#revolutionary war humor?

[leo-lem]

camelots knights are the medieval version of the readcoats are coming

[wordsaficionado]

If you’re ever insecure about how often you use commas or how long your sentences are I IMPLORE you to read the Treaty of Paris (1783), specifically article two.

510 words.

2 periods.

FIVE HUNDRED AND TEN WORDS.

A GRAND TOTAL OF TWO SENTENCES!

SIGNED BY DOZENS OF PEOPLE TO SET UP A TREATY AND AUTHORIZE LAND!!

Like don’t worry babes your 3 commas and semi colon are NOTHING to the revolution era and that’s what truly matters.

[etakeh]

[mytortoisegotstuckinatupperware]

I remember watching my father play assassins creed III and me being absolutely enthralled. But like any 9-yr-old I craved destruction and terror, so I asked him what would happen if the character fell from a great height

and be an upstanding guy, my dad made the character climb all the way to the highest point in the game and, despite being at 100% health, pockets full of goods, and in the middle of an important side quest, stepped off the edge, dropping hundreds of feet to the ground, dying on impact and resetting the game's progress

tldr, I asked my dad to commit in-game suicide and he did just because I wanted to see what would happen. 10/10 dad behavior

[jaywinaustin]

The MAGA crowd has a difficult time with history (and other subjects), but to shout “1776!” at their rallies is just crazy. The American Revolutionary War as fought by Liberals against a NeoCon-supported king. The Thurber Brigade attempts to set them straight.

https://tinyurl.com/TTB-RevWar

[honestlymysticalexpert]

Astro-Observations.

I realize having 2H-8H, 4H-10H, and 6H-12H placements is common for women. And being feminine houses explains alot.

And in that way, 10H would represent the martriachy while the Guru in the philosophical 9H would represent patriarchy.

I think Aquarius is the archetype of the absolute masculine and Pisces the absolute feminine.

I've noticed air pairs up well with water and earth with fire. Air understands intensity as much as water does. Where air is a hermit and water a healer. Also water recognizes air is crazy like pixie crazy, whereas being entertained by the fact that they're the lunacy crazy, but they only under-estimate air. 🍃 this psycho-active game is what keeps the two going. Fun pair.

Air and earth at first seems boring, but the more they peek underneath the unmoving stability and silence of earth, they realize a humor that's hard to forget. And because air is timeless in the end, earth with it's tranquility wins the air to earth. Air brings a breeze; and this becomes a tropical 🍹 love.

The stubborn unmoving nature of earth is well understood by the inspiring nature of fire.

----I believe any synastry could work, and should if it was meant to be, and not to leave anything to fate 🍃 but even the most difficult like 8H 💄 synastry has worked in numerous cases for different individuals.

---I think the 4H 🏡 as one of the angular houses is very important since it's home and home is where the heart is. And the heart is the store for all our spiritual and earthly treasures. So it would make sense that originally cancer was ruled by ♃ Jupiter the planet 🌏 of abundance 💰.

Generally Jupiter for a woman's chart denotes the "earthly treasures" through the 🕺 Husband, and representing foreign cultures goes to say literally the woman as a home maker is accepted native to all cultures, belonging to none and therefore. The 9H being where the woman gets a culture they'll marry into, men as suitors, and residents of the 9H house. HENCE the 9H placements.

As for the man ; the Venus position indicates where they marry from. Nature and background of the woman in their 4H.

Literally the only axis that matter for a woman are the ones mentioned above concluding 1H-7H, 3H-9H, 5H-11H, to be the ones that matter for the man. And so the placements in it, infact this is relative and common on most Natal charts.

The mars 💉 placements show our actions, traditionally represented by scorpio(feminine) and the Aries (Masculine).

Also Mars is where we get adrenaline from, things "energize" us, ENERGY. ⛮ Meaning for the men the (ethereal) appeal comes from how consciously awake they are, and for the woman, the transformation they can do, as home makers in building Inheritance, as well as "the shared resources."

----The 8H, of shared Inheritance goes ahead to be a shadow of the 12H 🌊 what proceeds the eternity of a soul. Where Venus is exalted in Pisces again making it the highest archetype of a woman, in being the "golden alchemist of love". Compassion. Women are Soulful according to the 12H.

And ⚙ according to the 11H the epitome of the masculine, men are revolutionary. Fathers of civilizations. And because it all fair in love and war. Love is also a feminine form of civilization.

Fire and earth belong together too, like air and water.

That being said all chaos return to order, and all order is born from chaos. Therefore each harmful aspect in a birthchart appears to be neutralized by a uniquely powerful order in the chart. I think that makes astrology a "divine" science.

Edit; am thinking Leos have to be self sufficient because they are primarily ruled by the sun. "The father" in astrology and therefore being the energy of sustenance it will and must show in them and on them in a certain way. "Boss vibes" 😎 ✅

[bucketslutz]

Don't Be Late (Professer Logan Howlett/Fem Student Mutant Reader)

Chapter Summary: Logan's behavior continues to intrigue you as you begin to struggle to hide your feelings towards him.

A/N: I've never churned out a chapter so fast before. i'm having a lot of fun writing this!

Warnings: Smut, 18+, minors DNI!!, unprotected p in v, dirty talking, logan talks you through it lowk, grinding, swearing, no use of Y/N, pet names for reader tho🤭

Word Count: 4,040

Chapter 2

The door to the classroom creaks open loudly causing you to turn your head abruptly from your notebook, finding Logan staring at you incredulously. Adamant to not repeat the same mistake as you did Monday, you arrived at class 15 minutes early this morning. You smile awkwardly and look back to your notes, trying not to pay him any mind, despite that familiar swirl deep in your stomach telling you to jump him right then and there.

“Early bird today huh, bub?” Logan chides, his sudden display of humor surprising you. You chuckle, unsure of how to respond.

“Yeah, getting used to that commute, Monday I was too late, today I’m too early, what can ‘ya do?” you reply, laughing lightly, not to Logan’s amusement, however, who glares at you like a horn protruded from your skull as he settles himself at the head of the classroom. You clear your throat and go back to your notes. So, he’s funny, but he doesn’t like small talk, got it. You think to yourself, becoming even more confused by his demeanor. You couldn’t find anything about him online last night, not a social media post, no articles, no information about his credentials besides a flimsy description on the school’s website that describes him as having a “masters degree in the history of american wars,” whatever that means. It doesn’t say where his degree is from either. Everything about this man is clouded in obscurity.

You jump slightly when Logan slams a piece of paper in front of you. Glancing upwards, attempting to meet his gaze, you’re confused to see he’s already turned away from you and walking to the front of the room. You look down at the paper to see it’s the attendance sheet, your name already has a check mark next to it. Before you can even mutter a thanks, people have already started to file into class and you swallow any more potential verbiage that may escape your mouth, not wanting anyone to perceive you.

…

“Professor Howlett, I’m not quite sure I understand,” a brunette in the front row pouts, “Could I see you after class?” she asks suggestively, flicking her hair and resting her pencil between her lips. Her attempt to subtly gain Logan’s attention almost makes you laugh.

“It’s Logan. And no,” he snaps, not breaking his focus from the dates he’s writing on the board. The girl scoffs in surprise and sits back in her chair in defeat, looking at her friends on her right and left like she couldn’t believe he would rebuff her like that. It’s not lost on you now that Logan is very attractive, at least, you’re not the only person who finds him attractive; maybe not the only person who has had a lewd wet dream about him either. Why that girl would attempt to be so bold is beyond you, seeing as Logan is so goddamn terrifying. Just one look from him makes you want to crawl into a shell and never come out again.

“Friday’s essay—I want you to write about independence,” Logan asserts, leaning against the whiteboard and nonchalantly crossing his arms. The room is quiet, some people even looking around for clarification, yourself included. The brunette in the front row raises her hand causing Logan to roll his eyes and nod in her direction, affirming her request.

“I’m sorry, like, do you mean what independence means? Or how it played a part in the revolutionary war? Or, like, what it means to maybe fight for it in the modern era?” she asks carefully, not wanting him to snap at her again. Logan considers her for a moment.

“Yeah, sure,” he concedes with a shrug of his shoulders. There’s still an air of confusion hanging in the room. You’re struggling to understand how this man made it past a vetting process to secure his position in the first place. Logan looks at his watch, sighing in relief. “That’s all I’ve got. See ‘ya Monday.”

Logan wastes no time in collecting his coat and briefcase and rushing out of the classroom. Everyone pauses, sharing glances of bewilderment. You avoid eye contact with others, opting to just quietly collect your things and depart with the one or two stragglers who’ve made the same choice you did.

…

It’s painfully slow at the store. You had hoped there was inventory that needed to be stocked, or a shipment, or cleaning, a robbery even. But there’s no action here. The only customers being two teenagers who bought candy and soda after school, an old man and a case of beer, and an old lady with a pack of smokes. That’s it. That’s all you’ve seen for the past 5 hours. The free time at least allows you to work on Logan’s essay for Friday. The vague topic gave you quite a bit of room to work, it’s a good thing you have a lot to say or else you would’ve had a much harder time working on this. The store’s door opens with a jingle, the bells hanging by the hinge shaking, the sound draws your attention.

You’re surprised to see Logan entering, broad shoulders tucked into a brown leather jacket. He scans the store and eventually makes eye contact with you. Your breath hitches when you notice the chest hair peaking out from beneath his wife beater, the tank top revealing slightly more of his chiseled physique than you’re used to seeing. You involuntarily clench at the thought of what he might look like without that tank top on…No. You shake the thought from your head, trying to keep your composure despite your growing arousal towards your professor; an arousal that only started from that damned wet dream.

Boots click against the linoleum tile towards the register you’re situated behind. Logan slams a case of Budweiser onto the counter as he rifles through his wallet for cash. You quietly ring him up.

“Get me two Arturos,” he instructs, rather impolitely. You look at him, he doesn’t even attempt to make eye contact. You decide to make a little joke, seeing as he was feeling so humorous this morning.

“What’s the magic word?” you coo, teasingly, through a friendly smile. Logan finally looks up at you through slightly raised brows.

“Go fuck yourself.” Logan was not in a teasing mood.

You purse your lips in embarrassment and defeat as you retrieve two Arturo cigars from behind you. With a sigh, you ring him up and tell him his total. He pays in cash. As you’re loading the bills into the register, Logan hesitates before leaving.

“What’re you doing working this far out of town? Aren’t there better stores to work at closer to campus?” he questions. You try to hide your surprise at his inquiry before answering.

“Oh, uh, I don’t live too far from here. It’s an easier commute when I’m not taking classes,” you answered, trying to be as matter of fact as you can possibly be. Logan chuckles.

“No offense, but how can you afford a place over here? Who the hell died and left you their place?” he asks, resting a hand on his hip. You swallow hard, not wanting to draw too much attention to the peculiarity of your living arrangement. Houses over here are expensive, there’s only farmland on acreage that can be worth millions. But sometimes a plot of land can be cheaper than a whole house, and a whole house is something that you can manage to manifest with your powers by consuming around 25,000 calories a day. You offer Logan the same answer you’ve prepared for anyone else who might question you this way.

“I used to rent here until my landlord passed away and left me the property. I’m just lucky, I guess,” you explained with a shrug of your shoulders, trying to hide your nerves. You tug at the hem of your polo, hoping that’s the last of his line of questioning. Logan just offers a simple nod of understanding, before turning around and heading towards the door.

“What about you?” you blurt out, shocking yourself with your own abruptness and sudden want to continue the conversation. Logan turns on his heel and stares at you in confusion.

“Whaddya mean?” he asks, narrowing his hazel eyes.

“I mean, it’s just such a hike from campus, I was just—I mean it’s a fair question. You asked me, I ask you, you know?” you explained clumsily, hoping he at least understood a quarter of what you were trying to say. He looks down at the floor and chuckles with a shake of his head.

“I do live around here, if that’s what you’re asking.” He turns on his heel and starts towards the door. “See ‘ya Friday.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you try not to watch his ass, framed by those tight, worn jeans, as he exits the store. Unsure if the feeling in your chest is caused by anxiety, or how you secretly want to bang your professor, you clear your throat in an attempt to bring your mind back down to planet earth.

Despite your own constant correction and policing of your mind, you can’t help but drift away; reminiscing in the way Dream Logan devoured your pussy like no one else ever has. The way he roughly grabbed and pawed at you, pleasuring you in a desperate, animalistic way. Why your subconscious brewed up this intoxicating cocktail, is beyond you. You’ve never been with someone who’s fucked you the way Logan did in your dream, nor have you ever watched any porn that portrays a man acting that way towards someone. No matter what you tell yourself, it felt so inexplicably real. You’re starting to believe that the way Logan acted in your subconscious was strangely true to how he really does act in real life. But no matter, you have an essay to write, for a class you cannot figure out whether or not it's happening on Friday due to Logan’s own vagueness and potential misspeaking.

By the time you finally get home from work, you have maybe a page and a half written of your essay. In an attempt to be as prepared as possible, you decide to finish your work tonight so you can proofread and edit throughout the day tomorrow. But you’re struggling to keep your eyes open at your desk. It’s 1:30 in the morning, and you have a class at 9 am, but you don’t want to pull an all-nighter tomorrow just to work on this stupid essay. It’s getting increasingly more and more difficult to focus. Your bed, just a few feet behind you, beckons to you. It’s so, so tempting. Maybe resting my eyes for just a few minutes wouldn’t hurt, you think to yourself, wanting to give in to your exhaustion so desperately. You lay your head back against your chair and close your eyes. Oh, this feels so good.

So, so good.

Your eyes, half slit, peek open to see a broad chest; you're barely awake as an arm hooks under your legs and behind your back and cradles you before lifting you up against the strong, firm chest. You hum gently, turning into the man’s touch and getting comfortable. You feel yourself being lowered down onto your bed and tucked in under your comforter gently before the bed dips behind you as you’re joined in comfort by the man that tucked you in so tenderly. His arms wrap around you and he pulls your back flush against his chest, meeting the curve of his pelvis with the protrusion of your ass. He’s so warm and firm against your back, cocooning you in an embrace so gentle that it almost makes you want to wake up and fuck him.

You sigh in contentment, circling your ass ever so gently against his crotch, hoping to feel a firm indication of arousal through the boxers of the man behind you. A rough groan emanates from behind you as the pair of arms draped around your waist tighten slightly. His breath is hot against your neck, his scratchy beard tickling you.

His hands move up your stomach and to your chest where he palms your breasts languidly. The grip on your tits causes you to arch your back into his crotch, finally feeling the stiff outline of his cock against your ass. You smile and hum as he trails kisses up and down your neck, biting the flesh there gently.

“Not so tired now, huh, baby?” Logan’s voice rasps from behind you, causing you to gasp quietly. He’s here.

“You’re hard to resist,” you purr, an inexplicable truth bleeding through your words. You turn your torso, facing him, “I missed you.”

Your fingers raise to run over the patch of stubble on his chin that’s nestled between his mutton chops. His eyes look hungry, desperate. His hands, still fixed on your breasts, now lazily stroke them through your shirt.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his mouth turned upward into a cocky grin. You nod in response. He places a gentle kiss to your lips, chastely.

“You know, I missed you too,” he whispers against your lips. He kisses you again.

“Yeah?” you ask flirtatiously, swiping your tongue against his bottom lip as he continues to kiss you repeatedly, gingerly making contact each time.

“Why don’t you show me how badly you missed me big guy?” you challenge against Logan's lips, your voice dripping in a seductive tone. He smiles against your lips before shoving you roughly onto your back, situating himself between your legs. One hand moves to your waist, the other pressed against the wall above your head to support his weight.

“I’ll do just that, princess,” his gravelly voice beckons to you from above, his breath fanning your face. A flirtatious smile spreads across your face, causing Logan to waste no time in capturing your lips with his. Unlike last time when you were pinned on his couch, this kiss is sensual and tender. His tongue dances with yours carefully, creating a specific pace with the move of his lips. You follow suit, matching his rhythm, allowing your hands to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. His hips grind down into yours, the two of you moaning into the kiss at the sudden friction. Logan’s hand moves down your waist and under your shirt, traveling up to your bare breast. His thumb circles your nipple softly as his hands knead your tender flesh. You arch your back into his touch, humming in contentment against the kiss.

You could be here for hours, Logan palming at your breasts, his stiff cock grinding against your pussy, the rhythmic swipe of his tongue between each expert kiss to your lips. You’re putty under him. Needing to feel more of him, you snake your hands down his back, and slip them under the hem of his wife beater. You hike the hem up his torso, incapable of moving it much further. Logan breaks the kiss and sits up before he pulls the tank the rest of the way off his body and over his head, revealing his bare torso to you. He’s unbelievably toned, chiseled like he was made by the gods. The veins in his chest and arms bulge with each breath he takes. You bite your bottom lip as you take him in, your fingers creeping up his abs, eventually sliding up his chest to stroke it tenderly. You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking at Logan seductively.

“Come here, baby,” Logan growls, snaking an arm around your waist before hoisting you up onto him. Your legs wrap around his waist as he spins the two of you around so his back is against the headboard and you’re straddling him. You can feel the full length of him at this angle as he’s aligned deliciously with your pussy, applying the most intoxicating pressure to your clit. Logan stares at you hungrily, pressing your chest into his, his hands firmly gripping your waist. You both moan as he grinds up into your pussy with his hand occasionally dipping down to squeeze your tight ass. You mewl at the feel of his hand there.

“Need more of you, princess,” he growls, taking no more than a second to grip the hem of your shirt and rip it up off of your head, you gasp with no time to react when he reaches down to the waistband of your shorts and tears them in half with ease. Both your shirt and ruined shorts tossed carelessly onto the floor.

“Logan!” you exclaim, trying your best to hide your amusement from him.

“Much better,” he drawls. He attacks your neck where he aggressively trails kisses and bites up and down the flesh, occasionally sucking and leaving purple marks in his wake. You throw your head back in ecstasy as you grind your naked cunt onto his cock, wetting the fabric of his boxers with your slick. His head dips down to your breasts, sucking purple bruises into your skin and leaving as many marks as he can before bringing a sensitive bud between his lips and sucking there as well. You moan throatily, gripping the back of his head and forcing his head further onto your breasts as he sucks, licks, and bites with animalistic need. You circle your free nipple with your fingers as he continues his onslaught, alternating with him when he switches attention between each breast. The feel of Logan’s clothed, firm cock against your clit as you grind against him is not enough. You need more of him.

“Logan,” you whine. “I need you. Inside me.” Your hand travels down to the waistband of his boxers, slipping them down as far as you can in desperation.

Logan responds by lifting you slightly off of him, allowing you to pull his boxers further down. You watch as his cock reveals itself, pressed firmly against his stomach. Your breath hitches at the sight. The girth shocks you, curious how it’d feel splitting you into two. You’re sure his length would take up entirety of your pussy once inside, most definitely pressing into your cervix no matter the position. A gasp leaves your lips as your hand wraps around his length, surprised at the difficulty in which your fingers have encasing the entirety of him. Logan hisses against your breast at the sudden touch, the grip on your waist growing tighter. He leaves one last lick on your breast before capturing your mouth in a feverish kiss. He attacks your mouth aggressively, his occasional bites almost making your lips bleed, his tongue thrusting into your mouth without a care. The onslaught of your mouth is so intoxicating, you almost don’t notice him lifting you up to position himself at your entrance. The tip of his cock prods your pussy and you whine into the kiss, driving your hips down as much as you can.

“We’re gonna take it nice and slow, baby,” Logan rasps against your lips encouragingly. Logan grips your jaw so you’ll look into his eyes, “You’re gonna take it all for me, won’t you?”

You nod eagerly as you squirm on top of him, so desperate for him to fill you up. He slides himself in about an inch further, causing your moan to turn to a wince at the delicious stretch he applies to your pussy.

“That’s it, princess,” Logan praises with a gravelly drawl that makes you melt. He groans as he spears into you a few more inches, your moans fanning his face.

“Good girl,” Logan encourages, making you fawn, “Just take a bit more for me, princess.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as he splits you open. He's bottomed out inside of you and already grazing your cervix. Your pussy’s stretched to its maximum around his girth. You can tell Logan is holding back, he’s tense beneath you, gripping you with such fervor that you’re sure he’ll leave marks.

“Logan,” you pant, “fuck me.”

He grunts as you raise your hips, allowing him the space to thrust up into you. The force of his thrust makes you groan in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“That’s a good girl, take it,” he coaxes, thrusting slowly into you, acclimating you to his length. Slowly, the winces become replaced with needy, lewd moans. Giving Logan permission to hammer into you harder and harder with the progression of groans and moans that escape your throat.

His cock is so deep inside of you that it applies the most delicious pressure to your cervix, pinching it each time he bottoms out. The feeling is so full, so stretched, each ridge he passes making you moan in ecstasy.

“So tight…so, so tight for me, baby,” Logan growls, his face so close to yours that his beard scratches your face with each of his thrusts. “M’gonna pound this fuckin’ pussy.”

The feel of his breath against your neck makes you whimper. His mouth latching onto you and biting down possessively making you yelp in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Logan hoists you up off of his pelvis, supporting the entirety of your weight in his arms. To keep your balance, you grip his shoulders tightly gasping when Logan begins to hammer into you with such strength and speed you almost sob.

“Yes,” he drawls, his voice raspy and breathing ragged, “good girl, you take it so well for me.”

Your moans become unrecognizable to you as a pleasure unlike any other you’ve experienced ravages all your senses; Logan’s mouth on your neck, his cock surely bruising your cervix, his finger suddenly drifting down to your clit to rub circles into the sensitive bud. The pitch in your voice rises with each flick of your sensitive nub. If you were with any other person, surely you’d feel self conscious about the way you’re screaming—almost sobbing as you’re being fucked up into. But Logan draws this kind of unabashed pleasure from you that makes you forget where you are in the world and allows you to just focus on how fucking good he feels inside of you. How he can sustain this kind of power, force, and strength as he fucks into you, is beyond you, especially while supporting your weight with only one arm. Your cries of pleasure grow further and further together as the familiar swirl of heat and pleasure rises in your stomach.

“Keep going, Logan, keep going…don’t stop,” you plead as you desperately seek your release.

“You gonna come for me?” Logan grunts into your ear, sending shivers down your spine and making a whimper escape your lips.

“Yes, Logan,” you mewl, now cheek to cheek with him, his beard almost vibrating against you as he sustains the speed of his thrusts.

“You take it so well, princess, can’t wait to feel you come around this cock,” he rasps into your ear, taking a lobe between his teeth and nibbling gently.

Your pleasure swirls inside of you, building and building into white hot pressure against your clit, causing your breaths to quicken and thighs to clench.

“Logan, I’m—“ you warn.

“Look into my eyes when I make you come, babygirl,” Logan commands, pulling your head back to look at you.

“M-my eyes?” you question, a wave of realization washing over your face of what he might see if that happens, “No…I can’t.”

A gasp jerks you awake. Your chest heaves, your pussy clenching around nothing. A pain grows in your neck and lower back, due to the position you feel asleep in your chair. This one felt so much more real than the last one, a slight lucidity to your thoughts and feelings. How the hell are you supposed to look him in the eye on Friday? Everything just felt so right.

Doing your best to shake your feelings from your head, you check the time on your phone to see it’s only 1:45 am. You huff in annoyance, looking back to the essay you neglected for a wet dream.

...

A/N: i promise this will probably be the last chapter that ends like this, i just desperately need an excuse to write logan smut without compromising the plot too much🤭 hope you enjoyed. to view this work on ao3 click here

[scritchering]

NEW FIC DROPPED!!! violence.

Tags:

local british dude meets a new yorker, Accents, Humor, Friendship, frienemies, It's On Sight for the both of them, ('local' he's not even local. neither is the new yorker actually), Amnesiac Nobori | Ingo, Amnesia, British vs USAmerican Rivalry, References to the American Revolutionary War, Implicit Memory

Summary:

In psychology, implicit memory is one of the two main types of long-term human memory. It is acquired and used unconsciously, and can affect thoughts and behaviours. One of its most common forms is procedural memory, which allows people to perform certain tasks without conscious awareness of these previous experiences.

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 32 - EPISTOLARY

Last train home by erde (orphan_account)

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 10,983 Tags: Post-CA:CW, Pining Steve, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: Steve writes letters to Tony that he never sends. By the time he hands them to their rightful owner, Tony has had a brush with death, has retired as a superhero, and now has a small town workshop of his very own. But it's okay, Steve has gone into retirement too.

Reasons why I love it: Aaaaah, the ending of this one is so sweet it makes me want to smother myself with a pillow. I love all of Steve's letters and Tony's retired superhero lifestyle, it feels like a missing part of canon. I adore this one, and I bet you will too, so please go and check it out!

a tweet is worth 140 characters by athletiger, BladeoftheNebula, march_hyde, starksnack

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: M Words: 7,614 Tags: Coffee Shop AU, Fluff and Crack, Twitter AU

Summary: From tumblr: "Ok but imagine it’s Steve on a date with a guy like this and Tony’s watching from across the coffee shop, live tweeting it!! And then Steve finds out that Tony Stark was tweeting about his terrible date and responds to the thread like “next time feel free to step in and save me!” And Tony’s like “next time you should just date me” and whoops, a twitter romance is born!" Well. It happened.

Reasons why I love it: The formatting in this is so fricking good, it feels like I'm really browsing Twitter. I love the back and forth and Tony live tweeting Steve's terrible date, it's hilarious. And there's just something about Johnny Storm getting roasted by the Avengers that I deeply appreciate. Pun absolutely intended. I love this fic so much, and I bet you will too, so I hope you check it out!

ctrl-alt-deceit by soliloquent

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 17,113 Tags: No Powers AU, Miscommunication, Getting Together

Summary: “Tony, I’ve completed the background check on Steven Rogers, and there’s something big you need to know. Like, massive security-threat level big. I’m sorry, sugar. He’s bad news.” Or: A corporate espionage story told solely through excerpts from CEO Tony Stark’s inbox. Featuring romantic pining, delightful office lunches, sarcastic super-geniuses, intense investigations, revolutionary nanotechnology research, unhinged arch-nemeses, haunting ghosts from the past, and an endearing emoji overload by a witty Peter Parker.

Reasons why I love it: The suspense in this fic is so goddamn good, it kept me on the edge of my seat the entire time! I really love the Knives Out reference here, it definitely got a good chuckle out of me. And Steve is such a sweetheart, I love him so much. This fic is fantastic, and you should definitely read it, if you haven't already!

🙀 ➡ 😻 ➡ 😽 by Anaxandria, BladeoftheNebula

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 5,159 Tags: Fluff and Humor, No Powers AU, Domestic Avengers

Summary: Tony puts up a "Missing Cat" sign and not only 1) gets his cat back, but 2) meets a cute guy named Steve who keeps refusing the reward. A story told in texts, voicemail transcriptions, and, of course, an overuse of emojis.

Reasons why I love it: Aaaah, I love everything about this! The Non-Powered Avengers group chat cleansed my soul, it's so funny. And Steve and Tony's voices especially are so spot on, it feels like I'm really reading their messages. This fic is wonderful, and if you haven't read it yet, then you're definitely missing out!

Collected Letters (1930-1943) by brokentoy, triedunture

Pairing: Steve/Bucky Rating: T Words: 16,654 Tags: PTSD, Roommates, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: The collected private correspondence—unedited, uncensored—of Steven Rogers, later known as Captain America, and his longtime companion, James B. Barnes, spanning the years from childhood to World War II.

Reasons why I love it: This fic just tears at my heartstrings in the most beautiful way. I love how their relationship develops while they're living together, and the glimpses into what their life was like in the 30s and 40s feel so real I can totally believe it's what actually happened in canon. Definitely check this one out if you haven't, it's wonderful!

[sensitiveuser]

Pepita Laguarda Batet (1919-1936), unforgettable icon of Spanish anarchism and anti-fascist struggles

Pepita Laguarda Batet was the youngest of the anti-fascist fighters to die at the front during the war against the Nationalists, one morning in September 1936, near Huesca.

Pepita Laguarda Batet was born in 1919. She spent her seventeen years of life in the working-class neighborhood of Saint Eulalia. Her mother, Matilde Batet, was a member of the CNT.

Until July 1936, Pepita worked in a fish shop. She began to militate in the CNT, where she met her boyfriend, Juan Lopez Carvajal. In the days following the start of the Nationalist uprising on July 17, 1936, she worked in a hospital.

Pepita Laguarda Batet was a young woman with the mentality of a tireless revolutionary fighter. In the magazine Solidaridad Obrera, Jaime Balius states that she ran away from home because her parents did not agree to her joining the fight against the nationalist rebels (probably because she was only seventeen years old..?).

In early August 1936, with Juan Lopez Carvajal, she joined the Ascaso column (named after one of their comrades who died on July 20). Both fought on the Aragon front. According to the magazine Solidaridad Obrera, comrade Pepita died in a heroic way outside the city of Huesca. The CNT activists are not about to forget her human qualities, her kindness, her sense of humor, her courage, her fighting spirit, her ability to handle weapons... According to the testimony of Juan Lopez Carvajal in Solidaridad Obrera, Pepita was fatally wounded by the rebels on September 1, 1936 at 5 a.m., after spending several hours fighting the nationalists in the advanced positions.

Her coffin is decorated with the red and black flag, and many wreaths were placed on it to embellish the end, so sad but nevertheless sublime, of this seventeen-year-old girl, so strong for having fought to the death to defend the social revolution. Juan Lopez Carvajal, who testifies, specifies that she will be avenged...

[dolphin1812]

I recognize that "dark-haired and beautiful" is a really vague description of Montparnasse, but somehow it's still enough for me to imagine him as "Marius, but evil and with self-confidence." The emphasis on his youth is intriguing. As a former "street boy," the repetition of language related to youth ("a child," "springtime," his age, etc) reminds us that his crimes likely began around the age a child would "age out" of being a gamin (13). With that also being around the age he would have become a teenager, he might have also become more interested in his appearance then (and would have attracted more attention while also not having a place to turn to), leading to his crimes. Montparnasse isn't meant to be sympathetic - he's said to have every "vice" and he literally murders people because he wants to look nice - but it's still concerning that someone so young could have been positioned to commit violence crimes. It's both an indictment of Montparnasse and of the society that created him.

I don't know that I'll have much to say about Claquesous beyond how much I enjoy his description. His disappearances make him almost supernatural, a mysterious force of night rather than another criminal. He's also the least trustworthy of the group from any angle. No one in Patron Minette is trustworthy, of course, but Claquesous specifically is unknown even to those he works with. Between spying and betrayal within the criminal underworld and on behalf of the police (think of Leblanc's porter accusing Marius of being a police spy), someone this mysterious is even scarier than the known murderer Montparnasse, simply because it's impossible to say who he is or what he does with his knowledge.

Babet feels like the kind of criminal who is the biggest threat to someone like Fantine: a vulnerable person in desperate circumstances, hurt more by manipulation than by outright violence. Part of this is just that he extracts teeth, which she notably had to sell. But it's also because he's "learned." Another issue Fantine had was that her illiteracy meant that another had to know her secret, which made it easier to discover. Her situation wouldn't have been uncommon in Paris, suggesting that Babet could exploit others through actual knowledge acquired by reading and by the pretension to expertise that "learning" gave him (see how he calls himself a "chemist"). A small and funny(?) detail is that he lost his wife and children like a "handkerchief," which only seems humorous because it comes so soon after Marius' obsession with M Leblanc's handkerchief.

Gueulemer is the most heavily racialized of the Patron Minette, made more explicit by the suggestion that he was "creole." His description mostly just feels racist in how Hugo describes his physical features and emphasizes his physical strength. There is a brief historical reference, though. Marshal Brune was an officer during the French Revolutionary Wars and under Napoleon. He was murdered, so the suggestion that Gueulemer was connected to him likely means that he was involved in his death. Notably, he was a porter at the time. Doors in this novel are significant in how they show acceptance and care (opening) or societal rejection (closing), so it's interesting that he sidesteps this entirely in favor of violence.

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Ah, another festive favourite of mine.

Last-Minute Christmas Gift Advice from 1775

Picture yourself on a fine Christmas Eve such as today, but 246 years ago: everything's prepared and ready, the decorations are up, the food is being cooked and you are particularly pleased knowing your party is going to be so much more fun than that of your declared arch-nemesis (may General Gage, now back in England, but still in office as governor of Massachusetts, be eaten by a cat, and the cat be eaten by the devil!).

The table is set, and the guests are going to arrive soon- but as you glance over at the pile of gifts for your wife, your godson and your nephews, suddenly, a cold, unpleasant realisation hits you:

You've forgotten to get a gift for someone.

And to make things worse, Dick isn't just your youngest nephew, he's your godson as well. How could you forget? Well, in your defence, how is one to get great presents in a town you're de facto besieging anyway? Besides, this whole Bunker Hill-business did take up some of your time. And in August, when you had the black eye after you showed it to this Hallowell-guy, you couldn't possibly have gone present-shopping.

The shops are closed already, and obviously, ordering something in England is not an option, either: so what does one give to a young fellow like Dick anyway? Something useful? No, probably not. Kids these days are spoilt rotten and want 'real' presents. Back in your day, of course-

But it's no good, you need an idea. One that doesn't make it obvious you've overlooked the youngest and most troublesome of your nephews (so troublesome indeed, you're kind of growing tired of keeping an eye on him every day aboard the flagship).

Ah. Smiling, you retire to your desk, call for your secretary, and scribble a few lines. Dick's going to be delighted.

(x)

(x)

Wishing all ye who celebrate a merry Christmas!

[hellonerf]

i just had a random idea

ame and cana have big fat crushes on prussia during the revolutionary war, and cana gets jealous of all the attention ame gets. but then way way later prussia starts hanging with ame so cana starts not so subtly flirting (he's just being rly weird) and suddenly prussia starts developing and obvious crush on cana. ame gets mad and jealous love triangle shenanigans ensue (probably a lot of caname making out to release their frustrations)

this is so fascinating. when i hear about prucan i usually just make up ways to get it caname endgame anyways(really sorry. its a condition) so this is fun for me. my favorite kind of love triangle is the one that keeps turning around so nobody is happy ☺️ this isn't that, but it has the some humor to me... so i'm having fun. in my head i'd make the caname link to be ame, but he's stupid and doesn't look at his inner feelings for more than 0.02 seconds so he doesn't see it like that. so he's just like prussia pisses me off. which is weird because i like him. how strange...

[midmorninggrey]

Grey's Dragon Age OCs

I'd like a place to keep all of my OCs and their "expanded canon" backstories straight, so I wrote up some key points.

"Ferelden’s Finest Four" – Wardens Before the Fifth Blight

Magaleth the Mapmaker (aka “Mags”)

A Dalish-born apostate who earned a name for herself among the Grey Wardens as a daring and resourceful researcher. She could maintain her humor in the darkest of places.

When the Order was allowed back into Ferelden, she was assigned by Warden-Commander Duncan to lead an expedition to map the Deep Roads beneath the country.

She married her fellow Warden Loran.

With the jangle of all her equipment, Magaleth was usually heard before she was seen. However, a Dalish eye would recognize her unfinished vallaslin.

Tag #oc: Magaleth the Mapmaker

Loran the Lamenter (aka “Half Ears” or “Stoat”*)

A well-read elven revolutionary from Starkhaven. Following his part in a failed assassination attempt on the Vael family, Magaleth recruited him to the Wardens. They were married shortly afterward.

Loran was known for his missing right ear and a sour attitude that only Magaleth could sweeten. He also had a great knack for killing ogres.

*It was unwise to call him either of these to his face.

Tag #oc: Loran the Lamenter

Toni the Terror (aka “Antonia”)

One of the first recruits to survive the Joining when the order returned to Ferelden. Toni had a short but colorful stint in the Denerim city guard before she volunteered to join the Grey Wardens.

She was a brawler on battlefields and barroom floors, but Toni had a big heart under all her bluster. Mutton, her Mabari war hound, was more pampered than an Orlesian lap dog.

During her travels with Magaleth, Toni fell in love with Arden Trevelyan, and together they had an unlikely daughter named Celeste.

Tag oc: Toni the Terror

Cal the Canary (aka "The Wee Shem")

Former apprentice to Uldred.

Recruited by Duncan from Kinloch Hold at age sixteen due to pressing circumstances.

His innate abilities with force magic made him a powerful weapon against the unchecked Darkspawn in Ferelden, and Duncan trusted him to Magaleth’s command. Cal served the Order faithfully until he fled Ferelden following the Battle of Ostagar.

On a ship to Kirkwall, he allied himself with fellow Fereldens Gillian Hawke and her sister Bethany.

From the back of the Hanged Man, he built a reputation as a trustworthy source for untrustworthy information. He was a favorite of smugglers, nobles, actresses, and, if the rumors are true, a certain broody elf.

Bitter history with the healer Anders was a constant strain on his standing with Hawke.

After the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, Cal returned to the Grey Warden order.

Tag #oc: Cal the Canary

Kirkwall

Gillian Hawke

Hawke would like to be her mother's daughter. She throws a great party if her guests can stomach three hours of raucous social debate before the liquor truly starts flowing.

-Dual Wielding Rogue (Shadow & Assassin Specializations)

- Primarily Green with a healthy amount of Red.

- Paints in her spare time

- Bethany sent to the Circle

- Duels the Arishok (good times)

- Romanced Merrill

- Sided with the Mages

- Anders Spared

Tag #oc: Gillian Hawke

The Inquisition

Celeste Trevelyan (aka “The Herald”)

Due to her youth and limited magical talents, it is easy to underestimate Celeste. It is not a mistake one makes twice.

-Human Mage (Necromancer Specialization)

-Seventeen at the time of the Conclave explosion

- Mages Conscripted

- Drank from the Well of Sorrows (Were her motives any better than Morrigan's? Not really.)

- Warden (Marcus) left in the Fade

- Wardens Conscripted

- Briala Rules Through Gaspard

- Good friends with Cole and the Bog Unicorn

Tag #oc: Celeste Trevelyan

Arden Trevelyan (aka “Ostwick’s Dragon” or “The Regent”)

Celeste's Father.

After a troubled childhood, Trevelyan disappeared from Ostwick society as a teenager. Nearly a decade later, he returned with ink on his face and his child in his arms. His family sent him to oversee their expansive lyrium operation, and in the mines, he was feared by allies and enemies alike.

The existence of his daughter, Celeste, was largely kept secret until he brought her to live with his sister in 9:40 Dragon. Trevelyan went missing again that same year and was thought to have been killed by Cadash smugglers until he was found by Inquisition Scout Lace Harding.

In a contentious compromise, Trevelyan was appointed as Regent Inquisitor, serving as the highest-ranking advisor to the Inquisition as it worked to defeat Corypheus. The founding advisors did construct a contingency plan to remove Trevelyan, but it remained in Leliana's drawer.

[sweetmage]

Happy DADWC uwu can I get a little "Knowing someone else can hear" off of the smut list for either Celestine/Sebastian or Purple Mage M!Hawke/Anders

HIIII! Thank you so much for the prompt, this one was so fun to write 💖 @dadrunkwriting ---

Words: 2000+

Ships and Characters: Inquisitor!Purple M!Hawke/Anders, The Advisors (mentioned)

Tags: Rough sex, getting caught, banter and humor, purple Hawke, dirty talk, multiple orgasms

Summary: Anders had been driving him mad making eyes at him over the war table all evening. The moment they're alone he gives him just what he's been silently begging for, regardless of who hears.

All day Anders had been giving him those eyes from across the war table, practically begging with his eyes to bent over it and fucked all across Ferelden and Orlais. Hawke would have been more than happy to indulge him were it not for the fact that the two women who flanked him might have had some objection. Probably. One could never tell with Josephine, it might make for thrilling gossip.

He behaved himself, though his trousers grew uncomfortably tighter with each heated look Anders sent his direction. It was a miracle no one caught on, least of all the Commander, who may have erupted into ashes on the spot had he any idea.

Hawke could hardly focus by the end of it, letting them squabble amongst themselves for answers or taking advice from Anders, much to the chagrin of the less revolutionary-minded advisors. But finally, mercifully, Josephine declared an early dismissal, citing business that urgently needed her attention. Hawke tried not to linger on how abrupt and generous that was, opting to thank the stars beyond instead.

Once the crew had filed out and the doors were safely shut behind them, Hawke wasted no time cornering his lover, slamming him against the table and capturing his lips with his own. Anders groaned eagerly against him, hands already busy working loose belts and untying strings, trying to free him from his robes.

"Finally," Hawke growled against his neck, kissing and biting. "Thought I was going to burst."

"Couldn't resist watching you struggle," Anders taunted, hips canting desperately against him. "How badly you wanted to have me."

"I'm going to bend you over this table and fuck you senseless, mark my words." Hawke tugged impatiently at his coat. "Off. Right now."

Anders hastily shed his coat, leaving it discarded in a heap at his feet and fumbling for Hawke's. They shed their clothes piece by piece, desperate as teenagers and rutting against each other, hungry to get their hands on bare flesh.

Pressed flushed to him, Anders whispered softly into his ear. "I've been thinking about you all day. I got myself ready for you before the meeting." Anders punctuated his statement with a sharp roll of his hips. "So let's skip the foreplay, I want you now."

Hawke needed no further incentive. He hooked an arm around his waist, lifting him onto the table and slotting himself between his thighs, grinding their stiff cocks together. "Lay back." Hawke directed and Anders obeyed, splaying himself across the tabletop. Hawke took a moment just to admire him. Lean, freckled legs parted just for him, pink nipples pert and peaked, and his cock, swollen and leaking against his taut stomach, begging for Hawke's touch.

"Don't stare, get in me," Anders demanded, wiggling his hips enticingly.

“When did you become so demanding?" Hawke teased, running his hands along his inner thighs. "Where's my shy apostate, blushing and begging?"

"Oh please Ser Inquisitor, won't you defile me here among your advisors' most important documents?" Anders cooed theatrically, bucking his hips. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Hawke snorted and positioned himself at his entrance. He slowly pressed into him, savoring the wet slide and tight heat. He wasn't joking about being ready, already slick and stretched, waiting only to be filled. "You really were ready for me." Hawke remarked as he looked down upon him, not yet moving. "Naughty boy."

"Stop teasing. I told you I'm ready," Anders demanded, taking his cock into his hand, pumping impatiently.

"I should tease you for that," Hawke tutted, hips lazily rolling, sliding in and nearly free. "Making me suffer through a whole meeting." Despite his words, he was far too greedy to deny himself another moment. Hawke drove his hips forward, reveling in the filthy moan torn from his lover's throat as he buried himself fully and set a relentless pace. Maker, he could drown in his noises, so sinful and shameless.

"Fuck," Anders keened, clutching at Hawke’s shoulder with his free hand and wrapping his legs around him, encouraging him deeper. "Just like that. Fuck, don't stop. Oh, fuck." Words were reduced to fragments, babbled praises, and pleading gasps.

The table had looked sturdy enough at a glance, but it knocked and creaked noisily against the stone, rattled by the force Hawke pounded into him. The walls were thick, but not that much. Should someone only enter the corridor they'd no doubt be privy to their frenzied fucking. Maybe that made the rush all the more exhilarating, or maybe he just wanted people to know how he could drive Anders to make those noises for him. Anders seemed none too concerned either way and cried his name aloud for whoever might hear.

Hawke wrapped a hand around Anders's dripping cock and took over, stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts. He made the prettiest face then, long lashes fluttering over dazed amber eyes, mouth hanging slack as he gasped ragged breaths. Too lovely a sight to pass up, Hawke stole his lips as his movements became sloppier and harder.

"Right there," Anders whimpered against his lips, his nails biting into his back. "I'm so close."

"Yeah?" He asked, leaning back just a bit to meet his eyes and take him in hand. He could feel it building from the inside, his walls already tensing up around him. "That's it, sweetheart. Come on, come for me," he encouraged, never slowing his pace nor ceasing his touch. He was quickly rewarded as Anders writhed under him, the muscles of his abdomen jumping and contracting,  his eyes screwed shut as he screamed his pleasure. How gorgeous he was shivering and painting his chest and stomach, breathless and smiling. And to feel his body pulsing around him... Hawke chased the feeling, burying his face against his shoulder and thrusting feverishly as he neared his own peak.

The world, in all its cruelty, had different plans for him however.

He could swear he heard someone bumbling about in the hallway just outside, perhaps even whispers. The door was locked so it wasn't too pressing, but a small voice of alarm in the back of his mind nagged at him to pause his ministrations. From a distance it was fine, they had plausible deniability, but should anyone get closer the racket was sure to catch their ear in a way he feared he couldn't talk his way out of.

He sighed, half considering pulling out and taking it elsewhere, but Anders didn't seem to have registered it and thrusted his hips back against him, his spent body greedy and oversensitive. Maker, why was he so damn tempting?

He leaned in to take his lips again, whispering softly into them. "I think someone's outside." Hawke warned between kisses. "Keep your voice low, yeah?"

Anders nodded hazily, his teeth catching his lower lip and tugging. Hawke fought to muffle a groan, his hips rolling into him slowly now as he waited for the unseen interlopers to move along. It was near agony, this quiet, languid pace, the tension low in his belly tightening into something almost torturous.

Anders seemed no better, already hard again and rocking down against him, whining sweetly and needily against his lips. "Feels good, love," he murmured, arching his back and squeezing around him. "I love it when you take me slow like this."

"Shame the company's no good right no,." Hawke huffed against his cheek, still leisurely rolling his hips, relishing the gasps Anders struggled to stifle.

He couldn't take much more of this. To the Void with them if someone heard. What would they do? Fire him?

"Turn over for me." His voice came low and rough, barely containing himself any longer. "I want to have you hard." It took immense restraint to ease himself from him, already regretting the absence of his warmth. At his instruction Anders slid from the table and flipped around, face and torso flush with the wood and his ass raised invitingly. Hawke moved up close behind him, stroked his hands reverently over his soft skin, then sank back in. This time, Hawke allowed no quarter. He slammed into him fast and rough, the table raking across the ground with each thrust but he could scarcely find it within himself to care. His hand came around the front, roughly grabbing his partner's weeping erection, pumping him furiously while he fucked him from behind. With the table at that awkward height, all Anders could do was grab at it and hang on, whimpering and writhing while Hawke fucked him mindlessly, chasing his end.

"Not gonna last long," Hawke grunted, feeling his release rapidly approaching. "Push back against me." Anders did just that, matching the timing and force of his thrusts and Hawke swore, teetering precariously at the brink. "Oh, good boy. Love it when you do that."

Between the praise and the pounding Anders seemed lost to his bliss, no longer bothering to temper the volume of his moans. "Feels so good. Almost there... almost there again," Anders babbled, tossing a glance back at Hawke from where his head was pressed to the table. "Please don't stop." As if Hawke needed his coaxing, as though he had the self control to slow and pull away, let alone stop.

Hawke took him by the ponytail and tugged, yanking him upright, chest flush with his back. Anders melted against him, letting Hawke pound up into him as his hand jerked him off erratically. "Come again, baby." He purred into his ear, relishing in how he shivered at the command. "Come for me."

It took hardly a handful of strokes before Anders was convulsing against him, whimpering his name and spilling into his fist. Hawke wasn't too far behind. He bit down into the meat of his shoulder, muffling the low, satisfied groan that ripped from him as he finally found his long-awaited release, hips rocking gently as he rode through the waves of euphoria, twitching inside of Anders. Hawke held Anders's shuddering form tightly against him and pressed soft, loving kisses along the curve of his neck, trailed them over the scars on his upper back. It was all he could do to even remain upright, still a bit breathless as they both recovered. Eventually he withdrew, chuckling when he caught Anders trembling and heard him moan weakly as he pulled free.

Now in the silence, he turned his attention back to the door, though heard nothing on the other side. "Serves them right. Eavesdropping bastards."

"Or poor innocent scouts we just ran off," Anders mused, still struggling to collect himself as he leaned forward and draped himself lazily across the table. He stretched as a cat might, luxuriating in his sated stupor.

"Come on, let's go clean up before I have any ideas about taking you again." He trailed his hands over his hips one last time, helped him stand, and straightened his disheveled hair, smoothing it over. They gathered their scattered garments and dressed as quickly as they could manage, Hawke unable to resist pausing for a few playful swats at Anders's rear. "Try to put on a face that doesn't say 'just ravished in the War Room'. You know, that stuffy 'I am a very serious apostate' face. Act confident enough and they'll forget it ever happened."

"Really? I always thought that 'I just got my brains fucked thoroughly into next week' face suited me." Anders fell into step beside him as they left the room, both clearly relieved to find the hallway now empty. What lay beyond that, though, was not as welcome a sight.

The moment they crossed the threshold Josphine, a quill in one hand and the other pointing back towards the war room addressed them without even looking up. "Inquisitor," she cleared her throat, a faint blush tinting her cheeks, "please return the table and all of its pieces to its original position before you leave. Thank you."

Both of their faces burned scarlet, Anders looked like he might melt on the spot from sheer mortification, Hawke doubted his own composure fared much better. "Yes, Lady Ambassador," they managed to croak. They power walked back from the office to the beat of stifled giggles and hurried footsteps.

[pinkflipphonez]

okay, so I've been seeing some folks in the RusAme Country Club and Yacht Society say they don't see Ivan and Alfred together romantically nor do they see them having a healthy and/or romantic dynamic at all..... and I'm here to tell you that you are not seeing the VISION!

get a goddamn glass of your finest bourbon and/or vodka and put this record on your turntable, 'cause I'm about to ramble (CW: heavy-handed headcanons lmfao, foking long as hell too)--

Let me put it this way..... these two immortal beings met during a time of revolution and revolt. They met through a plead for help and a petty need to drive a third party crazy, and within that realm, found that they admired each other greatly. They revered their intelligence, their ambitions, their resistance, their people. Both beings were open and excited to learn from each other, and in that excitement, grew fond of each other at breakneck speed.

These two juxtaposed beings became best friends- despite the long distance, despite the difference in linguistics, and were bonded by a love for music, food, culture, and knowledge. They were uña y mugre; inseparable, always writing and visiting whenever possible. These two beings had their own inside jokes, their own gossip, their own humor. They even learned to speak in their respective languages in order to better understand each other!

Through this inexplicable connection, one of these beings is suddenly thrust into a civil war. Is it unlike anything they have experienced in their relatively young life. While others around them stay at a distance, their best friend of some odd years now immediately rushes to their side and helps in every way. They never leave their side, watching them break apart, seeing their health deteriorate, feeling helpless, seeing a flawed side of them like never before. Despite it all, despite the ugly irrational and hurt person they they know now, they care about them so much more. The feeling is mutual, as the war torn being holds nothing but utter appreciation for the other for staying through it all.

Simply knowing they could have ceased to exist with the war only serves to strengthen the bond they have. this transforms into something that takes both of them by surprise-- this deep love overtakes feelings of comradery and now they are just as inseparable, more so than when they were just friends. Now they know words of romance, they tear pages from love stories to send to each other, their embraces last much longer, they often get lost with each other at parties, they wake up later than everyone else. No one knows why. No one knows. These being truly live in their own world of pure, raw, unadulterated love. Their love is passionate, energetic, intense, engulfing, erotic- it's love at its best.

Once again, out of the blue, the climate around them changes. Suddenly, the older being is thrown into a revolutionary war kilometers away from the other. The younger beings' friends and allies disapprove of their alliance. In an unexpected turn, the second being's overseers also disapprove of their alliance as well, because their alliance only makes ridicule of the policies they must now abide by.

Then a world war distracts them from ever solving this issue. Then a second world war. Then a third war, where they are now the main contenders, and are now so apart, they have not seen each other in years. Not one word. They didn't even get to formally finalize their relationship. it just ended. As quick as it had started, now all they feel is anger. Anger that aims at their respective policies, their regressive societies, their ideologies. That anger was not born from those things. The anger stems from unfinished business; no closure, agonizing and guttural heartbreak. The frustration from what was left unsaid is what speaks for them and it comes out in physical brawls, in competitiveness, in slander, in unruly hatred.

Within this cloud of despise, there are glimmers of hope. Elbe Day, Van Cliburn, the space race, the Moscow-Washington hotline, the Olympics, worlds fairs, music, celebrations, US-Soviet soldier reunions, magazines, books, movies, joint ventures: they notice all of it. Slowly but surely that seething hatred just becomes a numb feeling of indifference.

As the decade comes and goes, they are both on separate paths. One being is suffering from socioeconomic and political turmoil, and the other... hates it. Despite the half-century they spent hating each other, seeing them in disarray is unsettling. Something they aren't aware enough to recognize is how much they care. There is care in the fact that instead of feeling schadenfreude of an ex-friend/ex-lover/ex-enemy's plight, they feel upset to see each other a mess. The more well-off person helped the other without a question. Their helping hand wasn't and is not used as artillery, it is just cut-and-dry help.

Now they are acquaintances again. They see each other at conferences. They say 'hello' to each other as they walk by. They share coffee and a cigarette here and there. They banter. Most importantly, they are equally disliked by most. This fact in itself leaves them with a weird thing to relate to. Sometimes it leaves them drinking together, complaining about tedious things others around them don't care for and would laugh at them for complaining about. Through that strange comradery, they find inside jokes, mutual interests, and "bonding time". Their bonding time is often just small talk or getting drunk- but funny thing, it will often push them a bit closer. Sometimes it will lead to a dinner, or a symphonic performance, or may just land them at the other's doorstep. Or in the other being's room. Or their bed. Once. Maybe three, four-- teen times? When did it start up again? Nobody knows. Hell, they don't even know.

What they do know is that when they're around each other, they cannot keep to themselves. They can be themselves. Something about sharing intimacy together is nostalgic in itself, but not only that. It's remembering what each other's favorite color was/is, it's remembering how the other prefers their tea, remembering the curves of their calligraphy, remembering the way they smile, retelling old stories as if they're new-- it's them falling in love, all over again!

Their romance is very unconventional, as they don't choose to label it, but they remain exclusive to each other. When they crave, they run to each other. If they're angry, they run to each other. If they're happy, they run to each other. They still remember their languages, they still have their letters and portraits in a storage unit somewhere, they remember where their hands go during an embrace, they know where to tilt their head during a kiss-- god, they remember everything! All that beautiful, breathtaking romance did not die with the years, it was only stored away. Just now are they allowed to unpackage it together. After years, they are able to talk about what they left behind. About "what if?" Yes, they talk about it inebriated mostly but that's a start! They have so many loose ends with each other, it may take them years to label themselves-- but they do care for each other.

In their own tired, worn, timid way, they show love. They yearn deeply. Much more than they'll ever admit.