#I DID A FUCKING PAINTING LETS GO!!!!!!!!!

[honeyyyblue]

✧ it's hard to spend time together when satoru is barely ever home, always away with some mission, due to his reputation as 'the strongest'.

that's why he spends the time he does get buried deep inside you because he knows how rare moments like these are.

moments like right now.

he's fucking you from behind, your tear-streaked face pressed against the mattress as he pounds into you. your molten walls clench around his girthy length and he groans at the feeling.

'that's it, good girl. fuck, you're taking it so well, precious.'

''toru, ngh-,' you're so fucked out you can't even form actual words.

'what's that, sweetheart?'

you manage to mumble something along the lines of 'so full, need more, 'toru'.

satoru's cock hurts at how desperate you sound.

'look at you,' he coos 'always begging for my cock.' you whine into the mattress when he punctuates his sentence with an exceptionally harder and deeper thrust.

'you used to be my sweet angel, so innocent and pure,' he hisses when you clench around him, harder this time 'since when did you become such a cockhungry little slut?'

your cheeks flame crimson. you're embarrassed because, well, he's right. every moment he's away has you thinking about him. his cock, his hands until your own hands creep down your body to in between your legs until you have yourself whimpering his name out to nothing.

you were down bad. and it's not any different for satoru.

'don't worry, baby. if you want cock so bad, i'll give it to you. i'll give you anything- everything.'

he hooks his arm around your waist and pulls you up, your back flush against his broad chest. the new position makes him shift inside you and the feeling has you sobbing.

''toru, please.'

'please what? use your words, baby,' the grin on his face is huge as he watches you try form coherent sentences. his other hand wraps around your throat, pressing just hard enough to weaken the airflow to your head.

''toru, i'm gonna cum,' your head is spinning and you're pawing at the hand at your throat.

'aw, does my baby want to come?' he purrs in your ear.

'yes,' you manage to breathe out.

'then, beg.'

cocky little shit.

'pleasee, 'toru,' you whine, helplessly 'please, please, please. i've been a good girl. just please let me.'

he leans in to press a kiss against your shoulder his snowy hair tickling your skin. 'go ahead,' he whispers against your neck 'come for me, love.'

and god, oh, yes, you do.

your orgasm has you seeing stars, your vision going a little blurry at the white hot pleasure.

the sensation of your walls spasming around his length sends him over the edge, a few more thrusts and you feel him empty inside, his thick release painting your walls white. his hold on your throat loosens and you catch your breaths together as you come down from your high.

he pulls out of you and gently lays you down on the bed, joining you momentarily. you've lost all feeling in your legs and there's a dull ache between them. you slowly turn towards satoru to find him smiling drowsily at you, bright blue eyes hooded from exhaustion. you smile back at him, too tired to formulate a thought. he pulls you toward him and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

'i love you, sweetheart' was the last thing you heard before you drifted off to sleep.

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[wonderjanga]

Yous an Old Bitch

It was about normal day, and Marvel was being interviewed. It was a fairly normal interview. The reporter was asking normal questions and the topic of his age came up. Somehow, after more talking, he for some reason dropped this line:

Marvel: “Listen, if something has a lightning bolt like mine, I probably either made it, or someone inspired it off of me.”

This single line led to a manhunt, looking for items with the bolt. Museums have never been richer.

Person 1: “Did you make this?” *shoves their phone into his face*

Marvel: *pushes the phone away so he can get a better look* “No, it was made for me.” *staring at the photo of an unfinished statue*

Person 1: *enraptured* “Please explain.”

Marvel: “Well, it was a really hot day, and the sculptor guy was taking forever. So like halfway through, I flew out the window and just decided to avoid the sculptor guy. The guy died before he could finish my thing. That’s why the statue isn’t done!”

Someone videoed this and after seeing this, many more people worked up the courage to ask him about their finds.

Person 2: “Captain Marvel, did you make this?” *shows him a photo of a really beat up piece of metal that had a tiny lightning bolt*

Marvel: “Yes actually! That was my first actually good piece of metal work.”

Person 2: “You can do metalwork?”

Marvel: “Yup!”

Person 2: “What was it originally?”

Marvel: *nostalgic* “It was kinda like a tiara only this was before tiaras were things.”

Person 2: “Was it pretty?”

Marvel: “Of course!” *sounds proud* “In fact, it was so pretty that if it were up to me, I’d march right into that museum and restore it with some magic! Though I don’t think the museum would let me.”

Person 2: “Wait, who was it for?”

Marvel: “My wife!”

Person 2: “Huh?”

News that he had a wife spread like wildfire.

or

Person 3: “Did you make the newly discovered cave paintings in China?”

Marvel: “What cave paintings?”

Person 3: *shows him a photo*

Marvel: “Oh. Yeah! Me and a buddy were messing around there. See those symbols?” *points to some symbols*

Person 3: *nods head*

Marvel: “See, that was our language from back then and it basically says that the chief of our tribe sucked. In short, teenage caveman vandalism, only we weren’t teenagers.” *looks nostalgic* “Man, those were good times… I mean, sure, we got stoned to death for that, but still!”

Person 3: *horrified and intrigued*

Also FUCK ME because I had to rewrite this THREE FUCKING TIMES because it DIDNT SAVE. WHATEVER IS UP THERE DOESNT WANT ME TO GO BACK TO MY NORMAL POSTING SCHEDULE. THIS SHIT SHOULDVE BEEN OUT TWO HOURS AGO.

[becomesylus]

Distraction

“ caleb comes back after a long business trip, finally having him in your arms. a moment of glee courses through your veins until he gets a phone call from his colleague and takes him away from you. that can’t do, you have to do something about it… ’’

caleb x reader; 2.3k words

warning: porn without plot, slight exhibitionism (caleb gets fucked while on a call), hand job through cloth, blow job, reader wants attention, skull fucking, fingering, open ending

minors do not interact. re-read the warnings before reading, as after clicking “keep reading”, i am not responsible for the media you consume.

How long has it been since you’ve seen Caleb? You don’t know, but you don’t care at the moment since he decided to show up unexpectedly at your apartment in his uniform.

It was clear he came in after duty with his luggage in one hand and flowers held by his other hand, standing there with his anticipatory smirk and head tilt of endearment. You pulled him into your embrace, leaving him almost stumbling into you. The sheer glee that emanated through your system just to see your long-distance boyfriend was contagious as Caleb laughed at your eagerness as he kicked the door shut.

After placing the flowers in the vase, and him disappearing into your room, your eyes traced Caleb’s movement and you can’t help but ogle at his form with his uniform. The naturally relaxed and placid demeanor paired with the honorable and sophisticated style of the uniform is laced with badges and medals. Oh, were you at the edge of a cliff, ready to go and take him right there where you can get him to—

“hey?”

you snapped out of your thoughts before it went to a dangerous territory before looking at the source. caleb stood at the edge of the hallway, now in casual clothing, smiling at you as he notices your zones out face.

“you alright there?” he asked with a gentle tone, walking up to you in careful steps. He kneels down to your eye level where you're sitting, his necklace carelessly dangles down, swaying back and forth like a pendulum right in front of your face. God does he make you go insane without meaning to.

“yeah, I’m alright…"

Totally not thinking of riding you right here right now.

"Okay, I'll grab us some snacks while you go pick—" he stated as he got up from kneeling, only for you to jolt and gripped his arm. He turned around, head tilting in confusion as his trail of view went down from where your hand was placed up to your face that read multiple languages. You shocked yourself with this sudden move, but you had no room to speak as you wanted him even more.

You stood up from your seat, eyes maintaining contact with his lilac irises. He doesn't know what's going on with you, and frankly, you can't explain it verbally, instead, you pushed him down to your sofa before you got on top of his lap, making him gasp and groan at the sudden attack.

Once the shock subsided, he instantly began painting in his infamous cheeky smirk as his hands held your waist while your hands reached up to his face.

"So... that's what you're up to..." Caleb's voice rasped in intrigue as your hands began roaming from his face down to his neck. He shudders as your fingernails graze his neck, goosebumps pimpled up. Before you can reply back with your sly remarks, Caleb pulls you to crash your lips onto his, making you moan in contact.

The kiss was fervent and desperate from both ends like you were both holding back, and indeed you were. Long distance did more damage than good for both of your cravings yet right now it was worthwhile as your tongues danced around each other, finally reuniting for a blissful gathering. The sounds of smacks and moans escaped from both of your lips as it continues its rounds of passion.

You would pull away every now and then to grab a bit of air, but you were both addicted to each other. It was like your lips were magnets, hard to repel and let go of both polar ends. Both yours and Caleb have reign to move around and explore your aroused bodies, with him slipping past your shirt to strip it off leaving you exposed, much to his desire.

His thumb started playing with your bud, making you gasp and feel the heat emanating from your lower region. His lips migrated down to your neck as he continued to play with your clothed nipples, meanwhile, your hands did their fair share of traveling, aiming to get to their desired destination.

His attacks in your neck halted as he suddenly shudder and gasp out a moan as your hand traveled south and palmed through his sweatpants.

"Oh, ffuck...~" Caleb's curses came out with an erotic sigh as your hand began twisting and stroking through the fabric. You finally get to see his blissed-out state in the flesh and not through a screen, the beauty that is his fucked out face while his groans and whines began playing like they were music to your ears. Finally, some time you'd have to yourself—

bzzz bzzz

Caleb's phone vibrated, making you two halt your movements. He checked the phone, and he let out a whispered "shit."

"I'm sorry, doll, but I have to take this, I'll make it quick," Caleb profusely apologized, with his eyes pleading with guilt and his hand caressing your cheek reassuringly before he picked up the call. You couldn't be mad at him, of course, you couldn't, it wasn't his fault.

But the caller picked the worst time and you had no one to place your anger at except him, which he consistently encourages you to do. While he was talking to his subordinate, Caleb noticed you getting up from your lap, his eyes essentially telling you "What are you doing?"

You paid no mind as you got down on your knees in front of your boyfriend. The anticipation and lust were eating you alive and you were going to lose it. You pulled down his sweatpants and boxers just enough to free his hard cock out of its restraints. Despite Caleb's stoic demeanor, his cock spoke otherwise—angry, excited and ready to be inserted in a warm place.

Caleb muted the call as he looked down at you, "babe, I'm in a call, you can't—Ha!"

His words were cut off by a gasp as you began kissing the base of his length and your hand began to teasingly graze from his balls up to his tip. You smirked as you hooded your eyes at him, your lips ghosting at the sensitive skin, while his face flushed even redder.

"Go on... don't let me stop you," You teasingly spoke as you smirked before you began kitty licking the head while maintaining eye contact. Caleb looks down at you gob smacked, yet he took your teasing demeanor as a challenge, so he smirked back at you as he began stroking your head.

"Colonel... Colonel, are you there?" The caller can be heard calling out from Caleb's phone. Your boyfriend, while maintaining eye contact with you, unmuted the call as he leaned back into the base of the sofa while you began to fully place his cock inside your mouth.

"I'm with you..." Caleb spoke eloquently as if you weren't giving him the best sucking of his life. The call carried on as you bobbed your head up and down his cock, while Caleb tilted his head to the side with a menacing smirk plastered on his face, looking like he has a plan.

You tried to tease him by pulling out and simply licking him up, especially at the tip, almost taunting that he couldn't do anything to please you and instead he has to take this important call.

"Oh yeah?" Caleb mused, you weren't sure if it was directed towards the caller or you, but it was in sync with him shoving your head down, making you choke at the sudden action. He held a grip on your hair as he began to thrust up to your head, creating choked sounds from your end. He bit his lips to not let out any moans and showcase any signs of vulnerability in front of his coworker, but the sight of you struggling to fit him entirely while tears rolled down your face made him get closer to the edge.

"Give me one second," Caleb said sternly, as he muted the call once again, and placed the phone to the side. He pulled your head off of his cock, making you gasp for your air. He took his cock that was lubed up by your saliva and began stroking it in a vigorous pace.

"Open up, you better take it and swallow it," he growled out as he found himself having a hard time speaking as the speed of his hand caused him to feel an electric sensation coursing through his veins. You obliged as you stuck out your tongue to not miss any drop of his essence out of your pretty, stretched-out mouth.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna cum in that pretty mouth of yours..." He muttered before he began whimpering out more strings of curse words. With a few more pumps, he imploded like a volcano, and his sweet, white lava splatted all across your mouth and face, making him moan at the sight. He pants as he throws his head back while you swallow whatever load that landed on your mouth.

He rolled his head back down at you, still trying to catch his breath, seeing you clean up whatever remained of his pearly juice that you missed. He chuckles as he pats your head and whispers, "such a good girl... c'mere."

Despite a command, he pulled you in to kiss him, his cum still staining your mouth, his tongue tasting himself making him moan at the flavor combined with your lip balm. He pulled away, still craving more out of you, he pushed you down to the mattress and began pulling down your skirt and panties in a quick motion, making you giggle at his excitement. The cool air making contact with your bare pussy caused you to clench in sensitivity and excitement. Your eyes began to sparkle as he began to strip off his remaining clothing.

However, instead of proceeding, he turns to his phone and got back to the caller, making you scrunch your brow in confusion.

"Sorry about that, my... cat started to rummage around and make a mess," Caleb paused as he looked down at you. His voice was serious and cold when talking yet his eyes were blown with lust, they were ready to eat you up. You were, however, unsure what's happening, he wasn't doing anything and just talking to his colleague while maintaining an intense eye contact with you.

You realized, however, that he was doing mental calculations to pounce, as you were suddenly surpassed by his other hand being placed between your thighs and began playing with your slit. You let out a surprised moan, making you cover your mouth as to not let the caller hear you in this state.

Caleb chuckled darkly as the caller began asking if it was his cat acting up. Little does he know, the cat in question was writhing and whimpering in pleasure as he inserted both his middle and ring finger and stretched her out for him to fit inside her.

"oh, you have no idea..."

[pacofprunes]

KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE PRIZE

DARK CONTENT inho x reader

warnings — noncon, cockwarming, guns, squid game stuff

i’m begging you. if you don’t fuck with noncon and you hate it so much, then don’t fucking read this. 18+

a whole waterfall coming down your face, lip quivering, biting back your sobs. he said he’d make it even worse if you made a sound. so you decide to replace the sobs that you couldn’t let out with heavy breaths. you were about to start hyperventilating. legs tied to his, he was balls deep in you, forcing you to cockwarm him with your arms tied behind your back. god, you felt like you were gonna puke. you feel his cold gloves slide under your tracksuit jacket and onto your bare stomach, making you shiver.

“what’s got you so tense? are the games getting boring?”

you shake your head no, and he shifts under you. you know he did it on purpose, it wasn’t done to get comfortable, it was done to fuck with you. feeling his dick move in you and feeling yourself clench around him. you hated it. he laughs lightly before moving his head into your shoulder to get a better view of the games. he squeezed your arm with one of his hands, the other still wrapped around your stomach. you had to watch all these people die, you put your head down. this was sick. he was sick. he lets go of your arm and grabs your chin, lifting it to make you keep watching.

“keep your eyes up. this is nice of me, no? i could pick up this gun right now and shoot you just like them. it won’t hurt me. i still got what i want.”

he moves his hand from your chin and taps the gun on his table. you hadn’t even noticed it until he said something. he picks it up for a second, wiggling it at you tauntingly before putting it back down. he runs his hands through your hair and wraps his arms all around you, pulling your back right into his chest. you don’t know how, but somehow that made his dick go even deeper, and you quickly try to lift yourself up off of him, despite your legs being tied down to his own. he quickly grips your hips and pulls you back down before slapping you on the inside of your thigh, hard, causing you to flinch up and bounce on his dick, immediately you pause and suck the air through your teeth, more tears dribbling down, all while hearing a low dark laugh from behind you. an evil man you thought was your friend. a man you thought you could trust.

“yknow,”

he grabs a glass of whine from his table and presses it to his lips.

“you’d think you’d be happy.”

he moves the glass to sit on your thigh, a quiet way of telling you to stay still. wouldn’t wanna spill it on his nice suit after all.

“i mean, instead of running the risk of getting shot, now you just have to stay here and run the risk of not pleasing me.”

you swallow hard, your chest rising up and down quickly still as you try to keep your head up to watch these sick games, the whole time you’re looking for gihun and your group, hoping they’re okay. he moves the glass off your thigh and blindly presses the glass to your lips. you move your head away and the wine spills on you, painting the once green jacket completely red. it was the only safety net that you had that he allowed you to keep. that stupid jacket covered in blood and now wine. it was gross, but at least you weren’t completely bare. it didn’t stop him from touching you though, clearly, but it gave you some sort of comfort. he sighs before putting the glass back on the table and you tense more as he rubs his hands up your arms, scared of what was to come next.

“so? what’s going on in that head of yours?”

you take a deep breath before finally speaking to him.

“you’re a liar.”

he simply laughs and he moves once again, making you squeeze your eyes shut and you bite your lip.

“i want to go.”

“you’d rather play the games?”

you slowly nod your head and he hums before you hear something on his table move and something pressed against your back. you try to twist yourself to look behind at him, but he simply grips your arm, sending a threat your way to turn back around towards the tv and you obey.

“let’s play a game then.”

you hear the sound of a gun cocking and he presses it back to you and that’s when you knew what was pressing against your back, causing you to whimper.

“what? i thought you wanted to play.”

“i—”

he moves the gun away from your back and up to your neck and you choke on your words. you feel his hand shift before you hear the loud bang of the gun, causing you to scream, thinking that the bullet went through your head as you sob out, choking on your own tears. coughing everywhere and your chest heaving. he wraps his arm around your neck and pulls you into his back again cutting off some of your air flow and rests his other arm with the gun onto your exposed lap. you felt his cock twitch in you, but any other sensations were dulled out from the fear you were in. it had all felt almost numb.

“you still wanna play the games?”

he positioned the gun under your chin, lifting it up and you let out a choked up ‘no’. he decides to remove it and you finally stop holding your breath. he moves it in front of your face and waves it slightly before placing it back on the table beside him, but it didn’t comfort you in the slightest. your chest was stil heaving and the beads of sweat dripping down your forehead didn’t slow down in the slightest. you hear him sigh behind you before sitting up straighter and doing the slightest movements and the slowest thrusts in you. you immediately start moving your wrists in the restraints, straining to free them, throwing your head down and trying to squirm away and free your legs from his. he just holds the sides of your arms tightly, definitely bruising them under his gloved hands and he continues to grind under you, a small laugh coming from him as he feels you clench around him and he moves his gloved hand from your arm to the inside of your thigh, squeezing it before he sticks a gloved finger in you, lying right next to his dick, stretching you even more and finally a loud sob finds its way out of your throat and escapes your lips. he removes his finger and rubs a few circles on your clit, living for the feeling of you clenching around him before he moves his finger up the inside of your thigh, covering it in your slick. he wraps his arms around you again, pressing you against his chest as you continue to sniffle and let out small cries. he simply runs his hand through your hair and moves a hand to grope your boobs under your tracksuit. feeling that you’re so tense, he runs his hands up your sides and your waist, as if that was going to make you relax at all.

“i told you earlier that being here was better because all you had to do was run the risk of not pleasing me.”

he suddenly grips his fingers as tight as possible into your hips.

“so i’d suggest you start moving instead of trying to be so still unless you want me to pull the trigger next time i pick the gun back up.”

[babyblankyerror]

On the Stanley hit man thing(please note 1: prices are at least semi accurate to the 70s and 2: I have no idea how hitmen work and there’s only so many google searches I’m willing to have in my history. Also the name of The Guy is a reference to an actual person who was related to an actual big US government fuck up):

Rubbing soap and water into well-worn gloves in some gas station bathroom in the middle of the night was, at this point, a new normal for Stanley. There were better ways to do this, he knew that, but patience and a horrifying amount of soap did the job just fine. Better than leaving the gloves on the ground where someone might stumble across them and realise there are small dried splatters on them.

The best way to get blood out of fabric was to wash it out quickly. Flood it with water, then scrub soap into it and try to wear through it with paper towel after paper towel until the water runs clear. It was a similar method to removing paint from a roller or shirt. That meant that Stan could just pretend he’d messed up on some project, for an art class or something. Or was messing around with his brother's paints. There was only so well that could work after years of the same routine, but it still worked so there was no reason to change it.

As he ran the gloves under the faucet again, the water flowed only carrying suds. No more damning pinkish hue. Now he just had to dry them, and that could be done back in the Stanley-Mobile.

First he’d have to leave the gas station. Then call the number given to him last week when he got the job and tell them it was done. He’d learn where to meet them to get the back half of his payment, then he could see how to split it. Enough to keep going went to him, a little bit went towards saving in case of an emergency, and the rest went to his dork of a brother.

The first step, out of all of them, was always the hardest. There are only so many ways you can hide sopping wet gloves, especially when it’s warm enough out that you can’t just wear a bulky jacket with inner pockets.

He folded them in half, longways, and put one in each of his pant pockets. It was as inconspicuous as he could get.

Stan hurried to the door of the bathroom, before opening it at a much more reasonable speed and meandered out of the gas station store. He took special care to walk in plain view on his way out. As much as he’d love to skirt around the edge of the store to keep out of view, that would only look suspicious and risk drawing attention.

As the store door closed behind him he let his shoulders drop slightly and fished his gloves out of his pocket as well as his keys. His car was parked right outside so there was no need to separate the actions.

Unlocking the door he sat down in the driver’s seat. He already had a small towel on the passenger side of the bench seats. He dropped the gloves on the towel before swinging his door shut, sticking his key in the ignition, and starting the engine. There was a pay phone a few blocks down, but having just left the store he should still move his car.

It was funny how despite about… three years, he wants to say, he still was always on edge after a job. It made sense, considering that the jobs he took consisted of killing people, but it was still a lot of time to adjust to it. At least the pay was good, and he had ways to get through the actual murder part.

Just line up the shot, and count to three. If you make it to three you might chicken out and fail, or if you aren’t sure of aim you might panic since they keep breathing after the shot. Not to mention you leave a distinctive trace of who’s done it with the bullet. But guns left less room for regret and letting them live than knives or fists. It helped that he pulled the trigger on two, before his mind could catch up to what he was doing. By the time he was weighing whether or not he should do it, he was already checking to see if any blood was on him. Usually just his hands if he got close, but on occasion a drop or two would land elsewhere on him.

Shoes he filed the treads off left no recognizable prints as he would walk away.

The drive to the pay phone was silent beyond the low rattling of the engine. Shifting gears and parking the car was so automatic that if he was asked if he’d done it or not he genuinely wouldn’t know the answer. He took a few coins out of the cup holder and a note from where it was tucked into his front visor.

The air had the everpresent heat of summer, only cut through by a slight wind. He vaguely wondered if it was similar weather where Ford was. Sure Indiana was northeast of Arkansas, but it couldn’t account for that great of a change in weather. Especially since there would be enough plants to keep the heat in at night as opposed to if Ford was in the desert out West. Ford should have been in the desert out West, or at least just near it. He’d driven through the west coast once, it went from desert to a small bit of forest by the coast.

He slotted a coin into the phone and punched in the numbers written on the little sheet of paper. It rang for a few moments before someone answered with a tired ‘hello’. Made sense, it was probably around midnight.

“Is this S Higgins?” Stanley asked, staring up at the sky. The town was big enough that the lights faded some of the stars out. Probably for the best, Ford always liked the stars and it was best to not think about Ford when on the call with a client. His voice got too soft, and when your voice gets soft suddenly everything is up for negotiation.

“It is. I take it, you've done it?” The voice on the other end of the line replies. Always with euphemisms and never saying what they asked for. They wanted someone dead and now they’re dead, and he’s the only one that has to face it.

“Yup. You can check; Kelly on York street- dead center of Warren.” Stan says. He knows they won’t check, but it’s always best to give the information so there’s never any doubt he’s done it. It’ll be in the headlines anyways, Warren doesn’t seem like a place where a double homicide goes unreported on. A lovey dovey couple who just so happened to know a few details problematic to an ongoing political career.

“Is Ray’s in Monticello in three days good for you?” Came from the phone, crackly and disconnected. Three days, enough time for news and an investigation to start. Also enough time to plan out where to go next. There were certain people who talked, and it was through that grapevine his name got spread around. Or more accurately his license plate and car’s description did, it was not exactly inconspicuous, and with that ways to contact him. He just had to go wherever people who knew people that might want someone dead were. So pretty much anywhere, but he’d been thinking about seeing New Orleans so maybe he’d head there. And if nothing came up he was certain to find something in Mobile.

“Around lunch?” He asked. The least suspicious time of day. You could openly talk about his work at lunch and it would be taken as a joke. Because it’s the middle of the day and no actual plots could ever take place in the middle of the day.

“See you then.” The words came out and were quickly followed by a clack and silence. He set the phone up and made his way back to the Stanley-Mobile.

Monticello was less than twenty miles away. He could get there and get a motel room that night. But Warren was a small town and the newcomer disappearing the night of two murders would put the cops on his tail, so he swung around and headed back towards the motel he’d gotten a room at here.

The fact he didn’t immediately collapse meant he must have been running on adrenaline, and so rather than fight it for sleep he got his things packed. He’d sleep in and leave at a reasonable time in the morning before heading to Monticello. That seemed ideal.

———

Over the next couple days the only notable occurrences were the headlines about what he’d done, and him visiting the Allen House. From murder to the suicide house tourist trap. Way to go him!

Stanley had to admit though, while the ‘hauntedness’ of the Allen House left something to be desired he enjoyed the fun romp. He could do it better if he wanted to, but that would mean getting a house which would probably require legal documents that were left back in the apartment on top of a pawn shop in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey. Or he could do it illegally, which was much more likely, but at this point too much of a hassle when his current gig worked just fine.

Noon was approaching though so he turned on the Stanley-Mobile and headed towards Ray’s.

The diner was somewhat cosy despite having a metal back wall that looked like that of a storage container. Probably the warm lighting, benches, and soft music playing from a radio on the counter. He grabbed a table by a window, staring out of it to wait.

After a few dozen minutes of nothing he decided to go ahead and order some fries and a burger, making sure it wasn’t enough he could reasonably eat. He got a to-go bag after picking at them for what he deemed a good amount of time.

It was maybe another half hour or a bit longer when he watched a slightly too-clean Pacer roll up. A man who looked like he’d just been told what ‘casual’ meant last night stepped out and headed towards the diner. That was, without a doubt, Higgins then.

When he walked in the door Stanley waved him over, calling his name with a slight cheer as the man came over.

“You did… the job.” Higgins muttered, pulling a chair opposite Stanley’s spot on a padded bench and shuffling to sit down.

“I did. It’s on the news if you need to check.” Stanley said, leaning back slightly.

“I… I already saw the news. I have the money.” Higgins said, pausing to hum and haw before continuing, “Three thousand, right? Here, in cash.” Higgins said, reaching into a pocket on the inside of his clearly not weather appropriate jacket. And right. Stanley really should remember to get checks and not cash. Checks were easy to hide, especially since he went about being a contract killer in the dumbest way. Instead of just getting in with one group and staying there with a consistent pay and a good public facing business set up for him, he traveled around and essentially worked commission. Granted he got his start making enemies, so maybe staying in one place wasn’t the best. Especially when he could then work for just about anyone he deemed not an immediate risk, instead of just one organization. No matter what though, he should get better about checks instead of cash. Too late now though. Stanley held his palm out and felt a small stack of hundred dollar bills hit his hand, with no small amount of worry. He clutched the bills and tilted his palm down, hiding them from any quick glances.

Stanley dropped the bills into the to go bag as he reached in, and pulled out a small container with the fries.

“I have extra if you want.” He said, opening the lid and turning them towards Higgins. The man seemed to writhe in his chair, face morphing into a performance of guilt. He was certainly new to this. Higgins got up with a rushed apology and excuse of having to get back home. Stanley watched him go and placed the fries back in the bag. Well, to the bank then. He should deposit the cash slowly, he knows this, but he’s fairly certain that the new semester is starting m at Backupsmore which means Ford will need to be spending his money on textbooks. Which means Stanley is going to be extra sure to pay for his tuition.

Stanley’s pretty sure he caught an article about Ford and some other guy proving something or other about the universe, and a few more campus newspapers mentioning the two of them spending time together. So his brother finally made a friend! He’d drive up and hug the nerd out of pride if he weren’t certain Ford wouldn’t be too willing to speak to him. He did figure though, that he had enough saved for an emergency that what he’d usually cut out of his pay for à ‘just in case’ could go to Ford’s friend instead. A brief line of phone books and library visits, as well as word of mouth, made it clear that the guy was also the first of his family to go to college. And was riding on a couple scholarships in order to just cover tuition, but probably still had to take out a loan or two. He wasn’t going to risk Ford’s friend having to drop out and leave him alone due to finances.

The face of the bank teller was of mild confusion when he went to deposit five hundred dollars. Just because he wasn’t waiting to deposit the money didn’t mean he was an idiot. He was just going to spend the day hopping between a few banks to do it in chunks. Stil suspicious on paper but he has a current guise of being ‘an artist’ so sudden large deposits because he ‘sold a painting’ at least didn’t get too many questions.

At the end of it all he ended up sending one thousand five hundred to Ford’s annual tuition, so he should be set for a while longer. Though the idiot of a genius was taking twelve different full courses and each individual course has its own lesser tuition so it wasn’t the full semester it would have been if his brother knew how to stop. Frankly that had been the main reason he’d stepped in, Ford probably could have managed the tuition for one or even two or three courses on his own but somewhere in his mind he’d decided that taking twelve was a good idea. Stanley’s sure Ford could have figured it out, but that’s his brother and he didn’t want Ford to have to figure it out.

He sent seven hundred to Ford's friends’ tuition after some double checking names, and so the apparent Fiddleford McGucket had one less thing to worry about.

That meant he had eight thousand remaining, he wouldn’t have to take another job for a while. A long while. Maybe he just goes to New Orleans as a vacation.

~~~~~~

Ford and Fiddleford were staring at the Backupsmore administrator. They’d gone to check up on what they had to pay for tuition, only to find out that not only had Ford’s gotten a significant amount paid(which was becoming an odd yet consistent occurrence) but Fiddleford’s as well.

The money had been wired in, which meant whoever sent it had a known bank account, but had apparently mandated anonymity. As far as the school administrators were aware, it could have been the king of England sending the money.

The walk back to their dorm was shared in stunned silence. It wasn’t until Ford was sitting on his bed that Fiddleford stopped pacing and stared out the window before gripping his hair and yelling, in the whisper yell mandates by shared walls, cried out.

“WHAT in the world is GOIN’ ON.”

Fiddleford turned to Ford, lowering his hands to gesture in confused annoyance.

“Well, we know whoever is sending this must have a lot of money on hand. And we have been covering a lot of neuroscience, and specifically how to alter brains- right? It’s probably some larger entity with stakes in our current research.” Ford posed, though his voice still tilted with unsureness.

“True, but you started getting the payments before the whole tie thing. So there must have been some sort of investment before then.” Fiddleford argued. Ford shrugged.

“I mean, I suppose the sheer number of courses I was taking may have been noteworthy?” He offered.

Fiddleford began to pace muttering to himself, before an idea seemed to strike him.

“Hey, if we can get into the school records and figure out what bank the money has been being wired from, maybe we can call them and ask for information?” Fiddleford suggested. Ford took a moment to think through the idea, before grinning and jumping up.

“Exactly! Even if we can’t get a name, we’ll still get a rough area and we can go through phone books until we find someone who has a ridiculous amount of disposable cash and a vested interest in both of us!” He exclaimed.

They were probably going to have to break into an office or something, hopefully childhood shenanigans with… his childhood shenanigans would help with that.

Bro you need to publish this on ao3 or post it on tumblr or SOMETHING because HOLY SHIT?!??!?!

THIS is exactly what I was imagining for the Au!!! This is fuckkng great!!! I LOVE LOVE THIS AND YOU AND AAAAAAAA

I imagine Fiddleford doesn't really worry about the random money Ford gets until HE starts getting it too. Then yeah he's freaking out because WHAT THE HECK??

I love this you wrote this so well, so nice and omg??? You did research??? That's more than I'd ever do XD

[lucysarah-c]

I'll just say, I may be here posting about Mounting Spring, asks etc... But I'm cooking... I'm cooking something everyone asked me for lol

“I like this! This 3D flower pattern is so on trend right now.”

Levi’s eyes were glued to the screen as a freshly painted nail was shown up close.

“Oh, hi! Thank you,” her voice popped up again, and like an animal in pure confusion, he tilted his head to the side.

What are those things popping up? He was completely lost.

“Isn’t it too late for coffee?” she read aloud before grabbing her cup and taking a sip from the straw. “There’s no such thing as too much black or too late for coffee. Plus, it’s girls’ night! What’s a girls’ night without iced coffee or a glass of wine?”

This feels wrong now, Levi thought, taking a sip of his own drink, lazily sprawled on his bed. But when she started showing off her pajamas, that’s when he lost it.

Holy shit... it’s the little shorts doing it for me.

“This is why kids these days have their eyes glued to this shit,” he muttered, almost offended— as if his own mouth wasn’t slightly open and his eyes weren’t stuck to the screen as she vibed to the song playing in the background.

“Have you ever tried… this one?” She winked at the camera, arm in the air, hips moving in a way that Levi quickly guessed was meant to simulate riding. Over the kitchen island.

…I’m definitely not better than a 12-year-old boy.

The chat flooded with messages about how much they loved the song.

Whose song is this?

“Oh! I love that! Ugh, my heart is divided, I want all of them to win! Birds of a Feather is so good, but Hot to Go?” she gushed, listing more names Levi didn’t recognize.

Who are those?

“And the dance?”

What trend? What song? What dance?

Levi felt lost. Completely lost.

“Oh, thank you for the donation! Here, a heart for you!”

She pressed two fingers together in the shape of a heart. Levi tilted his head again, frowning.

How the hell is that a heart?

But before he could keep questioning his entire existence—or, perhaps, his age—her expression shifted. The usual bright smile faded as she read something from the chat.

“Look, if you’ve got a problem with me, just keep scrolling, buddy. Can an admin ban him from the stream, please?”

That made Levi do the exact opposite. He scrolled up through the rapidly moving chat until he found the comment in question. Some idiot had said she owed it to him if something happened because of what she was wearing and doing on screen.

“What’s your fucking problem, dude?” Levi whispered, clicking his tongue. “If a woman has never even touched you, don’t say it so loudly.”

His fingers moved on their own, pressing the guy’s username, looking for a way to reply—until he suddenly let the phone drop onto his chest and stared at the ceiling.

“I need to calm down,” he muttered. Being in this live stream was already too much for him. Getting into an online argument was not the way to go.

How long had he been watching? He wasn’t sure. But in that time, he’d learned that ASMR meant tapping on objects with freshly done nails and whispering, that people voted on live which designs she should do next, and… a whole lot more.

“Say you can’t sleep, baby, I know. That’s me, espresso…”

She sang along to the music, and he felt hypnotized.

“…Did I just spend two hours of my life on this?”

The “Love ya!” came through the speakers as she blew a final kiss before ending the live.

“For fuck’s sake…” Levi muttered, almost offended. “You can’t be that stupidly cute.”

Maybe pop songs were popular for a reason. Maybe that’s why Levi never downloaded any apps on his phone or used it for anything beyond strictly necessary texts. Because explain to him why the hell he was humming at work.

“Since when do you know Sabrina Carpenter?”

Hange appeared out of nowhere, catching him off guard.

Levi had to come up with an excuse. Fast.

“What? Is it illegal for me to know new songs?”

“No…” Hange dragged the word out, squinting at him in suspicion. “But since when do you?”

“Give me a break. I’m not that old. I can get to know new artists,” he brushed it off while brewing himself a tea.

Hange let it slide, but their mind was already working, scheming. They kept talking, mostly about work. But as Levi finished his tea and was ready to leave, Hange casually dropped:

“Espresso?”

Levi frowned. “What?”

Hange repeated the question immediately, as if he hadn’t heard them the first time. But of course, he had.

“Fuck no. You know I hate coffee. Black tea,” he grumbled.

To his shock, Hange chuckled, shaking their head, biting their lip as they held back a knowing smile.

“Aww, Shortie… don’t give yourself away.”

“Huh?”

“Espresso. That’s the song you were humming.” Their grin widened. “I’m starting to think you’re not just listening to new artists—you’re watching new people.”

Levi stiffened.

And for the first time, he couldn’t hide the subtle embarrassed blush creeping up his face.

“Get off my ass,” he muttered, already walking away.

But Hange wasn’t done.

“And I think it might be Erwin’s cute little influencer friend!”

I won't say anything else, let the readers figure it out.

[graciedollie]

Hii, sorry for sending so many requests but you have the best writing on this app and I can't imagine asking for anyone else. I would like you to do one in which the reader is an artist who makes Brazilian "baroque" paintings, but is embarrassed to show them because they are very expressive, until Grayson sees one of them and is amazed, sorry for the very specific request!, I saw your other one chefGrayson's post and wanted to order one too do this in your own time!❤️‍🩹

Grayson x Artist!Reader

warnings:nothing too drastic honestly, completely sfw and takes place in modern au

a/n: sorry for not posting a whole lot, just been burnt out and busy handling school :( hope you enjoy bby

you were a bit embarrassed with the art you’ve created. People would have a tendency to say your art piece is too…’expressive’ or ‘too out there for their liking’—which you wanted them to be expressive. baroque paintings have always caught your heart and you’ve spent long periods of time trying to conjure a beautiful piece similar to that; specifically the Brazilian Baroque painting styles. It brought you a sense of comfort and tranquility whenever you would just let your mind take over the brush and just relax.

It felt as if art was your place of sanctuary (that is when someone did open their mouth with nagging about how your art is too expressive and explicit)

It took you a while to become more comfortable at sharing your art, especially to the great world of social media. You would start to, first, post your artwork on tiktok. It went ok, but you would have some comments, such as: “oh…” “oh! that’s not…” “oh honey no.” and etc. It was tiktok for fuck’s sake, what did you expect. It was a little downing to have comments like that, but you would have other comments that would hype your artwork and even encourage you to post more, which you did, but you were just a bit hesitant..

A few days would go to pass and you’d become more comfortable with sharing your art on other platforms, tiktok, facebook, etc. You name it. Ofc there were some slightly mean comments, but you’ve gotten more positive ones and it made you feel a whole less shitty about what you were passionate about. Seeing the lovely comments showing you love and support with your art, that would be deemed as too expressive, made you feel so soooo much better and you couldn’t be more grateful for the support <3!!

Despite some of the comments being complete assholes.

One day, you needed to get some pain and brushes for this new artwork you wanted to try out and you were honestly ecstatic about it!! You stop by a new shop that seller some of the best paint called ‘Artistic Haven’. You’ve passed it multiple times, but never really had the chance to stop by—and boy did you wish you did sooner.

As you stumble into the nice shop with a sense of lavender and shaved wood hitting your nose, enjoying the warm aroma wafting to your nose. A woman, who appeared to be much older, turned to you with a welcoming smile etched on her lips—causing pretty smile lines to grace her skin. “Well, hello, Dear. How can I be of help, hm?” Her voice was raspy and husky, loving the way she used the sweet name in such a tone.

You’d tell her the stuff you needed and she was happy to help you pick out what you needed. As she was doing so, she couldn’t help but notice the way you would stare at her for longer than a couple seconds, but she just brushed it off with a chuckle “So, if I may ask, what do you like to paint, hm? I’m sure a woman as yourself can really create some great stuff, yes?” She had a sweet smile etched on her lips as her brow was raised while she handed you the items necessary—oil paint, new canvases, and other miscellaneous.

It felt like you were out on the spotlight with the sudden ask, but it was not big deal. You just felt a bit off since you knew how people would react if they saw your artwork and you did not want to embarrass yourself on the fine morning of 10:54 am. Though, she seemed sweet enough and wouldn’t judge—hopefully. “I, um…I actually like to paint Brazilian baroque paintings. I just like to recreate some or just do some on my own..” You admitted with a sheepish smile, noticing the way her brows raised with curiosity and was intrigued. “Mm, that’s sounds quite nice. Do you have any photos of your work? If it’s not an issue, I’d like to see.”

You could practically feel the stupid grin appearing on your face atp.

Your breath hitched your throat at her words before giving her a firm nod with a sheepish smile as you pulled your phone out, showing her the various amount of work you’ve created and poured tears and sweat in. Your eyes darted between the phone and her, trying to gauge her expression as she squinted her eyes to see the many of pictures. With a couple of minutes looking, an approved hum slipped from her lips as she gave you a sweet smile, “These pieces are absolutely gorgeous. You definitely have a gift, dear.”

She couldn’t help but adore the way you really captured that baroque style. The use of contrast, intense emotion, grandeur, and the way you drew the naked body gracefully. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t find your art absolutely stunning and very telling. She absolutely loved seeing how much dedication and effort into such a art piece—even the difficult ones. She loved to see one who shows effort and dedication to something they love and express themselves into. That’s what art mean to her, even though she didn’t do much painting herself.

The way her eyes stared into yours and the sound of her voice practically praising you, it felt as if your stomach would explode with the amount of fluttering that was occurring. A small chuckle slipped from your lips as you put your phone away, shrugging with a soft scoff. “Thank you…i’ve just been hesitant on showing people my work..” “Why is that, if I may ask?”

You glanced over at her as you two began to walk over to the register to check all your items, chuckling nervously as you shrugged again, “They’re too…expressive. That’s what people say most of the time.” She started to scan your items with quick precision before bagging them up and handing over the bag with a warm smile. “They’re expressive in the best way. You’ve got a precious gift, love and a good heart also. Your art only captures the beauty of things on the deeper end and that what makes art ‘art’, my dear.”

You couldn’t lie and say you didn’t want to just hug her right then and there, because you did. This random lady just gave you the most encouraging words and she probably doesn’t even realize it. A stupid grin tugged at your lips as you took your bag, looking over at her with a softened gaze. “Ya know, rather you realize it or not, you’ve certainly made my week.” Your words earned a hearty chuckle from her, feeling the way your heart quickened at the sound.

“That so? I’m honored to do such.” She leaned against the counter with a small smirk etched on her face, scanning over you with an observing gaze. You bit your lip as you fought to not embarrass yourself and you barely managed. “You have a name?” You mentally slapped yourself. Of course she had a damn name. She chuckled softly at your words, “Grayson, dear. And yours?” You told her your name and she gave a warm smile, “a pretty name for a pretty lady as yourself.”

oh yeah, you’d definitely be coming back again and again.

this might’ve been a bit shitty but we’re slowly gettin back in the groove 🫶🏾 hope you enjoyed bby’s!!

taglist!!

@thesevi0lentdelights

[ofstarsandvibranium]

To Have and To Hold: Part 13

Fandom: Marvel - Moon Knight (Mafia AU)

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader, Jake Lockley x F!Reader

Summary: To ensure you’re always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don’t necessarily hate Marc, but you don’t get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

Series Masterlist

When Marc wakes up, your side of the bed is empty. He hears the shower on in the en suite bathroom, so he knows you're in there.

He stares up the ceiling and lets out a pained, deep breath. He really can't catch a break. Everything with you has been fucked from the start. He never wanted things to go this way. He knew it was going to be difficult, but he didn't think it'd be this difficult.

He thought he'd have more time. More time to get to know you more, more time to process everything. Just...more.

But Marc's life has never been an easy one. He's never gotten anything easy, never gotten any peace. So he just has to roll with the punches.

But fuck, is he tired of getting beat down.

You step into the bedroom, towel wrapped around your body, "Oh, morning," you say with a hint of surprise, but cover it with a nonchalant.

Marc sits up with a grunt, "Guess we should talk."

You nod, "Yup. Let me change first," you walk into the closet, closing the doors behind you. Marc takes the few minutes to gather his thoughts.

He needs to apologize. He might even beg on his knees for you to believe him. From now on, he has to be completely honest with you from now on.

You exit the closet wearing leggings and a loose fitted t-shirt. You stand there, hip jutted out, and arms crossed over your chest. You're guarding yourself. Marc understands, but hates it nonetheless.

"So?" you ask with a raise of your brow.

He clears his throat, "So, yes, I intentionally didn't tell you certain things. Not because I didn't want to tell you at all, but because I didn't want to worry you. You've already been under a lot of stress and I was just thinking about you." You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a raise of his hands, "I know. I know. I still should have told you about it all: the arrangement, your dad, my now ex-wife. I fucked up.

"I truly am sorry though. I never want to hurt you, Y/N. I care about you."

You had a feeling the conversation was going to go this way. You thought about various scenarios of it while you took your shower. Despite you wanting to paint Marc to be a villain, you know he truly isn't. Despite his rough exterior and "tough shit" you know he has a soft heart. You've seen it first hand the days following your arranged engagement.

You let your arms, and your internal walls, slowly fall.

"I get it...still fucking hurts that you kept all of it from me. And-And I don't know how I'm supposed to trust you-"

"I won't keep anything from you anymore. I promise. Anything that could put either of us or this arrangement at risk, I'll tell you."

"I'll do the same," you say in agreement.

He slowly nods, "Do you...have questions?"

"Who was she?" you ask as you sit at the corner of the bed.

"Layla El-Fouly. I met her back when I was a mercenary...I was ordered to kill her father. I was supposed to get close to her, kill her too but-"

"But you fell in love."

"Yeah. Then she found out that I was the one who killed her father and she left. Didn't see or hear from her in years."

"Did you try looking for her?"

He shrugs, "Not really. I understand why she left. I lied to her," he lowly chuckles to himself, "Guess I really don't have a good track record when it comes to marriages. Both of mine rooting from deceit." He looks down at his lap in shame.

"But you finally found her."

"When your father came to me about the arrangement, he already knew of my marriage to Layla. He gave me contacts to help me find her so I can serve her the papers. She finally reached out a few days ago. She wanted to talk before signing the papers."

You think about when you saw them at the cafe, how he was holding Layla's hand, looking at her. You felt that twinge of jealousy and insecurity crawling into your heart.

"Do you still love her?"

Marc gives a sigh, "I think a part of me will always have some care for her, but I don't love her. Not anymore."

You feel a weight lifting off your shoulders after that. Because, dammit, you know you've fallen for Marc. Despite everything, you really care for him and you know he'd treat you well in this marriage.

It was your turn to release a deep sigh, "Okay."

"Anymore questions?"

"I should have asked about this earlier on, but how long did you know about the arranged marriage before my dad told me."

"Two weeks."

"Did you help create my dad's plan to take Harrow out?"

He shook his head, "I didn't know a thing. I asked him to let me in, so I can help but he told me my strict orders were to get you out of there. All I knew was that he had a plan and it was probably going to end in his death."

"How has Steven and.."

"Jake."

"How has Steven and Jake taken to this life?"

He snorts, "Steven hates it. He's a pacifist, so he's not around often when I'm out and about. Jake...he's a rare sighting. But he's the kind of guy that doesn't care about what measures you take, all that matters is the outcome."

"Aren't you the same way?" you ask him with a challenging tone.

"I do what has to be done, but I do also try to keep in mind the consequences and who I might be hurting. Jake doesn't care so much for that."

"He sounds dangerous."

Marc snorts, "You have no idea, sunshine." He looks at you with soft eyes, "Are we going to be okay?"

You reach out, placing your hand on top of his, "I think so. Just, no more secrets. Got it?"

He makes an 'X' over his heart, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"No dying anytime soon, please," you murmur and crawl over, pecking his lips, "I'm gonna finalize wedding stuff."

"Let me know if you need any help!" he hollers as you exit the bedroom.

"Will do!" you respond, your voice echoing through the halls.

"That went a lot better than expected," Steven says in relief.

"You're telling me, buddy," Marc murmurs back with a scoff.

"So it'll be happily ever after for you after all?"

"We can only hope, Steven," Marc replies back as he stands from the bed, and heads to the bathroom to shower.

[shona22]

Happy WIP Mondays! We are at 7k words for the first chapter so far and I'm trying not to put beyond 9. Hopefully. Positively. Un-betaed at the moment

“Okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Stiles groaned out from the arched entryway, just in front of the kitchen. He's rocking on the heels of his washed canvas shoes, hands clasped behind. There's an exaggerated frown on his face. He appears genuinely apologetic, just, not as much as he's voicing it out to be. “I know, you were busy and — yeah, you've been trying too, listening to us, and let me just say I thought you were replaced by some pod person because what the hell, Derek, when did you start taking my advice instead of taking–”

“Stiles.” Derek sighed with all his might. After the pack had dispersed, Stiles had lingered. He found his calling near the wall shelf, not quite looking at the books Derek had unearthed from the vault, just…letting his unfocused gaze linger on the cracked spines of the hardbound. The sensation of Stiles’s silence felt like prickling needles, like dehydration at a parched desert. Derek's been a bit miffed, mostly cautious, and waited patiently for the boy to leave him the fuck alone. But when has Derek's life gone according to the plan?

“Right.” Stiles sighed, pressing his palms into his eye sockets. “I'm apologizing.You should accept it.”

Derek almost snorts out the warm beer he had been nursing. He takes a moment, letting his eyes linger, going top to bottom and again the top of the boy’s head. Stiles, in all his pale-skinned, jittery glory, is simply infuriating. “You're demanding I accept your apology?”

“I'm making a suggestion.” He pops the words out with a petulant curling of his full lips, an insistent sinful pout of pink that's awfully tempting. But the expression stays there only for a moment before Stiles lets himself slump forward, reaching the kitchen counter that separates them. “Can I have that?” He say, pointing towards the beer can with a newfound audacity sparkling behind his brown eyes.

“No.” Derek said firmly, pulling himself and the can deliberately out of Stiles’s reach.

He had absolutely refused to supply alcoholic beverages to the pack – not because he's a law abiding citizen that's afraid of the Sheriff – but because he simply didn't carry enough wolfsbane infused alcohols to supply them so freely. Maybe, one day, he will teach IsaacIssac how to brew his own.

And giving Stiles a beer potent enough to affect a werewolf? Fat chance.

“You're underage.” Derek added bluntly.

Stiles pulled such an ugly expression that all Derek wants to do is reach between the space and slap it away. It's not new, the aggression he had felt towards the human boy— and worse, is that he's acted on it before. Stiles is infuriating, a poster child of adhd that could power a small town, and only could be enjoyed in small doses. And enjoyed is an overstatement — although his wolf heaves like a sickly Victorian child whenever he gets hit with the telltale scent of his mate. So the aggression? It's nothing new. It's a safer way to touch, better way to warn.

“I'm probably going to get killed anytime next week,” Stiles bemoaned with faux graveness. “And the only thing you'll remember is that you refused to give me a beer as our last conversation.”

“You're not going to die next week.” Derek rolled his eyes, turning his back to Stiles. The autumn sun was setting at a leisurely pace, still peaking over the horizon and painting the loft a dastardly shade of orange. He wants to pull the curtains in the main hall, but then again, he doesn't want to switch on the fluorescent lights indoors just yet. He needs to cook dinner. The sink is filled with dishes. There's laundry he needs to take by Mrs. Witherspoon’s laundromat down the streets. There's—

“Uh, did you not hear anything I said?” Stiles yelled, incredulous, and it cuts through Derek's train of thought. “The thing is going off killing virgins now, and guess what I'm? I'll give you two chances.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Stiles.”

“Yes, I'm, indeed Stiles. How did you even guess, Derek? Now, for your second chance. What am I?”

“A general pain in the ass.”

“Hah.” Stiles deadpans, curling his fingers to rest his face on his palm as he leaned forward, back arched. “A virgin. I'm going to die a virgin.”

“You're not going to die a virgin, Stiles.” Derek exhaled loudly, feeling the veins on his forehead throb.

He switches the faucet then, letting the water cascade over the dirty dishes and the lull in the conversation. The yellow scrubbers Ericas got him were a tight fit, he wonders if she got it from the kid's section because no wash gloves should have a size limit. It's not as if Derek's awfully big, he's bigger than most— a definite sore thumb in the clandestine town of Beacon Hills. Back in New York, he was dwarfed by men the size of wall pillars, but back then he was younger and also a beta. Although, if memories serve right, then Hales were always a peculiar bunch. People had always given them a wide berth, a fleetingly curious glance. Even the women were taller and broader. If anything, he remembered the then Sheriff being thoroughly loomed over by Talia Hale.

This all to say that when Stiles slides up bedside him, all meek like a church mouse and smelling divinely of lust and want, Derek could only concentrate on the fact that he looked all soft and small, easy to engulf if Derek were to hold him close. He's flushed, red cheeked and bitten lips. The pretty nose, the moles. His rigid, swimmer shoulders that tapered into a tiny waist. He's too skinny, but there's a give to his belly where the graphic shirt sticks tauntly. Almost like the baby fat had refused to melt down. “What do you mean by that?”

What? Derek blinks, then repeats it out loud. “What?”

“You said…” Stiles’s voice is unsteady, he plays with a lock of hair around the nape of his long neck. “I don't have to die a virgin.”

“...I did.”

“So, you're– are you–” He takes in a large gulp of breath, then looks straight up, right into Derek, right at his soul, where it's dark and sick. “You're offering? To take my virginity?”

The sound of water hitting the melamine plates was deafening.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 3 - Fuel

Wolfstar, February 3, word count 459

Previous part First part

One year previously 

His parents left him blessedly alone for the next few weeks while his scratched face healed. During that time, he’d nipped out and purchased a new phone and had been texting and phoning Barty ever since. 

“You absolute fucking wanker!” Barty shot down the phone. “Do you really think Reggie would have wanted you to turn into their puppet because of him?! He would kick your arse so hard if he ever found out you’d done that because of what he did.” Barty had to clear his throat as his emotions bubbled to the surface. “Seriously, Sirius, don’t be such a stupid twat, and I say that with love,” Barty was blunt, but Sirius felt the protective barrier he’d wrapped himself in since Regulus had died begin to crack. Barty was right if he kept punishing himself like he was and letting his parents dictate his every move, he was going to end up like Regulus or worse. 

“Alright, Barty, I get it, you can stop calling me names. I’ll stop, I promise.” Sirius felt a flood of relief flood over him. He’d needed someone to paint out how dumb he’d been. Walburga had used his grief against him, and he’d fallen straight back into his old patterns, letting his mother walk all over him. 

“He was so proud of you for getting out,” Barty told him, his voice quiet for the first time in their conversation. “He was going to get out, you know.” Barty went silent, only the sound of his breath crackling over the speaker let Sirius know he was still there. Sirius was shocked by this information. He’d never thought Regulus would leave. “He- he went to tell your parents and then and then when I came home to celebrate with him. That’s when I found him, Sirius,” Barty spoke in barely a whisper. Sirius dropped the phone. It was his mother’s fault. He knew it. She’d said something to Regulus, so he felt he had no other choice. It took him all of ten seconds to figure out what it had been. She’d threatened Barty and Regulus had felt helpless to stop her.

A message pinged on his phone. He picked it up from where it had fallen on the floor and saw an email from his mother had come through. 

‘Sirius, you are expected at an event tonight to announce the charity we opened in your brother's name.’

The message threw fuel on the fire inside him that was already blazing from his revelation about Regulus’s untimely death. The charity would be a front for networking between his father's associates and other simpering idiots who wished to join the businesses. 

“Barty,” He said into the phone. “I need your help.” 

Next part

[fdelopera]

Yeah, if someone's interpretation of their religion is so FRAGILE AS FUCK that they feel they have to MURDER someone who burns their holy text, then their interpretation of their religion AIN'T WORTH SHIT.

I stress interpretation of religion, because I know that the vast majority of people aren't going to go out on a murder rampage when someone protest-burns their holy text.

Jihadis who murder people who burn the Quran or draw the Prophet Muhammad are just proving that they are weak little crybully FUCKS who can't take anyone even mildly criticizing their interpretation of their religion.

And all that these Jihadis make me want to do is start a YouTube channel where I paint pretty pastoral pictures of the Prophet Muhammad, Bob Ross style. Not because I particularly care about painting the Prophet Muhammad, but because these Jihadi freaks are so triggered that they would have to figure out whether they want to kill me more because I'm a Jew or because I painted a pretty picture of their Prophet. Or would these terrorist freaks behead me once, sew my head back on, and then behead me again? See, these are the questions that inquiring minds want to know.

Let me be very clear. If you make artwork of Moshe, I WILL criticize you if you give him horns like Michelangelo and other Christian artists did, because St. Jerome intentionally and antisemitically mistranslated Exodus 34:29, which describes Moshe's "radiant" face as he descended Mount Sinai, but in Hebrew "radiant" (koren) and "horn" (keren) are similar.

But neither I nor any Jew would ever in our wildest dreams think of murdering someone who depicted Moshe. At most, we might just say that your depiction stinks, and that you need to do a better job, like we do Michelangelo.

Same with burning the Torah. Now, Salwan Momika burned the Quran in protest, and I am in no way comparing his protest-burning of the Quran to actual Jihadi terrorism. I am using this rather extreme example to show how depraved the Jihadi response to his protest was when they hunted him down and shot him dead.

Jihadis in Australia recently burned down a synagogue in Melbourne in an arson terrorist attack. Several of the Sefer Torahs were singed by the fire. B''H no one was murdered in the terrorist attack, though the terrorists did try. And what did the Jews do? They salvaged their Torahs and got what they could rescue from the burning synagogue, and now they are getting on with their lives as a community as best as they can. There was a fundraiser started for the community, and hopefully they will be able to rebuild the synagogue within a few years. That's the Jewish response. We regroup as a community and we rebuild. We focus on the future.

But meanwhile, Jihadis who are near Jewish Diaspora communities around the world, including Australia, the UK, Europe, Canada, and America have declared open season on hunting Jews. And since we Jews are civilized, what we do is we hire more security for our synagogues like normal people, and we take self-defense classes to protect ourselves when, not if, we are attacked.

So to these crybully Jihadi fucks, I say this:

Grow the fuck up, you stupid freaks.

People will burn your holy texts. People will draw your Prophet. Fucking deal with it.

When you go out and MURDER PEOPLE for burning the Quran or drawing the Prophet Muhammad, it doesn't make you look strong.

It just shows the world that you are a fragile, pathetic sack of shit.

One last (probably) think about Salwan Momika: I do not think burning a Quran is the same as burning a Tanach. (Articles that discuss this usually mention burning a Torah, which- idk about you guys- brings to my mind someone burning a Sefer Torah which is already illegal because you can’t just burn someone else’s stuff, and there’s no way to just buy a kosher Sefer Torah with the intent to set it on fire. Also why would you purposefully destroy a very expensive piece of history like that. No new regulation necessary there, thanks. )

Now, if you’re burning a Tanach or a Quran, you’re looking to offend someone.

But people hand out free Qurans and free Bibles on street corners. They will put up signs about how they are right and you are wrong, so you must read their very special book and start doing things their way.

That is just as offensive, if not more so, than someone burning a Quran or a Bible on occasion.

If you’re out here giving something contentious away for free, you don’t get to be mad when people don’t treat it with respect.

(Obviously- I’m taking into account the policy of the host country here. I think it would be gross for a Muslim to burn a Bible in Iraq, considering that Assyrians are not allowed to and do not proselytize in Iraq. )

How I feel about people burning religious texts has less to do with the action’s ability to offend people- and much more to do with if the person setting the text on fire intends to scare anyone. There’s a big difference in my book between an edgy occasional asshole and a bully.

[murdleandmarot]

@margo-mania ya boy razzle, and a special guest….

(Dude you ate when you created razzle’s backstory, actually insane, 10/10 in terms of themes and motifs and implications, so so good)

[valgeristik]

Ничего не останется от нас, Нам останемся, в лучшем случае, мы

hi. hello. listen to this song

i have so many thoughts about these two. oh my god. maybe i will write it out some day, but for now drawing it out will do

translation will be under the cut! knowing the words does add to the work so i do recommend reading it. or just enjoy the art <3

Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser List

E-sims donation

heres the translation, color coded according to how i broke it up for the art. just in casies

first page:

Love is scarier than war

Love strikes more true than steel

second page:

More true, because of your own volition

third page:

You run towards all the winds

Let there be pain and eternal battle

Not atmospheric, not earthly

fourth page:

But definitely with you

caption:

There will be nothing left of us,

we will be left with, in the best case, ourselves

[sophiethewitch1]

You mentioned that all the Wayne's post thirst traps. And that Damian's are like Victorian women showing some racy ankle. What does he consider a thirst trap then.

Have you ever seen a man in a dark turtle neck sweater.

[beef-brisket]

Adam smiled down at his daughter and held her close. He definitely preferred her out of him.

Once she finished feeding, Adam took her for a little walk around the mansion. He showed her the different artworks and pictures Lucifer had. He pointed out Charlie and her dad before Avery yawned.

Adam: I guess you can't see much, huh? Doesn't help when you're tired, love. Shall we get you to bed?

Lucifer smiled as he finished a little duck plushie for Avery. She was too small to sleep with it yet, but in a few months, until she could but he hoped she like it.

When he heard the click of his office door, he looked over and smiled at seeing Adam and his little daughter walking over.

Adam: I'm putting her down for a sleep, I thought you'd like to say goodnight.

Lucifer stood and held his daughter, rocking her. When she started to fall asleep, he told Adam they can put her down together.

Lucifer: What were you two up to?

Adam: Just showed her a few hallways. Some paintings... Charlie. I'm sure she would have liked it of she could see.

Lucifer chuckled: I'm sure... there we go, darling. Nice and comfy.

Lucifer tucked her in, and rocked her bed, getting her to settle.

Once she was asleep, Adam and Lucifer went into the kitchen to make some dinner.

Adam: So, Hell has another Princess, huh?

Lucifer chuckled: I guess so. I can't believe I have a baby... it's been so long since there was a little on in this house. And... Even then, Lilith wouldn't really let me be involved.

Adam laughed: Funny, Evan did fuck all, his job was to work the fields... and I'm not like Lilith. I won't take her from you, Lu.

Lucifer smiled and kissed Adam's hands: And I'm not like Evan, you're not doing this alone.

I really need some FtM Adam feeling comfortable wearing a dress.

I'm having some gender issues, so I'm craving some trans!Adam.

Rp of sinner!trans!Adam??

Oh are you okay? We can do that! ☺️

-

Adam brushed off any little crumbs that were on his dress, it wasn't very often that he wore feminine clothes anymore since transitioning but something about a nice dress every once in a while made him feel so fucking hot.

Not to mention that it was just his color, Adam swore he was meant to be rich why else would be look so fucking amazing in gold?

He should probably finish getting ready, his husband was waiting on him downstairs.

Adam slipped on some gold heels and earrings before going down to meet Lucifer.

Lucifer: There you are I've been-...... Wow

Adam: Looks nice right?

Lucifer: You look gorgeous my dove.~

Adam blushed as he took his hand and kissed it.

Adam: Worth the Wait?

Lucifer: More than worth it. You'll put everyone to shame at that party. Kinda wish we didn't have to go now, so I could poke around up your skirt.~

Adam giggled: Luci!!

Ugh, his voice cracked that hadn't happened in a while. But that's how flattered he is! Cheeky man working him up.

Lucifer: What?~ There's always time in the limo.~

He took Adams hand and they got in the limo. Lucifer put up the tinted window divider so the driver couldn't see them. Adam laid back in the long seat, he bit his lip as his husband went up his dress and pulled his panties down before disappearing underneath to eat him out.

((Adams outfit))

[lalalaugenbrot]

Attempt at a Comprehensive List of

Alexander von Humboldtʼs Potential Boyfriends

When if not now that Alex came 2nd in the @napoleonic-sexyman-tournament (what a time to be alive) would be the perfect time to finally thoroughly pick his private life apart. Strangely it has always been a mystery even to me (and of course overall it will remain a mystery until the end of times), but I still thought it was about time to at least get some order in the few things that we do know – mainly for myself but also, I dare say, for the public. You (the public!) will find a short text for every friend under the cut ￬.

disclaimers:

a) I tried to pick the most appropriate picture of everyone but please imagine especially the first ones a lot younger than they are in the pictures

b) it’s a potential boyfriends list, meaning: I’m not saying Alex definitely had romantic and/or sexual relationships with any let alone all of these men, it’s just a list of men where it seems at least possible; but ultimately, of course, we do not know and will never know

c) Alex lived for almost 90 years, and even though his textual remains can seem infinite, there is a lot we don’t know about him, especially his private life, not least because he habitually destroyed almost all of his private letters (which is also why for all of his correspondences we only know the letters he wrote but almost never the ones he received) − so I don’t think there’s any way this list is exhaustive (let me know if you think anyone is missing?)

d) Bonpland is not in this because Alex went out of his way to specifically state that his relationship with Bonpland was purely scientific

e) the point of this post isn’t to determine his sexuality, but since it has already come up, just a couple of words on him being on the asexual spectrum: that is perfectly possible and maybe not even unlikely, he said things about himself that could be interpreted as such (not wanting to marry, not having sensual needs); but I think it’s good to keep two things in mind about that: 1. not wanting to get married was a big thing in 1800, something you had to explain yourself for and not wanting to get married as a man also obviously meant not wanting a wife, it was by no means a question on whether or not wanting a significant other and/or sex; 2. the narrative of his sex-less life at least partly derives from the (mainly 19th/20th century) wish for him not to have been (actively) homosexual

f) I hate to be that person, but it has to be said: language and culture back then were much more emotional and expressive than we are used to today, so not everything that sounds super intimate or even romantic to us (language-wise) has to actually have been meant that way; of course this doesn’t rule out anything either but it’s a thing to keep in mind

g) if anyone is interested in sources or further reading on anything particular, do not hesitate to hit me up! But i’m not adding any of that to this post because 1. it’s already 2 km long and 2. this is tumblr dot com

Wilhelm Gabriel Wegener (1767-1837)

18-year-old Alex met Wilhelm in 1787 during the one semester he studied at the University of Frankfurt (Oder). Wilhelm was a (protestant) theology student and on 13 February 1788 they made a “holy” oath to “eternal brotherly love”. They wrote each other very cheesy letters, very much in the Empfindsamkeit fashion of the time, proclaiming their eternal and ever-growing love for each other. There was no one on earth, Alex wrote to him once (and in Italian no less), whom he loved as ardently as him (“Non vi è uomo sopra la terra ch'io amì così ardammente che lei…”). He also told him that, ever since he had met him, it seemed to him that God had created people only in pairs, because no one else could ever compare to what he meant to him. In his letters Alex also repeatedly refers to the many hours spent together (“chatting”) in a certain armchair in Frankfurt and proclaims that he has never been happier than in that very chair.

They kept contact for a couple of years after their time in Frankfurt, but at some point their friendship faded out.

Carl Ludwig Willdenow (1765-1812)

Willdenow (a published botanist) and Alex met in 1788 in Berlin, when Alex had one day decided to just call at his house to ask him to teach him botany. Willdenow agreed and they became friends quickly, spent a lot of time together, and when Alex wandered through Berlin on his own to collect plants, he would afterwards bring them to Willdenow who would then identify them for him.

We do not know a lot about their friendship during that time (and maybe I only included him in this because I needed 9 tiles) but at least one phrase in Alex’s autobiography fragment calls our attention, not least because it’s highlighted by what I like to call a Streisand strike-through: “I became enthusiastically fond of him” or “I grew to love him enthusiastically” (“Ich gewann ihn enthusiatisch lieb”, written in 1801 and crossed out roughly 50 years later).

They stayed in contact even after Alex had left Berlin a couple of months later: in 1795 Alex became godfather of Willdenow’s son and in 1810 he convinced him to come to Paris to work on his botanical collections from the South America trip. Sadly, Willdenow fell ill in 1811 and died in 1812 in Berlin.

Karl Freiesleben (1774-1846)

Alex met Karl in 1791 in Freiberg, where both studied geology and mining at the renowned Bergakademie. Karl was the son of a local mining family and Alex learnt a lot from him about his new profession. They both were nerdy about stones and minerals in ways you couldn’t even begin to imagine. They gifted each other minerals, went down into the mines together, and in August 1791 they made a 200 km long geological expedition through the mountains of Bohemia on foot. But aside from pages-long enthusiastic rants about geology, Alex’s letters to Karl are also full of sentimental love declarations. He called him Herzens-Freisesleben, Herzens-Karl or Herzensjunge (roughly “my heart’s Freiesleben/Karl/boy”) and once finished a letter with: “going to bed now and I’ll be happy when I dream of you” — a passage Karl thoroughly struck through later, probably so no one else could read it, but someone deciphered almost all the struck through passages anyway (not all heroes wear capes!).

Karl and Alex stayed (sporadic and long-distance) friends for the rest of Karl’s life.

Reinhard von Haeften (1772-1803)

The above picture shows a snippet from one of Alex’s travel journals where he noted Reinhard’s birthday (“14 Mai R.”) because sadly we don’t have a picture of Reinhard. But let’s hear how Alex described him:

“This Reinhard v. Haeften has been my only and hourly company for a year now. I live with him, he visits me in the mountains. [...] I have already ridden 8 miles [60 km] just to see him for a couple of hours. He is very tall, taller than most men and he’s only 22 years old but looks more mature than me [at 25]. He has a very remarkable face and everyone finds him to be one of the most beautiful men, and I too think he’s beautiful, but most importantly I have never seen purity of the soul, kindness and courtesy being reflected in anyone’s features as much as in his.”

Alex and Reinhard met in 1793 in Bayreuth (where Alex now worked as a mining official) and they quickly moved in together. However, shortly before meeting Alex, Reinhard had also managed to make a baby with a married woman 4 years older than him. Alex was friendly with Christiane, the child’s mother and helped to keep the birth a secret. The boy (named Friedrich Gustav Alexander, Alex’s godson and surely named after him) had to spend the first years away from his parents. In the meantime, Reinhard continued to live with Alex, accompanied him on business trips and mineralogical expeditions and in 1795 they went on a two-month trip through Northern Italy and Switzerland. It was only with and through him, Alex wrote to Reinhard once, that he could live, only close to him that he could be fully happy.

Later, after Reinhard and Christiane had finally gotten married (and reunited with their son), Alex wrote him a very long letter, proposing for the three of them to (continue to?) live together with Reinhard as head of the family and to settle for quiet life in Switzerland, Italy, or some small town in the west of Germany. That plan never worked out, but “Rein” (as Alex called him), Christiane, their by now two children and Alex lived and travelled together for another two years while Alex was already preparing for his big journey.

After he had sailed for the Americas in 1799, he tried his best to stay in contact with them. In his letters, he called them his “Herzensmenschen” (again, roughly: “his heart’s humans”), wrote them that he was dreaming about them day and night and how much he wished that his – their – Rein could be with him to see all the marvels, too. But cross-atlantic communication was bad during that time and in both directions most letters never arrived.

Sadly, Reinhard unexpectedly died in 1803 while Alex was still in America, meaning they never got to meet again. Alex stayed in contact with Christiane and the children − the only survivors of the shipwreck, as he put it − and wrote Christiane how he still remembered their time together, along with all the hopes and dreams that they had had and that despite the “all-robbing fate”, there was something unalterable in the depth of their love, that could only die with them. When Christiane remarried and had another son in 1806, she named him Gustave Louis Reinhard Alexandre. Alex continued to financially support Christiane and the children and in 1813, Reinhard’s son Fritz (Alex’s godson) visited Alex in Paris for three months.

Carlos Montúfar (1780-1816)

Alex met Carlos in 1802 in Quito and despite him having no scientific qualifications whatsoever, Alex chose Carlos to accompany him on his further journey. This decision offended botanist, geographer and astronomer Francisco José de Caldas (who himself had hoped to join the expedition) so much that he, in a letter to botanist José Celestino Mutis, famously called Carlos “[señor Barón de Humboldt’s] Adonis”, probably insinuating that Alex had picked Carlos purely for his looks, or even more.

Together with the rest of the party, Alex and his supposed “Adonis” travelled what today is Ecuador (where they climbed the Chimborazo), Peru, Mexico, Cuba and the USA. At least once during that journey (but perhaps regularly?) they shared a bed (as in some kind of temporary/mobile  accomodation) which we know because Alex explicitly says so in his travel journal when he describes a night in which Carlos had very bad stomach cramps which Alex tried to ease by heating handkerchiefs over the fire for him in the middle of the night.

Carlos accompanied Alex back to Europe in 1804 and stayed with him in Paris for a couple of months (where they most likely both attended Napoleon’s coronation) until he ultimately left to go to Madrid. But since Carlos had trouble getting money from South America, he still had to rely on Alex’s support. However, over time his contact to Alex seems to have broken off, because in a letter from 1806, Carlos complained about Alex not answering him anymore (“¡Qué largo silencio!”) and then told him, quite dramatically, that he was running out of money, and that he, Alex, was his only friend, his only hope, and the only person he knew in Europe who could tell him what to do. Whether all of Alex’s letters had gotten lost in the mail and whether Alex ended up helping him out or not, I think we don’t know. (But knowing him as I do and since he after all kept that letter, I’m sure that he did.)

Later, Carlos went back to South America, where he (alongside Símon Bolívar) fought to liberate the continent from the Spanish Crown − a fight he unfortunately didn’t survive: he was captured and executed by the Spanish in 1816.

Joseph Louis Gay-Lussac (1778-1850)

Alex and Gay (that’s what Alex called him, no pun intended) first met in 1804 in Paris, just after Alex’s return from America. Before, Gay had done two things: 1. contributed to a harsh critique on one of Alex’s papers, 2. ascended 7016 m in a hot-air balloon to investigate the air up there − a world record at the time and more than 1000 m higher than Alex had been on the Chimborazo, which had then also been a world record (in recorded European history).

Evidently, these were the best conditions for them to totally hit it off: they almost immediately started to work on the evaluation of Gay’s balloon ascent and often spent entire days working together in Gay’s room, from 9 am until after midnight. In a letter to his father, Gay wrote that Alex was the man with the best heart he had ever known, that their tastes and sentiments were absolutely the same − and that their hearts felt a great need to see each other very often.

After the publication of their paper (in which they, without fully realising it, also first identified the chemical composition of water: H2O), they (and another friend) went on a six-month field trip through Switzerland and Italy − where they were lucky enough to witness both an earthquake and a resulting Vesuvius eruption. They ended their journey in Berlin where Gay stayed at Alex’s for a couple of months and even started to learn German until he unexpectedly had to leave for Paris. His absence, Alex wrote after Gay had left, pained him a lot.

When Alex finally returned to Paris as well, they shared a single room at the École Polytechnique and even after Gay became a father in 1808 and married in 1809, Alex continued to (at least occasionaly) live with his family for many years. Gay’s first son (born in 1810) was named Jules Alexandre and while I have no proof that he was named after Alex, I think it’s safe to assume. Alex seems to have also been very intimately integrated into the family life, because he once wrote to Willdenow (with a humorous undertone of course): “We are always pregnant and just had a girl again. Right now we’re not feeling anything though.” Alex was also there to help when an explosion in a laboratory accident injured Gay’s eyes so badly that Alex and another friend had to take him home in a blindfold.

No letters between the two have survived (that we know of), but we do know that in the years after they first met, Alex considered Gay his best friend and “one of the kindest beings in the world”, that he named an American plant genus after him (Gaylussacia), and that they used “tu” with each other (which was very uncommon in France at the time except for childhood friends and family). They stayed friends for the rest of their lives and formed a kind of trio with Arago (see below).

Karl von Steuben (1788-1856)

We don’t know when exactly they first met but according to Alex they started to see each other daily in 1812 at the studio of painter François Gérard, where Alex had then started to take drawing lessons. Steuben, a young aspiring artist, lived and worked at Gérard’s studio. According to Alex, they “drew and painted” together “daily” for at least one or two years. Withdrawn from all other society, he wrote, this was now his “only joy” (interestingly almost the exact same wording he had used to describe his relationship with Reinhard 20 years earlier). However, it had perhaps been one of Alex’s exaggerations because he at least seems to have attended the famous salons Gérard held at his studio, where all the cool Paris people came to hang out. Alex reportedly talked incessantly, stayed late into the night (the main thing usually didn’t get going until midnight) and was found there again, freshly dressed and shaved, already at 7 in the morning.

In the meantime, Alex had started to torment basically everyone around him to commission Steuben to paint them, their sons, daughters, fiancés etc. to help Steuben support his poor mother in St. Petersburg. In 1814, even Alex’s brother noted that Alex had suddenly become strangely interested in art. In the same year, Alex became godfather to Steuben’s newborn son Alexander.

However, the biggest commission Alex got Steuben was a life-sized full-body painting of himself, which he intended to gift to his sister-in-law. It took 7 years to finish and in the end Alex’s brother had to pay for transport and framing because Alex had run out of money. Neither his brother nor his sister-in-law were overly enthusiastic about the likeness of the painting or Steuben’s talent in general but they still put it up in their home because after all, as his brother put it, they loved Alex and always liked a picture of him around.

Alex and Steuben stayed in at least loose contact for many years and Alex occasionally even still tried to get him commissions. Steuben’s painting of Alex hung in the Humboldt residence in Tegel for over a century before it was ultimately destroyed in WWII. Apparently though, another Alex portrait by Steuben from 1815 still exists in a private collection somewhere.

François Arago (1786-1853)

Arago, a young astronomer, was on a scientific expedition through Spain when he got entangled in the Peninsular War: mistaken for a French spy, he got arrested and incarcerated, managed to flee, was captured again, transferred, released, drifted off at sea to Algeria, all the while managing to hold on to his most valuable possession: his scientific records, which he kept hidden under his shirt at all times. When Alex heard about this (the two had never met before), he was so impressed by his courage and determination that he sent a letter to congratulate him — and to offer him his friendship. And in fact, one of the first things Arago did when he finally returned to Paris in 1809 was to go and meet Alex. It was the beginning of a 44-year-long friendship. They saw each other almost daily, worked together at the observatory, planned an expedition to Tibet (which never happened), and actually travelled at least to London in 1817 to visit Alex’s brother, who commented to his wife: “Alexander has arrived yesterday. But he isn't staying with me, even though his room had already been prepared. You know his passion to always be with one person who is his favourite at that time. Now he has the astronomer Arago who he doesn't want to part with (...) So they're staying at a nearby inn.” Just as with Gay, Alex and Arago used “tu” with each other and after Arago had gotten married in 1811, Alex was close with his wife and children as well as with his siblings, nieces and nephews — in some letters he even considered himself part of the Arago family.

When Alex was forced to move back to Berlin in 1827 to work for the king, he wrote Arago desperate letters on how much their separation pained him, how much he missed him every hour of every day. In the following 26 years, Alex’s letters to him were full of yearning pleas for just a couple of lines of his hand, which, as he wrote, always made his heart flutter. However, Arago often didn’t respond for months, but when he did, he at least knew to reassure Alex, writing things like: “Outside my family, you are, without any comparison, the person I love most tenderly in this world.” Alex kept a portrait and a large Arago bust in his study in Berlin, and until his late seventies, he travelled to Paris regularly (that is, every few years), first and foremost to see Arago. (Actual quote from 78-year-old Alex in a letter to his niece: “Every morning at half past eight without interruption, I’ve been at Arago’s in the observatory, today for the 62nd time.”) According to Arago, he and Alex have only been angry with each other one single time in all those decades and even that went over in an instant.

They saw each other for the last time in January 1848, on the last night of Alex’s last stay in Paris. When Arago fell ill five years later, his family informed Alex of his worsening condition — but Alex couldn’t travel to Paris to see him one last time. Even over a year after Arago’s death, Alex wrote that the memory of those last moments in January 1848 vividly came back to him during the night at least once a week. He outlived his friend by 6 years.