#PRESENT/TENSE

[wfodicks]

#654: LOUIS KATZ AND AN OLD FASHIONED CHRISTMAS

mike, travis and drunk discuss the following topics…. the king of cola tries poppi classic cola: 2.1 the wild naked man’s dating tips…. an old fashioned christmas….. after the break, we talk to comediam louis katz about his new special “present/tense” you can watch free on youtube here, his career in comedy, and more! check out louis katz on his website here to see where he’s performing near…

[flowersandfashion]

I'm Your Man, Mitski /// “you said the lambs were ready,” come the slumberless to the land of nod, Traci Brimhall /// I WILL BE GOOD AS LONG AS YOU WANT ME, @thegirlhoodtheory /// 'the reciprocity of the attack dog and the hand that holds the short leash' (edited), @brutaliakhoa /// Moon Song, Phoebe Bridgers /// Still Life Based on Hunting (detail), c. 1665-1701, David De Koninck /// It Will Come Back, Hozier /// "you’ve always been more of a dog person," @tdaspoetry

[hussyknee]

Her final tweet on October 8 reads:

“Gaza’s night is dark apart from the glow of rockets, quiet apart from the sound of the bombs, terrifying apart from the comfort of prayer, black apart from the light of the martyrs. Good night, Gaza.”

[supercutszns]

a place with you; luke castellan

wc: 2.8k (got a little carried away whoops)

pairing: luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: luke is used to people coming in and out of hermes’ cabin without a second thought. so when you’re having a hard time adjusting to camp life, he doesn’t expect you to stick by his side, even after you’re claimed.

warnings/notes: shy reader going through a tough time, hurt/comfort, pining, kisses, fluff, potential ooc luke i don’t know what i’m doing, most of this is prob inaccurate lol, i got wayyy too attatched to this i am sorry, title inspired by dragon eyes by adrianne lenker

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s used to delivering, passing things along, letting them enter his life and leave him. Sometimes it makes him angry. At his father, at the world, at himself.

So when you passed through the Hermes cabin for the inevitable few weeks before getting claimed by your Godly parent, the last thing Luke expected was for you to stay.

When you first got to camp you were terrified. Luke remembers that much. He can still picture you in Chiron’s towering shadow as he led you up to Hermes cabin. He gave you the usual spiel about the cabin, the land of the unclaimed, but it clearly hadn’t quelled your nerves. You were wringing your fingers together when Luke first spotted you, your eyes blown wide in what he knew as shock and a sort of . . . grief. For a life you’d left for what Luke knows as a life you’d never really have. He’d seen it in so many campers before you. He’d see it many times after.

“This is Luke, Hermes’ head counsellor and one of Camp Half-Blood’s finest,” Chiron pointed him out to you at the entrance. After Chiron introduced you, Luke held your name in his memory. Not because there was anything particularly intriguing about you at first, to be honest, because he’d seen a lot of people like you that needed help settling in (although maybe not many his age). It was harder for some people to adjust than most. He knew that better than anyone.

“Nice to meet you,” he stuck out his hand for you to shake after Chiron left. “I’m Luke.”

You sniffed, shaking it without looking at him. You were so, so embarrassed. This whole time you’d been too stupidly overwhelmed to process anything. Why was this so hard for you? Was it this hard for everyone? “Hi,” you managed, and that was it.

Now, weeks after your first meeting, you’ve concluded that it was not, in fact, this hard for everyone. The camp is crowded but full of life. You’ve never seen more happy kids in your life. There’s a sense of community on the wind.

So why can’t you feel it? Why is it so hard to connect with people? To participate in the fun? Everywhere you look there’s people but it’s all just so . . . lonely. You don’t fit. You’re lost.

Luke wakes up at night when the cabin door creaks open. He’s already tossing, so it’s no surprise he catches it. Unfortunately, he’s supposed to be a good counsellor—sneaking out at night is against the rules, and you’ve gotta reign the strays back in before they cause a ruckus. Sure, Luke’s not exactly a stickler for the law, but the least he owes is to make sure everyone’s safe.

Groaning, he draws himself out of the comfort of his bunk but doesn’t get far when he spots a familiar silhouette slipping out the door. He knows it’s you. He’s been hearing crying at night, and this is confirming his suspicions. It makes him ache in a million different places. Every time he thought about approaching you he shut himself down almost instantly, because who the hell wants some random guy coming up to them in the middle of the night and drawing attention?

This time, though, he’s a little worried.

It’s chilly tonight but not too bad, especially when you’re huddled up in a ball on a hill in front of the lake, grass tickling your ankles. Your tears keep you warm.

It’s a sorrow that feels bottomless. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You don’t know why everything’s so hard.

There’s a scuffling of shoes, and your name is carried to you on the heels of a breeze. Oh God. There’s someone else here.

You sniff and smear your tears on the palms of your hands the best you can but a little part of you only wants to cry more now that you’re all anxious, and you only have a few seconds to collect yourself before you turn around and see Luke, your cabin leader, with furrowed brows. “Oh, h-hi, Luke.” It’s hard to ignore the splinter in your voice. You curse yourself a thousand times.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly, eyeing you in a way that makes you feel entirely exposed. “You, uh, you know you’re not technically supposed to be out here, right?”

You start to scramble to your feet with an apology on your tongue but surprisingly he laughs, a gentle sound, and beckons you to sit back down. “No, no, I’m not gonna get you in trouble or anything, just . . . letting you know.”

It’s uncertain if you should keep sitting, but you decide to because well, you’re already down here, and things can’t go lower than this. Luke comes to sit next to you and you stare out into the sea like your life depends on it. “Wanna talk about why you’re out here?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Luke sighs, scooting a little closer to you. “Most people don’t up and leave in the middle of the night because they’re having a great time.”

The answer is too hard to say so you don’t reply.

Again, Luke sighs, and you try not to look at the shadow the moon casts on his admittedly handsome face. “It’s hard settling in, I know. It happens to a lot of people. I’ve . . . I’ve seen a lot of them, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“Well it sure seems easier,” you snap, and your self-control flies away before you can stop it. “I have no idea why I can’t just suck it up and fit in here. Everyone seems so happy and it’s driving me nuts because I’m just so confused on why I can’t—why I can’t—process any of it.” Tears burn your eyes. “I’m just miserable. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

In the corner of your view, Luke’s face falls. “I’m your guide, you know that, right? I can help you.”

You sniff, embarrassingly pathetic. “I know.”

He comes even closer. “So why didn’t you ask?”

“Because I—I don’t know, you’re busy all the time with all the people in there, so I’m sure your job’s already stressful as is, so—”

“My job is to help you,” he says, a hand on your shoulder. “That’s what I signed up for. If you need something, I’m the one to ask.”

“I’m not sure you signed up for me crying like a baby,” you swallow, the ripples of the lake blurring together. “I mean, I’m like, older than half the kids here, and they’re all so much better than me. I’m not good at a—anything, and I’ve tried it all, and nobody’s claimed me yet, and I feel so weird and old and alone and . . .” It’s too much to think about so you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, hoping the sting wards off the thoughts. “What if I’m nothing? Why am I here?”

You’re crying again, hiccuping into your hands. Shame sears into you. Luke’s arm curls around your shoulders and you realize how cold you are when he’s warm, so warm, and you want to cry even harder. You don’t even know him, but it’s the most tenderness you’ve received in what feels like years. “Hey, deep breaths,” he murmurs, rubbing your arm with his other hand. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to heed him. His hand catches your cheek and you can’t bear to pull away. Something strange rustles in your stomach.

Luke’s taught instinct when faced with situations like these is to reassure that the Gods always have a plan. But he doesn’t feel like much of a liar tonight. Both his hands steady your face towards his, your skin damp and cold beneath his thumb. “It's not your fault. It always takes a little bit of time for people to get claimed, it’s never . . . well, you can never tell.”

“What if I don’t get claimed?” You say it so quiet you can pretend it was imaginary.

His eyes crinkle at the sides when he says, “Well, Hermes’ll always have a place for you.”

I’ll, Luke wants to say, I’ll. His father is not responsible for his cabin’s kindness.

“No one really prepares you for how overwhelming this is,” he continues, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek. Your vision is clearer now, and Gods, he is handsome, isn’t he? Even when his eyes are forlorn. “It’s harder in a way when you’re older. More to leave behind. Less to look forward to. It’s easier when you have a friend. Or a great cabin head.” He tilts his head with a faint smile, “Lucky for you, I’m both.”

It almost makes you laugh, and that’s enough. “It’ll get easier,” he promises softly. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Your cheeks burn. It’s hard to keep his gaze, so you blot at your eyes with your hands as Luke gently slides his off your face. “Thank you. Sorry for, um, all that. And the crying.”

He chuckles, “Don’t even worry about it.” You watch him rise in the throes of starlight. He offers you a hand. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks after pulling you up, and you sheepishly nod your head. He tosses you a sweater he’s been wearing, and it smells like firewood. Nostalgic, in a way. “I’m gonna poke around for some tea. Wait for me back at the cabin.”

Before he leaves, he squeezes your arm and that thing happens again in your stomach. “No need to be embarrassed, by the way. You can come to me anytime. I’m probably less busy than I look.” As he walked away, he added, “And don’t worry about the crying. You’re pretty either way.”

Either way. The tea doesn’t seem important anymore because your face is on fire.

Time reveals that Luke is right. He is a great cabin leader and a friend, and it’s hard to tell which he’s better at. You fall in with him right away. Soon enough, you’re drawn into your new life, so slowly you barely realize it’s happening. The days get shorter and you start wishing they were longer. The nights get easier. And when they’re not, Luke tucks you into his bunk and folds you in his arms until you drift off. You pick up a bow. A sword. Luke tells you to straighten your shoulders with a hand on the small of your back, and you swear it always lingers. You braid garlands of carnations for your cabin mates and they wear them with pride. It’s warm, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and things start to feel like home.

Until you’re claimed.

Now you’re a ghost in Hermes cabin, another empty bunk to be filled, and Luke stares at it until he can remember every last detail of what it looked like when it was yours. A beautiful, gentle daughter of Demeter, no longer in arms’ reach. He should’ve seen it coming.

He sees you with your siblings all the time. You’re so happy and he envies it. You belong there, he knows that, the way your face lights up at the dinner table and how you giggle when your half-sister presents you a flower. But sometimes your eyes wander, and something inside them dulls, until you look at him, too.

Luke’s place at camp is to be nothing but a funnel for lost campers to find their home. He’s a temporary stop in everybody’s journey. He’d made peace with it a long time ago. But here you are, messing it all up, because you still don’t leave him.

You beg him to give you another sword-fighting lesson. You sit next to him at bonfires. You pick him for partner camp activities. It doesn’t matter how many younger boys want to latch onto him for guidance—he sees you heading towards him, and he can’t imagine choosing anyone else.

But you’re always whisked away by your siblings, separated at meals and in sleep and in activities so it’s never, ever enough. Why did he delude himself into thinking you’d stay forever?

After weeks of distance from you, he’s elated when you have even a fraction of a conversation. “Hey, Luke!” You call out to him, and he finds you instantly. You’ve broken away from your siblings to get to him.

“Hey,” he smiles, and hopes he doesn’t look too pleased.

You lean a little towards his ear, and you smell like every wonderful thing in the world. “Can we hang out tonight? On the hill?” You’re a little bashful when you say it and it’s entirely endearing. Even now, you’re still so unsure. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says almost instantly, and it makes you look less nervous. “Yes. Absolutely. But don’t get caught breaking curfew now, you hooligan.”

Someone calls your name and you give a curt, playful nod. “Yes sir, camp counsellor sir!” He carries your laugh close to his heart until night falls.

You’re already there when he arrives, a vision in the moonlight before he even sees your face. “Hey, angel.”

When you turn around you look flustered. He won’t pretend like it doesn’t flatter him. “H—hi, uh, hello.”

There’s a moment where the world is still. The two of you, alone, for the first time in ages.

He sits down next to you, and it’s like the first time all over again. You get to talking, about your days, your anecdotes, your cabins. The strangeness of it all. “It’s so weird waking up in the morning and not having you yapping in my ear,” you remark, and he teasingly pushes your shoulder.

“Well, one of us has to be the talker, and it’s clearly not you,” he retorts.

You fiddle with blades of grass between your fingertips, weaving them together. “I’ll have you know I had a cabin-wide conversation about Capture The Flag yesterday, and I contributed greatly.”

“Oh, really?” He grins, knocking your elbow to steal your attention. “Look at you, coming out of your shell. I’m so proud.”

It’s hard to hold his gaze for more than a second. You’re afraid you’ll do something stupid if he keeps looking at you like that, but you almost want to. “Oh, shut up.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “No, I’m serious. I’m proud.” His eyes rake over your face. “You’re flourishing. You found your place.”

You can’t stop yourself from saying, “I kind of miss my old one.”

There’s a way he studies your expression that makes you feel utterly helpless. You wish you could dish it back to him, but you know you just look awestruck whenever you stare at him for so long. He’s quieter when he replies, “I miss it, too. A lot. Sometimes, I—” His face scrunches up like he just tasted something sour. “Nevermind.”

Frowning, you prod, “What? What is it?”

He sighs and turns to the horizon. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him struggle. “Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t been claimed. Sorry, that’s . . . that’s awful, I know.”

His surprise is evident when you say, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t either.”

He turns back to you. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod, staring at the beads on his necklace. “You’re the only reason I’ve adjusted here at all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“It’s true. And I miss you.” A few months ago you would’ve kicked yourself for saying this. But Luke has a way of inspiring confidence in people.

“I miss you, too. So much.” He gently prys the grass you’ve been weaving out of your hands, now a small necklace. “But look at how talented you are. I’ll tell you, I’m lucky you’re still sticking around. For most people, Hermes is touch-and-go.”

Luke leans forward to tie the garland around your neck, and your pulse picks up. “This isn’t about Hermes, Luke,” you try to be firm but it comes out soft. “It’s about you.”

His hands stop fiddling and rest on your neck. When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. And you have no idea that he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life. “What’s about me?”

It’s not fair, your inability to string sentences together only worsens right when a beautiful boy is this close to you. “Hermes isn’t—it’s not special because of your father, it’s special because of you.”

There is nothing else you can possibly think of saying with the way his fingers trace up your neck and hold your jaw. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “The only reason anything in my life is special is because of you.”

You don’t know if it’s a lie or not; you don’t care. His nose nudges yours. There’s a moment where you wonder if this is as close to Elysium you’ll ever get. Then he slips a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you to his mouth.

He kisses you in a near fury, then when he knows you’re not going anywhere, it’s the gentlest thing you know. It’s hard to believe this is even happening. Your hands weave through his curls but he holds you steady, and thank the Gods for that because you’re pretty sure you’re melting. You kiss again, and again, and again, until you genuinely think you’re going to pass out and you have to pull away.

“Aw, look at you,” he murmurs when you can’t meet his eyes, a playful lilt in his voice. “Still so nervous.”

“Would you shut up?” You press your face into the crook of his neck with a huge smile.

He kisses the top of your head. “Love to, angel.”

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s supposed to believe he’s bringing the best of humanity to the Gods and glory above.

But screw the Gods. He’s keeping this one for himself.

[inbabylontheywept]

Memories of Grandpa Hank

I'm eating a bag of mormon gorp that tastes like gasoline while watching the rain run down the mountain. The taste doesn't even bother me anymore - all homemade gorp tastes like this. It's just a natural consequence of everyone keeping their prepper shit in their garages. 

My dad's out in the clearing, wandering around with his GPS. He's got some pieces of wire out on top of it to try and make the effective antennae bigger, but it just makes it look like he's dowsing. Another mormon tradition. I ask him if he's close to find water yet, and he looks up at me, little rivers flowing off him, and says yeah - he can feel it. 

I'm sure he can. I settle under my tree and watch the droplets roll down the needles. Awaiting the final judgement of Judge GPS. 

A few minutes later, it provides: 

Turns out my dad forgot to record the location of the car this morning. The GPS remembers where we parked yesterday, but by luck my dad knows how to get from there to our car. Downside is that it's a nine mile walk just to get to yesterday's position, then another five miles to backtrack. That's fourteen miles total. 

I'm only thirteen. 

Think you can make it? my dad asks. And it's a kindness that he's worried, but it's not like there's an alternative. What else would I do, sit down in the murk and cross my fingers he finds me again? Ask him to carry me 14 miles? 

I'll be pretty jelly legged, I say. But yeah. I'll make it. 

Attaboy, he says. He fishes a bag of poptarts out and offers me one as - I think - a peace offering. A, sorry you're gonna have to walk 14 miles in the rain because I goofed kind of gift. 

I take a bite and, despite being individually wrapped, it still manages to taste like diesel fumes. We start hiking our incredibly long distance in terrible weather for foolish reasons, and I joke to my dad that the only way to make this day any more mormon would be by pushing handcarts. 

He laughs. Neither of us laugh again until 11 pm, when we stumble like drunkards into camp. My grandpa has stayed up late to make sure we weren’t lost, but he only stays up long enough to see us arrive. We try to eat a dinner of sweet potato stew, but after falling asleep in the middle twice, we agree to just go to bed. 

I sleep in well past nine and wake up to nobody in camp but my grandpa. My dad left with my sister to keep hunting around 5 am. I know that everyone assumes that their dad is invincible when they're 13, but I'm 28 now and part of me still thinks he's gonna live forever. That God made exactly one perpetual motion machine, and it raised me in the desert. 

---

Around noon my grandpa suggests hunting again. If it was my dad, I'd probably tune him out, but I like my grandpa's style of hunting. My dad hikes and hikes and hikes until the elk get tired and just let him shoot them. My grandpa finds the sleepiest, sunniest, coziest field and takes a nap there, figuring if the elk have any decent taste they'll come there at some point.

Man's got a knack for knowing what elk like - he's right more often than not. I think he might've been an elk in a previous life. 

I go with him, and much as I hate to admit it, the hike is good for me. I start off walking like a pirate on two peg legs, so stiff I might as well not have knees, but by the end of the mile and a half walk I'm almost normal. We make it to the edge of the clearing, and my grandpa finds a patch of grass taller and softer than the beds inside the trailer, and he curls up to sleep there. I look across the grass and I watch the comings of goings of critters through the field. Sometimes I use the scope to get a magnified view, but I never do so with my hand on the trigger. The thought of accidentally looking a person through that glass is something that sends a chill up my spine. 

Some deer wander through the glen, but it'd take a fool to mistake one of them for an elk. A few hours later, my grandpa wakes up and asks if I want to wander around a little. It's a lovely day. Rain comes in bursts in Arizona, and the day after is almost always clear as can be. And for a short while, all the desert browns turn green and lush. Hard mosses turn squishy and cacti swell up like fresh baked muffins and for a while you can get why people settled in these god forsaken wastes. 

So I go with him, and we walk on, me with my gun, him just taking in the forest. He looks so peaceful that I get a little jealous, but it's not until my grandpa stops and looks at me that I even notice it myself. Takes a mirror, sometimes, to know yourself.

Being near my grandpa is always a strange thing for me. He's quiet, and he doesn't talk much, and I don't ever get the feeling that he's particularly emotionally intelligent - but it's like he's interacting with a reality more raw and real than mine. Like I'm watching symbols on a screen and he's counting atoms. And sometimes, just being near him gives me access to that raw matter. Just something about how he is breaks the illusions of the world.

He looks at the gun like a foreign object, like he doesn't recognize it, then he looks at me. He speaks and he doesn't mince words. 

What would you do if an elk came across the path and you shot it right now? he asks. 

Well, I'd start cleaning it, I say, and he waves the words away like cobwebs in his face. 

But would you celebrate? he presses.

And I look at him, and I don't actually see any judgement staring back. He knows the answer, and he's at peace with it. He’s asking so I can see it too. He’s being a mirror so I can see my own face.

I think I might actually cry, I admit. And he nods along in agreement before reaching forward to take the gun off my shoulder. 

Lets just walk today, he says. No chance of killing anything. No worrying about that. 

Right, I say. 

He pops the chamber open and tosses me back my bullet. I catch it, and the relief I feel is palpable. 

Can I change my mind? I ask, and he shrugs.

Whenever you want. Hunt or don’t. It’s not the hunting that I’m worried about. It’s seeing you ignore your conscience.

And for a moment, I'm there in the real world with him, and my gloves are off, and reality is a metal cube in my hand: Sharp and cold and heavy.

Or maybe that’s just the bullet.

---

We make it back to camp a bit later than my dad. We get there and he’s waiting for us. If he's tired, he doesn't show it. 

How'd it go? he asks. My grandpa looks at me, and I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to explain it, and I am scared. 

Great, he replies. It's a shame Babs only has a doe tag. We saw a five-point out there. Close enough to hit with a football. 

No, my dad says. If his grin was a half inch wider, both ends of his mouth would meet in the back of his head and everything above his tongue would slide off.

Tell him Babs, grandpa says. And, not for the first time, and especially not the last, I try my hand at spinning a yarn. 

It's pretty good. But at 13, I still have a lot to learn.

[bisclavret]

and people say season 5 is bad

[iheartsteve0704]

“[RIO] HAS THIS DEEP DEEP DEEP LOVE FOR AGATHA”

[elumish]

I was thinking recently about the idea of a tragedy in present tense versus a tragedy in past tense, and how a tragedy in present tense is about how there is still a chance to have it end differently and we have no choice but to watch every chance be missed or squandered or fail, and a tragedy in past tense is about how there is no chance for a different ending because the ending has already happened. Orpheus has already looked back. Every time, he has already looked back.

[muttmedley]

"oh good, you're right where i left you," i say smiling at the sight of my pup leashed to the leg of the coffee table. "you didn't try to get on the couch while i was gone, did you?"

"no sir, i promise i was good this time."

without a word, i walk over to the couch and look for any signs of disturbance. everything is exactly as i left it.

"and you didn't touch yourself?"

"no sir."

"good. because after all," i say squatting down and reaching a hand between their thighs, "this is mine. is that clear? it belongs to me."

my pup's face flushes as they nod their head.

"i asked you a question. speak."

"y-yes sir. it belongs to you."

"aw, don't sound so nervous. i can feel your body sending a different message, my sweet pup," i tease. "besides, you know i hate being hard on you. it's just that even the dumbest mutts have to learn to behave."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Gaz and Soap use Nikolai as attitude adjustment.

cw: canon typical violence, mild sexual content towards the end.

If Gaz and Soap really want to humble a new trooper that's got a bit arrogant, they won't escalate them to Ghost or Price, because any fresh recruit would expect to be obliterated by fully trained operators at some point during their training; it would be viewed as a privilege to be crushed by the one and only Bravo Six, and Ghost is legendary.

Instead, they put them in a room with Nikolai.

It was Gaz's idea originally. Nik isn't SAS, he's precisely the type of unhinged, formidable opponent these little fucks are going to have to face in the field. In fact, he was one life decision away from being one of their actual enemies. Every time Soap and Gaz have to go toe to toe with the Russians they're sure to thank whatever higher power that they haven't got Nikolai running rings around them rather than waiting to bail them out.

They have one particular scrote who has been pissing them off all week. He thinks he's Billy Big Bollocks and, while he follows the letter of an order, he always likes to think he knows best and... interpret. The sergeants told him to focus on endurance and cardio in his workouts and he continued to build strength, he navigated a river crossing wrong and ended up stranding his crew. Lots of little things that mean if he doesn't shape up then he's gonna fail.

Gaz and Soap take him, and the friends that are beginning to get ideas, to Nik's hanger where he's working.

"Nik, fall in," Gaz calls at the Black Hawk.

Nik drops from the top of the heli where he was doing some maintenance on the main rotary engine, and Soap has to work hard to keep his face serious, because fuck does Nik play his part well.

He's shirtless, sweating from the exertion of turning the big wrench in his hand, and there's grease spattered on his stomach, up his arms. That gold chain really tops off the look, nestled in the fur on his chest, and he looks every bit the Russian mobster. Gaz can see why the captain thirsts so much.

(Not that there's anything wrong with that, sir. You hit that, uh... man, umm..)

"Sergeants," Nik greets them respectfully, and then those dark eyes turn to the trooper standing at their side. To his credit, the kid squares his shoulders and meets Nik's eyes, which is a pretty big ask given Nik's reputation on base. "Between one and ten?" Nik asks, still the very picture of affable civility.

"Four," Soap says, pulling a baton and a coil of rope from his belt. He throws them both to the floor in front of the trooper they've brought for a lesson in respect and listening skills. "Subdue and apprehend."

"What?" The trooper asks, stunned.

"Subdue and apprehend the target," Soap repeats, and then juts his chin after Nikolai. "'E's yer target."

Nik places his wrench down and uses the rag on his workbench to wipe his hands. He is completely unarmed, dressed only in his combat trousers, belted low on his hips, and boots. He glances at the baton and rope on the floor, and then to his intended adversary. "When you are ready, comrade."

The trooper picks up his weapon, glances at his sergeants, the rest of his troop and then flicks the baton out. Nik stands there placidly, hands down by his sides as he flicks his fingers in a little come on gesture. The trooper runs in.

The slap Nikolai lands across the lad's face echoes around the hanger. Even Gaz and Soap grimace, while the other two troopers flinch, their shoulders rising around their ears. The trooper recovers after being forced into the work bench with the force, and leans in for a swing to the gut, which Nik swerves, shoving the incoming shoulder down.

With each failed or blocked attack, Nik retaliates with precision, administering openhanded slaps to the jaw, shoving away or ducking poorly timed swings, before landing a gut punch and then swiping the trooper's boots out from under him. The lad recovers with a decent enough roll and dives in for another, but Nik grabs his shirt and slams him into the side of the Black Hawk. He makes it look easy.

The trooper groans and staggers. Nik growls, irritated. "Pochemi ty tebya ne perestat vyyobyvat’sya, eh?"

"I wouldnae take tha' rookie, he called yer ma a bitch," Soap calls over.

Gaz huffs. "No he didn't."

Soap shrugs then forms his mouth into a grimacing 'ooh' when Nik lands a knee to the bollocks, proceeding to dissect their trainee's defences with brutal efficiency now that he had run out of patience. He grabs the wrist holding the baton, twists and throws his opponent like he's nought but a cheap stuffed toy from the local carnival.

When the lad scrambles to his feet, now without defence, Nik is already waiting with a right hook that sends him down to his knee and three swift kicks to the ribs that takes him the rest of the way to the floor.

Nik rests a boot on the trooper's face, and reaches for the spanner on his workbench. Gaz clears his throat, flashing four fingers with a single shake of the head to remind Nik of the agreed scale, and Nik nods, lifting his hands apologetically before clasping them before his hips. He tuts down at his felled opponent. "Ah, it appears you have been killed, comrade. A shame."

Soap swaggers over, his hands tucked inside his carrier vest, and crouches down by his trainee's head. "An' that was him at a four. Can ye imagine wha' 'e woulda done to ye at ten, eh, hen?" Soaps answer is a groan and a gurgle.

"Nikolai!"

Soap stands abruptly, Gaz straightens and the two intact troopers smack their boots together, backs rigid. Nik looks up more leisurely, his placid, Labrador eyes, now empty of malice, settle on Captain Price, who stands in the shadows of the hanger door, his arms folded. "That's quite enough. I think Reynolds has learned his lesson. Let 'im up."

Nik steps back and tucks his hands behind his back. The way he stands at ease reminds Gaz and Soap that their favourite Russian arms dealer used to wear a uniform instead of a leather jacket, and they're again thankful he bats for their team. Ha, in more ways than one, as it goes.

Reynolds climbs to his feet slowly and rejoins his mates as Gaz dismisses them.

"Get them to mess. It's dinnertime," Price says to his two sergeants, and then looks at Nik. "My office."

Someone unfamiliar with the captain might have missed the way he looked Nik up and down before he turned his back, from scruffy boots to sweating, grease-slick chest, his blue eyes aflame like pilot lights in a bloody gas boiler, but Gaz didn't. He smirks as Nik swaggers past, his jacket slung over his bare shoulder. "You dog," Gaz mutters.

Nik winks at him before he disappears with the - his - captain.

"Really?" Price asks, with a kind of tired exasperation, as they step across the threshold into the pokey little cubby hole he occupies on base.

"I was teaching," Nik says, shoulders rolling in a shrug.

"Yer take far too much joy in slappin' 'round my soldiers, Nik." Price leans against his desk, arms folded, his eyes raking over Nik's body with a white hot desire roiling in his gut.

"You must enjoy your work to perform it to a high standard." Nik strolls up into Price's personal space like he belongs there, nudging the captain's boots apart to make room, gaze dropping to his crotch. "And, perhaps, you enjoy my work too?"

Price chuckles low in his throat. "Yer sick bastard," he growls, reaching to wind his hand through that golden chain and yank Nik down.

The kiss is fierce, tongue licking possessively into Nik's mouth as Nik slots between his legs. Nik's filthy hands find Price's waist and then slide down to his arse for a greedy squeeze, moving to Price's thighs when his knees hook up and over Nik's hips.

"Hng, bloody 'ell, get those fuckin' kecks down and fuck me," Price snarls, still keeping Nik in place by his chain even as he yanks open his belt and fly.

Nik had wanted to finish his repairs, but railing Price over his desk when he looks about ready to devour him feels like a far better use of his time.

[pseudophan]

i never 'shipped' dan and phil i was just merely an empath who sensed their gay thoughts through a screen

i did that too but i also shipped them crazy fujoshi style

[lialox]

Doksoo week day 5

(posted on day 7 - the ‘do anything you want’ day)

Prompt(s): Angst, Neighbour AU, Time Travel

Summary:

In Kim Dokja’s time travel fix it, Han Sooyoung is not from the world that was fixed. (3k words)

[carlos-in-glasses]

I asked Rafael Silva who the big spoon is out of TK and Carlos. This is his giggly response. ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

Reblogs welcome but please do not repost.

[sparklykryptonitebluebird]

Headcanons for MHA

TW: Death, panic attacks, implied eating disorder, abuse, some of these are just really sad

Present Mic has trained himself not to cry, because he tends to lose control over his quirk when he's upset and he doesn't want to hurt anyone.

Aizawa has panic attacks any time something bad happens to one of his students. He always thinks he's going to let them down in some way. Mic is the only one who can comfort him, and he just lets Aizawa cry into his shoulder.

[TW] Present Mic sometimes can't eat if he's stressed or particularly upset, so Aizawa will make him eat food, but Mic will just throw it up later.

Mic gets nauseous and throws up if he's anxious.

Both of the Iida children were abused both verbally, emotionally, and physically by their dad.

After Tensei can't be a hero, his parents stop visiting him in the hospital and just act like he never existed.

Tenya has an intense fear of failure, if he thinks he did something wrong, he'll shut down completely and then apologize for like an hour straight.

In the Iida family, if a child is born with a different quirk than Engine, the kid is abandoned or given up for adoption.

Tensei thinks he has no worth after the hero killer stain incident because he couldn't do anything to stop his little brother from getting hurt.

Mic hates being vulnerable, he always has to put on a smile for everyone.

Mic loves to be cuddled.

Aizawa thinks he is not good enough for anyone, let alone Hizashi freaking Yamada, the man of his dreams.

And then Mic sees Aizawa's fear and interprets it as disinterest in him

Endeavor was also a child from a quirk marriage, and was treated very similarly to Shoto as a child, so in his early marriage and parenting years, he didn't know how wrong it was. (Granted, he still knew it was wrong, so he's not all good)

Mic thinks he's the most annoying hero, and he's had several people push him away because he said something wrong.

Present Mic throws himself into work to distract from other things, like Oboro's death, or feelings of not being good enough.

Thanks for reading!

[secriden]

Watching Joong's Hurt Me Please MV with the context of how episode 6 ended and how this is likely a song about Fadel's thoughts and feelings about Style after Finding Out, I wanted to take a deeper look at the lyrics.

I have transcribed the English lyrics on Youtube side by side with a fan translated version (credit: bl_zonee on Twitter) just because there's different shades of meaning between them that I find really interesting and I'm curious which one is the more accurate translation or if both are valid, but just give different nuance. (Perhaps a mutual who understands Thai would be willing to give some insight? *u*)

Verse 1 makes a lot of sense to me: Fadel must be wondering how Style could be so cruel ("unkind" / "heartless") because every instance of Style being honest and asking for honesty in return, all of Style's genuine desperation to bare his heart to Fadel in episode 5 and 6, now looks like a calculated, cruel deception.

And after being so afraid to reveal his secret to Style for fear that it would make Style walk away from him, there's a painful irony in Fadel now wishing Style had walked away before. Because the betrayal hurts so much more now that Fadel has given in to his heart.

The chorus is where the nuance between the translations gets interesting.

The Youtube version seems almost like Fadel is taunting Style, putting up a front that he can take the pain Style is dishing out and more. It's like he's hiding behind the bravado of being able to handle the hurt, and even more.

The MV also depicts Style smiling sadistically after slapping Fadel, as if he's enjoying the pain he's inflicting. Meanwhile, Fadel looks up almost in adoration, a strange softness in his eyes at odds with how cruelly he's being treated. The knowledge of Style's betrayal has turned Style into a monster in Fadel's mind, one which he cannot help but to still have soft, affectionate feelings.

But the fan translation sounds much more hurt and accusatory. Fadel is expressing his pain and anguish much more plainly and "you did this to me" is a line that demands responsibility.

In both translations, though, the last line ("can't get enough" / "enjoying the pain") gives us a hint that Fadel isn't willing to give Style up even now. Despite the pain, despite feeling as if he's simultaneously burning up and drowning, there's a part of him that still wants this. That still wants Style.

Interestingly, as Fadel sings the last line he begins to visibly struggle against the rope tying him to the chair. The soft look vanishes and in place is a determination and shadow that spells trouble for Style. The shock is wearing off and Fadel is starting to fight back.

Verse 2 is where the agony really hits, for me.

In both versions, Fadel recognises the way Style's love was (maybe still is?) precious to him ("your love feeds my soul" / "your love nourished my heart"). But because Style's love is a lie, it's transformed into a weapon ("poison"). It twists Style's love into a source of "hurt" to Fadel.

Which is why I think both versions have a line where Fadel admits that there's a part of him that wants Style to keep hurting him -- or rather, to keep loving him; because these are the same thing to Fadel now -- ("hurt me, make me feel used" / "the more I was hurt the more I enjoyed it") whilst also remaining accusatory ("the more I loved, the more sorrow/I suffered").

The lines about "nothing left to write about our love" / "our story" also feel very pointed and final. A closing of a chapter; a closing of the possibility of their former, uncomplicated happily ever after. Style has nothing left to write (report) back to his superiors (the police) because Fadel's love is already complete and his deception has reached the inevitable conclusion of Fadel being found out/destroyed.

All this happens while we see Style continuing to threaten Fadel with a golf club and an almost crazed expression of glee juxtaposed with flashes of Fadel and Style in much happier times.

Also the fact that this line comes with this scene where Fadel lets Style kiss him despite “knowing” it’s all a lie *sobs uncontrollably*:

The first chorus comes back once and the music reaches a plateau. We are clearly preparing for a drop or a modulation and we get exactly that (twice!) with the second chorus:

Here, both versions converge: Fadel is angry, he's furious. Style hurt him and he's going to repay all of it and more ("you'll hurt [by much more]" / "you must suffer more than I did"). The lyrics tell us that, while Fadel cannot take back the hurt (take back his love), he can certainly ensure he isn't alone in the suffering (this love will also hurt Style).

It is at this part where my heart sank as I realised that Fadel's "I think I love you" line in episode 6 now takes on a much more sinister tone.

Because I think that discovering Style's betrayal was also what made Fadel realise the truth of his love for Style; the very agony he was in was the sign that Fadel's heart was lost to him. But even as it is true, I also think he still made the choice to ruin Style in the same breath. Because if Style could use Fadel’s love as a weapon then Fadel is going to use it (Fadel’s love) to hurt Style too.

A decision was made in this moment, and everything Fadel does afterwards in this scene is deliberate.

There is, however, one piece of hope:

Despite Fadel's expressed fury, what the MV shows us is Fadel breaking out of his bonds, shoving Style back and punching him once and then:

For all his anger, for all his rage, for all his threats of manifold vengeance, what we see is Fadel pressing close and kissing Style; once on the lips, and once on his chest (heart), all while the lyrics makes space for one last plea:

("don't betray me")

For me, its the way the line is shown together with this direct visual parallel between the ignorant Fadel in the past (left) and the Fadel of the present who has seen through Style's deception (right) that I find particularly compelling. Even now, even at the point of Fadel discovering Style's betrayal, there is still hope for forgiveness.

Because Fadel cannot help himself. Because Style made Fadel's bleeding heart whole again; and it beats, it feels, and despite how much it hurts, what Fadel still wants more than anything else in the world -- desperately and simply -- is Style.

[calmlb]

Domestic skk where Chuuya gets home after a long day at work, only to find the apartment empty, with no Dazai in sight.

The lights are off, not a sound to be heard, but Chuuya can feel Dazai’s presence— some kind of sixth sense they’ve both been cursed with since they were 15.

Chuuya slowly removes his coat & shoes, letting his eyes rove over the empty kitchen & living room, till his eyes finally catch the top of a familiar head of mussed, brown waves.

Tension he didn’t realize he was holding releases at the sight, & Chuuya takes a deep breath before padding around the couch. It would do no good for his own stress to add to Dazai’s, if tonight was indeed one of those nights.

As Chuuya rounds the sofa, he finds pretty much what he expected. Dazai is curled up against the armrest, looking small despite his gangly limbs.

What Chuuya hadn’t expected was for Dazai to be fast asleep— soft breaths puffing against the expensive fabric of the armrest.

Chuuya blinks in disbelief, but can’t help the fond smile that steals across his face. Dazai always has such a hard time sleeping, so finding him like

this was a welcome surprise. Especially compared to the more somber situation that Chuuya was worried he’d be faced with.

Chuuya removes his hat & gloves, laying them aside as he crouches in front of the couch. He shamelessly studies his partner while he can’t be teased for it.

Dazai looks peaceful— cheeks rosy with sleep, & unfairly-long lashes dusting his faint spattering of freckles.

Those freckles felt like Chuuya’s little secret, because the only way to know they existed was if one got close enough to see.

And it was no secret that Dazai didn’t let people get that close.

Chuuya finds himself brushing a finger over those freckles, following the perfect slope of Dazai’s nose, tracing his high cheekbones down to the contour of his smooth jawline.

Chuuya pinches Dazai’s chin between his thumb & forefinger, tilting it at just the right angle to press a gentle kiss to Dazai’s forehead. He bites his lip to hold back a laugh at the way Dazai’s nose scrunches at the disturbance, but he really doesn’t want to wake the brunet. He obviously needs the sleep if he fell asleep here, still in his work clothes.

Why is Dazai out here? If he knew he was this tired, why not at least lie in bed?

Chuuya absently brushes Dazai’s bangs away from his eyes as he leans into the touch, releasing a contented sigh.

Oh. Chuuya’s eyes widen. He was waiting up for me.

Or, trying to, at least.

This time Chuuya doesn’t stop the warm chuckle from slipping past his lips. He presses another soft kiss to Dazai’s temple, then carefully scoops him into a princess hold. He carries his sleeping partner to their room, smiling as Dazai nuzzles his face into Chuuya’s neck.

His partner really is such a cat.

Chuuya sets Dazai down on the bed, careful not to wake him, & draws the blankets up under his chin, just the way Dazai likes it. He doesn’t bother getting him into comfier clothes— obviously, he was comfortable enough to fall asleep as he was.

Chuuya does change his own clothes, though, & brushes his teeth before turning off the light & slipping into bed next to Dazai.

He turns to wrap himself around Dazai from behind, but before he can, he finds himself with a face full of mackerel.

Soft hair tickles Chuuya’s chin as Dazai snuggles into him again— always seeking out the nearest heatsource.

“I thought you were asleep, you malingerer,” Chuuya scolds quietly.

“Shh, I am asleep,” Dazai whispers, nose digging into Chuuya’s breastbone as he tries to burrow into his partner’s chest.

Chuuya rolls his eyes, but he can hear the grogginess in Dazai’s voice that tells him he wasn’t faking it. He doesn’t fight the urge to bring a hand up to card through Dazai’s fluffy waves.

Dazai doesn’t grant him a response other than to press himself even closer to Chuuya, so that they’re practically melded together. Chuuya smiles, pressing one more, languid kiss to the crown of Dazai’s head— pausing to breathe him in— before closing his eyes & letting sleep overtake them both.

Chuuya version