#martin olson

[deluxewhump]

Martin Olson AU: I’m Not Yours

Cw: pet whump, drug mention, alcohol, violence, blood, cut finger and tongue, mild choking, threats, Stockholmy homesickness from Carlo, father/son arguments

Martin was in a mood on the ride back to his post-divorce Baltimore home. He was curt with his driver, and kept checking his phone, his watch.

Carlo’s mood wasn’t much better. They’d been at a cocktail party for longer than he’d have liked. Carlo spent it drifting from the foyer to the living room with a champagne flute in his hand. Every time he finished a glass someone showed up at his shoulder to pour him another so he’d stopped drinking it, but not before he’d become pink cheeked and dizzy with a sickly sweet buzz.

Martin spent half the evening upstairs with the host talking about god knows what, but had not invited him. Instead he’d left him to fend for himself with the other guests, most of which either already knew or guessed what he was. One man went so far as to touch the sleeve of his soft navy sweater to stop him and get a look at his face.

“Martin of all people,” he smirked to no one in particular. “With this coltish little racehorse. Who’dve thunk it. You were Holstrom’s, weren’t you? That verdict was a real shame.”

Carlo pulled away, knowing it was rude. He could feel the contempt on his face, too late to catch it. Luckily, the man only laughed, and moved on.

By the time they were in the car headed home, his buzz had worn off, leaving him hungry and with a slight headache behind his eyes. He wanted to crawl into bed. He wanted to call Erik and hear his voice on the other line. He wanted Martin to treat him with special consideration like he had the first month.

The house was dark and cold. Carlo knew to scrape his shoes on the mat and place them gently where they belonged, to hang his coat on the correct wooden rung.

He paused, coat halfway to the rack. Another coat was on his rung, a black peacoat. He heard a noise in the kitchen.

“My son,” Martin muttered. “How nice he drops by unannounced at all hours.”

Carlo followed him into the utilitarian kitchen, a cavernous display of stainless steel and cold lights and slate tile. Blake Olson was eating a sandwich like he hadn’t eaten in days, a prodigious mess spread all over the marble topped island.

Martin eyed it with distaste. “A little late, isn’t it?” he asked with little interest.

Blake smiled at Carlo around a mouthful of baloney and pickles. “You hungry, Carlo?” he asked brightly.

He was. He glanced at Martin, noticing the tightness around his mouth, those ice blue eyes flat and unamused.

“No thanks,” he answered. He made a wide berth around Blake when he got a glass and filled it with filtered water from the fridge.

“I noticed the transfer you made last week on your statement,” Martin said, laying his palms flat on the cool countertop.

Blake chewed overzealously, giving his father a sarcastic thumbs up. “Oh yeah?” he said when he swallowed. “That’s great, Dad. Really good detective work. As usual.”

“Thirty thousand dollars this time. Do I dare ask for what?”

“I dunno, do you? Go ahead. I’m surprised you haven’t tracked it down already, the way you’re on my ass about every fucking penny I spend. Checking my bank statements. What am I, fifteen?”

“I have access to them because I put money in them,” Martin said cooly. “On a regular basis, so you can make your mortgage payment and pay your child support. You are paying your child support, aren’t you? Or will she have to get a court order for even that level of commitment?”

“Commitment. Whenever that word comes up, I know what’s next.” Blake winked at Carlo like a game show host to the audience. “Next, we’re gonna talk about how I flunked out of Colby a million years ago. Yeah, let’s bring that up again. Just like every time I see you. Like I haven’t done anything with my life since that.”

“You haven’t.”

Blake set down his sandwich. His pupils were normal, Carlo realized. He’d never seen them normal before. A vein was becoming visible in his forehead, running down his temple. “I’m working all the fucking time, Dad. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Just because I don’t want to sit at a fucking desk all day. Rotting.”

“Right, because you’re doing so well staying out all night and shoveling drugs up your nose. You’re working so hard that I have to supplement your coke and whore habit like you’re on my payroll.”

Blake snorted. “Learned from the best.”

Carlo tucked his legs up on the chair, knees almost to his chin. His heart was thudding unpleasantly at this exchange.

Father and son stared at each other across the counter, Blake sporting a barely-repressed rage that seemed to emanate from his broad shoulders like a visible aura. Martin was cool to the point of coldness.

“Richer than God and you want to bully me over 30k,” Blake scoffed, eyes narrowed in contempt.

“Regardless of what I have or don’t have, what makes you feel entitled to any of it? Delusional. You always have been.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Blake snapped.

There was a beat of silence like lead. Carlo pinched the spot between his thumb and forefinger to keep from crawling out of his skin.

“Get out,” Martin said flatly. “Don’t even bother with your mess. Just get out of my house, Blake.”

For a split second Blake looked surprised, a flash of hurt crossing his features and dropping back to smugness. He sighed, picking up his plate with half a sandwich left on it and rounding the island towards Carlo.

Carlo drew back into his chair another inch as Blake approached.

“I know you’re hungry, Carlo,” he said, and dropped the plate with a clatter onto the table. Carlo flinched. “Eat up, cupcake.”

He turned to his father. “Pretty fucking rich, saying I’m the one with the whores.”

Carlo dropped his eyes, praying Blake would just leave quietly.

He flinched when the front door slammed.

“I don’t know where he gets it,” Martin said.

Carlo unfolded his legs, picked up the plate and brought it to the kitchen sink. He began cleaning up Blake’s mess of open jars and ingredients, a dirty knife.

“His mother, for all her flaws, is neither lazy nor a goddam junkie.”

Carlo bumped the back of his hand into a wine glass, sending it toppling into the sink and shattering. He clenched his teeth, nerves like the serrated edge of a saw.

Erik had been sentenced last week. Three years, minimum. Martin had consoled him gently, talking about an appeal.

The homesickness came in waves, and often at the worst possible time. He tried to pick up the biggest shards of wine glass and hissed, pulling back his hand as his finger welled with blood.

“Hey now,” Martin said silkily, coming to stand behind him. “Easy. Let me see.”

Now that he knew Blake, he could see Martin in him. Martin was a much older man with a leaner build, but the set of the eyes was the same, the width of the jaw… even a fleeting expression here and there. Martin tsked at him and reached for a clean dish towel. Carlo almost protested. Everything in this house was pristine, carefully selected, minimalistic. Surely the dish towel was a matching set and now half would be ruined with his blood.

But Martin wrapped it quickly and added pressure, and Carlo remained silent.

“I want you to go with him for a weekend,” Martin said softly. For a moment Carlo thought he meant Erik, and he felt a pilot light of hope snap to life inside him.

“I think he’s in over his head in something but he won’t admit it to me because he’s embarrassed. I want to know what, before it causes another PR nightmare for me or the company. Pretend it’s your idea. Pretend you and I have fought.”

Carlo stared at him. He meant his son. Of course he did. Erik was in prison.

Blake was unpredictable, high or drunk at all hours and his friends were worse. Date Rape and Tax Fraud, Martin had nicknamed the two Blake hung out with the most.

“I—,”

“I know. But it’s important.”

Carlo huffed, whitehot anger rising in his throat like a scream. How could he ask this of him? Was he out of his mind? It went against everything he’d told Erik he’d do to watch out for him.

“Be my good boy,” Martin pressed.

“I’m not,” Carlo blurted. “I’m not even yours.”

Martin leveled with him. “Come again?”

“I— I don’t want to do that. It’s not… they’re a nightmare. No.”

“The other thing you said.”

Did Martin think he wouldn’t dare say it again? It was true. Even in federal prison— he belonged to Erik Holstrom.

“I’m not. Even. Yours,” he snapped.

Martin went from statue still to a blur of motion, grabbing hold of Carlo by both shoulders and wheeling him around, slamming him into the wall. His head snapped back and cracked into the drywall. An instant, deep ache rang from the center of his head outward and he tasted blood. He’d bitten his tongue.

Martin was close, his breath like warm merlot. “You don’t know how good you’ve got it,” he said in a voice so deceptively soft it made Carlo choke a sob.

“I’ve made this entire thing a fucking cakewalk for you. You’re so spoiled you don’t even know the position you’re in. You don’t even know what goes on in your world because I’ve made sure you’re so protected from it you don’t even know it exists. There’s fifty pets in this city alone who would gnaw off their right foot to have the life you have here.”

His heart was in his throat, his mind reeling with the possibilities of what exactly that meant. His head throbbed and he swallowed blood. He’d dropped the dish towel and his finger was now bleeding onto the gray slate tile in slow drips.

“Yes Sir,” he whispered.

He knew when to back down. He couldn’t believe he’d pushed as far as he had, now that he’d done it.

Martin took a hand off one of his shoulders to place it around his neck. He squeezed at the soft junctures of Carlo’s jaw beneath his ears so his head felt tight and dizzy.

“Say it again. Look at me.”

He locked eyes with his surrogate Master. “Yes, Sir.”

Martin loosed the grip on his throat, but left his hand there. He eyed Carlo’s bloody lower lip, raised a thumb to brush against it. He leaned in and pressed his lips there briefly, like he wanted to taste the blood more than kiss him.

He moved a strand of Carlo’s hair away from his forehead.

“I like you, Carlo. Don’t be another thorn in my side and I won’t have to treat you like one.”

[echoexmachina]

We're watchin', and we're waitin', On the edge of our seats, anticipatin' It's looking awful permanent, But we know it could go away...

We're keeping our eyes peeled, keeping 'em glued to the spot 'Cause one moment it's there but then the next maybe not Don't know if it's magic or some weird cosmic plot, So we're watchin' and we're waitin'...

We're starin' and we're glarin' 'til our corneas burn We hope it'll stay for the rest of the day 'til our mama returns (RED VS RED, & BLUE VS BLUE) So don't even think about blinking or it just might go...away...

So we're watchin', and waitin', So we're watchin', and waitin', Yeah we're watchin', and waitin', We're watchin'...

[dwampyverse-tournaments]

Phinedroids and Ferbots vs. Mid-Life Crisis

[sickgraymeat]

They are canonically both dating her

[furashuban]

An Adventure Time fansong I composed inspired by an excerpt from the 2015 tie-in novel The Enchiridion & Marcy's Super Secret Scrapbook!!! which expanded on Simon and Marcy's story in the show and detailed off-screen moments of their life together through their perspectives.

In the book, Marceline writes this poem after Simon leaves her in Everything Stays, and it was the moment that absolutely shattered me to read years ago and made their farewell in the episode thrice as heartbreaking :'> So when I revisited this book a few nights back, I suddenly thought it would be a neat idea if I gave Marcy's poem it's own melody:

This was super fun and emotional to put together and I really hope you all enjoy this just as much as I did arranging it <33 (also I don't know if any copies of this book are still available anywhere but if you do manage to spot it I HIGHLY encourage you to get it, especially if you're really into the Simon and Marcy lore of the show like I am <33)

SoundCloud Version

Text version of lyrics below:

You're my old friend

I don't want you to go.

Is this really the end?

Please tell me no.

You said your mind

Was getting warped and hazy.

Before I was blind

To all of your crazy.

I still love the old you

I want you to know

There's too much we've been through

Do you have to go?

I hope you find peace

I hope you calm down

Please Simon don't lose yourself

To the crown

[nerdraging4point0]

I am having an existential crisis right now.

Discussing with my friends' bands we would have liked to meet or have met, it occurred to me that I was primarily naming guitarists. I thought to myself, surely, I don't have a type.

Someone please tell me. What do we call this type of problem?

[randomrichards]

FANCY DANCE:

Search for lost sister

Hustler takes niece for Pow Wow

Puts self on the run

[kwebtv]

The Missiles of October - ABC - December 18, 1974

Docudrama

Running Time: 150 minutes

Stars:

Ralph Bellamy as Adlai Stevenson

Howard da Silva as Nikita Khrushchev

John Dehner as Dean Acheson

William Devane as John F. Kennedy

Andrew Duggan as General Maxwell Taylor

Dana Elcar as Robert McNamara

Larry Gates as Dean Rusk

James Olson as McGeorge Bundy

Nehemiah Persoff as Andrei Gromyko

William Prince as C. Douglas Dillon

John Randolph as George Ball

Martin Sheen as Robert F. Kennedy

Michael Lerner as Pierre Salinger

Clifford David as Theodore Sorensen

Albert Paulsen as Anatoly Dobrynin

Keene Curtis as John McCone,

Robert P. Lieb as Curtis LeMay

[camyfilms]

LOVE ACTUALLY 2003

But for now, let me say - Without hope or agenda - Just because it's Christmas - And at Christmas you tell the truth - To me, you are perfect - And my wasted heart will love you - Until you look like this. Merry Christmas.

[deluxewhump]

whats martin up to?

I wanna write some Blake Olson. (The son I mentioned but haven’t introduced.)

Cw: Human pets/trafficking, drug mention, threats of violence

Martin Olson goes away for a week but gets tied up in business. He realizes on Friday evening that he won’t be back to the east coast for another month.

He has his son go collect Carlo, as a month is a long time to leave a pet (specially someone else’s pet) all alone to their own devices.

Blake Olson shows up 5am one morning, still coked out from partying in Baltimore the night before. He lets himself into his fathers dark house unannounced and finds the room the boy pet is sleeping in.

He flicks on a light and waits patiently for Carlo to blink awake, confused and then terrified.

Carlo has been alone for a week in Marins house and has no idea who this man is. He thinks this is an intruder of some sort, and he tries to run. Blake grabs him and swings him back, pins him to the bed, laughing. Carlo fights him, pure adrenaline, gets a good elbow in Blake’s face before Blake cries out and backs off. He blocks the door, holding his face. “Nice to meet you, too. You’re as rude as Erik, I see.”

It dawns on a breathless and badly shaken Carlo that this is Blake, Martin’s son.

“I’m Blake. Obviously. I was sent to get you. Pack your shit.”

“He- n-no. Martin didn’t tell me you were coming. Anyone was coming.”

“Yeah, he’s like that. Hurry up, I’m fucking exhausted. And you hit me in the face. What will we do about that, I wonder?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Blake hums in annoyance, tinged with an amusement that hints at the knowledge of his own absolute power in the situation. “Yeah, you are.”

“Call Martin. I want to hear him say it.”

“It’s two in the morning where he’s at, I’m not calling shit. You’re going to do what I ask, or I’ll call my driver up here and have him help me hogtie you. We can drop you off at the pound, if you’re so sure I’m not a good enough substitute for my father.”

“The what?” Carlo’s shirt is wet with cold sweat. He’s backed against the headboard of the bed, nerves ringing like bells.

“You know. What’s it called? Grayfield? Grayson. Like the prison-slash-torture-chamber for the unrulies? I don’t wanna do that to you. I was gonna take you nice and quiet to my place, give you the pullout couch, tuck you in and kiss you goodnight, huh?”

Carlo frowned. His ribs hurt from where Blake had pinned him. He’d been alarmingly strong. He was as tall as Martin but bigger, broader shouldered and more muscular. He looked like a linebacker in a prep school sweater.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” he said weakly, knowing as well as Blake that he had no argument to make, no leg to stand on.

Blake pinched the bridge of his nose long sufferingly. “I didn’t mean to scare you, princess. I was just joking around. You know what a joke is, right? But I’m really fucking tired right now, it’s been a very long night, and I want to go sleep in my own bed. It’s a half hour north, so I’d like to get a move on and beat the morning traffic. If you come with me nice and sweet, I’ll forget about the black eye you just gave me. If you give me trouble, I’ll have you begging to do whatever it is I ask, much faster than you would think. Capiche?”

Carlo had to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He was shaking. He wondered if Blake could see it. The Olson heir took a step toward him, tilting his head as if in warning of the threat he’d just given.

Carlo backed against the headboard so it banged into the wall. “Ok,” he blurted. “Ok. Yes.”

Blake stopped. He smiled. His eyes were blue like his fathers but dark, warm cornflower instead of glacier ice. His hair was the honey color of graham cracker, pushed to the side and neat. “Great. Pack whatever you want. You’ve got ten minutes. This house is depressing. I miss the old one.”

Carlo nodded, wondering how long of a stay he was expected to pack for. Why wasn’t Martin coming back tomorrow, like he’d said over the phone? Why did he need his son to come babysit him like a puppy? He was perfectly happy in this big, quiet house with its flatscreens and pressed juice and his money for delivery, for Ubers.

His heart hammered in his chest as he packed. It hadn’t been long since he was afraid like this last time, going to a stranger. Surely Martin would not want Blake to hurt him in any real way. Martin was civil, measured. He had a sense of humor, and a gentle hand. He must have told his son not to hurt his foster pet.

But Blake must be crazy to barge in like that, to tackle him and scare him seemingly just to get a reaction. What else was he capable of? Carlo’s imagination was limitless. He’d seen enough horror movies and heard enough stories to give him fodder for countless nightmare scenarios, scenes out of Misery and Hostel and some grainy foreign film he accidentally saw once that Eriks colleagues were watching. He couldn’t understand the language but still saw images from it at night sometimes, when he closed his eyes. Erik had assured him it wasn’t real, but there had been an amateur element to it that always made Carlo doubt it was fiction the men had been watching.

Blake went to the bathroom down the hall, ran the tap. Carlo heard him singing something boisterously, like he was doing a Frank Sinatra cover of a club song he had stuck in his head.

Tears blurred his vision as he packed a suitcase with shaking hands. The zipper caught when he tried to close it, and caught again. He pulled it back and tried a third time, nearly sobbing when it got yet again stuck.

“Stop. Let me,” Blake said from the doorway, startling him. He knelt down beside him, all imposing six feet two of him in his argyle sweater. He wrangled the zipper, shutting the suitcase and standing it upright. This close, Blake could see the frustration on Carlo’s face, the tears standing in his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked. “Are you scared?”

Carlo gave Blake the dirtiest look he dared and Blake gave him a knowing Cheshire smile, eyes low and bloodshot.

“You’ve got no reason to be. Unless you want to be. Is that your thing? Like a cat and mouse kind of game? Coz I’ll play, if it is.” He winked.

Carlo had no idea what he was talking about. “No. Please. I’m sorry I hit you. Really. I didn’t know who you were. You scared me.”

“Are you still scared?”

“…Yes.”

“Mm. I’ll ask you the same thing tomorrow night. You’ll see.”

See what? He wanted to beg, but Blake was up and pulling him up too, corralling him and his sad black suitcase toward the door.

[abs0luteb4stard]

W a t c h i n g :

S e a s o n 1 – 6

[echoexmachina]

We're watchin', and we're waitin', On the edge of our seats, anticipatin' It's looking awful permanent, But we know it could go away...

We're keeping our eyes peeled, keeping 'em glued to the spot 'Cause one moment it's there but then the next maybe not Don't know if it's magic or some weird cosmic plot, So we're watchin' and we're waitin'...

We're starin' and we're glarin' 'til our corneas burn We hope it'll stay for the rest of the day 'til our mama returns (RED VS RED, & BLUE VS BLUE) So don't even think about blinking or it just might go...away...

So we're watchin', and waitin', So we're watchin', and waitin', Yeah we're watchin', and waitin', We're watchin'...

[dwampyverse-tournaments]

Just Roll With It vs. Lot of Pressure

[alaturkanews]

Fancy Dance - Erica Tremblay - Lily Gladstone - Review by Efe Teksoy

“FANCY DANCE”, A HEART-BREAKING DRAMATIC PRODUCTION Cinema Writer/Film Critic Efe TEKSOY; wrote drama film “FANCY DANCE”, for America’s Los Angeles-based Internet Newspaper @alaturkanews. RESERVATION LIFE Fancy Dance, which had its world premiere at the 2023 Sundance Film Festival on January 20, 2023, is the debut feature film of Erica Tremblay, a Native American filmmaker known for her…

[bkkblogs]

Elite Capture: Democracy, Power, Oppression

Marx and Engels (1848) believed that states and markets allocated resources as a result of a vertical class struggle, the rich against the poor. However, I argue that the more significant struggle is horizontal, not vertical. Echoing Gilens and Page (2014), I propose that governments intervene in the economy primarily to serve the elite. Continue reading Untitled