#he had so many Chernobyl’s in his head that morning…

[jackfrostsander]

Happy 21:21 to Sander acting all cool and flirty! 😎

Gif credit: @birthdaysentiment

#he was soooo nervous and just tried to keep up his cool image #but robbe made it so difficult #and we all know that behind the cool facade is the softest dork ever… #still sander succeeded in flirting by sensually liking his joint and gliding his hand over robbe’s back #and he might not have realised it yet… or maybe he did… but robbe was already his puppy #he had so many Chernobyl’s in his head that morning… #as Sander came in his life and swiped the small boy off his feet… making him foat on heart shaped clouds… #and now they are forever happy together ❤️ #sander driesen #sander ⚡️ #robbe ijzermans #sobbe #robbe x sander #wtfam #wtfock #perfect love #soulmates #happy 21:21 #21:21

[audleyhxh]

GO WILD Ch 39 Old Draft

This is a draft I had been working on before I got sick last month. Figured maybe some people would be interested to see how a draft can change. I ended up deciding this setting, a Chernobyl-in-HxH would be too dark and too much for what I intended to be one chapter. Ch 39 is now on FF and Ao3

"We're going to Yaprit?"

"The group that is last gets the grunt work," says Franklin about our assignment from Chrollo.

Phinks had showered and it’s a naked sight to witness his hair not coiffed. The texture isn’t straight, but wavy and he likes to heat it straight into his favorite sleek style, judging by the dryer sounds I heard earlier. When I emerge his arms are square up, spine curved, still taming his hair with the tiny comb he keeps in his pocket. Such a simple thing that grips me so much I almost didn’t catch his question. "You heard of it?"

Yaprit, former island compatriot of the USSR in Azia to the East, location of a power plant that exploded before Huan was born. Amari and I weren't allowed to play outside or swim in the sea for my birthday (Ma said she’d know if we had disobeyed her because we’d “come back with webbed feet, three eyes and shark gills.”) Gorvacheb said in hindsight, the explosion was the beginning of the dissolution of the union. When they dissolved, their food aid to us did too.

Nearly twenty years ago, the thirty thousand residents were evacuated and their belongings were left behind because they believed they'd return. Today, no one lives there, except for wildlife. Since radiation levels have dropped, ferries full of tourists from Yorubia and Azia visit daily but when we arrive, the ferries and tourists are gone.

Well, except one tourist.

“Why is Uvo joining?” says Feitan after we land.

“He can’t let us steal all the fun,” says Shal.

The Spiders treat the diversion to still-radioactive Yaprit with the mundanity of visiting the dry cleaners. I don't easily forget their reluctant faces (inconvenienced in Feitan’s case) when Phinks decided we were staying in Heaven's City.

In this solid silence that I was once so used to, I hear over and over like buzzing tinnitus the zero yield _BOOM _from dinner with paba. His face obscured in smoke may be the last I ever see of him.

The Spiders were swaddled in the darkness and strangeness of Meteor City and even they are quick to switch on their lamps and remark on the bumpy ground. Were it not for the pinpricks of starlight and waning moon, moving in this darkness would be like swimming in squid ink.

“The fun couldn’t wait ‘til morning?” I say. We could actually explore with sunlight."

Phinks lights a cigarette, its bud a firefly. "Pft, sure, stick around, go for a swim and grow some shark gills." Phinks is a gem of irony but that's not why I laugh. His flustered voice is cut off by Shalnark's remark that radiation _doesn't _in fact make you mutate gills. "Whatever." He had been about to ask me what was so funny, but he doesn't try again.

"If we had arrived on time, it would still be daylight," says Franklin, aimed in my direction. "Danchou says there's an engraved poem inside the hospital. All we need is a copy. We get it and go."

In the windless air, the feather tight in my ponytail almost slides free as if plucked by fingers.

I check behind me, but there’s no one there, but I catch something else.

A whiff of air that tastes metallic, as if my throat, tongue, roof of my mouth and nose were shellacked in liquid metal.

“Any of you taste metal?”

They bob their heads, nostrils flaring in air.

“I know what metal tastes like,” says Franklin, ‘no’ in many words, his gun barrel fingers clink as a grim reminder.

In the limited light Shalnark’s arm fiddles with his phone. His dosimeter clicks…clicks…clicks. Shal shakes his head at me, like an amiable golden retriever. According to those sparse clicks, we’re not in a radiation hotspot. “We were exposed to more radiation flying here than where we’re standing!”

In the piazza, the grass that pokes through the broken flagstone is tall enough to brush Feitan’s thighs.

“Feels like we’re the last humans on Earth!” laughs Shalnark. “Time hasn’t ticked here since year 74. Saf, is EG like this?”

I’ll admit the utilitarian square apartment blocks, all uniform and indistinguishable from each other, painted in the same eggshell blue as my hometown awakens a wave of homesickness.

A breeze again along my nape but clammy as if blown through licked lips. A tug at the feather stem in my hair. I spin around, my knuckles ready to bloody a Spider’s nose—darkness there and nothing more. I shine my flashlight at trees, their leaves red but not from autumn.

“It’s not going to run away from you.” Feitan’s teasing voice on my shoulder.

“You felt that, right?”

He checks the silhouette of the trees, he looms and ghost shifts in the darkness. When he realizes by ‘that’ I also meant something that could be metaphysical and transparent, “Felt nothing. You really did taste metal.”

"They said a lot of people died here. That they didn't evacuate fast enough. Those who were transferred to hospitals on the continent were buried in steel coffins between six feet of concrete. But those who died here were left behind like dirty dishes." I shiver. "And those who died _years _later from thyroid cancer or blood cancer, a large number of which were children, weren't included in the official figures. They were forgotten and maybe it would bring them some peace if—"

"Dead don't care. Dead can't hear you."

"But they can haunt.” Even as a ghost-agnostic, I want to disagree even though despite the gloomy ghost eyes, I can’t say I’ve seen a ghost.

"Superstitious Gortese." He slinks ahead near Shalnark and Franklin.

"Pft, don't mind him," says Phinks. "He's not a _mourning _person."

My laugh sounds more like a sigh of relief and for a second I forget we're wandering in a radioactive graveyard. I want to ask what he senses here, but I don’t get the chance.

Creeech!

"Newbie!” Uvogin whoops so loud even from a distance I almost lose my footing. “You're late!"

Uvogin greets me in the most enthusiastic way he knows: he tries to slam his fist atop my head. A test or he meant to pound me flat, flay me then wear my skin like his pelts or both? I catch his wrist and we pose statue-still, imprisoned by our perfectly eclipsed Nen. Me a few weeks ago would have died for the look on his face. Franklin and Shalnark chide him for disobeying the rules and picking fights.

“Who’s picking fights?” says Uvo, his teeth wolfish in his grinning mouth. He kicks the crushed beer cans, like stones, at his bear paw boots. “Imagine if it had been me, but at least these guys kept you busy, newbie.”

I roll my mended shoulder, the injury still echoing in the socket. I would have been like Uvo’s beer cans had Phinks not massaged it yesterday. My neck heats when he speaks.

“If you had been the one to train her,” says Phinks. “You would have kept yourself busy.”

Uvo says it would have been a mutual exchange, but he doesn’t pretend to be innocent. “The bomb wants to become stronger and I want to become stronger than a bomb.”

---

The hospital is fenced with barbed wire and though I can’t read the language on the sign, large red letters, biohazard emblems, and exclamation points are universal for Stay the hell away.

“Even the tourists still can’t visit,” says Franklin.

Uvo rips the barbed wire like tissue paper. 

Through the threshold of the broken doors, Shalnark’s dosimeter sings. Uvo’s grizzled hair scraps the ceiling and dusts my hair and uwagi in contaminated paint chips. 

Uvo, hands on his hips, inhales, a vacuum suction in his throat. Phinks rips the flashlight from my grasp. What the hell was that for I’m about to bite his head off when he shields my ears with my hands before he cups his own—

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOI!” Uvo maims the corridor but it’s like the voice of God tearing through the building. The walls tremble, the whole Earth it seems, blanketing me with more dust. “Come out NOW, Nen Beasts! Come out before I find you!”

My bones turn to water. I don’t recall when I landed on the tile, curled up in the fetal position, but I come to when I hear Shalnark among the high ringing in my eardrums. 

“Danchou only said this hospital and the inscription had to do with the lore of Nen Beasts,” says Shalnark, his voice distant and muffled. “That once upon a time, mythological creatures roamed here.”

I wobble to my feet but my inner ear thinks down is up and I’d rather not lean on a contaminated wall until the world stops spinning. Even my tooth fillings had loosened. 

“What kind of mythological creatures?” asks Franklin.

“Nen Beasts, Nen Beasts!” I can’t tell if Uvo is answering or chanting. 

Shal shrugs. “Even if they were here, they’re long gone.”

“She dead?” asks Feitan and my head is filled with the awareness that I can recognize that it’s Phinks supporting me by the arm by knowing the familiar width and pressure of his hand.

“Yes,” I say and Fei snorts.

My flashlight finds its way back into my grasp and I thank Phinks, avoiding his eyes.

Broken glass and tile crunch under our feet.   

“Danchou say where the poem is located?” says Phinks.

“He didn’t.” Shalnark switches from his dosimeter to a map on his phone. “Now if I were a poem about mythological creatures where would I be?”

“Cafeteria looks big, maybe on the walls there?” says Franklin.

“The lobby?” says Phinks. 

“We're in the lobby and I don’t see anything” says Feitan.

“Nah, nah, maybe in the research halls? Like if they have a library?”

When Huan was in the hospital, there were dolphins, manatees, and a big orca painted on the walls, a submarine view as if we were spectators in a vessel under the sea. “The children’s ward. There, on the third floor,” I say with breathless certainty that makes them all peer at me.

—-

In the stairway to the third floor, there’s a rusty smear on the wall in Cyrillic I can’t read.

“No dosimeter…no radiation.” Phinks reads aloud.

“You can read that?” I ask.

“You can read?” says Feitan. I throw a Feitan a look.

“One of mam’s languages, forgotten most of it though,” says Phinks. Feitan asks what he means and Phinks says, “Don’t worry about it.”

Shalnark’s dosimeter sings when we enter Pediatrics. His brows knit in the glow of his phone. “We should hurry,” he says.

I remove a glove to touch a wall and the others stare daggers at me like I’m pointing a gun. “That’s right, most of you have really seen this ability yet.”

This is my idea and still I think twice between posing my fingertips and palm near the paint-chipped wall. With Emission, my Nen licks the wall.

Tastes like twenty years, walls with ears that wish they could forget what they heard and mouths spilling for words. Once upon a time this same wall was licking clean. 

How could I not understand? Isn’t my own home country a land of 

“It’s this way,” I say. 

No submarine view, but remnants of the woodlands with rabbits, deer, raccoons and birds painted on the walls.

A rare cynical laugh from Shalnark, “Heh, a radiation machine. I appreciate the irony.” He switches off his dosimeter and its soprano screeches.

The plaque on the wall, pristine, ivory against the peeling umber wall, everything about it doesn’t seem like it’s been hung for twenty days, let alone twenty or more years. 

“Get your photo already,” says Franklin.

Click! 

Shalnark’s phone flashes at the plaque. He tries again and again. 

“Is it the radiation?” asks Feitan.

I try mine. With my photo quality, I can count the life like hairs on Shalnark’s head, but no matter what setting I use, the plaque is overexposed, the Cyrillic text impossible to capture. 

“For the curious, here lies many daughters and sons,

Forgotten, but not gone.

Upon their eyes, may you be fair,

Lest your eyes never may lay,

On this creature of cockrell, rodent, and hare.” Phinks reads aloud and translates the entire thing, but I’m stuck on the first two lines.

Wallahae, this is a tombstone. 

Forgotten, but not gone. 

That’s why it’s so new. The beasts put it here. I shine my flashlight in the darkness. They are here.

“Heck kind of poem is that?” asks Feitan.

“It’s less clumsy in the original,” says Phinks.

They are here. Let us be as respectful as we can while we’re here. "Can we record Phinks reading it?" I shine my flashlight among the debris. “Or let me find some paper or something—”

I leap out of Uvogin’s bulldozing path. He grabs the plaque by its edges and heaves. At first the hanging nails barely budge, to the surprise of everyone, but the challenge thrills Uvogin.

“Stop Uvo! We can’t just take it!” My words are fodder for his spark and he won’t be humbled by me twice in one day.

“Try and stop me!” With one bearpaw boot against the wall, his arms striate with all his might. The walls whine. The structure quavers and I fear the whole hospital will crumble before the wall relents.

With a sharp crack like the break of bones, the plaque wrenches free. Uvo is beside me, thrusting his prize into the air, but my mind is as black as the corners of the ward. 

…movement in the endless murk. Then it hits us like hot waves: Nen that digs into the Earth’s crust and rises higher and higher as if to touch the stars that guided us here. The Spiders feel it and it’s been a long time since they’ve been humbled by such a leviathan of Nen power. 

This immensity I’ve felt before, but I’m no less ready for it than they are. In Turkei, the nebulous Nen was a warm hug, here it screams in condemnation, a relentless freight train and I could go mad from the guilt. Every ill thought, every wrong thing I’ve ever done in my life has led me to this point where I couldn’t stop their tombstone from being vandalized. 

Uvo will get his wish, I don’t say aloud, as the shadows move. My warning to the Spiders is in my throat when my feet lose the floor and flung like a rag doll, my side hits the wall.

I know I’m flung like a ragdoll only when I feel the pain of my back hitting the wall. I don’t see what hits me but it's slimy and stretchy like wet chewing gum. With all my strength I can’t wiggle an inch. 

#gowildhxh #hxh fanfic #hunter x hunter fanfiction #hxh #hxh oc #safra jung #chapter 39 draft

[allcrncthing]

TITLE :: WHAT?

DESCRIPTION :: Flynn gets an unlikely visitor early one morning.

TIME PERIOD :: July, 2012

CHARACTER(S) :: Flynn Aspen, Nick Fury

WORD COUNT :: 1.7k

WARNINGS :: Swearing

NOTE :: This is part one of two in the DON’T RUIN HER mini-series!

It was seven in the morning when knuckles thumped against her apartment door. Flynn shuffled out of her room, rubbing her eyes as she went. God, I hope it’s not Mrs. Baust complaining again. Mrs. Baust was Flynn’s elderly neighbor located on her right. For whatever reason, she didn’t like the redhead; always complaining about stupid shit and trying to her the landlord to kick Flynn out.

She opened the door then nearly slammed it shut. Standing before her was Nick Fury, director of SHIELD. “Can I help you?”

With his one good eye, he looked her up and down. “You know why I’m here. Get important shit and meet me on the roof.”

“Mister, you must be confused.”

Fury scoffed. “Me? Confused? Hurry up and grab your shit, I’ll see you on the roof.” He closed the door for her, leaving a dumbfounded Flynn in his wake.

She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door. “How the hell did he find out?” She groaned, agitated. “Christ Flynn, he’s Nick Fury, he always finds out.”

Around three months ago Flynn found out she had powers. She gained them after a chunk of alien tech fell from the sky. Crazy, right? The tech--which was a good sized piece of metal if she was being honest--slammed into the back of her neck, embedding itself in her skin. Flynn could still feel it back there, sometimes rubbing her finger over the weird bump when she was nervous or bored. It must have been from a far-off society that thrived off radiation or something, because these new powers were seemingly radiation based. It was all still very new to Flynn, so she wasn’t 100% sure of anything regarding her abilities.

She trudged back to her room, shrugged off her lavender old lady nightgown, and stepped into bleach-stained grey sweatpants and an oversized I HEART NYC shirt. It was left over from her parents’ visit a while back. Hey, she wasn’t going to get all dolled up for a stranger who told her to “pack up her shit” at seven something in the morning.

Flynn grabbed a duffle bag and filled it with the basics; toiletries, a few pairs of clothes, and chargers for her devices. She hopped whatever Fury wanted with her was quick and easy. Trying to explain her disappearance at work would be a bitch.

Minutes later she appeared on the rooftop, seeing Fury standing off at the ledge, looking off into the distance. “Seen Fallen Soldier recently?”

Her blood ran cold.

Flynn licked her lips, “No.”

“Not after your skirmish in the alley?” He pressed, turning to face her.

Flynn shook her head.

Fallen Soldier was one of HYDRA’s goons. He was a fallen World War I soldier by the name of Dennis Van Dyke. According to what Flynn had read--which may or may not have been on the dark web. . .--HYDRA recently reanimated his once frozen corpse to snuff out anyone with powers. His supposed mission was to kill his target before dragging their body to a local HYDRA lab for testing.

It just so happened that he went after Flynn. Three nights ago while walking home from her shift at work, the corpse struck. He came at her with stinking, peeling flesh and the sharpest bayonet she had ever seen. While he moved at a slow pace, every time he made contact with Flynn she would get knocked over by his force. The fight was her first real power test-run. Flynn discovered she could fly and somehow create fireballs among other things. Going against Fallen Soldier was tiring. So much so she lit him on fire then proceeded to pass out on a nearby rooftop. Flynn was lucky he didn’t find her and kill her in her sleep.

Fury turned back around, facing the sun once more. From his coat pocket he drew a remote. In the sea of buttons he pressed a white one off to the left.

Hundreds of feet in the air floated the SHIELD Helicarrier. Flynn had never seen the beast of an air ship in person before. She only saw pictures of it from the battle in New York.

“Wow,” she breathed, nearly dropping the duffle bag.

“Welcome to your new home.” Fury said, watching as a ramp came down from the helicarrier’s underbelly.

Her brows immediately furred together. “My what?”

“New home! Can’t let you stay down here with that undead bastard looking high-and-low for you.”

Fury walked towards the ramp, taking quick strides. “Hurry up so we can get started on paperwork.”

She scampered after him like a puppy. “Why?”

“You’re just full of questions.”

“Oh no, how dare I question the man who told me to pack up my stuff and follow him.” Flynn groaned.

A look flashed over his face, like she did have a point. “I watched your fight with Fallen Soldier and I liked what I saw. Had to get to you before HYDRA.” Fury pressed another button, opening a door on the carrier’s side.

“Is this a temporary thing?”

“Temporary?” He howled. “Does Tony Stark shop at Walmart?”

“No. . .”

“Well, you have your answer.”

The inside of the helicarrier was bustling with life. Scientists in crisp white lab coats drifted around while armed security members marched from corridor to corridor, looking for any threats. Standing in the middle of that mess was Maria Hill.

The brunette had her arms crossed, eyes focused on Flynn. “How the hell did you get her onboard so quickly?”

Fury chuckled, “I have my ways, Hill.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Welcome aboard, Aspen.” She held out a hand for a quick shake. “Come with me and I’ll take you for testing. It’s just to make sure your physical health is decent. If not, we have world-class doctors on board.”

“Don’t forget about that paperwork,” hollered Fury, walking away from the two women.

The ladies made eye contact. “The paperwork isn’t much, don’t worry. Most of it’s just new stuff the council requires.” Maria explained, easing Flynn’s mind just a little.

They walked down the hall, heading towards the lab wing.

Walking through the helicarrier was just mind boggling. Each part of the air ship held a certain meaning, and all of them served it well. She passed by a holding cell of lower-level, petty villains sitting inside. Many of which were whining about calling their lawyers. Another section was dedicated to the testing out of weapons. A tall ginger dressed in precautionary armor threw a small, onyx colored orb at a rubber dummy (akin to the ones found in dojos). Upon making contact with the dummy, the circle exploded, wrapping it in two thin but sturdy pieces of white rope. The tester let out an impressed noise and went to scribble something down on the clipboard next to her.

Now, they were in the lab wing. Each scientist aboard the helicarrier had their own designated lab, Maria explained. The one they were heading to belonged to their lead medical examiner, the one they sent all of the new recruits to, Doctor Sierra Warner.

Dr. Warner was a tall black woman with thick dreads dyed light brown almost blonde, pulled into a ponytail atop her head. She greeted the two with a smile, motioning for Flynn to take a seat on the examination table. “Welcome,” she said, voice as sweet as her smile.

“Thank you,” Flynn replied as she hopped onto the table.

“Fury’s newest recruit?” She inquired, eye flitting between Maria and Flynn.

Maria nodded, “Yup.”

The following minutes were taken up by basic tests; ones where Dr. Warner would check Flynn’s reflexes and her eyesight. Pretty standard stuff. Then she kind of went off track. “Fury showed me footage of your. . .fight with David Van Dyke--”

Flynn’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. He has footage of that? “How the hell did he get footage of that?”

Dr. Warner chuckled, “SHIELD has cameras all over New York.”

“God, you guys are like big brother.”

“I like to think we have flashier stuff here,” said Warner. “But as I was saying, Fury showed me your video and I thought it would be smart to use a dosimeter on you; just to check your radiation levels.”

“But why?”

The doctor shrugged, “I just have this gut feeling. Here at SHIELD we developed our own version. Instead of having you hold it, you’ll breathe into it like a breathalyzer. The results come back much faster and more accurately. For whatever reason.” Dr. Warner reached into a desk, and pulled out the SHIELD dosimeter, which did look a lot like a breathalyzer. “You can tell that I didn’t help in the development of this.”

“Who did?” Flynn inquired, grabbing the dosimeter. She brought the tube to her lips, sending a steady stream of air into the piece of tech.

“Dr. Celeste Flores-Rivero.” Warner replied, pulling the dosimeter from her mouth after it beeped, allowing her to know it was done processing the sample it had received. “Before she dropped off the map,” she muttered, observing the data displayed on the dosimeter’s digital screen.

“I’ll tell you later,” Maria whispered, giving Flynn’s shoulder a pat.

Dr. Warner chewed on her bottom lip, eyes flitting from Flynn to the dosimeter. “Flynn, I’ve never seen numbers like this before.” She rubbed at her chin, face full of uncertainty. “You’re as radioactive as Chernobyl. Hell, I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Me?” She pressed the tip of her finger right in the middle of her chest. “Me? Flynn Aspen me?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

Flynn’s fingers went right to the back of her neck, feeling the foreign object just below her skin. “What will happen then?” God, I should’ve just stayed in my fucking room.

Dr. Warner wheeled her chair over to Flynn, resting two gloved hands on her knee caps. “We’ll figure something out. We’ve dealt with the Hulk, we can deal with some radiation. For the moment we’ll keep doing tests and then figure out what our next steps are. Some of the most brilliant minds are here, we’ll find a way to help you cope.”

She let out a heavy sigh, deflating a little bit. “Okay, yeah, that’ll work.”

#marvel oc #marvel original character #marvel #marvel x you #marvel x reader #marvel x oc #avengers original character #avengers x reader #avengers #avengers x you #avengers oc #avengers x oc #nick fury #maria hill #mcu #original characters #*/ ✧ development ✧ */ ✧ flynn aspen ✧

[formerprincewille]

I was tagged by @pamouche and @borborai in this and I finally gotten around to doing it. Thanks so much!

Fav wtfock s3 things: honestly I could go on for hours about my love for this season it’s One of my favorite things to exist in the entire world. I have re-watched it so many times and it always leaves me feeling so happy. Some specifics: Robbe IJzermans, sweet sunshine, love and light of my life, I would throw myself in front of traffic for that boy I love him so much. He captured my heart in a way few ever have. This boy. He’s just such a caring and compassionate person. He’s got his little shit attitude, and he’s definitely a tiny brat, but he is also so full of love to give. I love that he’s not flashy. He’s not somebody that a lot of people are going to notice in a crowd. He’s overlooked by everyone, including his friends. But when you get to know him you see how remarkable he is, because few people are that genuinely good. And the way he grew from hurt and lonely and angry and afraid to happy and confident and not only accepting but proud of who he is makes me cry happy tears. He’s just the best. But the other best is the yin to his yang, his beautiful, wonderful, cool, bold, funny, sweet, and completely dorky art hoe of a soul mate, Sander Driesen. When I think of what my ideal Even would be, he is it. His heart is just right there for everyone to see and he doesn’t hide it. In fact he’s extra about showing it. He’s also vulnerable and needy and feels so very young to be going through such large struggles. He makes me laugh and cry and I would dive in front of the Skam France car for him as well. Love that kid so much. Sobbe. Do I really need to say it? Holy shit they are everything. Soulmates, best friends, loves of each other’s lives. Their chemistry is so good that it doesn’t even exist in this stratosphere. It’s otherworldly. The love that they feel for each other is tangible. They’re one of those couples that when I look at them I think “now those two are going to make it”. You can just feel it. They also somehow manage to hit on so many beloved fanfic tropes but remain realistic because it’s actually canon. Like when couples in fanfic will call each other pet names but it’s rare you actually see it in canon. But sobbe is like hold my beer and goes all out with it. The way they express their love to each other is exactly what the other one needs. Sander is loud end boisterous and goes all out to make it clear to Robbe and everyone else on earth how he feels about this boy. He gives him things to make him feel special and he’s full of affection for him. Robbe is also extremely affectionate, he tells Sander what he needs to hear to feel safe and loved and they love spending time together. Their love is a balm for one another that soothes them both. And it’s clear that neither of them need the other more nor ever did. They both needed one another and met at a time in our lives that they were both in pretty low places and were exactly what the other needed. And they always will be. Sorry, getting emotional again. They’re the otp to end all otps. 🥺 The Soundtrack. I love every single song on the soundtrack. All of them, and I listened to the soundtrack so much on my Spotify that my entire top songs of 2020 were made up of wtfock s3 songs. They not only have excellent musical choices, but they are all placed within scenes so well that they perfectly complement what is happening in the narrative at any given point. Casa Milan and Zoenne and Robbe aka Flatshare Fam. I want to live there. It is so warm, it is so inviting, and it is filled with such love. The support that Robbe got from Milan, Zoë, and Senne was unmatched. I don’t know where he would’ve been without it. Could you imagine if he had had to live with his dad? How differently his story could’ve ended up? Especially with Milan, having someone not much older than he is who has gone through a lot of the same things he has. He was such a big brother figure and mentor and I’m so glad Robbe had that.

Fav clip: Scuse me I’m not picking just one so Dinsdag 16:31, Zaterdag 09:41, Woensdag 21:21, Mandaag 11:03, Zaterdag 08:44 and Woensdag 16:36

Fav scene: Their Vrijdag 21:21 reunion, morning after, ohn/mbm, singing to a shoe, the hotel scenes, and the grocery store. I’m not really sure of the distinction between a scene and a clip 😂

Fav shot: Oh god don’t make me choose. Their hands in Dinsdag 16:31 is a big one. The dual mirror shots of Robbe after Milan tells him about gay pride before the attack to him bruised and battered after. When Robbe is kneeling down beside Sander in Mandaag 11:03. The shot of Milan, Robbe, and Sander playing the pandemic game all cozy by the Christmas tree. Any shots of Robbe and Sander making heart eyes and/or kissing. Any close ups of Robbe’s face and eyes bc Herbots, man. Good god he’s amazing.

Fav kiss that Robbe initiates: Woensdag 21:21, Dinsdag 07:27 and Woensdag 17:21

Fav kiss that Sander initiates: Zaterdag 09:41, Dinsdag 16:31, and Vrijdag 21:21

Fav Sander dialogue: Can I say everything? Okay okay, I’ll give some examples. “Wow, that’s expensive!” “You and me, a hundred percent forever, in every universe.” “I’m holding onto you and I’m never letting go of you.” “🎵Ground control to major Tom. Circuit dead there’s something wrong.🎵” “Are you going to leave me behind?” (🥺) “Zero stars on booking.com.” “The moonlight was shining down on you and I knew immediately ‘he is the one’.” “Get ready to be mindblown!” “All the way or no way.” “Take it or leave it, eh?” “You could try bribing the teacher.” “Robin.” Also literally everything he said during wtfockdown because there’s not a moment where he isn’t iconic. But a really special moment, “Just because other people are close minded doesn’t mean that you should make your world smaller.”

Fav Robbe dialogue: “You touched me and I’ve never felt something like that.” “That kiss was really *head explosion noises*.” “Not in this universe.” “Sander, there is something between us. I love you.” “Jawel.” (I just love the way he says it, it’s so fuckin cute). “Fuck Chernobyl.” “Always.” And of course, his verse in eenvoud.

Fav hug: Mandaag 11:03 when Robbe holds a crying Sander. Also, does the spooning and cuddling in the hotel scenes and Dinsdag 07:27 count? Because I love that. Also Woensdag 17:21. Or really anytime Robbe is being a clingy koala. And we can’t forget his hug with Milan after he tells him about the attack. He really needed that comfort.

Fav 21:21: Nope. Nah in all seriousness they just hit different. Woensdag is my favorite in terms of clip alone because from beginning to end it is just so beautiful and perfect. The music, the tunnel, the pool, the kiss, just absolutely gorgeous. But at that time everything was still really new between them and the aftermath of that was rough. Vrijdag is my favorite clip in terms of what it means for Robbe and Sander. The clip itself is shorter, but it has much larger impact in terms of sobbe’s relationship. It’s not just their first time physically, but their emotional declaration to one another as well. It comes with a commitment. Also them falling off the bed laughing is the greatest thing ever. They are so HAPPY. So basically my answer is both, just in different ways.

Fav Sobbe instagram pic: Why are all these questions so mean? Okay- their first one together obviously because along with Robbe’s caption it’s just a showing of their love being official. But also the grocery cart pics for their 6 month anniversary. The grocery store pic in Ardennes getaway. Robbe’s bday pics of them embracing they’re SO HAPPY omg. And of course, we cannot forget the pic posted for Sander’s birthday. It is absolutely perfect. I love it so much.

Fav song/scene pair: I have a few- both examples of wildfire obviously, past lives in Zaterdag 09:41, and rebel rebel at the grocery store. But I have two more that are not at all happy clips but are two of my fave clips regardless: life on mars/zaterdag 21:43 (that scene is impeccable along with its followup which I consider them a pair but LoM only plays in the first one) and I found/zondag 15:12 (my god I love that scene it’s brilliant).

Fav message between Sander and Robbe: Woensdag 12:45 when Sander sends Robbe the sketch of them and talks about that kiss earlier being Chernobyl. Also everything during wtfockdown but especially “I love you so much Robin.” “I love you too. So damn much.” But honestly they had so much adorable banter during those clips we were truly fed.

Fav banter on Instagram: lmaooo they’re always so thirsty on main you could pick a million examples. I will say I loved their back and forth about emojis on their anniversary.

I will tag @onzeziggy @everyone-has-their-story @bowieexaminprogress @sanderxrobbee @ayellowcurtain and whoever else wants to do it. This was fun!

#wtfock #wtfam #sobbe #wtfock season 3 #tagging games

[litttlesilkworm]

Reminiscences of Margarita Legasova about Valery Legasov’s first return from Chernobyl (from “The Candle of Memory Won’t Go Out”, 2001)

Late at night on the 26th (more precisely, early morning of 27th), President of the Academy of Sciences of USSR and Director of the Kurchatov Institute, A.P. Alexandrov, called me and informed me that he spoke with Valery: “He is alive, he is well, but the situation there is very difficult”. That night, it was impossible not only to sleep, but to even lie down.

Life went on, but it has been a different life entirely - one with frightening premonitions, the fears of nighttime thoughts: “What happened? What will be the consequences? How will it affect Valery’s health?”

Knowing his conscientiousness, his diligence, his fearlessness, I knew that he wouldn’t be sitting in bunkers, but will be investigating the most dangerous places.

***

At last, on the morning of May 5th, we met a very changed Valery - thinner, with thinning hair, with a very tan face and hands (later we were explained that this was the so-called Chernobyl tan): he wore an unfamiliar, state-issued suit and an strange white hat and carried a large plastic bag instead of his usual briefcase. There were some cotton clothes in the bag. Before he showed up at home, he had to be washed thoroughly at the Institute, and his contaminated clothes and underwear had to be exchanged.

Valery’s eyes looked exhausted, red from tiredness and lack of sleep, and maybe even from hidden tears.

Me and my daughter cried at once: “How are you? Are you okay?” There were other cries and exclamations, too!.. And he said, very slowly and calmly “Everything later, after… How are the grand kids? Are you all okay? Everything good?” 

He quickly showered, reluctantly ate his breakfast and told us: “I have to be in the Kremlin by 10 am for the Politburo meeting. They will be discussing the Chernobyl accident.”

(Note: here please find my translation of this Politburo meeting)

He spent no more than 35 minutes with us that day.

For many years I took care of him, cooked for him, prepared a new white shirt, a handkerchief, underwear, socks, breakfast every morning. 

I gave him his light gray suit, white shirt, white shoes, and it occurred to me that taking care of him is a part of my life as a woman, that there is a certain measure of happiness in it… It is scary when there is no one to prepare a white shirt in the morning for… And so he left.

At home, we waited for a call for a long time. During lunch time, one of his assistants has called and told us that Valery is heading home for lunch, but that B.E. Shcherbina is urgently looking for him! … After the meeting, it became clear that the entire first staff of the Government Commission is staying in Moscow, but that he, following the request by I.S. Silayev, will be returning to ChNPP.

Valery had lunch in the Kurchatov Institute cafeteria, then hastily got his things and by 4 pm, was taken to Chkalovskoye to board the plane.

#valery legasov #boris shcherbina #chernobyl

[thestarkerisobvious]

Mabon

amazing art work by @starker-sorbet​         A snugglefic for @mrstarksbabyy​

Sixteen

3     Mabon

As the day Tony called “Mabon” approached, Peter was very busy.  Busy storing up books, and magazine articles, the kinds that made him laugh and the kinds that made him furious.  Silent Spring.  Any article about Chernobyl.  (He had bought a multiple magazines with articles on the topic of that when they visited New York City.  The subject made him want to punch holes through walls whenever he read about them, but it was worth the money.  He knew Tony would love it.)  Busy writing down copious notes about memories in his notebooks, both happy and sad, cheerfully preparing to give each one up to Tony.  

And just as judiciously he kept a careful eye on the animal population, both wild and domesticated, around the house.  The number of barncats were getting out of hand, both May and Ben had noted, but Peter tried to discourage them from taking action, reminding them of the rat population down in the basement.  The rat population he, Peter, was supposed to be in charge of (that was another one of his secrets.  He had led them believe he was interested in becoming an exterminator, like Mike DeSlaughter’s dad.  That’s why he was in charge of the rat traps in the basement, all of which he was sabotaging himself.  He wasn’t trying to rid their household of rats, in fact he was doing everything in his power to encourage them.  He needed them for Tony.)

For the week before the 21rst of September Peter sat next to his bed, reading out loud to the darkness under the bed.  He read Hitchhiker’s Guide the Galaxy and Mad Magazine. They were long, lonely nights.  Sitting on the floor.  Leaning his head against his bed.  Reading aloud to himself for hours into the night.  Reading to the silence.  Waking in the morning to trudge, exhausted, to school to spend the day planning on reading deep into the night again.  Aching from the loneliness of Tony’s absence.  Wondering if anyone knew he was acting like a crazy person.  Wondering if it had all really been a dream.

Until that night. Four nights before the date circled on his calendar.  Sitting cross-legged on his floor and complaining bitterly about an article on endangered species, he heard it.

“Peter…”

Peter’s heart leapt. His breath quickened.  Then, with a grin that reached from ear to ear, he closed is National Geographic and dug out from his pile of books the thing that he had been saving for ages.

“Jonathan Harker’s Journal.” He read with a smile.  “3 May. Bistritz.  Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1rst May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train…”  

He read almost all night, until finally 4 AM came about and he had to give up and crawl into his bed. The next morning was the morning he did something he had never done in his life, he convinced May and Ben that he was sick and had to miss school.  It didn’t take much convincing.  Peter never missed school.

Sleeping all day made that night so much easier, giggling his way through Life The Universe and Everything while keeping one arm fearlessly under the bed, waiting to feel Tony feed.  About 1 in the morning he finally felt it, that tiny, sandpapery tongue on his wrist. After that, he had trouble concentrating on his book.  For hours he alternated between reading and talking to Tony, telling him about his many adventure that summer as he felt his friend feeding at the pulse on his wrist, sometimes lapping, sometimes… ah yes sometimes… sucking.

And so it went.  By night he fed the thing under the bed.  By day he gave himself pep-talks and stern talking-tos.  

He was different now. Older.  Stronger.  The boy who had chickened out around Tony, more time than he could even count, was gone. That boy had been replaced. Replaced with a young man, more experienced, more knowledgeable, more confident.  Peter wasn’t a kid anymore.  Peter was going to get some answers.  And Peter was going to make some demands.

It was a Friday night when it happened.  Two full days before Mabon.  Peter didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.  As darkness fell, he stood up from the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. Over and over again he reassured himself.  Told himself to be brave.  He was dressed in his long pajama bottoms and a button-down pajama top.  He had planned this outfit for a month.  He wasn’t backing down now.

With a hiss and a whisper Tony emerged from under the bed.  Peter kept his eyes steadfastly closed as the inkblack cloud arose.  He breathed in the comforting smell of earth and burned incense, but did not look until he felt the bed sink under Tony’s weight. Only when a human-like hand reached for his hand did he open his eyes and smiled at the figure beside him.

They sat very close together, smiling, their foreheads together, and greeted each other in whispers. Sometimes only Peter spoke, letting Tony suckle the last two fingers on his left hand.  He couldn’t seem to stop touching Tony’s face, tracing the dark lines of his eyebrows, his cheekbones.  The face was pale and hollow and painfully thin, but Peter knew it would soon change.  “My sweet one, how you’ve grown, you’ve become so strong,” Tony whispered and Peter glowed under the praise.  “You will feed me well, you will make me powerful.  I will serve you so well.  I will be your beloved, my master scholar.  My library-pilgrim…”

“I keep telling you, I don’t have a Masters degree!” Peter scolded when Tony fit Peter’s fingers into his mouth again.  Peter felt like giggling with delight, even as he started to describe the parts of his science class that were actually getting interesting.  He couldn’t stop smiling.  As the September days had dragged on so painfully slow, he had begun to think that Tony had only been a daydream.  A kind of nasty invisible friend that Peter should be praying to God about.  (The boys in the First Devil’s Church Sunday School were always reminded they should pray for God to deliver them from their Dirty Thoughts.)  Now those doubts felt like dreams.  He kept Tony’s forehead close to his forehead, kept his hand close to Tony’s face.

Finally Tony let Peter’s fingers slip away from his mouth.  They held each other’s hands tightly, Peter looking deeply into Tony’s eyes.

Then Tony looked sadly behind him.  Looked at the pillows, then looked down at their clasped hands.

“You have fed me, and I have come.  I am your servant, Master Peter.  I would I were your beloved,” he whispered.  

Then he looked up at Peter with dark eyes.

“Am I no longer welcome in your bed?”

Peter squeezed Tony’s hand, took a deep breath, and then stood.

There was something he had planned on saying right at this moment, the words he would say as he unbuttoned his pajama shirt, but the words dried up in his mouth.  Something about the promises Tony had made in his bedroom in the dream-castle, promises he had never kept.

The words didn’t come, so he unbuttoned his shirt in silence.  He had planned on letting the shirt fall dramatically to the floor, but at the last minute he lost his nerve.

But words or no, drama or no, the look on Tony’s face when Peter silently climbed into his lap was absolutely worth it.

With a hungry growl that made Peter’s spine light up like stars, Tony’s mouth descended upon the vein in Peter’s neck even has his long fingers starred over Peter’s back and pulled him close.

Tony fed.

The Master (Post)

Questions, discussions, constructive crit are all welcome at @witchwayisright​

To be tagged please message me.

#The Thing That Lives Under The Bed #Demon!Tony #Starker #TheWitchway writes stuff

[lloydsluck]

Crow’s Feet

Prelude

Ever looked at something that’s so fundamentally flawed, so bad in design, form and function, it’s actually intriguing. Like a botched piece of taxidermy or a first attempt at a short novel. A piece of work that was probably not half-assed but whole-heartedly assed with good intention and it would be insulting to the creator to jokingly ask did you write this story as if you’re the old piece of gum stuck underneath a Grade 8 English Lit student desk?  With no light, sense of tense, or spellcheker? The stereotypes and bad similes cause eye rolls so

 far back into one’s head it’s like… well it’s hard to think of a comparison here, so count yourself lucky. Not to mention the ADHD diversions, talking about mounting dead animals in one sentence quickly sidestepping to self-awareness of this piece of literature. I digress. When last did you see a questionable piece of art that you found beautiful? So bad, it’s great. So useless and time-wasting, it’s what you’ll think about ironically one day on your deathbed. Because heck… made you look. 

The Incision 

1

Mondays. The start of a new week. New opportunities for a new you. A fresh squeeze of hope that things will get better served with a side of “I can change” attitude. And no matter how many Mondays we have, (4 187 to be precise, if you, like the average human being will live to 79), you will wake up to the same old boring Monday, every week, the same way. 

Each one with a long dreary stretch and sigh, heavy eyes, telling yourself that you will make the most out of this week. But you won’t. Because laziness is time consuming and you don’t actually have anything else to do, really. 

However, on this particular Monday, which was Fick McOwen’s 2226’s Monday, things were different. 

Fick woke up with the dreadful sensation of drowning. Sinking deep in a casket of darkness. As he gulped in a breath of thick air, it tasted of rotten cabbage coating the back of his throat. Blind and bewildered, sharp metal sounds scratched close above his head. The sound stung his eardrums and made him cock up his forehead banging it hard against a flat surface.

‘Jeeezus fuck’, he hissed. 

With no sense of time and space, his ears were ringing overcharged electric chimes in his head which felt cracked and ready to explode like a reactor in Chernobyl. He took a few minutes to try and calm himself. No good ever came from a panic attack in closed confines with a possible concussion. He finally raised his hands to his chest and did what most drunks do the minute they wake up, pat themselves down and check their underwear.

*

One week earlier.

2

If she was just a bit nicer, Jeffrey thought, she may have already had a proper and dignified burial for her husband. Stomping up and down a room that looked like it was decorated for a five-star hotel in Vienna, the newly-widow’s bony figure moved fast from left to right like a rabid old fox prowling a fence. For Jeffrey, her unwanted but needed bodyguard/help/punching bag, she was Hitler’s sphincter. She sparked fear in him and tightened his nerves with her demanding presence. Like a screwdriver twisting and turning into soft wood. A reaction he despised about himself. It ruined many good days. Sunny days and days like today. 

Watching her from the corner of the large room, she attempted phone call after phone call, shouting at poor bastards who made the simple mistake of answering their phones that day. 

Wanting to disappear he closed his eyes and listened to every passive-aggressive step she took in the room. He liked to tell when she walked on the tiles or the bear rug; it was a fast tac tac tac womp womp womp womp tac tac womp womp…then nothing. He opened his eyes and with a fright found her standing right in front of him, steaming red with anger.

Her greying blonde hair was fastened in a tight pincushion on top of her head. This pulled back her frail white skin that held everything in place. Face to face, he couldn’t help but stare at the permanent makeup she had done on the lower lids of her eyes and on top of her brows. It was starting to fade and as a result, it looked like she put eyeliner on days ago and never washed it off. 

Her stare was cold and deadly like an overworked mortician’s. It complemented her daily outfits of thin grey pencil skirts and matching suit jackets. She had her name embroidered on the inside of the neckline since all of her clothing was specially washed and pressed at a local laundromat. One that she owned of course. 

Margaret. 

That’s what her husband used to call her. Or Margarine, Margie, or Macaroon. She would always remind whoever was listening that she was actually named after Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowden. If you had to look her up, you would see the uncanny similarities between the two women. So much so, that Jeffrey often wondered if they weren’t related. Considering how much of a royal bitch she was.

Nevertheless, he had to call her Mrs. Ergo. And he preferred the kind request from John Ergo, her late husband, since he didn’t think she would have liked the names he had listed for her in his head anyway. 

She snapped back up and walked across the room towards the large oak desk that faced the gigantic windows that looked out onto their garden. Their Ergo-Eden. With a deep sigh, he sat up straight and smoothed back his black hair that was styled according to an old Italian mobster he saw in a film when he was 15. 

“It’s all in the confidence of smoothing the wax over your hands first and then through your hair.” That’s what the old man said to his fellow pasta slurping, red-wine drinking, two hits a week gang that sat around a checkered table talking about the importance of looking respectable, no matter what the job. And this was what he told himself in the bathroom mirror every morning, (impersonating a very bad Italian accent of course) while he prepared for his day. 

Apart from the respectable hairdo, Jeffrey was built like a small bull with a refined jawline. At first glance one would imagine he spends his days lumberjacking in the forest; but instead of plaid shirts, he was forced to wear black on black as per ‘management’s’ request. 

He refocused his attention on her and as foul as she was acting that day, somewhere deep inside him, he felt sorry for her and her loss. His face twitched as he clenched his jaw trying to shape compassion on his face, but feared he looked more like a constipated clown trying to keep his cool. He was given cards once with all the different faces and expressions on it. Ironically, the illustrations looked like they were drawn by an autistic robot with no emotion nor artistic talent (it was), but it helped him deal with different people. Lines that came down the forehead with no teeth, meant anger or disappointment. Teeth showing meant they were happy – or about to bite you. 

Margaret often made faces Jeffrey couldn’t place on his cards and her teeth always had some lipstick stains on it, which quite frankly, just distracted him altogether. 

He watched her go down a list of names and numbers, furiously scratching them out when the call didn’t go as planned. Eyeing the last name and number on the list, she picked up the phone and started dialing. 

3

Fick carefully pulled the skin up the neck and then over the top of the head, trying his very best to keep his hand steady. He wore magnifying goggles that pushed his choppy brown hair up toward the ceiling and enlarged his olive-grey eyes. It looked like the head of a praying mantis was stuck on a lanky man's body who dressed as if he found a discarded box of 80s band shirts and never bothered to wear anything else again. 

'There.' He said as he lifted his hands and inspected the bird-like shape that was coming together in front of him. 

In the back of the garage-turned-workshop, a small radio was trying to hold itself together while Henry Rollins tore away at its speakers. The music filled the room and gave Fick the ability to concentrate. Nothing else was audible. Not a phone or a thought could break his focus. 

And it paid off; the crow started to take a lively shape, fast. All it needed were the eyes and some beak touch-ups and this bad boy was ready for some teenager's window sill.

Fick lived in Long Fountain, a small town where the kids were either into wrestling, the backyard kind, or satanism – also the backyard kind. This meant there were a lot of goth-like metalheads who gave themselves names like Agares and Forneus and hung outside the grocery store to smoke cheap cigarettes they bummed off the shop clerk. They would wear black makeup and dangle fake blood vial necklaces around their necks. Some would even proudly claim that they spray-painted hale satin on the backside of the church announcement board. To top off their rebel-without-a-cause-and-lack-of-basic-grammar-look, these kids would own a taxidermied crow on their windowsills, just for that extra edge. 

“It’s a phase” most parents would say, but Fick couldn’t care less. He got fifty bucks out of it, liked the work, and asked no questions. 

As a self-employed middle-aged Taxidermist, he could work from home and at his own pace. Something he considered to be more valuable than a performance bonus cheque at the end of a year after slaving away in a badly lit office desk from nine to five, five to seven days a week.

He didn’t necessarily consider himself a hermit, but he did prefer his own company with the exception of a few selected people – very selected and very few. This was a choice he made unapologetically clear to others who wanted to befriend him for no real reason. When presented with this frankness, they would awkwardly laugh it off and insist he’s just a fun and sarcastic guy. He despised those people the most. 

Furthermore, Long Fountain was a small enough town for the nosy types to know everyone and their business, while still quiet and sparse enough for others to embrace the privacy of the town’s border. If you had to take a drone shot from high above, the edge of the town looked like it disappeared into the desert like an ocean of drought that spilled into a suburb. Fick could never figure out why they called it Long Fountain though, as there wasn’t even a lake or river anywhere near them. But he liked it there and he appreciated the colourful desert sunsets that could be found if you were at the right place at the right time.

The only other peculiar thing about the town was that there was an abnormally large crow population, which he didn’t mind because it meant more product for him. That, and an abnormal amount of  old age homes. 

He gripped the tweezer handle between his teeth while he carefully glued the last soft tiny black feathers to the rim of the beak; he tended to hold his breath during these final touches. While the song came to a screeching halt, the ringing of his cell phone surfaced through all the noise and concentration. 

‘Fuck!’ He spat out the metal twangs, pulled off the goggles and flipped his phone over to reveal four missed calls from an unknown number in town. He was about to throw the phone over his shoulder onto a once purple–now grey–couch, when the screen lit up again with the same number flashing. 

‘Hello’ he answered casually trying to simmer down. 

‘Hello, is this Fick McOwen?’ A sweet lady’s voice kindly asked on the other side. 

‘Yes, how can I help?’

‘I’m looking for someone who can help me with a,’ she paused for a second,  ‘stuffing job?’ 

‘Well ma’am, I do all kinds of taxidermy. We don’t call it stuffing though, rather mounting,’ he smirked. ‘Anything from crows, bucks, ducks, even your pet poodle.’ He stared at the one-eyed crow that was perched up in front of him. 

‘What is your rate?’ She calmly inquired. 

‘It depends on the job. Small birds and animals start at thirty bucks, and then it can go up to a couple of thousand for a full deer, buck or elk.’ 

She went quiet on the line. He could tell she was busy writing something down, possibly a calculation. He hated long silences, it gave him indigestion.   

‘What would you like to have mounted?’ He nudged, just to check that she was still there. She remained quiet. 

‘Hellooo?’

‘Ten thousand.’

‘Excuse me?’ He quickly asked to confirm that he probably misheard.  

‘Ten. Thousand.’ She repeated sternly. 

‘Ma’am. What do you want to have done?’ His stomach started to tie knots of doubt, anticipating a job he may not be able to do. 

‘I prefer a private meeting to discuss this further.’ Her tone suddenly changed from a sweet old lady to an office crank complaining it’s cold. He hesitated for a second. Feeling his gut whisper all tales of caution to avoid this type of interaction. “If it’s too good to be true…” he would always remind himself. 

But…then again...

The ten thousand dollars started to swim through his mind like a beautiful woman in a red bikini, blowing kisses from a crystal blue pool. Caught in the moment, he impulsively replied, ‘Okay.’ She quickly confirmed that her people will be in contact with his people and disconnected before he could even take a breath to say he doesn’t have “people”. 

Confused about the call and left with nothing to follow up with, he decided to write it off as another crazy old lady from one of the care homes who got hold of the nurse’s office phone. Eyeing the cotton-eye-crow, he proceeded to hit play on his stereo, threw his mobile on the couch and stuck the tweezers back in his mouth to finish the job.

NEXT CHAPTER COMING SOON

#fiction #short fiction

[that-bi-bliophile]

So my friends and I have an ongoing collection of quotes that my crazy math teacher has said. We had our last math class today so I felt it would be a good time to share this. (I added some annotations so that it makes more sense to people who weren’t there)

                                                 Quotes by Mr. G

                                             -An Ongoing Project-

“Grizzly bear will never get reindeer, correct?”

“Health is good”

“I don’t know what planet you are from”

“Hey, build pyramids!”

“And Humperdink will be sitting at his lonely table” (I looked it up and there’s a song called Lonely Table by Engelbert Humperdinck)

“Power to the power, power to the people.”

“I like that you laugh, it means you are still alive”

“Don’t laugh because people around you are shaking.”

“Someone is laughing, it is not supposed to be like that.”

“You are so engaged, that makes you 19”

“I appreciate if barricades are taken off your desk onto the floor.”

“And fish becomes shark and eats copies.”

“Also, cover your tails”

During an earthquake drill: “Take these drills seriously” -Mr. Asdfghjkl’, “Also, take seriously mathematics” -Mr. G

“I thought it is a box”

“Lice, only in your brain”

“Welcome again to the same stream, but water is different.”

“No, there is no Mr. G.”

“Yes, Mr. G is here”

“Why are you sitting?”

“I am concerned about your grade, and your knowledge. Mainly your knowledge.”

“By the way, I like tables.”

“About geometry and your life.”

“I don’t know what you are digging”

“Kids; too many”

“Look China, look China, look China”

“What information shall we withdraw from China?”

“Give me two points India!” (These last three were from a thing we did graphing country populations by the way)

“Specifically in the mountains.”

“I am driving, Maxime, do you understand?”

“He is doing minimum, it is food for thoughts.”

“He is also a jumper, will you share what you see in the other world?”

“Mr. G often goes tangentially.”

“Ellie chose and very wisely!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, our train is approaching, silence, tunnel, please, or else explosion.”

“Goat leg”

“I will now burst with my anger.”

“Mr. G is standing on his head now.”

“Homework is a bridge.”

“Anita was a fox and Basilio lost his money: golden bars.”

“I feed you, you are a shark and sharks are biting everything.”

“Thank you for stretching, maybe you have the right.”

“Your teacher is Mr. G, I know him.”

“Don’t be scared, but some of you didn’t learn and you are going to suffer.”

“You are the first representative of a younger generation.”

“I am not poisoning you.”

“I am entertaining you. It is the afternoon.”

“Look at their information, it’s terrible!”

“Where comes two? Oh! From the ceiling!”

“I made a mistake, wait, did I?”

“They forbid me to go to school, they say they will arrest me.” (During quarantine)

“Stop with attention span, whatever happened, don’t pay attention.”

“Go, go, go, go, go, go!”

“Anastasiya, did you learn your fingernails very nicely?”

“We are all working, I don’t know what republic you are.”

“No big goose.”

“Now we have geese in the water, looking something.”

“It’s not a pack of wolves, okay?”

“It’s called an undisciplined guy.”

“It came because we were catching all big fish”

“Algebra: without algebra there is nothing in life.”

“You are like fish”

“Your brain will grow like a cabbage”

“O.M.G. Our mutual goal”

“Tongue rolling attitude”

“A gebra named al”

 “Knowledge shouldn’t be soft”

“Hands up, how many hands do you have?” Max says, “10.” (We have a theory that he’s an alien, he’s also said things like “blonde eyed, blue haired”)

“Only happy people watch a clock, because they want to extend their happiness.”

“Relax, feel in my classroom, at home.”

“Someone is running water.”

“In U.S. you have freedom and liberty” (Mr. G is talking about not finding the discriminant before solving.)

“Bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, where is my bacon.”

“Alexa, turn off, Alexa will you turn off your music?” (Caused several other people’s Alexa’s to turn on over Google Meets)

“Dying, just relax guys, I’m not dying.”

“Tilda likes her boys like she likes her numbers, positive.”

“What’s up is here.”

CMC: “A score of 14 and over should be commended.”

Mr. G: “A score of 14 and over shouldn’t be commended in this classroom.”

(He told math team he expected us to get at least 26)

“Relley, you are number 7”

“Two minutes! It is too much time!”

“Sixth graders are like rabbits. They are always twitching, and each time you turn around there are more of them.”

“Only Mr. G can put flesh and blood into these skeletons.”

“In Ukraine, they call it the big bear, but here, you call it the big diaper.” (He meant the big dipper)

“Boo, did you do your homework?!” (We have a great recording of this one. We did it for our Spooky Room™ in advisory because his granddaughter is in my advisory)

“Sing the song!” (Then he ‘sings’ the quadratic formula on like one note)

“The textbook is your bible.”

“Shake your heads!”

“‘Good Morning!’ said Bilbo, ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good one?’”

“Alessandra, you need a life.” (This was really odd for him to say a student shouldn’t just spend all their time on mathematics, a different teacher ran out of the room to tell people @ohnoimfangirlingagain)

“Tilda, you are good, not great, but good.”

“You are the best of the best.”

“You now owe me a Ritz box.”

“Any questions” -Mr. G, “Nope” -Student, “Okay, also not good because there should be questions”-Mr. G

“Like a magic wand.”

“Is anyone falling apart, is anyone under the table?”

“I can see behind the sofa, is anyone in the orchard, picking fruit?”

“Sending them out of the boundaries of the United States, oops out of the equation.”

“You are great specialist at this one.”

“Not president of the united states, but candidate for the equation”

“You are very good citizen of BPC school.”

“Guys tell me, difficult? Difficult in training or easy in battle taking test.”

“Extraneous root is like outside fish that we throw back to the sea because it is not the fish.” (One of my favorites. I’m making it bold so that it’s more visible)

“Relax, go under sofa or whatever is best place for you.”

“ZPP, not Zina.”

“Off we start”

“Alexa, I am not asking you, switch off, Alexa, Alexa, thank you.”

“Tangent tangent tangent secant secant secant secant tangent”

“You need to respond, it is why police respond.”

“Its been one minute, I will count one minute from our time.”

“He is doing simultaneously Step 1 and Step 2! I love you!”

*leaning in and whispering into the computer, so just one student will hear* “Can you hear me? Psst can you hear me? Turn in your homework!”

“Gabby, open your face.”

“You have 9 minutes to relax.”

"Examples, they are clear? Good color?"

"Who is joining shout?"

“Everything: Mr. G is doing everything thoroughly, digging, digging, digging. Where is digging?”

“Coming to this minus, says, ‘Hello!’.”

“The secret is easy: you don't do any stupid things.”

“I will introduce the basic things, and skeleton.”

“Margaux, show me your face. I have forgot already in two months.”

“Drink coffee, oops, tea... talk to your dog... make your cat happy... keep energy up.”

"Just take in your bloodstream"

“Why are you running in orchard, picking wegetables.”

“In many countries. In Ukraine, we had Chernobyl and stay at home, in Africa, we had disease outbreak, no tvs. Now. I am good at distance learning.” (He’s from Ukraine and also taught in Africa)

“See they are asking you? Did you get four? If you didn’t get four, you have a problem?”

“I know, I know, but they are more mistakes here, they are playing tricks, they are wrong.”

“Grudge on you, very big grudge on you.”

“You see, I am covering.”

“Don’t jump to conclusion, good teams don’t jump to conclusion. Now jump to conclusion.”

Anastasiya “Play ocean sounds for one hour.” Mr. G “You have to go somewhere?”

Cole plays music, Mr. G says “Not funny.”

“Seventh grade are all five, five musketeers.”

“We are 15 already which means someone else is here”

“So far, I am boxing you.”

“Herrings are little fish that Russians love, not Ukranians.” 

“In Zambia there are potholes in the road. So I would fill them in with gravel. Now we are going to do that with your knowledge.”

“Cinderella had to get peas from sand. And she shook the blanket. Use BUCK.” (He often tells us to shake our heads)

“Please guys, open your faces.”

“You are like little red riding hood: lost.”

“To my surprise, it is time to start.”

“Now it is time to collect stones.”

“What will you do in Europe?”

“I don't like that it’s excluded, because 2 will feel excluded.”

“Infinite algebra 1”

“I am back to discuss with you our problems.”

“What is secret about? You are canceling.”

“It’s like I am merging to highway.”

“Welcome to Ukraine, my friends.”

“I have plans for you, but you will always change plans.”

“Wow, it’s attacking me from all sides! Zina in the kitchen...”

“It's like avalanche or cabbage growing, I hope paper cabbage is still growing full of your energy.”

“Be cute enough to see.”

“Give me volume! Volume, volume, volume, volume, volume!”

“I wasn’t running with you… you know, fast?”

“Three trees doesn’t make woods.” (But in Chinese two do, just saying)

“So far you are free.”

“Is there anyone falling apart, under the table, please come out. I see you.”

“What should I say now? That it is too much work, sorry.”

“The last is seesaw problem. I am joking, I don’t know if I will show you today seesaw.”

“And I will be watching you now.”

“Do you want to talk about life? We are talking about life.”

"Don't touch 7th graders, they are like a hive of bees, you never know, they will bite you."

“You are late for the date with Mr. G.”

“Someone wants to join, no.”

“Someone is just troubling us.”

“Someone is just breaking my computer.”

“There is no problem, it is my invention.” 

I will miss his class a lot.

#he's kind of crazy #but it's really funny

[targetsports]

Knights in White Lycra

Words by Susan Burton

Why a group of foreigners bicycle to Fukushima every year – and what this says about charitable giving in Japan

The Knights ride out from Tokyo on the Friday evening bullet train, their bicycles dismantled and stowed in the obligatory rinko carry-on bags. They overnight in Takasaki city in Gunma Prefecture and the following morning they rise early to begin their quest – to ride 500 kilometres in four days to the Aiikuen Children’s Home in Fukushima prefecture and to raise money for the 72 children who live there.

In the peloton this year there are 42 riders from 14 different countries, ranging in age from 23 to 63. Twenty-six are attempting the ride for the first time. They are grouped together in seven teams of six, by experience, ability and willingness to stop for lunch. Each group is led by an able, veteran Knight.

Rob Williams (53, works in finance) is the Knights’ spiritual leader. In 2012, he and a group of fellow British expatriates were slumped disconsolately in the Hobgoblin pub in Tokyo staring at their beer guts. They concluded that they either needed to stop drinking or take up some form of exercise. They chose cycling because, “Brits are good at sport that involves sitting down.” There was also a more serious side to their quest. Following the Great East Japan Earthquake and nuclear disaster in March 2011, several of them had made repeated trips into the disaster area delivering emergency aid and public donations. But a year on, many places still lacked even basic necessities. One of these was Minamisoma, a city 25 kilometres north of the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. Minamisoma was partially destroyed by the tsunami and most of the surviving residents were forced to relocate outside the 30-kilometre mandated radiation evacuation zone. In April 2012, when the zone was reduced to 20 kilometres, some residents had been allowed to return but many still had no electricity, running water or medical facilities.  

That evening in the Hobgoblin pub, Rob and his friends decided they would cycle to Minamisoma to raise money to supply the residents of the city’s temporary accommodation with food and drinking water. Later in a karaoke bar someone stood up and sang the Moody Blues song, and the Knights in White Lycra (KIWL) were born. Their motto: get fit and give back.

Rob is also one of the ride’s team leaders this year. His team are strictly A to B cyclists, speeding to their destination in the shortest possible time. For lunch he allows them eight minutes to grab rice balls and Pocari Sweat drinks from the local convenience store.

Andy Abbey’s group prefer to stop for a sit-down lunch at a café or roadside noodle bar. Andy (British, 47, works in management consultancy) joined the Knights in its second year. Hours after the earthquake, a Facebook page called Foreigner Volunteers (now Foreign Volunteers Japan) appeared calling for contributions and helpers. Their first donation was a case of baked beans. When they had filled six two-tonne trucks, Andy and several other foreigners drove north. Recalls Andy, “Everything was just flat. It was terrifying.” The tsunami had swept away houses, cars and people up to 5 kilometres inland and 200 kilometres all the way up the east coast of Japan. Compounding the catastrophe was the nuclear radiation which was spewing from three exploded reactors and spreading unchecked on the spring winds and coastal currents. “It was very obvious that this was an unmanageable situation,” says Andy. Some foreigners went north only once, too traumatised by what they had seen to go back. Andy made repeated trips to the disaster areas. But he wanted to do more. He’s now a member of the KIWL committee.

Miho Inosaki (Malaysian-Japanese, works in public relations) is in Andy’s group. At 23, she is the youngest and least experienced rider and one of only five women in the peloton. She first encountered the Knights when she was tasked by her company Custom Media, one of the Knights’ sponsors, with filming their annual promotional video. Before becoming a ‘Knightess’, she had never cycled before and she averages one crash every third time she gets in the saddle. Within five minutes of picking up her new bicycle for this year’s ride she collided with a motorcycle. (During the ride, she somersaults over her handlebars and hits her head on a fence post.)

Egon Boettcher (New Zealander, 48, works in banking) leads another group and plans the Knight’s route, a difficult task due to Japan’s mountainous terrain and the fact that the ride takes place during the rainy season. Japan also has the world’s highest incidence of earthquakes, but the Knights have been fortunate. Earthquakes tend to strike in areas Egon has just left. This year, a magnitude 6 rattles Niigata two days after the Knights’ departure.

In previous years, the Knights had started their quest in Nihonbashi in central Tokyo but with heavily congested streets and numerous traffic lights it took more than three hours to clear the metropolis. Now they take the train and begin in another prefecture. This also enables them to vary the journey every year and to make it a challenge worth sponsoring. Tokyo is only 300 kilometres from the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, a distance that has been imprinted on every Tokyo resident’s mind since the plant’s meltdown. (By comparison, Chernobyl is over 2,000 kilometres from London.)

On the first day, the Knights cycle from Takasaki to Yuzawa in Niigata prefecture, a distance of 55 kilometres in 27-degree Celsius heat under a sun unobstructed by a single cloud. The journey takes them through the Japanese countryside in early summer, past flooded rice fields sprouting green shoots and to a height of 1,200 metres, in sight of mountains from which the snow has yet to melt.

They spend the first night in the town of Yuzawa, in a mountainous region of Niigata prefecture known as ‘snow country’. Their lodgings, a resort called Twin Towers, is a complex of privately-owned apartments developed during the economic boom in the 1980s. More than two decades into an economic recession, many of the owners are unable to sell and now rent out the rooms to cover exorbitant maintenance charges. There are few guests in green season. Andy appears to have the 11th floor to himself. Egon rattles round a duplex penthouse that he learns was refurbished for the Emperor and Empress during the 1998 winter Olympics in nearby Nagano (but they never stayed there). “We never saw a soul who wasn’t with us,” says Egon. “It was like the Shining.”

On the second day, they pedal further north to Niigata city on the Sea of Japan along routes lined with lush spring greenery and across wide bridges spanning streams that will swell into torrents in a matter of hours. With the rainy season approaching, a searing heat reflects off the tarmacked roads and a thick, stifling humidity envelops the riders.

Rainy season arrives on the morning of the third day, bringing 50-kmh head and cross winds. Three riders are blown off their bikes on the 150-kilometre journey to Aizu Wakamatsu, where the riders ease their aching limbs in the steaming onsen (volcanic hot spring). In case of accidents, injuries and punctures, the riders are followed by two support cars. Padded cycle shorts and ‘bum butter’ are essential on the road. But a soak in a hot spring eases the muscles at the end of the day. And that’s one good thing about having so few women on the ride, notes Miho. There’s always plenty of room in the women’s onsen.

On the fourth and final day, the winds have blown themselves out but the rain continues to trickle down the backs of windcheaters and seep into microfibre shoes. The morning begins with a long climb to a plateau on which sits Lake Inawashiro, the fourth-largest lake in Japan, also known as the Heavenly Mirror Lake because of the glass-like clearness of the water. The sun reappears just as the riders reach the Aiikuen Children’s Home which is situated south of Fukushima city and, gallingly for the exhausted riders, at the summit of one of the ride’s steepest hills. As they round the final bend, the excited children are waiting to greet them, waving flags of the Knights’ home countries and stretching out their hands for high fives. “It was just a wonderful moment,” says Miho later. “Just this overwhelming feeling of emotion where you went, ‘Oh my god, that’s why we do it.’” The riders dismount and the children, aged from 2 to 18, rush up. They want to know all about the Knights’ road bicycles. One little boy tries on Andy’s cycling helmet. “He decided I was his best friend and would show me the children’s home,” Andy recalls. The riders are led by the children into the gymnasium where they sit cross-legged on the floor to listen to a speech of thanks.

Aiikuen was founded in 1893 by Uryū Iwako (1829-1897), an orphaned daughter from a merchant family who dedicated her life to the improvement of living conditions for ordinary people. Situated 49 kilometres away from Daiichi, the orphanage is outside the evacuation zone. But because it stands on a hill facing the plant, when the reactors blew, its seven hectares of thickly-forested grounds – sports field, campsite and lawn – were coated in caesium-137. The prefectural government paid to have Aiikuen cleaned, hosing down the modern concrete buildings, removing grass and chopping down trees. But hotspots remained and for several years after the disaster Aiikuen staff (like many parents in the Tohoku region) limited the children’s outdoor playtime. They also tested food for contamination and regularly checked the children’s health. The immediate danger may have passed but Aiikuen still needs more support, which the government is slow to provide.

Nationwide, only ten per cent of approximately 30,000 children in care are orphans. The rest have been removed from neglected or abusive homes or given up by families who are unable to care for them financially. Fostering and adoption remain rare in Japan because parents must give legal permission for their child to be cared for by someone else and for cultural reasons – predominantly loss of face – they are unlikely to agree to this. Adoption is registered on the koseki (the family register) which is a publicly available document, and the stigma of having an adoption in the family bloodline (suggesting an unplanned pregnancy or a lack of financial stability) can affect job and marriage prospects. Less than ten per cent of children in welfare are fostered or adopted. Most remain within the welfare system long-term (just under half live in children’s homes for more than five years), sometimes with little or no parental contact. They are termed ‘throwaway children’, trapped in a legal limbo until they must leave at 17 or 18.

The attitude of some Japanese towards marginalised and disadvantaged groups is not always sympathetic, and the needs of children in care homes is not an issue that many Japanese wish to look at too closely. Says Andy, “I think there’s a blanket assumption here that the government takes care of everything. That’s good in some respects because generally the government kind of does but when something goes wrong – and the Tohoku earthquake was a perfect example – the government literally couldn’t take care of everything. No government could take care of that. It was impossible.” This is why KIWL has focused its money-raising efforts on children’s charities, in particular grassroots organisations for whom even a small amount of money can make a big difference.

In the gymnasium, the children present the Knights with certificates of appreciation printed by Aiikuen’s Digital Citizenship Club on its laser printer. With little or no parental support, a university education is impossible for young people coming out of the care system and they risk falling into low level work in factories or the sex industry. One goal of Aiikuen is to educate the children in skills that may enable them to find fulfilling jobs when they leave, particularly in the technology industry. During the ceremony, word arrives that the Knights’ cycle ride has raised just over ten million Yen (£75,000) for YouMeWe, the charity which supports the home. It will help to pay for more computing equipment and training in digital skills such as coding and video editing.

Most of the ten million Yen comes from corporate sponsorship. The Knights’ major sponsors are the international companies for which many of the riders work. This year, alongside the Knights’ logo (a plumed helmet and a shield depicting linked hands) there are 26 sponsor names on the riders’ jackets including Netflix, World Family, Land Rover, Boyd & Moore Executive Search and Allied Pickfords, companies which reflect the transient nature of expatriate life in Japan. In western countries, sponsoring someone to do a sporting challenge is a recognised way of raising money for charity. Egon’s first sponsored event at age 8 was cycling round and round a school track on a Raleigh bicycle. But in Japan there is no concept of the sponsored event. When Miho asked friends to sponsor her they were confused. “I got questions like, ‘Why would I pay you to do sports?’” In Japan, charitable giving more commonly takes the form of volunteering in the local community and doing chores – such as managing rubbish collections, street cleaning and watching over elderly residents – for your neighbourhood association. “It’s not that there’s no charitable spirit,” says Andy. “It’s just expressed in a different way.” 3/11 was a disaster on an unprecedented scale and many Japanese reacted immediately, collecting donations from friends and neighbours and forming residents’ groups to travel to the disaster area to provide volunteer labour. But paying foreigners to bicycle there was perplexing. Toru Akiyama, one of the five Japanese riders and at 63 the group’s oldest Knight, had to work hard for the money he raised from friends and colleagues. “He had to explain individually, this is what a sponsored event is,” says Miho. One result of the Fukushima disaster is that the number of charities seems to be increasing along with a shift in understanding about the many ways that donations can be raised. The 500-kilometre sponsored ride is not the only sporting challenge the Knights take on. There are marathons, pub quizzes, golf, futsal and even motorcycling. Once a year Andy organises a walk around the Imperial Palace and gives participants a KIWL t-shirt in return for a donation. “And for Japanese people that’s much more manageable psychologically than sponsoring Egon to ride 500 kilometres,” admits Rob.

In the days after the disaster, it was noticed by the Japanese media that some foreigners (known as ‘gaijin’ in Japanese) were attempting to leave, heading straight to Narita airport which was – ironically – marginally closer to the nuclear power plant. They were termed ‘flyjin’ and accused of ditching Japan in its time of need. In fact, just as many Japanese fled to southern parts of Japan where they had relatives. Most foreigners didn’t have that option. And many, like Andy and other future Knights, were driving in the opposite direction, right into the disaster area and risking their health, if not their lives, in the process. Andy says he never breached the 30-kilometre evacuation zone around the power plant. He drove around it. Nevertheless, he and the others were aware of the implications of a sudden rainfall or a change in the direction of the wind. Andy also took the iodine tablets the British embassy were offering. “He snorted them recreationally,” jokes Egon. The Knights are a good-humoured bunch but there is no denying the dangers present during those first weeks. While tourism (particularly foreign tourism) to the Tohoku region has since recovered, it should not be forgotten that the half-life of caesium-137 is 35 years. Wandering in the Aiikuen grounds after the ceremony the Knights come across a large radiation monitoring station. A nearby golf course appears deserted.

The Knights’ first sponsored ride, from Tokyo to Minamisoma in 2013, was abandoned when for the first time in ten years the region was hit by a blizzard. The highway was closed and several of the riders suffered hypothermic symptoms. Six of the original ten Knights returned two months later to finish the ride. That year they raised 2.7 million Yen (£20,000). Year on year they have doubled the number of riders and consequently the amount raised. In subsequent years, they have cycled to and on behalf of several different children’s charities in the Tohoku area. By riding to the charitable organisation the Knights can see first-hand where their money is going, which Rob observes has a greater impact on the riders. There are tears and, when the Knights move on to a new charity, some riders continue their support for a place they have visited. For two years, the Knights rode for Place to Grow (a charity supporting children and their families in Minamisanriku, a town that was 95 per cent destroyed by the tsunami). Andy and Egon continue to act as cycling Santas for them, delivering gifts to the children at Christmas. The Knights’ support for Mirai no Mori (a charity which offers American summer camps to disadvantaged children) has been maintained by BNP Paribas, a KIWL sponsor.

KIWL is a small group with a big impact. They have raised 62.3 million Yen (£469,000) since they first came together to “get fit and give back.” Says Miho, “The beautiful scenery, the challenge, the camaraderie, the drinking are all very nice bonuses but nothing really compares. Even the sensation of knowing that you’ve cycled 500 kilometres doesn’t come close to what you feel when you see all those kids look so excited to see you.” And Rob Williams has achieved another goal. ‘Fat Rob’ (as the others jokingly call him) has lost 10 kilogrammes since that drunken evening in the Hobgoblin.

[gwinforth]

My theory is that Valery doesn’t wear undies when he stays in Chernobyl.

I think you are 100% correct, really, honestly, look at him. He’s too distracted and just utterly unfussy about how he looks, and … isn’t bothered by the constant bouncing? Easy access anyway :p

Would you like a random ficlet that contains the underwear headcanon? it might also invite us to consider what people wear! and why! sort of.

valoris/explicit-ish

thanks to @hereliesnils for the proofread

You wore your nice suit for the boys from the IAEA, Valery said over his shoulder as Boris washed his hands, and Boris told him he could look less like a garbage collector, particularly in front of visitors, and Valery, smarting from the whip, indicated with a stammering rejoinder that this wasn’t Paris, and it wasn’t fashion week, to which Boris replied the suit was Italian, not French, and Valery took this as the fuck-off it was and reminded him that the suit was as good as ruined, because dry cleaning wasn’t part of any decontamination protocol. And Boris, who enjoyed winding him up on very rare occasions, such as when the relief of being alone was outweighing the gravity of the catastrofuck outside, said, if it’s contaminated, we’ll have to get me out of it as quickly as possible, won’t we?

That redirected the course of Valery’s anger right into confused, chin-hanging arousal, and Boris raised his eyebrows at him in the bathroom mirror. 

The site visit had gone off fine: they probably hadn’t seen the satellite installation a few clicks southwest, and if they had, they had been polite enough not to mention it, and probably none of them were Langley spooks or Circus acrobats, or whatever they called themselves - and if they were, the KGB would have a good rifle through their pockets and keep them away from the phones.

Playing host had been the easy part (here is our giant pile of shit - I understand you’re professionally interested in giant piles of shit?), the helicopter ride was nothing much, and swipe though Boris might at Valery’s sartorial choices, Boris had to admit that Valery impressed people, in his odd way: most people, when weighing Valery up as either an eccentric genius or a mad tramp, decided that anyone who went around looking like that must be something special indeed. And Valery lived the part, wandering around with answers spilling out in long pearly strings of philosophical physics. 

He had stuck to the line, mostly.

So, a success. Still, the relief of seeing their bumpers bounce away had put Boris in a lightened and sovereign mood, like when the distant in-laws motor off after a fortnight’s occupation of the fold-out, and he broke into a grin as he left the washroom. 

“May I?” Valery asked. 

Boris gestured at himself with a flourish, presenting the suit and his body to Valery. 

Valery unbuttoned Boris’s jacket in one long unbroken drag down his chest, knuckles firmly planted against his sternum, his solar plexus. He gave more pressure as he inched them down Boris’s stomach, and when he reached the last button, he smoothed past Boris’s waistband, below his belt, accentuating the interest Boris’s dick was already taking in the proceedings. Didn’t quite touch him, just ironed either side, in twin strokes that ended at the crease of his thighs. 

Boris released a growl as low and slow as Valery’s hands were moving to grasp at Boris’s hips. Were they playing footsie?

“C’mere,” Boris said, and yanked Valery full-body against him, so the strangely vulnerable hardness of his erection was dug into the pit of Valery’s stomach. Valery giggled like a schoolboy when he felt it, and he grasped Boris tighter, twisting them a little where they stood. 

Two wolves fought inside Boris, etc etc. Boris wanted that affection more than he wanted anything - almost anything - else, he wanted to feel Valery’s laughter traveling through him on bristling, singing nerves. He wanted to love Valery. And he wanted to bite him. 

He dragged Valery’s chin up to his own mouth, angled Valery’s head with fingers digging into the base of his skull, and pressed a kiss. Valery laughed again, under his mouth, because Boris had used his teeth on his lower lip, but it was deeper in his chest this time. 

Valery tugged at Boris’s shirt between them, and frowned in confusion. He tugged again, a little harder this time, and Boris’s palm slipped off the back of his neck to smack at his hand between them. 

“Stays,” Boris explained.

“Stays… on?” Valery asked, confused.

Boris’s impatience was the grip of his other hand on the bulge in Valery’s trousers. “I’m wearing -” he said against Valery’s jaw, and then leaned back. Kissing Valery was a lost cause when the professor was thinking; his face was prone to sudden paroxysms, his head tended to swivel and jerk with every accreting flash of intuition - it was a good way to gamble a few teeth. Instead of explaining, he started shrugging off his jacket. 

Valery moved to help him. Jacket off, and a moment again of utter distraction - the suspenders. The way they made his chest a triptych of obscene thoughts, licking nipples until Boris came, or opening his shirt buttons just enough to tongue on the orbit of Boris’s navel until he was desperate and leaking and making undone sounds besides. Valery slipped his fingertip between the stretchy elastic and the hard plane of Boris’s chest beneath. He twisted his finger under the elastic, warmed by Boris’s body, and thought very briefly of something else. Then he hooked and shifted the strap, and Boris ducked his shoulder to slip it off.

Boris pulled him close again and plunged his hands into Valery’s strange and rumpled waistband, pulled his shirttails out in two handfuls, and got his hands up under the warm cotton to touch his furry stomach, his soft sides, poke rough fingertips between his ribs. Valery’s diaphragm jumped and his belly twitched at Boris’s fingernails; he ground against Boris’s hand when it returned to the crux of his legs and could have exploded when Boris’s lips, thin and soft, took hold of his earlobe. 

Valery hauled Boris’s other suspender aside clumsily; hard to do with a big man licking out your ear and fondling your balls. His hands scrabbled for the two suspenders hanging like loose reins from Boris’s waist, used them to pull Boris tighter, a little to the left, and get his thigh planted solidly between Valery’s legs for adolescent, rutting friction. Boris pushed him off like a bastard, just as Valery reached that plateau of completely heavy and hard and buzzing.

Valery’s brain skidded again, as Boris stepped out of the trousers and flung them toward some furniture, somewhere, that didn’t count as the floor. (Pride forbid.) Valery boggled at Boris in his shirt, his underpants, and … a frankly baffling system of straps and cords and pulleys. It was like looking at a suddenly naked puppet. Valery laughed. 

“Boris, what is all that.” He tried to hide his smirk with the edge of his hand as he traced the straps, clipped primly to Boris’s white dress shirt, as they ran down the outside of his legs all the way to his socked feet, where they were looped around like stirrups. 

Boris regarded him regally. “Shirt stays. They keep your shirt tucked in.”

“And the -” A gesture, lower, to whatever was going on below Boris’s knees.

“Sock garters. They keep your socks up.” Boris turned one heel against the floor, showing the leather wrapped high on his calves, clipped to his black socks. “Some of us have to dress the part, if we want to be taken seriously.”

“Okay,” Valery agreed, aware that the time was fast approaching when he, Valery, would have to reveal that in his haste this (okay, every) morning, he hadn’t put on any underwear. It had been only sturdy Soviet seamstress engineering keeping him from springing forth fully-formed and sodomizing Boris with Zeusian rapacity. (Valery is blurring a few aspects of myth together here, forgive him, the blood’s all gone elsewhere.)

Somehow, the awkward straps were the most tragically, anxiously geriatric thing Valery had ever seen. Imagine being that worried about your socks.  

Boris turned and strode to the bed as if he didn’t look like a crash test dummy filling in for a man. Valery watched him with another smile. The insistence between his thighs had cooled off a little - this was too much fun. He followed, still smirking, and sank to his knees in front of Boris, who lounged back on the bed. 

“Go on, then,” Boris said, almost bashing Valery’s nose as he thrust his leg in Valery’s face. 

Valery took hold of his skinny calf and examined the garter cinched around his leg. He thought about chewing the stupid thing off, and then thought about the bill Boris would send him, one way or another. He kissed the spot between Boris’s kneecap and the garter, and another on the inside of his knee for good measure. He slid the stirrup of the shirt stay around Boris’s left foot and yelped as it struck him like a snakebite, suddenly freed of tension. Boris snorted as Valery recoiled.   

Valery shoved it away, ignoring the searing welt on his bare forearm, and worked the clasps on the hem of Boris’s shirt. Once the teeth were loose, he gave Boris a fond little stroke through his briefs, and moved to the other side. He was ready for the snap this time, and let the stay sneak down Boris’s leg slowly, trapped in his palm, from hip to wiry-haired thigh to slim ankle. 

“Do you have a corset on under the shirt, too?” Valery asked. “How do you expect to tryst on a schedule while wearing all this?”

“Get on with it,” Boris said. 

Valery dragged off the second stay and turned his attention to the garters. Unclip, unclip, unclip, how many fucking clips were there, pulled Boris’s socks off, and thought about shoving them in Boris’s mouth when Boris said “Don’t ball them up.” 

He draped them on the carpet and stood up. He stood on the toe of one of his own socks, dragged it off his foot by raising his leg, same maneuver for the other foot. He pulled his white shirt over his head, undid his fly, and unceremoniously dropped his trousers. 

Boris blinked at him, suddenly naked as the day he was born, no fuss. “You’re not wearing underwear.” Vague accusation.

“Stop complaining,” Valery said. “And get yours off.”

Boris dragged his own briefs off, and Valery climbed on top, whipped them out of Boris’s hand, balled them up. Tossed them away. He was straddling Boris, warming Boris’s erection with the heat of his own, and he had one of the shirt stays in his hand. He rocked up against Boris’s body to lean over him, a straight face looking dangerous - Boris’s eyes rose skeptically to meet him - and Valery burst into helpless laughter. 

Valery dragged his glasses off and abandoned them somewhere overhead as Boris grabbed him and crushed him against his chest. Boris’s shoulders started to shake too, dropping them into a moment of tangled arms and legs and bumping bodies, punctuated by little snorting laughs and sounds of skin on skin on mattress. 

Boris pulled the thin top cover over their heads, so they were cocooned together and the lamp light through it was diffused rose-gold.

“Shh,” Boris said, still shaking. “Not too loud.�� 

“You shhh,” Valery managed, but he stifled his face against Boris’s chest, and Boris held him through a few more rounds of giggles. 

Eventually composure returned, leaving them curled up in each other with fading smiles, still clinging tight, and Boris held his wheezing Valera and whispered some encouragement to him. That was their condition - a bout of joy was tiring. 

Valery took them both in hand and watched Boris’s face. Boris’s eyes grew wary with the sudden awkwardness of an ingenue, as Valery’s thumb planted against the underside of his head. The gruff mask dropped, every time, and the delicacy, the core of gentleness you wouldn’t expect in such an imperious steel scaffold of a man, shone out from his eyes. Valery pressed a kiss to his lips and ran them together through his fingers.

He started them slowly, until the tension had built back up and the color was high in Boris’s cheeks; he picked up the pace, whispering, until Boris was straining red and dripping on Valery’s knuckles. Valery kissed him again and rolled them over so Boris was on his back, so the heat and weight of their bodies felt like a sweaty tight vice. He had his leg draped over Boris and his wrist was bringing them in quick flicks and jolts to an almost unbearable sort of tense; Valery felt logjammed in the pit of his stomach, he felt the tension in his thighs and groin and balls, and from the sounds Boris was making, the way he was almost bucking out of Valery’s hand, he was there too. He came in the next moment, one long shuddering clench of his teeth and stutter of his hips into Valery’s fist, and Valery came somewhere in the midst of worrying about Boris, keeping him wrapped in his fingers; probably as soon as the first hot rope of cum hit his belly. 

Boris was a little dazed. The mask was still gone, he looked raw and open, and his look said kiss me. 

Valery did, plastering their bodies together and getting his mouth on Boris’s - gentle, but everything, tongue, teeth, trying to wipe that look off Boris’s face, because he was the most beautiful man Valery had ever seen, and coming undone was no shame. He had a wicked thought. “Next time…”

He whispered in Boris’s ear.

Boris’s eyes shifted in their sockets. He smiled.

“With all your stupid straps on,” Valery elaborated.

#chernobyl hbo

[mrsorange]

disclaimer : 1 i wrote this one shot last year for a friend that loves Chernobyl series and Jared harris

2. i feel a little bit guilty because i wrote a story about someone who existed in real life and commited suicide, i really respect Legasov and his work.

3 This is the first time i write an one shot in english so have mercy, well actually i wrote it  in spanish  first and then translated into english so i had to change some things. If you see some grammar mistake please tell me in private

4 to @anamarialujan with love from me

The neighbour

Maria was coming back from work, she just wanted to rest a bit after an exhausted day, being in front of a class of 20 students wasn’t an easy chore. Despite the stress she had she really enjoyed being a teacher. When she walked in the hall of the building she found a grey striped cat that was walking in circles trying to enter.

“Hello little kitty. What are you doing here?” she asked as she picked it up “where did you come from?”

While juggling between the cat and her suitcase, Maria entered and took the stairs to her apartment in the third floor, as it was an old building there wasn’t any elevator. At half of the way between the second and the third floor she ran into the weird neighbour from the apartment 3d, in the building everybody whispered about how weird he was, he hardly ever lefts his apartment and whenever he did it he never spoke with anyone. Sometimes he would walk in the square and sit alone in one of the benches, he just sat there and he watched people passing by.

“oh you have found my cat” he said adjusting his glasses

“Is it yours?”  Maria replied a little bit disappointed since it had occurred to her to adopt him, she had wanted to have one for a long time “I found him walking around the front door, I must have realized that he lived here”

“I don't know how he could escape and   I ´ve just realise he wasn’t at home because I wanted to feed him I couldn't find him”

“well here he is” she said hanging it to him

“thank you miss… sorry but I don’t know your name”

“My name is Maria”

“I am Valery Legasov and This is Boris” he said looking at his cat

“nice to meet you sir” she said and then looking at the cat she added “I hope you don't run away again”

After that they both silently climbed the stairs to the next floor, before entering her home Maria took one last look at her neighbour. She had only crossed two words with him, but she had realized that Legasov was not the kind of man that the neighbours believed he was, he was just lonely, but despite that he was still a mystery and maybe that was why she felt attracted to him.

“At last you arrive” said her mother “dinner is ready”

“guess who I chatted with today” she said while washing her hands

“Let me guess … I know with the owner of the store, he finally deigned to talk to you, I see the way he looks at you every time you go”

“no “ she snorted “ I ran into Mr. Legasov”

“what? With that weirdo” she said and crossed herself “don't talk to that man anymore they say a lot of things about him”

“They are just gossip, people has nothing better than inventing things” she answered “ I  talked to him and he seems to be a good man”

“he hides something that's why he lives locked up, I'm sure, now if you don't mind can  we have dinner in peace?”

From then on, every time she came across her neighbour from apartment 3d, which was not very common, Maria greeted him with a hello or a smile.

………………………..

That day Maria had stopped by the library to get some books about science since she had to prepare a class for her students, while she was trying to open the door of the building it suddenly opened, making her drop the books.

“Sorry miss” said a voice and when she looked she realized that it was Legasov who bent down to help her

“thank you” she blushed

“How many books” he said

“They are for a class that I have to prepare”

“Let me help you” he opened the door so that she could pass “so you are a teacher”

“Yes, I teach at fifth grade, that's why I have to think of an experiment that can catch their attention and make them stay calm for a few minutes”

" Science is the most entertaining thing that exists ... well for me” he laughed

“Are you a scientist? “asked Maria

“I was” he sighed sadly “well I have to go bye”

“See you later, Mr. Legasov “she said and while he was leaving she watched him, she knew he was not an ordinary man, if he was a scientist he was definitely more interesting than any of the neighbours who lived there.

……………………………

It was Sunday and Maria wanted to sleep as much as she could, she needed to rest to regain strength to face the energetic battalion of children that would await her on Monday morning. But she began to hear voices coming from the hallway of the building followed by two dry blows, so he decided to find out what was going on. She took the robe that lay at the foot of her bed and got up.

On the threshold of the door was her mother and the next door neighbour, they both were looking horrified towards the end of the hall, Maria stuck her head and saw two policemen in front of the 3d department.

“what happened?” she asked worried when she realized who lived there.

“The weirdo friend of yours died” replied her mother.

“What?”  She answered she couldn’t believe it; she had seen him totally fine “what happened to him?”

“We do not know, Yuri who lives upstairs went through the apartment to tell him that he had a leak and that the plumber would fix it, but he did not answer so he called the janitor to warn him, but he was not lucky either and as Legasov never leaves his apartment they called the police and they found him dead” answered the neighbour.

“oh my god” she cried out

“The janitor told us that he hung himself”

One of the policemen approached them waving for them to enter to their apartment, then they saw two nurses carrying a stretcher with Legasov's body covered by a blanket. Seeing that scene, María could not contain her tears and began to cry, poor man, how much sadness he carried that had led him to take such an extreme decision.

At that moment, while the policemen entered the department to collect some evidence, Legasov's cat came out and laid in the middle of the hall to groom himself, one of the policemen wanted to take it, but Maria ran to do it first.

“I will keep it” said Maria

“as you wish” answered the officer

Maria returned to her apartment and took out a bowl to give the cat some milk, she looked at him and  said: “Don't worry Boris I’m going to take care of you”

#chernobyl #jaredharris #oneshot #valery legasov

[elenatria]

Jarllan HC: salty Jared because Stellan won the award while he didn’t. His jealousy turned into passionate & steamy night.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268644

He hadn’t talked with Pierce for more than a year. They had exchanged a couple of emails and photos from that insane Mamma Mia II afterparty but that was it, Stellan had to quickly fly back to Vilnius and put those horrible fake brows back on. His stay in Lithuania was all work, jokes between takes, late-night drinks and booing Jared and Emily for their World Cup win over Sweden. Saturdays were reserved for dinners with Swedish specialties because, for all their bragging, those obnoxious Brits knew shit-all about cooking. Truly, he had no time for anything or anyone else.

Now he finally had the chance to catch up with Pierce and his sons while the ceremony’s afterglow lingered on and mixed with the alcohol in his veins. He took their hands in his and shook them vividly, praising them for their consummate appearance on stage (“Although Brad Pitt made you chase him a bit, didn’t he?” he teased Dylan, the eldest of the two, as he ruffled his long silky hair).

The boys walked off and Stellan smiled as he watched Dylan trying to brush his impeccable hair back into place. When he turned to ask the waiter for another glass of beer, he caught a glimpse of that familiar graying head bobbing about happily, nervously, hovering over a sea of shaking hands and cheeks leaning for a kiss, dropping humbly at every word of comfort and every “You should have won that Globe”. So many people had spent the evening telling Jared the same thing over and over again that Stellan could read their lips by now.

He also knew he was staring like a smitten teenager but he didn’t care, he just stood there, drinking in every little detail: Jared’s rimless glasses sliding down his nose with every little bow, full lips puckering every now and then for a kiss, hands crossing coyly in front of his crotch like a debutante at her first dance. That wasn’t his first “dance” and Stellan knew it, they both knew it; Jared had been accepting praise alongside consolation for way too long.

The Swede meant to make a cheeky remark about “the Duke of Edinburgh”, the lanky ever-smiling Brit whose arm, just as empty and trophy-less as Jared’s, was hanging over his boy’s shoulders (probably sharing with him the bitter cup of defeat) but as he swiftly turned back to Pierce, he felt the floor tremble like jelly under his Armani shoes.

Pierce quickly slipped a hand under his arm. “Eeeeasy now, buddy, even I don’t drink that much,” he laughed helping him down to the sofa with careful steps.

“You never drink that much,” Stellan mumbled wrestling with his pocket for his glasses, only to remember he had been wearing contacts since morning.

He squeezed his eyes shut, then flew them open in a hopeless effort to get rid of the fogginess that made him feel like he was swimming in a cloudy fish tank. “You’re just not Swedish enough,” he growled swiping a wrist over his feverish brow.

Pierce chuckled and leaned over him. “You okay, old man? Want me to bring you some water? You’re all flushed.”

Stellan huffed out a deep breath, his quivery knees a bitter reminder that he wasn’t so young anymore, and dragged Pierce’s hand over his lap, cupping the back of his neck for support until their foreheads touched. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he slurred against the bearded man’s lips, “just a little tipsy.”

A familiar figure flashed behind closed eyelids, a hoarser voice, a different beard. Stellan needed more than water, he needed those rimless glasses looking up at him with the same boyish astonishment they had when they first met, he needed--

A reassuring pat on the knee dragged him out of his daze. The dream, the graying red hair, the fifty-eight-year-old schoolboy with the wide-eyed admiration was gone.

“Water it is then,” Pierce said with a broad fatherly smile and headed for the buffet.

The minute Stellan felt Pierce’s weight lift off the sofa, it all came back to him - his moment of glory frame by frame, as if watching the movie of someone else’s life: that handsome kid on stage uttering his name in one single breath, Jared jumping to his feet to clap  before he could even swallow  (what was it he was munching, wild mushroom risotto or vegetarian taco?), the endless walk to the stage (because they had to stash an old man way back on the balcony, they just had to).  

He thought he’d be cool and aloof about it but he wasn’t – not for the first couple of seconds. Those long and crowded corridors, those endless steps, those blinding lights on a podium he never thought he’d walk on, it was a lot to take in. He was panting out the words, sweat breaking beneath brows styled especially for the occasion, until he found his zen-like composure again and turned his talk into what every acceptance speech should be like: a joke.

To his bewilderment, it wasn’t a joke everyone appreciated; when he returned to their table, Jared pretended he was more interested in those tedious “thank you” lists of shiny smiling people he hardly knew than in congratulating him, shushing him every time he leaned in to comment or jest about this dress or that hairdo.

He did get his tight congratulatory hug from Jared as soon as they joined HBO’s after party at Circa 55, lips planting a soft meaningful kiss on his cheek as they breathed “Well done, Stellan, well done”, a perfectly coiffed beard tickling his bare jaw and those pallid hands, hesitant at first, pressing boldly on his ribs before sliding up just enough to make him feel the warmth, the need.

It didn’t last more than a few seconds, Craig broke into their space demanding his own hug with open arms, but it was enough to have Stellan reeling and seeing Jared naked at the bottom of every glass of beer he downed for the rest of the evening.

As soon as Craig broke the spell, Jared, as if waking from a trance, cleared his throat and stated he was dying for a drink. If Stellan could judge by his past habits, he probably was. Like an elusive leprechaun the ginger-haired man disappeared into the crowd before Stellan got the chance to tell him how much he wished he could share the Globe with him.

They didn’t exchange a single word for the next three hours. Stellan spent the evening boasting to his fans about the weight of his Globe never denying a selfie, while Jared made the rounds near their reserved tables, feting their victory and accepting congratulations that more often than not sounded like condolences.

By the time they were both alone, most guests were gone; they were left tired and silent, engulfed by the chattering of strangers, slow music and half-empty dishes.

The Prince of Sunken Cheeks, Long Faces and even longer arms who had claimed Jared’s shoulders earlier was nowhere to be seen. Mister Jared Francis Harris, his back bathed in red and gold, stood alone leaning against a column, statuesque and beautiful in his black tuxedo.

For some reason his posture reminded Stellan of something his agent had emailed him a while back: on Thanksgiving morning and just as awards season was kicking off, Jared had taken a photo with his back turned on the camera, gazing at the ocean from his house in Miami. He was dreaming with his eyes open, contemplating years and years of hard work, wins and losses. He deserved the Globe, Stellan pondered, and that photo was more than a moment frozen in time: it was a moment when Jared was truly happy - a moment when he still had hope.

Stellan glanced at the black leathered case he had left on the table; inside of it the gold-plated piece of zinc he had been handed a few hours ago was already losing its luster. He turned to look at Jared’s back again, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He stroked a hand over the creases of his jacket and walked up to the lonely bespectacled man by the pillar, determined to lift his mood. He was too old, too Swedish, too drunk to let the people he cared for dwell in childish frustration.

“There you are!” he boomed startling Jared out of his statue-like stillness. “I thought you had gone to sleep.”

Jared’s face was lit by a faint smile, his hands buried deep into his pockets. “Sleep? Nah, sleep is for the old.”

Stellan’s lips curled with inebriated joy; he wrapped an arm around the shoulder he had been waiting for hours to reclaim and squeezed hard. “I have news, HBO wants us to work together again, did they tell you?”

Jared tensed under his touch, then huffed out a chuckle. “Is that right,” he murmured with a slow uninterested nod.

Stellan stroked his furrowed brow. After all the success “Chernobyl” had at the Emmys and the Globes, he found it hard to believe he saw no joy in his colleague’s eyes. “Come on!” he shook him. “You should be happy!”

Jared scoffed crossing his legs, his arms still rigid against his own ribs. “Happy.”

Stellan let his hands fall limply on his sides. “You mean you’re not happy?” he muttered, his jaw dropping in bewilderment. “You don’t want to work with me again?”

Jared clicked his tongue swaying his head from side to side as if trying to decide which set of words would hurt less.

Stellan felt his breath catch. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the post-award depression starting to kick in or Jared’s vacant stare avoiding him - as if the two men hardly knew each other anymore.

“You don’t want to work with me?...” he repeated weakly, his confidence leaking out of him one shallow breath at a time.

Jared turned at last, holding his gaze with his own blue, unfathomable stare. “It’s not that simple.”

“What? What’s not that simple?”

“I love working with you, Stellan. You know that. It’s just that—”

“Just what?”

“I’ve already been offered other projects.”

Other projects.

Stellan had never felt so lost before.

There were times in his youth when he’d play in experimental films and soft-porn films and it felt weird and stupid and hilarious - but he was okay with it all, he did it proudly, he knew he had made the right choice. There were times when he had to leave his boys and his girl for months on end, and he’d call them up or pack them all on a plane and take them to stay with him, just to come back from fifteen hours of shooting every day, have a drink with them for five minutes before crashing out on the sofa. That was enough to help him shrug off his guilt and keep doing what he was doing. He never felt disheartened or disoriented, not even when he took a divorce; he never lost his faith, his clarity. He didn’t know if it was bravery or recklessness or some false sense of security but it was always there, it was what kept him going: knowing he’d win no matter what.

But he wasn’t winning now. He never knew what it meant to feel utterly naked, stripped of all hope. For the first time in months he held Jared literally in his arms and the man was slipping away from him like sand in the wind.

Other projects.

His lips spat out the words before he could form the thought itself. “What other projects?”

“Well,” Jared said scratching his head, “there’s this thing for Apple based on Asimov’s books—”

“Apple?!” Stellan scoffed. “Apple is yet to produce any successful TV shows, are you kidding me? Tell them to stick to iPhones, Jesus Christ.”

“Yes, Apple Plus is new but it has potential,” Jared insisted. “And it pays.”

“You mean HBO doesn’t pay?” Stellan retorted.

Jared breathed out an impatient sigh. “Apple pitched ‘Foundation’ to me months ago,” he said, his brow creasing as a red flush crept up his cheeks. “And I need a job. Where were your HBO people when I needed them? Waiting to see whether I’d get a major award or not? Well I didn’t.”

“They are not my HBO people,” Stellan growled, stunned by Jared’s sudden outburst. “And you got lots of awards, don’t whine.”

“Whine,” Jared breathed, squinting in disbelief. “You make it look so easy, don’t you,” he shot back, his blue eyes cutting through Stellan like shards of ice. “Flying all the way from Europe just to get the award and go back. No parties before that, no promo tour, no social media for you. But of course. It wasn’t in your contract, none of it was.” His nostrils flared as he squeezed his lips shut. “No other distinctions before tonight,” he raged, “nothing to herald your triumph or keep you on your toes. No anticipation, no promises, and no days of endless doubt. Just you in your three-piece falling from the sky, snatching the biggest award and then BOOM, back to Sweden. As if nothing happened, as if nothing changed.”

Stellan took a beat to take it all in, holding back the turning of his stomach as the beer’s yeasty sourness reached his mouth. He staggered, trying to keep steady on a floor that felt more jelly-like than ever. “… Okay, now I know you’re drunker than I am,” he slurred grabbing his stomach.

Jared huffed out a chuckle and turned the other way.

“What does this have to do with you agreeing to do that Apple thing?” Stellan protested, bewildered. “Have you signed already?”

“Of course I have,” Jared snapped, “don’t you read the news? It was all over twitter - oh I forgot—” He shook his head crossing his arms like a man who had lost all patience, all hope in humanity.

Stellan furrowed his brow, the realization that he was losing Jared striking him harder than a bucket of freezing water. He was beyond somber now. He was depressed.

“I’m really sorry…” he muttered pressing his shoulder against the column, his long hands disappearing into his pockets as he leaned closer to Jared’s ear. “I didn’t know how bad it was for you.”

Jared threw him a side glance cocking a slightly intrigued brow, his lips fighting to remain shut and unforgiving. He turned back to the stage watching the pianist play an easy, forgettable tune. “It’s quite alright,” he mumbled bitterly. “Thank God it’s all over...”

That phrase, so familiar--

Stellan, still fighting off gallons of beer clouding his brain, couldn’t resist quoting a film, any film, just to lighten the mood. Given his state, it wasn’t such a bad idea to focus on something other than Jared’s foul mood.

“Isn’t that from… from…” He snapped his fingers. “Oh I know,” he said, proud of his memory overcoming his drunkenness. “‘My Fair Lady.’”

Jared blinked once, twice, before staring back in utter disbelief. “You just had to mention my stepfather now, didn’t you.”

Stellan clamped his eyes shut, regretting every single word; he knew about Rex Harrison, how he hated children and never missed a chance to show it to the three Harris boys. He knew how happy Sexy Rexy was when the boys were sent off to a Catholic boarding school, Jared had told him all about his mother’s second marriage over a bowl of beef Rydberg and two bottles of wine. That was the only dinner Stellan had prepared with Jared as the sole guest during the “Chernobyl” filming, the only chance they had to open up to each other.

The chance they wasted.

“Okay, that was a perfectly wrong way to continue the conversation,” he apologized. “It just… It feels so lonely without you,” he muttered giving the base of the column little kicks, his eyes glued on the floor. “I don’t want to do this if you’re not there. The HBO thing I mean.”

“Well you don’t have to,” Jared said icily.

“They want both of us,” Stellan insisted. “It’s about two strangers meeting on a plane that flies over Europe. It’s about Brexit, a dystopian scenario speculating on the future of the continent. One of them carries a briefcase with--”

“You can tell Pierce about it,” Jared cut him off.

“Who…?”

“Pierce. You look great together.”

Stellan’s mouth slacked open. That total prick, that fucking elusive leprechaun. He had been spying on them the whole evening.

“What does Pierce have to do with anything?” he roared not believing his ears. “He’s already booked for the next two years.”

“Oh, is that why you chose me over him, because I was the one available?” Jared snapped.  “Good to know.”

“For crying out loud, Jared, he’s my friend,” Stellan exclaimed throwing his hands in the air, “and you’re… and you’re—"  

“What am I?”

That inescapable cold stare again; Stellan pressed his lips together in a stubborn pout. If Jared wanted him to say it, he wouldn’t indulge him, no way. Not a word, not a breath, not unless he stopped being a child. Fifty-eight-year-old children were beyond his area of expertise.

“A pain in the ass,” he blurted out instead.

From where he was standing he couldn’t see Jared’s expression, only his flustered ear and the edge of his bearded jaw. Still, that unmistakable dimple on the other man’s freckled cheek made his heart miss a beat.

Did he just…?

Yes, he did. Jared was suppressing a smile.  

Jared shook his head and gazed at their table where Johan was lowering the rim of his hat over closed eyes before sinking into his chair, sleepy and half-drunk. “You really should give it to Pierce, you know,” he insisted, not without a tint of sadistic joy. “He’s just as British as I am. Or Colin -- oh he would be just perfect.”

Stellan let his jaw hang and closed it several times before he could form a single word. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh I’m dead serious.”

Stellan heaved a deep frustrated sigh. “Jared, I haven’t played the jealousy game since I was sixteen, shirtless and in a straw hat. There’s a perfect explanation for what you saw, I was drunk and Pierce was helping me sit. What is your ‘Prince’s’ excuse for laying his hands all over you?”

“My ‘prince’? What prince?” Jared blinked behind his glasses, baffled.

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Stellan said squeezing the bridge of his nose. “What’s his name.”

Jared’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh you don’t mean—” His jaw dropped. “You can’t mean… Toby.”

“YES, thank you.”

Jared opened his arms, his mouth gaping incredulously, as if he was asked to explain why one and one equals two. “Yes, we were laughing that’s why he leaned on me, he was saying that the Globes were glorified dildos, nothing more.”

“Oh!...”Stellan yelped arching his brows. He looked left and right wondering if he wasn’t the only one who had heard the insult. “Oh, but this is getting better and better…!”

Jared’s face changed in an instant; he wasn’t high on his own rage anymore, he wasn’t resentful or bitter. He was as hurt as Stellan was.

And just as lost.

“I’m-- sorry,” he stuttered hanging his head. “It was only a joke. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Oh it’s fine,” Stellan said coldly, his face a mask of stone. “It’s good to know what you have in your head. What you think of me. All these months of working together when all I needed was this one evening. Quite enlightening.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose once more, hoping he could get rid of those fucking contacts as soon as possible - or maybe gauge his eyes out, why not; the headache that was beginning to replace his alcohol-induced cheerfulness was threatening to split his skull in half.

Jared took a shuddering breath. “Stellan…”

He almost made a move to get closer to him. He stopped.

Stellan wasn’t listening to him, wasn’t seeing him anymore. His eyes darted around looking for the closest exit until they settled on the big black box on the table. For a moment he wished that kid on the stage had never called his name; he wished he had kept eating his risotto without giving a fuck.

Not having any fucks to give was a state of mind, a way of life. Maybe he should go back to it at some point.

He fumbled in his pockets for the cloakroom ticket, shoved the black case under his arm and stormed off.

“Where are you going?” Jared shouted after him.

“Catching the earliest flight to Stockholm,” he thundered, not looking back. “My glorified dildo needs a mantle to sit on.”

#jarllan #golden globes #jared harris #stellan skarsgard #jealousy #ao3

[dank-hp--memes]

HBO Chernobyl fics: Train of Decisions part 2

A few days had passed, Ulana had received a frantic call that morning, forcing her to scramble out of her bed to answer the phone. It was Valery, he was heading to Minsk, he needed to speak with her. Promptly after hanging up the phone, Ulana wandered back to her room and curled back up in her bed. The bleeding had yet to cease and she was still in quite a lot of pain as her body attempted to expel the life within it. She constantly felt cold and her skin looked far paler than normal. What on earth could be so important that Valery could not just speak with her over the phone? Ulana sighed and stared up at the ceiling for a while, contemplating whether or not she should actually meet up with Valery. She had yet to leave her house and was not really feeling up to it. Well, she was not feeling up to anything. It had become difficult to get out of bed, for she felt so weak. Everyday tasks had become difficult, for if she overexerted herself, Ulana would pass out. She had found her limits fairly quickly after arriving home. The hours passed fairly slow as Ulana lay, curled up, beneath many thick wool blankets. Later that evening, Ulana received a call. It was Valery, informing her that he had just arrived in Minsk. Ulana quickly got herself dressed. Ulana desperately hoped that Valery would not want to come back to her apartment, for it was an absolute disaster. She had yet to clean up the absolute mess that had been made when she had returned home from the hospital. Ulana quickly went out to her car, her head spinning. She almost felt nauseous, no, she did feel nauseous. As Ulana got outside, she ran to the grass and leaned over, throwing up what little she had managed to eat. A bout of furious coughing ensued as Ulana made her way out to her car after she had wiped her mouth, of course. She groaned softly as she climbed into her car, dreading the drive to the train station, though it was not far from her apartment. Her hand rested gently on her sore stomach for a few moments before she finally turned on her car and pulled on her seatbelt. She hasn't driven since she came home. Ulana reluctantly headed to the train station. The drive didn't take much longer than five minutes, Valery was standing outside, a briefcase in hand. He waved as Ulana pulled up and he hurried over to her car, getting in the passenger seat, an awkward, nerdy smile on his face.

"I'm so sorry, Khomyuk, for the last minute…" Valery began, but he stopped as he looked at Ulana. 

"Are you alright, you look pale?" He says softly, leaning forward to get a better look at her. 

"I'm alright comrade, just not feeling well" Ulana replies, a bead of sweat dripping down her forehead. 

Valery reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean cotton handkerchief. Instead of handing it to Ulana, he reached over and gently pressed it against her forehead, dabbing up the moisture. It was a more than an awkward exchange, but it brought the slightest smile to Ulana's face. 

"So, where are you staying?" Ulana asks softly, just wanting to drop him off at his hotel.

"Well… erm…  wherever I can get a room on short notice" Valery replies.

Ulana's eyes get wide and she nods in silence. He hasn't made any plans, Valery had simply hopped on a train to come and see her.

"What was so urgent that you had to come now?" Ulana asks, desperately trying not to sound irritated. 

"I need you to do something for me Khomyuk…" Valery says softly, looking over at her. 

They make eye contact for a moment. 

"What on earth could be this important?" Ulana grumbles.

Ulana had already gone to prison for this cause, she had already exposed herself to an extremely high dose of radiation. What more could Valery possibly want from her?

Just as Ulana was lost in her thoughts, Valery reached over and grasped her hand. 

"Khomyuk, I need you. You are the only one who can do this" Valery says softly as he looked down at her cold hand. 

Ulana sighed and looked over at him, this kind of talk was what got her into this whole debacle in the first place. 

"Fine, I will think about it…" Ulana mumbles, pulling her hand away and putting her car back in drive. 

The ride back to Ulana's apartment was completely silent, besides Ulana's heavy breathing. Once they arrived Valery looked over at her, a bit confused. He had assumed she was taking him to a hotel, not her apartment. 

"Ummm, Khomyuk, did you mean to bring me here?" Valery said softly, looking over at Ulana.

Ulana was resting her forehead against the steering wheel, biting her bottom lip. Her hand clutching her stomach. 

"Oh shit… sorry" Ulana mumbles, lifting her head up.

She was about to restart her car when Valery grabbed her hand. 

"It's alright, I can walk to the nearest hotel if I must," he says softly.

"It would be impolite of me to make you walk" Ulana replies weakly. 

Valery gently reaches over and puts his hand on her cheek, feeling how cold her pale skin felt.

"Khomyuk, you obviously need rest. Let me help you up to your apartment, then we can figure out what to do from there" Valery said softly.

He then proceeded to open his door and gather his briefcase before hurrying around the car to help Ulana. He opened her door for her and took her arm, helping her up. Her legs trembled beneath her and he saw a red liquid trickle slowly down her pale leg. 

"Khomyuk, you're bleeding…" he said, his eyes widening.

Ulana couldn't manage an answer, she simply groaned, holding her stomach. This was all far too much for Valery to process. He wrapped Ulana's arm over his shoulder and proceeded to carry her inside and up to her apartment. He laid her down on the sofa and looked around the messy apartment. 

"What can I do to help? Is there anything you need?" Valery says as he leans down to look at her. 

"If you could help me to my room…" Ulana mumbles tiredly. 

Valery nods and wraps her arm over his shoulders, helping her walk back to her bedroom. He watches as she stumbles over to her dresser and opens up a drawer, pulling out a clean pair of underwear. As he took a closer look around, he saw the bloody mess that was a pile of clothes from a few days earlier. 

He watched as she disappeared into her bathroom to clean up. Valery stood awkwardly at the end of the hall, looking around her dark apartment. A soft thud came from down the hall and Valery looked toward the bathroom and slowly made his way down the hall. 

"Khomyuk? Are you alright?" Valery said softly, leaning against the door. 

There was only a soft groan in reply. Valery gently pushed open the door to see Ulana laying on the floor, holding her head in her hands. It was obvious she had hit her head fairly hard.

Valery knelt down on the floor and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. 

"Should I take you to the hospital?" Valery said softly, wanting to take her no matter what she said.

"No… I'll be alright…" Ulana replied, beginning to get up.

Valery gently put his hand on her shoulder, "Khomyuk, you should go to the hospital. It is obvious something isn't right" 

"I am fine Comrade Legasov" Ulana replies, gritting her teeth.

"No, Khomyuk, you are not fine. You are bleeding and it is obvious something isn't right" 

"I am fine, this was all voluntary" Ulana replies, just wanting to be left alone. 

"Wh-what on earth do you mean?" Valery says wide-eyed as he looks down at her.

Ulana looks up at him, she hadn't meant for him to find out, not like this, she had slipped up. 

"I-I am so sorry…" she mumbles

"What do you mean?" Valery says again, not wanting to assume the worst.

"I was… I had…" Ulana stutters, trying to find the right words, "I was pregnant. I went and had an abortion…" 

Valery looks at her, his mind teeming with thoughts. First and foremost being about the father of the child, was it him or some other man? Did Ulana get around that well? 

Valery sat down on the floor beside Ulana, his face blank and his mind buzzing, it was obvious that he was in some sort of shock. Oh, why on earth had she told him?

#chernobylhbo #chernobyl hbo #chernobyl #hbo chernobyl #chernobyl fanfic #fanfics #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #writeblr #writers #ulana x valery #ulana khomyuk/valery legasov #valery x ulana #ulana khomyuk #valery legasov #valana #valana au #boris scherbina #boris shcherbina

[sad-lad-posts]

Sad-Lad-Writes: Chernobyl Fanfics "Losing You" Chapter 1

Hello everyone, I am fairly new to Tumblr. I have been on the site, but I did not have a blog until recently. I have written today about Ulana Khomyuk from HBO’s Chernobyl. I am always appreciative of any feedback you give. I hope you enjoy. 

_____

The outskirts of Minsk, Night

It was raining rather hard this particular evening. Ulana was driving home for the night. This was rather unusual for her, for she often spent her nights in the lab working. The roads were fairly quiet, for there were not many people out. Ulana was often a careful driver who always wore her seatbelt, but for some reason, she had not worn it that night. As she neared her apartment, she crossed through an intersection, like she would any other evening. There was a bright light of another car and the sound of squealing tires. There was a loud impact, then, blackness. Ulana’s car had been hit by a young and drunk kid. Her body was thrown through the windshield and onto the pavement as the two cars slid on the wet pavement into a post. Ulana laid there, limp and hardly conscious. Her head had taken most of the impact with the windshield and pavement. Blood seeped from countless parts of her body, swirling around her in pools in the rain. Her chest hardly rose and fell, for it pained her to breathe. Her hair was splayed around her head, soaked in blood and water. One side of Ulana’s face was missing large patches of skin from making contact with the pavement. The rest of her face was severely cut from the many shards of glass. A small crowd had gathered, drawn in by the sound of the crash. The impact had caused some of her bones to break, making many movements extremely painful. It seemed like hours had passed before any first responders had arrived. In reality. it was only around fifteen minutes. Ulana had been fading in and out of consciousness, and her vision was clouded with blood. She could hear the panic of the gathering crowd, but she could not lift her head to look at them. When an ambulance finally arrived, Ulana’s vision had become blurred and tunneled. She was just beginning to lose consciousness as her body was listed onto a stretcher.  Her ears began to ring, drowning out the frantic conversation of the paramedics as everything went black.

It was around two in the morning when Valery awoke to hear his phone ringing. He sat up, blinking to clear his vision. In a drowsy state, he crawled out of bed and stumbled over to the phone.

“Hello?” Valery mumbled, his eyes half opened.

“There has been an accident, Khomyuk is in the hospital” Boris’s voice said urgently from the other end of the phone.

It took a moment for Valery to process this information, for he hardly wanted to believe what he heard.

“What?” Valery said, more confused than before.

“The general hospital in Minsk, I will meet you there” Boris barked urgently before hanging up the phone, obviously scrambling to get ready himself.

Valery stood in silence, the phone in his hand, the dial tone ringing in his ear as he replayed what Boris had said in his mind. Suddenly, Valery placed the phone back on the receiver and began to scramble to get ready. Haphazardly, Valery threw on one of his suits and hurried out of his apartment. A pit of dread had formed in his stomach. Losing Ulana was the last thing he needed right now. She was one of the few people he could converse with about the Chernobyl accident who truly understood every word from his lips. Valery hurriedly got in his car and headed to the train station after leaving out some cat food and water for Sasha. Luckily a train for Minsk departed at three-thirty, so he would only have to wait for around thirty minutes.  The entirety of the train ride, Valery found himself staring out the window, the many scenarios that may have caused Ulana to end up in the hospital running through his mind. It is almost one in the afternoon when the train finally arrives in Minsk. Valery sluggishly made his way out of the train station, walking the few blocks to the hospital. A knot had formed in his stomach, which became very apparent as he stepped into the hospital. It was not too busy, only a few non-emergent people waiting to see a doctor. Valery sheepishly approached the front desk, his mouth going dry as the nurse looks up at him.

“I-I have come to see Ulana Khomyuk” He said as his voice shook.

The nurse looked through a few things before giving Valery a room number. As Valery approached the room, he saw that Boris was standing outside, a solemn look plastered across his face. Boris looked up at Valery and it was evident he had been crying. Boris had never thought he would shed tears for Ulana, but he had, for he knew she did not deserve this.

“It is bad Valera” Boris mumbles, taking a few steps toward Valery and blocking the door.

“W-What happened? How bad is it?” Valery said frantically, his heart beginning to race.

“A car crash… It is really bad…” Boris muttered, not knowing how to describe what happened.

Valery pushed past Boris and entered the room. He had only taken a few steps into the room before stopping dead in his tracks. He could feel his heart sinking into his stomach. Tears came to his eyes as he saw Ulana. She had been hooked up to a life support machine and there were many tubes and wires around her, keeping her alive. Her face was hardly recognizable, for bruises had set in and there was major swelling. She was in a thin hospital gown. One of her legs was in a splint, and what looked like a cut had been stitched up. In reality, it had been a puncture wound, where the bone in her leg had broken and been pushed through her skin. It took Valery a few moments to approach the bed. The state of her horrified him beyond belief. Valery gingerly sat down beside Ulana’s hospital bed and gently placed his hand on top of hers. By now, Boris had managed to compose himself, and he was now standing just behind Valery, one of his hands resting on Valery’s shoulder. In that very moment, it seemed as though Ulana would never wake up. Valery had lost all hope of ever speaking with her about the many very nerdy things they enjoyed, and Boris found it hard to believe that he found himself missing her presence already. Valery knew that there was little chance she would wake up and recover from this, and it seemed as though the color had drained from his life. The loss of a friend was unfathomable, especially since he had become so fond of her. Deep down Valery questioned if he would ever see Ulana again.

#ChernobylHBO #chernobyl #chernobyl hbo #Chernobyl HBO Fanfiction #chernobyl fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #death #ulana khomyuk #valery legasov #boris shcherbina #emily watson #jared harris #stellan skarsgard

[youzicha]

The Chernobyl tv series has been criticized for prioritizing drama over accuracy when fictionalizing the events. But as I've been reading about the accident, I've noticed that a lot of these things actually are present in the sources. The script writer is not necessarily deceitful, just credulous. For example,

⚛ The ionized air glow is depicted as a narrow searchlight beam rising kilometers over the plant, which is surely not physically possible. But there is a first-hand account of it in Midnight in Chernobyl.

The two men turned into the ground-level transport corridor and reeled outside into the night. Standing no more than fifty meters away from the reactor, Tregub and Yuvchenko were among the first to comprehend what had happened to Unit Four. It was a terrifying, apocalyptic sight: the roof of the reactor hall was gone, and the right-hand wall had been almost completely demolished by the force of the explosion. Half of the cooling circuit had simply disappeared: on the left, the water tanks and pipework that had once fed the main circulation pumps dangled in midair. Yuvchenko knew at that moment that Valery Khodemchuk was certainly dead: the spot where he had been standing lay beneath a steaming pile of rubble, lit by flashes from the severed ends of 6,000-volt cables as thick as a man’s arm, swaying and shorting on everything they touched, showering the wreckage with sparks.

And from somewhere in the heart of the tangled mass of rebar and shattered concrete—from deep inside the ruins of Unit Four, where the reactor was supposed to be—Alexander Yuvchenko could see something more frightening still: a shimmering pillar of ethereal blue-white light, reaching straight up into the night sky, disappearing into infinity. Delicate and strange and encircled by a flickering spectrum of colors conjured by flames from within the burning building and superheated chunks of metal and machinery, the beautiful phosphorescence transfixed Yuvchenko for a few seconds. [cite: Alexander Yuvchenko, author interview, 2006]

I think probably this is a perspective effect, where the light appears to stretch up higher if you are standing right at the base, but it would not look like this from Pripyat.

⚛ The tv series claims that if the bubbler pool had not been drained there could have been a megaton-sized explosion, which sounds extremely silly. But this claim was made by Vassili Nesterenko, who was a nuclear physicist and director of the Institute of Nuclear Energy at the National Academy of Sciences of Belarus. (Incidentally, Nestrerenko also co-authored a book claiming that Chernobyl radioactivity will kill a million people, about 100 times more than most other estimates.)

⚛ The tv show implies that the radiation victims treated at Hospital No. 6 are dangerously radioactive and must be sealed up inside a chamber of plastic sheets. This account is based on Lyudmilla Ignatenko's chapter in Voices of Chernobyl.

They have instruments there, so that without going through the curtain they can give him shots, place the catheter. The curtains are held together by Velcro, and I've learned to use them. I push them aside and go inside. There was a little chair next to his bed. He got so bad that I couldn't leave him now even for a second. He was calling out to me constantly: “Lyusya, where are you? Lyusya!" He called and called. The other biochambers, where our boys were, were tended to by soldiers, because the orderlies on staff refused, they demanded protective clothing. The soldiers carried the sanitary vessels. They wiped the floors down, changed the bedding. They did everything. Where did they get those soldiers? We didn't ask. [...]

None of the doctors knew I was staying with him at night in the bio-chamber. The nurses let me in. At first they pleaded with me, too: “You’re young. Why are you doing this? That's not a person anymore, that’s a nuclear reactor. You'll just burn together." I was like a dog, running after them. I’d stand for hours at their doors, begging and pleading. And then they’d say: “All right! The hell with you! You’re not normal!" In the mornings, just before eight, when the doctors started their rounds, they'd be there on the other side of the film: “Run!"

But this was probably more superstition of the nurses than a real risk. The bio-chamber was there to protect the (immunocompromised) patients from infection, not to protect the staff from radiation.

⚛ Various people have mentioned that the characterization of Dyatlov and Akimov in episode 1---while very memorable---doesn't seem to agree very closely with the historical record. But it was not invented by the tv show writer: both the plot and the characterization in the episode is closely based on Grigoriy Medvedev's Chernobyl Notebook, all the way down to individual scenes like Dyatlov looking out at the graphite, or Akimov's imploring tone of voice.

“I do not understand anything! What kind of devilry is this?! We did everything correctly...,” Akimov cried out once again. [...]

“This is it!...” the thought flashed through Dyatlov in a panic. “The explosive mixture has been detonated.... Where?... Seemingly in the emergency tank of the SUZ (safety control system—G.M.).” This version, engendered in the shocked brain of Anatoliy Dyatlov, was to wander for a long time yet in people’s minds, was to console the hemorrhaging consciousness, the paralyzed and sometimes convulsively quivering will, came all the way to Moscow, and it was believed right up until 29 April; it was the basis for many actions that were sometimes fatal to people’s lives. But why? Well, because that was the easiest approach. It contained both a justification and a salvation for those who were responsible from the bottom to the top. Especially those who by some miracle had been left intact in the radioactive belly of the explosion. They needed strength, and a conscience that was at least partly quieted gave it to them. After all, ahead of them was the entire night, the unendurable night of death which they had nevertheless conquered.... [...]

Dyatlov ran out of the unit control room and with resounding steps, as though he were wearing football shoes, sliding on the broken glass that made a soulwrenching gritting and grinding sound, he ran into the backup control room, which was right next to the staircase-elevator well. He pressed the AZ-5 button and turned the key to shut off power to the servodrives. Late. Why? The reactor had been destroyed.... But Anatoliy Stepanovich Dyatlov figured otherwise: The reactor was intact, the safety control system tank had ruptured in the central hall. The reactor was intact.... The reactor was intact....

The windows in the backup control room were broken, the glass made a slippery screaching sound under the feet, and there was a strong smell of ozone. Dyatlov looked out the window, stuck his head outside. Night-time. The din and screaming of the fire raging up above. In the reddish reflection from the fire, he could see a horrible heap of structural fragments, girders, concrete, and brick. Something was scattered around the unit on the asphalt. Very thickly. Something black.... But he could not take it in that this was graphite from the reactor. Just as in the turbine room. There as well his eyes had seen the glowing chunks of graphite and fuel. But his mind would not accept the horrible implication of what he had seen.

I guess the issue is that Medvedev's book is already fictionalized. ("What did Akimov and Toptunov, the operators of the nuclear process, feel at the moment when the control rods became stuck along the way and the first terrible shocks were heard from the central hall? It is difficult to say, because both operators died a painful death from radiation without leaving any testimony on this point. But one can imagine what they felt.")

#chernobyl

[letsriottogether]

Silence, part 5 (Chernobyl fanfic)

Can also be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868920/chapters/47678032

Pairing: Valana, Ulana Khomyuk/Valery Legasov Characters: Ulana Khomyuk, Valery Legasov, Boris Scherbina, KGB Charkov, Sasha the Cat Warning: Strong language, explicit scenes

Big thank you for all comments and kudos/likes! My apologies for the wait, This past week and half has been a bit more hectic than I’ve anticipated. ________________________________________ There’s something tickling his face. Valery stirs in his sleep, frowning at the weird sensation. His hand rises to push the tickling thing away, only to realize it’s Sasha doing her morning routine. He grunts and opens his eyes to find a pair of light green ones, staring at him. He smiles for a brief moment, stroking Sasha’s soft fur. The lazy morning sun peaks through the closed curtains. As the cat jumps off of him to the floor, heading to kitchen, Valery lets himself to close his eyes for a few brief moments. Then the meowing begins and he knows that he indeed has to get up. His normal daily routine before he can return to the Kurchatov is quite simple. Get up, go to the bathroom, splash his face with cold water, brush teeth. Change into a pair of sweatpants and a shirt, give Sasha some leftovers from yesterday, go to near grocery shop for some basic food. It felt weird, knowing he’s being watched. The first three days he kept checking his window one or two times per hour, almost unable to go to sleep, his eyes glued to the blue car standing on the street. The KGB agents did not even try to hide at that point. His days are long, and he’s desperate to keep himself occupied. He’s re-reading his old books, going through old notes, picking up the theoretical problems he was solving before the bloody phone rang on 26 April 1986 and he heard Scherbina’s voice for the very first time. He still has two days before he can start working at the Institute. He’s not quite sure what to expect, but one thing is for sure - he’s definitely not going back to his office, most likely he will end up in some ridiculously small shared space with carefully handpicked colleagues who would eavesdrop on him and immediately share anything suspicious with the right people. Damn it, it wouldn’t even have to be suspicious, it would be good enough if it was anything that would help them move up the party ladder.

He’s sure that there are no more exciting projects for him and that he will most likely stay away from all labs and researches until the radiation decides to kill him. Buried deep within paperwork, for nothing, watching over his shoulder endlessly, alone, returning back into an empty apartment every day. Wouldn’t that bullet into his skull be better in the end, more merciful?

His eyes wander around the apartment that still looks the same, but for some reason the colors sound more blunt, faded. Maybe it’s because of the thick cigarette smoke? He knows he should try to quit, but hey, you have to die of something, right? Something other than radiation related disease. He used to be just fine living all alone, but then she waltzed into his life, so damn confident and sure of herself. Thank god to that, thank god she had the guts to fight him and make him see that the tanks are full, horrifying fact complicating everything. Her with those wise eyes, seeing through him. And that was only the beginning. He was a careful man, not letting anyone into his life simply because it didn’t feel comfortable, because books could not hurt you as much as people and also because they would not blame you for coming back home late at night. After the evening at the hotel when be basically offered her his apartment (not to mention almost kissing her), he knew there was no way avoiding this bullet. And with the same confidence there was suddenly the presence of her everywhere. In his home, in his mind, in his soul, nestling into every single atom of his existence. There were so many moments of sacred silence, when he would look at her, study the expression of her face, memorizing her curves, the way her hair framed her beautiful face when he would just want to stop the time, erase the past and rewrite the future. Sometimes it felt like she was the raging fire and he was a bottle of gasoline - a deadly combination. 

When the reading gets too boring and radio too annoying, he walks around his apartment. He tried walking outside, but the KGB agents were too noticeable, not even caring about staying hidden somewhere in the shadows of the big city. Inside the apartment he could at least pretend he was alone. And alone he was. Well, at least he thought so. When checking his mailbox he found small carefully folded piece of paper snuck into a small hole in his mailbox. He looked around, as if expecting to find someone who would give him some sort of explanation, but the hallway was empty. He nonchalantly put the paper into the pocket of his coat and went back home. Maybe it’s just KGB’s way of playing with his mind? To falsely lure him into a trap? That could be definitely possible. He walked the stairs up to his floor, not daring to unfold the message before being safely inside. Sasha happily greeted her human by waltzing around his legs. Over the years he got used to this habit of hers, being extra careful not to stumble over her. He put down the bag with a fresh loaf of bread and some other groceries. Usually he would put everything into its place right away, but now there was something more important.

After hanging his coat onto the hanger, he goes over to the windows facing the street, checking the KGB car. The agent is inside, reading a newspaper. Good.His palms are sweating as he opens the hand written message. “Your friend hasn’t forgotten you. Keep your head down for now. Belarussia is under supervision to improve the outcomes.”

Oh Boris, my dear Borja. Chernobyl might have stolen the peaceful and quiet days of his life, but granted him a friend instead in Boris. Valery just hopes that Boris is careful enough not to end up similar to him, or worse. Especially given to his health. The red blood marks on his handkerchief still frighten Valery, knowing there’s no escape to their fate. He knows Boris could be hardly the one to appear in his apartment building, meaning he has to have someone to do this for him. Of course, if this isn’t a trap. But Valery wants, needs to believe this is real, and the faint connection to the outside world, to the people he loves and cherishes pour some faith and joy to his veins. He re-reads the last sentence again. Ulana. He hopes that this sort of supervision that is mentioned is just Boris. Or did he write it like that on purpose not to scare him? He made it clear to Charkov, doing his best that she nor Boris had nothing to do with his testimony. Or did Charkov want to convince himself personally? He pushed that thought aside, not being able to bear that he wouldn’t be able to protect at least them.

He notices that the door of the car outside that never leaves his street open and a man gets out. He briskly moves to the sink, setting the small paper on fire with his lighter, washing the ashes down the drain with water. In a few minutes there’s a loud banging on his front door. Valery already knows their manners, but still cannot help but jump a little at the loud sound. Sasha jumps down from her spot on the sofa, annoyed and angry at the harsh awakening. She eyes the room curiously, partly hidden behind a ficus.  Valery walks to the hallway, opening the door. The agent doesn’t even bother to clean his shoes on the mat, and bursts inside as if it was his home. He stops at the door to the kitchen, sniffing. “Hope you’re not trying to set yourself on fire, Professor.” the man says, frowning at Valery. He realizes that the smell of burning paper must be lingering in the air and chuckles nervously.  “The cat jumped into my lap when I was lighting a cigarette.” he replies, pointing at the hiding cat.. Only her muzzle is showing, and she starts to hiss at the unwanted guest in her territory. The agent is clearly disgusted with the animal and turns back to Valery.  “Tomorrow at 8 you will pick up your new badge at the reception of Kurchatov. They cannot wait, Proffesor.” he scoffs, looking around the apartment for one last time, before storming out again.

Valery lets out the breath he realizes he has been holding. That could have been interesting. He’s actually looking forward to have a daily job again, silently praying it will help him stay sane. Because already now he’s over his head looking forward to the next message from his companion. He has to get inventive enough to be able to respond to him, maybe even ask some questions? How is Boris doing? Is Ulana ok? Does she miss him as much as he misses her? Has she forgiven him?

That night he has troubles falling asleep, too many scenarios playing over in his mind. He tries walking around the apartment, sorting his notes, his books. His mind is restless. He went for a brisk walk earlier in the evening, suddenly desperate for the fresh air outside, not caring if the whole Kremlin is following right behind him. He was just around the corner of his favourite park when he noticed a lady. late thirties maybe. Quite tall, dark brown hair in soft curls, graceful but confident step. She turned around a man was running up to her to catch up with her. That’s when the air left his lungs, fleeing at the speed of light. He could have sworn he moved back in time, ten years ago to the streets of Minsk, as the woman looked so much like Ulana in one of her earlier pictures he found in her flat. His heart started beating fast, his senses flooded with her scent, the taste of her lips, her laugh ringing in his ear. He started to run after them, realizing how stupid and pathetic he is. Well, so much for staying on the rational and calm side. That’s when he decided it’s high time to go back home.He still cannot shake the memory out of his mind, silently cursing himself that he didn’t secretly steal at least one of her pictures. He wanted to, he truly did, but he just thought there will be more time, that he doesn’t need one, cowardly hiding behind security reasons (because blaming everything at KGB was so easy sometimes).

The need to be near her, to feel her fills his senses as he returns back to the bedroom. He collapses across the mattresses, his back hitting a weird bump. His hand slides there, searching for the source when in the gap in the middle he feels creased fabric. He pulls it out, sitting up. A smile lights up his face. It’s her shirt he stole from her, that got pushed between the mattresses and was forgotten short after. Ulana’s faint scent still lingers on the fabric and he feels like some pathetic teenager, who is hiding from his parents in his room, replaying the memory of his girlfriend, suddenly all tense and aroused. No one ever warned him that this is what his fifties would be looking like. His mind wanders back to the last time she wore that. Well, before she took it off.

Valery’s aparment, Moscow, late 1986 The soapy scent spreads from bathroom to the rest of the apartment. Ulana’s just taken a bath, allowing her sore muscles to relax in the hot water. She forgot her nightgown in her bag in the living room, so she decides to put and old shit she found after drying herself. The mirror is covered in fog due to the humidity in the small room. She takes a bath like this as an unnecessary luxury she would be able to spare herself of, but Valery has been too pushy to drop her practical self and try to enjoy the things they have while they still have them. She wipes the mirror with her palm, staring at her reflection. A small doubtful voice resonates through her head. And for how long are they going to have each other?

She studies the wrinkles on her face, her tired eyes, silver hair shining from her auburn color every now and then. It’s not just age that’s written all over her body, but it’s easier to pretend. At least with herself. But when she looks at him in the bad times, her thoughts fly to all the books and articles about radiation exposure. She finds herself studying him, calming herself no, this is normal, but this, is this already…? She shakes her head, frustrated with herself. Not now, not tonight. When she steps outside and appears in the living room, he’s sitting in his armchair, glasses on the very top of his nose, reading some book. He doesn’t notice her, and she smiles.Her steps are quiet, and almost like a cat she sneaks up to him and suddenly tears the book from his hands. Valery looks up at her with mixture of surprise and outrage. But when his eyes wander over her, his expression changes to a sly smile. She chuckles at him, places the now closed book on the shelf and takes his hand into hers. With the other one she slowly starts to unbutton her shirt. Her smile fades away, she bites down on her lip. She shakes her shoulders to push the fabric down. He lets go of her hand, helping her to get rid of the stupid piece of clothing. For some reason he doesn’t let it fall to the ground, instead he grabs it, taking Ulana by her hand, leading her to the bedroom.  Let’s forget for now who they are. Soon after his finger follows the curve of her spine, touching the soft creamy skin of her back, so soft and warm, so inviting to be caressed and kissed. His lips follow shortly after, placing open mouthed pecks. When reaching her lower back, he decides to change things a bit, using his tongue instead. She shivers in surprise and pleasure, soft moan escapes her lips. He straightens his back, looking down at her. She’s simply beautiful from any possible angle you could think of. And right now, on all four, trembling with anticipation, skin slightly glistening with sweat, her brown hair messy.. That’s simply sight for gods, and right now it belongs to him, she belongs to him and he feels like on top of the world, because this precious woman loves him and trusts him. It’s as simple as that. He strokes her cheek with his palm, sliding down to her thigh and then back up. She parts her legs a bit more, back arching up, silent gesture to urge him where she wants him the most. It’s the sound of his name on her lips, an urgent moan full of passion, and he simply cannot hold himself any longer. His grip on her hips gets tighter as he slams into her in one swift motion. She’s so perfectly wet he could cry. World starts spinning and it’s so tempting just to come in that very moment, her walls clenching around him in sweet pleasure. She grips on the crumpled sheets, eyes closed. All the gossips were right, this was much better than the normal missionary position. She could feel him everywhere, filling her to the top, then leaving her completely, making her feel so empty out of sudden just to slide back into her. Sex sounds fill the silence of the room, how his hips meet hers, skin on skin, their uncoordinated moans and whispers. So this is what good sex feels like? He keeps one of his hands on her hip, following her small motions as she meets him in his thrusts, while the other one wanders up her back to the nape of her neck, tickling her hair. She knows what he wants to do, but maybe is too worried she wouldn’t like it and asking questions in the middle of sex seems just too ridiculous. Instead she just tilts her head backwards in a simple gesture and he just knows it’s a green light from her. Within a second his fingers comb through her hair, before clasping them, tugging gently just to cause a small pleasurable amount of pain. Breath hitches in her throat, as the shockwaves start to flow through her body, she collapses on her arms. He has to adjust himself, bending over her back. His hips move a bit higher and suddenly he’s hitting the perfect spot. Her muscles grip him even tighter and it’s too much for him. She whimpers loudly, not interested if anyone hears them. He swifts his leg, putting it foot down to get better angle, to be able to slam into her even harder and faster as he comes undone. Any barriers that would hold him back are gone, pure animal pleasure taking over him, over them both. That’s all it takes for her, and it takes her a moment to realize it’s her voice that fills the room, shouting his name. His breath is heavy on her back, as he tenses for the last time, filling her to the top. Her hair is sticking to her forehead and cheeks, smell of sex and sweat in the air.  He wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her up to him, still deep inside of her. She finds the last piece of strength in her, as she sits up with him. He lays his forehead against her shoulder for a moment placing soft kiss. She turns her head around a bit to be able to see him and smiles. He looks up at her, his eyes meeting hers, the corners of his mouth up in a grin. Suddenly her arm moves up, bending in the elbow to be able to reach him and caress his hair. None of them speaks, enjoying the intimate silence. It’s their moment where nothing else exists apart the two of them and the bed they are sitting on.

He shifts up a bit, cupping her round breast, thumb encircling her sensitive nipple. He loves finding her favourite spots, burning them deep into his memory alongside with her expression, her eyes rolled back and gently biting on her lip. He decides to continue with his experiment, the other hand sliding down to where they are still joined, mix of her wetness and his seed sliding down both of their thighs. He flicks her clit one or two times, his hips bucking on their own as she clenches aroundt his softening cock. He then lets her go, deciding not to torture her anymore and also painfully realizing that he will need some time to go another round. She understands and just collapses into the covers, exhausted and content.

“Can you imagine what it would be like if we met 20 years ago?” she chuckles and turns her head to face him as he lies down next to her, propped on his elbow. “I think our scientist careers would be in real danger, because I wouldn’t be able to let you out of the bed,” he smiles and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Then it’s good we’ve met only now. It would be hard to choose between all the good sex and my job.” she jokes, but they both know it’s hint to an actual problem they would have been facing. It’s hard to imagine how the two of them would be able to work out when they were younger. Both too eager and dedicated to their job, making all the sacrifices to keep moving forward. But would you be able to sacrifice a  relationship with someone who is possibly your soulmate to the job you love and that you feel is your vocation and vice versa? She quickly shakes the thought away from her head. “Scherbina says that ever since our visits started to be regular,I don’t seem as grim,” he suddenly blurts out and Ulana gapes at him. He shakes his shoulders apologetically. “What, that’s a good thing.” he grins and she kisses him on the jaw. “Please just tell me that Boris is the only one with whom you talk about this. Not only it would be dangerous, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to Tarakanov or Pikalov again, knowing you’ve been discussing our sex life,” she says, covering her eyes with her palm in desparation.He laughs out loud and starts kissing her, making a path from her belly to her neck.“Nah, they would be jealous and would want me to share,” he mumbles in between and Ulana looks at him, horrified. He laughs again at her expression and finally kisses her on the lips. 

They both get more comfortable on the bed as Valery places a big cover on both of them, making sure Ulana’s back is all covered. He outstretches an arm towards her, she already knows this small habit of his and lifts her head so he could sneak his arm underneath. He needed to keep her close. She needed to be in his arms.They lie in silence, staring at each other. She counts the wrinkles on his face, memorizing them all over again. With every new one she makes a silent prayer before she closes her eyes and falls asleep.

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