take cross-country trips with, in part so I can spend time taking photos as a passenger rather than taking risks (& bad photos) while operating a moving vehicle.

play an instrument: learned flute as a kid (back when public schools in the US still had music in the regular curriculum); started cello a few years ago but haven’t played recently. would like to start that again.

fave food: chocolate is a daily requirement. black tea with milk. pizza (mmm cheese). apricots.

languages: English plus random bits not (yet) forgotten in French and Welsh

fave songs: I tend to listen to sad, somber movie soundtracks, though I use Natalie Merchant’s “Kind and Generous” and Jimmy Cliff’s “I Can See Clearly Now” as alarm sounds on my phone.

random fact about me: I became a Canadian citizen today. 🇨🇦

describe yourself using aesthetic things: comfy stretchy cotton pants with pockets. lots of greys: light greys, green greys, blue greys, charcoal greys, almost black greys. fountain pens with purple, green, and rich brown inks. light rain. just after sunset or before dawn when the sky is multicolored and trees and buildings are a black silhouette. warm soft chocolate chip cookies. sound of the ocean through the window. random flash of bright orange. long meandering (but entirely logical) sentences scaffolded with ample em-dashes, parenthetical asides, and semi-colons.

tagging: @fearlessdiva930, @weneedtotalkaboutfic, @shirleycarlton, @grrlpup, @totallysilvergirl, @blogstandbygo and everyone else who hasn’t done it yet and wants to.

#meme

20 notes · View notes

carpenoctemzine · 4 years ago

Text

Writer Spotlight | Ersatz 🩸

During our creation phase, we’re going to highlight the many talented artists, writers, and poets joining us for the zine.

Today we have Ersatz whose work you can find on their Instagram, Carrd, and website.

F A Q ☽ M O D S ☆ T W I T T E R ☾ A S K

[image description under cut]

[Image Description:

The image has a white border with decorative edges and is split in the center on a slight diagonal. On the left-hand side is a dark background with red text and circular profile picture with some elaborate decoration around it to match the overall border. The text reads on separate lines: Writer Spotlight. Ersatz. They/Them, He/Him, Xe/Xyr, It/Its. Their social medias are listed on separate lines with corresponding Icons in front of them. The final paragraph reads:

“I'm N; I have a lot of handles but I'm always very recognizable~ I write fanfic under the name booleanWildcard/*/42. I also draw, and sometimes write code (or, more accurately, enthusiastically break things and call it coding.) I am 90% parentheticals by volume.”

On the right-hand side is an example of Ersatz’s work. It reads:

“And it never leaves, gnawing at his heels whenever he thinks he’s re-acquired a fragment of that calm- all these memories and thoughts and feelings and the terrible terrible fear, a rush of fresh thaw to disrupt his still waters. The results are physical, with nausea and chill and shakiness like he’s been sweating out a fever again. He claws for purchase in his mind, struggling to establish any solid ground beneath him, desperate for even just enough stability to catch his breath. Even that much seems impossible; he is unsteady on his own legs, a wobbly foal figuring out how to stand after experiencing something so insurmountably huge and overwhelming that he fears it has remade him.”

End ID]

#meet the contributors #contributor spotlight #zine #original zine #vampires #vampire zine #carpenoctemzine

4 notes · View notes

wolfstarlibrarian · 5 years ago

Note

Yello! I love your stuff... Could you maybe find me some Tinderdate-Fics? And some NSFW as well... I've already read those from that one post... Thx, you're amazing!

Ooh, modern dating app fics are lots of fun, so there’s a variety of styles in the list below. The Librarian is also already working on another NSFW post, so look out for that this coming week!

Woflstar Dating App Fics

Swipe Left for Safety by @remywrites5

His finger hesitated over a picture of someone who absolutely couldn’t be real. He had long, dark hair that fell well past his shoulders and grey eyes that Remus thought must have been either contact lenses or photoshopped. High cheekbones and sinful lips the man looked like a model. Remus was not about to get catfished by a picture that was probably of someone famous that he just didn’t recognize. Besides, what kind of a name was Sirius anyway? It was obviously fake. He swiped left. Not today, Satan. “Hard pass on that guy, huh?” Someone said from above Remus. “Ouch.”

Tindr Bribes by @artymakeart There is a lot of snow and Sirius really doesn't want to shovel it.

*fic below is a wip Aesthetic: Trash Boys by Emaly, merlywhirls A story that starts with dick pics but is really about friendship, falling in love, and summer hols fun.

Stood Up by @chillsoya Remus needs to get over Sirius. Sirius disagrees.

S and Columbia by Chromat1cs Sirius Black doesn't do dates. At least not after a series of particularly shitty dates sours his opinion. Monday plans feel like they might lead to more of the same, but perhaps the universe has a very strange way of making itself felt after all.

Match.com by @fingerprintbruises The best way to Sirius’ heart is through his stomach.

It's a match! by parenthetic (renaissance)

Remus swipes right into the biggest mistake he’s made in a long time.

Our Destiny in the Stars -orphaned fic Having no luck in the dating field, and insecure about his body, Remus checks out a dating website which offers the users the opportunity to get to know a person before seeing what they look like. It's during this time he meets Sirius, an enthusiastic teacher--and they immediately click. When they agree to meet, Remus sees a photo of Sirius and immediately panics. He's too good looking to ever be interested in someone like Remus. What the tawny-haired man doesn't know, is Sirius has already checked him out online and has fallen head over heels for the adorable editor.

Happy Pride day!

#wolfstar #modern #online dating #dating app

35 notes · View notes

oriley42 · 4 years ago

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: MASH (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce Characters: Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, "Trapper" John McIntyre, Henry Blake, Radar O'Reilly, Frank Burns, Maxwell Klinger Additional Tags: Short One Shot, day in the life, Goofiness, Banter Summary:

Frank complains about Hawkeye & Trapper's nighttime "extra-curriculars." As usual, no one cares! A good gay time is had.

[Full fic under the read-more, since it’s a short one!]

“Captain Pierce, Captain McIntyre,” Henry nodded, not quite meeting their eyes as they slouched their way into his cardboard-chic office.

“General,” Hawkeye nodded back.

“General?!” Henry bolted upright, “Where?” His eyes darted towards the liquor cabinet, as if the brass might be hiding between the whiskey and rye.

“Oh, sorry,” Trapper seamlessly picked up the bit from Hawkeye, “We just thought your promotion must have come through by this point.”

“You guys…” Henry sank back down in his chair, “Uh, Radar—”

“The complaint, sir,” Radar stuck the packet of paper in front of Henry’s eyes.

“No, the complaint—oh,” Henry took the paper with a slight tremor in his hand, “Radar, you’re dismissed.” A faint ‘yessir’ sounded from beyond the swinging-shut doors.

“What has the preeminent Major Burns—” Hawkeye began.

“Premature Major Burns?” Trapper offered.

“Parenthetical Major Burns,” Hawkeye suggested.

“Antithetical.”

“Anti-medical.”

“Whatever label you stick on the man,” Henry interrupted, “these charges he’s trying to press are serious.”

Hawkeye and Trapper both paused, mouths slightly open. “Why, Henry, you usually let us work through a few letters of the alphabet before you lay the law down.”

“If you ever lay the law down,” Trapper clarified.

“If it does get laid down, it’s usually to sleep,” Hawkeye agreed, “At our feet, like a good dog.”

“Well, you don’t get mister nice dog—I mean, mister nice Colonel—today.”

“We don’t?” Trapper pressed a hand to his heart.

“But I was going to let him go for a walk this afternoon, maybe even give him a little puppy bath,” Hawkeye protested.

“Major Burns,” Henry continued, a little desperate but significantly less bamboozled than he usually was by this point, “claims that you two break the rules of officer’s conduct and, uh, other things, routinely. Vigorously. On a nightly basis in the officer’s tent and, well, other tents. ‘No tent is safe’ was stated at some point.”

“That little peeping tom,” Trapper breathed, a flash of cold anger in soft eyes.

“I thought he knew better than to bother mommy and daddy when they had their special grown-up time,” Hawkeye replied, leaning back in his chair but not putting his feet up on Henry’s desk—a sign of respect equal to the seriousness of the situation.

Henry’s mouth moved in the way it did when he was rehearsing what he was about to say next and finding it lacking. “Alright. Now, now the way I see it—”

“Yes,” Hawkeye urged him on.

“—the way I see it—”

“Go on,” Trapper added.

“I’m trying,” Henry’s eyes bugged out just a titch, pretty low on the eye-bugging scale for him.

“He’s trying,” Hawkeye explained, patting Trapper’s arm.

“Maybe we should leave him to it,” Trapper suggested, making a theatrical overture towards the door.

“THE WAY I SEE IT,” Henry shouted, garnering an identical pair of faux-shocked gasps from the doctors and a genuine one from Radar, who’d popped back into the office upon anticipating his boss’ imminent railroading.

“Now, the way I see it,” Henry repeated, spitting the words out at top speed, “A little bit of circumspection, restraint, and common sense on your part could clear this up. If I don’t, well, if I don’t see anything then there’s not really any thing to be seen being seen.”

“Yeah,” Pierce agreed readily, “And you’ve never not missed seeing the things that never didn’t happen that didn’t ever not happen.”

“Exactly,” Henry agreed, blinking rapidly.

“Glad we could iron all that out,” Hawkeye slapped Henry’s desk and rose, “always edifying to chat with you.”

“Edifying…” Henry echoed, slightly dazed, as Radar opened the door for Hawkeye and Trapper to exit through.

“Gee, you think he’s boggled enough?” Trapper inquired, “We don’t need a reprimand sneaking up and sputtering at us.”

“I just handed him the Gordian knot of double negatives. I’ll bet you every dollar to my name that he doesn’t cut his way out ‘til Christmas.”

“I’ll match those three bucks and double it,” Trapper shot back, tossing an arm around Hawkeye’s shoulders.

“You two,” Frank materialized in front of them, like a weak-chinned genie. “You two,” he repeated for good measure, “are a disgrace to the uniform.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Hawkeye curtseyed.

“More than a disgrace! An outrage! Degenerate, perverted, unamerican, panty-waisted traitors.”

Hawkeye dabbed at an imaginary tear, “Oh, Major Burns, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah,” Trapper agreed, “I think I just found my epitaph.”

“Indecent!” Frank followed up, but with less verve. Margaret was nowhere to be found, and he wilted like a sock on a windless day without her support. “If Colonel Blake won’t deal with you, I’ll go up the chain!”

“Up the chain? Hey, that sounds like a euphemism,” Trapper pointed out.

“Yeah, like a delicate way of saying you’re going up to heaven, into the light, making your last goodbyes…” Hawkeye gasped, “Oh, Frank, say it isn’t so?”

“Say what isn’t so?!”

“Oh, Hawk, it’s too terrible to contemplate,” Trapper rejoined, “our very own Major Burns, biting the big one.”

“Don’t be afraid, Frank. Death is just like taking a long nap. You’ve got a lot of practice with that.”

“I’m not afraid of anything! And I’m not dying, and I won’t be pulled into another of your ridiculous, cockamamie, nonsensical….” Frank trailed off, one finger pointing impotently back and forth between the two.

Hawkeye tapped his chin thoughtfully, “Hmm, you’re running strong on adjectives today, Frank, but you seem to be short a noun.”

“Hey, maybe I can spot you one, I think I’ve got a spare in a pocket somewhere…” Trapper started patting his clothes down. Hawkeye helped.

“Well, you’ve certainly got something in your pocket,” Hawkeye grinned, “but I don’t think it’s a part of speech.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Frank fumed, “Do you see?” he started gesturing towards passersby like he was fervently hailing a passing ship, “Do you see what they’re doing?”

“Hey, is it Twister?” Klinger asked, stopping by in a stunning emerald ensemble, “I’ve never seen it played standing up.”

“It’s a new edition,” Hawkeye quipped, “now it comes with a betting section and double points if you can hold your position while shotgunning tequila. Nice heels, by the way, they really show off your stems.”

“Gee, thanks, they cost me an arm and a leg. Though if I wear them in the OR, they’ll probably end up costing me my ankles too.”

Frank let out a little gurgle of rage. “This whole camp is full of—of reprobates and lunatics!”

“Well, of course,” Hawkeye let Trapper spin him into a clumsy dancer’s dip, speaking to Frank upside down, “who else would you find in the middle of a warzone?”

#MASH #mash 4077 #mash fic #piercintyre #hawkeye pierce #trapper mcintyre #hawkeye/trapper #my fic

15 notes · View notes

joe-mazzello-archive · 5 years ago

Text

Agape

A Joe Mazzello x Fem!Reader fic

Rating: 18+

Chapter One

Warnings: Language, Suicide Reference

Word Count: 2524

A/N: This is just kind of spilling out of me so I figured I’d put it on the internet. More chapters to follow.

You pushed your way through the door of the studio, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, and a messenger bag hanging from your shoulder. You despised being late to things, but your morning meeting running long and classic LA traffic had you running behind. You were very aware that being a woman in the film industry meant every action was judged by those around you. Your reputation as an actress meant a lot to you, and you never wanted to be perceived as someone who was always late to things. As you made your way down the hall to your destination, you looked up from your phone for a brief moment before colliding with someone.

“Shit!” You luckily managed to avoid spilling your coffee, but your phone took a nose dive to the floor. “I’m so sorry, I was completely in my own world there.” You looked up at the person you barreled into only to find yourself face to face with one Joseph Mazzello. He smiled and crossed his arms.

“I guess I can forgive you this time, since you’re an old friend. But I wouldn’t make a habit of body-slamming your co-stars.” You rolled your eyes and batted his shoulder.

“I didn’t body slam you, you drama queen,” you teased. Joe chuckled and bent down to pick up your phone, which had landed face down. He turned it over to reveal a crack-less screen.

“At least your phone survived the onslaught,” he poked as he handed the device back to you.

“Is this how dramatic you’re going to be throughout this whole project? I remember you being a lot funnier,” you said with a smirk while you both started to walk towards the meeting room.

“I am a goddamn delight, and you know it,” he replied while holding the door open for you. You chuckled and entered the room.

You did know it. You had met Joe a few years prior, introduced to him by your mutual friend Aaron whom you knew from your theatre days. You got along instantly, with similar interests and almost identical senses of humor. You had hung out on a few occasions over the years and considered him a good acquaintance; you weren’t friends per se, but you got along well enough. Once you heard that Joe had been cast as the male lead in the project, you had breathed a sigh of relief. It’s always easier working on these types of films when you’re comfortable with your scene partner.

Once you got into the room, you found yourself surrounded by people. Producers, cast, and other various crew members were spread throughout the room. In the middle of the room were four long tables arranged in a square with enough chairs for the entire group. In the corner you spotted a table with bagels and other pastries and made a beeline for it. The only thing in your stomach was coffee, which wasn’t helping your usual table-read nerves.

You had been in the industry since you were a teenager, and this definitely wasn’t your first table read or even your first lead role. But those nerves always were there. You welcomed them however; you figured if you weren’t nervous for a new project, then it must not be the right project. You accepted challenge, and this new film would definitely be one.

You had fallen in love with the concept of the film from the get go; a story about the eight types of love, according to the Greeks. You told your agent to get you an audition before you had even seen a script. Once you did get your hands on the script, you knew this would be the perfect next project for you. And once you found out you were the director’s first choice for the role, you knew it was meant to be.

You grabbed yourself a bagel and made your way over to a chair, plopping your bag down and pulling out your copy of the script. Someone sat down next to you, and you turned to find another one of your castmates, Leah. You had met her during her chemistry read and thought she was perfect for the role of one of your love interests in the film. Luckily the director had agreed.

“We meet again,” she said, pulling out her own script. You smiled and nudged her with your elbow.

“I knew you’d be the one they’d pick. I’m glad you’re here.” She smiled back, blushing a bit.

“Alright everyone, let’s take our seats, we’re going to get started,” your director Julia shouted over the hubbub of the room. Everyone hurried to their seats as the chatter dissipated. Joe took the seat on the other side of you and nudged you as he adjusted his chair. Julia stood at one end of the room, holding a copy of the script to her chest.

“Thank you all for being here. I am beyond excited to get started on Agape. This project has been in the works for almost a year now, and having everyone here in one room makes it finally feel real. So, without further ado, let’s go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves and say their role in the film. I’ll go first. I’m Julia Daniels and I am the director of the film.”

One by one, everyone introduced themselves. The producers all went first, followed by other crew, and finally each of the cast members until it was your turn. You said your name which resulted in an applause from some of the cast and crew. You smiled and paused before continuing.

“Um, thanks….and I will be playing Ruby.” Even after years in the business, you still struggled with your level of fame. You were no Angelina Jolie by any means, but you had quite a few major projects under your belt. Yet you still weren’t used to the amount of people who knew your name and were fans of your work.

“Hi, I’m Joe Mazzello…” He paused, waiting for the same amount of applause. When it didn’t come, he feigned offense. “Wow, I see how it is.” You couldn’t help but giggle and applaud him yourself, causing a few others to join in, laughing at the joke.

“Thank you, thank you. And I’m playing Desmond,” he finished, with a smug grin on his face. The rest of the cast introduced themselves, with Julia leading a final round of applause for the entire group.

“Okay, we’re going to knock out about half of the script, take a break, and then knock out the rest. Let’s get started.”

Julia began the table read, reading the actions and parentheticals while the cast read their lines. You had read through the entire script several times before today, so you had little problem delivering your lines. A majority of the film was just dialogue between you and Joe, so you found yourself facing him most of the time. You enjoyed finally having someone to work off of; hearing the lines out loud that you had only previously heard in your head and hearing them delivered by someone as good at acting as Joe was made you even more excited to start real rehearsals. You reacted to every word he said, finding yourself delivering some of the lines differently than how you had originally rehearsed them, just based on what you receiving from Joe. At one point you caught Julia’s eye and saw her beaming. She was feeling what you were feeling; this project was going to be something really great.

Finding a good stopping place, Julia announced a thirty minute break. You stood up, stretching your stiff muscles and turning to face Joe, who you found staring at you with a smirk.

“Checking me out, Mazzello?” you quipped, arms still stretched above your head. He nodded, the smirk never leaving his face.

“Always.” You finally dropped your arms, sticking your tongue out at him. He repeated the action before standing up himself and heading out of the room.

“I take it you guys know each other?” Leah asked, sipping her tea.

“Yeah, we go way back. Which makes doing this movie with him so much easier. We’re already super comfortable around each other.” You grabbed your now empty coffee cup and tossed into a nearby trash can.

“I’ll say. We aren’t even at the most emotional part of the movie and I can already feel such a strong connection between your characters,” Leah gushed. You point right at her.

“Just you wait until we’re on camera. I’m determined to make crew members cry while we’re filming,” you joke, making Leah laugh.

You made your way out of the meeting room, seeking a restroom. Once you found one and had a quick bathroom break, you made your way back to the meeting room. Before you reached the door, a familiar voice called your name behind you. You turned to find Joe.

“Joe, we have to stop meeting like this,” you reply, gesturing to the hallway you were standing in.

“Hey, at least I didn’t run you over,” he said, stopping in front of you.

“Are you ever going to let that go?” you asked, crossing your arms. He mimicked your position.

“Maybe. I figure you just owe me now,” he replied with a shrug, that smug smile ever present on his face.

“Oh? And what exactly do I owe you?” you questioned, afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know...maybe some homemade meatballs…” he said, slowing wandering towards the meeting room. You laughed. Of course that’s what he wanted. About a year ago you had invited some friends over your house, including Aaron, who brought Joe. You had made some homemade meatballs for meatball sandwiches using an old family recipe and Joe had proclaimed them the best meatballs he’d ever had.

“I see how it is, Mazzello. You’re just using me for my cooking skills,” you reply, following him into the meeting room.

“Hey, next time don’t body check somebody, and you won’t owe them meatballs.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Leah had been standing near the door and happened to catch Joe’s statement. You and Joe burst out laughing.

“Long story, Leah,” you insisted. She raised an eyebrow and shrugged it off.

After a few more minutes, everyone returned to their seats for the second half of the table read. The cast picked up right where you all left off, working through the scenes. Your excitement continued to grow as the read-through went on; the film was perfectly cast and the whole room felt it.

You got to one of the scenes that you knew was going to be the most challenging. Your character almost attempts suicide, but is discovered by Joe’s character. Joe was already starting to make strong choices, his voice breaking as he delivered his lines, the pain in his eyes already coming through. You couldn’t help but stare into his dark eyes as he pleaded for your character to choose to live. You were impressed by Joe’s delivery considering you hadn’t even rehearsed with the director yet. You were also simultaneously relieved to have a scene partner who was capable of giving this much of himself in a scene. You found it easy to work off of.

Finally, you came to the last scene in the script. The scene where your character and Joe’s character realize that they had been blind to the love between each other all along. The kind of love that is unconditional. The kind of love the film was named after. The last scene was your favorite; it was powerful and was also going to challenge you as an actress. There was no dialogue, only actions.

“The pair sit motionless for a few moments. Ruby turns to look at Desmond; she is feeling the strongest feelings she has ever felt in her entire life. Desmond mirrors Ruby, almost telepathically telling her that he is right there with her, flooding with emotions. Silently, Ruby shifts and tucks herself into Desmond’s side, his arm instinctively coming up behind her to pull her in closer. They move as one, settling as close to each other as they can. Their attentions turn back to the television. Suddenly tears fill Ruby’s eyes and she can’t help but smile. She starts to cry happily, knowing she has finally found her true, unconditional love. Fade to black.”

The entire room erupted in applause as Julia finished reading. You notice a few crew members wipe away a tear or two. You smiled and shook your head lovingly. You love when art moves people.

Julia proceeded to give a last few words before dismissing the group. You grabbed your things and started to head out. A few cast and crew members stopped you along the way, telling you how they excited they were to work on the project and how they thought your performance in the read-through was great. You thanked each of them before finally escaping to the hallway, ready to head home after a long day. By the time you made it out of the building, you were finally alone. Or so you thought.

You found Joe leaning against the wall right outside of the building, looking at his phone before looking up at you.

“Killer read-through. I’m excited to start filming,” he said, walking with you down the stairs and into the parking lot.

“Me too. I was already pretty stoked about the project, but this just made me even more antsy to get started on production,” you replied.

“I’m also excited to have such a talented scene partner. We’re going to get to explore some really complex things.” You found yourself blushing from his compliment. Wait, blushing? Did Joe Mazzello just actually make you blush?

“Yeah, I can already sense a really solid foundation to work from,” you replied, looking down at your messenger bag to both find your car keys and hide your red cheeks. The two of you reached your car just as you fished your keys out of your bag.

“Well, I guess I will see you in two weeks,” you say finally looking back up at the actor. Joe made a confused face before crossing his arms again.

“What about my meatballs? You’re telling me I have to wait until filming starts?” You roll your eyes.

“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” you ask, opening your car door. Joe just grinned, proud of himself. “Fine, you can come over for dinner Friday night. Invite whoever you want...within reason,” you said, pointing your finger at him.

“So I guess that means I can’t invite literally everyone I know?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Bye Joe,” you replied, getting into your car. The redhead walked away smiling.

You started your car and sat for a moment, processing the past few hours. You were certain of two things. Firstly, this project was going to be something really special. Secondly, you might be slightly attracted to Joseph Mazzello. Uh oh.

“Here we go again,” you said to yourself before pulling out of the parking lot.

#joe mazzello x reader #joe mazzello x you #joe mazzello imagine #joe mazzello fic #joe mazzello fanfic #joemazzmaztazz

68 notes · View notes

itsmyusualphannie · 5 years ago

Text

something wrong in the village

Chapter 1/5: genesis Beta: @candanandphilnot Rating: T Warnings: None Read on ao3

Summary: Fiona Lester has a secret. Dan Howell thinks they hate each other. Dan meets an online friend and comes to realize something important about himself while juggling a changing relationship with his parents, friends, and Fiona.

Author’s notes: this was written for the phandom writer discord server’s gift fic exchange! happy holidays @sudden-sky you’d better enjoy your present

~~~ next chapter ~~~

"Mr Howell, are you with us today?"

The voice broke through Dan's concentration on his sketchbook and he glanced up, meeting the cool gaze of his English teacher. "Uh," he said. He didn't set down the pencil gripped in one hand. "Yeah."

His seat juddered as the person sitting behind him kicked it. Dan's pencil, the tip still set to the sketchbook, skidded across the paper and left an angry scrawl across his rough sketch of a drum set. Dan could feel the smirk of the person sitting behind him. He fumed, but had to do so silently as his teacher cast him one last glance before turning back toward the board.

"As I mentioned, Dan, we're reviewing parenthetical citation today, since everyone's essay is due next week. Can anyone tell me how in-text citation for MLA format is used in research essays…?" Her voice faded into the background as Dan focused back onto his sketchbook.

He scribbled ineffectively with his eraser at the deep gash carved into the paper for a few long moments, then pursed his lips and stared down at the ruined sketch. Finally, he let out a slow breath and reached for the corner of the page. This barely-begun sketch was completely ruined now. His fingers rustled against the edge of the paper and he lifted it, trying his best to avoid any more attention from his teacher, but his chair was kicked again, and Dan almost ripped the paper as he jumped. He hastily flipped the paper over to a new page and hissed over his shoulder, "Stop it, you dick."

There was no response, but it was a smug silence. Dan was almost at the back of the classroom, so the person sitting behind him was in the very back and had little regard for the teacher, anyway.

Dan held still for a good minute, but no other kicks jarred him. Cautiously, he lowered his pencil to the blank, full-of-potential paper, and outlined a swift cylinder. He had just begun to add a matching cylinder, the next drum in the set, when another kick, the most ferocious all day, shook his seat. Dan dropped his pencil and clenched a fist. "Cut it out," he snarled.

This time, the person just laughed, a quiet, mocking thing.

Dan considered his options. He could, a) Raise his hand, politely tell the teacher, politely be told off because Dan was disturbing the class, and be sent to the principal when he inevitably snapped at the teacher; or he could, b) Very carefully place his sketchbook, pencil, and various class materials into his backpack so he wouldn't get them mussed, very carefully slide out of his seat, and then very carefully place a well-aimed punch to the cheek of the asshole behind him, and then be sent to the principal, but with a much more fulfilled feeling in his chest.

Dan did take his time weighing these options, but the second option was ultimately decided for him when said asshole's shoe thudded into his chair again. Dan very carefully collected his materials and slipped them into his backpack, and then he very carefully slid out of his seat, and then he very carefully aimed a punch at the cheek of the asshole behind him.

Well, that last part didn't end so well. The asshole had evidently been expecting this, as Dan's fist was neatly avoided and Dan was instead caught by the elbow and slammed face-first into the hardwood floor.

Thud, went Dan's body.

Thud, went the asshole's body only a second later when Dan grabbed the nearest ankle and yanked.

“DANIEL HOWELL,” went the teacher, which Dan found quite unfair, as he was clearly not the only one sprawled across the floor at the moment.

~~~

They were both sent to the principal's office.

Dan had miscalculated feeling any fulfilment in his chest, as the only feeling he had right now was a dull ache where his breastbone had cracked unceremoniously into his desk leg upon a furious kick from the asshole. Their flailing on the floor had taken a full two minutes for the teacher to break up, and Dan had gained his share of throbbing injuries. He'd done his fair share, though, as the other was nursing a tender eye that was sure to bloom into a beautiful black eye.

They glared at each other in the secretary's area until the principal called them in.

"Why am I not surprised to see you two again?" was all she said upon seeing them. She rubbed the space between her perfectly-plucked eyebrows and then raised both eyebrows at them. "What happened now?"

A mutinous silence reigned.

"Sit down," she sighed.

They sat mutinously.

"Daniel Howell," she began.

"Louise," started Dan, in the same tone.

"It's Dr Pentland," she continued in the exact same intonation, "and I'd like to know what, exactly, persuaded you to attack the lovely Miss Fiona Lester?"

The asshole seated beside Dan cringed back into the seat. Dan refused to look over, just stared at the principal with a carefully bored expression plastered across his face.

Dr Pentland kept his gaze for a moment, and then she sighed deeply and turned to Fiona. "And you? You're both troublemakers. You’re constantly on your phone in class and Dan is always drawing and not paying attention to his teachers. I'm sure that Dan didn't decide, out of the kindness of his heart, to paint your face instead of his sketchbook."

As if she hadn't remembered until just then, Fiona touched careful fingertips to the bruise slowly blooming beneath her eye. She winced, then tossed a long, wavy lock of dark hair over her shoulder and stared ahead with uncanny amusement. A deliberate shrug, then a sly glance sideways at Dan.

Dan ripped his gaze away from her and glowered at the floor. He definitely had not been watching her.

"What did I do to deserve this?" Dr Pentland buried her face in her hands. The words were almost indecipherable, muffled. "Oh, god. Are my kids going to be like this when they get to sixth form?"

Dan and Fiona took the chance while she wasn't looking to exchange mutual sneers. Fiona's was considerably more impressive, Dan noted, but that didn't damper his resolve. They hastily looked back at Dr Pentland when she lifted her head.

"Alright," she said, and then nodded, firmly. "Alright. I've had enough of this. Ever since you two began this year, you've been at each others' throats. It's quite time for this to end."

Incorrect, Dan thought with glee. He and Fiona had been at each others' throats since they were twelve and thirteen, respectively. They just hadn't physically tussled in school until sixth form. It was a perfect, mutual hatred. Dan didn't think many other 16-year-olds could say that they had a real-life, mortal enemy.

At least Dr Pentland was one of the few who didn't insist that it was just sexual tension and that they would get over it soon enough. She took their mortal hatred seriously. Well, if her almost-weekly exasperation was serious.

Besides, Dan would never be attracted to someone like Fiona. He may only be sixteen, but he knew what he liked, and that was not Fiona. Well, Dan maybe knew what he liked. He thought he knew what he liked. He didn't know what he liked, but it was not Fiona.

" - and you're going to take a note to your parents, too," finished Dr Pentland, which was just about where Dan tuned back in, having heard nothing she had said in the past two minutes. She regarded them both sternly. "Understand?"

Fiona nodded. Dan nodded more apathetically, never one to be outdone even if he definitely did not understand.

"Great. Get your notes from the secretary. I expect you both to behave once you come back to school. I hope your time off will give you some time to think about your actions."

There was a pause, wherein Dr Pentland traded suspicious stares with both Dan and Fiona. "You're dismissed," she said finally.

Dan scrambled to his feet and for the door, but Fiona beat him. She yanked it open and waved him through with a wide, obnoxious smile. "Ladies first," she said, teeth bared. Her eyes were ferociously beautiful.

Dan threw himself through the door with aplomb and snapped back at her, "I'm a fucking queen, thanks."

~~~

They were suspended.

Dan wasn't exactly surprised when the secretary had scribbled something onto a note and handed it to him. "I already emailed it to your parents," she told him with a too-smug expression as if to tell him that Yeah you can't get out of talking to them. Dan had just yanked the paper from her hand and shoved it in his pocket with no regard for its carefully-folded lines.

Fiona had elbowed him aside and the secretary had begun to rise from her seat, alarmed at the prospect of another fight, but Dan just scoffed and turned his back, grabbing his backpack from the seat he'd been waiting in earlier. He'd left much less dramatically than he'd hoped, as the door slid shut with a quiet hush instead of slamming.

He'd stood defiantly on the kerb for a good ten minutes before giving in and dialling his mum. Fiona had passed him with an air of disinterest, but when she'd peeled out of the parking lot in her old, rumbling car, she'd waved two very specific fingers out of the window at him and just laughed when he returned them. Dan had only been left with the superimposed image of her open, crooked grin and sleek hair whipping around her face. He hated her.

"Dan?" said his mum when she answered, but it was more resigned than anything else. She already knew why he would be calling at nine in the morning on a school day.

"I'm suspended," he said, voice still brittle from the hoarse memory of screeching when Fiona had yanked on his hair during the fight.

She sighed. "I'll call your dad. He'll get there sooner."

"Thanks," he said reluctantly. He kicked the kerb with the tip of his worn Vans. They scuffed a little more than they already were.

"We'll talk when I get home from work," she promised, "just...do your homework, okay? Don't let it be like last time."

Last time meant the one-day suspension a few months ago. Dan had walked the three miles from his house to Fiona's and hurled tiny rocks at her bedroom window until she'd yanked it open. He'd generously exchanged the rocks for eggs, gratified immediately by her shrill screams.

No one seemed to remember that Fiona had returned the favour when she slipped a rotten egg in Dan's bag a few days later. No one remembered her part of anything.

Dan hung up without saying good-bye to his mum. His phone chimed a moment later with a text from her. Stay out front & text me when yr dad gets there.

Fine, he texted back, then shoved the phone deep into his pocket and glared at the empty parking space that Fiona's car had vacated until his dad arrived.

~~~

"Homework," his dad reminded him one more time before rolling up his window and peeling away from the kerb in front of their house, on his way back to work. Dan glowered after him and whirled to make his way into the house. Their front door slammed, at least, which left Dan with a burning fragment of pleasure as he stormed toward his room. He hurled his backpack onto his bed, then made his way back to the front room and into the kitchen. Raiding the pantry and the fridge yielded a chunk of cheese, a bag of crackers, and a chilled half-bottle of Ribena.

Dan had mostly calmed down by the time he'd eaten most of the cheese and crackers and the Ribena bottle was empty. He'd sprawled on the chair in his room, slumped over the spoils he laid out across his desk. Brushing the crumbs off his open laptop, he apathetically watched them bounce to the floor and nestle between the curls of carpet. Future Dan could deal with it.

Sometimes, Dan wished he had even one real friend. He didn't think a gaggle of casual acquaintances who didn't even really know him counted as friends. His self-named mortal enemy certainly didn't, although sometimes it felt like she knew him better than his friends did.

A good two hours passed as Dan lazily scrolled through his Tumblr dashboard, occasionally reblogging or liking a post. He briefly considered doing his homework, but he had three full days to do that now. He briefly considered collecting some eggs and going for a walk but decided he was in enough trouble as it was. Fiona might not even be home, too.

It was only when the clock above Dan's desk clicked as it hit noon that Dan glanced up and noticed how much time had passed. He scowled at the clock and rebelliously continued scrolling through Tumblr.

Need Freinds?

Dan stopped scrolling.

He didn't know if it was the typo, the horrific bouncing image of two generic white girls smiling brightly at each other, or even the advertisement itself that made him do a double-take.

"Who the hell wants to make friends?" he said aloud. "And especially on Tumblr. These advertisers should know better."

He rolled his eyes and resolutely continued scrolling.

Two minutes and twelve posts passed, and then Dan scrolled back up to the advertisement. The two girls were still grinning at each other, their falsely-white teeth gleaming. One was curling her hands in the shape of a heart.

It was disgusting, Dan resolved, and he clicked on the ad. It was purely for the irony of such a decision, of course.

The ad popped open a new tab, which rapidly cycled through a few sponsored links and subsequently, briefly panicking Dan as he thought frantically that it must have been a virus and oh, he'd fucked up now. Finally, the link settled on the homepage of a website that declared 'FRIENDS on Fleek - Find the FRIEND For You!' It was suitably themed, with overly bright colours and cheerful anecdotes from people who had supposedly used the website and found 'friend' matches.

We're location-based! declared the 'About' section about halfway down the homepage. We guarantee that your BFF won't be halfway across the world, so you can eventually meet them in person with no problems! Find your FRIEND match now!'

Definitely disgusting, Dan decided.

He clicked on the 'Sign Up' button in the top right corner. Just for the irony, of course.

He filled out the forum that asked for a username and password, his name, which he simply put as 'Bear,' age, gender options - She/Her, Him/His, They/Theirs, and a personalized option made some small part of Dan a little more interested in the website - and a brief biography. Dan put "lol rawr xD" in the biography and laughed for a solid two minutes before clicking to the next page. This one asked for his favourite songs and bands, favourite foods, and about fifty other random questions that Dan mostly skimmed. This probably-a-scam website had a considerable amount of effort put into it. Dan wasn't sure whether to be worried or impressed at the detail they'd invested.

The last page asked him for a profile picture and to reveal his location.

This information is secure, promised the website, as any scam website would likely promise, but to make sure no one lies about their location, you must activate the location tracker on your device. This is similar to location-based dating apps such as Tinder but is much vaguer. Your location will be in a general 50-mile area.

However, continued the cheerful, almost blindingly-bright font a few lines down, you do not need to share a profile picture if you do not feel comfortable! Please check 'Decline' to decline this option.

Dan considered the warnings his parents had given him for the past sixteen years of his life about revealing his location and picture to strangers. He considered the talking to he was going to get tonight about his suspension, and decided to - ironically, he insisted to himself - only obey half of the warnings.

He revealed his location, but he clicked the Decline button for the profile picture.

Congratulations! chimed a message as soon as the screen had finished loading, absorbing his personal information into the Matrix, probably. You're in our system to find a FRIEND! Please be safe when meeting all new FRIENDS.

"Gross," said Dan.

The new personalized page showed his profile and a few options in the website page bar to 'Upgrade' his account. There was a notification bar in the upper-right corner and a tiny envelope icon, which Dan assumed was for messages from "FRIENDS," he announced, loud in the silent house.

0 New Matches, said the notification bar when he clicked on it.

Dan scoffed. Of course there were zero matches. Even a scam website couldn't find a fake friend for Dan. Then again, it probably wanted him to 'Upgrade' his account.

"Nice try," Dan told the website. "I have exactly enough money for the music festival in three weeks, and I doubt I'll be getting anymore for another month or two because my parents are mad at me now. I'm not upgrading shit."

The website automatically refreshed.

Dan just blinked at it. "The fuck? Are you trying to communicate with me?"

The website unhelpfully did not do anything else. Dan squinted at it and slowly moused over to click on the notification bar.

1 New Matches, announced the notification bar.

"Sure," said Dan. He flicked the mouse, ready to exit out of the entire website, but his gaze caught on the notification again.

It taunted him.

"Fuck you," said Dan, and he clicked on it.

The page reloaded again, revealing a profile that was fully-fleshed out other than the profile picture, just like Dan's.

85% FRIEND match! declared the banner above the profile.

Dan rolled his eyes generously and skimmed it. Hi my name's Phil, said the biography, and since you're probably a creepy stalker I'm not putting personal information in this, other than my favourite TV show because you need to watch it. Stranger Things is the best and oh I'm running out of space ok.

Name: Phil. Age: 17. Gender: Male (He/Him). Location: Within 25 miles. Inbox: Open to matches. Message "Phil"!

Dan scoffed, but he could feel interest stirring in his chest. He ruthlessly attempted to squash it, but the interest had no plans of letting go anytime soon. It persistently clung to the edges of his heart. He ignored the tiny envelope icon next to Phil's name which prompted him to initiate a conversation, and scrolled further down the page, taking note of the areas where they had 'Matched' up.

Mutual favourite bands? Muse was the only band they had both listed, but Phil's list also said Like 500 more I'm not naming them all.

Mutual favourite TV shows? Great British Bake-Off Show, Breaking Bad, Sherlock, Queer Eye, Bojack Horseman.

Mutual books? None. Phil had listed a few but Dan hadn't put down any of his. At this point where he'd been answering the questions, he'd just been trying to finish the form.

Mutual favourite foods? Pizza. Dan's had also said Pizza dips, but he figured he'd let that one slide. Phil's also said Sweets, in general, at which Dan crinkled his nose.

Mutual…

Phil had apparently given up on the other fifty or so various questions, as all of these were blank. Dan had filled out only a few of them, but he was disgruntled suddenly, that his lack of effort had been beaten by this guy.

Ah, Dan reminded himself, this bot, probably.

He stared at the screen for another few minutes. He was waiting, although he didn't want to admit it to himself, for a message - even if it was automated - from the match. The minutes passed, and none came. The page stubbornly did not auto-refresh, so Dan did it himself a few times, eyeing the little envelope icon each time.

Finally, he heaved a deep sigh. Irony, he reminded himself. "Do I have to do everything myself?" he muttered at the computer, and then he clicked on the envelope icon next to Phil's name.

A new page loaded. An inbox this time, apparently. It was empty, but a new message opened, automatically addressed to 'amazingphil' and titled "To my new FRIEND match Phil!"

Ask your new match about one of your shared interests! prompted faded text inside the message box. Or tell a funny joke!

"Gross," Dan said again. He deleted the message title and replaced it with "wtf is stranger things?" A few moments of rapid tapping against the keys, and he had 'lol wtf is stranger things & why is it your favourite TV show? & whose fave food is just sweets and pizza?' in the body of the message.

"There," Dan decided. It was just rude enough to put off any actual humans that might be on the other end but random enough that a computer response would find it difficult to decipher. He hoped, at least.

He clicked the send button. Immediately, another prompt from the website popped up, glaring neon colours as it informed him that Once your new FRIEND match responds, you can open the chat and talk with more ease! Until then, you are restricted to one message a day.

Dan scowled heavily at it. This website was obnoxious and far, far too extra. He'd probably been ironic for long enough. It was time to shut this down...unless...well, surely it wouldn't hurt to ironically get a reply from a bot?

As if summoned, his inbox chimed with a new message. Dan stared wide-eyed for a long moment, but then he opened it, fingers trembling subconsciously as he clicked.

'Stranger Things is the best TV show ever!!' declared the message, sender listed as 'amazingphil.' Dan blinked widely. 'tbh you're missing out if you haven't seen it. And sweets are a perfectly normal food! whose favourite foods are just pizza and pizza dips? I'm concerned for your safety'

Dan heaved in a breath. He heaved another. He reached for the keyboard, but his hands disobeyed him and instead yanked the laptop screen down. It thudded shut with a resounding bang!

"I'm going to get murdered," he announced to the empty room.

~~~ next chapter ~~~

#phan #phanfic #phanfic au #high school #trans phil #misunderstandings

13 notes · View notes

gwinforth · 5 years ago

Text

I’m so sorry for this. But here’s the first part of “Let Please” (Charkov and Boris), which is interlaced with part two of the thing I had [started here] which morphed into a fix-it fic that actually [follows from this snippet] which is reproduced here, for something like convenience. So it’s a double bill, the first part of “Let Please” and the second part of “Give Me Something I Believe”

notes: only incidental relation to any persons living or dead; same for any kind of documented chronology. Kryukov is not exactly Kryuchkov, the same way that Charkov is not exactly Chebrikov.

2nd note: headcanon-adjacent to @pottedmusic’s magnificent young [Charkov/Boris fics], but distinct (if you haven’t, do yourself a favor and go read those, definitely more worth your time)

and as for “Give Me Something I Believe” - explicit, Valoris, possible trigger warnings for mental health stuff, go carefully I guess

as always, unbeta’d. all mistakes are mine.

"Let Please” | 1

FEBRUARY, 1987

There sits, in the hills overlooking Moscow and not far from the university, a KGB health center, where the security organs keep themselves in trim fit. It is terra incognita to ministers of the Presidium, excepting a few particular cases, among whom Boris Shcherbina is counted. These special cases occasionally receive a special pass, and arrive for a late afternoon workout and the kind of high-level talk that is easier to hold amid the slapping of hard springy balls.

Boris could assure you that wasn’t a euphemism. He could describe to you the place. His unimaginative vocabulary was a good fit for how nondescript it was, outside and in: a low building that took in a lot of sun from the north and east sides, wide gray-carpeted hallways that smelled more and more strongly of chlorine the closer you got to the half-Olympic sized swimming pool, and strong soap to mask the ever-present undercurrent of a boys’ locker room stuffed full of sweaty gym kits. Sauna, massage, communications room.

Sometimes, of course, it wasn’t high-level discussion that called him here; where Boris was concerned, it was often the case that Charkov merely wanted to play. He and Boris would change into white shirts and shorts, take one of the neatly boxed squash courts, and volley the ball off the walls and floor, turning the room into something between an old pals’ game and a shooting gallery. Boris usually won. He had reach, Charkov had terrible eyesight and arthritic knees, while preserving a hell of a drive shot.

Then to the showers. The steam billowed from Charkov’s showerhead and filled the tiled room as he wrenched the tap to boiling and turned red, sponging his exertion away.

Boris stood under a lukewarm jet and rinsed the sweat off his balls. He coughed again, spat, and watched the pink-tinged mucus slide toward the drain with a frown. Then banished the thought as unhelpful. He doused his hair, the nape of his neck, turned the water off. He glanced at Charkov, focused on soaping himself up, and stepped to the bench at the far end of the room for his towel. He wrapped it around his waist, sat, then flipped it back open to air dry. He rested his heels on the tile and spread his toes to let the air flow between them.

“Just a game today?” Boris asked, voice low enough that it was obscured by the hiss of the pipes.

“Just a game,” Charkov replied. He rinsed off the soap suds, made one last turn under the water, tossed his sponge into the receptacle, and joined Boris on the bench. He sat heavily and began the slow process of toweling off.

A drenched cat: that was Charkov, with a rivulet of damp, dark chest hair down his sternum, blue veins bulging on the backs of his hands and tops of his feet, and sagging skin under his arms. He was still breathing in deep bursts from their game. His knees were swollen.

“Good game,” Boris said, then. No need to mention the score. “Always a pleasure.”

Charkov grunted. The towelling moved on from his chest and shoulders to his legs.

They had played this game for the past three decades, once a month, as clockwork as they could manage. Charkov always knew when he was in town - more and more, now that the containment structure was up, and had survived the winter. Boris wasn’t surprised when he received the bright white clearance card with Charkov’s dark, neat signature. Perhaps he had missed their games, too.

Not that he gave any sign of it. When Boris arrived, he had received the same nod as always.

It was a cool welcome for such an old friend. After all, Boris had come up alongside him in the world. Their paths had crossed at sometimes the most impossible, sometimes the most sublime moments. And out of the intercourse of years, Boris had learned - he flattered himself - a few of the man’s tells. The way his body held its tensions, the pauses that meant no and the silences that meant yes, or more often, convince me. A foggy biography that might have been more composed than lived, the only verifiable moments the ones that Boris had witnessed himself. (Which forced Boris to consider the obverse: Charkov inexplicably present, at socially deft moments: at a makeshift reception after his municipal-hall marriage, at his mother’s burial, at the ribbon-cutting of a new pipeline six months ahead of schedule. (The parentheticals multiplied as one suspicion sparked another sparked another - his nephew’s baptism, handing over his brother’s firstborn, watching Charkov’s sure handling of the scrunched, terribly small thing. (Hands dirty under the immaculate nails.) The idea of a family life lurking behind that death mask.))

Flipping the page back over, Boris would be the first to concede that what little he had learned of Charkov could, possibly, maybe, perhaps be a trail of breadcrumbs left in his path, yes, even after this many years. A cipher of a man. His phone calls were more about the time and the place, his letters more about the paper and the ink, the artifact rather than the words. His moods were seldom genuine.

Reading him from a distance was doomed, and trying to read him up close was equally hopeless. The instrument hadn’t been invented yet that could sound Maxim’s mind.

Today, Charkov seemed content enough. They hadn’t played to eleven points. They called the game in Boris’s favor at five; he was having trouble catching his breath, and Charkov had just missed two returns in a row. Just now, having mopped off his hips, he was rubbing the sorer of his knees, under the pretense that it needed to be extra dry.

There was something honest about getting old together, anyway.

Speaking of inescapable human conditions: “He’s going to have questions,” Boris said.

“Of course he will,” Charkov said, as if the thought were extremely dull. He had reached his toes with the thick towel. “We aren’t going to discuss Legasov. He knows what he needs to do. You know what you need to do.”

And that was final. Boris looked away, and caught the door opening.

A short man with calves like drumsticks entered, glistening with sweat. His shirt was already balled in his hand. He saw the Deputy Chairman and Charkov, side by side on the bench, and - snorted a laugh.

Charkov’s head raised to meet the interloper.

“I’ll come back,” the man said, still amused at some private joke.

The door swung shut behind him.

“What was that about?” Boris asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Charkov said primly, folding his towel.

And he would have liked to leave it at that, but Boris had recognized the man. Kryukov. Tongue firmly up Gorbachev’s asshole, whispering sweet nothings about out-reforming the reformers. Sweet words, sharp knives, politics as she is played. Boris glanced sidelong at Charkov, at his pale, age-softened underbelly, and rose to get dressed.

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

“Give Me Something I Believe” | 2

(insert long screed about my very own recognition that this is verging too close to Real Historical Events for comfort, especially when it’s wrapped in something that’s so obviously fannish. my intention was to lay the groundwork for the end of Valery’s journey that we see, in the HBO series, and not comment or speculate on the historical Legasov.)

Ten p.m. A hunched man bundled in three layers, taking his little collection of cigarette butts, oozing apple cores, litter, and an unholy matte of hair, cat and man, to the bins in the alley.

It was a particular kind of indignity to shed more than your cat. Yesterday evening, the cat had looked at him balefully, shaking a strand of his hair off his paw.

Now we’re even, Valery had announced. For all the years of fur in his breakfasts and the territorial skirmishes over freshly dry-cleaned trousers.

The brick was glistening and the recent rain had stirred up a perfume of urine and sick. Valery emptied his bucket into the collection bin, felt his lungs surge at the unexpectedly sharp bouquet that rose with the sudden agitation of matter, and reached for his handkerchief.

What happened next was almost a parody. It was something that might happen to Stierlitz if Hollywood got their hands on him. He coughed, recognized from the ticklish ache in his chest that this might be the start of a proper fit and not just a few lung-clearing heaves, and closed his eyes.

Then snapped them open.

Deliberately, now, even as he hacked, he scanned the brick wall above the bins. He thumbed his glasses back up clumsily, leaving a thumbprint on the right lens. Two white chalk marks - the first one perpendicular, the second with a slant, forward. A finger long, about a knuckle apart, below eye line. The rain had done its best to wash them away but to Valery’s watering eyes, they glowed.

First: Need to talk. Then the forward slant: Stand by.

And that peculiarly Boris sign-off, jagging the chalk - and the pen, when they had done this at the work site - in a second stroke, that didn’t quite cover the first. It didn’t mean anything. It was just Boris, making sure Valery would note it, the way he would snarl at Valery to straighten his tie or zip up his fly.

Valery’s lungs had stopped trying to strangle him but he labored the recovery, in case his watchers were feeling like overachievers tonight. He kept his handkerchief wadded to his mouth and glanced around. He listened. Singing - irony in a meandering key - from the next street, cars rumbling, his own strained, whistling breath. No helpful narrator to answer a most basic, but most pressing question - when. How long.

He didn’t expect Boris to loom from the shadows then and there, of course, but the gooseflesh raised on his arms, the back of his neck. Boris had been here. Right where he was standing. How long ago? He hadn’t visited the bins in over a week. But the rain, the weather, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of days. Boris had been here. Perhaps he had seen the light in Valery’s window. Undoubtedly he had seen the car parked across the street.

Valery’s thoughts were suddenly ringing in his skull, redoubling back on themselves. He could get a message out, surely - now that Boris had broken radio silence, now that he had sent one faint flickering staticky burst across the bombed-out ruins of their lives - it was enough. Valery was full of animation. Energy. Breath. He carefully folded his handkerchief, checked inside his bucket. Opened the bin and shook it in again. His elbow rubbed against the bricks, buffing the chalk into non-recognition, a non-incriminating smudge.

Stand by. What an asshole, Valery thought. No.

* * *

SIX MONTHS AGO

He had enjoyed his two weeks in hospital so far, being treated for anemia and a psychological fracture. He didn’t feel fractured… a light sprain, maybe, but it was difficult to sleep, knowing what he knew. Possibly he had over-strained himself, a little. A disastrous meeting at the Institute and - well, here he was.

There were perks. They always brought him a tablet after the transfusions, and he had stowed up a little war chest: morphine, phenazepam, a nightly sleeping pill, and a small bottle gifted to him for luck. Emancipatory provisions, if and when they were needed. So far, everyone had treated him kindly. So far, no news had come of the reactors.

And perhaps that’s what had precipitated this entire - anemic attack - this blow-up brought on no doubt by hypoxia of the lobes (the soul, should such a thing exist, was not a candidate for diagnosis, the heart, only insofar as fibrillation might cause manifest a sensation of something not unlike despair) -

Valery exhaled. He sat with his elbow on the too-high sill, smoking at the open window. He supposed he was grateful they hadn’t diagnosed a case of slow schizophrenia. The rain had stopped; it was a few minutes before eleven in the morning. He had full account of his faculties, which extended to telling the time.

Just a strain. A stress fracture. And now he was being discharged. He was in his suit and tie and trousers, which hadn’t been laundered, so he smelled like the coffee he had spilled on himself and very stale sweat.

He wondered if Boris had called.

The phone calls with Boris had grown further and further apart. At first, back in Moscow, they kept to the briefing schedule that had given tempo to their days in Pripyat - dawn, noon, dusk, often midnight, around the table, the center of the innermost circle - there was a lot to keep up on, those first couple of weeks home from the front. The containment structure’s progress, clean-up on-going, ne-ver-end-ing, but the return to Moscow had signaled the turning of a corner.

They had returned to civilization, and so. Faces Valery had never seen on the ground in Pripyat, suddenly sitting among them as equals. Total strangers sending over their own briefs, sneaking a few small coins of their successes, and happy to leave their failures on their own heads. Valery hated them, and hated the way Boris was resigned to them.

Politics steered the paperwork. There would be criminal charges, but before charges could be brought, a full picture of the disaster had to be wrestled into focus from the mosaic of data. Statements, facts, figures had to be compiled, Boris as chair was umpiring five or six competing drafts of the commission’s report (“And mine doesn’t get top bill?” “Who are you, John Wayne?”), and he was still flying out weekly to stare at the containment structure. So it was only natural, Valery supposed, as his own role faded into the larger chorus of technical and legal niceties, that Boris should have less time to sit up with him til midnight, musing quietly as Valery calculated and smoked. Long dinners turned to hurried lunches turned to a quick chat before a meeting, a phone call to discuss a revision, and the weather. Boris didn’t need his expertise as urgently now. But he kept track of his people. He was kind that way. The last call - “Going home for a couple of weeks, to relax; going to read something that isn’t asterisked to hell and back!” - and Valery wishing him well.

The holiday in Kiev turned into two months, then three. Silence the entire while. Sometimes Valery moved to pick up the phone, or a pen, but the thought of disturbing Boris’s rest - or the thought of receiving no reply - conveniently, one or the other was always on hand to strangle the impulse.

Valery went back to his office, the office politics and knife-smiles of the Kurchatov Institute. He was still loved, he knew, and respected, he knew, but not universally - and he had left his borders undefended.

That was the backdrop to his slight, small, hardly-worth-mentioning breakdown. The KGB hadn’t kept their side of the bargain, yet. And far from the laurels he was expecting on his homecoming, he was meeting resistance. He was angry about what that signalled. (He was terrified of what that signalled.) And he didn’t have the stamina he once had; hell, even climbing a couple flights of stairs could leave him winded. He felt utterly exposed and at everybody’s mercy.

The door opened behind him, sending a harsh wave of sound through the room as the hinges squealed. His body jumped from the chair.

“Dressed, Comrade Legasov? Time to go.”

One of the nurses. Valery stubbed out his cigarette and nodded. He patted his pockets down to make sure he had everything, staring at the floor.

Someone helped him into his coat. Valery grabbed his collar back, turned, and saw the nurse still at the door, blank-faced. He looked to his left, at the body next to his.

The knotted tie sitting just so, the jawline, shoulders spanning his vision - Valery looked up into Boris’s face. Valery stuttered out his name.

Boris was severe, like a statue of himself. He didn’t smile. He nodded to the door.

Valery fell in behind him, silently. The nurse didn’t dare follow them.

The car was waiting out front. And finally, as the car swung out and joined traffic, Valery got the courage to ask: “What are you doing here?”

Boris stared straight ahead. “Taking you home.”

* * *

The garbage had been mouldering for two weeks. Apparently the cleaning lady had been warned off. If they had searched the flat, though, they didn’t see fit to take out the trash.

The cat had been allowed to slip out, which caused Valery some distress when the helpful geriatric next door mentioned seeing it - him? - haunting the stairwells. Boris left Valery perched on a chair and did a brief check of his other rooms, opening windows as he went. He assumed the rooms hadn’t been ransacked. It probably always looked like this. The bedding was musty.

The cat came creeping along the balcony railing as Boris was flapping the bedsheets into the fresh air.

Boris opened the door into the apartment and stood back. The furry thing leapt off the railing and bolted past him into the flat.

Valery was holding it against his chest and looking teary when Boris returned with the sheets. Boris decided to ignore this. He dumped the sheets on the bed, returned to the kitchen, and made a clattering show of putting on the kettle and raiding the cupboards.

Some minutes later they sat at the kitchen table, cups of coffee steaming in front of them. Silence except for Boris’s spoon, with a small helping of sugar, knocking around his cup. Valery picked at a cat hair on his sleeve.

Boris dropped his spoon heavily. He saw Valery flinch. Valery was expecting fury, but even Boris wasn’t prepared for the rough, uneven huskiness of his voice when he asked, “Was it about the reactors?”

Valery shook his head. “They aren’t fixed.”

“They will be,” Boris said.

“We’ve been waiting for months.” Valery touched a drop of coffee that had landed on the formica top.

“Trust me,” Boris said. “For a little longer.”

Valery’s head listed to the side. His eyes swept Boris, then the table, then his hands, then darted to some sound Boris didn’t hear. He nodded, agitated. Nodded again. Boris felt the table jostle as he bounced his leg.

“Valera -”

“I want to come with you.” Valery’s hand suddenly lunged across the table. “When you fix the reactors, when you re-fit them. Take me with you.”

His fingers dug on Boris’s knuckles. There was a febrile glint in his eyes, out of the shadow cast on them by the single bulb. Some of his strange energy flowered through his skin. Boris felt the blaze of Valery’s hand on top of his and thought, careful, Valera, you’re becoming a fanatic.

The strength of Valery’s stare demanded an answer. He had stopped fidgeting. He was oddly still. “Take me with you,” he repeated.

Boris turned his palm, and captured Valery’s warm hand. “I will.”

And another thought, one that Boris had to dismiss by force, was this: he had sat with men who were cracking up before. They cut one of two ways: loud, or quiet. Hot, or cold.

* * *

KIEV

Boris watched the needle slide into his vein, then followed the rising tide of blood in the vial as it filled. When it was finished, a sleight of hand to yank the needle out and press a cotton ball. He folded his elbow to keep it tucked tight. He had already given them urine, hair, saliva, had his heart and lungs sounded out with stethoscopes and scans, his pulse measured, and his dignity forever reduced. His blood, presumably, would tell them the rest of his mortal secrets. Not today; today he was on his own recognizance, walking alongside and bargaining with the pessimism that had anchored itself to him. It was a beautiful day. As yet, he reminded his gloomy shadow, nothing was certain.

Three doctors packed into one office when Boris arrived for his follow-up appointment. Boris put on his most charming, his most indulgent smile. He didn’t envy them. They were just the messengers.

“Good news, I hope?” he asked. You’re dead, Boris Yevdokimovich.

They told him it was a case of “wait and see”, out of the goodness of their hearts. It would be a long illness - though they didn’t give him much in the way of comparison. “Long” compared to old age? Compared to stepping on a landmine?

No mention of radiation, no mention of Chernobyl, which Boris approved of, the small part of him considering history beyond his own.

Boris nodded along as they took it in turns to explain. They kept it very simple. Blood, bones, lungs. He hoped he looked placid. He hoped he looked brave. He couldn’t feel his legs.

At the end, he thanked them for their service.

* * *

It was past midnight. Neither of them had said a word in hours. (Why don’t you sleep? Counterpoint, why don’t you go home?) Boris was slouched on the settee, hands clasped on his middle, legs stretched out in front of him. His collar was loosened. Valery had changed into pajamas after a bath, a white vest and satin pants, and was curled on the chair, blanket and cat on his lap.

He stared at Boris. He wasn’t asleep. He was in repose, a quiet and heavy state that Valery had seen him lapse into back at the plant, after a very long day. It wasn’t a thoughtful quiet. It was empty-minded - so Boris claimed. Valery wasn’t so sure.

Valery, for his part, was trying to decide if he was imagining this. The last two weeks were a film reel with half the frames chopped out - thanks to pharmacological nudging and nerves scribbling up and down the agitation scale like a seismograph. Maybe as he taped the reel back together, he was inserting a few wishful scenes.

The wishful thinking might extend further back than that - all the way back to that morning, when the phone woke him from a dream about a presence. The presence was no one in particular, just a warmth that wasn’t the cat or the radiator, a hand that wasn’t his own. He was starting to enjoy the feeling when the phone rang, and the smell of cat shit fresh in the pan wound into his nose.

Once they got to the reactor, sleep was nobody’s priority. It was its own world. He must have slept, and he might even have dreamed. He stared at Boris in the flesh, the rise and fall of his chest.

Could he have imagined all that? Boris being with him, letting Valery touch him, hold him, use him, giving himself as a cup of comfort. Boris’s silvered head bent over him, the powerful bunch of his shoulders under his dress shirt, his forearms with their salt and pepper hair holding him down. Wrapped around him. His fingers in Boris’s hair, or those strong fingers in his hair. The shiver started at his scalp in a phantom grasp and rolled down across his shoulders. His cock, quietly stirring in the confines of his pajama pants, rallied.

Sasha levitated to his feet indignantly.

Boris opened his eyes at the sound of Sasha landing on the floor. He rolled his head to the side to look at Valery.

Valery felt stricken to the fucking core. He clutched the blanket on his lap a bit tighter.

A second ticked by.

Maybe Boris could smell it on him, or maybe he remembered some of those same fantasies. He sat up, stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders. For God’s sake, Valery thought.

“Will it help you sleep?” Boris asked.

“Yes.” Valery swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Boris nodded seriously. He rose, took a few steps towards him, and held out his hand. Valery let the blanket fall away and shifted himself, jutting absurdly, to the edge of the chair. Boris pulled him to his feet.

* * *

The change in scenery made conversation possible. (Also, maybe, Valery’s insistent erection, and Boris’s stupid all-encompassing kindness. The way Boris was sitting at the edge of the unmade bed, with his hands around the back of Valery’s legs.)

“Why did they send you?” Valery asked. He squeezed Boris’s shoulders.

Boris shook his head. “Nobody sent me. I got back, and heard what happened.”

(Valery didn’t want to ask what, precisely, had happened. He remembered storming out of the meeting. Then, God knew why, walking back in. After that it was all, graciously, a blur.)

“I lied in Vienna,” Valery said.

An odd pivot, but Boris followed him, even if he didn’t quite follow. “You told the truth. Responsibly. That’s all you could have done.” Boris caressed the back of his thighs, the tendons right above his knees, and up to cup his ass. He leaned in to press his nose alongside Valery through the silky smoothness of his pants, snugged his pelvis closer with both hands. “I was so proud of you.”

Valery clasped his hands around the back of Boris’s neck and swayed. Shaking his head again.

Boris looked up at him, smiled comfortingly. He hooked his fingertips in the waistband of his pants and pulled them down his thighs.

He felt the heat coming off of Valery. It beat on his face, and Boris cocked his head to admire him. Heat and that smell that Boris never got tired of. Slightly damp, a little sour, a little savory. (How to explain: the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers was an inveterate dick-sniffer. Note that detail in the starkest typeface, and the most prosaic language.) And while Valery wasn’t a large man, he was gorgeous.

“Beautiful little Valera,” Boris murmured, staring down at him, and Valery twitched.

Ah. Boris hid his smile by brushing up the hem of Valery’s vest. He kissed Valery’s lower belly, the crease of his thigh. Blond hair tickled his lips and skin that was soft, pale, pillowy, yielded as he used the edge of his teeth and one incisor to nip at Valery’s hip.

Boris nosed under him and kissed his balls, too. Furry. Boris ran his tongue up the side, wrapped it around the head like a scarf, sucked the tip into his mouth. Popped it out again. Clenched his fingers in Valery’s cheeks, kneaded, hugged him when Valery shifted on his feet, widened his stance, and rooted himself to the floor. (“Yes. Please.”) Boris pressed a kiss to the shaft, licked it back off, dragged one finger in and out of his mouth, and pressed his face against Valery’s stomach. Relax; he reached around and started working it up inside him. He curled and wormed as he went, taking up space, careful not to hurt.

Valery’s hands around his neck got tighter to steady himself. Boris felt him rock his hips, circle them just a little, for more of that solid sensation.

Boris worked gently. No need to catalog how much of his technique was learned through solitary exploration, or how much he had learned from shower room talk, women who did such things for a living, and the occasional shy, stuttery type who burst into a carnal butterfly behind closed doors. Even a honeypot or two - he couldn’t be sure - with a certain impression of antiseptic, more spiritual than physical, that clung to those astonishing strokes of luck. He curled his finger again and rubbed hard against the close-clinging wall.

He was rewarded by a sound, a gorgeous deep one, and the delightfully pink head beading up, a drop or two of pre-cum falling in slow motion.

Boris sat back. Valery always stood lopsided, and yes, it was funny. It was … cute. It made Boris want to -

Well, he could, couldn’t he? He dragged Valera toward him, using the finger inside him and his arm looped around Valery’s legs, and sucked him. Valery’s hand grabbed at his hair to catch himself, and Boris hummed his approval at the helpless thrust that sent Valery skidding over his palate. Slow down. How’s that?

Valery started sounding like his old self, then: more of this. Less of that. Pants fallen around his ankles, voice clipped as he fed orders and profanity and moans back to Boris’s hands and Boris’s mouth and Boris’s tongue. Then it was only a matter of pressure, of rhythm keyed to every twitch and groan; it was a matter of giving Valery what he wanted.

Almost perfect. Until Boris twisted his neck to get Valera out of his mouth. Coughed with his lips pressed together, once, twice, hoping Valery wouldn’t notice because Boris’s hand was suddenly squeezing him and stroking upwards, quick and sure like feeding rope, and Valery’s balls were cinching themselves up for their finale.

* * *

He took a staggered step toward Boris, felt the burn of Boris wrenching out of his body; Boris caught him as Valery slumped onto his lap.

Valery shifted to keep from slipping off Boris’s knee. He pushed Boris back; flat on the mattress, following the pressure of Valery’s hand, and Valery tipped over on top of him.

Quiet, while Valery’s erection throbbed out slowly. Boris staring at the ceiling, looking dark-eyed and gentle in profile. Valery noticed the splatter on his collar, and smiled to himself. He shifted onto his elbow and looked down at Boris.

“Feeling better?” Boris asked.

“Yes.” Valery was, in fact, feeling like he’d smashed out of something; like he’d been encased, history cooling around him, setting like cement. But now he noticed the orange glow of the lamplight, the softness of the mattress, the lay of Boris’s body next to his. The world was more than empty paper shapes, puppets and strings and the hollow space between atoms. His mind was in it again, in the smells and weights and heat.

Valery got his hand on Boris’s crotch and leaned in to kiss him.

Boris’s hand met his face to stop him. The edge of his fingers caught his chin, settled against the sag under Valery’s jaw. Valery felt the wide pad of Boris’s thumb trace the cleft of his chin and then press to his lips. Like a kiss, but not. In lieu, Valery supposed. Valery flicked the tip of his tongue against Boris’s rough thumbprint. He grinned.

Boris couldn’t bring himself to smile back; the corner of his mouth tightened, then the expression faded.

“What’s wrong?” Valery asked.

Boris coughed, down in his chest. His hand fell away from Valery to stifle it. He seemed undecided, measuring Valery up with his mouth pressed shut.

“Tell me,” Valery insisted. I’m all better, you’ve cured me. I’m not fragile.

Boris’s hand clasped his arm. “They’ve seen enough of the report. They’re going to charge Dyatlov. Fomin and Bryukhanov, too.” His grip tightened, as if to steady Valery.

“What?” Valery’s head craned. “What?” His head tilted more. “The report isn’t - it doesn’t even say -”

“They’ve seen enough,” Boris interrupted. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then sat up, shrugging off Valery’s hand. “We’re testifying. Khomyuk. You. Once it’s done, we’ll fix the reactors.”

Valery stared.

“Say just what you said in Vienna,” Boris said, as if any of this made sense. “Bad decisions. Operator error.”

“I still have my notes,” Valery said coldly. The mattress had lost its form, his heart had lost its shape, Boris had lost his substance. They were living in a Charkovian diorama after all.

“That’s all you have to do,” Boris said, and he had the nerve to try to sound reassuring, to cradle Valery’s hand as if being touched meant anything here. “We only have to get through the trial. Then it’s over.”

* * *

Idiotic choice of words. Valery was on his heels - back in his pants, thankfully, accomplished while Boris was putting on his coat to hide the dribble of cum on his collar; Valery roared at him down the hallway, across the living room. Boris reached the front door, and Valery seemed ready to follow him out to the car Boris hadn’t called.

Boris refused to have a row in public, and that included the neighbors: so Boris planted himself on the doorstep, finally threw a little of his anger that wasn’t really anger back at Valera, hid behind his size, his position, and took long poisoned rakes from Valery’s harpy-taloned fury. He got the worst of it, because he wouldn’t raise a hand or a word against Valery anymore. Not anymore. He was a fucking rat; it was true, he was Charkov’s bum-boy; guilty, if he had an ounce of courage; but he didn’t: he was dying.

And don’t come back here, Valery finished. The door slammed, the lock turned.

Boris found himself being eyed by a skinny youth at the end of the hallway, sitting on the carpeted steps. Boris caught a whiff of antiseptic along with the boy’s Belomor. He tossed his head like a bull, huffed and straightened his coat. He plunged down the stairs and out to the street.

* * *

The tremors started in earnest. He smoked, he paced, finally he took a sleeping pill, like an exit hatch from the thoughts that had only one end. He woke with the sun up and thought that the light through the living room curtains looked like stage lighting, and last night had been an awful little melodrama. He was ashamed. He called in to his secretary at the institute: he wouldn’t be coming back to the office yet. The voice on the other end was surprised to hear from him. So he was out, at large again; let his colleagues go into their huddles and make of that what they would.

And on and on. The trial suddenly loomed. An official summons, interviews the prosecutors, the KGB, and finally with Ulana Khomyuk, better angel of any hero’s nature, black dog to the timid and the coward.

I’ve already given my life. And nothing to show for it, but a creeping roughness in his lungs and the rewards that Charkov dangled for him, just out of reach. Time to change the tune at the Kurchatov Institute, flip old man Aleksandrov off his chair and put him on next, like changing a record. If he behaved himself. If not, no medals, no money, no...

You haven’t talked to Shcherbina? Ulana asked, skeptically.

There’s nothing to talk about.

* * *

Valery clambored down the thin metal steps onto the tarmac. He handed over his briefcase without a word, and followed his escort to the convoy.

Another organelle held the car door for him. He froze when he saw Boris, or rather Boris’s knees, already crammed into the back seat. And then, since there was no choice, he crouched and folded himself into the car.

Boris had obviously been rehearsing something - fitting. Something polite, something that wouldn’t offend the ears of their two, and well-armed, chauffeurs. Whatever it was, Valery saw it die on his lips. Boris nodded to him, once, and turned away.

Valery turned to look out the window.

41 notes · View notes

kasienda · 5 years ago

Text

Fanfiction Year in Review 2019

@floraone tagged me, but I was going to do it anyway!

1. List of fics completed this year:

A Fight and Make Up (An Untitled UsaMamo Drabble) Superhero Survey (Miraculous Reveal) Last Wishes (Ladybug) Word Vomit (Sailor Moon Reveal) Kiss (Sailor Moon Reveal) The Sol of the System (Sailor Moon)

2. Number of words written:

In the year of 2019, I published 55,755 words in various stories. Not as many as last year, but under my circumstances I’m pretty proud of that number. (My 750words app says I’ve written 108k since May, but that’s not all fic writing. Though like 90% of it is. It’s also mostly not published though).

3. Your most popular fic this year:

Last Wishes – I have no idea where this story came from. I was in a weird mood and it was haunting me and I had to get it out! And like Nightmares (and no other fic I’ve ever written), it came so easily. Wrote the whole thing in about three sittings. And apparently, it resonated with a lot of people (made a lot of people cry). And I gotta say, this Ladybug fandom is wild in that you can get like 100 kudos in a day! I’m way too addicted to that feeling. But in the Sailor Moon Fandom, my most popular fic this year was A Craving for Chocolate Milkshakes, which makes sense because really that’s the only story I’ve been somewhat consistently updating this year. Besides Last Wishes, everything I’ve published this year have been one-offs. 4. Your personal favorite this year:

I don’t know!! Why do you make me pick from my children?!

I’m insanely proud of the most recent update of Craving for Chocolate Milkshakes and the Fight/Make Up Drabble (maybe I should give it a name).

Like, I’m so pleased with how these came out. But I also just reread Last Wishes searching for the review that touched me this year, and I’m kinda in awe. It’s just so amazing and powerful. And I’m crying! I’m not sure I believe that I wrote it.

5. Your favorite scene:

This is an excerpt from Chapter Two of An Open Secret (which isn’t published, BUT I wrote it earlier this week so that’s 2019 right?!), which was supposed to be a one off for the ML Secret Santa Fic Exchange, and it grew into a multi-chapter fic! I just love it when that happens! “I have to tell her how I feel,” Adrien thought out loud. “Do you think she likes me?”

“Aren’t you tired of letting Ladybug break your heart?” Plagg asked, floating lazily through the air.

“Not ladybug. Marinette!”

Plagg whipped around to hover behind Adrien’s shoulders. Sure enough, Adrien was pouring through Marinette’s Instagram feed, and not his Ladybug album.

“Marinette? Since when? I thought Marinette was ‘just a friend.’”

“I did too, Plagg! But she’s been so different this week! She’s not nervous, and I think I love her so much.”

“What about Ladybug?”

“I’ll always love Ladybug, but she’s made it clear that she’s interested in someone else.”

Plagg was proud of himself for not laughing.

“Do you think she likes me?” Adrien asked.

Plagg rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you have to ask.”

“She doesn’t, does she? I mean, why would she? Why was she always so nervous around me before? Did she hate me?”

“You don’t give me enough cheese for this,” the kwami grumbled.

6. A fic or scene that challenged you:

The Sol of the System was so hard! I was writing for someone else who seemed to really like Silver Millennium, and I love the Silver Millennium as past life baggage that informs current fears and behaviors, but as its own thing? I never really felt connected to it! And then, I tried to give it a sci-fi twist, which is also not my genre! And even once I had a concept that I thought I could do something with, I had no time to work on it!! Somehow, it magically came together. @tinacentury has a lot to do with that. (She’ll say that she didn’t do much, but she’s so wrong!!) So, does my husband for kinda taking the kids for the last day and a half before the deadline so I could just write!

7. A line of writing you’re proud of:

In general, my use of parentheticals in the Fight Make Up UsaMamo Drabble makes me SO HAPPY! And I’m so sad that hardly anyone read this short!! One line doesn’t really capture the technique though, so here’s six and half paragraphs… (My husband is rolling his eyes so hard right now…)

...

Mamoru watched her from his usual booth like he had everyday for the last week. He had no right, he knew it, but he couldn’t tear himself away. Usagi was light and he was a moth. She was morphine and he was a drug addict. It physically hurt to be in her presence when he couldn’t even speak to her, but it was somehow better than not seeing her at all.

He stared at the back of her golden head seated in a booth across the Fruit Parlor's dining room. They had progressed far enough into their break up that it was possible for them to inhabit the same room (well, a large restaurant in any case) without either of them bursting into tears or retreating completely.

But today, Usagi was stretching his tolerance. She had come in with a friend (a male friend). Though maybe friend was too strong a word as it was quickly apparent that the boy sitting across from his girlfriend (his ex-girlfriend) was an assigned partner for some school project.

But even if it had been a date with romantic intentions, Mamoru liked to think he could have handled it. He wasn't completely confident he could make that claim, but he wanted to be able to say it was true. Because, more than anything, he just wanted to see Usagi happy.

And if he had to stay away to keep her breathing, he couldn't be the one to do that. It would have been hard, but he would have forced himself to bare it, just as he had forced himself to break up with her (the best thing that had ever happened in his miserable life) so that she would be safe.

But that wasn't the situation. They were supposed to be working on the project, but the boy was too familiar with her. His head kept invading her work space, he slid closer to her so that their sides were touching, and he accidentally touched her too often to be coincidence.

And again, it would have been fine (who was he kidding; he would have been a jealous mess) if Usagi welcomed the boy's advances. 8. A comment that touched you:

I received this comment on my Last Wishes Fic. And spent two days and asked for lots of advice in how to respond. Then when I finally did, this person told me that this story helped them talk about how they were feeling about their loss with their family. Like guys, this isn’t why I started writing fic, but OMG it definitely keeps me going.

On a lighter note, I also kinda love it whenever one of my Sailor Moon followers comments on a Ladybug fic that I’ve written. Like to me, it’s the biggest compliment that they like my writing enough, that they’re willing to cross over to a different fandom for a bit. @beej88 even crossed fandoms and genres for me. And whenever I’m sad about not getting reviews from my giftee, @floraone pops in with an essay and I feel like it doesn’t matter if my giftee never responds at all. (She may have done this twice without knowing how good her timing was… and for the record ONE of my giftees totally responded with gushing praise, so… I just gotta be more patient!)

And I especially appreciate @tinacentury for all the behind the scenes comments and encouragement and then also taking the time to comment on stories after the fact as well!!

9. Something that inspired your writing this year:

So, first off, my friends here have been so encouraging.

The Miraculous Ladybug Community – I’ve delved into a new fandom (blame my sister!). And man, I really like the dynamic of being in an insanely active fandom where the source material isn’t finished yet. It’s like working in a living breathing thing, and that’s so cool. Also, I get so many comments/kudos even being a pretty unknown author there and I’m very addicted to this validation. (Though I made a rec list!! I was so excited!! Thank you @alexseanchai!!). It also makes me feel like a traitor to my Sailor Moon roots though…

750words.com – this is a little app that just made writing feel easy. It made writing a habit, and took off the pressure of getting it perfect! I feel like it’s taught me to write a lot faster and worry about perfecting it later. This little app is what gave me the structure to keep writing when my life has been insane!

10. Your proudest accomplishment (that one scene; finally finishing that one fic; posting your first fic; etc)

I participated in two fic exchanges this year! I’ve never done this before. And I kinda love the experience of writing for what you think someone else would like. It forced me to write in a different headspace and write to a deadline, which apparently, I’m very capable of doing. And it definitely pushed me into writing things that are different than I normally write.

Also, that I wrote and published anything at all inbetween taking care of a medically fragile four-year-old and an infant who was born in March and going back to work this past September. (Writing has only become more important to me. It’s how I recharge and deal with stress, so I’m clearly not going to stop).

11. Do you have any writing goals for the next year?

So many!! Probably too many! (Like always!) - I really want to finish Chocolate Milkshakes and An Open Secret in like the next 30 days! (I promise nothing!) - I really want to dive back into Coming of Age and Invisible Wounds. Like I’m SO excited about where these stories are going! - I want to polish up like four Miraculous Reveals that are each like 80% finished, so I can get some momentum going on this series. - I want to go to the library every week for two hours for writing to maybe have a chance of reaching some of these goals.

And I will tag @tinacentury, @overworkedunderwhelmed, @beej88, @mikauzoran, @cassraven, @laadychat, @bubbleblower as an invitation to participate if you want to! Not a requirement! :) You can totally do it if you’re not tagged too!

#fan fic year in review #i wrote a lot #my own content #reflection #proud of myself #2019 #life of a writer

6 notes · View notes