O sultan, Turkish devil and damned devil’s kith and kin, secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight are thou, that canst not slay a hedgehog with your naked arse? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou shalt not, thou son of a whore, make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.
Thou Babylonian scullion, Macedonian wheelwright, brewer of Jerusalem, goat-fucker of Alexandria, swineherd of Greater and Lesser Egypt, pig of Armenia, Podolian thief, catamite of Tartary, hangman of Kamyanets, and fool of all the world and underworld, an idiot before God, grandson of the Serpent, and the crick in our dick. Pig’s snout, mare’s arse, slaughterhouse cur, unchristened brow, screw thine own mother!
So the Zaporozhians declare, you lowlife. You won’t even be herding pigs for the Christians. Now we’ll conclude, for we don’t know the date and don’t own a calendar; the moon’s in the sky, the year with the Lord, the day’s the same over here as it is over there; for this kiss our arse!
– Koshovyi otaman Ivan Sirko, with the whole Zaporozhian Host.”
Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks to Sultan Mehmed IV of the Ottoman Empire
In case anyone needed a dramatic reading of the above historical letter.
I’m dying!
Oh my god.
I’m now dying to know what happened next.
Period invective at its finest, even if it may not be quite as period as you think.
(NB – Peter Capaldi’s reading is probably NSFW without headphones.)
Here’s a link to much larger versions of the painting. Take a look at the full-size one: the facial expressions are a treat.
Also, check out Repin’s later, revised but uncompleted “sketch” version, which seems to have Vlad Dracula as a guest star just right of centre.
Listening to Capaldi’s reading you can really imagine this crowd of bros around a table yelling at the guy with the pen not to forget their favourite insult.
Tag yourself–I’m “don’t know the date and doesn’t own a calendar”
This is more hilarious since I play the Game of Sultans mobile game and we play as the Heir to the Ottoman Empire. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
the thought of aziraphale being in Crowley’s flat and seeing that fucking statue every single time he’s there. like hi crowley, oh there’s the statue of us fucking that you thought was subtle enough to be an intimidation tactic but is clearly just a product of your sexual frustration and 6000 years spent pining. lovely. shall we eat at the Ritz today?
What if it was a mutual purchase that they bought while drunk one time at an auction because they both thought it would be hilarious, and now a few hundred years later it’s still in Crowley’s flat because they have an unspoken competition over which of them will mention how awkward it is first
For anyone else who was initially confused like I was lol
this glitch is making every funny post 10x funnier bc it looks like the text equivalent of when someone just stares at you silently after you make a joke
[Image Description: Tag reading “donatello/michelangelo”]
The AO3 Tag of the Day is: Renaissance fanart
I’m gonna let you in on a secret.
That aint renaissance fanart
You know what, assholes? I run this blog for y’all every day. I see things you cannot begin to imagine. I have to read people’s Robespierre smut and their questions about how various monsters would fuck them. I am so jaded that, when someone submits a tag mentioning some random vaguely liquid substance without context, I just assume it’s being used as lube. Nutella? Lube. Crazy glue? Lube. Divine fucking ichor? Fucking lube! I do this for you, y’all. I shield you from this shit. I stand athwart the tides of horror, hold my hands up, and yell “STOP” in the hopes that it will keep the waters from reaching you.
So you know what, fuckheads!? If I want to maintain the one tiny scrap of innocence I have left, I will. The official policy of AO3TagoftheDay is now that turtles, teenage, mutant, ninja, or otherwise, do not fuck. It never happens. They don’t fuck. They don’t fuck each other. They don’t fuck humans. They don’t fuck in real life and they don’t fuck in fiction. This tag is about two gay Renaissance painters holding each other close and kissing chastely under the Sistine chapel ceiling.
There. Glad we got that sorted out. Please return to your regularly scheduled programming.
@indigopersei is the french language just always on the verge of getting someone accused of assault or..?
my friend, if only you knew
It’s a very dangerous language to learn
Here’s an interesting thing about French! Everything needs to have an article in front of it. That’s why it’s “la chat” as opposed to just “chat”. So, for instance, you could say la fille for the girl, or jeune fille for young girl, but you can’t just say fille, because that means you are calling her a sex worker in a derogatory way.
The moral of the story is, if you want to make something rude in French, just take out the article in front of it. Yes, this works for nearly. every. word.
Every year. Every year there’s that kid who forgets that you can’t translate “I am excited” to “Je suis excitée”. And every year Monsieur Jordan has to slam the brakes before that kid can finish his sentence and then tactfully ask him not to announce to the class that he is horny.
“is the french language always on the verge” oh buddy, oh pal, i am so happy to break this news to you:
I would like to share this beautiful passage with all of you, it’s long, but worth it. And I swear to god I didn’t alter any of this.
….
Her long hair, still wet from the shower, had been combed down her back in a wet swath. Hilda was sitting on the floor, her round, wet boobs still wet from the shower’s water. She dried off the water with a towel, which then became wet.
Hilda gasped when she saw a reflection in her bedroom mirror: through the slightly open door, she caught a glimpse of the chiseled abs and square jaw of the mysterious stranger who shared her cabin. She stood and spun around, her breasts swinging heavily with the momentum. She grabbed the door and flung it open, revealing shirtless Torolf (which is seriously his name) quivering with desire in the hallway.
Torolf was ashamed at being caught, but his shame made him even hotter – hotter for sex. He stepped into the room, and his bulging abs accidentally smushed into Hilda’s rich chest.
As Hilda’s buttermilk bosoms squished up against his granite abs, Torolf almost had a dick aneurysm. “Hilda,” Torolf murmured thickly, his throbbing meat wand pressing against Hilda’s warm thighs. “There is a secret I need to not tell you: You are my forbidden desire.”
Hilda had been waiting to hear these words. Her heart was lifted on golden wings and soared toward a radiant sun of perfect joy. She saw herself and Torolf happy together, bathed in the golden light of love. Her snooch got all warm, too.
“Torolf,” Hilda moaned, her lush teats straining with desire. “I need you.” Torolf, coarse abs pulsing softly in the moonlight, stood silently. Hilda looked at him expectantly. “Oh, sorry,” she added. “Torolf, I need you – sexually.”
At hearing those beautiful words, Torolf flexed his rough-hewn abs and Hilda found herself being guided to her soft bed by the sheer force of Torolf’s undulating midsection. She parted her thighs in anticipation, exposing the soft pink petals of her clunge.
Torolf entered her like she was a lottery. His engorged pecker pushed inside her and she felt fulfilled with sexual fulfillment.
Hilda clutched at the bedsheets with lust and ecstasy and her hands. Her spongy love mountains hurled to and fro with each pounding. Her body was like a beautiful flower that was opening and somebody was pushing their dick inside it.
Then Torolf moaned, arched his back, and suffered from dick Parkinson’s. He pumped in all of his hot pearlescent sperms as Hilda spasmed with so many orgasms!
The two lay still for a moment as the stinky scent of lovemaking billowed around the room. Hilda got out of bed, still shimmering with orgasm. She glowed with contentment, like a cat who ate the cream of the crop.
She walked across the room and picked up her towel, still wet with shower water. “Torolf,” she said softly, “there’s something I have to tell you…”
But her bed was empty.
Torolf was gone, escaped out the bedroom window. In the distance, Hilda heard the fading sound of galloping abs.
….
DICK
ANEURYSM
GALLOPING ABS
Who told this lady she could write?
Why did she ever stop?
IT GETS WORSE THE FURTHER IN THE PASSAGE YOU GO OMG
i fukcing lost it at meat wand
How could I NOT share this
IS THIS REAL LIFE
If you need some self-confidence in your writing abilities, read this!
Each and every fanfic I have ever read, including even those written by me, are so, so much better than this hahaha
willowfoot 
