all i want for 2026 is that gigantic rancid AI bubble to finally burst in such a catastrophic way that the consequences will be so good and i'll never have to see another AI generated image ever again
let it go my friend... i say this as a fat "ugly" dyke. your body is the vehicle w which you move in the world, give love, receive love, make things, SEE things, KNOW things. that's all that matters. beauty and ugliness are marketing scams esp for women. LIVE and FUCK THE WORLD it's not easy to get there but it's so sweet. ppl will love you fat and "ugly" i swear on god.
this is like a religious text to me and i'm not joking even a little
So every year, my aquarium does a captive lobster hatchery project (hence all the loblings). The reason we’re doing it is because in the wild, loblings only have a 1 in 25,000 chance of surviving their larval phase. They’re plankton as babies and everything eats them. Additionally, as the Gulf of Maine warms, they are having even lower survival rates because the blooms of copepods they feed on as babies are happening earlier in the year, and they’re missing it.
Obviously, the goal of this experiment is to grow the lobsters until they’re big enough to settle to the seabed and then release them, because they have a much higher likelihood of surviving to adulthood when they’re able to hide. Ideally, captive lobster hatcheries can boost the wild population and keep things stable, so we don’t have a major crash in a decade or two.
The first year we tried this was pretty bad. We had a lot of eggs, but very few babies. It turned out that the CO2 levels in the building spiked as more guests visited throughout the summer, and that settled into the water and threw off the pH and caused a chemical reaction that prevented a lot of the eggs from hatching. I think we ended up releasing three baby lobsters (which is still better than their wild survival rate but not great).
The second year was a little better. We added a de-gasser to the aquarium and got a ton of larval lobsters, but right as they were settling to the bottom we had a disease outbreak that killed most of them. We ended up releasing four babies at the end of the season.
But this year? Oh boy. We have so many lobsters that we had to release the first round early (usually we wait till September or October so guests can see them). We just released a total of FIVE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE baby lobsters, and we still have over a hundred who haven’t settled to the bottom yet. I genuinely don’t even have words to explain how cool this is. OVER FIVE HUNDRED. We just added hundreds of lobsters to the wild population that wouldn’t have been there otherwise.
I think Shane would extra hate this one because he DOES kind of blush and get a boner when Ilya calls him this despite him clearly starting it as a bit of a joke.
It's 2013, four years after Ilya left the league prematurely. Shane and Ilya are both passengers on a four-month, around-the-world cruise, each for their own reason. Shane is out for the season due to an MCL tear, and Yuna got him a deal with the cruise ship: their finest suite in exchange for a few social media posts.
But for Ilya, the reason is much darker. He left the hockey world before his rookie year to take care of his father after his older brother's untimely death. This cruise is his way to blow his meager inheritance, and, if he’s being honest with himself, it’s to find some kind of proof that life is worth sticking around for.
Read it on AO3 (all 30 chapters posted there!)
There are five days at sea before they dock in South Africa. Ilya intends to use all of them to alternate between working out, kissing Shane, finishing the book Paula loaned him, kissing Shane, sleeping, and giving Shane head. On the third of the five days, he finds himself reading in bed while Shane showers after his morning PT appointment.
The main character in the romance novel, Hugo, owns a bakery in the south of France. His biggest competitor is someone named Margot, who happens to be incredibly hot and also exactly Luke’s age. Magic. They are both fighting their connection, trying to hide their mutual attraction in the name of maintaining their somewhat public rivalry as the best croissant makers in the area. Ilya wants them to just fuck already, he’s annoyed at the drawn out tension.
“Bleh,” Shane says loudly from behind the bathroom door. He coughs and sputters like he’s choking.
Ilya runs to him, barging into the room without a second thought. “What happened?”
“Your mints are disgusting,” he says.
“Spit it out,” Ilya orders. He grabs a cup and fills it with water. “Swish this and spit.”
Shane does so, getting (hopefully) every last bit into the sink. “Are all mints in Russia that disgusting?” He wipes his tongue on a towel.
Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, sighing and making a decision on the spot. “Let me explain.” He gestures for Shane to come sit.
When they’re situated on the couch, each in their respective corner with not much room between them, Shane with a fresh ginger ale to get the taste out of his mouth, Ilya takes a loaded breath.
“That was oxycontin,” Ilya explains.
Shane scrunches his face, trying to understand. “Why would you bring that on a cruise? Are you…” something clicks for him. His voice is lower as he says, “Are you addicted?”
Ilya shakes his head. “No. They were my dad’s pills, when he was dying. I kept them. I…” he takes another breath. He’s been ready to say this for days, and he’s less afraid of it now, but it’s still hard to look Shane in the face and tell him. He tries anyway.
“My brain hates me sometimes,” he says. “It becomes a self-destructive machine. I’ve been through a lot of… trauma. And the memories all kind of swish around in there and haunt me,” he points to his head.
“The guys on the Bachelorette talk about trauma like it’s a way to get to know someone,” Ilya continues. “Or it’s what makes you interesting. But it is not like this to me. It makes me feel… apart from everyone else. Different. And when my brain is acting up, it’s not something that can go away so easily. It’s big. Scary. It tells me that nothing will ever feel good ever again and that I need to stop trying. It tells me I am only ever a burden to the people around me. It scares me and it scares other people, too. And it is okay if it scares you.”
Shane’s puppy dog eyes are tilted downward, paired with a genuine frown. It’s not pity, but instead seems to be a deep sadness for Ilya’s pain, like he’s experiencing it alongside him. “I don’t think it scares me,” Shane whispers.
“My mom died this way. I think I got what she has, like it’s…” he stumbles on the word.
“Genetic?” Shane suggests.
“Yes. Genetic. Yes,” Ilya nods. “A therapist told me it is possible.”
“Is that how she died?” Shane’s face is curious and open, like he genuinely wants to know anything Ilya tells him.
He nods. “Pills. When I was twelve I found her.”
Shane reaches a hand out and grabs Ilya’s. He moves his thumb along the back of Ilya’s palm, gently caressing it.
“Between that and leaving hockey and everything with my dad,” Ilya trails off.
“He died, too, right?”
“Alzheimer’s,” Ilya nods. “Last year. Is how I got the money for this cruise. But I think something happens when all of this trauma adds up. It makes the world feel… Do you know the word beige?” Ilya pronounces it as best he can, but it sounds wrong coming out of his mouth, he can never get the “g” sound quite right.
“Beige?” Shane makes sure he heard right. It’s not at all condescending, even though he has every opportunity to be.
“Yes, that,” Ilya says. “When I first heard the word for it in English I loved it. In Russian it is ‘bezhevyy’ but that is not a good enough way to say it, you know? Beige is exactly what that color is. Lifeless, dull, sad. And this is how the whole world feels to me some days. Even if I know there is beauty out there, I forget about it. It feels like anything good is too far away to ever come back.”
——
Shane will find every single thing that is beige in this world and set it on fire just so that Ilya can watch the dance of the red and orange flames and see how colorful life can be.
Holding Ilya’s hand is not enough, he needs to lick the salty tears off the man’s face and kiss his cheeks. But maybe it’s wrong to want to fix it. Maybe he’s supposed to let Ilya be sad. If he tries to make him smile, it could seem like Shane is trying to avoid these emotions, maybe sending a signal that they’re not okay. He wishes he listened more during his psychology class in high school.
“Can I hold you?” he asks, deciding that physical affection is an easier way to express what he’s feeling at this moment.
Ilya nods. Shane stands up and takes Ilya’s hand, leading him to the bed on the other side of the room. They fall back into their normal positions, but this time it’s Shane’s arm underneath Ilya as they curl together. He uses his free hand to run fingers through Ilya’s hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. This elicits a choked sob from Ilya, who has until then been only quietly, gently crying.
“So much for you to hold,” Shane whispers. An observation more than anything.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya says into Shane’s shirt.
“For what?”
Ilya shrugs and lets a deep breath out. “I wish I could be more simple. Easier.”
It’s not at all what Shane thought he’d hear in response. He thought maybe “sorry” meant “sorry for getting a little puddle of tears on your Nike workout shirt” or “sorry I didn’t tell you the mints in our room are oxycontin that’s probably expired, even though it’s weird you ate a mint without asking me anyway.”
Shane doesn’t know what to say. He never expects anything to be easy, that’s not exactly something he aspires for his life to be. Sure, he likes to keep a strict routine and diet, but that’s never been about ease or simplicity. He prefers the hockey games that require strategy and challenge over the ones that are obvious wins. He likes people who are a little bit rough around the edges, who encourage him to take himself a little less seriously but at the same time introduce him to new philosophies and ways of seeing the world he’s never considered. People like Ilya.
“I don’t want easy,” he shrugs. “I just want you.”
Ilya lets his tears fall freely until his breath starts evening back out. Shane feels a few hot tears roll down his own cheeks, too, especially when he allows himself to picture Ilya at age twelve going through something like that. He decides he’ll build a time machine or find some kind of black hole that lets him send his own twelve year-old self to be friends with Ilya, so that some version of him could have been there to help.
And then the thought of changing the past spirals into more. He imagines Ilya actually playing for Boston, living out the rookie year as it should have happened. From his old stats alone, Shane knows Ilya would have made that season — and all of the seasons after, for that matter — so much harder for him. His chest aches at what could have been, both for himself and for Ilya.
He aches for their connection, too, for the years they lost that they might have spent together in some way or another.
In the comfortable silence, Shane puts on a movie for them to watch: Planet Earth. They stay in bed all day, cuddling and taking turns mindlessly stroking the other’s hair or back, depending on the position.
“This is not too scary for you?” Ilya asks when a manatee swims across the screen.
“Fuck off,” Shane laughs.
When Ilya falls asleep that night, Shane goes down a rabbit hole of Google searches, starting with “how to care for someone who is suicidal” and ending with a PDF he’d found of the Diagnostic and Statistic Manual’s formal definition of PTSD as well as five peer-reviewed articles about the best types of social supports for someone who has experienced trauma.
——
“They are taking forever to admit they love each other,” Ilya groans to Paula the next morning. He slams the book onto the small table next to his pool seat, angry at it.
Paula snickers. “It’s kind of fun, though, isn’t it? The build-up?”
“NO!” Ilya replies.
“Fine, I’ll make sure the next one isn’t a slow burn, then. I have a few where they get to it right away, don’t worry,” Paula assures him. She takes another sip of sweet tea.
“Thank God,” Ilya sighs.
“You know they say that what you hate about other people is really what you hate about yourself,” Benny interjects.
“Yes… and?” Ilya asks.
Benny and Paula just look at each other and laugh.
“Anyway, I’m glad we could convince you to come out of your little love bubble and hang out. I’ve missed you,” Benny says.
“It is not a love bubble,” Ilya replies, feigning disgust. “It is very nice suite with a lot of video games.”
“And a hot man,” Paula says.
“And a hot man,” Ilya nods.
Paula beams. “Just don’t get too caught up in one man, okay? I mean, I want this for you more than anyone, but I also want you to remember how big the world is. There are a million other beautiful things about being alive,” she tells him. He can hear the genuine concern in her voice, can hear what she’s getting at.
“I know,” he agrees. “You are right. And I’m excited to do tea time in South Africa with you.”
“Wait, you guys are doing the high tea? The premium excursion?!” Benny says, teeming with jealousy.
“Al gave his spot to Ilya,” Paula explains. “He didn’t want to do it this year. He mostly goes because I make him.”
“You’re gonna love it,” Benny sighs.
And the next day proves Benny correct. Ilya and Paula are picked up from the dock by a chic white sports car and taken across Cape Town. The doors open upward and Ilya fantasizes about driving it around the city, blasting music and taking the speed from 0 to 60 in two seconds while his stomach lurches at the intensity. He’d whirl around the southern tip of Africa and leave a trail of dust in his wake.
They arrive at a large, fancy hotel, which is painted a light pink color, making it stand out against the green mountains all around. Ilya imagines this is the kind of lodging he’d be used to staying in if he were in the NHL. He imagines Shane having long nights alone in the large rooms, drinking a non-alcoholic beverage on a patio overlooking awe-inspiring scenery.
A hostess leads them across the lobby — which is decorated with white, plush furniture and large crystal chandeliers — into the garden area. Planted on lush grass under the shade of dozens of large trees are small white tea tables. Each table has an intricate teapot on top of it and four matching tea settings, all with little pink and blue flowers painted in repeating patterns.
Ilya pulls out one of the chairs. Cold, light silver makes up the entire frame, crafted elegantly into vines and little swirls, and there’s a checkered white and pink cushion on top of it. He gestures for Paula to step in front of it, then pushes it in like a true gentleman.
“Ugh, chivalry isn’t dead,” Paula sighs dramatically.
He sits down next to her and Paula launches into an explanation about what to expect. The servers bring them tea options — together the two of them choose a rose and peach white tea to split — and a large, three-tier structure full of food.
The years of attending his father’s work events and over-the-top parties come rushing back into Ilya’s muscle memory.
“You have great tea time manners,” Paula praises as he taps his small spoon lightly, shaking off the tea and milk, then places it at the correct angle on his saucer. Ilya thinks of telling her that this is because his father beat them into him, but he decides not to ruin the moment.
“Okay, so these are the petit fours,” she says, her pronunciation perfect as she points to the smallest tier on the top. “Lavender pound cake,” she reads off, and Ilya finds small white squares with purple dots scattered among them and tiny sprigs of lavender on top. “Lemon and strawberry cake,” he eyes the little pink ones, which have a lemon piped on them in icing. “And, ooooh, chocolate espresso, yummy,” Paula reads. That must be the third variety, which is dark brown with a coffee bean on top.
Ilya bites into a lemon strawberry one as Paula reaches for the chocolate. He pulls the treat back, examining the perfect layers underneath the icing: cake, then lemon curd, more cake, then strawberry jam and a final layer of cake, all wrapped up in a not-too-sweet coating of frosting.
They move onto the next layer, which is dedicated to South African specialties. Paula explains the Koeksisters — braided, golden dough covered in crunchy sugar, about the length of a finger — and tells Ilya that she dreams about them all year in between visits.
“The crunchiness of the sugar mixed with the softness of dough is just divine,” she gushes. “Al and I tried to make them once and it was a colossal fail, though.”
Ilya bites into one and decides that “divine” is an understatement. “We will need to try harder. Or get recipe for the cruise chefs.”
“I love the way your mind works,” Paula smiles, taking a bite of a milk tart, the other South African pastry made specially for the tier. Ilya tries one, too, but doesn’t like the texture of the dense, moist, semi-sweet custard or the overwhelming spice from the cinnamon. If he’s going to be eating pastries, he wants to do it correctly and get the most sugar-y, dough-y confections he can possibly find. He eats another Koeksister to make up for it and starts wondering how they would hold up in a to-go box if he tried to take one back for Shane.
The tea arrives, offering a perfectly warm palate cleanser between their sweet treats and the savory tier still left untouched.
Beneath the Koeksisters and milk tarts is a wide platter of sandwiches: cucumber dill, tomato basil, egg salad, and ham and cheese. Ilya tries one of each, balking at the way the taste of the dill brings him back to memories of his childhood home in Russia, where the herb was sprinkled onto borschts and salads like it was going out of style.
Ilya returns to the sweet tiers quickly, making serious work of trying to decide his favorite petit four. He sips his tea between each bite to make sure it’s a fair competition for each confection, then proudly decides on the lavender. He didn’t realize a flower could taste so sweet, and when it combines with the rose in the tea, it makes him feel like he’s living inside a bouquet.
He sits back, savoring the floral hues on his tongue, and admires the view. The mid-day sunlight is filtering in through a canopy of leaves above them, silhouetting the trees in a bright yellow light. His white button-up shirt (the nicest he owns) and the golden aviator sunglasses he’d found at a stand in Fiji help him actually fit into this place. For a moment, he feels like he belongs in these types of spaces, like he’s allowed to have nice things.
A string quartet plays from inside the open lobby next to them, as if to respond to Ilya’s thoughts with: “yes, see? Here are even more nice things for you.”
i love when ppl draw elias bouchard wearing like anachronistic ass emerald green waistcoats and a monocle in their fanart bc it makes s1 so much funnier to think about. like you know what? yeah actually if i was jonathan sims and my fucking freak of a boss dressed like that and did an evil monologue voice at all times and paid me to read ghost stories in his basement all day, i would also probably be like "yeah this is a deeply unserious job and i am the only normal person here. sick paycheck tho" and then clock the fuck out without ever thinking about those fuckass statements again!! like what are we dunking on him for!! who would chalk that up to anything other than "my weirdass boss has clearly taken his eccentric edwardian magician LARP too far but goddamn if that check doesn't come in every month"
rip magnus archives crew but I'm built different. if my boss was literally all-knowing and couldn't fire me, I'd be in his office all day asking him questions about everything. I wouldn't use google anymore. I'd be like "what's the rarest kind of tree frog" and he'd be like "shut up please shut up" but he'd tell me the answer every time.
and then I'd go home and immediately call him and be like "hey elias I forgot what time I put the burekas in the oven, how much longer should I leave them in"
and he'd be like "I hate you so much. you put them in 12:42. they should come out at 1:12"
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