keep having people try to talk football with me and i don’t know how to break the news that the first time ive watched a full football match since i was 6 was two damn weeks ago. idk what offside means but yeah sure i agree that shot was onside, uh huh, i definitely watched that match as well i WASNT watching the pitt wdym
But when Nik broke his leg during a black op for Laswell, John used his entire year's worth of leave to look after him until he was mobile again.
John will never scatter rose petals over the duvet and light candles.
But when Nik said he would like an outside patio for their cat, because she looked sad sometimes, John had his tools and measuring tape out within half an hour.
John will never recite poetry or make grand romantic gestures.
But the way he looks at Nik, the way he is silly and goofy and soppy, the way he kisses and hugs and nuzzles, the way his entire face lights up when Nik walks through the door...
John Price loves quietly, but with his entire being.
His love is written in every action.
No candle will compare to the warmth of his arms.
The poetry is in every moment he spends at Nik's side.
Literallt the biggest knob in the gym right now i’m wearing fucking denim shorts because i zoned out while looking for clothes and i just did a pb leg press in motherfucking denim shorts. update i forgot to press post on this. that was on sunday.
Nikolai, much like most other people on the planet, is a liar. A liar by trade, by nature, there’s no escaping it.
But, for the first time in his life, he feels guilty for what he’s said.
“No, John, I do not have any left.” Nikolai swiftly tucks the packet into his pocket, dropping the last few pieces of gum safely away from John’s fury.
“Fuck’s sake, olright, let me get some off Garrick. GAZ, C’MERE!” he shouts. John turns to look over the back of the sofa just as Kyle runs over, unsuspecting to the cruelty about to unleash.
“Got any gum?”
“..why?” His question is in vain. One hand dropped to his pockets reflexively, a sign John takes as *victory*.
“Gimme some?”
Fuck’s sake. “Sure, Cap,” he mumbles, searching through the pocket of his bomber before producing a crumpled pack of spearmint. He offers it over tentatively. Out of his own kindness, Kyle went so far as to push one piece right to the top for easy accessibility. Old man would need the help, after all.
John snatches it away, taking not one, not two, but *three* bloody pieces out. Each one dropped into John’s mouth, hitting in tandem with the pangs of guilt in Nikolai’s chest. The poor man had just been robbed.
He had to learn somehow, anyway, Nik convinced himself.
“Cheers, la’. Get back to training,” Price grins, teeth flashing before clamping his mouth shut to get to chewing. He gives a firm pat to Kyle’s shoulder just as the sergeant turns away. He feigns ignorance to the variety of expletives Kyle unloads on the rest of the Taskforce, who had watched the crime without intervention.
“You are criminal, John,” Nik mumbles as the man swivels back around to focus once more on the video on Nikolai’s cracked phone. He chooses to ignore his own role in the matter.
A pair of mint-flavoured lips meet his own nonetheless. Maybe lying wasn’t so bad.
i need data for a statistics project for school, so be my sample data, worms. i need thirty people minimum so if there aren't enough voters yet i'd love if you could help. thank you very much. worms.
take this test (https://www.keithcirkel.co.uk/whats-my-jnd/, it's a color perception/comparison test, it's pretty fun. precision does not matter, just accuracy), then come back here:
what's your JND?
.00030-.00099
.0010-.0017
.0017-.0024
.0024-.0031
.0031-.0038
.0038-.0045
.0045-.0052
.0052-.0059
.0059-.0066
.0066-.0073
.0073-.0080
.0080 or greater
Voting ended onMay 13
the lower the number, the closer two colors have to be before you can't tell the difference
it doesnt have to be a good score, you dont have to take it multiple times, you dont have to get on a good screen, etcetera. just gimme your score please this is my final project grade :)
Feel free to ignore this because politics and it's depressing af, but --
63 seats were up for grabs in my local elections. 63. All but 3 of them have gone to reform. I'm struggling to find a reason to be hopeful for this country right now. Never been more ashamed of where I'm from, either.
Again, sorry for bringing this up to you, but I'm just so gutted, and my family thinks I'm overreacting and nothing much will change and I'm just so done. So, so done.
You can be angry. You can be sad. You can make plans to protect you and yours.
But you must, under no circumstances, give up.
Their victory is only finite when people stop fighting then.
As someone who has lived under a Reform council now for over a year... They're fucking it up. Big time. We just elected a Green counsellor to replace a Reform counsellor. The ignorant and deranged, who care about no one but themselves, need to see how Reform will make their life worse and then they'll vote intelligently.
We're lucky. This is about bins, not human rights. Give them time to fuck up.
Don't write the UK off yet. The vast majority of people vote left or centre left. UK came out of the Second World War with an important realisation; the government is our servant, and it owes us healthcare, education, and protection. Labour broke their promise and now they're being punished.
Give Reform chance to fuck up. They're fucking up Warwickshire and they're fucking up in Kent. Every Reform council has raised council tax to give themselves a pay rise. Local elections have low turnouts and the extreme right/right wing benefit from low turnouts.
If you are apathetic, if you do not vote, if you throw the innocent and the vulnerable to the wolves because you "don't do politics", if you tell me they are all as bad as each other, I will treat you with the same disdain and aggression I do the Nazi cunts themselves. Because you enabled them. You endanger my family with your lazy virtue signalling.
Band of the Scots Guard, British Army, Navy and Air Force marched in London for Pride. You just know that comphet Price volunteers when the email comes round.
Freshly out, freshly divorced, he's feeling vulnerable, but he's never been a man that does anything in half measures. He pulls out his number ones, buffs his shoes and flattens that damn beret properly.
When he stares at himself in the mirror that morning, he sees a tired, crooked looking man as always, but there's a brightness in his eyes that hasn't been there for years. A new dawn. That doesn't stop the anxiety pulling tight in his chest as he leaves his flat. He slides into the passenger seat of Nik's BMW and presses his palm over the top of the hand that settles on his thigh. "Are you ok?"
"Grand," Price croaks, adjusting his belt.
He's relieved that he's not the senior officer present. Falls in with the rest. He keeps studying the others. Men and women like him; some young, some older, all with their chest candy on proud display, service uniform pressed and proper. There's a jittery excitement that isn't usually there for ceremonial gigs. This is special. Something twists in his stomach and for a horrible moment Price thinks he's going to throw up his black coffee and croissant from the service station.
The band chimes in. They start marching. Price keeps his eyes front, timing his strides with the woman on his left, his chest tight. There are thousands of people around. This was a stupid idea. He feels like an ant under a microscope. Like people are scrutinising him; imposter, don't belong. Shouldn't be here.
It's 1.4 miles. He can make it. Hold fast.
And then Price spots him for the first time at a turn.
Nikolai.
A flash of aviators, the familiar brown jacket, stripey shirt. They're impossible to miss, even in a sea of colour and faces. Then again about a quarter of a mile later. And again. And again. Nik's tracking him. Fighting his way through the press of bodies to march with him. He never said anything, only that they would meet at the end and get a drink. Perhaps he had only decided on the fly. Each time Price spots Nik, the tightness at his core eases, and soon he's smiling. The woman next to him glances over and then follows his eyes. "Yours?"
Price flushes. "Yeah," he says, "mine."
Nik has his back. As always. He should be marching here too. But he can't, can he? Nik will never don his uniform again. That shard of himself he had to crack off and leave behind for the greater good. Some got their hands dirty so others could stay clean, but others had to cut off pieces of themselves, gnaw off the fuckin' chains and fight with the blood still in their teeth.
Nik would never march as a captain of his air force, beside his brothers in arms, down the winding road of his capital city, surrounded by the cheers of the people he served. But Price could march for him. He could do this for both of them.
His back straightened, the last of his shyness evaporating as his attendance took on a greater purpose. He knew where he belonged here, and that was at Nik's side.
Next year, Price would carry Nik's tags with his own.
