Совершенно равнодушна к флешмобам; в большинстве случаев просто бесит. Поэтому предпочитаю отвечать на чужих страницах, салить меня мёртвое дело почти в 100%. Но Тесс задала мне "7 дней с ". Вот завтра и начнем-с

@темы: бесхребетнООСть, травушка-муравушка

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Теперь кофе и читать

Нашла фик на про Кью и Джона! Называется «Until Forever» Гляжу на размер и рейтинг

Rating: M for mature
Genre: Angst, hurt comfort, and traumatic feels time
Warning: Triggers warnings like a mug. There’s war flashbacks, ptsd symptoms, and vague references to suicide.

Until Forever

Notes: This is set in the college!verse with no name other than college!verse that I have been writing. In this, after John has put in his first four years, Q-Tip and he decide to get into the officers training program and have to get some college degrees and serve in Marine ROTC. They live together with 2 other roommates in a house near the university they attend.

Summary: Q-Tip comes home from class to what he thinks is an empty house and has his heart set on a nap. He finds John home instead and in a bad place.

This time Q-tip arrives home first, or so he thinks. The house is quiet when he enters and he takes an extra moment to savor the solitude while he toes off his Adidas; getting out of class and back home by mid afternoon means that he can sneak in a nap during the day. The atmosphere with the sun light filtering through wood blinds and deep blue curtains is perfect for drifting off for an hour or so.

He walks deeper into the house and sets foot on the first stair in the staircase before pausing. He stands still and listens. No music, no footfalls, no muted television, no conversations, but he hears something. To check for roommates (though no one’s car or bike is outside) he leans back, peers around the edge of the staircase, and looks down the hallway behind it. Christeson’s door is cracked. He knows that he is welcome to ignore John at his leisure and could easily avoid him and get in a nap. He is not obligated to go say ‘hi’ since he just got home.

Stafford ducks his head and lifts up the strap of his canvas messenger bag, carries it over his head and sets the bag at the foot of the stairs. He walks stealthily to John’s door and pushes it open further. He is speechless at what he finds. John is sitting at the foot of his bed, nine millimeter laid out between both palms. He has his eyes focused intently on it and his jaw set. Stafford stands in the doorway unsure of his next step, but aware of adrenaline, fear, and anger all mounting and surging from chest to face.

“The fuck?”

Christeson looks up, startled and stares for a moment at Evan. He swallows guiltily and takes the gun in one hand, resting it on the mattress behind him. Stafford has not moved from the doorway and has not pushed the door open farther.

“Maintenance check.” John answers nonchalant, and lies to Q-tip, not for the first time, but at the least excusable time.

Stafford says nothing, just crosses both arms and stares, waiting for either more lies or the truth. Either way, he is not sure if he wants to pass on judgment or call Christeson out immediately and argue until the truth is out in the open. They never had a training manual for what to do when your fellow veteran and boyfriend is sitting around in the middle of the day staring at a potentially loaded gun.

“Never seen someone maintenance check without field stripping, but if you found a way, every grunt in boot camp is –“

Christeson’s jaw twitches and he looks over at Stafford, a mixture of annoyed and frustrated with the way Evan is dressing him down.

“Just got my mind on Iraq.” John interrupts his tone flat and his eyes flashing what could be construed as a warning. “I got a little nostalgic.”

Tension doubles in the space between them during the moment that follows.

“Yeah,” Stafford finally responds, sure Christeson knows that Stafford knows it’s bullshit, “That happens sometimes,”

“I,” Christeson begins, but hesitates and trails off, sighing and covering his face with both hands, rubbing at his skin.

Stafford swallows back any and all retorts that come to mind and the muscles in his arms flex when he wraps them tighter to his body in an effort not to move – not to rush into the room and coddle John to make it all better. He doesn’t think that would help and he doesn’t think he’d be able to do it before punching Christeson in the mouth and wringing his neck after. So he chews on his bottom lip and sucks it in and out of his mouth between both rows of teeth trying to maintain composure.

Then John has his hands folded in prayer pose and fingertips just barely reaching the tip of his nose as he thinks. He looks away from Evan and stares straight ahead with wheels in his head turning and train of thought buzzing around like following the pathway of tubes in an elaborate water slide. Stafford’s biceps are starting to tremble as hard as he is clenching his arms to keep from saying something in anger or stalking into the room furious enough to grab John by the lapels and shake the truth out of him. He manages to keep from speaking and acting on the fears ready to boil over into a manifestation of rage.

“You know how we’re supposed to be here, doing our ROTC officer shit and after we’ll go back to the Corps and keep on with it? It’s because we’re good at it and we don’t know how to do anything as good as we are at being Marines.” Christeson finally says, voice ramping up with frustration, “But, we are good at other shit and we’re good at it here, not getting blown up after killing babies by the dozen and blowing up villages ignoring intel,”

Stafford does not speak. He just listens, standing in the doorway, frustrated as well, but not with the Corps or the ethics of war – or lack thereof – but with the excuse pouring out of Christeson’s lips. He’s frustrated with the denial. He’s incensed that John has the gall to insult his intelligence twice in five minutes.

“I don’t know if I want to do it. I don’t know if I can do it.” Christeson says simply, glancing at the cast aside weapon, before looking over at Stafford.

Evan is not sure if John meant to glance to the gun as an allusion or if he honestly only meant he does not know if I can physically make himself stay in the Corps.

John blushes deep and tries to force a smile if only to coax one out of Evan in return. Instead, his lips tremble and he purses them to halt any display. Stafford cannot explain away or quantify the tears welling up in Christeson’s eyes as anything besides the truth. Evan lowers his arms from his chest to his sides and steps into the room.

“Screwby,” Evan mutters striding to the bed and taking a seat beside Christeson.

Christeson turns away from Stafford and looks down at the floor, avoiding him. It makes no sense, but having him there and close just makes it somehow worse.

Stafford thinks for a minute, tries to decide what the best strategy would be to bring this to a finish without stress. Awkwardly, he raises the arm closest to John and puts it around the other man’s shoulders. He really is not sure what to say to John’s new life plan that involves leaving the Marines and striking out on his own with college. He only knows that he wants him to be okay and he wants to fix what is wrong so that he never sees him so lost again.

“If you don’t want to do it anymore, that’s okay. Lot of Recon said ‘fuck it’ already. Probably better for it. They sound happy anyways.”

“Evan, if I give up –“

“No, fuck that.” Stafford spits out his words and stares at him fiercely, “This ain’t quittin or givin up. It’s movin on. We finish one objective, we just move on. We didn’t give up the last mission to do the next. We was just done and moved up on out.”

“I thought I’d make a difference or accomplish something.”

John’s voice rattles and he seemed to sink deeper within himself leaning against the arm Stafford had wrapped around him. Evan does his best to stay calm and to think outside of all the panic that is starting to scream inside his own head. This problem now in his hands and the John he is holding, maybe even literally holding together, is far from the playful, irreverent and energetic John. Usually, the tables are skewed differently and if anyone is introspective and deep, it’s Stafford barrel rolling through the new and uncharted stages of maturity a year ahead of John developmentally.

“You accomplished tons of shit.” Stafford says carefully, “It wouldn’t have been the same without you with us. You aren’t just another POG taking up space or even a grunt doing his thing. You know that you have brains in your head and you’ve used them right?”

Christeson’s face falls and he leans further forward, covering his face with his hands.

“Fuck,” Evan curses, moves his hand from John’s shoulder, cupping his head, twisting his own body toward John so he can pull John to him, and wraps his other arm around him.

“If it came down between both a’ us the one that need to go on with this shit, yo - it’s you not me.”

John does not make a sound and Evan is not rightly sure if he is even breathing behind his hands or if he is sobbing. John is giving him no movement to go by. Evan pulls him tighter and rests his chin on John’s head, stroking the back of John’s neck gently with his fingertips.

“You’re going to work your way up and do some shit that matters. Just like the LT did, only you’re not going to quit and start a damn brain trust. And you’re going to fix a lot of shit in there because you’re a smart asshole and I mean that with all the love I got for you. So, knock this shit off staring at your gun like you want to swallow it.”

That is how Christeson finally breaks down, with Stafford holding him in his arms, sitting on the foot of John’s bed, trying to talk him into keeping it together. John has his hands to his face in shame. Then he is covering his eyes while out of his mouth flow the confessions. It is when he tells Stafford about the events that took place outside Basra just after Stafford went on leave. He recounts what Bravo’s captain sent him into. It is what he did on the mission and saw done. It is what he did not do to intervene. It is all that he wishes could have ended differently.

Of course, none of what happened in the village in Basra, to the people and to the other men in Bravo is Christeson’s fault. It is certainly not his fault that he could not change the outcome. Stafford is just smart enough to know that simply saying both those things will not change anything in John’s mind.

Evan holds John to him and he waits for John to finish. He waits until he is breathing in shaky uneven gasps and no more words run from his lips. Then without offering any wise words or absolutely, Evan lets up his grip on John and puts enough space between their bodies that he can twist his neck into a very uncomfortable position. Despite the sting, Evan kisses John as soft and sincere as he can possibly kiss him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve got to understand that, boo.”

Hearing the term of endearment John’s smiles, though weakly, and he nods.

“It ain’t on you.” Evan repeats.

John’s arms limp at his sides shift and he slides them around Evan’s waist and settles in closer. Stafford lifts his head and rests his cheek on John’s scalp. He pulls him back in close and holds on to him tight. Nothing he can say is going to fix this. The best he can hope for is if he holds him long enough, John will understand that even after what he has just told Evan, there is no chance Evan is going to push him away.

John’s arms drop from between his and Evan’s chests and his fingers shakily find purchase just above Evan’s hips. He shivers slightly still in Evan’s grip and finishes wrapping both arms around Evan, embracing him tightly in return. As John’s hold tightens on him, Stafford sighs and begins to stroke his palm over John’s back, down his spine and then straight back up. His other hand he holds cupped on the back of John’s neck.

“I love you so much, John.” Evan whispers quietly, lips brushing against John’s hair as he speaks. “Yo, maybe that sounds played out, but I do.”

“I know.” John answers still flush against Evan with his arms around him, tilting his head back and displacing Evan’s chin before looking up at him. “I love you, too. I hope you know that.”

“No doubt.” Evan replies easily, leaning down cautiously to steal a chaste kiss.

The longing for a mid-day nap is gone, replaced by the arduous feeling that he may never sleep again. It is too soon and too raw to make demands and force John to make promises never to entertain dark thoughts again. He is worried and hurt, but blindsided by how good a person he has found. Stafford’s mind is far away from yearning for a mid-day nap, but all the same, he suggests they go upstairs to his room so he can lie down. It is his way of avoiding the nine-millimeter lying on the mattress behind them. It is his way of taking John outside of his head.

“Let’s go upstairs, mang. I had my heart set on lying down upstairs when I walked in the house.”

It should be odd to declare this, but it is not awkward once the words roll off his tongue. John nods against Evan and slowly loosens the grip of his arms while Q-Tip does the same. Stafford does not break contact fully. He keeps an arm around John, slung about his shoulders, and he eases off the bed pulling John along with him. They walk toward the bedroom door, side by side, Evan’s hand circling John’s bicep possessively, and somehow they managed to both step through the doorway without having to break contact.

John is the one to lean into Evan at the foot of the stairs. Evan adapts and drops his arm so it’s draped behind John’s back, hand and fingers cupping the John’s side opposite Evan. He becomes a steadying force and together they climb the stairs that will lead to the second floor and Evan’s bedroom. The silence is not the worst part as they move together; it’s the way Evan looks over at him at the head of the stairs and seems as though he is about to speak then chokes it back at the last second. With a shake of his head, he propels them both forward and leads John into his room, softly pushing him in the direction of the bed while he closes the door behind them

@темы: Generation kill, Поколение убийц, я любить, Фикушки, травушка-муравушка

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Дэниел Фокс

Забей в поисковике "Дэниел Фокс". Найдешь не только ди-джея, защитника клуба Саутгемптон и актёра ГК. Там ещё и чемпионы Паралимпийских игр попадаются.

@темы: Generation kill, Поколение убийц, я любить, травушка-муравушка

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Плачу от любви

Короткометражка с Кристесоном вот по этой ссылке:
www.kickstarter.com/projects/larrycohen/brother...
8

@темы: Generation kill, Поколение убийц, я любить, травушка-муравушка

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тумблер-тумблер, открой Кристесона :)

Mahala interviews Daniel Fox about his role as PFC John Christeson on Generation Kill:

In the very large cast that worked on Generation Kill, most of us took the training seriously which was fantastic. Everybody was so dedicated. With Rudy and Eric watching over our us, you just didn’t want to let them down. One more mile. One more pushup. One less complaint.
On a project like this, everybody’s working at their creative peak. Bringing their best work everyday and we wanted do the same. We became like a family. The military is all about team work and film making is similar that way – especially on a project as big as Generation Kill.

@настроение: мимишек всем бесплатно!

@темы: Generation kill, Поколение убийц, пересадите мне от автора!, я любить, травушка-муравушка

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Зимняя резина!!!

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резина

девушки, милые, я вас очень прошу, меняйте резину, лысая резина - это самое худшее, что может быть с вашей машиной конкретно сейчас. Я на своей не сменила, подвозил муж, пока доехали до работы, углядели четыре аварии, две труповозки и черный мешок. Берегите себя и пешеходов, они тоже люди.

@темы: я и жиснь моя

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валенька...

40 дней

@темы: я и жиснь моя

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Мое детство было странным. Странным - это значит не как у других детей, тусующих в том же дворе, на той же детской площадке. Во многом оно было связано с этюдами господина Черни, которые я без устали гоняла раз по десять каждую строчку. А когда соседи начинали буйствовать, я, вместо того, чтобы прекратить безобразие, начинала играть гаммы. В три раза громче. Хроматические... Соседи в итоге просекли фишку и перестали колотить ни в чем не повинные батареи.

@темы: я и жиснь моя, бездарнООСть

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Уилси

Я болею, она тоже весь день варёная какая-то. Она пристрастилась к корму Sheba®, от Вискаса теперь нос воротит.

@темы: я и жиснь моя

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Иисусе, муж пробежал глазами мои почеркушки; он ведь в душе не ебёт, как можно ноут оставлять на кухонном столе без присмотра (не иначе как для реализаций своих тайных желаний ) И главное, по прочтению спрашивает: кто такой Нейт? А ведь Джека и Янто сразу отличал

@темы: Generation kill, я и жиснь моя, я любить, травушка-муравушка

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дедлайны go home

Santы шествуют по всем интернетикам.

К рождественской Декстериаде уже написан фичок; 8 тыс слов (ай, да Шер! молодца!), финал только осталось
На GK готовы два фичка (на два феста), но оба сделаны лишь до середины
Бонусный крек по Шерло только начат, но Себ получается от таким

мимимишек всем, и бесплатно

@темы: Поколение убийц, я и жиснь моя, я любить, Фикушки, Внезапно Декстер, Шерло ВВС, травушка-муравушка

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Только что мне подарили пару деревянных уточек-мондаринок.
Просто так, без повода; приятно.

@темы: я и жиснь моя

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Какой тут Ганни!

8 На Бон Джови молодого похож!Глаз не могу отвесть

22.11.2012 в 21:21

Пишет  Ленивый скунс:

теперь это фото никогда не будет прежним х))))))
кто смотрел «Синистер» - тот поймет х)))))))))))))))))))))))))) тайтл :"

@темы: Generation kill, Поколение убийц, я любить, травушка-муравушка

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Мы с мужем вчера провели очень продуктивный вечер, примерно вот так:


Нет, не смотрели «Heart of dixie», мы играли в его дурацкую PS и жрали пиццу, взрослые всё же люди

@темы: Generation kill, я и жиснь моя, травушка-муравушка

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Сударь с посланиями в U-mail, говорю один раз и прямо.
Я не верю, точнее не могу поверить, что таким идиочеством может страдать человек, у которого есть хоть что-то в голове (кроме опилок и жира) или не в голове (работа, ноги от ушей, талант, пара тысяч прочитанных книг в советском и постсоветском прошлом). Я в душе не ебу, кто такая Маргарита (и кто даст мне гарантию, что она – это не сам Сударь), мне абсолютно наплевать на твои угрозки, обидки, социопатию (или что там в справке?), фифект фикции, вес, проблемы с глазами (или орфографией?), великий стратегический план, большую любовь, хроническую девственность и прочую бытовую и физическую неудовлетворённость. Если таблетки и цирк оказались бессильны, продолжай в том же духе, сейчас много тупого кино на поржать, смотри не потеряйся на общем фоне

@темы: Generation kill, отбросы

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Уилси

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Где-то за границей восприятия остались все дела, помещающиеся в узком и незначительном, как оказалось, коридоре с вывеской «инетики». У Эндрю был день рождения, закончилась FK и прошёл RSYA (Лика притаранила мне календарик с Руди, который нашла в инфопакете, спасибо тебе, солнце); Римма родила, Олеся скорой выйдет замуж. Я знаю, брос, просто мне не до этого.

Муж купил котёнка, какая-то там породистая вислоухая с документами и родословной, на которую мне положить, если уж совсем честно; красивый окрас, тупая мордочка, буду щелкать на мобильник и время от времени скидывать. Она жрёт, спит и мяучит, стоит провести рукой по спинке, начинает урчать, что твой трактор; мы назвали её Уилси (юнисекс завоёвывает поднебесную), сначала хотели Джесси, но муж приобнял, сурово так, за плечи, без вариантов, хочешь назвать в честь какого-нибудь своего хмыря из ССБ (солдатской Санты-Барбары, это он так кличет GK) – на здоровье!

Расскажите мне новостей, хороших и плохих, разбавить застой и не утонуть в сплошном потоке из накопленного за полмесяца.

@темы: Generation kill, я и жиснь моя, ПЧёлки и ПеЧеньки

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Серый октябрь сменился чёрным дождливым ноябрём.Странная тяга разобрать вещи в шкафу; осознание того, что это может случиться с каждым из нас, в любой момент. Я не пойду в церковь, просто выпью чарку молча и постараюсь отпустить.
Сегодня сцепилась с креативным директором, раньше бы проплакала часа два где-нибудь в уединенном месте, но так, чтобы непременно все об этом знали, сейчас же слезы тупо закончились, нечем попросту плакать.

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Валенька, ты всегда будешь с нами.