#and i am putting way more i to this than i personally have

[sa2sugu]

....hi everyone......... i know that some of you already know about this but i have a bl comic that is currently being published on lezhin. it's called "처음의 여름" or "a first of summers". it's explicit and i'd be really happy if anyone who is interested in this type of thing or my art gives it a read.

you can read the english version at: https://www.lezhinus.com/en/comic/first_summer

(or the korean version here if you're into that): https://lezhin.com/ko/comic/first_of_summers

you can also follow me on twitter: https://x.com/pppanghouse

i have gotten many messages asking me if i was the one behind a first of summers (because apparently my art style is very recognizable i can't hide from you guys!!), and i've been ignoring them for months (sorry, everyone) because i was never fully proud of the work that i was putting out there. i still don't think i am at a point where i can confidently promote my work like a normal person would because me and shame are like this -> 🫂. but i am working on getting better at managing my shame and making this post is a step towards that goal. in a way, i felt more reluctant to post about it here because i see the connections i've made on tumblr as real tangible friendships rather than parasocial ones so it's even more embarrassing.

as a lover of yaoi, slice of life and queer media, i tried to make something that i personally would like to read, in an art style that i would have found inspirational when i started digital art. here are some panels that i am kind of proud of ahh hee hee

to be honest it feels very very weird to "make a story" and "share it with people", because i've never done something like this before and having to offer my personal themes and internal symbols to people in the hopes that some of you may resonate with them feels like i'm running down the street with my whole ass out in the open. idk how people do this.

also, i know a lot of you consume media illegally and i know that i alone can't stop you from doing that. which is why i'm all the more thankful to anyone who chooses to support me by buying the chapters on the official websites. i'm slowly learning that this (working on stories and drawing) might be something i want to keep doing and get better at, so i'm so deeply grateful to those who make that possible for me by supporting me financially. it always feels super nice when people show appreciation for my art and recommend it to other people and talk about it.

anyways, so that's me. i have a lot more to say but this post has already gotten long enough, and none of it includes any information on what the comic is about lol so here's a short synopsis: hyeonseon is a 40yo divorced salaryman who, after having a bit of a midlife crisis about where he is at in life, decides to learn electric guitar. his teacher, yeoreum (which means summer) is a 24yo college student who is also having a bit of a crisis of his own aaaand falls for the older dude. uhhhh and as i said it's explicit they are fucking it oppa homo style, and it does deal with themes related to age gaps but please don't come for meeeee!!!!!!!! i tried to make it tasteful and chose to work with age gaps because i had something to say about the concept of adulthood/life, also i enjoy a dude who's a little old getting dicked down by a younger lad what do you want me to say, damn......

if you have any nice things to say about my work then weeheee please go ahead, thank you

[lazysoulwriter]

caught on camera! - pedro pascal.

requested! hope u like it. ♡ - requests still open!

----

Sitting under the bright lights of Jimmy Kimmel Live!, you can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves as you watch Pedro answer questions with his usual charm. You’re not on stage, of course— you’re sitting just off to the side, hidden from the audience’s view, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe from whatever is about to happen.

Pedro has been doing press non-stop for his latest project, and somehow, this is the only interview you’ve been able to attend in person. He had smiled when you told him you’d be there, reaching for your hand and squeezing it. “Just don’t laugh too hard if Kimmel roasts me.”

Now, watching him on the big screen behind the stage, you know exactly what’s coming. Jimmy leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Pedro, I gotta ask— have you been enjoying your time off between projects?”

Pedro nods, resting his elbow on the chair’s arm. “Yeah, it’s been nice to have a little break.”

Jimmy hums. “A little vacation, maybe?”

Pedro shifts slightly. “Something like that.”

The audience chuckles, sensing where this is going. You sink lower in your seat.

Jimmy grins as he turns toward the screen behind him. “Because, you know, the thing about vacations is… sometimes the paparazzi find you.”

And there it is.

A picture flashes on the screen— you and Pedro, standing in the middle of a quiet street in some European city, locked in a kiss. It’s not just a peck; it’s the kind of kiss that looks straight out of a movie, with his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers curled into his jacket. It’s intimate, raw, and completely undeniable.

The audience erupts into cheers, whistling and clapping.

Pedro leans back in his chair, groaning as he rubs his face with both hands. “Oh, man…”

Jimmy is grinning like a kid who just found the best gossip. “Now this is what I call a vacation, Pedro!” He turns to the audience. “Look at this, folks! That’s not just a casual kiss— that’s ‘leading man in a romance movie’ energy right there!”

You cover your face with your hands, feeling your entire body heat up.

Pedro exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “I knew you were gonna do this.”

Jimmy raises his hands innocently. “Listen, I didn’t take the picture! I’m just… appreciating the art.” He gestures to the screen. “And let’s be honest, this looks like a scene from The Last of Us if Joel actually got to be happy for once.”

The crowd laughs, and Pedro shakes his head, biting back a smile.

Jimmy leans forward. “So, come on, tell me— who is the lucky lady?”

Pedro hesitates just for a second— just enough time for Jimmy to put two and two together. His eyes widen, and then he gasps dramatically, turning toward the audience. “Wait. Is she here?”

The cheers grow louder. You bury your face in your hands again as Pedro laughs, shaking his head. “You’re evil.”

Jimmy gestures toward the side of the stage. “Come on, let’s just say hi—”

Pedro raises a hand. “No way, absolutely not. I’d like to make it home alive, thanks.”

The audience erupts into laughter. You peek up at Pedro, who’s already looking at you with that soft, knowing smile. Your face is burning, but you can’t help but smile back.

Jimmy sighs, feigning disappointment. “Fine, fine. I won’t push… for now.” Then he turns back to Pedro, grinning. “But I gotta say, man, you look really happy.”

Pedro doesn’t hesitate this time. He nods, his smile widening just a little. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”

Your heart flutters.

Jimmy claps his hands together. “Well, folks, there you have it! Pedro Pascal: officially the internet’s boyfriend, but privately off the market.”

Pedro groans, but it’s playful. The interview moves on, but you can still feel his gaze flicking toward you every now and then, as if making sure you’re okay.

And the truth is— you are.

You’re more than okay.

----

[umbrella-show]

Hello 🤗 just wanted to say I really love your work, and I have a request (if requests are closed and I didn't see, then I apologize)

I was wondering if you could write some romantic yandere head canons with shadow milk cookie (or if you are able to write for burning spice cookie and mystic Flour, you can add them too) with a corrupted beast! Reader who is like nightmare moon from my little pony?

The reader has her personality, the same hair, the horn and the wings etc. and their castle/palace is in the middle of the forest, all day everyday is night. And when the beasts + reader get imprisoned, you could maybe write how the reader was instead imprisoned in the moon (like the show, y'know?)

It's a lot, ik, and you can ignore this if it's too much or not descriptive enough. Have a good day/night 👋

Okay so I haven't seen mlp so I'll try my best to get their personality right.

You were imprisoned with the beast after their corruption, the witches forcing them to watch as extra punishment for their actions.

First off, Shadow Milk cookie would be PISSED that the witches had imprisoned you in the moon, far far away from his prison in the Silver Tree.

If you were going to be trapped, it should have been with him!

He had screamed your name, fought in his cage, extending his arm out as if he could somehow reach you.

Alas, you were sealed within the moon, forced away from him and the other beasts.

Years passed, and while you were never corrupted like your friends when you were imprisoned, you were forced to watch the world go on without you.

It caused you to grow bitter, resentful of the cookies beneath you. They were able to live on, to enjoy their life while you were forced to helplessly watch.

You had eventually become corrupted, vowing to cover the sky in eternal night and bring misery and pain to all. If you couldn't be happy, no one could.

You waited, seethed, plotted your eventual return.

And your patience paid off.

Shadow Milk cookie was the first to break free from the tree, freeing the other beasts in the process.

Of course, he didn't forget about you. When he burst out of the giant split in the tree, he looked up at the moon.

A huge smile spread across his face. He could practically feel your misery, your indignance, your ever burning rage.

Oh, this was going to be a show for the AGES!

After Shadow Milk cookie's first attempt at retrieving his soul jam failed, he switched gears.

He decided to lay low for a bit, gather his faithful followers to make put on a new show that was sure to not fail!

And you were one on his stars.

Of course, freeing you would be no ease feat. While the magic containing you in the moon was weaker than the magic that contained the beast into the Silver Tree, he knew you couldn't escape all on your own.

And so, with a sprinkle of magic from him to boast your strength, you had felt the constrictive chains holding you down break.

You had emerged, spreading your dark wings out as your gave a hardened stare towards Shadow Milk cookie.

"Ooooh!~ I looove the new look! Ah, my and the others always knew dabbling in a little darkness would do you good. And, by the looks of it, we were right, of course!"

"I see you've become even more insufferable then when I last saw you."

"Sheesh, grumpy pants! Have some appreciation. I AM the reason you're finally free, am I not?!"

"..."

"See! Now, c'mon, come closer to me, my dazzling star!"

"No."

He is EXTREMELY clingy. Whenever he's around you, he's always touching you in some way. Interlocked arms or even sitting on your shoulders when he's feeling especially cocky are some of the ways we clings to you.

He finds amusement in your seriousness and stoicism. He likes to purposefully annoy you to get a reaction out of you.

He is around you 24/7, trailing along with his boisterous voice as you try to find a way to get some pace. Of course, he won't allow that.

Life in the Spire of Deceit isn't the worst. Just extremely boring. You are forced to wait as Candy Apple cookie lures those worthless ants here in order to steal back his Soul Jam, and completely reign his full power.

You constantly voice your complaints, growing increasingly agitated as more time passes.

"Why do we need your full strength back to plunge the world in eternal darkness?! In fact, if we do it now, when they least expect it, it will be easier to take back the other half of your sol jam. There is NO POINT for this useless waiting!"

"Aww, is my stunning little nightmare still a little cranky from their thousand years of slumber?~ We will make eternal night right after I take back my soul Jam, mkay? Besides, I got a REAL good performance planned, I pinky promise it'll be entertaining!"

"...As long as it doesn't take forever."

"See!~ I knew you'd come around!"

He likes to dance with you under the stars. You two perfectly in sync, the cracked moon above a reminder of your freedom. Whispers of deceit flow gently through the breeze of the eternal night.

While you two have very different personalities, you can compromise with shared goals. Bringing utter chaos and darkness to Earthbread.

The Beast of Deceit curls himself around his star, his actor, his dazzling nightmare, as inferno of chaos beneath burns bright. All of those pesky gnats fall to their knees at their feet, bright blue strings around their limbs compelling them to crumple forward. Darkness, as black as tar, expands through the sky, shielding the sun's life from ever reaching the surface. Shadow Milk cookie cackles manically, grasping you tighter than ever, for you two had finally won.

[copperbadge]

Mitch Hedberg used to tell a joke that went, "You know how they say it's really hard to quit smoking? It's exactly that difficult to start flossing." and I think that holds true for running as well. But I got up and I did the thing! The graph is very different from yesterday even though I ran pretty much the same program (half mile walk, half mile running as much as possible, half mile walk) but I think it's because I had the mask on for the running today, which really does make a difference. I did a mile and a half in 27 minutes for a pace of 18:10 which isn't much improved over Wednesday but was way less painful.

Still tweaking the playlist -- it'll be an ongoing process but I'll stop posting once I get it a little more firmed up.

Robbie Williams - Party Like A Russian

The Kills - At The Back Of The Shell

Robbie Williams - Hot Fudge

You Suck At Cooking - Fighter Jet

OutKast - Back Up Plan

The Greatest Showman OST - The Other Side

Walk The Moon - Anna Sun

Hall & Oates - Rich Girl

Michael Penn - Denton Road (Accoustic)

The Greatest Showman OST - The Greatest Show

Denton Road is actually not a great walking OR running song but it's a song I really like, so putting it in as the song that basically comes on when I get to stop running is like a little treat to myself. :)

I've also discovered an interesting linguistic phenomenon -- I shared my running playlist with the person I'm dating, who is a bit older than I am, and they have since referred to it as a mixtape. Which is charming -- I'm old enough to remember mixtapes and they fully understand it's a digital playlist, but calling it a mixtape has a nice retro feel to it. I'm wondering if there's a generational divide between people who say mixtape, people who say playlist but recognize the term, and people who exclusively use playlist.

[karlachismylife]

I am a little scared to write characters with different backgrounds, like Russian characters in the CoD franchise, because I'm afraid a Russian person will see it and be like, "What the fuck is this" and laugh at it maybe 😭 So I have to ask, do you ever find yourself judging fics based on how they portray the characters and the language? Like "this doesn't fit well" or "that's not how it works" type of stuff.. Are there any deal breakers, something you despise in fics, or maybe even advice for writing Russian characters... Thank you in advance, have a great day! 🩵

Hey comrade! This is a good question! And I can totally relate; not just to writing non-Russian characters, but even writing Russians from CoD is intimidating, because they are much older than me and witnessed a lot of historical and cultural changes in the country (even a whole another country if we think that at least Nikolai was born in USSR) that I haven't, and trust me, times haven't stopped being crazy here for the last 30 years or even more, so for me not having witnessed the 90s or being a baby in 2000s is a reason to be scared shitless writing for them, cuz fuck if I know how a person that lived through those times thinks.

All that to say, I think it's completely normal to feel awkward writing characters with backgrounds you're not familiar with, and also it's not a big deal if you get stuff wrong sometimes. I mean, isn't there like a whole bunch of fics about task force 141 and the "tapping out" ceremony that seems to exist in USA army only? People still enjoy them and no one was hurt by it. It's fiction and art, and first and foremost we want you to enjoy creating it; moreover, you are doing it and sharing it for free, so every decent person will always be grateful and supportive, and if anyone is coming at you aggressively for getting something wrong, you can tell them идите нахуй and block them. Mocking an artist that put effort and love into a piece of art is one of the worst things one can do.

(sorry this turned out longer than I expected so I'm hiding it under the cut). CW!politics and heavy themes, somewhat of a rant. I tried to summarize in the end and give a few tips so if you want to skip the rant, go down.

So me and my Paris (@nrdmssgs) came togther to make a list of stuff that might catch our eye or turn us off from reading a fic. Keep in mind that these are just opinions of two people! And I know for a fact that some Russians will not agree with me on some of these. So again, my main tip is not to overstress; we are genuinely glad when Russian characters get recognition despite all the negativity often surrounding them.

First, I'll just say, there are a lot of things that irk us in the games themselves. This goes not just for weird Russian accents or sometimes broken Russian altogether; I personally am very displeased with how freely (and wrongly, lol) they use the term "gulag" (ГУЛАГ) there. First of all, it is not a synonym to prison/camp, it's the name of the government agency that was in charge of running labor camps in USSR, so calling the camp itself this word is simply incorrect; second, it's a big tragic page in history, so throwing it around willy-nilly as some oooh scary prison place where characters in a pew pew game are put and can escape just feels insensitive to me. Generations of people whose countless families were hurt by this system are very much alive right now and it is a raw wound unfortunately, and the government is very much refusing to acknowledge this tragedy in its fullness. So there's that. There's also way too good-looking Makarov that spent who knows how much time in solitary confinement (we have people actively dying in solitary right now in much shorter time), there's Milena with a single bank account (show me one Russian oligarch that doesn't have their money shoved in 100 different places, uh-huh), there's Yegor Novak who is Ukrainan, but speaks Russian (yes, considering that he was born in USSR, he most likely speaks both languages, but erasing his identity is still problematic). So you see, there's a lot of shit to combat in canon already, and it's worth spending time looking into some of these things. Now to the fics!

I will say, I do notice of course when a Russian character is written by a non-Russian person that doesn't know much about Russian language/culture/mentality/history/whatever. And while I understand that it's hard and won't throw a fic away for not getting every little thing right, there is stuff that catches my attention.

The most obvious would be the language, of course. Russian is grammatically much more complicated than English and number one giveaway are mistakes in grammatical cases/genders. Even my good comrade here who knows Russian very well and surprises me with impeccable use of complicated constructions that show they understand some nuanced connotations/usage of words, even they often make mistakes with genders of words. And I can't blame them, for a native English speaker it is a new concept! But this, and also just the sentence structures, incorrect word choice (again, connotations are key) are always jarring in text. Usually I just skim over it and forget in the next sentence, sometimes it does make me laugh, but like. I'm not gonna make fun of anyone for making a mistake in a language, I appreciate when people make effort. But I do encourage everyone to send their Russian text to someone who can proofread it (me, for example, DMs and askbox always open). And if you really want to do it on your own, maybe don't just rely on google translate and such and try to do it with a dictionary and some base-level grammar lessons so you can make sure the endings of the words are alright, at least. Then we can talk about the difference between "blyat'", "blyad'", "blya", "blyadina" and "blyadstvo" :D

Another thing I do always have a quick upset sigh about is when people call borsht a Russian soup. No it's not, it's Ukranian. We do eat it a lot, yes, and it's not inherently bad or wrong to write a Russian character eating/cooking it, but it is nice when people do not add to the appropriation of Ukranian culture that's been going on since for-fucking-ever. Same goes for unfortunately many other cultures that Russian imperialism tried swallowing, so it's always better to google it and check. And just food in general, maybe spend a little time looking up what's the difference between pel'meny and varyeniky or what's okroshka. It's always an amazing experience when someone gets such details right! And an even better experience when you don't erase other Slavic or even Eastern European identities, brushing everyone under "Russian" rug. We are definitely nor a homogenous crowd! Moreover, not everyone born in Russia (and especially USSR) will be Russian. Looking into different ethnicities and nationalities that live here is just interesting if nothing else, but also very very important after centuries of opression.

I also have some non-serious beef with this magical "Siberia" western comrades love writing about, I touched on the topic here. An amazing impression is when people use less broad geographical names or look at less overused places. Did you know that Natalia "Raptor" Orlova is from Kamchatka? It's such a rich region with a lot to tell about!

What I do definitely dislike and it can turn me off from finishing the read at all, is insensitive writing of the characters themselves in terms of their background. It's complicated since I myself am not patriotic at all and I couldn't tell you for the life of me what it means "to be Russian", but it just. You can feel when a person thinks in stereotypes, you know? Like somewhere I saw something, I won't give a direct quote, but the main idea was that Russian/Slavic men all 100% have a breeding kink, and it was worded in a way that kinda felt like, hm, like a bit dehumanizing? Making them out to be these ooga booga barbaic cavemen? And yes, there is a lot to be said about Russian men, much of it very not good, and there is NOTHING wrong with writing a Russian character with a breeding kink, but it felt not nice to read that sentence, so just maybe after you write your piece do some introspection to make sure you weren't dipping into that kind of portrayal out of prejudice. If that's the effect you went for storytelling/your personal enjoyment cuz you like them ooga booga? I won't say a thing. Also the whole vodka/balalaika/ushanka/whatever bullshit, not entirely untrue, again, especially the vodka one, but if you write Nikto drinking kvas (which is non-alcoholic, okay, but still) or baltika beer instead of vodka, you'll make me happier, because it's like a signal "hey look I know a bit more about your culture that a James Bond movie intro showed me once". And in the next scene I'll forgive you even him riding a battle bear with vodka and balalaika in hand.

Coming back to the "barbarization" of Russian men in fics, it irks me a little when people lean too much into the whole Russian bandit/mafia stuff, and there are two characters that suffer from it, but each a little differently, the most. First is Nikolai, and while yes, he is a crime lord of sorts and he has that goddamn golden chain (which most Russian people or at least women find absolutely horrid and oh we do not come near men sporting those irl), I think people often write him... not intelligent enough? Too gruff and rough? He's an intellectual. Well-read, well-spoken, cultured. Level-headed. Whenever people write him too much like a 90s bandit, my heart breaks a little. But then again, I know Russian people that lean into the same set of stereotypes when writing him (but those same people have a lot of other uhhh xhenophobic tendencies that show when talking about other characters so I wouldn't rely on their views).

And then there's probably the biggest pet peeve of mine. Vladimir Makarov. Now, here is a big big disclaimer: YOU CAN WRITE WHATEVER YOU WANT IN YOUR FICS!!! We are already romantacizing military men that none of us (I hope) would approach irl; and if you want to write Makarov or Nikolai or whoever else in a certain way because that's what hits the spot for you, just do it. You want yandere Makarov or mummy issues Nikto or whatever else your heart desires? Go for it. I will be the first one defending your right to write it with a crowbar in hand, even if I myself would never read such a fic. So this here is entirely MY PERSONAL ISSUE. Deal? Deal.

I see it a lot here on tumblr (mostly in x reader fics) and it actually bothers me a lot, but when people write Makarov as this edgelord dark mafia boss. It just misses the point so much. He's an ultra-nationalist, a head of a PMC. They are not mafia, I would honestly argue that they're much worse. I get that they cast a very attractive man to play reboot Makarov and honestly the og Makarov too; I get that villains are the hot thing to be attracted to (sorry if I sound bitter, this is a separate problem I have with fandom and it doesn't matter rn), but Wagner (PMC that Konni is heavily based on) is a real life horror that is still existing even though there have been like structural changes. And they killed a lot of people and had enough power to threaten to overthrow the government so very recently. Rusich (another nationalist military group) is still active and doing horrible things and proudly reporting them online. Smaller far-right pigs are out in the streets doing horrible things. And a lot of it is (not so) subtly encouraged by the government. A lot of it is actively used by the government to gain more power, kill more people, instill more fear. It's a reality we live in, and to me seeing Makarov portrayed with none of that nationalism in sight and with all the allure of a dark romance novel mafia boss is... honestly, painful. Feels like a slap in the face, to be honest, and while I understand that this is the kind of nuance you can't just realize out of nowhere if it's not something you live around and that it's all fiction, it just is really, really hard to read for me. He is not just a complete crazy Joker-type freak, he's not a cool sexy mafia boss, he's a fucking nazi terrorist that can and will be paid by certain people in power to do their dirty work.

In the same route, but luckily I haven't seen it anywhere besides a certain group of Russian CoD fans (which is even more terrifying considering the political implications), but anyone who writes Barkov as a hero/in a positive light - fuck you. Just fuck you. He has interesting/attractive traits as a character, yes, I'm not saying you can't write about him, looking into him from different perspectives, simping for him if you want; but again, just spend some time reading up on recent history and politics that inspired the whole Urzikstan situation0 - and do it all with nuance. Or with a disclaimer that you don't support genocide at least, lol, cuz I'm telling you, I've seen people that made me scared.

However, once again, if you really want exactly that - ignore MY PERSONAL opinion and write it. I am just a gorilla on tumblr, my opinion is not the centre of the world. But what I do consider not a taste issue, but a deeper issue, is writing REAL PMCs and the likes of those in positive light. If anyone with a "Wagner OC" sees this post, just know, I would probably spit in your face irl. Making made-up Makarov go kiss kiss uwu or whatever irks me personally, but I can close the tab and let the author be; I'm sure many people have same opinion about Graves whom I write much more affectionately than some would prefer. But the real shit? That's a hard line.

A quick addition, back coming back to the "barbarization", just portraying Slavic characters being oh so very mesmerized by the !!!wonders of western civilization!!! is funny. There are definitely moments like this, but not as much as you think. Believe it or not, we actually don't live in bear caves.

This got way too long and dark, so let's finish on a lighter note. Russian characters celebrating some very non-Russian holidays (like Thanksgiving or catholic Christmas, even though the second one is not as bad) is funny, when it doesn't have much explanation (like them celebrating it with someone who actually does). "Suka blyat'" is funny, because it's often used where a simple "blyat'" would suffice.

Summarizing, here are general semi-short tips how to write Russian characters:

get your Russian proofread by someone who actually speaks it or at least don't fully rely on google translate. check your cases and genders!

especially if you use cusswords. it's an amazing characterization tool if you manage to use it right, so putting effort into it is always worth it

don't lean into stereotypes. they are partially true, but we kinda can tell when you do that intentionally and with nuance and when you don't know anything beyond them

be mindful about characters' identities and spend a little more time to make sure you are not writing someone else's stuff as "Russian". for the lack of better analogy, it's like mixing all Latin American identities together and writing them all as uhhh Mexican. we don't want to claim others' culture and others most definitely do not want to be erased again

be careful about the "barbarization" of your Slavic characters. sure, someone like Maxim "Minotaur" Bale won't strike you as the most intellectual individual (love you Max), but be intentional with it and don't just make every Slavic man go ooga booga but in Russian

didn't touch much on Russian/Slavic women, but be careful around the whole "money-hungry" stereotype

read up on political shit surrounding your characters. whether you like it or not, Russian people have been shaped by a lot of recent/current political happennings, so missing out even on general understanding of what your character witnessed/what their political views are can ruin a lot of characterization

Russia is fucking huge and does not consist just of Moscow and abstract "Siberia". the amount of cultures, confessions, nature stuff etc in the country is insane. not all Russians are orthodox Christians, but also - many of them are. and also - church was under fire in USSR so this is a separate layer of cultural shit you might want to consider

read Russian literature if you really want to write Russian characters a lot, it'll help you catch a feel of some very specific things like our yearning. it's a very specific thing that if you get right will give me a reading orgasm

same goes for Russian songs. also just don't underestimate the role of music in Russian life!

try to look up Russian "pop culture" (it feels kinda wrong to call it that, but I dunno how else to call it). if you can make your Russian character make an appropriate reference to a movie or say a Russian saying we actually use, it'll be amazing. but it's like level impossible i think so don't give yourself a headache over this, this is just that extra spice that will have me scrolling through your profle suspecting you're actually secretly Russian yourself

watch Soviet/Russian movies to get a better understanding of the vibe, not just what Hollywood portrays!

looking into architecture can be an interesting way to approach a character. we went through many different unique architectual styles, so if you're describing a character's home, it'll be a very cool move to specify what kind of apartment building they live in, for example

but most importantly remember: it's art you do for yourself first and foremost. don't take any of it as a strict guide you'll be punished for straying away from! we REALLY appreciate you writing for these characters, and you showed you put more thought into it than some of Russian comrades I know <3

and if you have specific questions, never be afraid to ask me or anyone else you know can help.

I hope I didn't scare you even more with this all, lol, I genuinely do appreciate you coming to me for advice, it means a lot when people show interest and effort. If you feel comfortable enough, send me/tag me in your fics, I'll be glad to read them and share with comrades that will enjoy them! From Russia with love ❤️❤️❤️🦍

[what-even-is-thiss]

You can’t Google it because I made up the metaphor.

Listen. Listen very closely. So many people have missed the point of what I’m saying. I’m firmly holding your head to make you look me in the eyes.

Human beings arbitrarily sort things. Sometimes those things are colored m&ms. Sometimes those things are something more consequential. Like gender or animal taxonomy or systems of government.

The reason there is no yellow pile is that often our brains can’t comprehend things outside of the arbitrary categories we have set up for ourselves. A mind that has been told that the only possible forms of economies are capitalism or communism will have no conceptual box in their head in which to place mercantilism or even a new system entirely. A person who has only ever seen green or blue skittles will have no idea what to do with a yellow one.

Even if we are aware of this truth about ourselves, it can be difficult to fight. Think to yourself. Why must we classify a platypus as a mammal? Why is it strange to us? Why can it not be something beyond a mammal or something that both is and is not a mammal? Yet it is classified even though we know that classifications of animal taxonomy are largely artificial constructions. You must though, try to see past the skittles. Past the platypus. Understand that your categorization of the universe has no basis in objective reality, if objectivity even exists. Your human instinct is to put all the red books together and you may continue doing so. It is in your nature. However, there is no reason to place red books together. Do you understand? The category of red is made up. Yet you continue to use it anyways. I’m talking about something way bigger than skittles here. The skittles were supposed to be a shorthand. A thing that helped me explain without going on this exact unhinged tirade. I am letting go of your face now.

A fundamental flaw of the human design is that we’re so complicated but also we like putting stuff in fun simple little categories. Like major glitch there. They should patch that.

[sugar-petals]

every time i see him pop up on my dash i’m impressed by how taemin (who else) has debuted and effortlessly resonated in several generations of his genre and remains so bewitchingly relevant. yes i know manwhoring and the dark side of catholicism plus dissecting masculinity/femininty will never go out of fashion and he dances more compellingly than 99% of his peers and his looks never seem to change ever and he works his butt off but you know what i mean: 

an inexplicable longevity. without scandal, lack of sympathy from fans, missing the mark, error, mediocrity. all while provoking thought. taemin’s ultraglittering, seductive musical staying power slash a remarkably consistent message — how on earth does he vary his aesthetic but always manages to express HIS idea?— and drive to do what he does are mysteriously singular. and it’s not just his jesus-honoring buttshaking alright. to use the first gen benchmark, without slighting either of these artists: he is the legacy and work of BOA and Rain in one. seamless even after his difficult enlistment, taemin always keeps going and going and innovating and serving looks and performing and enchanting. 

i don’t mean that in a way of “tch why has taemin not fallen from grace yet?? he’s too goody-two-shoes to be true!” or “this dude must be a cash-hungry slaving robot who uses sex to sell as a sleazy capitalist trick!!”. i just sincerely think he’s done so well, everything else would be unfair and inaccurate to say. enviably, taemin really found his own thing, that inspires. it’s no surprise how every shawol/taemin fan is just on fire (and every phobic tongue that rises against him shall be hilariously ridiculed without even bothering much: i like this idgaf attitude in the fandom, it resembles him a lot lol). can’t blame anybody, one hand movement by that cheeky guy, you’re hooked. 

i simply wanted to stress how taemin pulled off sticking around against the odds, being a charmed personality, and electrifying a multi-generational, multi-gender crowd and look damn sharp while doing it: even with a soft, sweet tenor voice such as his. we really have to thank jonghyun in all regards, whatever he has instilled in taemin was, and we all know that, zero percent in vain. it has given him a huge portion of that “X-factor” (or ‘T’-factor in this case lmao), in front of the camera that only the greats have, far beyond just doing ‘attempted personal branding aaand done, retired, forgotten’.

even if yes, that still contributes on the hard-to-ignore business side, SM knew how to do one thing right after all. we don’t know idols personally still, and taemin clearly found his perfect niche, giving the audience what other artists desperately cannot offer on that ‘market’, if you want to put it like that. but either way, he seems much more than the industry in a way? and MJ/Prince, for that matter, despite an obvious inspiration? like a feeling. or musing. really, how does he do it 😭

taemin’s success, fan-favorite status and concept ahead of the curve is so difficult to explain and that’s probably why people enjoy him and his work: it is curated, not calculated. i think there’s huge difference, even if the production process is the same or similar everywhere. but the way most idols are fascinated by taemin says it all basically, he’ll be talked about for decades after and always come back successfully, gaga-style. ngl taemin could never bore me (am i the only one who still positively loses it when he hits the pose? i never found it annoying, i love that shit) it’s so easy to like what he does. his enigma makes him an artist, and i hope he’ll be around for long to spread his cheeky little mischief.

TLDR; i just wanted to emphasize how awesome taemin is and got totally carried away.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Unbalanced

“So if I have this right,” Henry said, “this love potion makes you—” he hesitated. He was unkeen to say 'fuck' so boldly. “It makes you want to fornicate? And makes you sick if you don’t?”

“Terribly sick, m’lord."

Henry and Hans accidentally drink a love potion. But the only way to save themselves from a horrible end is to rebalance their bodies, and the only way they can do that is with each other.

Medieval fuck-or-die by way of a love potion. Chapter 1/2, 7k words. Rated E, of course. Also available on AO3!

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

“Drink up, my friend!”

The jug clunked down onto the sticky tavern table top, quickly followed by Hans collapsing onto the bench opposite Henry. 

“Fine ale,” Hans said, pouring them both a generous serving, “courtesy of yours truly.”

“Why thank you,” Henry said, taking his mug and holding it aloft in a toast. “To yours truly, then.”

He drank deeply. They were on their second jug of the evening, relaxing after a long summer’s day. They’d spent the morning hunting - or at least, they had set out with the intention to hunt, but in truth the vast majority of their time had been spent spitting terrible jokes at each other, mocking one another’s bowmanship and getting into increasingly absurd competitions. 

Henry had bagged most hares, but Hans was the one who had managed to shoot three apples in a row from the branch of a tree. They’d called it a draw, in the end, and retired to the tavern to see off the night.

They were not the only ones enjoying the summer weather. The tavern was full, every seat taken. It had been luck - and Hans shamelessly throwing his weight around - that had bagged them a table to themselves. For once, Henry didn’t feel like arguing.

“How did you manage to find ale so quickly?” he asked. “It’s fucking heaving.”

Hans shrugged. “Need I remind you who I am?” he said. “Ungrateful wretch.”

As Henry put the mug down, he realised there was a man across the way glaring at them. Glaring at Hans, to be precise. 

“Why is that fellow across the way giving you such a sour look?”

“Full of questions today, aren’t we?” Hans said. “What fellow?”

“The one— over there, with the red-haired girl.”

“I have no idea who you could mean.”

“You haven’t even looked!”

“Are you here to drink or are you here to make eyes at some peasant?” Hans said with a sigh. “Honestly, Henry, I’m beginning to assume you don’t even want my company.”

Nothing could have been further from the truth. They were spending, more or less, all of their time together, and each moment of it felt like it would be wasted if it were spent any other way. Henry found himself drawn to Hans in a way he couldn’t explain; like a mountain stream trickling towards a roaring river.

Not that he intended to tell Hans that, of course: his ego was unwieldy enough as it was. Besides, Henry was quite sure Hans already knew, or at least suspected. He says come, and Henry obeys. 

He tried to put the man across the way out of his head. No doubt he was just someone Hans had pissed off: there were enough of those around that Henry had lost count. 

Entirely uninterested, Hans refilled their mugs. And then he paused, sniffing his drink.

“Does this taste… different, to you?”

Henry took another sip. 

“Tastes like ale,” he said, simply.

Hans was undeterred. “No, no,” he said. “It’s—” he frowned thoughtfully. “Tastes a little like mint.”

Knowing that Hans was unlikely to drop the topic, Henry took another drink. This time, he focused, smelling deeply, swilling it around across his tongue before swallowing. To his surprise, Hans was correct; there was a minty tang at the back of his throat.

“Probably put some in to hide the fact that it was going bad,” he said.

“Urgh, you’re probably right. Fucking swine.”

“Want me to get another jug?”

“Fuck that, I’m already sat down. Drink up!”

Henry did. He could certainly get over the minty aftertaste, and the innkeeper wouldn’t have been the first person to keep the stock longer than intended with a handful of whatever herb was freshest. He’d certainly drunk worse, after all, and even the foulest ale was improved by good company.

They had nearly finished off the jug and were bickering over who would be the one to get up and fetch the next, when a  crash from the opposite side of the yard broke them from their debate. Henry spun around in his seat to see the man who had been staring at them being hauled away by a pair of guards, the red-haired woman standing beside them and weeping.

Hans was on his feet in an instant, the picture of a Lord. As two of the guards manhandled the man away, he grabbed the third; Henry immediately recognised him as one of the marshals.

“What in God’s name is going on?” Hans demanded.

The marshal looked furious, and disgusted.

“Horrible, sinful business m’Lord,” he spat with a shake of his head. “Devilish stuff. That bastard’s been slipping some sort of— of potion into that lass’s drink.”

“A potion?” 

Hans was clearly intrigued at the gossip. Henry gave him a nudge where the marshal wouldn’t see, and he fixed the expression back into one of concern. The marshal stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Hans and Henry could hear.

“A love potion,” he scowled. “From what we’ve heard, it imbalances the body, the humours. Inflames them. Does in a few moments what the body itself would do in a few weeks, until— well, m’lords…” he looked briefly abashed, “you know what happens when the body is inflamed, without— without expulsion—” he shook his head once more. “The crux of it, m’lord, is that this nasty little tincture would cause great harm to one who took it, and even greater harm to one who took it and did not then seek a way to release the build-up afterwards. Might even kill them.”

Henry blinked. He was not sure if he had fully understood the marshal’s explanation.

“Sir, so if I have this right,” he said, also keeping his voice low. “This love potion makes you—” he hesitated. He was unkeen to say fuck so boldly. “It makes you want to fornicate? And makes you sick if you don’t?”

“Terribly sick, m’lord, in the body and the brain.”

“God’s teeth…” Henry muttered.

“Indeed. Terrible, terrible crime.”

“And what will you be doing with the perpetrator?” Hans frowned.

“We’ll lock him away for the night,” the marshal said. “Tomorrow we’ll put him before Sir Hanush, and he’ll decide the best punishment for his crimes. And we must seek out the wretch who sold him the potion, too.” He sighed. “Excuse me, m’lords. I must see this done. God go with you.”

“And you,” Henry muttered after him as he followed his men out into the street.

“God’s bollocks,” Hans said once he’d left and he’d taken his seat once more. “What a thing. Awful behaviour, using such potions like that.”

“You’ve used love potions before,” Henry said, eyebrows raised. “Remember the butcher’s daughter?”

“Well, yes,” Hans said, “but I’ve never used one on anyone else, just myself. That was just a little helping hand. There’s no sin in making oneself better. But to force such things upon someone else?” he gripped his mug harder. “I hope that bastard gets what is coming to him. That poor girl.”

“I’m not even convinced the one you used worked,” Henry said. “What was it, the musk of exceptional allure?”

“Infinite allure,” Hans corrected him. “And what do you mean it didn’t work? I bedded her, didn’t I?”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Only after fucking up all that poetry.”

“Well that proves it!” Hans thumped his hand on the table. “If I can woo a woman after fucking up poetry, then it must have been the potion making me - as I said - infinitely alluring.” He took a long drink. “And it was you who fucked up that poetry, if I remember rightly.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“None of that, you cheeky bastard.”

“It does make you wonder how many of these sorts of things are out there, doesn’t it?”

“What, love potions? There’s hundreds, from what I’ve heard. Spells, too.”

“Spells?”

Hans grinned, clearly excited to launch into a story.

“There’s this one— you know, the priests swear it's true, but you never can tell with priests if they’re telling the truth or have just gone too long without seeing a tit.”

“Right?”

“So, so—” Hans grinned, emboldened by the ale and the salacious story. “A woman, she strips herself naked, and covers herself in honey.”

“In—?”

“Shut up. She covers herself in honey, and then rolls about in wheat, and then she takes all of the bits of wheat that stick to her and grind them up and make them into bread. And then she feeds that bread to her husband. And it makes him desperately keen to fuck her.” Hans broke his story, his mug against his lips. “Or… or it kills him. I can’t remember.”

Henry snorted. “That’s a bit of a crucial difference.”

Hans flapped a hand at him. “It all feels like too much work for me,” he said. “Imagine that, getting yourself naked and rolling around in honey - and the cost of all that honey, too - all that mess, for what one could achieve with a tight-fitting bodice. Or a knife,” he added, thoughtfully.

Henry swallowed. The image of Hans covering his naked body in honey was one which he didn't think he would be rid of for a while. He tried to cover the burning feeling in his cheeks - and the twitching in his breeches - with a laugh and another drink.

Soon, the jug really was empty. Henry waved over the innkeeper, who - after spotting Hans at the table - hurried over.

“We saw that business with the guards,” Hans said, as he lingered by their table after bringing them fresh ale. “Awful stuff.”

The innkeeper shuddered. “It really is, sir. I feel awful for not realising what he was up to…”

“Do you know how he did it?” Hans asked.

“Slipped it into the jug,” he said morosely. “Poured it in before taking it to their bench.”

“Good God.”

“Indeed,” the innkeeper agreed, crossing himself. “They found two empty vials on him, too; slipped right out of his bag when they arrested him. The Lord Above only knows what he did with the other one. We can only pray that he had not already used it on someone else.”

He hurried away, back to his business.

“What a mess,” Henry said, reaching for the full jug. “That poor woman.”

Hans was not paying attention. He was staring into his empty mug, frowning.

“Hans?”

No response.

“What is it? Want me to top you—”

“Shut up.”

Henry fell silent. This was not Hans’s typical bravado. Not his usual, blunted bickering.

“What’s wrong?”

“...the ale.”

“What about the ale? Not good enough for the noble Lord Capon?”

Finally, finally Hans looked up. He looked downright panicked.

“I took that jug from that man. The one with the potion. That’s how I got it so quickly. He had it in his hands, and I just took it from him.”

“And? Worried that stealing’s a sin?”

“I am worried,” Hans said, voice pitched, “that he had two empty vials on him, Henry. One for that woman, and one for—” his eyes fell again to his empty mug.

It couldn’t be. It had just been ale. 

“Don’t be foolish. He probably just used the other one on someone else.”

“And got away with it?”

“Well, maybe—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Henry. You said he was glaring at me! That must be why! And you agreed that the ale tasted strange!”

Henry had agreed. It had tasted of mint. 

“Is mint… common in love potions?” he hazarded.

“How the Devil should I know!” Hans said, now very clearly panicking. “How do you feel? Do you feel strange? Different? Do you feel—” even in the low light of the yard, Henry could see his cheeks darken. He didn’t need to finish that sentence.

Henry leaned back on the bench. He felt… warm. He had assumed it was just the lingering heat of the day and the crush of people, but now he was not so sure. His chest and cheeks were flushed. And there had been that moment earlier, when Hans had been drunkenly talking about honey and naked bodies and—

Shit.

He got to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said. “I mean: we should go… somewhere else. Where it’s quieter. It might… help?”

He did not think it would help, in truth, but the crush of other drinkers was growing too much, the sound of their chatter pressing down on him from all sides. Hans followed his lead, and they stumbled out into the street. It was less pressing here, but it did very little to calm Henry’s inflamed nerves. The brush of the gentle breeze over his red-hot skin felt more like a kiss than a salve.

Wordlessly, they hurried away from the busy tavern towards the edge of town before falling gracelessly onto the grass behind a low wall. The grass was damp beneath Henry’s arse, his breeches slowly growing sodden as he sat trying to catch his breath.

He wanted to deny it. He wanted to believe that Hans was being paranoid. They had no proof that they’d drunk the potion.

No proof, that was, aside from the fact that Hans had stolen the jug from a man known to use such tinctures. The fact that Henry’s very skin felt like it were aflame, and that his heart was pounding erratically in his chest. The fact that his cock was twitching in his breeches and - try as he might, even close to possible death - he still couldn’t shake the image of Hans’s honey-covered bare fucking arse.

“What the fuck do we do?” Hans wailed.

“How should I know?” Henry said, leaning back against the wall in the hopes that the cold stone would ease his burning blood. “I’m not a herbalist or a— a witch. We could find the physician?”

“No,” Hans said, far too quickly. “No, then it’ll get out. Everyone will know, and Sir Hanush—” he paused. “I do not want anybody to know about this.”

“We could head to the baths? Find a couple of girls and—”

“What part of not wanting anybody to know about this did you not understand?”

“But a couple of bath wenches won’t need to know anything.”

“And what if it goes wrong? What if something happens? What if this— this thing makes us start babbling and losing our minds? Or what if it doesn’t work at all? What if it—”  his eyes went wide. There was a fine sheen of sweat over his face. “What if it kills us?”

“It won’t kill us.” Henry tried to force himself to sound sure. 

Hans didn’t reply. He stared down at the ground, his leg bouncing as if possessed. Henry thought he knew how Hans felt: it was like there was something burning under his skin, writhing in his belly, sinking low tendrils down.

“We have to do something,” Henry said at last. “What was it the marshal said? That you had to get release. So… easy, right? We return to our rooms and… like he said. Find release.”

Hans gave a long sigh, as if he was talking to an idiot. “You have to get release with another person,” he said. “That’s the point. Why else would you make a love potion for it? There’s no point slipping one into someone’s drink so they go home and frig themselves silly without you there, is there?”

He had a point. Henry understood the basics of the body, the balancing of the humours - and the ills that could befall one when they became unbalanced. But he knew little about the rest of it, the magic and trickery which could twist the mind into seeking out that balance with another person. His slender knowledge of the Satanic arts began and ended with his dalliance with the Uzhitz witches: an experience that he was keen not to repeat. No doubt that same sort of dark magic was involved here, too: some shady practitioner boiling potions over the bones of babies or… something.

“Shit.” He didn’t know what else to say.

Beside him, Hans had gone silent. The only sound was his breathing: deep and laboured and full of heat. Henry was struck with the urge to shuffle closer, to press their shoulders together. To take his hand. To feel his skin.

Sweat pooled in the small of his back.

“Hans—”

“Henry—”

He turned. Hans looked desperate, expression raw. The words suddenly stuck in Henry’s throat. It was Hans who spoke first, his tongue darting to wet his lips, his throat constricting as he swallowed.

“We could…”

Hans’s breath was so hot that Henry could almost see it scorched into the air, words written in smoke between them. Those two words were enough: the rest unspoken but understood.

“Should we go back to your room?” Henry was glad not to say anything more illicit; he wasn’t sure if he could cope with hearing those words from his own mouth any more than he could from Hans’s.

Hans looked a little shocked - eyes widening for a moment - as if he hadn’t expected Henry to agree, or to even understand what he had been implying.

“No,” he said, at last. “Too many guards, too many people. No doubt someone will want to chat if they see us. And what if they hear? What if they find out?”

“Then where?” 

“There’s this old woodcutter’s hut,” Hans said, twisting his hands together, catching glances at Henry from the corner of his eye. “Other side of town. Abandoned. Sometimes I take—” his words were fractured by a harsh laugh. “Sometimes I take girls there. Come on.”

He was on his feet without another word, hauling Henry up beside him. His touch was as hot as forge-warmed iron; Henry half-expected their palms to stick together, melded like metal, as Hans dragged him to his feet. They didn’t. Hans let go, leaving Henry’s grip empty.

Henry tried not to feel jealous as he followed Hans over a low wall and towards the woods. Hans took pretty girls with grabbable arses and bouncing tits to the place he was now leading Henry. Girls he liked, girls he wanted to fuck. It was the first time Henry had allowed himself to think it so boldly - that he and Hans were going to fuck, right here, right now - but the thought came wrapped in bitterness. This wasn’t like those lusty tumbles. This was an emergency, life or death. Hans would not be doing this if he had a choice.

The hut was hidden away at the edge of the wood, far from the prying eyes of the town. In the darkness within, Henry could just about make out a few pieces of furniture: a chair, a chest, a low bed. It must have belonged to the woodcutters once upon a time. He tried not to think about who Hans had brought there before.

Hans closed and locked the door. He turned.

“Henry…”

Henry didn’t know what to do. Now he was here, faced with the inevitability of what was about to happen, he felt suddenly unsure. 

He’d wanted this for an age. But not like this.

But he didn’t have the time for such catastrophizing. He didn’t have the luxury of melancholy when the potion was fizzing in his blood, and in Hans’s blood too. Better to give into it, to let it consume him as it was so desperately trying to. He was far too warm, a furnace roaring low in his core, sending great licks of flame up the hollow chimney of his chest.

He tugged at the collar of his tunic, desperate for air. Hans looked equally troubled, his face coated in sweat. 

“Kurva,” Hans spat. “I’m too fucking hot.” He started to fiddle with the buttons of his gambeson, hands slipping over the fine fabric. “Shit—”

Henry stepped in. Something inherent and deep-rooted in his head took over, now tinged with the sweet flash of the potion. The urge to help. Even though his own hands were trembling too, he made faster work of the buttons than Hans had, but stepped back again when he was finished, the gambeson hanging open to reveal the undershirt beneath.

Hans muttered a brief word of thanks, cheeks scarlet, then slipped the gambeson off. It fell to the floor at his feet. Henry followed suit, tugging off his own tunic with less hesitation, the ties snapping beneath his eager hands. Hans moved closer, reaching out - a tentative, nervous touch.

His hand against Henry’s chest, even with Henry’s linen shirt between their skin, felt altogether like too much, but not enough. The uncertainty dissolved. He tugged Hans closer, grabbing him, sliding his hands beneath his undershirt. Hans moved with equal fervour, ripping at his clothes - undershirt, hose, braies - in a haze much like being drunk, until they were both bare, clinging onto each other in the centre of the tiny room.

Still it felt like it wasn’t enough. Henry’s skin was blazing, his heart thundering, his now-freed cock desperate and hard against Hans’s leg. He could feel Hans’s prick, too, equally keen. He moved his hands up and down Hans’s back, over his arms.

It wasn’t enough.

Hans made an impatient, stuttering noise and pushed him down onto the bed. It shuddered beneath them as they crashed onto it, the wood splintering. They twisted around, finding room, legs and arms tangling. Henry rolled them over, pinning Hans beneath him, a leg pressed between his thighs.

Hans looked so open beneath him, so vulnerable. He looked sad, too: a little lost, like there was something locked away behind those eyes. His skin shimmered with sweat, lashes thick with it. He opened his mouth as if to speak, his teeth grazing his lower lip, and God above, Henry yearned for nothing more than to catch those lips under his own, to feel Hans’s breath against his mouth, to inhale him.

But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn't. A kiss was too precious, too open. His lips could betray him without a single word passing between them. They were there for a purpose beyond desire, and Henry couldn’t allow his muddled feelings for Lord Capon to put either of them at risk.

Hans made a little noise, and Henry wrenched his gaze from his lips to his eyes. That look was still there, that sadness that Henry couldn’t place. 

“Hans—”

“You should—” for a moment, Hans sounded like Sir Hans Capon, young Lord of Perkstein. And then it was gone, the commanding tone lost as soon as it came. “Fuck it, Henry, kiss me?”

Henry didn’t even think. Hans didn’t need to order him about like a lord for him to obey that direction. He cupped Hans’s jaw - something that Hans hadn’t expected, judging by the way his breath stuttered - and pressed their lips together.

It shouldn’t have felt so good. It shouldn’t have felt like light, like holy light pouring into Henry’s body through Hans’s mouth. He didn’t know how he was supposed to kiss anyone else again after this. No one could compare. He’d ruined himself through the simple act of pressing his lips against Hans’s, lost forever.

A low noise purred from Hans’s throat as Henry pushed him down. He bucked his hips upwards, pressing his erect cock into Henry’s thigh. Henry ground down against him, opening his lips, teasing Hans’s mouth open with his own. Hans hissed beneath him, their breath mingling, then grabbed Henry tighter and slid his tongue into his mouth.

Fuck. Henry mirrored the movement, desperate for more. Hans’s lips were soft and wet, and every time he moved Hans made a warm little hum, the sound shooting through Henry like an arrow.

He drifted away from Hans’s lips and across his jaw, into the sensitive hollow of his neck. He left a kiss there, but once again it was not enough. He opened his lips, dragging his teeth against Hans’s skin.

He drank Hans in, trying to commit him to memory; his warmth, the sound of his breath, the hot salt-sweat taste of his skin beneath Henry’s tongue. Perhaps it was wrong to do so, perhaps he was taking something from his lord, but reason had abandoned him. All that was left was Hans, and the certain knowledge that this would never happen again.

The potion - and his own desire - was reaching a messy, painful peak. Henry’s very skin ached with need, his cock throbbing where it was pinned against Hans’s thigh. This had to be the potion wringing him out, writhing through his blood. He had never known lust like this before. Beneath him, Hans too seemed to be struggling; wriggling open-mouthed and slick-skinned.

Enough. Henry let his desire guide him, the rest of his mind shut off. He didn’t need thought, nor logic and reason: just this. He edged down Hans’s body, lips apart, taking in the intoxicating taste of him until Hans’s cock nudged against his chin. Would this work? Would this be enough? He didn’t know, but every fibre of his being was urging it, and he could hardly resist now he was so close.

“Hans?” he had to ask, although each second wasted was a second of ruin. “Can— Do you—”

“Fuck, Henry,” Hans hissed, “Do it.”

Henry did as he bid. He had never sucked a cock before, and in truth had only had the act performed upon himself a scant handful of times, but as he wrapped his lips around the shaft of Hans’s prick, instinct took over. As his open mouth grazed the sensitive skin, Hans bucked beneath him, swearing colourfully into the hot air. Emboldened, Henry moved with more confidence, lathing his tongue up his hot, hard length then taking the tip into his mouth, squeezing with hips lips, rolling his tongue over the already slick head. Hans swore again - a string of swears, folded into Henry’s name - jerking up with such force that Henry had to grip onto his hips to hold him down lest he choke him.

He moved faster, surer, gripping the base of Hans’s cock in one hand whilst working him with his mouth. Hans’s swearing petered out into little stuttering gasps, needy little moans, building breaths. He was close, Henry could tell - and as inexpert as he was he released him from the hot wetness of his mouth to focus on the attentions of his hands, tools which he was far more certain of.

Hans made a noise - was that a groan, or Henry’s name? He made it again, and this time Henry knew there was nothing else it could have been.

“Henry—”

A single word, full of heat, full of want. Henry didn’t think, just heaved himself back up, meeting Hans’s lips, pouring himself into the kiss as he stroked Hans’s cock. Hans gasped into his mouth and then - at last - spent across his stomach in desperate, breathless bursts.

Henry barely had time to think before Hans was scrabbling at him, rolling him over, running his hands down his body.

“Hans, wait—”

“No time,” Hans muttered, lips pressed deliciously close to Henry’s skin. “Now you, Hal, here—”

Still sticky with sweat and spend, Hans twisted them around on the tiny bed, urgently reaching between them. His fingertips skimmed over Henry’s stomach, brushed across the hair trailing from below his navel to his cock. Even that faltering touch was too much, making Henry’s nerves sing and shudder. Hans’s body seemed to be thrumming with energy, his fondling erratic. No wonder: he had just spent himself, and only God knew what the love potion was doing within him.

He hissed through his teeth when Hans finally wrapped his lithe fingers around him, the air sucked from his lungs. He arched back, and Hans placed a warm kiss to his neck, sucking at his skin.

“Fuck, Henry—” his voice was strained. “You’re so— I—”

Henry barely heard whatever else Hans was saying. He couldn’t hear him over the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears or his own, gasping breaths as Hans worked him, jerking his cock, smothering him in kisses. Henry grabbed him back, pawing at his back, digging his nails into Hans’s soft flesh.

Fuck. All there was, was Hans. Hans’s body, his lips, his mouth. His tongue. His hand wrapped around Henry’s prick, his fingers slipping messily up and down his shaft. Henry could feel his pleasure peaking, the hot rush building. He took another, huge gasp, then another, ghosting his breath over Hans’s mouth.

He came in waves, unstoppable and inevitable as the tides, as the moon, as the act of breathing. White spots burst across his vision, even with his eyes tight shut. He breathed through it, letting it wrack through him until he was spent.

He roused slowly, dragging his eyes open. Hans was staring at him, eyes wide, sweat glistening on his forehead and chest. Henry’s heart was still pounding, his lungs still squeezing, but with the relief of release he no longer felt as harried and desperate as he had before. Had it worked? Had they shaken off the effect of the potion? Had it been enough?

“Hans—” the word was shaky and uncertain. He took another breath, trying to calm his frantic heart. “Are you— do you feel alright?”

Hans too looked exhausted, eyes blinking sluggishly. He nodded, lips twitching.

Henry sighed, rolling onto his back as best he could in the tiny bed, pulling out of Hans’s grip. He tilted his head so he could still peer at him. He wanted to rest, to bask in this feeling, but they could not: this was not a lovers tryst, he forced himself to remember. This had been panic. They had done what they needed to do.

“Should we go back?” 

Hans swallowed. 

“Frankly…” Hans shuffled on the ruined sheets, “Frankly, I’m fucking exhausted. I don’t particularly wish to go anywhere.”

Henry bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. “Aye,” he said. “Me too.”

He took a deep breath, feeling more like himself at last. The tiny room was hot, the air near-dripping with the smell of sweat and sex. 

“Henry—”

Hans looked nervous. “What is it?” Henry said, turning back around to better see him.

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

It felt like it had been enough. But, Henry supposed, he had never taken a love potion before. He had no idea how this worked.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted. “Do you still feel it?”

Hans watched him with an unreadable expression. His eyes darted back and forth, catching Henry’s face, his lips, his body. Henry could almost feel every place his gaze landed.

“I think so,” he said, after a long moment. “I feel—” his gaze drifted again. He shut his eyes. “I feel something.”

Henry recognised the fear in him, the anxiety of losing himself, in more ways than one. They’d battled side by side enough times: this was no different, not at its core. The fear of ruination, of losing one’s life. He reached out, but as he placed his hand on Hans’s bare shoulder, he jumped, twisting it away.

“Sorry—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

They spoke over one another, both fumbling into silence. It was Hans who broke it, as always.

“You took me by surprise. Sorry.”

Henry tucked his hand back between them, keeping a careful distance between their bodies. The few inches - barely even that - felt like a sudden cavern, after what they had just done. But perhaps that was right. That was how it was supposed to be, after all.

“So… should we stay here?” Henry asked, carefully. “If you’re worried…?”

“Probably for the best. Just in case.”

Henry nodded. Something new and strange was tingling between them. Perhaps, in the mornings, things would be easier. 

“Are there any fucking blankets in here?”

Hans nodded, although there was still a sort of uncertainty in his face. He rose from the bed, leaving Henry feeling suddenly exposed and alone, and began to rifle through the chest on the other side of the tiny room. Henry tugged his braies back on, ripping off a scrap from the bottom of his undershirt to clean himself up. When Hans returned, a thick blanket in his arms, Henry passed it to him, too. 

He stared at it for a moment before swiftly seeing off the spend drying across his stomach.

He tossed the rag on the floor and the blanket at Henry before coming to sit beside him on the bed. It truly was a tiny cot - barely room for one grown man, let alone two - but somehow they managed, slotting beside each other. Any attempts to leave some space between their bodies were abandoned, the tiny space and growing chill in the air making it impossible.

Henry pressed against the damp wall of the cabin and felt Hans settle behind him. 

“Wake me if you… if you need me,” he muttered. From beyond his shoulder, Hans made a soft sound of assent.

It was some time later, Henry right on the edge of sleep, when he felt Hans wrap his arm around his middle and bury his head between Henry’s shoulder blades.

***

They were woken early, the bright, dawn light charging in through the shutterless window of the hut. Henry groaned, for a moment forgetting where he was, too warm and comfortable and content to move. 

Then he remembered. The heavy weight around his waist was still there, Hans’s feet twisted between his own, their bodies pressed stickily together. He could feel Hans’s breaths coming against Henry’s skin in long, sleepy snores.

They had survived the night. The potion had run its course, and they were still alive. 

After a while, Hans made a gasping, snortling noise, then groaned as he, too, woke.

“My fucking head… Henry?”

“Still here, my Lord.”

“Don’t fucking—” he groaned again. Henry felt him press his forehead against Henry’s back. “Don’t call me that. Peasant.”

Henry rolled over with a laugh, dislodging a grumbling Hans. “It worked,” he said, simply.

Hans stared at him. He looked disheveled, bags under his eyes. 

“It did.” And then it seemed to dawn on him, like a great wave. “It did! Fuck, Henry, we’re— we’re alright!”

“We’re always alright,” Henry grinned.

They rose swiftly, quickly tidying the hut to make it appear unused and pulling yesterday’s clothes back on. Henry picked at his torn undershirt: he would have to find a new one. 

Looking as presentable as they ever would, they headed back through the woods and towards the town. This early, barely anyone else was awake, and those who were were too busy beginning their own days to pay them any mind. The morning was new, and the day was stretched out in front of them. Henry found himself walking with a renewed vigour in his step: he could have died. He had not. And Hans was at his side, as jovial and cocky as ever.

Nothing had changed between them. The quietest part of his mind wished it had - wished that there could have been a new shade to their relationship. But the rest was just pleased that Hans was still with him, still his friend, even after all that had passed between them.

As they made their way across the town square, Henry spotted a familiar figure walking towards them: the marshal. Hans shot Henry a look.

“Let’s find out what happened to our friend, shall we?”

Hans flagged the marshal down, jogging towards him.

“God greet you, my Lord,” the marshal said as he approached.

“And you, sir,” Hans said. “How fares your prisoner? Did you find the man who sold him the potions?”

The marshal gave a long, beleaguered sigh. “That we did,” he said, “but I wish it were so simple.”

“Oh?”

“Turns out the potion was a fake.”

The floor had fallen away from beneath Henry’s feet. He had to focus not to slip and fall. 

“What?” Hans’s voice was dry and cracked. “He was— it was a fake?”

“Aye,” the Marshal confirmed. “We suspected something was amiss when we were seeing to the young lady. Left her with some of the girls in the keep, and once we’d gotten her calmed down she was perfectly fine. No strange symptoms at all, just a little shaken.”

“She didn’t feel anything at all?” Henry asked.

The guard gave Henry a searching look. “Not at all. So we asked that bastard where he’d gotten the potion from, and he told us he’d bought it from some wretch in the fields a mile or so away. We sent some men to get him, and turns out the man’s a charlatan! A thief and a bastard he may be, but he’s not a witch. They knocked down his door and he told them everything: his potions are nothing more than water, herbs, and nettle dye. They searched his hut and it seemed like he was telling the truth.”

How could that be? Henry had felt the effects of the potion within moments of him finishing the drink. He could still feel it in his blood, the steam left after a boil. The heat of it, the energy. He had been compelled like he never had before. How could that have been fake? 

The brew was supposed to elicit feelings where there were none. It was supposed to twist the humours to make one act. But it hadn’t. That hadn’t been his humours, his bile, his changeable insides.

It had been him. Just him. And—

He turned. Hans’s mouth was a tight, hard line. 

“I must go.”

“Hans—”

Hans ignored him. “Sir.”

He nodded towards the marshal and strode away without so much as glancing at Henry. Henry made his farewells and hurried after him, Leaving the confused marshal in his wake.

“Hans! Hans, wait—” Hans did not slow. Henry caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “Hans, for fuck’s—”

Hans twisted around. “Do not touch me.”

“What?”

“I said let me go!” He pulled his arm out of Henry's grip. “Let—” he took a breath, like he was suddenly winded. He folded into himself. It put Henry in mind of a sheet on a washing line, stilled in a breeze. “Let me go, Henry.”

He was wearing the expression that had been on his face last night: fear, panic. It was like he was playing at being angry. His tone was clipped but his eyes; those were sad.

Henry took a step back. Hans gave him a last look - misery and venom - then strode away.

***

The sun had set by the time Henry left the forge and returned inside. He’d found his way there around midmorning, having finished anything he could usefully do around the keep and feeling distinctly aware that Hans would refuse to speak to him should he search him out. The heat and rhythm of the repetitive work helped keep him calm, keep him distracted. With the red-hot metal beneath his gloved hands there was little room to let his mind wander.

He couldn’t think about what had passed between him and Hans when he was too busy making sure he didn’t get a nasty burn. Even if the heat of the fire made him think of the heat of Hans’s skin, if the fizz and splash of the water conjured images in his mind of sweat and spend. Even if the heavy hammering of iron put him in mind of a much different sort of blow.

He poured himself into the work, forcing the thoughts away. His eyes stung when he was finished, the fire of the forge blindingly bright against the darkness outside. His arms were covered in tiny burn marks.

He hadn’t even noticed.

His limbs were feeling leaden and heavy as he entered the hall. Sir Radzig looked up as he entered, waving him over.

“Henry, my boy, how are you?”

Henry sat beside his father, gratefully taking the cup of wine he offered him.

“Well as can be,” he said, vaguely. 

Sir Radzig, thank God, didn’t press the matter. Henry didn’t know what he would have said if he had demanded to know what was troubling him. He sipped at his wine, trying not to focus on the empty chair where Hans usually sat.

“There you are!” Henry turned to see Sir Hanush in the doorway. “I’ve been looking for you, lad.”

Henry rose to his feet automatically. “How can I assist, Sir Hanush?”

Hanush grabbed the wine jug and gestured carelessly for Henry to sit back down.

“I appear to have lost my nephew,” he said. “Hans has been holed up in his chambers all day. Refuses to come out, if he’s even in there. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him. Wondered if you had.”

The last time Henry had seen Hans had been early that morning when he had walked away from him, leaving him alone and baffled in the middle of the road. He had assumed he’d returned to the keep and distracted himself in his usual ways - wine and women. It was unsettling to hear he’d been wrong.

“I haven’t,” Henry said, “not since this morning.”

Hanush shook his head. “Look, could you do me a favour? Go up there and try to work out what he’s so bloody worked up about. He trusts you.”

Henry wasn’t so sure that was true anymore. He didn’t even know if Hans even liked him after what had passed between them. But he needed to talk to him. He’d have gone to find him even if Hanush hadn’t asked him to.

Maybe it would all be alright. He’d grab a plate of tarts from the kitchens, the biggest jug of wine he could find, and go up to Hans’s chambers. They’d talk. They’d work it out.

They had to. 

He rose from his seat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

[hyperlexichypatia]

Okay, here's my criticism of this post I keep seeing -- and no, it's not what you think. I know, my longtime followers who know the kinds of things I post about a lot are probably thinking, "Oh, I know what their objection is going to be. It's going to be that 18-19 year olds are adults who can date older partners if they choose to." But no, that's not it this time! Yes, I do believe it's fine for young adults to date older adults if they choose to (and am accordingly rolling my eyes at all the "This should go up to 25!" comments in the notes), but. That's not my issue here. In fact, precisely because I believe that young adults dating older adults is morally neutral, I'm not at all concerned about the efficacy of the messaging against it. My concern is that underage minors being in sexual/romantic relationships with adults is actually harmful and dangerous, and therefore young people actually should be warned against it, and this is not an effective warning.

Fellow old people, do y'all remember being 14? At all? Would you have found this warning effective and compelling at that age?

I for sure would not! I did not! Quite the opposite!

Put yourself in the young person's position here. You have no rights. You're treated as someone with no agency. Your parents, teachers, government, and society as a whole treats you as some combination of "nuisance," "ticking time bomb," and "unthinking blob." Developmentally, you're at a phase of life when you should be transitioning to a more adult role, but everyone around you demonizes you for that desire. All your thoughts, feelings, and opinions are dismissed as the inconsequential ravings of Just A Dumb Kid Who Doesn't Know Any Better. You meet someone who treats you with basic human politeness, tells you that he likes you and that you're mature, actually treats you like you have two brain cells to rub together. Of course you're going to be drawn to him. And then when other adults warn you that obviously of course he doesn't really like you, that's impossible, of course you're not really mature, no one could possibly see you that way; actually you're naive and incapable of making your own decisions, and the way your parents/teachers/society treat you is completely justified. Are you going to heed those warnings?

Why are adults absolutely constitutionally incapable of giving good, necessary advice to teenagers without fucking insulting them in the process? Of course teenagers don't listen to it! Why would anyone??

"Oh, well, of course teenagers don't listen, because they're stubborn, and immature, and biologically determined to make bad decisions, which is all the more reason they need to be controlled," say adults, completely oblivious to the actual problem.

When I was a teenager, the big moral panic at the time was teen pregnancy, and we were all inundated with the least effective cautionary tales in the world: "If you get pregnant as a teen, you'll have to leave your parents' care and function as an adult!" Which left every girl who'd intentionally gotten pregnant for the explicit purpose of escaping her abusive parents saying "Yeah, that was the goal." And every girl who was looking for a way of escaping her abusive parents to think "What a great idea!" Today the big moral panic is older partners, but if the appeal of an older partner is that he treats you like someone capable of making your own decisions, why would you be persuaded by a counterargument of "Don't listen to him, of course you're not capable of making your own decisions!"?

Again. I'm saying this because I agree that adults dating minors is a bad thing and that minors should be warned against it. EFFECTIVELY.

That said, this is my advice to any 17-or-younger person being pursued by an 18+-year-old partner: Listen. You deserve so much better than the way society treats you. You deserve to be taken seriously. You deserve to make your own decisions in life. You have a mind of your own, and people should recognize that instead of treating your pesky "free will" as a personal affront or an inconvenient glitch. You can and should think for yourself. You deserve, and I hope you have, relationships with older people who validate those truths about you. However. You are still legally and materially powerless. I don't have to tell you that. You live it every day. Someone older than you -- and therefore, inherently, legally, more powerful than you -- should not be trying to extract things from you. Money, sex, unpaid labor, anything of value. Someone more powerful than you who truly values you, values your friendship, values you as a person, will be mindful of your status and not try to extract anything from you. Cross-age friendships are good. Older people can and should genuinely like and appreciate you, and you can and should genuinely like and appreciate them. But if they try to extract anything from you, run away.

[wowzerwyrm]

Okay, I'd like to start an open discussion here of some sort. Main problem being, I'm not really sure the best way to do that. Reblogs aren't really great for a discussion, comments are a little janky, and a direct message seems rude for multiple reasons and also isn't really open, since what I want to do is to get these thoughts out there for anyone to read if they want. So I guess what I'm settling on is I'm going to have an open discussion with myself here, directed at no one in particular but reblogged from this post since this is the thing that sparked it, and if anyone wants to comment on my thoughts with their own, either criticism consideration that would be neat (though I can't guarantee I'll have the energy/attention span later to actually respond, even if I'll do my best to) All that out of the way, this post makes me feel bad. Why does it make me feel bad? Let me figure that out, because my emotions are not what determines the morality of a situation, just what I'm already predisposed to think. I'm not an AI artist, I don't use GenAI for my own art or writing. But I also don't personally see GenAI as inherently a bad thing. Is it simply my proximity to the idea, so I feel as if I'm being called a nazi supporter? Maybe, it could be as simple as that. So, it's probably a good idea to analyze my understandings about GenAI art and the claims being made to see if I feel bad just because it sucks to be unfairly compared to something bad, or if it's because I'm feeling some cognitive dissonance that I don't like. (Ergo, am I a nazi supporter?) Regarding the claims in the post, how do my understandings and beliefs line up?

AI art is a great tool for people who think art's only purpose is to look good

Okay, so... this is objectively true, yeah. AI art is a great tool for people who think art's only purpose is to look good. But for some reason, it still feels inaccurate even though it is true. Let me break down the idea and look at some of the implied and inverse statements this one creates. 'People who think art's only purpose is to look good' definitely has a lot to unpack in it. As an artist, I'm familiar enough with the idea that art is so much more than just the end-product visual medium and how technically proficient it is. Along with the fact that 'good' is a distinctly difficult idea to nail down. Given the reblog about nazi art ideals, I think it's okay to assume that 'good' in this case is along the lines of 'good vs evil', black and white thinking, and the fascist view of cleanliness and purity. Something that decries art that doesn't meet the same specific stylization and standards as not just different, but 'wrong' and 'bad.' And is AI art a good tool for people who think like that? Yeah, sure. (though also I'm starting to think No, after getting into more of the comments and tags on this post and similar ones, but I can get into that later.)

But it will create very smooth, clean, 'sterilized' pieces of art, for sure, and that is definitely something that fascists want.

It's a neat sort of post, where a fairly straightforward statement is also a clever turnaround idea that is supposed to help you get the idea of what is really going on. I do tend to like those kinds of posts, where it's a statement that doesn't quite fit the mold of what you assume (in this case, as an artist that frequently expresses distaste and disgust for GenAI (along with just being in the general zeitgeist of anti-AI sentiment), it's odd for her to post something about AI being a good tool in any way, and that oddity makes you think, and the careful phrasing of the post draws your eye to the 'only', which reminds you that art's purpose isn't only to look good, which then puts the first half of the sentence in a different light.) If, for example, she had posted that "AI art is a great tool for people who think art is supposed to look good." That would have much different implications, as would just posting. "AI art is a great tool for people who want to make art that looks good." Which leads to another interpretation of the post

AI art is [only] a great tool for people who think art's only purpose is to look good

This is, objectively, not what the post is saying. It literally does not say this. OP even said in another post that there's nothing inherently fascist about wanting to create better art. But I think it's a reasonable assumption to make that this was the idea a reader was supposed to land on, and the implication the OP was trying to make. (I could be wrong, and please let me know if that is the case.) And I think this is where the post started feeling bad to me, because that specifically is something I disagree with. Sure, it absolutely can and has been used to make sterilized, clean, 'good' art for people who don't see any other purpose or understanding in why and how people create. But I also truly think that that is not it's only or best use. I think it can and often is used to create powerful, interesting, thoughtful and clever pieces of art. It takes it's own process to do, much like how hand-drawn art or photoshop takes practice and knowledge to create the thing you want to see in your head. A lack of skill in any of these will produce something uncanny and unsatisfying, just in different ways. (But it's still worth doing, because practice is good and art isn't just about how it looks and is also about the process and about your experience with it.) Is it being used for terrible, annoying, and fascist things right now? Yeah, absolutely. But pencils and paint and chisels and cameras and brushes and digital art programs are also great tools for people who don't think art has any purpose but to look good. Terrible, annoying and fascist movements are going to create terrible, annoying and fascist products using whatever tools they can, and that doesn't make the block of marble itself fascist. And the biggest thing, in the end, is that Fascism and nazis are bad because they destroy things they don't like. The problem wasn't that everyone all of a sudden started just creating the same bland, clean, sterilized style of art because it was easy or fun. The problem was that powerful people decided that this one specific type of art (and person) was 'correct' and then outlawed, destroyed, and slaughtered everything and everyone who thought otherwise.

AI art is... not doing that. Companies and industry were already paying as little as possible for bland and simple art to use for their marketing and using people in other countries with looser labor laws for their call centers, because that's what companies do, because art in marketing is only about what looks good. I remember countless ads with all the same artstyle not because it was created by AI but because it was created by an artist who was being paid to create something bland and simple and sterilized for the purpose of advertising and drawing in customers. AI may have been the next tool that made it even easier, but that was the same of each iteration of increasingly user-friendly art programs, all the way from cameras to Clip Studio. Fascism may be on the rise in the US, but even right now GenAI art itself is not forcing other people to only do that one sterilized art style any more than the brush forced people to create nazi propoganda. And, in the end, AI isn't even doing that good of a job for them. It's too good at doing exactly what it's told. Previously, little pieces of humor and 'soul' and interesting design would sneak into those bland pieces of advertising because the artists they would hire like to create, they would go do a little extra or experiment a little and occasionally that wouldn't get stomped out by the executives and so it would make it through. Now, the executives skip out on the practiced artist and create something themselves. In the past they didn't do that because actually putting pen to paper for the first time is a frustrating experience that shows you don't really know what you're doing yet. But because GenAI can create something that looks how they imagine something is supposed to look, what they want, they don't question it, and they send it out as is. But that's not the AI's fault, that's the fault of a lack of experience. It's the equivalent to a CEO firing their artist, then picking up that artists pencil/paintbrush/digital pen and slapping together a hasty sign that says 'buy my product' with a smiley face on it. And the public can tell that this is the case, and so they don't buy the product, and so it backfires on them. When an experienced artist uses a tool, it can create something interesting and thoughtful and purposeful. No matter the tool, paint, photoshop, or GenAI. (Of course, this doesn't go over how LLMs have been used in marketing and for google searches and pre-installed on every computer, or the biases and racism present in a lot of currently-created LLMS, and that's kind of a completely different conversation and is totally fucked because they don't look up facts they just make stuff up. It's also not a conversation about whether or not AI is theft, which I don't believe it is, but am willing to chat about.)

AI art is a great tool for people who think art's only purpose is to look good

[obsessedwhyyes]

The Art of Not Admitting a Thing (1/2)

Summary: Something's going on between Gale and Astarion... you're sure of it. So naturally, you decide to investigate. Who knew that one simple question would reveal such a mess of longing, denial, and a master class in emotional avoidance?

Rating: T Word Count: 1177 Pairing: Astarion x Gale Content: First Person Gale POV, interview format, mutual pining, yearning, denial of feelings, character study, Gale is bad at feelings, fluff, a teensy bit of angst but not much!

A/N: So here we have my first ever Bloodweave! I am both exceedingly nervous, and very excited about it. I've had ideas in mind for Bloodweave for months, but actually writing these ideas and sending them off into the big, wide world has been a rather intimidating affair. But we're finally doing it! And what better way for me to dip my toe into Bloodweave waters than by being incredibly predictable and writing yet another first person fic?

Chapter 1: "What do you think of Astarion?"

What do I think of Astarion? Well, that's a rather loaded question, is it not? Not that I don't have an answer, of course. No, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many answers, all vying for precedence. Because, you see, Astarion is not the sort of person one can sum up in a single sentiment. He is… how shall I put this? He is an equation with variables that simply refuse to behave. Utterly unsolvable.

Come now, don't look at me like that.

It’s just that Astarion is - well, to put it plainly - a lot. A relentless force of nature wrapped in silk and a layer of his own smugness. He walks into a room and suddenly you're aware of him. No, not just aware - attuned. It's all deliberate, of course. All part of the performance.

Yet, somehow, despite knowing it's all a performance, I still find myself watching.

And it's not just his presence. He's also clever, which is, dare I say, the most irritating thing about him. Not just sharp-witted, but… strategic. He understands people, knows exactly where to sink his teeth. Not just the literal ones - though those certainly warrant consideration - but also the more subtle. A smile, a look, a well-placed word. He plays people like instruments, plucking their strings just so, and I… Well, I have spent a great deal of time telling myself that I, of all people, should be immune to such things.

Alas, I am not immune. 

Which, of course, presents something of a metaphysical conundrum. Feelings, after all, are best understood when dissected. Laid bare and examined like lines in an ancient tome. One does not simply experience something without questioning its nature, its source, its… implications. No, the wise approach - the rational approach - is to study it with the same rigour that one would apply to any magical phenomenon. To categorise it, to determine whether it is genuine or merely some arcane anomaly. A peculiar resonance of the heart, if you will.

And so, in pursuit of intellectual honesty, I find myself studying Astarion with perhaps more dedication than strictly necessary. Any lingering thoughts are purely academic, I assure you. Elminster once told me that understanding the world means understanding its people, and what is Astarion if not a mystery to be unravelled? The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he wields his beauty like a blade.

… Yes, he is beautiful, but that is besides the point. The point is–

…

I've lost the point.

That's what he does to me, you know. He derails my thoughts. I'm speaking perfectly rationally one moment, and the next, I'm somewhere else entirely, wondering if that grace comes naturally to him. If, behind closed doors, he rehearses those cutting remarks, those honeyed words.

Of course, I’m hardly special in that regard. I’ve seen him turn those honeyed words on just about everyone. He gives people what they want with such artful sincerity that they can’t help but believe him. He doesn’t mean it - not truly. And I would be a fool to imagine I’m any different. The world is his stage, and he is quite the performer.

And yet…

There are things about him. Real things. Beneath those rakish charms. I see them sometimes, in the quiet moments, when he doesn't realise anyone's watching. A weariness. A wariness. He's always aware, it seems. Of every room he walks into, of every person in it, of where the exits are. I recognise that sort of awareness. It's the kind you learn when you have been made someone's pawn for too long. When you've spent years convincing yourself that you're the one holding the strings, only to realise the strings are wrapped around your throat.

It unsettles me.

Dare I say, it even hurts me.

Not that I would ever say so. I doubt he would ever want to hear it. I doubt he would believe it.

And, anyway, it's not as if–

Not as if what?

No, truly, what was I about to say? That it's not as if I care? That would be a lie. That it's not as if I think about him more than I should? That would be another.

Perhaps I should stop talking.

…

You know, there was a time where I thought myself above this sort of thing. I thought I understood love completely. How could I not? I had experienced love in its most divine form - quite literally, in fact. My devotion to Mystra is… was… something transcendent. Something cosmic. I thought that was all love could be. All it should be. That anything less would be settling for a pale imitation of true devotion.

But lately, I find myself wondering if perhaps I’ve been rather short-sighted about the whole thing. Mystra herself appears in many forms; adapts to what her followers need. Perhaps love is similar - not always a grand, cosmic force that reshapes reality, but something more… subtle? The way a person looks at you when they think you aren't watching. The way their voice changes when you say their name. The way they make you feel like you are something more than what you were before. 

But if I did feel something - hypothetically, of course - it would hardly matter. Because what could I possibly offer him? A man who’s spent centuries under the control of another, only to find himself finally tasting freedom… What could he possibly want with someone like me? A wizard with borrowed time, carrying within him a responsibility so great that I am expected - destined - to lay down my life for it?

I’ve seen the fire in his eyes when faced with that which threatens to cage him. That fierce, burning defiance - the look of a man who has faced centuries of servitude and vowed never to be chained again. And what would I be, if not another form of binding? Another tragedy waiting to unfold? No. No, I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with such complications.

And yet… sometimes, I wonder.

If things were different - if I were different… If my fate weren’t already destined to end in sacrifice, would he look at me differently?

If he did - and that’s a big “if” - would I be so willing to accept that fate? To willingly embrace my end, if it meant never knowing what this - what we - might have become?

I was so sure the answer was simple. But then he looks at me, and for just a moment, I feel something I thought was long beyond my grasp. A foolish, reckless thing. It makes me hesitate.

And hesitation, well… that’s dangerous, isn’t it?

But stranger things have happened.

… Perhaps I have rather a lot to think about.

But I believe I’ve taken up quite enough of your time with these philosophical meanderings. No doubt you have better things to do than listen to a wizard ramble about matters of the heart. Besides, I have some rather important reading waiting for me. Something about… well, anything other than this conversation, really.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat, @davenswitcher, @silverfangmarks, @sparrowbard, @chonkercatto, @stokzr , @trafalgarussy , @asterordinary , @bite-me-tonight , @transparentkittenheart , @vividiana (thank you for being so supportive with this one <3), @bg3-fanfic-reblogs

[camelspit]

Fintan Pyren by @crescentpaws

Councillor Bronte by @isolde-illustrates

Definition of a sexyman: An often pathetic and/or evil man who is sexy (but perhaps not in the conventional sense)

Propaganda:

Fintan Pyren:

"he's like if a chewed on and half-dead rodent was a twink" anonymous

"twink, need i say more" anonymous

"Okay, let's be real. Fintan is HOT. Bro's the kind of person that makes you nervous. Good or bad, whatever. And I KNOW he gets a lot of hate, but let's be real. The only reason I'd join their cult- I mean the Neverseen, is because of HIM. Like, @/maxcrescentpaws art of him.... My friend that absolutely HATES Fintan, well, after seeing some fanart...." anonymous

"girl idk i just am hyper fixated on this bitch and want gethen to lose by an embarrassing amount" @luigimangionesjailcell

"I love all of them in different ways, but also FINTAN 😍" @kyeiscrying

"f slur (lovingly)" anonymous

"He's a twink with fire powers, you should utilize that!" @skia-tumb

"Three words: HOT. AS. FUCK." anonymous

"he's absolutely pathetic. and evil. also did i mention he's gay? and he has a cool backstory that shannon better elaborate on or imma throw hands" anonymous

"Why yes he did end several people's lives while being incredibly hot, but when you look past the murder, hes just incredibly hot. Ans that's enough for me, and a lot of people, I think." anonymous

Councillor Bronte:

"This man does not have the strength to put his past behind him and ignore the other ancients who keep committing atrocities. He literally cut off his curls because he was not intimidating enough. He desperately seeks for approval from people a tenth his age.

He claims that everything he does is for the good of the world, yet he tortured a girl in her session in front of one of the other government leaders and got away with it. Bronte does not care who it is. If you don't have a past with him, you're just a pawn that needs to be moved. And if you are from his past, he will drag you down with him.

His curls are too powerful. People want him, and Bronte has no clue what to do with that. He's hot with or without his curls. His ears get tangled in long hair. He could cut mallowmelt with those points. Put this old man in an assisted home not a Councillor's castle. Twelve year olds scare him more than murderers. A twelve year old taught him how to laugh, and that was the most terrifying thing he endured in his thousand years of life." @isolde-illustrates

"He’s literally just a silly guy. He has beef with a literal 12 year old for, like, two books, just to become one of her biggest supporters and I love that about him" anonymous

"f slur (lovingly)" anonymous

"How can you not look at this 2,000 hear old man ass guy and go, "Damn, wanna swallow 'em whole." Now that's, sexy!" @skia-tumb

"f slur (derogatorily)" anonymous

Want to submit propaganda? Do so here and it will be added in the next round!

[mc-survivalist-steven]

(Heya! Ooc related: I’ve actually been thinking of starting a Minecraft ask blog myself. Do you have any advice on how to get your foot in the water? Are there any communities I can join to connect with people more easily?)

/ooc HAHAHA- Oh man.

To start off, do note that: This is entirely MY perspective and MY experience. I'm gonna tell you ALL I know, so the good and bad will be included. Always take advice with a grain of salt.

IT'S GONNA BE SUPER LONG, FAM, SO IF YOU AINT INTO READING ESSAYS IN SOME NICHE HOBBY just scroll all the way down 👍

Also, I've been an outlier in this community for prioritizing askblog and storywriting (than jobhunting. DO NOT BE LIKE ME.), so, please don't use me as an example and find what's the best askblogging style for you.

▦ Note: edited at 26/03/25 for better readability and extra elaboration on some parts.

1. Know the scene. (Currently? p bad lmao)

Here's the first bad news: You kind of entered at the timeframe of Highest Difficulty (tm) at the moment. I'll be real with you right now, the community is very inactive atm. I can't blame them. A lot of people I know have real life priorities to do. I myself am only here because I'm doing askblog mid commissions and jobhunting.

With that said, you CAN still open an askblog, you just have to realize that the following will occur:

↪ Lack of the interactions/asks you hope to have. ↪ Lack of notes/validation. ↪ Lack of people who would plan with you or join events. ↪ Lack of interest.

And this WILL suck. It'll get to you. It got to me, obviously. But I'm still going because, again, I am an outlier, and TECHNICALLY I also have a goal I always look forward to to keep creating, which ties to...

. .

2. Your type of Askblog. (Neutral. This depends on you.)

Note first that you CAN always experiment and change styles midway if you don't feel for it. I only find mine because I've been here since 2013, LMAO, so don't be too pressed as a beginner.

But knowing the type of person you are, how you create, and your limits in creating is important. Knowing where you also want to steer your blog is important. Your skills are also important.

So your askblog MUST depend on what kind of content you want to do.

↪ Do you want to do askblog just for fun? Then limit the amount of effort you put into it, else you burnout when you don't get the validation you want. ↪ Do you do it to practice art or writing? Then put your SOUL into it. Just know it'll be slow and slow = also slow engagement. ↪ Do you do it to tell a story only? Not really an artist? Might want to commission someone for RP emotion icons and flex off your writing chops. Do know ppl prefer images rather than text.

This will be the core basis of your motivation for the blog. If you lose sight of this, you will burnout/quit faster.

I suggest if you don't know what to do: Do it for fun first. Do it blind. Notes will start very small, mostly 0 and max at 3... but if you have no expectation, you will take it less painfully. This is important, especially when you start off. And overtime when you start to solidify what you actually wanna do with the blog, you may switch gears. People will follow it if they're interested! So just keep trying.

. .

3. How to Run an Askblog (The hard part lmfao)

Bro I cannot stress ENOUGH that I cannot read people and especially you. I cannot tell you how to run your askblog. Your vision of your OC and story is purely yours, so only you can unlock the secret of what makes your blog 'you'.

But I can tell you what USUALLY works in nabbing people's attention and want to interact with your OCs:

↪ Endermen OCs. (e.g. askendy) They are super popular. No shade to Endermen blogs, it's just what works + the endermen community is the largest rn. ↪ Great artist and replies with images. (E.g. Askzub) Sorry to all the text only askblogs / those who answer with too much text... but if you wonder why people engage less, it's probably that. ↪ Great event hosts, aka blogs who knows how to rally up the masses in a collaborative effort to spice up the community. (e.g. rnotsleeping, 'Monstrosity of the Night' event) ↪ A continuous story featuring duo/trios with engaging storyline. (e.g. hexavexen and ask-vulcan-and-toby) ↪ A gimmick that is simple but interesting. Keep it to one sentence, e.g. mine: 'Retired herobrine with one eye.' (this caught the attention of a LOT of people surprisingly.) ↪ Characters that copies canon minecraft design concept to a T, but has some kind of story people wanna see. (e.g. Enderbro.) ↪ HUMOROUS/SOFTCORE blogs. Ironic, slice of life, or funny. We need more humor tbh. (e.g. hiiamramy (i love this cute blog lmao))

Again, these may or may not work for you. This is the trend that I just frequently see. You can make whatever you want, but know that these are what I see usually climb up to the top.

MEANWHILE, here's the parts that I think DEFINITELY make blogs stand out:

↪ Utilizing your asks in a smart way. (More at #4) ↪ Askblogs with APPROACHABLE quality. Askblog is about interaction.You may want to make space for people to include their OCs (TO A DEGREE) with you and also experience your stories with you. ↪ Characters who don't annoy the viewers/other askbloggers through asks. I cannot stress enough how merely annoying people can get you so much flak. ↪ Characters who tries to interact a lot with other blogs, but isn't intrusive about it. Keep it cool when you try to interact with bigger blogs! They're all riddled with anxiety just like the rest of us.

But also, here's the deal: If you want to break the market, you got to put in some effort. Basically, the same as marketing every products and yourself. You gotta post often, draw often, and send asks (THAT WORKS for both you and your target blog) often. Sometimes you hit the jackpot, most times people ignore you.

It's par for the course. If you think something isn't working, though, always ask for criticism. Just... know that most ppl are too nice to tell you where you went wrong, so, uh... Idk? Ask someone who you trust and is willing to be upfront with you, I suppose.

. .

4. Utilizing ASKS holy shit this is so important to me

You know how in 2013 everyone spams asks so much that you have like 80 asks per blog in a week? And that 'if you spam me or send asks that is unfitting to the blog, I'll delete it uwu' mindset?

Don't.

Let me let you in into my secret. Asks are RARE these days. Baiting for them is even harder. Only your friends will send you asks, and overtime they'll run out of things to ask. If someone sent you a humor ask and you want to throw it away... well... What if I tell you not to?

Here's what you can do:

When you get an ask that feels too humorous or OOC or trolling, weigh how much you can twist it to fit YOUR narrative. For example, this is the ask I got.

Imagine getting this 1 year ago at the peak of Steven getting stuck in the Nether at a break apart state. Your first reaction would be: 'Man, this makes no sense. I should delete it.'

Nope. Weigh it first.

Can you utilize this somehow? Usually, id either answer it in character and then end it with some kind of lore reveal. (e.g. your character sees this and goes 'no! I never did this! ...or did I...' -flashback about an enderman friend they've forgotten-) so you still answer accordingly BUT also reveal something about your character!

See? This engages viewer's interest while also accommodates the ask. Everyone's happy.

Do note some asks can't work like this no matter what you do. You can bank these for future happenings.

...and if the asks are highly uncomfortable, or clearly a troll you can't utilize, or just 'hi.'? Probably just delete those, yeah.

. .

4. pt2, Baiting asks.

Baiting asks is like fishing. You gotta know when to reel and when to hold. Lemme explain.

The basic on this is: don't make your ocs TOO mysterious, but also not TOO open. TOO MUCH OR TOO LITTLE INFO ABOUT YOUR OCS WILL NOT HELP EITHER PARTY! Especially when we are in a drought like this! So yap, reveal, hide ONLY the most important secrets they have, and then reveal it slowly through asks and flashbacks.

Make askers feel that they unlock your ocs more (satisfaction on their end) and you get to infodump on them who your OCs are in a slow pace (satisfaction on your end.)

"But Doe, I can't do this if I don't even get asks."

I grab you gently.

Then drop lore posts.

I notice a lot of askbloggers refuse to post ANYTHING unless they got asks. DON'T. DO THIS. Realize that people usually don't ask because they have NOTHING to ask about. GIVE them something to ask about!

And remember! Do it in a trickle. BOTH in your standalone and answer posts.

So reveal in a consistent, slow trickle way. Give people things to ask about, while also not be too protective of your secrets and reveals.

.

.

4. pt 3, throwing asks.

I BEG OF YOU. SEND ASKS.

You send asks in return to getting asks. That's why non-anon asks is IMPORTANT. It lets people know WHO you are! SO THEY CAN SEND ASKS BACK AT YOU.

Here's my formula:

↪ Read the blog about 20 posts back and figure out something you can ask about. ↪ Ask 2 asks IN CHARACTER, PROPERLY. (format: "your ask here" > Line break > @.yourblogurlhere) This allows you to extend an olive branch for interaction (and future character relationship (friendship, enemies, rivalry, etc)) with the character, while staying in character. [E.g. "Hey, man! I noticed the sweet ride you have outside the house. Is that yours? Because I got a lot to talk about if you like cars!" - @.software-bugs-b-gon] ↪ THEN SEND 2+ MORE ASKS IN ANON with differing styles and personalities to give them MORE FOOD to continue their blog. This allows you to be slightly mean or out of character and gives YOU more ooc leeway to pry the character open further.

Now you just askbombed a blog with 4 asks! That's 4 POSTS OF CONTENT! You're happy, they're happy. YIPPEE!

AND IF YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO GOT AN ASKBOMB, please either return it or spread it to other blogs. Please.

P l e a s e. . .

5. Keeping it fresh.

Like a comic, people gotta come up with new story ideas else the blog stagnates.

If you aren't a story driven blog, letting people do M!As or just do silly 'scenes' and 'situations' work. Think of it like a slice of life or a sitcom.

Shit happens, and your OC is put into it. Let people ask things that help drive them around!

If it's story related, breaking it into arcs and story events will also help you introduce something new per arc and thus, not stagnate!

. .

6. I am tired of askblogging, and I want to take a break. How do i come back from that?

By, uhh... By just coming back?

There's not really a secret sauce to this, I feel like. Do note I am one of the more well-known askblogs out there, so I can just come back anytime and still have people waiting for me. I know that much. But still, not EVERYONE waits for me, y'know? So I just treat it like I'm starting over. No expectation, no grumpy because people aren't waiting for me. I just write for myself and to entertain, and those who like will come back and those who don't can leave and this is okay. This is normal! Don't lose hope.

It's kind of depressing to say 'just don't expect too much,' but it is actually the mindset you need. Do it for YOU, mainly.

And if you somehow deep, deep down know what you have isn't working out?

It's fine to quit! Or restart. Whatever works for you.

But also, quit with honor! Keep these in mind:

↪ DON'T JUST POOF. Believe me. You may be surprised how many people will be sad you're leaving, and what's worse is leaving things open ended will bite you in the ass. I've seen it happen. THRICE NOW actually. None of them ever ends pretty... I'd suggest just taking a hiatus before breaking the news. ↪ Take note of everyone you plan with, and contact them. Tell them you are quitting, and open up a conversation on what they can do in your absence to not break their story midway. Just- just keep open communications going? It'll suck then but it'll cover your bases. ↪ Tell your followers. Obviously LMAO. ↪ If you have the balls, ask them to anon message you on what you can do better for next askblog. People will be more upfront when they are hidden in anon, so you will get some nasty comments. If you want to pursue better writing/art/askblog and you can take the heat, try it out. If you CANNOT take the heat, DO NOT DO THIS. Especially when you quit for mental health reasons. ↪ This is just me to you, don't delete your blog, man. Just close your asks and let it up for good time's sake. I can't tell you what to do with your blog, though, but I prefer archived blogs over deleted ones.

. .

7. Last one I promise: HAVE. FUN.

Askblogging isn't a full time job. You do it because it's probably like a lite-comic for you. (me.) Or maybe it's a place to showcase your OCs. (me.) Or maybe it's because you are insane and you just want to yap about stories and humanity and touch that SOUL in everyone and understand complex emotions in niche situations that wrench your guts (also me.)

No matter the answer, have fun. The blog is for you to LARP as your character and interact with others. Find your community, find the people you belong with,

and most importantly: FIND THAT SWEET SPOT OF WHY YOU CREATE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Just have fun. It's your blog, your rules. I am just an old man who likes to see more blogs show up, so whatever your decision is:

Make your own damn fun, okay?

.

.

ALRIGHT THATS MY YAP HERES THE TLDR:

The scene is currently dead, but make one anyway. Just don't expect much from it atm. You will start on Highest Difficulty, and I don't blame you if you can't garner interest no matter what you do.

Decide on your type of askblog. This will be your core, so if you lose motivation you still have the core to fall back onto. Why do YOU want to make an askblog? What is it for you?

Askblog isn't easy to run. You have to keep your eye on trends, other blogs' stories (you are invested in) and events. Some things work and some don't. But most importantly: Post a lot, include pictures if can, send asks and interact a lot with others!

Know how to utilize your asks. They are SCARCE. Don't just throw away asks that 'makes no sense' and try to twist it your needs. b. Additionally, learn how to bait asks by feeding your viewers bits and pieces that makes up a big secret/character of your OC. Give them something WORTH asking. c. ADDITIONALLY throw a lot of asks. Send some in character and a LOT in anon. Make some askblog happy. We need asks, after all.

Keep it fresh. Don't let the blog stagnate.

If you don't think it works out, it's ok to Quit or Restart. But please do it with other people in mind. Quit with dignity.

Finally, HAVE FUN. Do what it takes to keep the fun fresh for YOU.

. . .

For communities, I suggest LiLaira's MC discord community just to find people you can vibe with. You can then do your own smaller discord community to yap MCaskblog with, preferably those you are chill with and can rotate ideas with.

Joining here also will give you access to the Tumblr MCaskblog community, which helps with your MCaskblog feed.

(both are currently low activity though, just a heads up.)

I'm sure there are more communities out there that I don't know of. Just research who are behind them and be careful with what you choose!

I myself is in the above MC discord. If you wanna yap OCs with me, I am the kind of bastard who camps in the oc discuss channel, sooo... I guess I'll be waiting! :D

[multiversefanfics]

She’s Mine

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader - Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader - Sam Wilson x Fem!Reader Warning: cussing, a bit of angst, and fluff Summary: You were the newest addition to the team, and you caught the eyes of 3 beautiful men, but who will win your heart? Word Count: 1,002

You’ve been on the team for 2 years now, which gave you enough time to get to know everyone, some more than others. You found one person that you could tell anything to, and you wouldn’t get judged for it, maybe a little teasing and dark humor with the deep stuff but never judged and that person was Natasha.

Nat helped you through every breakup, every hair color change, every phase that you claimed was the new you, everything. She was your person, and you were hers.

"Y/N!!!" You heard someone scream your name from the living room, you jogged down the stairs coming face to face with Bucky

“Yes, Barnes?” A smirk spread across his face

“I’m going for a run, wanna come?” You rolled your eyes but then nodded

“You screamed bloody murder just to ask me to go on a run with you?”

He nodded and tossed your running shoes to you. Usually, Bucky would run with Steve or Sam but for some reason he wanted you to go with him you admit it was cute but what changed his mind, Steve and Sam were in the living room as well so why didn’t he ask them? The two of you went on the run.

While on your run you somehow twisted your ankle, so Bucky told you to climb onto his back and he carried you back to the compound

"Are you sure I'm not too heavy?" You asked Bucky while 'steering' with his ears,

"I'm sure, it's like you're not even there."

He chuckled as you pulled his left ear for him to go left. Bucky walked into the compound and gently set you down on the kitchen counter, slowly taking your shoe off

"Yeah, it's already swollen. give me a minute, I'm going to get you some ice."

You nodded and watched him walk to the kitchen, putting ice in a clean dishrag. Bucky came back, scooping you up and carrying you to the couch that's when Steve and Sam walked in

"Oh, shit what happened?" Bucky propped your foot on a pillow and gently placed the ice rag on your ankle.

"I twisted my ankle on our run." Steve sat beside you, rubbing your back.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head and adjusted yourself on the couch.

"I'm gonna run and get you some snacks." Sam placed a blanket over you and kissed the top of your head.

Sam placed a blanket over you and kissed the top of your head.

"I am fine, it's not Bucky's fault I'm an adult I'm capable of taking care of myself." As soon as you tried to take a step you immediately sat back down

"You are not going anywhere, sit down and relax, we are going to make everything better." Steve kissed the top of your head and walked away.

You've always known those 3 had a crush on you but they're starting to act like children, Bucky sat down beside you, rubbing your back

"I'm really sorry, I didn't want you to get hurt" You rolled your eyes

"Can you just take me to my room, please? I wanna take a nap." Bucky nodded and picked you up from the couch. you admit Bucky was and is very attractive, but you're here for work, not to fall in love.

He took you to your room, laid you down on the bed, tucked you in, and kissed your forehead.

"If you need anything, just call me."

You nodded and watched him leave the room. You turned on your side, trying your best to get comfortable. You pulled your phone out and decided to start scrolling through it. There was a soft knock at your bedroom door.

"Come in," You called out. Sam poked his head in, showing a bag of snacks. You slowly sat up, leaning against your headboard

"Sam, you really didn't have to do this; it's just a sprained ankle." He walked the rest of the way in and sat on your bed

He shrugged and set the bag beside you. He moved closer, helping you take out some of the snacks from the bag and drinks setting them on your bedside table

"I know, but that way you don't have to get out of bed when you're hungry, you'll have all your snacks and drinks." He crumpled up the bags placing them inside one another.

Sam was very attentive; he always made sure someone else was taken care of before taking care of himself, which you really admired and appreciated about him.

"Well, thank you, Sammy, I appreciate it and you." You pulled Sam into a hug

When the two of you pulled back, Sam's face was inches from yours, his eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes, you knew what he wanted, and deep down, you wanted it too, but was it right? Would it give him the wrong idea?

Before you had time to react or pull away, his lips were on yours, soft, passionate, his hand came up to cup your face, gently rubbing his thumb up and down your cheek. You slowly pulled away from him, staring at him wide eyed.

"S-Sam..." He shook his head and ran out of your room

You sat there for a minute trying to figure out what just happened, on one hand you liked Sam, he was nice and funny, but on the other hand you didn't want it to complicate your friendship or work dynamic. You were so confused and didn't know what to do, the best option was to sleep it off.

Sam ran to find Natasha; she was in the kitchen making herself some coffee

"Nat! I gotta talk to you!" He rushed up beside her, nearly knocking her over

"Woah, slow down, birdman, what's wrong?"

He took a deep breath and leaned against the counter "I kissed Y/N."

"You did what?!" Two voices boomed from behind Sam in unison. Sam's in troubleeeeeeeeeee.

A/N: This has been in my drafts for a really really long time, I hope you guys like it too. If you want to be tagged in future fics comment here or send me a message. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. 🥰

Main Masterlist - Sam Wilson Masterlist

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @kjah97 @sleepysongbirdsings @samfreakingwinchester @iwudbutnah @kandis-mom @tdbooth @thiquefunlover63 @nekoannie-chan @angelilacsworld

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

3.5 tel’aran’rhiod liveblog!!!

Oh this opening scene with sakarnen is interesting. Showing how a channeler feels the ecstasy of the power and the need to draw more, and also how using such a dangerous and powerful sa’angreal is walking a knife’s edge

LOVE this bit of aviendha being catty about rand and Melaine firing back at her, aviendha you’re really in it now

oh that was not how I thought alcair was pronounced

AIEL POLYAMORY TIME

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD FIRST SISTER MARRIAGE REAL CONFIRMED????

RAND CLAIMING THE TITLE OF CAR’A’CARN AND HAVING A CUTE MOMENT WITH A AIEL KID IM GONNA DIE

siuan having a moment with Moiraine’s letter ashcksafbka

OH SHIT ELAIDA SIUAN CONVO

FUCK THIS IS TENSE

Oh my god this verin siuan leane scene………

AH YIS BAIN AND CHIAD SPRINTING AHEAD OF A HORSE I LOVE TO SEE IT

the avirand vibes……..polyamory discussions……..oh yes

OBSESSED WITH THEM AVIENDHA IS SO FUNNY THIS EPISODE

Ohhhh lan and Moiraine having more tensions

EGWENE PUTTING ON HER AMYRLIN REGALIA FROM THE ARCHES AS INSTINCTUAL ARMOR I’M GONNA LOSE IT

ooooh I like how they’re doing the people briefly touching TAR

OH FUCK LANFEAR OH FUCK

Alviariiiiiiiiiin

omg Elaida telling that accepted off

WHAT THE FUCK VERIN ‘my sister can do anything’

Nynaeve being seasick, exactly as she should be

Can’t wait to add min to this tense little dynamic

‘That’s only because she didn’t want Nynaeve to throw herself overboard’ *nynaeve clearly considering it* ‘is that an option?’

Elayne having to wrangle mat by herself cause Nynaeve is out of commission, rip

Sea folk tiiiiiiime!!!

Mat: Min pleaaaaase rescue me from elayne and Nynaeve

Dain Bornhold still trying to be a decent person and keeping Velda from torturing the girls

CAUTHON SISTER CHANNELING MOMENT

oh Jesus Christ natti

I take it back Dain you rat bastard

FAILE I LOVE YOUUUUU

Bain and Chiad love her too

Alanna girlie are you being a bit reckless perhaps??

Oooh Alanna Maksim drama OH SHIT HARSH

Alanna on a hunt for more warders hmmm??? Oh and for channelers too.

Maksim sweetie you are such a sadsack rn. Like I get it but. I think you’re missing the point of the whole warder bond thing my guy.

If Maksim does leave now he can’t make it through the ways alone so he’s just gonna spend like 3 months riding slowly across the continent towards…where exactly. He doesn’t know she went to tanchico.

Lan getting to reconnect to malkier again!!!! We haven’t had much of this since s1 I’m delighted.

Oh now it’s Rand Egwene angst time I see

Moiraine honey put the orb away that is so dangerous!!!!

“I won’t be at the last battle” come again???????

If Ian starts crying I am also going to cry

OOSQUAI MENTION

Ooh they’re getting to laugh together :))))) I’m sure this isn’t setting up for emotional devastation later :))))))))))))))

I love mat and min SO much

OH GOD MAT ANGST

NOOOOOO STOP WITH THE SUICIDE JOKES MATRIM

Elayne windfinder moment??????

I love including Nynaeve the former wisdom in this conversation about alternative ways to be a channeler than through the aes sedai

ELAYNE MEETING MIN!!!!!!

Min part of the gang finally :’)

lmaooooo they’re giving the port of Tanchico full on pirate movie vibes

OH MY GOD THIS ELAIDA SCENE WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK

Is she bypassing the oaths with the bracelet?????? Or does a black ajah member count under the accepted use of the power against shadowspawn??????

Siuan healing elaida is a fun choice here

NOOOOO DEAD WOLVES!!!!!

oh Jesus Christ Alanna is in DANGER

Faile backing up Perrin immediately it’s battle couple tiiiiiiime

DID THEY KILL NATTI CAUTHON HOLY FUCKING SHIT

ALANNAAAAAAAAAAA

oh my god that’s a lot of arrows

OH SHIT I KNOW THIS MUSICAL CUE LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOOOO GET HIS ASS PERRIN

Faile 1v2ing whitecloaks while Perrin gets stabbed by a single guy doncowdfhsdofnsdofdsv

JK 1v3 Faile my beloved <3333333333

THANK YOU MAKSIM FINALLY

Rand sweetheart she is playing youuuuuuu

Starting the episode with aviendha explaining ethical polyamory, and now rand cheating on egwene in tar with Lanfear. My guy.

Bair and Melaine: egwene don’t go in tar again without permission. Egwene twenty minutes later: about that

Angsty fishwives reunion scene….i love it……

Oh damn I’m about to cry about this actually shit

CAN’T BE MENDED NOT IN THIS LIFE YELLING ABOUT ITTTTTTTTT

Csdbvksdvbdskvbadkcadkvdabvdavda

Egwene outside the hut like maybe I’ll give them some privacy and wander off to endanger myself some more.

Nynaeve dreaming about her arches vision daughter AH

ELAYNE WINDFINDER AVILAYNE FANTASY I LOVE ITTTTTTT AHHHHHHHHHHHH

Mat dreaming about his sisters and mom in the episode where their mom just died I’m gonna throw up!!!!!!!!!!

Hi this dream sequence is fucking killing meeeeeeeeeee

PERRIN AND HOPPER FUCK

Egwene sees Faile and she’s like: ‘Perrin got a new girlfriend???? Good for him!’

EGWENE CATCHING HIM CHEATING IN DREAMS HOLY SHIT

oh my god what a fucking cliffhanger!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[batboyblog]

As a born Maine I am now required by state law to tell the story in full.

Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain (always referred to by all 3 names) was born in 1828 in Maine.

He taught himself Greek to get into Bowdoin College, the great love of his life. He'd teach at Bowdoin till the outbreak of the Civil War, unlike many at the college he was an enthusiastic supporter of the Union cause and itched to enter the war, asking the President of Bowdoin for a leave from his job. "I fear, this war, so costly of blood and treasure, will not cease until men of the North are willing to leave good positions, and sacrifice the dearest personal interests, to rescue our country from desolation, and defend the national existence against treachery."

He didn't tell his family he enlisted, to the outrage of his wife who never really forgave him. He was offered the colonelcy of the 20th Maine, as a college educated man, but he turned it down feeling he was not experienced enough, becoming its lieutenant colonel instead.

Chamberlain was promoted to Colonel in June 1863, just before the battle of Gettysburg.

On the second day of Gettysburg Chamberlain and the 20th Maine were assigned to the far left of the Union lines for the battle that would make them famous.

If Union troops could not hold the hill called Little Round Top, rebel forces would encircle and destroy the Army of the Potomac, Washington DC would lay open to Lee's forces, the Union would lose the war.

The Mainers were placed at the far left edge of the line, they were the end of the Union line, if the Confederates could turn them, push them back so the line bent, Little Round Top would fall, the line would fall, the Union would fall.

in the brutal July heat the 20th Maine led by Chamberlain faced a Confederate force twice their size. Time and time again the rebel troops of the 15th Alabama came roaring up the hill, and time and again The Maine threw them back. It's not now known what the famous "Rebel Yell" actually sounded like, though everyone agreed it sounded utterly inhuman. I can only imagine looking down the hill through the trees and hearing it knowing yet another charge from an overwhelming enemy was coming.

The Maine was outmanned, its line a single line of men, and it was running out of ammo. Chamberlain had desperately requested more reinforcements and ammunition. None was coming he was told to hold the line.

The fate of the Union, of freedom over slavery, hung on what a bookish but brave college professor from Maine decided to do next. Out of bullets with the 15th Alabama massing below them for yet another charge that would have surely broken the 20th Maine if they'd stood and fought. He ordered "fix bayonets" and charged down the Hill

can you imagine looking up the hill and seeing the wrath of god coming charging down at you? The Alabamians still outnumbered the Mainers, and they had bullets but the sheer terror of the charging Maine caused them to break and run. Chamberlain was injured in the charge which he did lead from the front, a rebel officer tried to shoot him with a revolver but Chamberlain put his sword to the man's neck and took his pistol which is still in the Maine State Museum to this day.

Chamberlain more than earned a place in history but he wasn't done. Almost a year after Gettysburg at the Battle of Petersburg he was hideously injured. Shot through the right hip and out from the left Chamberlain true to form drew his sword and stabbed into the dirt to hold himself upright in the middle of the battle to rally his men. He held himself up this way till be passed out from blood loss.

He was not expected to live, the papers in Maine wrongly reported his death, General Grant gave him a battlefield promotion to brigadier general. But Chamberlain showed his iron will and did not die on the field at Petersburg, and returned to command. However he never really recovered from the injury.

He returned to active duty by the end of 1864, and it is Chamberlain who meets the Confederates under a white flag outside of Appomattox and learns that General Lee wished to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia. And to Chamberlain General Grant gives the honor to receive the surrender of the Confederate arms

Chamberlain after the war was elected Maine's governor 4 times (though each term was only a year long, what a pain). In 1880 violence broke out over who had been elected governor in the state and group of armed men took over the state capital. Chamberlain, retired from the governorship for over 10 years was summoned and quickly sent the men packing. Both sides of the dispute tried to bribe Chamberlain into declaring them the winner, he refused, and when a mob came to the state capital threatening to kill him, he came out to meet them, unafraid as always. His refusal to support either side over the law was the end of his political life in Maine.

His injury from the war caused him pain for the rest of his life, if you visit his home you'll see nearly every room is fitted with brass rails for him to hang onto when he felt unwell, which was often. Despite his worsening health in old age Chamberlain threw himself into the Grand Army of the Republic, the Civil War veteran's association, he was given the Medal of Honor 30 years after Little Round Top for his "Daring heroism and great tenacity"

In 1914, 50 years after being shot at Petersburg, and years of ill health at the age of 85, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain died in Portland Maine. One of the doctors at his side had been his doctor at Petersburg. Chamberlain it was declared died of the bullet wound he received at Petersburg, 50 years earlier, making him, 49 years after the war ended, the last combat casualty of the Civil War.

On July 2, 1863, Colonel Joshua Chamberlain lead his men of the 20th Maine on a bayonet charge down the slopes of little round top, during the battle of Gettysburg. He would later be awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions that day.

This clip, from the movie Gettysburg, depicts the epic moment in history. It's one of the best, if not the best scene in the movie.